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masterwords · 3 years

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My Cup is Empty (PART FOUR)

Notes: Okay. First? I'M SO SORRY. This has been sitting in my drafts for months just...stewing. And it isn't getting any better and I don't know why I would expect it to? So...anyone who actually read this and was like, waiting for me to finish? I offer my humble apology and hope that this is a sufficient ending. I feel like it's just...not. It goes where I wanted it to go but the right words just kept escaping me. I can't apologize enough for taking so long without an update. (Yeah, I'm posting this at a weird time that no one will really ever see it anyway...I just..don't know what I'm doing right now. Meltdown.)

If you are new here and haven't read any of this (not surprising because it's taken me so damn long to update) I have linked the first three chapters for you. Also, for those of you who have forgotten this existed because it took so long... :)

Warnings: Anxiety, depression, PTSD, migraine, swearing

Word Count: 3279

Previously On: PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE

Brother, my cup is empty

And I haven't got a penny

For to buy no more whiskey

I have to go home

Walking back to the BAU, Derek and Aaron spoke in hushed tones about Gideon, how he looked, what he sounded like, what they thought. Spencer had decided to stay behind, he'd missed his mentor and though he had work to attend to, Aaron couldn't find it in him to pull the younger man away. He needed some time alone with Derek, anyway.

“Why'd you lie?” Derek asked finally, rounding the corner. He'd been sitting on it, searching for the right time, but there was no right time to accuse someone of lying. Aaron clenched his jaw tight.

“What good would it do him to know the truth?” he asked, stopping suddenly in his tracks. Derek paused and turned, stepping closer to Aaron until the space between them felt electrified. The buildings loomed high overhead, pigeons bouncing through the scraps of people's lunch at their feet.

“It's just not right, this is his team,” was Derek's cool reply and Aaron shrugged.

“In his absence, this is my team, and I didn't think it prudent to give him information he can't do anything with. Telling him we're struggling, that I'm struggling, isn't going to make him come back any faster and on the off chance it did...would he really be ready, or would he just be doing it out of guilt? It was my call, and I decided it was better if we just let it be.”

Derek regarded the answer briefly before accepting the logic, his reasoning as tactical and not simply deceptive or a selfish way to ensure no one thought he was weak, that he couldn't handle the job. While they stood, Aaron reached into his pocket and pulled out his sunglasses, sliding them on before they began walking again, this time in thoughtful silence. Each of them had things to say and neither quite knew how to say them.

“How's your head?” Derek asked, finally, holding the door open for his friend. Aaron looked down at his feet as he entered, slowing so Derek could catch up after letting other employees enter while he held the door.

“It's fine,” he said, and Derek just rolled his eyes, called him a liar and smiled. He didn't mind when Aaron lied about stupid things like that, things he could see plain as day, he could understand the need for self-preservation, at least between them. “It's been worse,” he rectified, after a moment. “I'll manage.”

“Or maybe you'll die,” Derek joked, pressing the elevator button, and Aaron smiled then. It was easy to smile with Derek.

“I should be so fortunate.”

Back at his office door, he felt an icy chill trickle down his spine – the door was closed, and he didn't remember doing it. He'd blacked out more than once over the last few days, but he was feeling relatively normal that day and knew he'd left his office open so JJ and Penelope could come and go as necessary while he was gone. He put his hand on the knob and slowly opened the door, peering through the slit to see Chief Strauss' figure seated beside his desk, talking with someone.

“Come in, Aaron,” she said, as if she were the welcoming committee for his own office. He opened the door the rest of the way with some hesitation to reveal Dave seated on the other side of the room, his jacket draped over his lap and briefcase at his feet. He removed his sunglasses, slipped them back into his pocket and blinked a few times to accustom himself to the blessed low light of the room. “Have a seat.”

He scoffed. He hadn't meant to, it just slipped out – the audacity of her telling him to have a seat in his own office was almost too much, even for him and his otherworldly patience. “May I ask why you're in my office?”

“Agent Rossi here,” she began, indicating Dave as if Aaron didn't know who he was. As if they hadn't worked together for years, become close friends, as if he hadn't shed a tear when Dave told him he was going to retire. Before she could continue, Dave cut her off and Aaron couldn't have been happier.

“I talked to Jason this morning, after our little...chat...the other night. I told him he needs to make a decision, he can't keep tiptoeing around the issue – is he coming back or not?”

Aaron sat down heavily in his seat, his stomach swirling viciously. “I just had lunch with him, he didn't mention anything.”

“He asked us to speak to you about it first, didn't want to say anything in front of Agents Morgan and Reid,” Strauss chimed in, forcing a small smile. “He says he'll be ready to come back soon, but he was very specific about one thing – he'll no longer serve as the Unit Chief. He would like you to take on that role permanently, with him serving as your lead.”

Aaron thought he might pass out. His head spun and he blinked a few times, tried to keep his features steady and calm but he thought he detected a shift in Dave's demeanor. He'd noticed. Dave always noticed. Aaron cleared his throat. “As of right now, if you accept, this is your department Agent Hotchner. Agent Gideon has not been cleared for field work yet but he is looking forward to it, and per your numerous requests we have submitted a requisition to the Director for at least one more Agent for the BAU, I'll keep you abreast of any developments. You're doing a great job, Aaron.” She paused there, softened her tone, hoped it sunk in. Somehow she didn't think he was really hearing her. “You may not feel that way right now, but there are a lot of very important people who have taken great interest in the things you're doing here.”

“Excuse me, I'm sorry to intrude,” JJ said, poking her head into Aaron's office sheepishly. She looked directly at him, avoiding the other two. “We have a case, an Amber Alert. We have to go.” Aaron nodded as she turned and scurried down the hall to collect the rest of the team, and he watched as Dave and Strauss left his office chatting, paying him no more mind. He felt sick, had no business flying, and yet he grabbed his bag from beneath his desk and locked up his office. What else was he supposed to do but go? The walk to the round table room wasn't far away and yet it felt like miles on legs about to buckle, still reeling from a promotion that didn't feel like much of a victory. It felt like a death sentence.

“Garcia, I hope you have a go bag, we're short-handed and are going to need you to come with us,” he muttered, glancing through the file JJ had handed them briefly, just enough to scan for details that told him this would have been a challenge even with a full team of seasoned profilers instead of a rag tag group of barely profilers. “The jet is ready to go.”

The ride on the jet didn't feel too long, they had so much to do to prepare for their arrival. Aaron sought a lull in conversation, some good opportunity to share with the team, his team, what had just happened but one never seemed to open up. He wasn't even sure how to approach it, if they'd be glad or if he'd find that they were ready to resign already and this was enough to send them over the edge. It was a distinct possibility that none of them wanted to work under him, one he thought reasonable. He was a stickler, hard nosed and quiet – there had been times he'd goofed around but it had been a while, and only Derek really knew that side of him. He thought about pulling Derek aside, just saying something to him first, like he owed the other man that much – but when? They landed in Florida without him saying a word and the case, thankfully, progressed quickly because of how much they'd been able to take care of en route.

The arguing started in the SUV, Aaron and Derek evenly matched in a spiteful back and forth over whose takedown plans were better. They'd been at eachother's throats for two days, almost no sleep between them. By the time they were at the house, Aaron had all but asserted the authority no one knew he had. He threw the SUV into park, jolting the passengers in the vehicle roughly, and leaped out. He turned to look back at Derek and Spencer, glancing at JJ only a moment before once again ordering them to stay back, to wait for backup. Derek huffed and stormed around the SUV angrily, refusing to watch Aaron enter the house by himself. They heard gunshots first, and without thinking Derek ran toward the house, listening to JJ and Spencer call for him, shouting to wait for backup but he wasn't going to do that, not when Aaron was inside and there were shots fired.

It had been a trap, he realized as soon as he walked in to utter silence. With a crack, he was knocked to the ground and drug to the basement, tossed down the stairs like a rag doll. It was a blitz attack, he hadn't seen it coming, and at the bottom of the stairs he saw Aaron lying motionless, his vest gone. There was no blood, he realized as the door slammed shut and locked at the top of the stairs. They were alone in the dark, and carefully, running his hands along the floor he crawled to where Aaron lay, careful hands running along the base of his spine, up toward his head until he heard his friend moan and try to roll over.

“Morgan?” Aaron rasped, and Derek nodded, as if Aaron could see him in the dark. He groaned as he helped Aaron move, roll over and sit up. They leaned against the cement wall, cold as ice against their backs and listened to their own ragged breathing echoing through the mildewy basement.

“You were supposed to wait...” Aaron hissed, and Derek let out an incredulous laugh. “Did backup come?”

“They're on their way,” was Derek's reply and his tone was clipped. “I heard gunshots, Hotch, what did you want me to do?”

“Wait for backup.”

“A couple of weeks as our interim Unit Chief and suddenly you're all about barking those orders...” his tone was mocking, irritated and Hotch squirmed where he sat on the floor. His back hurt, from his hips to his shoulder blades. It felt stiff, soft tissue bruised and tender where he leaned against the cement.

“Morgan, it isn't interim,” he muttered, struggling to stay sitting up straight. His vision swam and he shut his eyes, pressing his hand to the back of his head gingerly. Blood, sticky and black against his skin covered his fingers when he pulled them away from his matted hair. He grunted and, pulling his knees to his chest (a mistake, he soon realized, as his back protested the movement) he hung his head limp between them and took a few deep breaths to quell the rising nausea. “Gideon resigned as Unit Chief effective immediately. When he comes back he'll still be in a team lead role but...this is my team now.”

“What the fuck? When were you gonna say something?”

“Well,” Aaron grunted, letting loose a sardonic chuckle. “Ideally I wouldn't have chosen this moment but you backed me into a corner here.”

Derek sat in silence, rubbing at a growing pain in his shoulder. “So that's it then?”

The conversation was over as quickly as it had begun. Aaron opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the doors to the basement flying open, pools of sickly yellow light flooding the staircase, illuminating Spencer and JJ on their way down, guns raised before them.

“Both of you?” Spencer asked, rushing over to Hotch while JJ helped Derek to his feet. “BOTH of you? They got both of you.”

“Yeah, yeah kid...” Morgan groaned, hugging his arms around his aching chest. He knew he had at least one broken rib, breathing was torture. He'd never been thrown down a flight of stairs before and he was sure he never wanted to experience it again. “We get it.”

“Oh, you get it? Good. I'm glad. Because...” Spencer was irate, his voice had raised several octaves in his anger and he didn't even care that he was speaking to not one, but two superiors in that tone. They couldn't blame him.

“Reid, please,” Aaron begged, sagging against the wall. “Save it for the jet. Let me have it then, ok?”

“You both need to be checked out,” JJ insisted, and she walked away as soon as both of them, in unison, protested. She paid it no mind, walking up the stairs with a sly little grin, Spencer following behind her still muttering to himself. Aaron and Derek looked at each other for a moment, and then at the stairs that looked nearly impossible to both of them in their condition. They argued briefly over who would go up first until finally Derek began, Aaron right behind him, both leaning heavily against the railing and hoping against hope that its rotten, rickety wood didn't give out under their weight.

On the jet, Aaron found his way to the back and leaned against the wall, glad that his new headache was just sheer pain without all of the side effects of the migraine. It was just pure agony pouring out from the back of his head and down his neck, spreading through his shoulders. At least his back felt better cradled by the soft cushion, he could relax and give his muscles a break. He watched as everyone else made their way to seats, scattered throughout, no one close enough to talk without yelling. The case had been hard on everyone, and he was sure by the way everyone glanced at him that Derek had shared his news – he didn't mind that part, he hadn't wanted to say anything anyway. It didn't feel good and it didn't feel real, this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be able to go home to Haley and tell her the good news, celebrate even, but it didn't feel like anything to celebrate. How could he celebrate a promotion that came as a direct result of his friend and mentor having a breakdown? He was ambitious but he wasn't cruel, would have followed Gideon to the ends of the earth even without the hope of promotion. He felt sick and he was sure it had nothing to do with the pounding in his head.

“This seat taken?” Derek asked as he eased himself into the chair beside Aaron, stifling a groan when he felt the distinct grind of a broken rib at just the wrong movement. Aaron didn't answer, just watched him try to settle himself until he was comfortable. With some considerable effort, he leaned to the side and let his head rest against Aaron's shoulder, sighing. He had this way about him, this easy way of cooling off, letting things go. Aaron couldn't do it, but he envied it. “Don't shut me out.”

“I'm not,” Aaron began to protest, but he knew it wasn't true, so he stopped. He wouldn't lie to Derek, not now, and he hoped not ever. “I don't mean to.”

Silence fell over them as they sat, impossibly close, both considering the ways they'd failed that day. They'd almost blown the entire case bickering, ignoring warnings, they let their team down and if not for JJ and Spencer, more innocent people would have died. The weight of it sat on their shoulders, pressed them together, bled them dry.

“So things are changing. You're gonna be a helluva Unit Chief, Hotch...just don't forget we're a team. The five of us.”

Aaron nodded, he understood what Derek said and what he didn't say. What he didn't say was more important, hit him square in the chest, knocked the wind out of him. He didn't reply, but Derek knew what he was thinking and in the silence they came to an understanding – things were changing, but not yet. Not right this minute. They had a few hours left before reality sunk in, so Derek put his headphones on and closed his eyes while Aaron pressed in, head resting against Derek's now, and shut his eyes, listening to the beat of whatever it was Derek was playing. It didn't matter what it was. He had no idea and he preferred it that way, it was the rhythm that lulled him into a light sleep. They both knew it might be the last time they felt this comfortable, this close.

Walking in the door, he could feel life in the house again. He'd seen Haley's car, knew she was there, and there were lights on leading him up the stairs. She was in bed, not sleeping, just waiting for him. He walked slowly, his back stiff and painful, preparing himself for bed as well as his aching body would let him. A handful of ibuprofen, a glass of water and a good night's sleep. If he got all three he'd be golden, but he would settle for the first two.

“What happened?” she asked, and he whispered that he didn't want to talk about it, not tonight, he just wanted to lay beside her, they could talk in the morning. When morning came, she was pleased to find out that they were given the next two days off to recuperate from the case. They climbed out of bed slowly, late in the morning and ate breakfast together, talked about the case, about his promotion, about baby names, and he put all of her upcoming appointments into his calendar. He said he would try harder to make it to them and apologized so often that by the time he returned to work she felt hopeful and he was feeling less dread. They were smiling again.

He and Derek tried to patch things up, but there was tension there where it hadn't existed before, walls where there had been open fields. He began pushing Derek and Spencer together more, partnering them up until he'd removed himself almost entirely from the equation, quietly mourning the loss of his friendship in the privacy of his office. There were times he found himself glancing out the window, watching as Derek and Spencer joked and laughed and he wondered at the time that had passed since it had been he and Derek while the others sat up here and watched. Desks butted up next to one another, silly post-it notes and shared glances. It was a time that felt like it would stretch on forever, just he and Derek following Gideon all over the country, wherever the monsters drug them. All in the past now. There was a natural progression to these things, a momentum that he had no control over, and this was what he wanted. Strauss had said it, and while it had haunted him for weeks now, it was no longer a crushing weight. It may not have looked the way he'd thought, but by the time they were given the case in Seattle and told that it was time to pull Gideon back into the field, he was ready and he was sure.

This was his team.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #spencer reid #jason gideon #jennifer jj jareau

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rogueonestan · 3 years

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mistral

pairing: the mandalorian (din djarin) x reader

word count: 3.9k

summary: after taking solace from the harsh winds out, the sight in your home brings warmth to your skin.

a/n: this has been in my drafts for the past month or so, and after editing it a little bit to the prompt, i’m excited to finally publish another piece after such a long time, hope you enjoy it as much as i do. also this is for day 14 (cold) for @dindjarindiaries‘s dincember writing challenge!

convivencia masterlist | main masterlist

The sensation of the harsh winds nipping against your face force your teeth to chatter and deep breaths leave your lips as you quicken your pace back to your home. What was supposed to be a quick trip to the market quickly turned into a frenzied one with the sudden outbursts of winds suddenly whipping into town while you were admiring some of the local produce that was being sold by one of the vendors. The harsh winds began to dial down temporarily as you finished scrolling around the market. On your walk home, however, the harsh winds return stronger than ever. With the thin layer of clothing you’re currently wearing, it’s a fruitless effort to stay warm in the bitterness. The sensation of your fingertips can no longer be felt. You run your hands up and down your arms in a vain attempt to warm yourself up. Quickening your pace down the usual route you take to return home, the tip of your nose feels as cold as ice, along with your cheekbones as you continue to scurry home. You’re not sure how long you’ve been out in the bitter cold, no longer than a few minutes you assume, but that’s when you begin to see the familiar silhouette of your home. Sanctuary.

When you finally reach the front door of your home, the only sound you can hear over the harsh winds are the sounds of pots and pans clanging against each other. Furrowing your brows in confusion, you slowly open the front door as the loud noises you heard earlier only become louder. The warm sensation inside your home is a welcomed contrast from the harsh weather you’ve just escaped from. The numb sensation of your fingertips and the tip of your nose quickly begin to dissipate as you can feel your cheeks beginning to warm up to the new atmosphere. You begin to quickly rub your hands together when another set of loud noises can be heard from the kitchen. Walking towards the source of the noise, you’re about to call for your riduur when you suddenly hear him speaking to your son, “we want your buir to have a nice meal for when they come back,” who in response coos happily at his father. Even though you can’t see their interaction, only being able to see the back of your partner. Seeing how relaxed and laid back your riduur has been ever since you both gave up your bounty hunting lifestyle always eases your mind. Being able to not worry about anything never fails to put a smile on your face.

Determined to not disturb them, you quietly make your way into the kitchen where you get a better glance of the commotion and find your spouse struggling at the stove. You place your basket of purchases on the kitchen table and you’re about to approach your two boys when you suddenly hear Din let out a groan of pure frustration, one of his fists clenched at his side. With his back to you, you see Din’s head suddenly whip to his right to look at his son when he lets out a series of giggles, laughing at his father’s struggle.

Somehow, neither of them has been able to detect you. You use this to your advantage as you slowly begin to approach your family as you gently wrap your arms around your lover’s torso, smiling gently at him as you let your cheek rest against his back, “need some help?”

“No.” You feel one of his hands suddenly covering one of yours. The warm sensation of his hands continuing to warm your hand from the harsh winds from earlier.

You’re about to ask him what he’s cooking when something out of the corner of your eye catches your attention, “why is the baby on the counter?”

“I got lonely.” “I wasn’t even gone for that long.”

“Any time apart from you is too long.”

Scoffing, you shake your head in disbelief at your partner, “sap.”

You continue to observe the meal Din is cooking when suddenly the large pot on the stove begins to make a loud cracking noise. You hear your partner curse under his breath as he quickly attempts to remedy it. A sudden high pitch scream is heard and you immediately see your son is in distress. His ears lowering as he lets out another cry. You quickly drop your arms from around Din’s waist as you swoop up the baby in your arms and try to ease him, bouncing him up and down gently while softly reassuring him. You give a few pecks on the top of his head, softly scratching at his ears with your free hand. The blood-curling screams that filled the room just moments ago are now filled with streams of giggles. His laughter brings a smile to your face as your entire body begins to relax, a deep sigh escaping from your lips. You place your child in his high-chair at the table as you give his ears a few more scratches.

Once you see your son is completely calm from the chaos that just ensued, you give your riduur your undivided attention. After being his partner for years, you’ve been able to understand how he truly feels through his body language. You can tell Din is trying to calm himself by the frustrations of cooking with the rapid rising and fall of his chest, by the clenched fists at his side, his heavy breathing, his tensed shoulders. You run one of your hands up and down his back in a soothing manner. The repeated action automatically lures Din to a relaxed state. The tension in his shoulders immediately fades away as he leans further into your touch. You continue your soft touches until you’re completely certain that your partner is no longer tense. You repeat the question you asked him earlier, “are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“Cyar’ika, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You almost burnt down our home.” The only response you get from your partner is a low groan. Knowing how stressed your husband is, you decide not to push his buttons any further, only quietly observing him cook dinner. Another thing you noticed is that Din’s behavior continues to calm down the longer you stand next to his side, like it usually does. Wrapping both of your arms around his torso for the second time, you continue to quietly watch your riduur cook. The longer you watch him cook, the more you begin to notice something familiar about the food. You can’t exactly put your finger on it, but something about it reminds you of your childhood.

“Where did you learn how to cook this?” You ask.

“From here,” Din replies as he hands you an older model of a datapad. While scrolling through for a few moments, you finally realize where you’ve seen this meal before, “where did you get the recipe for my mother’s cooking?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, “we found it.” He says as he points between him and your child with the wooden spoon he’s using to stir the food.

“Where?” You try to remember as to how he could’ve come across something from your childhood when you suddenly remember about the box that lives underneath your bed. The box doesn’t contain much, only a few mementos from when you were younger on your home planet, including a holopad that contains recipes and a few knickknacks you collected from the various trips you made to the marketplace with your mother. With a soft smile across your face, a comfortable silence lingers in the air as you continue to quietly admire your partner’s efforts.

After handing Din back the datapad, you slump against your partner’s side as relaxation fills your body. You continue to offer him some help, but to no avail. Even with your multiple offers to help, you continue to see your riduur struggle greatly as he continues to cook.

Every once in a while, he’ll read the next step out loud from the holopad that lays on the counter next to him and immediately be confused. With his brows knitted, his lips frowning. As much as you hate seeing him struggle, the sight in front of you makes you smile. His bewilderment makes him even more adorable. As entertaining as it is to see him struggle, it also aches your heart because you know how to exactly make this meal because you’ve seen your mother prepare it for you on several occasions when you were a child.

