#finally got around to reading tread and circuits | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

skullrock · 5 years ago

Text

the (secret) santa - Jonathan x Steve

12 days of fics day 2 - the (secret) santa

pairing: stonathan

summary: Steve is psyched to get Jonathan for Secret Santa, but has a hard time figuring out what to get him.

word count: 4.2k

warnings: simply none

a/n: Jonathan is Jewish here bc I love that headcanon <3 I used the Internet to tell me when Hanukkah was in 1986, and it said it was December 26th-January 3rd, so that's what I used! hope u enjoy <3 also I literally cannot find a good video to make a stonathan gif w sorry

30 days before Christmas; 31 days before Hanukkah

Steve knew Jonathan, but Steve didn’t know Jonathan. Not the way he’d like to, at least.

When he got Jonathan for Secret Santa, he was ecstatic. It seemed like the perfect way to get closer to him - to make things right, to see him in personal and intimate ways. Ways he has always wanted to. He was excited, until he realized that he didn’t know much about Jonathan, save that he made the bat Steve currently had in his trunk, liked to cook, was cute, and was a photographer. And Steve had already gotten Jonathan a camera, so that wasn’t a viable gift. Plus, the budget was twenty dollars.

Twenty dollars did not seem like enough money to spoil Jonathan Byers like he deserved.

So Steve did the only thing he knew how, which was talk, and try to be sneaky about it.

===

28 days before Christmas; 29 days before Hanukkah

“Jonathan!”

Jonathan and Will both turned on their heels to face the voice that had rung out. Will rolls his eyes when he sees Steve jogging towards them - of course it was Steve. And of course he wanted to talk to Jonathan. How neither of them saw it, he doesn’t know, but he climbs into the passenger seat to give them some space. They’ll get it soon enough.

“Hey,” Jonathan says, shoving his hands hastily into his pockets, as if he had something to hide. “What’s up?”

“Hey, man,” Steve pants, leaning forward just slightly and gripping his side. “Do you like music?”

“What?”

“You know?” Steve licks his lips. “Do you listen to music?”

Jonathan’s brows twitch together. “Yeah, I - I listen to music.”

“Me too.”

Jonathan stares, which is all he really knows how to do around Steve. Stare and observe. Take in the brunette and blonde locks, how they curl a bit on the end, how they all fall perfectly into place when Steve runs a tired hand through them. How his sweater is the color of red maple leaves in the fall, and how it clings to his shoulders. How that sweater rides up when Steve straightens, showing Jonathan the pale and smooth skin of his hips.

“What kind of music?”

Jonathan blinks and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. He glances back to Will, smiling knowingly from the passenger seat, then back to Steve. “I kinda - I gotta take Will home.”

“Shit,” Steve mumbles, then bends forward to wave at Will. Jonathan’s still watching the way the sweater rides up. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“‘s okay,” Jonathan says with a bit of a laugh.

It’s at this point Jonathan realizes what’s going on. Steve was not very subtle about being his Secret Santa. And if that’s not it, then Steve is making an enormous effort to be Jonathan’s friend, and who is he to deprive him of that?

“The Smiths.”

“Who?”

“The Smiths,” he repeats. “And The Cure. Stuff like that.”

It takes Steve a moment to realize these are bands and not families in Hawkins. “Oh. Oh. Awesome. That’s so cool.”

There’s an awkward pause before Jonathan asks, “You?”

“Queen,” Steve says, almost immediately. “Yeah. Queen. And, like, other stuff, too.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah.”

Will knocks on the window and raises his eyebrows at Jonathan, because the sight was honestly a bit painful. Jonathan looks, then back to Steve. “I should -”

“Yeah,” Steve says again. “Yeah, go ‘head, don’t let me keep you.”

Jonathan doesn’t know why he feels so damn giddy, why a smile tugs at the corners of his thin lips, but it’s happening. He tucks his face towards the collar of his shirt as he rounds the car. “See you, Steve.”

“See you,” Steve calls back.

He wonders why Will is looking at him like that.

===

25 days before Christmas; 26 days until Hanukkah

There’s something about Jonathan Byers under the glow of Christmas lights.

Maybe it’s the mustard colored sweater he’s wearing, casting a warm glow on his face and illuminating the blonde in his hair. Maybe it’s just the holidays. Either way, Jonathan Byers looked beautiful, and it was just the two of them in Mike’s basement while the kids ran upstairs for snacks.

“Are you ready for Christmas?” Steve asks, his knee against Jonathan’s.

Jonathan bristles. “Oh, we celebrate Hanukkah.”

“Oh,” Steve whispers. “I - do you still do presents and stuff?”

“We do.” Jonathan shifts, bumping his knee against Steve’s again. “But we light the menorah and everything, too.”

“Oh.”

Steve mulls over the logistics of getting someone who is Jewish a Christmas present, but Jonathan luckily says, “So I could do the Secret Santa, because we still exchange presents. My family does, anyway.”

Steve hopes his sigh of relief isn’t too noticeable.

“What other things do you like?” Steve asks. “I - I just realized that we never really got to know each other.”

Jonathan feels himself about to smile again. “Music-wise?”

“Anything-wise.”

Jonathan doesn’t like talking about materialistic things, so he mumbles. Steve has to lean close to hear, and it makes his hair stand on end. “I like photography. And… peace.”

“Peace?” Steve smiles. “Past few years must have been real hell for you.”

Jonathan laughs mirthlessly. “Yeah, they were.” He takes a deep breath. “And I like drawing, sometimes. But Will’s better than me.”

Steve scoffs. “Doubt it.”

“What?”

“I - no. Shit. That’s not what I meant - I mean, like, I’m sure you’re good, too.”

Jonathan lets out a confused laugh. “Thanks.” He relaxes, and his knee is firm against Steve’s now, and both of their breaths hitch. “I really like seeing my friends happy. And I like seeing Will happy. And mom.” And you, he wants to say, but it’s caught half in his chest and half in his throat.

“How is your mom?”

Jonathan wasn’t expecting that. “She’s doing okay.”

“Good. Good.” There’s a sincerity behind Steve’s voice that Jonathan also wasn’t expecting, but that sends his heart soaring in his chest. “If you guys ever need anything….” Steve uses his thumb to point to himself as he turns to Jonathan to show how serious he was. “I’m not that far away.”

“I know,” Jonathan says, and before either of them can say anything else, the kids hustle down the stairs screaming about a movie.

Steve and Jonathan scoot apart.

===

23 days before Christmas; 24 days before Hanukkah

Steve has never been to the Hawkins Library, but Dustin practically holds his hand through the process of finding and selecting a book to read. Steve wants to learn more about Hanukkah, and a children’s book seemed like the best way to understand it all. It takes him only half an hour to read it - a personal record, Steve thinks - and while he’s not still completely sure what Jonathan does to celebrate, he’s at least got a better idea.

Steve thinks of maybe buying Jonathan a hand-made menorah, but the price is well over twenty dollars. Then he considers getting them candles for the menorah, but figures they probably already have that covered. Robin seconds this.

“Just get him a vinyl or a walkman or something,” she says, laying on the floor of Family Video.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” she starts, sitting up slowly, “I would say you’re trying to… impress him.”

Steve stutters. “What? No. No. No way. I - I - I just like getting good presents. I think - I know I’m really, really good at it.”

Robin narrows her eyes at him before sighing. “Steve. I see how you stare at him.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Robin says, sighing again. “It means nothing, Steve.”

About an hour later, a miracle happens - Jonathan comes to the store.

Jonathan Byers has never set foot into Family Video, and he treads lightly as he enters. Steve almost trips over himself when he sees Jonathan walk in, another pretty sweater on his slim frame.

“Can I help you?” he asks, approaching Jonathan, who stays relatively close to the door.

“I need to get Will something?” It’s more of a question than a statement. “He wants to watch a movie tonight.”

“Oh, I know the perfect thing!”

Jonathan watches Steve jog the short distance to the register and jog back. Jonathan wonders if he always runs around him to impress him, but he pushes that thought out of his head. Steve presents him with a VHS box with David Bowie on it - Labyrinth.

“Bowie?” Jonathan asks.

“Apparently,” Steve answers. “Will said he wanted to watch it, and Keith finally ordered it. You like Bowie, too, right?”

Jonathan’s brows twitch and he smiles a bit, that swelling feeling once again apparent in his chest. “You remembered what Will wanted to see?”

“‘Course.” Steve puts his hands in his back pockets. “I was holding it for him.”

Will was the most important person to Jonathan Byers. He would very easily trade his life with his brother if he could. He would do anything to make him safe and comfortable and happy. And Jonathan never really saw Steve as someone who would care about his little brother in such a way that he saved a tape for him. Which, yeah, maybe the bar is low, but Jonathan’s known for a while now that Steve Harrington has a knack for defying all expectations.

“It’s free,” Steve says, Jonathan shocked into silence. “Just take it. Let me know how it is.”

“Do you want to watch it?”

Steve’s eyes widen before he blinks. “I mean, maybe -”

“Do you want to watch it with us?” Jonathan almost tags on an “as friends”, but Steve��s almost certainly not thinking it’s a date. Steve’s a boy. Jonathan’s a boy. Just friends.

Steve blinks again, his brain short circuiting - like, yeah, of course he wanted to watch a movie with Jonathan Byers, and yeah, Bowie did look hot in that outfit, and yeah, they’re two men that hardly know each other except on a very deeply personal level that Steve can’t think about without making his head spin. It makes Steve’s head hurt when he thinks about the bond he shares with Jonathan, even though they’d only had approximately seven conversations over four years. He thinks Jonathan looks at him like he has him figured out, and it makes Steve’s stomach turn in excitement and anxiety.

“Tonight?” he finally manages.

“Yeah.”

Steve licks his lips. “Yeah, man. Yeah! Yeah. I like movies. Yeah, man, I can come over. What time? Want me to bring something?”

“No,” Jonathan says quickly. “Just yourself. Eight?”

“I can do that,” Steve says, not a hint of a joke in his voice. “Eight sounds perfect.”

“Do you remember where I live?”

Although Steve had only ever been at the Byers residence to thwart evil from overtaking the universe, he does remember. He could make the drive with his eyes closed. “I do.”

“Okay. Eight.”

Robin smirks behind the counter.

===

Later, 9 pm

Jonathan cannot believe how obvious Steve is about being his Secret Santa.

“Do you listen to Bowie?” he whispers in the middle of the movie. Their knees are touching again.

“Yeah,” Jonathan whispers back.

“Do you, like, have all of his albums?”

Jonathan glances at Steve, then back at the TV. “I do.”

Steve lets out a defeated sigh and Jonathan has to stifle his laugh behind his hand. Will can’t believe how obvious they’re being, either, but he tries to focus on the movie and not the scene happening beside him.

“Do you - like… um. Is there an artist you don’t have… an album… for?”

Steve cringes at himself.

“I’m set,” Jonathan says, trying to wrack his brain for anything he could give Steve. He feels pity for Steve, who’s just trying his best, but Jonathan isn’t exactly materialistic. He doesn’t even know why he let Will convince him to be part of the exchange.

Steve lets his eyes wander around, trying to think of anything he could get Jonathan. Maybe a nice blanket, or a sweater. Maybe a David Bowie poster. His eyes wander towards the kitchen window, where he can see a golden candlestick holder.

“Menorah?” he asks Jonathan, gesturing towards it.

“Yeah.” Jonathan looks towards it, too.

“It’s the twenty-sixth this year, right?”

“What?”

“Hanukkah,” Steve clarifies. “‘Til the third?”

“H- how’d you know that?”

“I looked it up,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“You looked it up?” Jonathan asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Steve frowns a bit. “Was I not supposed to?”

“Why’d you look it up?”

“So I could know more about what you celebrate.”

“Oh.” Jonathan looks back at the TV. “That. That’s nice of you.” And then he looks back at Steve and with a small smirk says, “We don’t need candles for it.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Steve says with a smile, bumping his knee against Jonathan’s.

They both smile the rest of the movie.

===

16 days before Christmas; 17 days before Hanukkah

Steve takes his headphones off. “I don’t know if I like them.”

Jonathan scoffs and bristles. “What - what don’t you like about Joy Division?”

Jonathan’s bed dips under Steve as he adjusts, his knee and elbow hitting Jonathan’s. “They’re, like, sad.”

“That’s the point!”

Steve rolls his eyes slightly, but smiles. “Why do you always want to be sad?”

“I - I don’t - they’re just good.”

“I believe you,” Steve says, and he means it. “I mean, what do I know about music?”

“Here,” Jonathan says, leaning forward to grab a Bowie album. “Have you ever listened to Bowie?”

“On the radio.”

Jonathan smiles and puts the tape into the walkman, and Steve puts the headphones back on. He gives Jonathan an apprehensive look as the younger boy clicks through songs, and is pleasantly surprised by the music that comes through. It’s not as sad as Joy Division - not at all. Not whiney, either - it’s victorious and upbeat and Steve can’t help but to move, shimmying in place, leaning sideways to hit Jonathan’s arm with his as he dances. Jonathan smiles and says something, but the headphones block him out. “What?!”

Jonathan chuckles and pauses the music. “I said, do you like it?”

“It’s happy!” Steve asserts. “You should listen to this stuff more often.”

“I do listen to it.”

“More. Often,” Steve enunciates, and then presses play on the walkman, his hand brushing against Jonathan’s.

Jonathan realizes how much he likes Steve being happy. He always knew it, but he didn’t know how much he liked it. Steve moves like he owns the world, like he’s not ashamed or afraid of anything. And Jonathan knows how bullshitthat is, that Steve, at heart, is a scared and insecure person who needs to love and be loved every moment of the day. Jonathan wishes he could give that to him, but if David Bowie gets Steve close to as happy as Jonathan would like to make him, he’ll take it.

“Put it in your stereo,” Steve says suddenly, pausing the music. “We should both listen to it, shouldn’t we?”

Jonathan shrugs a shoulder and takes the tape from the walkman, slipping it into the stereo and playing it. They both jump at the volume before Jonathan turns it down, and then they sit together, listening to Heroes until it fades out.

“Like us,” Steve says. “Heroes.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “I guess.” Jonathan chews his lip for a moment before pausing the tape. “You saved my life.”

“What?”

“When the….” Jonathan can’t say it. “With the bat.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Steve looks at his hands and then smiles. “After you saved mine by beating the shit out of me.” Jonathan stiffens, and Steve sighs. “I know I said it before, but I’m sorry, Jonathan. I’m… God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jonathan says, voice a bit cooler. “It’s in the past.”

“You did save my life, though,” Steve says after a pause. “Seriously. If you didn’t beat sense into my brain….”

“You mean a concussion?”

“Sense,” Steve repeats. “If it wasn’t for you….”

“I know.”

It’s all that needs said.

“Another?” Steve asks.

“Really?”

“I like listening,” Steve says.

Jonathan suppresses another smile as he leans forward and turns the tape on again. Their arms are touching.

===

10 days before Christmas; 11 days before Hanukkah

“Just get him a new walkman,” Dustin says, tone bored, as Steve drags him through the biggest mall within an hour from Hawkins.

