#less . Stuck in the centre i can still feel it without suffocating in it .

[29121996]

.

[junicai]

ridin’ n rollin’.

| order no. | 8/21

| summary | When the world is already off kilter, should you not free fall down to meet it? 

| word count | 2.4k

| warnings | injuries

| era | circa. April 2020

Aria stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Her free hand was pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of her trousers. 

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries. 

Aria didn’t know. 

The day had started off on the wrong foot; like god himself had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Donghyuck had stumbled into the bathroom at six in the morning, and his retching woke up Jisung who was sleeping next door. The maknae had sleepily shuffled into the bathroom to see what was wrong, but when he was greeted with a shivering Donghyuck clutching to the toilet bowl like a lifeline, the tall boy snapped awake. 

Aria had been woken up, and then Jeno, and Renjun and Jaemin woke up soon afterwards from all the noise caused by the commotion. 

It took them two hours, but by eight, Donghyuck was curled miserably into the corner of the couch, pale cheeks contrasted by a bright red flush sitting high on his cheekbones. A waste bin was placed on the floor in front of him, and two fever reducers were all but force-fed to the boy.

At first, Donghyuck had adamantly refused to take them; saying that he wasn’t sick, he had just eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him and he was fine now, see? 

Aria all but scoffed at that. She held it in, because she knew she’d be doing the exact same thing, would she be in his position. The broadcast performance was scheduled to be filmed that evening, and no one liked stepping down. Not even for a day. 

It was only when Aria had fixed him with a pleading look, eyes wide and worried, that Donghyuck caved. The two pills were swallowed, and when he was once again comfortably swaddled in as many blankets as they could salvage from around the dorm did the members return to their own morning routine. 

After all; the world doesn’t stop turning for a sick member, although sometimes Aria wished it did. She hated to leave Donghyuck alone; and she knew he’d never admit it to them, but he hated it to. 

All of them did, really. It was visible in the way that Jeno had put the back of his hand up to Donghyuck’s forehead three times in the last ten minutes; in the way Jisung was hovering anxiously, waiting for an instruction to go get a glass of water or another pillow; the way that Renjun had only rolled his eyes a tiny bit when Donghyuck insisted he was well enough to perform but stumbled backwards onto the couch when he attempted to stand up. Jaemin had lunged for his arm, catching the sick boy before he could do himself some more damage. 

The van had pulled up outside the dorms several hours later; and Donghyuck had waved them a sullen goodbye from his position on the couch. Aria closed the door behind her, but not before reminding him again to take another fever reducer in an hour, and to keep himself hydrated.

Donghyuck had rolled his eyes, and told her to stop worrying. “You’ll turn yourself grey, mom.” 

Aria had narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, swinging the door shut. She relished in the bright burst of laughter that echoed through the hall. 

The journey to the venue was quiet. 

As was the changing room - the only noise coming softly from Chenle’s earbuds that he’d put in the second they’d located their room, and the soft bustling of the stylists as they moved around the members. 

Aria was tensed in her chair, anxiety running up and down her spine at the thought of something happening to Donghyuck while they were gone.

What if his fever spiked again? 

What if he fell and didn’t have the strength to get up? 

What if-

“Noona.” Jisung’s voice dragged Aria out from her own head. His larger hand encircled her smaller one, gently but firmly unravelling the fingers that were digging her nails into her palm. 

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Thanks, Sung.” She whispered, patting his hand lightly. 

Jisung made no move to leave, and instead took up the vacant spot beside her on the plastic-covered sofa in the corner of the room. “You’re worried.” He stated. 

Aria turned to look at him. Jisung had lost a lot of the baby fat from his cheeks that year - accentuating his jawline. He looked older, more mature. It suited him, she decided. Maturity was something he wore like it belonged on him; settling like the sun sets comfortably without fail. 

“We all are.” Aria sighed out eventually, taking a glance around the room. Jaemin was laid back in the chair as a stylist worked on fluffing up his hair, keyboard clicking obnoxiously as he typed on his phone. 

Normally the sound would bother Jeno - who was sitting adjacent, in a similar position - was it not for his phone making identical clicks. 

Aria couldn’t blame them; she’d turned her phone off silent the second they’d left the dorms in case Donghyuck called one of them. 

If the boy knew how frazzled the group was without him there, he’d have a fit. He’d never let them live it down. 

“It’s hyung, noona. He’ll be fine.” Jisung said, nodding resolutely. 

“He will, Sung. He’ll be fine, and then we can all go back to complaining about his presence.” Renjun made his presence known as he entered the room, directing his attention towards the pair immediately. 

“Ari, they’re looking for you for mic check.” He said, jerking his head over his shoulder. 

“Right, okay. Thanks, Injunnie.”

The following thirty minutes passed in a smushed blur of costume fittings, foundation brushes and an uncomfortably suffocating amount of hairspray. Aria was coughing by the time the stylist let up, waving a hand to try and disperse the smell. 

“Ari? We gotta go.” Jeno called, already halfway out the door. 

“C-coming,” She choked out, eyes watering slightly but determined not to wipe at them, less she end up with a streak of black across her cheek. 

By the time Aria had met up with the others in the wings, sliding her in-ears in, her breathing had steadied, and a little knot was beginning to form in the bottom of her stomach. She still got nervous before performing - didn’t think it ever really went away completely - but those were normally excited nerves.

This pit that was slowly growing felt foreboding. 

It went ignored, sliding under the radar as her in-ears began the steady metronome click that she’d become so accustomed to. She zoned out, and zoned back in, body moving in time with the others in flawless unity. 

Dancing without a member always felt off - felt empty, but it was nothing the group hadn’t dealt with previously. They knew the formations, knew who took what lines to fill in, and where their positions changed to keep formations looking slick and clean and not like one of them had been knocked over like a bowling pin; out for the count. 

Aria stepped backwards to let Chenle take her place as centre. Her mind was busy, tracking Jaemin’s positioning and making sure she stayed far enough away to give him space; so when a heavy, piercing sound ran through her right ear, she hardly registered it. 

It took her a moment, but her gasp of pain was heard over the microphones, a both hands coming to clap over her ear as the in-ear continued to bleed head-scrambling sounds into her brain. Aria tilted sideways, knees crumbling beneath her as she lost her balance and went crashing to the floor. 

She didn’t hear the gasp that floated up around the room; skimming right over her head that was pounding like a sledgehammer. Her hands scratched at the floor, trying for purchase and finding none.

Jeno, behind her was already half-dancing his way closer to her, and trying to help her back up without completely abandoning the song entirely. Aria’s breath was coming fast; the tech team having enough sense to cut her mic for the time being. 

When a half bar of silence sounded instead of Aria’s vocals, Chenle stepped in, ever the professional, singing her lines for her as the girl tried to regain her balance. 

Despite Jeno’s insistent push towards the wings, Aria shook her head minutely at the boy, rejoining the second last chorus. She could feel the boys’ eyes on her, burning into her back.

The in-ears bounced around her neck on their chords, having unconsciously tugged them out from her ears. 

Per the formation, there was to be a metre and a half gap in between each member, but Jaemin paid no mind to that, coming to stand almost directly beside her in the final few bars of the song; completely prepared to catch her should she take another stumble.

Aria was the first off the stage, stumbling over her own legs.

She stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

Her vision swam like she was sea-sick.

With her free hand pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of the orange trousers, her breath was coming in heavy, shallow gasps.

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries.

“I don’t- I can’t- ringing-” Aria gasped, hands coming to clutch at Renjun’s jacket. “My ear, it’s- it’s ringing, I can’t-” 

“Ari, I need you to breath, hold on a second, okay?” Renjun asked, shooting a look at Jaemin, who went to gently pull off Aria’s sweat-soaked jacket. 

She sunk to the ground, knees giving out for a second time. Renjun followed her, Jeno’s arms slipping beneath her armpits to stop her hitting the ground too hard. 

The only sound in the room was Aria’s uneven breathing, coming in irregular pants and choking her. 

The members settled around her, but being mindful to stay a comfortable distance away. Should Aria slip too far into her own mind, too many hands could send her flying into another panic.

“I can’t hear.” Aria whispered eventually, hands still maintaining their tight grip on Renjun’s jacket. He inhaled sharply, turning to face her dead on. 

“What? What do you mean you can’t hear?” He questioned, his own hands moving to gently grip the sides of her face. 

“Ringing,” Was the only explanation that Aria offered, canting sideways in his grip. 

Renjun choked lightly, trying to hold her upright. “No no, Ari, you gotta stay sitting like this, okay? What happened?” 

Chenle and Jeno exchanged a glance. 

“Did she hit her head?” Chenle asked.

Jeno instantly shook his head. “No, I saw her fall. She was clutching at,” he pointed. “Her right ear though.” 

Renjun looked back to him, before returning his focus to Aria. “Hey, Ari? Ari, your ear is ringing, right? Am I right?” 

Aria nodded slowly. 

“Okay, that’s okay. Was the feed too loud, or something?” 

This time, Aria shook her head, lifting a hand to mime an explosion by the ear. “Was like it exploded.” 

Jisung looked frantic. “Did her earpiece blow up?!” 

Jaemin emerged from the doorway, a mic pack clutched in his hand and a dark look on his face. “Feedback.” He grit out. “Mic pack malfunctioned, sent nearly 120 decibels into her right ear.” 

Jaemin held up the offending piece of equipment. “It even fried the voice coils.” 

Renjun was trying to keep Aria from slipping sideways. “What does that mean?” 

“It means, Ari just got blasted with the sound of a fire cracker right in her eardrum. It’ll be ringing for a while.” Jaemin moved to crouch behind Aria, taking some of the weight from him. 

“Permanently?” Jisung asked.

“They don’t know, but probably not. It’s mostly the shock of it, that causes ringing, I think.” 

Jeno swiped a hand over Aria’s forehead, swooping the hair back from her face. She whimpered at the act, nosing her way closer to the hand. Leaning down to her left ear, Jeno lowered his voice to let him whisper gently. 

“Hey, baby,” He began, keeping his voice level. “You’re gonna be okay, alright?” 

Renjun’s arms tightened around Aria’s middle, and it wasn’t long until Jisung and Chenle moved forwards to do the same. 

“The in-ear got a little loud, that’s all,” Jeno continued, hand coming to gently flick at her right ear. “No explosions - your ear is still there. Do you want to try standing up with me?”

At Aria’s mild agreement, Jeno shifted into a crouch and the multiple pairs of arms around her waist loosened minutely.

“You’ll be a bit off balance, baby, but that’s fine. That’s normal, and you’re okay. If you feel like you’re going to fall, then I can carry you, okay?” 

“So, what I’m hearing is, we’re never using in-ears again?” Donghyuck whisper-yelled from his position on the couch; Aria tucked into his chest. 

His fever had broken while they had gone, and their manager suspected it was just a twenty four hour bug.

Aria shifted slightly, whining at the noise, and Donghyuck instantly began crooning at her, whispering soft words of comfort in her left ear to get her to go back to sleep. 

Renjun rolled his eyes. “Jaemin considered it.” 

“Hyung looked like he wanted to murder someone.” 

"I still do."

[little-miss-dumpsterfire]

I think I made you up inside my head ~ a td au

Hi everyone (or anyone out there)! This is my first ever tumblr post, so apologies if I’m a bit rusty. I’m originally a Wattpad writer, but I think for this story in particular, I’m better suited over here (I like ‘em spooky).

So without boring anyone, I present to you, my total drama horror anthology - “I think I made you up inside my head ~ a td au”

Chapter One - I can still hear their screams

It was her eyes that initially gave him a profound feeling of unease. The vacancy of her stare was reminiscent of the eyes of the dead; a thick fog drowned the vibrancy of her irises, dulling the shine that they had once held. His heart pounded against his chest as he set up his equipment, trembling fingers fumbling with the intricate wires and cables. The atmosphere in the room, nay, the house he found himself in was suffocating.

One interview. That's all you came here for. The media attention you'll get for this will be astronomical. Just focus on that.

His preconceived notion of his guest had been immediately shattered upon meeting her earlier that day. The tabloids and news painted her as a 'psycho hose-beast', the living epitome of an LSD trip. Yet, it was her fragility that shone through most as she sat before him. Her signature frizzy orange hair had darkened, resembling more of a rich copper, combed neatly into a bun. Her fingers were slender and pale, like those of a porcelain doll, and gaudy rings embellished them all, minus her left ring finger. Her pressed teal pantsuit was a stark contrast to his jeans and a graphic tee, yet she was undoubtedly feeling more comfortable than he was.

He cleared his throat, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead before reading out his preprepared spiel.

"Hello all and welcome back to the Pop-Culture Paradox podcast. I'm Axel Riley, your resident tour guide through the scary side of Hollywood. In today's episode, we will be delving into one of the most infamous conspiracies in reality TV to date."

His voice caught slightly in his throat, catching him off guard before continuing.

"My guest today was an ex-contestant on the hit reality show series Total Drama Island, as well as its follow-ups Total Drama Action and Total Drama World Tour." Upon hearing those words, she visibly cringed and balled up her right fist on the couch next to her. "Welcome to Isabelle "Izzy" Danaher-Morgans!"

"Thank you for having me here, Axel," Izzy added politely.

Axel stared at Izzy quizzically. "I gotta say, you're a lot different to what I thought you'd be like."

"I get that a lot, I really do. And honestly, a lot of aspects of my portrayal were exacerbated by the producers. I have ADHD and had been on medication up to that point. Not that that takes everything away, I was just better at focusing and less impulsive. But for drama, they weaned me off of my meds. That fact, alongside the drugs they had to have been putting in the water, just pushed me off the deep end."

"And what has life been like for you since the show? Last time viewers properly saw you, you had transformed into your alter 'Brainzilla'," Axel asked, probing Izzy to reveal any dramatic details.

Izzy laughed awkwardly. "That was a time in my life I cannot explain, truthfully. I did get back to some normality with counselling and medication, and I now work as a therapist for former child stars escaping from the industry."

Axel sighed defeatedly, tapping his lead pencil against the corner of the coffee table.

This is too boring. I need something for listeners to really bite their teeth into.

Carrying on with the extended mundane conversation, Axel was carefully planning the perfect moment to poke the bear and reveal his main prerogative.

Interjecting Izzy mid-sentence, Axel raised his eyebrow and asked the question that had been eating him up inside since he arrived.

"So Izzy, tell me, is there really a Total Drama curse, or is this all just bullshit?"

The colour drained from Izzy's face as she locked eyes with the podcaster. She fidgeted with her rings, twisting them around her fingers repeatedly. Her mouth gaped open and closed like a fish, unable to form any coherent words. In response - the only way she physically could at that moment - she shook her head viciously.

"No? Hmm, that's really interesting. It must just be an extreme coincidence that a majority of your cast-mates have either perished or disappeared. Did you know that they were dead, Izzy?" Axel probed, salivating at the thought of the publicity this will bring in.

"I don't want to talk about this," Izzy replied curtly, looking down at her legs and picking at some invisible lint on her pants.

"Like when this all started with the death of-"

"I said I don't want to talk about this, Axel. I'm done here," Izzy proclaimed, removing the headset and standing up from her couch.

"Ju- wait a damn second," Axel jumped from his seat, yanking his headset cord from the soundboard before grabbing Izzy's wrist.

Izzy pulled herself from his grip, rubbing the sore spot on her wrist. "I said no. We don't need any more amateur journalists trying to disturb the dirt of the past."

"You listen to me for a second," he said, putting his finger close to her face, "I drove all the way from California to be here. You fucking owe me the details."

Scoffing, Izzy walked to her kitchen, grabbing an icepack from her freezer for her wrist.

"Kid, I went toe-to-toe with Chris McLean and Chef Hatchet for three seasons. No young tech boy from California is going to intimidate me." She paused and thought for a second, passing a cursory glance at a timber door down the hallway. "You know what? Fine. You want to talk? We can talk, but not on record."

Axel rolled his eyes and huffed out his chest. "Then what's the fucking point?"

"The point is... well... the point is that you'll be able to talk to the only known survivor of that fucking show."

***************************************************

Izzy lead Axel to the dead-bolted timber door situated at the back-end of her house, removing a key from an adjacent picture frame that sat on a table. The latch clicked and squeaked sharply as the door was pulled open, the pair slowly making their way down the dimly lit staircase. As the door slammed shut behind them, the force knocked over the precariously positioned photo frame; in its silver walls sat an image of twenty-two kids smiling on a rickety dock, blissfully unaware of what the future had in store for them.

Axel felt across the crumbling brick wall until he came to a light switch, coated in a thin layer of cobwebs. He flicked the switch, being greeted by a low humming noise before the filament brightened and burst, sending glass shards flying through the air, crashing noisily on the cement floor. A sudden scratch rang out as Izzy stuck a match against the matchbox, lighting the gas lamps that lined the walls.

"What... what is this place?" Axel asked, goosebumps emerging over his arms.

"Some may call it a museum. I prefer to call it a mausoleum," Izzy replied, glancing over at the confused boy.

Stacked in the centre of the room were rows and rows of wooden shelves, lined up next to each other. Assorted items and relics were neatly arranged, an antithesis of the lackadaisical nature of how the rest of her house was decorated. Axel looked at all the objects before stopping on something he thought looked familiar.

"Wait," he pointed at them, a confused look plastered on his face. "These beads... they're Beth's friendship bracelets... the ones she gave out in Action."

Izzy nodded slightly, her face illuminated by the flickering flame of the gas lamp. She stopped in front of a large white shirt, holding it up to her face, inhaling the scent.

"Mmm," she said quietly to herself, "still smells like chicken cologne."

"These things, these... relics. These were all from the cast. And look, you even have some from Revenge of the Island. Why do you have these, Izzy?" Axel asked, increasingly creeped out by the environment he found himself in.

"I keep a part of them because if I don't, I can't trust myself to remember if they were real or not."

She replaced the shirt back to where it was neatly folded and turned to face Axel.

"I lie awake at night, tossing and turning. I think to myself, 'I am the cursed one here'. And it's true," she said softly, her eyes prickling with tear droplets.

"How?"

Izzy chuckled sadly, tears gathering on her light eyelashes. She walked over to one of the many glass cabinets and stared at her reflection.

"Because even though they're dead, I can still hear their screams. And now it's someone else's turn."

[lilolilyr]

Fics I Wanted To Write This Year But Didn't, Part 2: Star Trek AU

For @spookyvoidangelskeleton for this ask

Now I suppose these would have been several fics, but in a series or a collection as they're all about the same main storyline: The collapsing of a (or several) universe(s).

If you've known me for a while, you know that I am very into Multiverse Theory, both real life and fictional, and Star Trek with the Mirror Universe is of course one of the first fandoms that comes to mind for me to write my batshit ideas in xD

Basically, in my personal little (fictional, bc I know and understand 0 about real life physics or whatever would be relevant for this) multiverse theory, there are an infinite number of universes, evenly spread around the multiverse, and a new universe comes into existence when a timeline/universe (same thing) can go into 2 seperate ways naturally, or when there is timetravel involved to manually change a timeline: The original timeline won't be affected, you can't change what's already there, but a new changed timeline will be created.

Now, in some cases that works out well, with the timetraveller ending up in the new timeline and never knowing that their original universe is still out there- in other ways of time travelling, not so much. If the person trying to make a change manages to do just that but never notices, because they or a version of them is stuck in the orginal timeline, what do they do?

Try again, with the same result, many many times.

And that's where it gets problematic, because the multiverse gets unbalanced, and whether you see it as a sentient entity connected to the Qs in Star Trek or just as something that Works That Way automatically: the multiverse doesn't want to be out of balance, so the new universes start to collapse in on each other, creating a Splitter-verse and leaving its inhabitants to a fate arguably worse than death (in this fictional world): they completely stop to exist. This doesn't just affect the new universes but the surroundings ones, which would have split earlier and are already more different from each other, too, to make sure the one that was the cause for it all falls, too.

Now (of course, because I can't help myself) this would be part of @thelucyverse , with there being Central people trained in spotting such time anomalies before it is too late, but with there also being time-bombs (yeah hahah) created in inter-universal wars to create smaller, controlled splitter-verses (I say small and controlled here but like. We're still talking about entire universes), and with Central having back-up plans to get people out of the 'verses, in order as follows: anyone visibly IDing as Central (the organisation is still largely volunteer-based, shit's got to have some perks), then everyone whose energy indicates recent travel in-between universes, as these are also most likely to a) be Central and b) be okay in a new 'verse, after that, if there is still time and anyone willing to go back into the falling universe, children as they are also more likely to adapt in a new world. If there is enough warning, they also get out whoever people Central members want to have saved, but usually it just turns into whoever stands close enough to grab and get the hell out of there.

