#the crowded poster session area | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lenialenient · 2 months ago

Text

Fuck it, first 6 Real Jobs chapters under the cut

1 - Neither beautiful nor well written

A dark purple filter dims the crowd that makes up the bulk of the hall. Every seat is filled as the light remains on Julia and Julia only.

“Hi,” she says into the microphone bubble in front of her mouth. It resonates all the way to the last row, all four walls, and the double door entrance. Julia smiles sheepishly. The crowd smiles back. She takes a moment to breathe.

“As some of you might know,” Julia says, but is interrupted by another wave of star-struck cheers and whistles. “Yes, yes, thank you, thank you so much.” She starts over. “As some of you might know, I’m a writer and a poet and I wrote a little something called The Secret of Neverward–” Cheers. Jubilation. People with Neverward shirts rise from their seats. People raise their Neverward posters into the air. “And I am, obviously, extremely successful. Mad successful. And they ask me: Julia! How come you’re so successful? Well, I’m here to tell you!”

Julia clicks on a PowerPoint via a tiny remote in her hand, then grabs a bottle of revitalizing color-protection shampoo from the shower basket and squeezes a dime-sized amount into her palm.

“This right here is not what the writing process looks like.” Julia points at the screen behind her. The PowerPoint shows a photo of herself at a desk in a room with a large window, smiling a toothpaste-advertisement smile into the camera, one hand confidently placed on an old-timey typewriter, the other hand holding a cup of coffee up to her lips. It draws a sensible chuckle from the purple crowd.

“In actuality,” Julia says while massaging the shampoo into every centimeter of her pink-stained scalp, “it looks more like alarm clocks set to four-thirty in the morning. It looks like drafting scenes in the notes of your phone while on public transport, because every second counts. And also-” Julia turns up the water, picks up the showerhead, and starts rinsing, “I drink green tea rather than coffee.”

The audience laughs.

“Honestly, it’s healthier, and it gives you almost the same effect.” Julia smiles ahead and her reflection in the shower screen smiles back, water dripping from her lashes. She lets the hot water run over herself a bit longer.

“When I wrote Neverward,” she says, “it was sandwiched between jobbing at Subway and studying for my linguistics degree. I had no money. I had no guarantee anyone would want to read it. I had no time. I made time anyway. Because that’s the thing-”

Julia shuts the water off and watches the showerhead’s stream turn into a drizzle. The bathroom’s quiet now. “I knew that I wanted to create something meaningful, and to get this piece of myself out there in the world where it could be meaningful for someone else, too. That was what I really wanted.”

Carefully, she steps out of the shower. “Once you have a goal, a real goal,” she whispers, “you can start working toward it. You can start to figure out how to get there. And once you know how to get there, there is only one more thing you need. Determination.”

Julia dries herself off and wraps the towel around her torso. With it firmly trapped underneath her arms, she shuffles across the part of the apartment’s living room that’s actually the living room and to the part of the living room that’s actually the kitchen. She boils water.

Clipping her hair down to a crisp 5mm last week easily shaved ten minutes of blow-drying and ten minutes of styling off her morning routine. Not to mention, it saves her two hair washing sessions a week. No one can tell whether her hair is greasy if it barely exists, and that’s valuable, valuable time. Dress, cardigan, tights – laid out the night before. Another pair of tights because chub rub has chafed through the inner thigh area. Finally, Julia sits down at the kitchen/living room table with a mug of green tea.

The tiny desk in Julia’s room can’t rival the magical feeling of a common area before anyone else is awake. Hayal is the only possible encounter at five in the morning, should she drag herself out of her room on a quest for coffee. She’d give Julia that specific look and say “you really don’t need to sleep, do you?” and Julia would answer: “Oh no. Absolutely not.”

Julia closes her eyes and takes a breath, hands hovering above the keyboard.

Okay. Go.

She opens her mailbox.

Nothing. No subjects in bold, no names that haven’t been sitting there already, not a single message with a Re: in the subject line. Face illuminated by the white shade of empty inbox, Julia taps her fingernail on the laptop’s surface. She refreshes just in case, then scrunches her lip. Fine.

Still drumming on the laptop, Julia moves the cursor to the Sent tab, takes a sip of green tea, and leans in close. Then, she opens the Word document she wrote the email in.

Is this a pointless exercise? It might be. Pretty sure it’s not acceptable to send a query letter to an agent twice, even when the words have been switched out for better words.

… not just a whodunit with superpowers but an analysis of what makes humans lose their humanity. She deletes humans and writes people. Sure, it was a word play, but it made her sound like a psychopath.

It’s fine, one of these days she’ll have to send more queries anyway.

Actually.

The entire sentence feels like something an unpleasant person would write. Not just a whodunit – who does she think she is?

…it’s a whodunit with superpowers.

Julia takes a sip of tea.

… a whodunit with superpowers where every superpower fits into

… a whodunit with superpowers where every character’s unique power fits perfectly into the murder case, making it a mystery until the end

… until the very end

… until the end

… a whodunit with superpowers where every

Julia paces the kitchen. “A whodunit with superpowers…” The stove time display tells her that about twenty minutes ago it turned six. “A whodunit. With superpowers.” She catches the eye of her reflection in the microwave. “What the hell. You’re just saying words.”

With a fresh cup of tea, Julia sits back down in front of the whodunit with superpowers. She closes her eyes, shakes her head to rearrange her thoughts, and goes back in. Calmly, she reads the paragraph she’s been working on, whispers along. Then she reads the paragraph again, slower this time.

Julia leans back into the chair, all the way, as if she could merge into the backrest. Her eyes burn. She uprooted the entire paragraph. The sentence is nicer, but the rest doesn’t fit anymore. Everything’s just pieces, nothing’s connected. The query letter is falling apart in front of her eyes.

Julia reaches for the backspace button and knocks over the mug with her elbow. It sends a stream of green tea trickling down the side of the table and Julia watches. Watches, until two hot tears run down her cheeks and she wipes the mug off the table and listens to it break on the wooden tiles.

She sits there until it’s seven, waiting for this feeling to pass. There’s been a sob, maybe two, but she’s breathing now.

She takes another, deep breath.

She moves the cursor to the little x in the top right corner and closes her mailbox.

She closes the document and doesn’t save the changes.

She cleans up the shards from the floor and slides them into the trash bin.

She blots up the tea. She closes her laptop.

Julia sits there, pointless and still, as the room progressively sheds the night and the gray becomes lighter. Three hours gone to waste. Nothing got done today.

It’s quiet. Julia sits.

Then she stands up, grabs her Subway uniform, her university backpack, and leaves for work.

2 - That white canvas must be turned into something

Hayal wakes up dehydrated, disoriented, and with a side of that headache that presses down onto your nose bridge. She shifts in her bed, rustling the sheets, but doesn’t manage to get up. Sweeping her arms across the mattress, she feels for her phone, then for her charger, plucks it in, and finally unglues her eyelids to look at the time. It’s 13:38. Hayal puts her phone face-down and burrows herself in her blanket.

The fact that she didn’t have to be anywhere was such a cathartic thought to wake up to in the first weeks post-uni.

Several minutes pass.

Hayal groans and pulls the phone into her cocoon. There are things. So many. The little bar at the top of the screen is littered with icons. Instagram and Twitter, four new emails. Four? Hayal resists the urge to shut the whole thing down. Air starts to become scarce in her blanket shell, and she strikes a deal with herself that she’s allowed to break out of it as soon as she’s answered those goddamn emails. She slows her breathing, and the sound of her overgrown nails hitting the phone screen takes over.

Two people are inquiring about new commissions and two people are inquiring about commissions that are overdue. One week and two days, respectively. Hayal goes into her notes and copy-pastes her answer templates. She tells the first two people what she’d charge and that she’d be happy to accept their commissions on those terms. She updates the other two on the status of their art pieces and asks them to be patient just a few days longer.

Finally, she wrestles herself out of the blanket. For another several minutes she lies there, head on her pillow, eyes closed, and breathes in the recycled air as long as it still feels fresh. She’s won that battle, let’s not lose that grip. Get up. Get some water, don’t let dehydration make a home here.

Hayal rolls off the mattress and manages to catch herself just before stepping on the drawing tablet on the floor. God, that would have been fatal. She makes a mental note to either put it away properly next time she passes out for the night or pull back the curtains before she tries to navigate her room. She knows neither of these will happen.

Tablet under her arm, Hayal emerges from her door and squints into the kitchen/living room. “Morning.”

“Morning,” replies the green-dyed weirdo at her kitchen table without so much as raising an eyebrow. “How long have you been going for?”

“Don’t know. Five or six. Seven, maybe?” Hayal drops the tablet on the couch and trudges over to the overstuffed cupboard to pry out a can of instant coffee powder. “I see the SAI interface when I close my eyes.”

Kiwi hums thoughtfully and returns to the academic discipline of distressed typing.

While the electric kettle labors, Hayal fills a glass with tap water and sips it looking over Kiwi’s shoulder. “Do you think you’ll ever be tired of writing Stasi papers?”

“I’m legally not allowed to be tired of writing Stasi papers, I think.”

Kiwi’s sacrificing a lot of typing speed on account of the fact that only one of his hands is actually on the keyboard. With the other, he attempts to simultaneously text what Hayal can only guess are several people.

Hayal spoons a generous amount of coffee powder into the communal Stay strong, Friday’s coming! mug Kiwi got from his parents. While pouring hot water, she takes a moment to mourn the broken espresso maker. “Julia’s gone already?”

“Yeah, Subway.”

“I thought she didn’t have to work until evening.”

“That’s Monday.”

“What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“Oh.” Hayal blows onto the coffee-adjacent broth. “That’s harsh.”

“Yeah.”

The almost comfortably familiar sound of Kiwi bouncing his foot like an industrial grade jackhammer draws Hayal’s attention toward the fact that he not only has his stupid-big platform boots on, but also a generous amount of stupid-big eyeliner. His phone keeps buzzing.

“You heading out?”

“I’m meeting the band in a minute,” he says. “But also I’m rushing a deadline, so.”

Hayal takes a careful sip. The coffee still burns her tongue.

“And I kinda messed up because Tien’s already at the bus stop.” Kiwi’s fingers stop typing as he throws Hayal a glance from the corner of his eye. “She’s coming over so she doesn’t have to wait in the cold while I finish this thing up.”

Hayal holds her breath to narrowly avoid choking on her coffee and pulls the mug away from her face. She wipes at the few drops that hit the ground with her sock. “Is she? Now?”

“I mean,” Kiwi turns and holds onto the back of the chair. His voice is drawn out and apologetic. “You were kinda still asleep five minutes ago, so I didn’t really...”

A key turns in a lock, followed by a click. There’s just enough time for Hayal to shoot Kiwi a strong-eyed look before the door swings open to reveal Tien in all her pierced face, spiked hair, combat booted glory – the living proof that punk is on life support.

Hayal is painfully aware of how she’s standing here in her pajamas and dark under-eye circles and overgrown side-cut, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in her hand at two in the afternoon like someone who’s got nothing better to do.

Hayal looks at Tien, Tien looks back.

“I thought you’d ring,” says Kiwi.

Tien tears her eyes away from Hayal and jangles a pair of keys. “Yeah, well, I still got those.” A glance back to Hayal. Back to Kiwi. “I can still give them back.”

“No, no, someone reliable outside the apartment having spares is a good thing.”

Tien pockets the keys and closes the door.

“Give me like five more minutes,” says Kiwi and – now two-handed – steps up his typing pace.

Hayal would give a leg for something to type. Kiwi’s the only one barely escaping the weird energy in the room. She tries giving Tien a smile but it ends up all teeth, and all sideways instead of upwards. Tien blinks at her a few times, no smile, but nods. Then, she leans against the doorframe, going through her phone. God.

Hayal stands there, winding the grimace off her face. She could go and hide in her room but not without making the impression that she’s going to go hide in her room. She sips her still too hot coffee and reads Kiwi’s Stasi paper over his shoulder.

“Alright,” he says finally, and shuts the laptop.

Tien sighs in relief. “You done?”

“No.” Kiwi stands up, disappears into his room, and emerges with his guitar case. He slides the laptop into his backpack. “I’ll take it along.”

“You suck at multitasking,” says Tien.

“I’ll make it work.”

Kiwi slips on his leather jacket and throws his guitar case over one shoulder, the backpack over the other. He waves to Hayal before heading out of the door. “I’ll be back at some point tonight.”

“Have fun, be yourself, et cetera.”

Tien gives a slight smile before pulling the door shut. “See you around, Hayal.”

With the door closed, the apartment is vacant. Except for Hayal, of course. She empties her coffee mug in silence, drops onto the couch, and pulls out the drawing tablet from underneath her.

See you around.

What the hell, she thinks, as she puts pen to screen, is that supposed to mean.

3 - An oddity, a nonentity, or a disagreeable man

“I feel like I should’ve warned either of you,” Kiwi says, trying to sit on the metal bench in a way that wouldn’t have him freeze his ass off. Throughout all of December there’s been the cold without the snow and that trend is continuing well into January.

“We can handle it,” says Tien. “We’re all adults here.” She’s given up on the bench, instead leaning on the glass wall of the bus shelter, partially blocking out an ad with a grotesquely big and uncomfortably close face of a white woman with white teeth that watches over the bus stop.

Kiwi and Tien may have occupied the glass house, but they’re not alone at the stop. Three teenagers on their way home from school and two older women shift impatiently. Kiwi can look at them through the ad-free wall to his left and they can look right back. Which, he supposes, is the reason why they’re staying outside, limiting themselves to the occasional outraged glance thrown his or Tien’s way. The teenagers whisper and giggle with each other.

Kiwi drags the soles of his boots – five centimeters thicker than they need to be – back and forth over the concrete and fidgets with the straps of his guitar case. It could be the eyeliner, it could be jeans so thoroughly ripped that he’s wearing tights underneath to not freeze to death. It could be the fact that his hair is green – or meant to be green, as it’s also bleach-blond where Hayal’s missed a spot or two with the dye, and dark brown where the roots have grown out. It could be the fact that all that spills over a wildly outdated glam-punk bandana. It could also be the fact that he’s a man* with an asterisk that, no matter how hard you look, never leads to any tangible footnotes. At least Tien is flashier than him. And at least she’s here. Had he been alone, he would’ve had to tone it down.

Kiwi pulls out his phone and texts Oskar.

Kiwi [14:11]: We’re on our way

Kiwi [14:11]: For real this time

Kiwi [14:11]: Sorry

The bus turns into the street just as he shoves the phone back into his pocket. When they get on, Tien manages to snatch seats facing each other. It’s not too crowded yet, just enough for each double-seat to have – in true German fashion – exactly one person and one bag on it.

Kiwi doesn’t want Hayal to be the topic hanging in the air so he says: “I’m just gonna need five minutes to work on the essay at Oskar’s, ten tops.”

“You’re not gonna do it.”

“Am too.”

“Wait.” Tien’s eyes focus on something Kiwi doesn’t immediately manage to pin down.

“Wait, let me see your tongue.”

Kiwi scans the interior of the bus – he catches the gaze of one of the women from the bus stop, who immediately averts her eyes – before he turns back to Tien and reluctantly sticks his tongue out just enough for her to see the piercing.

“Goddamn,” says Tien. “When did that happen?”

“Last week. Saturday.” Kiwi lowers his voice. “Does it look infected? Because it’s kinda…” He gestures vaguely.

“Yeah, no. It’s just gonna look shitty for a while.”

Kiwi’s phone buzzes.

Oskar [14:13]: oh nice cause mona and I realized songs arent quite the same without any strings

Kiwi [14:16]: I said SORRY

Oskar [14:17]: are you bringing food as an offer for forgiveness

Kiwi [14:17]: I’m not

“Had no idea you were planning on getting something like this done,” says Tien. Her legs are stretched all the way to the seat across from her. “I could’ve recommended you a place.”

“I wasn’t.”

Tien slides a few centimeters up on her seat, props her elbow against the window, and tilts her head against her fist. “Did you have beef with your mom?”

“Why is that – why are you the second person asking this?”

Tien gives him an overstated shrug. Kiwi squints at her before he goes back to typing.

Oskar [14:17]: boo

Oskar [14:18]: but seriously

Oskar [14:18]: you ready for now?

Kiwi [14:19]: If you mean the song you gotta put that in quotation marks or something because otherwise that’s confusing

Oskar [14:20]: youre the one who named it that

Oskar [14:20]: ready for “now”, the song?

Kiwi [14:21]: Actually I think we should take out the spoken part before we try the whole thing for the first time

Kiwi [14:21]: The “I tried wanting less, I tried wanting more” part

Oskar [14:22]: kiwi, my dude, my love

Oskar [14:22]: weve been revising for the past like month

Oskar [14:22]: you have that is

Oskar [14:22]: and i mean didn’t you text me at 2 in the AM about how we need that part

Oskar [14:23]: about how important it is

Oskar [14:23]: about the emotions

“By the way,” Kiwi taps his fingertips on the phone screen without actually typing. He speaks very slowly. “Did I mention that she invited herself and dad over? Again?”

Tien grimaces. “Seriously?”

“They’re still guilt-tripping me because I didn’t come home for Christmas so I couldn’t really, you know, say no.”

Slowly, Tien’s face transitions from empathetic disdain to suspicion. He sounded too prematurely apologetic just now, didn’t he? “When did they say they’re were gonna come exactly?”

Kiwi shifts his weight, keeps his eyes on the phone. “Friday.”

Tien rises in her seat, lips thin. “So, what, you’re gonna miss practice?”

“I’m trying to move it to Saturday, okay? My mom just takes two days to reply to a message.”

Tien drags a hand down the side of her face. “Kiwi…”

“’I’ll be there. I’m gonna make it work somehow. Promise.”

Kiwi [14:24]: I guess it’s too emotional

Kiwi [14:24]: Kinda cringy

Kiwi leans back against the squiggly bus seat pattern and looks at Tien. “You’re so serious about this lately.”

“Maybe,” says Tien, “I’m getting kinda impatient. We’re not really doing much.”

“We can’t really do much until my finals are over.” Kiwi bounces his leg. On the other side of the dirty window, towering grey blocks start to make way for yards and fences. “At least I can’t, anyway.”

“When’s that?”

“The last one’s Monday in two weeks.”

“Hmm,” says Tien.

Oskar [14:25] were not gonna film today

Oskar [14:26] so id say lets try it out anyway

The outskirts of town harbor a now empty house that belonged to Oskar’s grandparents before they died two years back. In those two years it’s been left mostly untouched, which is why Kiwi would never dare to actually go inside the house, but the shack that stands in its yard – formerly a workshop and equipped with electricity – couldn’t be a more convenient place for Divine Discontent to practice their songs.

Kiwi and Tien haul their instruments off the bus and walk the rest of the way through a desolate early afternoon suburbia. Fewer eyes means Kiwi doesn’t feel compelled to powerwalk constantly, but there’s something eerie about this place. Like it’s saying that if he only changed the trajectory of his life five centimeters to the right, he, too, could have a lawn and a fence someday.

Because you can’t hear the doorbell in the workshop, Tien hands Kiwi her bass case, vaults over the fence, and opens the gate from inside. The stiff winter grass crackles under their boots as they make their way across the yard.

Mona’s spinning idly on the stool behind her drum-kit as Kiwi opens the door to the practice shack. Her drumsticks are fixed behind her ear in her rose-colored hijab, and with the matching pastels and expertly-carved makeup, she looks like someone who either has fifty thousand followers on Instagram or who aspires to have fifty thousand followers on Instagram. Oskar rests one of his arms on the mic stand, the other in the pocket of his sweatpants. He wears big shirts and lets his dark hair grow to his shoulders. Hayal once said that nobody in Divine Discontent looks like they’re playing the same music. Tien argues that they can make the lack of consistent style work as a style in itself. Kiwi, meanwhile, maintains that post-progressive pseudoglam queercore cannot be reduced to a singular cohesive look.

Oskar and Mona abruptly turn and start clapping in formal unison as Tien and Kiwi enter.

“Oh, fuck off,” says Kiwi. A grin sits on his face though, and he can’t seem to wipe it off. After easy greetings and one-armed hugs, he squats down to unpack his stuff. There’s no point in taking any jackets off, since the workshop is barely any warmer than outside.

“So, are we all good to go?” Oskar asks.

“I’ve been for weeks,” says Mona. “I really wanna know what it sounds like in all its glory.”

Kiwi sits there, backpack unzipped, his hand inside instinctively grabbing his laptop.

He looks up, at Tien, her bass guitar hooked to the amp, and at Mona, drum sticks in hand, hovering over the toms. One second passes, two seconds pass.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Kiwi zips the backpack shut again.

Oskar picks up the mic and throws Kiwi a glance. “So, with or without the spoken part?”

Kiwi breathes in. “Without.”

Disappointment flashes over Oskar’s face for a second, but he shrugs. “Sure thing.”

Kiwi leaves his backpack by the door and unsheathes his guitar. He throws it on and takes his spot in Divine Discontent’s formation.

4 - Times New Roman, Twelve-Point, Double-Spaced

Julia kicks the door shut behind her. Her legs are sore, her backpack is heavy, a grocery bag dangles from the crook of her arm because her hands are busy – one with the keys and the other holding the phone that she, under no circumstances, can take her eyes off.

It’s all about the tiny 1. All about that little symbol and the promise of 1 new message(s). She saw it on the tram home, the sender, the subject, everything but the actual email. Reading the actual email requires preparation and a specific setting, but she can confirm that the email’s neither from Amazon nor Duolingo and that is, in fact, a Re, and what’s more, it is Re: QUERY SFF.

A drawn out “Welcome back” wavers over to Julia. Groceries in her arms, she crosses the living room, past Hayal who’s sprawled over the entire length of the couch, eyes staring up at the ceiling and the drawing tablet on the floor.

“Having a crisis?” Julia asks, pulling discounter pasta, tea, and soup cans out of the bag and stuffing them into her third of the cupboard. There’s no time to actually cook dinner tonight.

“Yes.”

Julia stocks her part of the fridge in record time and throws the shopping bag on the shopping bag pile. An unheard-of amount of energy is bristling within her, as she slips into her room and re-emerges with her laptop. “What’s the crisis about?”

“I thought I could take a break and play Animal Crossing for like an hour,” says Hayal.

“And you can’t?” Julia props the laptop up on the kitchen table, presses the power button, and sits.

“I can’t.”

The moment the laptop whirs to life, Julia starts drumming her fingers on the table. Deep breaths. She knows there’s nothing to expect. She knows that everyone who’s ever published anything will tell her that they’ve collected fifty or seventy or a hundred or two-hundred rejections before there’s been a trace of interest from a literary agent. So, this is going to be a rejection, and that’s fine.

“But aren’t you having a break right now?” she asks Hayal.