“It’s not good enough!”

Steve is exasperated, and desperate. He’d been spending way more time with Jonathan, and kept asking questions - he’s 90% sure Jonathan is on to him at this point - and he was still unsure of what to get him. Each day that passed made Steve more desperate to give Jonathan something that would make him happy, and a twenty dollar budget was just not enough for Steve. And though he feels like he knows Jonathan more than most people, he doesn’t quite understand Jonathan. And he wants to. He wants to so badly.

“Jesus, o-kay,” Dustin says, throwing his arms out.

“I’m not - I’m not mad at you.” Steve sighs and runs his hand through his hair as he stares at a sweater displayed in a window. “I just - I don’t know what to get him.”

Dustin knows why, but he still asks, “Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t! I don’t. I don’t care that much.”

Dustin sees through the bullshit, but he doesn’t think a mall is the best place to talk to Steve about his feelings. “I just got Mike a new dice set. It’s not the best gift, but he’ll like it.”

“Well, I’m not lazy.”

Dustin pouts. “I’m not lazy -”

“And you’re not supposed to tell me who your person is -”

“You told me yours!” Dustin already knew Steve’s, but the point still stood.

Steve’s brows twitch in agitation. “Well, yeah, because I need help!”

“And I am helping you. Get him a damn walkman.”

As Steve contemplates the idea, a new one pops into his head.

“Perfect!” he shouts, making everyone stop to look at him. Dustin inclines his head, trying to get Steve to elaborate.

“We have to go to the music store. Now.”

===

3 days before Christmas, 4 days before Hanukkah

It’s official - Steve hates Joy Division. Not as much as he hates the Smiths, but he definitely hates it.

His ears hurt after listening to Jonathan’s favorite music, hand selecting the songs with the lyrics that Steve thought best exemplified Jonathan. In a way, the music helped Steve understand Jonathan, which was a happy surprise. And, quite honestly, Steve doesn’t mind listening to the music, because he knows it would make Jonathan happy, and that’s mainly what he cares about.

But something seems missing. Maybe it’s because no gift on Earth would be good enough for Steve to give to Jonathan. Jonathan deserved the world, deserved much better than what he was dealt. So did the rest of his family. Steve knows if he gave Jonathan anything worth anything, though, he wouldn’t take it. And if he did take it, he would share it - and Steve wanted to get him something that was purely for Jonathan. Maybe a mixtape was the perfect gift, but it didn’t feel like it. Something was missing.

Not that Steve had much time to contemplate another gift, because the exchange was happening tonight, and Steve couldn’t even write a two page paper in six hours, let alone find a better gift.

There’s always next year, he thinks as he’s wrapping it. Or his birthday. Or….

The wrapping paper his mom had purchased was patterned with bright green mistletoe, plum colored berries hanging from the leaves. Steve’s eyes focus on it for a while - intimacy was something that he missed. The closest he’d gotten in a year was his skin pushed up against Jonathan’s, knees and biceps touching. It made him yearn, and not for just anyone, but for him. For Jonathan.

But Steve doesn’t know how Jonathan feels. Yeah, they touch each other a lot, but maybe that’s just what friends do. Steve wouldn’t know. Jonathan’s eyes had lingered on Steve’s face before, and when they were smoking Jonathan didn’t even wince when Steve passed the joint to him. Isn’t that kind of like kissing? Steve doesn’t know. He just knows he wants to kiss Jonathan. He’s known for a while, and Robin told him after Steve cried to her one night that maybe he’s bisexual, and Steve had adopted that term because he wants to kiss Jonathan Byers so bad. And a kiss would be a personal, for-Jonathan-Byers-only gift.

A kiss, though, seems very straightforward. It doesn’t seem like a great idea. Maybe back in high school when Steve would kiss just about anyone, but not now. Not when he doesn’t even know if Jonathan swings that way.

So Steve finishes wrapping the tape, and he prints Jonathan on it in the best handwriting he can muster, and he hopes Jonathan understands through the lyrics.

===

“It’s got, like, you know.” Steve clears his throat. He’s too aware of the mistletoe above them. “The bands we listened to on it.”

“Steve,” Jonathan says, turning the tape over in his hands. His brows are furrowed together as he studies it, wondering what’s on the tape, wondering what Steve thought was intrinsically Jonathan Byers. It was such a personal gift that Jonathan didn’t even know what to do or say. “I…. Thanks. Thank you, Steve.”

Max grabs another gift from under the tree. “This one’s for Mike.” She chucks it at him and everyone’s eyes seem to turn to Mike, except for Will and Steve.

Their eyes meet, and Will gives Steve a look he doesn’t understand.

What? He mouths.

Will’s eyes flit up to the mistletoe, then back down to Steve and Jonathan. He repeats this a few times until Steve almost gasps at the suggestion. Does Will know something Steve doesn’t?

Steve nods his head as subtly as he can towards Jonathan. Him?

Will nods furiously, then looks back to Mike, who seems quite pleased with the dice Dustin had bought him. But Steve doesn’t get it, and when the presents are done, he pulls Will aside.

“What the hell?” he hisses. “What - what does that -” he mimics Will’s eye movements - “mean?”

Will rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “C’mon.”

“What?”

“Come on,” he repeats. He gets quiet, and Steve can see Joyce in Will. “He likes you.”

“What? Did he say something to you?

“Steve. You touch each other, like, all the time.”

Steve deflates. “So he didn’t say something?”

“He doesn’t need to. Why do you think I convinced him to do this?”

Steve knows he’s saying “what?” too many times, but he says it again. “What?”

“We all planned this. We paired you two together on purpose.” And then he walks away because he’s tired of hearing about everyone’s love lives. This isn’t his problem. He just wants to play with Mike’s new dice.

When Steve looks towards the kids, they’re all staring. They quickly start talking to each other again, and Steve lets himself sit with the realization that these bunch of punks just pulled the most amazing Christmas hijink of perhaps all time.

Shitheads, Steve thinks, and while he’s definitely going to confront (and thank) them later, he’s got to talk to Jonathan first.

Later, 9 pm

“I knew it was you, you know.”

It’s cold outside, but it’s the best privacy they could get.

“How?” Steve asks, though he already knows.

“You’re not very conniving,” Jonathan says, once again suppressing a smile. “It was pretty obvious.”

“I just wanted to get you something you’d like,” Steve says. He breathes out and watches his breath disappear into the cold air. “You’re impossible to shop for, you know.”

Jonathan has the audacity to seem offended. “What?”

“Impossible,” Steve says, stepping forward. “You’re not a materialistic person.”

“So?”

“So,” Steve says. “So.” He can feel his heart in his throat, beating loud and fast - he hopes Jonathan can’t hear it. “So….”

And then they’re kissing under the mistletoe that Mrs. Wheeler hung on the porch.

Steve pulls back first, quick, surprised with himself. “Shit.”

Jonathan says nothing - he just stares.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asks, throat dry.

“Didn’t you just kiss me?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Jonathan blinks. “Then do it again.”

And this time Steve really steps forward, really takes Jonathan’s cold cheeks in his cold hands, and he really kisses him. Jonathan finally lets that smile come through for the first time in a month as he melts into Steve, like a snowflake into a snowbank. Steve’s warm - well, warmer than the air - and he tastes a lot like vanilla birthday cake. Jonathan’s never really liked cake, but he likes Steve’s lips. Weird.

Jonathan pulls back first this time, because it was getting increasingly harder to kiss as his smile grew. He even tries to hide it behind his hand again, but Steve stops him, taking his cold fingers and wrapping his own through them.

“Impossible to shop for,” Steve repeats, his own smile hurting his cheeks. “Good thing kisses are free and personal.”

A laugh bubbles up from Jonathan’s chest and to his lips. “Yeah.” He squeezes Steve’s hand. Their chests are touching. “Good thing.”

===

tags: @pterawaters @mpmarypoppins

#steve harrington #jonathan byers #stonathan #steve x jonathan #my fics

86 notes · View notes

captainrexisboo · 5 years ago

Text

Comfort pt2: Butterflies

I did this one on mobile at work! Turns out I’m ✨Still In My Feelings✨ but writing a flustered Rex makes me feel better, so y’all are gonna deal (I love you all so much ❤️)

Warnings: none. But notes: Rex x Reader, sweet pining, emotional vulnerability, reader is a woman

I hope you guys enjoy this one just as much as the last one ❤️ all comments welcome, DMs always open 🥰 and finally: @000ayfh @pinkiemme @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life (that’s right pro, I read your tags) you guys make me C R Y with your kind words 😭 thank you ❤️ Edit- I forgot to link Pt1

Also pt3: Waiting

“Rex?”

He looked up quickly at the sound of your voice, you were standing there with your work in your hands and a flutter of your lashes. He chuckled at the familiar face, honeyed eyes crinkling in amusement as you gave him an innocent pout, “What is it today, Y/N? Are we sitting in silence or having a chat?”

He gestured to the chair in front of his desk for guests, and you practically skipped over to the seat, laying your own datapad and reports in neat stacks, “I think I just need to be. But can we put on some music?”

“Don’t see why not,” Rex gave you a charming grin, one you were now able to easily return without the corners of your lips threatening to pull down. Rex put on some basic top hits radio station, putting the volume down a little low to make it blend into the background, and sharing a smile with you once more before the two of you continued to work in comfortable silence.

It’s been about four standard months since he had given you that hug you desperately needed, since he offered you his company, his shoulder to lean on. You had taken him up on his offer about twice weekly, the two of you quickly becoming close. You shared a hug whenever he came back from a battle now, blessing the stars that he was safe, and you’d say as much whenever he boarded, “Thank you for coming back to me.”

You thought that maybe the first time you said it, he was about to short circuit, his spine stiffening and biting back a choking sound. He swears it was just a bit of exhaust trapped in the ventilation system of his helmet that caused him to cough like that though, you hope he got it fixed. You enjoyed having someone like Rex around, he was kind, sympathetic, patient, a good listener, trustworthy- he made good on his word that you could come to him for anything. Moments like this were now your favorite parts of the week.

Rex enjoyed having you around so often as well. It made his heart feel whole to know how deep your trust in him went, and was always grateful for the little ways you showed your appreciation. He wondered if you were so touchy with all of your friends. If you always gave your friends warm, crushing hugs, or subtle brushes of fingertips on their wrists. If you always gave them words of affirmation, or came into their offices just to sit and share warm laughter. The first time you had kriffing thanked him for returning in one piece made him nearly combust with happiness. To know you were waiting for him to come back every time just made him...he wasn’t sure, but he was hiding the widest of smiles under his bucket. He knew there were butterflies in his stomach that liked to fly up into his throat and make him trip over himself, and that your touches burned through his armor with the sweetest of fire, and that every time your smile was directed at him it shined brighter than any sun he’s ever witnessed. He knew that sharing caff with you felt like a special occasion, even if it was just made from the instant machine in the rec room and brought to his office.

“Rex,” you spoke his name carefully, like you were unsure about how it was pronounced, “Can I ask you something?”

He lifted his head up to you, and he felt his chest tighten. Your gaze was down, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth, twisting your stylus between your fingers. Rex could feel his brows furrow, your mood changed on the drop of a dime, and he cleared his throat to speak low to you, “Of course. Anything.”

He held his breath as you looked up at him through heavy lashes, swallowing his butterflies down as you let out a shuddering exhale, “Why do you care so much?”

Oh.

“Uh,” Rex felt his own gaze shoot downward, suddenly finding his stack of flimsiplast very interesting, “You’re a good friend, Y/N. A kind person. Why wouldn’t I care about you?”

You blinked slowly to him, trying to catch his averted line of sight, “Well, you do a lot for me. You listen to my problems, keep me company when I need it, and I just. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything to deserve it, and-“

“You deserve everything.”

Rex had this issue where no matter how hard he tried, his butterflies made him speak. They made him say the damndest things to you, just bursting out of him in spurts, and always left him to clear it up by himself. His eyes widened at his own words, your eyes finally locking onto his, and he could feel heat rushing to his face as he stammered, “What I mean is, you… you deserve more than you think. Even if you weren’t my friend, I’d still want to extend basic kindness towards you.”

“Captain,” you cocked a brow to him, leaning back in your chair, noticing the way his jaw flexed when you dropped his title, “You walked me through the hardships of heartbreak. You still do, some days. That’s a bit more than basic kindness.”

“Because we’re friends,” he cleared his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to look away from you now, “I mean. You see us as friends, right? That’s what friends do.”

You searched his gaze, bottom lip pulled between your teeth again, making Rex feel surprisingly small as you continued your staring. You hummed at him, releasing your lip, and Rex couldn’t stop himself from glancing down to the reddened flesh. You leaned toward him, forearms on the desk, “But why? We weren’t close before, you kinda just…”

You trailed off into a small giggle, the sound sweet, and Rex was hanging onto your every word at the edge of his seat. You looked off to the side, your own cheeks feelings warm, “You kinda came out of nowhere. A hero, swooping in at the last second to save the maiden in need. Like in the stories I used to read as a kid.”

A hero. If it had come from anyone else, if he had read it on the holonet or seen his face on a war poster, he would’ve scoffed and rolled his eyes. But instead it came from you, direct and to his face in the privacy of four walls, and he was melting. You looked up at him again, gaze soft, your warmth shining through as you bit back another giggle, “Sorry if that's weird, or childish, but it’s true. You remind me- no, you are exactly that.”

Rex couldn’t stop the wide smile that stretched over his face, it felt goofy, and toothy, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He tried, he tried to stop, but that only made it worse, and he found himself wishing he had his helmet as he was sure his cheeks held a deep ruddy color to them.

“You’re...you have no idea what you mean to me,” he shook his head, resting his chin in his palm to try and cover his cheshire grin as you looked at him in curious amusement, “Y/N, you are such...you’re a light on this ship. All the staff, all my troopers, even our Jedi care about you. You’re always offering your smile to us, making us feel warm even in hyperspace, and if I’m being honest, coming back to y-“

Rex cleared his throat, cutting himself off as he found himself bearing his soul to you. He watched you closely, the way your lashes hit the tops of your cheeks as you blinked to him, the way you chewed on the plump of your pout as you waited for him to continue. He cleared his throat again, his slight stubble rubbing against the synthweave of his gloves, “Ah, c-coming back aboard to…to see you, I mean. It just makes me feel...better.”

He finished lamely, finally gaining control of his face again and pressing his lips together into a fine line before he could spew anything else out to you. He felt like a cadet again, his heart was racing and his face was hot, and he waited for you to laugh at his silly notions. He wasn’t prepared for the mist that came over your gaze, or the sniffle that accompanied it.

“You really-” you paused to wipe away the tears already gathering atop your lashes, a thin laugh breaking through your choked words, “You’re terrible, making me cry like this. How did a sharp edged, straight cut soldier like yourself get to be so sweet?”

“I’m...sorry?”

He was so perplexed.

You smiled through your haze, more laughter straining out, “F-for what? You just...you say all the right things, Rex.”

He didn’t know what to do. He made you cry, but...you were happy about it? He froze in his seat, unsure of what to say, if he should move- should he give you a hug? Did you want a hug? Did you need to leave? Did you want to leave?

