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apompkwrites · 4 years ago

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reader impact || fan service scene: resting with you

series masterlist characters: diluc, xiao, zhongli genre: fluff summary: the creators of genshin impact have graciously gifted the players with a fan service scene featuring you! notes: i know dill's doesn't contain sleeping in your lap,,, i'm sorry but i hope you like what i provided :))

diluc -

diluc isn't one to have many sleep issues.

until the nightmares kick in.

whenever he can't sleep, he tends to just sit in his house.

it's always quiet.

not something you'd want after a nightmare, but he deals with it.

it's better than trying to expose himself to thousands or even millions of people.

but one night, after a particularly harsh nightmare, he remembers that the next day was supposed to be when he streams the newest genshin update.

but, he's already up...

and...

he probably will try to take a nap later today anyway...

soooo.

"i know it's a bit of an early, or late, stream but i was already awake."

his stream is definitely worried because this is the first time he streams at like 2:00 am.

he won't address it, though.

they don't need to know, anyway.

he pretty much tries to ignore any questions about his sleeping habits and opts to answer them very vaguely.

he is excited to play the update because he knows there's some more (name) content :))

he'll get everything done that he needs to do like commissions and events from them nice nice primogems.

and then here he is, ready to start the newest feature.

go to the angel's share.

ah yes, the place his character officially met you for the first time.

(he definitely has issues with interacting with patton before going inside)

the quest basically has diluc go around to collect more things needed for the winery.

pretty simple quest.

canonically, the quest takes the mc a few hours to complete because the materials are everywhere.

so a cutscene plays when he gets back to the dawn winery, which is where charles told him to bring the materials.

he walks inside and there you are.

greeting him with a brief nod and a wave of your hand.

mc drops the items on the table, ready to turn around and leave for another commission.

until you call out to him.

"ah, traveler."

mc turns back around and walks back to stand next to you.

you stand up from your chair and place a hand on their shoulder.

you stare at them for a moment.

"...i apologize. you must have been traveling for a long while to get the materials."

mc tries to wave you off.

"no, no. you'll hurt yourself. hm... come with me."

you literally CARRY MC TO A SPARE ROOM.

EXCUSE ME YOU CAN'T JUST DO THAT SO CASUALLY?!?!?!

anyway, you pull up a chair next to the bed before placing the mc on the bed.

you simply sit in the chair, quietly stroking your thumb along the mc's arm.

"take a break. i'm sure the adventurer's guild will do just fine for now."

diluc is trying his hardest to hold back tears.

he just... really needed this.

xiao -

it's widely known amongst xiao's community that he has insomnia.

he talks about it a lot on how he has trouble sleeping and he even streams on the nights where it gets so bad he doesn't like being alone with his thoughts.

such is the case here where a new update drops and he's up and ready to play.

he greets everyone briefly as they enter the stream, rubbing his eyes and letting out small yawns every once in a while.

they always know when it's an especially hard night for him, so they come prepared with (name) emotes to try and cheer him up.

they don't have the heart to spoil him about the new update and what it includes.

of course, there will always be that one person who tries to spoil something.

the chat sees that and just spams (name) emotes to hide it.

and since xiao is pretty sleep deprived at this point, he doesn't notice.

now he's ready to actually play.

he'll complete his daily commissions and anything else he needs to get done before checking out the newest features.

he does know that there's a part in the update that features you :0

he doesn't know what the actual update is but he just knows that he'll be able to see you again :))

so he's going through the update, right?

just admiring you even if he's half asleep.

and here comes the part that actually almost put him to sleep right there.

his mc and you are walking down the streets of liyue and it's all dark.

there's a few lights here and there.

you two are walking down to the inn he had first met you at.

passing by the boss lady at the front counter.

walking up the stairs.

and there you two are, on the very balcony he ad first seen you on.

"...you seem tired."

his character doesn't say anything (as expected) but just rubs their eyes and nods.

pain is floating beside you two before going off towards the kitchen downstairs.

now it's just you two.

"you should take a rest."

your voice was so soft :))

you look around the balcony before sighing, taking a seat on the ground.

his character stares at you for a bit before you pat your legs.

"i told you to rest, didn't i?"

?!?!?!?!

YOU'RE TELLING HIM

TO LAY DOWN

ON YOUR LAP????

ASJHAKDHAK

ahem.

anyway.

his character takes a bit before finally letting their head rest in your lap.

he's thanking whoever animated this part because it's a POV shot from the mc.

he's just staring up at you.

you're looking down at him with the softest expression he's ever seen.

"...rest now. i won't let anything harm you."

his chat is freaking out.

he's almost asleep at this point.

life is good.

zhongli -

zhongli doesn't have a lot of sleep issues either...

if he did, he'd probably just drink some tea and try to sleep again.

he isn't the type of stream late at night/early in the morning.

because of this, he plays the newest update for genshin at his scheduled time.

some people who watch him are going to bed though, so it's late at night/early in the morning for them :)

he knows this and tries to tell his viewers to get proper rest.

"it isn't good for you to stay up so late."

he really cares about them :))

he's happy to talk to them though.

(he definitely knows people like his voice so he's happy to help them sleep by talking to them)

his daily objectives take longer considering he's taking the time to read to his viewers.

of course, all of the things he's reading are genshin based.

more specifically you, but they don't mind.

anyway, he FINALLY gets his stuff done.

now he's finally ready to start the new (name) quest.

he's like... one or two hours into the stream already.

but he doesn't mind longer stream, especially when it concerns you.

go to third round knockout

ah yes, the little restaurant you go to for stories about yourself.

and, of course, there you are sitting at your usual chair and drinking tea.

you invite him over to sit down, which causes another cutscene to play, talking more about your adventures as a god/dess.

and, to zhongli's delight, the quest fully begins.

the quest follows you and mc going around lie, exploring different areas while you talk about what you've done there in the years you've been alive.

it's a more chill quest that features lore and character building :))

and then you get to a more secluded spot in lieu.

just the two of you.

the sun has already set and the stars are shining down on the two of you.

zhongli isn't saying anything, reveling in the silence as if he were actually there, standing next to you.

and then your character takes a seat in the grass.

and mc follows suit, sitting beside you.

it isn't long before zhongli's character begins to drift off to sleep.

and that's when it happens.

you reach over and pull mc into your lap, your storytelling continuing as if nothing happened.

"this may be awkward, but i noticed you were falling asleep. go on ahead. i'll be happy to share my stories to help you rest."

zhongli, once again, isn't saying anything. he simply lets the cutscene play.

you're still recalling tales of your past, calmly telling them to whoever was listening.

it's calm and quiet.

and zhongli now knows why people love hearing him tell stories as they sleep.

because he is definitely getting that same sensation hearing you recall your past.

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delimeful · 6 years ago

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how easy you are to need (4)

warnings: codependency, suicidal thoughts, self loathing, crying, fear, misunderstandings out the wazoo, virgil sweetie you are so fucking stupid and valid, mentions of violence

The humans began to get antsy as it grew closer and closer to the full moon.

Virgil couldn’t see the night sky from the living room, so he wasn’t sure exactly how round the moon was, but he was a werewolf and his body knew what his mind didn’t. He spent more time curled up in the heavier blankets, trying to ignore the bone-deep ache that radiated through him, increasing with every day that he didn’t shift.

Still, he stubbornly held onto his human form, not wanting to relinquish the easy camaraderie and relaxing days he had with his humans. Even if they were terrible at hiding their weird behavior from him. His hearing was enhanced even in human form, so there was no way he could miss the muttered arguments Logan and Roman would have in the kitchen, though they spoke in vague enough terms that he often felt completely lost regardless.

He knew he was the source of their anxieties, though, just from the way they looked at him when they thought he wasn’t paying attention, the snatches of whispered conversations with his name in them, the occasional hesitance Logan displayed while checking on his wounds. He was healing fast under their care, and wondered if maybe they worried he was going to fight back when the time came.

The thought was ridiculous. Hadn’t they already realized that Virgil was hopelessly attached?

Still, now that he was well enough to walk around without tearing any stitches, he spent a lot of time wandering after one of the three as they went about their daily tasks, a blanket draped over his shoulders to fight off the phantom chills he got from being without a proper pelt. They took to having a shadow well, for the most part. Patton would ask him for help planting the spring tulips and teach him how to carefully handle the sprouts, Logan would steadfastly shoot down any of Virgil’s attempts to help with household chores, and Roman…

Well, any time Virgil followed Roman outside, the dramatic human suddenly found something else indoors that urgently needed doing. He also spent a lot of time clutching at the empty scabbard at his hip, so it didn’t take long for Virgil to connect the dots.

“You can practice with that thing, y’know.” He eventually said, startling Roman from his longing windowgazing.

“Huh?” Roman managed, intelligently. Virgil snorted at him.

“Your sword? You haven’t touched it since my first few days here.” It had been unsettling at the beginning, to be honest. He’d never known a hunter to part with a weapon willingly, especially not around a monster.

Roman was taken aback for a moment. “Well, it just seemed to make you upset- didn’t it? It’s fine, my skills are as sharp as ever.” He flashed an arrogant smile.

He hadn’t wanted Virgil to feel threatened during these comfortable weeks, since his humans were ridiculous and kind in the strangest ways, and now he probably didn’t want to remind Virgil about how these weeks would inevitably end.

“Hey.” Virgil said, drawing Roman’s attention back. “It’s fine. I know I don’t have anything to fear from that blade.” Certainly not in this form.

Roman blinked at him, stunned, and then he smiled again- this one real and soft and resplendent- before jumping to his feet and going to grab his sword. Virgil sat down heavily on the couch, a small grin on his own face, and watched him run through stances and drills for the rest of the afternoon.

The next time he saw that sword, it was the evening before the full moon.

He’d been peripherally aware of the growing tension between his humans, but as the week progressed, he couldn’t drag his attention away from the pain eating at his bones long enough to care. He’d stopped venturing outside, instead staying huddled on the couch and sleeping through most of the day, the way he had back when he’d been too injured to stand. Patton spent some days with him, and others drawn away to argue with the other two.

It was frankly a miracle that Roman stepping into the room managed to catch his attention at all, with how terrible he felt. His gaze flickered between Roman’s tense expression and the sword at his side, and he realized that despite his best efforts, his time was probably up. “Roman?” He asked anyways, voice rough with sleep.

“Hey, Virge.” He said, and sat down on the edge of the couch in lieu of answering Virgil’s unspoken question. They sat in silence for a moment, and then a moment later, heavy footsteps heralded Patton’s arrival. He was holding the broom he used to sweep the porch menacingly, and his glare made Virgil shrink despite it being directed solely at Roman.

“I thought we agreed we would all talk to Virgil about this together!” He said in his ‘I’m-disappointed-in-you’ voice. Roman held his hands up in defense.

“I’m just sitting here! I wasn’t going to say anything until you guys got back! Promise!” He insisted, leaving Virgil to look between the two of them with mild confusion and the beginnings of worry.

“Talk to me about what?” Was something wrong?