“I guess I’m having a break.”

Julia’s desktop appears and her fingers fly over the trackpad. Her inbox still shows her the same notification when it stretches across her screen – as if she needs reminding. This wasn’t the first agent she messaged, but it was the first who responded. Okay, reject me.

“Then what’s stopping you from playing Animal Crossing?” she asks, hovering the cursor over to the email.

“Gee, Julia.” Hayal says. “Am I supposed to have my break and enjoy it too? Like some hedonistic glutton?”

The notification dissolves as Julia clicks the email. Then it sits before her, open, accessed, unveiled. It’s shorter than expected, just a small block of text, but you can’t start a message like this at the beginning. You start in the middle, you start where your eyes happen to look the moment it appears, and you start with keywords. And there is one:

Unfortunately.

That’s a rejection. That’s a rejection, alright.

Julia reads the whole message, beginning to end. Beginning to end, again. Still a rejection.

Julia breathes in and out. A rejection was fine five seconds ago and it is fine now. She expected nothing else. It’s time to say ‘okay then’ and close the email and make soup for dinner. But the cursor doesn’t move a pixel and neither does she.

A wave of some type of emotion washes over Julia, and that’s a problem. There’s a problem and it needs to be reviewed right now, or she’s not going to last.

She opens a blank Word document.

You got your first rejection, how are you feeling?

Bad.

But why so?

Judging by the immovable blinking cursor, she’s already written herself into a corner.

Am I arrogant? I didn’t really think the first rejection wasn’t going to be one. This is the first agent who responded. Of course it was going to be a rejection. It would be so incredibly arrogant of me to think it wouldn’t be one.

Behind her, the couch rustles. She turns and watches Hayal collect her drawing tablet and pen from the floor. Julia refocuses on the Word doc in front of her and tightens her lips.

Did you hope it wasn’t going to be a rejection? She types.

I guess. But wouldn’t everyone?

She taps her finger on the table and straightens up.

Why did you hope it wasn’t going to be a rejection?

Julia already knew she wouldn’t be able to answer that question when she typed it, so she’s not surprised when all she can do is sit and stare at the letters.

A few seconds pass before Julia hits the table with the palm of her hand and rises from her chair in the same motion Hayal jumps.

“Sorry.”

“Writing problems?”

“No. Not at all.” Laptop in hands, she scurries off to her room. There, she powers up her old printer. While it sputters ink onto paper, Julia rummages through her drawers until she finds a roll of tape and rips a piece off with her teeth. She snatches the email – still warm – from the printer, climbs on top of her office chair, and tapes the rejection to the wall.

Carefully, she steps back down and takes a moment to behold her work. A white A4 paper – two thirds blank and one third standard rejection lingo – taped to the center of the wall above her desk.

She can work with that.

4.5 - Julia is sixteen

And the pattern of her room’s carpet stamps itself onto her calves as she sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning in on the screen in front of her.

“Once you know what you want, you can start to figure out how to get there,” Michelle says. Very emphatically, because it’s very important. “You break that huge goal into tiny goals and then you set yourself one or several tiny goals every year, or half a year, or even every month, whatever works best for you. You’ll be there before you know it.”

Julia pauses the video and pats the carpet in search of her journal.

Monthly goals, she writes down, underlines it.

Monthly chapter goals.

Monthly submission goals?

She unpauses the video.

“But you need to put in the work,” Michelle continues. “It’s not going to be a walk in the park, alright? If you don’t ‘have time’” – she does air quotes – “to work on your project, you need to make time. If you don’t feel like writing today, that’s just a feeling, and you can push past that.”

The background in Michelle’s videos is one giant bookshelf. Some of the books are facing forward – those that have her name on them.

“Number three. Effective time management is pivotal,” says Michelle. “Try taking the twenty-four hours of the day and assigning them a purpose. If you mark down work for eight hours, plus getting there and back – that makes it nine hours – and sleep for eight hours, you are at seventeen. That leaves seven hours you can potentially spend working on your project.”

Julia seesaws her pen up and down against the pages of her journal. On bad days, school’s also eight hours. But she needs to account for homework. The view count below the video hits around thirty thousand. How many of these people are still in school, Julia wonders. Not a lot, probably. She’s got a head start.

“Number four. It’s obviously a long-term commitment, maybe a forever commitment, and putting in the work is key, but there’s a useful thing that you can do right now. It sounds cliché, but I promise it’s going to give your confidence a boost, and it seems like it worked for Octavia Butler, if that’s anything to go by. That is, speak your goals into existence. Say ‘I’m going to be a best-selling author.’ Or write it down, after all, we’re writers.”

Not all thirty thousand are going to be bestselling authors. Or authors at all. Who knows how many of these guys even have a finished novel to their name? Julia does. Almost.

“Say it not like it’s a thing that you want to happen,” Michelle says, “but say it like it is a thing that is going to happen. Make it destiny. Make it inevitable.”

Julia grabs her journal and her pen. Then she puts the pen back down it in favor of a sharpie. She dedicates one page for each statement.

I am going to be a published author before I’m 20.

She flips the page.

I am going to be a renowned author before I’m 25.

She flips the page.

I will be extraordinary.

5 - The Sad Lesbians, not the Cool Ones

With a single tap of Hayal’s pen, gray fills the entire canvas. She sighs and reverses, zooms in and squints for gaps in her line-art. Ah, there we are. A shirt line doesn’t quite connect to the skirt. She draws in what’s hardly more than a dot and tries to match the pressure so it’s the same weight as the rest of the lines. Good, fixed. On the next, resolute tap, gray spills over the entire canvas again and Hayal hangs her head in defeat.

She shoves her tablet closer to the edge of the bed and drops onto her back, closes her eyes, and takes a second to very purposefully, very consciously, groan. With a question of what’s the time, anyway, she pulls out her phone. 22:31, the night is still young.

A couple of seconds later, Hayal’s scrolling through Twitter. And another couple of minutes later, a notification pops up on the top of her screen.

“What-!”, she yells, before the phone slips out her hand.

For a moment Hayal lies there in silence and accepts that she dropped her phone on her face. She picks it up and rubs her nose. When she turns the screen back on, she does so carefully, with the lightest press of a button, like the message is going to disappear if she looks at it directly.

No, it’s still there.

Tien [22:34]: How are you?

“What!” Hayal reiterates.

She stares at the message until another one comes in.

Julia [22:36]: What are you yelling about

Hayal pushes herself off the bed, zigzags through her mess and, two seconds later, stands in Julia’s room, gripping the doorframe.

“Tien messaged me,” she says.

“She did?”

The tidiness of Julia’s room is passively shaming. There’s not a thing on the floor, instead, the things are on shelves, and some of them are organized alphabetically. All that’s on the bed is Julia, already in her pajamas, the phone next to her, and the journal she’s just putting down.

“Look,” says Hayal. She clambers onto the bed and levels the phone to Julia’s face. “It’s all spelled out, too. And the first letter is capitalized. I know she has auto-capitalization off. She’s a lowercase texter. And the punctuation? There’s a whole question mark.”

Julia’s eyes move from left to right until a smile springs up in the corner of her mouth. “’Lean Mean Tien Machine’?”

“That’s from back when we were still together.”

“And you didn’t change her name?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“I guess people usually would.” Julia shrugs. “One could argue that it implies that you’re not over her.”

“I mean, I absolutely am not over her but that’s got nothing to do with my shitty phone organization.” Hayal withdraws her phone and scrolls. “Most of my contacts are just numbers. I read the messages to figure out who it is.”

“Am I saved as anything?” Julia asks.

“Yeah, you’re ‘Julia’.”

“Ah.”

“Okay, focus.” Hayal calls up the message again. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Well, how are you?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“You could tell her that.”

“I don’t know,” Hayal sways from side to side. “She’s being serious, right? She’s using her serious voice, with the question mark and all. Shouldn’t I be serious, too?”

“You weren’t?”

“No, it was a joke.”

Julia shuffles a bit. Hayal squints at the phone, chewing on her lip.

“Do you think she wants to get back together?”

“Did she text you at all since you broke up?

“No.”

“Chances are good, I guess.”

“Ah. Oh.” Hayal grinds her teeth and leans against the wall. “Oh man. Oh boy.”

“Do you want to get back together?”

“No.”

Julia smiles a little helplessly. “You should probably tell her that?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“’Cause. That’s not really a good answer to ‘how are you��. Also I love her so, so much.”

“Oof,” Julia sits back, journal clutched to her chest. “Oof, Hayal.”

Hayal keeps sitting on Julia’s bed, back to the wall and the phone in her lap. She takes several deep breaths. She calls up the messenger keyboard and backs out again. She briefly considers sending only a solitary crying-laughing emoji. Then she’s typing.

“You got something?” Julia flips through the pages of her journal, furrowing her brow every few entries.

“Mhm.”

Why are you asking, Hayal types, and deletes.

How come?

She deletes.

Why do you ask? She hits send, sets her phone to vibrate, and puts it face down on the blanket. Don’t look at it again, don’t wait for typing… to pop up next to her name. Just chill. But how? Julia’s scribbling something in her journal. Hayal slides down the wall a couple of centimeters and folds her arms. There are tall stacks of paper and even taller stacks of books on Julia’s carefully organized desk. The walls are blank save for a singular slip of white paper printed in a font too small to read from here.

The phone buzzes.

Tien [22:54]: You looked really done when I saw you today

Hayal’s mouth opens as if she’s going to say something. Obviously, she isn’t.

Hayal [22:54]: Yeah I’m kinda tired

Tien [22:55]: can’t sleep?

Hayal [22:55]: Drawing all night

Should she mention it? Yeah, she’s gonna mention it.

Hayal [22:56]: Sort of live off it now

Tien [22:56]: FOR REAL?

Tien [22:56}: THAT’S INSANE

Hayal [22:57]: I guess

She peppers the crying emoji into the message. Twice. Then she deletes the second one and sticks with that.

Hayal [22:58]: It’s a lot tho

Hayal [22:58]: I haven’t seen the sun in months

Tien [22:59]: don’t leave the house much?

Hayal [22:59]: Not at all

Hayal [23:00]: Like I straight up couldn’t tell you when I last went outside

Tien [23:00]: hayal. that’s like a recipe for depression

Hayal [23:01]: I know

Hayal chews on her bottom lip. She’s halfway into deciphering the individual book titles on Julia’s desk, when the phone buzzes against her palms.

Tien [23:03]: actually

Tien [23:03]: do you feel like leaving your cave

Tien [23:04]: cause I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while

Hayal slams down the phone like it bit her. She looks at Julia with big eyes. Julia looks up from her journal.

“She says she wants to talk.”

“Oh, there it is.”

“What do I say?”

“Don’t ask me, you know yourself better.” Julia furrows her brow. “And Tien definitely. Do you want to talk to her?”

“I think. I wanna see her.”

Julia vaguely gestures towards the phone. Hayal picks it back up and takes a deep breath.

Hayal [23:05] When?

“I’ve never actually been in a real relationship, you know?” Julia says, eyes back on her journal. “I’m probably not the best person to ask for advice.”

“You haven’t?”

“I mean technically I have.” She bounces the closed pen off the current page. “But I don’t really think that counts because both of them were before I realized I like girls.”

“Ha,” says Hayal, “how long did they last?”

“Longest was three weeks. I honestly thought I was the problem.”

The phone in Hayal’s hand buzzes.

“Still not entirely sure I’m not.” Julia says.

Tien [23:07]: i’m kinda tied up with some band organization stuff right now, but have you ever seen us all play

Hayal [23:07]: Only on youtube

Tien [23:08]: you could join us for next band practice

Tien [23:08]: that is if you want

Tien [23:08]: it’s friday

Hayal holds her breath, tracing the little letters with her eyes. She gets up, opens Julia’s door, and shouts into the rest of the apartment: “Kiwi?”

After a couple of seconds, there’s a muffled answer through the wall: “Yeah?”

Hayal crosses the kitchen and pokes her head into Kiwi’s room.

“Do you mind if I tag along on Friday?”

5.5 - Hayal is seventeen

Closer to eighteen, and when she comes home from school, her mom is waiting for her in the kitchen, sitting at the table in a superficial state of calm, holding a dainty cup of coffee to her lips. The green-white-checkered tablecloth has been cleared of everything but an equally dainty saucer, and a stark white envelope.

There’s a moment of pause in which Hayal’s brain time-lapses the past couple of months, trying to recall something that she’s done that she shouldn’t have, and arrives at the conclusion that there’s nothing in that A-student life of hers that fits that description. But then – hold on – hold on. Hayal steps closer and scans the address on the letter.

“No.”

“It’s the moment of truth, baby.”

It’s been how long since she sent in the portfolio? Months, too many. She thought they’d ghosted her by now. Hayal hesitates to pick up the envelope. It’s all by itself on the table, flat and white, and automatically generated, valid without signature. Looming.

Hayal grabs it. Pokes through the glue, pries it open with her fingernails. Unfolds the letter.

It’s quiet. Enough for Hayal to hear the ticking of her mom’s wrist watch.

“’You have been admitted.’”

The cup clinks against the saucer, Hayal’s mom rises from her chair.

“You have been admitted,” Hayal says.

Her mom wraps her arms around her, actually picks her up a little, which she hasn’t done in approximately eight years.

“’You have been admitted’!” Hayal screams. She pumps her fist into the air, letter still in the other one, nearly topples her mom. “I’ve been fucking admitted!”

“I’ll excuse the language this time.” Hayal’s mom sets her down, hugs her again. “This is fantastic. I’m so proud of you, Hayal.”

There’s a sting in Hayal’s eyes, but it’s the best kind of sting that could possibly be in one’s eyes.

“Oh,” she gently frees herself from the hug. “I need to –”

“Yes. Go.”

Hayal runs to grab the jacket she put down five minutes ago and pockets her phone, her keys. Erdem’s head pokes out from the corner, exuding an aura that only a thirteen-year-old with headphones dangling around his neck can exude. “Why are you yelling?”

Hayal doesn’t stop walking as she turns around, claps her hands in front of his face.

“I’m going to art school! Ha!”

Two seconds later she’s on the stairs, speeding past the other doors and speed-dialing Tien.

C’mon, pick up.

It rings two, three times, then it clicks.

“What’s wrong?”

Neither of them are phone call people.

“Guess what,” Hayal says.

There’s a moment of static silence, as if Tien is actually trying to guess.

Finally: “No!”

“Yes!”

“Oh, fuck.” Tien laughs, first a little, then a lot. “Oh shit! Wait, hold on, I’m coming over.”

“No! I’m coming over already, you stay where you are!”

“Let’s meet in the middle.”

The park’s rusty with fall and the onset of evening. Between the people lying in the grass, catching the last scraps of light, Hayal sees Tien jogging her way. She’s not hard to spot in her all-black. Her shoulder-length hair is up in a ponytail, she’s wearing her glasses instead of contacts.

“You fucking –” is the first thing Tien says when she’s within shouting distance. “You fucking artist, you!”

There’s the tightest possible hug, and when they separate, Tien takes Hayal’s face in both hands and kisses her, again.

6 -Local Bassist Tien Thanh Le Demonstrates German Efficiency by Causing Two Crises at Once

The bus smells almost like new car. Hayal traces the randomized pattern on the seat in front of her. She knows her shoulders are up to her ears, and she knows that must be terrible for her already wonky posture, but she’s going to cut herself some slack because, after all, she’s out here, in public. She sits in the window seat and Kiwi by the aisle. If he hadn’t managed to push his parents’ visit back, chances are Hayal wouldn’t have come either.

“Okay, but,” Kiwi sends a text and sets his phone down on his leg, “how come? Since when have you two been talking again?”

“Literally only the two days. She really just went ‘hey, Hayal, how’s it going? I wanna talk to you, so how about Friday’ and I was like –” She looks at Kiwi with the most shaken-to-the-core expression she can muster.

Because the silence had been broken, she had wondered if they’d go back to sending good morning and good night texts now, but Tien hasn’t messaged her since. Hayal also hasn’t messaged Tien.

“How do you feel about that?” Kiwi asks.

Hayal leans her head back against the seat and stretches her legs under the one in front of her. “I don’t know.” She eyes the lifeless fluorescent lamp on the ceiling of the bus. “I’ve been missing her.”

There’s a beat of silence, then another one while Kiwi checks his phone.

“Hope this doesn’t get messy,” he says. “Even if you two get back together, Julia’s in her room now, so-”

“Hw- Wha- Now, hold on, now, mister. You’re kinda skipping several – kinda skipping the whole staircase here. We’re not trying to get back together.”

“Okay,” says Kiwi, with special emphasis on the ‘o’. He passes his phone from one hand to the other. “So, what is it, then? A ‘we should stay friends’ thing?”

Hayal gives him a Look.

“See, this is important to me because I love you both.”

“I genuinely don’t have a clue.”

“But, I mean, you…” Kiwi fizzles out at the sight of Hayal’s index finger raised towards his face. “Yeah?”

“You know, you can keep prying,” she says, a twitch in the corner of her mouth, “but I will pry back.”

“I’m like ninety percent sure there isn’t a single thing about my personal life I haven’t told you at some point.”

“Mh-hm.” Hayal glances at Kiwi’s phone. “Like whatever is going on between you and Oskar.”

Kiwi shoves the phone in his pocket and folds his hands. “Fine.”

Another bus stop, five minutes of walking, and a few jabs at a lack of punctuality later, Hayal finds herself holding a camera and filming Divine Discontent starting the same song over and over. That’s something she’s volunteered to do, not just because she’d hate to sit on her ass and watch while everyone else is trying to create something, but also because she’d like it to seem as if Tien wasn’t the only reason for her being here.

The aesthetic dissonance between the four members is only more potent with the thick jackets everyone’s wearing. Yet Divine Discontent come together to deliver the world’s most concentrated and also only interpretation of post-progressive pseudoglam queercore – a genre that Hayal had trouble visualizing up until right this moment.

She’s got to admit, they are leaving an impression.

It’s mindboggling how Oskar’s able to sing his heart right out, even though he knows people can hear and see him – and how Kiwi plays as though they couldn’t. Either the bass is more prominent in this song than in others, or you only really notice the bass when you begin to notice the bassist. In her heavy leather jacket and fingerless gloves, Tien works through the strings. In this moment, she radiates such an unfair amount of confidence that in the rare case of Tien messing up her chords, Hayal is more inclined to believe that something is wrong with her own ears. Mona’s awkwardness around people that aren’t part of her little in-circle falls away completely and Hayal hopes for a drum solo in the other half of the song, because the vision of her unrestrained drumming is just delightful.

The problem is, Divine Discontent has yet to get to the other half of the song. The second verse is as far as they get before someone – usually Kiwi – overwhelmingly Kiwi – calls for a redo.

Every time the music stops and the band take a couple of seconds to refocus – and for Kiwi to brief everyone on an alternate version of the lyrics he’d like them to try – Hayal carefully sets the camera on an old workbench that she herself would not dare sit on, squats down, and burrows her hands in the pockets of her parka. The shack is cold as hell and her back hurts from standing – something that she, come to think of it, hasn’t done a lot in the recent past.

“Ready?” Kiwi asks into the room. Hayal picks the camera back up and aims. After three nods from his bandmates – and one from Hayal – Kiwi begins to pluck the intro from his guitar strings.

Since Oskar’s the only vocalist but all members of Divine Discontent have tried their hands at songwriting, they’ve made it a habit to establish a personal signature by giving the intro of a song to whoever wrote the bulk of it. This means, to his mild distress, that two thirds of Divine Discontent’s songs start with Kiwi’s guitar.

Upside down, but I try standing my ground/ An hour, a decade, to speak out loud are the first lines Oskar sings, his voice the cue for the other instruments to kick in. The plan is to record two versions, one with a spoken bridge to the last chorus, and one without. As last time, however, the second instance of And now I’m glad I wasted my childhood/ Because now if I wanted to I could/ Live twice as fast and skip all the dull parts is the farthest they’ve come before Kiwi stops playing the guitar to rub his hands over his face and groan. One after the other, the instruments fall away.

Hayal stops recording.

“What now?” asks Tien.

“I can’t deal with the – it’s still –” Kiwi gestures, as he tends to, in shapes that make no sense to anyone but him. “Ew.”

Tien sighs, twice as long as someone would normally sigh.

“No worries,” says Oskar. “How about five everyone?”

“Ten,” says Kiwi.

“Even better.” Oskar pulls a bag of loose tobacco from his pocket and taps it onto a sheet of rolling paper.

“Uh-huh. I see you,” says Kiwi. He leans his guitar against the wall and wipes at his forehead.

Oskar gives him a grin, already heading towards the door. “Voice maintenance. What can I do?”

A clang of sheet metal announces the door dropping shut. Mona stretches, shakes her arms, stands up, and stretches again. Hayal and Tien stand idly.

“So, how is it?” asks Mona slowly. She cracks her fingers, first cupping her right hand with her left, then her left hand with her right.

Tien grimaces at the sound. “How is what,” she asks.

“Hayal’s here so you can have a conversation, right?” Her eyes dart from Tien to Hayal.

“Ten minutes might just be enough for a conversation,” Kiwi says, “and I have a feeling the break might stretch a little.”

Mona nods thoughtfully. “Might just stretch a bit.”

“I’m never telling you anything ever again.” Slowly, Tien turns to Hayal, her lips approaching a smile. “Wanna go and have a conversation?”

Hayal follows Tien out into the yard, leaving behind Kiwi and Mona’s discussion about whether ‘live twice as fast’ is pretentious or not, past Oskar who gives them a thumbs-up and is met with an affectionate middle finger.

They find themselves stopping and standing behind the workshop; the yellow motion sensor light drowns out the blue hour and Hayal can see the air she breathes. She leans against the sheet metal wall, her hands in her pockets. Tien stands in front of her, her hands in her pockets as well.

No one says a thing.

“’Suuup,” says Hayal, as blatantly embarrassing as possible – ‘cause if you do it intentionally you can’t do it accidentally.

“Yeah, shit.” Tien says. “I forgot what I wanted to say.”

Hayal debates whether she should grin at Tien. She’d like to.

“Alright, it’s back. Be prepared.”

“Preparing.”

Tien brings up her hands, thumbs in line with her fingers, and jolts them back down in a parallel motion. “I saw you on Wednesday,” she says.

Hayal nods.

“And it kinda pulled the rug out from under my feet how much I –” she stops and squints at the air, “– miss… your presence? In my life?”

Hayal blinks. “Holy shit.”

“Look, listen,” there’s a lopsided grin on Tien’s face, “as sappy as it is, gotta let it out.”

“Okay,” Hayal says. “Okay, okay. Okay. Let me think.” She breathes in, out. “I miss your presence, too. I really do. I mean, you’re pretty much the coolest person I know.”

Tien smiles. She says: “How are you doing right now?”

“Mentally?”

