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eutaerpe · 4 years

Text

the escapades (m)

pairing — jimin x reader

genre/warnings— smut (oral, fingering, orgasm denial) & college!au, fratboy!jimin, brief e2l, brief ewb, acr universe

summary — the one where there’s a lot of unresolved sexual tension, until there isn’t.

notes — 8.3k words of the happiness before the storm i couldn’t write. i realised halfway through this there’s a slight plotwise change in comparison to what i wrote in acr so. yeah. sorry. kudos to you if you find it lol

The first time it happens, you’re pretending to be someone you’re not.

You’re sitting near the end of the table, crossing your legs and playing with the hem of your dress, your lips twisted into a frown. The real reason lying behind the simple decision of having a single, almost infinite table of guests doesn’t, in the slightest, cross your mind; why your idiotic brother would see this as a delightful idea really is above you, but you suppose the valuable genes in the family runs all in your DNA.

You’re playing with the table decorations while waiting for the guests to come, and it’s so fucking boring you regret telling Seulgi no, babe, what the fuck - you even shook your head and decided to sound extra mad at the idea - I won’t sneak in weed.

Too bad for you, she had answered, a cute pout on her lips, I’ll give you an hour before you’re bored out of your mind.

The truth hangs above your head, with a sheepish grin: you just needed ten minutes to be absolutely, drastically bored.

In hindsight, sneaking in weed wouldn’t have been the worst idea: your mother is talking to the in laws, gesticulating excitedly at the idea of kids right after marriage. What the fuck, you text Seulgi, at home trying to get out of bed, my brother has been married for an hour and there’s already baby talk going on at the table.

Seulgi

[12.49]

With the baby talk comes the dick talk

You

[12.49]

Oh no the dick talk

Seulgi

[12.50]

man how can you survive your relatives talking about nonexistent boyfriends without my weed, damn???

You

[12.50]

option a: I’ll tell them I’m dating you

Seulgi

[12.50]

we kissed ONE time

You

[12.50]

option b: I’ll tell them I’m in a relationship with Jeon jungkook

Seulgi

[12.50]

bitch we both know you’re not in a relationship with the hottest guy on campus. he has dimples and long hair and piercings. my sources can even confirm he has a big dick. what do U Have

You

[12.51]

i was talking about my vibrator but go off lmao

anyway I’ve had that D ;)

Seulgi

[12.51]

you’re officially cancelled

when did this happen? I can’t believe you’re telling me over text!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You

[12.51]

last semester!!!!! why do you think I’ve named my vib after him!!!!!!

Seulgi

[12.52]

because you’re lusting after him like the rest of us mortals!!!!!!!!!!

You

[12.52]

I’ve upgraded since then. I’ve leveled up. I’ve seen things People Can’t Even Imagine

Seulgi

[12.52]

just say he got u off and go

You

[12.52]

anyway option c: I scare them away by saying controversial things. Id est: I don’t believe in love. I am choosing my partner solely judging their abilities to finger me under a table when people are around. I am secretly lusting after my brother’s wife. I am trying to get impregnated like in The Sims 2 aka I am waiting for that alien dick.

Seulgi

[12.52]

hate to break it to you babe but that’s literally who you are

You

[12.52]

I literally compliment joohyun’s boobs once and this is the treatment I get

Seulgi

[12.52]

are we not gonna talk about your alien dick kink

You

[12.52]

no kink shaming in this house lady

option d: I listen to their complaints and run

Seulgi

[12.53]

option dick

man sorry I meant option d

You

[12.53]

you didn’t

Seulgi

[12.54]

ur right I didn’t

Option e, also known as I’ll entertain the other guests so I don’t have to talk to you, presents itself in the form of one very hot, very ripped young man sporting the most expensive shirt in the room. You’re only human when you admit to yourself, mental sigh, that he ticked all the let’s get y/n horny requirements in less than fifteen seconds.

You can’t believe Joohyun has kept him hidden for so long from you. Such betrayal ends when your brother, Kim fucking Seokjin, hugs him tight and brushes with utter affection the nape of his neck, gracing him with a warm smile and a heartfelt laugh.

You can’t believe Seokjin has kept him hidden for so long from you.

Well. Scratch that. You can.

Suddenly, the ticked requirements disappear and a giant neon sentence with a very cheap background music impose themselves in your head. WHAT A TURN OFF! they read, the neon red words mocking you; you steal a glance at your brother’s acquaintance one more time - one last time - before slipping your phone in your hands and dedicating yourself one more time at your Instagram feed, scrolling through the most recent pics.

(You stumble upon an extremely rare Jungkook selfie, and you hate to admit you spend the following thirty seconds admiring him before tapping twice on the quality content you’ve signed up for when you joined the social)

You suppose that, even though your brother’s friends with fuckboy tendencies are signed off your let’s get to know each other better ;) list, it doesn’t mean the same goes for them.

So, when the dark-haired young man with a jawline sharper than Seulgi’s retorts after her third beer sits next to you, you reckon you shouldn’t be that surprised.

He acts all casual, you notice while discreetly looking at him; he’s busy taking off his jacket and flexing his muscles, all of this while pretending not to notice you, and you find it immensely cute.

Ah, fuckboys.

“Fuck,” he rasps, lips twisted in a crooked smile, “I didn’t think it would be this hot today.”

“Yeah, sorry, the heat is on me.”

He chuckles in disbelief at your words, eyes turning into crescents.

“Right, there’s always the girl stealing the bride’s spotlight at weddings.”

“Oh! That’s me,” you nod enthusiastically, “That’s one hundred percent me.”

“Groom or bride?” He asks, pointing at the couple with his chin.

“What do you think?”

He looks at you funny, pressing his back on the seat, pondering in silence. Cute.

“Bride. One of Bae’s sorority sisters, maybe? You seem too young to be her age, though.”

“Damn,” you exhale, crossing your arms under your chest, “I can’t believe you got it all wrong. The expectations were low, but I’m still disappointed.”

He ducks his head, still smiling. “Then it’s the groom. How do you know Seokjin?”

Your eyes twinkle with excitement at your next words, but honestly, who can blame you? You’re having fun with this lost, cute chick.

“What’s your take, officer?”

He erupts into a laugh, and you drink in his handsome features; fuck you, Seokjin, for being friends with fuckboys only.

“Alright,” he punches the bridge of his nose, scanning the room, which is slowly filling with other guests. “I’m his friend, and I know all of his friends, which can only mean one thing: option a, you’re one of his ex-girlfriends; option b, you’re one of his secret hook-ups; option c, you’re an old friend from high school.”

“Oooh,” you beam, unrealistically intrigued, “You really suck at guessing, don’t you?”

He laughs, passing a hand through his dark locks, messing his perfectly styled hair. “Ok, fair. Which one was the closest, then?”

“Option d, of course.” You nod, relaxing your features into a sheepish grin, “I’m his much more beautiful and smarter sister.”

You exam his face, now twisting into some sort of what the fuck, such betrayal look, and you take in, for the last time – really the last, this time – his attractive, sculptured face, his full lips, the smoothness of his skin. It’s awful and unfair knowing you two won’t cross paths ever again in your lives, but at least you had some fun messing with him before things could worsen.

“I’ll be sitting in the middle of the table, with my family, if you want to avoid me.”

You wink at him for good measure, and you swear to god he blushes.

Half a wine bottle and two flutes of prosecco down, you realise you underestimated your resident fuckboy.

It happens when you’re grabbing your napkin and channelling your dreamy, happy looks towards the newlyweds, dancing in the middle of the room, their eyes gravitating only towards the love of their lives.

You sigh, pouting for the smallest of fractions, when you feel someone sitting at your side.

“You know,” Fuckboy begins, and you picture him licking his lips as he pauses, “Now I get why he never told us anything more than: I’m not an only child.”

“I know,” you exhale, turning to face him, “Seokwon is the real catch of our family. We’re really protective of him.”

“He’s married. With kids.”

“I was there when the twins opened their eyes, thank you.”

“We thought you were either a small kid or a forty years old woman.”

“Wait,” you tilt your head, “How did you know about us then? And who’s we?”

“We dug into his stuff and he caved in, admitting he had a brother and a sister.” Fuckboy looks at you, eyes dark but reflecting the dim lights of the function room, “Us. The frat guys.”

“Right, the fuckboys.”

He looks taken aback by your statement, bewildered, and you take advantage of his reaction to stand up and head away from him. It’s his words that stop you from doing so, though.

“You don’t know us—”

“—except I do know your pledges and your brothers.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“Maybe,” you shrug, “I prefer to steer away from my brother’s friends, though.”

“Right,” he says, tightening his lips in a hard line, almost hurt, “So, who am I to interfere with your judgmental thinking?” He clicks his tongue, then, a resolute exhale slipping past his lips, smothered by his own tingling despair.

The words hurt.

You don’t know what exactly pinched your senses hard, if the tone or the wallowing sadness swimming in his expression, but, as he stands up and leaves, you’re left facing the cold, hard truth.

The words hurt, you hurt, and you feel guilty.

You say nothing, glancing in the direction of the first alcoholic beverage around, and you fill yourself a glass.

Had it been someone else – had it been another sentence, another less sickening scenario, you would’ve felt proud, righteous. You’re, instead, on the other side of the feelings spectrum, all filled with crippling guilt and a nauseous, pervasive feeling you can’t quite name and pin down.

The guests are dancing around you, moving hand in hand to the rhythm of the pop love song now playing; the ballroom is packed when you let your impulsive side make a choice, eyes following the guy’s composed figure. You can drastically feel the sweat, and the heat the people are radiating, when you stand up and move towards him, the only smiling boy passing his glass from a hand to the other.

You’re close enough to tap his wrist and brush your fingers, which you do; it elicits a gasp from him, all soft, not scathing around the edges yet able to bite you, anyway. It’s the guilt, you remind yourself, looking for a sign of some sort of inclination to accept your apologies between the crease of his brows and tight jaw, and everywhere in between.

It’s sickening—this boy didn’t exist four fucking hours ago. It didn’t even cross your wildest dreams, someone like him. His shape – his silhouette – has left a print in your mind, and no matter how hard you try focusing on something else, someone else, your mind keeps going back to the shape itself.

But you’re a coward, so, while he lets you intertwine your fingers, you admit, voice loud: “I wanna dance.”

He handles you properly, kindly, before pushing you in the crowd and brushing your hips with his hands, all rings and jewellery adorning them.

He blinks twice, biting the insides of his mouth, but he manages,

“Who says I wanna dance?”

Which is a bit stupid, or hypocritic if you might, because he’s swaying you to the rhythm of a ballad the pop love song turned into. You break into the smallest of smiles.

“I want to apologize.”

He scoffs. “I don’t know you,” he says, funnily enough, “But that seems almost unlikely, coming from you.”

“Yeah, you got me there, officer. I was, uhm,” you stare blatantly at his neck, and you suppress the desire to stroke your fingers’ pads on his soft skin, “I was out of line. I’m sorry. You were right, I don’t know you. I do know your frat brothers, my own brother, but that doesn’t mean I know you.”

He hums, moving for a small fraction of instants his thumbs on your hips and it’s enough for your breath to catch into your own throat. He nods, which could mean anything, from I accept your apology to go fuck yourself, this is bullshit. You prefer the former option, if you’re being honest, which is the answer you settle for in your head, hazed and absolutely hazed and madly hazed because of his small physical contact.

To put this into the simplest terms, Seulgi’s words, you don’t like this.

“I like dancing,” his eyes tower you and gaze at the other people dancing; you wonder if he’s thinking about them, who they are to you, what role they played in Seokjin’s life, if they’ll show up to your wedding, too. These thoughts popped into your mind unannounced, before, at the table, before the not-really-fuckboy sat next to you and made you feel guilty. Such absurdity; yet here you are, in his arms. Oh god, what would Seulgi think of you if she saw you?

“Good to know, I’m awful at shoulder-hips coordination.”

“Shoulder-hips coordination?” he inquiries, lips parted.

“Uh, body rolls?”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I see, you mean classy grinding.”

“I don’t do classy grinding, sorry,” you retort, head tilted to a side.

His smile his amused. “Too bad, shoulder-hips coordination is a nice trait to exhibit sometimes.”

“I prefer hips coordination. Well, hips rotation.”

“Hips rotation?”

“Riding? Is the term somehow unfamiliar to you?”

He flushes, biting back a grin and fixing his gaze somewhere in the crowd. How cute.

“Not at all, it’s nice to meet a hips rotation enthusiast here, though.”

“Statistics say at least a member in each family is a riding enthusiast, did you know?”

“Shit, talk dirty to me,” he licks his lips, pointing at Jin with his chin, “Didn’t peg him for a rider, though. Not at all.”

“I’m starting to think you’re not a STEM major, are you? You’re lacking basic intuition, my friend.”

“Is this your attempt of discovering my major?” – he eyes you, a flick of amusement burning in his orbs – “You’re not very smooth, you know?”

“I have my moments.”

He snorts, placing both hands on the small of your back. You’re at height level with the base of his neck, and it’s fun how your mind betrays you in such moments, providing mental images of your nose brushing against his skin, and you nuzzling in the crook of his neck. Such taunting, invasive pictures. Fuck off, you reprimand your own mind, fuck off.

“I’m Jimin.”

“Jimin,” you taste the name on your tongue, hitting the back of your front teeth. “Jin never talked about you. I’m Y/N.”

“Jin never talked about you either.”

“Of course he never did, I’m prettier than he is.”

His little dimples make an appearance. “You know, you could really steal the bride’s spotlight.”

“That was my ultimate goal all along, even though I prefer the dark side.”

“I,” he licks his lips, and you don’t know why you’re following the gesture, “I meant to say you’re beautiful.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyebrows raising, “Are you a charmer?”

“I mean,” he begins, sheepish smile on display, “I never kiss and tell.”

“Touching.” He smirks. “How sweet of you.”

“You know what else is sweet?”

“Please,” you beg, meeting his eyes, “Don’t say my pussy.”

“Please,” he repeats, same mocking tone, “The possibilities are endless. Your mouth,” he scoots closer, words whispered on the shell of your ear, “Your mouth around my dick,” he almost nibbles your ear, “Your mouth screaming my name.”

“My pussy,” you add, trying not to lose your mind.

“I would never call sweet something I’ve not tasted.”

He raises a brow.

“Are you offering? You’re not very smooth, you know?”

He ignores the last question, tightening his grip. “In the middle of your brother’s wedding? Seokjin’s wedding? I’m not a dick, even though you sitting on my face would be a sight to see.”

“Right?” your voice doesn’t falter for a second, “That’s what I always say”

“Nice to see how we’ve got much in common. But I was thinking of something else, actually—” His face is once again inches away from yours, ear to mouth, hot breath fanning over you bare neck. “I wanna finger you.”

Oh.

“Under the table. Right behind you. Wanna make you whimper.”

It’s almost like being tongue-tied, fumbling for words, body flushing, but you gather somewhere the strength to form an actual sentence, which makes him smirk devilishly.

“I can be very quiet.”

He pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Bet you can’t keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“When I win,” you say, lying your words on an unrealistically high vote of confidence, even for yourself, “What do I get?”

He licks his lips, slow, savouring the moment. “You get to ride my face.”

“Not your dick?”

“I’m not a fuckboy, baby.”

A comeback of some kind is already on your tongue, but – there’s a kiss somewhere in the following seconds, all wet and tingling and perhaps filled with too many lip bites, but he can’t really blame you when you’ve been brushing your thighs together for the past minute, heat pooling down your belly. It’s enough for you to silently pledge for more, and for him to tease, because he takes a step back, smirk in place and lips reddened, and guides you towards his seat at the end of the table with a hand on the small of your back.

Downhill begins as soon as you sit down, legs barely parted, a minimum space not fitting for his plans, apparently, because the crease between Jimin’s eyebrows grows when he nudges them apart with his hand, the cold metal of his rings cooling down your flushed state. You want to gasp at the sudden intrusion, but the sound is swallowed entirely by his hot mouth on yours, distracting once again, incredibly soft and alluring. This kiss is slow, this time, like he’s taking his time tasting you and learning about the hums he draws out of you, the shyness of your previously biting tongue, and how fast you get lost in the kiss itself. You press a chaste kiss on his mouth, before creaking a space between you.