Whether taking people out of a universe against their will is a good thing or nah is ...debatable and still being debated amongst those who do it and those who think that taking someone away from the possibility of dying death in their own universe is vile (as amongst most religions, it is thought that you can only reach the same afterlife as those who died in the same umiverse- but again most also think that there probably won't even Be an afterlife in a splitter-verse).

Sometimes, people are also pushed out of the universe by the explosion itself, but they then tend to die upon impact as they seldomly end up exactly at the coordinates where they left, which leaves them either suffocating in hard matter or in space.

If you want to use these ideas for your own fanfic feel free, just give me credit and link this post as inspired by/ link to my ao3 or @ my tumblr!

Anyhow! To Star Trek... and I suppose this is now SPOILERS not rly for any Star Trek canon but for these fanfics, if I do end up writing them!

I tend to forget which characters are canon and which are complete OCs because I spend Way more hours on tumblr and ao3 + thinking about my own headcanons than I spend consuming the original media, but I am fairly certain a canon Joana McCoy, daughter of Leonard 'Bones' McCoy exists? If no and I stole the idea from sb else's fanfic I am sincerely sorry. Gotta look that up.

In one universe close to what would be the centre of the splitterverse, Joana- as a young child nicknamed 'Jojo', but now as a young teen trying to get rid of the childish nickname- has a younger part-vulcan girl as a friend, and this girl, nicknamed Aka, has, through having sticky fingers and connections to Central, a device that allows you to jump between universes. She's used it before and gotten into a lot of trouble for it, but to her it had always been great fun- until reality is starting to collapse around them while she is visiting Joana, and Joana is the only person she can reach in time and take with her to the next universe.

Distraught, the children are left in a new world, debating what to do, waiting for Central to contact them, hoping that they saved their families- but of course, Central has quite some different problems right now and won't contact them any time soon, and even if they did it wouldn't be with news of their parents: the adult families of non-Central members who only happened to have jumped between universes before themselves are really not the top priority, and the universe is collapsing too quickly to even get down the prio list to 'children',

Aka wants to leave the universe again and look for Central elsewhere, hoping that her moving around will attract their attention. Joana has enough from universe jumps for a lifetime. Thus, they part ways.

While Aka at some point does run into a group of Central troubeshooters who more or less adopt her as one of their own and teach her how to work their equipment and use magic and weapons and starships (not what a child her age should be learning. But then, none of the adults there ever signed up to be a parent, so who's to blame them), Joana goes looking for her family in this world.

Now I could write entire novels about Akas adventures and how it may or may not be healthy to not have a home at all and decide to not rely on anybody instead of either finding new versions of her original parents or letting someone new into her life properly (spoileralert: it isn't healthy at all), and how meeting a girl from one of the original splitter-verses (the not bombed ones) telling her not to make the same mistakes she made finally makes her think about her choices and and and, but this post is already going to be Long so I won't. That would all be a seperate fanfic anyways.

Joana finds a girl her age who looks just like her and acts almost exactly like her, too- the only difference seems to be that there's no Aka around, which made this version of her less used to adventure but also less wary of it.

The version of Joana from this universe- she decides to call herself Joan when they are alone, while the Joana we already know goes with 'Jojo'- her once loathed childhood nickname now a connection to her past- is thrilled to meet her and begs her to stay, I mean what is cooler than suddenly having a twin, and won't it be fun there is so much they can do! As their parents are seperated, they manage to spend their time mostly at one of their homes, either together when the parent is too busy to notice that there are two kids around, or one at each place, guessing correctly that if the parents were to talk about it, they wouldn't even think of the possibility of there being two children and instead just get mad at each other.

This goes on for a few months during the summer, with Jojo feeling vaguely guilty both to her original dead parents and these new ones who think that she is their real daughter, and the girls are just deciding about what to do when school starts again when-

Reality breaks apart around them.

Jojo clings to Joan in fear, and- as Jojo is now on the list of people who have travelled between universes in the past, she is saved by Central, and Joan with her. They are placed into a universe further away this time, a safe distance to the only slowly contained Splitters.

Meanwhile, in the same universe, two people were currently out on a space-walk: Michael Burnham and Philippa Georgiou.

They are thrown out of the universe in the explosion, and as they are wearing their suits, they survive as they end up somewhere in space again, but- they don't end up in the same universe. Michael ends up about 20-30 years earlier in a universe further away, and she doesn't even end up in what would've been federation space in her old 'verse. Philippa is only thrown one universe to the left and picked up by Central. As Central likes to name their acquaintances in some way that makes it easier to identify just which version of a person you are talking to without having to add the long universe number (even harder when the universe was destroyed and there isn't a known number), they ask Philippa to pick a new name. She is way too rattled and desperate to go looking for Michael as quickly as possible to care about what name she is supposed to have, so she goes with the first option given to those who don't have their own nickname ideas: lastname for firstname, making her Georgiana, short Gia.

Through Central, she finds out that the universal explosion left her and Michael connected- but it won't be much help in the search, basically just a way to say 'alright this verse is closer to it than that one', it's still trial and error... (I could also involve some body switching here, idk I already wrote a long fanfic with that trope in the Andromaquynh fandom, but I happen to Like that trope so yeah maybe I'll recycle some parts of In Your Stead if I ever do manage to write this Milippa story. Which, btw, if not already obvious, would again be a seperate fic from the Joana universal-sister story. On the other hand, Aka runs into Georgiana a lot, even calling her 'auntie Gia').

Meanwhile, Michael doesn't have to jump through universes but make her way through just the one universe to get to federarion space. Except what she find's isn't the federation at all... you guessed it, the 'verse she ended up in is more similar to a mirrorverse than to Prime. However, the Georgiou of this world isn't the emperor yet, she's young and Michael is able to influence her enough over the years so that she turns her back to the Empire.

Yes, it takes years for Michael and Gia to find their way back to each other, maybe decades... they also wouldn't have spent exactly the same amount of time apart as they aren't in the same 'verse. In fact, Cleo of Central carefully tells Gia that Michael might have died by now, but of course Georgiana doesn't want to hear this.

Michael and that universe's Georgiou also get quite close, though Michael doesn't want to cheat on her Philippa... of course, after years of this, she might think that she will never see Philippa again... (We are approaching ot3 territory here lol, and I don't even want to think about the potential of ot7 with the two canon mirror and prime versions adsfghjkl because if I finish this story here, I would 100% write a lil fix it where Central! Gia Mikay and Phil go fish Mirror! Michael and Georgiou out of a splitter-verse into the next prime verse in which Michael already knows that Georgiou... and ad they're already at it they also get half dead! Prime Philippa away from the Klingons... heheh sounds like the kind of poly chaos I would enjoy writing, but sadly I have to make it through all the Plot first)

Anyway! Back to Jojo and Joan: they decide that while they maybe should have told Joan's family about Jojo's existence soon if they had stayed in that 'verse, the initial idea of staying with one's universals wasn't so bad, so they go looking for this universe's Joana McCoy. The girl- (nicknamed Anna, which makes Joan decide to change hers from Joan to June because she doesn't want to be half Jojo and half Anna), is happy enough to meet them, but often feels left out from the other two as they act as if they've known each other forever even though of course it's only been a few months... In turn, Jojo and June aren't sure whether Anna really wants them around, whether she might think they're trying to steal her life and family from her...

Lots of potential for conflict! Yay! XD would of course come to a happy ending, with at least Bones accepting his three daughters, dunno yet whether they'd tell the mom... also Aka ends up in the same universe at some point, together with a version of her vulcan birthmother who she had never known the original version of but now gets along with alright... oh and if I do write aforementioned Milippa ot7 bullshitery, this would also be the Prime!verse for that, so all stories in the series or collection interconnect again!

this got... long... and I could obviously go on but I need to go back to writing my Bachelor thesis :(

@whoever read through all of this, do let me know whether you like these ideas and which you would like to read proper fanfic for! Might influence future writing decisions.

[all-of-the-above]

Managing grief

Grief is something I’ve previously spoke about, and for myself it is a large topic with great importance to me. Over time I’ve learnt different things about grief and ways of managing it, not dealing or coping, managing. Even that word isn’t too nice I know but I’m not sure how else to word it. I just want to talk about some of the methods I’ve learnt about and use, to try and help someone else, or just spread the knowledge. One key thing to remember is your grief will never just end and that is ok, it’s all about learning to live a life without that person.

One very important ‘method’ so to speak, is finding your balance between living and grieving. It’s called the dual-process model. The idea is sometimes when grieving we can find ourselves dwelling on that grief too much, we allow it to overwhelm ourselves, but in other circumstances we can find ourselves avoiding the grief and purposefully putting it down and dismissing it. Either is not healthy and will put a drag on your mental health in a time when you’re already struggling. So, it’s all about balance, about finding that perfect amount of both. We need to take time to grieve and think about it, but we don’t need to spend too long on it, we also need to live our lives, so it doesn’t become consuming. It really is like a balancing scale, and it’s all about recognising what is right and healthy for you. If you find yourself dwelling too long and feeling more down than is necessary, take a break from it, remind yourself it is ok to live your life and not think about it 24/7. But if you also find yourself not thinking about it at all, remember to take some time out to process it, because that is healthy for you.

What coincides with learning to balance your grief is growing around it. One part of that scale is getting on with our lives, and in this when we have to learn to grow our lives around our grief, and this helps prevent that all-consuming dwelling on it. Keeping your grief will be important throughout your life, it doesn’t have to get smaller or less significant or even be forgotten. Instead, we must learn to work around our grief by making our world bigger. We must add new things to our lives, create new memories, grow as individuals, whilst still allowing room for our grief. Imagine a box, and inside is your grief and it fills the whole box, this will be where we all start. But then overtime you don’t centre your life around it, you gain new relationships and hobbies, make new memories, that box becomes bigger, but the grief stays the same size. Over more time the box, or your life/world, will become bigger, whilst the grief stays as is, still there, no smaller, still so important. The problem is many people can feel guilty if they don’t grieve, or they find themselves having this new life without that person there, and that they don’t think of them 24/7. This is more than normal, but we need to recognise it is healthy to add to your life and not allow your grief to consume you. You are allowed to have fun, to laugh, to add real good substance to your life, and its ok to get sad that that person isn’t there anymore, but trust me, they wouldn’t want you spending the rest of your life wallowing. That pain of your grief will always stay the same, but your world can expand around it, so it feels less suffocating.

Something else I’ve learnt which has really stuck with me is continuing bonds. That person is gone, sadly you can’t see them, be with them or do things with them, but that bond you had with them is still there, it is ever-present, and we can continue that bond still after they are gone. The idea is that instead of detaching from the deceased, we create a new relationship with them. When your loved one or friend or whoever it may be dies, grief isn’t about working through a linear process that ends with acceptance or a new life where you have moved on or compartmentalized their memory. Rather, it is slowly finding ways to adjust and redefine your relationship with that person, allowing for a continued bond. So, you’re probably wondering how to do this, well firstly it is important to infiltrate the other methods I’ve spoke about as well, and then because we are still acknowledging that person and our grief, we can make new bonds. To do this it is all about activities which make us feel close to that person, so if you used to do something with them like baking, still do it, continue that bond and reminisce on happy memories. If they had a favourite hobby, you could give it a try, for me my mum liked cross-stitch and I’ve now gained a new hobby and a way of connecting to her. I’m in fact finishing a piece she started, and this new bond I’ve created will last a lifetime. You may not like the hobby, but there’s no harm in trying. Some people plant a flower or tree or whatever it may be and go care for it, talk to it, have it as a representation of that person. I think many of us still may like to have a conversation if they’re not there, tell them things, and that’s a further way of continuing your bond, because you feel as though you are actively involving them in your life. You may wear something of theirs to feel closer to them, that is a continuation of your bond with them. You may go places that you did with them, and even make new memories there, that’s not stamping over or covering up or dismissing the other memories, it is continuing your bond, whilst allowing your life to grow around that grief and that person.

In reality, there is no right way of managing grief, it’s all about coming to a better understanding of yourself and trying new things, seeking help when its needed, and always allowing yourself to feel. This blog, everything I write about positivity, self-love and the rest of it, has all helped with my grief, it has helped me to understand myself better and helped me grow into who I am. Grief is a large part of me, but that doesn’t make me a negative person, it makes me human because it is something I had to experience. It’s okay if you’re struggling in grief, try these things, do your research, take time with you and you will get there and learn. It sucks when something takes time and you’ve struggled, but it’s all about finding your own way to that better place.

For anyone out there that is grieving, remember you are not alone in how you are feeling, you are not alone in your struggling, and you are not alone in feeling guilty. Grief is a difficult path to take, and no one’s is the same, so be kind to yourself, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

[lallemcnt]

without feeling, 2.6k words 🍃

lucas is a bit overwhelmed by quarantine. an elu social distancing drabble.

(or, 2.6k words of expressing all my feelings induced by social distancing through lucas.)

It’s cold outside.

It’s a little bit misty. The minaret of a mosque and spires of grand churches disappear into a grey-hued nothingness that catches the wind like a kite, spreading like acrid smoke, staining the sky in miserable doom: the red warning of traffic lights less vibrant and severe, less of a demand, an imperative to stop, and more of a weak sign of I still exist; there are still rules to follow. The sun exerts its will the hardest when usually it doesn’t have to do more than rise up from the horizon. Its potent presence and unmistakeable warmth is not quite so disarming. This is a first for the sun. Narrow beams of light puncture through where they might, at the weakest points of the fog’s intent: through slits of wooden floorboards, gaps in rusted blinds — hitting the edge of make-up smeared mirrors and feeding the forest-green leaves of succulents that create canopies on burnished-brown bookshelves.

And Lucas feels it across his bare back as he lies on the sofa in contemplative thought. No one thought plays centre stage, captivating this audience of one in a velvet filled old structure dedicated to entertainment. Or rather, on this blue velvet sofa upon which he is currently lying, stomach down, face resting on his hands as he stares out on the disappearing city. Curtains billowing around windows that have definitely seen better days and could do with a loving touch of paint.

The ocean waves. A fishing boat. The last time he had a cup of coffee. When he should realistically be doing laundry next. A slight head tilt shows an overflowing woven basket. Soon. When Eliott will be done with the commission he’s been working on for the past four days — Lucas is excited to see it. But he’s bias. Everything Eliott does is mesmerising in Lucas’ eyes; he falls a little bit more in love with him every time he sees the creations formed from such a brilliant mind. When will Eliott call the work day quits for today. He wants to see him, touch his hand, which he hasn’t done for the past six hours, because Lucas despises encroaching on Eliott’s space when he’s focusing and doing what he loves. Hates the idea of being a nuisance or disrupting a miraculous train of thought just for the ridiculous reason of him feeling needy and wanting attention.

What would it be like to experience the rain in a rainforest?  This thought snags.

It recalls a memory.

At age ten, Lucas’ class was tasked with painting a scene from this famous painting. He can’t quite recall the name, but he remembers a broad canopy of cobalt coloured umbrellas clutched in the hands of men in top hats and tails, and women in petticoats, hair tucked up into chignons under a furious downpour. By the end, each class’ section of the painting would form to recreate an entire tableau of mixed-media, a cohesive mess of blue.

It lends his thoughts to Eliott once more, and they won’t shift. Lucas glances at his watch: 17:33. A sigh. He drops his head back onto his hands and rolls over onto his back, disgruntled by the thumping feet of their upstairs neighbours on the ceiling which is beginning to look worryingly like paper stained by coffee. Their landlord would not be happy.

Stretching out his limbs, the weak sun strokes a long finger down his spine as Lucas climbs to his feet, dragging the ends of his joggers down his calves with his feet. He shuffles towards a small closet slash utility room, turned Eliott’s office, dragging his t-shirt from the back of the sofa with his hand as he goes.

Tiptoeing, Lucas leans in the doorway of the decidedly tiny room, shirt clutched in hand. Observing from a slight distance, holding his breath and his shirt to his chest in the hopes of not letting loose a single sound. As quiet as a moose. As stealthy as a wolf. Serotonin and endorphin boost at just the sight of him, causing the sides of Lucas’ mouth to lift at the human person hunched over a table they saved from a neighbour who dumped it in the bin building. Restoring it from a wood-chipped, faded white-yellow desk, abandoned and discarded, with broken draws to a moon-chilled silver with baby blue accents. The draws reconstructed on a productive Sunday morning after Eliott managed to get several defrosted waffles stuffed into Lucas and a cup of coffee, which Lucas detested but made a ritual of because it was a grown up thing and he always seemed to feel a little tired.

Now, he yearns to run his hands up Eliott’s back and kiss his freckled shoulders. Lie on the sofa, snuggled up so tight they became a sine organism with no way of disaggregating. Permanently etched together like quotation marks; the perfect fit. But, as slient as a mouse, Lucas aimed to be. Even as Eliott shifting in his seat and Lucas saw he had put on jeans of all things. Yes, they were stuck at home but...jeans? He felt a rumble of laughter hit his chest and dashed from the doorway trying to prevent its outbreak, and in doing so, was in all ways unquiet, feet hitting the wooden floorboards hard.

“Lucas?” A sigh was all the response. Though not an unhappy one.

Oh, the wonders a voice could do and make you feel. Sometimes feel never felt like a big enough, grand enough, expansive enough word to encompass what it really meant. Nor could anything compare to one’s name being uttered by the person who made the word feel feel too small a word. His very bones and nerves and fingertips were on fire, but then again that could be logically reduced to the fact that Lucas was quarantined with his boyfriend who he didn’t speak to much during the day — on his own accord and to the reluctance of Eliott — but was separated by a nimbly, hallow wall and he simply wanted to kiss his face off every second of every minute. It was simple really. Not much to it. Except his undying love, of course.

Another soft: “Lucas?”

The person in question returns to the little office and peers in expectantly. Eliott is resting his face in his hand, elbow on desk, hair ruffled and in need of a wash. As soon as Lucas appears his dazed eyes contract a more alert appearance, wistful and quite content with the sight he brings.

“You hungry?”

“Are you?”

“Kind of. I was thinking—”

“That we should have cheese toasties! Brilliant idea, Eliott. You finish up, if you’re ready? I don’t wanna rush you or anything, and I’ll be chefing away.”

“You’re not rushing me, and anyway, if you were, which you’re not,” Eliott replies, voicing rising slightly as he gets to his feet to move toward Lucas who retreats at the idea of imposing his presence on Eliott. “I would love you to rush me, because I’m sick of looking at it all. I’m tired. And I would much prefer to look at you instead.”

Reaching Lucas, Eliott runs his hands through Lucas’ hair till he’s cupping the back of his head, and then drawing it down the scope of his neck and shoulder, skimming lightly over collarbones — leaving an imprint in Lucas’ bones and muscles, a memory of a lover’s touch — and trailing down an arm lined with goose bumps until fingers are slotting together. A gift of warmth and blesséd touch. One Lucas is eternally thankful for. He is at his most appreciative when it comes to Eliott. For him, anything.

“Cheese toasties?” Lucas asks, face flushed from the loving caress of Eliott’s words that fall off his tongue as easily as they cost him nothing.

“Hm.” Eliott raises their entwined hands, lifting Lucas’ hand palm down so he can plant a sweet kiss onto it and then his knuckles.

“And then I was thinking...we, I mean, I, could paint your nails,” Lucas is almost, slightly breathless and it’s all a bit embarrassing. He rushes on, “It’s literally all I could think about this morning until my brain sputtered out from boredom.” He laughs a bit, self-conscious.

“Let me have a hug first, please?”

Lucas can hear the tiredness seeping out of every syllable, Eliott’s shoulder sink slowly down with each words like a deflating balloon left of all its oxygen. He reaches up to cup Eliott’s cheek, the skin soft and pimply behind his hand, he plants a quick peck on it before snaking his arms around Eliott’s hips and squeezing him just enough that he isn’t suffocating him but feels that steading presence of bodily contact, one t-shirt away from skin on skin. Lucas feels the reciprocation instantly, Eliott’s arms around Lucas’ shoulders, and then slipping a fraction further down as Eliott pulls him into the cocoon of his body.

“Ahhh.” Lucas can’t help the sigh of contentment. The verbal confirmation of satisfaction.