He held his breath as you pushed yourself out of the chair, walking around his desk to immediately fling your arms around his neck. You pulled him close as you leaned down into him, his face heating up even more as it was shoved into your neck, nose skimming the hairline behind your ear. He felt a shiver go down his spine as you sighed against him, your breath fanning over his neck, and he froze. What should he do with his hands?

Typically you’d both be standing, and he’d be able to return your tight hold with his arms around your back, but if he did that now then he’d be pulling you into his lap and he is not going down that rabbit hole. If he just placed them- no, then his hands would be encircling your waist, that’s just as bad as the lap. What if��

Gingerly testing the waters, he breathed through his nose, moving slow as if he’d scare you off with the slightest surprise. He brought one hand up to sit between your shoulder blades, and that was fine. The other hand was treading new territory, coming up to the back of your scalp and threading his fingers through your hair. Your content hum would replay in his mind the rest of the day.

“Rex…”

That was going to replay in his mind for the rest of the week. The way you breathed his name out made him hold you even tighter, not even realizing what he was doing until you chuckled low against him, “Thank you, Rex. I don’t know what kind of state I’d be in if you hadn’t been there for me.”

“It’s my pleasure, Y/N,” he whispered to you, trying not to let his lips skim against your neck as he spoke, “Sincerely.”

You pulled away, and he found himself missing the mild smell of your shampoo. You smiled down at him, standing with your hands behind your back and a hip jutted to the side. You seemed to be contemplating something as you kept looking off to the side, and before Rex could ask what was wrong, you had leaned down to ever so gently press your lips to the side of his temple.

“Sometimes a hug doesn’t say everything quite right,” you bit your lip, pushing a strand of hair out of your face as you felt your cheeks heat up again, “If anyone deserves everything, it’s you, Captain.”

With a final smile, you walked back around to your side of the desk. You bit back a slight giggle as you saw Rex touch the side of his head where you kissed him, turning back to your work just as he looked over to you. He let out a breathy chuckle, getting back to his own work, the two of you settling back into the previous comfortable silence, the forgotten radio finishing up another song.

#captain rex #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #star wars #clone wars #star wars fic #captain rex x female!reader #captain rex x reader #captain rex imagines #pining #fluff #my writing #fics are valid forms of therapy #im kinda loving this and i didnt expect to do a pt 2 #but here we are #❤️#swtcw fanfic #ct 7567 #commander rex

194 notes · View notes

lollybliz · 5 years ago

Text

bout to make a Monster of a fic rec post here we go

heyo @jinx108! We’ll start with the complete ones because sometimes you’re just not in the mood to wait for the last chapter, you know? I don't remember details of all of these so i’m just going to copy the author’s summary rather than write my own. I am literally just going through my bookmarks, I got 400 of these to sort through. if ive talked to or am familiar with the author im gonna mention them, but if I mention you and you don't want me to have Please tell me and i’ll remove it.

If you’re not into spoilers Please Tread Carefully, I don't watch out for that stuff so I wont know to label it

1>Crushing Truth by Bunzuku: Tododeku. “Romance is hard enough for a teenager to understand when they have a good relationship role model. For Shoto, it takes two excited meddlers for him to even realize what his feelings really are.“

2>Disowned by b00mgh: tododeku + others. Unrated, some traumatic elements. “Shouto freaks out under a bridge and I use the word "grass" a lot more than I really should. Izuku does his stupid martyr thing and everyone makes continuous references to his propensity to break his bones. Aizawa goes "oh FUCK my kids are dying again" and his students use him as emotional (and physical) support. A friend requests angst, I say what kind, she say idk make someone get disowned and i say oh this I can absolutely provide my good buddy.”

3>cotton candy hands by @chonideno: Kiribaku. I will take Any excuse to rec this fic, its the most fluffy pile of feels Good Lord. also the first fic I ever bound into a physical book. “Studying to become a hero requires knowing how to take care of yourself. Sometimes you might need help on the way so if your crush offers to do your hair for you or to give you a well-deserved back rub, it'd be stupid to say no. A series of soft vignettes in which a love-struck Kirishima and a touch-starved Bakugou care for each other and it's definitely not making their hearts jump through hoops, they’re never this close to kissing, no, they're totally best friends bro“

4>Catching Sight of the Storm by neo7v: Kiribaku, tododeku. A considerable amount of Whump and related angst, and kinda sad tbh. “Blind. Quirkless. Useless.The first two things were stated clearly by the doctor that sat about five feet in front of Izuku. The third was a word that Kacchan called him everytime he failed to make the jump on whatever forest excursion they were on or when he ran into a tree because he hadn’t seen it. “I’m so, so sorry, Izuku.” Was his mom giving up on him already? But he could still be a hero if he tried hard enough, right? Quirkless or not. Blind or not. Just because Izuku was useless now didn’t mean he would stay that way forever, right? *** A Blind!Izuku AU”

5>Yell Heah by fakecharliebrown: Chatfic. M a n y pairings. technically complete, but part of an ongoing series. “Iida creates a group-chat for Class 1-A. It doesn't go as planned.“

6>Sunshine by Rosey_Note: BIG SAD. tw- failed suicide attempt. KiriKamiBaku. “They didn't deserve to put up with his crappy mood. Because Denki Kaminari did not feel like Sunshine right now. And they deserved sunshine. In fact, Denki didn't feel much of anything right now.“

7>Electric Connection by Onlymostydead: ShinKami. “Kaminari's quirk has always had... Weird side affects. Like his ADHD. And his constant energy. And his insomnia, which wouldn't leave him be right now, when he really needed to just get some sleep. But, thankfully, he has good friends.“

8>The Best (The Worst) by Onlymostydead: no romantic pairing. tw- rampant transphobia, both outside and internalized. “Bakugou Katsuki has known who he was since he was four years old. He was a boy, it was as simple as that. Around his friends, at school... But things couldn't just be that simple, could they?“

9>Lichtenberg Figures by Q_loves_you: no definite romantic pairing. “Kaminari Denki has a very powerful force of nature running through his body. Kaminari Denki doesn't want to hurt anybody. He doesn't always get what he wants, and "anybody" does generally include himself.“

10>Eventuality by KikaTouka: ill be honest I don't remember this one at all, I maaaay not have read it yet :/. anyway. ShinKami. “Shinsou learns more than just hero lessons after being transferred to 1-A.“

11>Pickup Lines for the Soul by MustardSoup: ShinKami. “Denki is twelve when he is flicking through the TV channels and lands on an old RomCom movie about soulmate marks – specifically the same type that he has. “I can’t believe I’ve had to walk around with a cheap pickup line written on my ankle my entire life because of you!” The leading lady yells at the leading man as he stares at her in awe. Denki laughs. “Oh no.” His mother says, watching him. “Oh no, indeed.” His sister repeats quietly.“

12>caught in my own web by @anxioussailorsoldier: ShinKami. “Shinsou needs some help after getting caught up in his capture weapon. Kaminari enters from stage left.“

13>not so summer love by nataliya: ShinKami. “Class 2-B’s common room, although typically quiet, was currently filled with five students—three slowly giving up on homework, one bitching about noise and another that rushes through the front door. “We’ve been waiting for you—” Mina starts, but Kaminari’s vaulting over the back of the couch, eyes wide as he practically buzzes out of his skin, emitting light like crazy as currents dazzle across strands of hair. “I have a big ugly crush,” He steps off the couch and onto the coffee table, much to Bakugou’s chagrin, “On big ugly Shinsou.””

14>Blamed by coldandhotsoba: ShinKami. Tw- they fuckin kill a guy and its a lil nasty. “This was not how the day was supposed to end. They were supposed to end the day like they do most nights. Kaminari clutching onto him like a koala as he slept, wrapped in the millions of tacky blankets Kaminari had bought. Warm and safe in their bed. It was not supposed to end with both of them tied up in some cold metal room.“

15>Lightning Scars by Present-Mics-Scream (write_your_way_out): Shinkami. “It's hard to be confident in your abilities when you're surrounded by people with incredible quirks. Shinsou Hitoshi would know better than anyone. Sure, he was admitted to the hero course in his second year, but being admitted to the hero course, and keeping up with the rest of the class are two different things. Lucky for him, Kaminari is there to prove that the flashiest quirks come with the largest drawbacks.“

16>See No Evil, Hear No Evil by randomfan188: no romantic pairing. “Kaminari Denki is legally blind. When he forgets to wear his contacts and breaks down during math class, comfort appears in the strangest of ways.“

17>how not to enjoy the weather, an article by kaminari denki by dreamtowns: no defined romantic pairing. “If there was one thing Kaminari hated the most in a world wth villains, it would have to be thunderstorms.“

18>”Studying” by emmyrox22: ShinKami, EraserMic. “Shinsou and Kaminari have been “studying” together for a while (but not for school). Shinsou gets stopped by his dads on the way to another “study” session and mistakes are made“

19>Weaknesses by sunflowerstorm: ShinKami. “Kaminari's quirk and storms compliment each other in the worst way, but he's convinced he can deal with it on his own... until he really can't any longer. When Shinsou accidentally overhears Aizawa confronting Kaminari about recent changes in behaviour and hears about the hell his quirks been putting him through, he can't just pretend he never heard. He wants to help.“

20>it’s hurt denki hours by memeingfultrash: ShinKami + others. ““Certain members of our class are...under the impression that...you’re the traitor.” Denki’s body went cold and felt like he was going to short circuit. ~some of class 1a believes that denki is the traitor and avoid him”

21>Petition to replace Mineta with Shinsou- (signed by Kaminari Denki) by CharaTheQuartz: ShinKami + others. This is one of my favorites, I go back to reread it from time to time. It SAYS 41/42, but that's just a glitch cus chapter 36 doesn't exist for some reason, I talked to the author about it and its fine. “Mineta brings shame to the color purple. You know who does not bring shame to the rich color, but pride and sexual tension to one infatuated Kaminari Denki instead? Shinsou Hitoshi, aka sexy zombie man, aka the most perfect hunk of a man to walk planet earth, aka future husband. Shinsou has finally gotten his chance to prove himself to the hero course, and he did more than prove himself. The only question left unanswered is whether he will start in A or B, and how Kaminari can manipulate the end result.“

22>How to Get a Boyfriend (in Four Easy Steps!) by e1ana: ShinKami, EraserMic, + others. “Step 1: Get kicked out of the house by your homophobic parents. Step 2: Run headfirst into your brooding, mysterious crush. Step 3: Sleep in his dad’s (see: your homeroom teacher) house Step 4: Watch everything you thought you knew go to shit. This isn’t exactly the sweet, romantic plan that Kaminari Denki longed for. Will everything be ok, or will step 5 be to crash and burn?“

23>Bakugou and Todoroki’s Foolproof 5-Step Plan to Fuck with Mineta Minoru by Anubis_2701: Kiribaku, TodoDeku, + others. This is another one of my favorites, and the one I am currently folding and sewing into a physical book. you learn how to do funny things when bored and quarantined ig. “It was a simple enough idea; screw around with the resident bastard of Class 1-A to let him know that his medieval ways and perverted behaviour weren't going to be tolerated by even the most career-focused of UA's students. To say that things had snowballed was an understatement. Todoroki had no idea how he had ended up sitting on Bakugou's floor at 1 am, holding a dossier of incriminating material that would make the FBI slobber, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The long and short of it was, fuck Mineta.”

24>Colour Theory by chancellorxofxtrash: TodoBakuDeku. this one’s a series. “Midoriya/Bakugo/Todoroki slow burn soulmate AU. All three of them are nerds with their own emotional issues, trying to navigate their way through becoming heroes, and their own relationship with each other.“

25>Summer Sunshine by Mara97: TodoDeku. Ever want a Barbie in a mermaid tale/Bnha crossover? No? well here you go anyway! “Instead of worrying about college, Izuku spends his summer vacation finding out his father is, supposedly, a dead merman king and going on a quest to dethrone the current king, Endeavor. Along the way, Izuku becomes close to the three journeying with him, makes friends with strangers, starts crushing on an unattainable prince, and, in the end, learns to love himself. Oh, and he saves a kingdom, too.“

26>The snowflakes on our skin and the flames in our soul are one (and the same), my love by missunderstuffyou: TodoDeku, Kiribaku. this is one of the ones I keep a running reread comment going on. its at,,, 6, atm. “Before your quirk begins to present itself, the soulmate link comes through, and suddenly whatever you write upon your own skin appears on the body of your soulmate. As your soulmate writes to you, the emotions they feel follow through the ink.Izuku Midoriya is four years and a few months old when he first feels the slight ebbing in his arms. It doesn’t hurt… he can just feel something, and it’s enough to make him sprint into his mother’s arms screaming that his quirk is coming. She had been washing in the kitchen, and the sudden screech as her son rockets into her side is enough to make her jump with panic, immediately grabbing at him and looking for cuts and bumps before she understands his words and the stupidly bright, alight smile on his face with large, watery, hopeful eyes. Shoto Todoroki doesn’t feel his soulmate connection open up. It is drowned in the aches of a small body worked far too hard.“

27>It was dark inside the closet by Chad_Champion69420: Pre-ShinDeku? maybe? its tagged shindeku but like. it’ll make sense if you read it. “Midoriya is invited to a party. He and Shinsou decide to play a little trick on the rest of the party during Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

28>how to woo your local trash gremlin: a comprehensive guide by Todoroki shouto by wonhaebunny: TodoBaku. this is the fic that dragged me into todobaku, fun fact. “five times shouto tries to confess to bakugou, and one time he doesn't bother tryingaka: wikihow is a scam and bakugou is a terrible, terrible boy“

29>top ten photos taken right before disaster by Shookspeare: ShinDeku. “Izuku participates in a harmless prank, only to end up ruining it and running for dear life.“

30>Secrets to Share by pechebaie: no definite romantic pairing. “Kirishima comes out first, and nothing changes. Kirishima and Kaminari still hang out to complain about class and talk about boys - and sometimes girls, too, in Kaminari’s case; he still plans stupid pranks with Sero that get them sent to the principal’s or nurse’s office every time; Ashido still kicks his ass at Mario Kart without hesitation; and Bakugou doesn’t get angry at him any more than he usually does.“

31>What One Hides by Pinalinet: TodoDeku. “All Might gives class 1-A an unusual assignment that results in Midoriya Izuku and Todoroki Shouto attending a weekly acting class. But with a mysterious villain targeting individuals without Quirks, and a developing issue of Todoroki's own, an after-school assignment is the least of their worries.“

32>whether or not we’re fated, we’re meant to be by juurensha: KINDA SPOILERY. TodoDeku + others. “Todoroki didn’t have a soulmark for most of his life.His siblings all did, but up until the day of the U.A. entrance exam, he had shoved the idea aside. It’s not like they could help him anyway. And then a 9 appears on his chest, and a green-haired boy barrels into his life with a fire and ice soulmark on his arms, and suddenly Todoroki cares very much about all this could mean.”