“Yeah.”

Hayal chews at the inside of her cheek. “Okay. I’d like to say I’m doing okay. I’m a bit behind on commissions which is, you know, stressful, but – I’m doing okay.”

Tien’s smile more and more turns into a diagonal line.

“What about you?” Hayal asks, something she hadn’t done enough in the past. “How are you?”

“Been better,” says Tien. “Worse, too. Spent a lot of time at my mom’s house lately, that’s as close to vacation as I’m gonna get.”

“Cool,” Hayal says. She smiles. There’s so much more she wants to say, but more could lead to more still.

With her boot Tien flattens the frozen grass before she looks back up at Hayal. “When I said I miss your presence – I don’t know if that’s weird – I’m not saying that we need to be together again. I mean, not that that’s impossible…”

“Do you want to be back together?”

“Don’t know. You?”

“Don’t know.”

A beat of silence.

“When I say I miss you,” says Tien. “What I mean is I miss you. I miss talking to you and seeing you and sitting in cafés talking for hours about whatever shit is on our minds, you feel?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“And,” says Tien. “We don’t need to get back together. We don’t need to be together to be together, right?”

“So, you’re asking a year later if we wanna stay friends?” Hayal asks.

“I guess, yeah. Because I wanna spend time with you and I like you.”

“I like you and want to spend time with you, too.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.” As is her first reflex when a conversation flattens, Hayal reaches for the phone in her pocket and finds two new emails. She stuffs it back quickly. “Do you feel like sitting in a café and talking for hours about whatever in the near future? I feel like I need to get out more.”

“Sure,” Tien says, and that feels nice.

There’s a mechanical buzzing in the air and just when Hayal glances up to the motion sensor lamp, Tien pulls her own phone from her jacket. Her face lights up as she checks the screen. “Oh shit, I need to look at that real quick.”

She turns away from Hayal, hunched over her phone and reads with wide open eyes. Hayal resists the urge to look over her shoulder.

Tien keeps standing there, frozen like that even after the light of her screen stops illuminating her face.

“What happened?”

Tien turns around with a grin on her face that seems to get wider by the second. “Let’s go back inside.” She takes Hayal’s hand and draws her back towards the front of the workshop. “There’s news.”

***

Kiwi stands between Oskar and Mona, huddled around Tien’s phone screen as she holds it up to them, arm fully stretched. The brightness is turned all the way up and makes Kiwi squint. What glares back at them is an email correspondence. Subject: “A question” sent by Tien Thanh Le, “Re: A question” answered by Michael Grünberg, Event Manager. Kiwi’s still frozen solid as Oskar high-fives Tien’s free hand. Mona gapes, switching back and forth between looking at Tien and looking at the phone. “You need to give me a pinkie promise that this is not a prank.”

“Read it again, if you have to.” Tien grins, ear to ear. “No prank. It’s real, black on white.”

Mona gasps. In lieu of her own hands being enough, she clutches Tien’s hands to her chest and bounces up and down, squealing in delight. (Tien neither bounces or squeals with her – can’t risk her hard-ass punk cred.)

Kiwi stands there stock-still, fingers frozen in the middle of reaching for the phone, which has since traveled from Tien to Oskar and from Oskar to Hayal. “Wait. No, wait. What? What? What is this?”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Tien says. Kiwi can’t recall the last time he’s seen her so giddy. “The opening act at Tristan’s dropped out, so we’re up.”

“Tristan’s?”

“It’s a bar.”

“Opening act?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Us?”

“Opening act.” Tien nods. “Us. You can repeat the rest of the sentence as well if that’s what it takes.”

“You’re kidding, right? You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” says Tien.

Kiwi takes a step back, a step to the side, and one to the other. Cranes his neck to look at Oskar. At Mona. Hayal, too. No one else seems as alarmed as he is. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “When did this–” He gets the phone from Hayal. He reads over the email again. Looks up, looks down. Up again. “Who is this, even?”

“Tristan’s event manager. I’ve been scouting for places we might have a chance in,” says Tien, her voice aims for calm and confident, specifically cause Kiwi is neither. “I’ve been sending emails and requests for a while now.”

“And, and,” says Kiwi, “and you didn’t say anything? Anything at all?”

“I may have forgotten to mention it.”

“You can’t just sign us up for a concert!” Each of Kiwi’s sentences comes out a different pitch than the one before. “We can’t even get through the entirety of ‘Now’!”

“It’s not a concert,” Oskar chimes in. “Makes you think too big and intimidating. It’s a small gig at a niche club, that’s all. It’s LGBT-friendly, too. Mona’s been there before.”

“They have pretty decent non-alcoholic options,” supplies Mona.

Kiwi turns around to Oskar, mouth forming a couple of soundless shapes before finding his voice. “Were you in on this?”

“I was in on this.”

Kiwi turns to Mona. She gives him an apologetic smile.

“No.”

“I wasn’t at first, if that helps.”

Kiwi takes another step back, unable to close his mouth, and gestures helplessly at all three of his bandmates. “What the fuck?”

Hayal, sucking air in through her teeth, withdraws to fiddle with the camera.

“Why am I–” Kiwi swallows down a voice crack, potentially several. “Why am I the only one who didn’t know about this?”

“It’s not like we all actively conspired against you. Tien just told me at some point,” Oskar says, “Mona figured her out eventually.”

“But you didn’t tell me?” Kiwi’s voice climbs the octaves and remains adamantly on the verge of a shriek. “None of you?”

Tien and Oskar exchange a few negotiating glances – a ‘you do it – no, you’ type deal – Mona investigates the wall with a tight mouth.

Oskar sighs, resigned to his fate. “We figured,” he says, “it would stress you out.”

“AND IT IS NOT DOING THAT RIGHT NOW?”

“Okay,” Oskar says. “Okay. Breathe, Kiwi.”

Kiwi, all red in the face, does not do that. “And it’s so soon, too! There’s no way we would have time to – Do we even have a set? Do we have enough songs?”

“We’ll do covers in between original ones,” says Tien. “I’ve thought about this.”

“You’ve thought about this!?” Kiwi whirls around, points at Tien, points at himself. “Maybe you should’ve thought about involving me in the decision-making process!”

Hayal murmurs to the camera: “He’s got a point.”

Kiwi clutches his feverish forehead, finally breathes, or at least forces his chest to rise and fall. “No,” he announces, “No, no, no. No bar. No gig. We’re not doing this.”

Tien, Oskar, and Mona look at each other and the temperature in the frigid shack drops further. On their faces, in order: Stoicism, patience, and uncertainty. What is not there is compromise.

“Okay, well,” says Kiwi. “I’m not doing this.”

He snatches his guitar from its resting place against the wall, its case from the floor, and squats down to get one into the other as fast as humanly possible.

“Kiwi, come on,” says someone – Oskar – but Kiwi shrugs it off in his rush to pick up his jacket, shoulder the guitar case, and make it to the door. There’s another bargaining “Kiwi!” before the metal door slams shut and the sound reverberates across the yard.

***

Kiwi speed-walks past the fences of afternoon suburbia. Part of his brain registers that he’s still wearing an outfit he put on under the assumption that he wasn’t gonna be alone in public, part of his brain registers that he’s freezing his ass off because he didn’t actually put the jacket on, but most of it is preoccupied with the fact that his bandmates collectively backstabbed him. That’s what they did, so he wasn’t wrong to storm off. No reason to feel bad about it. He doesn’t owe them to stay and listen to their excuses, he doesn’t owe them shit.

About halfway to the bus stop, hasty footsteps catch up with him. Kiwi considers walking faster, but that’d mean he’d end up sprinting and that’s just not attainable with a guitar case on your back. He turns around, sees Hayal, and is immediately stung by guilt.

“You’re really just gonna leave me like that?” Hayal pants. As soon as she comes to a stop, she braces her hands against her knees. “With my ex and two people I sort-of-know-but-not-super-well? That’s cold.”

“Sorry,” Kiwi catches his breath. “Really. I just – What?” He points his jacket back in the direction of the practice shed. “Did you hear this? Did you see this? Please tell me what I think happened actually happened and I didn’t just overreact.”

“You didn’t overreact. I think.”

“I can’t with this.” He takes a step towards Hayal then a step back. “I’m leaving. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to cut your time with Tien short. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, we said our pieces.”

“Yeah?” Kiwi’s already walking backwards down the sidewalk.

“Yeah.”

The two of them continue at a pace that allows Kiwi to hand Hayal the guitar case for a second to slip on his jacket. He’s still shaking his head when he drops onto the plastic bus shelter bench. Hayal sits down next to him and buries her hands in her parka.

“Should be here in like five minutes,” he says to the time display on his phone’s lock screen. With finally a second to rest, he leans his head back against the glass wall. And because it is a glass wall, Kiwi has no problem spotting Oskar jog down the street once he turns his head to the left.

“Careful, you’re in throwing range,” Kiwi says, back on his feet, his phone raised, as Oskar approaches the bus stop.

“I come in peace,” says Oskar, voice calm as a Sunday morning. He’s not wearing a jacket either. “Lower your weapon and hear me out.”

Kiwi doesn’t change his stance; his phone remains in the air.

“Look, Kiwi, we love you, but we need to put ourselves out there at some point and so far you’ve kept stalling and dodging every opportunity.”

“So you decide to just go behind my back? What kind of friends do that?”

“Not the most graceful maneuver for sure.” Oskar concedes. “But–”

“But? You’re really going to but me right now?”

“You don’t come out of your shell unless you get a little push.”

“Push,” says Kiwi. “That’s not a push, that’s betrayal.”

“You don’t come out of your shell unless you get a little betrayal, then.”

Kiwi jolts his arm back, ready to chuck.

Oskar raises his hands.

“So, Tristan’s, right. It’s small. It’s niche. Relatively non-threatening. That’s why Mona suggested it to Tien in the first place.” He tilts his head gently. “It’s a real place that actual people go to. YouTube’s not doing anything for us, so we have to take actual steps. This is an actual step. People would actually see us, hear us.”

“I think,” says Kiwi, “I’m gonna throw up.”

“Look–”

“No.”

“This whole thing was definitely sneaky and lowkey unfair–”

“Highkey unfair.”

“–and highkey unfair, but two weeks from now, when we’ve had our gig, and we’re standing on a little stage and a couple of people are cheering because they liked what we did, then it’s gonna be okay. Promise.”

“Well! Look!” Kiwi gestures very intensely at nothing in particular. “Two weeks from now! I’ll be neck-deep in my history didactics exam!”

“On a Saturday?”

Kiwi opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times. “Monday. But I need that weekend to cram.”

“You’ve still got two weeks.”

“And there are still two more exams and an essay! I’m busy!”

“Tien didn’t know that it was gonna be so soon when she messaged that event manager guy. I’m pretty sure she didn’t even expect a reply. But here we are. We have that chance now, even though it’s shitty how we got there.”

“I don’t know how to tell you that you should’ve considered this before organizing a gig without the whole band’s knowledge.”

“I mean I didn’t really organize anything–”

“Plural you.”

“Right.” Oskar takes a breath, decelerates the conversation. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Kiwi watches him, waits. “But?”

“No but. I am sorry.”

Kiwi crosses his arms.

“Is this really only about your exams, though?”

“Well, no, there’s also the whole ‘I’m super fucking mad’ aspect and–” He resets himself, takes a breath, then overenunciates every word. “I’m just not going to embarrass myself like this.”

Oskar furrows his brow.

“I don’t know if that’s a concept that you can grasp, though. Embarrassment.”

“Sure is. That’s why we didn’t tell you.”

“I’m going to throw up.” Kiwi steps back and leans against the shelter wall. “And what’s more, I’ll throw up directly, specifically, on you.”

“Boys,” says Hayal.

Kiwi and Oskar turn their heads.

She points at the corner of the street that’s currently being rounded by a familiar bus with a familiar number on display.

“Thank god.” Kiwi picks up his guitar and fishes for his ticket, which turns out to be redundant when the driver opens the doors in the back as well. One person gets off. Hayal gets on, waits.

“Alright,” says Oskar, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

“You’ll need to find someone else for the gig.” For a moment, Kiwi lingers with one foot still on the pavement. “I really, genuinely, have exams. I can’t.”

“Don’t worry about it right now.” Oskar raises his voice to reach past the closing doors. “The 26th is still two weeks and a day away. You’ve got time!”

Kiwi doesn’t respond. Air hisses as the bus lifts its sideways tilt back up and the engine shakes the floor below him. He watches Oskar turn around and saunter back towards his grandparents’ house, hands still in his pockets, before the bus turns out of the street and he loses sight.

“Kiwi,” says Hayal. She nods towards a free seat to her right and Kiwi plops down next to her.

He hoists his backpack onto his lap and starts rummaging through it. “Is it okay if I-”

“Sure.”

Kiwi pulls his headphones over his ears. For the rest of the bus ride, he closes his eyes and listens to the music.

#real jobs #being indie means no one can tell me not to post 20% of my novel on social media #its also on my website but yknow ease of access

9 notes · View notes

l4ndon0rris · 1 year ago

Text

Cruel Summer: LN4

part two

Pairing: Lando Norris x singer!OC Isabella Rose Word count: 2.6k + social media elements a/n: ty for the likes on part one, i'm just enjoying writing at the mo for the first time in a while so it means a lot!! lemme know if you want to be tagged for future updates and feel free to hop in my ask box with any thoughts ilu Part One :: Masterlist

Silverstone // July

The Saturday night of Silverstone was in full swing, Lando could feel a thumping of music vibrating in his chest and a constant sound of chatter amongst a crowd. His qualifying had been about what he had expected and though he needed to rest for race day he had promised to watch his friend’s set DJ set before he head home for the night.

“I’m on right before Isabella Rose, I’ll be her warm-up, shall I?” Martin Garrix nudged Lando’s arm with a laugh causing Lando to stumble slightly as he lost his footing. His mind had shut off at the mention of Isabella’s name. Isabella was here, at Silverstone; Lando’s home race and he was certain that his heart was beating just as fast as it had been during his Qualifying session a few hours earlier. Lando never really paid attention to who played the shows over race weekend but he had never thought of Isabella playing. “Forgot you had posters of her on your wall,” his other friend Max had continued to tease, feeling a sense of accomplishment when he heard Lando’s adamant protests.

“Come off it, mate,” Lando had a smile on his face at his friends joke even if it was at his expense. Subconsciously, Lando’s feet had sped up pace slightly in order to reach the staging area in hopes of bumping into Isabella. “I never did message her,” Lando admitted quietly, a hint of regret in his voice. Lando had told both Max and Martin all about his meeting with Isabella, he’d relayed the night to them still with a hint of disbelief in his voice. Martin’s roar of laughter when Lando had told him ‘I gave her my flower’ was a noise that rang in Lando’s ears for weeks, the pair of friends could hardly catch a breathe between laughter and trying to mockingly play out the ‘romcom scene’ they now referred to it as.

“I knew you wouldn’t have the balls to message her,” still trying to push Lando’s buttons, Max shrugged casually.

Martin jumped on the train of childish teasing adding, “I’m tempted to see if she wants to be on that song I shown you last month, reckon she’d sound sweet singing those vocals…” Lando nodded encouragingly, a prickle of jealousy he didn’t understand flowed through his veins at the idea of Martin getting to spend a lot of time in a studio alone with Isabella.

Martin directed Lando and Max through a backstage area, stepping over wires and mingling through various crew members, Lando was eagerly looking around in hopes of seeing Isabella, his frantic search interrupted by Martin, “she won’t be down here ‘til near the end of my set, mate.”

Lando shook his head nonchalantly trying to act as though he hadn’t just been acting like a meerkat, “yeah, I know, I know…” Lando took a peek out from side stage to glance a view of a festival-like crowd that had formed in front of the stage. The sight of the mass of bodies made Lando withdraw his head with wide eyes, glad it wasn’t his job to entertain them. Wishing his friend luck, he gave him a pat on the back as Martin strode off confidently onto the stage taking place behind his DJ booth to the sound of a roar that was almost deafening.

***

Izzy sat staring at her reflection in the mirror, makeup artist trying their best to do intricate makeup work in between her involuntary movements as the hairstylist tugged her head into a sleek high ponytail atop her head. Getting a fifteen-minute warning from a runner poking their head into the small and chaotic room, she ran through her setlist in her head over and over in preparation mapping out some moves in her head. Both artists finally stopped working allowing her time to dress, opting for a race-appropriate look giving the setting. Trousers baggy enough to perform in had hints of black and white checker against the Ferrari red colour with a simple black crop to match. Izzy hoped that even those in the crowd who were not a fan of her music would at least give her some points for trying to appeal to the masses.

Side-stage was unsurprisingly bustling, being ushered into a position just off-stage Izzy could see the DJ currently performing, his electric energy matching his upbeat song choice. Silhouettes stood in front of her watching on, one must’ve sensed a presence stood behind as they turned over their shoulder and she was met with a familiar face and a familiar flutter erupting.

Lando’s luck had held out, stepping toward Isabella with a hello he couldn’t help but rake his eyes up and down her as she stood in front him looking completely different from the Isabella he had met in Monaco. Isabella then was a lot more relaxed looking an almost natural golden glow illuminated from her but now, she looked fierce and intimidating as she stood in stage costume. Lando’s gaze hadn’t gone unnoticed by Izzy as she cocked her head knowingly at him as his eyes made her way back up to her face, forcing a nervous giggle to escape his lips.

“Sorry, I just… first Mercedes and now Ferrari?” Lando hinted to the bright colour of her trousers, a click from his teeth suggesting his disapproval trying to save himself from the lingering gaze.

“I’ve been told I look good in red,” Izzy shot back at him confidently. The last time she had seen Lando he had left her in a puddle, admittedly he had crossed her mind now and then in the last few weeks but she had not come up with a viable reason to message him since. Clinging onto a glimmer of hope that she would receive an invite from McLaren in the run up to Silverstone but nothing came and Mercedes were always happy to host her. “I am back in the Mercedes garage tomorrow though, so it’s only for one night,” Lando’s face faltered at the news, feeling like the world’s greatest loser, which he knew a lot about considered he had lost plenty of races in his lifetime. Noticing his face drop similar to that of a sad puppy Izzy gave a dismissive shake of her head letting him know it was no issue.

“Maybe next time you can have one of my personal passes,” Lando suggested, perking up with a smile.

“Maybe I’m just not cool enough for McLaren,” Izzy mocked.

Earnestly, Lando replied, “you’re cool enough for me.” Instantly wishing he could swallow the words back into his mouth, that was the least cool thing he had ever said.

The pair locked eyes momentarily finding a sincerity in one another’s presence.

“Isabella, you’re on in two,” a runner thrust a sparkling microphone in hand.

“You get helmets, I get mics,” holding up her customised microphone proudly adorned with a rose. “You gonna’ stay and watch?” Lando noticed Isabella nervously sucking in her bottom lip between her teeth as she asked. A hand appeared from beside her to immediately touch up her lipstick, Lando now realising that their entire conversation has probably been overheard by everyone around – including Max - though he had been focused on only her.

“Yeah, I’m here, I’ll watch,” Lando grinned without hesitation, only afterward thinking of the repercussions of another hour less of rest before raceday. Isabella stepped forward from him stretching her neck and rolling her shoulders, she gave him one last kind smile over her shoulder before she tucked in her earpiece and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Side-stage she was Izzy yet on stage, she transformed; she was Isabella Rose.

***

Lando stood spellbound side-stage as she ended the set with a song the entire crowd sang along with her, Martin and Max had stayed and watched Isabella’s impressive performance with him, the three were included in the echoing of the song from side stage. Even if you weren't an Isabella Rose fan, some of her songs were inescapable and rightfully so. Izzy came bounding off stage toward them, Lando’s toothy grin had taken up most of his face, taking half a step forward before she was swarmed by various people. One was patting her down with a towel, another placing a straw in her mouth to top up her hydration after an exuberant performance, another was placing her microphone back in a case. Lando stood bewildered by the organised chaos and atmosphere that followed her performance, noticing similarities between their respective careers.

“What did ya think?” Isabella’s chest rose and fell rhythmically as she managed her breathing, Lando noticed her flushed cheeks and the droplets of sweat down the sides of her face. Isabella dismissed the entourage of people surrounding her, her commanding nature stirring something within Lando he swallowed with a gulp.

“That was pretty amazing,” Lando’s grin wide, mesmerised from watching her do what she was known for. He had never appreciated how she had earned her success and fame, and the performance was an undeniable reason as to why. Isabella’s white smile broadened across her cheeks at his compliment.

“I’ve got a song I think you’d be perfect on - got Lando to listen to it last month - if you’re free sometime you could listen to it, see what you think?” Lando childishly felt as though his toes were being stepped on as Martin thrust his way into the conversation.

“I’m pretty much holed up in the studio writing all summer: we can arrange something,” Isabella replied enthusiastically to Martin; she was somewhat grateful to him for riling up her encouraging crowd with his set. Lando was curious as to whether that was a professional reply she had repeated times over that would result to nothing or if she was genuinely interested.

“If you let Lando know where you’re writing he can pass the message on,” Martin slapped Lando on the back a bit too enthusiastically. Isabella noticed Lando’s eyes swell, almost bulging out of his head. She bit her lip to try and disguise a shy smile as she debated whether it was from the slap or from embarrassment from his friend setting him up. “Great set, by the way - I’ll catch you later, mate.” Max gave himself and Martin an out in order to leave the two alone backstage, Lando was yet to regain eye contact with Isabella after Martin chucking him in the deep end with his comment.

“It is late: you have a race tomorrow,” Isabella tried to save Lando from evidently spiralling in the moment; finding it quite endearing how nervous he seemed compared to what she had seen of him in media around the paddock. Her algorithm of late seemed to favour him as she endlessly scrolled with interview snippets. Lando finally looked back at Isabella, a glistening still stuck to her skin but her breath had steadied. “What if I told you I’ll be secretly rooting for you from the Mercedes garage?” Isabella teased him playfully, quite enjoying watching him squirm in her presence.

Something flashed across Lando’s eyes, mischievous hint to a smile stretched on his lips, “you can do better than that,” he challenged, his posture changing as he stood taller now. It was Isabella’s turn to be nervous; the way he stood had only emphasised the broadness of his shoulders and the width of his neck as their silhouettes stood in the hazy darkness backstage. The contrast to his boyish look of his face that she undoubtedly found quite easy on the eye and invited her in with every smile. “Say they catch you on the grid walk…” Lando paused, Isabella’s eyebrows knit together – she had been polite on grid walks before, always making time to stop and share her support of her host team. “I think you should publicly declare your support for me there,” Lando couldn’t contain the childish giggle that escaped him when he smiled watching Isabella’s mouth slowly hang open in disbelief.

“Are you trying to get me banned from the paddock!” Isabella exclaimed rhetorically, a hint of a smile trying to break through.