Warm breaths hit his neck, Eliott’s chest shakes marginally against his, and his arms tighten around Lucas who pushes at Eliott’s arms, because he is actually starving, suddenly, potently aware of it. He slides down and out of that particular safe haven and walks slowly backwards, eyes locked with the mystery of his boyfriend’s, the secret of their colour claimed by the first atoms of the world that created pigmentation. Sliding his t-shirt on he observes Eliott watching the last stretch of his abdomen disappear from, a slight hand clench is visible as he lifts his hand to rub over his face, and Lucas can’t help but laugh properly now as he enters the kitchen. Lucas is not a seductive person, but he does find pleasure in the way something small he does, not even consciously provocative can affect Eliott so.

Lucas spins around on his heels remembering that Eliott doesn’t, in fact, own a sandwich toaster so he improvises. Cheddar, four slices of toast and in the preheated oven. He’s gonna have to clean the oven afterwards, but it’s not like he doesn’t have the time for that: time he is in an abundant supply of these days.

While devouring their cheese toasties, Lucas and Eliott find themselves wrapped up in blankets on the sofa. Lucas is concentrating like a child trying their hardest to colour inside the lines of a picture as he sits bent over painting Eliott’s index finger a muted blue and his thumb a dusky pink. With a leg stretched over Eliott’s he inches forward as the former skips through a playlist on his phone sending the sound of bass and drums into the far reaches of the room, into the fissures and crevices of the walls decorated in black and white portraits and enticing landscapes of fruitful trees and sandstone buildings.

These photos shake Lucas a little at his core. Lucas dreams of running along cliff sides made of limestone, skimming his feet in the freezing loches of Scotland, picking mangoes from trees in Malawi during October, just before their rainy season commences. He’s been dreaming of far off places for days, wishing to escape from their confinement, daring to live a little wilder, further, deeper. Someday. Though this future he couldn’t quite make out in his head, secure behind a veil, much like the weather outside.

His eyes cloud over and he tries to focus back on the task at hand, sliding the side of his thumb down the corner of Eliott’s pinky finger where the brush veered off course. He wipes his left eye with the hand that was holding Eliott’s in place, trying to be subtle, because he feels stupid. He feels entitled and furious at himself. So he goes back to his task without a word, attempting to sink back into the motions and the music; the swipe of the brush, the sound of Eliott’s contented “this is it” as he finds the right song, settles into the melody of it and throws his phone to the other side of the sofa.

Social distancing has been at once soothing and triggering for Lucas’ anxiety. The beginning was a frustrating time, arriving when he finally thought he had some semblance of a plan formed. For his future. Then it all derailed and he was traversed into an existence of blissful indulgence in seven series TV shows and warm baguettes not reached lukewarm because he had somewhere to rush off to; waking up at 9 or 10am instead of his usual 7; walking around the block, stepping into a park for the daily fresh intake of vitamin c, watching fluffy creatures prance around the forbidden grasslands. Now, he knows he’s on the brink of a tumble downhill, a dip in a deceptively solid surface, and all he keeps hearing from online personalities, from friends and instagram stories is that “this is to be expected.” God, how tired he is of hearing that perfunctory sentence. Frankly, he wishes, fruitlessly, for someone to teach him once more how to cope, to be fucking okay. His ten week course of CBD ended the first week of quarantine and while he supposedly has the tools to rationalise, to acknowledge his thoughts and recognise some of them are to be untrue...it’s not quite so easy, because he can’t debunk them while stuck in a tiny city apartment. He is very literally restricted in space. So he’s on hyper alert for himself and Eliott, tainting the very air with his insecurities and fears. But that’s not quite right; he’s too consumed by himself, selfish, he thinks, you wouldn’t even notice the signs with Eliott. Sometimes he wants to be allowed, allow himself, to feel sad, dispirited, hopeless. He wants to lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking of nothing but the way some areas are slightly raised. To sleep. But he hasn’t been diagnosed with depression, he’s not depressed, he doesn’t get depressed. Just sad and vapid, occasionally. The instances are few and far between.

He has his mum to reassure him. He wouldn’t call it comforting though she tries: “We’ll all get through this. You will, Lucas. That job is waiting for you, remember? Take a deep breath with me, okay?”

Today though isn’t as bad as it was two days ago, he feels himself getting out of this cave of darkness, this allocated place of sorrowful isolation, because he also has this. The security of these arms and this chest he rests his face against. That kiss on his head. And this person who can’t fight it all away for him, can’t always find the right words to comfort him, like Lucas cannot be a constant solid presence of stone in the flow of a rapid river for Eliott, he has to be patient and assume the pace Eliott sets.

They can’t always be the right answer, but they can try.

“I think you’re gonna need to repaint this hand, Lu.”

It takes him a moment to gather himself. He’s been resting here for some time, though time is inconsequential here so the length is lost to him. As he sits back up and his face disconnects with heart beat and muscle and skin, it feels flushed on the connect side and his eyes dry. He takes in Eliott’s painted hand, now smudged and clicks his tongue, shaking his head at the same time.

“Give me the polish.”

As Eliott reaches out to grab a mint-green bottle of polish, he responds in kind. “Try this.” Lucas shakes the bottle and glances at Eliott in askance. Eliott shakes his head, a small smile on his lips, not teasing. “Trust me.” No, not teasing. More in expectation of something good, something sweet.

And Lucas complies as he is wont to do, savouring those eyes and the hundreds of thousands of emotions they express in a single moment.

It tastes good.

Strawberries.

It tastes like sweetness.

[colourthestarts]

Bad Days and Baby Steps

Warning: smoking (kids do not smoke!) and swearing.

 Sachihiro Kondo. Also known as Sachi had a sort of relation with y/n that Kuroo had with Kenma. They grew up together and they both joined same type of sports which were jiu jitsu and judo. They met Mika together in first year of high school when Sachi very rudely hit on Mika and she slapped him in the face. Y/n howled the whole day and then kicked Sachi’s ass during training the same day. Then both of them got twenty push ups for slagging each other off. Then another twenty for asking why. But neither regretted cause they met Mika and clicked together well.

By the end of the year y/n and Sachi were not as close. Y/n was no longer training and the group would eat together and hang out but there was still that distance. Then it got bigger when Sachi got a girlfriend or well… few girlfriends over time. The issue was not that he had girlfriends but rather the type. Somehow they all turned up jealous of his two female friends. But they were all understanding for their age, tho sometimes still argued.

Third year started to change when Sachi started to pester y/n more often once again. This did not go unnoticed in school and a small rumour started that they were dating. Which got the attention of Sachi’s girlfriend Yua who was seeing him a lot less lately. So it was not surprising that eventually she would come to the girls on the whereabouts of her boyfriend.

“Y/n, Mika have you seen Sachi?”

“No.” Y/n stated while trying to cram in that bloody chemistry chapter for the test tomorrow.

“Probs in your classroom.” Mika replied while trying to understand the geography homework.

“Yeah, he’s not there which is why I’m asking. He’s been recently hanging out with you two. I barely see him at all.”

“We’ve been hanging out since first year. That would be normaaaal.” Mika sang, which irritated the girlfriend more if not for Sachi walking in. Yua immediately approached him. 

“Awww Sachi let’s have lunch and hang out!” But she was swiftly ignored when he passed her and sat in front of y/n, closing her book which was met with a whine.

“Sweetie, I need to study. We got a chemistry test tomorrow and I need to know my study sessions with Kuroo are not a massive waste of time. Can your existential crisis wait till tomorrow?”

“Come back to me.” Sachi stated.

“Ehhh… you might want to be a bit clearer when you say stuff like that.” Y/n nodded towards the girlfriend who looked like she was gonna explode. And rightfully so from her perspective.

“To the club. Come back to train.” Y/n face became sour.

“No.”

“I know that you’re done with physio.”

“Wait what? Seriously?” Mika asked.

“Yeah. So what? I’m not coming back.”

“Be my vice-captain. We can go back to before the injury.” Although y/n understood this came from a good place to say so, she just couldn't take it that way. There was nothing good with this.

“Let’s make this super clear. There will never be a "before the injury". And I am not coming back so go deal with your girlfriend and kindly fuck off.”

The same day Sachi broke up with Yua with the explanation that she was too clingy. Y/n did not shut down. Instead she blanked the whole day and when school ended she didn’t go to physio. Cause there was no more physio. Nor did she have a chemistry session with Kuroo that day. In theory she knew she should study for the test but she didn’t want to go home. So she spend her time in the wondering in the shopping centre then to the cafe and when that wasn't good enough she just walked around the streets until finally sitting down.

That was the worst decision and she knew it. Cause when y/n felt upset and with no way out she smoked. It happened rarely and it was a disgusting habit, yet she didn’t quit. On her second cig she was woken up when it was taken straight out of her lips. Y/n expected her brothers, Mika, Sachi even the police, but definitely not Kuroo.

In retrospect, Kuroo was shocked when he was walking towards train station after getting himself a new pair of volleyball shoes, seeing y/n sitting with a cig between her teeth. He never thought that she was a smoker. Suddenly he started to get sort of pissed off. No reason why but that feeling was there. So he walked up to her and asked what was she thinking, but she completely blanked him, the same way she blanked her lessons. After not getting a response after few more times Kuroo just took her cig right out of her mouth which seemed to wake her up. With few blinks she finally responded.

“What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t think you were a smoker.” Kuroo stated while taking out the cig and sitting next to her.

“I’m not.” Then Kuroo pointed at the pack. “Rarely. Until the next time happens I guess.”

“Have you talked to Mika?”

“Nah, not there yet.”

“What about Sachi? You two are close right?”

“Yeah… he’s not a good option at this time.”

“Your brothers. They seem chill from what I’ve seen.” That was Kuroo’s honest opinion. Sometimes after sessions he would stay longer when her brothers were around to have dinner. It was always insisted and he honestly liked the extra company. Once in a while Kenma joined too.

“I can’t cause I’m mad at them.”

“Aaaaaa….”

“Yeah…”

“… You can talk to me? I mean I can listen or not listen.”

A minute later y/n stood up, putting away the pack back into the bag.

“Let’s walk to the train station.”  Kuroo nodded and tagged along. At least he offered his help. Y/n tho considered his offer and though that she’d go with it. You never know. “I think better in motion so this will be easier as we walk. Plus then I don’t exactly have to look at you and that makes me feel more comfortable. Although I don’t mean looking at you in a negative way.”

“Okay…”

“So basically I’m out from physio. It’s all done.”

“That’s good news right?”

“Well technically yes. But this now brings the opportunity to go back to training, but I don’t think I’m quite there yet in a weird way. But then Sachi just flew in on the break saying I should come back and be vice-captain and like as if everything is fine but I know... I’m not fine. Dunno why but I know I’m not. And now Mika knows too because of him and she’s gonna be all happy and supportive and she’ll team up with Sachi who I kinda wanna strangle for this.”

“So you’re angry cause he’s pushing you? If you don’t wanna do this why don’t you tell him that. You’re pretty blunt usually.”

“Thanks. Not angry, more like feeling suffocated." Y/n commented with a chuckle. Tho both knew it wasn't funny. A minute later they stopped and y/n turned to Kuroo. "I can’t cause he was the one who injured me. Well he thinks he did. I think that I fucked up and its on me and we never agreed on this issue in the first place. So now he probs thinks that this is a remake. But since I can’t even think about training without having a nervous breakdown it’s a fucked situation for everyone. Hence smoking.”

Wow. Not exactly what he imagined nor he could relate to her situation. He really didn’t know what sort of advice to give. He never had a serious injury. Never really felt stuck like this with Kenma. Maybe Yaku, but it was just arguing with banter. Definitely never with Bokuto or Akaashi.

“I’m sorry.”

“Lol for what even. You said you’d listen and you did. If it makes you feel better this kinda made me feel better.”

“Weirdly helps. By the way why are you mad at your brothers?”

“Sachi doesn’t walk to physio with me. I banned him after the whole surgery and stuff. He was a nightmare. Mika didn’t know I was done so she didn’t tell him. Which means my dumb ass siblings told him which was frankly none of their business.”

“I don’t think they meant to harm.”

“Of course they don’t. So I can’t be mad at them either. I am just royally fucked in every way.” When Kuroo made a face she quickly realised. “I just heard how that sounded, but the basic point stands.”

“Okay… didn’t know you were such a badass tho. Judo? Really?”

“And Jiu Jitsu. And even MMA once in a while cause Kisho does that.”

“So you can easily beat me up anytime.”

“I wouldn’t and haven’t trained in ages, but if necessary yeah think so. Deffo could break a few bones.”

“You are terrifying.” Kuroo stated intrigued. To him this somehow made y/n even more attractive. Same didn’t registered with y/n tho.

“Thanks. That’s what all girls wanna hear.”

"No no, I mean in a good way! Like a badass! Not like that you're boyish or anything."

"What's wrong with girls being boyish?"

"Nothing at all! God I'm just digging myself in a bigger hole aren't I?"

"Just a bit." Y/n mused, she knew he didn't mean it like that. Tho she also struggled to be a bit more feminine to say so. She wished she was tho. "I'm pulling your leg, don't worry. C'mon the train station isn't far off."

The journey home was more pleasant. There was some small talk but y/n mostly was quite clearly didn't feeling good yet. Also her hands gripping her backpack also indicated she wasn't completely fine. So when y/n got off at her station so did Kuroo.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Walking you home."

"You're what now?"

"Walking you home. You honestly expect me just to let you off like that."

"Like what? I'm fine."

"Yeah just the way you also are amazing at chemistry."

"It's a dumb subject! And we're not talking about that! You need to get on the next train." Y/n commented while waving her hands. Kuroo noticed she did a lot of that when she was explaining or arguing like now. Well she can keep doing that while walking home.

"There'll be 3 more trains. I got plenty of time. Let's go."

The way to y/n's was far more talkative cause y/n kept pestering for him to go back. But Kuroo shot back with the chemistry test that was due tomorrow so the rest of the walk up to her gates was him quizzing and her mostly whining.

"Can't believe you just tortured me with this."

"We have a test tomorrow. Can't have you failing."

"Pfff I've never failed a test so you better watch your own ass. At this point I'll do better than you."

"Dream on." Kuroo chucked as they approached the gate. The lights were on so someone was definitely on possibly waiting to give hell to y/n. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"You mean those two? Not the first time I got home so late so I'm used to a bit of telling off. Besides once I mention Sachi they'll shut right up. You should go or you'll miss your train."

"I will, you should go inside."

"You should go first. I'm literally outside my house."

"You-"

"You insisted to walk me home and quizzed me on chemistry. Can't you do this for me?" Kuroo noticed that she was waving her arms again. It was adorable.

"Okay I'll go first. But if you feel like that again where you wanna smoke text or call me."

"Sorry, I can't promise that. Text me when you get home or if you missed your train."

"I will, see you tomorrow."

"Bye "

It was when he reached the third house that he herd y/n yell thank you. But when he turned around she was already gone.

On the other hand once y/n got in she was met with Norio's dissaproved face.

"Where have you been I've been worried. Mike and Sachin had no idea where you were your phone is off. Have you lost it?"

"It's with me."

"Then what the hell?"

"Was it you or Kisho who told Sachi physio was done?" When she was met with silence she immediately knew. "So, both of you. I'm going to my room have a test tomorrow."

After some revision and finally getting to bed it was not a surprise that she couldn't sleep. Over think everything was an awful personality trait of hers. But this time it wasn't as bad as usually despite her weird day. Instead she had a weird feeling because of Kuroo that she couldn't quite identify.

Maybe it was graditute.

[notexactlyrocketscience]

~ on social media and blogging ~

Basically the only thing I've done in my last 24 posts (yes, I counted) is vent about my first semester at UTSA. Often repetitively.

A little backstory: You wouldn't know it from looking at me, my room, or my closet (especially not my closet) but I like to put things into boxes, arrange them in the most efficient way possible. Even when my room or notes are messy, I know exactly where my red scarf is (at the bottom of my closet where it fell from the hanger the other day while I was hurrying for school), where my flier for tomorrow's event is (somewhere in the middle of the pile of papers on my desk where I put it last week) and which emails I need to re-check tonight (the weekly newsletter, the extra-credit intructions, and the mid-semester meeting notice).

I despise any and all class-notes that aren't done exactly the way I like them—which is using as little repetition and words as possible. Whenever I write, I Google, copy and paste em dashes and make sure there are no spaces on either side. For a 600 word limit, my work will more often than not have exactly 600 words because I don't want to waste any. I use Google Calender to stay on schedule. Planners intimidate me because there's no limit to what can be done with them, and although I want to start a bullet journal, I'm not going to until I find a uniform format that feels right to me.

I don't get to doing it everyday, but at least around once a week or two I get my room, closet and school stuff together again (my person is a lost cause). Delaying this process is something that stresses me out quite a bit ... and is something I do regularly. Especially since the year before last, I feel like I'm in a constant state of burnout (which doesn't make any sense because I'm completely responsibility-free right now compared to other kids my age) and I procrastinate towards everything. EVERYTHING.

So yes, I've technically been spiralling slow-mo (and have been bewildered at myself) for the last couple (going on three) years now ... But back to my point.

I used to write a lot of journal entries. Extremely detailed ones. I spent hours on them every day. I have entire years of my life documented minute-to-minute—I am not even kidding. Once I fell out of that habit (cough the last two years happened) I was never able to pick it back up again (trust me, I tried).

Remember how I like to put things into boxes? The same goes for my feelings. The worst I could ever feel isn't angry or sad or desperate. No, the worst I could ever feel is not knowing what I feel. That's the only feeling that really scares me, dries out my soul. Everything is a mess and can't be put into their places anymore: I'm distracted, unsettled. Behind my eyes is a rainstorm gone wrong, a broken window, a gale whistling in and whipping every piece of paper in my workshop out of place, no end in sight.

When Instagram came into the picture a few years ago, that was in many ways my first step from hiding to bravery. For the first time, I had this space to express myself that was totally under my control, and it was empty. Devoid of prior expectations. For the first time, I was stepping forward and being myself in public, and in that way finding myself too. I'd be lying if I said that I'd be the very same person that I am right now if this hadn't been part of my life.

It gives me peace to be able to neatly document moments of my life here. It's not as time-consuming and as big a commitment as journaling, and somehow the pictures I take randomly gives me motivation to write something they make me feel, which is huge, since at this point this is the only form of creative expression I still indulge in, and one of the only things that make me feel like I have control anymore.

Gasp. I know it's social media, so this might sound superficial and naive to some. Believe me, I constantly battle the same feelings, internalized. Do I do it for attention? For the mini serotonin rush every time those little heart notifications appear? For human connection that I'm missing? Maybe. It's hard to know.

What I do know is that it's empowering to be able to write all this and let it loose for the public to see, ignore, read, dismiss, judge, and then to still be able to hold onto my paranoid sanity. I'm still not as brave as I'd like to be. Sometimes a wave of instinct to delete half my posts will engulf me to near-suffocation. But every single one of my silly, weird, random too-much-information, and borderline innapropriate posts are still out there. Because every time I feel that way, I clench my jaw and tell myself it's temporary and I'll regret it if I act on it. And it's true. Every day I succeed is another day that I choose not to run and hide like I've done too many times in the past. It's one step forward into caring less and understanding other people care less, and just breathing freely without worrying. It's a step towards freedom, confidence.

... I'm this bad behind a screen just talking about everyday things that don't even matter, that only a handful of people will read (s/o if you do. Thank you—means a lot!)—imagine what I'm like in actual social contexts, at the centre of attention in a crowded room.

Well ... I'll let you guys know when I finally stop running and find out for myself. Till then, I guess y'all are just stuck with me, as I am, right now.

[end]

⠀

[jikook-love]

a stranger’s presence

christmas fic | jungkook x jimin | words: 5k

officeworker!jimin x policeman!jungkook AU

It's Christmas Day yet both Jimin and Jungkook are still stuck working late, dreadful evening shifts. It's the late evening by the time they're relieved of duty and they both trudge home, still in their uniforms, feeling a bit lonely and depressed that while everyone else was out celebrating, they were both feeling sorry themselves at work. 

Yet, with a stroke of fate, they somehow manage to bump into each other. Though reluctant to become acquainted at first due to their grouchy moods, they slowly warm up to each other, and with only a few hours left of Christmas Day until midnight, they find themselves pleasantly surprised by the unexpected gift of each other's presence.

6:17 P.M. - Kim Company Main Campus

“WOO! It’s time to get ready to partay~”

The loud, obnoxious croon drifted through Manager Park Jimin’s ears, who could only quietly groan, resisting the urge to slam his head onto his keyboard. He loosened his black tie a little, feeling suffocated after spending all day in his white dress shirt and slacks.

Unfortunately for him, the owner of the voice wasted no time in sashaying his way over to Jimin’s cubicle, a bright grin complimenting his hyper expression.