They both grew quiet, sharing a loaded glance, and Logan took the opportunity to appear in the hallway, adjusting his glasses with a frown at them both. “We wish to speak to you about the approaching full moon, though I’m sure you’ve heard us bickering over the matter in the past few days.”

Virgil nodded, feeling his heart begin to pound. That was what they’d been arguing about?

“Sorry about that, Virgil.” Patton grimaced apologetically, coming closer to rest a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. Virgil shrugged, and Roman shifted on his other side.

“So! Since we can’t exactly put this off for much longer, what would you prefer, Virgil? Staying inside, here, or outside?” He asked, moving to stand and pace. Virgil looked up at him, processing the offer.

Well, shucks. He was kind of flattered they were dedicated enough to the concept of his comfort to let him get his deathblood all over their house. Unless they had a secret basement to use or something. Either way, he wasn’t going to take them up on the offer. He wanted to see the forest that had been his home for so long before he died.

“Uh, outside.” He finally responded, and then winced when Patton’s face fell.

“Are you sure, Virge? It’ll be cold, and dark, and…”

“Patton.” Logan cut in, not unkindly. “We decided we’d listen to what Virgil wanted, right?”

His softest human sniffled. “Right.”

Virgil felt another wave of pain roll through him, and stiffly began untangling himself from the couch to stand. “I think… we should probably do this now.”

“Now?” Roman squeaked at an embarrassingly high pitch. Patton seemed to agree, and even Logan looked reluctant. It was kind of heartwarming. It seemed like maybe they’d gotten a little attached, too.

Still… “Yeah, now.” Virgil sighed, regretfully. “I don’t think I can hold this for much longer.”

They couldn’t argue with that, and he lead the way out of the house, stepping down off the porch onto the solid dirt. Regretfully, he shrugged off the blanket around his shoulders and handed it over to a tearful Patton. Roman stepped forwards, fingers tapping out a nervous pattern on the hilt of his sword.

“Okay, so- what… what do we need to do? Are you… should we be prepared for your wolf form to attack, or-?”

“Nah.” Virgil shook his head. If he could have found it in himself to attack them to save his own skin, he would have bit Logan all those weeks ago.

Besides, even if he did successfully run away, the idea of returning to his lonely haunting of the forest, dodging his humans’ attempts to catch him, being alone again- it wasn’t likely he’d survive long there, either.

He glanced away from the forest, turning to see Roman’s brow furrowed. It was strange, wanting to comfort a hunter instead of being afraid of them. He was strange, bonding to humans. It was no wonder he was going to die.

“Don’t worry.” He gave Roman his best attempt a wry smile, exhaling nervously. “I get it. I won’t- make things difficult for you. On my honor.” He added, remembering the phrase Roman so often used in his tales.

“What?” Roman asked, but Virgil had already released his white-knuckled grip on his human form, and fell to all fours as his bones began to crack and shift painfully. He couldn’t help but let out a whine; he’d really held this shift back for way too long.

After a moment, the shift was finished, and the sense of utter wrongness under his skin finally abated. He let himself stay in a heap of wolf for a moment, panting from exertion.

“V… Virgil?”

He huffed once, and then got to his feet, shaking to settle his fur.

“Woah!” Roman jumped back, alarm lining his shoulders, hand back to his sword hilt.

Understandable. He was a lot bigger in this form, more so than even a normal wolf. He ducked his head slightly, trying to look a bit shorter. The three humans looked at him with varying levels of wariness, Logan and Patton forced back by Roman’s outstretched arms.

“Uh, hey?” Roman said, stepping a little closer. “Dark and Stormy, you in there?”

Virgil rolled his eyes, giving him a sarcastic look despite himself. Did he really think Virgil had so little self control as to lose himself to his wolf form? He wasn’t some newly-turned.

Roman grinned, shoulders dropping a little, and in the next moment Patton was flinging himself at Virgil.

“Patton!” Two voices shouted as his arms wrapped around Virgil’s fluffy neck fur. He reared back a little in surprise, and then tapped his nose as gently as possible to his human’s forehead in reprimand. What in the world was Patton thinking, tackling a monster?

“Sorry!” Patton said, drawing back sheepishly. “I just got over-excited…”

“Well, I suppose that answers the question of whether or not he’s docile.” Logan said dryly, relief in his voice. Roman had gone as far as to draw his sword, looking shaken. At least someone in this group had survival instincts.

Virgil snorted, and then laid down, his heart racing in his throat as though in protest. He’d promised Roman that he’d make things easy. He could at least do that for his strange, confusing humans. He dipped his head at Roman in a mockery of a nod, and then settled between his paws, trusting that it would be quick.

“... Virgil? What are you doing, there, buddy?”

Or not. He sighed through his nose. Did they really think he hadn’t figured it out by now? He wasn’t an idiot.

The irritation he felt was almost enough of a distraction to prevent him from trembling as he rolled to the side, letting his underside show and his head roll back to expose his neck. Almost. Everything in him screamed against such a vulnerable move, but he was tired of fighting.

There was a sharp intake of breath above him, and his ears flicked at the sound of Roman’s voice. “Logan, I… I need you to tell me that he’s not doing what I think he’s doing.”

“It looks like he’s asking for belly rubs?” Patton chimed in, making Virgil do a full body twitch of embarrassment. Were they making fun of him?

“His body language is much too negative for that to be the reason.” Logan said, proving himself once again the quick-witted one. “He… appears to be waiting for you to…”

“For me to kill him.” Roman spat as though the words were bitter in his mouth. “He thinks we want to kill him.”

There was a heartbeat-long pause, and then all three of them were talking over each other in upset voices, upending every one of Virgil’s expectations. He recoiled back into an upright position despite himself, staring at them with a complete lack of comprehension. What did Roman mean, ‘thinks’? Virgil knew what they wanted from him!

But… what was the point of pretending, at this point? What could their goal possibly be?

He needed a mouth that could speak human tongue.

Too panicked to care about the pain, he forced himself back into a human form, ignoring the extra appendages that lingered due to his half-hearted shift. “What are you trying to pull?”

They quieted at his frantic question, and Logan was the one to regain himself first. “Virgil, we… we don’t want to kill you-”

“What?” Virgil cut him off, bewildered. “Yes, you do.”

“No, we don’t?” Logan rebutted weakly, looking confused at Virgil’s certainty. “Why would we want to-?”

“I know you know how magecraft works.” Virgil said, narrowing his eyes. “The magical properties of a werewolf pelt are coveted by anyone who knows anything about magic. The potential uses are-”

“The potential uses of your skin?” Logan retorted, as though the very idea was ridiculous. Virgil knew otherwise.

“Yes? Is it so hard to believe I figured that you’d at least get some use out of my corpse? It’d be better-” He bit his tongue on the rest of the sentence.

“Is it so hard to believe that maybe we didn’t want to kill you at all?” Logan asked, voice icy. “That we aren’t monsters who would kill someone who had saved us?”

“You’re not monsters!” Virgil said, voice sharp. “I don’t think you… you want to kill me. Not anymore. But I’m an actual monster, and trust me, I know how humans operate. It’s not safe for you to leave me alive, so you won’t.”

Logan stared at him, seemingly stunned into silence, and Virgil nodded, glad to have made him understand.

Unfortunately, that meant that there was nothing to stop Roman from approaching, sword in hand. Virgil forgot himself and flinched back automatically, ear flattening and eyes closing, and heard a ‘snkt’ noise. Blade sinking into flesh- but why he didn’t feel any pain?

He opened his eyes to see the sword driven into the hard dirt almost up to its hilt, and Roman grabbed his hands, ignoring the sharp, inhuman claws to look at him earnestly.

“Listen to me, Virgil. Really listen, okay? We don’t want to kill you. We aren’t like hunters, you- you aren’t dangerous to us just because you’re not human!” He leaned in to bump heads with him, and Virgil was astonished to see that he was near tears. “You’re our friend, you stupid asshole!”

Virgil blinked at him. “I- what?”

In the next second, he was slammed into a hug at full force by Patton, who was shaking with silent sobs, occasionally getting a word or two of garbled nonsense out. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around the human, noting the smell of baked goods on him a little hysterically.

“Virgil.” Logan crouched next to him, completing the huddle of humans around him. Virgil looked up at him helplessly, Patton still attached to him like a very upset limpet. “It’s late, and you clearly need time to process what we’ve said, and… and vice versa. Please, let’s rest for now.”

Seeing as he could barely put two thoughts together at the moment, it was a good idea. He nodded, though the thought of forcing his human form for another night was enough to make him wince.

Logan sagged slightly in relief, and then pulled Roman to his feet and carefully detangled an unwilling Patton from him, soothing him with a few whispered words. When Virgil started to get up, however, Logan motioned him back down. “Shift on the ground, Virge. It will keep you from placing undue stress on your bones as a quadruped.”

“Shift?” Virgil echoed dumbly.

“Yes, shift.” Logan responded, raising an eyebrow. “I won’t have you spending the night in a form that pains you to maintain, though I hope you’ll explain the mechanics of that to me later. For now, the living room is big enough to hold all of us even with you at your largest.”

“Blanket fort.” Roman said solemnly, and Patton brightened slightly, still wiping at his face.

An hour later, settled into a nest of pillows and blankets and surrounded by his humans- each one resting a hand on his fur as though afraid he’d somehow vanish- Virgil was drifting off into the first peaceful sleep he’d had in months. Things weren’t fixed- wouldn’t be for a while- but at the moment, he was surrounded by his pack, and warmer than he’d ever felt before.

#sanders sides #werewolf au #werewolf #ts virgil #ts logan #ts roman #ts patton #writing #my writing #heyatn #how easy you are to need #were back baby

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sennokami · 6 years ago

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parallelisms - chapter 4

ao3

Hashirama had been a few weeks shy of turning fifteen when he first noticed Madara staring at him. It hadn’t been his usual scheming stare, the one that meant he was planning something mischievous. It wasn’t his alert-to-the-world look or his wary face either. It was a look that he never saw before.

“Is there something on my face?”

Madara jerked as if struck. “No.” He shook himself a little. “No, why?”

“You were looking.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were!”

“I wasn’t!”

That quickly devolved into a wrestling match that became a proper spar and Hashirama, sweaty and breathless, painlessly forgot about the whole affair.

Why he was remembering it now as a grown man wasn’t a question he could even begin to answer. Hashirama leaned back in his chair, examining the whorls in the wooden ceiling, as he tried to summon those old, old memories back to him. Just for this, he could’ve happily traded his Mokuton for a Sharingan; everything he tried to recall came back hazy, uncertain in the undefined recesses of his thoughts. Had Madara really been looking that long? Had that glitter in his eyes just been the sun or something else?

“Damn,” Hashirama muttered to himself. He covered his eyes with his arm. “Damn. Damn.”

Why was he trying so hard anyway? Why did that memory feel so important?

He pressed his arm down against his eyes. What had Mito said? ‘I’ve never met a man so obviously only interested in other men’?

Was it that obvious? Hashirama had never really suspected it until certain facts about Madara came together. But Mito hadn’t even known Madara that long and she’d figured him out. What crucial thing had she seen in Madara that told her about something so intimate, so personal? And why hadn’t Hashirama seen it too?

