#i might make a pencil sketch later if i get the motivation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tehuti88-art · 3 months ago

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8/16/24: r/SketchDaily theme, "Free Draw Friday." This week's characters from my anthro WWII storyline are Frieda Orchudesch, her father Herr Orchudesch (no first name given), and Hans von Adel. The first two unwittingly help inspire Josef Diamant to start working for the resistance; while Hans is unrelated to them, he's Ratdog's/Adel von NN's grandson (son of his daughter Tatiana), who's named after his deceased son Hans von NN. There'll be more about them later in my art Tumblr and Toyhou.se.

Regarding their design, the Orchudesches are German spaniels (I'm iffy on the father's hairstyle), while Hans is meant to resemble both his grandfather and his namesake quite a bit.

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Following text will be modified for the next entries.

Frieda...*checks*...Orchudesch...dang that's going to take me some time...is a character concept who's been around a bit, yet nameless until just about now, and her story has shifted multiple times. It may shift yet again. But here's how it currently goes.

For some related story, check out JUTTA BENTZ'S ENTRY. This outlines Diamant's career as a jeweler and a surprise document forger, from the POV of neighboring shopkeepers who witness when his shop is raided and he's taken away. What led an esteemed jeweler to risk his own life and safety forging IDs for fleeing Jews, though...? Especially seeing as he never uses one to escape, himself.

Diamant's shop bell jingles one day and he calls out, "Coming!" and exits the back area where he's moving some boxes. In the shop he finds an older gentleman, slicked-back hair, nice suit, obviously well off, and an equally smart-dressed young woman with unusual red ringlets and soft green eyes. "Guten Tag," Diamant greets them, introduces himself, and asks how he might help them. The man says his daughter is looking for a piece of jewelry for her birthday. The young woman pipes up to say she's seeking a pendant, preferably a locket ("Money is no issue!" the man says cheerfully), and Diamant brings out a tray with a selection of his better works. The red-haired woman coos at one of the lockets--"That one's near perfect!"--but "I was kind of hoping I could find a particular design...do you have a pencil, or pen?" and when Diamant offers her such she makes a small sketch of ivy leaves. Diamant says he can do custom orders, if she's specific about everything she wants and is willing to have to wait and return when it's done. The young woman elaborates a bit on her sketch--she'd also like a jewel set in the locket front--and the drawing she makes is detailed enough that Diamant's pretty sure he can give her what she wants. They nail down the final details--including an estimate of the price (Diamant's work is good enough that he's not cheap, especially for custom designs, yet again the woman's father beams at her as he says, "Nothing is too much for mein Liebchen!")--and Diamant asks them to return in a week, it should be done by then. The man gives Diamant his card--his name is Orchudesch, his daughter is named Frieda--and the two go on their way.

Diamant works alone, he has no apprentice or even a secretary to keep records straight or a shopgirl to greet customers; he handles absolutely every aspect of the business himself. It's a lonely existence but he's used to it, and he prefers having his own routines, doing his own thing, unencumbered by others insisting what he should do. He often stays late after hours, keeping his client records in order or putting the fine touches on his latest work. The tinier and more complicated the piece, the more he's up for the challenge; he spends many hours deep into the night, losing track of time, hunched over some stone or piece of metal, jeweler's loupe at his eye, and has to make himself set the project aside just so he can stretch his aching back and go get some sleep. He has no time or motivation for friends or relationships; the gemstones are his existence, it's even in his name, like he was simply fated for this life. So he thinks little of the people behind this latest order--it's the project itself that he anticipates making the best he possibly can, he charges what he does because he pours everything he has into each work, and no one ever complains that he gouges them--and instead focuses on browsing through his collection of raw and tumbled stones, seeking the best one to fit Fräulein Frieda's specifications. He selects a tiny rough emerald and sets to work shaping it, careful to avoid fracturing the delicate stone into brittle pieces; he again heads to bed late and aching and vowing never to do so again although he knows he will.

He repeats the process the following nights, only this time selecting and shaping the metal, putting in the design, using enamel to color all the tiny ivy leaves but one, which receives the emerald. It's quite a chore insetting the teeny little gem, but he does it, secures it in place, smooths out the smudges, polishes it all to a shine, selects a chain. The Orchudesches return at the end of the week and wait as he sets down and unfolds the soft little cloth he wraps up his projects in and presents the locket to them. Diamant never looks down at his own work when showing it off, he looks at his customers' reactions to see what they think. Frieda's eyes light up--green like the enamel and the emerald--and she picks the pendant up, cradling it gently in her palm--he notices that, too. "It's almost too beautiful to even wear," she says, yet, "Papa, would you--?" and Herr Orchudesch secures the locket around her neck so it lies against her chest. She gives him a big hug--"I believe mein Liebchen is satisfied with the product!" Herr Orchudesch exclaims--and he gives Diamant his payment. "Danke, danke schön," Frieda says, holding out her hand, which Diamant grasps--he intends to clasp it briefly and then let go, not desiring to seem forward or inappropriate--but she places her other hand over his and squeezes hard before letting go. The two are still thanking him profusely as they depart. Diamant waves, but he's vaguely distracted trying to figure out why his ears started burning when Frieda clutched his hand. It can't be a crush. They're adults not children, he only just met her, and he doesn't get crushes, that's just silly. Still...in the following days as he's working on other projects, he finds that his thoughts keep returning to her. Not only was she pretty, and friendly, and appreciated his work...but she seemed to have a decent eye for design, herself.

I've never gotten into developing Diamant's backstory, his life before his job as a jeweler in the story's unnamed city. Before his imprisonment in Ernst Dannecker's labor camp, he lives a pretty decent life as an upper-middle class Jew: not quite upper class himself, he's still technically a craftsman and a merchant, making a living with his hands, yet definitely not poor--he can afford to charge fair prices based on his skill level without customers feeling cheated. Initially my assumption was he came from a family of jewelers--literally, it's in his family name, and was the reason I originally chose the surname Diamant--yet the fact that he doesn't appear to come from a wealthy background makes this seem a bit more complicated. Based on the name, I'll still assume Diamant's family has long traditionally dealt in lapidary, and Diamant just continues the tradition, which is presumably passed down from parent to child. (Diamant has no children, thus no apprentice.) But somehow, between Diamant and the Diamant family's heyday, some sort of interruption took place, to cast the family back down near poverty, so that it looks as if Diamant had to work hard to pull himself up from it...what was it? Whatever it was, it possibly led to the near-extinction of the family line, as, just like with so many characters in my story, Diamant has no close relations left. We never see his mother, father, siblings. Whatever hit the Diamant family, it hit them hard, and only Diamant remained to pull the name back up.

I toyed with the idea of the family residing in a ghetto--one of the older ones--but based on dates, this likely would have been abolished by Diamant's parents' time, at least. (Diamant must be born around or very shortly before the turn of the century, circa 1900.) It's possible the Diamants fell on hard times and ended up living in some sort of Jewish quarter instead (likely another city, as I don't think my fictional city has one), and from there struggled to ply their trade, possibly needing to resort to other, less-specialized work--perhaps selling secondhand, cheaply made jewelry--to make ends meet; I read about how Jews in the older ghettos often became pawnbrokers. Given how skilled and proud of their skills the Diamants were, I imagine such a downfall would chafe. But work is work and food must be put on the table. Even if they could no longer afford to purchase, design, and sell their own high-quality jewelry to their equally poor communities, they persisted in passing on the craft, for whenever times got better. For whatever reason--perhaps his age, perhaps his particular innate skills--this responsibility fell to Josef, and he became his father's apprentice, then journeyman, practicing with cheap stones and metals first, then repairing or repurposing midgrade jewelry obtained elsewhere, and at last designing and creating his own piece from scratch. It sells for a fine price, puts food on the table for a little while.

At a relatively young age, Diamant becomes a master jeweler who doesn't possess the goods needed to take it up as a profession; not a moment too soon as it turns out, as he then loses his remaining family, though I'm unsure how. The flu again? The Great War? Diamant doesn't go fight, though I can imagine male siblings of his doing so. His father is too old to go. It's likely a mix of factors occurring all around the same period that snuffs out the family, but whatever it is, it actually works in Diamant's favor, in that it breaks his ties to the old community and frees him to go ply his new trade elsewhere (he decides on the unnamed city of the story, loosely analogous to Berlin), with the family savings solely at his disposal (he invests in new tools and a decent selection of stones and metals, also taking along what his father left to him, and sets up shop in the decent middle-class area also occupied (later on) by the Bentzes and other small, specialized businesspeople). He's alone and grieving, yes. But he's also a businessman, and he's practical. Food must be put on the table. He learns early on how to shove down his emotions, put on a welcoming smile, sell himself as a skilled craftsman just as much as he sells his work. He also learns to keep everyone at a distance, because as the loss of his family proved, the closer you are to someone, the more it hurts when they're gone. Diamant has a brief fling here and there to scratch the itch, but he takes no wife, fathers no children, has no apprentice. He knows the family reputation, and name, will die with him. It's unfortunate, but that's just how it is. He needs to look out for himself first off.

Now, Frieda Orchudesch seems to have tossed a wrench into those plans.

Diamant shakes himself out of the odd mood he's in--convincing himself he's simply finished dealing with a particularly enthusiastic client--and resumes work as usual. A month or so later, however, the shop bell rings, and there she is again, bright red ringlets and big bright smile. Diamant almost doesn't even notice her father, she lights up the shop so much. He asks if there's a problem with the locket, has it broken?--does it need fixing? No, not at all--Herr Orchudesch explains that Frieda is so enamored of the locket that now she'd like a matching set--a ring, and earrings, to go along with it. Just as before, money is no issue, whatever his Liebchen wants, she'll get. Diamant says all he needs is designs and he'll get to work. Frieda beams from ear to ear and hands him some papers. She's already made the concept sketches. They're just as excellent as the original.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Diamant makes the earrings first, then focuses on the ring. Although he's expanded his skill set a bit to repairing and occasionally even making small clockworks--a skill he can fall back on if jewelry falls out of demand--rings are his true specialty, and he always takes extra care in creating them. He hums an old Yiddish folk song as he works, a rather superstitious habit he picked up from his father, who told him that rings have a special sort of power to them. Rings are oaths, not to be made or taken lightly, so he's never frivolous or hasty in creating them. He's always used his own designs for them before, as it seemed most suitable, other people often don't take such things as seriously as they should and he doesn't know others' intentions as well as he knows his own. This, though...this is different. He can tell Frieda's designs have some personal meaning to her, that she didn't draw them just to be pretty--the earring and ring designs match the locket so well. These are ideas she's obviously had in her head a long time. And she's just skilled enough to be able to put her ideas to paper so Diamant can interpret them adequately. He told the Orchudesches to give him a couple of weeks this time. When they arrive and he presents Frieda with her new jewelry, she beams just as brightly as before. She takes off her old earrings and puts on the new, then holds out her hand, fingers extended, and asks Diamant to place on the ring.

Diamant blinks in surprise, then feels the blood rush to his ears. Peers uneasily at Herr Orchudesch, but he's gazing at the glass displays, perhaps contemplating a purchase of his own. "Herr Diamant...?" Frieda prompts, and his eyes shift back to her; he tries to detect any guile in her face, yet can't, she just smiles and holds up her hand. He takes a breath and tells himself to stop being silly--it's her right hand, not the left, she just wants to admire her new ring, stop giving an unthinking yet innocent gesture any meaning--and takes the ring, sliding it carefully on her finger. She lifts her hand palm out and turns it this way and that--"Papa, look, it's perfect"--and Herr Orchudesch praises Diamant's work. Again, he's well paid, though he hardly thinks about the money as the two say their farewells and depart. This time he can't shake the feeling the encounter left with him. When he placed the ring on Frieda's finger, it felt like he was making an oath, and he can't tell whether she was in on it too, or not. He doesn't like not knowing. But he can't think of any other reason why she would request him to do that.

The third time she visits, she's alone, no Herr Orchudesch in sight. Diamant is reluctant to talk with her, though she insists her father knows where she is. "I've looked into you," she says, making him raise his eyebrows. She explains that she's learned he's not from there--"You're from Frankfurt"--and she had her father take her there for a visit, where she in fact spent her time finding out what she could about Diamant's family, which was once so well known there, yet then faded into obscurity. "I have something to show you," she says, and pulls a small package from her satchel, carefully unwrapping it and holding it out to him. It's a ring, yet not her ring; Diamant takes in a breath on seeing it and actually flinches back a little out of sheer surprise. "The dealer I bought it from said it was designed by a 'J. Diamant,'" Frieda says; "I wasn't sure if that was you or simply a relative of yours, but seeing the look on your face now..." She picks the ring up and holds it out; Diamant's eyes blur a little as he takes it and looks it over. "Can you tell me about it?" she asks, and he obliges.

"This was my final project as a journeyman," he murmurs, gently turning the ring in his fingers, "my first original design before I set out on my own. A commission...though it was hard to let it go. How did you find it? You said a dealer?" Frieda confirms, she found the ring in a secondhand shop, thought it looked like one of his designs, and asked about its provenance while making an offer. Diamant sadly surmises that the original owner must too have fallen on hard times and needed to put food on the table; it's a shame, but it happens. Something else Frieda said has caught his attention, though: "You thought it looked like my design--you're that familiar with my work?" he asks, confused. Frieda smiles and says, "I told you I've been looking into you."

It's an odd start, but this is how Diamant and Frieda Orchudesch meet and get to know one another. She puts his concerns at ease by assuring him that her father knows she's visiting him, she tells him everything, and he's fine with them being alone together, he trusts them both not to do anything inappropriate. Diamant isn't terribly conservative or old fashioned--he's Orthodox, and follows basic customs, yet doesn't attend synagogue often, and doesn't think much about religious matters--yet he really doesn't want any sort of unsavory accusation hanging over his head. All the women he's been involved with were unattached and not particularly observant themselves and weren't interested in relationships; no muss, no fuss. Frieda is obviously a respectable young woman from a respected--and wealthy--family: well bred, upper class, not a tradesman working family like his own. He knows he has to tread carefully around such people, and he knows that Herr Orchudesch likely intends for her to marry a nice respectable upper-class man, her equal or better. It doesn't matter what her actual reasons for visiting him may be; there's only one legitimate reason for a man and woman to be alone with each other, and he doesn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.

Frieda, for her part, doesn't do anything especially inappropriate at first; she likes simply to talk, and listen. She's curious about his family, his work, his plans for his life. Diamant isn't used to conversations but shoves down his confused feelings, puts on his best face, does the best he can. And Frieda sees right through him. She might come across as naive and spoiled and obsessed with superficial pretty things at a first glance, but she's actually quite sharp, and sees lots of fine details that others easily miss. It's the reason she learned to recognize Diamant's work so quickly, and how she can put her own designs on paper so effectively. She brings up the matter of her ring, and how she noticed the look he got while placing it on her finger; "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Herr Diamant," she apologizes, yet she doesn't offer any concrete explanation for her request, and Diamant has the distinct impression that all of this is intentional: Frieda knew exactly what she was doing when she asked him to place the ring. He hadn't wanted to admit it even to himself, yet he's attracted to her, and she's attracted to him as well.

Now that this particular intention is obvious, their meetings take on a slightly different tone. They still use polite titles, yet now refer to each other by their first names, like acquaintances. They still do nothing inappropriate, but something unspoken crackles in the air between them, and they often have to look away from each other, faces burning. Diamant tells Frieda about his family, their fall from fortune, his singlehanded effort to grasp some of that fortune back; Frieda tells him about what had once been her own dream, to be a professional violinist; he asks why this is no longer her dream, and she extends and flexes her right hand, smiling wistfully as she mentions an injury that made the dream no longer feasible. "I'm sorry," Diamant murmurs, knowing all too well how much one's livelihood can depend on their hands; Frieda replies that it could always be worse. Upon learning that she still has her old violin, he asks her to play it for him; she brings it with her on her next visit and obliges. Diamant, in all sincerity, says she sounds like a professional violinist to him; Frieda smiles ear to ear, saying, "This is why you're a jeweler and not a musician, Herr Josef, else you'd hear the difference. Still, I'll gladly accept the compliment."

Herr Orchudesch decides to commission a piece for himself; he has an old pocketwatch and, on learning that Diamant can refurbish it, requests him to do so. Frieda provides the sketch; "I have no eye for such things, I'm afraid," Herr Orchudesch says. As Diamant is examining the watch, Herr Orchudesch is silent a few moments, before venturing, "My daughter seems to enjoy the time she spends with you, I swear she's gone more often than she's at home." Feeling a spark of alarm, Diamant tries to keep a calm voice as he assures him that neither of them has tried anything improper. "I know, she tells me everything," Herr Orchudesch says, and it becomes clear he's not making any accusations; rather, he mentions how dispirited Frieda had been since being told she wouldn't ever take the stage, and nothing had managed to lift her spirits, until now: "She talks about you constantly. Like she once used to talk about the violin, and believe me, did she talk. Go figure!--I take her to get a pretty piece of jewelry to cheer her up, yet it's the jeweler she's interested in." Diamant offers to cut off communication with Frieda, still thinking Herr Orchudesch is hinting at him to back off, yet "Why would I want you to do that--?" he exclaims, "This is the happiest I've seen her in ages. There's just one thing I need to know, Herr Diamant," and he takes on a serious tone when he asks, "Are you interested in my daughter...?"

Diamant doesn't answer at first, though he's sure his emotions show on his face. "I ask," Herr Orchudesch continues, "because Frieda tells me everything...and she's told me she's interested in you. I don't want her heart broken again. Is the feeling mutual...?" This time Diamant pauses only slightly before saying, "It is." Herr Orchudesch says, "And so, do you have intentions for my daughter...?" To which Diamant replies, "Not without your blessing." Herr Orchudesch is silent a moment, appraising him, before smiling slightly and turning. "I look forward to seeing what you can do for my watch." Diamant speaks up before he can leave: "Herr Orchudesch...I'm not sure how much you know, but Fräulein Frieda looked my family up when you traveled to Frankfurt, to see what she might find out." Herr Orchudesch confirms this, she told him. "Then she must've told you that my family was nothing like yours," Diamant continues. "We did well for ourselves for a while, but we weren't like you, we made a living with our hands, manual work." He isn't sure how to put it without being offensive. Herr Orchudesch seems to understand his meaning, however--and doesn't seem to care. Hard honest work is hard honest work, whether it's lofty or down to earth; "All a man has, after all," he says, "is his word, and his hard work. Mein Liebchen wants and deserves the best. I trust her to make good decisions. Gute Nacht, Herr Diamant."

It appears Diamant has Herr Orchudesch's blessing to court his daughter. He tentatively broaches the subject when he meets her and she immediately says oh yes, they've already discussed it, and Diamant looks skyward, murmuring, "Well of course you have, you tell each other everything." "He did say you never gave him a direct answer about your intentions," she adds. Diamant is quiet for a moment, weighing his options, before deciding; he takes Frieda's right hand, removes the ring he made, and places it on her left ring finger instead. Frieda holds up her hand, turning it this way and that, and a small smile comes to her face; "It's perfect," she says.

Diamant had never really wanted marriage, a family, children; although lonely at times, he was used to it, and just assumed that was the path he was meant to follow. His craft was his life. Suddenly that's all turned upside-down, and he has mixed feelings; he doesn't regret his decision, but he does worry about losing his independence, not having enough time to focus anymore on the thing that matters most to him. Frieda quickly puts his fears to rest: They don't have to start a family immediately, there's plenty of time later, and she would never think of getting between him and his work; if anything, she'd like to run some design ideas by him, see what he thinks. He hadn't expected that she might take a role in the work herself--he's used to doing his own thing--yet her designs really are good, and she gives excellent advice. He starts warming to the idea of no longer being alone, of being one half of a whole. Losing a little bit of his independence doesn't seem so bad.

He and Frieda stroll through a secluded park late one evening, sit on a bench in the growing gloom to look out over the river, and nature takes its course. Yet again he expects wrath from Herr Orchudesch--Frieda tells him everything!--yet her father never says a word. Frieda reasons that they're already just about married, all that's needed is the ceremony to make it official, but their souls are already connected; there's nothing so wrong in it. His unease fades--by now he feels it's a given that soon, they'll be living together--and they steal away to be alone with each other when they can.

Germany...1930s. I really don't need to explain the atmosphere, do I...? Diamant notices when the swastika banners go up, when the laws start being passed, when his fellow Jewish shopkeepers start closing their shops and moving away. He hears about the ghetto which the poorer Jews are forced into at the other end of the city, and this strikes some bad memories for him, tales passed down through his family about similar times. He chafes, but doesn't argue, when he's told he must wear a yellow star whenever he's out in public. He hears of something called Arbeitslager--a work camp--being constructed at the city's edge, and all sorts of alarms go off inside him. Still--business is fine, he shoves down his worry, puts on a good face. Even for the sullen, swastika-clad youths who visit his shop to glance around and mutter a few slurs before going on their way. Diamant figures he'll discuss this matter with the Orchudesches and see what they should do. Maybe it would be most prudent to leave. Even though it'll sting badly to abandon the shop he set up from scratch. He started over once, he should be able to again. He's always been resilient.

He finishes up some projects, closes shop early one day, and sets out for Herr Orchudesch's place. He and Frieda live in a small but lavishly appointed house in a quiet, well-off neighborhood, a peaceful street lined with shade trees. The neighborhood has been getting quieter lately, what with the Jewish residents leaving. Diamant ascends the steps up to the door and reaches for the handle, only to abruptly pull his hand back--the door is cracked open already, and he can see it was knocked open by force. Alarm lighting up in him, he pushes it open and steps inside anyway. "Herr Orchudesch--?" he calls, "Frieda?" No one answers, but when he pauses, he hears what sounds like muted sobbing; he anxiously heads toward the sound.

In the parlor he finds a man huddled in the middle of the floor, head in hands, papers scattered in front of him, crying piteously. Diamant recognizes the Orchudesches's manservant and says, "Herr Heinrich--?" Herr Heinrich's head pops up with a gasp--"Herr Diamant!" he cries, and clambers to his feet, clasping his hands together. "I don't know who else I can talk to! I don't know what to do!" When Diamant asks him what happened, he says the Orchudesches are gone--he returned from an errand to find the door knocked in, and a neighbor claims she saw the police taking them away. "Police--? Why? To where--?" Herr Heinrich mentions them receiving a notice saying Herr Orchudesch had to divest himself of his business soon or face arrest--"The Jews, they aren't letting them work anymore, they keep telling them to work is illegal but what can they do?" As for where they were taken, he has no idea, but maybe the neighbor knows. "If only I'd come back just a little earlier, maybe I could've stopped this," he exclaims, and starts crying anew. Diamant tries telling him he couldn't have done anything, yet Herr Heinrich is insistent: "They sent me to fetch their ID papers, their papers that would let them leave the country. I was so close! If only I'd come back sooner!" He explains that the Nazi Party is cracking down on travel by Jews and they now require expensive documentation to be allowed to depart; the poorer Jews can't afford it, and it's getting difficult even for the richer Jews to obtain papers. Diamant is stunned to find out the Orchudesches were planning to leave already; "They were going to tell you, Herr Diamant," Herr Heinrich insists, "they wanted to get the papers first, just to be sure, then Fräulein Frieda was going to try to convince you to come with them. I got the papers! But I was too late!"