You know that if you offer Din some help for the third time, he’ll just deny you once again. You’re not sure why though because whenever he catches you preparing dinner for the three of you, he’ll automatically wrap his arms around your waist and offer help, in which you’ll gladly accept. On the few occasions you catch him cooking dinner, you’ll also offer him some help, where he gladly accepts.

However, his constant denial for help is odd for you. So you voice your concerns.

“Why don’t you want my help?”

Din’s shoulders immediately tense up after hearing your question. After declining your offers for aid twice, he was hoping that you wouldn’t ask another time. His grip on the wooden spoon that’s currently stirring the stew immediately tightens. His breath hitches in his throat as there’s a tight feeling in his chest.

Even though Din’s gotten comfortable around you since you’ve been able to break down his beskar covered walls, something that no one else has been able to since that day on Aq Vetina, there are times where he still struggles with being completely vulnerable with you. His lips open and close multiple times, similar to a fish gasping for another breath. Seeing him struggle with putting these thoughts into words, you give his hand a soft yet reassuring squeeze, urging him to go on.

Nodding at you in gratitude, you nod back as he takes in a deep breath and deeply exhales. He begins to recount his abnormal behavior, “I just wanted to do something nice for you,” he begins as he looks into your eyes, which are filled with nothing but love. Trying not to overwhelm himself, he tightly squeezes your hand, grounding himself, his curls bouncing against his forehead, “but then the kid, he-“ he shakes the thought from his head, “you already do so much for this family- you always make sure that the kid and I are alright before you put yourself, you always make sure that everyone’s had enough to eat, you just- you’re always the one to make sure that our family is okay, and I just-“ His face twists in different directions trying to word how he feels.

“And you feel like you haven’t been able to properly care for your family?”

The look on his face turns into gratitude as he lets out a deep sigh of relief. He tightly squeezes your intertwined hands once again, shaking curls on top of his head once again, “you always know perfectly how I feel, riduur.”

You just shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire galaxy, “that’s what happens when you know your better half more than yourself.”

“You don’t nearly give yourself enough credit.”

A few incoherent sounds leave your lips, unsure of how to respond, but that’s okay because you hear babbling noises coming from the opposite side of the room. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your baby climbing out of his chair and slowly waddling towards his buirs. Once he reaches both of you, he gently tugs on the bottom of your pants, as he coos out of happiness and has the one of the biggest smiles you’ve seen on his face ever since the day you first met him.

Squeezing Din’s hand one final time, you release your grip on bend over to gingerly take him in his arms. Lightly bouncing him up and down in your arms, you look up at your partner with the biggest smile on your face. The same smile that’s plastered over your face is now rubbing on Din as a soft smile is covering his lips. The hand that once was enclasped with yours now is reaching out to touch his son. With the lightest touch, Din’s fingers scratch at the child’s ears, grazing his fingertips on the area he just scratched at. The baby lets out a series of giggles at the contact of his adoptive father. The sight before you instantly warms your heart.

The moment doesn’t last forever though, unfortunately, because Din suddenly remembers what he was doing before and turns his back on you to check on the food. Seeing with his preoccupation, you walk towards the kitchen table and place the child back in his seat before you have a seat yourself.

You continue to sit comfortably in your seat at the kitchen table. Every now and again, your adoptive son will let out a coo or a soft chuckle. A soft laugh will slip through your lips in response. You’re not sure how much time has passed, but your entire body is filled with content. Leaning forward, your arms reach out towards the child when you suddenly hear Din exclaim out of a combination of pure confusion and frustration for the umpteenth time since you’ve come back home.

“Mix in the- what?” After Din shooed you away, refusing to let you help and insisting he could do it on his own, it seems his frustrations are slowly beginning to come back. Giving your youngest boy a quick peck on the top of his head, you get up from your seat at the kitchen table to go check on your riduur to see what’s bothering him this time. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when you see him suddenly shouting at the datapad, “‘While mixing, slowly fold in the-’ What the kriff does that mean? Why? It’s stew! It shouldn’t be this difficult!” He shouts as he buries his face into his hands. You hear a slight whimper coming from behind you.

Finding the source, you see your son’s ears slowly lowering down, the wrinkles on his face becoming even more prominent by the distressed look on his face, clearly upset by his buir’s sudden outbreak. You squat down to get to the same level as your child, seeing more of the upset look that’s on his face. The wrinkles around his eyes and forehead being as prominent as ever, the usual smile on his face is replaced with a frown, and a tear threatening to come out of his left eye. The sight before you breaks your heart. You reach out towards his face, gently cupping his small cheek with your much larger palm. The familiar sensation of your caressing his cheek never fails to calm him down. With the pad of your thumb, you gently remove your palm from his cheek and wipe away at the tear that managed to escape from his eye. You continue to soothe your son by continually rubbing at his cheek that sits directly underneath where his tear had just escaped from. The calming sensation of you repeatedly rubbing your thumb across his cheek begins to calm him. Tears are no longer in his large eyes, his ears are beginning to raise back up, the frown that once was present is now present with a slight smile. The distressed look that was once now on his face is now replaced with his usual happy features.

Sighing heavily, you rise back up to your normal height and make your way towards Din, beginning to rub your hand up and down his back gently to try to ease him once again, using a similar tactic as when you were soothing your son moments ago. You continue to do so until you’re absolutely certain his frustrations have disappeared and his breathing has gone back to normal. Short, sharp breaths that once fell from his mouth are now replaced with long, calming breaths. The more relaxed Din got, the more he leaned into your touch.

You continue to stand by your partner’s side. Your body gets in such a relaxed state of standing by his side that you lean your head against his shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut in bliss. The heat coming from Din’s body and from the stove creates an endless amount of warmth for your now warm body; a nice contrast from the harsh winds that are currently beating against the windows. Inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of the food brings several moments from your childhood to your mind. Another wave of relaxation fills your body as the memories that filled your mind are now being replaced with memories with your new family. A lot of the memories from your childhood consisted of nights spending with your mother, helping her cook dinner, and now your nights with your clan of three are spent in a familiar fashion.

You’re brought out of your daze by the sensation of a hand placing itself on your hip, gently squeezing it. Your eyes flutter open, your head slightly removing itself from your lover’s shoulder and tilting up. When your eyes meet Din’s you see nothing but pure adoration in them. There’s a certain softness in them, you can’t pinpoint the exact feeling, but you can somehow feel it. An overwhelming sensation of pure love consumes your body as the soft smile that has appeared on your face is replicated on Din’s. You can’t put the feeling that’s in your chest into words, so rather, you show your partner how you feel by your actions, something that he has done ever since your relationship first took a romantic turn. With your arms still wrapped around his torso, gently squeezing it back in response.

Ever since you two decided to get away from the dangerous bounty hunter lifestyle, Din has gotten better at voicing his emotions about you, but there are times, times like right now, where words don’t need to be said. Before you met Din, you always expressed yourself with your words, but something you adapted from his behavior is to express yourself not with words, but by your actions. And you’re grateful for that because you don’t have the slightest clue of how to put the feeling that’s currently consuming your body into words.

With your arms still wrapped tightly around your lover’s arms, you begin to crane your neck to look behind you. The soft smile on your face begins to gradually increase as you admire the sight before you. Your son’s ears are slightly drooping, his head slightly leaning forward, his mouth slightly ajar as you hear soft snores escaping from his lips. A soft chuckle bubbles in your throat but never escapes. You continue to admire your son for a few more seconds before turning your attention back to your riduur, who you see is stirring the stew with his free hand as his other one is still secured around your waist.

You’re about to comment to Din about the state of your son when you see he’s stopping stirring the stew and lifts the wooden spoon from out of the large pot. Wordlessly, he brings the spoon close to your mouth, but not before he gently blows on it to cool it off. Leaning forward, you gently unwrap both of your arms from his waist and wrapping one of your hands around the wrist that’s offering you food, you eagerly take a bite of the stew. A moan escapes from your lips before you’re able to stop it. One of your hands covers your mouth as you take in how absolutely delicious the food is. You can’t remember the last time you had a home cooked meal that tasted so much like the food you would have on a daily basis back on your home planet.

A huge smile appears on your in pure delight from the meal your riduur just finished cooking for your aliit.

“How is it?” Din asks you with an eager look in his eyes.

With your hand still hovering over your mouth, you continue to chew on the mouthful of food you still have in your mouth. The smile on your face never fades away, you nod your head in a feverish manner and manage to mumble out an, “really good,” as you finish the mouthful of food. You repeat the same comment that just left your lips, “it’s really good, Din.” You say as the smile on your face grows so large that you’re sure that if it got any bigger, your face would split in half.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You confirm with a giddiness in your voice as you nod your head at him in another feverish manner, “it tastes exactly how my mom used to make it.”

Releasing a deep sigh, you see the tension in his shoulder quickly disappear. All of his hard work for the past hour or so finally paying off. Seeing the huge smile plastered on your face, Din knows he would do anything to make you and the kid happy. His forehead gently rests against yours as a sigh of relief escapes from his lips, the hot air fanning against your face.

The same overwhelming feeling of relaxation from earlier re enters your body. Inhaling deeply, you let out a sigh of content. Before either of you are able to say anything after the intimate moment, a sudden large gust of wind shakes the windows, making a very loud, and frankly, rather frightening sound. The calming feeling of the room is stripped as your baby suddenly wakes up from his short nap and lets out a whimper. The whimper catches both yours and Din’s attention. Slowly lifting his head, Din looks behind him and sees the distressed state of your adoptive son; the baby getting more and more uneasy as another large gust of wind slams against the windows.

Before Din can offer any help, you quickly unwrap your arm from your lover’s torso and make your way towards your son. With all of your attention trying to calm him down, you can’t see the look of admiration coming back onto Din’s face as you continue to calm down the upset baby. Repeatedly bouncing him up and down in your arms, his owl like eyes are still squinting in distress. You make your way towards your riduur. When you notice the way he’s looking at you, a quiet, “what” leaves your lips.

“Nothing.” You hum in response.

With the baby still in your arms, you continue to bounce him as you put him back in at his seat at the kitchen table. Crouching down to be at the same level as him, your child lets out a coo of happiness. His happy state reflects back on you as the smile on your face reppears; a soft chuckle also escapes from your lips. Before you’re able to look over at your partner, you see him approaching you with two bowls full of the food he just finished cooking. The smile on your face continues to increase as you take a seat next to your child, waiting to enjoy your dinner with the two people you care about most in the entire galaxy.

@unstoppableforcce

#its been so long since i wrote this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i did while writing it #let me know lol #dincember #my writing #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #also please let me know your thoughts or if anything implies that this isnt a gn!reader because i accidentally made that mistake once and #i dont want to make that mistake again

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xyliane · 4 years

Text

AUgust 7: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS 12 YEAR OLD

PROMPT THE SEVENTH: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS wait how can you childhood friends au killugon, I asked myself, forgetting that I had a whole-ass idea in my drafts already. this one’s a proper fic, too (minus editing cuz l o l it’s an AU writing challenge, not editing challenge). T, aged-up killugon, modern day au. ft ambiguous descriptions of social media, alluka, kalluto, and leorio in killua’s corner, and zushi and spinner in gon’s, brief discussion of getting plastered and dealing with a hangover. 5000 words.

0o0o0o0o0

The first sign that today is going to be an absolutely terrible day, is when Killua wakes up with a hangover.

This does not happen. Killua can count on one hand the number of times he’s gotten so drunk he’s had a hangover, and most of them are the fault of his little siblings. Little siblings who are now living together, whose couch he is currently painfully existing upon, half too hot and his toes way too cold. And the couch is too soft, an old secondhand thing he’d helped Alluka grapple up the stairs months ago after they found it outside an old dorm. He makes a notch in his very sore brain to blame the current situation on them. Kalluto might be kind enough to let a drunk big brother crash with them, but Alluka has a devious streak a mile wide.

Yeah. This is definitely their fault.

One eye slowly creaks open, surveying his surroundings through blurry vision. Nothing out of the ordinary here. He’s in the pajamas he’s left with Alluka forever ago, curled up under an old blanket he gave her for Nanika’s birthday. It’s covered in the Matrix code, all green letters on black wool. It barely covers him from chest to knees, which explains the cold toes.

Sunlight flickers through the curtains, cheerful and bright, and Killua pulls the blanket over his face. He’ll take cold toes over being blinded by his headache.

The second sign that today is going to be an absolutely terrible day, is when a noise like a chainsaw burrowing through a marshmallow erupts from his phone buzzing on the coffee table, just barely out of reach.

Killua attempts to bury himself under the blanket. He’s not dealing with work today.

And then he remembers: He doesn’t have work. Work can’t bother him today. Not just because it’s a weekend—work never respected the sanctity of weekends, no matter that he was at least partially in charge and used to have a fancy degree hanging on his wall. He doesn’t have work anymore. Killua quit.

Which, well. That explains the hangover.

He’s still blaming his siblings.

His phone buzzes loud enough to break the sound barrier, and Killua decides, fuck it. He doesn’t have anything to lose. If it’s the-place-formerly-known-as-work, he can delete everything. If it’s Mom or Father, he can definitely delete everything. And maybe it’s a friendly person, congratulating him on giving up a job that for anyone else would have been an absolute money-making dream. He’ll delete those too.

It takes a few tries to unlock his phone, and it unfortunately involves opening his eyes, squinting against the glaring light of the screen. But once he does, he frowns. Maybe he’s seeing double. Or a hundredfold. Because he should not have this many notifications.

awwww cute, i hope u 2 find each other! the top one says. It has several hundred likes. Why is it in his notifications?

Scrolling down reveals that it’s not an anomaly.

wtf man how can you find a TWELVE YEAR OLD from FIFTEEN YEARS AGO.

Me and my mom went on a cruise around there once, it was really pretty!

this is so sweet T__T maybe this is him?

And then another hundred photos of brown-skinned men with varying degrees of shirt-wearing, all black haired and most of them buff in very appealing ways and all of them beaming at Killua.

“What the fuck,” Killua croaks as he scrolls through all of the images and messages. Maybe this is a dream. A really weird, hangover-induced dream about how little of a social life he has, that his phone is possessed by someone else’s. A warning of sorts, that he should never have installed any social media on his phone ever, not even for hookups.

The reason for all the notifications lies at the top of his own page. Just a few sentences, all-caps, with an image of an old crinkled photo of two boys on a tropical beach, grinning at the camera. Killua sees himself, white curly hair flying in all directions and pale skin sunburned and ruddy with the briny wind, happier than Killua can ever remember being. Next to him, one arm slung around his shoulders and the other holding a bucket full of seashells, is a brown-skinned boy with freckles dancing across his nose and the tops of his shoulders, brown eyes wide and laughing and black hair thick and spiked from some mix of wind and seawater and natural gravity defiance.

He didn’t know he still had this photo. It had followed him from childhood all the way through grad school, a carefully guarded keepsake hidden away from the watchful eyes of his parents and Illumi, before ending up in a box or a bag at some point in the last few years. Part of Killua thought he’d lost it in the move. He barely remembers much about being twelve, about the cruise he’d been forcibly dragged on. But he remembers…

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY? yells the caption. WE WERE BEST FRIENDS FOR A WEEK WHEN I GOT DRAGGED ON A CRUISE BY MY ASSHOLE PARENTS. HE WAS 12 ON WHALE ISLAND 15 YEARS AGO. IF FOUND, DM IMMEDIATELY.

“Gon,” Killua breathes.

He gathers himself, wrapping the blanket around his head in a feeble protection against the morning, and lurches over to Alluka’s room.

He gets to bang on her door three times, confused spite winning out over his own pounding headache, before Kalluto appears out of their room, blinking blearily at Killua. “Shut up.”

Killua kicks Alluka’s door for good measure, and brandishes his phone in front of him like a weapon. “Not until you explain what the hell this is doing on the internet.”

Kalluto pales, then flushes, then pales again. “Oh. Um.”

At that, Alluka creaks her door open, guilty blue eyes far too awake for how close to noon it is. Killua kind of wants to kill her on principle alone. If he has to be hungover, so does everyone else.

“Explain,” he grinds out through his teeth.

The third and final sign that today is going to be an absolutely terrible day, is when Alluka puts on her most winning smile, the kind she uses to ward off angry customers and idiotic faux-academics on the internet. “Congratulations, Brother! I might have made you go viral.”

Killua throws his phone at her.

—————

Today’s going to be a good day, Gon decides. He’s been in the forests of East Gorteau for the better part of a month, which normally isn’t so bad. But this group has been…They’re nice enough, when Gon’s not spending half of his time explaining that, no, that species of plant does not make a good stew, and no, that species is endangered please don’t hunt them, and yes Gon is sure he doesn’t date his clients even after the hike, and no the reason the tent fell over again is because it wasn’t properly set up in the first place—

All of Aunt Mito’s complaints about tourists on Whale Island make so much more sense, now that Gon’s leading backwoods hikes.

But last night had been fun! Spinner had met the group at a pre-set campsite not far from their pickup so Gon hadn’t had to work the whole night, and he could relax with his friend over good food, more alcohol than he probably should have drunk, and not having to explain to Mrs. Yuldvin the difference between marijuana, buckeye, and poison oak again. Spinner had even taken care of the fire, although she had left him to rescue the Podomos siblings from the ruins of their tent with nothing more than a smirk and a wave. Nevertheless, Gon smiled through his headache all morning, because soon he’ll be home, and he can sleep.

Zushi is waiting in the parking lot once Gon’s done packing up the last of the gear and saying goodbye to Spinner, jeep idling while he flicks through his phone, thick eyebrows drawn together in increasing concern. He doesn’t even look up until Gon drops his pack onto the hood of the car, and he jolts so badly in surprise that he tosses his phone in the air.

“Are you okay?” Gon asks, and tries to peek at the screen.

Zushi pulls it up and away, a frantic look in his eyes. It won’t really keep Gon from seeing what’s happening, not if he wants to, but Zushi’s height is enough of a deterrent to make it hard. “You were gone way too long,” he says.

Gon leans against the hot metal of Zushi’s car. It wasn’t an unusual length for a trip, not really—this backcountry needs the length to be able to see and understand the region. Not to mention the Small Billed Swan preservation society keeping the whole place locked down except to authorized guides and trekkers. Zushi knows this. They’ve been roommates long enough that this isn’t even the longest time Gon’s been gone.

“You knew I’d be gone til today,” Gon says.

“Yeah, but…” Zushi’s eyebrows descend even further, scrunching his whole face up in worry. “You haven’t checked your phone, right?”

“No?” Even if he did have cell service, Gon never brings his own phone. He borrows Kite’s satellite phone, because it is more reliable and doesn’t need to be charged constantly.

“Okay. Well.” Zushi takes a deep breath, then another, one of Wing’s old meditation techniques. Despite his exhaustion and single-minded determination to sink into a real bed and sleep for a week, Gon feels a minor pang of worry. On breath three, he unlocks his phone and turns it towards Gon. “You’re a meme.”

On Zushi’s screen is a photo Gon can’t ever forget about. Backed by Whale Island’s sunbleached white beaches and the humid brilliant colors of summer, Gon sees himself—twelve, smiling from ear to ear, hair a mess from swimming and his shirt practically covered in sand from digging up all the seashells in his bucket. He’s got an arm around another boy, who’s caught mid-laugh so his blue eyes burn the same color as the sky, white curls even messier than Gon’s hair. They look like they’ve known each other their whole lives, like they’d still be best friends even if they haven’t seen or spoken to each other since the photo was taken.

Gon hopes Killua thinks so, too.

He cradles the phone in his hand, carefully zooming in on their faces and the errant crinkles visible through the photo. His own faded copy is in a drawer, having survived a whole trip around the world and countless apartment jumps. This one looks just as well cared for, in its own way.

“That…is you, right?” Zushi asks carefully. “Because Wing was asking, and half of Kite’s guide company is yelling about it on your social media page that you don’t even use, and now people are messaging me, and they’re saying the weirdest things, and the post is from last week, so—”

“It’s Killua,” Gon says. A smile spreads across his face, a mirror to the one he’d had when he was twelve. “That’s Killua!”

“Who?” the others ask, but Gon isn’t listening.

He spins, frantically searching his pockets for his phone. “Spinner, can you do me a favor?”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

Gon knew today was going to be a good day.

—————

It’s been a week, and Killua has quit all social media forever.

The steady buzz of his phone informing the apartment of his notifications is not his problem. Alluka’s the one who decided to hack into his phone and post something to his old public account, the one he mostly uses for photos of cats and complaining about terrible business precedents. He hasn’t posted much since school, and if anything, it should have simply vanished into the void of the internet.

He finds the culprit fairly quickly, and for once it’s not his sister’s moderate but dedicated video following.

“Old man, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Leorio lounges in Alluka and Kalluto’s living room, freshly out of his scrubs and looking pleased as all hell. “I just reblogged a fun post from my friend,” he says somewhat defensively. “You were a cute kid, Killua. What happened?”

Killua feels a growl creep up his throat. “You can’t just do that,” he snaps.

“It’s not my fault the people like my well-coiffed but rugged appearance and dedication to social justice in medicine.”

“You have 500,000 followers because you made a joke post two years ago, and some authorized user reblogged it five times. It has nothing to do with your ugly mug.” If Killua squints and plugs his ears, he can even see why people think Leorio’s attractive or whatever: tan skin, lean but strong as hell, actually takes care of his hair, not to mention a damn good doctor with one of the most prestigious institutions in Yorknew who spends most of his free time running health clinics in impoverished neighborhoods. That’s all swell. But then he starts talking, and Killua has no idea where the off button is.

Leorio spreads a hand out, gesturing vaguely with the glass of iced tea that he’d helped himself to out of Alluka’s stash. “It has everything to do with my ‘ugly mug,’” he says. “Which is why I used my powers for good and spread your post. Don’t you want to find him?”