He wished he’d thought to ask her. Then, he’d just gone quiet, as had Mito, the two of them taken by their thoughts again.

“Hey.”

Hashirama lifted his arm to see his cousin, Toka, perched on the window of his office. She unfolded herself, her armor softly clinking. “You’re back quick.”

“The Hyuuga weren’t that far.”

Hashirama straightened. “They’re moving towards Konoha?”

“Turns out that they spoke to Madara yesterday and he convinced them to come to the village. You didn’t know?” Toka’s wry look dropped, her eyes narrowing. “If he’s negotiating with them without telling you -”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant. I just thought that they wouldn’t be moving so soon.” The lie was thoughtless. Hashirama was just so used to defending Madara from his clan that he didn’t even think about covering for him again, no matter how pointless it was now that they had peace.

“Well, they are. They’re not far out from Konoha now and they’ll probably be at the gates by sundown. I assume they’re gonna be coming in?”

“Absolutely.”

Toka sighed and leaned against the wall. She was, like most Senju were, a tall woman. Her top knot added to her height. She’d been one of the few kids who’d been exactly of age with Hashirama and they’d been close for a little while, back when age was something that mattered, right up until Toka caught wind of her parents discussing potential marriage matches with Butsuma. They’d drifted apart afterwards, both of them not particularly interested in encouraging thoughts in that direction, and now they were comfortable in their relationship as clan head and subordinate first, cousins second.

Toka crossed her arms. “So I heard that Uchiha Madara is going to marry a Hyuuga.”

Hashirama opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out one of his bonsai projects in lieu of answering. He began to trim its tiny branches.

“And I heard that she is supposed to be a real looker.”

Hashirama snipped a little branch off, then winced. He shouldn’t have done that one. Now the whole thing was going to be lopsided. Toka came closer.

“I saw her for a little bit. She’s pretty.” Toka’s elbows came to a rest on the corner of his desk. “I wouldn’t say no if the Hyuuga offered her to me for a wife.”

Hashirama nearly snipped off another wrong branch before he finally admitted defeat. He set his trimming shears down. “Is there a point to this?” he asked, glancing at Toka’s inquisitive face.

“Well, I’d thought that you of all people would be the one who knows the best. I asked Mito and she wouldn’t tell me anything concrete.”

“You could ask Madara.”

“And what, get burned? No thanks. Just tell me.”

“Madara isn’t getting married,” Hashirama said firmly. He touched the base of the bonsai tree and regrew the branch he’d lopped off mistakenly. It was cheating, doing it this way, but he thought he was warranted one do-over since he’d been distracted. “It was just a first-time offer from them. We’re going to negotiate down, it won’t be a big deal. Everyone gets marriage offers. Remember how many I got?”

“Oh, yeah.” Toka’s face twisted. “I can’t believe anyone is that eager to marry you.”

“Maybe I should’ve made Tobirama become clan head so he got to deal with all those contracts instead.”

Toka smirked. “You could just give them to me.”

“And risk growing your harem? Dangerous thoughts.”

Toka laughed and rose up to her full height. “I guess I’ll have to do it my way then. Did you know I met this one Uchiha girl last night? I couldn’t tell if she hated me or wanted to sleep with me, it was confusing as hell. Especially since I couldn’t tell the same thing. These Uchiha…” She shook her head a little. “Confusing little bunch, aren’t they?”

With that, she sauntered out of his office with a wave and a promise to see Mito. Hashirama let her go, picking the side of his thumb thoughtfully. He didn’t know what Madara was doing. Normally, this didn’t bother him. A lot of people didn’t know what Madara was doing. But this time, this whole marriage affair – he just couldn’t get it out of his head.

Hashirama spent the rest of his week trying to convince himself that Mito was right. He tried to push it out of his head, dredging up all kinds of work that might distract him, but he eventually circled back to right where he started; scribbling ideas for the new proposal he could bring to the Hyuuga. It wasn’t strictly about Madara, sure, but it was definitely tangential enough that he felt vaguely guilty.

“Land,” he muttered. The Hyuuga would need land to settle into and there was a surplus of it. Hell, they could have the whole west side of the forest if they wanted, it was no concern. And since winter was coming, they’d need food. The Senju had ample food provisions ready for the winter, even accounting for the additional demand of multiple clans. As for security – they were worried about the village in Cloud, right? Maybe Hashirama could meet their leader, establish communications, and tell them the Hyuuga were off-limits now. All of it came easily when Madara might marry wasn’t making his stomach knot up.

As Hashirama pondered what else could go on the list (did the Hyuuga want anything particular grown for them?), he heard heavy steps from the floor below. Normally, noise from downstairs didn’t come up to his office but this one was different. Madara had a particular way of walking, a deliberate and thumping way, that announced his presence a full minute before he actually arrived. He could do the same thing with his chakra, make it bloom so fiercely that everyone on the battlefield feels the hot, dry wind, but this was different. They were different.

Hashirama tracked it with one ear, listened to Madara skip over the one bad step on the stairs, march up to his door – thump, thump, thump – bam. He opened the door. Hashirama automatically grabbed a paper before it fluttered away.

“One of the chuunin told me you were available.”

“I am.” Hashirama perked up eagerly. “What is it?”

“I talked to the Hyuuga.” The door swung wider, revealing more of Madara. He wasn’t wearing his mantle. Instead, he was dressed in a fine kimono that stretched across his shoulders, his hair tied up and curling around his neck. It all suited him unnervingly well.

Hashirama’s mouth went a little dry. Madara was still talking.

“-they agreed to my terms but the finer details haven’t been set down yet.” Madara put his hands on his hips. “Are you listening?”

Hashirama nodded.

“I even spoke to her.”

“Her?” He swallowed and clasped his hands so his fingers would stop buzzing. He wanted to walk over to Madara, grab his shoulder, and hold him still so the silk wouldn’t move over his hips like… like that. What color was it? It wasn’t quite red, nor was it violet. It was something in the middle, like the color of good wine.

“The girl,” Madara said, sounding annoyed. “It was as I expected.”

“Was it?”

He dug his nails into his hands and put a valiant effort into looking away. On his visual journey to safer waters, something worse ambushed him. The white triangle of Madara’s chest, scarred, muscled, netted him like a fish.

Oh god. The voice in his head sounded as dazed as Hashirama felt. Oh fuck.

“Mito’s advice was very helpful.”

“Right.”

“You’re not listening,” Madara accused.

“I’m sorry,” Hashirama said, because he really was. He was happy that Madara was finally visiting him again. He definitely wasn’t losing his mind over the fit of Madara’s kimono. “I was just. Your kimono.”

Good job.

“This?” Madara looked down at it scathingly. “Hikaku thinks the Hyuuga will be more receptive if I wore something different. At least it’s not mine.”

So that nixed his vague ideas about Madara’s closet and its contents. “Were the Hyuuga more receptive?”

“They served better tea than last time.” Madara shrugged. Hashirama followed the rise and fall of his collarbones. “What did you do?”

“I...” Hashirama squeezed life back into his fingers. “I thought about setting some incentives for the Hyuuga actually, since we should probably negotiate down from their initial offer-”

“That isn’t necessary anymore.” Madara crossed his arms. His biceps bulged. “The Hyuuga have promised half their fighting forces to the village and they have some interesting ideas about how they can help with the water aquifer. The wedding will be in a month. I said it should be sooner but they insisted they need the extra time. You’re invited, obviously.”

Hashirama had the distinct impression that Madara just had a whole conversation without him. “...Wedding?”

“Traditional.” Madara waved his hand, as if this whole thing was just a fly he wanted to shake away. “I think it would be a good time to get all the clan heads together, put their attention to something that isn’t politics. The Hyuuga intend to foot the majority of the expenses, but I think you could-”

“What,” Hashirama loudly cut him off, “are you talking about?”

For the first time since Madara got here, he looked act him – as in, actually looked at him, not just at the space over his left shoulder. He looked nonchalant but there was something else lurking in there, something behind the set of his dark eyes.

“My wedding,” Madara said.

“To who?” Hashirama said.

“The girl. The Hyuuga. You were there with me.”

“You didn’t say you would marry her.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“That isn’t a yes!”

“What else were you expecting?” Madara snapped. “It was a good idea, even your brother could see that.”

“But why would you agree?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Madara peered at him, his eyes narrowed, and this was all going bad, going in directions Hashirama hadn’t wanted it to go in. He wanted to say something to defuse the situation but he couldn’t seem to find the right words for it. Maybe he didn’t want to defuse this at all. He was… he was just… gods, was he angry?

Angry at Madara?

“We were going to negotiate down, it was a rash move for you to just -”

“It was my offer to negotiate.” Madara’s mouth was just a thin line now, a bloodless slash of restrained fury. “Don’t you understand that? It was my own damn marriage. I brought you along, that should be enough for you.”

“I didn’t expect you to actually agree!” Hashirama stood up. His chair screeched back. His entire body was buzzing again, the wood under his hands growing warm, and for once, Hashirama didn’t pay it mind. “Tobirama didn’t, I didn’t, Mito even didn’t -”

“Oh, Mito didn’t, did she.” Madara sneered. It was an ugly expression for his handsome face. It made him cold and unwelcoming, a visit backwards in time. “Well, maybe, you should ask me instead of asking her.”

“Do you think you have to?” Hashirama said. He was grasping at straws. “You don’t! There’s plenty to discuss with the Hyuuga, you don’t need to do this to yourself. I’m sure we could reach some kind of accord with them.”

Madara stared at him. His face twisted, a hot spitfire of anger simmering in his eyes, before cooling down to banked coals. “You don’t get it, do you?”

The disappointment hurt worse than Madara’s anger. Hashirama was capable of enduring all his fires, all his heat, but he’d never learned to cope with Madara’s disappointment before.

“What’s there to get?” he asked him. Pleaded. I don’t understand. Please, Madara. Please.

“You’re a married man, Hashirama.” Madara walked closer to him. He pressed the tips of his fingers on his desk and leaned in, his hair whispering over his silk shoulders. “That’s that. I thought that maybe… well, it’s over, isn’t it? You and I. You’ve gone ahead without me."

Madara’s fingers slid over the desk. Hashirama felt the scrape of his nails over every groove in the wood. When he touched his hand, he felt both hot and cold. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“Senju Mito is your wife. And I can’t stay waiting."

Madara curled their fingers together. Hashirama looked down at their interlinked fingers, then at Madara’s face. He didn’t look so angry anymore. Just resigned and rueful, the creases in the corners of his eyes too deep for his age. Hashirama gently pulled his hand a little closer. When he cupped his cheek, Madara didn’t move.

“It was necessary,” Hashirama said. His voice was hoarse.

“I suppose.” Madara leaned into his touch. Hashirama’s gut twisted harshly. “But that doesn’t change reality.”

“Madara, I -”

“Hashirama.”

The seriousness in his voice made him stop talking. Hashirama watched, something too vast for words tossing and turning within him, as Madara turned his head a fraction and kissed the inside of his palm. His lips were soft, just the tiniest bit wet, as if Madara had licked them before coming in, and Hashirama couldn’t stop even if he wanted to as he tilted Madara’s chin and kissed him.