“You guys are leaving already?” Jimin asked courteously, trying to keep the weakness out of his voice as he eyed his friend and co-worker Jung Hoseok who was already sporting his thick winter coat.

“Yeah, it’s at 7 and boss said we could leave a bit early to beat the traffic,” Hoseok grinned. “You should start getting ready too.”

“I’m…not going.”

The smile was immediately evaporated. “What?! Why?! It’s a company party! It wouldn’t be right without you man.”

“I know, I know,” Jimin sighed, burying his fingers into his hair in frustration. “I hadn’t planned on staying. The servers just went down and I have to try to get them working again before tomorrow.”

“What the hell, man?” Hoseok frowned. “On Christmas night?!”

“Well, you know me,” Jimin smiled miserably. “I have the best luck. As always.”

Hoseok patted Jimin reassuringly on the back. “Maybe try to at least finish before the party ends?”

Jimin breathed out another heavy sigh. “I’ll try.”

But deep inside he knew that even if he worked non-stop at this rate, he still wouldn’t be able to escape before midnight. He’d been working hard aell day only to be told that he would also be staying all night.

So much for an eventful Christmas…

7:04 P.M. – Seoul Police HQ

“You guys are putting me on TRAFFIC PATROL DUTY?!” First Division Police Officer Jeon Jungkook screeched. “On CHRISTMAS NIGHT?!” His large eyes were livid, looking as if he was about to pull all his hair out.

“Listen, you’re the only officer available for that job tonight,” Chief Min exhaled, closing a file and shoving it away at last. “Do us a favour, and just quietly do it.”

“Chief. With all due respect, I have a life too,” Jungkook stated.

“No, you don’t,” Division II Officer Kim Taehyung said casually, walking pass the flaming debate without even looking up.

“Exactly,” the chief agreed, to Jungkook’s horror. “Look. You clearly have no plans anyway. Why else would you sign up for overtime duty on the week of Christmas?”

“It was a mistake!” Jungkook groaned. “I didn’t realize it was this week.”

“Which obviously means you lack important plans,” Chief Min retorted mercilessly. “So be a man, suck it up, and go punish forgetful people who don’t know how to read signs properly.”

“Can’t I at least join the investigations crew or something?” Jungkook was still refuting. “I don’t want to take from people on a night we should be giving.”

“You are giving though. You’re giving them parking tickets,” Min Yoongi smiled, as if he were merely speaking about gifting a child with new toys. “You’ll be fine. Maybe if you’re really good, you can meet your quota before the night ends. Now if you don’t mind me, I need to go get mildly wasted with my friends. Merry Christmas sucker!”

And before Jungkook could muster up another retort, the chief was already gone, cheerfully out the door to indulge in subtly alcoholic behaviours.

Jungkook huffed angrily, blowing his hair out his eyes. What an asshole. 

Realizing he had no choice, he grabbed his hat (which he probably wasn’t going to wear anyway), straightened up his uniform, and made his way out to the patrol car.

10:03 P.M. – Kim Company Main Campus

After what seemed like centuries of debugging, Park Jimin finally managed to wrangle out a decent solution, which was on its way to completion. He glanced at the red LED clock perched high on the walls of the office space, showing him an ungodly hour of no hope. At this point, he was the only one left in the entire building. Even if he were to leave in five minutes, the party would have been long unravelled by now, and joining a group of overly drunk people over three hours late didn’t really seem like an enjoyable way to end his Christmas night.

Jimin hit the return on his keyboard, letting the script run before finally allowing himself to truly breathe for the first time that night. He buried his head in his arms and gazing mournfully out to the scenery of their city centre. Their office always had a decent view out into the cityscape, but tonight, it looked so mournful and depressing. The pitch black night, highlighted only by the weak city lights reflecting on the blanched white snow seemed so lonely and empty. 

Nothing like what Christmas should feel like.

A quick glance back to the screen indicated that the operation had completed, and the servers were back up and running like they were supposed to. He quickly gathered his stuff and tucked away his badge, more than eager to get out of here as fast as possible. If he was lucky, maybe he could afford to get back home in time, make himself some hot chocolate, light some candles and cuddle up to a decent Christmas movie in bed before the holiday night truly ended.

He wrapped himself in his comfy long coat and slipped on his gloves and scarf before hurrying down the office stairs in his polished work shoes (which he’d gone through a lot of trouble to maintain in the sludgy weather). The warm thoughts were already comforting him, along with the revelation that he was finally free for the evening.

10:14 P.M. – City Intersection (Gangnam, Seoul) 

Jeon Jungkook slammed his head on the steering wheel of his patrol car, wanting to end this long miserable night already. The weather was prickling cold, yet he’d already made at least seven rounds within the area, mercilessly signing tickets like a storm. It felt horrible, but all that was on his mind was to reach his quota as soon as possible so he could get out his horrible predicament.

God, I feel like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Jungkook thought to himself. But it couldn’t be helped. He still wanted his own Christmas night, and he would do whatever it took to get it.

The alarm on his watch beeped and he held back a groan, realizing that it was time to get out and make yet another round. The streets were practically empty as everyone was either home with their families or out partying with their friends, and all that was left was deserted piles of snow. At this point, it wasn’t even the cold that was hard to endure—it was the overall mundaneness of the task. He was bored out of his mind.

He got out of his car, not even bothering to zip up his jacket. He exhaled, gave himself a few seconds to watch his breath forming in the air, and continued to skulk his way down the empty snow-covered path.

Well, all I can hope for now is a freaking Christmas miracle…

10:27 P.M. – City Intersection (Gangnam, Seoul)

 Of course he wouldn’t be getting a proper Christmas Night.

Because he was Park Jimin, the man with the absolute worst luck in the world.

He didn’t know if he felt like crying or laughing at his pathetic situation. The streets were absolutely barren, and every rare taxi that was available was taken by partygoers. The snow was starting to fall again, further emphasizing the chilly weather that was slowly starting to feel overwhelming.

And yet there he was, stuck trudging through the dirty brown sludgy snow in his work shoes, having to walk to his car that he’d foolishly parked much too far away this morning. He could feel his cheeks burning red from the cold despite his attempts to bury them in his scarf, and he was doing all he could to ignore the wetness from his socks that were surely soaked through by now.

To make things worse, he was alone. Alone, pathetic and weak on a night that was meant to be for celebrating with friends and family. At the very least, this walk would surely be less painful if he had someone to share it with, to laugh about it together.

He rounded the corner into a darker path to get to where his car was parked.

And that’s what he realized he truly had the worst luck in the world.  

Because standing right in front of his car was a police officer, signing off on something that was most certainly a parking ticket.

Swallowing the last of his pride, Park Jimin fully internalized his crappy mood and ran towards his car, crying in a pleading voice.

“Officer, please!” Jimin called. “I’ll move it right away! Please don’t give me a ticket!”

The officer looked up as Jimin stopped in front of him, breathing heavily. Jimin was shocked to notice that he was still quite young, probably around his age, and also seemed to have a lot of bravado judging by the way he was wandering around during snowfall without zipping up his jacket. In fact, he was thinly dressed in general, as he was wearing no winter garments other than his jacket and what appeared to be standard issue police black gloves. 

Jimin watched the officer expectantly. The policeman scanned him up and down with his eyes, as if analyzing his flustered profile would even mean anything at this point.

“I—I’m sorry, mister,” said the officer. “Rules are rules and this is an illegal parking spot. I have no choice.”

Jimin could feel himself being pushed into a corner. Just my luck. He wasn’t in the mood for chipping out a substantial chunk of money wastefully on what was supposed to be his happy night. He had no choice, despite entirely not in the mood for it:

He had to turn up the charm.

Park Jimin exhaled in a whiny noise, in his attempt to sound pitiful. He loosened his scarf, revealing more of his bare neck as he stepped closer to the officer and gave his best puppy eyes (which he knew to be quite effective in the past).

“Come on, officer,” Jimin whined. “It’s Christmas night. You can spare me just this once, can’t you?”

He caught onto the officer’s faltering at once. “I—I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Jimin was pushing at the policeman’s buttons, he knew it. And at this point, tired and pliant Park Jimin had completely managed to throw his pride away for the sake of not paying for a parking ticket. Plus, the guy ain’t too bad looking… Jimin added as his afterthought. And it was true. As mentioned, the officer was probably around Jimin’s age. He had a fit body and a sharp yet incredibly adorable face, with the largest eyes that resembled the brightest of Christmas lights themselves.

“What’s your name, officer?” Jimin crooned. “You know, so I can address you properly.”

“J-Jungkook,” he responded much too easily.

“Well then, please~ Officer Jungkook? I’ll try to make up for it some other way…” Jimin said as he stepped closer yet again, forcing the policeman to back up against the side of his car with nowhere to go.

The officer cleared his throat. “Just so you know, our police department would never fall for such things,” he said sternly. Jimin’s heart sank in his chest, realizing that his ploy had failed.

“…but I kind of despise them at the moment so, whatever,” the officer finished.

Jimin looked back up in shock, as the officer tore up the ticket he’d been signing and shoved away the remnants into his jacket pocket, defiance glimmering his eyes.

“W-what do you mean?” Jimin asked. “Wait a minute, are you not a real officer?”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I’m in uniform, what else could I possibly be?”

“Well—” Jimin stopped running his eyes over the lines of the officer’s body, deciding to leave that train of thought behind. “Never mind.”

Jungkook scowled, leaning back against Jimin’s car. “Who do they think they are? Forcing me to work on Christmas Day while they all leave early?”

“Leave early?! My people didn’t even show up to work!” Jimin added on, immediately piqued by the conversation topic. “There were three people on our floor in the morning, and then I was left alone, doing their grind work while they’re out partying.”

“Assholes, all of them,” Jungkook grumbled. “Only think about themselves.”

“I know right?!” Jimin scowled defiantly. “Selfish bosses.”

“Don’t even get me started on that,” said Jungkook, eyes wide open as if he was picturing a certain someone in his mind. 

“You know what? Fuck it.” Jimin declared suddenly. “Who cares if there’s only one hour left of Christmas. You know what we should do? We should show them. We’re going to have so much festive fun that they’re gonna wish they never left us behind.”

“Oh man, let’s make them super jealous,” Jungkook replied immediately.

“Come, Jungkook, my new acquaintance,” said Jimin, opening his car doors. “Let’s make this the best Christmas Night ever.”

“So, uh, where are we going?” Jungkook asked dumbly.

“Just sit patiently, officer,” Jimin replied from the driver’s seat, his narrow eyes glinting with focus and determination.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna take me to your ‘big brothers’ just for a parking ticket,” said Jungkook, suddenly lowkey afraid for his life.

Jimin snorted. “What makes you think I would rely on big brothers? I am a big brother.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Jungkook shot back.

“Listen, officer. You got into my car and let me drive,” said Jimin. “So sit still.”

Jungkook squirmed in his seat, not entirely sure what he had gotten himself into. In the fuelled mixture of excitement, desire for revenge and Jimin’s charm, he had forgotten who and where he was. In the heat of the moment, he had gotten into a stranger’s car without inhibition, and only now was he starting to realize that it may not have been the best idea. Not to mention his incomplete quota that he was certainly to get a preaching for later.

Jimin’s voice suddenly penetrated through the silence.

“Do you wanna listen to some Christmas music?” he asked.

Jungkook was stunned. “You have Christmas music readily available? Just like that?”

Jimin grinned, pressing the power button on his radio. “Of course.” The festive, familiar typical Christmas sounding chords resonated throughout the car, and suddenly the mood changed again. Jungkook felt comfortable again, as if the Christmas tunes told him that him that everything would end up alright.

“I’m a bit of a Christmas freak, if you can’t tell,” Jimin smiled.

“Then why were you still at work until now? Shouldn’t have taken the day off to do your Christmas things?” asked Jungkook.

“I had no choice,” Jimin answered, with a slightly salty tone in his voice. “The servers were down at the office and I was the only one who could stay and fix it.”

“Ah, so you’re a corporate slave,” Jungkook murmured understandingly. “That being said, you also seem like the type to get easily pushed around.”

“What?! I am not!” Jimin cried as he used his right hand to punch Jungkook in the shoulder.

“Did you just use violence on an officer?” Jungkook retorted.

“What officer? You’re off duty, aren’t you?” Jimin asked.

“I… I guess so.”

“Good. Then stop complaining and start singing some Christmas music.”

Without another work, Park Jimin cranked the volume up and slammed on the gas, pretending not to hear Jungkook whining about the speed limit.

 10:45 P.M. – Christmas Village

 Jimin wasn’t lying when he said he was all about Christmas.

Before he could even fully register where he was, he found himself dragged by the hand, running through the snow-covered path of a quaint looking Christmas village. It was a beautiful place, and everywhere he looked there were the prettiest, most artistic holiday decorations. Lights of every colour, red, white and gold decorated the snow-covered roofs and windows of every wooden cottage. Deep green pine trees lined the wider streets, tying it all together.

It was nearly midnight at this point, and the only other people still around were couples. They were trying on home-made knitted mittens, sharing cups of piping hot apple cider, feeding each other gingerbread cookies, and taking selfies underneath the giant Christmas tree centrepiece of the entire village.

After a short period of running, Jungkook and Jimin found themselves at the outdoor skating rink.  Jimin asked for Jungkook’s shoe size and rented skates without wasting a breath, saying they had no time to waste. Before he knew it, Jungkook was wobbling as he was dragged onto the ice by an elated Park Jimin, who was clearly living out his Christmas fantasies to the fullest.

And somehow, Jimin looked so happy that Jungkook couldn’t help but smile along with him. 

“You know,” said Jungkook. “I really didn’t expect this from an office zombie like you. I thought you guys were more the type to enjoy getting wasted at some sketchy club at 2 a.m. in the morning.”

“Hmph. Says the stick-in-the-mud police officer giving out parking tickets on Christmas Day,” Jimin retored.

“For the record, I was against that too,” Jungkook defended himself.

“Well? Are you having fun then?” Jimin asked.

Jungkook smirked. “Not until you race me to the other side of the rink.”

He didn’t give Jimin time to catch on, before already accelerating to his full speed. He grinned when he heard Jimin’s high pitched screaming before bolting right after him. He ploughed between several terrified couples and startled a number of others, all with the intention of showing Jimin up.

When he’d reached the other side, he reached out with and outstretched hand and touched the wall before slamming his back against it.

“I win—OOF!”

He felt himself slipping backwards, landing butt-first onto the ice as Jimin collided onto with full force.

Then, like a scene from the most clichéd winter romantic movie, he found that Jimin was lying on top of his chest. They accidentally made eye contact, holding it for several seconds, with Jungkook’s heart thumping extra loud. Jungkook finally took in the image of this stranger he’d just met, a stranger with the cutest, bright red cheeks from the cold, tousled hair from the wind and the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen…

Jimin shuffled on his body, trying to get up, but to no avail.

“Umm…we should…” Jimin was mumbling.

“Uh. Yeah, I—I’m sorry…I’ll…” Jungkook stuttered as she pushed himself off the ice, holding Jimin as they both sat up.

Jungkook spoke first. “Well, that was…”

“Stupid,” Jimin said, glaring at Jungkook.

Jungkook couldn’t help but be slightly amused at Jimin’s annoyed expression—it was a different class of adorable all in its own. He got to his feet and extended his gloved hand to Jimin.

“So, you still wanna go for another round?” Jungkook smiled kindly. He noticed Jimin’s hesitation, as well as his attempt to stay angry at Jungkook. But still, Jimin took Jungkook’s hand, who immediately pulled him to his feet, using a little more force than necessary so that he could feel that slight contact for just another second.

Jimin was surprisingly quiet after that. Obedient almost. Even when Jungkook casually grabbed Jimin’s hand as they skated together around the rink, just like all the couples.

Using the excuse that they were merely bracing each other (despite both being veteran skaters), they continued like that for a while, barely noticing that the minutes were rapidly ticking by.

After putting away their skates, the two wandered together, inseparable, and walking with their shoulders pressed together as they explored the rest of the winter wonderland village together. Jimin couldn’t really tell exactly what is was, but there was something warm about Jungkook, something that made him extremely comfortable to be around, more than anyone he’d ever been with before.

Within their last few minutes, they did everything they possibly could. They shared a cup of delicious, warm hot chocolate, fed each other from a bag of Christmas cookies and giggled together through every Christmas lights display and art exhibit. Several times, Jimin found himself leaning on Jungkook’s shoulder as he keeled over in laughter, and it became eventually clear that he was definitely more than welcome to. Jungkook told corny Christmas jokes. Jimin sang to every single holiday song that was played (to which Jungkook also promptly joined in).

By the end of it, Jimin’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He checked his watch. It was already nearly midnight, which was the park’s closing time. The number of guests around them had dwindled dramatically, and they were practically the only ones left.

Aw…it’s almost time to go.

He stole a quick glance at Jungkook, who’d gotten so much more attractive to him since they’d first met. Sure, he was physically handsome in more than a  few aspects, but after seeing how well they got along and the genuine nature of his personality, he couldn’t help but swoon a little more for the police officer.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jimin suddenly noticed something red that was practically calling out to him.

“Jungkook, wait here for a second,” he said suddenly, rushing ahead of Jungkook.

Startled, Jungkook watched as Jimin ran towards one of the tiny Christmas gift shop shacks next to them. “Jimin? What is it?”

But Jimin was no longer paying attention, as he was busy talking to a stall owner.

“This one please!” Jimin was saying. He handed over some bills before grabbing something the rack, hiding it behind his back so Jungkook couldn’t quite see what it was before running back.

“Jungkook,” Jimin called his name. “Close your eyes.”

Obediently, Jungkook did as he was told.

Soon, he felt something warm wrapped around his neck. Opening his eyes to confirm his suspicious, he saw the deep red cloth with a subtle plaid pattern, the ends of the scarf still clutched within Jimin’s hands.

“As I thought,” Jimin smiled softly. “Red suits you well.”

Maybe it was the adrenaline left over from the skating. Perhaps it was the ideal scenery, as they alone had found themselves standing in front of the giant Christmas tree, its bright lights shining upon them. Maybe it was just a bit too cold outside, and he simply desired the warmth. Maybe it was the touch of kindness from Jimin that he hadn’t felt in so long.

Whatever it was, Jungkook found he had no longer had any resistance.

Abruptly, Jungkook clutched onto Jimin’s hands which were still holding onto his scarf, fixing him into place and startling him slightly. Slowly, Jungkook leaned in, giving Jimin plenty of time to resist or move away should he wish to.

He didn’t.

Closer and closer. Jimin’s lips were inches away from his. So pink, yet parched from the cold. A few more seconds and he would be able to feel the warmth of Park Jimin’s lips on his own in the midst of this cold weather. He felt Jimin’s breath on his lips when he inhaled deeply and braced for impact.

“Ladies and gentlemen! The park will be closing in five minutes!”

The bellowing voice from the loudspeakers caused them to jump apart, reality slamming into them all at once.

“Again, the park will be closing in five minutes. That is, midnight, marking the end of Christmas as well as this year’s Christmas Village. We hope to see you all again next year!”

Jimin had long pulled apart, looking extremely disappointed. The announcement was like the shattering of a delusion. Tomorrow, they would both have to be back at work again, and this would be nothing more than a vivid dream.

The silence that ensued as drove back was much different from the comforting silence they’d had before.

Jungkook was the first to break it.

“So…uh…did you have the Christmas night you wanted?” he dared to ask. In hindsight, it was a foolish question, as he didn’t know what he would if Jimin said no.

The question managed to bring a slight smile to Jimin’s face, much to Jungkook’s relief. “Yeah, I guess it was,” he replied softly. “More than that even.”

“Really?”

Jimin nodded happily. “To be honest, my ideal Christmas would simply be to not to be alone. And it’s kind of cheesy but…for once in my life, I wanted to do the cliché things. I mean, there must be a reason why those things are so popular right?  It’s like, I’ve been caught up with work my entire life that I’ve never truly known what it’s like to have a Christmas drinks with a special friend on Christmas night, or going ice-skating while holding hands with someone or even just…you know, walking through a pretty street with pretty lights together with another person.”

He paused, and turned to beam at Jungkook. “And I think you managed to give me all that and so much more, to be quite honest.”

Jungkook’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. Suddenly, he was in turmoil. After this, he would have to part ways with Jimin. It was to imagine that it might be awhile before they would be able to see each other again, or if Jimin would even allow that in the first place.

For once, just this once, Jungkook wished he could prolong it for just that much longer.

“Do…do you really have to go home now?” Jungkook asked cautiously.