“I’m starting to think you’re all bark and no bite”

He doesn’t answer, but stares into your eyes with his hooded gaze, and he manages to sneak a hand furtively under your dress not breaking the contact. His skin is warm, but you’re warmer, and his destination is even hotter. He cocks his head, fingers brushing against the soaked, sticking material you used to call panties up until fifteen minutes ago, and he must notice—his eyes grow wider, his jaw tightens and his hand gains courage.

Fuck. This should be embarrassing, getting worked up over dirty innuendos and a kiss or two, but you’re instead feeling flushed and more. More sensitive. More open to the idea of him ruining you, even though that’s not what he’s offering. Or— is he?

The question lies unanswered when his digits rub with a sparkled intensity over both your clothed sex and your inner thighs. It’s a continuous, mellifluous melody, his fingers dancing between the two until he settles on your panties only, and that’s when you almost let out a soft moan; you don’t, he raises his brow, challenging, but you don’t, and instead glance around to notice if someone has his eyes on the both of you, sitting in the furthest region of the fucking smart, endless table.

He raises the stake, flushed: Jimin pushes your panties on one side, petting with his index your exposed self, and you suck in a breath. He continues to do so, face still, closing the distance between you two.

You don’t question the sudden kiss, instead you angle your face and close your eyes and let him press his lips on you. This feels like being drunk, or high, stretching underneath a sky dripping with stars. You cup his face with your hands, his lips so terribly soft and inviting, the smallest of smiles meeting your own chapped and curved upwards lips.

It’s when you’re merely inches away from him that he thumbs at your clit, sensitive and tingling, circling with utmost peace and no speed whatsoever. You pout at little, you realize, which makes him melt either cause of your cute frown -oh, how the tables have turned- or simply because he’s the devil himself, pressing a finger against your entrance and delving it into your heat.

“Cute,” he purrs, kissing you, “Is this okay?”

The crude, hot, nerve-wracking fingering has begun, which makes you, quickly enough, putty in his hands and ablaze with ardour for this man whose rasping voice could kill you.

“Yeah,” you breathe on his mouth, eyelids drooping closed, “Yeah, all good.”

You hum to yourself as he starts pressing kisses on your jaw and your neck, a trail of treacherous flames lighting up your skin, and you have the audacity to sigh under his ministrations, a tiny, strained sound not quite a mewl.

If he hears, he doesn’t show it. You’re biting your own lip when he enters a second finger, filling your searing emptiness.

“Want three?” he asks, voice husky and as desperate as you are under his touch. He adds it when you nod, the squelch louder than before, and you moan, rocking your hips against his fingers.

“Shh, baby,” he coos, placing his other hand on your hips, slowing your movements, “Be a good girl.”

He fucks you deep, fast, fingers clashing against the silky dress you’re wearing and sweat sparkling on his forehead. He swallows another moans of yours, sucking your bottom lip and tugging it between his teeth. You’re close. You’re so close, and it’s only been a couple minutes. You can’t hear anything that isn’t your wet pussy clenching around his fingers, his rhythm ruthless and burning.

“Too bad you’re not coming on my fingers, today,” he says before kissing your neck and emptying your dripping pussy, then proceeding to taste and lick his own fingers in his mouth. He lets them out with a small pop, and it’s the most terrifying sight you’ve ever had in front of your almost watering eyes. “I’m sorry I won the bet, though, your pussy is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.”

That’s the high and dry story of how you first met Jimin.

The second time it happens, it’s under completely different circumstances, and, substantially, against your every predictions, it really happens. It takes place, like a once in a lifetime event: there’s an orgasm involved, not due to the very charming and never disappointing Jeon jungkook the robotic version, and instead it involves a rather attractive asshole with a persistent smirk plastered on his face.

Except it’s a lot more complicated than what it sounds, and most of it is Seulgi’s fault.

Your roommate had pouted all evening, because that’s what semi adults do when they’re denied a companion for the night.

“I just wanna get wasted. It’s been one hell of a month, and you know how I get when I’m stressed.”

“I can suggest you a vibrator and a bottle of vodka. Do you settle for that, your honor?”

“The more you talk like this,” all self-absorbed and assertive and cautiously, like when talking to a kid, she begins, hands in her long, mahogany hair, “the more I just wanna push you up against the wall.”

“Sounds to me you just wanna get laid.”

“Maybe I do,” she huffs, hands on her hips, the light of your abat-jour highlighting her golden skin. “Maybe I don’t. What I know is that I wanna get wasted. Come with me, pretty please?”

“Look,” you raise your eyes from the book you’ve been holding, stretching a leg onto the unmade bed of yours, “I just wanna get this fucking paper done. I need,” you grip the phone on the bed table, checking for the white, large numbers on your lock screen, “an hour. An hour and half to edit it and I’m all yours.”

“This paper is due on Thursday, though.”

“Yeah, but I have a reputation to uphold in the family. Have to be the most beautiful and successful.”

“You’re full of shit,” are her last words, muttered with a smile as she grabs her jacket.

“Hey,” you call, stretching your neck towards her, “I don’t care if it’s two am and you’re already wasted. Call me and I’ll come to you with a whole bottle of vodka to make it up to you. Hell, I’ll even kiss you goodnight.”

“I don’t wanna make out with you, you freak.”

“You didn’t say that last time, baby!”

Seulgi

[2.13]

wassup bitch

make out with meeeeeeeeeeeeee

[location shared]

com n get me littl nuggrt

Not Sober Seulgi is probably the worst Seulgi you have ever dealt with. You let out a sigh, eyeing the frat dorm all lit up and vibrating to the trashy trap music the insiders are jamming to.

Of course, when it comes to Not Sober Seulgi, there’s boys involved. Frat boys involved. At first, you don’t pay attention to the details, the signs, surrounding you like blinding traffic lights signalling stop stop stop, all red and striking. The thought doesn’t cross your mind, the dots connecting in some hidden part of your brain not making your insides short circuit—instead you’re knocking on the door, then banging on the very wooden entrance until a face shows up; the dorm is dimly lit, and the face is partially lightened by a soft, hued red and, that, too, Future You pinpoints, should have been a sign.

It’s useless, anyway, because you hear the insider talk and you’re burning instantly, like after touching a steaming, hot cup of coffee, except that bitter coffee is still good coffee. Smug Jimin plus bitter you isn’t really sweet, nor a match made in heaven. It’s chaotic, a caustic explosion, and you both know it, judging from the sharp smile he offers you, after blinking lazily at your figure.

“This is a mixer party only,” his soothing voice welcomes you, “Do you have an invite?”

You press your tongue on your teeth, mouth carefully closed.

“Yeah, from Hell, I’ve come to take a fallen angel.”

“Sorry to break it to you, oh-kind-lady, but we didn’t give any invite to poor, damned souls.”

“Too bad I don’t give a fuck about your policies, then,” you move towards the small space between the door and Jimin’s body, but he interferes, placing himself right between the two. “Look, I don’t give a single fuck about this party.”

“Yeah, it sure looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “My friend is here. She’s most certainly not sober and I’ve come to pick her up. That’s it. Do you think I want to be here, among these drunk, perverted jocks?”

He turns around, stretching his neck, his eyes darting through the crowd, inhibited by alcohol, smelling like cheap beer and weed. The moment his eyes bore into yours, though, it’s terrifying; it’s a rustled reminder of Seokjin’s wedding Jimin, and you don’t like it. You loathe it. You dread it.

“Maybe only some of us.”

He tips his head, lips curving into a timid, small smile, and you tear your gaze from his lips in a heartbeat.

“Yeah, keep dreaming of it. I just want my friend back.” You point your chin towards the amalgam of drunk party animals, “I’ll leave you to your immensely interesting activities, then.”

“What if,” he begins, “You don’t. Or—even better scenario, you leave with me.”

“Best case scenario, I leave with my friend. You stay here.”

“What’s the worst-case scenario, then?”

You cock a brow at him, crossing your arms on your chest. “I leave with my friend, you stay here. Sometime before me leaving, you’re punched. Or kicked. I don’t know. There’s a high chance I’ll throw a drink on you.”

“That implies you’ll be here long enough to grab a drink, doesn’t it? And you don’t have to ruin my shirt to get me naked, babe. Just ask nicely.”

You huff, and you’re mildly tempted to shove him against a wall. Or ruin him. Not in the funny way. More like the high and dry way, the one he knows so well. “I changed my mind, I’ll kick you.”

“Ask nicely?” His teasing tone makes your cheeks flush, and you hope the shitplace with subdued lightening can cover it. His expression shifts into an arrogant one, full smirk and little dimples out, so your cute guess is that he can see. He sees his effect on you, albeit completely unwanted and full of hatred from your side, and he enjoys it. Actually lulls in it, letting out a small laugh which, in turn, makes his eyes turn into crescents, all warm and cute—all things he’s not. All things you know he’s not.

“Ask nicely,” you repeat, rolling the words on your tongue, “Okay, babe. Let’s do this, babe. What do you want from me, babe?”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe the answer is you?”

“Yes, actually,” you sigh, fingers brushing his neck, face comically close to his perfect, chiselled one, “That’s exactly what I thought when you stopped fingering me.”

“Right,” Jimin has the audacity to smile, craning his neck as if to close the distance between you in order to meet you for a kiss, “I’m a man of word, thought. You should be impressed.”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s impressed is your face under the orgasm denial definition. Google it, babe, I guarantee you the meaning comes with your name and a brilliant review of one star.”

“Unlike you.” He licks his lips, eyes on your pretty pink ones, smeared with venom, “You’re not coming.” He explains, to further ignite your rage.

“And whose fault is that, babe?”

Jimin nuzzles into your neck, cupping your other cheek with his rough palm, and his thumb stills on your throat, right where your breath is stuck. He adds pressure on it, lips fondling your burning skin, his usual smirk plastered on them.

“Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re not fucking me,” you spit back, mouth now millimetres away from his, gently inviting you to kiss it, and cherish it, and biting it until you’re satisfied with the hot result.

“I’ll eat you out? Until you come.” He hums. “You’ll come.”

His voice is a mere strangled sound, wanting and dripping with need, and you snap out of it with a small smile.

“Nice offer,” your smile is wicked as you scrape his nape with a feathery touch, the slow movement rousing a flutter in your lower belly. “But get in line, babe.”

His shell-shocked face is the last thing you see before you fulfil the let’s rescue Seulgi! party.

(“Why do you smell like softener?” Seulgi sniffs you, arms looped loosely around your neck, eyes completely shut down. It’s a nice sight, all things considered. You’re no angel, no saint, no perfect person, but you’re a nice friend, and that’s probably the most Seokjin trait you recognize in yourself. It’s your shared apartment, and it’s past 3 am and you’re the one good friend who keeps her promises. “It’s strawberry vodka, you heathen.”)

The line turns out to be a real line, queue line, let’s get this coffee line, which, well. How can one word it, how can one phrase it fully catching the irony of it all, the distinctive je ne sais quoi of life without—

“Nice to see you here.”

It’s the perfect set for a rom-com, you notice, taking in the warm scenery around you. What else can one dream of, right? The campus coffee shop, the campus hot not-really-but-also-kinda fuckboy Jimin, partial jock to give him credit, full time attractive idiot with a tendency for orgasm denial. Really.

“What are the chances?” You exhale, voice devoid of emotions. For the sake of your parents’ integrity, you suppose, because they raised no impolite woman, of course, you turn around to face the angel-like human being, black hair partially covering his forehead, little dimples on full display. That’s—that is lack of integrity, or indecency or au-fucking-dacity. It might as well be a mix of the above-mentioned possibilities, all fitting and nurturing you because he’s gorgeous. He’s handsome. Jimin’s the most attractive human being you’ve ever seen in your life, and it’s not fair.

(Beside the fact that you’ve lived with Kim Seokjin, for fuck’s sake)

He pokes his own cheek, and you bask into the otherworldly scenario that takes place right in front of your caffeine deprived eyes. It’s a sight for sore, soft eyes, and it’s the end of the world as you know it, because it’s morning, too early to properly function like a normal human being, but there he is. There he is, Jimin, channelling his inner boyfriend material aura, oozing off boyfriend smell, nice, fresh, aftershave smell, rocking a stupid sweater and the messiest black mop of hair.

It’s honestly a tragedy, and you won’t stand for it. You will make a move—

“You’re squinting your eyes, like, real tight. Are you alright?”

Just ogling you, your drowsy mind offers, the fucking cheater.

“Yeah,” you reply, swallowing a lump in your dry throat, “Just need coffee. A latte. Anything.”

You move forward in the queue, and as you blink you realize it’s your turn, until it’s not anymore. Jimin carefully and gently moves you out of the way, brushing with the softest touch your side.

“A latte and an iced americano, please.”

The sweetened order for two turns into a hushed thank you, a tipped smile, a flutter of you heart. It’s drinks still half full, his curious gaze darting on your lips, your defences down. It’s unfair, because in a hot second all this pent-up tension shifts into a light, chaste kiss, your back pressed against the coffee shop’s restroom; your chest heaves under his tantalizing make-out session with your neck, followed by his frantic lips pressing on yours, his tongue licking lazily into your mouth, a gasp easing its way out of your warm and eager mouth. It’s a hot-blooded supercut, each frame announced by a starving moan, a content sigh, and, before you realise it, you’re on your bed, Jimin hovering on top of you.

It’s Saturday morning, you hum to yourself, fingers sliding into his hair, all’s in check. There’s a warm body slumped on yours, his tongue swerving on your lower lip and his hips shyly bucking between your open legs. Your panties are drenched, you can feel his hard on through the jeans and, really, all’s in check.

He nudges your nose with his. “Lemme eat you out.”

The answer lies sitting on the tip of your tongue, right next to an obnoxious remark that you hope will rile him up enough for him to rip your underwear, which you definitely won’t complain about. However, the words don’t come out, they slur in your craving mouth the second he gets up and shoves you toward the end of your unmade bed, spreading your naked legs open with his calloused palms.

“Nice skirt,” he comments, voice a rasp, eyeing the drenched, lilac underwear, skirt at this point gone up to cover your stomach. “I just want…”

He shuffles closer, enough for you to feel his hot breath on your core, and that’s when Jimin pulls the panties on a side, teasing you with little licks to your entrance. You’re responsive, too eager for anything to quench your thirst that you sigh happily at the barest of actions, gripping strands of his hair. Jimin chuckles, engulfing the throbbing clit in his mouth in one go and drawing desperate moans out of your cute, devilish mouth.

“Fuckboy move,” you emit, voice cracking at the pressure of his warm mouth, “Oh, oh. Fuck…”

He replies flattening his tongue on your core, then licking and lapping against your dripping folds. Jimin positively glows at the cries you let out, face slobbering with your arousal while driving you insane, fucking with his tongue like his life depended on it. It’s almost a spiritual experience, a crescendo of wails and sobs, his face drown in your pussy and his tongue paying reverence to your approaching orgasm. He can feel it in the way you writhe, in his hand splaying over your stomach, keeping you still while he eats you religiously, forehead beaded with sweat.

You come with a trembling hand in his hair, the other flicking your bare nipple, back slightly arched and a lewd mewl; Jimin takes in the way your body trembles, your breath all staggered because of him, and the sight alone is enough for him to cum in his pants with a grunt, completely untouched.

The second time it happens is, coincidentally, the first time Jimin knows there’s no turning back from this.

Complicated is a big word when it comes to relationship, you reckon, emitting something akin to a gasp, truly soap operas worthy material, but, for the first time in your life, you decide to name it this way.

Being with Jimin is… complicated, for starters. Especially because you’re not with Jimin, in the strict, relationship-wise meaning. He knows your favourite colour (“Why the fuck you only own purple underwear?” “It’s lilac, dick, watch your mouth.” “Watch your own mouth, babe. You’re the one on your knees.”), your favourite food (“But you like having your mouth stuffed with my cock, honey.” You sigh, blushing. “First of all, I’m talking about real food. That amazing steak kind of food—“

“I’ll show you real meat, babe.”