33>The Midnight Shift by meiishu @meiishu @totallytodoroki (idk which you’d rather I attach so I went with both): ShinKami. ““Hey Toshi,” Denki says, and he laughs, clearly embarrassed. He’s got on a jean jacket that did him absolutely no help and a white tee shirt that is currently stuck to his torso. It’s got a pikachu design in the center. “By any chance, do you sell umbrellas?” “You really went out in this weather.” Hitoshi deadpans, instead of dignifying that with an answer. or hitoshi works the midnight shift at the gas station, which also doubles as a pokestop for pokemon go. of course, denki is a regular.”

34>Rock the House by AkabaneKayo: ShinKami. “It wasn’t just his bed. It was his entire fucking room shaking. Only one thought crossed his mind at that moment: “Holy shit. My room is haunted.”“

35>Technically, they’re morning kisses by CharaTheQuartz: ShinKami. “Most nights, Shinsou cannot fall sleep. Neither can Kaminari. It seems counterproductive to have a sleepover then, but they try to make it work. And they fail, but that is okay.“

36>someone to call mine by nearly_theyre: ShinKami, EraserMic “From: Me wish you were here, denks From: kitten 💛💘💛 what if i was tho? OR Four times Denki snuck into Hitoshi's room and one time he walked through the front door.“

37>Pretty by Onlymostydead (noticing some repeat authors? me too): no definite romantic pairing. “(Or, Kaminari still can't figure out bra clasps.) Kaminari has never really felt good about himself. Herself? Whichever way, not knowing doesn't make anything easier. Especially when he (she?) and Mina have their bodies swapped during training, and everything seems too right.“

38>If I offer you my hand, will you take it? by bleukitsune: Kiribaku. SPOILERY. ““Why?” Kirishima leaned back on his hands, trying to create some space between them. Too close. The ash-blond looked really nervous, his usually arrogant and cunning demeanor gone. “What do you see when you look at me? Kirishima is worried. Bakugou is hurting. After his confrontation with Midoriya, he finally reaches out to him. “

Theres way more but I haven't tagged them properly yet so that m a y come later if I can ever finish going through and adding my sorting tags.

and then a last few that Are Not Complete but im really very fond of them. not as many as id like to add, but my hands are getting tired tbh.

39>State of Mind by GuardianOfTheLoaf: no relationship YET but its looking like it’ll be either tododeku or shindeku, probably the former. EraserMic. tw- childhood neglect and severe depression. Izuku’s not a happy kid. “Izuku was a late bloomer, his quirk lying dormant until his tenth birthday when in a fit of emotion he grabs his mother and she disappears. With All Might slowly restoring his confidence Izuku begins the difficult journey into becoming a hero.“ 18/? chapters.

40>Izuku Eats His Problems by CosmicAce: ShinDeku. Izuku’s a flerkin, what more could you want? “His whole life, Izuku Midoriya was taught to keep his powers, his Quirk, hidden from the world. His kind were feared, hunted to near extinction because of it. He just wants to show people he’s different. That he can be a HERO. And nothing is going to stop him. Even if his Quirk IS like an eldritch abomination.“ 43/? chapters

and then probably my current favorite bnha fic- although it fights with Apertum Mortem for that spot but that ones d a r k and not here-

41>family of the year by periiwren: EraserMic. “Hitoshi is done. Done with moving around every few months to a couple that will scrutinize him and eventually dump him right back where he started. Good thing he’s well past his strike limit now- at least he can stay in one place, be content to age out of the system and finish out his training with Aizawa. Maybe transfer into the hero course, maybe be a hero- but none of that was guaranteed. The only thing for sure was that he was going to stay in that center for the rest of his childhood. Or so he thought- because Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi have other plans.“ 24/? chapters. we’ve been informed that this one’s gonne be l o n g and im Very Grateful.

42>Here There Be Dragons by here_and_there: pre-ShinDeku. “Izuku looked at the small circle Aizawa had motioned to in front of them. "I won't fit," he whispered, thinking. He raised his hand, tentatively. Sighing, Aizawa grumbled, "What?" "I-I have a question. Actually, two." His teacher just stared at him, unimpressed. Izuku continued. "Can we activate our quirks before we step into the ring?" Aizawa looked up into the sky, muttering something Izuku didn't hear. "If you must." "O-Okay. Uh, second question. You said we have to stay inside the circle, right?" "Yes." The man looked disappointed, not only in Izuku but in himself for letting the kid speak. "Great. Uh... does that include tails?"“ 6/? chapters.

43>Another Option by sandersonsister: TodoBakuDeku, Touya/Hawks, Dabi/Hawks. Potentially Spoilery, depends on whether horikoshi has the guts to confirm Touya. this one is waiting around the corner with a baseball bat, its really cute, and then r e a l l y painful. it might be getting better though. maybe. it might be getting worse. “When Touya stops his mother from hurting Shouto, he decides enough is enough. He needs to get out of this house and he's taking his baby brother with him.“ 33/? chapters.

That's it i’m done for now, oof. maybe ill edit more onto this post later, maybe i’ll just make another one. hope some of these work!

#fic rec #bnha #mha #tododeku #todobakudeku #kiribaku #shinkami #shindeku #erasermic #To Be Continued

307 notes · View notes

oumaheroes · 4 years ago

Text

Earthbound 1/?

Summary:

Centuries after humanity fled a dying Earth and found sanctuary in the stars, the planet has healed enough to support mankind once more. For some, there is something more than curiosity; memories from another life whisper history in familiar voices, calling them home.

'He closes his eyes and thinks about blue flowers and large statues of stone, of ships and red coats flapping over a green meadow.'

Part 2 Part 3

��…………………………………………………………………

Chapter 1: Scattered Amongst The Stars

Alfred is six. It was his birthday last Tuesday and he got to have a really big party and it was really really cool, but the coolest thing ever was that he got an e-tab from his Ma. Everyone at school already has an e-tab -as a July baby he's one of the youngest- so now he can finally join in with the special classes that they have and play all of those games at lunch time.

Alfred doesn't like feeling left out. It's not nice, Ma says, when you don't include people, so that means that the people who play games on their e-tabs when they know he doesn't have one are being mean on purpose and that really hurts. Except now, now he can join in and be their friend again and won't have to sit alone at his table when it's interactive e-tab time.

It's not real learning, Pa says. He didn't want Alfred to have one, says that it rots your brains and makes you lazy, and says that the e-tab time is just 'enrichment', it's not part of the curriculum because they're not learning anything, just downloading and watching stuff. Still, Ma must have talked him around because on Tuesday Alfred opened the box and there it was, all for him. There's some games on it, from Grandpa, and Ma had uploaded some of his favourite movies for him to watch as soon as he'd synced his mind up. Pa got there too, he must have done, because there's also some files on 'Earth History', 'The Fall', and one about extinct animals which Alfred really doesn't wanna read but Pa's been mentioning at least one of them every dinner since so he probably should.

He goes into school and begins to chatter happily to his friend Ben as soon as he sees him about 'Zip Blast', the current school-yard fad, and about how he can't wait to sync up and play because he'd been practising over the weekend and he thinks he's kinda good now.

Ben looks uncomfortable. 'Oh, I don't think we're playing that one any more.'

'Huh? But...' Alfred stops and looks at Ben in disbelief, 'but Friday you said it was the best ever!'

'Well it was,' Ben concedes, reluctantly, 'but now there's the new 'Rock-ite' out so we played that over the weekend.'

Alfred's heart sinks. 'We?'

His friend has the grace to look as apologetic as a six year old can look about these matters but nothing more than that and at recess Alfred is alone once more. He tells himself it's okay, he doesn't care anyway but it's a half-hearted lie at best and he doesn't try to kid himself for too long. Instead, he decides he may as well sync up one of those stuffy files Pa put on the e-tab to pass the time and nibbles a cookie to keep himself entertained.

His teacher finds him gormless, ten minutes later. His eyes are glazed as he stares unblinkingly at the wall and his cookie, one chunk missing, lies forlorn on the table next to his slack left hand but his brain is more full and awake than it's ever been. Information about a long dead planet far far away pound and crash in his head and as soon as the data file has been properly synced he reaches out for his tab and loads up another.

At eight, Alfred has become that kid. No matter what conversation he gets into or who he talks to, if there is an opening or an opportunity he will bring up Earth and once that's accomplished he can go on and on for hours. He's downloaded every possible data file he can find about the entire subject: life before the Fall, the Fall itself, and the human race's desperate escape across the stars and for him it's still never enough. There's always another e-file to sync: about ancient nations, about old sciences and religions, about old wars and songs and dances and food; every second he can spare he gives over to tales of the past woven from the binary of today.

They are a scattered people, he likes to tell his listeners, there are hundreds of us, strewn across galaxies and planets and ships and no one knows how many of us there are any more because the Fall ripped apart alliances and histories so we don't even know who else is out there to find. Everything was lost, everything; the history, the stories, the places, the-

At this point, someone usually either changes the topic of conversation or he realises that they've walked away and left him babbling to himself, his eyes shut as he imagines the flight to freedom that happened too long before he was born. Adults are usually nicer and listen for longer, but they don't mean it either and by pretending to be interested in what he has to say they only serve to hurt him more.

He just can't understand, why does no one else find this interesting? Why does no one else dream of where they as a species came from and long to see it for themselves? Alfred would do anything to feel the wind on his face, to have breeze in his hair and the sun touch his skin because although he could play in a holo-room or go on a special holo-holiday it's not real and Alfred longs to just feel it. The sun on his planet is strong but the dense material of the domes blocks it from actually reaching him; he can't feel the warmth. At school he's learnt that it's too hot out there anyway and he'd die, but according to his data files the sun should be warm and gentle and fill up summer days and spring afternoons, so he can't quite feel the danger as much as he probably should. There's no air outside the domes either and what's the point of feeling the sun without a breeze, so he's not as sad as he could have been. It wouldn't ever compare to mankind's old sun, the sun in the stories he's growing up on.

He sometimes spends his recess and lunch at school rushing about as fast as his legs can carry him. Trying to get his own wind in such space is hard, but not impossible and if he focuses hard enough on his self-made breeze he can imagine that he's running over rocks and cliffs and weaving in and out of long gone animals that only the sky can remember. If this doesn't work, he syncs with his e-files to learn about something else, he's started to get into the people recently and likes the stories about normal stuff the most. Food, clothes, toys. Relatable things that he can see in his own home and use to imagine that he's been transported back through time and space.

There are often pictures of houses and Alfred marvels as how big they are and how much stuff those people must have had, collected form all the many places they must have seen. You can't get wood any more, but maybe if he asks Pa nicely he can get him some of that building material they use for making the new domes and he can practise making his own, just to see if he can.

He spends his weekends tinkering in his room with old bits of plastic, metal and cables and every now and again he plugs in a new circuit board to the plug sockets in his room and sees if he can make the lights turn on or off from somewhere else. Last weekend he built a fan and managed to make it blow. He can sync up a sound file from Earth and imagine that he's in a town somewhere way back when and there's a breeze on his face and there's someone who wants to talk to him.

Alfred is fifteen and is the best engineer in his school. He specialised early -he'd always had a knack for building things and he's good with numbers- and now this is what he's known for. Alfred can look at a electrical hub or a circuit board and immediately he can see either what's wrong or how to improve it and this makes him valuable. He's been building and fiddling with this sort of stuff in his room for ages but now it's finally cool, people actually want him to do that now. He sees it as a lucky thing, that he was bullied so much for it previously, because now he can see how much bullshit people like to throw when they want you to do something, how much an opinion of someone can change depending on their age and talent. Too good too young: weird and a nerd, you're wasting your time. Then you hit the right age and suddenly you're very experimental, very mature, it's good to know what you want in life. But ah, still young enough not to know your worth, you'll fix this for me for free, yes? If he wasn't as good as he is, he thinks, how valuable would they think I am? The answer scares him because he knows what it is and knows how thin the line he treads is; there are others like him, don't forget.

What even is he, without the skills of his hands?

He is seventeen. Alfred hates it, but Ma could use the help and Pa's not getting any younger, so he accepted an offer not too long ago for a entry level job in the government engineering department. It is an amazing offer for someone so young and fresh out of school, he knows that, but as much as he enjoys what he does the days wear him out and he spends less time listening to his e-files and more time building the dreams of others far more affluent than he.

He thinks he's doing okay for a while. The days whittle by easily and he starts to build up a nice savings pile that he uses to help out his parents every now and again. But he's nothing special. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of kids just like him on this planet who have been fed on a diet of strict, specialised schooling meant to produce only the best and Alfred knows that the only thing which sets him apart from the many many many others is his ability to just keep going. There is no safety in what he does at his age, no net to catch him if he slips up, so he begins to take on private jobs at the weekend to build up his CV further and get his name out there, making the chance of falling just that bit smaller. Before he realises it it's been a month since he last had the time set aside to listen to an e-file and that hits him, hard. He'd never had to set aside time before. Hell, he can't remember when he'd last done anything other than go to work, come home to sleep, and repeat.

He's struck by the monotony of it all. He can't see a difference between his life and that of his dad's, or his dad's friends, or anyone he knows, for that matter. Is this all there is? Is this all anyone does? When is there ever a break? Then, he gets it. There won't be a break. As soon as you can't keep up in this crazy race he's in, you're worthless. He's kind of been kidding himself, almost, that there'd be an end to it all, like a video game where you complete the level and then suddenly it's free play. You work hard to get a reward of, of something, or at least you can stop worrying and panicking about being left behind. There is no free play, he realises, it just keeps on going until you can't play any more because life has ground out your energy and sucked the vitality from your bones.

He goes running; pounding his feet on the treadmill he sucks in the humid air around him and imagines than he's running through an old Earthen jungle, dodging trees and leaping over crags in the forest floor. But there's no wind, and Earth refuses to come alive.

Alfred is eighteen. A message came through from Earth, old true Earth, that a new colony there is doing well and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it since, thinking and dreaming about what he'd do if he ever went there, if he ever set up his life there instead of here. He could...no. There is no safety in history, he knows. There is no definite chance that anyone would want him to do that. Besides, there's no potential for definite growth, no stable career plan because you can't guarantee a career on digging up the scanty past of a long dead planet. But no matter how big of a safety net he could make for himself in engineering he feels no passion about any of it and the idea of spending his days encapsulated in this metal world of domes and tunnels makes him feel cold.

There's something that calls him in his dreams and whispers over the wind in his mind and this builds and builds in his feet until he can't keep them still any longer. One more look out of the window and up at the stars and he's gonna blow, he needs to get out and go go go because if he doesn't then he's gonna sink in this place.

Before he can stop himself he's bought a ticket and finds himself packing hurriedly late at night when his parents are asleep, stuffing clothes into the only bag he only which is far too small for this sort of thing but who the fuck travels anywhere these days? He hasn't got time to be better at this so he crouches under his bed and reaches in, all the way back until his hand scrapes the wall and he finds his old fan that he built when he was eight. He puts it on his bed, places his e-tab next to it with a message of what he's done and that's that.

He slips out without waking his parents, because saying goodbye would only be too hard and he knows that he'd end up changing his mind if they spoke even one word to him, so he says his farewells in silence and disappears.

................................................................................................................................