“I’ve got work tomorrow morning bright and early,” replied Jimin. “You’ve done more than enough for me. I should probably let you go now.”

Jungkook was quiet, having heard the reasonable answer. He scratched his mind, trying to find a reasonable counter.

“Wait, Jimin,” he said hurriedly.

“Hmm, what is it?”

Jungkook waited for the car to stop at red light before placing his hand over top of Jimin’s that was rested on the gear shift. And when Jimin turned to look at him, he made sure to maintain the eye contact.

“But I haven’t given you my present yet.”

7:11 A.M. – Seoul Police Headquarters

As expected, Officer Jeon Jungkook got the chewing out he expected to receive. Not only had he not finished his quota with no good reason, he had also abandoned his patrol car in the middle of nowhere and shown up late for work. However, many officers decided to cut him some slack, as a) it was Christmas night and b) most of them were slightly hungover anyway so they couldn’t care any less.

Officer Kim Taehyung came by Jungkook’s desk, slapping a file on his head to declare his entrance.

“What’s with you? Sighing repeatedly like that?” said Taehyung. “Are you that upset over them scolding you? You saw it coming, didn’t you?.”

“Nah, it’s not about that,” Jungkook replied mournfully, much to his friend’s distaste. 

“What? Did some kid steal your pepper spray last night?” Taehyung inquired.

“Why would you ask that?” Jungkook gave his friend a bewildered look “Has that happened to you before or something?”

“Don’t ask.”

Jungkook yawned as he pushed the stack of folders on his desk out of way, fully declaring his lack of motivation to do work. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

Because how could he forget? God knows what time they’d stayed up until. The way Park Jimin had seductively slid his business card into the back pocket of Jungkook’s police uniform pants. Jungkook gulped as he vividly recalled the way Jimin looked sprawled beneath him, clothes undone, in his bed sheets at those same ungodly hours at night.

No other sane, regular man would want to think of anything else and focus on work either.

Suddenly, Jungkook’s phone started ringing. Groaning, he picked it up as Taehyung remained intently watching him.

“Officer Jeon,” said someone on the other end. “Someone is here to visit you. Says he has something of yours.”

Jungkook bolted up in his seat, startling a Kim Taehyung who was just about to drift off rom staring too hard. He ran out to the front lobby expectantly, and there was the sight that managed to relieve all the tension in his body.

As there was Park Jimin, standing there in his giant coat with his pink cheeks and tousled hair, looking just as pretty as Jungkook last remembered.

“Jimin!” he cried out happily as he rushed over. The other man seemed just as relieved to see him.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had work!” Jungkook asked brightly, resisting the urge to lean forwards and peck Jimin on the forehead in front of everyone.

“I’m on lunch break,” Jimin answered. “I came because you forgot something last night.”

Jungkook didn’t know what it was until the flash of red caught his eyes. And then Jimin was wrapping the scarf around his neck again, just as he had the night before. And just as before, Jungkook's heart started fluttering uncontrollably all over again.

“T-thanks,” said Jungkook. “I-I really didn’t mean to forget it.”

“Hmph, what a double standard. You’d never let me live it down if I’d forgotten yours,” Jimin retorted. He cleared his throat, changing the topic abruptly. “Anyways, I gotta go now. I only have thirty minutes. Don’t forget it again. The weather’s still cold outside, so take care of your health.”

Jimin pulled away, before Jungkook called after him. “Wait!” he bellowed, a bit too loudly. “I…I can see you tonight right?”

Jimin turned back, smirking a little. “Sure. Call me.”

And that, he was gone, leaving Jungkook with to stare at the doors with a dazed smile on his face.

“That’s not your scarf.”

Jungkook jumped at the sound of Kim Taehyung’s voice, who, much to his dismay, had been watching the whole scene unfold before him this entire time.

“What are you talking about? It’s mine!” Jungkook yelled defensively, pulling the scarf tighter.

But it was too late for excuses. “Normally people go out and get alcohol on Christmas night,” Taehyung grinned. “But Jeon Jungkook goes out and straight up gets a wife. You got more game than I thought.”

“I-it was an accident!”

“Oh, Jungkook. Of course it was. When do these things ever happen on purpose?”

Jungkook scowled and Taehyung chortled happily, indulging in his friend’s frustration.

“What? So are you two a thing now?” Taehyung prodded.

“Y-yeah, I’d say so,” Jungkook replied.

“You should introduce me sometime,” Taehyung smiled. “He seems cute. And Christmas couples usually last.”

“He’s really busy though,” Jungkook said immediately.

Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “If you’re already this over-protective of him I don’t even wanna know you in another month. Anyways, be happy with your corny love life. And hey, if you ever need any extra spice I’m always here to—”

“No thanks.”

“Gotcha.”

And with that, Taehyung was gone, typing furiously on his phone, probably texting to everyone in the department about Jungkook’s new relationship status.

Jungkook sighed, slumping back to his desk. He pulled the scarf off his neck and draped it gently on the chair behind him. Though he still had a long day ahead of him, the thought that he would be able to see his Christmas beau tonight made it all worth it.

After all, if it weren’t for his job, he might have never bumped into Park Jimin like that. 

Almost as if they were destined to.

Motivated by the image of Park Jimin’s smiling face, Jungkook opened a case file at last, silently counting down the minutes until he would finally be able to see his new lover again.

  merry christmas everyone! ^^

perhaps i'll write about jungkook’s “present” to jimin on a later day. cause uniforms. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) (didn’t this time cause i didn’t wanna ruin the fluffy christmas mood lol_ tbh i feel like i have to continue something for these two characters because i feel like i didn’t do them justice this time.

not gonna lie. this was extremely difficult for me to finish, mostly because I’ve been going through a huge slump recently haha. so it’s short, but sweet I hope. it also somehow managed to follow a similar structure to a lot of the older stories i wrote in terms of plot. regardless, I figured I owed it to you all for not writing in so long, as well as to my favourite holiday ^^

this idea has been lingering in my mind for awhile—the idea of jimin and jungkook being cursed to be stuck on work with their jobs from the Dope MV on Christmas night, followed by all the Christmas cute things you can possibly thing of :3

certainly, it’s not my best work for the reason mentioned above, but i hope i was still able to convey it alright ^^

writing tunes: end game by taylor swift

[enaxii]

(5)

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

once again, please take note of all tags! read chapter 5 on ao3 here and the whole story here

art by my artist, inkytiger!

(no more chapter titles!)

ho҉w ma̵n̵y ti̷m͠es are ͘y̸o͝u g͠onn̡a have͢ ͜to ͟sav͢e̛ ͢m͡ȩ before this̡ ̛i͞ş ̧o҉v͡e͜r͞? 

The mission is a failure.

There’s no way to sugarcoat this truth. Allura vaguely thinks that this is almost as bad as the first time they took Zarkon head on, but then she amends the thought. This is worse than that fight. At least, then, all the Paladins had gotten out of it alive. All of her family had gotten out of it alive.

She remembers Shiro, walking past them like they didn’t exist, out of the room, cradling Keith’s body in his arms.

Allura spends the hours after the mission under the shower, letting the scalding water burn her skin as it rains down upon her, like the judgement she deserves. Whatever blood that got on her is already gone, but Allura can’t help but still feel its stickiness gelling on her skin, sinking its claws into her. All the blood is gone, and her skin is starting to turn pink, but Allura doesn’t move from under that shower. She just stands there, water cascading down around her and steam rising, letting the water judge her for her sins.

There should be a debriefing, but Allura doesn’t need to have a summary of the list of failures the mission is. She feels sick when she realises that with both Shiro and Keith gone now, as the technical owner of the ship, she is next in the line of command. There’s nothing to empty when she retches, and Allura just watches the water trickle into the drains. Lance is still the pilot of the Red Lion, the second-hand man. Allura lets herself be selfish. He can handle this.

Her skin is smarting painfully when she finally steps out of the shower, feeling just that bit guilty for wasting so much water.

It’s fine. There are fewer people for the water to go around to now, anyway.

Nausea bubbles up at the back of her throat again at that thought, and now all Allura wants to do is to get out of here. The air outside the bathroom is a cool relief, but the comfort only makes her skin feel tight, like she doesn’t quite fit in her body. Allura hurries to the bridge, breaking into a run across the castle, feet pounding on the floor. She runs as fast as she can, until her breathing comes heavy and her lungs burn because she can’t get enough air. She runs until her mind blanks and there’s nothing left but the walls that flash by her and the pain in her legs. Allura crashes through the doors of the bridge, and everyone’s staring at her when she doubles over, trying the catch her breath.

They are all staring, and it makes Allura’s skin itch. She wonders if there’s still blood on it somewhere in a distant haze.

“Is anything the matter?”

Lance looks like he has so many things to say, but he remains silent, eyes pained. All he does is take Allura by the hand and led her to her seat. He procures a pouch of water, straw already poked through, and leaves Allura alone to recover.

Too soon, Allura’s mind starts to work again, and she wants to shut it back down. Wants to go for another run forever until her body gives, until her mind is nothing but fragments in the night sky. There are so many things that people want, but not enough shooting stars to grant them. There has never been enough happiness to go around, something that seems to make itself painfully clear in how the Black Paladin’s panel is empty and there’s a space beside Kolivan that no other member fills.

“It’s good of you to join us, Allura.”

Kolivan’s voice isn’t judgemental. Maybe he just sounds tired to everyone else, but Allura hears the current of loss, of understanding underneath, and she knows that he’s gone through this too many times.

She doesn’t have the energy to parse through her feelings, to make a plan, so she nods, lightly, and says nothing.

When the silence grows long enough to become awkward, Lance steps up to take the helm again. He’s fidgeting with the corner of his shirt, and he clears his throat before he starts to speak. The cough is loud in the silent room.

“So, uh,” Lance bites the corner of his lip, “The mission kind of, um, failed.”

Everyone in the room winces for Lance. Somehow, he manages to soldier on.

“We lost both Keith and Shiro, and, uh, a number of Blade members. Our Lions are also pretty depleted right now. Anyone got anything to add?”

Pidge raises her hand, though her gaze is still fixed on her lap.

“We also lost the Black Lion.”

The entire group collectively exhales. The elephant in the room, the lion in the room. No one wants to handle this problem. Without the Black Lion, they can’t form Voltron. It’s eerie how similar this situation is with when Shiro disappeared, so long ago. It’s eerie how similar this situation is with when Keith started pulling away from the group, going with the Blade, so long ago.

(They don’t have a Paladin for the Black Lion now, anyway.)

The silence sits like a dead lion in the room.

Hunk’s question is tentative, small.

“Allura… I know that you aren’t feeling the best right now but is it possible for you to track down the Black Lion? Like you did before?”

“I can try…”

Her voice is scratchy.

She takes her place in the centre of the room and places her hands on the controls.

Find the Black Lion.

There’s a tugging in Allura’s gut, and the star maps expand across the bridge. There is a moment where nothing happens, and she’s about to stop, apologise for failing them again when the tug becomes a yank and the star maps explode into errors. Allura stumbles, and her eyes widen. Red fills the screen, pulsing violently as it eats away at the screen, spreading like a plague.

“What’s going on?!”

“It- The Castle is sensing the Lion everywhere! But how?”

Alarms are wailing, and they sound too similar to the ones in the Galra ships. All at once, they fall silent, and there’s a sinking pit in Allura’s stomach. This is too similar, too similar and she almost expects his screams to start playing over the speakers in the castle-

The star maps fizzle.

A screen opens on its own accord, and it’s the Black Lion.

“Hailing the Castle of Lions. This is Shiro.”

No one speaks for a minute, and then everyone explodes into chatter.

“Shiro!”

“Where are you-”

“You’re okay!-”

Allura stares at the screen, and there’s horror crawling up her throat, tasting foul in her mouth. There’s something so wrong with this.

“That’s not…”

“Everyone, calm down.”

A new voice slides into the audio, familiar yet not, like a wall just a few shades off, a shadow cast where there shouldn’t be, a waterfall that falls up instead of down.

It’s Keith.

The whole room falls silent.

“No. I- I saw him die! I felt his quintessence signature waver a-and go out!”

Allura’s aware she sounds near hysterical now, but she knows what she saw. She knows the blood that pooled under the table. She knows.

Her voice is hoarse.

Kolivan’s gripping the control panel tightly, knuckles turning white.

The whole room falls silent.

Shiro speaks again.

“Princess, we’re nearing the Castle.”

Lower the particle barrier and let us in.

Allura doesn’t know what to do, and everyone’s staring at her. Her voice shakes when she speaks.

“Lower the particle barrier.”

Who are they going to let in? What are they going to let in?

---

The Black Lion heaves into the hangars. The Lion’s moving strangely, almost like she’s the puppet in the story Lance told Allura so long ago -- Pinocchio, something that looked alive but wasn’t truly alive.

The Lion’s jaw drops open. Inside, it’s pitch black, the lights turned off — they can’t see inside the Lion. Everyone collectively holds their breath, and there’s a terrible precognition that’s hovering over all of them.

Two shadows appear at the mouth of the Lion. When they step down, they’re smiling, smiling like there’s nothing wrong.

Keith looks like a zombie . Cuts and bruises still litter his body, his hair stringy and bleached white. The hole where his eye should be still gapes and there’s a cruel slash across his throat that’s scarred over like a hastily done heal job. Just looking at Keith is painful.

Allura tears her eyes away to assess the other passenger. At first glance, Shiro looks perfectly fine, but the longer she stares, the more off he seems. It’s then that Allura realises that his irises are yellow , and there are no pupils. Just like the Galra.

The come to a stop in front of the rest of the Paladins. None of the Blades followed them down.

Allura forces a smile.

“Shiro, Keith. It’s…”

She searches for words that dangle at the tip of her tongue.

“We’re glad you’re okay. You guys are probably tired, uh, we have the healing pods prepped if you need them?”

Lance’s picks up after her, and she’s never been any more grateful for him. The tension in the room is like a rubber band that’s been stretched too thin. Every word is a minefield — say one thing wrong and everyone’s going to be blown up into pieces.

They shake their head as one, completely in sync, and Allura feels her smile shutter.

“We’re fine.”

“We just need some rest.”

“In our rooms.”

One after the other, pitter patter like rain falling. It’s like they know what the other is about to say.

“R-right, we’ll leave the two of you to it, then. Just, um, give us a shout if you need anything.”

Keith’s probably trying to smile, but it just looks like gum and teeth that’s been moulded into a crescent shape. It’s about as reassuring as staring down the mouth of a snarling wolf.

The Paladins part ways like the red sea, and Shiro and Keith pass through. They disappear through the doors of the hangars and out of sight. They take with them such an oppressive atmosphere that the moment they leave, Allura feels less like she’s stuck underneath the bottom of the ocean, suffocating, and more like there’s a whole building that rests on top of her shoulders.

“Did you see that? Keith? Shiro’s eyes?”

No one answers Hunk’s questions, and silence takes its hold.

The Blades leave soon after, leaving seven people in a castle made for thousands. It has never bothered Allura before, but now she feels like she’s playing cat and mouse in her own castle. How easy it would be for a mouse to disappear into the empty hallways of the Castle. Every corner she turns is a loaded step, like Allura is waiting for the cat to spring out from behind and tear her apart.

All of the Paladins are touchy around Keith and Shiro. No one is willing to interact, but that fact doesn’t seem to bother the duo. They’re perfectly content in their own little bubble and don’t seem to mind the fact that their team is treating them with a pair of ten feet long tongs.

The tension gets to everyone, and their performance in training suffers from that. Emotions run high, and with everyone constantly locked into fight or flight mode, there are bound to be unintentional injuries. But the worst, they find, is when they fight Shiro or Keith. Where one of them is, the other is always close by. During sparring, the other would prowl the edges of the mats, eyes glinting as the cat stalks down its prey.

Most of the time, it doesn’t matter. Both of them move insanely fast, fight too hard. The match is over in mere seconds.

Most of the time, it didn’t matter. The one time it matters, the only time it matters, is when Hunk somehow manages to fire a shot that grazes the side of Shiro’s arm. Keith is on Hunk in an instant, all teeth and claws, all sharp nails that aim to kill.

They barely manage to pull Keith off, even as Hunk lies in shreds. Shiro and Keith slip off on their own as the rest of the Paladins struggle to get Hunk to the medical bay.

It takes two full quintants for the cryopod to heal him.

The savagery at which they fall at the training bots is disturbing. No holds barred, it’s all out. Wires and parts scattered across the training deck, decapitated heads like marbles upon the floor and ripped up spines dangling across the light fixtures. The parts are programmed to disappear on its own -- the training bots are just solid holograms -- but somehow, they stay on. Pidge goes through each individual system ten times to find out what’s wrong, but the only error she can find is that technically, the bots are still active . Somehow, even though they’re in pieces, the Castle thinks that the programming is still engaged, like something is keeping it alive .

Pidge isn’t able to disable it.

Their only solution is to dispose of the robotic parts. Once it is far enough away from the castle, the bots will automatically lose its connection to the Castle and dissipate. They have to do this so many times that the idea of disabling the training bots altogether is discussed and goes through.

It doesn’t matter.

The robotic parts still come back, but now, every time the Castle touches down on a planet, the parts start leaking blood instead. Locals keep disappearing, and pretty soon the Castle stops landing on planets at all. Even then, it’s like someone has acquired a taste for gore because the blood doesn’t stop flowing. Lance vows that he once saw a body dangling in the training deck in place of a punching bag, but when they go back the next morning, there’s nothing there.

Coran refuses to clean the Black Lion’s hangar anymore.

“There’s sometime wrong with it. Every time I enter, it’s like a thousand ghosts are staring at my back. The air always smells strange, and I keep feeling like there are bodies that are piling on top of me. And-”

He pauses, and his eyes dart around.

“ The Black Lion feels like a dead body in the middle of the room. It’s so cold there and I keep feeling like I’m in a morgue.”

The lights flicker overhead. Allura swears that the temperature drops by a few degrees, swears that she sees ice creep along the side of the wall. She blinks, and everything’s back to normal, but Coran is gone.

No one sees him around for hours, and by then, they’re sending search parties out in pairs.

Pidge and Hunk find Coran inside a box in the Black Lion’s hangar, barely breathing and freezing cold. Shiro and Keith are strangely missing the entire time this goes down.

Allura sets up a watch in the medical bay as Coran recovers. Everyone must travel in pairs. No one speaks of Shiro and Keith.

They’re like ghosts in the Castle, always showing up where no one expects them to be. Making out in the corner around the Yellow Lion’s hangars, staring blankly out into space at the window in the archive rooms, sitting stock still, together, always together, at the dining table at three in the morning.

Everyone must travel in pairs.

Things start disappearing, things start showing up where they shouldn’t be, the whole issue with the bots, and Allura starts feeling exactly like the time Alfor’s ghost haunted the Castle’s walls.

It takes another week before everyone cracks. They hold a meeting and the vote is unanimous. Something needs to be done before an entire planet’s population disappears, before they disappear and the universe is left undefended.

Something needs to be done before they all go insane.

Everyone is gathered in the same room, and Shiro and Keith are the live grenades that sit on the table in front of them, that sit on the couch with them.

Hunk starts.

“So, um, Keith, Shiro. We’ve been discussing about uh, some problems we’ve been having in the Castle.”

Keith doesn’t blink.

“Blood’s been appearing in our training equipment. And people’s been disappearing.”

Shiro’s gaze is empty.

“We’ve all thought about it, and we think that the both of you are behind it.”

No one breathes.

Shiro rises slowly, a smile that sits crooked breaking across his face.

“Why would you think that?”

His words are slow, all just empty concern, a psychiatric doctor talking to his inmates in an asylum, a cat to a mouse.

“W-well, it all just makes sense . Every time the bloody robots show up in the training deck, the Black Lion’s always recorded to have left the hangar, every time we get close to you guys, strange shit’s been happening, and-”

Allura cuts off Hunk’s rambling.

“The two of you haven’t been acting like yourselves. Not since you guys came back from the mission to retrieve Keith.”

Her hand is shaking.

“Keith died . He shouldn’t be here.”

They all stare at the grenade in the room, mere seconds from exploding.

Keith stands up next to Shiro. All gums and sharp teeth, mouth twisted to a convoluted shape. He’s smiling.

Shiro’s still smiling.

“Darling, looks like they don’t want us here anymore.”

“Such a pity.”

“We can’t force them to let us stay here.”

“No, we’ll have to find another home.”

Allura sees the glint of metal in Keith’s hand.

It’s all over before she can even shout a warning. The blunt side of Keith’s knife slams into the back of her head, and Allura’s down.