“Not like this!”

“You were not going to find him at all,” Kalluto’s quiet voice pipes up from the kitchen. They have night classes tonight, but Killua has a feeling that even if they were supposed to be attending their Yorknew Uni lectures, they would still be here making Killua’s life worse. “You’ve had that picture for years, and you did not even try to look.”

Leorio gives him a judgmental look over the tops of his stupid tiny glasses. “You haven’t?”

It would be a losing game to bury his burning face in one of the throw pillows, so Killua does his best to cross his arms over his chest and glower instead. “I…tried.”

“And?”

“I don’t even know his last name!” Killua splutters. “I didn’t have his number or where he was from, other than his mom worked on the ship. And that cruiseline went bankrupt and liquidated everything before I could get out of the house, so I couldn’t even look that up.”

Kalluto crosses over from the kitchen and perches like a sweatshirt-wearing crow on the coffee table, their blue eyes carefully neutral under straight black bangs. “Alluka and Nanika would have helped. Or even Milluki, if you had explained the situation.”

“I was eighteen, okay? I just left home, and our parents were still being…shit, themselves, I guess.” He hadn’t even considered asking for help. Then again, he’d tried the moment he could, that first summer of undergrad where he didn’t have to come home and Illumi couldn’t spend half his time breathing down the back of Killua’s neck. He had a general idea of where they’d gone, maps of islands scurried away in the closet with the old photo and a bag full of seashells Gon had given him as a going-away present.

They’d been friends for a week, in the whirlwind way that only kids can be. The cruise ship was massive, and Killua’s parents were in meetings half the time and playing nice with the other rich people on board the other half. Killua had been bored witless, and Gon was everything he couldn’t have possibly imagined: encouraging Killua to go exploring, to stealing food from the kitchens, making him help clean up the decks, playing cards with the deckhands. Sneaking off the boat to visit an island without Killua’s parents while the ship was docked, scrambling over the burning hot sands and dashing through the jungle, diving into the waves fully clothed and competing to see who could find the biggest prettiest shells. Gon’d been Killua’s first friend, his first crush, his first…a lot of firsts.

Then the cruise had ended, and Killua forgot to give Gon his phone number. His address. Anything. They’d been so swept up in being friends, being best friends, it had seemed impossible that they would never see each other again.

Does Gon even remember? Why should he, when Killua hasn’t contacted him? Would they even be friends anymore?

Maybe he hadn’t searched hard enough. But part of Killua thinks he shouldn’t have tried at all.

The phone buzzes loudly, and Killua tries not to flinch.

“Hey, Killua. It’s okay.” Leorio leans forward, hands clasped over his too-long limbs and expression gentle. “If you want me to delete it, I will. Not sure I can help with the viral part of things, except maybe go through your messages and delete the gross ones, or at least find the weirdest ones for you to laugh at later.”

“Alluka and I have been doing this already,” Kalluto says, their posture a little too protective for Killua’s raw nerves at this point. “But perhaps you have some suggestions for what to do next, Dr. Paladiknight?”

Leorio smiles sympathetically. “Don’t read the comments? That said, most of your comments have been much more positive than anything I usually post. The masses seem to be genuinely rooting for you, kid.”

“I have only had to delete a dozen lewd messages for you this morning,” Kalluto adds, not mentioning the hundred or so that Alluka took care of yesterday.

Killua’s traitorous phone buzzes again, and that’s it. Time to bury himself in a pillow. Killua flops onto the couch, narrowly missing Leorio, and does his best to burrow into the cushions. “That’s just great,” he says into the fabric.

A comforting hand rubs against his hair, messing up the curls for a moment, and Killua refuses to admit that it’s nice, that he has friends like Leorio who even bother to care. “It could be worse. You could be dealing with this while still working a soul-sucking job making more money than most of us will see in our lifetimes, in exchange for giving up all of your morals.”

Killua groans loudly. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“You’re gonna need to do something, Killua! And hey, I might be able to set something up with my—”

“I already told you, no.”

“But it’s what you’re good at. And you wouldn’t be fucking people over to do it.”

“No.”

“Just listen for one—”

Killua lifts his head enough to glare as murderously as he can at Leorio. It must work at least a little, because the doctor shuts up.

Meanwhile, Kalluto is scrolling through Killua’s phone, poking at the screen occasionally. In the awkward silence, their sharp gasp is loud enough to shatter a window, and they hurriedly shove the phone in the pocket of their oversized sweatshirt.

Leorio raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

Kalluto squeezes their eyes shut for a moment, then carefully places the phone on the coffee table, screen pointed innocently at the ceiling. “You will want to look at this one, Brother.”

“This isn’t another erotic sandcastle is it?” he says.

Kalluto shakes their head, and Killua’s stomach lurches up his throat. Alluka has been the one excited about this whole thing. But Kalluto, as reserved as they are, is a massive romantic. The whole thing might be Alluka’s fault, but Killua knows it’s Kalluto who almost lets themselves believe it’ll work. Despite all of the false positives, the people who send messages that don’t sound right or photos that have the wrong smile.

Killua doesn’t want to hope. It can’t possibly be Gon. But his hands shake nonetheless as he unlocks his phone and finds a new message in his DMs.

It’s not from Gon.

Instead, someone with the icon of a small-billed white swan in a soft small-billed hat and a handle of @flymypretties has sent a photo of a brown-skinned man with spiky black hair absolutely covered in dirt and grime. He’s waving at the camera, a backpacking bag propped against his shoulder and the widest smile Killua has ever seen beaming straight through the screen and into his chest. Next to him and half out of frame, a tall tanned man with massive black eyebrows and a tank top showing off an impressive amount of muscle has his head in his hands. Killua feels a sharp stab of sympathy, somewhere buried beneath the racing of his heart.

look im sorry about this but this idiot can’t find his phone and we r kind of in the middle of nowhere so reception’s shit. he wants to know if you admit he found the biggest seashell on the beach, whatever that means.

For a long, long moment—seconds? minutes maybe?—Killua can do nothing but stare at the screen of his phone. Leorio and Kalluto both look at him with a mix of curiosity and worry, Kalluto starting to slowly reach for the phone.

In a completely childish protective moment, Killua grabs it against his chest, like the image will vanish if he doesn’t keep it close.

“Is it…?” Leorio asks.

Killua swallows heavily, trying to think around the roaring of the ocean in his ears. “I think so,” he says faintly.

Kalluto’s eyes widen, and they spin on their heels towards their room. “I’m calling Alluka!”

—————

“Has he responded?”

“No!”

“…what about now?”

Spinner throws her hands in the air so violently that her hat falls off. “For god’s sake, Gon, it’s been an hour, you don’t even have your phone, and you still need to go home.”

Gon huffs and pouts. They’re still in the parking lot over an hour after the rest of the trekking group has left, and all the exhaustion that had settled into Gon’s body from the tour has been turned into a jittery energy that keeps trying to leak out from under his skin. He wants to go home immediately and dig out his copy of the photo, rub out the old fingerprints he and Aunt Mito have left on it over the years. He wants to find his phone and message Killua directly. He wants to wait right here until Killua responds, no matter how long it takes.

He knows it’s childish, to be this selfish. Spinner has work to do, work that she already put on hold to help with the last day of the tour. Kite probably will want to know what’s happening, or at least why his lead guide and his chief guide organizer have been stuck in a parking lot. And Gon can practically feel Zushi’s obsessive scrolling through social media, frantically trying to navigate Gon’s feeds without actually having access.

Gon needs to find his phone.

“Spinner, what if—”

It’s not that Spinner’s a large woman. Out of the three people standing in the parking lot, Zushi’s far and away the strongest, even if he is about as threatening as a large, muscular teddy bear. And Gon has only packed on weight and muscle over his years of backpacking around the wilderness, no matter that he’s not super tall. But Spinner goes for longer, harder treks on her own than anyone but Kite, and she packs in her own climbing gear on top of that, so when she tosses Gon into the back of Zushi’s jeep, he flies.

“Zushi,” she says in a low exhausted snarl, and he jumps right off the hood of his car. Gon probably would have felt bad for him, if everything wasn’t spinning. “If you do not take your roommate home, I am not responsible for the consequences.”

“What if you hear back?” Gon groans around the aches in his side.

Spinner rolls her eyes, and Gon knows she’s just tired. “I’ll let you know.”

“But what if my phone’s gone? What will I do if someone stole it, or if I can’t—”

“I’ll call you go home already,” she says, and slams the door shut on his face.

For a long moment, the only sound is Spinner storming away, boots thudding heavily in the dirt until her car door slams.

The jeep shifts slightly as Zushi quietly lowers himself into the driver’s seat and puts the key into the ignition. Gon wants to tell him to follow Spinner, so she can yell out the window as soon as Killua gets back to her. But Zushi looks about ready to bolt. So Gon slumps back in the seat, the rumble of tires crunching through gravel making his already jittery nerves shake.

A small voice that sounds a lot like Kite tells Gon that it’s better to wait, that it will be easier to have a conversation and determine if this really is Killua after a rest and a shower.

Gon doesn’t want that, though. He wants…

It’s been a long time since he was on Whale Island. Longer still since he saw Killua. That doesn’t mean he stopped thinking about either of them, during the quiet moments out under the stars. They’re part of him, like his lungs are part of him—essential and irreplaceable, buried so far inside that removing them would change him irrevocably.

What is Killua like now? Is Gon just as important to him as he is to Gon? He has to be. Right?

They make it home without saying anything else. Gon floats in and out between bone-deep weariness and electric sparks of nervous joy, and Zushi flinches every time Gon jolts himself from one to the other.

“Hey, are you…I mean, maybe not okay, but.”

Gon lifts his chin up sharply at the sound of his roommate’s voice, and notices the familiar apartment complex in front of him. Oh, they’re home. “I’m good,” he says, and grins.

“Sure,” Zushi says like he doesn’t believe Gon.

A dubious silence stretches out between them as they gather the rest of the gear, dropping it in a heap on the sidewalk. “You were kids, though,” Zushi finally says.

Gon shrugs and slams the door shut hard enough to make the vehicle rattle. “I didn’t forget. So I don’t think Killua would, either.”

Zushi’s eyebrows wrinkle on each other, like they can’t decide whether to go up or down and settle on some combination of the two. “What if he did?”

“He didn’t,” Gon says, more sure of that than anything else in his life.

Zushi’s eyebrows dance again, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Between Gon’s camping gear and Zushi’s leftover practice pads, it takes longer than Gon’s excitement can take to get everything settled enough to look for his phone. Well, Gon would have liked to look for his phone, but Zushi makes a pointed look at the shower. There are only so many places the phone could be in the whole apartment, after all.

Gon’s just drying off when Zushi knocks on the door. “I found it, but it’s dead,” he says, voice muffled.

“Then charge it!” Gon shouts. After a moment, he adds, quieter and less snappishly, “Please?”

A faint laugh echoes through the apartment.

By the time Gon can make himself a very early dinner of whatever he could grab out of the cabinets without thinking, the phone is charged enough to turn on. Sure enough, there are a wide variety of messages, mostly from Kite’s groupchat asking about the viral post. A few are from former hikers, people who Gon liked enough to share contact info, offering to see if they can get in touch. There are even a few—okay, how did they get ahold of his old social media page? It’s practically defunct, since Gon’s never had a phone capable of more than the most basic apps. And those are…

It’s flattering in a way, but Gon’s not really into that. Or them.

Zushi catches sight of the grimace, and takes one look over Gon’s shoulder before turning beet red.

By the time he’s gone through and deleted the vast majority of what had been filling up his phone, there’s still no message from Spinner, and nothing at all from Killua. Gon sighs and lies his head down on the table with a heavy thunk.

The other chair scrapes heavily along the tiles as Zushi sits, a mug of coffee in his hands. “What will you do? When he messages you, I mean.”

When, not if, an unexpected certainty coming from Zushi. Gon has the best friends in the world. “Talk to him,” Gon says. “It’s only been fifteen years, right? We promised we’d be friends forever.”

“A lot changes in fifteen years,” Zushi says.

“Not that.”

“Then why didn’t you look for him?”

Gon frowns. It had taken a long, long time, but Aunt Mito managed to track down the cruise captain the last time they were in port, tracing through old charters until the right names came up. But when she’d called them up, she’d been met with stonewall after stonewall, pleasant-sounding voices insisting in no uncertain terms that she would never speak with a member of Killua’s family, let alone let her son speak to his friend. By the time Gon was old enough to look himself, he found nothing but a mansion full of people whose eyes matched Killua’s in everything except for his warmth, who refused to even acknowledge Gon’s presence except to throw him out.

That had been years ago. It’s not that Gon stopped looking. Not exactly.

“I did, but I—” Gon starts to say, but his phone buzzes violently against the table, and they both jump out of their chairs.

“Is it—?” Zushi asks, breath in his throat.

It’s a message from Spinner. you owe me big time, kid, she says, followed by a phone number.

Gon rips his phone off the cable, a wide smile spreading across his face. “It is,” he says, and dials Killua.

—————

bzz bzz—

bzz b—

“H-hello?”

“Killua! Hi!”

“…Gon? Is that—It’s really…?”

“Killua, it’s you, I thought I’d never—”

“I did find the biggest seashell, and you know it.”

A breath, sharp and astonished. “The blue and white one, with green lines.”

“I found it, and I gave it to you.”

“I still have it.”

A snort of amusement, slightly damp. “I know. You promised you’d keep it.”

“I did. And I promised—”

“That we’d be friends forever.”

A laugh, delighted and teary at the same time. “I knew you remembered.”

“I did promise you that I would.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

(AUgust prompts)

#AUgust2020 #hunter x hunter #hxh #killugon #gon freecss #killua zoldyck #alluka zoldyck #kalluto zoldyck #leorio paladiknight #zushi #spinner clow #gone viral au #fluff #and then killua visits gon and they get together and everything is lovely and killua finally takes leorio up on his offer the end #thanks tumblr for fucking up my tag for this whole challenge #my writing

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sternbagel · 3 years

Text

Inspired by the wonderful OC lore that @charlotte-balfours-garden wrote and posted, I decided to finish this piece that’s been sitting in my drafts for months about my own RDR OC, visual references here!

Note: This takes place in canon, Chapter 3, and while everyone calls her Alberta Taylor at this point, it’s not her real name, just something she’s been going by for years because of something in her past. Professionally, she’s a bounty hunter, but has dabbled in other things.

Read This First

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, at least the one thing today that hasn’t been surprising is Arthur finding Al has dragged a chair over to his tent to read, one leg propped up on the chest at the end of his cot. Sometimes she’ll set up there to get ample shade from the sun, and according to her, the chest is the perfect foot rest height.

“Afternoon, Arthur,” she greets lazily as she turns the page.

“Miss Taylor. Comfortable?”

“Sure.” She cuts her eyes up at him from under the brim of her hat, seemingly just to give him a greeting glance and smile, but when she spots the shiny new accessory pinned to his vest, her head raises higher. “You steal that off a dead lawman or somethin’?”

And it begins, Arthur thinks with a snort. “No, Dutch—” he waves an arm in the direction he came from, though Dutch has long ago left that area—“got us ingratiated with the local sheriff, so now we’re honorary deputies.”

“Was Sheriff Gray drunk?”

That’s surprising. They only met the sheriff yesterday, and he’s not sure the full story of their encounter has been relayed to the rest of camp, just the orders not to cause any trouble. “How’d you know his name?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes that most likely, it was Hosea. Those two are close.

She answers with a cavalier shrug before he can say anything. “I’ve been here before. Once. Didn’t stay long.”

Arthur takes the bait she leaves out. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s Lemoyne. I don’t spend very long here if I can help it. But first time I got to Rhodes lookin’ for bounty posters, Sheriff Gray was puking in the bushes. Somehow he managed to get out that they do all the bounty hunting themselves. No reason to go back.”

“Well, that’s pretty much how I found him when I went lookin’ for Dutch and Bill.”

“Figures,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Not that I really care, but where is Bill? Didn’t see him come back with y’all. Still with the Sheriff, ingratiating himself?” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression off him, but I wasn—”

Arthur holds up a hand and shakes his own head with a smirk. “No, no, the Grays around here don’t seem… his type. Matter of fact, I should probably warn Bill to just play it cool—“

“What, drunk, dumb, and ignorant ain’t Bill’s type? What about that guy we saw him chattin’ up at that saloon in Armadillo?”

“That ain’t what I mean,” he snorts.

“I know.” Al flashes a playful smirk. “I’m just messin’.”

“Well, anyway, no, he’s off hidin’ some wagon full o’ moonshine we stole off some bootleggers under the Sheriff’s orders. Hosea’ll know what to do with it.”

“Moonshine?” This seems to pique her interest, again to Arthur’s surprise. “You know who you stole it off of?”

“Yes…” Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. He slowly lumbers over to his table, laying down the deputy badge and watching her carefully. Al’s expression is calm, but it’s a thin enough veneer that he sees the curiosity building by the second. “What’s it to you?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah.”

The book in her lap finally closes. “I used to run with some moonshiners not too long ago.”

“Alberta Taylor. Well, I never took you for a bootlegger.”

She throws an arm over the back of her chair and lets her head fall back, exposing more of her neck. It’s then that Arthur notices she’s not wearing her usual green neckerchief. Or her green jacket. She must be really burning up to be in just her workshirt and jeans. “Not every professional bounty hunter is a staunch upholder of the law, Arthur Morgan,” she says matter-of-factly with a lift of her brow.

“I never said that. Didn’t mean it neither. I mean, look who you fell in with, I know better. I just ain’t seen you drink much moonshine.”

“Sure. Always been more of a beer and tequila woman.”

He plops down on his cot and lights a cigarette. “Then what you doin’ runnin’ with moonshiners?”

“Tell me who you stole the liquor off of first, cowboy.”

Arthur concedes. Al is stubborn. “The Braithwaites. And those fellers that run around here with those yellow bandanas. Sadie and I ran into ‘em a few days ago. Uh—”

“Lemoyne Raiders?” She sneers. “I’d hoped someone had snuffed ‘em out by now. Hijo de putas.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette before answering. “Yeah, that’s them. You’ve had some run-ins with ‘em, huh?”

“Like I said, just the once. Three of them stopped me on my way into Rhodes. Brought ‘em into town, dead, which is when I met Sheriff Gray. They didn’t have any bounties on ‘em, so all I got outta one of his deputies was five dollars. I know they weren’t even worth that much, but he coulda paid me more,” she grumbles. Her light Cuban accent comes out more the lower her voice goes.

“Sounds about right. Least ya got paid somethin’.”

“I guess.” She picks at the spine of her book for a moment. “Wasn’t long after that I met a… moonshiner legend, so to say, through a mutual friend. Though friend seems to be pushing it.”

He gets the sense she’s not fully sour on the “friend,” so his shoulders shake in amusement.

“He was a lot like Uncle, actually.”

“Lord.” Arthur snickers, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

“Yeah. Not as lazy. Probably younger, but who knows.”

“I reckon Uncle ain’t as old as he wants folks to think. Besides just bein’ too lazy, it’s probably why he don’t trim his beard.”

Al laughs, rougher than usual until she coughs and clears it up. “Damn humidity.”

“Tell me about it,” Arthur agrees, leaning forward and propping one elbow up on his knee. “So, this… moonshiner legend.”

“Ever heard the name Maggie Fike?”

The name isn’t familiar, but it isn’t unfamiliar either. “Don’t think so,” he settles on.

“Well, she’s been mostly out this way rather than out where y’all been running around. Revenue Agents caught up to her a couple years back, tried burning her alive. Didn’t work, but gave her a nasty scar and bad eye. Almost puts Marston to shame. Almost,” she adds with a grin as he walks between Arthur and Strauss’ tents.

“Take a look in the mirror, Miss Taylor,” he grumbles back. Then he chucks a cigarette butt at a chuckling Arthur. “You too, Morgan.”

John disappears around the side of the tent as Arthur brushes off the butt. “Cranky cause he ain’t had his midday nap.”

“Pick better material.”

Al chuckles and presses the palm of her hand on her hat, affixing it more securely to her head. “Anyway…”

“Anyway…” Arthur sighs lightly. “You said she survived?”

“Yeah, went into hiding for a while. Somehow got a hold of my ‘friend’, who then asked me for help gettin’ her business back on its feet. Easy work at first. Finding a good location for the shack, gettin’ her some supplies, that stuff.” She waves a hand around. “Most folks don’t pay much mind to a bounty hunter buyin’ supplies in bulk like I was or destroying illegal stills. Sometimes I brought in the other moonshiners to the local town to collect on a bounty. Made for a better cover for what I was really doing.”

“Takin’ out the competition.” Arthur chuckles.

“Exactly. Then came—”

“What the hell are you two talkin’ about anyway?”

Al puts her hand back on her hat before tipping her head back, almost touching the back of the chair, and looks at John, upside down. Arthur leans forward more to get his own look and the rangy outlaw, who’s circled back around to the other side of his wagon.

“And what the hell is that?” John asks. He’s looking directly at the badge on Arthur’s table, disgust etched into his features. As if it’s some rotting, maggot infested carcass Arthur’s using for decoration.

Arthur sighs and briefly explains again.

“So this is just another excuse for you to play dress-up, eh? Guess I need to tell Hosea you’re itchin’ to go scammin’ with him again.”

“You do that, it’ll be your pecker in the stew pot next meal.”

Al’s crossed her arms over her chest and is watching them with barely contained amusement. “Playing dress-up? I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you yet, Arthur.”

“And you won’t,” he growls. “Only reason Hosea takes me on those jobs is because he knows I hate it. Just once I’d like him to take Marston instead.”