“Gross. Gross. How can I cancel the last five seconds of my life?”

“Come here, Jared, nineteen,” he half smiles, tilting his head, “I’ll get us fries.”), your favourite movie (“We can’t get each other off every time your ugly paper cap fits—oh,” you suck in a breath, Jimin flicking his tongue on your turgid nipple, “oh, god, don’t stop.”), your best friend’s name (“I condone you dicking her so good she sometimes cries, you know, I just don’t when I’m in the room next to hers and all I can hear is my best friend trying to formulate a single coherent word but failing because you’re pounding her mercilessly into the mattress.” Jimin chuckles, grabbing his jacket before holding the doorknob. “She begged, Seulgi.”)—so what? It’s not like you sat down and decided not to ask each other dumb questions, so that you could find out in the funny, kinky way. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even decide on anything, didn’t even talk about talking, because the relationship related shit didn’t even cross your mind.

It’s even quite fucking hard for it to cross it, because half the time you’re together you’re either both naked – except for the time he pleaded for the tartan mini to stay – or stuffing your mouth with food—because, if there’s something you’ve learned after one too many hook-ups with him is that this kind of sex requires strength. Like, actual, physical strength, if we’re not talking about the this test is draining me please fuck me until I can’t walk sex. Which, yeah, 10/10 would recommend. That was the day Seulgi decided to invest in ear plugs while muttering capitalism, here I come.

You also came.

Funnily enough, guess who also came. Not in the funny, kinky way. Think about the grossest thing, imagine the beyond the bounds of possibility, sprinkle it with Jimin earnestly shoving his dick down your throat, stir it with a poor Taehyung brushing his teeth next to the both of you, a step away from the shower, and serve it on the most expensive plate in the kitchen, a recipe not approved by Kim Seokjin.

Yeah, you mentally roll your eyes, licking your lips clean, at eye-level with your sorta enemy with benefits’ pretty dick: the married brother of yours, former fratboy, taller than your current will to live.

In hindsight, maybe it is Seokjin’s fault. Once you’re married, you’re supposed to be committed to the cause, and sometimes, an angry little crumb in you finds the audacity to speak, the cause is made up of your four walls: ergo home, ergo your married life, miles away from the absurdity that once filled his university days. You’re being hypocritical, you realize, skin wet, body trembling. In the simplest, most hedonistic terms, you’re done with the chaos in this fraternity and just wished that hooking up was easier. It’s more than a stolen orgasm, a random spur of pleasure and free de-stresser; it’s also something not quite like art but just as peculiar. Sex with Jimin is more than nice, more than a fast rummage of clothes on the floor and panties teared, or condoms stuffed in every single pocket of his jacket.

It should also be noticed that it’s been one hell of a stressful week, okay, which means that it’s one of those times you seek for naked intimacy, in its least literal meaning. You’re looking for something sure, something silent, something earnest. Jimin gives you that in the simplest of forms, in the easiest of ways. It’s not fair for your brother to come unannounced and burst into the house with his adorable laugh and love for his own brothers. Way to ruin the moment, bro.

Jimin blinks attentively when Taehyung laughs, clapping his hands all happy and following the elder’s voice outside the bathroom.

“I’m getting you my clothes.”

“Wait, what?”

His lips part just enough for his tongue to wet them, and your eyes follow in silence the gesture.

“I mean,” he starts, grabbing a towel, “You either come out with me from this bathroom or you don’t.”

He’s concise, yet harsh, words uttered with those soft lips yet are just as hot as a slap in your face. He’s telling the truth, but you soon find out you don’t really like it.

There’s something abrupt and severe in those chosen words, so well picked out because they’re not meant to hurt, but at the same time they’re so worrying. So terrible, practically as hard as a punch in your guts.

You either come out of the bathroom with him — you had been blowing minutes before, hadn’t you? Quite the intimacy, huh? — or you don’t. You stay behind. Different rooms, a whole door to separate you while he’s out with the people he cares about.

Seems legit, but. It’s unfair. You know Jimin isn’t choosing for you, but it’s obvious he’s inclined towards an option between the two, and you’re terrified to discover whether it’s his own desire pushing or what he thinks you want.

You, instead, push the thought aside when you nod, taking the towel from his hands and covering your body from this terrific half hook-up.

Because that’s what it is—that’s what you are.

It dawns upon you like a cold breeze hitting your face in full December, suddenly, and that’s when you realize winter is near. In your mind, this hooking up scenario seemed nicer. Sounded softer, a cute bubble moving slowly in the air.

But now—well, now the bubble has burst, and it feels wrong, and this unexpected wrong doesn’t feel right in your chest, and that’s the story of how you leave the house escaping from his window, in his clothes, with vision blurred by hot, stupid, idiotic tears.

Seulgi is the first one to notice, and, obviously, the first one to speak.

“Something’s been bothering you,” she says, head tilted in a way that’s supposed to be emphatic and worried but comes off as stiff and terrified. “Care to share?”

It’s just a wholesome amount of terrifying stuff, isn’t it? First the shower incident, now Seulgi’s ways not working around you anymore. What’s next? Avoiding Jimin for a whole week? Blocking his number? Losing the smart and beautiful title to your obnoxious brother?

You wouldn’t be surprised, really. Shit like this always happens at the same fucking time.

“It’s nothing. A stressful couple days, maybe? Or maybe I’m getting sick. There’s a guy always coughing during Physics. Maybe it’s his fault, who knows.”

Seulgi unlocks her phone, an unreadable gaze studying you. She gives up a second later, though, her weak maybe reaching your ears when you’ve already looked down on your book.

One simply cannot be annoyed because of a half hook up. Christ. You deserve better than that. You have some dignity left, tainted by everything that’s not Jimin and his harsh, stupid words.

So, your mind offers, while you squint your eyes, I suppose there’s nothing else you could do about it.

Nothing else besides acknowledging it and moving on.

Sounds like a plan. A fireproof plan, an escape plan, something detailed and precise. Planned to work out smoothly; planned to be executed without pain or mistakes.

It’s seven sharp when he knocks, takeout in his left hand, eyes bulging because it’s fucking freezing outside.

“It’s fucking freezing, what the fuck.” He says out loud, indeed. What he receives as an answer is the sound of your tongue clicking, the biggest amount of interest you’ve shown towards him the whole week. He would finally exhale, weren’t it for the fact that this is still pretty traumatic, because if there’s something he’s learned while orbiting around you, is that you’re constantly awake and aware of your surroundings. Your body language says that you pay attention to him, or Seulgi, or whoever you’re talking to. You follow the guy with your eyes, and you listen and nod in all the right places during a conversation, and you search for his dark gaze when he’s fucking you in the dimly lit bedroom, the bed creaking under your sweaty sex making. He’s not admitting it, he never will, and he’ll pretty much deny this to everyone who will ask but: there’s something hot about it. Something burning with the way your body reacts to him, when your eyes follow his actions, while your voice falters when he fucks you right, and it somehow pushes him to the edge every time. It’s the equivalent of Jungkook getting a boner in the gym while catching girls and boys drooling at him, except he’s talking about you and your crazy moans, your magic aura.

And yes, okay, fucking blame him, the realization alone made him jerk off in his room like a teen, twice, yesterday. That’s a fact. That’s barely a fact, alright? This is a truth; a statement soon forgot by the knowers. Obviously.

You look spent, he thinks, if he had to choose a word, dared by some arrogant deity to define the current mess you were. He glances at your barely done ponytail, at the tiredness written all over your face. He takes in your baggy sweater, your quiet beauty, knowing this is gonna be one of those nights you take a step back.

He doesn’t say anything though, instead he brushes the hair on your forehead, not even making contact with your skin.

You grab the bag from his hands, shivering instantly and hoping he doesn’t read the signs. They’re—they’re there, you know, you’re collecting them slowly, one after another, grabbing one and looking cautiously for the following one, hoping it’s not there. Hoping it doesn’t exist.

You exhale a sigh, disguising it as cough, a noise, something distracting Jimin from his silent staring, which is, funnily enough, loud and cacophonic.

“Hungry,” you state, the single word weighting more because of the soft pout on your lips. Jimin hates that he knows what it means, that it’s gonna be just the two of you this time, no chill whatsoever, no bodies touching and melting against each-other. He’s not complaining, what the fuck, he’s not an idiot. He’s not even mad, he’s just—accepting, on a level. This is the point of no return, he guesses, following you on the couch and admiring the laptop’s screen reflected on your face.

He doesn’t say anything when you search for Brooklyn 99 on Netflix, because he’d say everything, otherwise. He’d mumble something along the lines of this feels real, we could do this all the time, or, worst of all: I like this. I like you.

So, in order: he tugs at your sleeves and scoots you closer to him, and you say absolutely nothing at the gesture. He’s ecstatic on the inside, partially terrified, mostly delusional. He pretends he’s something more when you lean on him, the slightest pressure of your head on his shoulder. He cares zero fucks about the show when he’s breathing your scent in and feels how warm you are and shuts his eyelids down when he pictures you adoring him. Liking him. Liking him a whole lot more—

He’s fucked, he realises, hours later, when you doze off and he has to carry you to bed, something you claim of loathing, which—what on earth. It’s an unfathomable absurdity, that’s what it is.

“You can stay.”

His voice falters. “What?”

You cough, eyes closed as you speak sinful words: “The night, I mean. It’s fucking freezing outside.”

His lips form a small o, and it’s hot all of a sudden. “Alright,” he manages, staring at you on your bed, hands fidgety and heartbeat accelerated for some reason, “Make space for me. Hey, fucker. I’m serious. Let me in.”

You do.

(to be continued. ily)

#BTS jimin #bts #bts fic #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts scenario #bts smut #bts social media au #bts imagine #bts imagines #jimin imagine #jimin #jimin smut #jimin bts #jimin x reader

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grownmdcbdgummiespill · 3 years

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random-thought-depository · 4 years

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So, in my last post I wrote this:

“Like … right now I’m planning out a story I intend to write in January; it’s supposed to be a kind of deconstruction of the Fremen mirage, and very much one of the thoughts going into it is “yo, a Proud Warrior Race would be a horrible society to live in or have as neighbors, we shouldn’t romanticize them!” and yet … I feel that the “bad guy” culture in it is much better, from a literary viewpoint, for me having given some thought to the material base of their society and how that would shape their culture. I could have just written them as flat edgelordy-grimdark barbarians, but thinking about their culture in materialist terms gave me a more complex and nuanced picture that I think will make for a more interesting and nuanced story and a fictional society that feels more interesting and human and alive.”

So, I want to infodump a little about this fictional culture I’ve thought up! I’m splitting this up into two posts because otherwise it’d be long in a way my Tumblr’s format is not kind to; in the first post I’m going to talk about the material base that defines this fictional society I’ve thought up, and in the second post I’m going to talk about more historically contingent features of their culture.

Note: for a lot of what’s in this post, I tried to make something hard SF-ish, but much of what I’ve written was the result of kind of “working backwards” from the sort of culture I was imagining to a material base that might create such a culture. So this is more playing with an idea than an attempt at anything particularly realistic.

Material base:

The basic political and economic unit of this society is the semi-self-sufficient space habitat community. These communities are about the size of a small town, I’m thinking thousands to tens of thousands of people (though I haven’t quite fixed it firmly, and anyway there’s wide variation; more successful communities are bigger). This town-size community lives in a semi-mobile space habitat, which I’m thinking is more-or-less a hollow cylinder spun for centrifugal gravity attached to a central spindle which is spacecraft construction facilities, engines, etc.. This space habitat contains enough hydroponic gardens, industrial machinery, etc. that the habitat can sustain itself completely independently for at least a few years. The space habitat has a rocket engine and a hyperspace engine, so it’s mobile, and these people are at least semi-nomadic, often moving their habitats when faced with opportunity or danger. The space habitat carries smaller spacecraft that can be detached and sent out to mine asteroids and KBO-type bodies, scoop helium 3 up from gas giant atmospheres, etc. and return these resources to the main habitat. Along with a closed life support system and efficient recycling, this makes such a community almost self-sufficient (though the almost qualifier is important, as I’ll discuss later).

People who are remembering Brett Devereaux’s last essay here may have noted a certain parallel with steppe nomads, with the main habitat being kind of analogous to the mobile but vulnerable main nomad camp where the non-combatants, livestock, and valuables are kept while the smaller resource-gatherer etc. craft are kinda analogous to the highly mobile horse-mounted war parties.

The reason these communities are so small is that their economies are not resource-limited but machinery-limited, labor-limited, and skilled specialized labor limited. Most raw materials these people may need are super-abundant to them, the bottleneck is transforming those raw materials into air, food, machinery, furniture, useful energy, etc. and maintaining efficient almost-closed loops of recycling. Sustaining a space community requires lots of complex machinery and lots of specialized skilled labor, and maintaining and replacing the machinery often requires more complex machinery (tools to make the tools) and more specialized skilled labor. Keeping humans alive in space is hard, so the return on investment from this is low. Therefore, these communities generally try to make efficient use of labor and maintain more-or-less the smallest viable population.

This implies reproduction within communities like this will probably be carefully controlled. A community like this must stay within a delicate balance; they must have enough people to do all the necessary labor with a comfortable safety margin to avoid situations like the only person with some important skill dying unexpectedly before they could train their replacement, but they must not have so many people that they strain the life support capacity of their habitat. That suggests reproduction usually tightly and deliberately controlled to stay at more-or-less replacement rate and no more.

It also implies a community like this will probably be quite communitarian and disciplined. Consumption will have to be tightly controlled. The means of production will probably be directly controlled by the political leadership. Its economy would probably look communist-ish to us, or maybe like a Bronze Age palace economy, with most necessities and luxuries being distributed basically as rations. Commercial transactions will be marginal to the internal economies of these communities; they’ll probably exist, but only in the form of informal mostly small-scale barter (think something similar to the cigarette economy that may exist in a prison), and they will not be anyone’s primary occupation or source of subsistence or power. Internal economic inequality within a community like this will be mostly a matter of status, not wealth; if somebody eats better it’s because they receive more and better food as an entitlement associated with their political office and/or social status, not because they own a big pile of gold that they use to buy food or something. Probably a community like this will be fairly economically egalitarian even if it is socio-politically unequal; if there’s a king he might have a somewhat bigger apartment, somewhat more and better food, a nice wardrobe of good-quality clothes with lots of bling, etc., but the difference in access to resources between him and one of his servants would be trivial compared to the difference in access to resources between me and a billionaire.

OK, but these people are supposed to be “bad guys” and a “Proud Warrior Race,” so where does that come in? Well, now let’s look at the economy of a community like this and ask: what might they need to get from other communities, and by extension what might they want to violently steal from outsiders?

Certainly not raw resources! If they want water, nitrogen, deuterium, iron, copper, platinum, etc. they can just send out a mining ship to an asteroid or KBO-like body to get some and bring it to them. If they want helium 3 they can just send out a scoop-ship to go down into the atmosphere of the nearest gas giant, gather some up, and bring it to them. And so on. Raw resources are mostly super-abundant to a culture like this and it would make no sense to risk injury or death stealing them from armed outsiders (there are a few exceptions to this that prove the rule, more on that later). So, if not raw resources, what?

Remember that their economy is machinery-limited. They need lots of complex machinery to survive, and then they need more complex machinery to repair and replace that complex machinery (tools to make the tools), and then sometimes they need tools to make the tools to make the tools, and so on. If each community had to be completely self-sufficient this might spiral out unmanageably. But it becomes much more manageable if they are just mostly self-sufficient and tap into larger commercial/industrial networks, e.g. a mostly planet-dwelling society with some orbital infrastructure and asteroid mining that has millions of people. Then if there’s the occasional hard to make spare part they can’t make themselves, it’s not a big deal, they can just send a trading expedition to get some of those parts from outsiders every ten years or so. Or if there’s some hard to make anti-viral drug they can’t make themselves, again, no big deal, they can just send a trading expedition to get some of it from outsiders every few years. A trading expedition ... or a raiding expedition.