Her vision is hazy, blobs of red and black that sway just out of reach.

“We don’t have anything against you guys, of course. You were just in our way. Don’t worry.”

“We’ll move on, then. Just stay out of our business and I assure you, we won’t bother any of you.”

Can’t move her body. Limbs are so heavy.

Everything slips through her fingers, and into darkness.

---

There’s a throbbing in her head when she wakes. Allura is still sprawled across the floor, just like the others. Around her, the others are waking up with groans, rubbing their temples.

“What happened…?”

Allura slowly gets to her feet, leaning into the couch. Her ears are ringing, and the room is spinning in lazy circles. It’s bad — she probably has a concussion.

“Is everyone alright?”

A few grumbled affirmatives, and then the fog on her brain suddenly lifts.

Allura’s head pounds in protest as she jerks her head up, panic clearing her confusion.

“Keith- Shiro- I think they took the Black Lion!”

“Oh, no. ”

They all race to the hangars, but Allura already senses the answers before they see it.

The Black Lion is gone.

The rest of the day is a haze, half a varga in the cryopods for the concussion, half a varga to look after everyone else, then vargas used calling the Blades. What can be said is said over the transmission, and Kolivan promises to come down as soon as he is able to.

And he does, vargas after. He comes with the news that something has been slowly chipping away bits of the empire’s defence, attacking different parts of the Galra empire, mostly strategic military locations for the Galra but interspaced with planets of completely innocent people. He comes with the news that eyewitness reports have stated that the mysterious entity is black, huge, and looks suspiciously like the Black Voltron Lion.

The red bayard is missing with the black bayard, and they settle the issue of weapons for Lance. All he is left with is a sword, and no matter what they try, none of them quite seem to fit right.

Someone else usually wields the sword, after all.

Vargas after, and sleep.

Allura can’t sleep. She hasn’t been able to sleep easily for a long time now, and tonight it eludes her especially so. Tossing in bed makes the springs creak, and she can hear the mice grumbling in their baskets at the noise.

The room is silent. She doesn’t hear the mice. There are chills that dance lightly across her spine, a lump Allura can’t swallow. Slowly, slowly, she gets off the bed, and the springs don’t creak. She’s alone in her room, but still she tiptoes over to her dresser, like she’s walking around the outside of an open lion’s enclosure. Allura doesn’t know where’s the lion, and every step she takes feels like it’ll rattle the bars of the cage and the lion will descend upon her.

She tiptoes over to the dresser, and to the basket where the mice sleep. Or at least, where they should be sleeping. A final gift, mocking in the present box, just as there is nothing in the basket, and she already knows where they’ve gone.

Allura doesn’t try to sleep for the rest of the night, and spends it curled at the head of the bed.

The next morning, she’s the ghost that drifts out of the bed, lost in the Castle as she drifts from task to task. The other Paladins manage to get enough out of her to put together the story, and there’s a fury that brews under the surface now. No holds barred, and blood has stopped appearing in the training room, bodies stop appearing, and the Black Lion’s gone. The crackling energy of quintessence is gone. Their fear has crystallised into a hard ball of determination, and everyone is putting in all their effort to train.

Reports are trickling through the cracks of the empire now, through the coalition, that the empire is crumbling. The attacker is striking at every chink in the armour, a quick flash that has the Galra on their knees. It’s terrifying, because they know who is responsible.

It’s hard to think that the same couple who’s responsible for the mass killings and genocides is the same as the two who couldn’t walk straight around each other just less than a deca-phoeb ago, the same couple who fell to pieces next to each other in the training room, all blushes and awkward eye contact. Now, only blood and war mark their path.

The empire falls apart, and Zarkon’s central command is attacked. Somehow, a recording of the battle is streamed onto every screen in the universe. In all honesty, it’s less like a fight than a game of hide-and-seek, a game that Zarkon loses in spurts of blood filled taunts. When the Galra emperor teethers and collapses at last, it is only then that the Black Lion lands, raising a cloud of dust that covers Zarkon’s body.

The whole universe cowers and holds their breath when the jaws open, and there’s so much deja vu as two shadows appear in the Lion’s mouth.

They’re holding hands, and with each step they take down the hatch, each step Allura’s heart plummets. They come to a stop at the foot of Zarkon’s body, a once mighty emperor, now felled at their feet.

As one, Shiro and Keith stare into the lens. Their gaze freezes and scorches, an empty jar that overflows, that makes Allura feel like she’s being torn from inside out.

“Your emperor is dead and we will take the reins. We will bring the universe to heights never seen before. If anyone tries to question our rule…”

Shiro hefts up Zarkon’s body by the collar, unforgiving in his grip. The red bayard shines in Keith’s hand, and it lengthens into a sword.

“Let this be a warning.”

Keith raises the sword, a purple blade to the backdrop of the purple skies, stars that shine weakly in space. There are no shooting stars to make a wish on.

He slices off Zarkon’s head. The whole thing is much more simple than it should be, Zarkon’s head toppling off his shoulders and falling onto the ground, disappearing soundlessly even as his headless body spurts blood into space.

It splatters onto their helmets, a stark dark red that covers the visor. The entire body folds in on itself, crumpled and small, and the whole universe is forced to watch Zarkon’s humiliating end.

Allura feels like she should feel some form of happiness that Zarkon was dead, Zarkon, who destroyed her planet and her people and her family , Zarkon, who destroyed the lives of so many people across the galaxies, across ten thousand years, but all she can feel is the horror that’s wrapped her in its constricting embrace. It tightens around her ribs, squeezing out her lungs, collapsing her legs, and the video ends.

The savagery does not.

It takes a little over one quintant to trap Haggar, and she goes in the exact same way Zarkon does, a game of hide-and-seek through a dead Galra city, bodies decorating the streets as she runs from an invisible enemy.

Haggar is vaporised by the Black Lion’s beam, her screams ringing in the bridge even after the video ends.

---

The developments over the next few days are watched carefully by the rebels -- Blades, Voltron, the Voltron Coalition. If there is any way to salvage the situation, to get through to Shiro and Keith, this would be the best position the resistance has ever been in, regardless of how they got there.

None of the Paladins are particularly keen to visit Shiro or Keith after everything that’s happened, everything that they’ve seen on the screens. Shiro and Keith are really doing all they can to squash any resistance to their takeover.

Nonetheless, as defenders of the universe, no one has any very vocal objections and oblige the Coalition’s request to visit the new Central Command.

Purple decorates the halls of the ship, banners still tattered and ripped in their holdings. The Paladins follow a Galra sentry through the ship, and they don’t run into anyone as they traverse the massive ship, just rows on rows of empty hallways and silent doors. Their shuffling footsteps are the only sounds that echo in the rooms, uncertain and out of their element.

None of the Paladins belong here, and the whole universe knows it.

The colossal doors open into a painfully majestic throne room, terrible in all of its glory. The way Shiro and Keith are dressed makes Allura choke on how wrong this all is. Their armour is splashed with violent indigos and reds, blacks and blues, the Voltron armour taken and twisted into something terrible, the very idea of a Paladin, someone of honour, justice, courage, corrupted until they’ve become the very antithesis of a Paladin, until only the end justifies the means remain.

Allura chokes, on her words and her feelings, and nothing goes right when she starts screaming at them about all the lives that have been lost, about all the terrible things they have done, about how they are no better than Zarkon is, now. Something in their faces twists at the very last sentence, all in sync, always in sync, hands tightening around each other, and the Paladins are thrown out of Central Command.

No one speaks on the flight back to the Castle, and Allura wallows in her hate, alone. Hate at the Galra, hate at herself, the beginnings of something unspeakable towards Shiro and Keith. Even then, afterwards, Lance catches her by the arm and there’s an unreadable emotion in his eyes. He tells her that no one blames her for ruining their only chance at negotiation, and his eyes are wet when he speaks.

Strangely enough, during raids conducted by the new emperors of the Galra empire, they always steer clear of bases that belong to the Voltron Coalition. Some say that it’s an act of goodwill, some say that Shiro and Keith are scared of them, some say that they simply see no interest in taking over areas already controlled by the Coalition.

In the end, they are all rumours.

Any rebellion is squashed, and then the empire’s attention turns towards the Coalition.

Base after base, whole populations after populations, millions of casualties that mark planets in a sea of red.

There no prisoners, no slaves. It’s just a massacre .

The Coalition falls apart, and there is no other option. Shiro and Keith have to be taken down now or there will be no one left to stop them.

What’s left of the Coalition meets, and what’s left of the Coalition agrees. This is going to be their last fight, one way or another. They send out as many fighters as they are able to afford, and together with Voltron, plunge into enemy territory.

The fighting lacks the usual colourful communications that fly over the systems. No one speaks except when necessary, tense remarks to watch your left or fighters at six o’clock .

Voltron does significantly better than the Coalition and Marmoran fighters. Slowly, layer after layer of rebel fighters is stripped away, blown to cosmic dust in a trail of death that follows Voltron.

The deeper they get into the empire, the worse everything becomes. It almost feels like the universe is falling into decay, something eating at the seams of existence. The silence that festers in Central Command has infected whole galaxies, leaving behind empty cities as bodies rot in the heat of the unforgiving stars.

The closer they get to Central Command, the worse everything becomes. Now, only ghosts inhabit once bustling planets, lively trade routes. On an uneasy trip to a possible truce just movements ago, the routes were still active. Now, only battlecruisers and Galra fighters wait for them, civilian ships scattered around them, pink snow on the ground.

The fights take something more than physical out of Allura, and out of all the fighters that remain. Not a single one of them sleep easily, and the few time Allura manages to dream, it’s always of the screams as her planet dies, always of the screams as her family, then and now, dies, always the silence in the cities that have been decimated, the lone cry of a child in the distance longing for her father.

They can’t form Voltron without the Black Lion, and each fight takes too much when they already have too little. The group tries their best, but it’s only a matter of time until only Voltron is left.

Watch your left .

Fighters at six o’clock .

They reach Central Command, and Allura feels the most tired she ever has felt since waking from her ten-thousand-year-long sleep.

---

The Lions crash and burn.

Four Lions against one, four Paladins against two. The winner should have been decided from the start. But Black blinks around the fighting field, too fast for Red to catch, too strong for Green to repel, and they can’t form Voltron.

The loss hits Allura hard, and they finally know how much everyone has relied on Voltron to save the day. They’re supposed to be the most powerful weapon in the universe, but how are they supposed to save the world when they’re fighting amongst each other?

The loss hits Allura hard, and so does the fear that strikes her, deep and guttural, when Black’s beam hits Green one time too many and the light in her eyes splutter and die.

The Green Lion falls, and doesn’t get up.

They can’t reach Pidge over their comms, and her silence is telling enough. It’s rage that fuels their movements, lasers blazing as destruction dots the wreckage that’s already around them, wreckage that used to be the outer ring of Central Command. It’s rage that costs them dearly, and Allura can’t think straight anymore when she gathers everything she has to fire what she’s so certain will be the killing shot.

The Black Lion blinks out of existence, and she hits the Yellow Lion.

She doesn’t even yell, stalling in the middle of the battle as she watches Yellow plummet, a puppet with its strings cut, Pinocchio as he dies.

Her hands shake, but there are no tears, no time for tears when Black comes crashing into Blue like Yellow crashes into the surface of Central Command. There’s a battle to fight, to win because they can’t afford to lose.

Now it’s two on two, Allura and Lance against Shiro and Keith, weaving a dance of ruins and plasma that burns too close for comfort. Keith always laughs, Shiro always taunts, and each word they exchange stabs Allura in her heart when she remembers their lilting tone, how they used to sound, how they used to be . Eventually, they take the fight to the ground, Lions spent and discarded on their sides. There’s nothing left to lose, anyway.

The way Shiro and Keith fight, always in sync, always together, is something that’s beautiful and terrible, like Medusa gazing upon them and turning them to stone.

It’s a fight they’re supposed to win, but the world is never fair, and the universe never has enough shooting stars to grant the correct wishes, and it’s a fight that they lose.

Keith strikes Lance down, red bayard through the chest in the cruellest irony, and he heaves up blood that splatters on the inside of his helmet.

“Sorry... Al...lura…”

Her mouth forms his name, words tearing out of her throat and her eyes wide with horror.

She remembers Altea’s death as Lance slowly slides to his knees,

-- bright explosions that rock the floor beneath her, and her world lay in dust, not even rubble left to mourn --

and tumbles like a ragdoll to the ground.

She remembers soft flowers and her father’s fingers as they tickled her chin-

She remembers a food fight and the loud laughter afterwards, finally working together-

She remembers a warm hug from her father and her mother and-

She remembers a warm hug from her new family, from Coran and Pidge and Hunk and Lance and Shiro and Keith-

Allura remembers, blurry images that snatch across her vision, and then she doesn’t remember at all, memories scattering like the petals that drift in the wind in her dreams.

(A sword protrudes from her back. Dust whispers across the ruins, afraid to disturb the scene.

Two shadows walk away, one black, one red, hand in hand until they become one in the distance.)

[weirdlydarkthots]

Do you ever feel suffocated by your own life even though you are surrounded by wealth and "happiness" yet it feels empty somehow? I sometimes for a moment want to escape just to take in some different air. Because my life feels suffocating and I know how many people would die to have my life. I am not blind to it but I do not know how to explain it how it feels. For a moment there you think you have let go of all your baggage but someone knew comes in hand you extra stuff to deal with. I genuinely hate humans and their audacity and their self centred tendencies and I know I am like that to. I swear I can't emphasis on the fact how I don't want to think about certain things and want to pretend like they never happened because if that's the case then I will be left with nothing but just ke processing useless information that I have no use of other than the fact that I am not supposed to pull such shit again which I know I will because I love repeating cycles.

The fact I know they can haunt you even when you grow old seeing how my mom still reacts and how she speaks all her trauma drips out of her tongue that's the only way to explain it.

I sometimes forget how to breath and that's the weirdest part. I stop breathing knowingly because even breathing sometimes gets tiring. I really do not want to live like this. I genuinely do not want to live in such a way that anybody who doesn't even know me comes in and hurts me knowingly for no reason at all. Just because they were hurt by someone else. Like I am not already dealing with things of my own that I have been running away from. The fact I keep writing them just in hopes one day they will stop haunting me and disappear.

But then hear one song and memories hit you that you had long forgotten. And then you are sitting there crying for no actual reason and hiding the fact you are crying because you know you shouldn't be crying. Crying is not right when you are surrounded by such good things. I wish one day I will be able to just live in the moment without feeling hurt and I know for a fact I have become very sensitive over time I can no longer take hurt because all I am in search for a few moments of happiness and few normal days when I am fine and it doesn't feel off.

Nothing feels right and flashbacks keep coming back as if though to tell me that you are not worthy when I know it's all wrong and my mind playing tricks on me.

I hope one day I will not have to pretend to be fine and actually will feel fine. I hope one day I heal because I feel pukish thinking about certain things they make me feel sick to my stomach and I do not what else to do other than somehow I disappear into thin air.

All I am ever stuck is with one question: Why me?

It's as if though everybody follows this one rule the moment this woman tries to be less lonely she will meet people who will treat her less than how a human should be treated. Why do people just come into my life abuse me and leave like I somehow deserved it?

[dreamingofpair-o-dice]

This was it; on the other side of that door is the most important person in my life. Katsuki thought to himself as he ran his hands along the sides of his slacks.

 This moment was more important to him than when he got into UA, more important than when he graduated, and even more important than the day he was announced the #2 Hero!

His hands were sweating profusely, and he couldn’t risk blowing up anything in this room; there was too much at stake. Try as he might to get rid of the dangerous sweat, it continued to build up.

 Breathe! He demanded of himself, forcing the air into his lungs in a slow and sputtering pattern. The pale blue tie he was wearing suddenly felt like it was choking him. He reached up to loosen it a bit, wanting nothing more than to just rip it from his neck. However, he couldn’t remove the contraption. He’d been instructed to wear it, and the glare he’d received when he protested earlier had quickly put him in his place.

 “Why did I wear this stupid thing?” He said, struggling with the tight knot, finally giving up. Obviously he knew why he’d worn it, but complaining about it somehow made the suffocating feeling less intense.

 A pair of scarred hands replaced his, slightly undoing the Windsor knot to allow Katsuki to breathe, “Because it makes your eyes pop!” the man facing him said with a cheeky grin plastered across his face. “Hold still, let me fix it.” He continued.

“It’s not like she’s going to notice if I’m not wearing it, can I just take it off?” He really didn’t want to wear the stupid tie, “Please?”

The look on Izuku’s face was all he needed to drop the subject, allowing him to fix the silk around his neck. He noticed that Deku was just as nervous as he was; he noticed the small tremble in his hands and how tight his shoulders looked.

If his noose will help him calm down… Katsuki thought, mentally promising that he would drop all complaints about the tie.

 Once his tie was back in place, minus the choking effect, Katsuki rested his hands on Izuku’s shoulders. In any other situation he would have heated up his hands just enough so allow the warmth to soothe Izuku’s muscles. However, this wasn’t the time for such actions, and he hoped that his touch was reassuring enough.

 “I can tell you’re nervous Kacchan,” Izuku said, his eyes had settled on a spot on the floor between their feet, “This is really sudden, I didn’t think it would happen this fast… Are you ready for this? Am I ready for this? Are we ready for this? Will we even know what to do? What if….. Or I….. What about…..”

Katsuki let Izuku’s continuous mumbling fill the room, he didn’t want to interrupt him. Honestly, it was easing his anxiousness a bit too.

 Frantically, Izuku’s head snapped up, “You’re not getting cold feet are you Kacchan?” Izuku’s eyes looked terrified.

 Like hell I’m getting cold feet! He thought, accompanied by an obnoxious eye roll,  “Of course not! We didn’t catch that last minute red eye, and fly all the way the America just to turn back now!”

 Izuku laughed, relief relaxing the muscles of his face that had been twisted by nerves, “Okay, you’re right. We can do this!” He still sounded like he was trying to convince himself; grabbing the other’s hand, he interlaced their fingers together.

“We got this!” Katsuki echoed back, adding a light squeeze to Izuku’s hand.

 Suddenly the door in front of the two men opened, and an overly excited middle-aged woman stood before them. When neither man made any attempt to enter the room on their own, her arms started flapping wildly, trying to usher them into the much smaller area.

There were no windows inside the new room, but the bright florescent lights above them offered enough light to make them squint a bit. It’s harshness radiated off the yellow wallpaper, and brought attention to the wall decals that speckled the room – animals, cartoons, and block letter ABC’s suggested this room was normally used for younger children.

 As soon as he had entered the room his nerves instantly calmed. Despite the bright colours and obnoxious lighting, there was an aura about the room, and he thought that he couldn’t be anxious even if he wanted to. Izuku seemed to feel it too, his normal ticks had settled; his voice steady and calm as he introduced them to the two women now sitting at the table in the centre of the room.

He could just be holding it together for my sake, Katsuki noted as he followed Izuku further into the room. He held out his arm to shake the younger woman’s hand, forgetting to wipe his hand off before they made contact.

 “Hello, I’m Poppy Fantoche.” The girl said, not showing that she’d noticed Katsuki’s overly sweaty hand. Her smile was wide and toothy as she moved on to shaking Izuku’s hand. “I’m so glad the two of you were able to come all this way on such short notice. I thank you for meeting me in person as well…”

The two men could tell how nervous she was, her smile couldn’t hide the tremble in her voice, or the way her eyes darted back and forth between the two of them.

 Poppy was only 16, but she stood tall and strong. Izuku had seen pictures of her before, but standing in front of them now, she looked much prettier; without any make up on, her features looked soft and delicate, but her eyes held a fierceness that he recognized as heroic. He quickly wondered what her quirk was, but this was neither the time nor the place to ask.

She played with the plastic medical band around her wrist for a few moments, then realized that she had been standing still for much too long without saying anything, and now she felt her confidence failing her.

“Um…” She started, “Daniel says he wishes he could have been here to meet you guys too…” strands of hair have fallen from her messy blonde pony tale, and she nervously tucks them behind her ears. “Honestly, I think this it would have been too hard for him to be here.”

 Izuku had seen pictures of Daniel as well. He was the same age as Poppy, but he looked so much older; tall and strong, with jet black hair that was cropped into a military style. It surprised him that Poppy would be the emotionally strong one, out of the two.

He wanted to know more about Daniel, more about Poppy as well, but they had been warned about getting close to them – It makes things like this harder for everyone, especially them because they are young, he heard the words echo through his mind.