There was no pain. There was no blood. It was just Madara opening his mouth to let him in and Hashirama grabbing his shoulder, holding him tightly, terrified of the idea that he might just leave. Madara was his friend, his best friend, he’d swear it until his tongue went bloody, but he was something more that he was still too afraid to look in the eye.

Madara curled his hand over the back of his neck. He always ran hot but now he felt scorching, his palms leaving brands wherever they went. Hashirama wanted to ask him, burn me, make it forever, but he held his tongue until Madara pulled back, his mouth warm and red, the Sharingan spinning like pinwheels.

“I-” he began, but Madara cut him off. Again. He was doing that more and more, wasn’t he?

“Don’t talk,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

I want to, Hashirama wanted to say. I want to tell you so much. Hashirama wanted nothing more than to hold Madara by his hips until he could find the right words for it but Madara was right, because the world didn’t stop turning for them. It all just kept going and going, forward and forward, and Hashirama was feeling increasingly left behind, snatching at things that didn’t want to be held.

“Won’t you wait?” he pleaded.

“Can I?” Madara asked in return.

Yes, you can, whispered a weak voice inside of him, but even Hashirama knew that wasn’t fair.

Madara let go first. When Hashirama didn’t release him, Madara pulled his hands off. Both of them didn’t make eye contact with each other as Madara took a step back, his hands now tightly clasped behind his back, and quietly said, “A month. That’s how long you have.”

Hashirama didn’t reply, even as Madara left and closed the door behind him.

He didn’t know what possessed him when he went down to the Hyuuga camp that was slowly filtering inside of Konoha’s walls. He still couldn’t say by the time he was sitting in front of Hyuuga Hisae, the woman who would be Madara’s wife.

And I heard that she is supposed to be a real looker, Toka chuckled. I don’t think he’s going to get married, Mito shrugged.

“I’m honored by your visit, Hokage-sama,” Hisae said, dipping her head. She had long brown hair that’d been combed smooth and bound back by a long white ribbon. Her hands were thin and her fingers long, white as lily petals. Hashirama could imagine the kind of children she’d give Madara: beautiful and strong and perfect.

Did Madara want children? Come to think of it, Hashirama never asked. Such thoughts hadn’t been on their minds when they were boys. Now, he could only add it to the growing pile of things he wished he’d asked.

“We don’t need to be so formal, Hisae-san,” Hashirama smiled back. “You’re going to marry Madara and I think of him as a brother. You’ll practically be my sister.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. Her mouth moved but her eyes did not.

“I was thinking of visiting before. And with the recent news, I finally have an excuse to swing by. I hope your clan’s finding the move comfortable?”

“Oh, very. Konohagakure has been very welcoming to us, and everyone has been very kind. My mother was very pleased.”

“And you? Were you pleased?”

“Perfectly,” she said. Her mouth tilted up into a dollish smile. “Marrying Uchiha-sama will be a deep honor.”

Hashirama’s palms itched. He’d always hated this kind of formality. Tobirama was so much better at it, sitting with a straight back in a stuffy room, drinking tea and making subtle commentary, while Hashirama had always wanted to cut to the heart of the matter, formality be damned.

“You know, I wasn’t there when Madara confirmed. I wish I was – it really would’ve been something to see!” he laughed as Hisae stared at him. “I guess he just talked to Hitomi-san?”

“Ah, no, actually. We discussed it ourselves and I agreed. I only told my mother later.”

Oh. That was new. Hashirama couldn’t explain the spike of nervous energy that shot through him at that. A private conversation sounded a lot more intimate than a negotiated marriage alliance.

“I hope he didn’t offend you,” Hashirama said. Immediately, he regretted it. He prayed Madara would never hear wind of this.

“Not at all. Uchiha-sama was very courteous throughout our conversation.” Hisae tilted her head. “Did you think he would offend me?”

“No, of course not. I just understand that his reputation can precede him a little.”

“Ah, but you have a reputation too, Hokage-sama. The God of Shinobi, was it? It’s quite a fearsome moniker. But I think that both of you prove to be much more than mere reputations. Uchiha-sama, in particular, I thought, seemed to represented rather unfairly. But I guess that it the lot of our clans, being doujutsu clans.”

Hashirama blinked. He rather had the feeling that he’d pulled on a tripwire he hadn’t known existed. “We don’t discriminate against bloodlines here,” he said, cautious.

“It’s not discrimination,” Hisae said. “But it’s… ah, how should I put it… a certain attitude, perhaps, towards bloodlines. It’s not so rare, Hokage-sama, for shinobi to have a reaction to them. Where I come from, the Byakugan is known for being a blind man’s eyes – because they get taken so often, you see.”

Hashirama remembered Hitomi and the bandages wrapped around her head. Blind man’s eyes. What a cruel nickname.

“... I remember Hitomi-san asking for insurance,” he said. “Is that the point of this? Insurance?”

“It wasn’t too long ago that the Uchiha and the Senju were enemies,” she said. “I will not tempt the gods by speaking of darker possibilities, but I think we both understand the precautions we’re taking by acknowledging that.”

“You think this village won’t last.”

“I did not say that.”

“You think it’s possible.”

“You said it, Hokage-sama, and not me.” Hisae folded her sleeves so they laid on her lap symmetrically. “I don’t want to spoil the happiness that will come in a month, so I think a conversation like this is out of place, but-”

“Hisae-san,” Hashirama cut in insistently, “that’s not what I came to talk to you about.”

It was politics all over again. Always politics, here and there, insinuations about what could happen, about potential enemies, but that wasn’t the point of this conversation.

“What I wanted to ask you,” he said, “was if you’re going to marry Madara just for politics.”

Her brows knitted. For the first time during their entire conversation, Hisae’s facade slipped an inch. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room before she leaned in, frowning a little. “I’m… sorry?”

“Can you really just marry him for something that might happen? Doesn’t that seem unfair to you? Don’t you want to marry someone you actually know?”

“We have a month to know each other.”

“It’s only a month. Why not wait a little? Make sure that you two are actually compatible, just so you’re not making a mistake.”

“But Hokage-sama,” Hisae said, “I do like Uchiha-sama.”

“What?”

“Don’t misunderstand. Part of this is politics, most assuredly so. But Uchiha-sama himself is…” Hisae pulled out her fan from her sleeve began to fan herself. Her mask was freezing back into place but behind her waving fan, Hashirama could see a tiny smile that looked almost genuine. Like this, he could actually see what Toka was talking about – Hyuuga Hisae, behind the ice, was truly lovely.

“I’ve never met a man like him before,” she said. “And at first, I was afraid, but I’m not anymore. Because above all else... Uchiha-sama is a very kind man.”

#hashimada #madahashi #hashirama #madara #naruto #fanfic #parallelisms

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anonthenullifier · 7 years ago

Text

This Wasn’t What I Had in Mind

Title: This Wasn’t What I Had in Mind

Gift for: Carlye (@scarletphantom1704)

Rating: T

Word count: 4.4k

Summary: During a rendezvous with Vision, a seemingly innocent excursion forces Wanda to remember all she has lost.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996662

Prompt: I would love to receive a piece of fanart/or a fanfic of Vision comforting Wanda after a flashback, triggered by an ordinary object, and a panic attack in public. (MCU)

To Carlye: This was a fun but challenging prompt. I hope the story meets what you were wanting with the prompt :)

To Anya (@atendrilofscarlet), my beta, you are amazing! Thank you for reading so many versions of this in such a short time period and answering all my questions :D.

To everyone else, I hope you enjoy this too!

Made for the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2018!

It is freezing. Wanda suspects the only reason the steam hovering in front of her face isn’t crystallizing is because of how rapidly she is sucking in the frigid air and then pushing it back out. It’s so cold her wool-gloved hands are buried deep in her coat pockets instead of seizing the opportunity of the moment and holding Vision’s hand. In lieu of intertwined fingers, their bodies are huddled, shoulders and hips practically glued together as they stare forward.

“Did you know,” he glances down at her, movements minimized to retain heat, “until today the coldest day in Sopot’s history was -2.5 degrees Celsius?”

She’s fairly certain the winters at the compound were comparable to now, possibly worse, yet the rush of air coming from the sea seems to banish all potential warmth, leaving just a gray, lifeless wraith of an afternoon. “Don’t tempt me with such balmy facts, Vizh.” What she assumes is a breathy laugh, though could easily be a shudder at the bite in the air, mingles with the crashing of waves against the embankment of ice along the shoreline. “You know, this really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“I did offer an alternative of staying in the hotel next to the radiator.”

Wanda cracks a smile at the specificity of the statement, his mind so vast and yet during their clandestine meetups it collapses to only reach out as far as what they are doing in the present, disregarding any subtext of a time further than now. “We’ll go back soon.”

A nod and a bump of his shoulder confirms his desire to do just that, “I believe that is for the best,” his voice shifts to being overly concerned, a tone that has been increasingly common for the past several weeks, “I do not believe it is in your best interest to develop pneumonia again.”

Wanda shrugs. In her opinion, the downsides of being sick were far outweighed by other factors. “Got you to stay with me for longer.”

“Yes,” a tiny smile sparks a small, welcomed ember in her chest, “though it also almost led to my discovery.”

“You act like Nat hasn’t pieced us together yet.” Sneaking around is never what either of them wanted as a basis of their relationship, which is why it was almost a godsend when Nat confronted her months ago. Anger mixed with disbelief and betrayal, but in the end was a hope, a guarded, questionable hope, one that allowed for an understanding to be reached that so long as Wanda was safe and checked in when required, she could be happy. Despite this, Vision still insists on never crossing paths with the other rogue Avengers. Likely worried that the pressure of lying about seeing four people would be too much. Giving vague and unhelpful answers to Ross about his time “searching” for her has already taken its toll on his demeanor, she’d never ask him to add to that responsibility. Wanda veers their thoughts from that particular topic, determined to make the most of their rendezvous. “When I started pestering Steve about a beach getaway, this wasn’t really what I meant.”

Vision glances down at her, then to the desolate stretches of sand, before finally settling his gaze on the angry, icy sea. “Though not ideal, tactically this is smarter. During the summer there are upwards of 2 million people in this city-“

“I know, Vision.” It’s been a hard set rule of Steve’s that they avoid peak tourism seasons when determining the locations each time they move around. Arguably large crowds could provide more cover, a greater chance to blend in, but it also means more eyes and cameras that might happen to upload one of their faces to Twitter or Instagram. That doesn’t mean Steve had to send her here in November--even September or early October would have less tourists and have the added bonus of potentially being warm enough for a proper beach vacation. “I just had it all planned out and it didn’t involve freezing our asses off.”

“Well,” he removes his hand from the safety of his pocket and wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to nestle in the blissfully warm crook of his arm, “If it were warmer, what did you envision us doing?”