Probably they would usually prefer to trade, humans usually prefer sharing or trading to violent theft because it’s less risky, violent theft means the possibility of injury or death (plus in this case complex machinery would be likely to get smashed up in a violent heist). A mutually beneficial trading relationship between a culture like this and a planet-dweller culture would be quite natural; to these people a planet-dweller society is rich in labor but poor in mineral resources such as platinum, while to planet-dwellers this space-dweller culture is rich in mineral resources but poor in labor and certain kinds of machinery and high value added finished goods. But here we have a potential basis for a culture that follows a Viking-style strategy of “if they outgun us, trade, if we outgun them, raid,” with the consequence of this culture’s relationship to other societies being a mix of trade and war.

Some raw resources may be worth stealing here; exceptions that prove the rule that for a space-dwelling culture like this raw resources aren’t worth stealing but value-added finished goods may be. For example, it’s theoretically possible to sift small quantities of naturally occurring antimatter from gas giant magnetic fields, and that stuff might be valuable for catalyzing fusion reactions. That might be worth stealing, because in a sense it’s a raw resource that’s kind of like a finished good; the difficulty is concentrating the very diffuse stuff; an antimatter capture facility with its Penning traps almost full might be worth raiding in the same way a big hoard of gathered acorns might be worth raiding for hunter-gatherers (this resource is abundant but diffuse, somebody else has taken the trouble to gather a lot of it into one spot, you can effectively appropriate their hard work by stealing the hoard). Similarly I could see this culture opportunistically intercepting freighters carrying helium 3, mined semi-refined asteroid material, etc., not so much stealing the resources as functionally stealing the labor of gathering and refining the resources.

There’s another thing a community like this might want to take from outsiders: people.

The economy of a community like this is also skilled specialized labor limited. In fact, that’s probably the more fundamental bottleneck: they can’t build and operate all the machinery they need to be truly self-sufficient because they don’t have the skilled specialist labor, and this is an equilibrium trap because trying to create more skilled specialist labor has a low return on investment for them; keeping a human alive in space is resource-intensive, and a new human probably won’t begin to give them a return on the investment for at least 15 years or so, likely longer (skilled specialized labor, so think e.g. doctors and engineers and literal rocket scientists; training them will take time). One way a community like this can adjust the equation to be more in its favor is to acquire skilled specialized laborers who have already been raised and trained by a different community; then they can skip all the investment in the child and go straight to benefiting from the labor of the fully trained adult.

There’s another reason a community like this might want to take people: genetic diversity. We’re talking about a small community, maybe a few tens of thousands of people, that is somewhat isolated. Inbreeding and lack of genetic diversity can kill small and isolated communities. As I said earlier, reproduction in a community like this will probably be extensively controlled, and I think one aspect of that might be controlling marriages to eliminate or minimize the risks associated with inbreeding. But it would be helpful if a community like this could assimilate some outsiders every generation, to increase its genetic diversity. So the community may want to assimilate even outsiders who don’t have any particularly in-demand specialist skills, to boost its genetic diversity.

Note: while this is a setting where aliens exist, it’s one that’s demographically dominated by humans, so most of the foreigners these people interact with will be other humans. This is significant here.

These two motivations synergize with each other. Most obviously, assimilating a skilled specialist outsider increases the community’s skilled specialist labor pool and also the community’s genetic diversity. But also, because of dynamics adjacent to Baumol’s cost disease, even relatively “unskilled” labor would be valuable in a community like this. Somebody who cleans toilets frees up somebody else to be e.g. a doctor or a nuclear engineer, in a much more reliable and direct way than is the case in a high-population capitalist society like ours. So even assimilating a relatively “unskilled” outsider could both increase the community’s genetic diversity and give it a real economic boost (as with a skilled specialist, compared to creating a new worker through natural reproduction and education, it’s a significant savings to the community if the new worker has been raised to adulthood by a different community).

I’m putting “unskilled” in quotes here cause I think when people say “unskilled” when talking about labor often what they are really talking about is “skills that are taught outside formal school institutions” or “skills that are transmitted but not taught.” I think “unskilled” in this sense is often a political term used to devalue people’s labor and justify people being paid little, worked hard, exposed to unpleasant working conditions, etc., so I don’t like using it ... but I can’t think of a better word to quickly communicate the concept I want to communicate here; I must work with the language my culture has given me. But I’ll put it in quotes here, to indicate I’m not using the concept uncritically.

Aside: you might think that a labor-limited community would make lots of use of robots and other automation, but I’m not sure that’d be true of these people. You’d think a futuristic super-Roomba would be a labor savings compared to a person with a simpler hand-pushed vacuum cleaner, but what about all the labor and machinery needed to make the Roomba? A Roomba represents a strategy of investing secondary sector labor to save tertiary sector labor, and that makes sense if you’ve got a big population and can build big factories so you can benefit from economies of scale, but it might not work as well for almost-self-sufficient small communities. A Roomba factory may be worth it if it saves the labor of a million human cleaners, but what about if it saves the labor of 100 human cleaners? A human is a very useful general-purpose gadget that can replace many specialized gadgets. So I think, counterintuitively, in a community like this you might actually see a lot of theoretically relatively easily automated manual labor being done by humans. This would synergize with a strategy of assimilating some relatively “unskilled” outsiders to increase genetic diversity; these people must be fed, given air to breathe, etc. like everyone else, so it would make sense to try to take advantage of their “as a human, they are a very useful general-purpose gadget that can replace many specialized gadgets” feature. Remember, this is a community that would want to make efficient use of labor and that would want to maintain approximately replacement rate reproduction.

As I said, humans generally prefer sharing or trading to violent theft, because violent theft is risky, and I think that would probably apply here too. Space communities like this would likely have traditions of peacefully “trading” people with each other. One relatively nice way this might happen is e.g. every ten years communities exchange groups of young volunteer emigrants. A less nice way is something like a political leader selling another community’s political leader a doctor and receiving as payment two relatively “unskilled” but young, pretty, and fertile women to be brides for his sons. But again, where trade is a possibility, violent theft is also a possibility. So along with stealing machinery and value-added finished goods, a primary goal of raiding may be capturing people; especially skilled specialists such as doctors, nuclear engineers, etc., but anyone who looks like they might make a good slave might be opportunistically abducted.

If this is starting to sound like nightmare fuel, you’re not wrong, but there is one significant mitigating factor. Remember that the most high-value and sought-after captives would be skilled specialists such as doctors, nuclear engineers, etc.. This is the kind of work where trying to extract labor from people by simple brutality doesn’t work well. You can’t just whip a computer programmer to make them code faster, and you really don’t want to anger the person who fixes the machine that makes the air you breathe, one of the people who tend the nuclear reactor that creates energy for your community, or the person who might do surgery on you. So the experience of being captured and enslaved by these people will often be less chain gang or Gor novel stuff and more “You are given a small but comfortable apartment, decent food, and moderate work assignments. It is made clear to you that bad things will happen to you if you make trouble or don’t work. If you obey your captors and do the work they tell you to do, they will be nice to you and treat you well. Their ultimate plan is to get you to become accustomed to your new life, make friends, get a boyfriend or girlfriend and make a child or three with them, and in this way become sufficiently invested in your new community that you wouldn’t want to go home even if you could.”

Of course, let’s not be too charitable to people who are basically enslavers; that’s how relatively high-value captives are treated, less valued captives are at much more risk of physical and sexual abuse, reproductive coercion, and unsafe and unpleasant working and living conditions.

If you’ve read James C. Scott’s The Art of Not Being Governed and Against The Grain, this may remind you a little of Mr. Scott’s thesis that for much of the history of civilization states were labor-limited, not land-limited. Mr. Scott’s work was a big inspiration to me when I was imagining this culture. Someday I might make a post talking about how I think “the purpose of war isn’t to acquire resources, it’s to acquire people, infrastructure, and machinery” is one of the more plausible paradigms for war in space, but this is long enough so I’ll leave that for another day.

Earlier I drew an analogy between the resource gatherer ships of these people and the war parties of steppe nomads. The context I’ve described here makes the analogy much better. Communities like this won’t just carry resource gatherer ships, but also raiding ships, built for raiding and heavily armed. This also implies violence will be a substantial factor in the life of a community like this; either they will have a significant class of professional warriors, or raiding and preparing for raiding will be a significant part of the average person’s life. I’m going with the first option, which is how you get a Proud Warrior Race instead of weekend-warrior types; as is usual in cases like this, the “Proud Warrior Race” is actually a specific privileged class within this society, and when you read that they are proud you should think of it in that context. I’ll talk about that a lot more in my next post, in which I’ll talk about these people as a culture instead of just as an economy.

#my writing #worldbuilding #James C. Scott #my big ideas #cw: slavery #cw: rape #cw: reproductive coercion #space #hard SF #warning: long #Artemis of the airless vastness

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modosphere · 4 years

Text

My Only Direction: Chapter 11

“Rose, make sure they don’t look pasty in comparison to my sunny complexion.” Harry told Rose airily, admiring her handiwork in the mirror as Rose moved with a rueful smile over to a disgruntled Louis. “Good job.”

Rose allowed herself a small smile as Harry fought his own smile, as they met eyes in the mirror. Harry was notorious for his constant need for perfection when it came to his hair and make-up team and Rose had already been forewarned that getting a compliment out of Harry Edward Styles was as easy as getting blood out of a stone.

Well, apparently rocks could now bleed, Rose thought happily to herself, as she dusted powder on Louis’ scrunched up nose. It was her first day and the actual word “good” had been used in Harry’s compliment. Renee, one of the other make-up artists, had been on the team for more than a year and the maximum Harry had ever given her was “it’s alright”, upon prodding. That was considered the highest compliment he’d ever given.

Until now, Rose thought slightly smugly.

Within ten more minutes, Rose was done and went to join Soph backstage, where she was texting, her legs tucked under her on the sofa.

“Off-duty?” Soph asked, barely glancing up.

“Mhmm.” Rose nodded. The rest of the team had told her that, for her first night, she could watch the show. Rose was pretty sure that nobody enjoyed clean-up but then again, maybe Liam taking Rose out of the room by the hand had something to do with it, the boys rallying beside her.

“Want to see something funny?” Soph sighed as she heaved herself from the low and comfortable black leather sofa, offering out her hand to Rose.

Rose took it and watched her, interested.

Soph walked them over to the outskirts of the stage, from where they could see the audience, an excited buzz echoing through the stadium.

“You got changed.” Rose noted, looking at Soph’s new attire; a pair of dark blue skinny jeans, some beige boots with furry insides and a mustard-coloured, extra large and baggy T-shirt, braving the face of a large grey fox.

“Yeah, after work.” Soph nodded, scouring the crowd, before finding what she was looking for. Rose watched Soph closely. There was something... Different about her tonight. “There.” Soph said triumphantly, nodding to a blonde figure in one of the balconies, watching the stage with a keen, impatient expression.

Rose recognized her instantly.

“But-” Rose gasped, turning to Soph’s grim face as she glowered at the blonde. “Isn’t she – I mean-”

“Zayn’s ho of an ex-girlfriend?” Soph offered. Rose nodded mutely. “Yep, that’s the one.”

“But why?” Rose finally managed to say, feeling confused. “I... Just... She... Why?”

“She says she wants to talk to Zayn after the show.” Soph said darkly. “Something about clearing up any misinterpretations between the two of them.” Soph said the words with such a foul taste in her mouth, she almost spat them in disgust.

“What, you mean like her having her tongue down the throat of another guy?” Rose gaped. “I don’t even know, man, how can you misinterpret something like that?”

Soph just raised one eyebrow, still glaring holes into Dianna’s head, clearly unimpressed.

Rose went to turn away, before stopping and her mouth opening slightly at Soph’s face. She was chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully, her eyes narrowed as she watched Dianna sit down, smoothing down her skirt. Her lips were a slightly sparkly, light pink and her eyelashes looked longer.

“Nice nails.” Rose managed to say at the unmatching, bright pink nails Soph was sporting. “And are you wearing makeup?”

Soph shrugged.

“Zayn chose the colour earlier.” Soph said absently, tapping her nails on the doorway before turning back to the sofa, Rose watching her, suddenly alert.

“Excuse me?” Rose said after a moment, shaking her head and following Soph back to the sofa.

“Oh.” Soph said, blushing slightly as she realized what she’d just said. “Um, we hung out today.”

“You did?” Rose said slowly.

“But we’re keeping it on the down low.” Soph said pointedly. “Please, Rose, all of the boys already think there’s something strange going on with me and Zayn, I don’t want to add fuel to the fire.”

“And by sneaking around with him, that’s better?” Rose teased, flopping down beside her. “So... What happened today? How the Hell did you end up hanging out? Explain!” Rose demanded.

“Well...” Soph said, a smile spreading across her features. “He came to the Vogue building with my lunch.” Soph glanced at Rose meaningfully. “Pizza. With all my favourite toppings.”

“How did he know?” Rose gasped.

“I asked him that when we went to Haagen Dazs for dessert.” Soph grinned. “He said that just because he hadn’t spoken to me for five months, didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed a few things.”

“He’s so into you.” Rose murmured, shaking her head happily. “So into you.”

“Haha, no, he’s just sweet, that’s all.” Soph laughed, laughing even harder at Rose’s stricken expression. Soph had called Zayn sweet. Jesus take the wheel. “Oh, come on, there must be some redeeming quality in him if Harry is best friends with him, too, right?” Soph thought for a moment. “Odd I never thought it like that before, really.”

“So...” Rose said slowly, too many feelings swimming around in her head. TOO MANY FEELINGS. “Then what happened? Did people notice you in the pizza place?”

“Oh, no, we ate it in a back alley at the top of Regent Street.” Soph said matter-of-factly. “After we bumped into that creep from yesterday-”

“You bumped into him?!” Rose yelped, jumping up and staring down at her best friend. “What? When? What happened?”

“Zayn gave him some pizza, it was all very civil.” Soph replied, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Except for the bit when he threw the pizza on the guy’s shirt, but other than that, it was fine.”

“No!” Rose gasped loudly, slapping her hands over her mouth.

“Yes!” Soph laughed excitedly, standing up. “Oh my God, you should have seen it, the guy was trying to get me to ditch Zayn and have lunch with him-”

“Asshole.” Rose muttered darkly.

“- and he kept going on about how hungry he was and being all weird and sexual and innuendo-ey and then Zayn was like, HAVE SOME PIZZA ON ME and BOOM he had pizza all over his shirt and, Rose,” Soph allowed herself to do a jerky, weird victory dance, pumping her fists. “IT WAS SO AWESOME!” Soph let out in a strangled cry of joy.

“Oh my GOD, right on his shirt?” Rose whispered, holding Soph’s hand tightly. Soph nodded, grinning. “Then what?”

“Right, yeah, okay, so then he was like Soph, let’s go, but I didn’t get it but then I did and so he kind of... I don’t know, escorted me away from that asshole because he was all in my face and we crossed the road and then he couldn’t believe I still wanted dessert and then he took me anyway and then we went shopping-”

“You went shopping?” Rose repeated, her brain unable to keep up with the rapid Soph and Zayn love going on.

“Mhmm, and then this lady offered to do my nails and Zayn got all interested because I’d made him buy so many new clothes-”

“Wait, you were shopping for HIM?” Rose yelled, a hand on her heart. She was about to have a coronary. There was going to be scratching teeth and everything.

“Yeah, I mean seriously, there are only so many varsity jackets a boy can have.” Soph told her, wrinkling her nose, in the exact same way she would have told Zayn, Rose knew, something which automatically made her smile. “We just got him some normal clothes. You know, jeans, a couple of V-necks, Converses, because God knows his wardrobe needs them.” Soph shook her head. “There was an awkward moment when we passed the Marvel underwear and we both wanted to check, but we passed it.”

“Oh, my God, I would have so loved it if you’d bought something.” Rose giggled.

“Wait, what?” Soph said confusedly. “No, he got the Iron Man boxer briefs.”

Rose couldn’t help but let out the high-pitched hoot of laughter. This was just all too much. It was ALL TOO MUCH.