Peter is five and he sits upon his mother's knee, playing with the buttons on her shirt. She's with other adults and they're all talking about something that he doesn't really understand but they all sound sad and the air feels heavy so he keeps quiet like a good boy should and thinks about other things to keep himself busy. He thinks about the e-book his nanny got him last Christmas, the one with the pretty pictures, and thinks that it would be nice to live inside that book, with the greens of grass that he's never touched before. He wonders if grass is hard or soft and he spends so long thinking of this that that night, when he is sleeping, he dreams that he is running on grass and it is prickly, tickling his feet.

There is a voice in the dream, singing him the story but it is not Nanny's voice, nor Mummy's or Daddy's, but another man's and the lilt of his voice sings a language Peter doesn't know but it is a good voice for story telling and so the dream is vivid and touchable. He flies through the grass, feet pounding at earth instead of metal and the voice chuckles, deep and throaty. It makes him feel safe.

He wakes up because his Mummy is stroking his hair and forgets; school teaches him about how the air system in his dome works. Grass isn't as important as breathing.

He is eight and they are learning about the old Earthen languages. There used to be many, his teachers says, and each language held a culture, a history and a soul of a people and there used to be hundreds of them on Earth before it Fell. The teacher is old; his words are flat and there is no passion in his tone, but a thrill runs up Peter's arms as he imagines so much more. From the nothing he is given his brain decides to give those dead languages life and all of a sudden there are bursts of sound echoing inside his head. The teacher moves on, the class sits bored, but Peter can hear consonants clash against teeth and tongue and fricatives slip between breathy vowels. There are phonemes which glide between dipthongs and tripthongs to bound and fall out of the hundreds of mouths of hundreds of people; whispers of a past no one can hear tell stories long forgotten.

There is a clap very close to his head which scares all of the sounds away. His teacher looms over him, frowning in exasperation.

'Again, Peter?' he says, 'Stop daydreaming, boy. I asked you a question.'

'Er...' his classmates snicker and he feels his ears go red. 'I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't listening.'

'That much was obvious.'

Peter's cheeks burn hotter and he stares at his e-tab, focusing on the light of the screen to stop him from crying.

Before too long the lesson changes, then the day ends and he's allowed to go home. He walks alone through the corridors and exits the school dome, coming into the shuttle bus bay. He's a big boy now, he can take the shuttle bus all by himself and he has a special card to prove it. Weaving in and out of the other children, he hurries to where his bus is docked and scrambles inside to rush to his favourite seat, hopping up and placing his bag on the seat beside him. He likes to sit alone, because then he can stare out of the window and dream for as long as the journey will let him without worrying about talking to someone. Not that anyone wants to anyway, the other children say he's not got a brain because he would rather focus on the story in his head than on their silly games.

Nanny doesn't mind, she says it's good for people to dream and says that he goes off to somewhere called 'Neverland' whilst she pinches his cheeks and calls him her little Peter Pan. But when he gets home Nanny isn't there, Mummy and Daddy are and they're huddled in front of the large e-screen in the sitting room, faces pinched in worry.

He drops his bag by the kitchen table and goes to join them. There is a man on the screen speaking about their air ventilation system and a 'catastrophic degradation' and about some big numbers with a scientist nodding seriously to his left.

'What do we do now?' His mother's voice is hushed, fragile.

His father raises his eyes to her and shakes his head slowly. 'Debbie... you heard what he said. The planet's no longer viable.' His eyes flick towards Peter, suddenly aware that he's there too, and he smiles although it doesn't reach his eyes. 'Hey Pete. Do you mind doing your homework in your room today?'

Peter could ask why, but he sees that his Daddy doesn't want him to and Mummy looks like she's going to cry, so he glances once more at the screen and nods. He leaves them with the scary looking numbers and tips his books onto his bed. That night he dreams of waves crashing against his legs and he tastes the salt on his lip when he wakes.

At nine, there's some breaking news. Earth, of all things Earth, is habitable once more and it can't come at a better time. Peter sits on his favourite sofa at Nan's house, with his father having lunch, when the planet-wide intercom coughs its way to life and briefly deafens them all before the sound adjusts ever so slightly.

'ATTENTION ALL. PRIMARY SUPPORT SYSTEMS FOR THE SOUTH SIDE HAVE SUFFERED AN IRREPERABLE MALFUNCTION. BACKUP SYSTEMS WILL HOLD FOR APPROXIMATLY 3 HOURS AND 45 MINUTES. THIS IS NOT A DRILL; MAKE YOUR WAY TO YOUR EVACUATION POINTS.'

Then, it falls silent once more.

South side, that's them. Peter immediately feels as though he's going to be sick and by the look on his dad's face he's not alone. Once one half of the planet goes the other will surely follow. It's something they've all been expecting and planning for for years, but it's far, far too soon, they should have more time than this; they're not ready to go and the government's not even started the evacuation programme yet. His Nan shoots a look at his father from where she's sat in her armchair. It's a look Peter can't really read because there's something there that he subconsciously doesn't want to acknowledge.

'Earth?' Her voice is a thin whisper.

His father nods gravely. 'We got them Mum, the tickets came yesterday.' Peter's heart briefly lifts at the prospect, a longing that's deep and euphoric but then it crashes quickly. 'But...'

His Nan smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. 'I know.'

Slowly, with growing horror, Peter understands. 'Wait,' he whips his head back and forth between the two of them, 'Nanny, where-'

'Don't worry, Peter,' she gets up and goes to kneel in front of where he's frozen in his chair, hands digging nails into the old material, 'I'll get on one of the other evacuation ships.'

'But you're not-,' his eyes burn and his voice is breaking but he doesn't look away, 'but you're not with us, why aren't you coming with us.'

'Oh Peter, my little Peter Pan,' she hugs him tight, pulling him in to her chest and he grips his hands in her shirt and tries to take in as much of her as he can.

'Mum we- we have to go.' Dad doesn't sound much better and before Peter can register much his Dad is hugging his Nan with a funny tight look on his face, then he's being pulled by the arm and out of the door, stumbling over his feet as he tries to keep up.

A terse shuttle bus later they get home to his mother already throwing their things into cases and boxes, haphazardly grabbing at e-frames and e-tabs to squash them and their memories safe under piles of their clothes. Peter could help, should help, but all he can do it sit numbly on the floor and cry whilst his life is collected and contained into a few measly bags. The rest will be left.

It doesn't take too long, thankfully, as Peter doesn't know what's worse, wanting to get this over with as fast as possible or wanting to stay and cling to the remnants of the only life he's ever known. As they make their way to the loading bays for the Earth-bound travellers he blearily finds himself thinking about what classes he'll miss in school tomorrow, but then he remembers Nanny and the ordeal starts anew as reality sets back in.

His parents are focused on more practical things.

They stand in line, their few pieces on luggage already being loaded on, and wait to board the ship they were assigned to only yesterday. His mother speaks under her breath, as if she is afraid to talk too loudly for fear of jinxing something. 'The Earth ships aren't even ready. They won't have enough food let alone rooms.'

His father shakes his head and slips his hand down to intertwine with hers. 'They must have known something like this could happen at any time, they've been predicting it for years. If anything, the rooms may not be ready but the agricultural sections will be.' He looks determinedly at the back of the head of the man in front of them and swallows. 'They only give out tickets if there's room. We'll be fine.'

Peter's mother glances his way meaningfully, and then back to his father.

'Jo, there're not enough ships; no one was ready in time. They can't have planned for everyone.' She bites the inside of her cheek, one hand on Peter's shoulder. Her fingers dig in, hard, but he doesn't try to shrug her off. He can barely feel it.

His father understands. 'She'll call us when she can.' Then, the line moves and they lurch forward together, huddled close.

Just before the door, where the tickets are being checked and where the din of the engines roaring into life starts to become uncomfortable, his father takes one last desperate look at out of the window at the distant domes of their colony, nestled in the dust. He taps an impatient rhythm against the tiled floor. 'She'll call.'

She never does.

................................................................................................................................

Francis is three and his daddy has just left Mummy.

'He went to fight,' she says as she strokes his hair. This confuses him because fighting is bad and you're only allowed to fight if someone tries to fight you first and no one has been nasty to Daddy that he's seen.

Mummy doesn't answer but continues to stroke his hair, humming softly a tune she sings to him every night before bed that sounds old and sad and sleepy, so he just nods and rests his head heavily against her chest.

He doesn't see his Daddy again.

He is ten when he realises that there never was any war. The notion strikes him dumb one day in the kitchen as he distantly listens to the news playing through the announcer when he helps wash up after dinner. The announcer is speaking about something banal, a fashion show maybe, but Francis is staring out of the window and up at the sky, up at the stars that push through the daytime's thin atmosphere. He doesn't know what caused him to start this train of thought, but once it's started his brain quickly pieces together the puzzle that it has ignored all of this time.

At school they were taught about wars, about age old battles with guns and swords and metal where blood was spilt over land and the wealth it contained. But, there hasn't been any fighting here. He scrubs a glass, sponge squeaking against the side. And even if there was fighting somewhere far away, his dad would surely still be able to write or visit, or come back after all this time. And more importantly, if there was a war going on now then surely he would have learnt about it at school, rather than learning about age old political struggles on the human-ruined home world.

His mother takes the glass from his slack grip. 'Daydreaming?'

He shakes himself to and looks at her. Turned away and out of the window her face is suddenly older and oddly clearer than he remembers it being, she looks like a person rather than just his mother and that's a scary thought. It's as though the wash of childhood has momentarily slipped away and he's now aware of both it and the harsh brushstrokes of reality. She's a person and feels things, just like he does. So it hurts, that she lied, and it will hurt him for a long time because he doesn't know why but cannot for the life of him bring himself to ask her. Francis is good at reading people and he knows that this isn't something he should ask about, so turns back to the dirty dishes and doesn't.

When Francis is fifteen there is a war, of sorts. The planet nearest to them, the one they rely on the most for trade, switches governmental policies and refuses to continue their current agreements. This results in a breakdown of communication and heightened tension between the two colonies, each bristling angrily at the offence yet unwilling to be the first to initiate anything rash. There is minor rationing imposed upon Francis' planet until trade is re-established as well as a draft of specialisation training implemented, just in case. He's unaffected by the rationing; the draft is a different story. Just in case this trade block becomes permanent, his planet needs to be prepared to become fully self sufficient in everything from science, to food, to art, to the army.

The block stays in place and tensions rise. Against his wishes, Francis is assigned a scientific draft. He is now seventeen and knows he needs to be given something but he'd prefer agriculture or education to research, if he could have the choice, or the arts if he's allowed to dream. He isn't. He brain is good, his grades are high and thus he is far more useful to the cause working on the advancement of his planet than working to help feed it.

A few days after his birthday and a month after his posting letter arrives, his mother rides with him on a shuttle to his boarding station. He will try out four different areas: mechanics, medicine, biology, and physics, then he will be assigned to what he works with best, where he can produce the best work possible. But Francis can't think of anything worse than being stuck in a lab all day, shutters drawn and devoid of all personality. Even worse, he's heard the rumours that have managed to float back from those who have graduated and knows that once he boards this ship there's no escaping the life he'll be moulded into. The programme is four years long and then he will be placed into a job where he will stay until he dies. At twenty one he will have no other skills for work other than what he will acquire at the science facility, there is no swapping careers afterwards. He wants to do so much, there is so much that he loves to do, and with each passing shuttle stop his heart grows more frantic, fighting his brain which has accepted the inevitable.

He gets physics. He calls his mother to howl down the phone once, just once, before he realises the futility of doing so; nothing can or will change. Accept it.

At twenty, a year before his training would end, there is finally a truce. Trade resumes and Francis finally tastes sugar after five years but now, after so long, the taste is too much. Not fully qualified yet too old to be automatically accepted into another programme, Francis is in limbo. There isn't much point in him continuing his training, there are more than enough specialists now and not enough jobs to give them, so there isn't anything for him to do. It's odd, now that there is nothing to work towards he feels empty but at the same time everything is just too much. He returns home and his mother fusses and tries to talk to him, tries to get him to come out of his room and sit with her and he did, at first, but the longer he's home the shorter his resistance is and the longer the 'breaks' are in his room.

Emotions seem to be harder to process without a goal, that or he never had many to begin with and without something to distract him from that notion he's finally noticing how few he has. Either way, other people are small insignificant creatures who worry about such useless, banal things. Who did what, with who and where. Did you know, her son the doctor? Well, he's a you know what now and- ugh. Francis can no longer take it.

He doesn't really see this as a problem. He feels as though he's risen above other people and finally understands that such things are not worth his time; why worry, after all, about what job to get. Why worry about whether or not someone likes you. Every day, regardless of what they do, the planet will spin and the domes will reflect the same bleak, churning sky and Francis realises that he's trapped here, by this life and that his life means nothing. None of their lives do, it's all the same; nowhere new to go, nothing new to do. Pick a job, do the job. Come home, go back. Retire. Die.

So he sits in his room, because if he talks to his mother or to anyone else he is reminded that somehow he's supposed to care about it, that life here is supposed to matter to him just as it matters to everyone else. His mother will mention this or that and he'll have to either fake the responses she wants, or not and upset her and neither option sounds pleasing to him.

After years of monotony and training suddenly he is permitted to express again and it's like he's forgotten how, the parts rusty after all the disuse. There are too many emotions and he finds himself forgetting to use them or using the wrong ones because he can't do them automatically any more, for some reason, and reactions that call for an understanding of nuance are just lost to him. Very quickly everything is too much. Food, heat, depth, people, concepts, everything.

He hides away but then they stop becoming too much and they shrink and shrivel up and become nothing at all he can feel how empty he is. Nothing can fill the void he's got because he doesn't even know why it's there and he can scarcely tell that there's a problem in the first place. He does knows he's got a problem though, really, knows how serious it is by the way his mother watches him with fearful eyes and baleful glances. She tiptoes tentatively around the house, carefully softening her words and her gentleness feels like a pressure cooker slowly but surely building something that's going to get bigger and hotter and harder to make go away. She avoids talking about it, about how Francis feels or doesn't, and by doing so the problem is allowed to grow, unchecked. Francis doesn't have to act any more, doesn't have to pretend, and so the feelings of apathy grow and grow until they swallow him whole and all he can bring himself to do is sit and stare and the sky, a dark choking yellow.

It feels heavy to look at, like a lid covering everything in his life, all potential, all future, all growth. It just festers and sinks lower and lower still and he sits and watches it for days before he's realised he's done so.

When Francis is twenty-two, his mother breaks. Not that she herself breaks, but her patience does.

'I can't do this any more.' she says. There are tears on her face and Francis watches one slide off and fall onto her collar. 'You need to go.'

Francis appraises her properly, meeting her eyes. She flinches at his gaze but remains resolute in her decision, though her bottom lip quivers. 'There's nothing for you here, we both know that. You don't want to be here, so you need to go.'

'I don't want to be anywhere.' he replies.

She gives him a watery smile. 'I know. That's why, you might as well see if you can want to be somewhere else.' She lifts up her arm and shows him her e-tab, the translucent screen showing a brightly coloured ticket. 'I've bought you a flight. It's Earth, it was declared habitable a few weeks ago.'