“You sure about that?” Al studies John as if she’s a talent agent in the big city. “Doesn’t he like to avoid mayhem on those jobs?”

John snorts indignantly. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see you try and follow Hosea’s lead. I swear even he don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”

“But it works.” Her eyebrows raise pointedly.

“But it works,” John concedes.

“Well, next time you go, let me know. I’d love to watch y’all work.”

“Whatever,” John grumbles as he waves her off and saunters away. Apparently he’s given up on butting into their conversation.

“I ain’t pullin’ that type of job with Hosea again. What we had set up in Blackwater, sure, but not...” Arthur wags a finger in the air, then unfurls the rest of his fingers and waves his hand once before letting it fall back in his lap. “Not that. The girls and Trelawny are much better’n me anyway. Safer that way.”

Al shrugs. “I won’t argue that.”

“So, back to what you was sayin’?” Arthur’s not willing to let the moonshiner story drop. It’s not often she lets down her walls and tells stories of her past that don’t directly involve some bounty she’s nabbed. He knows what happened to her family, but that had been a moment he wasn’t meant to see, and neither of them have ever brought it up again.

“So after we get a shack set up, she gets word of where this old buddy of hers is, go rescue him so he can make our moonshine. Not long after that, her nephew’s gettin’ moved from Sisika, so I go rescue him.”

Arthur pulls the cigarette from his lips and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wagon. “Just you against a bunch of lawmen?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Morgan,” she drawls, lolling her head to the side.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be,” he chuckles.

“No, actually, I had a couple friends with me, cashed in on some favors. I’m not stupid or reckless enough to take on an armed prison transport.”

Arthur just shrugs. “Woulda believed you either way.”

“You’re too trusting,” she remarks. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but her eyes sparkle with something else.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Well, we bring them back to the shack, get the business up and running. Enact some revenge on a rival of hers in the meantime, I get to kill the agent who tried to burn her. Spent about a year with them. I didn’t do a lot of the actual running of moonshine, one of those friends who helped me break out Maggie’s nephew, Lem, did most of that. I focused on taking out the competition, clearing out Revenue Agent roadblocks when we were sure we couldn’t sneak past them. The real dirty work. But I didn’t mind, kept me moving, out of the government’s crosshairs enough that I could keep killin’ those damn agents.”

Arthur cocks his head curiously. But she isn’t done talking, so he lets her continue, holding onto his question for now.

“Couple months before I ran into y’all, I told them I’d have to leave. I’d spent so much time in this area, couldn’t… Needed to get out and go back out west. See some old friends, see some open country. They reckoned they’d be fine without me, but threw them the name of another friend I knew’d be able to help them, pick up my slack.”

“So… you think they’re still runnin’ that shine?”

“No reason not to. Never heard anything about her being captured. Got a letter from them while I was in Blackwater, actually. They’re doin’ well.” She gives a fond, reminiscent smile. “That friend is working with Maggie now, too. Dunno how she stands him, but…”

“Good. Since we’re over this way, you plannin’ on seein’ ‘em?”

“They’re north, Roanoke Ridge territory. Might, if I feel safe leavin’ you fools by yourself for more than a week.”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. “I reckon we can survive without ya for that long.”

“With all the trouble you been causing lately? I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan.” Al fans herself with her book, smirking at Arthur pointedly.

“I actually got another question for ya,” he diverts.

“Shoot.”

“I been thinkin’ about this since you got here, but now, knowin’ how much you seem to hate the Revenue Agents, how come you’re a bounty hunter, takin’ payouts from the government, but runnin’ with a bunch’a outlaws? After a year of runnin’ shine, that is.”

A simple shrug is her reply, and the pause is so long Arthur isn’t sure she’ll actually give him an explanation, until, “You have your code, I have mine.”

“Huh,” he grunts. They watch each other casually for a long moment, then he asks, “You gonna explain?”

He can see her weigh her options, and eventually she relents. “You know…” Her expression immediately tells him what she means: her past, what happened to her.

“Yeah,” he offers quietly.

“Well, nobody’s born a seasoned gunslinger. When I first started bounty hunting, I had to take the easier targets. Most big pay days, or the jobs that are good start for those of us that’re green, they’re people who rob banks with a pen, rich people doing rich people crimes. They’re soft, easy, and all it really takes to catch them is knowing the land better and being tougher than city folk. Which ain’t hard at all. So, until I could stand on my own, those were the only kinds I took. Then I started goin’ after the bastards I really wanted to. People like the Johnson Brothers.”

She nearly spits the name. Arthur feels the sting in her soul.

“I never take those soft bounties anymore,” she continues after a deep breath, seeming more like herself again with every word. “Unless I need a break. But it’s been a while since I have.”

“Been a while since you took a bounty at all.”

She must notice the question in his voice. Not judgement, but question. “No. You’ve been kicking up too much fuss. Wouldn’t be smart for me to be seen around town here more than once or twice.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. While it is mostly true, it’s about all he’s going to get out of her, but he knows the real reason why. Even if she won’t admit it to herself. “Got me there, Al.”

“Not hard to do, Arthur.”

#also we're going with the bill is gay theory. but like. half the gang is gay so she's not making fun of that.#she hates bill. so she's making fun of HIM directly.#hope that comes across lol.#also i hope it's okay to tag you in this!!! I can fix it if not #rdr #alma tejada #my fics #i guess that's gonna be a tag. i mostly just share this shit with friends and post my much bigger projects elsewhere

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rune-writes · 3 years

Text

I'll Come Visit

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

@zerith-week » Day 2: Promise

Word Count: 2344

Rating: G

Summary: All Zack ever gave Aerith were promises: promises of a date, to see the sky, and to come visit after he returns from Nibelheim.

Chapter 2 of Of Wishes and Promises: Zerith Week 2021

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

All Zack ever gave Aerith were promises. The first was the promise of a date, the first time he met her when he dropped out of the sky and onto her flowerbed. The second was to show her the sky, because it wasn’t as scary as she thought, and he wanted her to see it. Then he bought her a ribbon and said they should make fun, little promises for when they next met.

“For example, when we meet, you always have to dress in pink.”

Aerith giggled and said that was silly, and it was, but it’d be fun. So she nodded and said okay and wondered what kind of pink dress she had that she could wear.

Then just before he left for Nibelheim, they went to the Sector 6 playground to sell flowers. Operation: Midgar Full of Flowers, Wallet Full of Money seemed to have a good start. The blooms were a big hit. One woman wished she could see them grow all around the slums.

“Yeah, that’s me and Aerith’s dream,” Zack said. “Not just the slums, either. We want to fill the whole of Midgar with flowers!”

Only a dream then, one he hoped would come true once he returned to Midgar, when he could finally take her to the city above and sell flowers under the sky together.

***

Zack sighed at the heavens above as he lay on his back. Thin wisps of cotton-soft clouds drifted past; though, did anyone really know whether clouds were cotton-soft? An age-old imagery that originated from how it looked from the ground, made by people who had too much time on their hands with too little thoughts in their minds.

Zack had too much time on his hands now. With Sephiroth having locked himself in the mansion’s library and still no lead on their investigation, there had been nothing to do but check on the reactor every day. Everything stayed the same. The monsters still slept in their pods, no more reactor malfunctioning, no more signs of Genesis—or any other intruders for that matter.

Cloud would grab any chance he could get to accompany Zack. Probably to escape the town and its people. Probably to be near their ebony-haired guide. He couldn’t blame the guy, and he had no intention to interfere, but sometimes, Zack would look at his stubborn younger friend and wish Cloud would let loose and show them who he really was. Not a SOLDIER, but still a proud member of Shinra’s infantrymen. They’d understand.

When the time came to return to town, he let the two kids go on ahead, saying he wanted to explore more of the mountain. Tifa offered to come with him, but Zack refused. It was still light out. If he’d gotten lost, his SOLDIER pride would be at stake.

Zack had expected a chuckle at the very least, but his guide only stared at him and said, “Okay.” Then she looked at the grunt and nodded her head down the mountain path. “Shall we, then?”

Grunt Cloud jerked, and for a fraction of a second, his wild, panicked eyes met Zack’s through his helmet visor. Zack waited until Tifa had turned and walked away before he slapped Cloud on the back and whispered, “You got this.”

“I got this.” A self-reassuring nod; Cloud gripped his rifle tighter before following Tifa down the mountain. They walked with a little distance between them, but never too far apart. Zack watched, a little grin playing across his lips.

He’d set off in another direction then: a greener, more life-abundant direction; a contrast to the barren, jagged mountain he’d left behind. He’d found the clearing shortly after, with trees on one side and a sheer drop on the other. It overlooked the Nibel plains and the small town below with the clear blue sky stretching far into the horizon.

Fragments of a cloud broke away into little dots, collecting in places that, somehow, reminded him of the yellow blossoms he’d find growing under the shades of a dilapidated church. Thoughts of the blossoms led to thoughts of the flower girl, and Zack couldn’t help but draw another long breath.

It’d been a week since he arrived in Nibelheim, longer still since he last saw Aerith. The closest interaction he'd gotten was the phone call mere days after reaching the mountain village. His PHS had rung when he’d been about to go to the mansion, and it had taken him by surprise when her voice came out of the receiver. But he’d been too busy then, so he’d told her that he’d call later.

“No, no, you don’t have to.” There had been a slight drop to her tone.

He'd pressed his lips together. “Okay, then I’ll come visit.”

“I’ll be here.”

Zack hadn't missed the momentary pause or the wistful sigh, hadn't forgotten her downcast eyes when he told her he would leave Midgar for a job. There had been nothing else he could say but: “I’ll see you, I promise.” He could almost see her smile as he hung up, hoping it had been enough until he returned to her side.

The drifting clouds offered a brief respite from the sun's harsh glare. Summer had long since gone and autumn was well on its way, but Zack still felt hot. Hot and restless and sweaty and wishing he was back under the cover of the church, where a ray of pleasant sunlight slanted in through the broken rooftop right onto her flowerbed. He’d doze on her lap, and Aerith would weave a flower crown to put around his head, and when he opened his eyes, he would see the brightest smile he had ever seen.

Zack reached for his PHS in his pocket. He had half a mind to go to his mails before he realized Aerith didn’t have a PHS. She’d borrowed Tseng’s when she called him before. Zack didn't want to call Tseng. The last time he did, the Turk had chuckled and said that he was at work, that he had one of his men watching her and that she was safe. He would, however, send her Zack’s regards the next time he saw her. Zack's mouth twitched at the memory.

What if he called her house? Elmyra probably wouldn't mind. The last time he met her, she had acted like he was already part of the family. It made him smile and miss her homemade stew, miss the warmth of the kitchen and the vibrant colors in her garden, miss that motherly touch.

But as good as the idea sounded, it was still daylight and Aerith was probably not home. He stared at the open mail draft on his PHS screen, then typed in Kunsel's name.

‘What are you doing?’

The reply came shortly after: ‘If you resorted to mail me in the middle of a mission, I can only imagine how bored you must be feeling right now. So let me tell you some good news, friend. I visited that church your Aerith frequented and I gotta say, she is such a lively fella. You have no idea all the little details she’d asked me of you.’

Zack jumped, glaring into his PHS screen as those last few words hammered their way into his head. He dialed Kunsel’s number. Kunsel immediately picked up.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

On the other side of the line, Kunsel cackled—a shoulder-shaking, back-bending, stomach-hurting cackle. “Gods, I can’t believe you fell for that one.”

Zack blinked, too mortified to catch up with the joke.

“I’m on a mission, if you remember—or maybe you don’t. Different from the one when you left for Nibelheim. With our Firsts out on a mission on the other side of the Planet, it seems the top brass has decided to have the rest of us—meaning us, Second-Class—take the lead on the remaining jobs. So I’ve been away, again. Far away from your lovely girl. So you have nothing to worry about.”

Another blink. Right.

“How’s the job anyway?”

A short pause, and maybe it was the easy-going tone of his voice that made Zack's tongue loosen up and tell Kunsel about the current state of his investigation, the current state of Sephiroth, the current state of his restlessness. Then at the end of it, Kunsel chuckled.

“Even in the middle of a mission, you still got time to worry about your girl.” Zack heard a scoff, soft and amused. “She’s fine. Aren’t the Turks watching her?”

“They are…” But even knowing that, there was a disquiet in his heart that he couldn’t quite figure where it was coming from.

“Well, if it’s any help at all, I promised to check up on her, didn’t I? Once I get back from my assignment, I’ll see how she is. Does that ease you?”

It did, even if only a little.

“So just focus on your assignment right now and make sure you get your ass back in Midgar. Quick.” Then he added, “You know I have a whole folder of you sneezing out snot, right?”

“Kuns—!”

The line was cut. The last thing Zack heard was his friend's laughter. It still echoed even when Zack had put his PHS down and stared at the screen, when he laid back on the sunny grass and covered his eyes with an arm. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Kunsel check on Aerith. Who knew what the guy would show her? All the embarrassing details of Zack's life! But Kunsel was the only person Zack could trust in SOLDIER right now…

Zack let out another quiet exhale. He lifted his arm. The clouds drifting past looked uncannily like the girl with the brightest smile.

***

He called a little after dusk. Zack was alone in his room; Sephiroth was still not back; Cloud and the other grunt stood watch somewhere. A few moments passed with only the dial tone filling his ears. And then:

“Hello?”

The smile came unbidden. Like a dam about to burst, his lips wavered at the intensity of the emotions overcoming him—overwhelming him.

“Aerith?”

“Zack?” Her surprise was almost palpable. He could imagine her wide-eyed stare as she stood beneath the warm lights of her home. “This is a surprise. You're not busy?”

“Aw, don’t you miss me?”

She giggled, and it was the most beautiful sound in the entire world. “Silly.”

They talked about everything and anything: what she was doing, how her days had been. "Same old, same old," she said. Tending to her flowers, running errands around the slum, then just as she’d headed for the church, the Leaf House kids had crowded around her and asked where Zack was.

Zack chuckled. “And what’d you tell them?”

“That Zack is on a very important job right now, but he’ll be back very soon and give everyone presents.” Her laugh made him smile, and he imagined her sitting next to the pots and vases, swaying her feet and twirling her hair. He closed his eyes, committing it to memory.

“Hey, Aerith.”

“Yeah?”

When he made that promise to visit, Zack had thought they would finish their mission soon and he'd be back by Aerith's side before she knew it. But it had been a week since then, and he was still stuck in a small mountain town with nothing to do but look for missing persons who refused to be found and wait on a stubborn comrade who refused to leave.

“Think I’d have to take a rain check on that promise. I don’t think I can come back soon.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Okay.” Then, because maybe she’d noticed the hesitancy in his voice: “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing wrong.” He was quick to answer, quick to ease her worry, even as his mind went to the mansion sitting on the town's outskirts, where Sephiroth was still perusing the many thick volumes stored in the basement. The last time Zack had checked on him, he'd been unaware of Zack’s presence. It’d been like talking to a statue, if statues could walk and talk. Ceaseless mutterings; unending strides; then at times, Sephiroth would stop and look up, and Zack would sigh and thought, finally! Because the meal the townspeople had prepared still lay untouched on the table, and all of Zack’s attempts to tell him to rest had flown over his head. But like a man possessed, Sephiroth had only walked past without truly seeing him, then discarded the book in favor of another.

“Zack?”

Zack blinked, then said again, “Nothing’s wrong.” It was less convincing. “Anyway,” he went on, brightening his voice. “Did you really tell the kids I’d bring them presents?”

“Of course,” she said, her voice too chirpy, as though she’d noticed his unease and opted to play along with his act. “Well, you have to give them something , after all their efforts to learn your combat moves. They’re really taking this Protection Squad business seriously, you know.” She giggled, and he chuckled too.

The kids had been hounding him every time he took the trip beneath the plate. What was supposed to be a quality time with Aerith always ended up as sword-fighting lessons with a bunch of children. Not that he minded them. The more time Zack spent with them, the more endearing they all seemed to him.

“Then I’d better get them something really good.” He wondered if the store next door sold souvenirs. He could ask Cloud for advice. Or Tifa. “But don’t tell them yet. It’ll be a surprise.”

He could feel her smile as she said, “Sure thing.” In the distance, he heard Elmyra’s call. Aerith had to hang up. “Do you think we can talk again tomorrow?”

“Of course. I’ll call you. Or you can call me too, if you want.”

“Really? Then maybe I’ll do that.”

Zack’s lips parted into the slightest grin. “I’ll be here.” Another promise. Her goodbye was the last thing he heard before Aerith ended the call.

~ END ~

#zerith #zerithweek #zerithweek2021 #aerith gainsborough #zack fair #final fantasy #final fantasy vii #ff7 #ffvii #ff7r #ff7 crisis core #fanfiction #ff fanfic #ff7 fanfic

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daisy-picking-lady · 4 years

Text

Late Night Secrets

Holy. Crap. I actually wrote something. This took me a while to write, maybe close to a week. My mental health has been hitting me particularly hard as of late to the point it felt too hard to type on the computer and my pen felt too heavy to pick up. But, I DID IT! I want to say thank you to everyone who has continually supported me through my difficulties with both my writing and mental health. You have helped me so much and I am so excited to be finally posting something!

My Thorin taglist is currently OPEN. If you want to be added, I ask that you please send me an ask requesting to be added. It is easier to track that way.

Summary: While camping for the night, you confess to Thorin a secret you are ashamed of – you’re afraid of thunderstorms.

Words: 2479

Pairing: Thorin x Reader

Warnings: None.

Tagging: @anderkri000 @fizzyxcustard @dabisburntnut @musicalmuffindog1410 @moony-artnstuff

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The unwelcomed presence of your discomfort began on a chilly autumn morning. Bofur had casually mentioned spotting some dark clouds in the distance, a thunderstorm likely on its way. It took every fiber in your being not to flinch at the prediction. When you looked up at the sky in hopeful vain that perhaps Bofur’s judgement had been wrong, disappointment – and not victory – struck you right on the face as your eyes landed on the darkened sky. A thunderstorm was indeed coming and by the looks of the clouds, it was not going to be weak.

“Maybe it is headed in a different direction.” Your remark had been more to yourself than to Bofur, secretly trying to use the optimism to quell the fear stirring inside, no matter how false the hope was.

“I don’t think so, lass. You see the way those clouds are moving? Straight forward. I don’t think we will be fortunate enough to miss it.”

Any hope you had left fell to the pits of your stomach and it took everything you had not to retch your recently eaten breakfast.

The rest of the day was spent in anxiety. You looked over your shoulder frequently, trying to determine the distance of the storm. Fortunately, between Gandalf’s navigation and Thorin’s experience in the wilderness, they were able to lead the Company in another direction – away from the incoming weather hinderance, a decision you fully supported. But luck was not with you on this day. In fact, it seemed as though it was laughing right in your face, taunting the absurd secret you bore. Despite Thorin’s best efforts, as the sun was beginning to dip beyond the trees, the storm – or perhaps a new one had brewed, you really did not care – sneakily found its way over the Company. A low rumble of thunder was your only warning before heavy rain began to descend, and they were forced to hasten in finding shelter.

As luck would have it, a contrast to the cruel game it was playing with you today, Gandalf found a cave. Once it was ensured safe to use, the Company started to unpack and settle. A fire was made, bedrolls were set out, and a heart stew was cooked. As everyone prepared their own comforts, you decided to survey the shelter protecting you. Anything to get your mind off the thunder that sounded closer and closer as the minutes passed. The cave was not much. It ran deep but it was small, and a chill filled the air that seeped into your bones. You wondered how long this storm would last. You were so engrossed in your thoughts that you did not hear Thorin approaching or him calling your name. As he gently touched your elbow, a loud clap of thunder boomed over the cave and you pulled back with a startled gasp. It quickly vanished when you saw who had touched you.

“Thorin,” you breathed out in relief.

Worry was etched heavily on his features. “Amrâlimê, you are trembling. Are you well?”

“I am fine,” you lied with a forced smile. “You startled me is all.”

Thorin did not look convinced but he didn’t press the issue. He took your hand. “Come,” Thorin beckoned. “Sit by the fire. You are soaked to the bone, and supper is nearly ready.”

There was not a single protest in you as Thorin led you to the campfire, and if there had been, you wouldn’t say a word. He brought you a peace no other could. The mere touch of his hand made vanish your fears and they became but a distant memory. It was a strange thing, you thought. You have never experienced t his before nor had you ever dared to hope for it – until this journey. Now, you weren’t certain you could go a day without Thorin’s touch or the gentle lock of his gaze. And as you allowed him to sit you down, turning to retrieve supper, you didn’t even hear the thunder rumbling outside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were hesitant to go to sleep that night. Rain continued to pour in its unrelenting assault, the loud cracks of thunder echoing something fierce in the cave. You were doubtful sleep would even come to you, but you didn’t want your secret to come to light. Not by Thorin, not by the Company. Not even dear Bilbo who had his own fears. It was a silly thing, really. You, a capable warrior, afraid of thunderstorms? No one would respect you if they were to find out. Against your own wishes, you went to bed.

Surprisingly, sleep came to you quite easily. Even as the storm let up, ceasing its downpour and unfriendly noises, you expected to have some difficulty; that your mind would conjure some thoughts and realistic fears they always do that kept you from sleeping. And as you felt yourself beginning to fall into a deep slumber, you allowed a smile to grace your lips as finally the anxiety you had borne all day dissipated. Neither the peace nor rest lasted very long, however. You were abruptly woken by a loud crack of thunder. It sounded as though it boomed right over the cave, making the walls tremble in its wake. You sat up-right with a loud gasp, your heart beating so fast you were afraid it would burst from your chest.