Diamant manages to calm him a bit, and heads over to the neighbor's. She's gentile but seems to sympathize--"I tried warning them this might happen, I don't know why they waited so long." When Diamant asks where they might have been taken, she peers uneasily to the city's edge. "That work camp, I imagine," she says, "though I can't be sure. You're one of them...? You might think of getting out while you still can, because I've heard nothing good about that place. I hear nobody ever leaves."

Diamant returns to Herr Heinrich and sits with him a bit, waiting for him to cry himself out, before venturing to ask him for a favor: Heinrich is German, he has much more freedom than Diamant, does he know anyone, anyone at all who works for the government? Even just the local government, a councilman or anything--someone who can tell him where the Orchudesches were taken. "They all work for the Nazis!" Herr Heinrich exclaims, "why would they want to help you?" But after a moment of pondering, he says he knows a city clerk he once went to school with, they meet for lunch once in a while, and although he had to swear an oath to the Party, he's privately grumbled about them; Heinrich isn't sure how helpful he'll be, but he can give it a try. Diamant tells him to direct the man to his shop if he has any info.

He returns to work, though he can barely focus, he agonizes so much over not knowing what's become of Frieda and her father. He glances toward the camp, but knows that going searching himself is out of the question; all it'll do is draw unwanted attention. Heinrich had asked if he too had gotten a notice like Herr Orchudesch got; Diamant hasn't yet, and would like to continue flying under the radar as long as possible. He keeps taking orders even though it's killing him inside to not know where the Orchudesches are.

The shop bell rings one day and Diamant goes up front to find a tall, slender, bespectacled man in a gray suit with a swastika pinned to his lapel; "Herr Diamant...?" he says in a mild, almost bored voice, and Diamant cautiously confirms it, suspecting he's connected to the Nazi youths who recently visited to poke around his shop. "I've heard you can repair watches," the man says, pulling out a pocketwatch; "I can," Diamant says, "though yours seems to be functioning properly." He then gasps and jerks back; without warning, the man slams the pocketwatch on the counter a couple of times, looks at it, and says, "Shame...I seem to have broken it." He holds it out again and Diamant gingerly takes it, not wishing to do anything to upset him, though as soon as he turns away the man says, "You have a back work area? I'd very much like to see it." Diamant asks why; he just likes to observe the work process, is all. Hoping that giving him a look around might get rid of him quicker, Diamant undoes the chain behind the counter and waves him forward. "Look around if you like," he says, and starts rummaging around in his drawers of supplies, seeking the pieces he needs to fix the watch. A moment or so passes, Diamant growing antsier each second, before the man says, "I was told you're looking for a couple of friends of yours."

Diamant stiffens, whirls around. "You're--" he says, but the man jerks a finger up to his mouth, cutting him off. "You've had any unexpected visitors lately...?" he says; Diamant starts to say no, then remembers the Nazi youths who looked around and bought nothing; he'd assumed it was an intimidation attempt, but it sure was a lousy one. The man sees the look on his face and taps his ear. Diamant heads back into the shop and starts looking around, checking under counters, behind displays. It takes him a few moments...but he finds it. A small listening device stuck under the edge of a shelf. He removes it, casts the man standing in the doorway a look, then crushes it under his shoe. He returns to the back room but shuts the door for good measure; he kept an eye on the youths, they hadn't entered the back of the shop, but he looks around a bit just in case.

The man confirms that he's Herr Heinrich's friend, who works in a city records office. He tells Diamant that the people in charge of the legal situation of the Jews are the Schutzstaffel, and he definitely does not work for them or have direct access to their records. He had to use his own connections--and a little old-fashioned palm-greasing--to find a record of what happened to the Orchudesches. They were both arrested and taken into SS custody, from there to be sent to the camps. Diamant asks if this means that at the city's edge; no, not that camp, as it doesn't take women and elderly people. Frieda Orchudesch was taken to a women's camp in another city. Diamant asks what happened then; the clerk replies, "The record says Fräulein Orchudesch was killed immediately after arriving."

All the air leaves Diamant's lungs. The news--his Frieda, his betrothed, his love, is gone, forever--is delivered so abruptly it hits him like a wall of bricks, and his knees buckle; he ends up on the floor. The clerk is silent a moment before saying, "I was told you were close...I'm sorry for your loss."

"She...she's, she was young and healthy...why would they kill her?" Diamant can barely manage to say.

The clerk shrugs and replies, "Maybe she wasn't strong enough for the type of labor involved. Maybe the person doing selections had a bad day. Maybe it rained when the sun should have shone. Who knows? The SS needs no reason to do anything."

Diamant still has to fight to find his voice: "Herr--Herr Orchudesch. What about him? What happened to him--?"

The clerk looks vaguely uncomfortable and tries to demur, suggesting maybe he shouldn't know, but Diamant insists, so he finally replies, "Herr Orchudesch was placed on a train to another camp out of the city. The train was delayed for several days. He'd died by the time it reached the camp."

And there, like that, it is--the Orchudesches are gone, as if they'd never been. Diamant feels his world crumbling. For the first time in his life he has no idea what to do; he's too stunned and numb even to cry. "I wish I had better news for you," the clerk says. "My advice, Herr Diamant?--leave the country while you're still able. Don't put it off, because it's only going to get worse. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe my favor here is done." As he turns to head out, Diamant mumbles, "Your watch." "I need to buy a new one anyway," the clerk says, and leaves.

Herr Heinrich visits shortly after. "I wanted to know what happened," he murmurs, and his eyes fill with tears. "The look on your face tells me." He starts weeping. "If only I got the papers to them in time." He tells Diamant that he's leaving, and urges him to do the same--"There's nothing left here for people like you and me; and they would have wanted you to escape, at least one good thing should come of all this"--then remembers he has something he wants to give Diamant. He takes it from his pocket and holds it out: Frieda's ring. Diamant nearly recoils--now, now his eyes flood with tears as it hits him, here's what started it all, here at the end of it. "They ransacked the house," Herr Heinrich says, "took all the valuables they could find. Yet they missed this...she must have taken it off when they weren't looking, and hid it in this little spot she used to hide things when she was a child...she must have hoped I would find it there." His voice breaks when he says Diamant should have the ring; Diamant hesitates, it feels wrong somehow to take it back, plus some tiny part of his brain feels almost like the ring is now cursed--yet Herr Heinrich insists, saying it was his once, and surely Frieda left it behind for him to have. Diamant reluctantly receives the ring and takes a breath as the tears start streaming down his face. It feels like the oath has been broken, somehow. He feels like he should have been there to keep them safe.

Herr Heinrich turns to leave. Before he can reach the door, however--a spark, a thought, crystallizes in Diamant's head--he looks up and quickly calls out, "The papers." Herr Heinrich stops and looks back. "You still have them?" Herr Heinrich nods and wipes his eyes--"If only I got them there in time!"--yet right now Diamant doesn't have time for more pointless weeping. He stands and approaches: "May I see them?" Herr Heinrich digs the papers out of his pocket and holds them out. Diamant unfolds them; they're similar to a passport, resembling some kind of temporary pass, with grainy photos upon them--his vision blurs seeing Herr Orchudesch's and Frieda's faces looking back at him and he has to blink it clear again--and much more detailed information than he's seen on similar documentation before; there's even a spot determining the amount of "Jewish blood" the holder possesses. An official seal with the SS emblem is stamped on them. Diamant examines them for a moment before asking Herr Heinrich, "May I keep these?--bitte?" Herr Heinrich hesitates briefly, seeming perplexed, but his eyes water once more--"They're useless now. You can have them"--he urges Diamant once more to leave, wishes him farewell, and exits.

Diamant wants nothing more than to break down sobbing over the loss, the life he almost had, the one person who understood him and he wanted to be with forever, the other half of his soul--yet that will accomplish nothing, when an idea has sparked in his head. He closes shop early and goes into the back, sitting down to study the ID papers. He doesn't just look at the information supplied; he examines the typeface used, how crisp or faded it is, whether the individual letters are broken or intact. The size, quality, texture, thickness, and color of the paper. The stock the photos are printed on, if it's matte or glossy. The colors and patterns of the ink in the background. The design of the border. The length and thickness of the lines upon which the information is printed. The signatures of the holders and the official who stamped the ID and what sort of ink was used. And especially the SS stamp atop it all. He even pulls out his jeweler's loupe to examine every single element in minute detail. Once he commits all these details to memory, he tucks the papers away among his client records and heads out to do some shopping.

Diamant visits various shops and studios, returns to the shop hours later with his arms full of supplies. Clears a spot at his jewelry workstation and starts pulling out papers and inks. A deliveryman arrives with a new typewriter. Diamant's first act is to start carefully carving a stamp; as a jeweler, he has a keen eye for the tiny details that everyone else misses until they're all put together; still, just to be sure, he consults the IDs as he works. Within the hour, he has a perfect, reversed replica of the official SS ID stamp.

Diamant hates even looking at the evil thing, and promptly shoves it away in a drawer, yet continues working. Of course, he wasn't able to obtain exact samples of everything he needs, a few times he had to settle for near matches. He works late into the night as if it's one of his jewelry projects, switching between brush and pen and typewriter, doing gentle washes in muted colors, fanning the paper dry, pressing it flat under books, drawing the most delicate lines and patterns, typing in the information, affixing the photo, and finally--the very last step--inking the stamp, dabbing most of the ink off, and pressing it against the paper. The seal appears faded and patchy, as if it's been used countless times, yet the double lightning bolts are obvious. Diamant sits a moment and stares at his new official ID papers granting him passage out of the German Reich. Then shoves them in the drawer with the stamp and wonders WTF he's doing.

He gives himself the night to sleep on it. The next day he makes some calls, asks for help tracking down an acquaintance whose name he's forgotten, maybe someone can help him, he's a friend of Heinrich's. He finally reaches the correct office where a secretary responds not with "I'm sorry, I have no idea who that is," but "I'm sorry, he's out of the office right now." Diamant leaves a message to stop by his shop later that evening for an urgent matter, reiterating that he's "a friend of Heinrich's." Then resumes his regular work as he waits.

Just before closing time, after his last customer for the day leaves, the shop bell again rings. Diamant heads to the front. The city clerk is standing at the counter, a sour look on his face. "I was under the distinct impression our dealings were concluded," he says crossly. "And yet here you are, calling around and putting my job in jeopardy. I shouldn't have even bothered giving you the time of day for such negligence. Now tell me what you want before I reconsider my decision to come here." Diamant brushes off his warnings, presenting him with the ID papers; the clerk looks them over, blinks, and exclaims, "You took my advice--? Excellent, excellent, this is a wise choice you won't regret, Herr Diamant, trust me. Just take it to the appropriate office and you should be on your way. Remember to pack light, they won't let you take much."

Diamant lets out a breath. "It's convincing, then--?" he asks, feeling a surge of hope for the first time in ages. "If you were the one checking it, you'd let me through?" The clerk blinks again, furrows his brow--"What are you talking about?--you mean this..."--and then looks at the papers again. Squints, lifts his spectacles, holds them inches from his face, studies them. "This is a fake--?" he exclaims, and looks at Diamant, aghast. "What are you thinking?? Forging government documents and showing them to me! Are you mad?? Are you trying to get us both killed--??"

Diamant manages to calm the clerk down a bit, explaining that he's not asking him to accept the ID as genuine or even to help get him out of the country. He just needs to know if it's convincing enough to fool a clerk with his level of experience, and what about it might be improved. The clerk very reluctantly admits it's the most clever forgery he's seen, and clarifies that there are small variations between IDs, enough to likely account for whatever tiny inaccuracies exist in Diamant's copy. (Diamant had hoped as much, but wasn't sure.) The SS seal and signatures are the most important elements. Once he has this information, Diamant does make one final request: If he or one of his fellow clerks who deal with processing applications for such IDs ever hear of any parties who aren't able to obtain one, to direct them to come to his shop. The clerk, immediately understanding his intent, protests--"I won't endanger myself or my family any further by perpetrating a scam! Have you no idea how powerful the SS is? If they catch you forging their seal, they'll put you in a camp for certain!"--yet Diamant insists he's not asking him to participate in the scheme...just to point people in his direction. He won't need to sign or verify or fake anything at all. The clerk's resolve falters; after a brief hesitation, he says simply, "I have to go now," and heads for the door. "If you try contacting me again," he adds at the door, "I will not respond," and leaves.

Time passes. Diamant gets to know his neighboring shopkeepers, the BENTZES, and even strikes up a business arrangement with them; like him, they tend to keep to themselves, though Frau Bentz admits she's worried about his welfare. Diamant isn't sure how trustworthy or not they are, so keeps his own counsel; at the very least, he figures he's shielding them from whatever misfortune might come his way. He gets lost in thought while working on his projects, mulling over how to get word out that he's trying to offer help to those attempting escape; having so few connections to society is suddenly quite a hindrance. He starts to figure his plan must be shelved, and instead broods over a feeling of unfinished business, of letting the Orchudesches down. He'd wanted so much to do SOMETHING to set things right.

His bell rings one day and he's rather surprised when a family of five enters--surprised, because their attire and appearance is rather shabbier than the rest of his regular clientele. The man meekly addresses him, "We...we were told you're offering a bargain...?" Diamant frowns, says, what? The man falters, looks ready to leave then and there, yet the woman speaks up instead. Reiterates that they were informed that Diamant is offering a bargain. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, I'm not having any sale," Diamant says, increasingly confused, "Are you sure you have the right shop?"--because these people look like they'd never be able to afford anything he's selling. "You're Herr Diamant, ja--?" the woman insists, growing desperate; "We were told you're offering a bargain. A deal on custom items--personalized, for each of us. Bitte, we're willing to pay, everything we have."

"I'm sorry," Diamant says, bewildered; "I do custom work, ja, but I'm afraid I'm having no--" And then the phrase hits him. Personalized, for each of us. He blinks. "Custom items," he says, and looks at the woman, who's staring back pleadingly. "How many custom items?" he asks, just to be sure, and when she says, "Five," he undoes the chain and gestures for them to follow him into the back.

In privacy, Diamant listens as the couple tell him they tried to apply for IDs to leave the country, but couldn't afford the fees. The clerk seemed to notice their distress, and quietly told them that if they were willing to take a risk, to look up a jeweler's shop called Diamant's, and ask the proprietor if he was offering a deal on "custom items"; if all else failed, they could say that "Heinrich" sent them. They were on their own from there, no guarantees. Diamant tells them all the info he'll need to do the job--the woman has already gathered it, when applying for the actual IDs--and he takes it. He asks if they have any place to stay for a day or two as he prepares the papers; they say yes, and he instructs them when to return. He waves off the woman's offer of payment, saying they can settle that once they have the IDs in their hands.

Diamant toils over five sets of papers. Keeps the clerk's comments in mind, focusing mainly on the officials' signatures and the SS stamp, though also putting minute detail into the rest. When the family returns he gives them the papers but cautions them that he's never done this before, so he can't guarantee the clerks will be fooled; he's done his best, but they're still taking a huge risk. If they want to back out, he won't charge them anything. They hesitate only briefly before the woman says that they can either take a risk which might result in their incarceration/death, or do nothing at all and definitely meet the same fate. They'll take their chances. Diamant takes his payment--promising it'll go toward purchasing supplies for more IDs--and wishes them luck.

It's sheer agony in the following days, wondering and not knowing if the ruse worked. Yet then one afternoon a messenger arrives with a telegram. It's vague and brief, but the sender wants him to know they've reached their vacation home safely, and thanks for the help. They leave no names, just "Heinrich's friends."

Thus begins Diamant's new job, moonlighting as a document forger. At the start, he can easily recognize these clients when they arrive--they're always poorer than his jewelry clients--yet as time goes on, even better-off Jews, with income similar to his, start arriving. He can only assume that not only are sympathetic clerks passing along the word, but his reputation is also being spread by word of mouth; with this comes the increased risk of him being found out, yet he keeps at it. Without fail, the people he helps urge him to leave the country as well, get out while he can, yet he remains behind. Every ID he forges is another life possibly saved, another mark on the tally his mind is keeping; he doesn't know how many of their lives he'll need to save before he'll make up for Frieda's and her father's lives, no amount ever feels like enough to wipe the slate clean. He knows that the more IDs he forges, the longer he stays, the closer to disaster he brings himself, yet he just keeps at it; he'd hoped for some kind of redemption, yet nothing he does ever seems good enough, nothing ever closes the wound.

He never does find out who tips off the authorities. Maybe someone planted another bug? He does his best to be careful, he never keeps records of THOSE clients, he gets them in and out quickly. Is it a suspicious neighbor? A spy posing as a client? A clerk caving in under pressure or threats? A flaw or mistake in one of his own forgeries? He doesn't know, and frankly it doesn't matter. A military truck full of Party members and SS officials pulls up out front of his shop one bizarre day as windows are getting smashed along the street, and he's hauled into his back room. They tear through his client records, they pummel him with their fists and kick him with their boots, they jab his jeweler's files into his arms and take the jeweler's torch to his chest, but he insists he knows nothing about any forgeries. They almost break him, but keeping Frieda's face in his mind, her bright ear-to-ear smile, fuels his hatred, and hatred is stronger than fear. His shop is torn apart and set afire, he's dragged out and tossed into the truck, he's driven to the rail yard.

It makes no sense, he thinks, and the other men, strangers, crowded in the car with him murmur the same thing. They know where they're going. The camp just at the city's edge. But why like this, when the truck could take them? And why is it taking so long? One of them, a slightly older man, says the waiting is the point--there are ways to torture someone without laying a finger on them, simply by driving them mad with the waiting, the anticipation of a dreadful fate that never quite comes, except that's just it, that's the dreadful fate. The train is deliberately stalled. They're deliberately taking their time. Everything about this is deliberate, even accidents, because every dead Jew is just one less mouth to feed. Diamant recalls Herr Orchudesch's fate--dying slowly in a stalled train car--and wonders if his will be the exact same fate.

It isn't. Eventually the train starts moving again, a lengthy circuitous route, before arriving at the camp. Everyone is marched along a ramp--so much yelling--a uniformed man casts them each a quick glance, shouts "Left" or "Right." Every so often, a burst of gunfire sounds from the direction of those who are sent "left." The captives flinch, the guards don't. Diamant remembers what he was told of Frieda's death, and wonders, as he moves up the line, if that's to be his fate. The guard doing selections glances up at him, makes a face--"Right!"--and Diamant is shoved out of the line and toward a long building nearby.

A bored-looking SS officer is leaning against the building outside the door, arms crossed, cigarette in mouth; he simply watches as the men are herded inside, told to strip--Diamant's ears burn with humiliation as he does so--and directed toward the showers. Diamant's heard the rumors; he stands under the shower head, trying not to shake, hears a loud hiss, gasps when something explodes from it just over his head--then shudders--it's water, cold water, but just water nonetheless. The prisoners quickly wash themselves, shuffle into another room, are given striped clothes to wear. Another room, their heads shaved and their arms tattooed--Diamant grimaces both times, all the unnecessary added humiliation. Their personal details are entered in a ledger; Diamant sees his fellows having quick photographs taken, but for some reason no one calls his name. Then, badges quickly stitched to their shirts; Diamant receives a green-and-yellow Judenstern. The man affixing it to him is also in stripes and colored badge; "What does it mean?" Diamant asks, "Means you're a criminal, and a Jew," the other prisoner replies, "same difference to these folks."

He's sent back out, made to get in another line in the muddy yard--roll call--work and barracks assignments--waking, meals, and sleeping times--rules and regulations. A loud-voiced officer yells this all out at them as they stand at attention, the bored-looking officer beside him, looking everyone over. Diamant feels a twinge of surprise when the yelling officer introduces the camp commandant--who isn't him. He indicates the bored-looking man, and says, "All of you may refer to him as Mein Herr, or Herr Dannecker."

I've outlined some of Diamant's stay in the labor camp in previous entries. His cautious friendship with fellow prisoners Lukas Mettbach and Arno Spiegel. How he makes the mistake of standing up to Dannecker, then finds out the hard way just how formidable the unassuming-looking Obersturmbannführer is, once he declares Diamant his "pet project." How being a pet project perfectly encapsulates what he learned on the train, that you can break a person without even laying a finger on them; Commandant Dannecker is an expert at psychological warfare, especially the use of Russian roulette. How he's not above using plain old physical torture, too--jamming a jeweler's file into Diamant's right hand and twisting it around, shredding the nerves. How Diamant finds himself scheming again, another wild and reckless plan, knowing that if he doesn't get out of there, Dannecker will either kill him, or make him kill himself. How the plot involves persuading the commandant's stepdaughter, Gret, to help him, and the particular ruse they use to trick Dannecker into letting down his guard, with Gret asking him for a gift, a piece of jewelry. Dannecker just happens to know a jeweler, once the best jeweler in the city. He has Diamant brought to him. He commissions him to make a ring.

...

Frieda isn't a character I made in her own right; she was originally intended to fill a simple role in Diamant's life, that of soulmate. As leader of the Diamond Network, Diamant helps bring Inga Dobermann into hiding; separated from her family and lonely, she kisses him, but he refuses to let it go any further--even though it's obvious he's fallen in love with her. He knows her husband is her true soulmate, and he knows how it hurts to lose half of your soul; when explaining what happened to Dobermann, he starts to mention how he suspects Dobermann must not like him, including for his race; Dobermann cuts in with "Not like you--? I HATE you! I hate you for breaking up my family. I hate you for taking my wife from me and our daughter. I don't give a damn what you are, I'd still hate you. Now get out of my house!"

The comments sting--but Diamant isn't offended. He understands that the hate comes from the hurt. Dobermann just admitted a pretty big and important truth that's been hazy up until now: He doesn't care if someone, including Inga, is Jewish or German or what. He loves her just the same, and hates Diamant for separating him from his soul. Diamant determines to not only never get in the way of that, but to reunite the family as soon as he's able. It means he'll end up alone...but Inga isn't his to have.

The Dobermanns are indeed reunited at the war's end, and spend a blissful final year or so together before Dobermann sacrifices himself in the Alpine Fortress. Diamant tries to save him, but Dobermann, knowing he'll just end up pulling him down with him, hits his hand and forces him to let go. His final words to Diamant: "Look after her." He's known about Diamant's feelings for a long time, but never hated him for that. It's quite a while before Inga learns of her husband's last request, as Diamant never tells her; she learns it from Lukas. Diamant reaffirms his feelings for her when she visits him about it; the two begin a cautious relationship. They never marry, but remain devoted to each other until Inga's death around a decade later, from early-onset dementia (she confuses Diamant for Dobermann, telling him she loves him, then in a brief moment of lucidity, adds, "I love you, Josef"); Diamant never partners with anyone else, though he continues to treat the Dobermanns' daughter, Adelina, as if she's his own. He commissions a sculpture for their graves: Louis Dobermann with a cross, Inga Dobermann with a Star of David, holding each other's hand and gazing at each other.