Rose could only listen, her ears ringing slightly with joy, as Soph continued to tell her a word-by-word play of what had happened. They’d shopped, they’d hung out for a while in Starbucks. There were even a load of blurry pictures of Zayn and Soph both acting like utter fools, which Soph had apparently been sorting through when Rose had walked in.

But, from what Rose could gather, the most important thing was that they’d talked.

Zayn was freaking out big-time about Dianna coming to the show tonight, something Rose could at least somewhat understand. The last time he’d seen her, she’d had her tongue down another man’s throat, in a restaurant full of busy people. From what Soph and Rose knew, he’d ignored her messages, which were probably trying to cover up her tracks. She’d known that Zayn had seen her when Soph had told her God knew what.

Soph and Rose were deep in thought, their heads full of theories about what Dianna could want, when Zayn walked in.

“You alright, ladies?” Zayn said politely, Rose grinning as she saw his eyes linger on Soph’s face slightly. Soph had told her how they’d already both decided to ease into their friendship in front of the others. Not only was their random bonding something they didn’t really understand, but also, Soph wanted to tell Harry about that creep her own way, instead of upsetting him.

So Zayn had no idea that Rose knew. Which, for some reason, made Rose feel epic.

“What’re you wearing?” Rose suddenly blurted out, as Soph’s eyes widened, covering her mouth with her hand as she tried to stifle a laugh.

“What?” Zayn asked innocently, looking down at himself. He was wearing a pair of bog-standard blue jeans, some tattered trainers of his and a deep green T-shirt with Mr T’s face on it in cartoon, the caption reading “Quit Your Jibba Jabba Fool”. Zayn’s eyes flickered towards Soph as the corners of his mouth twitched. “I bought it today.” Zayn looked at Soph, fighting the urge to laugh loudly. “What do you think, Soph?”

“I think it’s lovely.” Soph told him, unable to stop the smile on her face from showing.

“Normal clothes?” Rose muttered under her breath at Soph, as Soph and Zayn grinned at each other. “Really? Those are normal clothes?”

Soph just grinned at her best friend.

The rest of the boys filtered in then, as Zayn put on his varsity jacket of the evening, a green affair which he buttoned to the very top, hiding his T-shirt from the crowd.

“What is up with your T-shirt?” Harry asked slowly, stopping as he chewed his gum, seeing Zayn button himself up.

“What’s wrong with it?” Zayn asked defensively.

“Nothing.” Louis muttered, the boys peering at Zayn. “It’s brilliant.”

Soph grinned slyly at Rose, who just shook her head at her best friend, grinning to herself as Zayn and Soph smiled at each other from across the room, before Rose’s eyes caught Liam’s smouldering ones and her heart stopped.

The show was brilliant, as usual.

Soph glanced at Zayn continuously throughout the show, a concentrated expression on her face, as she glanced between Zayn and Dianna. Dianna was cheering him on happily in the crowd, ignoring the fact that Zayn was desperate not to make eye contact to her.

It was just as the boys were wrapping up I Should Have Kissed You (to many screams of delight), when Rose nudged Soph, just about to bear tearing her eyes away from Liam.

“Soph, who’s that next to Dianna?” Rose muttered, as the music stopped, signalling the boys to come traipsing in.

Soph felt herself go sick to her stomach as she recognized the blonde tramp from the restaurant, with the blonde tramp she’d been kissing.

“Rose, can I borrow you for a second?” Liam asked innocently, taking Rose gently by the wrist before she could respond.

Zayn ran back in, the last one in and before Soph could stop herself, she’d placed a hand on his arm, still peering into the crowd with disbelief.

Zayn glanced up at Soph sharply at the contact, despite the thick layering his T-shirt and jacket provided him with.

Soph stopped for a moment, her eyes widening as she glanced at her hand, clutching Zayn’s bicep, to Zayn’s face. Quickly, she dropped her hand.

“Zayn.” She said quickly, looking back into the crowd. “Zayn, look who she’s with.”

Zayn and Soph started muttering between the two of them, Zayn surprisingly calm as he informed her he’d seen Dianna and her new partner from the stage.

They were so engrossed in their conversation, that they didn’t notice Harry glance over at them and double-take, his happy expression slipping away as he saw them both whispering together, Zayn’s head slightly inclined and bent down so he could hear Soph properly.

Meanwhile, Liam had led Rose to the corridor.

“So, um, what’s up?” Rose asked, her heartbeat stuttering irregularly in her chest.

“No, my hair is just getting in my face, help me out?” Liam smiled nicely, disappointment making Rose’s heart drop.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Rose muttered, heading into the empty dressing room and going straight for the hairspray. Screw this bullshit. Lucky Soph got all the fun, Rose thought wryly.

That was until she felt Liam’s warm body behind her.

Within seconds, he’d whipped her around, his body pressed fiercely tight against hers.

There was a small moment, where Liam looked down at Rose, with the softest expression.

But then it was gone as he pressed his lips fiercely against hers, smashing their mouths together and before Rose knew what she was doing, she had her fingers tangled in his hair, his hands gripping her stomach tightly under her thin black T-shirt, her legs winding around his waist as he set her on the worktop, consequences and Ryan be damned.

The boys returned onstage within a few moments and Rose came back into the room, her cheeks flushed.

“What happened to you?” Soph asked distractedly, watching Zayn. He was too calm, she thought. For somebody who had felt so confused and lost earlier, he was way too calm.

Rose just shook her head, smiling to herself. It was too soon.

Liam was an amazing kisser, let’s just put it to that. And boy, did he know how to work a girl up quickly.

A few more songs passed, before Tell Me A Lie.

“Can’t ever get it right,” Liam began to sing, smirking slightly as Rose blushed, both of them knowing how wrong that was. “No matter how hard I try and I try...”

Soph bit the nail of her thumb carefully as Zayn came onstage, a presence about him that hadn’t been there before.

“Well, I put up a good fight, but your words cut like knives... And I’m tired.” Soph frowned as she felt pity, watching Zayn close his eyes briefly and smile to himself as his words hit home. “As you break my heart again this time...”

The music began to build slowly and Soph watched as the conviction grew in Zayn’s eyes, as he sang with the boys;

“Tell me I’m a screwed up mess, that I never listen, listen. Tell me you don’t want my kiss, that you made your distance, distance, tell me everything but don’t you say he’s what your missing baby, he’s the reason that you’re leaving me tonight, spare me what you’re thinking...” Soph bit on the flesh of her thumb, a proud smile spreading across her face as Zayn looked Dianna dead in the eye, her face shocked, as he sang; “Tell me a lie.”

Soph and Rose couldn’t help but almost burst with pride as Liam and Harry sang their verses, the chorus sang with such conviction from all of the boys, knowing who was watching them and what she was doing to Zayn, that the crowd went wild.

Zayn held his high note perfectly towards the end, almost entirely at ease and as he sang his solo version of the chorus, he rang with a confidence that let Soph know he’d be okay. Because even though it didn’t make a difference to her whether Zayn got through this or not, it did make a difference to everybody else. And more than that, it made a difference to Dianna.

And God knew that bitch needed a telling.

Sometime later, once Rose and Soph had stopped screaming at the victory that was the silent Zayn/Dianna eye battle (Zayn had won, before Dianna had walked out, holding the hand of the aforementioned trampy drug dealer), the show took a pause.

Since their first tour, the boys had upheld the tradition of making every concert a different, unique experience for the fans.

And that included DJ Malik and DJ Tommo.

“I’d like to dedicate this special song to a new friend of mine.” Zayn told the audience, feeling the back of his new T-shirt stick to his back under the heat of the stage lights. “We didn’t know we were going to be friends, but she’s really helped me out today and so this is for her.”

The crowd screamed in such a high-pitch, Zayn temporarily went deaf. They’d noticed the use of the word “her”, then.

A beat-less version of Milkshake began to play, before the music picked up, in the form of Usher’s “Yeah”.

Soph laughed, thinking only of Mo’s strange dance moves, Rose biting her lip as Liam stood at the side, smirking at her from the stage.

As usual, the show ended spectacularly, with – of course – no other than What Makes You Beautiful, as per tradition. The show marked the first of the boys’ comeback tour. There were a few more in London, before they started travelling up North and after that, from Ireland onwards. Soph felt slightly sad, as the boys ran into the small antechamber backstage, screaming and shouting from their adrenaline rush.

Soph wouldn’t be going on tour with the boys, like Rose was. Even though Soph was technically covering the entirety of the boys’ comeback, thanks to their publicist’s exclusive deal with the Vogue House in Hanover Square, she wasn’t travelling. The other Vogue correspondents in each different country would do their own cover and, as of today, Soph was going to be overlooking everything 1D related.

Yeah. Lauren had dropped that bombshell on her today, when she’d returned from her seriously prolonged extra lunch break with Zayn. Lauren had been waiting in her office for Soph. Soph had been expecting at least some type of verbal warning, but instead, Lauren had told her she wanted Soph to overlook the 1D team and the Vogue team had arranged.

Soph had, obviously, been utterly lost for words.

Lauren had gone on to explain that Soph clearly had a good connection to the boys and whilst she’d love it for Soph to be her fly on the wall, she knew that would be compromising Soph’s principles as clearly a member of the 1D family.

Lauren had told her that, as Soph probably knew them better than most, she would therefore be helping them regain their image, as the boyband who had left at the very top.

“And,” Lauren had added. “I’m also doing this because I want an invite to your and Zayn’s wedding.”

Soph had forced herself to laugh at that, despite how weird she found it.

She hadn’t told the boys yet. Soph had explained to Lauren that she wasn’t able to travel very much out of London, due to family commitments. Lauren had explained to her that whilst that would usually be a factor, Soph’s close relationship to the boys (either Lauren was assuming a lot from Zayn, or she knew more than she was meant to be letting on, Soph had thought) outweighed that. Anyway, with Vogue London being the header, it didn’t matter very much, as long as Soph started using a company BlackBerry, which she kept on at all times.

The American Vogue House had wanted the 1D story. As the boys had moved out to LA for a year or so before they’d taken their break, they thought they had more resources to cover the story. That and with 1D being signed to Columbia, one of the biggest record companies out there exempt Hollywood Records, the Disney company, America had been desperate to get the story.

But apparently, after consulting the boys, they’d all decided they wanted everything to come from where it had started – home, in England.

In fact, Soph had found out afterwards that her first interview and meeting with the boys was actually the trial session, to see if they’d made the right choice.

And even though Lauren didn’t say it, Soph got the feeling Lauren had brought that to mind when she’d made her decision.

“Great show.” Rose told Harry confidently, with a smile. Rose realized Harry was sort of her boss now. Weird.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” Harry said wryly, fighting a smirk. He leant down, his breath brushing against the nape of Rose’s neck and she almost shuddered from the heat. “Next time you start having a tonsil tennis tournament with Liam, you may want to close the door properly.”

“Oh my God.” Rose muttered, her face instantly flushing a deep red. “Oh my God, Harry, I-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Harry laughed, leaning against the wall with Rose and folding his arms casually over his chest. “Haven’t you got a boyfriend, though?”

It was like a slap in the face.

And the worst part was, was that Rose knew Harry probably hadn’t meant it to be.

“Sorry.” Harry said quickly, straightening up slightly, apparently noticing the distraught look on Rose’s face. Oh God. She’d been so wrapped up in her little world, in this universe where One Direction were the entire centre of her universe, she’d forgotten that she had a boyfriend. And that she’d just cheated on him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I should have just kept my mouth shut.”

“No, no, its fine, I needed to hear it.” Rose mumbled, covering her face with her hands as the familiar sting of tears began to grow behind her eyes. “Oh my God, how could I forget something like that?”

Harry stood there quietly for a moment, the room full of staff and family members. Rose and Harry were at the side and, even though he knew Liam would be looking for her, Harry wanted to take Rose away for a moment. If she’d just realized what she’d done, the last person she’d want to see was Liam.

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked, standing in front of her, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Oh God, I don’t know.” Rose said, stopping the tears about to run down her face by placing a finger under her eye, her voice thick with tears. She looked up at Harry tearfully. “What would you do?”

Harry thought for a moment.

“Honestly?” Harry asked. Rose nodded. “I wouldn’t tell your boyfriend.”

Rose gasped.

“It depends.” Harry shrugged. “If this thing with Liam is for real, then tell your boyfriend now and get it over and done with. But if this is just you getting caught up in this massive craziness, then it’s not worth losing somebody you love over.” Harry tried to give Rose an encouraging smile. “Nobody would blame you if you wanted to stay with your boyfriend, you know.” Harry shrugged. “It’s easy to get caught up in all of this.”

“But... How...” Rose shook her head, fighting the urge to burst into a fit of tears. “How can I even make a choice like that? Everything is moving so fast.”

“Maybe you can’t make it yet.” Harry said seriously, kicking the floor absent-mindedly, watching as he scuffed his shoes. “Maybe you never should have had to in the first place.”

Rose glanced up at that, but Harry kept staring at the floor.

“I have to go and talk to Soph, are you going to be alright?” Harry asked seriously. Rose nodded, Harry’s words bouncing around in her head. “See you later.” Harry said with a small smile, before heading away.

“Rose!” Louis shouted, running over as Harry disappeared into the crowded room. “What’re you doing over there? Come on!” Louis dragged her into the crowd as Rose covered her upset face with a big smile, Harry’s words making her feel sick.

“You got a minute?”

“Yeah, sure.” Soph smiled, following Harry out of the room and into the corridor. “What’s up?”

“Soph, what’s going on with you and Zayn?”

“Nothing.” Soph said immediately, cringing at how false it sounded.

“I know what happened at Shazia’s.” Harry interrupted. “And I know you were going to tell me and if I see that prick, I’ll happily clobber him, but right now, I want to know what’s going on with you and Zayn.”

“Harry-” Soph began, not sure how to explain something she didn’t understand herself, but Harry interrupted her.

“If there’s nothing wrong, go and argue with him.” Harry told her, crossing his arms resolutely. “Prove it.”

Just as Harry expected, Soph’s temper flared.

“Fine!” She snapped, before storming back into the backstage room, Zayn unluckily going to walk out at the same moment. “Malik, do you honestly have no sense of direction?”

For the briefest of moments, Zayn’s face flickered with confusion, but, upon seeing Harry, Zayn instantly knew what was going on.

“It’s not my fault you find yourself incapable of walking in a straight line.” Zayn retorted, crossing his arms defensively, Soph’s fists balled at her sides.

“Oh, you know what?” Soph growled, stepping forward towards Zayn threateningly, Zayn squaring up, too, both of them now furious and neither of them knowing why.

“I KNEW it!” Harry yelled, pumping his fist in the air. Soph and Zayn snapped out of it and turned to him curiously.

“What?” Soph demanded. “We’re arguing, aren’t we?”

“No, you’re not.” Harry grinned, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders. “I saw that look. I saw it.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Zayn asked irritably, already in a filthy mood thanks to Dianna.

“Don’t worry.” Harry told them, grinning cockily now. “I won’t tell.”

And with that, Harry left.

Soph and Zayn stood there, seriously confused for a moment, before turning to each other.

“What?” Soph demanded, seeing Zayn stare at her.

“What?” Zayn shouted, just as angrily back, before they both stormed off in opposite directions. Soph bumped into Harry’s shoulder as she entered the small antechamber again, Harry smiling victoriously.

Because what was going on between Zayn and Soph was clearly not nothing.

#IFUCKINGFOUNDITMONTHSLATER #wrong gdrive folder i should organise that shit #MOD #MOD11 #it isn't formatted bc u guys have waited long enough

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itsmeezaki · 4 years

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How to Connect Any Phone or Tablet to Your TV Using USB

Connecting a phone to your TV isn’t as simple as you would possibly think. Whether you would like to enjoy Netflix, share photos, or use it for home working, hooking up a cable between your phone and television are often tricky.

But it’s not impossible—it’s all a matter of choosing the proper cable.

Here’s what you would like to understand the way to connect an Android or iOS phone or tablet to a TV employing a USB cable.

Why Use USB to attach Phones, Tablets, and TVs?