You closed your eyes and tried to calm down your breath, nearly jumping out of your skin at another rumble of thunder. The wind blew harshly outside, forcing cold and wet gust of air inside now and then. There went your sleep.

“Ghivashel?” Thorin quietly called. He sat on a rock in the corner, absentmindedly toying with his pipe which he had long finished smoking. Having not yet been visited by the tendrils of sleep, Thorin decided to stay up for a little while, opting to watch you sleep. He had sensed something was amiss with you and could not bring himself to retire to bed without ensuring your well-being.

You didn’t mean to cringe. Really, you didn’t. Any other night you would have welcomed his rich, deep voice. Not tonight. Any other night than this one, when you weren’t trying to keep your secret hidden, particularly from him of all people. Still, you could not deny the comfort his voice brought you in the midst of the raging storm. Turning your head, you looked over your shoulder at him and offered a small smile. “Hello.”

The slightest hint of a smile tugged at Thorin’s lips. “Hello.” Just as his smile came, it left, and he studied you for a long moment. You weren’t sure what made you shudder – his gaze or the thunder. “You’re trembling,” he said, frowning.

“It’s a little chilly.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. There was a draft in the cave, the harsh wind outside doing no favor in keeping the chill away. You knew Thorin would not believe it. He was too observant for that and knew quite well the cold never bothered you.

“You should sleep. It’s late.”

He was right. The campfire was now dimly burning, signifying it had been some time since it was first lit. You were tired and tomorrow would be a difficult day if you did not sleep, but you simple could not lay down again with that treacherous storm. “I-I think I will stay up for a little while longer.”

Thorin sat silent, continuing to study you. His eyes developed deep in your own and it felt as though he was reaching into your soul. He was looking for something. An answer. You looked away, suddenly feeling shy. Did he know? Did you somehow manage to give away of your secret fear, or was it something else he was looking for? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know. All you wanted was for this storm to go away.

Thorin was suddenly in front of you, holding out his hand for you to take. You did without hesitation, though you shot him a questioning look as he pulled you to your feet. He merely smiled. “Will you allow me to sleep with you tonight?”

You weren’t surprised by the question. Quite often you two shared the same bedroll and slept wrapped in each other’s arms. The late-night conversations were your personal favorite. Quite frankly, you didn’t think you could sleep alone tonight, so you were more than eager to nod your head in answer. Thorin’s smile widened, and he led you to his bedroll – further away from the cave’s entrance.

The further, the better, you thought to yourself.

As you laid down, feeling the warmth and security of Thorin’s arms wrapping around your waist, a familiar sense of peace washed over you. Any coldness that still nipped at your sin faded when Thorin wrapped you in his coat with him, tucking you tightly against his chest. “This is nice,” you hummed, content.

Thorin’s lips brushed over your temple. “It is,” he agreed. There was a long stretch of silence, nothing but the sound of rain and thunder filling the quiet air. When he spoke again, his deep voice was a gentle murmur. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re afraid of thunderstorms?”

Dread gripped your heart. He knew. You should had known. Thorin was nothing short of attentive. In some ways, he knew you better than you knew yourself. You closed your eyes, gathering what little courage you had to look at him. You could only imagine the disappointment he must be feeling. When you rolled onto your back, you were met with something much different than what you expected: the tenderness he only ever extended to you.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” you whispered.

Thorin tilted his head, running the tips of his fingers through your hair. He found your braid and played with the single tress, admiring the way your courting bead glinted in the dim light. “Why ever not?” he gently probed.

“It’s shameful,” you told him. “I am a swordswoman, trained by the best mentor you could ever find. I am here on this quest to kill a dragon and I am afraid of thunder.” You laughed bitterly. “The mere thought of it is absurd and I couldn’t even keep it a secret.”

“Well,” Thorin began, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “You are not very good at hiding your emotions.”

“What? Yes, I am!”

“Is that so?”

“You don’t believe me?”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “You were not entirely discreet with your anger towards Kíli the week prior.”

“He deserved it. I lost my best dagger because of him.”

“I do not disagree but glaring at his back the entire day does not disguise your emotions. Everyone knew you were terribly upset with him and Kíli only knew because of Fíli.”

You huffed as you recalled that day. “I was being passive aggressive,” was your mumbled answer.

“And you were quite fearsome. I pity the man who provokes your ire.” Thorin leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “There is no shame in your fear. We all fear something.”

“No shame?” You scoffed. “I am afraid of thunder, Thorin. That is a child’s fear. It is cowardly.”

A change fell over Thorin. His face darkened, his once tender eyes filled with adoration as he listened to you speak hardened. His gaze was enough to turn you to stone, and you looked away so you did not have to face him, lest you fall apart under his icy blue eyes. Your secret fear already wracked you with shame, you did not need to see the disapprove of your beloved. “Look at me.” When you refused, Thorin grabbed your chin and lifted your gaze to him. “Look at me,” he demanded. “You will never speak about yourself in that way ever again.”

You frowned. “Thorin—”

“Quiet. I am talking,” Thorin hushed. “There is nothing cowardly about having fears and there is nothing cowardly about yours. It is a hardship we all battle. It is not easy and requires us to muster all of our strength to bear through it. It strengthens us.” Thorin lifted his hand and stroked your cheek, smiling to himself as your eyes fell to a blissful close, leaning further into his touch. “And you, my dear, are exceptionally strong and courageous. There is nothing cowardly about you and I will fight anyone who dares to say otherwise.”

How was a person capable so well taking away your fears and expectations, as unrealistic as they were, and bury them in the ground? It was unfair how Thorin could soothe you; how he could take it all and quell the anxieties within with his eloquent speeches. And they were always true and sincere, spoken from his heart. Suddenly your earlier assumptions seemed so silly. To think you had feared Thorin would be angry with you, to even believe he would lose respect for you as a swordswoman…Now looking in his eyes, the way he held your gaze, the sweet adoration shining in them. Your fear of thunder was no longer silly but you yourself and you could not stop the tears from unleashing as guilt overwhelmed you at your lack of faithfulness.

“Amrâlimê…” Thorin gently wiped away your tears, shushing you in a loving whisper. “Why do you cry, my love?

“I thought…” You took a deep breath. “I was afraid you would be disappointed in me.”

“Disappointed? In you?” Thorin echoed in confusion. “I would never commit such a heinous offense. Why should I be disappointed in you, because of your fear?” You nodded. Thorin chuckled softly and cupped your cheeks, and like before, he took your breath away with the intensity of his gaze – firm and loving, searching the depths of your soul. “No, my love. I am proud of you. You bear this fear like the warrior you are, strong and resilient and you do not let it overtake you. That is true strength.”

“Even if it renders me a trembling mess and unable to sleep?”

Thorin smiled. “You endure through it, do you not?”

“Barely,” you whispered.

“But you endure nonetheless.” Thorin leaned down and kissed you. It was a soft kiss; one meant to comfort and reassure. His lips just barely brushed against yours, short and tender. His way of saying I love you. “I would have you know,” he murmured when he pulled away. “You are not the only one without fears.”

Your eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. “Thorin Oakenshield has a fear?”

“A few,” Thorin admitted. “There is one in particular that keeps me up in the late hours of the night.”

“Really? What is it?”

Thorin grinned. “Being beaten in combat by a particularly skilled swordswoman.”

#thorin x reader #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin #the hobbit

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lotussokka · 4 years

Text

so i had a thought: you know tropes of the closet romance novelist and of the virgin erotica novelist? now make it zuko, but keep it in the canon universe

WARNING: discussion of sexual content (18+ please), mentions of alcohol, mention of a minor (17) reading sexual content, and overtones you may find acephobic. this starts 5–6yrs post-canon.

if you are under 18 and you have opened this to read it anyway, that’s no longer my responsibility as i have warned you, but please do not interact with this post either way (please dont like, rb, or reply)

part 2 • part 3 • part 4

so firelord zuko — who has never had sex — secretly writes dirty scrolls under a pseudonym and somehow they become famous

maybe bc he just hasnt had the opportunity or bc he’s busy and it hasn’t been a priority. maybe he’s Waiting for the Right Person™, he doesnt feel ready, or he’s worried about the power imbalance from being the firelord. maybe he’s on the ace spectrum... whichever you vibe with the most works bc it really doesn’t matter. sex isn’t essential and virginity is a bullshit construct but it is pivotal to this narrative so if that’s a problem for you, this isn’t the post for you

it starts with an erotically charged poem appreciating the male form that he anonymously submits to a new caldera city literary society

zuko thought he was writing artsy commentary about how people’s bodies have been misused as tools of war and how we’re reverting back to our natural form but its REALLY horny instead of wise

@zukostransboyfriend said, as i’m sure many of you are thinking: and sokka, known lover of poetry,

but NO youre all getting ahead of me. there are more steps!

so he writes another one since the first one was such a hit — still not realizing he’s essentially writing softcore porn

he doesnt think anything of it bc its not Sex™ and he’s seen a few dirty scrolls and they were crude and always heterosexual and his appreciation of watching the guards spar is purely out of his joy of seeing their strength and agility not being used for war anymore and for no other reason

the poems get fairly popular in the city and uncle iroh comes to visit and zuko is like “uncle i think your proverbs have finally sunk in! ive been writing these poems about healing from the war and i want to know what you’d think!”

uncle iroh starts reading one and its a bit flowery in its language but not unpleasantly so and then zuko starts talking about Hands and he looks up at zuko trying to figure out if he knows

ZUKO DOES NOT KNOW

AND HE ISNT ABLE TO LOOK HIS UNCLE IN THE EYE FOR DAYS

BC WTF

now that he knows, he stops writing them but then it becomes a big thing in the caldera bc the Dragon of the Caldera has stopped writing

its like the theft of the mona lisa, now that its gone everyone is interested and speculating about the identity of the dragon of the caldera

and thats when it starts spreading to neighboring villages and islands and then out of the fire nation (but zuko doesnt know this until much later)

mai knows it’s him, not bc hes told her but bc she knows him and she knows that poem 6 was specifically about the soldier-turned-guard that recently requested to start working as a gardener bc 1.) the specificity of the concept and 2.) “come on zuko youre so obvious. you were just about drooling when he brought in that wheelbarrow of mulch”

zukostransboyfriend added: If he’s sexy enough pushing around some mulch then he deserves a poem or two

(the gardener is very sexy and zuko wrote multiple lines comparing him to the strength of the earth but the gentleness of an orchid with so many flower metaphors that definitely sound like theyre about sex but it was just zuko doing a really bad impression of his uncle)

he does some Gay Panic about it to her bc mlm/wlw solidarity ✊✊ and some angsting about how hes Tainted by associating with such a vile perverse art

and mai is like “you’re so fucking dramatic its just sex”

zuko is Not appeased by that reply so she sits up, looks him in the eye, and says, "look. sex isnt the perverse, scary thing you think it is. your father is just weird, and controlling, and probably fear-mongered you about ‘purity of the royal bloodline’ and ‘being soiled by the touch of men’ (#trans zuko lyfe 5ever) or whatever, but that’s not how it really is. you know that, right?”

and finally after a few nights of stewing and pacing his chambers about it, he decides to try to write another poem

and its Bad

bc he was thinking about the detached impersonal graphic porn scrolls he stumbled upon during his banishment and thinking thats what sex is when he wrote it

but he submits it anyway and theres scandal bc

does the Dragon have a copycat? (the literary group confirms that the new poem was written in the same hand as the others.)

has the Dragon lost their muse?

or worse, have they started seeing some and theyve been focusing their passion on him?

and zuko angsts about the fact that it’s so bad and gets drunk with mai and toph (she showed up to visit and somehow immediately found out. he has no idea how considering she cant read. and he doesnt want to think about his Little Sister reading his dirty poetry even if she is almost 18 now)

zukostransboyfriend added: toph who cannot read: im a literary critic now

mai is like “so what if it’s bad? it’s not like you wanted to write good porn”

zuko is very much not satisfied with that answer

but then toph imparts toph-ly wisdom and tells him “if you wrote good poems when you were talking about the Beauty Of Healing From The War or whatever, then just write more thinking about that”

it takes a while for him to finally get the courage to write another one.... weirdly enough this one is about aang. zuko is uncomfortable about the fact that what he wrote about his friend and the beauty of the four elements is probably highly erotic but also its the first draft that was good enough to get the okay from ty lee (who has become his unofficial editor via mai) so he submits it

and the city Loves it

and then zuko gets on a roll bc he’s figured out how to intentionally write what people read as good porn by writing some sentimental emotional-release to deal with his stressful job

meanwhile the poems are being circulated around the world and being compiled into small pamphlets and then into larger books (won shi tong sighs as his knowledge seekers bring him yet another of the firelord’s dirty poetry books to put in the burnt out fire nation wing

part 2 • part 3 • part 4

#zukka #zuko #zukka hc #atla hc #atla #parts 2 and 4 need a little work before i post them but 3 is done (i'll hopefully post the second part this evening)#and an enormous shoutout to ben zukostransboyfriend for enduring me typing out this hc for a solid 2.5 hours the other night #i personally hc zuko as being on the aspec but yes im ace. yes im horny. we exist.#but if you dont thats not in conflict with any part of this #toph&zuko #mai&zuko #mine #totally okay to reblog if you are a legal adult #i will come back to link the other posts as i post them #nsft #alcohol /

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queenofcats17 · 4 years

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Essek Does Not Know What To Do With This

@shadowhand-essek had this amazing post and I wanted to write it.

This has been in my drafts forever and I wanted to finally finish it.

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Essek Thelyss, Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, did not understand Caduceus Clay in the slightest. Every conversation he had with the firbolg left him even more baffled than the one before.

He never knew how to react to anything Caduceus said.

Once, he’d given a long and detailed explanation about gravity, dunamancy, and how magic that bends the fabric of the world and the nature of the universe is dangerous and should be treated with great caution. It was a very important explanation as to why the Mighty Nein needed to be careful when it came to these sorts of spells.

Once he’d finished, though, Caduceus had said, “Hey, did you know there’s a type of moss that smells like decay but tastes like strawberries?”

Essek had stared at him, completely dumbfounded, not knowing what to do with this. What had made it even worse was that none of the other members of the Nein had reacted to Caduceus’ comment, meaning Essek was the only one who was confused.

“I....” Essek had tried to come up with something to say but found his mind blank. Caduceus had just smiled at him, as if he was completely unaware of Essek’s bafflement. Essek looked helplessly at Caleb and Beau, who shrugged.

Another time, he’d come to the Xhorhaus to check on the Nein and make sure they weren’t causing trouble and the moment he’d walked in, Caduceus had handed him a large bowl of stew.

“Thank you,” Essek said slowly. “But I did not ask for anything to eat?”

Caduceus just shrugged, still smiling. “I just figured you were looking kinda peaky,” he said. “Don’t work too hard now, Mister Shadowhand. And eat that while it’s still hot.”

Then he walked away, leaving Essek standing in the doorway with the bowl of stew still in his hands. Essek did not know what to do with this.

Caduceus also had a fascination with death that bordered, to Essek, on creepy. Perhaps fascination wasn’t the best word for it. Death was something Caduceus was worryingly comfortable with. Which meant he’d occasionally say things related to death that baffled Essek.

“With the beacons, we have pioneered and perfected immortality. We preserve the knowledge of ages and can learn constantly from our pasts and our mistakes. We have discovered how to transcend death.” Essek had said once, caught up in pride for his people’s tradition.

“But the worms are still going to feast on you eventually,” Caduceus pointed out cheerfully.

Essek’s words died in his throat as he stared at the firbolg, his entire train of thought derailed by this statement. “I....”

“You can’t stop nature,” Caduceus continued, still bright and cheerful. “Doesn’t matter how smart you think you are, she’ll make sure you get turned to mulch eventually. That’s just how things are.”

Essek did not know what to do with this.

At one point, desperate to have a normal conversation with him, Essek had made an attempt to compliment the tea Caduceus had given him. The firbolg always seemed to have a new batch ready whenever he dropped by.

“This herbal tea is very refreshing, thank you,” he said after taking a sip.

“Oh yeah, that’s from the Mason’s. They were all brutally murdered about fifty years ago because of some really unpopular political decisions,” Caduceus replied. “They make really good tea, though. I guess their loss is your gain, huh?” He chuckled and took a sip of his own tea.

Essek did not know what to do with this.

It got to the point where when Caduceus approached him, fear welled up in Essek’s chest as to just what strangeness he would be subjected to this time. Would it be another strange comment about death and his own inevitable mortality? More corpse tea?

“I just wanted to say thanks for, you know, getting us where we need to go,” Caduceus said. “You’ve been really patient with us, and I appreciate that.”

Essek allowed himself to relax.

“Thank you, Mister Clay,” he replied with a smile. “You are quite welcome. It is my pleasure to serve, after all.”

“Yeah. You’re a good egg.” Caduceus smiled back, patting Essek’s head with one large hand before walking away.

Essek did not know what to do with this.

During one of Essek’s visits to the house, Caduceus spotted Essek glancing at Caleb every now and again and decided to comment.

“Be gentle with him whenever it finally happens, alright?” He said, patting Essek’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Essek replied, frowning slightly.

“Sure you do.” Caduceus continued to smile placidly.

“I…Have no intention of being rough with anyone,” Essek said slowly, moving to remove Caduceus’ hand from his shoulder.

“‘Course you don’t. But he’s had a hard time in the past.” Caduceus patted Essek’s back. “So have you. Be gentle with the both of you.”

Essek did not know what to do with this.

He even found Caduceus talking to his house plants once.

“Can I help you with anything, Mister Clay?” Essek asked, approaching him.

“Oh no, no, I’m great,” Caduceus replied brightly. “They’re really good conversationalists, you know.” He gestured to the plants that Essek kept around his home.

“Oh, I know. Wonderful listeners,” Essek said dryly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I talk to them every night about how my day has been.” He was tired and didn’t particularly want to deal with Caduceus’ strangeness at the moment.

“Oh, I know. They told me.”

For a moment, Essek thought Caduceus was joking. One look at his face, however, told him the firbolg was completely serious.

“They also said to let you know you’re doing a great job, and they’re really happy here with you,” Caduceus continued. “But they wish you’d come home early from work every now and then. They think you work too hard.”

Essek stared at him. He legitimately had no idea how to respond to what Caduceus had just said. Caduceus could talk to plants? And he’d talked to his plants?

“They’re probably right, you know,” Caduceus said, patting Essek on the shoulder. “You can always trust a plant to give you good advice.”

Essek did not know what to do with this.

What Essek didn’t know was that Caduceus was making a deliberate effort to confuse Essek. It would do him some good to have his feathers ruffled every now and again, he decided.

#critical role #critical role campaign 2 #caduceus clay #fanfiction #essek thelyss

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theawkwardterrier · 4 years

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things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 42

AO3 link here

Who wakes first? Who can tell? Perhaps it is Steve, his hearing still acute, his muscle memory still practiced from responding to the slightest sound of a child’s step in the hall. Perhaps it is Peggy with her now early-rising body, her old agent’s urgency. Perhaps it does not matter. They turn toward each other in the empty house all the same. His fingertips brush against her beneath the blanket, in the dark. She rests in the warmth of him.

“First snow,” says one as the flakes fall heavy and quiet onto the roof.

“Do you remember?” says the other.

“Of course.” And then, although there’s no way to know how the serum works on an aging brain, no guarantee that the memory-related treatments that Tony and the Stark Industries bio-med team have been studying will indeed be effective or even workable: “All of it. Always.”

When Steve comes back from his turn on patrol to find Peggy—Agent Carter sitting at the doors of the old barn they’d taken shelter in for the night, his first thought is that she’s second-guessing the watch schedule he’d set up. Which he actually wouldn’t mind - he’s still new to this commander business, and he knows that any of the rest of them have more experience and she perhaps most of all - but he wishes she’d have talked to him before the middle of the night.

Then he notices that she’s curled up tightly, legs and arms tucked in: not exactly a state of battle readiness.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, approaching with care. It’s started snowing, but not enough to muffle anything.

“Dugan was terribly noisy getting up for his patrol. Woke me completely with all that grumbling and toe-stubbing and it was too bloody cold to get back to sleep. I’d have taken his turn, but he’d already gone.”

The moon is mostly hidden by the trees, but he can make out a hint of her smile. He’d been pretty sure he’d never see it directed at himself again, she’d been so mad at him the last time they’d been around each other. During the four days since she dropped in on their assignment, she’s been perfectly polite, professional, but held back from any more than that. She’s fallen in easily with the rest of the Commandos - every five minutes they’re asking her to settle some argument or a bet, or it’s “Peggy, tell us that one about Corporal Franks and the sheepdog again,” and even Bucky smiles at her although smiling doesn’t really seem to come all that naturally to him these days - but with him she’s all firmly tilted chin and observant eyes and “Captain Rogers.”

Until now, apparently.

He settles beside her in increments, not trying to fool or distract her but to give her a chance to tell him to get lost if she wants. She just watches him. Finally, forearms rested atop tented knees, he asks, "So what made you decide to come out here instead of staying where there's at least four walls and a roof?"

"It started snowing." She looks upward before facing him, flakes decorating her eyelashes and dampening her usually pristine hair. "And I know that this sort of weather is terrible news for so many, and it won't make our job any easier, but it reminds me of home and sometimes you must grasp those little pieces of magic and hold with both hands."

I know what you mean, he thinks, but what he says aloud is, "Why does the snow remind you of home? I would have thought it would be rain."

Actually sounding fairly amused, she says, "Dealing in anti-English stereotypes, I see. Though not even the most damning ones."

"Well, I've been to London. Seen it with my own eyes." He widens them a bit for effect and somehow their gazes catch, as if they're having a staring contest, before they look away.