In "In Heaven," Inga and Dobermann are reunited at last. But who is there for Diamant to meet...? My initial idea for the unnamed Frieda, in life, was for them to meet similarly to how it's described here, yet she tells him she's leaving the country, and she'll wait for him; after the war, he never goes looking for her, and they never meet again. This didn't sit well with me; Diamant wouldn't have left someone hanging like that. He had to have a good reason to never meet her again...the only way he'd never go seeking her is if she's not alive anymore. Frieda's story came into being as I wrote this up, and I learned not only who Diamant's soulmate is, but his own history too, and his ultimate motivation for taking the path he does, endangering himself up to the very end so he can help others. It isn't solely altruism that motivates him; it's hatred for the SS, and guilt over his past failure to save half of his own soul.

Ironically, Dr. Schäfer describes Diamant to Sgt. Gerhardt as having "sold half his soul to the devil," following his murder of Dannecker--who was known as "Der Teufel"--and escape from his camp. In effect, he's "become" Dannecker. Gerhardt also notices all the similarities Diamant shares with members of the SS, telling him in a moment of anger that he and his enemy, Lt. Hesse, are merely two sides of the same coin. Diamant even disguises himself in an SS uniform. This is a harsh truth it takes Diamant a long time to accept, that in his efforts to set things right, he ends up radicalizing himself to be nearly indistinguishable from what he hates most. He isolates himself for a while following the war (the others believe he was captured and killed), before meeting the Dobermanns again.

Diamant must intentionally wipe Frieda from his mind for a time. In "In Heaven," people (who don't go through purgatory, or already did) first meet with the person their soul calls out to the most. For example, Otto Himmel meets his wife Dagmar; Hesse meets Sophie; Teal Rat, abandoned by his family, meets a stranger who heard his soul call out in loneliness. Diamant doesn't meet Inga, he meets...Dannecker. It's utterly shocking for him to meet his old tormentor again this way, and for a moment he thinks he must be in Hell although he doesn't believe in it. Dannecker explains that the one your soul calls out to isn't necessarily your soulmate or even your friend; it's the person to whom you were most closely connected when you died, for better or worse. Schäfer's assessment of him wasn't too far off the mark, that in the absence of half his soul (metaphorically speaking, probably), something needed to fill the void, and what filled it was hate. Maybe, if Diamant had let it fade rather than fester, his soul would have healed sooner, and called out to the one it really wished to see. Dannecker says, better late than never; then lifts his head and looks at something behind Diamant. There she must be now, he says, the person Diamant truly wanted to meet. Diamant looks, and finds Frieda Orchudesch coming his way, smiling ear to ear. Stunned and confused, he glances back, yet Dannecker is gone. Frieda is still there, though, and she smiles up at him, saying, "I've been waiting for you."

See also HERR ORCHUDESCH'S ENTRY.

[Frieda Orchudesch 2024 [‎Friday, ‎August ‎16, ‎2024, ‏‎12:00:08 AM]]

#artists on tumblr #ibisPaint x #SketchDaily #original characters

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ariicandy · 2 years ago

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“Christmas Eve will find me

Where the love light gleams”

N25 Christmas headcanons is here! Wxs headcanons always brings me motivation to write, yes, Christmas is a month away but I just have to write this down for the winter holidays! Might be inaccurate just to let you know!

#123456 are hex codes of colors I imagine for Ena’s painting gifts.

‧₊˚🎁‿ೃˎ˗ ᗰ𝒆𝗿𝗿𝛄 ᑕ𝒉𝗿𝖏𝙨𝙩𝒎𝝰𝙨

🎄- Christmas would probably be entirely new for everyone in n25 spending Christmas together, you try to enlighten the mood by doing Christmas activities to stop the awkward silence.

☃️- Mizuki would probably help you with the decoration setup, activities, etc. Ena would help too from time to time.

❄️- I would like to believe ena would make paintings that reminds n25 each one of them, a painting filled with colors with meanings of each emotions by each member. Mizuki will be filled with bright colors transitioning into darker shades of colors of their cheerful personality into their emotions they show at empty sekai. Kanade will be filled with grey like colors(ex. Hadley #B5ABBD , Modern Grey #6F6E72 ) swirled around, little music notes and stars swirling with the colors. Mafuyu will have dark purple-grey/black colors like Gothic Grape #474951 as the background, then a tree in the middle losing its long beautiful flowers falling in the ground with mafuyu sitting in the middle of the tree on the ground hiding her face with her legs.

🎁- I feel like Kanade with do a small soundtrack of bells and peoples holidays cheers to play as the background when they all open their gifts they got for each other.

• —————————— 🎧 —————————— •

🎄- Mizuki’s gifts for presents will probably be small accessories they make for each member like necklaces, bracelets, hair pieces, clothing etc. I also believe mizuki will gift them little handmade origamis with a generous letter thanking all of them for staying with them and trusting them with everything.

☃️- Even tho mafuyu might not or might have a gift so I will do 2 different scenery of these two.

- if mafuyu doesn’t have a gift she will try to express how she likes the gift and try to enjoy the activities you all planned, and probably might later the next day give you all gifts you all will enjoy tho she might be a day late she’s sorry for having them ready <3

- If mafuyu did have some gifts for you all, I would think they would be small but generous gifts like things you guys really love from your hobbies I believe mafuyu would have gotten something small to help you enjoy your hobby. Like if you love sketching mafuyu would get an art sketchbook and colors and pens/pencils for you.

❄️- You guys might have gone to a cafe a few days before Christmas since everything will be close on that day, so you all got to spend time together to enjoy eating food and chatting what you’ll do when it’s Christmas!

🎁- You’ll bring gifts to all the virtual singers/vocaloid singers giving them some memories for them to remember and try to bring some feeling to them like how you would to mafuyu, now you just have to hope everyone remembers this special moment and have a soft, happy feeling when it’s a special holiday again <3

! ———— Next Christmas headcanons: Vivid Bad Squad

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hotpinkhoshi · 4 years ago

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kiss it better | five

pairing: mark tuan x reader

genre: angst, eventual smut, brother’s best friend au (sort of)

warnings: tw for death, death of a parent, reference to drug addiction

word count: 4.5k

summary: you were off limits for more reasons than mark could count. but everything changed for him the day you walked into his tattoo shop with those big innocent eyes and a laugh like his favorite song. he couldn’t. he wouldn’t. and yet…

a/n: hi babies thank you for your patience, i know it’s been many many months since i’ve updated! the last time i posted for kib was all the way back in may, which is crazy, i know. but life has been weird and it’s been difficult for me to find the motivation to write. it’s slowly coming back for me and i’m so glad you guys have stuck around with me even if i haven’t been consistent. i’m more grateful than you know!

✩ index here ✩

“She did what?” Dahyun asked, her bite of gimbap nearly falling right out of her mouth.

Youngjae threw his head back and broke into laughter entirely at Mark’s expense.

Mark ran his tongue over his teeth and refused to look up at his friends, focusing awfully hard on the sketch he’d been working on in between appointments. He quickly realized that they had absolutely no sympathy for him.

“Yeah.”

It had been two weeks already since that night, and Mark was just now feeling comfortable enough to spill what had happened after he took you home. He liked to take his own time to process his thoughts before he revealed them to others, and quite frankly, he hadn’t even wanted to tell anyone. But he was starting to think maybe he needed an outside perspective.

“She has guts,” Youngjae said, after finally pulling himself upright in his chair. “Was it good?”

“Dude,” Mark warned, far from amused.

Dahyun cut in. “It’s a good enough question. From what I’ve seen, you guys have some intense sexual tension. If the kiss was hot, maybe it’s worth exploring.”

“We don’t have sexual tension,” Mark defended.

Youngjae snorted.

“Sure. But, let’s say if you did, and the kiss was good…” Dahyun trailed off, wiggling her eyebrows.

Groaning, Mark tapped the end of his pencil against the desk. He glanced up at the wall, his eyes naturally drawn to the photo of your shoulder, of the tattoo he’d designed and permanently inked onto your skin. It wasn’t the only photo he had pinned up of his previous work, but it was the one he looked at the most.

“She’s a kid,” he said, little to no conviction in his voice.

But you weren’t a kid. Mark knew in every way, you were an adult. Even mentally, emotionally, you seemed more mature than he felt most days. Packing up your belongings because you refused to live a life you weren’t satisfied with? He couldn’t imagine anything more grown up than that.

“Mark,” Youngjae’s tone was firm, serious this time. “It’s not the worst thing in the world if you have chemistry with someone. I know it may not be the most convenient girl for you, but… you’ve been by yourself for a long time. You can’t tell me you aren’t lonely.”

He hadn’t thought he was lonely until you came into his life. He had been fine, so fine, living on his own. Waking up alone, eating dinner alone, focusing on his work and living one day to the next.

But now, he looked forward to the sound of your keys in the door when you got home from your evening shift. He bought your favorite brand of orange juice instead of his. He didn’t mind watching outlandish and obviously fake reality shows if it meant that he got to hear your commentary along with it. More than anything, he’d gotten used to the way you made him feel. In the simplest of terms, he was happy.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mark said. “I already fucked it up.”

Dahyun narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”

He rubbed some of the tension out of his forehead, relaying the conversation he’d had with Taehyung that night to his friends. The exchange wasn’t longer than a few minutes, but it was long enough for Mark to potentially ruin everything you’d built for yourself in the last couple of months.

“I didn’t tell him everything - I couldn’t do that. But I told him I’d seen her in the city, that I thought maybe she worked in one of the restaurants near the shop…” A knot of guilt coiled in his stomach. “Fuck.”

He’d just wanted to do the right thing. You were young, you couldn’t see that your parents cared about you. Taehyung cared about you. They deserved to know where you were, especially after everything they had done for him. He could at least point them in the right direction.

“Well, shit,” Youngjae offered, a sympathetic frown on his face.

“I fucked her over, and I haven’t been able to look her in the eye since. We’ve just avoided each other for the last two weeks and I-” Mark heaved a breath, leaning back in his chair. “I hate it.”

He missed you. Even if he couldn’t say it out loud.

“I have an idea,” Dahyun said, her whole body perking up. “Don’t look at me like that, sometimes I have good ideas. Why don’t you invite her along for Yugyeom’s camping trip?”

“You mean the couple thing?”

Dahyun sighed. “It’s not a couple thing. It’s just… everyone there is part of a couple. Anyway, it might be a good way to make things less awkward.”

Mark blinked a few times, waiting for Dahyun to say ‘just kidding’ because it was an absolutely ridiculous idea. “What? How would that make things any less awkward?”

She shrugged. “I mean, it’s a great opportunity to break the tension. If you know what I mean.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mark scowled.

You spent your entire shift thinking about Mark. Thinking about how you had completely messed up your relationship, and trying to figure out how to fix it all. It had been a stupid, drunken mistake, and you would take it back in a heartbeat if you could.

The past two weeks had been torture, tiptoeing around and trying your hardest to avoid him. You’d picked up extra shifts almost every day, figuring that if you were working, at least you didn’t have to pretend like everything was normal.

All you wanted was to come home, curl up on the couch with Milo and watch your favorite ridiculous TV shows while Mark snickered next to you, entertained by the disgustingly wealthy families on the screen no matter how much he pretended to hate it. You wanted to be able to lean into him, feel the body heat radiating off of him when his shoulder brushed yours.

You missed Mark. Even if you couldn’t say it out loud.

After much debating, you decided that the best way to apologize started with food. And you owed him, anyway, after he opened his home to you and let you stay there free of charge. A dinner was the least you could do.

You could tell once you walked into Paradise Tattoo just before closing time that Mark hadn’t been expecting you in the slightest. He was at the desk, going over papers with Dahyun, when the bell dinged to signal your entrance.

In his ripped jeans and muscle tee, all of his tattoos were on display for you, even the large quote he had inked onto his ribcage. You gulped and shoved your feelings down. That would only make things worse.

“Hi,” you said, greeting both Mark and Dahyun.

“Hey.” Mark scratched his head and straightened his posture. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” you started, wringing your hands in front of you. “I wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner? On me. I owe you, anyway.”

Dahyun piped up, a mischievous smirk on her lips, “That’s a great idea. Mark was just talking about how hungry he was.

Mark cleared his throat and shot his co-worker what looked suspiciously like a glare. “No, I’m fine. You really don’t have to-”

“Come on,” you said, hiding a smile. “How about burgers? There’s a good place around the corner. It won’t kill you to let me pay, will it?”

You could see Mark weigh his options as he chewed his lip. Either end up hungry, settling for some quick frozen food later on, or bite the bullet and let you pay for his dinner. You knew it would hurt his pride to do so, but you wouldn’t back down. It was more than just the free room and board that you wanted to make up for.

“Alright,” he finally agreed. “Let me grab my stuff.”

It only took less than ten minutes for you to walk down to the burger place, but it felt like an hour as awkward silence hung around the two of you. It wasn’t until you were both seated at a corner booth inside the restaurant that you finally spoke up.

“Listen, Mark,” you said, looking up from the packet of ketchup you’d been nervously squishing between your fingers. “About that night…”

“No, you don’t-” Mark was quick to interrupt, but you held your hand up.

“Just let me, okay?” You sighed.

You’d rehearsed these words countless times in the bathroom mirror, and right now it felt like they were slipping right out of your fingers. Where were you supposed to start? With the kiss, straight away? Or getting so drunk that you’d needed to be taken care of in the first place?

“I’m just… really sorry. I was stupid to drink that much and it’s not your job to watch after me. I should be able to take care of myself.”

Mark stopped you again. “I didn’t mind taking care of you.”

“But it’s not your job, Mark. I’m an adult, and you’re letting me stay with you and asking for nothing in return. The least I could do is make it easy on you.”

“Y/N, if you could have seen me at your age, you wouldn’t feel so bad. We all get drunk and stupid sometimes,” Mark said with a shrug. It almost relieved some of your guilt until you remembered the kiss in the bathroom.

“Well...” You shook your head and looked back down at your hands. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him for this one. “I really shouldn’t have ki-”

“Hi! My name’s Lana, I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you two something to drink while you look over the menus?”

A cheerful brunette appeared in front of you, a pen behind her ear and a wide grin plastered on her face. You glanced at Mark, then up at your waitress, not sure if you were grateful for the interruption or not.

“Um, can I just have a water?” you asked, voice small and uncomfortable in your throat.

“Same for me,” Mark agreed.

“Perfect! Let me know if you have any questions about the menu!”

You let out a long breath before you were able to look at Mark again. He was biting his cheek, his lips all twisted and holding back a laugh.

“What?” you asked.

“Her timing,” Mark got out, just as he let go of his laughter, throwing his head back.

To your own surprise, you found yourself shaking with laughter as well. Either from Mark’s contagious laugh giggle or the simple ridiculousness of the situation. Here you were, in a burger restaurant, apologizing to your older brother’s best friend for kissing him while you were heavily intoxicated.

You covered your face with your hands to suppress your own laughter, letting your back slump against the cushions of the booth. It all came to you then, just how silly you’d been the last two weeks.

“I am sorry, though,” you said, after you both settled down.

Mark’s eyes glinted as he watched you from across the table, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. “It’s alright. I mean it. Last time I was that drunk, I’m pretty sure I ran around the block in my underwear singing the Canadian national anthem.”

You giggled again at the mental image. “What? How did you even-”

“No idea. It’s like I was possessed by a drunk Canadian mischief demon.”

It was strange to imagine Mark and Taehyung in their teen years, since you’d been so young at the time, you could barely remember anything from that time of your life. You remembered Taehyung wearing the same pair of purple skinny jeans for three months because a girl at school had told him she liked them.

You remembered Taehyung letting you sit in the basement in your favorite cushioned chair while he and Mark played video games on the big screen. It had been your favorite place to read then, tuning out the rambunctious cries of defeat while you got lost in other worlds.

“So we’re okay, then?” you asked, after Lana had come back to take your order and left once more.

Mark nodded, a genuine smile on his lips. “We’re okay.”

“Maybe it’s weird, but…” you began, staring down at the wrapped silverware on the table instead of looking Mark in the eye. “Even though I grew up seeing you as Taehyung’s friend, that feels like a lifetime ago. And now I just kind of see you as… my friend. Like somebody I can trust.”

When you finally looked up at Mark, his expression was unreadable. His bottom lip was between his teeth, but his eyes looked somewhat uncomfortable. You worried for a second that you’d crossed a line.

“I owe a lot to your family,” Mark said after another long moment passed.

Even though you didn’t remember much about Mark from your childhood years, you knew his upbringing had been rough. His parents had been addicts, the kind that never should’ve been together, let alone bring a child into the world.

You’d never met his mom, but your own mother had made enough snide comments about her after Mark had gone home for you to understand just what kind of person she was.

“One of those low life, worthless drug addicts. Sleeping around with anyone that can help her out, if you know what I mean. Never should’ve been a mother.”

She had a funny way of showing her compassion sometimes.

Taehyung brought him over once after school and your mother had gotten one look at his threadbare clothes and hollow cheeks and taken him in as her new project. At first, he ate dinner with your family almost every night, and then she started making Taehyung pass over his any extra clothes he’d gotten that didn’t fit properly or that he simply didn’t like.

Mark did owe a lot to your family.

You didn’t know what to say. You’d been so young there was no way you could take credit for anything your parents had done for Mark, but still, you itched to comfort him. Even now, with the unsaid words lingering in the air, you sensed that he had never been able to fully open up to anybody. Though you didn’t deserve it, you wanted to be the first.

“Your mom,” you found yourself saying. “Is she��?”

Mark shook his head. “She’s gone. Passed away a couple years ago.”

Your face fell. If anything, you had expected her to have taken off for good or maybe gotten into some trouble she couldn’t get herself out of, but you hadn’t expected her to be gone.

“Oh, god, Mark. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

To your surprise, he only lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I hadn’t seen her in a long time before that. Maybe two, three years. Then my aunt showed up on my doorstep with a box of her things and told me she OD’d in a gas station parking lot a week before.”

His voice wavered only slightly, but enough to tell you he cared more than he let on. You could only imagine how painful it would be to hear of your own mother’s passing a week after the fact.

“I’m sorry,” you said again.

Mark shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s weird,” he said, tongue running over his lower lip as he paused. “I’d stopped seeing her as my mother so long ago that… I felt like I’d already mourned her death. Fuck, that sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

“No,” you answered as you reached across the table, fingers laying across the back of Mark’s hand. “It doesn’t. At all.”

A moment passed between the two of you. You caught Mark’s eyes glancing down at your hand resting on his skin, but he made no move to avoid your touch.

“I never even went through her things. The box is just sitting at the back of my bedroom closet collecting dust.”

“Do you want to go through her things?” you asked.

Mark paused, chewing at the inside of his lip before he answered. “I don’t know.”

You nodded, somehow understanding exactly what he meant. Though you hadn’t gone through the same thing, you were familiar with avoiding a potentially painful and uncomfortable situation by simply pretending it didn’t exist. Hence why you had four unopened voicemails from your brother and parents.

You found yourself stroking the back of Mark’s hand with your thumb. It didn’t feel wrong to touch him like this, even though maybe it should have. All you wanted was to bring him a shred of the comfort he had deserved to have for much longer than you’d known him.

“Alrighty, and here we’ve got the bacon cheeseburger and sweet potato fries for the lady,” Lana exclaimed, immediately bursting your bubble as she returned to your table with your food balanced on a tray. You were quick to snatch your hand from Mark’s. “And a BBQ cheddar burger with curly fries for the handsome man.”

You didn’t miss the way Lana winked as she placed Mark’s food in front of him. This girl was not getting a generous tip from you, that was for sure.

“I told you, after that depressing dinner conversation, we need to do something fun,” you told Mark as you carried your skincare basket out from the bathroom into the living room.

“And this is fun for who?”

You threw him a playful glance and plopped down onto the floor in front of the couch on your knees, setting your basket on the cushion and sifting through it.

“Both of us. Just trust me.”

Catching the skeptic look on Mark’s face, you could only grin to yourself as you pulled out a tube of your favorite clay mask. He didn’t know just how relaxing a good face mask could be, but you were willing to show him.

“I’ll even go first,” you told him.

Mark lifted his feet to prop them up on the coffee table as Milo curled up like a tiny ball of cotton on his lap. You’d both changed out of your work clothes into comfy clothes, and you couldn’t help noticing how warm Mark looked in his white joggers and oversized black hoodie. You wouldn’t mind snuggling up into that space between his side and the couch cushion…

You sighed and shook your head, attempting to clear the less-than-platonic thoughts from your mind. If you were going to make this friendship work, you would need to stop thinking about him like that. Immediately.

“Can I ask you something?” Mark said after a beat of silence as you popped open the cap to your mask.

“Hm?” you asked, propping your personal sized makeup mirror on the couch so that you could see yourself while you applied your mask.

“Yugyeom’s family has a yearly pass to this campground, and every year he does this weekend camping trip…” he trailed off for a moment and you forced yourself not to react, instead focusing on applying your charcoal mask to your cheeks. “This year, it somehow ended up as a couple thing, so Dahyun suggested I invited a friend along. So…”

Lifting your eyes from your own reflection, you watched as Mark struggled to finish his thought.

“So…” you said, helping him along. “Are you asking me to come with you?”

Immediately, a neon flashing red alarm screeched in your mind. ‘This is a terrible idea! You must say no!’ it screamed.

“Only if you want to. I mean, it’s a cool place. Their lot is right by this swimming hole and there’s a fire pit, so we normally bring a ton of booze and cook our own food over the fire…”

Mark ran his fingers through his deep red locks of hair, his nerves displayed clearly on his face. You weren’t sure why he was so nervous to ask you, but it came off as incredibly endearing. Despite the warnings blaring in your mind, you found yourself nodding.

“Okay.”

Mark looked at you then, his eyes finally locking on yours, and the corner of his lips lifted in a hopeful smile. “Really?”

You couldn’t help grinning as well. “Yeah. I mean, on one condition…”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” you replied, holding up the mask tube and popping the cap back open. “You let me put this mask on you.”

“Aish,” Mark said and shook his head. “No way. Not worth it.”

“Oh, come on, you big baby!”

You stood from the floor and climbed onto the couch, crawling to his side and squeezing some of the mask onto your index and middle fingers. “It’s not that bad!”

“Get away from me!” Mark exclaimed with a laugh, dodging your fingers. Milo hopped up onto the arm of the couch, stomping his cute little paws a few times.

“Just let me pamper you, Mark!”

He let out another laugh, louder this time, trying to reach for the mask to steal from your grasp, but he wasn’t fast enough. You giggled, ducking to miss his hands as he grabbed for your wrists.

Somehow, you found yourself straddling him, thighs resting on either side of Mark’s waist.

“Real men wear face masks!” you exclaimed with a shout of victory as you finally managed to smear a good amount of the clay mask across Mark’s left cheek.