With the convenience and prevalence of casting to mirror a phone screen wirelessly, you would possibly be curious why you ought to use a USB to TV connection for your phone.

If you hook phone to your TV with a hardwired connection, you enjoy a low-latency signal. as an example, if you propose to mirror your phone to television for gaming, you’ll need a USB connection instead of a wireless configuration. This vastly reduces lag.

Plus, for situations where you lack Wi-Fi or have a weak wireless signal, you’ll need a wired connection instead.

To connect your phone or tablet to a TV, you'll use one among the subsequent methods: Android: USB-C cable with DisplayPort USB cable with MHL (Mobile High-Definition Link) USB cable with SlimPort iPhone/iPad

Lightning cable (iPhone and iPad)

Which option you employ depends on your specific device and OS. Although all methods are similar, the method differs for connecting an iPhone versus an Android device.

Similarly, your connection method varies counting on your needs. Simply viewing photos on a compatible television requires your charging cable and mobile device. except for screen mirroring, you’ll need a USB adapter. How to Connect Android Phones and Tablets to TVs With USB

You have two options for connecting Android phones and tablets to your TV: USB-C cable with DisplayPort support USB cable with MHL USB cable with Slimport

We’ll check out each below.

1. Connect Your Phone to an HDMI TV Using USB Type-C

The most recent Android smartphones feature a USB Type-C port. Also referred to as USB-C, this is often a cylinder-shaped input that replaces micro-USB and is employed for charging and data transfer.

Including support for the DisplayPort standard, USB-C is often wont to mirror your phone or tablet’s display to a TV.

Simply connect the USB-C cable to Android, then connect this to an appropriate docking station or USB-C to HDMI adaptor.

2. Connecting Phone to TV Using USB With MHL

MHL is one among the foremost common solutions for connecting a phone to an HDMI TV with a micro-USB cable. This technology allows MHL-compatible devices like smartphones and tablets to attach to televisions and projectors.

You can browse an inventory of MHL-enabled devices on the official MHL website.

To use Mobile High-Definition Link, you'll need MHL-enabled phone USB to HDMI MHL adapter or cable HDMI cable Power cable

Although this is often the overall setup, the precise cable you’ll need varies. Google MHL cable [your device name] to seek out an inventory of compatible cables.

For a USB to TV connection using MHL, first, attach your phone via an MHL adapter. The adapter would require power either from a USB port on the cable or an external source.

Although MHL initially required an influence connection, MHL 2.0 makes this non-essential. Still, since MHL does draw power from the mobile device, it’s knowing to connect an influence cable.

Next, connect your phone to your television with the MHL cable. then, you ought to see your phone screen on your TV; it’s plug-and-play.

Overall, Mobile High-Definition Link is one of the simplest solutions for connecting an Android phone to a TV employing a USB cable.

3. Connecting Phone to TV Using USB SlimPort

If you've got an older phone, you would possibly connect your phone to a TV with a SlimPort cable. While almost like MHL, SlimPort offers different outputs but uses the micro-USB connection.

Whereas MHL is restricted to HDMI, SlimPort outputs to HDMI, DVI, DisplayPort, and VGA. This makes it better suited to a spread of displays, including older monitors and TVs with no digital inputs.

Unlike MHL, SlimPort doesn't draw power from mobile devices.

You’ll need the after attaching a phone to your TV employing a SlimPort adapter: SlimPort-compatible phone (SlimPort’s list of supported devices) A micro-USB SlimPort cable or adapter Appropriate video cable for your display (HDMI, DVI, DisplayPort, or VGA)

Begin by plugging the SlimPort adapter into your phone. Then, attach the SlimPort adapter to your display using the right cable. you ought to then be ready to view your phone’s screen on a TV. Like MHL, it’s plug-and-play.

iPhone or iPad to TV With USB?

As iPhones and iPads don’t have USB, you can’t use this as a connection method. But you'll connect them to a TV employing a cable.

If you own an iPhone 5 or newer, it'll have a Lightning connector. to attach your iPhone to a TV you’ll need the Lightning digital AV adapter for HDMI outputs, or the Lightning to VGA adapter if you've got a VGA display. Buy the cable that matches your TV.

Older iOS devices with the old 30-pin port instead use the 30-pin VGA adapter.

You can connect an iPad to your TV through an equivalent means. Again, you’ll presumably need a Lightning cable for this. Only the iPad 3 and earlier use a 30-pin cable. All other iPads, including every iPad Mini and iPad Pro, use a Lightning cable.

Once you’ve plugged in your adapter, simply attach the video output to your display. Then, your phone screen will mirror to the TV. Apple’s official Lightning adapters contain a further Lightning port for charging while viewing content on a second screen. USB to TV: Connecting as a memory device

While the foremost common use case for connecting a phone to a TV using USB is for screen mirroring, there’s a choice. rather than screen mirroring, you'll also simply view files like pictures on a TV.

However, this may require a compatible monitor, TV, or projector. The latest displays should accept USB storage.

Of the varied USB to TV connection options, this is often the simplest. Since it only requires a phone, USB cable, and television with a USB input, it’s simple to line up. Which specific cable you would like depends on your phone.

On an iPhone or iPad, use a Lightning cable (or 30-pin for older devices). Alternatively, Android users need a micro-USB or USB-C cable. The USB cable that came together with your phone or tablet should work fine. USB to TV: Connecting to look at Photos

Modern Android devices don’t support USB Mass Storage, so your TV won’t view your device as a real drive.

This assumes that your TV or monitor features a USB input capable of displaying files from a connected memory device.

Simply connect your cable to your phone, then to the TV. With the quality USB end of the cable connected to your display, change the input on your TV to USB.

On Android, you’ll likely get to change your USB settings to Transfer files or Transfer photos (PTP). to try to do this, bear down your notifications from the highest of the screen when connected. within the menu, tap the USB is charging this device notification to vary it.

Note that this doesn’t work with all TVs. In some cases, the USB ports are purely for firmware updates. Use Samsung DeX to attach Your Samsung Phone to a TV

Among the foremost popular Android devices available, you’ll find Samsung flagship handsets. These feature connectivity with televisions and monitors. For pure screen mirroring, you’ll need a USB-C to HDMI cable.

To connect a Samsung Galaxy S8/S8+/Note 8 and later to your TV, merely attach a USB-C to HDMI adapter. Plug the USB-C male into the USB-C charging port on your Samsung Galaxy device. Then run the HDMI cable into your TV.

However, Samsung Galaxy S8, S9, and Note 8/9 devices also include DeX. Bridging the gap between mobile and desktop, DeX offers a desktop experience run from your handset. you'll run all an equivalent Android apps, however, access your phone’s gallery, and get everything on the large screen

Since this is often proprietary technology, the tactic for connecting a DeX-enabled Samsung phone to a TV differs from standard hookups.

For the whole Galaxy S8 and Note 8 line up, also as S9 and S9+, you’ll need a dock to use DeX.

However, Note 9 doesn’t require a dock. Instead, the Note 9 enters DeX mode with merely a USB-C to HDMI cable. That’s much more useful than a fanatical dock.

If employing a dock, you'll also need an influence cable for powering the dock and charging your device. to seek out out more, see our guide to using DeX to show your phone or tablet into a computer. Connect Phones, Tablets, and TVs With USB: Success!

While a USB to TV connection varies by device, connection type, and display inputs, it’s thankfully simple to line up. However, don’t forget that wireless casting is typically more convenient.

Regardless of whether you’re using an Android, iPhone, or a Samsung device running DeX, there’s how to attach your phone or tablet to a TV for viewing on a bigger screen.

#android #ios #smart tv #how to connect #tech

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xxgwenstacyxx · 5 years

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Endgame Spoilers

Gambit Declined (Ao3 / FFN)

Summary: Tony offers to sacrifice his life in order to defeat Thanos. Nebula refuses.

The rainbows and sunshine, everybody-lives, nobody-dies alternative for Endgame.

Chapter 2

Tony wakes to the beautiful sound of Morgan's laughter and wonders if he's dreaming.

He hasn't expected to see his daughter again. He hasn't expected to wake up at all. Perhaps this is what comes afterwards, and Tony is only fooling himself into thinking his story could have come to any sort of happy ending.

There's a hand stroking through Tony's hair, and he wants to melt into the touch and never feel anything else besides this. He'd recognize Pepper anywhere.

"You're awake," she whispers, her voice carrying hope and relief that makes Tony feel guilty about not having woken up sooner. How long has he been sleeping? How much has he missed?

"Hey Peps," he croaks, wincing at the harsh quality of his voice. He must have been out for a while. "Did we win? Did we... Did everybody..."

"Everybody's fine." Pepper takes his hand and smiles, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You did it. You saved us."

"Not everybody," Tony mutters. He thinks of Natasha's sacrifice that made everything possible in the first place. He thinks of Vision, killed before the Snap had even happened. He thinks of everybody in the same position, killed as the result of Thanos' megalomania but not in the one event they managed to unmake.

Pepper's laugh startles Tony out of his thoughts. He stares at her, wondering if everything that happened is finally too much for her to handle.

"FRIDAY," she says, a smile tugging at her lips that feels misplaced considering their topic of conversation. "Show him.”

A screen flickers to life in front of them and Tony sets eyes on what has to be an old recording. Except it can't be. Natasha lies curled up underneath what looks like half a dozen blankets and Clint, both of them paying the running television in front of them no mind.

Sam sits nearby, lazily tapping on his phone. He can't be. Sam spent the last five year dusted, there can’t possibly be footage of him and Natasha – new hairdo and all – in the same room.

As Tony keeps watching, Vision enters the room through one of the walls. The others look up as he hovers nearby, perhaps asking some sort of question.

A lump forms in Tony's throat and he has trouble making his mouth form words. "How?" he croaks, pretending as though his voice didn't crack embarrassingly in the middle of it.

"They came back after Bruce used the Gauntlet. Not just those who died in the Snap, but everybody. Everybody who died at Thanos' hand. He did it." Pepper's smile dims. "Everybody except Natasha."

Natasha gave her life in exchange for the soul stone. It was impossible to bring back a life that had been given as a trade to receive the power in the first place.

On the screen, Natasha pushes Clint off of her and uncurls from her blanket cocoon long enough to accept one of the sandwiches Bruce carries in from the kitchen. Sam's lips move and Natasha laughs.

"But she's there," Tony mutters. "She's... she's right there. How...?" Tony's voice gives out again and he clears his throat. He winces at the motion. It feels like swallowing sandpaper.

Pepper pulls her hand out of Tony's hair and takes his hand instead. "Steve took the stones and returned them to their rightful places.” Her lips pull back into a smile. “Including the soul stone."

"He traded her back," Tony realizes, eyes widening in amazement. A soul for a soul.

Pepper's grip tightens around his hand. "It was so close, Tony." The smile slides off of Pepper's face and her eyes slip downwards. "You almost didn't make it. We came this close to losing you."

Pepper's tears spill over and drip onto the mattress. The sight of them make Tony feel like crying himself. "I'm here," he says, squeezing Pepper's hand as firmly as he manages. "I lived."

Barely so, from the sounds of it. Wielding the stones was agony beyond anything Tony ever felt before. He can't believe that he actually pulled through. He can't believe that he...

Tony shoots up in the bed. "Nebula!" Nebula was there with him. He was about to snap, and she... Nebula took part of the burden. Tony saw her lying beside him, half of her body melted away. Tony's voice becomes frantic. "Nebula. She was there. She was... her body was... Where is she? Pepper, you gotta tell me where–”

There's movement in the corner of his eye and Tony trails off.

Nebula sits on the ground at the other end of the room. Going by her wide eyed stare, she didn't realize that Tony had woken up until he raised his voice.

Next to her sits Morgan. "Dad's awake!" She leaps to her feet and, rather than run straight at Tony, grabs Nebula's hand (or rather two of her fingers) and tugs her along.

Tony grunts as she jumps into his lap and jostles his injuries. He waves off Pepper's alarmed, "Morgan! Be careful." and pulls her close with one of his arms. The other hangs limply at his side. Tony doesn’t care enough to investigate further. "Hey baby," he whispers, burying his nose in her hair and tightening his grip.

Nebula hovers close to the bed, shifting on her feet awkwardly. Tony gives her a once over and notes the basic, ugly prosthetics that now make up half of her body. They look as though somebody had thrown them together haphazardly – which, considering everything that needs to be done as cleanup after the battle, is probably the truth.

He promises himself to do something about it as soon as he's able to and pulls away from Morgan enough to grip his daughter’s shoulders and look into her eyes. He takes in the sight of her and pretends like his eyes aren't watering. "Were you two playing?"

"Nebula taught me a game," Morgan says with a dutiful nod.

"Did she?" Tony's smile widens. Considering Nebula quite possibly played a single game in all of her life, he has a pretty good idea which one it might be. "Do you think she'll teach me, too?"

Morgan considers this. "Maybe," she allows. "But later. We're not done yet."

"Don’t want your old man butting in, hmm? I’m hurt." Tony’s tone is definitely ruined by the smile he’s giving Nebula. She turns away – Tony is pretty sure he looks like he's on the verge of tears, and she never knew how to deal with something like that. It's fine. He'll take her aside later and thank her, properly.

He'll also take care of those awful prosthetics. Simply looking at them makes Tony wince in sympathy.

"Morgan," Pepper says, her voice pitched in an odd tone. "Do you want to tell him who else you’ve been playing games with?"

Tony realizes who Pepper is talking about seconds before the door barges open and Peter comes storming through.

"Mr. Stark – I mean Tony! FRIDAY told me that you woke up!"

There's a lump forming in Tony's throat and affection bubbling up in his chest. He already saw Peter alive and well, but the middle of a battle field isn't the sort of environment that allows for a heartfelt reunion.

The kid continues to talk, and Tony doesn't try to stop him. He doesn't know if he wants to stop him.

"It's been crazy around here! I still can't believe we've been gone for five years. And you have a daughter now!" He looks at Morgan with half incredulous, half starstruck eyes. Tony can relate to the sentiment. He feels the same every time he looks at her.

"She doesn't really look like you. Well, except the hair. Do children start to look more like their parents when they're older? She does kind of look like Pepper though."

"Kid," Tony says.

"A bit. Maybe? She's definitely got her nose. Did she get your brain instead?"

"Kid," Tony tries again, and he pretends not to see Pepper badly hiding a laugh beside him. Morgan is watching Peter intently as though he's a particularly interesting jigsaw puzzle.

"I know! I know! I'm sorry, I'm just excited. It's been so long, for you that is, it's only been days for me. I guess I'm just nervous. Five years is such a long time, so what if you don't– Oh. Oh, okay. Are we hugging again? We're hugging again. This is great. This is... definitely better without the suits."

Peter falls silent as Tony tightens his grip around him. He breathes out a shaky breath and allows himself to relax as Peter returns the embrace. He feels the kid clinging onto his shirt.

Something is missing, so Tony leans back far enough to sling his arm around Morgan and pulls her close on his other side. It's made difficult by the fact that his other arm remains stubborn and useless but Tony makes it work regardless. The mattress dips low as Pepper sits down beside them and continues carding her hand through Tony's hair like she had earlier.

Rhodey completes the picture when he walks in, pauses, and softly asks FRIDAY whether she's captured the moment on footage.

(She has.)

(Tony is making it his life goal to show it to everybody he knows, or doesn’t.)

A/N: One more part to go! Hope you enjoy!

#my writing #marvel #endgame #endgame spoilers #tony stark #nebula #peter parker #pepper potts #morgan stark #rhodey #gambit declined #fanfiction

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nutra-life-keto-pills-blog · 5 years

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

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Tattoos With Better Stories

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: Well, here we are—Part Three of a series that started as a single oneshot meant to fix the VFW scene and soon gained a sequel. If you haven’t read either of those, start with He Saw the Ghosts before moving on to Dead Ringer.

Both are available on my AO3 account.

Tagging: @timelesspromise

Jim didn’t know what to make of the unnamed soldier’s expression.