Francis knows he should feel something, this is one of those instances when he knows that he should be feeling something but he can't quite imagine what emotion he should give her.

She doesn't seem to expect one. 'It's one way. And this, this is all of my savings, Francis.' Her eyes are wide and her face is suddenly so very very old. 'If you don't want to be any more, at least make that decision once you've seen this. You can't go without seeing this, after all. See this, see it for me and then you can decide, okay?'

Suddenly she looks shocked and runs forward to embrace him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and knocking her e-tab into his face. The garish purple of the ticket burns his eyes. 'Oh Francis.' She sobs into his shoulder and clutches tightly into his shirt. 'Oh Francis it's okay, you can cry if you want to.'

Oh.

He's crying.

................................................................................................................................

Ludwig is six, and is sick again. The doctors don't know what's wrong with him; they know what's causing it at least but they have no idea why. He can't keep food down and every time he tries to stand the world pitches and swims and he can't keep his balance so he never manages to stay up for long before he bonelessly falls to the floor, where he feels no better.

It's the gravity, the doctors say, for some reason he's affected by the gravity. The artificial gravity that he's known all his life; it's as if he's just climbed aboard and his body suffers from relapses where it just can't acclimatise. Where it suddenly realises that something's not quite right and rebels against him for a week or so. This his family already knows, but his mother isn't satisfied with such a lacklustre answer so she takes him to a different doctor every time he suffers another attack just in case one of them is even marginally more competent than the last. These 'episodes', as his mother likes to call them, don't happen all that often, but he seems to have one every ten months or so and they are regular enough to annoy his mother to no end. Ludwig doesn't really know if she's annoyed that no one can fix him or with him himself, Gilbert won't say and normally his big brother talks to pretend that he knows something so his silence worries Ludwig the most.

Mother is a very important person with a very important job: she's a governor of the space station upon which they live and it is very important that Ludwig remembers this. So, when he's laying in bed clutching at his belly and desperately clenching his eyes shut to minimise the swaying, his friends at school think that he is away for a special training academy. Because can you just imagine, the governor of a space station's son being space sick?

His father doesn't like to call it that because he thinks it's degrading so his mother doesn't, when she thinks Ludwig can't hear, anyway, but Ludwig knows that's what the kids at school would say so he happily keeps mum because it's easier than lying. They don't talk to him much besides, they find him too cold and distant but that's because he's so scared of disgracing his mother further that he can't quite relax fully.

When Ludwig is thirteen his mother, after exhausting all doctors aboard their large floating colony, finally accepts that it's unlikely that this small problem of his is going to go away. Her way of dealing with it is to pretend that it just doesn't happen; during an attack Ludwig is sent to his room where he stays painfully alone with only his books for company whilst she busies herself with her new campaigns. She's running for director now, aiming as high as she can go and there's no room for weak, feeble Ludwig all the way up there.

His brother tries his best to keep him entertained and happy during these times, but Gilbert is healthy, strong, smart; he's everything that Ludwig should also be able to grow up to be and their parents have sent him off to expensive schools which means that he's more often away from home than not. Sometimes Ludwig wonders if they've sent him away because they want Gilbert to be the all around best he can be, or if it's to distance him as much as they can from Ludwig. It's almost as if they're worried that Ludwig will taint him, or that maybe Gilbert will grow too attached to him and distract himself from what's really important. That Ludwig will anchor him down.

At five years older it's highly unlikely that Ludwig will be the one doing the influencing, but his brother, despite hardly seeing each other and such a large age difference, does seem to genuinely care for him. During one particular attack, when Ludwig is eighteen, Gilbert is home from university; it is almost Christmas and his family are preparing to travel to where his grandparents live on the other side of the space station, where they'll spend the holiday. Of course, it is now that his body decides to betray him.

He, his parents, and his brother are gathered around the large dining room table finishing off dinner. It is tense. Mostly it is Gilbert who talks because despite their mother's cool demeanour and their father's lack of interest he seems to always have something to say to fill the silence and speaks easily. Even with the response he gets, or lack of it, he seems honestly unperturbed and remains cheerful, somehow managing to both eat and speak without seeming impolite. As much as he loves his brother, Ludwig is also supremely jealous.

He stares at his fork, contemplating which point in the evening would be best to ask if he could slip away, when his body decides for him. His stomach swoops, his ears pop and the table tilts alarmingly. He clenches the edge in panic to remain upright and the noise alerts his mother, who looks up from her dessert in irritation.

'Ludwig, we are going away tomorrow.'

'M- mother-'

His mother sighs and looks at his father, who sharply stares back. 'Dear?'

His father grunts and spears another forkful of fruit pie. 'They're expecting him to come.'

'But the photographers-'

'What do you want me to do, Hilda?'

Meanwhile, Ludwig has still not been dismissed and cannot now seem to find the words to ask for permission himself without spewing all over the fancy silverware. He doubts that that will make the situation better, somehow. Gilbert notices and stands, attracting his parents' attention.

'I'll take Luddy to his room.'

'Darling...' their mother tries to say something, but it's what she's trying not to say that comes across the loudest.

Gilbert ignores her and walks around the table, slowly helping Ludwig to his feet, then away from the table and swiftly towards a bathroom. They make it just in time. Gilbert pats him comfortingly on the back and rubs soothing circles into his shoulders until he's finished, then hands him a glass of water.

'So, they're still arseholes, huh?'

Ludwig snaps his head up in horror, but this is a bad idea because the image of Gilbert swims before him and he has to shut his eyes.

'Don't call them that.' He finally manages, weakly.

Gilbert tuts. 'What the fuck did they feed you with in order to churn your personality out.'

Ludwig lays his head on the cool tiles of the floor and groans inwardly at how nice the feeling is. 'They're not arseholes.'

'Yeah, and my name's Shirley.'

Ludwig cracks open an eye, but Gilbert's not joking. He is, for once, deadly serious. 'How'd you put up with them Lud?'

Ludwig shrugs and gives a small shake of his head. 'They're our parents, Gil. They still care for me. Besides, I'm not exactly making it easy for them.'

Gilbert looks disgusted. 'You're their fucking son, arsehole. They're supposed to take care of you. They ain't even doing that right are they?' Gilbert runs a hand through his shock of white hair and bits his bottom lip whilst he shakes his head. 'Look at how they treat you versus me.'

'Yes, but I'm not exactly-'

'But nothing!' Gilbert raises his voice slightly and swallows. When he speaks again, he's much quieter, back under control. 'Have they got you in a university programme yet?'

Ludwig's silence is answer enough and Gilbert sighs deeply before brushing back Ludwig's sweaty fringe. 'There's nothing wrong with you Lud.' His brother sounds so very sad. 'Fuck, there's nothing wrong with you at all. They know full well that if they put you on a planet rather than this floating heap of rust that you'll probably be alright. And have they? Have they fuck.'

Ludwig wants to argue against him, wants to say something to stand up for himself if not for their parents but his eyes are suddenly burning and his throat is choked up. He knew a long time ago that his parents had given up on him, but to hear it from someone else hurts more sharply than anything he tells himself.

There's an odd companionable silence for a while; Ludwig lays still with his face against the floor and his brother's hand carding through his hair so he almost misses what Gilbert says next.

'I was gonna wait till Boxing Day, but I've got us tickets for Earth.'

Ludwig tenses and holds his breath. Gilbert continues. 'I was gonna wake you up on the 26th and take you away with me, but I want to tell you now instead, cause you look like shit. We're gonna get out of here Luddy; I've always wanted to take you to a planet and what better one is there than the original, huh?'

'You, I- you can't- what about your studies? The internship you've got?' Ludwig manages to stammer out, opening his eyes.

Gilbert brushes his concerns aside. 'I never liked medicine, really. I've always wanted to go to a planet, so I'm mega up for it.'

Ludwig knows he should say no, knows that he shouldn't take up the offer. He'd be denying his brother so much, he'd be exactly what their parents worried he'd be because he'll only drag Gilbert down and down and down like a heavy lead weight and ruin all of his chances at a good life.

But Ludwig wants to be selfish. He reaches out and clasps onto Gilbert's hand, squeezing it tightly. 'Gil...'

Gilbert flashes him a grin and winks. 'I know, right? How awesome am I?'

#my writing #hetalia #aph #APH England #APH France #aph america #aph germany #aph prussia #aph sealand #aph canada #aph fruk #fruk #au #sci-fi #hws fruk #oh no what am i doing #something is cooking that's for sure

8 notes · View notes

winfredkipling · 4 years ago

Text

Your father’s bannermen would rally to the son of Eddard Stark.

Your father’s bannermen would rally to the son of Eddard Stark. He declined to identify who that individual is.Prosecutors said Theer had been having an affair with former Army Staff Sgt. How could they know what mischief Soren might get up to, off in those hills? When he conferred Oakenshield on Tormund Giantsbane and Queensgate on Morna White Mask, Marsh pointed out that Castle Black would now have foes on either side who could easily cut them off from the rest of the Wall. “Gods?” said Richard Horpe. The above reward will be paid for his apprehension and confinement in the jail of Guilford or any of the adjoining counties, so that I get him, haibike e mtb 2020 or for his delivery to me in the south-east corner of Guilford. Imagine my distress. “Down. The charm was broken by another minister of the gospel, who rose and delivered a homily on the necessity of compromise, recommending to Mr. The issue with that is that a lot of Heren Sneakers Kopen the papuci de casa din pasla plus designs were denied of receiving the runway they needed. Edinger Ave. He worked with primitive equipment a four track recorder for most of the Beatles' work but was able to bend that equipment to his will and turn those limitations into opportunities for experimentation. Presque tous les bottes et chaussures utilisent significative technicien, en choisissant nouvelle et les costumes intressants ainsi que des stratgies aussi, ce qui rendra tats unis d client l que c diffrent. With the defining tone prevalent across its entirety, contrasting black accents adorn the inner lining, tongue tab, laces, Swoosh branding, pull tabs and frontal portion of its outsole.. In the end, both chips easily handled 3.9GHz, with the stock cooler.. Eastman’s book, I pity her attempt and her name as an author.. And we’ve just woken him. Areo Hotah was about to go and help him, but Obara Sand moved first. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne. Chocolate Shoe awarded to overall male and female winners. As I read and contemplated the subject, behold! that very discontentment which Master Hugh had predicted would follow my learning to read had already come, to torment and sting my soul to unutterable anguish. “It would be enough for me only to see her; I should be able to tell then, for myself. I looked at him in perplexity and distress. “When we were down to Pentos we moored beside a trader called the donna di porto pim una storia riassunto Sloe-Eyed Maid, and I got to drinking with her captain’s steward. That will give them something to chew over for a while. What then? Why, if your course prevails, he must be lynched—whipped, stoned, tarred and feathered, dragged from his own house, or his house burned over his head, and he perish in the ruins. Keep up the good work! Congrats! Beth Lanious, Gilbert, AZ.. 21, 1820, says:. Never knew what he said to my father. The prisoner was indicted and convicted of murder in the second degree, in the Circuit Court of Hanover, at its April term last past, and was sentenced to the penitentiary for five years, the period of time ascertained by the jury. There is a extensive choice of Dewalt air compressors so Mens JORDAN Hoodie you want papuci de casa din pasla to be sure of your requirements before you buy. One rode a hound, the other a sow. A snow sky. NOAA took to updating its website daily. Cut and attach your pieces on the end, and get a little bit of PVC pipe to cover up the portions you need to. "You go up some switchbacks on the way up. Nice to surprise people, Gabby Fogg added.. The Ichmenyevs went to bed early, at eleven o’clock. One was brawny, with a massive jut of jaw and arms thick with muscle. He always believed in doing the right thing even when it was not the easy way to do it. It weighs just, if you can say just here, 203 grams and measures just 7.5 mm. But, Why is The Anti Christ Obama Destroying America. 316 State St., 251 6311 At Parthenon, it's all good. All garrisoned with free folk, under the command of our own officers. What do you think it would mean to him to know the race is so close to his hometown?Welsh: He never forgot where he came from. And the staff at UMMC Grenada for the excellent care provided to Mr. As to Nike's history, it experiences hardships in the process, but the final result is satisfying. “Aye,” Lord Godric adidas stan smith j white tactile blue said, “and the fat man was sandalias doradas gioseppo so wroth that he took a vow to live on bread and oakley m frame ice iridium wine till he had his vengeance. Morning after the fight, I was rooting through the dead, looking for the odd bit o’ plunder, as it were. Resembling a cross between the boot of a Rollerblade and the treads on the bottom of a snowcat, Kangoo Jumps were originally designed by a Swiss engineer whose aging knees hindered his passion for running.Bands or coils in the center of the shell underneath the boot stretch when compressed, creating spring or rebound. I shall tell them all today to give it to you and no one horno teka hc 610 me blanco else. Video, audio and multimedia cnetnot library. The rebate or tax credit is then financed as a short term discounting or in effect a ' factoring' of the claim. He had gone through university and was a sportsman. Damaged nerves, or neuropathy, il tablet amazon can lead to an array of physical problems and disabilities anywhere in the body. I would tell him that the commandments of some men, and not the commandments of God, made slavery a sin.—Smylie on Slavery, p. Zigged, they zagged, said Blake Emery, director of differentiation strategy at Boeing Commercial Airplanes. He has performed in over 25 countries and is also lead singer for Cash and the Bad Checks. The Connollys' trip downtown paid off: A photographer from Getty Images, Spencer Platt, snapped a photo of the family holding their signs, and the image was picked up by The New York Times, National Public Radio, NBC, New York magazine, ABC, the New Yorker and others. My name. Not only is this principle distinctly asserted in so many words, but it is more distinctly implied in multitudes of the arguings and reasonings which are given as grounds of legal decisions. Indeed, staying in the Doyle is a bit like camping I dubbed it the Spider Capital of Pennsylvania. Information contained on this page is provided by an independent third party content provider. The integration of Gilt and Saks OFF 5TH is ongoing, with the expectation that Saks OFF 5TH assortments will be available on Gilt by the end of the third fiscal quarter, providing customers with more access to top designers, products, and categories at attractive values.Digital sales increased by 5.6% from the prior year, with comparable digital sales on a constant currency increasing by 5.4%. A man just ahead was selling skewers of roast meat from a cart, and the procession halted as the Poor Fellows moved him out of the way. The Air Jordan 6 "Alternate" will feature a white and pure platinum upper, with Gym Red accents.. I've flown 3 different aircraft and logged over 8,100 flight hours.. The process of pressurizing the gas and moving it to the condenser creates heat, but air flowing around the twisting tubes of the condenser cool the refrigerant down until it forms a liquid again.

2 notes · View notes

captcas · 5 years ago

Text

Worth Fighting For

WORTH FIGHTING FOR by capthamm

Killian “Hook” Jones is a dominate up and comer in the UFC while Emma “The Savior” Swan’s career was cut short. When Hook’s manager moves up and the office brings in UFC’s youngest legend to keep him in check, will either of them be able to handle it?

read on ao3 // tumblr: ch 1/ ch 2

[CHAPTER 3/?]