“Oh, you little-” he replied, hands reaching for your sides underneath the long sleeved shirt you were wearing. He tickled your sides, a joyful laugh falling from his lips when you started squealing.

Milo yapped a few times from the arm of the chair, presumably because he thought that you were hurting Mark or vice versa, but his protective barks only made you laugh harder.

“Mark! Stop it!”

You gasped for breath, wriggling on top of him and dropping the mask tube, fighting between giggling and trying to swat his hands away.

“It’s what you deserve, you sneak,” he said, his hands still squeezing and tickling your sides, unknowingly drifting further up your shirt to your ribs.

Twisting and turning, you finally managed to grab his wrists and yanked them from under your shirt. You held them firmly in between your bodies, even though he could have easily overpowered you.

Your chest heaved up and down with the last of your giggles. Mark stared up at you, still smiling and out of breath. The air suddenly became thick as you held eye contact, your hands falling from his wrists to his chest.

“Y/N,” Mark whispered.

‘Danger! Danger!’ your mind yelled.

Mark’s hands, now free from your hold, landed on your hips. You felt his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt, stroking the bare skin of your stomach. Your heart pounded beneath your rib cage at his gentle touch.

“Mark,” you said, intending on telling him to stop, but it quickly died in your throat.

His chin tipped up, making you realize just how close you were to him now. You weren’t sure who had leaned in first, but only a few mere inches separated your lips from his now. If you only bent forward a bit, you could…

It reminded you, all of the sudden, of the kiss in the bathroom. It had been quick, but long enough for you to slide your tongue past his lips. You remembered the shock to your system the moment you had felt the cold metal of a tongue piercing.

“Y/N,” Mark said again. “Tell me to stop.”

His voice was quiet but you felt like you could read between the lines. He didn’t want to stop, and the only way he was going to stop was if you made it clear that you didn’t want this.

But you did. You’d wanted it from the moment he ran his fingers over the tattoo he’d inked onto your skin one of those first nights, a soft ghost of a touch that made goosebumps form on every inch of your skin.

You weren’t stupid, you knew that this was all wrong for a variety of reasons, the least of which being that he was your roommate. But that meant nothing to you compared to the way his hands felt on your skin.

Before you could open your mouth, tell him that you didn’t want him to stop, an 8-bit version of the Mario Kart theme blasted from somewhere behind you. You jumped, your heart skipping several beats from the surprise.

Mark took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, blinking a few times before he gently guided your hips to climb off of him. “Sorry, I should…”

The ringtone felt familiar but you couldn’t figure out why. Even as you watched Mark grab for his phone off the coffee table and immediately silence it, you wracked your brain to try and remember where you had heard that ringtone before.

It was as if Taehyung had known, the moment that Mark quieted the little voice in his head telling him not to be so close to you and that this was wrong in so many ways, and finally accepted his feelings for you.

Maybe he had a sixth sense.

The moment that had passed between you then had been effectively ruined as soon as he was reminded of two things: you were his childhood best friend’s little sister, and he had already ruined your life even if you didn’t know it yet.

But he’d been so close to giving in. You’d been on top of him, smiling in that innocently beautiful way that you did, your thighs caging in his hips. He hadn’t missed the fact that he could feel you with every inch of him, considering how he’d begged his body not to react, not to harden beneath you. Between the thin layers of his sweats and your sleep shorts, there was no way you wouldn’t notice.

Later, after you’d grabbed a washcloth so you could both wipe the face mask off your faces and awkwardly watch TV for an hour before enough time could pass for you to realistically head off to bed, Mark listened to the voicemail Taehyung had left.

“Hey man. I just wanted to let you know that uh, I’m going to try and head to the city and look for Y/N in a few weeks. If you see her again or have any idea where she might be, let me know. I really appreciate it, my mom’s been going crazy… anyway, maybe we can grab a drink or something once I’m in town. I’ll hit you up. Thanks again, Mark.”

Mark was glad he was in the privacy of his own bedroom when he listened to the message so you didn’t see the way he threw his phone down on the bed, muttering curse words to himself and trying to forget how heavenly you had felt on top of him.

It was impossible. All he could think about was your skin under his fingertips, how your lips had been so soft and smooth and close to his, and how the weight of you on top of him had been enough to make him hard.

His only option was to shut himself in the bathroom and crank the shower all the way to the coldest temperature that he could stand and pray that it would be enough to keep him from sneaking into your bedroom that night.

#mark tuan #got7creators #kibfic #got7 fanfic #mark tuan fanfic #mark tuan angst #mark tuan fluff #got7 mark #got7 imagine #writing

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crescent-woods · 3 years ago

Text

final project - they’re fools, and they’re in love (ch 3)

[ surprise! here is the next chapter! i have been working on this chapter for quite a while, but bad things (and a crime or two) keep happening to me so it's... taken a while to work up the energy and motivation to get it done ]

ao3 // ch1 ch2 ch3 ch4

Luka had been sitting in a ball on Juleka’s bed for well over an hour. He had only mumbled something that sounded like Jules, I am so stupid before collapsing there. And taking up part of her bed. For more than an hour.

She had tried pushing, shoving, kicking, and lovingly slapping, but nothing would budge him from his spot, until he had unfurled on his own and groaned.

“I think I asked Marinette on a date without realizing it and now I can’t ask her on a date after we finish this project because I just asked her on a date that might not actually be a date beca-” he broke off suddenly and looked up at her with bulging eyes “-is this how you always felt before you and Rose got together?”

Juleka nodded her head. “Jesus, no wonder you were so angsty back then- ow! ” he cried when she slapped him for real.

“Yes, you big, dumb oaf. What the hell do you mean you accidentally asked Marinette out? How is that possible?”

Luka explained his precarious situation, and Juleka let out a massive sigh. “You really did something, huh?”

“Yeah, so how do I fix it, dear baby sister who’s literally dating Cupid?” Luka snapped, stretching his body across her bed.

Juleka sighed, laying down next to him. “Well, first you have a date to plan.”

***

Since that Tuesday, Marinette had struggled to pay attention in her classes. She kept thinking about her project, Luka, and… their date?

Maybe… he hadn’t meant it that way?

But what if he had?

She tried to distract herself by throwing herself into her studies and helping out her parents’ bakery in her spare time. Whenever she tried to work on their project, it just led her back to Luka. And their maybe-not-not-a-date.

When she sat in her studio at her designated work on the dang project time, she was surrounded by sketches inspired by Luka. Some of them actually were of Luka. On those days, she couldn’t get away from him. His hair, his tattoos, his music, his eyes…

Marinette slammed her head into the desk to hide her blush from the empty room.

Coincidentally, her positivity-bot chirped a new message on her phone. This one was from a little ladybug character who told her to “stop worrying about what you can’t control!”

Okay! I am going to sit at this table and I will not get up until I have a sketch done. I will not think about Luka. I will sit. And sketch. And not think about him. Until I am done. Bam, problem solved.

She flipped to a new page of her sketchbook. Picked out three random colored pencils to try another sketch. Set her phone to play ambient music in the background. Sketched and thought and shaded and altered.

By the time she had emerged from her creative mind, she had another sketch before her.

It was essentially the same as her previous drafts, but with minor alterations. And yet again the entire design was Luka-colored. Everything was blue and green, just like his hair, the shading looked like a weak replication of how the light hit him when he was sitting next to her window. Why couldn’t she make it look the same? There was just something about his hair, how it lit in the sunshine, that she so desperately wanted to recreate...

Stop thinking about Luka! Project first, boys later…

She sat back in her chair, thinking for the nth time about how she shouldn’t be thinking about Luka. Until he called her.

***

By the end of the week, Luka (and Juleka) had a semi-solid date planned. They would go to brunch at a nearby café before spending the day at the Musée Rodin. Whenever Marinette had her inspirational fill from the museum, he knew of a small trail they could take a walk on. And like any date, the night would end with trying to hunt down Andre for ice cream. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

Couffaine dates: 1, bad luck: 0

Luka called Marinette that night to see when she was available. She answered with a squeak and a noise like a bin of markers had fallen over, before greeting him.

“Hee-ay Luka! What’s up?”

Luka set his phone on the bed next to where he was laying to stop his hands from shaking. “I have our um, plans for... um-” he took a breath “-uh, are you free on Saturday?

Marinette was quiet for a moment.

Oh, I totally screwed that up, didn’t I?

Nice job, Couffaine. Hot girl, super talented, and you blow it before you even ask her on a date.

Juleka nudged him with her foot, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

Papers were fluttering on the other side of the phone. “Umm… yeah! Yeah, I have absolutely nothing happening on Saturday.” Luka sighed in relief. “What’s the plan?”

Luka rolled over so he was laying on his stomach, his face right next to his phone. “The plan is a secret. I’m going to meet you at your studio at 10?” Marinette hummed in agreement. “So, I’ll meet you at 10, and then we’ll head to the first stop.”

Juleka threw a pitying look at him, and he knew he had the most pathetic I’m talking to a cute girl and it’s working smile on his face.

“First stop? How many stops did you plan?” Marinette asked.

Luka laughed. “Did you forget the part about secret date agenda?”

“Do I get a hint or anything? A clue?” Marinette pleaded.

Luka’s face felt hot and he laughed at how cute she was. Juleka let out a soft awwww from above his head and he returned a look to warn her against embarrassing him. She sat up straight and gave him a goofy face and a mock salute.

“I don’t know… a hint might ruin the surprise,” he responded.

Marinette cried, “Please, Luka? Please, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease, at least so I know what to wear?”

Luka held his breath to hold in a silent scream.

How can a girl be so cute? And still single?

“Okay, we will be outside, and walking around a little. Is that good?”

“Uh, no! Is it somewhere formal, or casual, or are we going to be hiking? Do I need to wear athletic clothes? Because I did get a new pair of running shoes I haven't been able to try out yet, and I would need to break them in before we go-”

“Marinette, you can wear whatever you want. Just be comfy for some walking and creativity, okay?”

“Okay. I will see you in… two days!” She chirped.

Luka smiled at his phone, said his goodbye, and hung up. Juleka nudged his shoulder with little bunny kicks, squealing into her hands.

“Oooohhh, that was so cute! She is so cute, do you have any pictures?”

Luka tucked his head into the crook of his arm, blushing madly. “Yes, I do. And no, I’m not showing them to you.”

“Come on, I bet she looks like the living embodiment of sunshine.” When Luka tried to hide even more in his arms, Juleka laughed. “She does! She totally does. I can’t believe it. I found my sparkle girl, and now you have your sunshine girl. What a world for the Couffaines.”

Luka pulled out the pillow from under his head and threw it at his sister.

***

On Saturday, Luka woke up in a panic. His dreams had been swirling incidents about his date with Marinette. First, he dreamt that Marinette had just cancelled on him with no explanation, before it changed to Marinette ghosting him completely, except to talk about their project. His last dream was that he had overslept and missed their entire date.

When his half-awake mind realized that, he shot out of bed and scrambled to his phone to check the time.

Oh, thank God.

In bright green numbers, his clock read 8:30am. Saturday. No oversleeping, no cancellation. Perfect.

Luka felt like a teenager again. Grabbing all the best soaps so he knew he was clean, finding an un-pranked deodorant, using a scented aftershave, actually putting on lotion and chapstick. Just in case, you know, he got lucky and she wanted to kiss him or hold his hand.

Yeah. Absolutely. That’s the only reason.

At 9:15, Luka had left the apartment with everything he needed, ready to face the girl of his dreams (literally) and a perfect date with her.

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rinyagi · 3 years ago

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HAIKYUU BOYS AS ARTISTS SUNA RINTARŌ

he started when he was young, like around age 4

i think the thing that made him start drawing are the animes he watched, especially Ghibli movies

the art-styles made him feel at ease and he's always admiring it

so then he started art

he started by doodling his favorite characters!! <3

okay anyways... skip to 9 years old

he's already great at drawing cartoons, but he never really got to see art in the museums, so in a normal school field trip... they arrived at an art museum

when suna first entered the art museum, he was fascinated by the amazing artworks and paintings on the wall

ever since he saw those, suna decided to try out realism art

at first he almost gave up because it was so hard and he made so many mistakes, but after a few motivational words by his younger sister (who was kind enough when she was his distress), he practiced and kept on practicing

a few years later, at inarizaki high school, he's already a skilled-artist

no one really knew about his love for art until an art contest was held in the school, and unexpectedly for everyone (but not to suna and his family), suna joined

suna, seriously: i'm joining an art contest atsumu: what?? do you even know how to draw lol suna: 😐

after atsumu's indirect provocation, suna worked even hard because he absolutely hates being underestimated when it comes to his hobby and skill

when the results came out and suna's work was part of the top 10, some students (most were freshmen) were baffled either by suna's amazing skill or suna's unexpected talent. especially atsumu

atsumu, seeing suna's work: WHAT osamu, staring at suna's work: that was unexpected.. i thought he only liked volleyball suna: i have other hobbies than volleyball you know

needless to say, suna had been endlessly asked by the art club to join their club, although he declined since he already had volleyball

though that doesn't mean he doesn't passes by the art room to admire their works

eventually, as time passed by, suna was acknowledged as "inarizaki's secret artist"

SUGAWARA KŌSHI

sugawara began art at a very young age, and you can say that he's an art genius after almost a few years of starting

i think his family are huge fans of art, and a lot of them are skilled in it, might even become professional, so sugawara thought he had to do the same

it was fun at first, and as years passed by he started to get engaged with different hobbies and interests

though despite the amount of hobbies he had possibly picked up, art remained his favorite and he practices everyday

time flies (specifically when he becomes 15) and his art improves drastically

he was happy, of course, like most artists

but he felt like it lacked so much

like there were so many things he was missing out on

not only inside art, but outside of art too

it went to the point where he became less happy with drawing and just made basic sketches when he remembers his daily sketching practices

sugawara started to feel unsatisfied

he started to worry "what if i'm losing interest in art???" as he noticed from his former volleyball teammate, who started to look unhappy when playing volleyball and eventually leaving the team

the feelings of slump started to eat him up, and he thought about what he really wanted to do

he was choosing if he really wanted to continue art or not, as he felt less happy with it after years of constant and dedicated practice

eventually, he stopped

a year without drawing as an hobby and focusing more on volleyball, his self-esteem became better and he became more happy

one day though

when sugawara was searching for a pen in his study table since someone borrowed stole his, he accidentally touched a dirty paintbrush

a feeling of nostalgia strikes him, and sugawara teared up after a few moments of reminiscing memories of his mental state a year ago

skipping homework since he couldn't find his pen anyway and lost the will to look even more for it, he took out his watercolor that was stored in a small box when he decided he would stop art

sugawara then went out of his room to grab a bowl of tap water, and when he came back, he placed the bowl carefully on the table and took out a piece of paper

he thought about what he should do first, and he thinks about painting an abstract art that leads to several pieces of art that he put aside when he finished each piece, letting them dry

and while sugawara painted and sketched with a pencil he saw in the small box, he was smiling to himself

"ah, this is such a great feeling"

even though he noticed that his art's style slightly decreased after a year of not drawing, he didn't cared about that

because he finally felt happy, after taking a longgg break

bonus: sugawara did not forget to do his homework

@rinyagi 2021. do not repost/use/copy my content. make your own :)

#haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#hq #haikyuu headcanons #hq headcanons #suna headcanons #suna rintarō #suna rintaro imagine #sugawara koushi #sugawara headcanons #sugawara koshi imagine #sugawara koushi headcanons #suna rintaro headcanons #inarizaki headcanons #karasuno headcanons

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birdsaesthetic · 4 years ago

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Jane’s sketchbook

Summary: Jane freaking out over losing her sketchbook, my participation for 12 Days of Blindspot.

A/N: I wrote this a while ago then ignored it... But then I saw these prompts from @holidayblindspot which reminded me of already having written something that goes with one of the prompts, so I thought this was a sign for me to edit it real quick and post it. I’m so exited to be sharing this here because it’s beautiful and really worth sharing. ENJOY!

Day 5: A ruined day.

“Kurt,” Jane called from across the front room, to which Kurt immediately looked up and responded, “Yeah?”

“Have you seen my sketchbook?”

Looking around him quickly yet carefully, Kurt murmured, “No,” he then looked up at her, who seemed stunned at having heard the No from him.

The two were in the middle of unpacking the boxes they brought up with them from their old apartment in New York all the way to the new one in Colorado, which, after managing to unpack the majority of the boxes and placing their contents ever since morning, it finally started to feel like home. Like their old apartment in New York.

Doing so had been so fun at first, each one was having a glass of red wine in hand and there was loud music playing in the background and, since there weren’t curtains covering the windows just yet, there was the beautiful addition of bright and warm sunlight streaming inside the spacious front room that felt so rewarding and motivating. But when the sun went down, taking with it its light and warmth, the work got monotonous, and so by now they were both exhausted and hungry.

Jane was also confused now.

She looked down at all the boxes scattered on the floor around her, which were almost empty by now, and she felt the world spinning around her in confusion and fear for having been unable to locate her sketchbook among all these boxes.

“Why? Couldn’t you find it?” Asked Kurt, seemingly confused too as he approached her.

Creases were starting to form on her forehead as she shook her head in confusion. “No,” she said quietly, then jumped from one box to another, double checking each one, randomly, quickly and with both hands, as if she were digging into a hole. And then, after all of that, which was in a span of thirty seconds, she shook her head yet again, though this time in disappointment, and looked up at Kurt in a plea for understanding. “I don’t know why I can’t find it because it should be here. I put it here. I put all my small things here, and I didn’t have a lot of things!”

Kurt was standing right before her by now, hunching over to check inside the boxes again. It was helpless, he knew; she’d already rummaged in all those boxes with eager hands and big eyes and yet found nothing... But if there was a one-in-a-million chance, he would absolutely take it when it came to her.

When his eyes, wide open, met hers, he suggested, “Okay, maybe you’ve just got confused. Try to remember where you’ve last seen it.” She swallowed hard and tried to do as told, mouth slightly open. She settled her gaze at a random spot on his chest as both of them stood close against one another, then she pushed her mind so hard to visualize where she’d last seen the sketchbook and what she was doing, so she could retrace her steps in the process and hopefully remember something.

But it was after a long, unbearable moment when Jane pushed her lower lip out in a sad pout and gave a shake of her head. Kurt hugged her loosely then. “It’s okay, we still have another set of boxes to be delivered here tomorrow morning.” He reminded her. “Hopefully we find it within one of the boxes then.”

Jane pulled back to look up at him, the sad look remained on her face. “But those coming boxes only have the kitchen supplies!”

“You don’t know, maybe you forgot it there!”

“It’s not possible... I put it here,”

“Everything is possible.” He encouraged, then added, “Aren’t you hungry by now, though? Because I’m so hungry! How about pb&j for dinner, huh?”

“I don’t mind.” Jane muttered with a shrug.

Together they decided to call it a day after dinner and climbed into bed, crawling close to each other as they lied down against the mattress. Their foreheads were touching as they shared a loving gaze, then Kurt whispered, “Can I get my good night kiss, or you don’t feel like—”

“No—yes, of course you’re getting your good night kiss!” She rushed to say, reassuring him just before she smiled the tiniest of smiles and kissed him hard on the lips, to which he kissed her back even harder. After that, she placed her hand over his arm that had been wrapped around her waist beneath the blanket, lifted it, rolled over to her side, and again let his arm be wrapped around her waist. This was how she’d always loved to sleep with him: she’d turn her back to him and he’d take the cue and cuddle her from behind with a light arm across her waist beneath the blanket and a soft kiss right behind her ear that would make her hum and snuggle deeper into his embrace until they’d look like two spoons in a drawer, very tight against each other.

As she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, hoping to raise up to a promising morning that would bring with it her sketchbook, she could swear she saw the vague afterimage of the sketchbook in her eyes, but then she opened her eyes and only saw the darkness of the bedroom...

She didn’t own a lot of things, really. The only things she owned and loved so much were that sketchbook and her marriage ring. The engagement ring was as if glued to her finger ever since she had worn it years ago. As for the sketchbook, she had always made sure to keep it within her hand reach, though this time around it oddly disappeared!

It was the very first purchase she made solely for herself when she started to receive a regular paycheck after working formally for the FBI. At first she didn’t know what to do with such a decent amount of money since she’d already been provided with a place to stay in, clothes, a cell phone and food—usually her detail had dropped food at her place without even asking for anything back, which made her really embarrassed.

It could be the crack of dawn or early morning when Jane fluttered her eyes open the next day, and after a long moment of gazing at Kurt’s sleeping face, she gave him a soft kiss on the temple then eased herself out of bed. With her eyes half closed, she managed to step the few paces toward the bathroom, rinsed her face in the sink, brushed her teeth and finally put on a comfy sweater she gripped from the hanger.

Yawing, she stumbled across the front room that was messy with boxes they hadn’t even bothered to flatten or push away last night, until she made it into the kitchen. There she stood in the center, stretched her neck, and yawned some more with her eyes pressed close. When she reopened her eyes, the sight of a can of cocoa shoved in the far corner suddenly inspired her. And so, as if drawn by a magnet, she stepped toward the refrigerator, opened it and examined its contents, though there wasn’t much to see. There was random stuff and among them was a brand-new bottle of milk, which she only needed to fix a cup of hot cocoa for now.

She took it out then brought up a pan. There she poured some of the milk, dissolved cocoa powder, and finally put it on the stove to simmer. Standing with folded arms in the dim lighting in the kitchen, she stared down at the pan as the milk boiled within it, and after a full minute of waiting, small curls of steam rose into the air and the scents of cocoa powered revolved all around her, to which she felt torn between wanting to savour it immediately or just stand there and inhale it. But she awaited a bit more. Next she poured everything into an oversized cup with a faint smile.

Warming her fingers with the cup, she made her way to the dining table, then settled on a seat there as she began taking small sips of the hot cocoa before it had even cooled off, to which it took her by surprise at first at how hot it was, scalding even.

During such times, when she woke earlier than she would and was by herself, she would bring up her sketchbook and sketch on it whatever she was feeling at the given moment. It was the perfect timing and place to do so; her thoughts would emerge so originally in the early mornings, they wouldn’t be conflicted nor affected by the day’s activities just yet.

She hadn’t known how good she was at sketching until one day she held a pencil, a very sharp one, and began sketching without any struggle. Back then, when solving her tattoos had been what her life was basically all about, she used to sketch them individually in hopes of finding any connection that might help figure out what they actually meant. But then as the days passed, she thought she wanted to do something else, something that was in a good way stirring her heart down to the depths, just like the way her spoon was stirring her cup of cocoa now.

And so, with her pencil sharp, she began with a light outline of a face, next she worked on the eyes, which she made them like the shape of almond. She let out a sigh then, knowing that the eyes must be the toughest part, before continuing with them. She drew the first pupil, purposely making it darker than the eye, then did the same for the other eye. She added a little shading underneath the eyes and from there she started with the nose, extending two lines where the inner corners of each eye were located.