"Yes, well, I didn't grow up in London. We lived farther out in the country. And when I was small, my brother would wake me up the first night it snowed each year and we'd go out - terribly underdressed, mind you, slippers and dressing gowns - and just watch it float down toward us. We would catch the flakes on our tongues and stay out until our faces were raw. Mum would tell us off if we didn't get back inside before she woke up, but then she'd just make us each hot chocolate and bundle us in front of the fire."

"That sounds—" Steve clears his throat. "That sounds beautiful."

"It truly was." She shuffles her feet a bit, and then, sounding wry, though he wonders if it might be to avoid the slight shaking in her voice, says, "I don't suppose a city boy like yourself had such similar experiences?"

He snorts. "Not hardly. Snowball wars in the street when there'd been a storm, sure. But if my mother had caught me sneaking down four flights in the middle of January or catching something from outside in my mouth, I certainly wouldn't have gotten hot chocolate."

"A shame for you, then." Her eyes gleam celestial in the near dark. Without meaning to, he takes in a gulp of frigid, pine-scented air.

"Seems to me," he says, "that I just have an opportunity to make another, better memory for the future." He pauses, glances down then back up at her. "Or—Well, this one's a pretty good one too. A first first snow memory."

The quiet between them is content, broken as it is by the sounds of birds and animals on their nightly business. A gust blows over them and Peggy shivers.

"Here," Steve says, automatically moving to unbutton his coat, but she shakes her head.

"Remember what Howard said."

The sound he makes in the back of his throat is half humorous, half rueful. She'd been there to hear Howard yell, "Don't forget to try to stay warm - not too warm, though! We're not totally sure what could happen to you extreme temps. Might be that your temperature and the way your brain processes it don't match up. Should probably test it when you get back," just before Steve left HQ.

"Well," he says, clearing his throat and continuing to undo his buttons, stretching his legs out in front of himself. The coat is heavier than any he's ever had and she has one much the same, but they're not particularly well insulated. "It's still cold as hell out here. We can share it."

The words hold awkwardly in the air as she looks over at him. A voice that might be Bucky's is telling him that he's not smooth enough to use words to make it better and he should just keep quiet and hope she lets it go. His own voice is low when he speaks again. "Just to keep warm, I swear. I would never—" His fingers fidget over the last button. "I know you have reason not to trust me. I should never have assumed anything or spoken to you like that, and I'm sorry for it."

"I know you are," she says with surprising immediacy. "Watching you over the past few days it's become clear to me that I wasn't as mistaken about your character as I had thought. And that perhaps I shouldn't have shot at you."

"It was," he says, feeling foolish, "some pretty good shooting," and she climbs over his left leg and tucks herself beneath his arm, inside the warmth of the wool with him.

"What a charming compliment." Her breath clouds softly against his neck. "I'll have to tell my mother."

"Maybe talk me up a little too." He isn't entirely sure what he's saying. "If I ever make it there for a first snow, I'd like some of that hot chocolate afterward."

She gives a hushed little laugh. "I'll make certain to. Although I wonder if I've elevated my childhood memories too highly. You might end up being disappointed."

There are, he estimates, likely only about another ten minutes before Dugan comes back around to this spot on the patrol route and they should probably be inside by then. He plans to savor each moment until he hears footsteps out here with Peggy beneath the first drifting snow.

"Believe me," he says. "If it's even close to this, I don't think there's any way I could be disappointed."

Steve's sitting at the drafting table they'd set up in one corner of the living room once it became clear that he was going to be drawing as more than a hobby. The pot of heavy stew he has on a low flame lends the aroma of tomato and garlic to the air.

He's working on two sample wedding announcements, one in a cartoon style for the bride, with she and her fiance sharing a milkshake with two straws (the sort of simplified image that he recognizes wryly will become emblematic of this era while allowing people to ignore the complexities) and one with more classically elegant florals for the bride's mother. He's been distracted and has to force himself to focus, so just the two designs have taken him all afternoon. It's only once he's finished the latter that he looks up and realizes simultaneously that it's dark, Peggy still isn't home, and that it's started snowing.

He reaches over the tabletop and lifts the edge of the dotted green curtain, peering at the falling flakes illuminated by the streetlight.

"The hell?" he mutters to himself. They'd had barely a dusting all winter, it had been in the seventies for half of January, and now it's snowing in March.

Apparently the stew was a good choice for tonight. Peggy will want something hot and filling when she gets here.

He reaches toward his pocket to check the time then shakes his head at himself and looks at his wristwatch instead. 7:56. It's not unheard of for her to arrive home this late but she had seemed to think it would be a fairly light workday. Changes of plan like this always makes him wonder if something's gone wrong, not with Peggy who can generally handle herself, but with one of the many balls they're trying to keep in the air: Korea is still a concern, of course, and Hydra has been bristling from the targeted test strikes they've made so far, and of course there's Bucky. They've been getting close to finding him, each source of Peggy's confirming Steve’s memorized information seeming like it will be the last link, each day feeling like it might be the one.

Forcing himself to stand, he stretches, circles aimlessly around the apartment a few times, then gathers himself enough to remember to tidy up. The snow is still coming down, big floating flakes that are actually starting to accumulate.

Once his supplies are put away, the counter wiped down, and the table set, he allows himself to call over to the SHIELD offices. If Peggy has something to tell him, she will when she can, and if not it might be an interruption to something important. But there are, he reminds himself, more normal explanations for a late arrival and if she's just catching up on paperwork he'll be happy to know that too.

He's very aware of how lucky he is that they get at least some degree of normal.

But the switchboard operator who picks up, recognizing his voice, tells him that Peggy left nearly an hour ago. He thanks her and hangs up, frowning. It usually takes half that time to get back.

He considers starting in on his next project or picking up a book in an attempt to distract himself, but before he can even make a decision, the power goes out, leaving him blinking in the near darkness, the flame from the stove the only light.

After he searches around by feel for the matches and then by match-light for a flashlight, he turns off the burner and heads down to make sure the neighbors are alright.

Mrs. Lester on the first floor sits sewing by the light of what seems to be a lantern set up on her table, and reminds him peaceably that she grew up in a country cabin without any electricity at all so this doesn't bother her in the least. The Trimble brothers on the second floor ask a whole lot of questions that he can't answer ("When do you think the power will come back on?" and "Do you think it will snow again tomorrow?") but seem fine. Esther Stoneham in the little top floor apartment even seems glad about the lights having gone out - it'll mean that her toddlers Caroline and Eddie might actually just go to bed instead of trying to play with everything in the place.

"I've lit one candle," she tells him, with exhausted eagerness. "And I'm telling them that's all there is so they had better be done picking up the toys before it goes out.”

He meets Peggy coming up the stairs as he's on his way back down.

"You're home," he says, just as she reaches the landing, her camel-colored trench dark and dripping a bit, and asks, "Do I smell a stew?"

They go inside together, door locked behind them.

“Another first snow together,” he says, catching and holding her chilled fingers in his.

Her eyes are soft on him. It always strikes him when they have these sorts of moments, when she’s with him to share these memories that had been held by only the two of them: their memories. “Still some magic to it, though I wouldn’t have said no to a bit better timing. I didn’t even wear a scarf today.”

He lights some candles around the place while she goes into the bedroom, joining her once he's finished.

"I would have adored a good bath," she says, standing before the bureau in her slip and sorting around in the dim light for her warmest pajamas. "But I suppose we can't have everything."

"I think I can promise a bath sometime in the near future." He walks into the bathroom and picks up a towel. Once she's finished changing, he starts to rub gently at her hair, drying it carefully of the cold moisture. When he's done, her cheeks have lost their outdoor redness and she's a bit frizzy.

There was a time, not long ago and all of forever away, when he never thought he'd see her like this, relaxed and unguarded, completely beautiful in the disheveled, comfortable way. He kisses her forehead, her temple, her cheek, her mouth, her mouth again for longer. She presses up into him, hands holding him closer, a dreamy, satisfied hum building in the back of her throat, until, approximately simultaneously, his hand hits one of the bottles lined up atop her dresser, knocking things around, and her stomach reminds them it's quite late and they still haven't eaten.

Steve ladles stew, luckily still warm enough, into bowls. Peggy slices bread and spreads hers liberally with butter. She's only five years on from army food and ration cards.

"How was your day?" he asks as they sit across from each other in the quiet, candlelit kitchen.

"I had an interminable meeting with a very sweet man from the BID who somehow kept expecting me to speak Dutch, which is unfortunately not among my many talents, and then I was informed by Howard that selecting Eugenia Cavendish to head our Australia division was being perceived as an insult to the men who’d interviewed for the position.”

“Howard said that?” Steve asks, already thinking about socking the man next time they see each other.

“No, he merely informed me of how it was being perceived, which I might already have guessed. And I informed him in return that I don’t particularly care, and I suspect Genie’s prepared herself as well.” She takes another bite. “And then I had an errand to take care of after work, and got caught up in the weather. I tried to wait it out, but finally decided to take a chance and I’m glad I did or I might have been waiting all night.”

“An errand?”

“Yes, I—” She looks just slightly flustered, as if she’d hoped he wouldn’t catch on that bit, then says decisively, “Oh, let me just get them.”

From her bag, she takes a bakery box, a bit damp, a bit crushed, but mostly intact, and sets it before him, nodding at him to untie the twine and open it up. When he does with careful fingers, he finds two cinnamon buns lying inside.

“You were talking yesterday about how your mother made them once, as a treat,” she says as he takes them in. “And I know that you’ve had quite a lot on your shoulders lately. So I called around and had some put aside.”

Their local bakery closes at 3 and usually sells out of the more popular treats long before then. There wouldn’t even be anyone to open the door without some convincing. Steve looks down at the pair of pastries, sweetly puffed up and perfectly iced, for long moments. How simple it is, to be thought of, an offhand comment remembered, to have someone go out of their way for him. To have Peggy, in the midst of all that she does, go out of her way for him.

“Thank you,” he says, meeting her eyes, the box still cradled in his hands.

“Here,” she says, standing with her bowl. “Come, my darling. Let’s finish eating in the sitting room. The windows are better there. We can sit and watch the snow. A bit of magic. I think we can both use it.”

Her gaze from across the table is so kind: Peggy sitting beside him as he’d cried in that bombed out pub, Peggy reminding them both of the things they have to be proud of, Peggy here and now, understanding him without words, promising so much more to come for the two of them together.

The bedroom door slams open without warning, and both Steve and Peggy shoot up in bed as all four of their kids tumble through the door.

“It’s snowing,” Emma says, fingers fluttering gleefully downward as she catapults toward the bed.

“Snow day!” Drea sings eagerly, bouncing into the blankets. “Snow day!”

And indeed, when Steve looks out the window into the near darkness, he finds several inches already on the ground and more still falling.

“I guess you’re right,” he says. “Any chance you all will go back to sleep for at least a couple more hours?” When they blink up at him (Rosie actually snorting out a laugh), he just shrugs. “Okay. Pancakes, I guess.”

The roads aren’t going to be cleared for several hours at least - everything around here shuts down for even a sprinkling. Peggy could likely place a few calls to give herself some sort of priority in order to get in for at least the later morning, but she doesn’t. Instead, for the first time in its history, Peggy phones her work and tells them to activate the phone tree and inform everyone at the Washington office that they can switch to essential staff members only for the day.

“That was nice of you,” Steve comments, giving her a smile, a brief kiss, and a cup of tea as she joins them all in the kitchen.

“They can always telephone in an emergency, though there hopefully won’t be any today.” She sips her tea, watching him standing there flipping pancakes on the griddle and adding bacon to a pan, looking at the children bundled in their robes, making wonderful, impossible plans for the day. “And it was a bit of a gift to me as well.”

The radio news, along with the official school closure, announces that the storm might have some staying power. By the time they’ve finished breakfast, it’s late enough that Steve says he’ll dig out his old snow boots and go see if the store’s open to pick up some essentials.

Even for him, the walk to town takes longer than usual, and it turns out that their early rising was lucky: people are flowing into the market and the shelves are starting to clear. Steve gets a bag full of staples, then asks Mr. Hillyard if he can leave them in the back office for a bit and borrow his phone to call Peggy. Looking around, he sees several elderly shoppers who likely need a hand getting things back home - the wind has a bite to it and they probably shouldn’t be out in that at all, much less carrying heavy bags down uncleared roads.

It’s several hours before he’s finished making deliveries and promising to come back tomorrow to help shovel walkways, before he finally starts home himself. On the way he is waved over by Wally Davenport, father of Rose’s friend Marcia, a portly man with his coat zipped to his chin who stands talking to Mrs. Gregory, the grade school principal.

“Cold enough for you?” he asks, fairly cheerfully Steve thinks for someone who has his hands stuffed so deep in his pockets that he’s bent nearly in half. Mrs. Gregory waves goodbye to the two of them, looking a bit relieved to be freed from conversation.

“I’m ready to be back home with Peggy and the kids,” Steve says, shifting the bag in his arm and trying not to sound pointed.

“Bet that brood of yours is happy to have the day off,” Wally replies obliviously. “I know that my two are—”

Later, it is hard to tell whether Steve’s hearing or his speed makes the difference. Likely it’s both: his sharp ears immediately detecting the moment that the branch of the old, spreading pine above them, unused to the weight of snow, cracks and collapses, his instinctive arm hauling Wally out of the way as the enormous bough crashes down before them.

“Lord almighty,” Wally says, swiping a hand across his forehead and staring wide-eyed as if he expects the sidewalk to have crumbled into pieces from the force of it. “You’re pretty fast there, Grant. Don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”

If you hadn’t been here, Steve thinks to himself, walking through the overcast, snow-cushioned streets after he’s sent Wally back home to his wife and kids. Perhaps if he hadn’t been there, Marcia and Dougie would have found their memories of this day destroyed by the memory of their father’s death. Perhaps if he hadn’t been there, Wally would have already moved on toward home, heard about the fallen branch only later, whistled when he walked by and spotted it.

This life, the life he and Peggy have made themselves...He lives always within its normalcy, lives with the knowledge that he is in some ways entirely apart. Some days - when Nate asks if he thinks people will ever really walk on the moon, the afternoon Rose brought home that first Beatles record, saying her friends told her it was pretty good - he is struck by all that he knows, all the ways he is permanently outside of time. Some days, like when he’d turned on the news to see, suddenly before him, footage of John Glenn circling the earth for the first time, he feels entirely a part of it all, and sometimes, like when he’d seen Jerrie Cobb go up six months later, he finds pride in what he’s managed to do here. And often, he does not even think of it much, is simply a husband, a father, with errands to complete and homework to oversee, listening to his children’s chatter, Peggy’s laugh or her sharp sigh when they talk in bed at night.

The house, as he approaches it, looks unfamiliar for a moment, and then he blinks. There is Emma’s window, with the pretty curtains she’d selected. There is the scratch Nate left on the garage door when he was learning to make turns on his bike last summer. There, beneath the snow and frozen earth, sleep the bulbs he’d planted. There is the porch swing where he and Peggy sit to have a drink together when it’s warm out, the welcome mat where Rosie dropped a pitcher of Kool-Aid and left a stain, the front door that Drea will help him touch up in the spring.

He walks down the front hallway, feeling each step. In the doorway to the living room, he stops. The kids are still in their robes, scattered around with books and blankets, barely glancing at him. They’ve built a fire; it is still high in the grate.

Peggy is sitting with her own book, leaning on one arm of the sofa with her feet tucked beside her. She looks up at him, her hair a bit messy, eyes familiar, all of her beautiful.

“Oh good, you’re home,” she says. “We were waiting for you to get back before we went out into the yard together.”

He can picture it: snowmen and snow angels and forts and everyone laughing their way through a merciless snowball fight, burrowing back inside to wrap their hands around mugs of hot chocolate. Having this day, this wonderful day, and another tomorrow and for days and years to come, perhaps not the same, certain to be filled also with shock and worry and disappointment and heartache, but made of so many of these same small and loving moments.

“Yeah,” Steve says, complete with it all. “Yeah, I’m home.”

More chapters here

#Steggy #Steggy fic #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #things left behind fic #the Carter crew #and fade to black...#that's the fic folks

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softer-fe-imagines · 5 years

Text

remaining summer requests

The last of the summer requests (11 of them and one extra!) are all under the cut;; ♡

Actually I love this;; So many cute things to think about! ♡

There’s a loud boom as the door is forced open, almost as loud as the thunder outside. “I am here,” Grima announces as he strides in. There’s a thunderstorm outside, his specialty, but that’s not the point. In his studies of human culture, he’s learned that the dominant human is supposed to comfort the other while it rains like this. So, that’s exactly what he’s here to do.

Although, quite contrary to what he’s heard is supposed to happen, you merely glance at him from your position at the window before patting the spot beside you. He glides over and sits down because… what else is he supposed to do when you’re watching the storm rather intently and not paying much attention to him?

It’s a moment later when he voices his question. “Are you not scared, worm?”

“Of course not, storms like this are cool,” you reply. He blinks.

“Well, I can make storms like this any day, you know.” There’s a certain tone in Grima’s voice that you just can’t place, so you glance over to see a pout forming on his face. He’s looking out the window as if the storm has offended him in some way, and you can’t help but laugh.

“You’re jealous of the weather, hm?”

“I am not,” he lies, averting his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the knowing look in your eyes.

“Oh, you totally are! Wow, I never thought I’d see the day-” you’d have continued, of course, but Grima’s eyes narrow and a well-timed clap of thunder resounds as lightning strikes, bright and true, while Grima’s lips make contact with your own.

When I saved this to my drafts I put “shiny;;” as the comment and? that still totally applies;; You have god-tier taste, anon!

It’s close to 4 in the morning and Soren is already awake - or, rather, it’s more accurate to say he’s still awake since he hasn’t slept a wink all night. He can’t concentrate anymore, the words in front of him swimming and diving into a blurry mess as he sighs, loudly.

“…Soren, come to bed,” you whisper, startling the man in question. He looks over at you, questioningly, as he sighs again.

“Did I wake you?” You shake your head in response.

“Come to bed,” you repeat, and Soren finds himself too tired to argue, so he sighs one final time before slipping in beside you.

It’s warmer here, he thinks, as you shuffle closer to him, enveloping him with your body heat. He still won’t be able to sleep - at least he doesn’t think so - but this is comfortable, preferable to sitting and stewing in cold hordes of letters and numbers. It's… nice, he admits to himself, if only in his sleep-deprived mind.

“I’m glad you think it’s nice,” you say, which totally means he was thinking aloud, but he’s still too tired to do much more than make an aggravated sound. “Sleep well.”

The words are an invitation that maybe he won’t be accepting this time, but the sentiment is there. Soren closes his eyes and is thankful.

Anon I love youuuuu

It’s supposed to be a solo dance performance, one where you watch Laslow perform the dance he’s been perfecting as of late. It’s a wonderful show - Laslow takes on an air that he only seems to have during moments like this and he’s so graceful, fluid and lithe like he’s meant to do this for the rest of his life.

You clap because it’s the best thing you’ve seen in your life, or, at least the you of right now thinks so. Laslow smiles, cheeks tinged a light pink as he settles under your gaze, and then he’s pulling you up to join him.

“But I can’t-” you try to protest.

He cuts you off. “Just follow me and it’ll be fine,” he says, words accompanied by his signature smile, so you suppose you just have to listen.

It’s fun, twirling around in circles as Laslow leads you. Laughter fills the air and, at some point, you get a little dizzy, enough so that the scenery begins to light up. You wouldn’t pay much attention to it, but even as the two of you slow down, the lights remain, blinking in and out of existence at a leisurely pace.

“Fireflies…” you say aloud, the word coming out as barely a breath. Laslow smiles again, brighter than all the bugs around you and suddenly you can’t take your eyes off of him.

Ugh your mind anon, I stan you, like, spiritually;; Thank you for enabling my women-writing, you’re the best!!

“Ice cream? I’ve heard of it, of course, but I had assumed that soldiers wouldn’t get to have such a delicacy.” Laegjarn says after you bring up the topic of the typical summer food.

You shake your head in response. “Well, you assumed wrong. Ice cream’s super common here, so it’s super good for the summer! Would you like to get some?”

“Do you think I’ll enjoy it…?” she asks, to which you nod aggressively.

“Of course, of course! And if you don’t, we’ll get you all kinds of other summer treats until we find something you do like!” It’s said with such determination that Laegjarn can’t help her laughter.

“If you’re so certain, then I’m sure it won’t take too long,” she replies with a smile as she slips her hand into your own.

“Here,“ Cordelia says, offering you a cone of ice cream, which you take eagerly as a way to stave off the heat. "I wasn’t quite sure what you’d like, so I guessed. I hope that’s alright…”

She sounds a bit saddened by the fact that she didn’t know, but you still smile brightly at her anyways. “That’s okay, this is my favourite,” you reply because it’s true, somehow her guess had been completely correct. “It’s perfect!”

Cordelia lets out a sigh of relief as she settles down next to you, balancing her own cherry and vanilla cone in one hand. “That’s a relief. To think I don’t know my partner quite as well as I thought I did…”

You can’t help but laugh. “That just means that there’s more to learn, right? We can do it together!” Cordelia smiles at that, small but bright.

Of course!! I love him too anon;; ♡

Hríd is surprisingly good at swimming, darting through the water with relative ease. It’s surprisingly fun to cheer him on from your place on the sand as he performs strangely fancy maneuvers in the water.

You gradually lose focus on him, though, as Ylgr comes over and asks you ever so sweetly to make a sandcastle with her. You can’t refuse such an adorable face, so your attention is neatly passed over to the youngest of Nifl’s royal family. It’s only after a few minutes of sand crafting that a presence makes itself known behind you, the loud clearing of someone’s throat.

Looking over your shoulder, Hríd himself stands behind you, a small frown on his face. “You should come swim with me,” he says.