 Poppy suddenly felt very cold, and she wrapped the hospital gown tightly around her before speaking, “I…” she held herself around her middle, trying to hold herself together as she spoke, “I guess I should get on with it…”

 She turned and walked to the back of the room, and towards a crib they hadn’t even noticed before now. Poppy takes her time, and it looks elegant the way she is lifting the baby from it’s crib. Izuku can see her mouth moving, but he isn’t able to hear what she is saying. Eventually, she returns to them with an arm full of pink blankets, and her eyes slightly red.

 Poppy hesitates in front of Katsuki, his arms already positioned to hold the newborn, and nuzzles her face into the blanket one last time, “Goodbye little one.” She can’t help but sway her hips and bounce a little as she speaks, her motherly instincts reaching out and taking control of her body. “These nice men are going to be your new Daddies,” she continues, “and they are going keep you safe and happy, and make sure that you are always loved!”

Izuku can’t help but nod along with all the things she is saying.

 Then Poppy passes the little one to Katsuki. She feels both light and heavy at the same time; like a weight has been lifted off of her shoulders, but then placed on her heart instead. I am making the right decision, the look on the faces of Katsuki and Izuku do a good job of confirming her thoughts.

  Katsuki let’s out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, “She’s so perfect…” his voice was a whisper. Tears build in his eyes, but he didn’t attempt to stop them as they slowly rolled down his cheeks.

There was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow; it almost felt like his tie was choking him again, but he knew it was something entirely different. Too many emotions were flowing through him, and they were all getting stuck as the base of his throat.

“You are so much more important…” Katsuki’s manages to get out, and his voice was so dreamy, and gentle, that he hardly recognized it himself.

 This tiny creature had mesmerized him; he’s only pulled out of his own thoughts about cuteness, delicateness, and preciousness when Izuku places a hand against his lower back and rests his head on his right shoulder.

 Izuku had never seen anything more breathtaking in his life, the love of his life, holding their child in his arms for the first time. The way he held her conveyed all his feelings: pride, joy, and love, all wrapped up in the way he looked at the child he held so tenderly in his arms.

He’d only seen that look on Kacchan’s face once before; it was the moment he’d walked through the doors of the old church near where they grew up. With Inko wrapped tightly around his left arm, he walked down the isle towards his Kacchan.

Being Izuku, he only saw Katsuki’s face briefly before his tears started flowing down his own face, blurring his vision. But he’d had never forgotten how his face radiated with pride and happiness in that moment.

Seeing that look again warmed Izuku’s heart, even more so now that it was directed at their child – their future.

 “Do you want to hold her?”

 Izuku nods against his arm, and immediately his arms are in position to accept the bundle. Kacchan is being so careful as he shifts his hold on the baby, getting ready to pass her to him, and it makes Izuku’s smile grow.

Once he had her, it was instinctual the way his arms molded around her, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world when he leaned down and placed his lips to the crown of her head.

When he drew back, the small child looked up at him and he wondered if she would start crying, but for some reason he knew that she wouldn’t. He held her small body closer to him, and placed another kiss to the child’s forehead. Her skin was so soft against his lips, and his nose was filled with the unmistakable scent of “baby.”

 “I’ve known you for two minutes, and you’ve already stolen my heart…” the words fell from his lips without his brain registering them.

Katsuki finally reached out to Izuku, a hand wiping tears from his cheeks that he hadn’t known were tumbling down his face.

 For a moment, they forget about the two women standing a few feet away from them. For a moment, they are the only three people in the entire world; they are in their bubble of pure bliss, and they shared a kiss.

“I’m so happy!” Katsuki said against his lover’s lips, “I am so happy.”

 They took a few more seconds to indulge themselves before they returned their attention back to the women in front of them.

There were a few matters that needed to be taken care of, so Izuku passed the child back to Katsuki. There were papers that needed to be signed, some required by the adoption agent, and some required by the hospital.

 A short while later, everything had been signed and dated. The agent reached her hand out to Izuku, a proud smile on her face and said “Congratulations, you two are officially parents!”  

Izuku gladly took her hand, and shook it vigorously – his excitement now uncontainable.

 Poppy quietly spoke through the congratulations, “The bag on the table has some things for her; some bottles, a pacifier, and a few blankets. The nurses kept giving me stuff for the baby… they didn’t know.”

She brushed away a few tears before continuing, “You can take them, or leave them, it’s up to you.”

  “Thank you!” Izuku said, pulling Poppy into a gentle hug, tears fallings to her shoes as she tried to quickly gather herself.

She pulled away, starting to apologize to Izuku for her tears, but his reassuring hands on her shoulders made her stop.

“Poppy…” He looked back at Katsuki and the child before continuing; “With this great sacrifice, you are giving us the most wonderful gift in the entire world. We will never be able to thank you enough, but thank you!”

Izuku retracted his hands, took a step back, and bowed to Poppy. He didn’t know if she understood the significance or the weight held behind the gesture, but it was important to him to express his gratitude as much as possible to the young girl.

  Then, with a click of her tongue, the adoption agent signaled to Poppy that it was time to leave. So she quickly made her way to Katsuki to say one final goodbye.

She gently caressed the child’s head, not trusting herself to ask to hold her again, but said a few words that only Katsuki could hear: “You are going to be so loved little one… I hope one day you forgive me,” and after a chaste kiss on the cheek, and a gentle squeeze of the hand, she had made her way to the doorway.  

 “Before I leave, can I ask you both one question?” Poppy’s tears had stopped momentarily, and she looked upon the couple with hope. Hope that once they answered her question, she would be okay to move on, knowing she was doing the right thing. At least that’s what she told herself would happen.

 After they had both nodded their approval, she asked, “What’s her name?”

 “Kazuko” Kacchan replied quickly. He thought for a moment before continuing, “It means ‘peaceful child.’” He hoped he had given her what she needed.

 A small laugh escaped her mouth, a smile forming even though new tears were again falling, “How fitting,” and with that she was gone.

 Katsuki can feel Izuku wrap his arms around his waist, but can’t tare his eyes away from his daughter; her eyes are closed again, and her tiny face has wrinkled all its features together. He really has never seen something so perfectly beautiful in all his life.

 “Kazuko… I love you.”

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Doing the Write Thing #49 after figuring out what the heck the problem was

**I wrote this blog post last night while falling asleep, and as I state at the end, decided to wait to post it until today so not to embarrass myself because exhausted Rachel can’t sentence, so just keep that in mind**

So tonight’s writing session is interesting because I could totally end the book right here but also I’m sort of mid a Lonan Clark Interrogation (TM) scene and that would cause an interesting start for a book six that totally isn’t going to happen. Psh.

(por queeeeeeeeee)

I’m sitting on this one.

SO if you’ve been keeping up with these DtWT posts, you’d definitely know that I’ve been in such a weird slump of all slumps that’s not entirely writer’s block, but not entirely straight boredom, and more an icky middle in which everything is just awful and writing = hello migraine.

Well I figured out why!

If you’ve been following me since I started this blog in 2015 (honestly is anyone here from then, if so hellooooooooooooo even tho I'm pretty sure I was the only one who was reading my own posts in basically all of 2015 looool), but anyway. If you’ve been here since then, you’ve witnessed my Am I A Pantser Or Nahhhhh phase, of which I’m INCREDIBLY passionate about Pantsing. In recent days, I’ve found a middle between outlining and pantsing (except I’m also not a plantser), and blah, blah, the struggle is real, which label do I identify with etc etc.

WELL I feel as if I’ve sort of solidly figured that out

Here’s some insight on the chapter I’ve been writing for the past 3 weeks of my life (which is way too long and much too slow for my pace because I’m a GOGOGO kind of person, not that 3 weeks is too long if you write chapters in 3 weeks, I’m just addicted to not taking breaks, so yes, I digress). The chapter (chapter 29) is planned out in detail. I have tons of its pieces written out in notes (which you can see examples of in THIS post), lots of dialogue written--it’s just very planned out.

AND OH BOY HAS IT BEEN A PAIN IN MY ASS TO WRITE.

Even though I was so excited for it, and couldn't wait, and had so much energy when I first popped open that Word doc, my steam died. And it died really quickly. I was writing incredibly slowly. My prose was so lame and dry and choppy, and I was basically just filling in the details for the notes I’d already written. And that’s the thing...

I’m not a planner, my dudes.

I don't write my best stuff with outlines. I don't feel the best about the scenes I’ve outlined. I don't think the prose is the best in the scenes I’ve outlined. I don't get excited thinking about the scenes I’ve outlined after I’ve struggled to write them for 3 weeks.

I love the chapters I Pants. I love the rush of pantsing, and the way my fingers legit fly across the keyboard when I know exactly which words I need to place as I go along. I’m walking across a pathway I’m simultaneously paving. And I love that. I do my best work when I’m pantsing.

The problem was obvious, and I don't know why I didn't see it before but to be clear, the issue I had this entire time was because I had outlined the scene before this in such meticulous detail. Not because I wanted to, but because it just happened. In a moment, I had so much energy for a new scene, and wrote down a ‘scene screenplay’ of it. Was so stoked to write it. I was merely taking down notes.

But the issue here is, I planned it.

And I do this all the time. I write down ‘scene screenplays’ whenever I get an idea. I spill my brain out into my notes and pack in much detail as I need to every time I get an idea. This time was no different. I just figured out why I was having so much of a problem.

Unfortunately, there’s legit nothing I can do about this problem. I’m going to continue to get ideas (pls don't jinx that pls), and I’m going to continue to write them down. Because I don't like keeping everything all in my head when I see something super vividly. This problem is always going to happen, and the writing I pants is always just going to be more passionate than the writing I don't. I don't know why that is, but I figure it’s because I lose all my inspiration/steam after I’m done writing the idea in a note.

I don't know if anyone else has this issue, but I know I have to compromise to make it work. I don't think Pantsing everything in the entire world will work for me because I always get ideas for news scenes (which I love!). But something I noticed is, I usually don't get that same rush when I’m writing something I outlined. I don't have anything against outlining (in fact I think you’ll always need some sort of an outline at one point in the editing phase), and I do enjoy it, buuuuuuut alas, everything doesn't work for everyone all the time.

This is a trend I can pick up on if I just think back to the scenes I’ve written with direction VS without direction. It sucks since I like outlining and think it’s great, but it’s something I’ve learned to deal with since I’ve written 7 books like this. Sometimes writing planned scenes is much easier than others, other times not so much. It really does depend.

But that was the issue. lol. I’m sort of dumb for not seeing that sooner, but that’s what happened here. Not like I’m mad about it or sad about it or anything, I’ve been doing this for a long time. Sometimes it’s easier, and sometimes it isn’t. I do really enjoy outlining tho so I am a little bummed if anything.

ALSO: writing down ideas with less detail in the future also won’t help because I like having every single detail while also not having any details at all, so basically I can’t win here LOL. It’s an interesting game to play to say the least. But anyway, now that that’s been said, onto the update!

Daily word count goal: 250

Words written: 1407

Total word count: 124 942

Total page count: 226

Songs played: She abandoned all her music in favour of no music land. :(

Things to know: I’m incredibly delirious off exhaustion right now, so if anything I wrote above made no sense, and if anything I share below makes no sense, this is why.

How I felt: Oh so much better. Guess who hardcore pantsed the end of this chapter and totally enjoyed herself? Meeeee.

Bad haiku to describe writing session: Pantsing is something / I really do like to do / It is the best thing

I really hope it doesn't sound like I’m bashing outlining by the way, or saying outlining is problematic and inhibits creativity, because I really don't believe that. I hope my message makes sense under my exhaustion. I love to outline, but Pantsing for me produces better work. And it’s unfair for me to not to take that into consideration in the future. Thankfully I figured out why I was having problems, and I guess by tis, I really am sort. <<< Future Rachel is editing this post at 1PM and not removing this line lol. Honestly, I have no idea what I was trying to say here, but if this shows you how tired I was...

Rating of writing session out of 10 and why: Like a 7.8! Much better than before, though I was still a bit stuck initially.

On a scale from 1-10 my level of stoked-ness is: A 7, let’s see where this takes us.

Lyrics to describe writing session: I'm losing myself / Due to a lack of sleep I'll never quite be / What people expect of me 

--Falling Apart, Surf Curse (Nothing Yet)

cuz u always need some angst in ur life exhaustion angst 2k17

GIF to describe writing session:

oh the messing around thing is actually me because the end half of this chapter was written by delirious Rachel who needs sleep asap pls so it’s like how the f does this connect to a and b but delirious Rachel is like nah nah it makes sense and then it sort of does if you squint and turn your head at the right angle.

Excerpt:

First, some words from Lonan:

...and torture became your painkiller.

did u know lonan also writes hallmark cards:

We make the best friends in our worst moments.

and now onto the random shit my brain came up with i’m literally dying of no sleep my sentences make no sense wat:

I want misery, and in misery, company. And in company, solitude. And in solitude, suffocation.

ok whatever that means

I want love, but love is callous.

So in an effort to scavenge what I can of it, I drill a habitat for myself in my own body. I live here. Where the walls are made of ribbons of tissue and painted with blood. Where the foundation lies upon feeble bones, and the control centre nurses itself on bitter memories. This is my home. The place I can find love, but not the place love can find me. I rely on myself, rather on the incalculable doings of fate, or the cold hands of reason.

I mean that could mean a whole bunch of things buuuut tired me is like wut is English how does one decipher metaphor wat.

So that’s it. I’ll probably post this tomorrow after I re-read it so I don't post it now and embarrass myself in front of the internet. Ok cool.

--Rachel

[onemilliongoldstars]

most ardently- chapter one

Clarke Griffin has been forced to abandon her name and her family. She is desperately hiding in her new role as lady's maid to Lady Lexa, fumbling through her duties and hoping to become invisible, when she realises that her heiress mistress is caught firmly under the thumb of her overbearing uncle. As Lexa suffocates under the expectations of her remaining family, she and Clarke slowly realise that they may be each other's safe haven.

or: Clarke is hiding a secret while struggling to seem like an experienced lady's maid for Lexa, who is painfully glad for a friend.

1/6, 5.7k words

Read on ao3

“You're going to be a terrible lady’s maid.”

Octavia’s voice echoes over the tiles of the kitchen from behind her, but Clarke is too busy balancing the heavy tray in her hands. The china clinks softly under her trembling grip, evidence of her inexperience, but she grits her teeth and clenches her jaw so tightly that it hurts even as her arms shudder under the unusual weight.

“Here, let me.” Octavia scoops the tray from her hands just as her arms begin to fail her and dumps it on the table with a clatter of silver and crockery. The delicate rose patterned cup shivers under her rough treatment, but Octavia doesn't spare it a glance. Instead she turns her attention back to where Clarke is running her fingers over the skirt of her dress, trying to iron out any wrinkles and hide her fear. It's borrowed, dark and patched in places, a little too small so that her ankles and dark stockings show, and despite the pristine white apron over it, Clarke feels almost bare in the scratchy, foreign fabric.

“Clarke, calm down.” Octavia's fingers on her arm are reassuring and grounding and she centres herself around the feeling, letting out a soft sigh.

“I'm sorry,” Her voice is quiet but steady.

“It's alright.” Octavia’s fingers tighten and Clarke can see the worry in her eyes when she continues, cautiously, “Are you sure you want to do this? There's no obligation-”

“Octavia, please.” She steps from the girl’s grasp, which feels abruptly poisonous. “I am well.”

“What’s going on?” Raven’s voice makes her cringe and her eyes swing to the door to see the stable girl wiping sweat from her forehead.

“I'm telling La–Clarke...” she glances back at the blonde guiltily at the slip of the tongue, “...that she doesn't have to do this.”

“Octavia, with all due respect...” She folds her hands behind her back and straightens her spine. “I cannot continue to accept your generosity; you barely know me. Your brother should not have to suffer my presence in his home without payment. I must earn my living.”

“You know you're welcome to stay with us freely,” Octavia insists, “and I still think someone with your… background shouldn't be sleeping on a pallet.”

“Thank you,” she allows a small, graceful smile, “but I will not take charity; I can do this as well as anyone else. I spent my life being waited on–something must have stuck with me.”

“Perhaps…” Octavia sounds deeply sceptical, and she glances back at Raven for support, but the stable girl only shrugs, crossing her arms.

“If the princess wants to make her own way, I think it's a good idea. See how the other side live.” There's a deep slice of bitterness to her voice, like a sliver of ginger caught in her throat, and Clarke sniffs.

“I was not a princess, I was… to be a countess.”

“Now you're just like the rest of us,” Raven snaps, leaning against the doorframe to eye her, “so you'd better start acting like it.”

“Raven!” Octavia scolds, frowning at the girl.

“What?!”

“Be kind! She's lost her family-”

The kitchen door creaks as it’s pressed open, and Clarke turns hurriedly with the others, petticoats brushing against her ankles. The housemistress is a foreboding figure in the doorway, tall and wiry with old age, her skin sucked close to her cheeks and sallow in colour. Hair slipping from dark brown to silver is scraped back so harshly that her head looks slightly odd and misshapen, and when she fixes piercing eyes on them all, Clarke folds her hands uncomfortably at the small of her back.

“My apologies, girls.” Her gaze falls from Clarke to Octavia who flinches away from the stare. She is deeply dry, mouth twisted in a horribly small smile when she speaks. “I was not aware you were being paid to spend your time chattering amongst yourselves.”

“No ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Octavia runs hasty hands down her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, and returns to her task of chopping through the mountain of parsnips on the broad kitchen table. Clarke chances a glance from the corner of her eyes and finds that Raven too has disappeared, leaving her to face the wrath of her new housemistress alone.

“Madam.” She bobs a quick curtsey at the woman, whose brows quirk into a frown.

“You are the girl Octavia recommended?”

“Indeed madam,” she raises her eyes and meets the housemistress’ sceptical gaze with as steady an expression as she can manage, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The housemistress swings her eyes to Octavia, who remains so focused on her work that Clarke fears she may chop through the table, before looking back to Clarke. “Do you have experience in domestic service?”

“No madam,” Clarke straightens her shoulders under a quick rush of bravery, “but I am hardworking and classically educated, I may be a great company to your lady.”

The housemistress lets out a laugh which scrapes like nails against a chalkboard and her smile turns cruel once again. “You are not here to be her companion, girl. You are here to wait on the lady; dress her, bathe her, keep her rooms orderly. Be seen and not heard, am I understood?”

“Yes madam,” she bobs a curtsey again, even as the skin on the back of her neck burns with humiliation.

“I doubt you have anything to say that my lady would wish to hear, regardless,” the housemistress steps forwards, grasping one of Clarke’s hands in her own and inspecting the soft, pale skin and clean nails, her nose wrinkling when she turns her gaze back to Clarke’s. “Good god girl, have you ever worked a day in your life?”

She is saved from answering by the obnoxious ringing of one of the bells lining the upper walls of the kitchen. The housemistress sucks unhappily at her lips, making a displeased noise in the back of her throat and finally saying, grudgingly.

“Our lady has rejected almost every lady’s maid I have sent her, you will have to do.” She grasps the tray and thrusts it so bodily into Clarke’s arms that she almost stumbles back. “Do not displease her and you may last through the day. When our lady has no need of you, you will make yourself useful as a housemaid, am I understood? I will not have lazy service in my house.”

“Yes madam,” Clarke agrees, dutifully, eyes darting to where Octavia is watching them from under her eyelashes.

“My name is Mrs Myborn, you may refer to me as ma’am,” the housemistress sniffs imperiously and when the bell rings again, looks expectantly at Clarke. “Well? Tardiness is not appreciated in this household, girl.”

Clarke takes that as her cue to leave, bobbing another half curtsey to the woman as she struggles to shoulder her way out of the kitchen with the unwieldy tray in her hands. The kitchen is down a small flight of stairs and Clarke trudges her way carefully up the narrow staircase, her shoes already pinching at her toes and her arms already trembling under the strain of the breakfast tray. When she steps out of the delicate, white panelled door and onto the marble floor, it is as if the breath has been stolen from her lungs. She has to pause for a moment to take in her surroundings, hesitating under the gleaming light of the crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling to stare, agape, at the room. She has not seen such grandeur since she left her home over six months ago and now the sight almost brings tears to her eyes. Here, under the steady watch of careful oil paintings in gleaming golden frames and the swoop of marble statues, she has to stop and catch her breath. Stubbornly blinking the tears from her eyes, she forces herself to look down at the white apron sitting against her shabby dress and inhales shakily at the sudden reminder of who she now is.