“Told you: can have one of my passes,” Lando reiterated his sentiment from earlier. “I dare you,” Lando encouraged, he could almost hear the cogs turning in Isabella’s head as she stared him down defiantly. He couldn’t help but notice her bottom lip once again rake between her teeth; a habit of hers he had noticed every time. A habit of hers that made him lose his senses every time. Her lipstick was mostly worn away, only smatterings of colour left across her lips his thoughts momentarily wandering to her lip being caught between his teeth.

Isabella had noticed his gaze lowered upon her face, her heart rate quickening similar to when she was performing in front of a few thousand people yet here it was solely Lando having the same effect on her. Gently, Isabella broke the palpable silence and inflating tension that had burdened the two of them, “you need to rest for tomorrow.”

Lando gave a curt nod, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I expect to see some headlines after the race.”

***

WATCH: Isabella Rose calls herself a TRAITOR on Martin Brundle’s Grid Walk!

Lando’s race had been steady, nothing exceptional, but collecting points for the team was something to be glad of after a slow start to the season. He couldn’t help lingering around the paddock a little later than he usually would, disappointed he hadn’t even spotted Isabella throughout his day. He even doubted whether she had been there to begin with. Max eventually dragged him away from the paddock and managed to coax him back home for the night. Surrounded by friends relaxing, laughter and games Lando relaxed into the evening after another busy weekend, grateful that summer break was looming closer.

A sudden outburst from Max took the attention of the room, “mate, have you seen this?” Holding his phone out toward Lando allowing Lando to take it from him. His face flashed between disbelief, confusion to glee as he hit play on the minute long video on YouTube. Ria shuffled closer across the floor to Lando to peer over at the phone in his hands.

Isabella, lovely to see you again. Martin Brundle caught Isabella’s attention, her face smiling at the camera and back at him. Lando noticed how much more casual she appeared in comparison to the previous night’s outfit; she was like a chameleon adapting to her surroundings at all times. What have you made of the season so far?

It’s been great being able to see three great world champions battle each other so closely! I’m still hoping Lewis can pip Max to the post soon though… maybe today! Martin nodded along with Isabella’s notion.

You mention Lewis there… I take it you’re supporting Mercedes today? Martin probed. Lando’s eyebrows rose when he heard the question awaiting her answer.

Yes, I’m here with Mercedes today backing them, but I must admit I do think Lando Norris is a great driver – I sound like a traitor saying that! – but he’s great, he deserves a great car. Lando’s eyebrows couldn’t get much higher, he was convinced she had glanced at the camera as she said it, talking to him through the screen making a point of completing his challenge.

Great driver, great kid is Lando. Lovely boy, lovely boy. I must move on I’m getting yelled at in my ear… The video ended as Isabella gave a small wave to the camera and Martin walking away. Ria still on her knees on the floor, mouth open at what she was hearing; Max was sat looking over at Lando analysing his reaction. A nervous squeak escaped Lando's tight-lipped bashful smile waiting to erupt on his face. She had accepted his dare, he hadn’t expected her to, perhaps he underestimated her. Lando was already anticipating a comment from Max.

“Mate, you’re in deep with her,” as if on cue, Max poked at him. Lando shrugged it off not ready to admit it just yet.

“I’ve only met her twice!” Lando countered. His thoughts for the rest of the evening were distracted, trying to think of anything other than the glisten of sweat dripping down the sides of Isabella’s neck from the previous night. A pit developed in his stomach; perhaps his friends’ assumption was right. Opening his Instagram he searched her name: she had accepted his challenge and the ball was now in his court.

isabellarose never wanted love just a fancy car

Liked by landonorris, bellasroses and others

bellasroses: killed it as always!! So proud of you isabellarose: ❤️🌹

landonorris: 🔥🏁 bellasroses: we see you rosesforever: WHAT omg

rosesforever: this outfit is a SLAY

#lando norris #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #lando norris fluff #f1 fluff #lando norris imagine

68 notes · View notes

racing-starlight · 1 year ago

Text

the horizon line

Mika Häkkinen/Michael Schumacher

Teen & Up || 761 words

Pacific Rim AU - ao3 link

Mika's mind is cool and crisp, bisected by moments of sharp wit and the almost blinding eagerness to do good– to be good. It completely contrasts Michael's whirlwind and rainstorm; his need for adrenaline and exhilaration and speed and to punch motherfucking monsters in the face for destroying their homes.

And yet.

It's easy.

The thought echoes in dual tones, and Michael doesn't know if the surprise is his or Mika's, doesn't know if the mirth underneath it is a result of finding another person they're drift compatible with or the fact that it's with each other.

You're thinking too much, and this, Michael knows, is Mika. It's odd that the words were said in Finnish, yet he had understood each inflection as if they were having the conversation in German.

You are just the same, Engel, and Michael could feel the all-encompassing eye roll in their shared mindscape, but there was no protest. Michael's booming laughter follows suit.

That sets off a memory, one Michael realizes stars him at the center of it. It's the mess hall: packed with trainees and other jaeger pilots, technicians and engineers, but atop the stairs that leads directly towards the training area is him descending with his sparring buddy. Rubens must have said something hilarious – David got smacked around in training by a newbie today, Michael helpfully supplies, and Mika gives him a mental slap. Stop terrorizing my co-pilot. Michael sniffs disdainfully, former co-pilot. – because he's booming the same laugh he had just done through their shared connection.

Mika! His glee cuts swift through the memory. We hadn't even met yet and you were already looking at me?

You're hard to miss, comes the drawl, but it's tinged with something almost-not quite coy. Such laughter. Such chin. The Michael and his record-breaking kaiju kills.

Michael does the mental equivalent of snaking into Mika's embrace, and like instinct, Mika curls a hand around his waist. You are such a cat, Mika murmurs, too fond for his own good.

Strange, Michael replies, many of the juniors had called you a golden retriever.

Mika hums. Perhaps I should not have gone easy on the new recruits.

Another chuckle bursts from Michael's soul, his mind, his heart, now so very entwined with Mika's. How easy it is for someone to feel like home.

The warmth spreads and spreads and spreads, until it turns into the yellow ceiling lights of the aforementioned training room – except here it looks much cleaner. New, even. A much younger Michael sits crossed leg among a crowd of other juniors, hair curling against the back of his neck. His expression is rapt and bright-eyed. He's watching–

"Five to one." An even younger Mika proclaims, one end of a bo staff almost jabbing his opponent's neck. The cadet scrambles away with their cheeks red. His mouth is set in a hard line.

This was a week before he'd met David, Mika realizes. He'd gone through a list of other juniors to spar with, to test the waters and see if they were drift compatible. Michael already had his own co-pilot figured out months before this, so why he was here watching Mika's session was beyond him.

I have been looking at you for far longer, Michael supplies helpfully.

Mika blinks. That's–

A burst of amusement and satisfaction and smugness permeates their shared space. One side of Mika's lips pulls up, the poster boy image for the European Shatterdome's star jaeger pilot. Haughty. Cocky. Ready. The suddenness startles Michael.

So competitive. The words slither around, slick and pleased.

You are just the same, Engel, Michael echoes, but this time it's met with levity.

Hm, we are drift compatible, Mika teases.

Mika's mind is beautiful, brilliant, clean – everything Michael loves about him. Mika reflects the sentiment back, just like he always does.

_____

"Well, boys," Jean wipes his brows, looking almost delirious, "highest neural handshake to date at 97.2%. I'd say I'm surprised but it's you two."

Michael bumps shoulders with Mika and he watches one side of his new co-pilot's mouth curl up in his familiar, self-satisfied smirk. It smooths back into neutrality just as easily, but Michael knows his thoughts are racing a mile a minute.

Jean doesn't look all too impressed though. "Just– could you both stop flirting so blatantly? You're turning our engineers sick."

"Oops," Michael says, not at all contrite. Mika on the other hand looks properly repentant, eyes glinting.

When Jean turns his back on them to survey more data, though, the two new co-pilots share twin conspiratorial grins. Oops, indeed.

#f1 rpf #makkinen #mika hakkinen #michael schumacher #pacific rim au #my f1cs

29 notes · View notes

dreamsister81 · 2 years ago

Text

An account by fan Albert Jagger (friend of photographer Gavin Woods) on seeing Jeff over three momentous days via FB, March 18, 2020:

I think that the Bunjies gig has already been well documented, but from a personal point of view the place was already packed out when I got there. The place was a Turkish (I think) coffee & cake cafe in a basement, it had two rooms (one for the cafe and one for the performance space, both about the size of a double bedroom), people were crammed into both rooms and the stairs leading down from the street were also full with people trying to crane the necks just to get a glimpse inside the performance room through the single doorway. There was a great air of expectation.

Jeff walked through the crowd giving out single flowers from a big bunch on his way to the performance room, stopping to say hello to a few folk on his way to the "stage" (just a small area in the corner). Despite it being busy and not too loud, everyone fell silent as soon as Jeff started and were polite enough to watch a couple of songs and shuffle around so others could also see. I managed to glimpse a few songs towards the end of the set through the head filled doorway.

The set itself was very similar to the expanded Sin'e album, a few from Grace / some songs in development / random covers.

After the gig I took the poster from the street outside and chatted to a few people. There was a rumour of another show the same night around the corner at Andy's guitar shop. I figured it was worth a try and made my way there as the Bunjies crowd dispersed into the streets.

The Forge was a tiny venue space attached to the guitar shop, with a stage about 1m square. When I got there a father and son were playing some blues to a handfull of people.

When people from the Bunjies gig started to drift in they must have thought they'd hit the big time! It wasn't too long before Jeff and his small entourage arrived. This gig seemed a lot more relaxed than Bunjies as it was now getting late (me and a friend had already resigned ourselves to getting a night bus home) and many people had got the tube home.

There was a bit more chatting to the small crowd between songs (Jeff asked if anyone had anything to smoke, as I'd just come back from Amsterdam I rolled him a joint while he did the next song). After the gig Jeff signed my Bunjies poster.

On the way out I was told that he was playing another show the next day (Saturday 19th) at Rough Trade record shop in Covent Garden at midday to launch the Sin'e EP. The Rough Trade set was quite short and more of an in-store signing session (they had a box of Sin'e EPs for sale, but I don't think it was released until the following week).

The things that stick out for me at this gig (apart from Jeff writing a message on my EP cover) are Jeff signing the ceiling (it was a low basement shop, I have been back since but it had become a trainer shop with the ceiling now painted over) and bizarrely Jeff saying that Kurt Cobain needed to be very careful, he seemed genuinely worried about Kurt's welfare. I went home and played the Sin'e CD on repeat.

On the Sunday morning (20th) I remembered meeting a lady at Bunjies who told me that Jeff was playing her youth club on Sunday night in Stevenage. I drove to Stevenage on Sunday afternoon with only the name of the club in my head (Bowes Lyon youth club), it is amazing how anything got arranged in those days with no internet and basic mobile phones!

After stopping a few times to ask directions I found the club (attached to a pub, The Red Lion?) when I walked in there were young teens who had turned up to see their grunge / punky mates band running around along with family of the band.

I couldnt see anyone from the previous 2 days and was starting to think i was in the wrong place until I saw Jeffs face popping out from under a pile of coats on a sofa, catching a nap before the show.

As often happens at small gigs, once the young band had played there crowd and family seemed to drift away, so it was quite empty by the time Jeff played, with maybe 30 people there.

Looking back this seemed to be the last of this period for Jeff without the band, he was goofing around more tonight - stopping to run through a series of "modelling poses" when he saw a camera and giving verbal production notes in between lyrics "and this is where the drums kick in, etc...".

I had a long drive back home so didn't stick around after the gig.

The next time I saw him play was with the band at The Garage, showcasing much of the Grace album in a much more streamlined show. (📷 Kevin Westernberg)

#jeff buckley #fan story #mylove #supremebeing #favorite #music

10 notes · View notes

plaindangan · 2 years ago

Note

So miu tricked angie into making a poster for a 'cum competition' where the contestant who made their partner cum the most would win maybe Mukuro and Kyoko are working together to make makoto cum or Akane was using mikan's body to cum, or even kaede using suichi's lovely ass to pleasure him or any other partner

Disclaimer: Below is content that's more on the racy side! If not for you, you probably shouldn't read!

"Alright, you cocksuckers and cockwarmers!~ Time for the results? A lot of baby batter and spunk has been spilled out and inside you damn sluts!~ Now...whose the horniest of them all?~ Was it Kyoko and Mukuro's fat ass combo that got them first place? Just look at how spunk is on junk!~ Or maybe it was Akane using Mikan the Living Fucktoy to get her balls dra-oi!! Hey, slut, you can quit sucking the competition is over!! But that isn't even considering Kaede ass-bsolute rail session of Suck-chi!~ Bet he isn't going to be sitting for days!~Peko, I see you determination back there! That yakuza guy is still out like a light on your tights, riiiight?~ Or, or, or could coming in from behind is Celeste and Hiyoko filling up that pretty little hole of Chihiros' So.....who wins?

....

"Me, bitches!!!" Lifting the heavy trophy up in the air, Miu smirked a the crowd of snubbers fuckers and fuckees. "Hah! In the end, its those who cum smarter that always wins!~ Isn't that right, Keebo?~"

Completely and utterly exhausted was the Ultimate Robot - an upgrade that Miu gave him granted him an eight-inch robo-dick....and quite a lot of cum to go alongisde side. Something that Miu oh-so generously helped him in that area by inventing quite the vibrator and hands to really get the 'bot going. What some couples could only achieve for, at best, five or even ten, her contraption had made it that Kiibo easily reached fifty!~

...Too bad once it ended the poor guy promptly lost power and fell into a deep sleep. But, hey, Miu will be sure to properly thank him for his efforts! In bed of course!~

#DRiruma-R18 #DRK1B0-R18 #flameongamer asks

4 notes · View notes

tech-n-design · 7 months ago

Text

How to Set Up Your Home Gym: A Comprehensive Guide

Are you tired of crowded gyms, long commutes, and expensive memberships? Setting up a home gym might be the perfect solution for you. With the right equipment and some careful planning, you can create a personalized workout space that fits your needs and helps you achieve your fitness goals. In this guide, we'll walk you through everything you need to know on How to set up your home Gym to set up the ultimate home gym.

1. Define Your Fitness Goals

Before you start buying equipment, it's essential to define your fitness goals. Are you looking to build muscle, improve cardiovascular health, or increase flexibility? Your goals will dictate the type of equipment you need and the layout of your home gym.

2. Choose the Right Equipment

Based on your fitness goals, select the appropriate equipment for your home gym. Here are some essential pieces of equipment to consider:

Barbell and Weights: Ideal for strength training exercises like squats, deadlifts, and bench presses.

Dumbbells or Adjustable Dumbbells: Versatile and space-saving, perfect for a variety of exercises targeting different muscle groups.

Cardio Equipment: Options include treadmills, stationary bikes, rowing machines, or even a skipping rope for high-intensity cardio workouts.

Functional Training Equipment: Consider items like resistance bands, stability balls, and kettlebells for functional training exercises.

Flooring: Invest in high-quality flooring to protect your floors and provide a stable surface for workouts. Rubber flooring or interlocking foam tiles are excellent options.

3. Create a Dedicated Workout Space

Designate a specific area in your home for your gym. It could be a spare room, garage, or even a corner of your living room. Make sure the space is well-ventilated, well-lit, and free from distractions.

4. Organize Your Equipment

Once you have your equipment, organize it in a way that maximizes space and accessibility. Consider installing storage racks, shelves, or hooks to keep your gym tidy and clutter-free.

5. Incorporate Technology

Take advantage of technology to enhance your home gym experience. Use fitness apps for workout guidance, tracking progress, and accessing virtual classes. Consider investing in smart devices like heart rate monitors, fitness trackers, or even a smart mirror with interactive workout programs.

6. Personalize Your Space

Make your home gym a place where you feel motivated and inspired. Add personal touches like motivational quotes, posters, or artwork. Play your favorite music or podcasts to keep you energized during workouts.

7. Maintain Consistency

Finally, consistency is key to achieving your fitness goals. Schedule regular workout sessions in your home gym and stick to them. Remember, success doesn't happen overnight, but with dedication and perseverance, you'll see results.

Conclusion

Setting up a home gym can be a game-changer for your fitness journey. By following these steps and investing in the right equipment, you can create a convenient and effective workout space that fits your lifestyle. Whether you're a beginner or a seasoned fitness enthusiast, a home gym provides endless opportunities to stay active, healthy, and happy.

#How to Set Up Your Home Gym

0 notes

tauforged · 2 years ago

Note

every time I see a pic of kai I imagine he paints his cool accessories himself with paints that come from the like, d&d world equivalent of stuart semple. the guy who makes the world’s pinkest pink, blackest black paints, etc

i think im actually going to put stuart semple into my campaign as just a paint makin gnome. it seems right

OHHHH THE IDEA OF HIM PAINTING HIS OWN STUFF IS SO CUUUUTE...... i had a tiny idea as to how he'd obtained some of his weird gear a looooong while back, but i love this too... the details escape me because this was from the literal first session and before we decided to start recording and archiving sessions for posteritys sake, so i cant go back and rewatch it, but !

one of the driving forces of his involvement in the inciting action for this campaign was the mysterious death of a man named issuil - this guy was actually a good friend of kai's, because he was a traveler who came and went from all corners of the region moving goods to and fro, bringing back all kinds of crazy exotic enchanted items and unique materials that you cant find in the particular area. and kai, being the little self proclaimed vigilante he is, on one occasion intimidated a handful of people out of stealing some of his wares, and they ended up becoming friends. every time issuil was in port, kai would visit, and they'd chat about the goings on, and issuil would find a way to bring home something he thought fit kai's ~style~ , usually something he wouldnt have found anywhere else, like a pair of earrings enchanted to glow or a pair of goggles with iridescent lenses or something to that effect. they'd joke about how this was his 'payment' for being issuil's 'bodyguard', since he was usually on high alert for anyone looking to cause trouble (not in a cop way, mind you - he just really has a thing about stealing from people who dont deserve it. what counts as 'deserving it' in his mind is a whole different story, we'll get tothat eventually). so a lot of the stuff kai had on him when he first arrived at horton to attend issuil's funeral was in fact stuff that issuil had gotten for him, or made BY him out of materials issuil had brought home, or ones he'd pointed kai in the right direction to find someone he could buy them from. he did in fact end up giving some of these items, mainly a necklace and a pair of earrings i think? back to his widow and children, in the hopes it would help. i think about that scene a lot still. i wish it had been saved.

fun fact about kai and issuil's relationship - before the campaign began, he told us about issuil and asked us to come up with ways our characters might have known him, but never once told us how he was going to come into play in the campaign. kai was the only one who had more than a passing acquaintance with issuil, because i got super into the dynamic between the cool snake guy well known and beloved by his community and the weird little scrappy monk kid who was always kinda standing off to his side glaring daggers at the rest of the crowd and white knuckling his knives waiting for someone to try some fuckshit so he could beat them up... only to find out IN SESSION that the reason we were all traveling to horton was because we had been invited to ISSUIL'S FUCKING FUNERAL!!!!!! vik is an evil genius for that one fr. incredibly funny in hindsight though, especially considering how the campaign progressed and how crazy convoluted the circumstances of it all are starting to be... but id be here all day if i got into that mess

#vik if you are seeing this and i fucked up some of the issuil lore i am very sorry my memory of the exact wording from session 1 is #all but gone and going back through the discord chat logs did not help me #so im winging it based on what i know off the top of my head #BUT UH YEAH BACK ON THE TOPIC OF THE ASK LMFAO:#thats a really fun idea and i lvoe it. he would. he so fucking would #dnd #ocs #kai #feywilds folly #kai mierha

1 note · View note

yellowmagicalgirl · 2 years ago

Text

Academia is surprisingly extroverted sometimes and it is exhausting

#personal #i went to a mini conference today and i am so tired and my throat hurts a little from how loudly i had to speak so people would hear me in #the crowded poster session area #also i wore heels that didn't quite fit me and my feet are sore #meanwhile my lab partners all dressed so much more casually

3 notes · View notes

calummss · 3 years ago

Text

Nurse | Kylo Ren

masterlist

summary: during your training session with kylo, he accidentally dislocates your shoulder. guess it’s his time to play the nurse

requested by: anon

words: 1.4K

The attack happened so fast, the light passing by with immense speed. Everyone was rushed to the Finalizer with bursts of panic and confusion. You were lucky enough to survive and get onto the ship in time. Your mind raced with questions as you thought about the unfortunate people that didn’t make it. One minute you were watching Starkiller Base explode with a tremendous bang, red-orange-yellow flames igniting everything the heat engulfed, to people being rushed in and out of the emergency room in hectic. In the room with all the surviving medical staff you were trying to assist the overcrowding crowd.

Currently wrapped up in your own protective bubble whilst grabbing more medical tools, you heard your boss call your name.

‘Dr. Yondu, what can I help you with?’ you speed-walked to him, clutching your board tightly.

‘Graduating at the top of medical training will be very useful right now. You’re treating the big guy. Make sure you don’t mess us! He’s badly injured. Multiple contusions to the chest area, a big cut on his face and a fractured rib.’

You stopped in your tracks. The big guy?

‘What do you mean ‘the big guy’? you asked.

‘It’s the commander, Y/N. Commander Ren needs your assistance immediately!’ and with that he left you. Before he left he handed you your special ID card in order to access the room he was currently being treated in.

When you entered the room with shaky hands you noticed that it was the first time you saw him without his helmet and were positively surprised. You stared at him before swallowing thickly. Carefully walking over to the four-poster, noticing that someone had already connected all the monitors. Your eyes scanned the board, trying to write down everything you were able to tell. Stable heartbeat, no major blood loss, blood pressure is normal… Once you were done with that you started to cut through his shirt in order to attend to the wounds in his thorax area.

Your hand glided over his chest, nervously chewing your bottom lip; whoever did this, sure disliked him. Trying your best to clean the gash on the left part of his face you knew it would never fade for good. Whilst you were cleansing the bloodied cloth you heard a groan escape his lips. You stood still before realising that you were still in charge of him.

‘Commander Ren, it’s okay. You’re in the emergency room and I’ll take good care of you. I promise you’ll be up and about in a few days time.’

‘What happened.’ his brown eyes fluttered open.

‘Someone attacked Starkiller Base and it exploded, leaving multiple people dead or injured. You’re lucky to be alive.’ you smiled, trying to bring a positive reinforcement into the room.

That was around a year ago. Kylo and you spent a lot of time together whilst he was healing from his wounds and you were there every step of the way. You two grew very close and bonded in a very short time, making Kylo ask you, if you wanted to be his girlfriend. Dating the Commander of the First Order definitely had its advantages but with that came one thing you disliked—training. Kylo insisted that you took training lessons every day. His reasoning? ‘If I’m not there to protect you, you have to protect yourself.’ So every day at around noon you’d head towards the chambers at the end of the bottom compartments, and that’s exactly where you were currently heading too.