The rest went easy: she did the eyebrows, the lips, the beard and then the hair, creating a solid and visible looking hairline from the sides of the head.

It was Kurt’s face that she sketched and it looked impressive at the end. She made him look as if staring at her, and made his expression soft with a faint smile—the way he’d usually look at her.

It was quiet around her now, not a single sound, until she heard running waters within the bathroom and, a minute later, she saw Kurt emerge and approach her. “Mornin,” he smiled, his face awash with decent sleep, his hair... so fluffy she couldn’t help but think it needed a trim, so badly.

“Mornin,” she replied.

He bent down and stole his morning kiss from her then hummed. “You taste like a really good hot cocoa!”

“Because I was drinking one.” She told him, showing him her cup, almost empty by now.

“Can I have the same?”

“Sure.” She got up and started doing the same thing she did earlier, taking the same measurements.

“Did you sleep well, Jane?” He asked as she waited by the stove for the cocoa to simmer. “Yeah.”

“You don’t look like you slept well.” He claimed.

“I slept well, Kurt. Now tell me, when is our ship gonna get here?”

“Maybe after a bit.”

She served him his cocoa in a brand-new cup, and he took it with all smiles after thanking her.

When their another set of boxes arrived, after some time, Jane tucked all of her hair back behind her ears and, kneeling down, she eagerly began looking thoroughly in each box along with Kurt. As she’d said before, the boxes contain kitchen supplies: dishes, cups, mixing bowls, knives and spoons, a cutting board, blender, vegetable peeler and a number of whisks.

But even after all this effort, they couldn’t find it, Jane’s sketchbook, among all of those things.

She stood up on her feet then, and took a deep breath, tired and disappointed, her palm wiping away the sweat on her forehead and her eyes, helplessly, maintained searching in the mess of boxes on the floor.

“It’s alright, I’ll get you a new one, I promise.” Kurt tried to soothe her, to which she looked up at him and, shaking her head, she complained, “It’s not about getting a new one, Kurt. I need my old one back. It carries lots of memories and...” she trailed off with her head falling down, but after a moment of silence Kurt approached forward until he closed the gap between them and cupped her face in his hands, lifting it to his level. “We will be making new memories here. Beautiful ones.”

“I know, but...there’s just one drawing of you within the sketchbook that I just love so much and I want it back.”

“You have lots of pencils and papers here. You also have me here. I will sit still the whole day so that you can draw me, I really wouldn’t mind, you know me.” He suggested, to which she smiled the way one corner of her mouth tilted up whenever she felt affection for him, then chuckled. “You don’t have to. I can draw you easily without having to look at you.”

He grinned. “Right, because you’re the most talented person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s not wholly because I’m that talented though. I wouldn’t be able to do that with anyone else except for you, because I always have you in my head—this is how and why I drew you in the first place. I know your face very well—even more than my own, I would say—and I know how you would look from every angle.”

He pushed his lower lip out in an impressive pout, feeling awash with affection for her. “You know lots of things about me! Do you also wanna know what I know about you?” He asked, having already slipped both hands from her face down her neck, shoulders, and finally her waist. And before she could say anything in response, he was tickling her there. “I know how to make you laugh, and laugh, and laugh.”

She was laughing then, pleading him to stop it, squirming her body out of his arms, and calling his name aloud and repeatedly, but that was only for him to reward her with more stroking against her waist, the area where he knew was very sensitive for her. She tried to fight his firm grip around her, tried to push him away, tried to run away, but seconds later she was, almost instinctively, clutching into him hard, as if holding for her life, and kept laughing nonstop, like she never had in her whole life, head dropped back exposing her neck for him to bury his face there, mouth open to the fullest, and eyes squeezed. Her laughters rolled about the front room in the early morning, like a child's spinning top, vibrant and heart-warming as it moved around them in its chaotic way. It came in fits and bursts—loud to soft to nothing when she was gasping for breaths in-between, then back to loud again and so on.

Just like this, her previous, sad face was replaced with a happy and laughing one.

He really knew how to butter her up. Always had.

A/N: I don’t really support the idea of Jeller moving out of New York after canon. I love them to be there and I think it suits them perfectly to be New Yorkers. But I had to fake it only for this fic’s plot. So they’re still in New York in my head now, enjoying themselves...

#blindspot #blindspotfic #jeller #holidayblindspot

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wrctings · 4 years ago

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Pre-serum Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes | Let your heart be light

fandom: Marvel Univers characters: Pre-serum Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes summary: Where Steve and his mom spend Christmas Eve’s at the Barnes’s, Bucky takes a nap and Steve draws him. word count: 1.7k

writing a christmas one shot in february isn’t too late, right? i missed 30s steve and buck so of course i had to write some fluff <3

New York City, Christmas 1935

When the two boys slid their shivering frames through the doorway, shaking off the snowflakes caught in their hair and coats as they took the latter off, the first thing to welcome them was the delicious waft of food which had enveloped the entire apartment, the perky jingling of cutlery that emanated from the kitchen accounting for the fact that an active cooking activity was indeed taking place in there. Their cheeks rosy from the piercing cold and their breath short from having spent the afternoon out in the snow, they untied their shoes, leaving them in the corridor, and proceeded to the living room, where the warmth radiating off the crackling fireplace eased the prickling of their skin at once.

“Mom, we’re back!” Bucky announced, heading for the kitchen, Steve in his wake. “How are you? It smells so good in here!”

“We were wondering when you boys would come back and give us a hand,” Mrs Barnes gave them a smile, shaking her head. “It’s all fine. We should always make joined Christmas dinners, it’s a lot less exhausting than doing it yourself for the whole family,” she added gratefully, glancing at Sarah, who nodded in approval.

“Are you okay darling?” The blond woman caringly asked Steve, who reassured her with a light-hearted nod.

“If there’s anything we can do, we’ll be glad to help,” he then assured voluntarily, earning an affectionate look from the two women.

“Actually, I have a feeling you’ll cause more trouble than anything…” One of Bucky’s sisters retorted humorously.

“That may not be wrong…,” the brunet boy conceded sheepishly, eyeing all the culinary supplies suspiciously.

“Maybe you could dress the table, how about that?” Mrs Barnes proposed an alternative. “It’s a little too early now, but we’ll call you when it’s the right time. For the time being, why don’t you go put some records on?”

“Sure!”

“Steve, stay close to the fireplace!” The other boy’s mom called after her son as Bucky and Steve took off, shaking her head fondly as the blond promised that she didn’t have to worry (although he had barely recovered from a cold). “Kids…” Sarah muttered, sharing a knowing glance with Winnifred, who could only chuckle. “But at least they look after one another.”

“Thank God,” the brunette woman laughed, rolling her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder whether that causes less or more trouble.”

Meanwhile, Steve and Bucky set to complete the task that they had been asked to undertake. Rummaging through the music collection of the Barnes with great care, Steve selected a record which Bucky then placed upon the turntable, sparking up the soft whirring of the record player while he was cautiously manipulating the needle. A few seconds later, the merry tune of a Christmas song erupted from the device, taking over the far-off clattering and voices coming from the kitchen with smooth notes of jazz that swirled through the room.

“There we go,” a satisfied smile played upon Bucky’s lips, the young man letting himself tumble on the nearby couch with a deep sigh. “I feel like I could take a nap just now…,” he breathed out, lazily stretching out his arms while letting his head fall backwards against the backrest.

“Tired already?” Steve raised a daring eyebrow, teasing his friend with his usual playfulness.

“Shut up,” without even looking, Bucky grabbed a pillow and threw it toward the other boy’s voice, but missed the target. “How the hell do you still have energy?”

“I don’t, I just pretend,” the blond actually confessed, shrugging as he laughed. He never had to play pretend with Bucky, who always accepted him the way he was, no matter whether he caught Steve on a painful day of suffering from sickness, had to come to his rescue in a fight or simply met with him to hang out. Plus, his best friend had seen him in dire straits one too many times to unnecessarily play tough. “Alright, you take a nap, I’ll get my sketchbook.”

“Wake me up if I happen to actually drift off,” Bucky mumbled, momentarily straightening up just so he could cuddle up to the cushion set in the corner where the armrest and the backrest formed an angle. Through half-closed eyelids, he noticed Steve taking a seat on the floor and flick through the pages of his sketchbook, the flames happily waltzing in the chimney behind him sending glimmering beams across the young man’s shirt and skin, their reflection playing in the golden strands of hair that brushed his forehead as he craned his neck, concentrated on his sketch.

Lulled by the gay rhythm of the music and the regular, soft sound of his friend’s pen scraping a piece of paper, Bucky feared that he in truth might just doze off, the both peaceful and jolly atmosphere of the room exacerbating his body’s will to rest. However, there was no way he was going to leave Steve alone on Christmas evening, especially since they spent it together this year, so Bucky fought sleepiness back by trying to keep his mind awake. Just a few minutes, he told himself, I’ll rest for a little bit, then I’ll be ready to celebrate.

Since the early December evening had already dawned, the room would’ve been bathed in darkness if not for the chirping chimney and the bright lights that had been turned on, making it easier for Bucky not to let his thoughts succumb to the strain of his body. He wondered whether his family would like the gifts he got them, but especially if Steve would — since Bucky had more money, he always tried to get his friend a present that he would be particularly fond of for Christmas, and he knew that Steve would also do his best to offer him something nice in return, though with more limited means. But most importantly, Bucky was merely glad and excited to spend the 24th of December surrounded by everyone he loved most, especially since Steve and his mother were joining them around the table this year. In the end, gifts mattered little.

“Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?” Running a hand over his face, Bucky groaned while blinking several times, struggling to adjust his clouded sight to the lighting of the living room. It turned out that keeping oneself awake was quite a difficult task, even when one might tell themselves that their lively thoughts would keep their distracted from the lure of slumber. “What time is it?”

“Don’t worry Buck, it’s only been fifteen minutes,” Steve reassured him distractedly, still hunched over his drawing. “It’s nearly seven.”

Pushing himself away from the armrest of the couch, Bucky’s fingers tangled in his hair as he tried to make it sit properly, pushing loose brown strands off his forehead. Only fifteen minutes, that was acceptable. He yawned into the back of his hand, stretching his back, then swung his legs onto the floor and bent forward, trying to get a glimpse of Steve’s doodles — his gaze landed on the outline of a sofa, on which he recognised his own silhouette.

“You know I’m gonna become famous too if you do, right? I’m your number one drawing reference, at this point.” He joked, but the soft glow of his eyes, from either remnants of sleepiness or fondness, made it seem like he was actually both touched and impressed.

“It’s not my fault if you fall asleep on my watch. What do you want me to do? For once, something stays still while I’m sketching, I gotta make most of it.”

It took Steve another few minutes to come to end of his sketch of a sleepy Bucky, fixing the shadows playing in the folds of his friend’s clothes as his pencil adroitly glided across the paper. Bucky, still towering over the blond, kept on watching him draw above Steve’s shoulder, having always been fasciated by the way his friend could so beautifully make images come to life out of nothingness — no matter how much the other boy would get frustrated over a doodle that he struggled with, Bucky knew that it would still be infinitely better than anything most people could come up with. Seeing the curves and edges of his own body forming such meticulous shapes under Steve’s fingertips, the brunet felt like he had caught his own self plunged in a slumber; as if time had turned back to just minutes ago, and he could witness his reflection laying on the couch.

“Alright.” After one last stroke of a pen, Steve held the sketchbook up, analysing the outcome. Bucky could tell that he wasn’t disappointed with the result as the young man put it back down, not getting another hold of his pencil either. “You’re not still sleepy, are you?” He then turned around to give Bucky a quick smile, emerging out of the state of concentration that had taken over him while he was drawing.

“No, I’m not. It’s time for celebration now!” His friend retorted energetically, alluding to the festive Christmas tree that had been set in a corner of the room, the few colourful decorations tangled up in its branches and the golden star at its top gleaming as light ricocheted off them.

With a brief glance at the window, Bucky noticed that the snowfall had grown even stronger, thick and fluffy snowflakes coating the entire street and delicate flowers of frost already starting to spring upon the panes, adorning them with whimsical motives.

“Boys!”

Before Steve and Bucky had time to do anything else, Mrs Barnes’s voice reached them from the kitchen, rising above the music that had continued playing.

“Boys, come and set the table!”

“On it!” Her son shouted back, not a single trouble weighing his heart down as the only think he could focus on was this special night, full of the joy and warmth of sharing it with all the people dearest to him. “Shall we?” He took a look at Steve, unable to suppress a wholesome smile that he just couldn’t contain. And he didn’t want to.

“We shall,” his friend agreed, smiling back. “First to get to the kitchen wins?” and, before Bucky could answer, the blond was off.

“Steve, you have asthma!” was all that Bucky could yell after him, laughing as he trailed behind, however catching up fast.

“But I’m winning!”

A very merry Christmas indeed.

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dancing-the-hellfire-rumba · 4 years ago

Text

Seen ✓ - 2

Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: light anxiety Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. A/N: Chapter 2! Our pals are kicking it off already. Can you smell the chemistry? The rOMANCE? LESSGO

Pictures used in this chapter were found on google images :)

Beta: no one.

Catch up! : Part 1 Masterlist

Chapter 2: overthinker.

From: y/n_andrews85 To: D_impala67 Subject: I have your phone. That sounds creepy. I don’t think there’s a non-creepy way of writing this. Whatever.

Dear Dean, is it?

I just wanted to let you know I found your phone at the bus stop the other night. I wasn’t planning on holding on to it, really, but I got worried that you may have been in trouble, and then you never really looked for it either so, I don’t know, I figured better than someone who’ll snatch it and leave, you know?

Anyways, that’s why I’m emailing. I snooped through it a little, sorry, hopefully you’ll understand it was kinda necessary? Maybe we can arrange something so I can get it back to you. This girl, Jamie, keeps sending me (well you technically) topless photos of her. It’s not really what lights my candle. I’m assuming you’d like it back too.

I hope you’re safe. Looking forward to hearing back from you!

Y/n Andrews

Do you believe me now?

oh god

you didn’t

Sure did

wow. just wow.

you just handed his ass back to him holy shit!

last time he called, he said he dropped his phone while walking back to his motel, so

he’s okay.

That’s good, I’m glad he’s safe.

I was planning on including something along the lines of “This would’ve been easier if you were an active member of the 21st century and used social media”

But I figured the Jamie thing was motive enough?

yeah. topless Jamie? that’s something else.

Don’t be getting any ideas, dude, I don’t do nudes lmao.

oh god, no i didn’t think that

you did not just type lmao though. how old are you again?

oh god, you’re not 14 or something right? i don’t know what that would make me.

Don’t worry about it, I turned 16 last week.

…

are you serious?

Lmao, no, I’m kidding. I’m twenty-two.

But I think the word you’re looking for is a creep. Oh, and an ageist.

ouch.

Haha, I’m joking.

Lighten up, what are you, ninety?

hi pot meet kettle.

Shit I walked right into that one.

also i’d like to think i don’t text like a ninety-year-old man. could be wrong though

to answer your question i’m twenty-four.

Twenty-four huh? I assume you’re done with college, no?

Or- wait, I guess not everyone goes to college.

Yes, this is me fishing for information.

well… i kinda dropped out.

decided to go on a road trip with my brother.

things went a little south I ended up continuing the family business.

Damn, college drop-out ey? Where from?

Also, Family business? What do you do?

Is this too interview-y? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snoop.

you’re good.

stanford. pre-law.

and my brother and i are private investigators. that’s why he’s not in Kansas with me. he’s working a case.

Daaaaamn. Stanford AND a lawyer? And now working as a PI? You’re pretty smart, then.

an ageist and a generalist? i didn’t take you for such y/n.

Fuck, okay, you sound like a lawyer too.

hahahah

so what about you?

What about me?

are you in college?

Oh yeah! Film school. My dream has always been to be a director. It’s rare to find someone who loves movies more than I do.

that’s really cool.

hey i’ve been meaning to ask.

Thinking of me, Sam?

…

Do tell.

how come you were walking home through a park in the middle of the night the other day?

Ooh, I was coming back from work.

I’m a bartender and I had a late shift on Friday.

oh I see. That makes sense yeah.

I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m legitimately three seconds away from falling asleep. I’m gonna hit the hay.

See you later, Sam :)

See you, y/n :)

A smile creeps on Y/n’s features at the thought of more conversations with Sam. He has given her something to look forward to, something to make her a little more excited during her boring every-day life. As she tucks herself in under her covers, eyelids heavy enough to droop involuntarily, the last thing she thinks of is him, the clever, sassy, twenty-four year old college dropout on the other side of the cracked phone screen. The overwhelming urge to get to know him overtakes her as she succumbs to sleep

Do you believe in ghosts?

that’s… random.

May be

why do you ask?

Idk, just wanna get to know you better.

that’s what you ask people you want to get to know better?

Yes?

Are you avoiding the question?

i do. believe in ghosts.

You?

So do i.

Well, sorta. I guess I believe in souls more than anything.

hm?

Well… I guess I hope (more than believe) that we are more than our corporeal selves.

In the sense that, it’s comforting to me that when we die, and our bodies stop working, we don’t evaporate.

I guess.

yeah I understand.

i don’t know. i guess i wanna believe in science more than anything but i know better.

How do you mean?

call it a hunch.

Oh c’mon, it’s gotta be more than that.

Sam…?

Y/n huffs out a breath, gnawing at her lip. She hopes her anxiety isn’t right, that Sam isn’t sick of her silly questions and existential dread, and is actually doing something. Perhaps his battery ran out.

...Sure.

She was doing something too, before she decided to text him. Eyes falling on all her books and notes, spread around her like ugly, depressing, anxiety-inducing flower petals. There’s a blanket over her legs, chilly fall weather seeping through her bones, and there’s a half empty pizza box in front of her. She’s full and the left overs are kept for her sister, Emily, who’s currently locked up in her room.

Damn it. Y/n is stressed and tired, and now her distraction is refusing to reply. This sucks. She hates the crawling, awful, gooey feeling of cold anxiety gripping every beat of her heart and stupidly convincing her he’s purposefully ghosting her, because he doesn’t like her.

Not knowing what to occupy herself with, she heads to take a shower. In the back of her head, she knows that she’ll probably not study any longer, so she takes it upon herself to sink under the hot water and wash thoroughly, trying to get her mind off Dean’s phone. When her feet step out of the shower and she has towel-dried herself as best as she can, she tosses her wet hair in a haphazard bun, and gets dressed.

Books stack under the rickety, stained coffee table, and she grabs her sketchbook, her favorite pencil, as well as her and Dean’s phone. She shoots Connor a text, arranging a hang out of some kind, and opens her little booklet, when a text vibrates Dean’s phone.

hey i’m sorry i got caught up in something.

It’s alright.

She doesn’t press the ghost subject, because he doesn’t seem into it and she really doesn’t wanna make him dislike her any more than he possibly already does.

The empty page of her sketchbook daunts her. With a tight grip on her mechanical pencil, she urges her creativity pumps to use some gasoline, but they seem limp and dead, and once more unwilling to help her. As her eyes fall on Dean’s phone, like a light bulb out of a cartoon, she gets an idea.

Hey, this might sound creepy, but what do you look like?

She stares at the phone. This feels like a risky question. God, if he wasn’t done with her before, he certainly must be now. But then, he surprises her.

why do you wanna know?

I’m in the mood to sketch some, and my creativity has officially left the building.

Care to help a girl out? Maybe your literary descriptions will spark something in me lmao.

i didn’t know you sketched.

Yeah, sometimes. Nothing great though, I promise. I’m certainly no Picasso.

i mean you don’t have to be picasso to sketch well. and you don’t have to sketch well to sketch at all.

Yeah, may be.

I don’t wanna pressure you into anything, you really don’t have to humor me.

If you do feel like it though, don’t send me a picture. Kinda wanna spark some life into my brain cells.

haha i will. only if you show me the finished product tho.

You’ve got yourself a deal :)

She simply cannot believe he has just agreed to this. Her breath is caught in her throat.

so.

what do you want me to start with?

Just whatever. Idk, tell me about your face.

well

i have brown curly-ish hair that reaches my ears. uh, my eyes are hazel.

Okay, that’s a start.

What’s your nose like?

it’s a bit pointy. thin i think?

Jawline?

sharp? i guess?

this is by far the weirdest thing i’ve done.

Lmao, yeah, this is pretty weird.

Exciting though.

She shouldn’t have said that. Fuck, that is definitely overeager.

yeah it is.

Her stomach feels floaty at his response.

Eyebrows?

normal?

How do you classify “normal” eyebrows, exactly?

i don’t know? they’re simple i guess.

Are you implying complicated eyebrows exist out there?

…

Elaborate, Sam. Are you shy? Do you not have eyebrows? Are they bushy? Or too thin? Or pointy?

i’m telling you they’re average.

Sam

what

You officially suck at this.

oh fuck off how would you describe yours?

Y/n proceeds to write a cohesive sentence that includes adjectives apart from “normal” and “average”. Words like bushy, thin, arched and curvy.

well shit yeah i guess i do suck at this.

i think it’s not a skill i mind not having.

That… is a confusing sentence.

just… draw them however. what difference can eyebrows make?

Oh you have no idea.

Okay, last thing.

Do you have a fringe?

yeah but not for long. i’ll probably let it grow out.

Okay, I can do something with that. Thanks :)

no problem

Her creativity is finally servicing her according to her commands, and Y/n puts pen to paper and scribbles messily. Line after line, they curl and sit on the page, forming a smile with thin lips, a sharp jaw, a pointy nose. She has to guess the eyebrows a bit, and the eyes are more cartoonish and generic than she likes. In the end, she gets anxious at the prospect of having to show him, and gives him a hood, so she won’t fuck up the hair.

Okay, I’m done.

that was quick, actually.

Well I didn’t have much to go on.

Sam doesn’t reply. She worries he might have misinterpreted her teasing tone.

Gimme a sec, I’ll send it over.

Ugh, Dean’s camera is such shit. Do you mind if I send it from my phone?

no go ahead.

[Y/n has sent a picture]

As you said, it didn’t take long. It’s really not the best.

that…

is actually not too far from the truth

it kind of looks like me from two years ago

wow, really?

yeah.

and it’s honestly a pretty good sketch. good job.

Thank you :)

Sam doesn’t say anything after this, and she huffs. Her head falls back on the couch, and she stares at the ceiling. She should go to bed soon, it’s getting late.

isn’t this strange?

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit, she thinks. He’s regretting this. He doesn’t like her. He’ll stop talking to her and that’ll be it.

Why does she care so much? It’s a thought that passes through her mind. It hasn’t been long since they started talking and, after the near-kidnapping encounter, they’ve been having nearly daily conversations, but that still doesn’t mean much. She knows barely anything about him.

She guesses, she wants to get to know him better. He seems like the type of guy she’d enjoy hanging out with and she has so far. Stopping any kind of conversation would surely feel like a loss. She’d have to go back to her boring routine. This is the most exciting thing she has allowed herself to do in years.