It is only when she is on the first landing, hesitating by the swooping, carved bannister, that she realises no one had done her the dignity of telling her where she was actually going and she feels panic grip her like the stone hands of one of the statues. For a moment she contemplates the thought of returning downstairs, still laden with the tray, but the thought of Mrs Myborn’s glare as she is surely thrown out into the gutter is enough to push her heavy feet onwards in her pinching shoes. The first few doors she passes have been left mercifully ajar and she spies several spacious drawing rooms in gentle yellows and blues, a study with dark panelling and the picture of a scowling man over the mantle, before she comes to the first closed door.

It is quite impossible for her to lift her hand from the tray, with its weight and she spends a moment considering her options before finally lifting a foot to tap cautiously against the door. There is no response and so she continues this method, quietly pleased with herself, before finally a low voice calls out an entreaty to enter and she is able to no less than shove the door open.

It bangs against the wall and she is momentarily mortified by the sound, freezing in the doorframe to meet her new mistress’s raised eyebrow with a terrified gaze. The girl sits up in a wide, four poster bed, a stark nightdress almost blending into the pasty pallor of her skin. Dark hair tumbles around her head in tight curls and green eyes watch her with something between amusement and outrage as she edges cautiously into the room.

The drapes are still pulled shut, but some light filters in from the early morning sky and slides between the slight gap, illuminating the lady and the room in shades of white and blue, a white marble fireplace sitting comfortably close to the bed to provide warmth in the night. Clarke swings her attention back to the girl in the bed when she coughs slightly.

A flush heats her cheeks and she hurries abruptly forwards, almost tripping over her short skirts as she deposits the tray as gently as she can into her mistress’s lap.

“Your breakfast, my lady.”

“Thank you…” the girl’s voice is still pleasingly low and even, despite the fool Clarke has so readily made of herself and she quirks an eyebrow, watching the way that Clarke hesitates. “You may open the drapes,” she provides, when Clarke seems lost as to what to do and Clarke hurries around the bed to do as instructed, pulling back the thick material from the wide windows to cast the whole room in murky London sunlight.

“An orange,” when she turns, her mistress is holding the fruit between her fingers curiously and she seems to sense Clarke’s gaze, because she turns her eyes back to her and explains, haltingly. “Mrs Myborn does not usually allow me such exotic fruits… she thinks they are sure to be poisoned.”

Clarke lets out a snort and speaks without thinking, “That’s ridiculous, oranges are delicious and perfectly safe.” She still abruptly the moment her brain catches up with her mouth, frozen at the bottom of the bed and the girl blinks at her for a moment, astonished by her response.

“I see,” she says at last, placing the orange wedge down untouched and focusing her attention on Clarke. “You are my new lady’s maid?”

“Indeed, my lady,” Clarke bobs a quick curtsey, cheeks heating up again under the girl’s intense scrutiny.

“What’s your name?” The girl cocks an eyebrow and Clarke edges slowly around the bed to take her teapot into her hands, glancing at the girl to make sure she’s doing the right thing.

“Clarke, my lady.” She pours the tea carefully, her fingers still shaking.

“Clarke,” the girl echoes her name, spreading it out satisfyingly across her tongue like fresh butter. “I am Alexandria.”

There is no invitation to call her anything less than her title and Clarke just nods, swallowing against her dry throat and adding milk to the teacup, stirring gently in an attempt to not look at the girl in the bed. She had expected someone much older, but Alexandria cannot have many more years to her name than Clarke herself.

She chances another glance at her and is startled to find green eyes watching her closely.

“What can I do for you today, my lady?” She steps away from the breakfast tray, chewing on her lip as Alexandria considers her question.

“Help me dress for the day,” she offers at last, “be sure my fire is stoked. I have no intention of leaving the house today, though,” her voice drops, hinting with dark bitterness, “my uncle will surely have arranged callers.”

“Of course my lady,” she swallows at the thought of tackling the fire, but the dressing sounds almost pleasant after a morning of helping Octavia collect water and haul fresh vegetables from the market for dinner tonight.

“You may get on with the fire while I finish,” Alexandria reaches for the book sitting on her side table and then says, offhandly, “and light the candles for me, the dark in the city is ghastly.”

“Yes my lady,” she bobs a final curtsey and wonders if she should be feeling dizzy yet from so much dipping up and down.

Thankfully, the fire is already laid and she has learnt how to use a tinderbox from her many days attempting to clumsily help Octavia and her brother around their small, few rooms in a house in the east end. Carefully, she lays out the implements from the silver tinderbox and uses the flint and steel to ignite the rough linen at the bottom of the box. The spark takes almost instantly and she cups her hands carefully around the slight flame, blowing gently to encourage it to catch until she is able to light a candle with the flame and press it against the kindling beneath the logs. She can feel Alexandria’s curious gaze on her as she works, prickling at her neck and shoulders.

When the fire is properly caught she dampens the tinder and replaces everything methodically back into the box, standing to deposit the candle on her mistress’s bedside. Alexandria’s book still sits unopened in her lap, her food almost untouched and Clarke almost says something, before biting her tongue and reminding herself not to be impertinent.

Alexandria instructs her to fetch warm water and lay out her clothes while she waits and then turns back to sipping her tea and reading her book with a slight frown. The tray has been set aside in the bed in favour of curling her legs up beneath herself and she does not touch her food, Clarke notices as she slips quietly about the room, but to delicately eat the wedges of orange Octavia had fanned out for her across a small china plate.

At last, after what feels like hours but is not more than thirty minutes, most of which Clarke spends patiently waiting for instruction as Alexandria reads, the clock on the mantlepiece chimes quietly. Clarke sees Alexandria startle up in surprise, blinking at her as if she had forgotten Clarke was there. Clarke, who had been leaning against the wall and attempting not to fall back to sleep, jerks fully upright again, flushing.

“Goodness, my apologies,” Alexandria is almost amusingly flustered, snapping her book shut to rest it on the table. “I had forgotten- I lost track of the time, please excuse me.”

The words are so astonishing that Clarke can only stare at her for a moment, before gathering her senses enough to answer.

“I am here to serve your needs, my lady.”

“Regardless…” Alexandria flushes, but says nothing else as she swings herself from the bed. Clarke is surprised to find that stood to her full height, her mistress is taller than her. She had seemed so small in her large bed, dwarfed by the space and Clarke steps hurriedly out of the way as Alexandria paces past her to examine the clothes set out for her and nod approvingly.

“Yes, this will do nicely.”

To Clarke’s great relief, Alexandria does not ask her to wash her and instead goes about the task of scrubbing her face until it is bright and rosy herself. She averts her eyes respectfully, even though Alexandria steps behind the screen to slide into her petticoats and is startled by the girl’s call.

“My lady?” She responds, tentatively and hovers by the screen beyond which, she realises with a jolt, she can see the girl’s silhouette as she struggles into her petticoats. When there is no response, she steps cautiously around the screen to see Alexandria holding out her corset with an expectant air, watching her as she reaches out with shaking hands to accept the offer.

“I shall need help,” she explains, unnecessarily, and Clarke nods as confidently as she can, considering the implement in her hands as if it is a loaded musket. Lady Alexandria turns her back and gestures and Clarke takes a moment to stare at the thin material of her petticoat and the way that her hair falls in a waterfall of curls down her back.

“Clarke.” Her mistress’s irate voice snaps her from her reverie and she blinks away the haze of blue and green to hurriedly help Lady Alexandria position the corset around her waist. The lacing is fairly simple, if she thinks about it and she begins from the bottom, pulling as efficiently as she can to tighten in her mistress’s waist. Her fingers graze against the girl’s back and she attempts not to notice the touch, swallowing against her suddenly dry throat.

It is only when she is halfway up her back that she notices the way her lady has reached out to place a hand against the wall, steadying herself. Her breathing is slight and shallow and Clarke’s fingers hesitate uncertainly against the laces.

“What are you waiting for?” Alexandria demands, turning to give a glare over her shoulder.

“My lady,” she begins, anxiously, “I just- I wonder whether this is safe.”

“This is how it must be worn,” Lady Alexandria’s voice is almost tired and heavy and Clarke chews on her cheek for a moment before saying, quietly.

“Perhaps… if my ladyship were to breathe more deeply whilst I lace it you would have more comfort. It would not dig into your ribs, so.”

Alexandria hesitates at her words, glancing back again to peer at her. “Do you think that would be acceptable?” She asks, after a moment.

“Of course, my lady,” she hurries to undo the laces, watching with satisfaction as Alexandria is finally able to heave in a full breath. Of all the things she misses in her old life, this is not one of them. She begins slowly lacing the corset back up, allowing Alexandria more space to breathe and says, firmly, “the most important thing is your comfort, no fashion should come before that.”

Alexandria scoffs softly and seems to surprise herself with her own words, “if comfort were the most important thing I would wear britches all day.”

“That seems very practical to me,” Clarke agrees, after a moment of shock. The smile playing at her lips is strange and unprecedented, even as she hurries to add: “my lady.”

“Thank you, Clarke.” Alexandria tells her, softly.

She helps the girl into her dress, fastening the tiny buttons up the back with steady fingers and when she sees Alexandria heave in a satisfied breath, a wave of warmth passes through her.

---

Alexandria retires to the library when she is done, leaving Clarke to whisk the breakfast tray back below stairs. Octavia tuts over the food remaining in the dishes and cook, who has returned from selecting the finest cuts of meat at the butchers- a job she trusts no other with- takes great pains in lamenting the poor appetite of her mistress. She is a large woman, married to a man by the name of Bustle, and Clarke thinks that no name has ever suited a woman quite so well. Mrs Bustle is plump and small, with rounded cheeks and a constantly harried nature, and seems to labour under the impression that her mistress will starve to death.

Octavia hurries to introduce her to the footman, James, and the butler Mr Darby, who give her polite smiles. James inclines his head to her and she bobs a curtsy to both him and the quiet butler, who tells her he hopes she soon finds a place here. There are only a few maids, including Octavia and herself. Mrs Myborn is quick to find fault and quick to dismiss, which often leaves them under staffed. Octavia assists in the kitchen and covers most of the cleaning, but a bucket and sponge are shoved unceremoniously into Clarke’s hands the moment she arrives downstairs and she is told to have the entry hall floor done by luncheon.

It is hard work, especially for one not used to the usual grind of household life, but she is determined not to complain and so sets to scrubbing the floor with diligence. The water is so hot it burns her hands and the soap smells so strongly that she has to turn her head and cough into her sleeves, but by the time the clock chimes eleven times she is halfway across the entrance hall. The bucket heaves under her as she carries it down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to let the dirty water escape and make a mess. Mrs Bustle is wiping floury hands against her apron and she jumps into action at the sight of Clarke emerging into the large kitchen.

She entreats the girl to change her apron and cap and take a steaming cup of tea and plate of fresh cakes to her ladyship upstairs and Clarke, sensing the woman’s distress, hurries to comply. In the entryway a knock on the front door makes her pause and she hesitates, glancing around uncertainly in search of James or Mr Darby. The knocking comes again, more agitated and so she steels herself and crosses the wet floor carefully, balancing her tea tray against her hip as she opens the door.

A young boy, in a cap and an oversized jacket stands before her, bouncing on his heels in the late October chill.

“Can I help you?” She peers behind herself anxiously, in case Mrs Myborn should choose to suddenly appear, but the boy is blessedly quick.

“Letter for her ladyship, miss.” He holds out the small letter, printed with thin, slanted handwriting and she takes it, thanking him and shutting the door.

“Whatever are you doing girl?”

The voice is so loud that she startles around, mindless of the slippery marble and her shoes slide out from beneath her. It seems to happen slowly, she feels the tray slip from her grip, her hand flail out to grab at the delicately engraved table at her side. The tray lands with the clatter and smash of silver and china and her grasping hand, instead of finding purchase, knocks the vase close by and brings it too crashing to the ground beside her.

There is a moment of stunned, shocked silence which hangs in the air between them like dust mites caught in the evening sunlight. Clarke turns an aching neck to stare, aghast, at Myborn’s horrified face and feels her stomach sink with dread.

“Goodness!” The voice that breaks their silence comes from above, where Lady Alexandria had been leaning over the bannister with a horrified expression and is now lifting her skirts from around her ankles to hurry down the stairs towards them. “Clarke! Are you alright?”

“Your ladyship,” Mrs Myborn moves quickly to intercept her at the bottom of the stairs as Clarke flinchingly extracts herself from the mess around her, each limb groaning. “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, the girl will be let go at once, you have my assurances.”

“Please!” Clarke staggers up a step, holding out a hand, “I’m sorry, I can do better your ladyship.”

Alexandria looks between them both as if she has really no idea what to say, stumbling back up a step in the face of Myborn’s obstruction. “Mrs Myborn, I usually leave the running of below stairs to you,” she begins, eyes darting to Clarke’s pathetic figure. “You do know best after all.” Clarke’s shoulders slump and she bites harshly on her cheek to crush back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Alexandria catches her and her expression hardens, “but this time I must insist. Accidents happen after all, especially in a new place and the girl is hurt.”

“Thank you,” Clarke almost wilts under the verdict, brushing away a stray tear with the back of her hand, “thank you, I’m so sorry your ladyship. I shall clean everything up, it was not my intention to-”

“You certainly shall clean everything up,” Mrs Myborn replies, tartly, cheeks heating furiously, “and relieve your wages to the replacement and repair of everything you have broken!”

“Of course,” Clarke reaches out a hand to brings shards of crockery and crumbs closer to herself, “of course, yes.”

“Wait,” Alexandria pushes past Mrs Myborn’s figure at the foot of the stairs, hesitating a few steps from Clarke. She stares at her for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words. “I only mean- she cannot clean up in this state, she is hurt. She’s bleeding.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and her gaze flickers downwards. She has been cut, she realises belatedly, a sluggish stream of blood escaping the ragged tear in the skin of her palm and it’s as if the realisation brings her back to herself because the pain is abrupt and sharp.

“Come with me, I’ll see to it,” Alexandria tells her and if her eyes are softer, lighter Clarke can blame it on the shock of watching her housemaid fall, or the gentle candles to light up the dreary hall.

“My lady,” Mrs Myborn looks as white as a sheet, “you must not trouble yourself, one of the maids can do it.”

“I think the maids ought to look to cleaning this mess,” Alexandria replies and then smiles wryly back at the housemistress, “my uncle will not be best pleased to arrive to this.”

“Of course, my lady,” Mrs Myborn bows her head, but her lips are as tight as a seam and Clarke knows that she will feel the housemistress’ wrath later for their lady’s gentle treatment.

“Come,” and there is Alexandria, standing above her with a hand outstretched and Clarke reaches up to take it without thinking, allowing the woman to assist her shakily to her feet. “I have bandages and rubbing alcohol in my chamber,” Lady Alexandria explains, quietly and, casting a nod at Mrs Myborn, lets Clarke curl an arm through hers to help keep her upright as they make their way slowly up the stairs.

In Alexandria’s bed chamber reality seems to come crashing back down on Clarke. She remembers, from her place on the chaise at the end of Alexandria’s bed, the many instructions Octavia had given her on the behaviour of servants to their mistresses, and by the time her lady turns back to her, Clarke is halfway to standing.

“My lady,” she says, at the surprise on Alexandria’s face, “I should not be here, this is not proper in the slightest.”

“Sit,” Alexandria holds out a hand, not touching her, but a clear entreaty for her to stay and so Clarke sinks back onto the chaise with a fearful glance at her employer. “I like to think myself as not too high and mighty to take care of my lady’s maid when she is hurt.”

“You barely know me,” Clarke protests softly, but when Alexandria’s slender fingers take hold of her own she does not pull away.

“No,” Lady Alexandria agrees easily, her eyes fixed firmly on Clarke’s hand as she pulls it into her lap and douses a clean rag in rubbing alcohol. “But I think I should like to, Clarke.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Her heart feels caught in its throat as she watches Alexandria bend carefully over her hand, eyelashes like silk thread against her delicate skin, a few tender curls escaping her pins to fall over her cheek.

“This may hurt,” Alexandria warns, glancing at her worriedly but Clarke smiles a small, sad smile and assures her.

“It takes far more than a little rubbing alcohol to hurt me, my lady.”

“I see,” Alexandria presses the rag down on her cut and Clarke’s fingers flinch automatically, a hiss escaping between her teeth as Alexandria continues to talk. “Are you new to town, Clarke?”

“Yes your ladyship,” she swallows, fixing her gaze pointedly to the window across the room, where she can see trees swaying from the park across the street and hear horses stamp and winnie and men shout. “Fairly new.”

“I do not often come to town,” Alexandria’s fingers tightening around her hand are the only warning she gets that the girl has added more rubbing alcohol to her cloth and Clarke lets out a grunt. “My uncle likes for me to be seen out in society, but I would much rather be at home than here.” She gives a final pat to the wound and nods, “there, ready to be bandaged.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she does not protest when the girl adds padding and begins to wrap the wound. “Where is home for you if I may ask?”

“My family has a large estate up north,” Alexandria tells her, winding the bandage carefully over her hand, “Towerhill Hall, it’s been in my family for generations.”

“And are your family there for the winter, my lady? You have come here alone?”

Alexandria freezes under her gaze and Clarke is left to watch helplessly as the girl finishes her care in silence, fastening the bandage with a tight knot and withdrawing her hands to hold them in her lap. Finally, when Clarke is about to apologise and hurry from the room, from the house, from the city itself, she speaks. “My family are dead. My older brother died in the war, my mother and father both died of illness. I am the only heir.”

“Oh, I-” her heart aches for the girl and she goes to apologise, but Alexandria has already risen from her seat and is carefully replacing the bandages and bottle in their chest. “I am so sorry.”

“Please, don’t be.” Alexandria spares her a slight smile, as false as a pedlar’s promises, “they died when I was very small, I do not miss them much, as awful as that makes me.”

“That doesn’t make you awful at all,” Clarke’s words rush over one another like water down a narrow stream and her fingers catch at the crumpled letter in her apron pocket. “Here, my lady,” she stands and crosses the finely embroidered rug spread out across the floor to hold it out. “This came for you,” her eyes catch the name on the front and she frowns, “or at least… I think it is for you?”

“Really?” Alexandria reaches out, taking it delicately and sliding it open to pull out the small note. “Ah,” a true, rich smile lights up her mistress’s face for the first time since Clarke met her, “it is for me, a note from my cousin. She lives in town and always pays me a visit every few days, between her many other dalliances.” Alexandria glances curiously over the envelope and smiles again, slightly embarrassed, “yes that’s me, Lexa. A family name, a pet name more than anything. Most know me by my real name but Anya and I have known each other many years.”

“It’s a lovely name,” Clarke assures her, folding her hands in front of her and watching as her ladyship carefully slips the letter into the locked drawer at the top of the writing desk.

“Thank you,” Alexandria glances back at her uncertainly, “I can trust your discretion? The maids do not usually answer my door, Mrs Myborn insists it is in bad taste, but my letters so often come to me opened that it may be a policy I begin to encourage.”

“I would never open your letters, my lady.” Clarke’s face drops in horror and Alexandria’s smile is soft and hopeful.

“No, I don’t think you would.” She brushes down her skirts, though the soft blue is as perfect as when Clarke had dressed her in it this morning, and casts an eye over Clarke’s appearance, which she abruptly realises is most likely ghastly. “You may want to run upstairs and change your dress.”

“I-I do not have anything else here, my lady,” Clarke hesitates, fidgeting, “my appointment was rather last minute, I am still at my lodgings in town.”

“Oh,” Alexandria’s face falls and she frowns, glancing back at her dressing room door, “I am sure I have something that you could wear.”

“No, no your ladyship,” Clarke protests before Alexandria can hurry away, catching herself before she reaches out a hand to stop her, “I could not possibly.” She runs a hand over the crumbs and water stains on her dress. “I will change my apron and cap, if it is not offensive to you to see me like this in your house.”

“Not at all,” Alexandria pauses, still halfway to the dressing room door and says, cautiously, “I will tell Mrs Myborn to set you up in the attics though, if you are obliging? Sometimes I may require you in the early hours and it would not do to have you walking around town that late.”

“That… would be quite acceptable,” Clarke blinks at her, surprised, “if Mrs Myborn will stand to keep me employed.” The words slip from her before she can think and she inwardly curses her quick tongue and temper, biting at her lip as she ducks her head.

Alexandria, to her surprise, lets out a soft huff of laughter, though she quickly stifles it. When Clarke chances a glance back up at her she is smiling, “Do not worry, you are becoming a great asset to me. I will not allow her to drive you out.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Clarke bobs a slight curtsy and turns to leave her.

Lexa. She sounds the word out in her head. It suits her new mistress very well.