It wasn’t a whole smile, but it was near enough to one for Jim to wonder what might lurk behind it. Such a look wasn’t unexpected of a soldier in an active war zone, but there was something more about it, some strange contentment that kept it from sinking into despair. Not for the first time, Jim found himself searching the faces of the other men in his unit for any clue, no matter how small, that might force the facts in his head to fall into their proper places and form a picture clearer than the one before him. But no matter how long he looked, no matter how much the pit in his stomach urged him to look elsewhere, his gaze drifted back, again and again, to David Katz.

The quality of the photograph was par for the course, for its day—a middling caliber that was better than the worst and disappointing when placed alongside the best. Had it been a little less grainy, Jim was certain they’d have been able to make out the barest outlines of the soldier’s tattoos, distinguish a few features that might have separated the soldier in the photo from the veteran they knew. A little grainier, and the soldier would have been only somewhat clearer than most images of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, his resemblance to Klaus dismissed just as easily.

Richard took a long pull from his soda, lowered it, and spoke for the first time in a good while.

“What the hell?”

Earlier

“Okay, so first you need to cast on a few stitches.”

“Cast on.”

“Right. What you’re gonna do is you’re gonna make a slipknot and put that over the needle.”

“Which needle?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Klaus looked down at the two identical knitting needles in his lap. “Oh. Right.” He formed the knot easily enough and slipped it over one needle, holding it upright. “Now what?”

“Now you need to make the first stitch.”

From all Richard had relayed of his encounter with Klaus the night before, he’d never intended to give the younger man a personal knitting lesson. Plans to meet up with him at the library, to pull him into the circle and let him absorb suggestions and tricks from a group eager to teach had taken a blow when Klaus had called earlier that morning. “Said he couldn’t make it,” Richard had told Jim on their way to the shop. “Went on about how he’d tried to knit and couldn’t do it, so he couldn’t come, didn’t want to slow us down.”

He’d also said Klaus had sounded as if he’d hoped to leave a message rather than speak to the person he’d called, but that was neither here nor there.

“You’ll take one end of the yarn like this.” Richard lifted his own yarn to demonstrate. “And then lay it over top the rest to make a loop.”

Klaus had to look back at the example once or twice, but he replicated it without trouble.

“Now you’ll just slide the loop onto the same needle as the slipknot.”

Jim glanced toward the cash register. Aimee shot him a smile before pretending to straighten an immaculate display of crochet hooks. Despite her age, she was an old hand around the shop, having been hired on the year before their knitting group outgrew the small meeting room and moved to the library. She still dropped by whenever night classes aligned to keep Thursdays free, bringing along her latest project and a story or two about her dog.

Klaus tried lifting the loop and sliding it over the needle, as Richard demonstrated, but he hadn’t twisted it correctly and the loop disintegrated and he had to form it again. After a moment of frustration, he managed to slide his new loop down alongside the knot.

“Great. Now you’ll just do that another eighteen times.”

Klaus let out a puff of air that wasn’t quite a sigh, but might have been on its way to one. With care, he formed another loop, lifted it gingerly, and placed it on the needle. Richard nodded approval, and Jim’s gaze drifted back to the tattoo on Klaus’ bicep, to the words Sky Soldiers printed above the skull emblem. There were more letters inked in tiny font above, but Klaus’ sleeve kept getting in the way and they were too small for Jim to read from where he sat.

Like the olive drab vest he wore, like the dog tags dangling against his shirt, the tattoo was just familiar enough to poke at memories ranging from bittersweet to unpalatable. There were a few sweet ones, sure, but war and time had a way of working in concert to change the flavor of those. Perhaps the words meant something different to Klaus, perhaps there was another reason he had chosen to have them inscribed on his skin, but to see it on a man so young sent a dozen questions bubbling to his mind, each more uncomfortable than the last.

He looked to Richard, but if the man shared his misgivings, he didn’t show it. Jim traded a look with his friend, then spoke.

“So Klaus. You from the city?”

Klaus kept his attention on the next stitch he cast on. “Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I’ve always lived here, so I guess that’s where I’m from.”

Jim had heard less conclusive answers. “So no military family for you.”

He wasn’t expecting a laugh, let alone one with such a bitter edge. “Not like that, no.”

No confusion crossed Richard’s face, but he did toss Jim a quick glance. Talk later, it said. Of Klaus, Richard asked: “So what made you decide to enlist?”

Klaus hesitated, and that hesitation went on a little too long for Jim to believe he was simply concentrating on his knitting. “Just kinda….got thrown into it, I guess.”

Jim nodded slowly. He’d heard that sentiment before, expressed a dozen different ways—from men who were drafted. Those who enlisted had longer stories, some inspiring and some less so, but they had stories. Reasons. Ideals that were confirmed and challenged, shattered and tested. There were exceptions, of course, but when there hadn’t been a draft in forty-six years, stories and reasons usually replaced uncertainty and bewilderment.

He looked to Richard, trying to guess whether he should ask the kid where he’d served or leave that to his friend, but Klaus lifted his cast-on stitches for inspection. “Got it!”

“Looks good,” Richard said, and Klaus smiled at the approval. “Now you’ll take your yarn like this….”

He threaded the yarn around and between his fingers, and Klaus did the same, mimicking as Richard lifted his second needle and slid it into the first stitch. His fingers slipped a bit, missed the yarn the first couple times, but he managed. That smile resurfaced when Richard nodded encouragement.

Jim knew better than to interrupt a novice knitter in the midst of his first uncertain stitches, so he cast about for something, some small and mundane task that might distance him from the questions tapping him on the shoulder. A glance at his watch told him it was a little late for one meal, a little early for the next—as good a time as any for a snack.

“I’m gonna head down to the coffee shop on the corner,” he said, stretching. “You guys want anything?”

“Ooh! They still have those breakfast sandwiches, with the sausage and egg on a biscuit with all that melty cheese?”

“I’m sure they do.” Jim had expected a little more hesitation from Klaus, but the younger man’s enthusiasm brought a smile. “You want anything, Rich?”

“Just coffee.”

Jim stood, but before he’d gotten completely to his feet, a familiar glint of steel against Klaus’ shirt caught his eye. The letter K was up where the surname belonged, but that only proved this Klaus wasn’t a Hargreeves, so he read further.

What the hell?

For a long moment, Richard’s words hung in a silence filled by low chatter and Tom Petty’s voice filtering through the speakers: Somewhere, somehow, somebody must’ve kicked you around some...

“You heard what he said.”

Jim nodded. He’d found Richard and Klaus mid-conversation, but he’d caught enough to stop in his tracks and listen. “Maybe he’s just read more books than most.”

“But why Vietnam?”

“Could just like military history.”

Richard shook his head at the photo. “World War Two’s the one everybody wants to learn about. Vietnam’s the one they want to forget.”

After a halfhearted search for a counterpoint, Jim gave up. “Was he…”

Richard met his gaze.

“From the sound of it, he knows a lot about what the 173rd was up to. He talk about anything else? Overall strategies, basic timeline, any other shit that makes it into those books?”

“Not much.” He paused in thought. “Actually... I’d have to check the dates, but I don’t think he brought up anything outside of ‘68 or ‘69.”

Jim took another swig of beer, hoping it would quell his unease. Most amateur historian types liked to study everything, and they’d talk your ear off about anything that occurred within their eras of interest. A self-described WWII buff had spoken about D-Day, the myriad faults in Hitler’s strategies, the American and English home fronts, and scientific advances courtesy of wartime technology. Not all historians were like that; some had a narrower range. But when a particular era sparked their interest, many of those who made research a hobby became intellectual magpies, snatching up every halfway interesting fact for their ever-growing collections.

“How the hell’d Vietnam come up, anyway?”

“He asked where I’d served.”

Klaus should have fielded the question first. He was the mystery, after all, the one who had walked into a room full of strangers to sob over a man fifty years gone. Even if he didn’t care to discuss what he remembered, he should have at least mentioned where he’d been. “He say where he served?”

“Never got to that, no. But he talked an awful lot about Vietnam.”

Jim lapsed into silence again. What he’d seen of that talk, of the look Klaus had worn as he spoke, was enough to make him want to down the rest of his beer, grab another, and head out on the town long enough to put Klaus and the unnamed soldier and everything in between out of his mind. Researchers, amateur historians, history buffs—whatever you wanted to call them, most of them bore a certain expression when their favorite era surfaced in conversation. Their eyes lit up, their faces softened as if in preparation to smile. Some talked with voices pitched higher in excitement; some talked with their hands as well. It had repulsed Jim at first, seeing them discuss the Second World War as if a conflict that had left blood and bodies strewn across a ruined landscape was the plot of a popular film they longed to see again. It wasn’t his war, but it was still a war. Even after reminding himself that what they knew of it was cold facts on a page, old posters and stories collected years after surrenders were made and victories declared, he couldn’t say their enthusiasm set him at ease.

When Klaus spoke of Vietnam, of battles fought years before his time and a war ended decades before his birth, there was no light in his eyes. No eagerness, no sharpened interest, no horror or shock. He responded to Richard’s stories with somber nods and words, but not surprise. He’d shared no anecdotes of his own; any facts he’d named had been in the form of questions—were you here, were you there, did you see this go down or were you wrapped up in a different shitshow—but Jim had seen the look in his eyes, heard the subtle catch in his voice before. It was a question, a plea for recognition.

You’ve been to hell. Did you see what I saw? Do what I did?

“You see his forearm?”

Richard’s voice, quiet though it was, gave Jim a start, but it faded quickly. “Academy kids weren’t the only ones to get those tattoos.”

Richard gave a slow nod, eyes on the photo. “Even if he is that Klaus, it doesn’t explain how he got the tags.”

Katz, David. Jim saw the dog tags in his mind’s eye, as sharp and clear as if they sat before him, the name pressed into the metal and his memory. The man himself stood in the photo beside Klaus’ doppelgänger.

“Might explain how he knew Katz, if he can talk to the dead.”

“Doesn’t explain anything else.”

Jim said nothing. Something had happened to Klaus—anyone who looked more than a second could see that. But a longer gaze and a while spent listening told a story, one set in a faraway jungle and filled with blood and the chatter of gunfire and awful lights blazing through the darkness—one Klaus was too young to know. One he heard with the solemn quiet of a man who had witnessed it.

Scars are just tattoos with better stories. Jim wasn’t sure where he’d first heard that or how much stock he put in it, but it had stuck. But when those scars weren’t the kind you could show off to a retired Marine over a few drinks, when they were the sort that appeared only as ripples in a pond, there was no narrative. Only a jumble of events and details—a sobbing man and things he shouldn’t have known, tattoos with significance that ought to escape him—strung together in a manner that might have made sense in a fever dream, but nowhere else.

“Could be a scam,” Jim said. To his relief, Richard shook his head almost immediately.

“Tats are expensive.”

“Research is free.”

“You don’t learn what he learned without reading a shit-ton of books and old documents.” He took another sip. “Too much investment for too little payoff.”

A similar thought had planted itself in Jim’s mind, but hearing it echoed allowed it to take root through the silence that followed. “He never asked for anything.”

Richard looked to him; Jim saw him out the corner of his eye as he regarded the photo again.

“Never asked for a goddamn thing. Not even help.”

Richard nodded slowly, somberly, and Jim shut his eyes. All those disparate elements swirling around him, all those impossibilities played as fact, and that was what kept Jim from dismissing it all as a sick hoax played for profit. If there was profit to be gained, Klaus didn’t seek it. He only sought to carry what he’d brought back with him, even as the burden crushed him beneath its weight.

The two of them stood in silence as the music played.

“Never did track down everyone in his unit,” Richard said after a long minute.

Jim nodded. The war had taken some and spared others, but those it spared weren’t shielded from death by other means. Others could have lived, but with their whereabouts unknown, they were no more able to name the soldier who appeared in their photo.

“Got any other leads?” Jim asked.

Richard drew a long breath. “There’s one guy. Tried contacting him a couple times, wound up getting put in touch with a friend of a friend. That trail might lead to a dead end for all I know….but it might lead somewhere.”

Jim looked to the unnamed soldier again. All those years between the taking of the photo and Klaus traipsing into the bar, all those years spent trying to connect the man to a name, had culminated in a morning of knitting and a conversation that made no sense and too much sense.

This lead, this man from Katz’s unit—as Richard said, it could be yet another dead end in a long string of dead ends. But if it wasn’t, if they could speak to a man who had served alongside the unnamed soldier, had talked with him and eaten with him and exchanged a hundred jokes with him that would have drawn gasps and looks of horror from anyone who didn’t spend their days marching from one battlefield to the next….

The thought brought a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, and Jim wasn’t sure if the two could be separated.

“And if it doesn’t?”

Richard regarded the photo again, and Jim couldn’t say whether his gaze went out to the unnamed soldier or to Katz. Maybe it had settled on the both of them.

“Then I guess we’re back to square one.”

Author’s Note: For anyone who’s curious, the song playing in the background is “Refugee” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy fanfic #umbrella academy spoilers #sheepdogs series #tua fanfic #oneshot #klaus hargreeves #original character #original characters #long post #not sure how this scene fits into the show's timeline #i mean #i know it can #but not sure how #but i liked it so here it is

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melforbes · 5 years

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what's been your favorite part of writing seaglass blue? is there a part in particular that you couldn't wait to write? is there one you were avoiding?

to be honest i am 100% flying by the seat of my pants with this which right now is out of character so i haven’t exactly gotten to the dreaded parts yet lmao

i have an ending in mind (and a final line) that i really like but that i have a gut feeling no one else will like but i’m not compromising with it and i’m a little nervous to post that eventually. i’m not nervous about writing it but i don’t think it will necessarily come across well. Like it feels a little end of the sopranos but also it’s not like that at all but it’s the same existential vibe if that makes sense. which it doesn’t at all. but still

i actively avoid dialogue because it’s not my strong suit. i also can’t get the Mulder Voice right (deadpan snark etc) and then throwing in Big Feelings i’m just so out of my element

so far i shockingly haven’t dreaded writing any part of it. i did end up blocked with this last chapter because i hadn’t entirely decided what to do with the plot and the plot i’d thought through and didn’t actually use (and lmao have since forgotten!) just was not working at all so i didn’t write and instead did the whole running in circles thinking it through thing that isn’t writing (i recommend reading atomic habits by james clear ahaha! that running in circles motion gets a massive drag in there) that ultimately was never fruitful AND EITHER WAY i started a new drug for the other side of my life and it gave me wicked insomnia and at two am everything righted itself so i finally figured out where i was going. But that being said i never really dreaded it even though i oftentimes dread a scene or two in most chapters i write and i think the lack of dread comes from how it’s all set up in a very cozy way and it’s hard to dread something like that

i couldn’t wait to write the wedding which is why i dive into it so quickly. And i really wanted to interject parts of their “wedding night” or afternoon or whatever because those were my favorite moments to visualize. there’s another part down the line that i can’t wait to write but i also can’t spoil that haha. i think like...the most anticipated stuff i have coming up for the next chapter (or maybe the one after that depending on how the wordcount shakes out) is a specific conversation about specific things that happens in the dark. and uh i will not elaborate beyond that aldskjasldkjfdalsgj

my favorite part of writing it. this answer is so disjointed i’m sorry. i’ll put the rest of this under a cut because i’m rambling ahaha