The images of such a dream flash through her mind, all nondescript as to the beach itself, given she had no idea where Steve would send her, but there are commonalities in all beach resort areas. “We would have woken up early,” a disbelieving wrinkle mars his forehead and she nudges him with her shoulder, “earlier than usual, at least. Maybe we’d grab breakfast and buy some snacks and then head to the beach to claim our spot before all the tourists descend.”

“So far we have been successful with your plan.”

Wanda regrets that they are outside because it means she can’t watch his irises spin in delight at the dryness of his sass, so she’ll have to settle for the slight, prideful smirk on his pale face. “Well if you want to continue with the plan, then slap on a speedo and dive right in.” The incredulous silence stretches out for several seconds. She can practically hear the gears in his eyes swishing while he figures out a response, his distaste of immodest clothing in public (for himself, personally. He believes everyone else can decide for themselves what is and is not comfortable to wear in public) is a topic they have discussed at length when she tried to get him to wear shorts over the summer. Wanda happily fills the continued silence, pushing the idea just a touch more by offering him the argument she had already crafted for his inevitable hesitation in the swimwear. “It’s what all the locals wear, you wouldn’t want to stand out.”

“I-” another long pause precedes the cautious, diplomatic cadence of his diverting words, “well it is really, um, an incredibly unfortunate happenstance for us to be here when it is so cold then.” Vision doesn’t allow room for her to comment further or persist in ribbing him on the matter. “What else, did you have in mind?”

“Well, after we had swam and enjoyed the sun,” the latter not even attempting to peek through the clouds for emphasis, instead remaining hidden in its own winter gloom, “we would walk the pier until we got to the end of it where there’s just the sea in front of us and the sun on the waves.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Wanda smiles at the warmth in his voice. “We’d watch the water, talk some more, I’d definitely kiss you-”

“That part of the plan can certainly still happen.”

“And then,” Wanda pulls her hand from its safehaven in her coat so she can wrap her arm around his waist, relishing the tightening of his grip in return, “we’d grab ice cream and go back to the hotel for some alone time before you have to leave.”

She can sense the wistfulness of his mind soaking in the imaginary sun and it almost makes the air around them feel a few degrees warmer. “Perhaps we can salvage some of it.”

“Oh?”

An enthusiastic, mesmerizing grin matches the brightness of his eyes as Vision looks down at her, “I believe there was an ice cream stand open not too far from here and,” he steps away from her and places his leather-gloved hands on her upper arms, “if I can manage to figure out the radiator, we can adjust the temperature in the room to allow for us to pretend it is summer.”

Wanda’s cheeks ache, possibly from the icy wind assaulting her face, but a more probable explanation right now would be the broadness of her smile, “Sounds perfect.”

The ice cream stand is harder to find than Vision’s plan suggested, their search leading them in a meandering labyrinth of cobbled streets and alleys as they investigate every building that has the same pink and brown ice cream cone sculpture. Eventually, after what feels like twenty stops, they come across a lone ice cream vendor.

Wanda’s image of this moment is different from reality, her memory filled with hot summer days and smiling faces handing her ice cream that’s started to ooze down the ridges of the cone, whereas the man shivering behind the glass case is mutely unimpressed by Vision’s very friendly, “ Dzień dobry*.”

A harsh, “What do you want?” is the reply. Wanda laces her fingers through Vision’s, noting the tension in his muscles and preparing for the talk they’ll have later, at how, because of his accent, among other things, he can never pass himself off as a native speaker wherever they are at. She thinks it’s kind of cute, his belief that he could ever mask his proper English accent to fit in, but she also sympathizes given her own experiences of trying (and failing) to not be an “other” in public after moving to New York.

To help with his attempts to blend in, Vision has started eating with her, treating his choices in food like he does everything else -- with a laser focus and a desire to be equitable to all options. What this invariably means is that he is about to ask about every single flavor, combo, sauce, and cone. Given Wanda already knows what she wants (it’s what she gets every time), she responds before Vision gets a chance to read any flavors, “Stracciatella.” A heaping cone is passed over the counter, her tongue happily running through the creamy, chocolate speckled heaven while her eyes turn to take in the tiny, ill-insulated building as Vision mulls over his choices.

It’s a basic ice cream store. The requisite signs about toppings and pictures of beaming beach goers in speedos (something she’ll kindly direct Vision’s attention to while they eat) lining the walls. There’s a section of the far wall with postcards and fading pictures with autographs. One catches her eye, a recollection of those faces surfacing though she can’t quite place it until she notices a melody in the air. The music is different from the usual happy, bubblegum pop of these places. The song playing from a speaker behind the glass case curves her lips up, the fast paced, punk sound unmistakable. This was one of Pietro’s favorites and she hasn’t heard it in a long time. Wanda makes a mental note to have Vision listen to Hladno Pivo later, even if he’ll dislike it, most likely critiquing the harshness of the vocals and the clashing of the instruments. “And what is this one?” Vision’s voice draws her attention back to the counter where he’s pointing at another flavor and the man, knuckles white around the ice cream scoop, is doing his best to not be annoyed at all the questions.

“ Kasztan, it’s uh,” the man waves the scoop as he searches for the word, then he snaps the fingers of his other hand, turning to Wanda, a congenial almost hopeful uptick in his voice as he switches languages, “kesten, ja?”

A tingling in her chest blooms at the question. “It’s um,” Wanda nods her head, trying to close out the song so she can focus on translating the word. “It’s,” the tingle grows into a claw, wrapping its digits around her ribs as bursts of fiery light erupt from her mind. She turns towards Vision, hoping his curious and bright eyes will do what they always do best: calm her. “It’s um chest-,” yet the words fumble out as her breath begins to fail her, the talons of remembrance puncturing her lungs,”-nut”.

Vision’s Interesting fades away, the movements of the ice cream vendor slowing as he spoons out a cone, but Wanda finds she isn’t really there anymore. Instead she is ten again, lungs spasming into coughing fits as she sucks in the fresh air. Pietro is at her side, hand clutching her own, pulling her each time he coughs to get the last of the dust from his body. You would think, after a bombing and numerous rescue missions, that someone would be helping two children in the street, and yet there are terrifying screams coming from the stretchers being carried out of the building that garner all of the attention from the medics and the bystanders. “Dođi,” Pietro tugs her hand but her feet stay firmly planted to the ground, eyes refusing to leave the hole in the building where their home used to be. “Dođi, Wanda, otišli su.**”

Eventually she budges, head hanging low as they wander the city, no one noticing them until a woman stops them several streets over. Pietro handles the conversation, Wanda’s mind far too lost to comprehend what is being said, something about if they need help or if they are hungry. Whatever is said leads to an ice cream cone shoved in her hand, her fingers begrudgingly scrunching around the paper wrapper. Why she has ice cream is a mystery, it’s not a hot day, it’s not a happy day, it’s not even a filling food after days trapped under a bed. A hand waves in front of her eyes, focusing her energy on the beaming, filthy face of Pietro, a beige hued mound of ice cream hovering at her mouth, “To je kesten***”

A frantically quiet, “Wanda?” dissolves Pietro’s smiling face.

Vision waves a hand through the air, brow etched with concern until she nods, swallowing down the rising bile at the memory, refusing to give in to it now, “Yeah?”

“Would you like to eat outside?” It’s not what he actually wants to ask her, not what is coursing through his mind or painted all over his disguised face, but to maintain their cover, it’s the best he has.

“Um,” Wanda stares at the beige ice cream cone in his hand, attempts to nod, but gets distracted by the room closing in, inch by inch, a subtle, unnerving minimizing of the space around her. A numbness spreads through her hands, one that is different than the flow of her powers, and it follows the rapid increase in her heart rate. Deep breaths should work, at least Vision always made her do it in the early days of their friendship. A steady inhale, hold for three seconds, and then an exhale. Repeat as many times as needed. Eyes, she can hear his voice in the distance, as if through a wall, need to be trained on one item. So Wanda looks straight ahead, only to see the damned cone and the trickle of ice cream oozing over the paper wrapper.

Pietro always ate his ice cream fast enough to not let it melt, no matter if they were ten, fifteen, twenty, he always ate it joyfully and quickly. And it was always the same flavor, he refused to eat any ice cream that wasn’t chestnut, they even learned which parlors carried the flavor, on which days, and who they could convince to give them either a free cone or a discounted one. He should be holding that cone right now.

The trickle of despair dripping into her soul suddenly turns into a downpour and she can feel the bullets ripping through his body, her knees ache at the cuts from when she fell--lost, confused, and angry. Years had passed, literal years without Pietro, and she had coped, survived, learned how to move on, yet she needs him back. Desperately wants that constant, to feel his mind, hold his hand. Wanda’s body starts to shake. She closes her eyes, clamping out the image of the cone, breathing in deeply again and again, though it becomes more difficult, the absence of Pietro too much, her soul torn asunder day after day after day without him. She no longer even has the Avengers, doesn’t have the compound, can’t count on Vision to always float through her wall, or get the shit beat out of her at training to distract her. The world hates her, half her former teammates hate her, she’s a wanted fugitive with no prospect of salvation. Much like when she was ten, clutching Pietro’s hand, eating ice cream. Only he’s not here anymore.

Her chest burns, breaths shallow and labored as the world seems to dissolve, the past mixing with the present, taunting her with a blank and empty future, and she can’t determine if she’s ten, if she’s falling with Sokovia, if she’s sleeping in a shelter with Pietro’s arms around her, if she’s back at the compound listening to the soothing lull of an English accent, or if she’s in Poland on a freezing day eating ice cream with her undercover boyfriend.

Only Pietro ever fully understood her when she spoke of separating from reality like this, of getting lost in the sea of memory, where each wave crashing down brings only more confusion. Wanda is falling now, a weightlessness overtaking her, and she closes her eyes as she feels her home plummet from beneath her, heart shattered and body empty, accepting her fate to join Pietro, wherever he went.

There is a feeling of movement, not of free falling, but hovering, her eyes cracking open long enough to see the world morphing around her: walls dropping away, the wind picking up around her head, stirring her hair, her legs swinging freely. There is motion and there is sound, words muffled and muddled so that she isn’t sure if people are screaming for help in the hell of flames, demanding why they are being asked to leave their homes, taunting her on the streets, calling her a criminal and a witch, or even just asking if she is okay. Her senses function like a kaleidoscope, shifting and rotating so that each combination of stimuli produces bursts of distorted experience that masks what exactly is happening or where she is. Wanda closes her eyes tighter, time slipping through her grasp, her fingers grabbing at the strands of her life, instead scrunching into the fabric of whomever is holding her-- maybe it’s Pietro, guiding her to wherever he’s been; maybe it’s Vision saving her from falling with Ultron’s carcass; maybe it’s the guards securing her after another flare up of her newly gifted powers; maybe it could even be her mother, cradling her after a night terror.

There is a chiming and then the world stops moving.

“Wanda?” A voice reaches out to her, calm though fraying at the edges. “Wanda.” Lavender fills her nose and a sweltering heat cocoons her. “Wanda, it is all right.” The ground under her sinks and creaks. Wanda flexes her fingers, digging her nails into a stiff fabric and a fluffy foundation. “Wanda, I made you tea.”