You passed several troops and workers on your way down to the training rooms where you saw Kylo waiting for you. You slipped through the glass door that instantly turned black once you put in the privacy code. You didn’t want to be disturbed and Kylo had no plans to keep on his helmet for two hours straight.

‘You’re five minutes late.’ he said with a sight of irritation.

‘I’m sorry, Hux needed my help with some opinion.’

‘Sorry won’t cut it in real life.’ his eyes gloomed from the opposite side of the room.

You cocked your head to the side unable to know what to reply.

‘I’m sorry,’ he came walking towards you. ‘I just need you to be safe and I need to teach you all I know. There’s a cruel galaxy out there and I can’t let them hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself.’

You smile up at him, stealing a quick kiss before ripping yourself from his grasp.

‘Let’s get started shall we?’ you smirked, holding your fists up. You were quite the learner and skilled combatant. Everything Kylo learned with years of training you did in a bit over a year. You were constantly trying to better yourself and made Steren, a fellow medical worker, train with you. You used him as a dummy and told him all about your techniques and why you were doing what you were doing. Oftentimes you’d both leave with bruises but he knew how important it was to you (well, Kylo)

‘Okay remember when you swing your arm around my neck to tug back harshly a-’

‘And make sure to hold your arms at the back and try to disarm you, yeah-yeah I know. Just let me do it already.’ you smiled.

Kylo stared at you before nodding.

You came running towards his figure, knowing exactly what you were going to do. You were going to double-cross him, punch him in the face and swiftly grab his lightsaber you were so desperately able to earn. Kylo had promised to teach you how to use one if you were good enough.

Everything went according to plan until he blocked your punch a bit too hard and before you could swing from the opposite side you yelled out in immense pain.

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ you shut your eyes tightly, clenching your teeth. You opened your eyes to see Kylo at his knees, eyes desperately scanning your body to see what was wrong. Painful throbbing was coming from your shoulder area and when you checked you could see that your shoulder was no longer round, but rather square.

‘You dislocated my fucking shoulder!’ you gritted, not being able to contain your frustration.

‘I’m so sorry. What can I do?’

‘Pop it back into place.’

‘What?’

‘Are you deaf? I said ‘Pop. It. Back. Into. Place!’

‘I heard you, but how am I supposed to do that? I have no qualifications to do such a thing.’

‘You’re forgetting who you're talking too…now just please follow my instructions.’ you breathed out heavily, every second growing more painful.

Kylo hesitated before removing his black gloves that coated his hands almost every hour of the day. His knees slid closer to your body. You could sense the uncertainty in him.

‘Now just do what I say okay? And don’t mess up!’

He stared at you. Guessing that was a yes.

‘First of all help me to that bed.’ you muttered.

Kylo propped his arm under your healthy one and helped you reach the four-poster. Very carefully he sat you down, slowly letting your dislocated side hang towards the ground.

‘Okay now hold my wrist and lift it in front of my chest. Slowly.’ you enhanced as he gripped your wrist.

‘Now pull my arm towards you in a straight line. This is very important. You’re guiding the ball of your arm bone back into the shoulder socket.’

He nodded attentively.

Kylo’s grip around your wrist tightened as he pulled your arms towards him with force.

‘Shit!’ you yelled.

‘Y/N-‘

‘Just continue please!’

With one last pull you felt the ball pop back into the socket. You took deep breaths trying to calm down.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘Yes, I’m fine but don’t expect any training with me for the next few weeks.’

Kylo opened his mouth to say something but you quickly interrupted him.

‘I know you hate it when I don’t practice, but unless I rest I’ll have continuous problems.’ you smiled, taking your time to caress his cheek. ‘I promise to keep up my training as soon as I’m healed.’

He smiled.

‘Now,’ you started, heading towards the door. ‘I’ll be heading to Yondu to see if I have sustained any other injuries. I’ll see you soon, Nurse.’ And with that you left the training chambers. Guess it was his time to medically assist you.

1K notes · View notes

btssaysstudy · 3 years ago

Text

Salvage - 1 || jjk/kth.

Summary: After your confession, it's safe to say that there was nothing left to salvage between you and Jungkook. However, things start to change when a new hurdler joins the team. Genre: college!au, track!jungkook, track!taehyung, track!reader, angst & fluff Pairing: jungkook x reader, taehyung x reader Warning(s) : unrequited love, alcohol (drinking) mentioned, swearing Chapter Word Count: 3.7k a/n: My first mini series! Let me know what you guys think and the ending depends on your feedback :) taglist: do let me know if you want to be added to the series taglist

series masterlist

“Wake me up when you’re done.”

“Alright, alright. I’m done.” Your body got up from your seat, but your gaze still glued on your laptop screen and hands on your keyboard. Your roommate groaned, marching her way to pull your hands away from the laptop.

“Yn, it’s a Friday night. Let’s go! Namjoon’s waiting for us downstairs.”

“Yea but,” You sighed, your eyes on your work, “I still have quite a lot of things to do. Maybe I’ll skip this party—“

“Like how you missed Hoseok’s birthday party? I’m sure he’s going to hunt you down later. You still have the weekends to complete your work and you’re already dressed up.”

You knew your roommate was right. You had agreed to go for this party since it was one of Namjoon’s close friends’ birthday. Though you weren’t close to the birthday boy, you were close to Namjoon and his girlfriend, who also happened to be your roommate - Miya.

“Okay, okay.” You quickly saved your work and turned your laptop off. “Let’s go.”

Miya squealed in excitement, linking her arm around yours as she pulled you towards the door. The two of you went down to meet Namjoon who had been patiently waiting for you to get down.

“Sorry for wait.” You gave an apologetic smile. “No worries! We’re still early. Good to miss the first few awkward minutes of the party.” He chuckled as he opened the car door to let you both in.

Miya truly hit jackpot with Namjoon. He was the whole package - athletic, smart and a gentleman. Miya was a great catch herself and you were thankful that she was your roommate.

Miya had been your roommate since freshmen year and ever since, you both always wanted to dorm together. Miya was very caring and gentle yet blunt at the same time. You both were awkward beings when you first met, and you were worried how dorm life would be with a stranger.

Thankfully, Miya, being the straightforward person, immediately went out with setting the ground rules together and suggested for a roommate date to get to know each other.

The rest was practically history.

Miya had been there for many of your significant memories in college - the good and the bad.

She was also there when you met Jungkook.

“Do you have any clubs in mind?”

“Actually, I do. I’m planning to sign up for track.”

Miya gasped and giggled in excitement, “No way, I want to join track too!”

“That’s cool! Shall we head over then?”

The two of you made your way to the track and field booth, sharing about what events you partake in. Miya was a hurdler while you weren’t. Nonetheless, it was pretty amazing to you two that you were both signing up for the track team.

“Hey freshies! Here to sign up?”

The two of you converse with the seniors to learn more about the try-outs and practice sessions.

“Psst,” Miya nudged you as you filled up the sign-up form, “On your left. Isn’t he cute?”

Your gaze turned to see a tall, buff boy, who seemed to be signing up for track as well. “He’s pretty cute.”

“I’m going to say hi. Wait for me.” Miya winked at you before approaching the boy - little did she know at that time that he was going to be her boyfriend.

“See you try-outs!” You smiled at the senior as you handed the form.

Your eyes wandered around the nearby booths as you waited for Miya to come back.

“I’ll just look around.” You mouthed at her when she turned to make eye contact with you.

“Hey! Interested to join Photography club?”

“Freshies! Come join the Badminton club!”

The atmosphere was completely chaotic with seniors shouting at the top of their lungs to promote their club. Slightly disoriented from the ruckus, you had bumped into a stranger.

“I’m so sorry—“

“So sorry about that—“

The two of you took a step back to meet each other’s eyes. “Sorry about that.” The black-haired boy gave a sheepish grin as he rubbed the nape of his neck. “I was kinda too excited to sign up for a club.”

“No worries, it’s my fault as well. I wasn’t looking.”

“All’s good. B-But… Any chance that you happen to know where the track and field club booth is at?”

Your eyes widened slightly in amusement, “Yea I do. I was just about to head back to meet my friend.”

“Oh! Could I follow you there?”

“Sure.”

Your eyes took a quick once-over, it wasn’t hard to notice that his built was athletic, donned in sweats and an oversize black shirt, this guy looked like the poster boy of college dudes.

“My name’s Jungkook. What’s yours?”

“Yn. Did you run track before college?”

“Yep, I do 4x100s.”

“Oh, same here!” You flashed a smile. “Wow, what a coincidence that I’d bump into you huh.” Jungkook chuckled and you did the same. “Must be a sign that we’ll both be teammates.”

“Not a bad sign at all.”

“Yn!” Miya waved her hand wildly amidst the crowd. “I was about to leave the booth to go find you! What booths did you— Oh hi, I’m Miya, you are?”

“Jungkook. Nice to meet you. You must be the friend yn was going back for.”

Miya gave you a subtle look which you chose to ignore that day.

“Jungkook,” Miya grinned, “It’s nice to meet you too!”

“Speaking of the party, yn, you know Jungkook will be there as well, right?”

“Yes, this is the tenth time you’ve told me that.”

“Sorry, just another reminder before we pull up to the party.”

Besides having a ton of workload to do, you also had another reason for having second thoughts.

That reason was Jungkook.

“Thanks for your concern. But it’s been a year, I’m long over it.”

“That’s great to hear, I’m proud of you yn.” Namjoon piped in as he parked the car. “And we,” He placed his hand on Miya’s, “Should trust our friend’s word.”

Miya glanced at you before sighing, “Alright. I do. Now, let’s go greet the birthday boy.”

The three of you left the car and made your way to the party venue. The birthday boy was clearly loaded as the venue was huge. You jaw dropped in awe, “Why is this party so extravagant?”

“Good thing our birthday gifts are more drinks.” Miya nudged you and you laughed, nodding your head.

You were all greeted with blaring music from the stereo and neon lights to add into the ambience. People had already begun drinking and some were busy eating dinner.

“Yn!! I missed you!” A very familiar voice erupted as you spotted a figure rushing towards you.

“Hoseok!” You grinned, extending your arms out for a hug.

“You didn’t come to my party!” He pouted as he pulled away. “But I visited the next day as a surprise!” You defended yourself.

“That’s true… Still feels like forever since I saw you.” Hoseok pulled you back in for a hug.

The four of you made your way to one of open rooms which had been turned into a buffet area. You had helped yourself to the wide array of food and found a table to eat with your friends.

“We have a new hurdler joining us. He’s our batch but he only joined the club this try-out round.” Namjoon filled you in since you were the only non-hurdler in your group.

“Oh, who is it?”

“Kim Taehyung.”

“Wait, Kim Taehyung? Isn’t he from table tennis?”

Namjoon shrugged his shoulders, “Guess he wanted to try something new. I was there during try-outs and he’s a really fast runner.”

—

Since it was a huge party and you weren’t close to the birthday boy, you didn’t need to spend the night entertaining the main character of the night.

To make full use of the amenities at the booked venue, the four of you started playing different rounds of games.

You were paired with Hoseok against Miya and Namjoon. The first round was charades and you lost to them. Hoseok found the game Just Dance and proposed it as the next round.

Jungkook had not been on your mind the entire night as you busied yourself playing games with your friends.

“What else can you do?!” Miya exclaimed, stepping in front to take over Hoseok’s spot.

“More like what else can you not do?! That was amazing!” You pulled Hoseok in for hug, “We’re gonna win this. Get ready to treat us for a meal!”

Namjoon chuckled, “We have to do another game after this. Hoseok basically created the game Just Dance. He followed the moves to easily.”

“Don’t whine, just dance!” Hoseok teased, pulling you back on the couch as you both watched Miya and Namjoon do their round.

“Didn’t want to ruin the mood but… He’s watching.” Hoseok leaned in to whisper in your ear. Your eyes slowly wandered around the venue to spot a familiar figure hanging around a crowd of people.

You both made eye contact and you decided to cast a smile at his direction. In return, you received a quick and small smile before he looked away, completely avoiding your direction.

“That went well.”

“Give him time.”

“Hobi,” you deadpanned, “I’m pretty sure one year is a lot of time.”

Hoseok just shrugged, “I know but… Okay, I have nothing to say to defend him.”

You chuckled, turning your attention back to Miya and Namjoon, “You don’t have to defend him.”

“He’s my close friend too.”

“I know, and I feel bad that you have to split yourself in half every time—“

“No, no,” Hoseok nudged you to get that thought off your mind, “I don’t feel that way. Besides, I met the two of you on separate occasions as well. Please don’t feel guilty about anything.”

You gave him a thankful smile, “Thanks Hobi.”

The Just Dance bet ended with your landslide victory thanks to Hoseok’s hidden dance skills.

Namjoon insisted for another game to even the playing field and Hoseok went out to the backyard to set up the beer pong table. Miya and Namjoon had gone to the kitchen to grab the cups and drinks and you had volunteered to grab more titbits to snack on.

Thanks to your luck, Jungkook had busied himself with filling his plate with snacks as well.

“Hey.”

Jungkook jumped upon heading your voice, quickly steadying the plate on his hand. “H-Hey.”

“How’s the party going?”

You attempted to start a conversation with him as you grabbed a plate yourself. Jungkook awkwardly cleared his throat, “It’s a huge party… H-How about— Are you enjoying it?”

“Yea, there’s tons of things to do. How about you?”

“Yea.” Jungkook fiddled with one of the serving scoops. You pressed your lips in a tight smile, recognising the awkward atmosphere engulfing the both of you.

It hurt you to know Jungkook was still feeling awkward around you. It always reminded you that you had made the wrong choice. That you had ruined everything between the two of you.

“Right, I guess I’ll head off first. See you at practice?”

“Yea… See you around.” Jungkook nodded his head, his gaze locked on the table filled with snacks as you left the area, feeling dejected from your encounter.

“What’s with the long face?” Hoseok asked as you approached your group. You looked up to meet his eyes and he immediately knew, sighing as he pulled you into a comforting hug.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Still feels like it is.”

“Is it just me or am I still hungover from the party?”

You laughed, “You had a whole Sunday to rest.”

Miya sighed as she started doing hip circles. “I know, I must be getting old.”

“You probably are. Anyway, where is Namjoon?”

Just as you had asked, you heard his voice calling you and Miya. The both of you turned to see Namjoon heading over your direction with someone unfamiliar next to him. Namjoon was goofily waving his hands to grab your attention while pointing to the male next to him.

As they got closer, you managed to recognise the person next him. It was Kim Taehyung. He was popular in college because he was very talented at table tennis. It shocked you when Namjoon said he had joined the track team as a hurdler.

“You two must be Miya and Yn. I’m Taehyung.” He stuck out his hand for a handshake.

With a light smile, you reached out to return the handshake. Taehyung had a welcoming aura around him. He had a friendly and approachable vibe. He was tall, athletic, and good looking.

“So, what made you join track?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “It’s our last year in college, wanted to try something different.”

“Hope you like it here.”

Taehyung glanced back at you, casting a boxy grin your way, “I think I will.”

The coach blew their whistle to grab everyone’s attention. Everyone made their way to the centre of the field to start physical training. Training started with light warm-ups before rounds around the track.

While running, Taehyung was happily chatting away with you to get to know you better. “That sucks, so you’re not a hurdler?”

“Nope, I do 4x100s.”

“So, I’ll only get to see you once a week.” Taehyung pouted and you chuckled, “You can see me on other days.”

Track had 3 sessions a week - one combined with everyone and two within your own events. The combined session was physical training for all, hence why you were running rounds with a hurdler by your side.

“I’ll take that up!” He winked at you before speeding up slightly, “Catch me if you can!”

From behind, Jungkook watched you and Taehyung converse with a scowl on his face.

Why were you even talking while jogging? Was Taehyung flirting with you?

He used to be the one disturbing you during these rounds.

Jungkook tried to shrug off the scene of you and Taehyung together, ignoring the bitter feeling growing in his chest.

“Don’t feel bad. You’re sick, I’ll bring up some food for you.” You grabbed your student ID and phone as you insisted that Miya stayed in bed. Casting you a weak smile, she thanked you as you left your dorm to head off to the dining hall.

You lucked out when you saw Jungkook standing at the end of the queue, scrolling through his phone. With a deep breathe in as you made your way to join the queue. “Hey.” You gave a cautious greeting towards his way. Jungkook’s heart jumped, his grip tightening on his phone as he looked up to see you smiling at him.

“Hey.”

Jungkook hated how awkward he felt with you. It never used to be that way. Then again, that was a year ago.

You also never understood why Jungkook was the one avoiding you when you were the one who got rejected.

“Today was fun.” Jungkook gave you a toothy grin, “Yea it was.”

“Definitely my new favourite restaurant. I’m so full!” He playfully patted his stomach and you chuckled, “Looks like I know where to go when you start being grumpy or stressed.”

“That’s easy, you don’t have to take me to that restaurant. I just have to spend time with you and I’m good to go.” He shrugged his shoulders. Your heart fluttered at how nonchalant his words were yet so genuine. You had been thinking about it the entire afternoon, contemplating if it was the right decision. But you knew you had to let it out before it was too late.

“You good?” Jungkook pulled you out from your thoughts. “Mm? Oh yea, I’m good.” Your feet lazily kicked a stone in front of you.

“Hey,” Jungkook stopped walking, gently placing his hand on your arm to turn you around to face him. “You can always tell me something.”

“I know, I’m… I’m just tired that’s all.”

Jungkook pursed his lips together, “How about we head over to my place to watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

You let Jungkook choose the movie for the night as your head was far away. Jungkook nudged you, shimmying his shoulders. That was always his signal when he offered his shoulder for you to rest on. You gave him a small smile as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

Despite loving Marvel, you found yourself not paying a single ounce of attention to the movie. Jungkook seemed to have noticed that as you weren’t bantering with his small comments to the movie.

You were brought back to reality when you noticed the movie was paused.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, sitting up to face Jungkook.

“I was about to ask that.”

“I’m… I’m tired. I think I’ll just head home for the night.”

Jungkook frowned and you had to look away to save yourself from crumbling into pieces.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what’s on your mind?”

You sighed, this was it. You just had to let it out.

“Promise me you won’t hate me?”

“Hate you? Jungkook repeated, “I would never hate you.”

He placed his hand on your knee, encouraging you to continue. “I’ve liked you for a while.” You paused, allowing the words to sink in. You could feel his hand stiffen and you were sure he could hear the loud beating of your heart.

The silence was deafening.

Your confession repeating in both your heads.

As every second dragged on, you started to regret it even more. You had made a terrible mistake and there was no way you could take it back. Life had no re-dos.

“I’m guessing you don’t feel the same way, given the response.” You clicked your tongue together, gathering the courage to look up at him.

Jungkook was lost for words. He would have never expected to hear a confession from you that night. From his closest friend. From his best friend.

Your words left a funny feeling in him that night, but he could not tell whether it was a good or bad feeling.

“Well, don’t worry.” You forced a laugh, “I didn’t expect much anyway. I just wanted to let it out. But I’m guessing I just ruined our friendship.”

“N-No, uh… I just… I just need time to… to absorb all of this.”

You nodded your head, “I understand.” You took it as a cue to get up from the couch, Jungkook’s eyes following your figure. “I’ll see myself out. Sorry for ruining the night.”

“T-Text me when you made it home safely.” Jungkook called out as you headed for the door.

Terrible. Even after ruining your friendship, Jungkook was still looking out for you. You hated how that made you feel. You turned around to face him one more time, a smile plastered on your face.

“Will do. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

It pained Jungkook to see you holding back your tears. If he could have another chance to replay that night. He would’ve stopped you from leaving, he would’ve told you that your friendship wasn’t ruined.

He would’ve done anything he could that night to stop you from leaving his life.

But in reality, he did none of those.

When you texted him that night that you were home, your message was left unread.

You took it as a message to give him time to process everything. A night turned into a day. A day turned into a week. A week turned into a month. A month turned into a year.

It was because of your confession, you both had become strangers once again.

“Yn!”

“Oh, hi Tae!”

Despite using his phone, Jungkook’s attention was on your conversation with Taehyung. You were already calling him ‘Tae’? Since when were you that close with him?

“Namjoon told me Miya’s sick. She alright?”

“Yep, just grabbing food for her so she can take her meds and rest.”

“Need my help?”

“Oh no, all’s good.”

Taehyung nudged you, “It’s alright, you have to get your own food too. I’ve already eaten, I can help carry her food up to your dorm, check up on her as well.”

“Sure, if you’re free, that is.”

“Free for you.” He teased and you laughed, looking away momentarily to see Jungkook who seemed to be invested in his phone.

“Oh, Jungkook! Didn’t recognise you at first. How’ve you been?”

Jungkook looked up to greet Taehyung, “H-Hey, I’ve been well.”

Ever since meeting Taehyung, he got along with your group easily. In fact, he got along with everyone effortlessly. He knew almost everyone in the track team only after 2 weeks. That meant only 2 combined sessions. Somehow along the way, it seemed that he had introduced himself to Jungkook as well.

Taehyung was amazing with people and that was admirable. The more you got to know Taehyung, the more you looked forward to hanging out with him.

“See you next practice!” Taehyung happily patted Jungkook’s shoulders goodbye as you two went off a different direction towards your dorm.

You barely register their conversation as your head was somewhere else, recalling the night you had confessed.

“Hey, are you okay?” Taehyung’s concerned voice made you look up to meet his eyes.

“I’m okay.”

Taehyung frowned, glancing behind to see Jungkook looking at the two of you walking away. Jungkook shook his head, quickly glancing away as Taehyung caught him looking.

“Something to do with Jungkook, perhaps?”

Taehyung was very observant and you knew you couldn’t fool him as well.

“Sort of… We just used to be close but... He’s been avoiding me and I’ve been trying to salvage whatever’s left. But it doesn’t seem to be working.”

Taehyung pursed his lips together, “It’s not fair if only one party is putting in the effort, you know.”

“I know, it’s just that… We used to be close.” You sighed as you stepped into the elevator with him, your gaze on your tray of food.

“Still, it’s not worth salvaging if you’re the only one putting in the effort. I’m sure you’ve done your best. Sometimes, you just can’t force things to happen.”

As the elevator opened to your level, you allowed his words to sink in.

“Miya! We come with food!” Taehyung grinned, bringing the tray to your sick roommate as she thanked the two of you for your help.

Your eyes trailed to Taehyung who was helping Miya grab her medicine and a glass of water.

Maybe Taehyung was right. Maybe it’s time to stop trying.