my favorite part of writing it has been like...i think this is a multitude of things which is why i wrote msr again after a long unintentional break from it. idk if i ever really mentioned this (or at least if i mentioned it recently) but i started writing msr here in mid 2016 to rekindle my passion for writing while i was very very ill long term, and that culminated in the “everyday msr” archive i have on my ao3, which thus was a log of self-comfort in hard times as well as (unintentionally) documentation of how i neurologically healed during that treatment. so, bizarre. i was in a hard place back then and writing helped me keep my head screwed on straight, and luckily with msr you can write the shittiest things and someone will still be genuinely happy to read it and will look past any lack of talent or training or experience or anything and instead see you, someone having an idea and offering it to others, sharing something for the sake of feeling something good together. that (combined with my own personal gratification of having done something) really helped me emotionally during that time. like when you can’t be of service to anyone in the world, barely even to yourself, it’s really reassuring to hear “i was having a hard day today and this small thing you did eased me” and know that they didn’t need quality or exceptional talent; they just needed you to show up. i’m getting off topic but all of this is a roundabout way to say that i’m essentially back in that same place right now and have been for the past little over a year and like. It’s bullshit ahaha. like it’s absolute bullshit. But it’s strangely valuable to have this like...same connection as i had last time, just in a bit of a different way. it’s still msr, it’s still a kind of Happy Place for me, but there’s an overarching plot, i have other stuff that i write too, etc. but still, i appreciate being able to go back to an original comfort and form that comfort in the same way. the “everyday msr” stuff was intended to be just extended written-out headcanons about domestic msr post iwtb or post revival #1 that i could write in one sitting, and this isn’t entirely different from that; it’s just that the domesticity has a twist and a different era. but it’s the same stuff as before - pictures of misty places, gentle music, living based on the season, being a homebody, cooking for your lover, natural beauty. it’s nice to return to that place right now

another favorite part of writing this is that maine was an important part of my childhood. my family spent a week of vacation there each year (outside of bar harbor, not on mdi but right outside of it) and i kind of associate that purity with it. it feels like one of the only elements of childhood that i haven’t found adulthood corrupting. like we learn that disneyland is just a capitalist hellhole and whatnot when we’re older but maine hasn’t been ruined for me yet and i treasure that. And having them there feels special as a result. i very much on purpose didn’t label a town they’re in (or even base where they are on a real one lol all of that is glossed over enough anyway that i’m not worried about it) but it felt important and right for them to be in maine. it feels special to tap into the very brief time that i shared with the show while i was still a part of its cultural landscape. that sentence makes no sense. in other words i was born in 1997 ahaha. but either way like...i get to people this place that is already special to me and give them love and safety within it and that feels good in a way that i’m struggling to describe. And also i could go on some stupid rant about how Cell Phones Hurt Our Social Circles or whatever but i do genuinely miss rental houses that got 10 blurry channels on rabbit-eared tin foil televisions in a day and age when you normally got way more than that, all while you’re in an era in which boredom is still normal enough that all of that means “well, no tv for this week i guess!” and then you play a board game instead. it feels good to voluntarily create a place like that, then ask in my own life, why don’t i just live like this? And then to struggle through plotting something because there’s no digital numbing with television and smartphones and whatnot, and to understand my own hesitation, and to explore that a little more whether or not it’s in writing

another favorite part (yes i will in fact keep going!) is that the writing style is a little bit atypical from my current norm which allows me certain freedoms that i haven’t really opted for in a while. on the off chance that anyone has read any of my other recent stuff (though this is...a very small chance ahaha) it’s clear that these chapters are much shorter and less prose-heavy than my other stuff is, and that’s really helpful in that editing it is much simpler and writing it happens much quicker. if life were predictable and i had better self-discipline (and better health! can’t discount that one haha) then i could easily get a chapter out every weeks, in comparison to other stuff that i updated once every three months. i’m trying to keep each chapter to being about 3k in length (which they seem to naturally tend toward anyways, i didn’t create that metric so much as just went along with it) and there aren’t frequent “flashback sequences” (there are callbacks and past things brought up, but they’re not significant portions of chapters that go back and forth in timelines and make a nonlinear plot, the linear plot dominates and each scene is more or less in chronological order even if there are callbacks) so i’m not too worried about pacing or structure or anything like that. i never set out to make it “simple” i think it reads better this way and i appreciate that a lot because i can take a break from other stuff that’s a bit more jagged and just do this instead. it’s also nice to write something that i feel is more on the readable side than other things. i think my biggest inspirations for this (which i realized accidentally with the “he wants to brush her hair” line ahaha) were our souls at night and the sunlit night, both of which have a kind of dainty prose style and are a little low on long descriptions but can say a lot with one simple sentence. recently i’ve focused a lot more about darker subject matter and uglier parts of humanity so it’s nice to be able to focus on something that i feel like matters and has a more readable quality to it without actually sacrificing anything in the process or trying to dumb something down

so i think that’s it! that’s my thoughts! this is too long and far too personal! haha!

#Anonymous

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axpmaleenhancement-blog · 6 years

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kaylamoonbeam · 7 years

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Junkrat’s 1812 Overture Part 2

So, I’m not really adhering to canon for creative reasons. I hope it doesn’t throw you off too much. No warnings really, just a controlling ‘friend’ and later will come some angst.

Please like, comment, and/or reblog. I hope you enjoy! part one

It was fun, searching for the records for Junkrat. You hoped that the work you were doing would mean that he'd speak with you more when you were around each other, but it didn't. Junkrat continued to go from talkative with to mute whenever you entered the conversation. But he stopped leaving when you were around, so that was something. In fact, something new stated happening.

It began a few days after he'd returned from a mission. Roadhog hadn't been on the same job, so if the junker wanted to grab any random gear he'd have to talk to you. As it turned out he did. Junkrat came up to you and slid a scrap of paper toward you.

“Some stuff I could use,” his voice was quiet, something few would have expected from the bombastic man. You opened the folded paper. There were a few things that would be easy to get, a couple that you had on hand, and one that was a bit on the odd side. You grabbed the stuff that was on hand and set it out for Junkrat.

“Alright, the other items will be easy to get except this one,” you tapped the paper with index finger, “not that I can’t get it, just that it may take a bit of time.”

“No rush,” Junkrat couldn’t quite meet your eye.

“Ok, well, I am going to get started tracking the rest of this down. Oh, by the way,” you looked at him, “I have couple of the records coming in tomorrow. Do you want to come by or want me to bring them over?”

You bit at your bottom lip, hoping he would ask you to come to to his room. The slight motion had Junkrat’s attention. The man may not make eye contact with you often, but the sight of your teeth denting the skin of your lips had him focused. His golden eyes flicked up to yours and stayed there.

“Huh,” Junkrat cleared his throat, “why don’t you come by? I’ll make sure to make a path this time.”

And with that he was gone, his peg leg thunking along down the corridor. You watched him until he turned a corner and gazed after him for a while after that. It wasn’t until Hana and Lena coughed loudly that your attention returned to the moment. The girls chatted with you, graciously not teasing you too much, and then you were left alone with your thoughts.

You spent the remainder of work fluctuating between successfully doing your job and wondering what to wear to meet Junkrat. You were of two minds about that. Part of you thought that it was silly to dress any different from usual, especially since you knew the junker wouldn’t be dressing any different. But another part of you, the part that had sighed a bit over the sheer number of attractive people, the part that wanted to be seen as belonging to the group, the part that wanted to be considered attractive and lovely and special, that part of you wanted to make sure Junkrat knew you were a woman. Which was, you reminded yourself, stupid. You were the frumpy, plump quartermaster’s assistant. He was an agent, a real agent, of Overwatch. You were a staff member. Besides, you told yourself, he probably doesn’t particularly like you. There was no point in trying to get him to see you as anything.

When you walked into the lab you noticed the difference immediately. Whereas you had to pick your way through last time, this time there was a real path. Carrying the records carefully, you headed toward the back when you heard Junkrat and Roadhog talking. Their voices were low, but you could hear Junkrat working on his bombs. Whatever they were talking about, Junkrat was getting loud.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Junkrat wailed, hitting the table with a wrench. The action muffled what he said next, but it sounded almost like he said you were going to be there soon. That seemed odd. He had invited you, but maybe you should just leave the records and go.

You were just about to set them down on a nearby table when Junkrat burst out of the room. He stopped when he saw you, making a little choking noise. For several seconds neither of you said anything. Finally you moved, shoving the records out in front of you, both as a shield and as proof positive that you were there for a reason.

“Here,” you shook the records a bit, trying to get him to take them. Junkrat just stared at you, then at the records.

“Thanks,” the Aussie reached out his hands to take the records, “do you wanna hear ‘em?”

Nodding, you followed Junkrat into his room, both amazed and surprised to see it. There were stacks and stacks of...things. Books, boxes of bomb materials, miscellaneous papers, strange collections of rocks, and hundreds of bowls of pins and stickers were in his room. Even stacks of other records were about. Oddly, however, there seemed to be an organization to things. In one corner there was a collection of odds and ends that were in various stages of creation. Next to that was the most astonishing record player you had ever seen.

It was created from… junk. You smiled as you looked at it, marveling in both the beauty and the cleverness of the construction. In looks it resembled the old gramophones, but as you looked it became clear that there was no need to wind the machine. However it was powered (and you weren’t going to ask), it was beautiful. Junkrat cleared his throat from behind you. You whirled around, smile on your face.

“Did you make this?”

“Yeah,” Junkrat’s expression was a mixture between pride and shy embarrassment.

“It’s…” you turned back to the creation before looking at Junkrat again, “amazing. Does it work?”

“Uh, dunno yet,” you could see Junkrat almost becoming shy again before he seemed to muster himself, “you wanna find out?” He gestured with the records. When you nodded he moved toward you, holding out the records. Taking them, you held one in each hand, trying to decide which to play. You settled on Annette Hanshaw. She never got enough love, in your opinion, and you loved her voice.

Placing the record on the gramophone, you looked to Junkrat who moved to turn the creation on. You lifted the needle and set it on the edge of the record, the static of the plain edge filling the room, then the song started. The tune was jaunty, as many of her songs were. The lyrics started:

You’re mean to me/why must you be mean to me/Gee, honey, it seems to me/you love to see me cryin’/I don’t know why…

You smiled, the lyrics filling the room with her lovely voice. Annette Hanshaw seemed to always know the exact thing to say. You hummed along, wanting to sing out, but trying not to. You didn’t want to scare Junkrat away. The song ended and you carefully picked up the needle, shutting off the machine. You were incredibly impressed by the junker. Not only had he made the damn thing, but the gramophone worked. The sound quality was gorgeous, a rival to Winston’s digital music set-up, to say nothing of the vintage stylings. Turning around, you beamed at Junkrat.

“‘Rat, this is fantastic! I love it, how did you do it?” you couldn’t help it; you were gushing. Junkrat looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected you to like it.

“Uh, ya know, just saw some broken ones a while ago. And then I picked up a couple of pictures,” he looked concerned, like he didn’t think you were interested.

“Go on,” you encouraged him. And he did. As you listened, you realized that you could have asked the junker to make almost anything and he could do it. Eventually you had to leave, telling Junkrat you would talk to him later. You hoped that it was true.

Junkrat was floored. You were impressed. By him! He stood there long after you left. It didn’t seem possible. Ever since he’d met you, awkwardly hammering on the door to your storeroom, Junkrat hadn’t been able to say more than five words to you. It wasn’t because he was particularly embarrassed; he did embarrassing things every day, hell, every hour! It was because the moment he laid eyes on you, the moment you gave him some of your now famous sass, he was stunned.

It wasn’t just that you were beautiful. Everyone, except for Roadhog and him, were attractive here. You were beautiful, but it also that, even after he stood there, you seemed to want to know him. He didn’t know what to do around you. He never got tongue tied, always had something to say, but when you walked up he was lost. He couldn’t help it. And now you were helping him with music.

Everyone thought Junkrat was only about explosions and anarchy, but that wasn’t true. He wouldn’t tell anyone otherwise, but Junkrat liked to work with music in the background. There were a lot of things that he liked that didn’t fit into his personae. But when you showed up with the records, for the first time Junkrat wanted to share these things with someone other than Roadhog.

From that point on, Junkrat made an extra effort to stay around when you came into a conversation. If he was telling a story, he would continue, even if you showed up. Junkrat knew this was a complete change from before, but now he had a purpose. He liked you and knew it. Junkrat wasn’t savvy or suave, and he knew that, if he was going to impress you, he would have to do something to surpass the Shimada brothers.

Just as he was getting ready to do something to show you that he had feelings, he was sent on a mission. It was long one, with a great deal of travel. He and Roadhog would be traveling for the better part of the next six months. The day before he left, Junkrat brought you the gramophone.

“Hey, mate, wanna take care of this for me?” Junkrat was pleased with how indifferent his voice sounded.

“What? Why?” you looked at him in confusion as he set the gramophone on a table in your room.

“Well, da-” Junkrat caught himself in the word darl’, “mate, you know there’s a bunch of us leaving tomorrow for that new mission, ya? I’m one of ‘em.” His sharp smile was lopsided as he looked at you, he knew, but he still wanted to keep it safe.

“I… didn’t realize that you were on the list,” you sounded disappointed, maybe even a little sad that he was leaving.

“Last minute addition,” Junkrat patted the gramophone, “so, mate, can I count on you?”

He barely waited for you to nod before he left, shouting that he would see you soon.

Six months. You couldn’t help it, it was a bit upsetting. However, you smiled, at least he’d left the gramophone with you. More of Junkrat’s records came in over the next two weeks, and you played them all at different times. It didn’t matter who was on, if there were lyrics you were singing along with them. Eventually, along with your snarky attitude, the Overwatch agents came to associate you with singing. You found more records from all over, obscure and strange and interesting, even some that were said to be classics, not that you would know.

There were a few new agents who weren’t allowed on missions yet but who came around the supply room anyway. It was fun to get to know them, and one in particular was a regular visitor. He was another explosives expert, although expert was a bit generous. Barry was learning to be an explosives expert. You had trouble with his name, Barry. It just seemed too… silly for anyone dealing with purposefully blowing things up. But he hung around, and eventually you became, if not friends exactly, then people who could one day be friends.

It seemed that Barry wanted to fast track that friendship. From the time he came to the base till now, Barry was spending more time with you then he was in training. It had been nice, initially, when Barry had begun flirting with you. It kept your mind off how long it had been since you saw Junkrat.

As the months stretched out, you spent more time with Barry, not because you particularly liked him, but because he wanted to spend time with you. One day as he was pawing through Junkrat’s music he came across Annette Hanshaw. You had rarely played the record in the last six-ish months, feeling like it would be unfair to Junkrat somehow. Still, Barry was insistent, telling you that he wanted to hear the record. Eventually you caved and put the record on. You listened through a few songs with Barry, humming along. In truth you were thinking of Junkrat.

Over the preceding months different agents had come in to tell you how Junkrat was doing. They employed different levels of tact. Some, like Winston, casually dropped into the conversation that ‘the long-term assignment’ was going well. Ana had mentioned, in a similar vein, that no critical injuries had been sustained by the team. Others were more blunt. McCree, for one, came by almost daily (usually when Barry was there) to talk. A typical conversation with Jesse went something like:

“Hey, doll, how are ya?”

“I’m good, McCree. How can I help you?”

“Oh, I don’t need a thing. Just wanted to tell you that the rodent is doin’ fine. He says to tell ya hey.”

Lucio was similarly straightforward, often walking by whenever, and shouting (shouting!) “Hey, he’s doing good, parceira!”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to know, or even that you didn’t want Barry to know about Junkrat. You’d talked about him often enough that it should have been clear that you felt something for him. It was just that, over the last nearly six months, you had analyzed and over-analyzed the last conversation you’d had with Junkrat. He’d called you ‘mate’ three times. It seemed unlikely that he wanted anything more from you than friendship. It was probable that the other agents saw that you… liked Junkrat and wanted to help you feel better about him.

The months passed and finally it was time for the team to come home. You felt that you had done pretty damn well. It was true that you had no claim on Junkrat, but that knowledge didn’t stop the butterflies in your stomach from fluttering in excitement. It seemed that everyone on base, or at least everyone who knew the crew that was coming back, were similarly excited. It was catching, and even the new recruits, including Barry, seemed to feel the energy. The team was back and nearly everyone was waiting to chat with their colleagues and friends.

As the group came in you couldn’t help yourself; you craned your neck, searching for Junkrat. It took you a few minutes, but then you heard his giggling laugh. A moment later you saw him, your eyes locking. Junkrat looked about to come over to you when the smile on his face froze. The smile fell as you felt an arm drop across your shoulders. Startled, you looked up into the face of Barry. He was staring at Junkrat, a look on his face of annoyance. By the time you looked back at Junkrat, he was gone.

#junkrat #Junkrat fic #junkrat x reader #overwatch #overwatch fic #my writing #sfw

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