She opens her eyes a sliver, just enough to confirm she is on a bed, noting a blurry patch of crimson not too far away. A sound attempts to come from her mouth, but her throat is parched, unwilling to function more than a croaked, “Vizh?”

A hand runs through her hair, each stroke diminishing the thoughts, bringing her back to the present. “I am here, Wanda.” It’s enough to vanquish most of the confusion, solidifying which reality she is currently in, yet still her body sinks under the weight of Pietro’s continued absence. “Do you want to discuss it?”

They established a routine in the early months of being Avengers, back when she was still figuring out who he was and what she was after everything, back before she could kiss him whenever she wanted, before she could slip into his mind at any given time, before he held her in a way that wasn’t just for comfort. It’s been a long time since they’ve used it, but clearly he remembers. Step 1: Neutralize the chance of public detection, Step 2: Utilize the calming principles of lavender and chamomile tea. Step 3: Offer to talk. “I-” Wanda tries to sit up but he lightly presses her down, crawling into the bed next to her so that their eyes are level. The gears are back, whirling in a frenzy that clashes with his overall calm demeanor. There’s so much to say, so much of it has already been said, countless times and honestly, she has no desire to talk about all of it again, can’t help but feel embarrassed at still having panic attacks like this. “Kesten was Pietro’s favorite flavor.”

“I see.” All of his empathy and apologies (ones for not being able to stop it sooner, for not being able to save Pietro, for not being able to take this pain away, for them being forced to moonlight as a couple) are wrapped into the two syllables along with a firm, nonjudgmental understanding that she doesn’t want to talk. “Would you like to try muscle relaxation?”

Wanda wants to know who all saw her attack, witnessed her crumbling facade, whether it attracted too much attention, if someone caught a picture and uploaded it somewhere. But he’s already moved them to Step 4: Regain control. Wanda decides to play along knowing there should be plenty of time to interrogate him as to what danger she placed them in. “That sounds nice.”

Unlike all the other times he did this at the compound, Vision wraps his arm around her, placing a chaste, loving kiss to her forehead before starting the process. “We will start with your hands.”

The first time he had her do this, she felt ridiculous, challenged him on it and refused for a time. Eventually he convinced her which soon transformed into her hoping he’d recommend this technique, as it allowed her more time with him and a chance to purposely place all of her attention on his voice. “Ready.”

“Focus on your fingers,” she wiggles them, brushing his stomach in the process, “I am glad you found them.” The smile is easily detected in his tone, but fades quickly as he instructs her. “Now focus on each hand individually, first squeeze your fingers into a fist, noting the tension," Wanda nestles into his chest, following his instructions, bending the fingers of her right hand into a shaking fist. "Good, now ease your fingers open until there is no tension left.”

Her mind and powers calm as she begins to loosen the control of her grief, her fingers relaxing and dropping down one-by-one in relief. “Right hand good to go.”

A hand brushes through her hair, “Good job. Now your left hand.” She repeats the process, clenching and then unclenching her fingers, exhaling happily once both hands are resting against Vision’s body. The next step is her arms, so she starts to flex her right arm but pauses when Vision hugs her closer, drawing her forehead tenderly to his lips again. Such contact was never included in their routine, yet he seems indifferent to the change, segueing calmingly to the next part, “Well done, Wanda. Now-”

She stares into his eyes, awed at the twists and turns of life that brought this man to her and how he can so easily transition her from an all encompassing loss to the feeling of butterflies in her stomach. “You’re changing the protocol.”

“I, um,” Vision frowns, not an upset or angry gesture, but a contemplative and shy move as he runs his fingers along her back, “thought such a gesture might aid in your relaxation. Perhaps a rewards based system of motivation.”

The timidness that fueled each touch and word in the early days of their not-quite-friendship-but-not-quite-lovers relationship has fallen away over the last year, giving way to this new, still cautious, but more confident side of Vision. Wanda grins, “I think it sounds helpful. Want to keep going?”

The half-arc of his lips is radiant, “Yes, now your arms.” He scoots away from her, leaving enough room for her to follow his instructions, “tighten your right bicep, drawing your forearm up.”

“Welcome to the gun show, Vizh.” It’s a joke he didn’t comprehend the first five times she used it, but now he simply smiles, head shaking as he watches her flex her muscles before releasing her arm to lay back down along her side. Then she repeats the action, and the joke, on the other side before Vision moves back, their chests touching as he lays another kiss on her forehead. “Next?”

They move through her body, his even commands guiding her to raise her shoulders up to touch her ears and then lower them into a peaceful state. He kisses her forehead with another “Good job.” Wanda sucks in a deep breath, creating tension in her lungs, only this time it’s under her control and Vision’s supervision, not a sense of gasping but a sense of order, her breath releasing against his face, causing him to blink rapidly before bestowing her reward. Her stomach collapses in and then expands out in time with his voice, only she pushes it farther than she's supposed to, bumping him with her body which leads to a quiet laugh as he kisses her again. “Lastly, Wanda," Vision holds her close, their foreheads touching as he talks, "squeeze your left thigh and curl your toes, then release.” Wanda sighs as she finishes the exercise, body sinking into the mattress, not because of grief anymore, but a sense serenity and contentment.

Several minutes pass in silence, only the slight buzz from the radiator and the even rhythm of Vision’s breathing filling the air around her with a pleasing warmth. Having allowed her time to bask in her relaxation, Vision tiptoes into his next comment, “I am sorry.”

“For what?”

He shifts slightly, the springs complaining until he settles, lips pursed and eyes twisting in anxiety, “That the day did not match your expectations.”

None of her beachy daydreams included this moment, this is undoubtedly true, yet Wanda finds herself content to be wrapped in his arms, cuddled close on a freezing day. “It’s not your fault, Vizh. The day wasn’t horrible.”

“Not horrible is a poor benchmark for a day when we get so few together.”

Wanda grins at him, freeing her left arm from his embrace enough to draw her hand down his face, watch as his eyes flutter shut at the touch. For all that she has lost, all that she will lose in the future, she’s overjoyed that amongst all of that she has found him. “Well, there’s still time for you to fix the radiator and slap on a speedo.” He kisses her, stifling her laugh and distracting her from the world and all its cruelties for just a bit longer.

*Dzień dobry: Good afternoon ** Dođi. Dođi, Wanda, otišli su: Come on. Come on Wanda, they’re gone. *** To je kesten: it’s chestnut!

#sve2018 #scarletvisionexchange2018 #scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #mcu #angst and fluff #pinch hitter #mine #ao3

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shannaraisles · 8 years ago

Text

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 74/74 <--- THE END!!! Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

As the great gate opened, the inner portcullis rising, the Inquisitor did not spur his own horse onward, instead looking back at the commander with a wide grin. Kaaras was just as eager as Cullen to return home and meet the newest member of their strange little family, but he wasn't about to steal Cullen's thunder.