A part of her feels rather lame for finding such a thrill at something so trivial. She’s talking to a stranger, and that’s all it is, but the prospect that he could be anyone at all, and she’s never even seen his face… well… It feels refreshing, new. Scary in an adrenaline-rush kind of way.

What is?

us. texting.

isn’t it a little odd?

I guess it is a bit.

I mean we’ve only known each other for, what, a week? And a half?

yeah.

should we stop?

I don’t know

Do you want to?

The extra moment his reply takes to arrive makes her want to vomit.

Then there’s your answer.

okay then

can I save you in my contacts?

Sure, go ahead.

I just did too.

alright.

Okay :)

I’m sorry, I have to go.

I guess I’ll text you later, Sam.

Go be whoever Sam Something is.

it’s winchester.

Like the shotgun?

yup.

That’s BADASS. Can you even get more badass than this? Pre-law, now a PI, and you’re named after a shotgun? Damn dude.

Well, it’s nice to meet you Sam. I’m Y/n Andrews.

Haha thanks.

nice to meet you, too

goodnight Y/n Andrews.

Night Sam Winchester :)

--- Part 3

A/N: Thoughts? How are you liking the newer version of this? right after I post it, I’m gonna delete the other one.

Taglist:

Old Can You See The Stars taglist: @shutupiminlooove @sammysgirl1997 @kymberlytorres @bambi95-blog @demonic-meatball @thekarliwinchester @littlekay15 @li-m-ii @thinspo-isuppose @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker @marichromatic @illuminatus42 @lazy-author @mirandaaustin93 @hauntedsiriel @pilaxia @devilgirlsarah @nobodys-baby-now @captiveties @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream

Sam taglist @kymberlytorres @theboykingsam @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes @captainmarvelcorps @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @nellachain

#sam x reader #sam x fem!reader #sam x reader series #sam x reader fluff #sam x reader angst #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x fem!reader #sam winchester x reader series #sam winchestr fluff #sam fluff #spn #supernatural #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #seen 2 #seen

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tehuti88-art · 8 months ago

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3/29/24: r/SketchDaily theme, "Free Draw Friday." This week's character from my anthro WWII storyline is Major DeVries (no first name ever given. He's been renamed from Dupries, as I have a family with that name in another storyline, plus DeVries was originally his name anyway. He's an abandoned character from the previous reboot and helps Camo get the Trench Rats started. There'll be more about him later in my art Tumblr and Toyhou.se.

Regarding his design, he's a big imposing guy, but pretty easygoing, so I tried to portray that.

I also have been wanting to point out the start of an attempted reboot of a childhood imaginary world of mine, The Animals. Here are the four concept sketches I've made so far of the characters based on little plastic animals I played with as a child: Kitten, Turtle, Mrs. Cow, and Bunny. I explain them a bit on Toyhou.se. Hopefully more to come.

TUMBLR EDIT: Okies! I said in Sgt. Major Revell's entry that I might revert Dupries's name back to DeVries, so now I have. A wrong set right. He appears under his correct name, DeVries, in an early version of Genesis; normally I would here include the relevant excerpt, except nothing in the text really illustrates DeVries that well as a character; it's just painfully cringey text featuring a VERY out-of-character Camo negotiating (well...demanding) the formation of the battalion while DeVries repeatedly expresses doubt yet throws up his hands and gives in, seemingly convinced they're all gonna die anyway. ("They'll never make it," he even says to an unnamed major who sticks up for Camo.) DeVries remains reasonably skeptical in the newest version of things, but isn't the wishy-wash previously depicted. He's still largely undeveloped though I've learned at least one detail about his character, maybe a few. He doesn't play a role in the vast majority of the story so I'm not that motivated to develop him much at present.

DeVries, as I said, is a big, imposing guy, tall and muscular and intimidating. Turns out he's not much of a fighting man, though; similar to Major Jäger on the German side, he's more of a bureaucrat, spending his time behind a desk or negotiating with superiors. Jäger did actually engage in combat (in the Waffen-SS), though I'm not sure I can say the same about DeVries; I don't THINK he fought in the Great War, but I can't say positively. (Camo and Revell are Great War veterans; Drake, Evans, and Beaudry are too young to have served.) So DeVries is more of a pencil pusher than anything, but he's good at what he does, and similar to Jäger with Project Doomsday, he plays a big role in getting the Trench Rats concept off the ground.

Despite his physical appearance, he's pretty much a gentle giant, laid back and easy to approach, not prone to anger or insult unlike the volatile Revell (who I'm pretty sure by now is a war criminal who massacred an entire family--after doing something even more vile--and got away with it). He's not a pushover, however, and still needs strong convincing that sending an entire battalion into enemy territory before the US has even officially gotten involved, just to rescue a handful of Americans who shouldn't really have been there either, is a prudent idea. The fact that Camo intends the battalion to take even further action, namely, establish a base and actively meddle with Nazi efforts to create a super soldier, makes DeVries chafe, yet Evans and Beaudry manage to convince him it's worth the trouble (while Revell does everything in his power to sabotage these efforts).

The main detail that's since emerged about DeVries's personal character is that, despite his decent (if unglamorous) military reputation, he's a really sh*tty husband. At the time of Genesis taking place, his wife is pregnant and ready to give birth at pretty much any moment. Meanwhile, DeVries is frequently picking up random women he meets in bars and social gatherings and taking them back to his hotel room to spend the night. He's not abusive, he's not manipulative or actively a jerk, he expresses love every time he and his wife meet (he's often busy at work and spends little time at home) and he's excited at the prospect of having a child, but he is really not a monogamous person. I'm not entirely sure if this behavior started with his wife's pregnancy or if he was just always this way, but either way, it's pretty douchey.

There's a proposed scene where Evans shows up at DeVries's hotel room early one morning and knocks. A scantily clad woman answers and both of them gasp at each other before she ducks back behind the door (obviously having expected room service or something); Evans awkwardly explains he's there to speak to DeVries, and the woman says from behind the door that he's still sleeping but she'll wake him. Evans waits. A moment later the woman, fully dressed now, exits with a meek "Excuse me," and hastens off on her way. Right after, a second woman exits--"Excuse me"--and hurries off after her. Evans waits another moment; the door opens and he turns to address DeVries, yet a third woman exits, blushing--"Pardon me!"--and goes on her way. Then DeVries calls out. Thoroughly flustered by now, Evans peeks in; DeVries is alone, adjusting his collar and cuffs, and addresses him perfectly normally as if nothing weird just happened, though he's surprised to see Evans there so early. Evans doesn't bother saying a word about whatever had happened before he arrived; he's far too embarrassed, and lets out a sigh after DeVries heads off before him, disappointed in the extracurricular activities of teh straights.

He meets DeVries's wife...uh...Mrs. DeVries?...later on when she shows up at the base, belly out to there, so that his first reaction is to offer her a seat. He knew DeVries is married but he's never met her before, plus, he had no idea she's like twelve months pregnant; he's instantly dismayed as soon as she introduces herself. She mentions how she's just stopped by to see her husband as he's dreadfully busy and gets so little time to come home; it's obvious she has no clue WHAT has him so busy, she sincerely believes it's just his work. Evans feels like crud but doesn't enlighten her, as he knows it's not his place to get involved, though he feels a twinge disgruntled that a guy who has such a loving and devoted mate at home--with a kid on the way, no less--would be so ungrateful as to fool around all the time. A happy marriage, the prospect of raising a family, is something that's beyond Evans's reach, so yeah, he's a little bitter about DeVries's behavior. Especially since DeVries is otherwise such an upstanding guy, plus Evans depends on his good graces. He never leaks a word to the wife, and she never suspects.

Exactly how the situation with DeVries's messing around, if it stops at all after his child is born, or if wifey ever does find out, is never explained, as the story moves on to Germany after Camo and the other characters. It could be resolved in one of the many sidestories, I guess.

As I was taking a break tending to other things, a POSSIBLE plot point likely involving DeVries seeped into my head. It's not certain yet as there are potential plot conflicts I haven't checked for, plus it's a tad implausible, but here it is. I already mentioned that Revell's role has clarified as he committed an atrocious war crime against a civilian family in the Great War (it was going to be a German family, Revell's "defense" being they were just filthy Krauts who deserved what they got, but seeing as none of this fighting appears to have occurred on German soil I'm unsure how I'd manage that); most of the higher-ups know all about this, yet it's hushed up to avoid damaging morale, and Revell escapes any serious punishment. Somehow, for some reason, years later Evans comes across these allegations and tries to blow the whistle; this is likely the reason Revell targets Camo, Drake, and the Trench Rats plan, recognizing that it's important to Evans. DeVries, who Evans has been appealing to about forming the battalion, finally takes a private moment to set him straight (so to speak): Everyone from back then knows what Revell did, he got away with it, and there's nothing Evans can do. He mentions how he himself tried, but lacked the influence to do anything meaningful; Revell has powerful allies. He bluntly tells Evans that he can either tank his own career and accomplish exactly nothing trying to go after Revell, or he can put all his energy behind getting the Trench Rats off the ground--he can't do both. He's going to need all the support he can get if he wants to help Camo, and if he keeps targeting Revell, that'll never happen.

Evans, of course, is torn; without going into detail about the particulars, he explains the dilemma to Drake, who shares it with Camo. Camo leaves the decision in Drake's hands, deeming him to be in the best position to choose whether the Trench Rats are worth it, at the expense of justice for a family. Although also conflicted, Drake chooses the Trench Rats, with the reasoning that hopefully they'll save lives that would otherwise be lost and then it would all be for nothing. He does hint, however, that perhaps justice can be sought for the murdered family in the future.

Unknown to them all...DeVries, during his own failed efforts to seek justice or at least recognition for Revell's victims, did manage to accomplish something, though it won't go into effect for quite some time yet. Let's rewind, to right before that first small American unit was sent into Germany for reconnaissance reasons, the same unit the Trench Rats are formed to rescue. DeVries has a file of incriminating info on Revell but he already tried to get the word out, just as he later tells Evans, and it went nowhere. He may have pull, but he doesn't have pull here. He decides he'll put this file someplace safe where it faces little risk of being destroyed. At the VERY very least, the file will be brought to light in the future, so even if Revell still ends up unpunished, his victims won't be forgotten.

DeVries approaches one of the members of the unit which is about to head out, speaks with him privately. Points out how he's good at keeping his head down, going unnoticed, and has no known family or contacts who could compromise him over such things. He gives him the file; the PFC asks what it is, and DeVries says it's none of his concern, he's not involved, just that as soon as his unit gets established, to tuck it away safely somewhere it won't be too readily found. It'll almost certainly be located at some point in the future, and then maybe there will be a modicum of justice of some sort. The PFC asks no more questions, just takes the file, and when the unit heads off to Germany it goes along with him. He keeps hold of it the whole time he and the unit are pinned down by relentless German gunfire. After their rescue by the Trench Rats, when the members of the unit are incorporated into the battalion and promoted and given codenames, he's assigned a room and bunk in the newly erected Headquarters; he inspects the small space, locating all the little nooks and crannies, and finally settles on a space concealed above a ceiling beam; he tucks the file in here. Within days, he forgets all about Revell's file.

It's only after the second war's end that Lance Corporal Mahogany Rat, searching for something else, discovers the file stashed away in LC Teal Rat's former private quarters.

[DeVries 2024 [‎Friday, ‎March ‎29, ‎2024, ‏‎12:00:18 AM]]

#artists on tumblr #ibisPaint x #SketchDaily #original characters

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ghosttotheparty · 4 years ago

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while the world ends around us (make believe with me)

2. I just wanna go where I can get some space AO3

Lucas doesn't know what to do with himself.

He still hasn’t worked up the energy or motivation to unpack beyond what he needs, even after weeks of being in Antwerp. He’s barely even worked up the motivation to get out of bed.

He’s barely left the apartment, even after his two-week quarantine mostly in his room (during which he unpacked a few shirts and the white comforter that’s strewn across his mattress, which lies on the floor next to a window), despite his father’s demands that he get groceries. That was their first fight after Lucas moved in. Words had been thrown around the room. Lucas wishes he had thrown other things too. Anything that might just convince his father to send him back to Utrecht. Maybe some plates. Glass. But he figures that would probably just get his father’s belt lashed at him.

When his father finally surrendered to letting Lucas stay home, he told him to unpack. And then told him that he isn’t allowed to put anything on the walls. Not even with tape.

So Lucas has boxes and boxes filled with things he can do nothing with but look at. Photos he’d printed before moving specifically to put on his walls, that he now just thumbs through longingly, gazing at Kes and Jayden and Isa and Liv. He even has photos of Noah, whom he’d gotten closer to in the days before the move. Noah had given him a goodbye gift of a set of pencils accompanied with a wink and a hug later on that night. He’d told Lucas that he’d caught him doodling on a napkin at a get-together a few weeks before.

“You’re pretty good,” Noah had told him. “You could do it seriously.”

“I do,” Lucas had responded. “I just don’t show anyone.”

“Well maybe if you show more people, more people will get you new supplies.”

Lucas had just made a face and allowed him a “Maybe.”

The pencils are in the same box as all his sketchbooks, the ones he’s started filling with drawings and doodles, and the ones that are completely blank, bought before he moved just in case he wouldn’t be able to buy any after arriving. In the box, he also has watercolours and paints and an abundance of brushes, along with palette knives he’s never used. The box is on the floor next to his door. He moved it from the top of a stack of boxes after needing to find his lined notebooks for school. And his clothes.

Anyway.

The photos.

He remembers when they were taken. He heard a lot of laughter that day. He had taken some before Kes had snatched his phone (freshly cleared of storage just for the occasion), and taken more than Lucas had bothered to count. Pictures of Lucas and Isa, Isa by herself, Lucas and Liv, Lucas and Janna, Lucas and Engel, Lucas and Noah, Lucas and Jayden, Lucas and Ralph, before he had begun taking photos of them not posing. Photos of them eating, laughing, talking, hugging. Them all existing.

They were beautiful.

Lucas had told Kes he could be a photographer. Kes had said he’s never thought about it.

Then Lucas had taken his phone back and taken photos of Kes and the others until his storage ran out.

He printed each and every one of them.

He flips through them whenever he can, grinning and rolling his eyes at the photos of Jayden making a face and the photo of Noah flipping his middle finger to Kes with a flat face, smiling fondly at the photo of Liv and Isa hugging, Isa’s cheek squished against Liv’s, gazing longingly at the ones of them all together.

He sighs.

He supposes he feels lonely now. Of course, he’s still been talking to them, chatting and giggling at the stupid videos and memes they send, but he hasn’t seen or touched them since he moved. He thinks he misses that the most. Hugging, shaking hands, receiving cheek kisses from Isa and Janna and Ralph. Sitting on a sofa and immediately feeling someone’s leg press against his, or lay over his lap. Feeling someone’s head rest on his shoulder, someone’s fingers mess with his curls. He misses when Isa would stand too close while talking to him, close enough for him to wrap his arms around her waist and hold her close while she speaks. He misses when Kes’s thigh would press against his as they sat side-by-side, and when Jayden would greet him with a fist to his shoulder, or Ralph with a pinch on his cheek.

He hasn’t touched anyone since moving. He doesn’t think the accidental brushes against his father’s shoulders as he storms past count.

He misses it, more so sometimes than others. Sometimes he misses it so badly he aches, pulling a pillow to his chest, or wrapping his arms around his legs, trying to feel some sort of contact, some sort of pressure. Sometimes he wonders if he’ll forget what it feels like to touch other people. He, no one for that matter, doesn’t know when it’ll be completely safe to touch others, to hang out with them without covering their faces, to greet them with kisses on the cheek, the way Janna likes to. He doesn’t even know if he’ll have anyone he’ll want to do those things with.

He doubts he’ll find friends like Kes and Jayden, kind of doubts he’ll find friends full stop.

It’s not like he’s going to have the opportunity to get to know anyone at school, as they’re not even at school. And it’s not like he really wants to make friends, anyway. He’ll just leave Antwerp after high school, just have to say goodbye. The first chance he gets, he’s leaving on a train back to Utrecht. He’ll figure his life out from there.

But for now, this is what he has: a mattress on the floor. Blank walls. Towering cardboard boxes. A stash of cigarettes and weed hidden between his mattress and the wall. His skateboard propped up against a stack of boxes. His laptop sitting on top of a box, ready for when he finally starts school, which he’s dreading.

Just more things to do.

More chores.

Everything feels like a chore lately. If he thinks about it, everything’s felt like a chore for a while now. Instead of a to-do list, he has a fuck, I still have to do that list. It takes energy to roll out of bed. It takes commitment to wake up.

It’s gotten worse since he got to Antwerp. Maybe, he thinks, because it’s so much work to exist in the same place as his father, who blames him for every single thing the universe throws his way. But he also thinks it’s because there’s no one here to shake him out of it. Back home, he would get texts and texts from his friends, telling him to meet them at the skatepark, at a cafe, at some party. Giving him things to do.

Here, he still gets texts.

He answers them laying in bed.

He doesn’t know how to explain it.

It feels like something is missing. Like there’s an emptiness in him. It’s easier to ignore when he’s around other people, when he’s listening to loud music and talking and laughing, or scrolling endlessly on social media. It’s easier to pretend there’s something there, on that empty shelf in his chest.

Sometimes it’s sadness, he thinks. Especially since he moved. Sadness from missing home, missing people. But most of the time it’s just… nothing.

And he can’t really spend time with his friends, so he scrolls. Or draws or paints. But he hasn’t been making much art beyond sketches lately.

Part of him hopes he might make some friends when school starts, at least some people to chat with, or hang out with when it’s safe. But if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s not expecting to. He doesn’t even remember how he became friends with most of the friends he has. Kes and Isa had, for lack of a better word, adopted him when they were younger, had taken him under their wings and shown him the ropes of existence.

Which feel like they’re unravelling.

Lucas rolls over in bed, looking up at his laptop on the boxes, sighing. This is his life now. Boxes and the internet. The sound of his father tripping down the hall, grumbling to himself because Lucas isn’t there to scold. (This is just about the only instance Lucas can think of when he hears his father’s voice. The amount of words they’ve exchanged outside of their fights could usually be counted on two hands.) He’ll finally hear some voices that don’t belong to his father next week when he goes to class.

The thought of going back to school, even through video calls and online assignments, makes him itch. He’s picked his lips red and raw in the past few days, without Isa to swat his hands away from his face before he can start tasting blood. When he lets his mind wander, his leg starts to bounce. His mom would set her hand on his knee, making it stop, and chuckle while telling him he’s making her seasick. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

He already has lots of emails from teachers; he checks every time he uses his laptop, but he hasn’t responded to any of them. They all sound the same.

This is new to all of us The school year looks very different this year Thank you all for doing your best! These are uncertain times This digital landscape is difficult to navigate This is a unique challenge This could be an opportunity for you

All monotonous, inspiring voices of people waiting.

He doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to respond to any of them.

He tries to think that is really is something everyone is experiencing. That This is new to all of us and We’re all doing what we can, but he feels like he’s in it alone. He knows even Kes and the others aren’t seeing each other in person, aren’t hugging and hanging out the way Lucas longs to, but at least they’re at home. Lucas is stuck in a box, and it feels like it’s closing around him.

He sighs again, shutting his eyes. It’s not quite dark yet, but he feels exhausted, even after doing nothing all day. He’ll probably wake up in a few hours anyway. And he’ll open his blinds, looking out at the city, just half-alive, just like him.

#this is shorter than id like but #baby boys not doing great #also warning rn this *is* going to be a sad fic #but! dont worry about either of them #you know i wouldnt hurt them #also take care of yourself pls #lucas would want you to #i love you #wtfoc #wtfock #skam #skam nl fic #vds #van der stoffels #van der stoffels fic #lucas vdh #lucas van der heijden #jens stoffels #while the world ends around us (make believe with me)

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shipmistress9 · 4 years ago

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FTLOAP: Chapter 48: Reminds Me Again It's Worth It All

For The Love Of A Princess Masterpost

Alpha/Co-author: @athingofvikings

Taglist: @drchee5e @hey-its-laura-again @thepixiedustfactory (If you want me to add you to this list, just say so. ^^)

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If you want to support me you can buy me a coffee. I love coffee 😊 (Ko-Fi)

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AN: How... how is it already almost three months later again? Time is a lie! xD But I won't apologise. Life is just absolutely crazy right now, and not just because of this virus. But I'm not abandoning this story, don't worry! :)

And I don't want to ramble here too much, but... I was worried how you all would take it that I implemented the canon events as legends. And I'm very happy and relieved to see that you guys generally seem to approve. ^^

This week's title comes, again, from Memories by Within Temptation. I've picked this title before I wrote the chapter and I have to admit that it fitted better to the original vision I had of this chapter than to the end result. But it still works and it's not that important anyway, right? ;P

. o O o .

“Do you think you can do it? Can you kill a dragon?”

Grimacing, Hiccup averted his face at that question. Killing a dragon… There once had been a time where this prospect had troubled him. It had been something he had to do, but not what he’d wanted to do.

But now, things were different. He'd already lost so much to a dragon’s attack once, and now could gain so much more if he did it… It wasn’t a question about whether he could do it anymore.

But… would he be able to do it?

“I get that it’s a lot to think about,” Eret said when he didn’t reply immediately. “Especially after what you just told us and in such a short time. The thing is just… You legally winning that title for yourself would be the easiest and cleanest solution. But we can prepare you as much as we want; if it’s more likely that you’re getting killed, it’s not worth it. Then we have to come up with something else. I’m sure there’s something we can do. There has to be.”

Hiccup pressed his lips together and lowered his head. Astrid was still sitting right next to him, her hand in his. So close. It could be so easy. All he had to do to be with her was kill a dragon. But after all his failures, he wasn't likely to be too optimistic.

“I don’t know,” he eventually said in a low voice. “I became a better fighter over the last years, I had to, and… and I have the best motivation imaginable.” Chuckling weakly, he lifted his hand to breathe a soft kiss onto Astrid’s knuckled. It made her smile, tentatively. “But I don’t know if I can do it. It would be difficult, nearly impossible . During raids and other occasions, we use special tools and weapons against dragons that make it easier to capture and kill them. If I had some of those, I think I could do it. But without them?” Gulping, he shook his head. “I’d need a lot of luck, and, well… given the past few years, luck is not something I would want to count on.”

Next to him, Astrid flinched. The fingers of her free hand painfully dug into his arm; she clearly didn’t like his answer. But as much as he wanted to give her another one – lying just to comfort her wasn’t an option.

“But you can build these weapons,” Eret objected. “I know you can, I’ve seen you work in Berk’s forge and you even managed to fix the music box. Just tell us what you need, and we get if for you.”

Hiccup’s gaze shifted back to Eret. He was grateful for his enthusiasm and optimism, that he wouldn’t give up. But in this case, just thinking positively wouldn't help much. With a tired sigh, he shook his head. “You’re right, I could build what I need. But not within only a couple of days. I’d need special moulds to forge the pieces, special tools I don’t have… It would take me weeks to build all that from scratch.”