378 notes · View notes

automaticneon · 4 years ago

Text

Clouds

Chapter 1: Automatic Love (NSFT)

Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader

Summary: “When desires go unfulfilled, they turn into needs”

Clouds is the most technologically advanced dollhouse in Madripoor. It’s a void for people to escape into, or at least the lucky few that can afford to visit.

And Zemo is very lucky.

The reader meets a strange new client, a man of mystery and poetic language and when she uncovers a secret most valuable to Helmut Zemo, their relationship goes from professional to something much more profound.

A/N: It’s essentially a Cyberpunk AU, but you don’t need to know a thing about the game! I’ve just borrowed the names of locations and the concept of Clouds. The reader is essentially a high clas s*x worker, if that isn’t your cup of tea, this probably isn’t the fic for you!

If this was high-end, there was no way to tell.

At least that’s what Zemo thinks as his car pulls up outside the mega-building. It’s an unsightly structure but not uncommon for this area of Madripoor, about fifty-storey’s tall and covered in vibrant LED screens.

For a minute he considers instructing his driver to take him back to his apartment in high-town so he can pretend this never happened. He had been averse to this idea already, but a friend from his military days had been convinced he should try coming here. “It’s cutting-edge�� is what he had been told, but what exactly cutting-edge meant was a mystery to Zemo.

“Would you like me to wait for you, Sir?” the driver asks, snapping Zemo out of his thoughts.

The baron swipes his hand over his face, taking one last look at the building outside the window before responding.

“No, I’ll call when I’m done.”

He reckons his driver knows what he’s doing here. Mega-building H8 was known for only one thing, its position on the layline between high and low town meant it was frequented by all wealthy inhabitants of Madripoor. Mobsters and politicians alike congregated at this monster of architecture, hopeful of its contents and desperate to go unrecognised.

And now they can add a Baron to that list of unfortunates, Zemo thinks with resignation.

He leaves the car before the embarrassment can fester in his chest.

The building is worse up close than at a distance.

Climbing the flight of concrete stairs Zemo is transported from the sidewalk and into the belly of the beast. The entrance to the megabuilding is a low-ceilinged sprawl of street-vendors and food stalls. It’s loud and busy, but Zemo has no problem blending into the crowd. He weaves through the stream of people, illuminated by neon signs that grow increasingly vulgar in their images the deeper into the building he moves.

Eventually, towards the back of the building, he finds the metal gates of an industrial-style elevator. He slides the grate open and steps inside to find the space is lit by multiple illuminated advertisement screens rotating through various commercials, each more obscene than the last. For a moment Zemo takes the moral high ground, musing with distaste about the sort of men these adverts are geared towards. He takes the moral high ground until he remembers what he has come here to do. Defeatedly he admits to himself he has no right to feel lofty.

The illuminated keypad flashes at him, and he reaches out to input his destination.

Floor 12 – CLOUDS

The elevator is slow as it climbs past the levels of cheap apartments and eventually comes to stop at level 12. As Zemo goes to open the grate again, he wonders if he’ll be greeted by some of that high-class sophistication he was promised.

He is not.

This floor is much like the entrance hall, only this time it’s a balcony that wraps around the interior of the mega-building and faces down into an open-air atrium. Zemo notices that the elevator he steps out of does not go any higher than this level, the floors above must be the luxury apartments and must have their own entrance. He begins to follow the neon signs again.

“I don’t get why you’re so hung up about this?” A man near him says to his friend. Zemo bristles at the strong American accent, but carefully allows himself to eavesdrop.

“I don’t know, man,” The friend responds “It just feels wrong, you know? Like I’ll be cheating on my girl with one of these dolls”

“But that’s just it! These girls are dolls, man. They’re not real. It’s like sleeping with a blow-up-doll. No difference”

“You know that’s not true; the difference is they’re real. They’re made of flesh.”

“That’s what makes them great though. They’re dolls made of flesh.”

Zemo moves on before he can hear anymore.

He follows the signs until he reaches a wide hallway into the building, and there at the end is the rather simple looking entrance to Clouds dollhouse. The low ceiling of the hallway allows for little decoration, but he supposes a place with such an infamous reputation needs little in terms of advertisement. Soft pink neon signs flash the name of the establishment, and beside the double glass doors a glitchy hologram of a woman dances away. As he approaches, a pre-recorded voice rings out from a speaker at the base of the hologram.

“Looks like you could use a little automatic love.”

He refuses to acknowledge the projection.

Inside clouds is arguably worse than outside. The hallway is lined with tattered posters and it smells of something cheap and artificial. When Zemo enters the small, empty reception the lady behind the desk looks up with a smile.

“Welcome to clouds, where we always know what you’re looking for.”

None of you can hear a thing from the changing room.

“Do you think he’ll fire her?”

“I’m not sure. Depends how angry the client was,”

“Shut up I’m trying to hear,”

The room falls silent as Divine presses her ear to the door.

Moments ago the dressing room had been full of the usual chatter as you and the other dolls prepared for the evening shift. There was nothing to indicate the night would be anything but normal, that was until a few minutes ago when Woodman, the caretaker of dolls, had knocked furiously at the door and demanded that Azure come to his office down the hall for an immediate meeting.

“Is it just Woodman?” you ask. Azure could be abrasive at times, but she was certainly one of you favourite colleagues and you desperately wanted her to avoid being fired by management.

“I think so. I can’t hear anyone else.” Divine says, leaning back from the door.

“She’ll be fine, I’m sure,” one of the other dolls assures the room “She’s been here the longest. If they haven’t fired her yet, I doubt they ever will.”

“True. We can’t let this ruin a good Friday night. Five minutes until we need to be out in the booths, girls” Divine announces, and promptly returns to her table to finish her makeup.

Moments before the timer goes off the dressing room door flies open, and Azure stalks back to her table in silence. She’s not upset, but you can see the frustration hidden behind a poor attempt at offhand indifference. You want to ask if she’s alright, but the aggressive way she’s searching through her desk drawer makes you think it’s better to leave her be. The other girls do the same, cautiously looking over at her but making no attempt at conversation.

When the timer rings out you take one final sip of water and head to the door, grabbing the key-card for booth three as you leave.

“Welcome to clouds, where we always know what you’re looking for.”

The pink light of the glowing reception desk illuminates her face from below. That, combined with her uncomfortably bright smile makes the receptionist look like some sort of robot from a sci-fi film. Zemo lets out an amused huff at the very ambitious welcome promise.

“With all due respect, how could you know exactly what it is I want.”

“Clouds always knows. Your deepest desire – we find it. You’ll have your needs fulfilled – and maybe much more. ‘Less’ is not a word we use around here.” The receptionist replies.

“And how is that supposed to work then,” Zemo questions with a tilt of his head.

“Our algorithm searches your social media. With your permission it will create a personal profile based on any information if can gather, including personal preferences for you partners appearance. The algorithm will then select a doll for you, and create an experience based off that information.,” She slides a form across the desk “of course we ensure this is entirely confidential, this form confirms our promise.”

“I’ll admit I’m impressed. However I do not have a social media presence I’m afraid.” Zemo responds.

He couldn’t lie, the process seemed interesting. It was obviously a successfully programmed algorithm if the establishment had such a strong reputation. He found himself for the first time tonight not entirely doubting his choice to come here. He was interested to see what they would do for his situation.

“In that case I’ll have to ask you a few general questions to select a doll for you. If you are unsatisfied with their performance, you’ll be entitled to a refund at the end of the session.”

The receptionist begins to read a series of questions from her computer screen, gender preferences, what sort of experience he’s looking for. She concludes with organising payment, and the price is eyewatering even with the slight discount she applies since they cannot use the algorithm. When all is paid and signed for, the receptionist asks for a safe word. Admittedly it throws Zemo for a minute.

“It’s company policy” she says.

“Pontiac” he says bluntly, after a moment of thought.

“Fantastic.” The receptionist enters his response to the computer “Welcome to clouds. Serenity will be waiting for you in booth three.”

Zemo passes through another set of double doors and finds himself in a labyrinth of pink lights. The walls are lined with black, opaque glass and every so often a blue neon number protrudes from the wall indicates the booth behind it.

It doesn’t take long for him to find booth three, but he pauses before pressing the button to open the door. He takes a breath, collects his thoughts and lets his head and shoulders drop. He doesn’t want to look at his reflection in the tinted glass. Five years ago the thought of coming to a place like this would never have touched his mind, even in his questionable youth he had always been opposed these places. The risk that they were run unethically was far too great for his conscience. But he was not the man he was five years ago. Since Sokovia he wondered if he had a conscience at all anymore.

He presses the button, and the glass panel slides open.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the room. It’s dimly lit, faint blue and purple lights shine against the walls that are lined with the same dark, opaque glass as outside. There’s a chic, white sofa against the left wall, and against the right is a simple bed.

Sat atop it, kneeling with her thighs spread and covered by a short black night dress is the prettiest girl he’s seen in years.

He’s handsome, is the first thing you think when the glass door slides open.

It’s rare that you ever receive a client you’re inclined to call attractive, even the most conventionally attractive men that come here bring with them such a foul soul that it taints their appearance. Not this man, though.

He’s smartly dressed in dark trousers and a well-fitting grey jumper. His hair is styled nicely, it’s either brown or very dark blond (you can’t tell in the coloured lighting). He carries himself well, but after a year of working here you’ve grown accustomed to seeing through the façade’s of your clients. He’s apprehensive. Unsure if he belongs here. Hesitant.

“You must be Helmut. It’s nice to meet you,”

You try to make your voice sound soft and gentle, cocking your head to one side to beckon him in. You get the sense he wants something authentic, or at least that’s what his profile had said when it was sent through from reception moments ago. No porn-star moans or obscene pick-up lines tonight.

He collects himself, and the harsh line his lips have been pressed into relaxes as he enters the room. The glass panel slides shut, trapping the two of you in the bubble of the booth. It’s tranquil. You think he must need that.

“And you must be ‘Serenity’” He responds, crossing the room to sit on the sofa. His eyes don’t leave you as your ‘name’ rolls of his tongue with amusement. You can hear the next question in your head before he even opens his mouth again.

“So what’s your real name?”

They always ask you that. They ask every doll that. The clients are desperate to form a connection with you. To brag to their friends that they have a special relationship with a doll at clouds. You’ve never told anyone your real name before, it’s against company policy. Clouds attracts the rich of Madripoor, and rich in Madripoor usually means dangerous. It’s for your own protection more than anything else, you really don’t need work following you home.

You picked a name the day you were hired and that’s the name every client has known you by. This man will be no different. You begin your usual response:

“A name is a name, Helmut. A title. An advertisement of who you are. I want my name to tell you exactly who I am, so that you can know everything about me. I want to bring you peace.”

He adjusts his hips and rests his arms across the back of the sofa. He regards you quietly, and you’re positive he can tell that your response was a deflection. His eyes squint slightly, and a flash of humour appears in his dark pupils.

“Well I hardly think that’s fair. You get to call me by my name, but I don’t get to know yours?” He lets out a huff of laughter “Actually, I don’t think I’ll let you use my name. We should be equals, should we not?”

You admit you’re enjoying this. The smooth accent and playful tone of his voice keeps you interested. You swing your feet around so that you’re sat facing him on the bed, reclining back on your palms to match his casual stance.

“What should I call you then?”

“You said a name is just a title. So then my title can become my name. You can call be Baron, Serenity” He says your name like it’s some sort of inside joke, taunting you to give up and tell him who you really are. You won’t be so easily swayed.

“So what’s a Baron doing in Madripoor then?” You say with genuine curiosity. If it weren’t for the NDA’s you’re forced to sign you would be buzzing to tell the other girls who you’re spending the night with. You can’t imagine that aristocracy visits this place frequently. “And do you drink?”

“I do, thank you” he says, and you hop down from the bed and walk to the low table in front of the sofa that carries a few glasses and a bottle of expensive-looking alcohol. You know he’s looking at the satin hem of the night dress as it tickles to top of your thighs, and when you bend down to pour him a glass, you make sure he gets a tasteful peak at your cleavage.

“I’m here to work, actually.”

Did aristocrats work? You thought they were just for show.

“I’m… translating some documents. It’s taking me a very long time,” He continues, watching intently as you finish preparing his drink.

“A Baron and a translator? Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate” You loop around the table, perching beside him on the sofa and handing him his drink.

“It’s more of a personal project I suppose, but a very important one” he says, accepting the drink with his free hand. The one that rests behind you on the back of the sofa comes up to rest between your shoulder blades. It’s a very gentle touch, just the tips of his fingers making contact with yours skin and moving in a tiny little circle. He’s testing the waters with you, seeing how receptive you are. It’s almost gentlemanly.

“It must mean a great deal to you. We could talk about it, if you like? We can talk about anything you want to,” You reach up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying how he melts into the action.

“Anything but your name?” He shoots you teasing look from the corner of his eye, and you give a little strand of his hair a small playful tug in response.

“Anything but that, Baron”

“Tell me something else about you. Like why you came to Madripoor, I can tell you weren’t born here.”

Jesus you can’t tell if this man is a pest or just being polite. It’s unusual for him to be asking these questions of you, most men would usually have you on your knees by now. You hum and give him one last stroke down the back of his neck, before climbing off the sofa and walking back towards the bed.

“Very perceptive. I’m not from Madripoor, no,” you crawl onto the bed, taking your time so that the baron can take a good look at where the night dress rides up over the curve of your ass “but we’ve only just met, and only my friends get to know my life story.”

You settle yourself comfortably at the top of the bed, lying down and propped up on your elbows so you can maintain the measured look he’s giving you.

“Perhaps I should come over there and get to know you better” he says calmly, with the barest hint of a suggestive undertone.

Thank god he’s dropped the topic of your true identity. You can handle sex; you don’t need an interrogation tonight. Slipping into character you drop your voice to a low whisper and cock your eyebrow.

“Perhaps you should”

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile as he accepts your little challenge. In one fluid motion he downs the rest of his drink, places the empty glass back on the table, and rises to walk towards the bed. No, he stalks towards the bed with a natural swagger that admittedly makes your chest squeeze tight.

Within a second he’s onto you, slotting himself between your parted thighs and pressing his lips to yours. Your baron kisses well, is the only thing you’re capable of thinking as he uses his body to push you down into the cushions. One of his hands slides up your body, skimming across your neck before coming to rest below your jaw. He doesn’t squeeze, just gently holds you in place so that he can kiss you how he pleases.

After a moment he tilts your head up slightly, pausing the kiss so he can look down at you. You reckon you look a picture of arousal, pupils blown and cheeks flushes as you catch your breath. Your baron seems to agree; he’s looking at you like the cat that caught the canary, and you shiver when his grip gets just a fraction tighter on your jaw.

“So pretty,” he praises quietly as he dips down to skim his lips over your pulse.

The tender pressure makes you whine and arch up beneath him and he acknowledges you with a hum and a hand on your breast. As he continues his assault on your neck, the free hand on your chest squeezes the flesh softly, finding your nipple beneath the silky fabric and circling it with his thumb.

When it pebbles to his satisfaction he pulls away and you keen at the loss of contact. He tuts, pulling down the straps of your nightgown and peeling it down below your chest, shuffling down slightly so that his face is level with your now exposed torso.

He breathes out against your nipple before latching onto it, with one hand he squeezes your neglected breast and the other slides from its place on your jaw to the base of your neck. Again he doesn’t squeeze, just exerts a level of control that lets you know where he wants you. If you wanted to you could break free, but why would you want that? The way his thumb begins to circle your pulse point has you practically melting into the bed, the thought of telling him to stop can barely manifest in your mind.

You reach down to dig your fingers into the baron’s back, instead only making contact with his expensive-feeling jumper. You huff in disappointment and pull him from where he’s entertaining himself with your tits, meeting his hazy eyes that are riddled with confusion.

“I thought we were trying to get familiar with one another?” you ask, and his eyebrows pinch in confusion “How are we supposed to do that when you’ve got so much between us?”

The baron’s face melts in amusement, and he reluctantly pulls himself away from you to pull the jumper off and start undressing fully. You take a moment to catch your breath, watching him peel away his clothes to reveal his impressive body. He’s slender but impeccably well-toned, his torso is covered by a light dusting of hair that leads your eyes down to the impressive bulge in his underwear.

Tonight should be very entertaining.

Your sit up, reaching out to run your hand down his chest but before you can begin to pull at the waistband of his underwear, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist.

“I don’t know where you think you were going, but I was quite enjoying myself” he says roguishly. He gathers both of your wrists into one hand and pins you pack against the bed, with both hands restrained you have no choice but to let him bury hid face into your neck again.

This time he uses his free hand to skim along the inside of your thigh, getting high enough that you think he’ll reach the apex between your legs but instead he trails his fingers back down towards your knee again.

You whine in frustration as he continues his cycle of teasing up and down your leg, he ignores you until you tug against his grip on your wrists. He makes a low noise and quickly tightens his hold on you. The sudden movement sends a chill down your spine, and for the first time in a long while, you feel genuinely inclined to beg a man.

“Please-” you breathe out shakily “I want-”

Your voice cuts off suddenly as his hand moves boldly to cup your pussy. You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as his fingers move through your folds, and he hums happily when he finds your clit with his thumb. Slowly he circles it, applying just the right amount of pressure to have you wriggling in his grip.

“This? Is this what you want?” he asks, and his voice has dropped at least another octave.

You shake your head furiously. Right now this is just not enough, you can feel his dick rubbing against your leg and you’re beyond desperate to have him fuck you open with it.

“No?” he says with feigned innocence “What is it that you want then?”

“More” is all you can get out “I want you in me. I’m wet enough, see?”

Your baron seems unconvinced. He circles a finger around your entrance before pushing in, rocking it gently inside you as he tries to decide if he thinks you’re really ready. He continues for a moment more before adding a second finger, now with two fingers stuffed in you and his thumb still working on your clit you’re almost ready to cum. It’s making you desperate, and it doesn’t help at all when he buries his face in your tits again.

Finally he lets your wrists go and immediately your hands grab at whatever part of him they can, eventually you settle with gripping his shoulder and hair as you try desperately to urge him to fuck you. He gets you right to the edge, literal moments away from finishing on his fingers when he pulls them away from you with an obscenely wet noise.

You let out a frustrated, desperate whine as he separates from you. He looks down at you with satisfaction as he takes in your flustered state.

“Stay still, you’ll get what you want” he says, and he reaches for his pants to retrieve a condom. It takes him a minute to pull himself free of his underwear and put the condom on. In your desperate state it feels like an eternity.

He positions himself between your legs, lifting the hem of the nightdress so he can get a good view of your pussy whilst he lines himself up. He pauses before he presses forward, looking up at you for any last-minute hesitation.

You nod your consent instantly, not trusting yourself to get any words out.

When he pushes in you think you might cum from that alone. He’s a perfect size, long enough that you feel as though you could feel him in your belly. When he finally bottoms out you can’t help but squeeze him tight, and he slumps over you, his face tucked into the side of your neck and swears in a language you don’t recognise. He nudges his hips forward as if to get deeper than he already is. The both of you gasp out at the sensation and he repeats it a few times, just the tiniest movements of his hips that causes him to rub against something deep inside you.

He pushes himself up on his forearms so that he can get a good look at you. In turn, you get to see the state of him as well – his eyes are impossibly dark and glazed over with something wildly lustful, his once pristine hair hangs dishevelled over his reddened forehead. Your baron’s lip curls wickedly as he sets a punishing pace, pushing you deeper into the sheets. It feels like he’s trying to fuck you through the bed.

His previous teasing had done a real number on you, and within minutes you’re moments away from cumming. You don’t think you could get much out of your mouth other than pathetic little whimpers right now, instead you reach up and pull the baron down for a deep kiss, one that he melts into fully.

When you do cum it’s fucking incredible. You’d never use a word that strong to describe a client before, but your baron brings with him many firsts for you. You cry out into his mouth as he picks up the pace to ride you through your high, your fingers dig into his shoulder so tightly you wonder if you’ve drawn blood. If you have, he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything it spurs him on as he fucks you to the point of oversensitivity.

He finishes just as you think you can’t handle anymore. His hips stutter momentarily, and tremors run down his spine in waves. The entire time he’s rambling in a foreign tongue against your skin until his pants of exhaustion overtake his ability to speak.

Your baron collapses on top of you but you hardly have the brainpower to care that he’s crushing you. Instead you reach up to run your fingers through his hair, listening to him as he catches his breath against your chest.

You yourself are struggling to even out your breathing, it feels as though you’ve run a marathon and the man on top of you seems thoroughly amused by that.

“Come now,” he says as he smooths a hand up your side “I wasn’t that good.”

You can hardly help the genuine laugh that escapes you.

“Humility doesn’t look good on you baron.”

The man in question huffs out a laugh before peeling himself away from your sweat-slicked body.

“I suppose I should make myself scarce. I imagine you have other, much more interesting clients to see tonight” he says, moving to sit on the side of the bed.

“You can stay and talk if you want, it’s entirely up to you. You paid for this, after all.” You say, secretly hoping he’ll stay for just a minute longer. You don’t intend to entertain anyone else tonight, but part of you is quite intrigued by your newest client.

“Well in that case I have one final question I’d like to ask” he says as he slowly begins to dress himself again.

“Ask away.”

Once his trousers are securely over his hips he pauses to look at you. There’s a soft expression on his face, as if he already knows he’s not going to get the answer he wants.

“What’s your real name?”

You really shouldn’t be surprised that he’s asked again. Truthfully, it’s not the question itself that’s thrown you, it’s how tempted you are to answer it. His voice is so compelling at the moment that your name nearly springs from your tongue without you noticing.

“Oh baron,” you say quietly “you know I can’t tell you that.”

His lips press together in acceptance, and for a second his eyes leave yours. As he begins to get ready again, he gives his response.

“It was worth a shot.”

#my writing #clouds #baron zemo #helmut zemo #baron helmut zemo #baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #baron zemo x y/n #helmut zemo x y/n #marvel x y/n #tfatws x reader #tfatws #marvel

115 notes · View notes

rwprincess · 3 years ago

Text

Knowledge Bowl (Brian Johnson x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Word Count: 3100

CW: teasing; mild name-calling; parental interactions (mostly positive though)

Synopsis: This is mostly a bridge chapter to get to the next one, but also some quid pro quo. Brian supported Reader, now it’s her turn to support him at the Knowledge Bowl.

A/N: Yes, those are all real high schools in that area of Illinois. Well, except for Shermer. But it has to be there. XD Shout out to this document for Knowledge Bowl questions because I do not have that field of knowledge (and definitely not the math knowledge, much like dear reader). Also, I kind of lowkey hate this chapter. It’s definitely a filler episode. I’m sorry.