"You first, commander," he ordered with a cheery nod, the haunted look from Adamant gone from his eyes for now. "There's someone in there who really wants to meet you." Cullen felt the stirring of quiet panic in his chest as he spurred his horse on, past the Qunari warrior and his inner circle of friends and companions. Yes, Rory was waiting. But so was someone else, someone who had been born on the night Adamant fell. While he had been far away, leading a siege that had killed too many for the wrong cause, the woman he loved had been laboring to bring their firstborn into the world. The symmetry there was too much to ignore; they had lost a good friend and ally, among so many others, and gained a new life in their midst, all in the course of a single night. But what if the child didn't like him? What if he frightened the little one for whom he would gladly give his life, even never having met her? He was a warrior; the blood on his hands was too thick to wash away. This innocent life he had helped to create ... would he ever feel worthy to call himself their father? A ragged cheer went up from merchants and workers alike as the party rode into Skyhold, welcoming home the Inquisitor and his companions, glad to see them returned hale and well, despite the losses sustained in the Western Approach. For once, Cullen's eyes did not scan the battlements to check the guard rotation, turning instead toward the wide stone steps up to the upper courtyard, where she had said she would be waiting for him in her last letter. He felt a weight lift from his heart as his gaze found vibrant red hair, a wide warm smile, one arm raised to wave to him, to catch his attention. The other arm wrapped securely about a small bundled form cradled against herself as she continued down the steps to meet them. He was vaguely aware that both Josephine and Leliana were walking with Rory, both warily watchful to be certain she didn't slip, but his body was already moving, swinging down from his horse to stride toward his wife. "Took you long enough, didn't it?" were her first words to him, and Cullen felt himself release a low chuckle at the familiarly fond irritation he should have known was waiting for him. "You owe me, commander." "Ever at your service, healer," he answered her, dipping his head to taste her lips, to feel her smile, and know that he had returned from death yet again. Rory's fingers teased into his hair, delicately tracing the still faint swelling around the healing bruise at his temple as she answered his kiss with her own, shameless in pouring her relief and affection into that one moment of contact in front of everyone they knew before her hand dropped to his chest to ease him back. "Careful," she murmured. "We're squashing your daughter." "My ... our daughter." Just saying that brought a strange flush to his face. I have a daughter. The old familiar panic welled up, but Rory's fingers touched his cheek, her expression softening as she recognized that look in his eyes. Her mouth opened, but he took hold of himself, nodding swiftly to cut off the reassurance he didn't want others around them to hear that he needed, and forced himself to look down at the infant in her arms. Big blue eyes blinked up at him, focusing with curious intensity on this new face that mama seemed to be so relaxed with, so happy to see. He hadn't been expecting blue eyes; he'd hoped for gray, like Rory's, though it seemed that their daughter had inherited her mother's hair. The soft crop of thicker down on the top of her head was definitely red. The nose was familiar, almost depressingly so. She'd inherited his nose, for certain. Cullen held that solemn gaze for what felt like a small eternity, just as solemn in return, studying the child just as she studied him. He couldn't say she was beautiful - as far as he was concerned, no baby was ever beautiful. She was small, and bright-eyed, and unafraid of him. That was all the reassurance he needed. "She needs a name," Rory murmured softly, watching as he slowly removed his glove, as his hand reached out tentatively to cup his palm over the soft heat of their daughter's head. A name ... His throat seemed to choke closed for a brief moment as he rubbed his thumb over the delicate brow, enthralled by the way the little head wriggled gently into his palm, the big eyes blinked above a chubby-cheeked hint toward a smile. Rory's letters since the birth had laid the responsibility for naming their daughter firmly in his lap, with amusing commentary on the various suggestions Josephine, Leliana, and Granthis had been making in lieu of having a proper name to call the baby by. Even that responsibility had felt like too much. How could he name a child he had not seen, who had been born so many miles away on such a terrible night? Yet here and now, looking into the eyes of his daughter, the name he had been toying through his mind since hearing the news seemed perfect. "Alys," he said hoarsely, swallowing to clear his throat as he glanced up to meet Rory's eyes, knowing she would recognize the bitter-sweetness in their firstborn's name and understand it. Her smile was sad, but pleased, her stormy eyes calm as she nodded. She did not seem surprised by his choice - yet another reminder that this woman, for all her oddities and unfathomable memory lapses, was more his match than anyone he had ever known. "Alys would very much like to cuddle her papa, Cullen," she said in a soft tone, her smile flashing into a grin at the sudden panic he knew flickered across his face. "She knows you already, love. I'm not going to coddle you or do all the work now you're home." "I don't mean for you to do all the work, I simply ..." Cullen flailed for an excuse. "I ... am wearing my armor. It will not be comfortable for her." "So take it off," Rory suggested bluntly. "I am not disrobing in the middle of the courtyard," he countered, a little flustered that she would even suggest it. His wife laughed, and despite his bristling, he found himself smiling to hear the sound. It had been a long time since he had heard her laugh, seen her smile. More than two months on campaign - his first true campaign, though he had lived his life by the sword. It had taken everything he had to ride away from her, knowing that when he returned, it could be to an empty home. In truth, he had feared more for her in childbirth than for his own life in battle, trusting in the Inquisitor and his own forces to deliver him safely from harm. For a moment, he was transported back to the camp, the day before they laid their night siege ... to the odd quietness of men and women who knew that some of them would not be coming home, the gentle camaraderie, the talk of home and family and the provisions they had each left behind them in case the worst should happen. He hadn't known that, while he was connecting with his troops at this very personal level, Rory had been suffering through the first throes of a labor that had dragged on for more than twelve hours, yet in hindsight, it seemed almost appropriate. As he had suffered with the knowledge of the deaths he presided over, she had struggled to bring one precious new life into this world. This life, this child ... my daughter. Without thinking, his hands rose to the buckles on his pauldrons, and to his surprise, another pair of hands joined his - Cassandra, who had somehow managed to stand close enough to see the child first of all the Inquisitor's companions, but far enough not to intrude. Yet now he needed an extra pair of hands, she was there, and he found himself grateful as pauldrons, vambraces, sword, shield, and finally breastplate all left his form. Rory didn't give him a moment to reconsider, placing the squirming bundle of blankets and blue eyes that was his own flesh and blood into his hands before he could say a word. He remembered something like this with Rosalie, when he was just a boy, being handed his baby sister and knowing she was related to him, that she was a part of him. She'd had blue eyes then, he recalled, yet now her eyes matched his. Would Alys' eyes darken? Would she shared his hued gaze? But this ... this was different. This was his daughter, his child, the unexpected miracle of life brought out of so much death. The hands that held her were his hands - a warrior's hands, stained with blood that had not always been guilty; hands that shook when the strain became too much; hands that trembled now as he drew little Alys to his chest and held her close for the first time. He felt her breathe against his chest, the fumble of little fingers gripping at the loose edge of his mantle, and something fundamental seemed to crumble inside him. So much fear held deep inside, of a life that would end alone and forgotten even by himself ... yet here he stood, holding the future in his hands, watched over not only by the wife he had never dared to hope for, but also by the friends he still did not believe he deserved. Whiskey-bright eyes rose to look into the freckled storm-gray that was Rory's gaze, soft and understanding and loving. She knew the worst of him, in his own words, his own unthinking actions, and yet still she loved him. He could not think of a better reward for continuing to fight for the world their daughter deserved. Biting down the tears that wanted to spill from his eyes, he leaned close to her, hugging Alys close as his lips brushed Rory's brow. This was home. "Are we allowed to meet the new Rutherford, or are you going to stand there hiding her from us for the rest of eternity?" a warm voice demanded from behind him, and despite himself, Cullen laughed along with Rory as he turned to look at Kaaras. The Qunari Inquisitor had been fascinated by the pregnancy, and was almost over-eager to meet the baby, holding himself stiff in his serious effort not to reach out and grab for her as Cullen showed off his little family. Fade-touched eyes glued themselves to the infant gripping the commander's mantle, all others utterly dismissed from his mind. "She's so tiny," he breathed, his right hand reaching out involuntarily before he drew it back, glancing to the proud parents with a guilty glimmer to his gaze. "Uh ... may I?" Cullen glanced down at Rory as she answered. "The worst she can do is cry at you, so prod away." As Kaaras' hand reached toward the baby, Cullen felt himself bristle a little, an over-protective instinct drawing his daughter closer to his chest before he recalled himself. This was a friend - not just a friend, but a good man, for all that he was seven feet tall with horns. Guilt colored his expression a moment as Kaaras hesitated, the commander relaxing his arm once more as Rory squeezed his free hand. Assured that he really was welcome to introduce himself to the baby, Kaaras' grin emerged, one large finger very gently stroking the little fist Alys flailed in his direction. The tiny fingers opened to wrap about the wide digit at hand, and Cullen found himself staring in utter astonishment as a Qunari warrior he had seen tear through four demons single-handed without breaking a sweat visibly melted in the face of a tiny baby trying to suck his finger. "What a grip!" Kaaras chuckled to them, impressed by the strength exerted on his finger, glancing down at Cassandra as she came close to his side. The Seeker seemed just as enchanted, and perhaps a little envious, though her rare smile was there for all to see. The Qunari Inquisitor lifted his left hand, wriggling his fingers to make the Anchor glow, trying to tease a first smile out of the infant clinging to his hand. Alys' eyes focused on the glow ... but there was no smile. Cullen was shocked to see his solemn daughter, who had seemed so even-tempered until now, suddenly scream, flailing her fists as tears flooded her eyes. Kaaras snatched his left hand away, hiding both behind his back as he looked around wildly. "I didn't touch her!" "I know you didn't," Rory assured him, shaking her head. "Look, she's already calming down." And the baby was calming, her sobs fading now there was no eerie green light in her eyes, rubbing her face with pudgy hands as she nestled into Cullen's grasp once again. The commander stared at her, torn between horror at her over-stated reaction to Kaaras' hand and relief at how quickly she'd recovered from him. What was wrong with the Anchor that made a baby react so violently to it? "It's wrong," a quiet voice said from Rory's other side - Cole, peering around the redhead, his red-rimmed eyes focused on the now quiet baby once more. "It's wrong and it hurts and it shouldn't be there. It won't be there, and that hurts, too." He blinked, frowning. "She doesn't like it when it hurts." "She's hurting?" Cullen's head snapped up, deep concern making his gaze sharper than he had intended. Cole shied back. "Not her," he promised. "She ... she sees it, and she knows it hurts him. The glow and the shimmer ... she cries because he hurts, because ..." He frowned uncertainly. "Because one day it will stop hurting, and that frightens her." Rory's head swung about to look down at her daughter, reaching over to stroke the soft cheek even as she frown in concern of her own. "That makes no sense, Cole," she pointed out, but there was a wariness about her voice that suggested she might share that feeling with the newborn child. "The mark hurts?" Cassandra tilted her head toward Kaaras, who gave her a sheepish smile. "Not so much," he tried to mollify her, but she wasn't having it. She did, however, pull him away from the commander and his wife by the horn before beginning to inform him in no uncertain terms that not telling her when he was in pain was a very bad idea. This gave space for others who were attempting not to seem eager to press forward. Dorian, naturally, did his utmost to ignore the baby, instead moving in to offer Rory a one-armed embrace. Even Cullen was surprised by that; he'd been on the receiving end of a few rants toward the end of the pregnancy that had involved how much she worried about certain of their friends and their inability to offer or accept innocent tactile affection. "You look marvelous, darling," the Tevinter altus informed the new mother as he drew back. "Exhausted, but I'm told babies don't much care who they keep awake at night. Now you have a fine strapping commander to be awake with you, you should improve vastly." Rory eyed him in amusement. "I'm not entirely sure that's a compliment, but thank you. Would you like to meet her?" "Not if she intends to display the capacity of her lungs with everyone," was Dorian's matter-of-fact response, hanging back at her side only to startle as Cole piped up again directly behind him. "Not you, not us," the boy assured him. "The brightness, the lie is what hurts ... looking up, warm eyes, gold hair, seen before through another's eyes. Loving and loved. Mother and father and home. She doesn't see the past in the scars, she sees the man." He beamed, turning his eyes onto Dorian once more. "She will like you. Rory does." "Of course Rory likes me, I am unmatched," Dorian puffed, but there was a slightly nervous look in his eyes as he craned his head to look down at the baby in Cullen's arms. What he said next was lost on Cullen. The commander's eyes had returned to the baby girl in his arms, Cole's words echoing in his mind as others crowded in to say their piece and admire the baby girl born in their absence. Warm eyes, gold hair ... she doesn't see the scars. Though he still did not wholly trust the strange spirit made flesh, he trusted that what Cole said was what was felt in the moment. Which meant the child in his arms, his child, his little girl ... she liked him. Alys didn't see the scars that littered his flesh and soul, nor the guilt that would weigh on his heart for all the years to come. She saw him and knew him for the father he longed to be; her most stalwart protector and most trusted friend, a teacher and mentor, a shoulder to cry on in the years to come, but most of all, a constant source of love and support, no matter her choices as she grew. That was the father he wanted to be, the father he would spend the rest of his life trying to be. "You will always be loved," he promised the babe in his arms, heedless of the ears that could hear him, or the eyes that saw him raise her high to brush his lips to her soft forehead to seal that promise. He couldn't promise her safety or happiness, or even peace, but what he could give her was love, all the days of his life. By the gate, speculative eyes watched the happy little scene, considering the dynamic of the commander and the healer, the Inquisitor and his friends. Something had changed there, something he could not quite put his finger on. Something so small as to barely register and yet ... that change made his hackles rise. "She forgot, but the memories did not die," the spirit spoke near him. "They went away, found a home. Innocence knows what will be, what will come, the plans, the dangers, the lies. She sees the deception with no words to speak it aloud, fears the Dread -" "Enough." One sharp word, and the spirit fell silent, his connection broken to the knowledge that would cause so many problems if it were to become common. The child knew. Yet she was just a child, a babe in arms. No threat to him, nor a thorn to prick his palms when he laid hands upon his orb once more. In years to come, perhaps.But not yet.

#set in darkness #THE END #cullen rutherford/original female character #cullen rutherford/rory allen #rory allen #cullen rutherford #varric tethras #kaaras adaar #cassandra pentaghast #dorian pavus #cole #solas #epilogue #fluff #dad!cullen #lookit the baby!#also #sinister hints

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spring-emerald · 8 years ago

Text

teach you a thing (or two)

For KuroDai Week 2017 Day 2: Sport Swap / Same High School

Summary:

“Are you dating Kuroo-sensei?”

AO3

“Hey guys!” Hinata yells excitedly, in lieu of a proper greeting, upon sliding open their classroom door. All the idle, early morning chatter of his classmates died down, as they turned their attention on him.

He makes his way in front of the whole class and stands on the platform before addressing them again.

“You won’t believe what I saw this morning!” He says with a supremely satisfied grin on his face, child-wide eyes glinting with a little mischief.

“Then there’s no point in telling us since we’re not going to believe you anyway,” Kunimi dead-pans, not bothering to look up from the book he’s reading. Kindaichi, who’s seated beside him, snickers along with some of their classmates.

Not one to be deterred, Hinata quickly sticks his tongue out at their direction, then clears his throat before continuing.