Saturday night brings their monthly movie/game night and Emma has never been more grateful for a distraction. Ruby and the Nolans will come over around 6 o’clock and Henry is practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. Tonight’s theme is Star Wars and this will be Henry’s official introduction to the series; at David’s insistence they’re starting with A New Hope and going release order from there. They’re also going to play Star Wars trivia which Henry will undoubtedly suck at.

Should be a fun night all around.

And it was, until Henry went to bed and the “adults” got to talking.

Ruby cracks another beer and turns to Emma, “So, Emma, you’ve got probably the coolest new job in the world and you haven’t said jack shit.”

She shoots Ruby an icy glare as David and MM stop bickering over whether or not Kylo Ren deserved a redemption arc to hear what Emma has to say.

Emma sighs, “It’s going alright. All the onboarding is underway and between the perks, benefits, and pay, Henry should be set for life.” She’s been fortunate to live off her winnings for the past nine years, being mindful of money and not giving into the lifestyle of frivolous spending many fighters take on, but -even her friends know- she doesn’t have a money tree.

The looks on their faces when she mentions Henry being set for life could melt 1000 Olafs. When she arrived at Ruth Nolan’s home at the age of 16, she never expected to find a family. Hardened by a life too lived for anyone her age, Emma assumed they’d be like every other foster home and use her for the money. To this day, she’s never been so happy to be wrong.

Emma’s not sure what twist of fate landed an orphan with such a great support system, but she’ll be forever grateful. David took to the “protective brother” role immediately. Soon after Emma moved in, he met Mary Margaret (fireworks and butterflies and all that mumbo jumbo) who introduced them to Ruby. They’re small, and maybe a bit scrappy, but they’re family.

She breaks out of her thoughts and returns to the present, “I will need some babysitting though; I’m required to attend each of my client’s Fight Nights. But overall it’s great, really!”

She hopes she squeaked away without having to mention Jones at all but the glint in Ruby’s eye tells her otherwise. “Ok that’s all fine and dandy,” Mary Margaret shoots Ruby an incredulous look, warning her to tread carefully, but Ruby ignores her and continues, “but who’s the client?”

David is giving her a protective father vibe, Ms is practically vibrating, and she's pretty sure Ruby is salivating. Emma sighs realizing she shouldn’t postpone the inevitable, “Killian Jones.”

Ruby practically drops her drink and Mary Margaret squeals, David rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV where SportsCenter has been playing in the background. Mary Margaret beats Ruby to the punch, “THE Killian Jones?! As in Killian “Hook” Jones?!”

Emma nods, standing up to refill the only slightly empty chip bowl in front of her. She knew this was going to happen and she wasn’t exactly looking forward to her friends thirsting over her client– client… right.

Ruby speaks next, “Well that is probably the best case scenario. Do you think he can get us tickets? Have you met him? Is he as gorgeous in person as he is on TV? Can we meet him?”

Emma, now glad she’s in the kitchen with space to breathe, is starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. She knows Ms can sense it and is unsurprised when she speaks next,“For Christ’s sake Ruby let her breathe. She’s probably only had her initial meeting with him.”

Ruby seems to get the hint and it doesn’t take long before Ms is in the kitchen helping Emma pick up the leftover pizza, “We’re happy for you, Emma. He’s a huge client for them, they obviously trust you to do a good job.” Emma nods in thanks and they both head back into the living room. Her sister-in-law’s warmth always calms her (and Ruby) down which allows David to jump in and change the subject to the coverage of some football player’s arrest on SportsCenter. Emma finally catches a breath and realizes just how lucky she is for the friend dynamic they have before settling in to debate if this James Spencer kid should still be eligible for the draft.

As she lays in bed that night, Ms’ words ring through her head. Despite the rollercoaster of emotions she’s been feeling, Killian is a huge client, one that was formerly represented by a namesake for the company. This re energizes her a bit and helps her fall asleep, actually excited for what's to come.

She wakes up Sunday morning and makes Henry some pancakes and declares it a lazy Sunday. Henry happily obliged, cuddling up on the couch with The Deathly Hallows while Emma threw on some shitty reality TV.

. . .

When her alarm rings Monday morning, Emma pulls her pillow over her head like some teenager from one of those Disney Channel movies.

It takes her a second to remember what day it is and why she’s up at this godforsaken hour.

Killian Jones. Right.

She audibly groans before rolling out of bed and getting ready for the day. Between her shower and breakfast she gets Henry up. School starts at 8 so he’s technically running a bit behind but he’ll make it on the bus in time… hopefully.

She’s pouring him a bowl of cereal when he comes out of his room zipping up his sweater and rubbing his eyes.

“Hey, kid. Coco Puffs or Fruit Loops?” He mumbles some semblance of what she thinks is Fruit Loops so she pours the bowl and slides it across the kitchen island. He smiles in thanks as she pours her own bowl and sits beside him.

“So today’s the big day?”

She didn’t tell Henry about her new client and when she spoke to the Nolan’s and Ruby, he was definitely supposed to be sleeping. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You’re not as quiet as you think you are and I’m not as tired as you think I am.” He yawns as if to punctuate his point.

“Uh huh, sure, kid.” He gives her a knowing glance and she realizes she’s not getting out of this. She runs her hands over her face and sighs, “Yes, today is the first meeting and I’m only slightly nervous to fu— screw this whole thing up.”

Henry chuckles at her attempted censorship (she never said she was a perfect parent), “You’ll be great, Mom, and Hook seems like a decent enough guy. I’m sure he won’t give you too much trouble.”

She stares at Henry a bit dumbfounded. It shocks her everyday how old he’s getting– nine going on nineteen for sure. “Are you hiding some Weasley’s Extendable Ears in your room or something? Are you a wizard? Should you be at Hogwarts?” Emma is very obviously trying to derail this conversation but it works, setting Henry off about how he’s finally on the sixth book and explaining the concept of a horcrux.

Oh, her sweet summer child.

God, maybe he is old enough for UFC.

When did that happen?

She ushers Henry to the bus, promising him they’ll watch the sixth movie tonight if he finishes the book today and is to school on time. It’s only September and he can’t be late three times in the first month of school. She kisses his forehead and he wishes her good luck.

Sometimes she wonders how such a screw up ended up with the perfect kid.

After cleaning up the kitchen, Emma finishes getting ready. She jumps on the subway and finds herself at the office with a half hour to spare. She’s never early so she chalks it up to nerves and uses the time to prep for this meeting.

Over the weekend she received multiple emails from Gold’s team surrounding a possible spot for Killian on the card for the pay-per-view Fight Night in November.

A pay-per-view card. She did enough research about Killian this weekend to know that would be his first.

Emma feels like she’s been thrown into the deep end before being taught how to swim.

Go big or go home.

She did a lot of research about Killian and learned practically nothing. She knows he came here from London almost ten years ago and that his team includes his head trainer Robin (husband of now former manager Regina Mills), and three other men named Will Scarlett, August Booth, and William Smee (he’s really selling it with that whole Hook theme). Other than that all she found was his record and highlights. He’s 6-0 which is insane for only being in the circuit for a year and a half– fighters are usually limited to three, maybe four fights a year.

4 of his 6 are knockouts.

He’s good… really good.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a light tapping on the edge of her cubicle. She glances up to find none other than the man himself. She can’t help but double take.

Real professional, Emma.

She's only ever seen him in the ring, at the gym, or dressed up for a business meeting. She’s not sure what she expected, but a leather jacket and pants that fit him like his own skin definitely weren’t it.

He looks good… really good.

Emma snaps herself out of it, “Hi, Mr. Jones, just give me a moment and we can head to the conference room.”

“It’s Killian, love, please.” She notices he winces at the seemingly habitual pet name. Emma ignores the ring of disappointment that runs through her gut at the realization that it may not be reserved for her. “A conference room’s a bit formal, don’t you think? Let’s get out of here, Swan.”

He grabs her hand before she can answer. “Mr.— Killian. Is this allowed?”

He chuckles. “We can plan the meetings at our leisure,” he says the last bit in an almost scary imitation of Regina, “but even still, Regina and I never met in office. A bit silly for two people to take up an entire conference room, yeah? Come on, lass, try something new. It’s called trust.”

Emma rolls her eyes but follows along anyway. The elevator ride should’ve been awkward but Killian kept the conversation flowing by asking her preferred drink. “Coffee, tea, or smoothies?”

Despite the risk of sounding like a child, Emma finds herself being honest with him, “Uhh, I actually prefer hot chocolate… with cinnamon.”

He smiles brightly at her, as though her drink order was the most brilliant discovery this century, “Perfect, Swan. I know just the place.”

She was so swept up in his ambush, she doesn’t realize that this isn’t the cocky, asshat Killian Jones she sees on tv or at the gym until he’s practically dragging her across the street to a small cafe. This Killian seems genuine and carries this almost childlike excitement.

Emma tells herself she has no interest in learning more about this Killian.

(Emma doesn’t have to tell herself that that is complete bullshit.)

. . .

He can’t stop himself from beaming when she offers up her drink order without hesitation. Killian feels like a bloody teenager around her. He promised himself he wouldn’t feel this way again, but something about Emma Swan has completely entranced him.

He finds himself fascinated with every part of her, including the small things, like the fact she takes cinnamon on her hot chocolate.

Once they get to the cafe across the street, Killian forces himself to dial it back. He can tell she’s guarded and as much as he’d like to be friends (more than friends) with the lass, he knows business has to come first.

It wouldn’t exactly be a good look for him if he ran “The Savior” out of the office on her second day.

Somehow he thinks he doesn’t have that power.

He’d like to. (Obviously not to run her out of the office, but he’d like his existence to mean that much to her.)

Bloody hell, he's being ridiculous.

They sit down across from each other at a small table by the window. He expects to start the conversation but before he can form a coherent thought she’s speaking.

“So, Killian. I’ve already received some correspondence from Gold’s team. I’m not sure how much time you usually take between fights and I know it’s already the end of September but…”

She’s rambling and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anybody so adorable when they’re nervous.

Adorable is not a professional descriptor.

Killian Jones doesn’t want “professional” with Emma Swan.

Fuck.

“...Gold is hoping to get you on the main card for November 14th.”

Did she just say main card?

He chokes on his coffee.

“Main card, Swan? I’ve never been on the main card. Strictly early prelims…”

She eyes him suspiciously, “Usually that’s a good thing. Upward momentum and all that. His team is clearly impressed by your dominant record.”

“Is his team the only one impressed?” The flirt escapes him before he can stop it.

Bloody idiot.

She doesn’t even bat an eye, “The entire league seems to be impressed, Jones.” Her tone tells him she knows what just happened but she shut it down immediately.

He likes a challenge.

Emma Swan may be his favorite challenge yet.

Emma Swan is off limits, but Killian will be damned if he cares.

. . .

Emma is surprised when Killian pays for their drinks despite her insistence that she can charge it to Mills Management. She’s also surprised by how nice he is.

She keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She’s still waiting.

He’s definitely flirtatious, every other sentence being easily twisted into some sort of innuendo, but she can tell it’s a front. The little things he does like tipping the barista an extra fifty cents or holding the door for her, let on to the man behind the persona.

Well, and the fact he practically chokes when she tells him they want him for the main card.

He seems genuinely shocked that anyone would be impressed by him. His mask comes out almost immediately, another innuendo laced into his question. She doesn’t let him go there, shutting it down as quickly as it started. For this to work, she needs him the real him. Not the cocky MMA fighter who he used to catch the eye of UFC execs. She compliments him, and it’s beyond genuine. That seems to calm his nerves a bit as they move into social media management and he shifts into a professionalism she’s not entirely prepared for.

She’s not sure she wants professional Killian Jones.

Whoa, Emma, pump the breaks.

She shakes it off as she watches him take notes on what she’s saying about the importance of a lead up on Twitter and how it can set the tone for the entire fight. His tongue runs along the inside of his lower lip as he concentrates and she can’t help the overwhelming wave of attraction that hits her.

Like lightning.

It’s not just the tongue, (but that’s not helping) it’s his dedication to this sport and how he actually gives a fuck about what she’s saying. Killian never displayed even a hint of the deeply rooted misogyny that runs rampant throughout the industry. He actually seems almost humbled by her presence. The words escape her mouth before she can’t stop them, “Why are you actually taking anything I say seriously?”

Very professional, Emma. Way to instill confidence in your client. Smooth.

His head snaps up at her abrupt question and he looks confused. “I know you don’t like being called a legend, Swan, but you were a damn good fighter. If I walk out of this partnership with half the following and success you had, I’d call that a win.”

She’s stunned by his sincerity.

Brick. Wall. (She thinks she hears Pink Floyd somewhere in the distance.)

“And I suppose you think you know all about me from our, what, three conversations now?” She knows it’s snippy, that’s the point.

He stops typing and puts his phone down. “Pardon me, love, but you’re a bit of an open book.”

Emma scoffs, “Anyone with the internet knows I prefer people don’t call me a legend.”

“Aye, but do they know it’s because you feel too young with a career too short to have made an impact? That you feel choosing yourself, a life, over MMA removes all glory from your name?”

Emma is entirely shaken by his apparent ability to read her like a fucking picture book. (Does that even make sense? Do you read picture books?) Emma never had a formal retirement ceremony; gloves in the middle of the ring and all that. She had asked Gold to be taken off the roster and for a quiet exit and that’s what he’d given her. The public doesn’t know the real reason she left MMA, her attempt at keeping Henry’s life as normal as possible, but somehow Killian–

Brick. Brick. Brick.

“Let’s talk about Instagram.” She sees the disappointment sweep across his face, realizing she can read him pretty well too. That’s terrifying.

Way more terrifying than social media plans.

They keep it strictly business for the rest of the meeting. She’s startled when her stomach rumbles and she checks the time.

12:00. They’ve been strategizing for three hours.

She’s not sure where the time went, and when Killian asks her if she wants to grab a bite to eat together, she’s startled again by her initial gut reaction to say yes.

Obviously, she says no and makes up some lie about needing to get back to the office. He knows it’s a lie, she can see it all over his face. He doesn’t push her though, and she’s grateful. They set their next meeting and Emma’s heart speeds up, seemingly unaware that this is a business meeting and not a date. She shakes his hand and promises to have a full plan ready for Thursday before practically sprinting out of the cafe.

In three conversations Killian Jones has gone from asshat to… who knows. One thing Emma does know is that Killian Jones is off limits to the highest of ethical degrees. But what scares her most, is that she’s not entirely sure she cares.

. . .

As soon as he asks her to lunch he knows he’s pushed too far.

Actually, he perhaps pushed too far by letting on just how easy it was for him to read her, but lunch, well that was just asking for a brick wall. He runs his hands across his face, completely taken with someone he has no right to. She’s witty, smart, and could probably kick his ass— scratch that, could definitely kick his ass— but she also has demons, he can see them swimming behind her eyes. Demons that seem scarily similar to his, maybe not on the surface but definitely in their damage. Emma is raw and unapologetic; a real human being who is, for all intents and purposes, unimpressed by the suave persona of Killian “Hook” Jones.

She’s bloody perfect.

He’s fucking fucked.