*~~~~*

Y/N, Bender, Allison, and Claire sidled down the row in the gym of Lake Forest High. This was the first time they had all been together in a number of weeks. Andrew was conspicuously missing from their group, but he had been acting oddly the last time they were all together and only really talked to Claire anymore, but even that was waning. Given that it was the weekend, it was likely that he had wrestling practice or a meet anyway, but Y/N wasn’t sure that he was even invited today. However, that didn’t matter much; there was still a buzz of excitement from the crowd for the Knowledge Bowl and they had gathered there to support Brian, so he was the focus for all of them. It was a rather large tournament with six or eight schools from the area congregated here under the blue and gold banners of Lake Forest’s past achievements. There would be two teams going head to head at a time, rounds lasting around five minutes, playing in brackets. Y/N had grabbed two programs, one for herself and one for “posterity” to give Brian afterwards as a sort of memento. She rolled her eyes at her friends’ teasing when she explained her reasoning to getting two; but it wasn’t like it was a big secret anymore. Everyone had figured out how she felt about Brian by now, except for Brian.

Y/N spotted Brian’s parents a couple rows down and over and decided to say hello. She was excited that they had come to support him as well. She knew what that would mean to him. She asked the others if any of them would like to join her; Allison and Claire had politely declined but Bender laughed, “You want me to meet goody-two-shoes Johnsons? Oh, I’m sure they’d love that. Seeing me as their son’s friend, living with his little girlfriend!” He slapped his knee, even.

Y/N glared at him for a moment, “You could have just said, ‘no thanks.’” She tried to shake off John’s words and get her reddened cheeks under control as she approached the Johnsons. She had met Brian’s mom after one of their tutoring sessions a week or two ago, but not the rest of his family.

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson!” She said sweetly and enthusiastically. While their first meeting had gone well, she still felt like she was trying to make a good impression. Brian meant a lot to her, and these were the most important people in his life, which made them important by extension to her.

“Y/N!” Brian’s mother, Mercedes, said, placing her hand on her chest in endearment and smiling. “It’s good to see you here.”

“You too, Mrs. Johnson.” Y/N returned the smile and tried to be the pinnacle of politeness.

“Oh! You haven’t met the rest of our family yet, have you? Hugh, come here, dear.” She beckoned her husband over. “Hugh, this is Y/N. Brian’s friend.” She said, with a meaningful look to him. The implication that they had talked about Y/N before made her nervous.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Johnson.” Y/N shook his hand as Mercedes ushered her youngest child over.

“Likewise, Y/N. It’s always nice to meet Brian’s friends. You came out to support him today, I hope?”

“Yes, sir.” Y/N nodded, “A group of us came to cheer him on.” She pointed up towards the other three teens who had accompanied her.

“That’s very kind of you, I know that Brian will appreciate friends being here.” He said with a little twinkle in his eye. Brian’s little sister shifted next to him, so Y/N moved her attention slightly.

“Hello, you must be Mary.” She said, smiling down at the little girl who was probably seven or eight, bending slightly to be more at her level.

“How did you know?” She looked wide-eyed with surprise.

“Oh, Brian talks about you a lot.” Y/N enthused, hiding the fact that usually Brian complained about his little sister. “I also think you and I have talked to each other on the phone a couple of times.”

“Oh!” Mary said, connecting the dots. “You’re the girl who keeps calling my brother!” Y/N blushed a little to be bluntly put on the spot like that. Little kids were nothing if not honest and direct, right? She was still giving Y/N a wide-eyed stare. “You’re really pretty.” Y/N was about to say ‘thank you,’ but Mary immediately said “What are you doing hanging out with my brother?”

“Mary!” Her mother hissed, letting her know she crossed a social boundary. Y/N just tried to laugh it off.

“He’s a really good friend when he’s not related to you, I promise.” She explained and Mary gave her an ‘if you say so’ look, but didn’t want to upset her mother by being rude again. Y/N stood back up straight, not sure how to respond to that look, and decided to move on. “Well, I best be heading back to our cheering section, but it was nice to meet you both, and to see you again, Mrs. Johnson.”

“It was nice to see you again, too, dear.” Mrs. Johnson smiled, and as Y/N retreated, she could hear her admonish Mary for what she said.

“How are your future in-laws?” Bender said as she sat back down in their row.

“You hush.” She pushed him slightly, cheeks burning hot at the thought.

*~~~~*

The announcer called each school’s group to the stage for introductions, “The home team, Lake Forest High!” Which of course, got many cheers as most of the population in the stands was probably local and there to support their school. “Lincoln Park High School...Kenwood Academy...John F. Kennedy High School...Whitney Young Magnet School...Shermer High School…” Of course, the group leapt to their feet to cheer on Shermer, and Brian. The final schools, Hyde Park Academy and West Joliet High, were lost on Y/N. She fixated on Brian walking onto the stage, next to Matt, wearing a suit. ‘Wow, does he look good,’ she thought and didn’t realize she was staring until Bender started to pull her back down into her seat. Seeing the other schools, particularly the “Academies” and the Magnet School, Y/N wondered why Brian didn’t attend any of the others with his intelligence, but thanked whatever stroke of fate put him at Shermer High and in her path. As the competition commenced, she watched his every move, imagining that he could somehow hear her or feel her presence motivating and supporting him. Their Breakfast Club was stoked when Shermer moved forward and won their first and second rounds. They usually weren’t much for school spirit, but this event had a personal touch, and they did their best to bolster their team.

The host asked, “Electroplating involves the deposition of a metal onto a metallic surface through what chemical decomposition process?”

Matt buzzed in almost immediately, “Electrolysis.”

“Correct,” the host gave Shermer the point.

“I don’t even know what half those words mean.” Claire hissed, down the row. “I don’t even know what these questions are asking.”

“What layer of the Sun's atmosphere is immediately below the corona?” JFK High school buzzed in this time.

“The chromosphere.” One of their team said, correctly, tying up the score.

“The final question and tie-breaker for this round: Factor this expression. 4(m squared) + 26m + 22.”

Brian was almost lightning-quick hitting his buzzer and Y/N leaned forward. This would make or break the round, but Brian was confident with math questions and didn’t look nervous at all. He had a steady look of determination on his face as he replied, “(2m + 11)(2m + 2).”

“That is...correct! Shermer High School will advance to the next round, against Lake Forest High.” The announcer said, and dismissed the contestants currently on the stage. Y/N smiled in relief and whispered, “That’s my boy,” hoping that John didn’t hear her over the applause from the crowd. Luckily, he hadn’t seemed to notice. Both teams shook hands in show of good sportsmanship before heading to their tables in the waiting area.

“That Magnet School is really good. They’re like, deadly fast.” Claire said during the next round. She was right. They were almost robotic with how they rang in and answered immediately, confidently, razor-sharp. A lot of the rounds had been close but those going against Whitney Young Magnet were being trounced by several points.

“I don’t think we can beat them.” Allison said, ever being the realist.

“If we even make it that far…” John scoffed.

“During the Holocaust, what Swedish diplomat in Budapest, provided at least 20,000 Jews with Swedish passports and protection?”

Zero-hesitation, a girl with fiery red hair from Whitney Young clicked her buzzer and replied, “Raoul Wallenberg.”

“Correct! That means Whitney Young advances to the next round with a score of thirteen to seven. So sorry, Lincoln Park.” The announcer said with false sympathy. It was a competition after all.

Shermer excitingly beat out Lake Forest High on their home turf. It was easy to see how upset they were at losing in their own gym as they gave very apathetic “good show” handshakes at the end of the round. Of course, by the end of the competition, it was just Shermer High and Whitney Young Magnet School left. There hadn’t really been doubts that Whitney Young would be one of the finalists, and while they had done well the whole competition, Shermer High felt like the scrappy underdogs in comparison. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation for this final round.

The first question was history-based, and Matt showed that he had indeed studied.

“Charles Pinckney's refusal to pay bribes extorted by French agents in 1798 brought what affair into the public light?”

“The XYZ Affair”

“Right!” The announcer moved on almost immediately, though, to see how many points each team could rack up within the time limit. There was no time to waste. It seemed like a volley between the two teams, or a tennis match. One would answer and then the other, picking up speed as they felt more and more confident.

“What kind of current raises benthic nutrients to the surface?”

Ding “Upwelling.”

“Point to Whitney Young.”

“A colonial key to the Great Lakes was Fort Oswego on what lake?”

Ding “Lake Ontario.”

“Point to Shermer High.”

However, Whitney Young’s robotic speed started to get the better of Shermer High. They slowly crept ahead by a point, and then two. Brian rang in on the question: “The Khyber Pass connects the two countries of Afghanistan and-” He hesitated for half a second, looking like he was weighing two answers and the time ticked down for him to be able to answer. ‘Come on, come on.’ Y/N chanted for him, on the edge of her seat.

“ ... Pakistan.” He decided

“Correct! Point to Shermer.” Brian let out a relieved exhale and a smile, bringing the scores closer together.

“Yes!” The Breakfast Club cheered, much more invested than they thought they’d be.

By the buzzer, they had tied it up, which was an impressive feat of its own against the Magnet School. “This final question will take a moment to work out,” the announcer stated, adding an air of mystery and showmanship. Each team leaned forward to focus on the problem at hand, “Evaluate this expression given that p = -3 and q = -7: (6p + 3q)2 + 7p + 4.” Of course, the Breakfast Club was totally lost in how to even go about solving such an equation, but the Shermer High Knowledge Bowl Team were mouthing the work to themselves with looks of steadfastness. They took just a moment to confer about the answer, but that moment of double checking unfortunately cost them the opportunity to buzz in first. Their hope now would be that Whitney Young would answer incorrectly and that they’d have the chance to steal. However, the fates weren’t so kind today.

One of the boys on the Whitney Young team with thick glasses clicked his buzzer, and as soon as he was acknowledged by the host calmly said, “-95.” The audience waited for verification, because most of them had not sussed out the solution to the problem either.

“That is…” the host dragged out the tension for a moment, “Correct! Which means Shermer High has placed second and Whitney Young Magnet School is our champion for this year’s Knowledge Bowl!”

The Breakfast Club groaned at the outcome. “They were so close!” Claire cried out.

“Better luck next year, I guess,” John chuckled but the three girls didn’t find it so amusing. They waited a moment for some of the crowd to die down before going in search of the team to congratulate Brian. Y/N removed the bouquet of flowers she had stashed under her seat on the bleachers to give him. When she and John had left the house with them this morning, he’d given her a questioning look and a smirk and she told him “It’s a tradition” and made a face when he sarcastically replied back with ‘Riiiiight.’

They spotted Brian with his team and his family as they approached.

“Oh, we are so proud of you, honey!” Brian’s mother cooed and brushed back his hair, kissing him on the forehead.

“Mom!” He groaned with embarrassment, but Y/N could see the small smile on his face and knew he needed that kind of reassurance from his family and that he was probably secretly enjoying the moment, even if it did make him feel a little foolish.

“It wasn’t as boring as I thought it would be.” Mary admitted, as the Breakfast Club came near.

“Oh, I like this one!” John said, gesturing to Mary and her honest congratulations to her big brother.

“Thanks, Mary.” Brian rolled his eyes, and then spotted his detention-group of friends.

“Hey!” He said, breaking away from his family a bit, “You came!”

“Of course!” Bender quipped, “You think I’d miss out on a three-ring geek circus?”

“John,” Y/N growled in response, reminding him that he had agreed to be better about the name-calling.

“What I mean is, it was actually impressive. You guys were really quick and holy shit, you know a lot!”

“Yeah!” Claire said, “I couldn’t even make heads or tails of half those questions and you actually answered them? Wow.” She gave him a proud, respectful smile and he responded with a sheepish, grateful one of his own.

“Of course, we’ll always come when you ask us to.” Y/N said, stepping forward with her bouquet to hand him. “Tradition.” She nodded at the flowers as she gifted them.

“Of course,” he said with sparkling eyes and a kind smile. Matt started to approach them out of the woodwork, too.

“You were great.” Y/N told Brian, looking at him as if he were the only person in this dense crowd, then noticed Matt standing there. “Both of you! You did such a good job!”

“Thanks. I was really hoping we’d win it, though.” Matt replied and Y/N looked between them both.

“Still! Getting to second, and against that team?!”

“And during a tie-breaker.” Allison chimed in.

“Right. Every other team they went against, they absolutely crushed. You held your own.”

“Kicking ass, taking names.” Bender joked.

“Oh!” Brian realized that none of the rest of the Breakfast Club had ever met Matt, even though he had told him all about them. “Guys, this is my best friend, Matt. Matt, this is Allison, John, and Claire.”

“More friends?” Brian’s mom sidled up to them, and he redid the introductions he just made. “It’s so nice of you all to come out!” She said, smiling warmly. It was obvious to see the pride written on her face that Brian now had so many people that cared about him, particularly enough to drive half an hour to sit through a lengthy trivia tournament on his behalf.

“It was a great tournament, Mrs. Johnson!” Claire said, turning on the charm.

“Yeah! First place next year for sure!” Bender clapped Brian on the shoulder, making him give a stunned sputter at the support.

“Well, dear, we were just about to head out, since we said goodbye to your coach. Are you going to stay here with your friends for a bit?” Brian blinked, not expecting the offer. Usually his mom wasn’t so open and he normally would have a much stricter schedule. He looked to Y/N for confirmation.

“I can give him a ride home, Mrs. Johnson.” She said.

“Uh, yeah! Sure! I’ll see you at home then, mom.” Brian said, enthusiastically.

“Would you like me to take your flowers home?” She asked him quietly, but still in front of everyone, making his cheeks flush. “They’re from Y/N, I presume?” She looked over at her and smiled that knowing smile.

“Yes, ma’am. Tradition.” Y/N grinned, knowing that Mrs. Johnson would understand. Bender poked her in the ribs and whispered ‘ma’am,’ as she had made fun of him for using the same formality many times.

Mary came and tugged on Mrs. Johnson’s skirt, “Can we go now?”

Bender laughed, “I really, really like her. Johnson, I didn’t know you had a little sister!” Brian shrugged in response.

“Yes, Mary.” Mrs. Johnson said with an exasperated sigh, “Go get Daddy and then we can go. It was so nice to meet you all.” She said again, even though she looked a little warily at John and Allison. They weren’t the type of friends she had imagined Brian would have.

“Hey, Matt, you want to come with us? We could go get lunch or something.” Y/N suggested. He waggled his eyebrows at Brian in response, amused by the invitation.

“Well, I’m not usually one to say no to a meal,” he said, “and today will be no exception. Let’s roll.” They divided the cars in two, with Claire taking just Bender, for some quality ‘couple-time’ since they didn’t get to spend a whole lot of time together normally, and the rest in Y/N’s car. Brian offered to ride in the back seat with Matt, since he knew him, but Matt insisted he could get to know Brian’s other friend and that he should ride up front. Allison, catching wind of the plan agreed quickly and all but pushed him out of the way to sit with Matt in the back. The two actually hit it off, both being sarcastic and witty, anyway. But mostly, they were playing matchmaker in making Brian sit up front, close to Y/N and listened in periodically, grinning at each other. With words unspoken, they’d come together on a common goal.

#80s fanfic #80s #breakfast club #the breakfast club #fanfic #fem!reader #reader-insert #brian x reader #brian johnson #brian johnson x reader #john bender #bender #oc #allison reynolds #claire standish #john hughes #knowledge bowl

56 notes · View notes

b00t-s · 3 years ago

Text

We're all gossip-y bitches sometimes

this is part two

Janus xey/xem

Roman she/he

Patton he/him

Virgil he/him

See the character intros for more info

TW. Swearing, arguments, alcohol, drunk characters, the word v//mit is used once, characters being characters, past trauma mentioned, tiny tiny tiny sprinkle of angst but just a passing of it at end, and nothing to intense

Again, tell me if I'm being insensitive. Shout at me if I am.

Summary: Patton goes to talk to Janus about Roman. The group opens...'some' bottles. Virgil adds on some...interesting opinions.

Events occur few hours after this.

Janus just finished xeir nightly shift when Patton came bounding up to xem. Janus raised an eyebrow at how ecstatic he looked.

"Yes?" Xey managed out, forcing back the hundreds of snarky comments xey could of said right then.

"Can you hang out at My house later?" Patton practically beamed out.

"why would I want to 'hang out'? It's just a social construct created to give people a higher sense of being." Janus remarked, flipping to closed/open side to closed.

"So you'll be there?"

"hmm. Will doom-and-gloom be there?

"doom and---ohhh, Virge. Yeah, probably," Patton realised now that this was a bad mix of people to invite "probably-probably not for long though!"

"Fine" Janus replied, taking off xeir apron. Xey ignored the obvious lie. "I'll be there in an hour." Xey knew one way or another xey would end up there due to Patton's... effective persuading.

"Great!" Patton exclaimed "oh yeah, and...um...it's raining outside so..take my umbrella, kay?"

His tone more serious all of a sudden, Patton nodded to Janus' heavily made up face, so well done an ignorant bystander wouldn't of noticed the thick layers of foundation on xeir face.

Patton handed xem a translucent umbrella, patterned with cute frogs and flowers, to Janus. Ignoring the distasteful cartoons, Janus nodded and took the umbrella.

"See you soon, Jan!" Patton cheerily waved as he bounced off.

Janus folded xeir apron, opened Patton's umbrella and braved the outdoors.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Janus arrived at Patton's house exactly on time, bone dry, despite the heavily flowing rain. Patton expected nothing less of his friend. He invited xem inside, amazed as always by his friend's everyday fashion.

Jan was wearing a casual yellow shirt over a long sleeved black shirt. Fishnet gloves adorned xeir hands, and xeir ruffled hair was let lose.

Xeir fashionably messy hair was topped with a neatly placed black fedora, which of xey never took off. Xey even scarred persuaded Thomas to let xem wear it to work.

Patton offered xem a smile, and walked xem upstairs. "Hi Jan!" He grinned.

"Hello" xey replied mundanely.

Xey absent-mindedly glanced at Patton's outfit, which contained a violet cashmere sweater, bell bottomed jeans, circular silver glasses and a sunflower clip in his perfect curls.

It was a good look, xey had to admit.

When they both reached Patton's room, Janus stood still, taking in xeir surroundings.

Patton's room was covered with things from the 2000's; Tamagotchi's, stickers pressed up against the pastel wall, stuffed animals, wristbands, old CD's, care bears posters and butterfly clips littering the floor in a deadly trap.

A trans flag was pinned above the single bed with blue tack, right next to some inspirational and motivational quotes.

The whole place looked like it had been puked on by unicorns.

It hurt Janus' eyes.

Xey was a little overwhelmed by all the spiraling colours and nostalgia-inducing objects, so xey sat cross-legged in the middle of the pink carpet. The world slowed down.

Janus wondered, not for the first time, how a 29 year old could be this cheerful.

Or appear this cheerful.

"Jan?"

Janus gave a small twitch of xeir head, realising that xey had spaced out. "Hmm?" Xey replied.

"Hey, you were up with the clouds! I was just saying, I think Virge is here" Patton chirped.

"oh"

"he...might be staying for a little longer then i said"

"How wonderful." Janus muttered, knowing this would happen but hating it anyway.

"oh, don't be like that! I'm sure you guys could become friends!" Janus snorted. "Or...at least not kill at each other whenever you're in the same general area" Patton corrected.

"Anyway! I'm going to greet him at the door!" He suddenly proclaimed, skipping downstairs.

Janus was disgusted at how naïve this man was.

But that was a lie.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patton slowed his happy skip to a casual walk. His grin slipped into a content smile as he reached the end of the stairs. Being so happy takes its toll on people, he thought. Soft tapping of the door interrupted his thoughts as he opened the door to reveal Virgil.

The first thing you notice about this man was his unfair tall-ness. He nearly had to duck to get inside; being too skinny didn't help. Virgil was wearing a plain black hoodie over a mcr top, completing the look with a short, pleated skirt and docs. His face was slathered in white foundation, accompanied with dark eyeshadow under his eyes.

"Virge!! I'm glad you could make it, even if you are late!!Again!" Patton hugged his friend, genuinely glad for his presence. The taller man patted Patton's curls awkwardly.

"Heyyyy Pat-" Virgil did the awkward pats on the back everyone does when they want to get out of a hug but don't want to say it in fear of hurting ones feelings. "Traffic-"

Patton withdrew from the hug and smiled. "okay! at least you're here safe! Can't control the traffic"

"Janus is waiting for us upstairs" Patton continued. He hurriedly carried on speaking before Virgil could spit out an insult about xem "say, you know what I hate about stairs? They're always up to something!" Patton laughed at his own joke, whilst Virgil pretended to face-palm, hiding a snigger.

"Alright, Alright dAd, didn't you say snake face was waiting for us?" Virgil mocked. Patton chuckled uncomfortably at the nickname, but nodded nonetheless.

"Yeah, we shouldn't leave xem waiting"

They both entered his room, having walked the short journey there in a comfortable silence. Patton noted Janus had not moved from were he left xem; xey had just shifted to read a book xey most likely found lying around. Janus looked up upon their arrival, xeir face immediately twisting into a mocking grimace upon seeing Virgil. "ah, you brought the racoon"

"Janus play nice--"

"you're one to talk, you participated in 2012 Tumblr" Virgil threw back

"must you be so wounding" Janus dramatically threw xeir hand against xeir forehead.

"okAY, that's enough guys." Patton firmly said. Janus pulled a face in reply, and Virgil returned the favour. Patton sighed. He just wanted them to get along, which was probably a high expectation by itself.

Perhaps he had booze leftover somewhere.

--------------------------------

Twelve near fist fights, two crying sessions and many, many, many bottles of alcohol later, it was nearing eleven pm and the group was drunker than a litter of catnip high kittens.

They all crowded into a close-knit circle on the bed, nearly falling off but not caring.

"ssso your telling me that flashy asss hhimbo sssssaid I wasss hot but then rude and that I wore too muchh makeup? What a *hic* bitchh" Janus hissed.

Patton giggled. "yeeeeee, be nice though! She was kindaaaa alllllllll over the place!" Patton continued bluntly, "But how would you feel if I set you guys up????~"

"oh pleassssse do, I would just love that" Janus may be trashed but xey still knew sarcasm. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending who you are, Patton did not.

"yayyy! This is gonna be great!!"

Virgil butted in then, waving around the bottle he was holding "hold on, just holllld on a minute there, you're planning to set up that" he vaugly gestured in Janus' direction "with Princy??? Xey've known her for what, 4 minutes? Life isn't a disney movie"

"Dare I detect a hint of jealousy there emo?" Janus purred "am I that lovable?" Xey hiccuped.

"ooooooooh" Patton leaned into the circle, loving the drunk drama.

"wouldn't you like to know weather boy" Virgil droned back, finishing off the bottle.