“As I was saying, I saw Sawamura-sensei and Kuroo-sensei this morning.” Apparently, this was enough to get their attention, as even Tsukishima, who has his headphones on, looks up at Hinata (further confirming his suspicion that Tsukishima isn’t really listening to anything at all, and just uses it to discourage people from talking to him, but that’s not the point right now). The point is, they are not excited enough as this bit of information.

Kindaichi scoffs. “Well, duh. That’s hardly anything new.”

“Together,” he adds, eyes sweeping the room with a meaningful look. “They were together, you guys! Sawamura-sensei was with Kuroo-sensei. I passed by them at the coffee shop. They totally got coffee together.” He gushes while bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“It might just have been a coincidence, Hinata-kun,” Yamaguchi reasons, still skeptical about Hinata’s claims. It’s not so good to gossip about their teachers after all.

“Sawamura-sensei got into Kuroo-sensei’s car,” Hinata says in defense.

It’s Shibayama who speaks up this time. “That would’ve been the polite thing to do, Hinata. It would be rude not to offer someone you know a ride, especially if you’re both going to the same place.” Sakunami nods his head frantically in agreement with what Shibayama said.

“Nuh-uh, but why did Kuroo-sensei have to open the door for Sawamura-sensei,” Hinata holds up a hand at Sakunami, who was about to counter his statement, “even though Sawamura-sensei clearly didn’t need any help?” There’s a wave of murmuring that follows, but Hinata is still disappointed by their lack of enthusiasm.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this, he thinks. They were supposed to try and pry more information from Hinata, that while admittedly he couldn’t fully give, but at least enough to warrant speculations about the relationship status of their two teachers. It hadn’t escaped the class, the way their class adviser, Sawamura-sensei, seem to be at the end of Kuroo-sensei’s flirtatious remarks since the beginning of the school year.

They were teenagers, for god’s sakes, and the meaning behind some of their Chemistry teacher’s words are not completely lost to them. It might go over the head of the likes of Kageyama, but in general, the class could pretty much agree that Sawamura-sensei doesn’t particularly mind, judging from the banter they usually engage in, or the humoring, but fond smile he gives Kuroo-sensei before he shoos him off to his own class.

Bottom line is, the class totally ships the two of them. They’re cute, and to be honest, it’s the most interesting thing about school for Hinata right now. At least second to volleyball, but, you get the point.

Hinata’s about to say something again, but then the school bell rings signaling the beginning of the Saturday classes and he was forced to go to his seat.

----------

Close to the end of third period –English with Sugawara-sensei, the piece of paper containing the details of the new betting pool had been passed around to half of the class and has now returned to Hinata. Having placed the first bet, seeing as the paper came from him, he hastily passes it to Lev. Hinata’s relieved that Lev had developed a sense of subtlety enough to pass notes in class without getting caught. He couldn’t say the same though for Koganegawa.

Apparently, he’s concentrating on the simple translation activity Sugawara-sensei has given the class, because he startles with a yelp, when Lev pokes him on his side, to get his attention to give him the paper, which effectively broke the deceptively peacefulness of the class. Hinata winces when Sugawara-sensei turns to them, and he bites his tongue to prevent a groan from coming out.

Sugawara-sensei makes his way towards the direction of their seats, and Lev fidgets nervously in his seat. Kogane turns deadly pale though, when their teacher stops in the middle of their seats. He wordlessly asks for the paper that Lev failed to hide, and the student hands it over guiltily, then promptly buries his head on his arms, as Sugawara walks into the front.

“Really, kids,” he shakes his head. “I was going to let it go, since you guys are getting better at this, but I’m afraid can’t ignore it any longer. Especially after Kogane-kun’s reaction.” He says, with a nod towards the student’s direction. Sugawara takes in the look of utter surprise on his students’ faces with a bit of wicked glee he’s masking with an angelic smile.

“Please, don’t give that look,” he waves a dismissing hand. “I was a high school student too, you know. It wasn’t that long ago.”

He unfolds the paper. “This better not be an answer key,” he says, then proceeds to reading its contents.

“Oh my…”

Hinata passes a hand over his face, apologizes to Kuguri and Yachi-chan in his head for getting them in trouble, as surely, they’ll be thoroughly reprimanded for not being responsible class representatives.

“This…”

The class collectively hold their breath, awaiting the judgment Sugawara-sensei is going to give them. What they did was considered gambling, which is considered as a major offense. They’ve known him to be patient, but even someone like him has his limits.

“This… is really something,” is his anti-climactic comment. Suffice to say, it’s not the kind of response they were anticipating.

“Sugawara-sensei…” Yachi starts to speak up, but Sugawara regards her kindly. “Don’t worry, Yachi-chan. I won’t tell Sawamura-sensei, or the Principal. This will be out little secret, ne?” He says, forefinger on top of his lips in the universal motion of shushing along with a playful wink that got the class even more dumbfounded.

“However, I’d have to confiscate this,” he waves the incriminating piece of paper. “And since it’s my moral obligation to do so, I would also have to discourage you from further engaging in such activities. There’ll be no more of this in my class, nor in any of your other classes. Am I making myself clear?”

And the class answered in unison, the conditioned response he taught them on their first meeting, “Crystal.”

As if on cue, the bell rings and the class says their goodbye.

“Oh, and by the way,” Sugawara says, “I guess you’d just have to find out from Sawamura-sensei himself, no?” And with that parting message, he leaves the room.

----------

Daichi looks up at the sound of the faculty door opening, and immediately cocks an eyebrow at his expression, which is to say looking extremely pleased with himself. Knowing for a fact that the other teacher came from his class, he couldn’t help but feel curious.

“Did something happen?” He asks, once Suga’s taken his seat opposite his desk.

Suga just hums and says “Nothing.” Daichi frowns, because Suga’s smile clearly doesn’t mean ‘nothing’. He points out so.

“It’s really nothing, Daichi. Nothing bad happened, if that’s what you want to know. Don’t worry about it.”

Daichi stares at Suga for a moment more, remaining suspicious but decides to let it go. Whatever it is that happened, or didn’t happen, he’ll find out soon. Today’s last period will be dedicated to homeroom after all, as per the directive of the Principal, in preparation for the upcoming school festival. He can have his answers there.

As if on cue, Kuroo pops his head inside the faculty, just as Daichi stood up from his seat.

“Sawamura?”

“Yeah,” he answers the rest of the unspoken question. “Later, Suga.”

Daichi’s already by the threshold, when Suga calls him out. “Daichi?”

“Yeah?”

Suga debates on telling him that it might not be a good idea to let Kuroo walk him to class on the way to his own, but decides against it. He promised the kids, after all.

“Nothing. Good luck!” Daichi frowns at him minutely, before stepping out of the faculty room.

It’s not just about the promise though, as Suga thinks that this will be a good enough punishment for them. Once they see that Kuroo actually walked their teacher to their class, it will just add fuel to the fire of their curiosity. Will they have the guts to actually ask their Sawamura-sensei about it?

This time, Suga lets the mischievous smile show freely on his face.

----------

Daichi instantly thinks that something is amiss once he stepped inside the classroom. For starters, his class, having created a reputation of being rambunctious before the teachers arrive, are all seated and are actually quiet. Kuguri punctually begins the greeting, but even after then, Daichi notice that they seem be sort on edge about something. He remembers Suga.

“Did something happen during third period?” He asks them, just to be sure. Not that he doesn’t trust Suga, but his instincts are telling him something. It’s not worrisome though, just a vague, yet quite uncomfortable feeling.

“Nothing happened, sensei,” Kuguri replies, calmly as usual. Daichi nods and takes it for what it is, then proceeds with the homeroom agenda.

Supervising the class wasn’t as headache inducing as the other teachers claimed it to be. And while Daichi wasn’t required to stay during the whole duration of the afternoon homeroom while his students planned their exhibit for the school festival, he did so of his own volition. It’s a learning experience for him after all. He gets to observe his students, and really, the information he will glean from this will be helpful, especially with the end-of-the-year-reports.

He can’t help but notice that some of them kept looking at his way though, but he just chalked it up to them being nervous about his presence. He tried his best to stay as inconspicuous as he possibly could. They ended the meeting a few good minutes before homeroom is officially over, and Daichi’s glad that it went without much of a fuss.

“Are there any more questions?” He asks, as he made his way to the front of the class. He’s about to formally dismiss them, when Kuguri raised his hand.

“Sensei?”

“Yes, Kuguri-kun?”

“What is your relationship status?”

Daichi loses his footing at the unexpected question. “That… is a personal question, Kuguri-kun. And completely irrelevant to the discussion.”

Why would Kuguri of all of them ask him that question though?

It’s Lev who raises a hand this time. “Are you dating Kuroo-sensei?”

“W-Wha-?” He chokes at the bold question. And after that, it seemed like a dam has been opened, as he was flooded with even more.

“Do you like him, sensei?”

“Did you get coffee together this morning?”

“Why does he keep walking you to class?”

And it’s too much for him to handle, the shock and the sensory overload, and Daichi decided to make it all stop.

“Alright, ENOUGH!” They suddenly stop and instantaneously shut their mouth. Daichi pinches the bridge of his nose and counted to ten in his head. He releases a drawn out breath, and addresses them again.

“What,” he’s got to choose his words carefully with this one, “made you arrive… in that conclusion?” Spoken like a true scientist. Kuroo’s going to be proud with that one.

“He keeps walking you to class.” Inuoka answers first.

“He flirts with you.” Even timid Runa.

“Yeah, and you flirt back!”

“And you were getting coffee together this morning!”

“And-”

“Alright! I’ve heard enough.” He’s taking back what he said about homeroom meetings not being headache inducing, because right now, he can feel a big one coming. But as shocking as it is, it’s also quite amusing. He wasn’t expecting them to notice. But even so…

“Given the personal nature of your questions, I am under no obligation to confirm nor deny anything about your allegations, especially since that it’s about my private life.” He says simply. It’s a language that hopefully they’ll understand. They’re teenagers, and if anything, they value privacy more than anything right now. He regards them calmly, waiting for more as he sees that they’re quite disappointed at not getting a direct answer, but he also feels confident that they will not be pushing the matter any further. He gives himself a mental pat at the back for dodging this one.

He’ll have to let them keep guessing though. Salvation comes in the form of the shrill sound of the school bell, and he leaves them with a cheerful goodbye.

----------

“You have to ease the flirting, especially in front of my class,” Daichi says, when Kuroo comes up to him and unlocks the passenger side door.

“Why? What happened?”

“They asked if we’re dating.” Daichi answers, before he takes a seat on the passenger side.

Surprise flitted on Kuroo’s face before merry mischief takes over it. “Your class really is something, huh.” He comments. “What did you tell them?”

Daichi repeats his response while buckling himself up. And as expected, Kuroo’s delighted, as evident with his hearty laugh.

“Well, they’re not wrong.”

He then takes out a long chain from under his shirt dress and fingers the simple, golden ring hanging at the end of it. Similar to what Daichi is wearing, now visible under his loosened collar and tie.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #kurodai #kurodaiweek2k17 #kurodaiweek #kuroo tetsurou #sawamura daichi #hq fanfic

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