“Can’t you get some of those things here?” Dagur threw in. “I mean, the markets here might not be as big as Southshore’s… but this is the capital. There’s a lot you can buy here.”

Hiccup grimaced, his free hand tightening into a fist. He gazed down at Astrid, tightly clinging to his arm and her face hidden against his side. He couldn’t give up now. Eret was right, winning that hunt would be the cleanest solution. And for Astrid, he was willing to try and risk everything. Whatever it would take.

With a heavy sigh, he turned back toward the others. “Maybe you’re right and we can find at least some things. So far, I haven’t seen anything of that sort though, and finding the tools I need, let alone the functioning weapons, might take just as long as trying to build them. But yeah, it’s at least a possibility.”

“All right, what should we look for?” Tuff asked.

He shared a look with his sister who added, “Tuff and I know the city pretty well. And we know some people… If the things you need exist somewhere in Volantis, then we’re your best option to find them.”

Frowning, Hiccup took a moment to think. “The most important thing,” he eventually replied, slowly, “would be a bola shooter. The best way – the only reasonable way, really – to fight any dragon is to first incapacitate their wings, if possible their legs too. If they can’t fly or move much at all, they’re relatively easy prey.”

“A…. what shooter?” The question came from Tuff, but except for Eret who’d seen a bola shooter in action before, everyone looked equally confused.

“A bola shooter.” He released Astrid’s hand to use both arms for his explanation. “A bola is a weapon made for hunting. It’s made of three – or more – strings of rope, all tied together at a centre point and each with some form of weight at the end, usually a rock of this size,” he held up his fist, “or bigger, depending on what kind of prey you’re after. If you fling it the right way, it wraps around the beast’s body, preferably around its legs or wings and renders it immobile.”

“Makes sense,” Dagur agreed, nodding. “But I don’t see your problem. Making such a bola doesn’t sound that complicated.”

Hiccup nodded. “It’s not. But using a bola just on its own, that’s not advisable if you’re out to hunt a dragon. Flinging a bola over your head is not exactly stealthy. If you’re in a raid where there’s chaos already, it doesn’t matter much. But if you try to sneak up on a dragon and want to capture it before it attacks or simply flies off? Not a good idea. So what I need is a shooter. It’s a device to launch such bolas without the eye-catching gaining of momentum.” His gaze wandered to Astrid’s servants. “What you would be looking for is–”

“Wait a moment,” Eret interrupted him. He got up from his chair and walked over to a desk, then returned with a sheet of paper and a pencil. “It’s not as if I have much need for letter paper anyway.”

Gratefully, Hiccup took the paper and pencil, and leaning over the low table in front of him, he made a quick sketch of what he needed.

“It’s a wooden or metallic tube,” he explained. “Wide enough for weights as such rocks and with a mechanism to launch them attached to it at one end.” He handed the sketch over to Astrid’s warder.

The man narrowed his eyes as he looked at the sketch then showed it to his sister next to him. She too narrowed her eyes, then the twins shared a knowing look and a nod.

“What?” Dagur asked, a little annoyed. “Have you seen anything like that before?”

“Maybe,” Ruff replied slowly. She inspected the sketch for a moment longer, then shared another strange nod with her brother before she left the room without another word.

Everyone gazed after her, perplexed, then threw Tuff a questioning look.

But Tuff’s answer wasn’t very enlightening. “She needs to check something,” he simply said.

Dagur snorted. “Don’t bother trying to make sense of their twintuition. It’s pointless.”

“I can hear you, you know?” Tuff muttered.

“So what?,” Dagur cackled. “Nothing I wouldn’t say to your face.”

Rolling his eyes at their bickering, Eret cleared his throat to draw Hiccup’s attention again. “Who knows how long Ruff will be gone. So let’s use the time to talk options. I agree, flinging a bola isn’t stealthy, but it would still be possible, wouldn’t it? Or how about a weighted net? I’ve seen you use those sometimes, too.”

With his lips pressed into a thin line, Hiccup nodded. “Possible, yes, but not advisable. A shooter would give me another advantage over simply flinging a bola or net myself. I wouldn’t need to get as close to the beast since a shooter can hurl them farther than I can throw them, and they could be bigger too as it can handle higher weights. And with a net, I’d need to be in a higher position to throw it on top of them. It can be done, obviously, but, yeah… It would require a lot of luck.”

Eret frowned but didn’t object and didn’t come up with some other option, either. Grateful for the break, Hiccup leaned against the cushioned backrest, relaxing a little when Astrid cuddled to his side without hesitation. She’d been surprisingly quiet throughout the whole conversation, and now he noticed just how tense she was; her shoulders, her expression, even her hands clenched into fists around his tunic. As if she was subconsciously holding on to something invisible.

It was strange in a way. But just like he'd drawn from her strength earlier when the memories of his dead family had threatened to overwhelm him, it now seemed as if she was relying on his strength in return. Even though he had no idea why she needed it.

He let his hand run up and down her back, slowly, comfortingly, and after a minute or two, she relaxed at least a little bit.

It didn't take long until Ruff returned. In her arms, she carried a large basket full of laundry which earned her confused looks from everyone waiting.

"You came to bring fresh clothes?" Dagur asked, a little incredulously. "Do you expect anyone to rip theirs off?" He threw an insinuating grin at Astrid and Hiccup, but nobody was really in the mood for joking.

"Haha, funny," Ruff deadpanned. She placed the basket on the ground and rummaged about for a few seconds until she found what she was looking for. With a satisfied grin, she glanced from one to the other. "No, the laundry was just for cover; I didn't want people to get suspicious if they saw me with this." She pulled an object out that had been hidden by layers of cloth, a smug smile on her face as she looked at Hiccup. "Is this what you were talking about? A bola shooter?"

Hiccup could only gape. Disbelievingly, he reached for the device when Ruff held it out to him, his fingers reverently gliding over the sturdy metal tube. It was dusty, the mechanism getting stuck when he tried to wind it up, but it was undeniably a bola shooter. It even was the same model they used on Berk, the size and length of the tube distinct. And the mechanism! It was just like–

Hiccup sucked in a sharp breath and turned the device around until his eyes found what he’d been looking for, a sign that was etched into the metal at the underside of the tube. A horizontal line crossed by three vertical ones. Or, the way he read it, ‘H H’.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, his eyes on the twins.

This couldn't be… It made no sense! How?

"What's wrong, Hiccup?" Eret asked, frowning, a note of worry in his voice.

Mutely and without looking, Hiccup handed the shooter over to his cousin. His eyes were still on Ruff, still waiting for her answer.

Ruff exchanged a frown with her brother, and they both shrugged. “It’s Astrid’s,” she replied.

Stunned, Hiccup turned toward Astrid, but she looked just as surprised as he was. “Excuse me?”

“It’s true,” Tuff said with another shrug. “It was in one of your birthday chests from three or four years ago.”

Still confused, Hiccup cocked his head. “Birthday chests?” he asked for clarification when even Dagur just nodded in understanding.

“Usually, there aren’t as many people here for my birthday as there were this year,” Astrid explained in a low voice. She sounded distracted, as if her mind was somewhere else entirely. “But since ignoring the Princess Royal’s birthday could be considered an insult, practically every noble family sends a gift every year. Nothing extravagant in most cases, just a sign that they remembered. Often, it’s some local speciality, food, clothes, or craftsmanship. I… some pieces I kept, and the food always gets eaten, of course, but the rest gets stored away, and…” She trailed off, shrugging.

“Exactly!” Tuff nodded. “There’s an entire room just filled with shelves and boxes full of stuff – for every member of the royal family. And there’s some weird stuff in there, that I can tell you.” He snickered.

Somewhere in the depth of Hiccup’s mind, a memory was rising, but he couldn’t grasp it yet.

“Very true!” Ruff said with a smirk. “Some of these things are great for pranks; it’s just a hassle to sort through them sometimes. Anyway, there are a few chests that are different… bigger. Sometimes, higher noble families don’t just send one gift but an entire chest full of various gifts. There is one in particular that contains a number of strange things I’ve never seen anywhere else. Clothes in an unfamiliar style, wooden carvings, instruments… and this weird fellow.” She pointed at the bola shooter in Eret’s hand. “We never knew what to make of it, but when you sketched your shooter just now…” She broke off, looking over at Eret as he grunted in surprise.

"Is… is that one of yours?" he asked, baffled.

Next to him, Astrid shuffled to sit up straighter. “Yeah, apparently it is. Even though I can’t–”

“He means me,” Hiccup interrupted her gently. He held his hand out for Eret to give him the shooter back, then turned it around to show her the symbol etched into the metal. “See this? That… well, you can call it my signature, I guess. I used to mark everything I made with this sign. H H. Hiccup of House Haddock.”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. Putting that signature on his works had been an act of pride and rebellion, he knew that all too well. So many people had called him useless for not being a good fighter and not going after the dragons as he was supposed to. And yet, they’d been happy enough to use his weapons and devices.

Astrid traced the symbol with her fingers, her touch careful. “So… you made this?” she asked, visibly puzzled “But… how did it end up in that chest?”

Hiccup’s memories were all falling into place then. “I haven’t thought of this in a long time, didn’t even remember until just now,” he said slowly. “It was on the day the council had decided that I would have to prove myself in the arena, and I was… well, I was terrified, to be honest. Torn on whether I even wanted to kill a dragon and scared by having to do so in the arena, without support or the usual methods. I had just finished working on this shooter, but more felt like throwing it out of the window and into the ocean. What was the point of crafting all these weapons if I wasn’t allowed to use them? I think I was pretty lost, wallowing, and didn't pay much attention to my mother when she came into my workshop."

He had to pause and swallow at that memory. What would he give if he could go back to that moment, for the chance to talk to her again? To ask for her advice, or just to listen to what was on her mind. If only he hadn't wasted so much time only focused on his own problems...

"She tried to cheer me up and encourage me, said that she had faith in me. But I didn't want to hear that and in the end, it wasn't why she'd come looking for me anyway. She was about to send a chest of gifts to her friend, for her daughter's birthday, and wanted me to contribute something, too." His lips twitched into a rueful smile. "I remember how annoyed I was. What did the birthday of some stranger matter to me? I had more important things on my mind, like not losing my honour in front of the entire tribe, for example. Or my life. So I just gave her the shooter I'd just finished, unreasonably angry at the device itself for me not being allowed to use it in my fight against the dragon."

With slightly shaking hands, Astrid reached for the shooter to inspect it a little more closely. "Is it still working, though?" There was an odd tone in her voice, so quiet and almost trembling, something he couldn’t quite place. “I mean, it’s been lying around in that chest for three years now. Are you sure it’s not rusty? What if the mechanism jams when you need it?”

Hiccup took a moment to think, then nodded. “Yeah, it should still work. Maybe not right now, but it shouldn’t be a problem to get it to work on time. I just need to disassemble it, clean all parts, and put them back together.” He paused, trying to think it through. All parts were there, working and in his usual high quality. They shouldn’t have suffered much over time, and even if one or two parts were broken, it shouldn’t be that hard to replace only those.

He sucked in a deep breath, a confidant grin on his face. “So, going back to your question,” he said, looking at Eret. “Yes, with this baby here, I think I can do it. I can kill a dragon!”

. o O o .

Hiccup was itching to get started. Three days weren’t much time to prepare for the task that lay ahead of him, and he didn’t want to waste even one second. But no matter how eager he was to disappear into the royal armoury and work on the shooter, he grudgingly had to yield to Eret’s logic.

“You can’t go and spend all day locked up, working on some secret project. If you do, people will get suspicious, and we can’t have anyone pay overly attention to what either of us is doing.”

So he spent most of the day assisting Eret and Dagur during their training – which probably wasn’t that much of a waste of time, either. It was a little tricky as on the one hand, it couldn’t become obvious that Hiccup was training some techniques for real, while on the other hand, Eret and Dagur couldn’t put too much obvious effort into it. But all he could do was hope that the ruse worked.

Astrid was watching them from afar, but something was strange about her. Hiccup was ecstatic, even as his leg was acting up a little from the unusual workout. For the first time since Astrid’s birthday, he felt true confidence, for their future but also for himself. The plan Eret had come up with was good. It wouldn’t be easy by any means, but it could work. And even more importantly, it was something he could do.

But Hiccup noticed that Astrid wasn’t nearly in as good a mood as he was, even from a distance. She looked tense and anxious, even more so than this morning, almost constantly biting her lip. He wished he could go and talk to her, could ask her what was bothering her. But there were too many people around on the fighting ground; all conversations would have to wait until the night.

And until then, he had to use every bit of time he had. He didn’t join Eret and Dagur for their lunch break and instead spent the time at the armoury. And even though he only had about an hour, he made good progress with the shooter. It was years now since he last worked on a device like this, but it still felt natural, easy as breathing.

After a first inspection, he was relieved to see that nearly all pieces were still in working order. One rod was warped and needed to be pounded back into shape with some work on an anvil. Another was broken and he would need to replace it, same as a bolt or three. But all that was manageable, no reason to worry. If he used his free hours in the evening and on the next day without wasting time, then he should be done by tomorrow night, the morning after at the latest.

The good mood carried him through the day, even though it was a long and exhausting one. After his simple dinner in the servants’ kitchen, it was time to sneak into Astrid’s rooms again, and if it hadn’t been for this happy prospect, he would have just gone to bed directly. His leg hurt more with every step he made through the narrow tunnels as he followed Tuff, and it was only the thought of Astrid that kept him going. Of holding her, but also of the anxiety he’d noticed in her.

And when he entered her bedroom and Ruff closed the door behind him, it quickly became apparent that her mood hadn’t improved all day. She was still as tense as she’d been before if not more, sitting on the edge of her bed with her hands nervously fiddling with her nightgown.

"Hey," she greeted him. There was a smile on her lips but it felt off. It didn’t reach her eyes, even though the warmth and love in them were real.

"Hey," he replied. With a sigh, he sat down next to her, relieved when his weight was off his leg. Whatever it was that was bothering her, they surely could talk about it sitting, right? "Is everything okay?"

But Astrid didn't react. Instead, she frowned, her eyes not meeting his. "Your leg hurts."

It wasn't a question, but Hiccup nodded nonetheless. "A little, yes. With all the training today, that was to be expected. I should probably take it a little easier tomorrow,“ he added lightly.

She nodded, still not looking at him. Instead, her frown deepened and she chewed on her lower lip, thinking. "Do you want me to massage it?" she eventually offered.

Hiccup knew that he should decline. The pain wasn't that bad, nothing a good night's rest wouldn't heal, and letting her hands roam his skin wasn't necessarily advisable anyway. All too well, he remembered how that usually affected him.

But something was keeping him from turning her down. There was something in the way she avoided his gaze, how her hands trembled, that told him that, for some reason, Astrid needed this. He wasn't sure whether it was about having something to do in general or whether she craved contact just as much as he did, but it was there. And he didn't have it in him to deny her. Besides, a massage would definitely help, and coming from her would make it all the sweeter.

"Yeah, that would be great."

On her indication, he made himself comfortable in the middle of her bed, with his back resting against the headrest and the leg of his trousers rolled up as far as possible. Claiming that he didn't enjoy how her hands glided over his skin and worked the tissue and muscles beneath would have been a lie. It felt wonderful, both the relief it brought to his aching leg and the sensations her touch elicited in the rest of his body alike.

But as much as he enjoyed the massage, he also was aware of how anxious Astrid still was, of the wrinkles in her forehead, the tension around her mouth, and how her hands were trembling. She clearly was not okay. But since she’d evaded his question before, all he could do was wait for her to be ready to tell him what was bothering her.

"It makes sense now," she eventually murmured. She wasn't meeting his eyes, her gaze resting on his scarred leg, on her fingers tracing the ugly ragged lines.

"What do you mean?" he asked when she didn't continue.

Astrid swallowed. "Your leg. I... I've been wondering about these scars ever since you showed them to me. Not where they come from!" she quickly clarified, "But... It's just that I've seen the scars on your back. Those wounds there must have been so much worse than the one on your leg. And I always wondered why your back healed so well and your leg didn't. But now I know."

Hiccup sighed. "Yeah... my night in the forest really didn't do me any good. The infection–"

"It's not just that," she interrupted him. "A wound like this needs constant care to heal properly. Cleaning and treatment and fresh bandages and time. Bu-but if you got imprisoned and exiled, your leg got none of that, right?” Her voice was trembling now. “That's why it's still bothering you. Not because the wound was so severe or because it got dirty or even infected. It’s because it never got time to heal."

Hiccup closed his eyes and nodded. "You're right. I only got the barest minimum of treatment before they sent me away. And then, I had to leave quickly and couldn't risk resting for a week or even longer to let the wound heal. I was lucky I didn't lose the leg altogether…" He trailed off as the painful memories made a lump form in his throat; memories of cold nights in the northern forest, of hiding from thieving groups… and of being scared but at the same time not feeling worthy of even the care one of Freya’s temples would have offered.

Astrid shifted, finally looked at him as she reached for his hand. There was a shimmer in her eyes, as if she was close to tears. "Oh, Hiccup," she sniffed. "That... that must have been horrible!"

Swallowing, Hiccup lowered his head. She was right, it had been horrible. Not just because of what had happened, though, but mostly because he hadn't thought it possible that the Tribes' leaders, his own people, would be so callous and cruel. He'd always known that there were some who'd wanted House Haddock removed and even more had been in doubt about him. But he hadn't expected them to directly exile him without a proper trial. To all but execute him without solid evidence.

Astrid's hand was shaking around his, causing him to look up at her again. Her eyes were filled with sadness. "I-I'm so sorry for what you've been through. I wish there was a way to make it all undone. I wish I could spare you all the pain you've been through. And your family! I knew they were dead, but... but what happened to them – it wasn't fair!"

Again, Hiccup swallowed. "No, it wasn't fair," he murmured. He took a moment to take a deep breath and slowly let it out again. "But it's all in the past. What happened happened, and nobody can change it anymore."

Astrid nodded, weakly, her hand tightening around his. "And I'm sorry. For making you talk about them this morning. I can only imagine how much that must have cost you! If there's anything I can do to make it up to you or–"

Hiccup put a finger over her lips, effectively silencing her. "It's all right," he assured her. "You're already doing more than I can ever put into words, just by existing, by being here. Besides... I think it was actually good that I finally talked about it all, about them and what happened. I feel... lighter, somehow. I still miss them, of course, I do. But at the same time, I know that they will always be with me as long as I remember them. They are my past, and while I’ll never forget them… Thinking about them made me remember how happy I was. And it reminded me that it’s worth fighting for a happy life. For our future.”

Astrid sucked in a harsh breath. Again, she began to tremble, so much so that Hiccup pulled her into his arms to comfort her, grateful when she didn’t resist even though he didn't understand what troubled her.

“Hey, hey,” he mumbled into her hair, one hand soothingly rubbing her back. “What’s up? Why are you so upset?”

Sniffling, she burrowed deeper into his embrace. “I don’t like it.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?” There were many things not to like lately, and while he was reasonably sure that she wasn’t talking about their shared future, there were just too many options left.

“Eret’s plan. You having to hunt and fight a dragon. I don’t like it!”

Her words were muffled and it took him a moment to fully understand them. Then he frowned. “Why? It’s the first time we actually have a plan. Finally, it’s something solid we can do, something I can do.”

She snorted against his chest, a humourless laugh. “You know that you don’t have to prove yourself, right?”

“I know,” he sighed. “Not to you. But… I know that it’s stupid, but I feel like I have to prove it to myself – that I’m worthy of you and our future. That I’m not a failure. And I need it to get closure. I couldn’t kill that dragon back then and it ruined my life. So if I now can ensure our life together by killing a dragon… It’s like settling old scores, you know? Besides, Eret is right. If I can earn this title, then we’re going to face far less resistance. It will be easier, all things considered.”

She was silent for a few heartbeats, not replying in any way. Then she seemed to burrow even deeper into his embrace, her mumbled words barely audible. “But only if it works.”

Hiccup grimaced, glad that she couldn’t see his face. “It will work,” he then replied with conviction. “It has to. Remember what the Goddess said? That I have to do what comes naturally? Well, this does. This is something I can do. Even more so, it’s like this is a task that’s made for me, just like Eret said. I have the training and knowledge needed for this Hunt. This has to be what the Goddess meant.”

But Astrid still wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I see what you mean, but… I just have a bad feeling about all this! As if something will go terribly wrong...”

Sighing, he pulled her up until he could look at her. “It won’t go wrong, okay? I won’t let that happen! Not when I have you to come back to.”

“But what if you don’t?” She sounded desperate now. "What if that shooter doesn't work? Or someone attacks you? Or the dragon you find is stronger than you thought? What if you don’t come back?” She shook her head, a single tear running down her cheek.”I don’t want you to leave, don’t want to be apart from you. It feels wrong! I just have this weird feeling about it, as if something will happen when we’re not together, someth–”

He cut her off with a quick kiss. He could see what she was doing, spiralling down into worries and fears. He recognised it, had been there often enough in his life. But thinking like that wouldn’t do them any good. “It won’t go wrong! Do you hear me? For some reason, the Gods need us for their plans, so it won’t go wrong. You’ll see, I’ll be back here before you really notice I’m gone. That I promise you!”

With a pained expression on her face, she shook her head. Slowly, she crawled up the bed until she sat above him, straddling him. Her eyes were sad when they searched his, worried, her hands coming up to brush away strands of his hair. When she kissed him, it was hesitant, careful even, her fingers against his jaw and neck trembling. And yet, it was full of an urgency he didn't quite comprehend, lingering desperation thrumming beneath the surface. Without a doubt, it was fueled by her anxiety, but why she felt that way, he still didn't fully understand.

When she deepened the kiss, he didn't resist though. Her tongue was delving into his mouth, seeking closeness and reassurance, while her hand roamed to the back of his head to hold him close, fingers tugging at his hair. She was trembling, whimpering. Clinging to him as if to dear life. And he just didn’t have it in him to push her away at that moment.

His body liked her squirming in his lap more than it should, but he tried to ignore it, focused only on Astrid instead. For some reason, this was what she needed right now, just like he'd needed her support earlier when he’d talked about his family. So he didn't deny her and instead wound his arms around her lithe frame, holding her close, safe.

And who was he kidding? Kissing her and feeling her so close was a joy on its own. She was so warm, so soft, melting against his chest and into his embrace as if they were one. No matter how good this day had turned out to be, being here with her right now, tasting her kiss and hearing her little sighs, was better than everything else.

And even though he knew he should, he didn’t stop her when their kiss grew more passionate. Her fingertips scraped over his scalp and wandered down to caress his throat in a way that sent shivers all the way down his spine. It made his hands clutch her more firmly, hurl her closer still, made him groan into their kiss, and made heat pool low in his belly. She was all he wanted, all he needed, all that mattered. And, Gods , he wanted her so much.

Without his help, his hands wandered down her body, gliding along the curves of her waist, her hips, and her thighs. The thin fabric of her nightshift did little to cover her; he could feel everything, every muscle moving beneath hot skin. He eagerly swallowed the low moans his touch drew from her, luxuriating in the knowledge that it was he who made her feel like this. It was something he hoped to never lose, the simple joy of making her feel good.