"Honey, I would dare ssay that was a yesss"

"nO"

"oooooo, you liiiiike meeeEe"

"you disgust me"

"kinky"

Patton shook his hands excitingly at them, nearly hitting Virgil, causing them to shut up. "I can't believe you're finally open to a relationship after what happened! With my best friend no least! Boy did I try to get you to go on more dat--" Patton suddenly clasped his hands over his mouth as if he just said something nasty.

Everyone went silent. Janus stared at Patron, xeir mouth slightly parted. Virgil laughed nervously to try and break the tension. It sounded strained.

Janus began to speak to stop Patton from starting to spout drunken apologies. "Well thatssss jusst a liee, I've dated pleeenty of people over..well...that...period..of time."

Everyone went silent again, not quite sure on what to say.

Virgil's anxiety was heightening due to the social awkwardness and the influence of the alcohol.

Patton was fidgeting in his lap.

It was Janus yet again who broke the uncomfortable atmosphere.

"Sssso, *hic* you ssaid you wanted me to go out with thisss idiot?"

----------------------------------

first-previous-next

updated masterpost

tag list: @arrowthenon-binaryroyalty, @spellingwillbethedeathofme,

ask if you want to be added or removed from tag list

and we meet our boi virgil

context is for losers

i could of probably cut out unnecessary things in that but y'know I'm new and I like it

these posts will be in chronological order, unless flashback, but it's not following a set-in-stone story line, so asks are, yet again, much appreciated.

I procrastinated too much during the making of this

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fic #janus sanders #genderfluid!janus #patton sanders #trans!patton #virgil sanders #alcohol mention #Janus what have you agreed to #hiss hiss bitch #this story is all over the place plz #roceit #platonic moxiety #This won't and never will be a moxiety fic I'm sorry #their father ans son relashionship #no hate on the ones who do ship it #it just isn't my cup of tea #Ok-ish

9 notes · View notes

sourbat · 4 years ago

Note

is hammertooth 39 (secret admirer) ok? It might be for any other ship instead if it's already asked !

*throws arms* have an entire fic.

Heads up: i cheated and wrote an AU

Rehearsal was every Tuesday and Thursday, from 5pm onward, though it was unusual for practice to extend beyond nine. Even in the rare instances it did break past the dreaded four-hour barrier, Toki wasn’t too worried. The cold still of the night never bothered him so long as he had space to move and breathe in, along with the lamplight to remind him he was above ground, and enjoyed the ten-minute walk from the rehearsal studio to the small building that served as both a used bookstore and café. Tonight wasn’t any different. It was just past nine when Toki entered the café, plaintive expression replaced with a hit of musical nostalgia and the hot, tasty aroma of roasting coffee.

Toki took to visiting the café two weeks into joining the band, after a session ended with a nasty downpour. Toki had somehow missed the industrial, brick building that hosted both shops until late at night while shivering and waiting for his bus that only arrived by the hour past eight. Though he barely read anything past age twelve, and had hardly any money to spare, Toki took residence in the store filled to the brim with dry-smelling books, posters, tie-dye shirts, puzzles and board games, and Toki eventually found himself cozily situated at a table located in the furthermost corner of the café, where the boundary between books and nitro cold-brewed drinks met. It was past nine, and hardly a soul was ordering anything caffeinated at this hour, but no one told Toki to leave, so he stayed. No one told him off the second time he stumbled in, this time entering through the café side of the parlor, and once Toki grew familiar with the table nearest the glass pane with a view of street, decided he’d make the warm-smelling shop a permanent fixture of his rituals until politely asked to leave.

Winter had officially arrived, and though the weather paled in comparison to Norway’s frosty, white winters, Toki donned his fair share of layers as he stepped inside the café. He was hit with a warm, flavorful scent, and inhaled deeply as he glanced at the counter, spotting the backside of the tall barista busy draining old decaffeinated coffee into the sink, and walked to his usual spot. He passed old music posters of punk-rock bands, indie groups and displays stapled to the brim with “wanted” ads or requests for roomies, and located his seat tucked by the window.

There was a cup of coffee waiting for him when he arrived.

Once he set his guitar aside, Toki eyed the cup, picked it up, and wasn’t surprised that it was still warm. He also wasn’t surprised when he removed the foam protector and saw the same sloppy heart hurriedly etched by the barista when he took the order, and wasn’t too shocked when he brought the lip to his nostrils and inhaled that delectable scent of sweet white and bitter chocolate intermingling with one another. Toki glanced around the area, spotting an older gentleman reading the paper, two students engaged in vigorous studying, the barista sorting through the remaining biscuits and treats in the display rack, and another employee pushing a tray of books just outside the café’s perimeter.

This was the fourth time Toki was greeted with a cup of coffee, and the fourth time he missed out on figuring out who had ordered it for him. The first time was understandable: rehearsal ended earlier than normal after a string snapped and cut Skwisgaar’s hand, and when Toki snuck inside, had a long line of people asking for smoothies and precooked take away meals. With all the hulabaloo, Toki barely noticed when the barista slipped by his table, dropped off the cup, and told him “it’s on the house” before parting, giving Toki no time to respond. By the time Toki finished being so giddy over the surprise gift, had considered that he’d need to give himself a shot before drinking, so much time had passed and when he looked around the café. He couldn’t begin to sort through the crowds and determine who bought him the surprised drink. The second time was stupidity on his part, having forgotten the promise of checking the café because it had been so cold, and upon being granted the cup, was so thankful he only had the forethought to thank the barista before greedily using the hot cup to warm his tired, chilled spirits. The third was a bust because, like today, when Toki arrived the drink was already waiting for him. Toki thought about asking the barista since he was the one filling the orders, but because Toki knew the barista was friendly with the girl customers and coworkers, he was hesitant to ask for a name.

He rubbed the tip of his nose, enjoying the heated friction caused by plastic and chocolatey steam, then settled into his seat and took the first warm sip. The beverage was warm, but not as hot as it normally was when he arrived half-past eight. Whoever was buying him drinks either probably had to leave before or around nine.

Toki took another sip, smiling to himself and whomever his secret admirer might be.

What if it’s a dude, Toki pondered midway through a gulp that, despite the beverage’s lukewarm temperature, still managed to fill his chest with a comforting warmth. Whoever was buying him drinks, Toki wished they weren’t so shy. Bad enough Toki had a miserable time figuring out when a person was flirting with him. He finally had someone signaling their direct interest, and they were too afraid to approach little ol’ him for a small chat. Toki didn’t see why. He’d love for someone to sit down with him and let him in how they figured the combination of white and dark chocolate would be his favorite, or give their opinion on the ancient, but tasteful punk that played muted in the background of the café side of the shop. Of course, Toki would also love to know when they noticed him, developed a crush, and decided to help bring an end to his long, cold nights with something so sweet and thoughtful, but for now would settle for a simple “hello.”

He finished his drink quickly, enjoying the warmth while it lasted, and settled into his corner, eyeing the intersection and bus top near the corner. A few minutes passed, and something knocked gently against his table. Toki jolted, turned and saw the tall barista retract his hand to then point a finger at the neglected cup.

“Hey, man,” he greeted coolly, offering a short nod to Toki. “You good?”

Toki couldn’t help but notice the clock on the wall, saw it was thirteen minutes to closing, and the barista’s serene politeness was likely a passive means of trying to kick him out. He gave him a nervous nod in return, then reached for his guitar case’s strap as the barista picked up the cup.

“You headed out already?” the barista commented once Toki slung the case over his shoulder.

Toki made one glance at the barista. It only then dawned on him that his admirer might be one of the workers in the store. The urge to ask the barista filled his gut with butterflies, and when the older man asked if there was something on his mind, Toki shook his head, stood so quickly his case almost got trapped with the chair, and stumbled off.

Perhaps another night, Toki thought, then exited the café.

…

After a particularly good, but exhausting rehearsal, Toki arrived at the café just shy of 8:42 p.m. The last of the early Christmas shoppers were making their rounds on the book half of the store, and there were a few shoppers, mostly families, huddled around the dessert and snack display.

When he exited the bathroom, Toki was greeted to the surprising snap of peppermint mixed with his mocha, along with a decent helping of cracked peppermint and chocolate sprinkles coating the whipped top. There were quite the number of cute, friendly faces in the area, though Toki was helplessly lost at determining whether the occasional glance in his direction was a possible sign of interest. He does pick up on the heat of his cup, and when he slides the foam covering down, sees the same sloppy heart had smeared when he pressed and dragged the cardboard against it.

Maybe it is a worker, he thought, eyes wandering around, darting between hanging lightbulbs, tables covered with neglected magazines and leftover gift wrapping. Given the size of the bookstore, chances were it was one of the late-night shift workers. Toki’s eyes settled on a family leaving the café, holding some wrapped books, and felt his stomach tickle as he took another sip of his delicious drink. They could be seasonal, he worried, after dwelling on the thought a bit longer.

A sharp voice called out a name, and when Toki trend, saw the barista leaving the pick-up counter to start chatting with the young woman working alongside him. The thought to ask the barista arose once more, and this time Toki counted on the unspoken bond between men to hopefully work up the courage to ask the older gentleman. Sure, the guy was always so friendly with the girls, but that didn’t change the laws of nature, right? Guys looked out for each other, Toki concluded, and convinced himself to leave the seat and approach the line once it had shrunk to an acceptable wait.

Toki stared at a few delectable treats, unaware that he was up next until the barista called for him.

“Hey there,” he greeted, voice cheery and befitting for the season.

Toki nervously fidgeted once the man caught his attention. A sharp, brown eye settled on Toki. “Uhm, hellos,” he said, both amazed and discouraged that his confidence would vanish so quickly with a simple look.

The barista glanced at his coworker, sent her silent nod, then returned to the register. He rested both hands on the counter, and with a friendly countenance, asked, “Anything I can get ya, man?”

The question was friendly enough, and the man, despite his rough features, had a nice smile that drew Toki forward.

“Uhm, askually…” The barista gave a nod. Toki thought about how he overstayed his welcome the last time, and wondered if the barista remembered, or cared. Probably not, Toki thought, or hoped. Prayed. “I justs wanted…”

“We got an issue in the back.” The female coworker popped her head from a room, her thick hair bouncing as she learned against the opened doorway. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re missing a shipment of soy and coconut milk.”

The barista’s smile faded as he turned and met with the girl. “Are you kiddin’ me?” he asked, then promptly returned to Toki and, with a slightly strained smile, said, “Sorry, man. One second.”

Toki nervously fiddled with his hands as he accidentally listened in on the conversation, catching on the older man’s growing frustration, and the woman’s insistences that it wasn’t her fault, that he should have a word with the blond with the glasses, that this always happens when she takes a day off from work. Suddenly, the question seemed stupid. Suddenly, Toki realized he was about to ask a stranger something rather personal. An agreement that the barista ultimately partook in, but a sacred act that was still rather private. And what if the barista refused to share the name, or the female worker thought he was weird for asking? Was it weird to be asking in the first place?

The barista abruptly returned. “I’m sorry. Do you mind wait–”

Caught in the moment, and terrified of having nothing to say, Toki’s eyes settled on the older man’s rolled-up sleeves, and he frantically blurted, “I just wants to tells you I likes your tattoos. Really ams a cool sleeves. Well, goodnights.”

He about-faced before either worker could react to his rushed fray of words and slipped back into his seat, burying his face with a beanie as he inwardly swore at how terrible that went. There was a good chance he'd have to avoid visiting the café side of the store come next week, and quite possibly after that. Maybe for the rest of his life.

Toki slumped, rested his head on top of the table, and stared dejectedly at the cup. After a few minutes, he lifted his stare, catching the bright shimmer of the Christmas decorations slowly encroaching on the industrialized setting of the café.

It would be so nice to know who his admirer was before Christmas, he thought.

…

The following week Toki spent all day at work, doing his and picking up Murderface’s shift (the man complained of an upset stomach, though Toki had his doubts), and after a long day, dragged his heavy instrument down the nearly hour-long route of bus rides, only to have Pickles greet him at the front doors of their rented space to let him know that rehearsal was cancelled. Nathan’s dad suffered some minor injury, but the event left their singer so shaken that he departed early to visit his family. Skwisgaar called the house earlier, but Pickles had an inkling Murderface would be too lazy to call and update Toki on the news, and as such, waited here to drop him back off at his place.

After pulling two shifts, Toki welcomed the ride, stowed his guitar in the back, and reclined his seat as far back as he could, then rested on his side. Pickles jokingly warned him to sit his ass up while they passed through the gentrified part of the neighborhood, lest a cop pull them over. Once he did, Toki spotted the café and secondhand bookstore.

The light at the intersection turned red, and as Toki stared inside the shop, became painfully aware of how close the holidays were, and how badly he wanted to know who it was who was buying him drinks. Toki glanced at the red light. If he drove off with Pickles now, that unknown admirer would leave behind a gift that no one would drink. The thought left Toki uneasy, filling with a funny guilt that made little sense. It wasn’t as though he could prove his secret admirer was even around when he arrived…though, the longer he thought about it, the less that made sense as well.

The light turned green, and right as Pickles hit the gas, Toki fumbled in his seat, and requested that Pickles drop him off here and please take his guitar home for him.

“Ya sure about this?” Pickles asked a final time before reaching across his seat to shut the passenger door. “S’ gonna be real cold tonight.”

“Ams sure,” Toki said, smiling through chattering teeth at the already rapidly declining temperature. He rubbed his cold palms together, feeling the wrinkled twenty that Pickles so graciously provided him once Toki explained his story, and forced a still grin upon his taut, shivering face. “Thanks for helpins, Pickle.”

“No prob, dood,” the older man replied. “Do me a favor? They don’t show up by half-past eight, give me a call. I’ll take ya to a bar n’ we can drink through this.”

“Okays.”

Pickles revved the engine. “Don’t wait too long, Toki.”

“I won'ts,” Toki replied through shudders, but knew it would be at least three hours before he could fully determine who was buying him the drinks.

Toki managed the first hour well enough, visiting various nearby stores and distracting himself as best he could, but found himself leaving after only a few short minutes, constantly drawn to the used bookstore and café. By the second hour, it was getting uncomfortably snappish, and Toki could see each miserable exhale, and felt the sting of every other inhale. Knowing the risks, he huddled near the bookstore, waited for a group to enter, and joined them and entered through the bookstore half of the shop.

He hid amongst the puzzles and board games, which proved to do a better job at keeping his mind off the inevitable as he read through summaries, rules and guidebooks. Once it neared eight, and Toki knew his drink would be placed around that time, he edged closer, covering a portion of his face with a scarf, and his forehead with his beanie, hoping that it would be enough to obscure his identity as he peeked around a display of recycled bookmarks, gift cards and keychains and stared into the café portion of the store.

By now, the familiar rock music that lulled in the background was gone and replaced with slightly muted holiday melodies filled with the jingle of bells. Though he’d sequestered himself in the store for an hour, the sight of his empty table made him shiver. He checked the time with his phone, saw he had about fifteen minutes left before the estimated time of ordering, and backed himself into a row of classical science fiction.

He maneuvered through some rows, shifting his position and checking the table from another vantage point. He caught the female barista on her phone, checking a text while the line was empty. Toki waited a bit longer, picking up this year’s best sellers and pretending to show interest, when he overheard the male barista call for his partner to man the register.

Toki lifted his stare, saw the clock on the wall, and realized this was just about the right time for the order to be made. About this time, Nathan would normally tell everyone he was done for the night, and Toki would take his ten-minute walk over here and enjoy his surprise drink.

“Still just a heart, Hammersmith?”

“Whatever. Just ring it up for me.”

Toki lowered the magazine further as he watched the male barista mark up a cup and attend to his work. The girl snickered, leaned across the countertop and tapped her fingernails against the register to charge the man for his drink.

“Y’know, this would be a lot easier if you wrote your number,” she said, paying no mind as the older man cast her a roll of the eye before returning to the drink. “Or, better yet: you can just hand him the drink and tell him you’re interested.”

“Customers,” the man stiffly replied, and the younger of the two shook her head, faced the front, and greeted the two older women making their way towards the front counter.

Toki’s heart suddenly jumped into his throat as he caught the older man turning, reaching beneath the counter and grabbing a container of whipped cream for his newly finished drink. His interest grew as he focused in on the man, watching thin lips form an even finer line as he covered the top of the drink with a nice, bounteous amount of whipped cream. As he grabbed a small shaker filled with sprinkles, Toki fumbled. His heart trembled, remembering how gently the man had knocked on his table last week. Toki had assumed his smile and polite manner were nothing more than a nice way of trying to coax a customer out of a closing store. He didn’t consider how confused the older man had been when Toki suddenly left, and how apologetic he’d been last Thursday when his coworker called him aside.

Toki gave one final, distanced glance at the older man as he covered the lid to his drink, walked around the counter and carried it all the way to Toki’s specified table. As the man hovered over it, readjusted its placement so it was more aligned on the center, Toki fixated on the older man’s hair, lush and tied in a bun, and the right of his arm that lacked the same amount of ink as the left, but possessed a few decorative rings that took to Toki’s fancy. He saw the man’s weary, but fretful smile as he backed from the table, returned to the counter where his coworker signaled one final “really?” before replacing her sarcastic gleam with amore controlled appearance.

The drink rested upon the table. Toki swallowed, then shoved his hand deep into his jacket’s pocket. The wrinkled twenty crinkled in his shaking, sweating hands.

Without a care of how it might look, Toki left the aisle and walked straight into the café. The older man didn’t notice, but the woman sure did, and once her forest-green eyes set upon and read the determination in Toki’s eyes, stepped aside and vanished into the back of the store.

Toki knocked on the counter. “Hellos?”

“Abby, customer–” The man glanced over his lanky shoulder, spotted Toki at the counter, and stopped himself from saying more. He quickly removed himself from the sink, then greeted Toki with a charming, albeit less prepared, grin.

“Heys,” Toki said, smiling warmly at the man. His eyes dropped to the nametag situated on the man’s apron. “Magnus?”

The man lifted his head at the sound of his name. “What can I do for you, man?”

“Wants to order something nice,” Toki answered, English slipping and turning messy near the end as he yanked the twenty from his pocket. “Whats do you recommends?”

Magnus turned slightly, eyes shifting passed Toki to the drink he’d just made him.

“Oh, donts worry about that,” Toki replied before Magnus could say a word. “Ams not gonna wastes a free drinks!” If he could say a word. Toki figured the man, despite his rough contours and cool appearance, was as shy as he figured his secret admirer to be. If his position didn’t force him to remain quiet, the fear of public rejection most certainly would.

“Well…” the man cupped his large hands together, “We have a hot cider that’s pretty popular. A gingerbread flavored latte.”

“Which ones you likes the best?”

“The cider is nice,” Magnus answered calmly. “Especially on a cold night like this one. It’s not as sweet, though.”

“Sounds good. Gets me a mediums, please.” Toki watched as the man ringed up the price of the drink. He glanced at the dessert display and chewed in inner cheek. “What’s about snacks? Anythinks you likes?”

Magnus shrugged. “Cider goes well with the gingerbread stuff.”

“Ams the bread good?”

“It’s nice, yeah.”

Toki went ahead and ordered both the bread and gingerbread man and, upon Magnus’ suggestion, asked for the bread to be warmed before paying for his additional drink and snacks.

“Can I have a name for this order?” Magnus asked. His expression gave nothing away. Toki couldn’t tell if he was eager to learn his name, or dreading to hear it.

“Toki,” he answered back, and when Magnus joked and asked if Toki was going to share those treats or hoard them for himself for the night, Toki ignored him, just smiled and told him to please keep the change before heading off to the restroom to supply himself some insulin.

He hurried out a few minutes later, head still spinning from the interaction, but found his table as it normally was, empty and bearing the single cup. Toki rushed to it, took his seat and grabbed the warm cup into his anxious hands. He brought it close to him, but refrained from taking a sip, and instead patiently waited for his name to be called so he could pick up his new order. He fished through his pockets, pulled out a pen, and snatched up a nearby napkin from another table and hurriedly began scribbling his number across the slightly stained paper. He drew back, observed it, and frowned.

“Hey.”

Toki carefully folded the napkin and stowed it into his pocket. He looked up at Magnus holding two bags in one hand, the drink in his other.

“Oh, you didn’ts have to carries all of thats for me,” Toki said with a mild gasp.

“It’s no problem, man,” Magnus replied. He offered the morsels to Toki. After a short thanks from Toki, Magnus stepped back, but didn’t leave. Instead, he lingered near the table, eyes resting on the drink he had made some several minutes ago. “You sure you don’t want me to toss that?”

“Nopes, that ams for me to drinks,” Toki answered. He glanced down at his recently purchased meal and, without looking up, added, “this ams for somebody else. Someones specials.”

“Oh?” Magnus broke into a sly chuckle. “Lucky you.”

“Yeah,” Toki said aloud, feeling relieved right when he had said it. He glanced up at Magnus, catching the slight hurt in the older man’s good eye, and after a quick inhale, said with a slight stutter, “it ams for you.”

“What?”

Magnus’ voice was terribly soft. His expression yielded to whatever whims he had held within him for so long, and Toki saw the comment had caught him so off guard that he almost looked like he might run away at any moment. Though equally as nervous, Toki swallowed away any fear he had in him, and grinned at Magnus.

“I saws you makins this drinks for me,” he explained through slightly chattering teeth. God, he was nervous. He was probably just as terrified as Magnus was, but unlike the older man standing before him, hands fumbling and tugging his apron ins desperate please to keep busy an in control, Toki knew exactly what he was going to say now. “Thanks you for getting me drinks after rehearsals.”

Magnus played with his ponytail. “Ah, well…it’s no biggie.”

Blushing, Toki added. “Was hopin’ I could surprise you with a drinks, too?”

That soothed the nerves. Magnus dropped his arm, face darkening as his head sunk with the shaking appendage, but lifted after a quick exhale and exposed the flattery hidden underneath. “I appreciate that…Toki.”

Now cupping his drink, Toki asked. “When does you get offs work?”

“Not till half-past ten,” Magnus confessed with a low, but pleasing voice that Toki was sure he wouldn’t mind hearing more often. He watched Magnus check the clock, frowning. “You, uh, sure–”

“I can waits!” Toki announced with a hearty beam.

He grinned wide, watching and holding in a chuckle when Magnus took another step back, hands pressing against the back of his head as he fought to control the rising excitement building in him. Toki caught a glimpse of some additional tats he overlooked before, noticed the red gemstone glimmering as Magnus brought his hands down, and wondered more about the man who’d taken a liking to him since he had started visiting the store.

“Beens waitinks for a whiles to haves a friendly chats with yous,” Toki said, resting his blushing face into his palms. “What ams few minutes more?”

Magnus smiled back at him. “Sounds like a plan.”

#magtok #hammertooth #magnus hammersmith #toki wartooth #coffee shop #AU #ficlet ask thing #thank you #totally not betaed #or edited #but I'll fix it and publish later

43 notes · View notes