“No,” Ylgr protests before you can even open your mouth. “We’re making a sandcastle.” The two stare at each other, an intense face-off as you sit, not quite knowing what to do. A moment later, each one of them grabs on to you, pulling in either direction as they begin to argue.

“Wait-” you exclaim, and they stop just before they pull you apart.

“You should come with me,” Hríd insists.

“No, stay with me!” Ylgr exclaims.

“I… think I’ll go swim with Hríd first,” you say gently, and he smiles triumphantly while his sister immediately frowns. “And then we’ll both come back and build a castle with you, Ylgr. Is that alright?”

“But-” Hríd begins to protest, but Ylgr is faster.

“Okay! I’ll be waiting!” She says with a bright smile and you give a sigh of relief. With that, you turn to go back into the ocean with your boyfriend, conveniently missing the way Ylgr sticks out her tongue in her brother’s direction. He makes a face in response, but, ultimately, decides that playing with his sister is fine.

You link arms with Hríd as you make your way towards the water. “You’re too nice to that sister of mine,” he says. “She’s spoiled enough as is.”

“No one can help it, she’s cute and she knows it…” you reply. “But, it’s good to have a friendly relationship with one’s future family, no?”

“Ah…” Somehow, Hríd’s cheeks begin to colour, turning a little bright pink than usual as your words sink in. “I… guess you’re right.”

You laugh and his skin turns an even prettier shade of pink. “Why don’t we go cool off?” you ask and he frantically nods a quick yes before detaching himself from your side and diving into the water as you follow behind at your own pace. Ylgr may be a cute kid, you think, but Hríd is probably the cutest man in the world.

I don’t usually think about him? But when I did it was so much fun;; I hope you enjoy it anon!!

Midnight watch - by far the worst job in the army, at least, in the opinion of most - is probably the time you see Frederick the most. He’s always so busy running here and there and everywhere for Chrom and Lissa and Robin and countless others, so it’s nice to have a time where you have him all to yourself, even if it’s the middle of the night.

It’s then, when you’re holding hands (only after many nights of begging that he at least allow that much contact, it couldn’t hurt after all), that he points out a new occurrence, on the hill just outside of your patrolling area.

It glows as if it’s magic, you think at first, but it takes only a moment more for you to realize that they’re fireflies, the first of the season.

They’re so pretty that you want to thank Frederick immediately, but the moment you look up at him to do so, the soft smile on his face stops you. He looks peaceful, which is rare since the two of you are out in the open, not somewhere private like usual. The idea of it all makes you smile, so instead, you merely squeeze his hand a little harder.

!!!! Of course of course, how did you know I love him anon,,,, You must be a mind reader, so maybe you can tell how much I love you? (Hint: It’s over 9000♡)

Lukas has his fingers entwined with your, his grip gentle but firm as the two of you walk side by side. It’s cool out, just a bit colder than you’d like it to be, really, so you find yourself grateful for the warmth of his skin.

The morning is quiet and so are the two of you, but perhaps that’s a good thing. It’s relaxing, peaceful, a welcome change… or something like that. Regardless of what it is, it’s quite nice. You’d share the thought with Lukas, but looking in his direction shows an expression of deep thought, so you keep the feeling to yourself.

Instead, you swing your attached arms back and forth, just for something to do. Lukas looks at you and you look back at him with a smile, and he turns away, but the corners of his lips are still visibly turning upwards even though he’s turned away.

…This one, I have to admit I messed up;; I posted a Henry one a few weeks back that asked for prompt number 5, but I did 4 instead… That’s a huge mistake on my part, but since it’s been so long I don’t want to change it. So, this is Henry with number 5, watching fireflies!

“Look look look, can’t you see them?” Henry exclaims, excitedly tugging you in the direction of whatever it is that he’d like you to see.

“The… fireflies?” you ask as you finally come to a stop somewhere deep in the night, the lightning bugs being the only source of light other than the moon high up in the sky.

He nods aggressively and you swear his smile gets larger if that’s even possible. “Yep! See they look like the magic sparks, the ones you see when you cast a good big spell! And since you said you can’t see them, I thought I’d show you these instead!”

You blink at him once or twice before a smile that mirrors his own settles on your face. “That’s sweet of you, Henry?”

“You think so?” he replies, tilting his head in question. Instead of waiting for an answer, though, he reaches out to grasp your hand in his. “Then, let’s watch them together!”

Poly is a-okay here! It’s not super romantic but this one was fun to do, so I hope you’ll enjoy it regardless;;

If you had to compare the three of you, Ryoma is definitely the most used to the heat. Next is you, then Xander, who gets overheated insanely fast. That mostly explains the current situation - the three of you seated side by side on your couch, the lights turned off and a fan blowing at its highest setting as a means of keeping the three of you cool.

“…I can’t believe the air conditioning broke.” Xander voices aloud. Ryoma laughs warmly and you sigh, as if exhaling the heat from your body.

“It’s too hot,” you say and Xander nods in agreement, but slowly to not to create too much more heat. Ryoma just laughs some more.

“You two just need to build up more heat tolerance,” he suggests, and Xander gives him a pointed stare.

“I’m melting,” he says in monotone. You glance over and it appears he’s right, if the amount of sweat on his face is anything to go by.

“Aw, you poor thing.” Ryoma leans over you to wipe the moisture from Xander’s forehead, his arm effectively adding even more heat to what you think is more than enough. Xander leans into you more closely to gives Ryoma better access to his face, but that only produces more heat.

You heave out another heavy sigh and they pause, looking at you. “Wait just a second…” you ask, so Ryoma pulls back, giving the room to slide off the couch and right onto the cool floor. “And now you can continue.”

Ryoma stares at your form on the ground before he snorts, his laughter still too warm for the atmosphere. “What, were we too hot for you?”

“Yes,” you reply and this time it’s Xander who laughs. “You’re lucky I love you two and that it’s too hot for this,” you say with a pout and decided to angle the fan in your direction as the two of them continue you on behind you.

Miss Laura is actually very cute… I did my best to do her justice, so I hope you enjoy this anon!

“So we have everything?” Laura asks, staring at the luggage for the fifth time in the past hour.

“Laura, you’ve double checked your double checks, I’m sure we do! And if we don’t, we can always buy things when we need them.”

It makes sense, of course, but Laura still looks a little worried. “But…”

“No buts,” you say firmly. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry. And if it’s not, I’m sure we can figure out a way to fix things!”

“If you’re sure…” she replies, the frown on her face still present. You’re not a fan of it, not when she could be smiling, so you reach over to take her hand. She looks up, a little surprised as you look her right in the eye.

“I’m absolutely sure. I’d be worried if I was going by myself but since it’s with you, there’s no problem, right? I’ll be counting on you.”

Laura pauses for a moment. “Then, if you’re counting on me… I’ll do my best too!” she says, voice filling with confidence as a small smile appears on her face.

You smile back in much the same way. “Then, let’s get going!”

“Mhm!”

In the end, you do forget a few things, but it’s all alright. Laura is able to take care of it, and you’re there to help her, so there really is nothing to worry about.

Bonus*** Some extra Ryoma because I didn’t realize I’d already done the prompt so I did it again? Please accept it it’s cute;;

“Good morning,” comes Ryoma’s voice. It’s gentle, cleaving through sleep like one cuts through butter. You blink, eyes fluttering open.

“Good… morning?” you reply, your brain still clouded by sleep. You hear Ryoma laugh, maybe, and then there’s a warm, soft pressure on your forehead.

“Still tired, hm? Perhaps this will wake you up…” It’s hard to comprehend things when you’ve just woken up merely half a second before, but somehow you think you should prepare yourself…

There’s the soft pressure again, this time on your lips and, ah, you melt into it. The vibrations of Ryoma’s laughter fill your throat this time, delightfully tingly.

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thegeminisage · 4 years

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hey liz i've been thinking a lot about story structure lately and i wanted your take on how you decide what structure your stories will have? i know there's that "you have to do what your story needs and tells you to do" thing but these bitches dont ever tell me anything they just multiply so. thoughts? - bma

(as an aside, i don't know whether involving medium would change many things but it may be worth considering. mainly i think medium is just a matter of arrangement and that the story would be for most intents and purposes the same no matter how you choose to tell it. i guess you could argue that structure is arrangement in itself and intrinsically tied to medium but i sort of feel like it is secondary arrangement, if at all? like if you consider time as an element to outline -- the time IN the story (how things happen to your characters) is not necessarily the time you’re telling the story IN (how you are telling your reader that things are happening) aka internal chronology doesnt equal your work’s pacing? or should it??? does this make sense? i dont think so. i am sorry.) - bma :|

NOOO dont be sorry ur making total sense

i think there’s 3 thots to unpack here (medium, structure, & chronology) & i’m gonna start with medium bc it’s easier. im also putting it behind a cut bc it’s gonna get just stupidly long and rambly. i’m sorry in advance if it’s not helpful to you, i have a lot to say for someone who has never taken even one single class on writing and as a result doesn’t know jack shit (there’s a tl;dr at the end dont worry)

about MEDIUM:

so like ok i’m just some goof-off with a HS degree who writes fanfiction but In My Very Super Qualified Personal Opinion, i don’t think that most of the time medium is intrinsically tied to STRUCTURE of the main storytelling arc...i think the art of storytelling itself is distinct from the medium you choose to tell the story IN. this post puts it better than i ever could but basically for me, i feel like the story itself is sort of the raw, malleable concept, and the medium you choose to tell it in is how you convey the information??

like in a book, you can say “she forgot her keys” and in a film you have to show her smacking her forehead, heading back into the house, and swiping her keeps off the counter. you can’t TELL in film, you have to show. similarly i regret every day i cannot perfectly describe a facial expression with words when i see it so clearly in my head. for audio-only podcasts that are dialogue heavy out of necessity you have different limitations than you would for, say, animated music videos with no dialogue at all. games allow for more interactivity and exploration while sacrificing accessibility, tv shows allow for more length while sacrificing, uh, a big hollywood budget...medium affects the kind of story you can reasonably tell which is why some stories are better suited to one medium than another. i think trying things in other mediums is a good way to stretch your storytelling muscles but with enough skill nearly any story could be told in any medium. i think when trying to decide on a medium you just gotta weigh the pros & cons and what you feel comfortable with/what you think would be most effective/what would evoke the strongest reaction

re: structure:

firstly “do what the story tells u to do” is a little silly like...the story isn’t sentient. come on. that’s like “i can only write when the writing gods inspire me” there are no writing gods! inspire yourself! it’s all in our weird messed up brains! ok anyway.

this is, again, just how i do things, and i am 700% self-taught so take it with a grain of salt, but when i sit down and start blocking out a story from scratch i don’t...actually consider the big structure at all! sorry if that’s not helpful to you. i like to make a list of everything i want to happen, and then put it together in a few different orders to see what looks best. and when i’m finished, whatever i have just like...IS the structure i go with, with perhaps minor tinkering to make it flow more smoothly. (i think this might be in the same spirit as “do what the story tells you” with less bullshit and more Agency Of The Writer.)

for long and more complex projects, i actually usually have several lists - one list of stuff that is, for example, the Action Plot (the kingdom has been cursed, i’m tracking down my serial killer sister to bring her to justice, i’m running from djinn who wanna kill my dad, i’m trying to bring my dead not-boyfriend back to life). then i have another list for Character A & Character B’s romance or whatever. and maybe a even another one for solo character development (magicphobic prince learns to love magic, former werewolf hunter figures out his family is a cult, half-demon learns to embrace his own nature). and as many lists as we need for however many Main Characters and or Plots/Sideplots

how i order the lists: individually first. don’t mix them together to start with. when deciding the order of an individual list i like to, for example in a romance arc, use escalating intimacy. “A and B have dinner together” is naturally gonna go way sooner than “A and B kiss” or “A and B talk about A’s angsty backstory” because that’s more satisfying. draw it out, good/important stuff last, dangle that carrot so we have a reason to keep reading! for singular character development, it’s basically a straightforward point A to point B...if i want my guy to start hating magic with everything he is and end up being very comfortable with it, i have to put “reluctantly uses magic to save his own life” WAYYY before “casually using magic to light torches and reheat his cold stew.”

the tricky part for me is when i’m done with these lists and then i need to mix them together To Pace My Whole Story. (this is usually why i wind up with a rainbow colored spreadsheet.) i don’t like to put too many things too close together because then the pace feels uneven. even if my Action Plot is only a thinly veiled excuse for romance and character development, i still don’t want to focus on a romance for 30,000 words and then go “and oh yeah in case you forgot Serial Killing Sister is still coming for your asses.” the more sideplots and major character arcs you’re juggling the harder it is to get an even distribution, which is my main concern always

and like, generally, whatever i have when i’m finished...is my structure. (sorry.)

i don’t know much about the classic 3-act or anything like that, but i usually can divide them up into 3-5 big arcs based on story turning points. sometimes i take a scene out of one arc and put it in another because it fits better and i like for my shit to be organized, but usually by the time i’m finished with all that, that’s what the final story is mostly gonna look like. (there have been a few exceptions when i realized i needed extra scenes/changes while i was MID-DRAFT and let me tell you that murders me EVERY time. it happened on the merlin fic i’m currently posting and that was like my own personal hell.)

this is also where thots about chronology come in:

i think time CAN be an element of this if you WANT it to be, but it doesn’t HAVE to be. if you want it to be, i would consider it just another “list” like character development or the romance arc.

i usually plot without considering Time very much...to me, it’s all down to the events you want to show, and however much time it takes is the byproduct. if you want to show something from a character’s chilhood but then tell the bulk of it when they’re adults, that’s one thing. if you want to show a scene from their childhood, teenhood, young adulthood, etc, that’s a different kind of pacing?? i usually do it this way so i can regard time like wordcount: it takes as long as it takes. 3 days or 3 years, a 1.5k drabble or a 100k epic...overall, my LARGEST CONCERN is that even distribution. in the same way that i don’t want one chapter to be 30,000 words when the rest are 10,000 words, i personally am not a fan of huge timeskips offscreen

(because this where i think someone’s own internal chronology DOES matter...this is just a personal preference, as a reader i have a hard time really comprehending, say, a year timeskip or a 10yr timeskip when all i did was turn one page. like, a year is such a long time. i can’t even begin to describe how different i am now to how i was a year ago. it’s the same for character development. time IS development and as a writer i’m not really comfortable having that take place offscreen - for main characters, at least. it’s just too jarring. a little prologue with something happening 10 or 20 years ago is usually fine, but for the most part, i’m not a fan. ...i can do one chapter per year a lot easier than i can do two chapters in childhood and the other 8 in adulthood. of course you can play with this a LOT with nonlinear storytelling, which is a whole other very cool thing, and someone skilled in their work can keep me sucked in no matter what, but imo if you don’t want to risk throwing your reader out of your work it’s better to keep things steady)

HOWEVER sometimes time IS an element u wanna consider outside of just making sure your shit is evenly distributed...if your heart is moved to tell a story in a specific timeframe, over a year, or from solstice to solstice (this was almost the timeline for my merlin fic and then i changed it), for the first six months of a friendship, or even a huge journey in the span of a single day (toby fox had a lot of success with this one lol).

i think it can help to choose a start and end point for your chronology the same way you do for character development (prince goes from hating magic to being ok with it, story takes place from ages 8 to 25, or from new year’s eve 2038 to 2039, whatever) - that way you can keep your distribution even, if that’s a thing you want to do...even if you have a lot of skips you can still note what happens offscreen to make it work better in your head? like, if you just make it another List, another column on your spreadsheet, when you’re in the early stages of organizing you can be conscious of it and make sure it’s playing into the story the way you want it to

anyway these r my thots im SOOOO SORRY this is so long lmao. brain machine broke today which is why i had to ramble more to explain myself. the tl;dr in case ur brain is melting out of ur ears & u didn’t sign up for an essay:

imo medium is totally distinct from storytelling tho ofc some stories are better suited to some mediums

structure? i don’t know her. i plot w/o regard to structure and then if it looks funny i mush it into a more structurally sound shape

my main concern when structuring anything, including time, is an even distribution of Events and a steady rate of escalation

structure to me is just what i have when i’m finished plotting. i’m sorry one day i’m gonna take a writing class

internal chronology matters to me personally because i have a little bit of time blindness but maybe not to everyone, i know many very successful stories where they disregarded that entirely to no ill effect

writer’s block isn’t real! everyone just needs more rainbow spreadsheets

thank u for asking I HOPE i didn’t make you regret it too badly lmao and that at least a little of it was helpful!!

#personal #liz loves writing #liz answers asks #brit marling anon #i couldn't figure out how to answer u without walking u thru my entire process #so that's what i did and that's why it's so long. very sorry.#im gonna set this up to reblog itself at the time u sent ur ask so that ur sure to see it!!#edit: there was SUPPOSED to be a cut on this but tumblr put it in the ASK?? i can't seem to fix it. rip

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thegoldenavenger · 4 years

Text

Chapter 2 of the kny fusion no one wants haha

Content Warnings: aftermath of death, uhhh some non named, non canon characters get munched, content warnings applicable to kny canon and to iron man canon. not beta’d we die like mne. mobile beware of read more cut.

Read Chapter 1 | Read Everything |

Steve asks Tony if they can return to the humble homestead where Bucky was turned. It's not a terrible idea to see if there are any clues as to the whereabouts of the Demon King there, and Tony understands the need to say goodbye.

The small house smells like blood. Tony sees Bucky's hand clench tighter to Steve's but the newly made demon doesn't react otherwise. Steve let's go of Bucky and begins the arduous task of dragging his family's bodies out into the night snow.

Tony does not help. He walks the perimeter, keeping his eyes away from Steve and Bucky's lonely work. He traces a long cold trail to the edge of the woods, traces it back to the house.

He traces it until Steve and Bucky are knelt, quietly over five unmarked graves, the freshly turned earth blemishing the white snow. Tony waits as long as he can before approaching the two, his footfalls intentionally heavy.

"Unless you want your friend to fry, we should get moving."

Steve makes a scoffing noise in his throat, but he pushes himself up anyway. After a moment's pause, Bucky follows. Tony leads the way, trusting his senses to let him know if the demon starts making a move.

The night is cold, it makes breathing difficult. He focuses on the sharpness of it, like the moon is holding a knife to his lungs, like it will freeze the shapes of five lonely graves from his mind.

He should have been faster.

The walk is too short and they arrive in a small, quiet town before the sun rises. Tony finds an inn, asks for a room, pays cheaply so they're guaranteed one without windows, and leads his two new charges inside before the morning light can touch them.

As the pre-dawn breaks he can see Bucky get fidgety, but the demon stills when he notices Tony's glance. Fine enough. He doesn't look like he's about to go feral, just like he's uncomfortable.

"Steve, get food," Tony tosses a pouch of money at the man, resisting smiling at his shocked face as the purse's weight settles in his hands.

"I'm not leaving Bucky here," Steve says .

"Then feel free to starve, because he can't leave this room today." Tony's tone brooks no argument as he shrugs out of his over jacket.

He unbuckles the belt his sword is attached to setting the whole mess on the small end table provided in thee room, and untucks his undershirt, finally collapsing into a pile on the tatami. Steve furrows his eyebrows at him, but Tony ignores the glare, instead stretching extravagantly and leaning back on his hands.

There's fight in Steve's eyes but Tony isn't in the mood to encourage it. He leans back his head and pretends to sleep, his eyes closed. A long second passes and Steve slams the door to the room shut on his way out.

Tony peaks at Bucky. He has retreated to a corner of the room, knees drawn to his chest. His hair mostly obscures his face, but Tony doesn't need to watch his eyes to see the way the fingers on his good hand tremble.

The hastily made bandage covering his left arm is still wet with blood. It should have dried by now. It should have healed completely by all rights. How many demons had Tony dodged limbs that he had just taken the liberty to remove? A demon's healing factor was one of the things that made fighting them so difficult.

But here Bucky sat, fangs peaking out of his mouth, claws sharpened, yet wound still dripping.

Tony sits back up, facing the demon. Perhaps sensing Tony's focus, Bucky raises his head to stare warily at him. His eyes aren't human but they don't look like a demon's.

"Does your arm hurt?" Tony asks.

Bucky does not respond other than clenching his fingers.

"Blood might help," Tony says before he can stop himself. The pupil in Bucky's eyes constrict. "But if you eat a human, I don't know if there's any saving you."

Tony isn't the one who studies demons, he designs swords and puts them to use. He's never regretted the distance between he and his fellow Pillars more so than now.

Tony clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I don't know if saving you is even the question here. But if you're willing to try... I will stand behind you."

Bucky furrows his brows, creasing his skin in such a sad manner, but he seems to consider. Tony cannot tell how much Bucky can put together. He doesn't act like demons Tony has met before--fully sentient but capricious, murderous. Bucky is quiet, following where Steve pulls.

But this must be a decision made without Steve, Tony thinks.

"It's your life, you should decide how it's led."

Bucky doesn't answer, just sits in the corner, quiet, until Steve returns.

They travel at night so Bucky doesn't burn and so people are less likely to notice anything odd between the three of them.

Tony has drafted his letters and sent them. One to Fury, one to Bruce. He doesn't acknowledge his nerves as he waits for a response.

It's quite on accident when they stumble across a minor demon celebrating its hunt of a small caravan. Despite Tony's training, the first sign anything is wrong is the way Bucky stiffens.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks as Bucky trembles.

When the wind changes and brings with it the smell of blood, Bucky starts growling low in his throat. Tony's grip is loose, but steady on the hilt of his blade.

"Careful," Tony warns, lowly, and he doesn't know if he's addressing Steve or Bucky.

They keep walking, cautious now, Tony half distracted by Bucky. Still, he soon picks up the crunch of a demon chewing.