However, when she broke free of their kiss to let out a louder groan and she ground herself down against him in that clear search for more stimulation, he remembered that there was a line they mustn't cross. As if he'd burned himself, he pulled his hands away from her thighs, though only to let them land on her hips instead, holding her still.

“Astrid!” he implored, pleading in a low and hoarse voice.

A low whimper escaped her, but she didn’t move and only let her forehead drop to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I… I got carried away.” She chuckled, embarrassed and a little breathless. Her hands tightened into fists around the fabric of his tunic. “But you better keep your promise, you hear me?”

Hiccup tilted his head to place a soft and relatively innocent kiss below her ear. “I will,” he vowed, his lips twitching. He knew that she was referring to what he'd said a few minutes before, but he couldn't resist teasing her a little, if only to lighten the mood. “I will come back to you. And don’t worry, I’m not going to scam you out of all the nights I’m going to make it up to you, either. You might even beg me for a break every now and then.”

His words had the desired effect as she was chuckling for real now. Her arms slid around his neck and she settled against his shoulder in a comfortable embrace. “Just promise me that you’ll be careful. Promise me that nothing will go wrong. That you won’t get overconfident, that you won't take unnecessary risks, and won’t do anything stupid.”

With his hands slowly caressing up and down her back, Hiccup smiled, hidden within her loose night braids. “All right. I promise not to do something stupid. And don’t worry, I know how dangerous dragons can be; I won’t get cocky. I have too much to lose.”

“Same here,” she mumbled before kissing him again, though sweeter and lighter this time.

After only a few seconds, she pulled back again and even slid off his lap to cuddle to his side instead. Hiccup missed her warmth right away but knew better than to protest. This was not the time for intimate closeness but it would come, soon.

“So, what about that shooter of yours?” Her voice was light, but a little strained. As if she was forcing herself to sound untroubled.

Hiccup grimaced. He didn't want her to pretend for his sake. He pulled her a little closer and brushed his lips against her forehead. "We don't have to talk about this," he mumbled against her skin. "Not if it makes you uncomfortable."

Astrid hesitated, then sighed. "It's… okay. And I think I do need to hear this. I need to know that everything will work out."

Hiccup chuckled. "That limits how I can reply to your question. You realise that, right?"

She snorted, and he could practically hear how she rolled her eyes. "Well, if you tell me now that the shooter won't work then you won't participate in this Hunt anyway."

His lips twitched at her adamant tone. "The shooter is in a good state. A little dusty so I need to clean it thoroughly, and I need to replace a couple of parts. But those are all manageable details. Don't worry, it will be in perfect shape for the Hunt."

"Okay." She nodded, the movement soothing against his arm, and sighed. "Maybe I'm just overreacting after all…"

Hiccup shrugged. "I wouldn't call it overreacting. To be honest, I'm a little nervous, too. But I refuse to let that deter me. You'll see, everything will go smoothly and next week by this time, we'll laugh about all this. And then you'll have to admit that I was right."

She snorted again and shook her head. "Is this a thing of yours? Do you always have to be right?"

Hiccup flinched as her words echoed in his mind but in another voice, a little deeper but with the same playful annoyance.

“What is it?” Astrid looked at him questioningly. She'd noticed his reaction, of course, she had...

“It’s… nothing. Just… Arndis used to say that, too. Complaining about how I’m usually right.” He chuckled, even as a fresh wave of sadness tainted his mood. “Wasn’t my fault she always tried to go straight through the wall instead of taking two steps to the side and around it.”

Astrid sat up until she knelt next to him, watching him carefully. “Would you… tell me more about her? About your family? Only if you feel like it, of course,” she added quickly.”But they meant so much to you, and I… Well, I wish I’d known them.”

Smiling sadly, Hiccup nodded. He leaned back, his eyes on the ceiling as his hand searched for hers.

“Arndis was… a little pigheaded,” he began, chuckling. Absentmindedly, he weaved his fingers through Astrid’s, her touch so soothing and comforting. “She wasn’t unreasonable, just… She had her own mind and wouldn’t let others tell her what to do. Or what she couldn’t do. I told you that women in the Tribes have more freedom than they have here. But Arndis still was the daughter of the High Chief and Grand Duke and was expected to enter a political marriage one day, possibly outside of the Tribes. Our parents tried to teach her certain manners so she wouldn’t be completely lost… but she barely listened. She refused to even learn how to ride on a side-saddle, for example, easily kept up with father’s guards when they got drunk in the Great Hall, and was far better at wielding a sword than her knitting needles. In fact, she was better at wielding a sword than most of Father’s soldiers, I included.”

He chuckled at the memory and marvelled at how easy it was to think about her now, with barely any pain.

"Sounds like my kind of person," Astrid replied, watching him with a smile.

Hiccup nodded. "Yeah, I think you two would have gotten along very well," he said wistfully. "You're a lot like her, in many ways. She never had the patience to master an art like archery, though that’s for the better, I think. She was very competitive – not unlike you, if I think back to our occasional horse races.” In general, those were happy memories but he flinched nonetheless, hadn’t meant to remind her of Markor again. But Astrid didn’t seem to mind.

“Mmh. I wish I'd known her. I met a lot of other highborn daughters over the years, but they were all so boring.” She chuckled, then grew quiet again. “And your brother? Teitr? How was he like?”

Hiccup swallowed, and his hand in Astrid’s twitched. “Teitr… he-he was…” He trailed off with a helpless shrug, then tried again. “He was a surprise, in every aspect. After Arndis and me, nobody expected our parents to have more children – not even them. When my mother became pregnant again and gave birth to another healthy boy, it was like a miracle. And that’s how he got treated, too; he got spoiled rotten by everyone.”

“And by you, too?”

Hiccup’s lips twitched into an involuntary smile at her guess. “Most of all by me. You should have seen him… He was so sweet. Brave and curious and always so full of energy, so eager to explore the world.”

Next to him, Astrid sat up, and only when her fingers brushed over his cheek did he notice the lonely tear there. “You loved him a lot, didn’t you?”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Hiccup nodded. “It was more than just that, though, he added, a little hesitantly. ”There were many quarrels among the Tribes over the last few years and Father was always busy mediating between the arguing parties. So I often took care of him when Mother had other duties to fulfil – Arndis rarely had the patience for that and I always felt responsible for him – until I kind of… became something of a replacement dad for him?”

Biting his lip, Hiccup dropped his gaze. It brought fresh pain to think of Teitr like this. He’d certainly looked up to Hiccup – and he hadn’t been able to save him.

“Sometimes, he even called me Dad, when he was just learning how to speak and didn’t know the difference mostly, but also a few times when he was older, too, distracted by whatever he wanted to show me.”

He’d never told anyone about this, hadn’t even acknowledged it to himself, but it had happened. Yes, Teitr had been more than just a little brother to him, in a way. Telling Astrid about him, the woman he wanted to start a family with someday, felt both incredibly awkward and absolutely right.

He wasn't sure how he'd expected her to react, but a part of him wasn’t even surprised at how she took it. She wasn’t angry, wasn’t jealous, wasn't rejecting the bond he'd shared with his baby brother as ridiculous. Instead, she offered comfort for his loss, kissing him with the salty taste of sadness on her lips before she straightened to hug him close to her chest. And he could feel it, the sorrow and understanding thrumming through their bond. It showed him again that she was worth it all.

He held her close, his arms wrapped around her waist, and listened to her steadily beating heart until the turmoil in his own chest had settled again. It took a long while, with her all but wrapped around him for comfort, her hands soothingly running through his hair. She seemed to sense when he’d calmed down – or maybe he’d made some noise or movement, Hiccup wasn’t sure – and pulled back to look at him again.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how that must have been for you. I mean… I lost my baby brother, too. But even though I mourn him that obviously wasn’t the same. I never got the chance to know him. So…” She paused, biting her lip. She averted her eyes and looked a little embarrassed, a slight blush on her cheeks. “I don’t know, I don’t want to come across as presumptuous. But I was thinking… Maybe, if that’s okay with you, then we could name our son Teitr. As a memento?”

Hiccup was momentarily stunned. All too well, he remembered the vision they’d shared, remembered the little boy Astrid had held in her arms there. But now, his mind made up details he wasn’t sure had truly been there before; an open but cheeky smile and a pair of green eyes brimming with life and curiosity.

He had to swallow against the lump in his throat but at the same time, he felt warmth spreading from his chest and through his entire body, not erasing the sorrow and pain but making it easier to bear.

“I… Yes, I think I’d like that,” he mumbled with something of a smile creeping onto his face.

When her eyes met his again, there was a deep understanding in them, a reassuring warmth, and just so much love. It made something melt inside him, and with a sigh, a tension he hadn’t known he’d held left his body. He leaned his forehead against Astrid’s, drawing upon her strength. If that was still possible, he loved her even more now.

“Thank you.”

These two words were too weak to express what he felt, but he hoped that she could feel it, his love and gratitude.

Astrid just hummed in response, tilted her head to kiss him lightly, and then leaned against his chest again.

They stayed silent for a long while after that and just basked in each other’s closeness. Hiccup kept caressing her back and shoulders until her breathing became calm and even, her warm weight against his chest telling him that she was falling asleep. Gently, he guided her to lie down, undressed toward a comfortable state, and slipped beneath the sheets next to her. Astrid only woke up for long enough to cuddle into his arms before her consciousness slipped away again.

Hiccup stayed awake for a little while longer, though. He wasn’t tired, despite the long day, and instead was content with watching her in her sleep. There was something of a tentative smile playing around her lips, but some of the tension from before was still there, her worries and fears creeping back into her now unguarded mind.

With a sigh, he leaned down to brush a butterfly kiss to her brow, then whispered, “Don’t worry, Milady. I’ll do better this time. This time, I won’t fail. I will kill a dragon! I’ll do whatever it takes, for our future. For you. I promise– no, I vow to you. This time, I won't mess it up!"

. o O o .

Uh oh...

...

In good news, the next update shouldn't take that long. It's going to be another interlude and it's already completely written out. And also... it comes with a "Minor Character Death" warning...

Next Chapter

* - . - * - . o O o . - * - . - *

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#For The Love Of A Princess #FTLOAP #Hiccstrid #fanfiction #httyd #hiccstrid fanfiction #httyd fanfiction #medieval au #Hiccstrid Medieval AU #royalty au #hiccstrid royal au #fluff #angst

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valhallanrose · 4 years ago

Text

Diane Young

In which Miriyam meets Cadenza.

2.6k words. No CWs apply. Cadenza belongs to @arcanecadenza

Good things came in threes, Miriyam had always been taught, but she wasn’t entirely sure how much she’d believed that until she met Cadenza.

She’d seen her first one morning in the marketplace, with a passing glance that made her do a double take to look at her - really look at her - and seared her face into Miriyam’s memory. In moments she knew every wild curl, every freckle, the dip of her furrowed brow and the slight purse of her lips as she curtly informed the butcher that no, she would not be paying twice what she did the last time she bought lamb from them for half the product. Miriyam didn’t know why, but even the lilt of her voice, accent and all, drew her in and begged her to just find out more.

It took her a few moments, but she shook it off, the crowds blessedly thick enough to keep her from being caught gawking like the useless lesbian she was - but for hours after the fact, the raven-haired woman seemed to have her mind in a vice grip.

Miriyam thought she’d shaken that grip by the time the following morning came and went and the impending storm sent the residents of Vesuvia scattering for cover, but she quickly found out how wrong she was.

The cozy little tea shop was near packed as it began to drizzle, but Miriyam found an empty seat and dropped unceremoniously into it. After pulling her well-worn sketchbook from its place tucked into her waistband, Miriyam had barely pulled her pencil from its place behind her ear when her eyes landed on the woman seated near the window of the shop in question.

It was her.

Later she’d be a little embarrassed at how shameless she was, but with her knee braced against the edge of the table and her sketchbook on her thigh, Miriyam found herself quickly pulling her pencil across the page to capture the woman’s likeness. Occasionally her eyes flickered upwards to observe a detail, but her features were so scorched into Miriyam’s mind that they might as well have been tattooed on her forehead.

Dark curls, wilder than she’d remembered, hanging loosely around her shoulders and framing freckled cheekbones. Her gaze was cast somewhere beyond the pane of glass, teacup raised thoughtfully against her lips and her other hand spread over the pages of the book she’d been reading to keep it open. She looked so serious that Miriyam had to bite back a smile at the contrast of her pastel attire, the patterned fabrics so light and colorful and airy and somehow just right for someone like her.

In all her musing and sketching, she didn’t notice the woman’s head turn, but she certainly noticed the way her eyes narrowed when Miriyam lifted her head to look at her again. She paused, then waved somewhat sheepishly, lowering her gaze back to the page in question to sketch out a few more lines before a voice made her nearly jerk her pencil across the page.

“Do I really have that many freckles?”

Miriyam floundered for a moment under the depth of the woman’s gaze, entirely unexpecting her approach and how much lovelier she was at such close proximity, before she managed to clear her throat and glance down at her page.

“I thought so.” Miriyam idly picked at the corner of the paper, feeling a bit of heat rise in her collar at the intensity of those dark eyes. “I’m sorry, I hope I’m not being rude. I was just...inspired.”

“Hm.” The woman nodded, watching for a moment longer before dropping neatly into the seat across from Miriyam. “Well then. Carry on.”

Miriyam stared for a long, long moment, trying to process what had just happened, before she nodded and lowered her gaze to the paper again. She wasn’t sure her pencil had flown faster than it did in that moment, putting the woman’s likeness to paper as she lowered her gaze to her book and began to read again.

That would prove to be both a blessing and a curse. As she neatly pulled one of the drawings from her sketchbook - the one of the young woman seated across the table, elbow propped on the surface and chin resting in her hand as she read - Miriyam gave her a smile that perhaps was a little flirtier than she intended.

“Thank you.” She said after a breath, pushing her hair back from her face. “The purple suits you rather well, by the way. I would have added it, but I didn’t bring my whole pencil set.”

The woman nodded nonchalantly, a hand spread over her book to keep the pages open. “Thank you. That’s why I’m wearing it.”

“Of course.” Miriyam felt her lips quirk up into a smile as she slid the drawing across the table, getting up from her seat as she did so. “Well...I should be going. Rain’s passed. But thank you for playing muse for a little while.”

The dark haired woman nodded loosely, fixated on her book, and Miriyam thought that was that as she left. But the next few days, she found herself struggling to shake those honey-brown eyes from her thoughts, sometimes looking for them when she passed the tea shop on city patrol in hopes she’d catch a glimpse of her looking out that window again.

But a brief time passed, and Miriyam had almost forgotten about the intensity of those eyes save for the occasion she flipped through her sketchbook and found herself lingering before finding a blank page.

* * * * *

The second time she met her, perhaps two weeks later, Miriyam was out walking the streets - broken collar in hand, searching for her cat to make sure she was alright. Sappho’s collar was designed to break, but only if she got caught on something - and she was worried when she hadn’t seen her. It wasn’t unusual for Sappho to spend the night roaming, or come and go before Miriyam woke, but she hadn’t touched the food or water that had been left out in the kitchen.

So she walked for a while, beginning in Sappho’s usual haunts and then stretching beyond, until she heard a loud meow come from behind the shop she was walking past.

Miriyam paused, picking her way carefully to the back street to see the source of the meow - even if it wasn’t her cat, she still wanted to check on them - but low and behold, that fuzzy bastard was sitting on someone else’s doorstep.

She didn’t necessarily process who was with the cat so much as she zeroed in on Sappho herself, happily chowing down on the food in the dish they set out, and she let out a sort of laugh as she approached with her hands shoved in her pockets.

“Oh, you little shit -”

“Excuse me?”

Miriyam paused mid step - mentally and physically - as she realized that she was damn near eye to eye with the person who had taken over a significant portion of her thoughts. She floundered for a moment before she realized what she’d said, then looked down at the cat who had stretched up to paw at the edge of her jacket. She laughed nervously, scratching the back of her head as the woman folded her arms across her chest and her brows lowered.

“Not you...no, definitely not you. I’m so sorry, that came out wrong. I was calling my cat a shit.”

She dared hope the woman’s lip twitched up in amusement, but if it had, it was so quick that it was likely her imagination.

“This cat is a sweetheart.”

“Yeah, because she’s found someone to sucker into spoiling her.” Miriyam bent down, scooping Sappho up and smiling a little as she walked up her arm and coiled around Miriyam’s shoulders. “Somebody’s just cranky because the market’s been out of her favorites when I go shopping after work.”

Miriyam spat out a bit of cat hair as a large, fluffy tail swiped across her face, but didn’t particularly mind as Sappho began to play with the dangling earrings she wore. “Thank you, though, for taking care of her. I was worried she’d gotten into trouble, but I’m glad she found somebody kind enough to look out for her.”

Sappho meowed quietly as Miriyam dug in her pockets, scribbling down an address on a scrap of paper - not noticing the woman stepping closer until she saw her hand move past her peripheral to scratch beneath Sappho’s chin.

“It’s no trouble. She’s pleasant company.”

It took Miriyam a second to realize she had been spoken to - her keen sense of smell picking up on the strong scent of lemon, ginger, and something floral she couldn’t name that clung to her palms - before she stammered out an answer, clearing her throat awkwardly.

“She is. I’ve had Saph pretty much since I came to Vesuvia - she’s a loyal friend. Always around when you need her.”

The woman’s brow lifted, her fingers wrapping around one of Sappho’s outstretched paws and playing with the pads of her feet as the cat purred her contentment. “Short for Sapphire? I suppose that makes sense, she does have very blue eyes…”

Miriyam flushed a little, realizing exactly how much of a useless lesbian she was in this very moment as she floundered under the proximity of someone who she found undeniably attractive. “Ah...no, actually, it’s short for Sappho.”

“Oh, the poet.” The woman nodded and released the paw in question, stroking her fingers through Sappho’s fur one last time. “A fair name.”

Miriyam nodded slowly, reaching up to pet Sappho herself - then remembering the paper she’d written her address on and quickly extending it.

“Well, she’s certainly food motivated - honestly, she might come looking for you now that you’ve fed her. If she’s ever a pain or lurking around too much, here’s my address.” Miriyam adjusted Sappho on her shoulders, feeling her start to make biscuits on the smooth fabric of her jacket as she spoke. “She’ll get the message if you drop her off there. I let her roam during the day since she was an alley cat when I took her in and she likes her freedom, but she’s got all her comforts inside.”

The woman looked at the paper for a moment, then nodded, folding it and tucking it neatly into her pocket. “Alright. I don’t mind her around, but if it starts getting late, I’ll see her home.”

Miriyam gave her a relaxed sort of smile, extending a hand to the woman in question. “Thank you…”

“Cadenza. She/her.” She reached out, taking Miriyam’s hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Miriyam. Also she/her. And you know Sappho.”

Cadenza nodded, the bounce of her curls making Sappho’s head bounce in time with them. “I do. I hope to see her again. I find I liked having her company for dinner.”

“I’m sure you will.” Miriyam chuckled, giving Sappho a scratch behind her ear as she swatted at the open air to try and reach Cadenza’s hair. “She wouldn’t have come back if she didn’t like you.”

“Well, she’s always welcome.” At that, Cadenza really did seem to smile a bit - an upturn of her lips, not a full one, but a smile nonetheless - but she turned and began to walk up the steps, picking up the empty dish Sappho had happily cleaned. “Enjoy your night.”

“You as well.” Miriyam called, and as the door closed, she gave Sappho a massive side eye - the cat all too pleased with herself as she dragged a sandpaper tongue across Miriyam’s scarred brow.

“You know, the only reason I’m not mad at you is because I got her name, but if you do that ‘running away because you’re not making the dinner I want’ shit again you’re getting your catnip toys revoked.”

* * * * *

The third time she met Cadenza, she was getting off patrol and was walking home herself when she happened across her in the market. Her arms were full of boxes - likely for her shop - that seemed rather precariously balanced as she dug in her pocket for something she needed. They leaned, and Miriyam leapt forward, balancing them before she got a good look at the face of the person carrying them.

“Whoa, okay, that’s definitely a recipe for disaster. Are you alri - oh, hey, Cadenza. You doing okay?”

Cadenza huffed a piece of hair out of her face, nodding briefly. “I’m fine. Just on my way home - I didn’t want to make two trips.”

“Right.” Miriyam watched her for a moment, seeing her struggle to get a good grip on the boxes, then snorted and reached forward - pausing before grabbing them. “May I? It’s the long way home for me, but I can help you bring these to your place. I really don’t see you making it home without dropping these.”

Cadenza eyed her for a long moment before she eventually nodded, and Miriyam picked up the upper boxes easily before nodding for Cadenza to lead the way.

They walked in comfortable silence down the lamp lit paths, Miriyam occasionally stealing glances toward an indifferent Cadenza - who surprised her by breaking the silence between them.

“What did you mean when you said you were inspired?”

Miriyam balked slightly, nearly fumbling her hold on the boxes, her head whipping toward Cadenza to meet her gaze with a raised brow.

“At the tea shop. You said you were inspired when you were drawing me.”

Miriyam cleared her throat awkwardly, drumming her fingers on the bottom of the box. “I did, didn’t I?”

Cadenza nodded, having an easier time retrieving her keys as they approached her shop door. “I want to know what you mean by it.”

“Well, I feel like that’s pretty obvious.” Miriyam muttered, her collar growing a little hot the longer she was stared down. “I think you’re rather lovely. Beautiful, in fact, but that felt a little forward to say to someone I’d just been caught drawing.”

Cadenza’s brow lifted as she dropped the boxes inside her shop door, pushing them out of the way before she reached for the boxes Miriyam held. “But you don’t know me. And I don’t know you, but that’s expected.”

“I know you’re Venterrean, the accent makes that obvious - I speak a touch of it but not nearly enough to try and talk to you without making a fool of myself. And I know you’re a musician. Probably something in the strings family, your left hand is calloused more than your right if what I saw while I was drawing is anything to go by. Plus, Sappho’s a pretty good judge of character, so if she likes you I find that I can’t argue with her opinion.” Miriyam shrugged, smiling a little as she passed the boxes over. “It’s just...observation. I can’t say I know you fully, but I know some of you, and I’d like to know more.”

“Ah, right, Captain - you are the watchful sort, I suppose.”

Miriyam quirked a brow. “I thought you didn’t know me.”

Cadenza smirked, stepping down and gently flicking the Vesuvian crest pinned on Miriyam’s jacket - making her cheeks flush in turn.

“The same tea shop is fine. They steep theirs long enough for me to taste when I ask. Saturday, three o’clock?”

Miriyam blinked once - twice - then grinned, nodded as Cadenza turned back to head up the stairs. “Yeah...three’s good. I’ll see you then.”

And this time, she supposed, that good things came at three.

#i know i've joked about this before #but the wedding night existed even though their first meeting didn't lmao #UNTIL NOW #miriyam von helvig #cadenza #cadenza x miriyam

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