"Demon," he says, and Steve's confused eyes widen with dawning realization.

So enraptured with its meal, the demon does not sense Tony and his companions. Twenty or so meters away Bucky halts and refuses to move. Steve seems to be unable of taking his eyes of the demon and its meal. Tony tightens his grip on his sword.

He breaths in, falling into stance, picking one from Pepper's style. It is made to cover distance. Tony expands his lungs and launches forward, hearing the surprised gasps of his companions as he leaves them behind. His blade striked true, cleanly slicing through the demon's neck and its wrists where it held up a hunk of meat to its mouth.

The pain must register after its head slides away from its body because its head is already falling when it starts screaming. It's so loud he nearly misses the sound of steps on the ground.

He brings his sword up just in time to block sharpened claws coming towards him. Another demon? Tony narrows his eyes, swinging his sword. They don't tend to travel in packs.

These demons are far, far below his level and this one falls to his blade as quick as the first had. Nothing short of a Moon demon would falter Tony or his fellow pillars.

Steve yells and Tony whips around to see the shape of another demon attacking the two he'd left behind. He tenses to intervene, but a rough hand on his shoulder stops him. Even now, and Fury still manages to sneak up on him.

He abides only by Fury's insistence and they both watch Steve get bowled over. Steve is too small to put up a fight, he is reedy and thin. Still, he struggles with the small pack he carries and manages to bludgeon the demon enough to distract it.

Bucky takes a step but it is in the wrong direction. Towards the butchered bodies of the caravan.

Tony senses Fury's hand reach for a hidden blade, and this time Tony puts his hand on Fury. Asking him, silently, to watch.

Bucky shakes under the moonlight and Steve thrashes under the third demon.

"You brat!" The demon cries, Steve must have gotten lucky somewhere.

"Buck--Bucky!" Steve yells, not pleading but commanding from his position in the mud and dirt.

It's enough, and Tony isn't skilled enough to quiet his sigh of relief when Bucky flings himself at the demon on Steve.

He kicks it so hard its head goes flying.

“A demon,” Fury says, voice even. Tony still feels like it’s an accusation.

“He has a name,” Steve hisses, indignant. Bucky sits quietly behind Steve.

“He--Bucky,” Tony says in deference to Steve’s squawking, “doesn’t act like any other demon. You’ve seen it.”

Fury doesn’t say anything, only looks at Bucky over Steve’s shoulder. Compelled, Tony continues, “Demons aren’t social, they don’t process emotions the same was as humans. They follow different instincts. But Bucky hasn’t succumbed to his hunger even once, he blatantly prefers having company!” Tony gestures with his words, like he’s scoring his argument.

Is he arguing? Tony just wants Fury to see the potential Tony has seen.

“He’s my brother,” Steve says, “He’s the best man you can ever meet and he doesn’t deserve to be treated like he’s a monster! He’s not one. I’ll prove it to you!” His fists are clenched tightly over his knees, his back straight and determined. He’s short and thin but Tony feels like that wouldn’t stop him from fighting both of them right now if he felt like he had to.

“How can you prove it?” Fury asks.

“I--” Steve cuts off, looking angrily at the pot over the fire. “There’s demons who do hurt people, right? The one who did this to him, the one who hurt our family. We’ll find him and show you! That Bucky’s better, that we can help.”

Fury only hums in acknowledgment of Steve’s declaration, he doesn’t say anything further. Tony sidles closer to the pot and starts serving them all. The stew is thick and smells delicious. He doesn’t know if Steve has noticed, but Fury must have started on this early in the morning and he’s prepared too much for just an individual. He’d been waiting for them, all of them.

He ladles the stew and feels warmth spread through his chest when he notices Fury had added some of the hard to find wood mushrooms Tony had shown a preference for back when he’d studied under the Mist Pillar. Such a small thing, to show someone still had room for you in their life.

Steve takes his bowl, obviously still concerned about the conversation and not like being left without an answer.

As Tony pulls a fourth bowl towards the stew he hears an inquisitive noise and he smiles at Bucky, peaking around Steve’s shoulder. Tony fills the bowl, sprinkles a garnish over it, and puts in a shallow spoon before holding it out to Bucky.

No one has really had a chance to study demons thoroughly, Bruce is really the only one in the field, but it’s general knowledge that demons don’t need to eat proper food, though Tony is sure that they can. Since Bucky isn’t eating a demon’s preferred diet, he can’t imagine offering a substitute would be a terrible idea.

Bucky reaches out to accept the bowl, staring at it for a disconcertingly long amount of time. Tony isn’t sure Bucky realizes it’s for eating, but he holds the bowl with a sort of relish, and Tony surmises that at least he’s enjoying the warmth.

“Start eating,” Fury says abruptly, and Tony realizes that Bucky isn’t the only one not enjoying his meal. Steve startles at Fury’s stern voice. “You’ll need the energy come tomorrow morning.

Steve blinks, confused and Tony can’t stop the laugh that spills between his lips. The way Steve’s blue eyes reflect the fire remind Tony of fireflies over a still pond at night, and he thinks, perhaps the Breath of Mist may find a suitable successor tonight.

The morning comes quickly, perhaps because Tony insists on waking before the rest in the humble house. He gathers his belongings and is working on his shoes, sitting out on the engawa in the dawn’s pre-morning light. He hears shuffling and is not surprised to see Fury walk around the house to meet him. He’d never managed to wake before Fury.

“I thought you may want to watch your strays a little longer,” Fury says.

“They’re in good hands,” he replies, truthfully, but also to see the way Fury’s eyes soften. He turns his attention back to his feet, fingers tapping against them, stalling. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to relay everything back to the other Pillars, inform them about Bucky’s condition.” He smiles wryly at Fury, “Make it sound like he’s not an incredibly unstable, unknowable force of nature.”

“You could write a letter.” Fury says, but with an air that shows he doesn’t particularly think it a wise move.

“If you’re lonely, you can always write me, Nick.”

It’s not an empty offer, but they both know they won’t take it. Neither of them take particularly well to letters. Fury’s distaste comes from a life time of intercepting letters to gather information instilling a practical paranoia in him. If he must he will send a messenger crow with a missive so encrypted and vague it’s almost useless.

Tony finds it difficult to communicate with written words. His greatest strength is disarming people with his words, more than one person has accused him of wriggling his way into their lives, and that’s harder to do when his words come off as dry and clinical.

Tony sighs and stands, checking his sword on his side. “I think he’ll do good with a shield,” he says as he steps onto the packed dirt path through Fury’s small garden. “Don’t get him used to swords, because I won’t be making one of those for him.”

“Don’t tell me how to train the brats you leave on my doorstep,” Fury says to Tony’s back.

#tony stark #steve rogers #bucky barnes #nick fury #kny #demon slayer au #kamaeteWRITES

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alice-in-idol-land · 5 years

Text

the look in your eyes

Read on AO3 here

Series: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda/Annette

Word Count: 1012

Summary: Hilda hesitates for a fraction of a second, wondering if she really should... Ah, who cares? She's Hilda Valentine Goneril, and she can do what she wants! ...Or something.

A/N: Two days late but the fact that it's done is all that mattersssss Also I haven't played 3H yet but these two are highkey cute!! They should be popular;; It's twice as long as I mean it to be but that's okay because wlw is everything. I also made a spotify playlist with all the songs I used for the titles for this week, you can listen to it here;;

For @ferarepair-week Day 7: Azure

As Hilda drafts the design for her newest hair adornment, she's struck with sudden inspiration. Blue, it has to be blue. A pure azure colour as clear as the sky, the ocean, the colour of... something. There's a reason it has to be blue, but Hilda really isn't sure why - which is strange, she's usually so sure of everything else. So, she shrugs it off and continues with her design. If it really matters, she's sure she'll remember it later or something.

The next day, Hilda finds herself very content. In fact, she's so happy that she might be convinced to do a little more work than usual, moving her upper limit from nothing to half of something at the very most. Of course, just as she's decided it, there's a crash and a yelp and off Hilda goes to do her one half of a thing for the day. She's greeted by a familiar orange and so she sighs.

"Annette, good morning!"

"Ah... good morning, Hilda," she replies, turning her head from the wreckage of yet another broken object to Hilda's visage and Hilda blinks. Annette's eyes are blue, very blue, a pure azure colour, she might even say... And, gods, Hilda finally understands where her thoughts had been going last night. She's tempted to smack herself for not realizing it, but that might give her away, so instead she merely clears her throat.

"Broke something again, I see?" she says with a hum, her smile a tad less genuine and more like the one she shows people she wants something from.

"Yes, I did..." There's a sad glint in Annette's eyes as she frowns and Hilda'sstruck with how pretty they are, even like that. She waves the thought away as quickly as she can. "Hilda, you're good with delicate stuff, right?"

"I'm better than most people at it, sure." Hilda replies and Annette meets her eyes, a pleading look.

"Then, could you-"

"Fine, fine." Before she's even asked, Hilda accepts the query with a wave of her hand. She had said she'd do half of something today, so she might as well make it a whole something if Annette's the one asking. It's not as if she can resist saying yes if it's those eyes staring at her, if it's that voice asking her so sweetly. ...It might be a little too late to notice, but gods, is she in deep.

As Annette picks up the pieces, Hilda returns to her room to find some craft supplies that she can use to put the broken whatever-it-was back together. The hair ornament from last night is still where she left it... so she grabs that too, just in case.

Together, they manage to fix it - a teapot, it had been, and a particularly fancy one at that - and it looks pretty much as good as new, Annette can only sigh in relief.

"Thank you so so much!" she exclaims, eyes glittering like the jewels they are as Hilda merely shrugs.

"It's no big deal," she replies because she has to play it off, stay cool, cool, super cool...

"But it is!" Annette insists. "I know you don't like doing work, so the fact that'd you'd help me means a lot. Really, you saved my life. What can I do to make it up to you?"

Hilda blinks. "You can do nothing at all."

Annette pouts. "That's not right! I have to do something!"

"Then..." Hilda hesitates for a fraction of a second, wondering if she really should... Ah, who cares? She's Hilda Valentine Goneril, and she can do what she wants! ...Or something. "Will you accept this?"

"Eh?" Before Annette can question it, Hilda pulls out the hair accessory. "Are you sure accepting that is enough?"

"It is," Hilda ascertains, so Annette tilts her head to allow Hilda to put it on. She fastens it the way she had imagined it, right above Annette's ear, creating a perfect asymmetrical aesthetic. As she steps back to look at it, Hilda can't help but admire her own work. If she isn't good, she doesn't know who is! ...And then she notices the light pink brushing Annette's cheeks, the way her eyes are screwed shut and, gods, maybe that's what she should be looking at instead.

"...You can open your eyes now," she says, taking extra care to keep her tone even despite her frantically beating heart. Annette follows the order of course and Hilda lets out a deep exhale. Thank goodness, she chose the right shade of blue, it really, truly seems like the ornament was meant for Annette.

"So? Does it... look okay?" Oh, she's embarrassed. The breathy tone of voice is so cute... Ahh, but she still has to answer. Still, her beating heart!

"Of course!" she replies. "I made it, after all."

"Right, you're right." Annette smiles again, shyly, and Hilda thinks her heart really does burst this time. Is everything this girl does abnormally cute??

"Well, I'm going to get going now. Take care not to break anything else, alright?" Hilda says with a wink (is she being too obvious? she's being too obvious, isn't she...) and off she goes, not even waiting for Annette to reply. Gods, her face must be as pink as her hair by now... Hopefully, Annette hadn't seen but... Hilda smiles, wider than usual. Perhaps it was a good thing that she found her shade of brilliant azure, now she can be sure to keep a good eye on it.

(Annette doesn't quite know what to think when Hilda winks at her. Her throat feels dry and her heart beats much too fast and, gods, Hilda is just too cool, Annette can't help but feel fuzzy inside. Hilda's already gone by now, but still Annette stews in her feelings. Had she been too obvious? She'd been too obvious, hadn't she... It's just a crush, she reminds herself fervently, but when Hilda's so cool like that... Maybe it's more like love? Oh, gods, Annette wants to die on the spot, this is much too embarrassing...)

#fire emblem #fe #annette #hilda #annette x hilda #fire emblem three houses #ferarepairweek #writing #personal headcanon that hilda constantly fixes things for her gf;;#it's the power of wlw;;

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bnha-hq · 5 years

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*gasps* Ask box is open! Uh, hi! For a Haikyuu drabble, can you do 27 for KuroYachi and 44 for KageHina? Thankyouuuuu

I am so sorry this is so late, I hope you enjoy

“I’m pregnant”

Kuroo would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about Yachi, she seemed more worried than usual, more jumpy and prone to panic attacks. He hadn’t seen her this riled up since her university finals and he couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint what it was.

She’d been so stressed recently she was having seemingly random bouts of nausea and had started jumping more when he arrived or suddenly called for her and when he asked her he got nothing out of her, if she even knew what was causing her anxiety she wasn’t telling him.

She wasn’t telling him anything which usually meant she was worried about his reaction or she was still sorting it out in her own mind to be able to word it in a way that wasn’t more a mashup of concepts so he could understand and hopefully help.

Today had been particularly bad, she’d been sick for the third time today and it had just passed lunch time, not knowing what was wrong worried him so much, he felt like all he could do was sit there and watch with no way to help, just hoping that whatever was wrong would soon pass or ease.

Yachi was currently doing what she had been doing for weeks, fighting an oncoming panic attack. She looked at the four positive pregnancy tests on the bathroom counter, fighting another wave of nausea as she tried her best to sift through the ridiculous amount of emotions that were stewing inside her. She was excited and ecstatic at the news but at the same time it was the most terrifying thing she’d learnt in who knows how long. She didn’t know when to tell Kuroo, she knew she had to but coming to grips with it herself was so hard, she wasn’t sure if she could handle his reaction were it bad and no matter how many times she replayed the scenario in her mind it always ended badly. Logically she knew he wouldn’t hate her or want nothing to do with their baby but her anxious thoughts very rarely planted themselves in logic, watered by the haunting thoughts of the unknown and the ‘what ifs’.

She’d been sitting on this for way too long now, she’d known for a week without telling him and she felt so guilty for not, she had come to the conclusion that she had to tell him, and she would tell him. Today. She knew the logical reactions, she knew Kuroo loved kids and she knew he wanted them in their future. She knew all of this, she just had to cling onto the logic, however fleeting, and not let go no matter what the anxious thoughts screamed at her. She’d tell him today and deal with the consequences as they came, that was all she could do.

Kuroo had started dinner, he hoped Yachi would be able to keep it down tonight. If it didn’t get better he would probably take her to the doctors, throwing up this often isn’t normal right? He didn’t think anxiety alone would cause her to be so sick so often, it hadn’t in the past. Sure, she felt nauseous and like she was going to throw up but she very rarely did so he had to wonder, was her anxiety just getting worse or was she actually sick with some stomach bug? She hadn’t mentioned anything or avoided anything so it didn’t seem like an anxiety thing.

He sighed and finished chopping the vegetables, putting them in the pan to stew with the rest.

Tetsu?” Yachi’s quiet voice cut through the kitchen, she fiddled with her sleeves and avoided eye contact. Maybe it was anxiety related.

“Yes kitten~” he smiled at her, stopping everything to give her his full attention.

She pulled out four little white sticks, at first he didn’t know what they were. They looked like thermometers that you stick under your tongue, so maybe she actually was sick?

“Hm?” He walked over to get a closer look, taking one from her hands and looking it. He saw two clear blue lines and he knew.

His eyes widened as her looked at the test, to her then to the ones in her hands, his mouth open and closing like a fish out of water as he thought of what to say.

“I’m pregnant” she clarified, with more confidence than he expected considering how timid she was only seconds before.

So many feelings flooded through Kuroo that he thought he was going to be sick for a moment, he was so excited and overjoyed, he was going to be a dad! But at the same time he was terrified, he was going to be a dad!

He decided to push away the fear, his excitement easily overpowering it as he picked her up in a tight hug.

“We’re going to be parents!!” He laughed and spun her around, earning a laugh from her as well which was like music to his ears.

“Is this what’s had you so worried?” He finally set her down, seeing her nod weakly and look away. He could tell she was embarrassed, she often said she felt silly after an anxiety attack. He smiled softly and kissed her face, the relief he felt was so intense he just wanted to laugh.

“I’m so glad it wasn’t something bad, I was worried you had the flu or something” he chuckled and gave her lips a quick peck. She giggled.

“Sorry for worrying you” she smiled at him, kissing back gently.

“I wish all my worries ended with news as good as this, we’re going to be parents Kitten!” She smiled at him brightly as he said that, he could just about physically see the stress and anxiety leave her body and he was so glad.

“Yes we are” they could both relax and rejoice in the news, neither weighed down by anxiety and neither could be happier.

“If you die, I’ll kill you”

tw: war and death

It wasn’tsupposed to be like this, it was never supposed to be like this.

They were supposed to finish high schooland go straight into university, hoping to play for the national team one day.

They were meant to find a house together,adopt a pet or two and live out their dreams, happy and content.

It was never supposed to be like this.

They had known the war had started, theycouldn’t not know about it, it had been plastered on every paper, TV channeland radio station.

Japan had gone to war.

The country was thrown into chaos, Kageyamaand Hinata had been drafted and now found them away from home, away from whatthey knew and away from routine and normalcy.

They’d been lucky in the fact that theyhadn’t been separated but Kageyama was terrified, this whole thing scared thelife out of him.

Whenever they were separated for too longhe worried so much he often made himself sick, he worried Hinata had beenkilled, or taken and exposed to much, much worse and by the way Hinata huggedhim, with all the strength he could muster, he figured he had the samenauseating fears as well.

It was never supposed to be like this.

He was meant to come home, maybe a roughday at class or work perhaps, met with that tight hug to squeeze away problemsof the day, not to remind themselves that they were both alive and alright.

It was never supposed to be like this andit made him so angry, angry at the war, at his government, at the opposingarmy, at everything. They should be living their life, just the two of themwith whatever they felt like doing as stupid young adults, not wondering ifthey were going to live to see the next day.

As the war dragged on it took a heaviertoll on them both, Hinata especially. Kageyama had lost count of the amount ofnights he held Hinata as he cried, loud sobs, heavy under the weight of hisfear and guilt.

The weight of the world was on hisshoulders, the uncertainty of tomorrow clouding his vision and the panicgripped his throat in an icy grip, his cries for help barely audible to his ownears and Kageyama couldn’t help him.

Not completely anyway.

He could lie there with him, holding him ina tight grip and doing whatever he could to take a little bit of that weightoff him. To clear his vision just that little bit or loosen the grip on histhroat, but he couldn’t. There was just too much, too much pain, fear,uncertainty, and so much guilt he felt like he would suffocate before theyreached the light at the end of the tunnel. If they did suffocate, if it didprove all too much, the one thing he was certain of though was that he wouldn’thesitate to give his last breath so Hinata could have one more, even if hecouldn’t make it he’d do everything within his power to make sure Hinata did.

He squeezed the boy in his arms a littletighter, savouring the feeling of him being there, dedicating it to memory,dedicating Hinata to memory, even though he already had.

The sound of his voice, his laugh, his cryand the feeling of his skin and the softness of his hair and his smile. Thesmile he has when he’s done something cool, when he sees Kageyama after a longday or when he’s just woken up. All these little details have etched themselvesso deeply into Kageyamas memory they were just another part of him, heremembered these things like he remembered his own name, he firmly believedhe’d forget his own name sooner that those little things about Hinata, he wouldif he had a say in it.

Hinata’s sobs slowly settled down untilthey were more whimpers and hiccups than actual sobs, though his body stillshook violently, his fingers still digging into the fabric of his shirt so hardKageyama briefly wondered if it had been torn, not that he’d care if it had.

He knew he wasn’tthe only one though, he wasn’t the only one who’d held the one he loves as theycried, who lived in fear and everyday had to push it aside and do what neededto be done. He’d seen his team mates here, from middle school and high school,people he didn’t get along with now trusting him with his life and vice versa.

He remainedawake for what felt like hours after Hinata fell asleep, but realistically itwould have only been a few minutes before he too drifted off into a mercifullydreamless sleep.

Kageyama couldhardly keep up with what was happening, bullets were whizzing past his head,his ears ringing as something exploded somewhere he couldn’t quite make out,voices screaming out commands he that couldn’t quite hear but none of itmattered, absolutely none of it, it may as well be white noise in this exactmoment.

“K-Kageyama…I’msorry” his voice was weak, his hands shaking badly as they covered the redpatch on his stomach that only grew, taking Hinata’s colour with it and leavinghim pale.

“S-Shut up, you’regoing to be alright” Kageyama’s hands also shook as he did his best to stop thebleeding, blinking away the tears furiously in attempt to clear his visionthough whatever tears he shed were quickly replaced.

“I’m sorryTobio, I-I’m so sorry” he sobbed weakly himself, Kageyama growled and screamedfor a medic again.

He was vaguelyaware of Iwaizumi running over to help, vaguely aware of an explosiondangerously close to them, vaguely aware of everything that wasn’t Hinata inhis arms.

“If you die,I’m gonna kill you.” He sobbed weakly, holding his face in his hand and pressinghis forehead to his.

Hinata manageda weak laugh, one that shook Kageyama to his core, before leaning up to leave agentle kiss to his lips.

“I’m sorryTobio” he managed before he shut his eyes.

All Kageyamacould do was scream, a pain unlike any other took hold of his being andsqueezed him agonisingly tight.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

#kuroyachi #kuroyachi fic #kuroyachi fluff #pregancy fic #kagehina #kagehina fic #kagehina angst #tw: character death #tw: war #hq #haikyuu #haikyuu fic #hq fic

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