Eloquent.

Killian decides to grab a quick lunch from the cafe and head to the gym. He has a lot of pent up frustration and really feels the need to punch something. Thank god that’s his job. He scarfs down his sandwich, not realizing how hungry he was and jumps on the subway to the training center. He miraculously finds a seat and is able to scroll through his phone a bit. As he pokes around Twitter he finds an article announcing Emma “The Savior” Swan’s comeback to the UFC. He clicks on it, curiosity getting the better of him despite probably knowing the gist of the article.

He didn’t expect a timeline of her very impressive career:

2008: Swan joins the UFC with her Boston gym. Her debut match against Aurora Rose ended in a TKO. She’s back in action six months later fighting Ella Tremaine. She wins again, this time after three rounds by split decision.

2009: A dominant start to the year for The Savior with a first round submission against Tiana Dampier in January. She rounded out her year with another first round submission against El Oldenburg in May, and a third round knockout against Esmerelda Gringoire in October.

2010: Swan goes three rounds with Merida Baer and wins by unanimous decision. Swan wins again after three rounds by split decision against Megara Alcmene. The Savior’s final match is a KO against Mulan Fa rounding out her record to 8-0. Her next match, meant to be for the women’s title, was declined with no comment from The Savior.

2020: Swan joins Mills Management as a talent manager assigned to Killian “Hook” Jones.

Killian knew Swan was good, an early legend in her own right, but he had no idea she was this dominant. He also had no idea she left without so much as a wave goodbye. He figured he’d just missed the announcement seeing as it came well before his introduction into the sport. Against his typical moral code, he tries to google why she left but finds nothing. She knocks out Mulan Fa and then just stops being added to cards and fades away as new fighters take her place.

He knows there’s a reason for her secrecy and he’d be lying if he said curiosity was the only driving force behind his attempt to learn more. He finds himself wanting to know everything there is to know about Emma Swan; a deeper part of him aches for her to be the one who tells him.

He’s positive he can only dream of gaining that level of trust from her, but he has to try. Liam's words ring heavy in his ears, "A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."

He gets off at the stop closest to the training center and walks through the front doors, waving to Belle at the front desk before heading into the locker room. He’s fortunate to be on the UFC roster, allowing him to keep his training gear at the center and not have to worry about lugging it around with him. It also gives him the freedom to come here whenever he needs to let off some steam. He changes quickly and finds a treadmill to warm up. He jogs a mile and a half before picking up the pace. Killian’s in the midst of his runner’s high when someone steps into the machine next to him. He turns his head to offer them a small smile in hello, it’s not that big of a gym, exclusive to the UFC industry and a few friends of friends, so chances are he knows the person at least in passing.

Oh, Killian knows them alright, and he practically falls off the treadmill when he sees her green eyes blown wide.

#Captain Swan #cs ff #cs modern au #emma swan #killian jones #capthamm #worth fighting for

33 notes · View notes

oneshallop · 5 years ago

Text

First Drift | AO3

Their first drift was born out of fear and desperation.

Shepard watched him tread up the cockpit. Vakarian was big, even for a turian, and the convex swell of his armor seemed to enlarge as he stepped further into her space. He touched a hand to the side of his visor. The glass filmed, then retracted.

“What do you think?” he said. Shepard couldn’t read his face but she understood the words. There was grim acceptance in that tone.

It was the first time that he’d looked at her, and she’d looked at him, and they’d known with complete synchronicity what the other was thinking.

Shepard wanted Vakarian’s three-pronged hand away from the cockpit.

Another blow to the ship, this time so bad that Shepard actually lurched with the impact. Vakarian was braced against the console. He didn’t budge.

Shepard pressed her lips together into a hard line. Kicking the chair around, she unclasped the helmet and slid it free. The curve of polyplystic was cool in her hand.

She threw the helmet at Vakarian, jerking her head towards the empty console. “Come on.”

Shepard hadn’t piloted a ship in some time. While flying was much like the proverbial bicycle, the complex set up was not. Scanning the dashboard, she decided to ignore everything apart from the basics and hooked the cable into the shunt in her wrist. The helmet’s hydraulics hissed as they engaged somewhere near her jawbone. She was breathing a dead man’s air.

The AI flickered to life. “Configuration unknown. Procedure not recommended. Do you wish to continue?”

The Areto was a Human warship. Shepard dredged her initiation sequence from the recesses of her memory and rattled it off accordingly. “Shepard: verify.”

Although she’d been expecting it, she still started when his voice came through. “Vakarian: verify.”

“Crew members verified. Please hold as we initiate the neural connection.”

Shepard closed her eyes. The fluid flowed cool around her neck, pooling up her cheeks. She fought the panic and forced herself to breathe it in. There was that strange dissonance: the cool caress of the gel against the numb burn on her brain. Then, like a switch flipped, Shepard dropped.

Lightning flashes: twenty, thirty years of memories—strings flying over the edges of the consciousness. Shepard was brushing by a life that was as infinitely complex as her own. She even had it easier: Vakarian had more experience than she did in the pilot’s chair. Years of contact in the bridge had callused him. He packaged his life better.

Shepard learned many things about her partner in that split-second. Garrus Vakarian was a soldier through and through. He had enlisted because that had been expected of him; he had excelled because that, too, had been expected of him. He felt solid to Shepard, stable somehow—he believed that, in the end, wrongs would right themselves and that friends would come through. But if Vakarian was over-trusting, there was also a grit that ran to the bone: something stark and determined and maybe even grim.

An alkaline soup rolled around the caverns of her mouth. Wind rushed across hard-backed carapaces, the sensation both strange and familiar to her.

But the bind was reciprocal. Millions of threads were flying out from Shepard too, and it had been three years since she had last jumped. Here, the first cigarette she’d shared with a mate: the grimy paper salty on her lips, the smoke catching at her lungs with the first inhalation. Then, a dull pull at her side, and she knew that wasn’t good, but she needed to get to her next point—

There was a big hand cradling her face. It was as gentle as Shepard had never known. She turned her face into it, the long line of her nose tucking into the curve of the palm—

Enough.

Shepard didn’t have Vakarian’s finesse. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact thread that she wanted to cut. Instead her ringing word froze all hundred thousand threads in the void between them.

The silence echoed with the absence of energy. Shepard felt like she had run a thousand miles. Her chest was heaving up and down, and her heart hammering fast as a rabbit’s. There was a hard burn across her cheeks.

At least buy me dinner first, she thought inanely.

To her great surprise, there was a response: A drink? Assuming we get through this alive, of course. The words were tentative. They were a far cry from the rapid-fire dialogue Vakarian had thrown at her earlier in the cockpit. If he were human, he would’ve nodded at her: an awkward chuck of the head. His awkwardness made him 3D, and that made her uncomfortable.

Shepard cleared her throat. Alright Vakarian. You’ve got a pilot’s mind, am I getting that right?

Vakarian had been military since his age of majority. Comparing potatoes to carrots, he outranked her human qualifications by about a rank and a half. Shepard had no plans to defer to him—he had been on a human ship as a consultant—but he had more experience in the cockpit than she did. She wasn’t so proud that she wouldn’t use this.

Vakarian didn’t respond with words. Shepard felt rather than saw him engage with the wetgear: a cold wave that rippled down her body. Clink-clink-clink.

Tough guy, she thought, raising her eyebrows. She plugged in.

Grimspace bloomed before her.

Shepard had been asked what Grimspace looked like. She could never describe it. Grimspace was like a thousand colors flying by, wrapping around in an impossible three-sixty panorama. The implacable cosmos.

You good? Shepard asked him. Only she wasn’t asking him anymore—they were with each other now. She could feel his thoughts like her own.

Vakarian was considering the situation at hand. They were on a tiny foot-fighter, marooned off the side of the Eos system. Their pursuer had caught them by surprise. While Shepard’s previous pilot had been good enough to evade the first missile, the second had grazed the starboard side, taking off one of the back fins. The third—a bio-missile—had been fatal. The blue wave had short-circuited the electromagnetic signals of the bridge crew, killing all twelve of them almost instantly.

We won't outrun them in a straight chase, Vakarian concluded grimly.

An image came to Shepard. A ship moving in Grimspace, producing splintered and ghostly after-images.

Disbelief from Vakarian. You’re not serious.

The alien ship was coming up; Shepard could feel the burn at the back of her throat. She asked him: Are you in?

They waited until their pursuer had flitted into their periphery once more. Shepard fumbled for the dullness betwixt dimensions and latched upon it: she charted the way and Vakarian guided them out. They stumbled back into the greyness of normal time-space.

Next one, Shepard said to him.

Again, she felt for that notch in the fabric of reality; again, Vakarian pushed into the sliding crevasse of technicolor. They were making little jumps in and out of Grimspace. For their pursuer, it would look like they were jittering—instantaneous flashes that existed in past, present, and future.

They were losing their pursuer, but jumpers weren’t meant to navigate Grimspace like this. Shepard was tiring. Her physical body was panting in the cockpit. A blood vessel burst in her eye, a florid patch of red over pupil.

We have to move on, said Vakarian.

He plotted a path ahead. Distantly, Shepard felt their final location burning ahead of her like a tiny star. She moved through a tide as thick as molasses—faltered, froze, and then fell to her hands and knees.

Hands looped underneath her arms. Startled, Shepard looked up: Vakarian had come back for her. Half-supporting her, they stumbled together out into normspace.

In the cockpit, Shepard flipped the clasp under her chin and dragged the helmet off. The ozone stench shot painfully to the back of her skull. She massaged her temples as she checked their bearings.

And checked them again. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Vakarian looked up. The neural link was still on: Shepard could feel the astonishment radiating off him in waves. It was strange to think that even two hours ago she had thought his expressions unreadable.

They had come out somewhere in the Belt of Astaria. It would still take them some time to reach a Council world, but Astaria was a destination that should have taken a day of staggered jumping to reach. Neither of them could believe what they had just accomplished.

And this had only been their first drift.

#shakarian #female shepard/garrus vakarian #mass effect #shepard/garrus vakarian #pacific rim #grimspace #sirantha jax #another old draft from 2018

20 notes · View notes

brynandchristopher · 5 years ago

Text

The heartland

Hello again!

Chris and I have had yet another marvelous week-and-a-half in New Zealand filled with lots of excitement and adventure. The last time we posted we were resting up by the beach on the east coast of the North Island after completing our first Great Walk. Ten days later, we have completed our second Great Walk and are resting up by the beach on the west coast of the North Island in a city called Whanganui. It’s dreary and rainy here today, and Chris has an important football game to watch, so we decided it would be a good day to post up in a cafe for a few hours and check in with you all.

Before we left the Hawkes Bay area last week, we stopped in at the famous Hawkes Bay Farmers Market, one of the oldest and largest farmers markets in all of New Zealand. It’s summer here and there are heaps of fresh, organic produce abound, so we wanted to get some fruit and veggies from the source before leaving the area. The market was massive, lined with a large variety of different vendors offering lots of delicious treats for us to sample. We took our time wandering through the different stalls and absorbed the lovely community atmosphere that farmers markets inherently emit. After filling our bag with fresh eggs, vegetables, and a jar of honey, we bought a pastry to share for breakfast and were on our way. Our next destination was Taupo, a lakeside touristy town in the heart of the North Island, where we stayed for a night before heading north to meet up with our friend Arnaud and his partner Markus the following day. The center of the North Island is notorious for its geothermal activity, and thus a multitude of hot springs are scattered throughout the area. Over time, many of the springs were developed around and turned into luxurious day spas that cost an arm and a leg to visit, however a few free spots remain. After arriving in Taupo we decided to check out the free Otumuheke Springs, but when we got there the parking lot was overflowing with cars and people- the thought of sharing the hot spring with a giant crowd suddenly became less appealing. We turned around and decided we’d try our luck another day.

The next morning, we drove an hour north to Rotorua, another cute lakeside town, where we met Arnaud and Markus for a picnic and a quick swim. Arnaud volunteered with us when we lived in Bali, and we hadn’t seen him in years, so it was great to catch up with him and spend a few hours together. Markus has lived in New Zealand for most of his life, and he gave us some tips for a few less-traveled hot springs in Rotorua to check out before we left the area. We stayed overnight in a parking lot in downtown Rotorua, and woke up bright and early the next morning to go whitewater rafting on the Kaituna River! If I’m being honest, I was pretty terrified-I had never been whitewater rafting, and the Kaituna River is known for its level 5 rapids and largest commercially rafted waterfall in the world, a whopping 23 foot drop! We were both really excited for a new adventure though, and it turned out to be one of the most fun excursions we’ve been on in our travels so far. We had a really funny and knowledgeable raft guide, and we shared the raft with two other couples for the hour long ride down the river. The waterfall was definitely scary- the raft became fully vertical and was completely submerged under the water before resurfacing. We didn’t flip over and no one fell out and even though I inhaled a giant mouthful of water, it was fun and thrilling nonetheless.

Our next Great Walk, the Tongariro Northern Circuit, was only a few days away, so we began our journey south back down to Taupo for a couple of nights to restock our supplies of trail mix and granola bars before setting out on the trail. On our way down, we stopped in at Kerosene Creek (one of the hot springs recommended to us by Markus), and were shocked to find that the entirety of the creek was around 100° F. There were other people there, but nothing compared to our first hot spring stop, and having the whole river to swim around in gave us plenty of our own space to enjoy the steaming spring. That night we posted up on a beautiful reserve next to Lake Taupo and watched the sunset over the lake. After having such a wonderful hot spring experience, we decided to wake up early to beat the crowds and give Otumuheke Spring a second shot. The spring was situated alongside a beautiful river, and we were lucky enough to have the first 15 minutes of our time there to soak in the pools completely alone. It was a great way to start our day before prepping for our upcoming trek.

The next morning, we drove an hour and a half to the Whakapapa Visitors Center in Tongariro National Park to begin the 4-day Tongariro Northern Circuit. When we went to the visitors center to check in with the staff and give them our booking information, we had a brief moment of panic when we realized that we were a day late in starting the trek. The campsites and huts on the Great Walks are in very high demand and are usually booked for the whole summer, so we were stressed that we wouldn’t be able to embark on the trek after missing our reservation. Fortunately the Department of Conservation staff at the visitor’s center called ahead to the rangers at the campsites and they were able to make room for us. Relieved and excited to begin, we strapped on our packs and set out on the trail.

Our first day was an easy 6 miles to the Mangatepopo Hut and Campsite. The terrain had a few ups and downs but was relatively flat, and took us through stunning alpine plains shaped by volcanic explosions with volcanos towering over us on either side. We made it to Mangatepopo in a few hours, where we set up camp and had a hearty dinner of couscous, rice, and lentils. After reading our books and playing cards for a bit, we tucked into bed early knowing that the hardest section of the trek was coming the next day. The circuit trail intersects with the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a very popular day hike and the main attraction of the revered Great Walk. The trail climbs 2500 feet in 3.6 miles through remnants of lava flow, and winds up a series of steep trail sections aptly named 'Devil’s Staircase’. The peak offers spectacular views of Red Crater and the beautiful Emerald Lakes, drawing hundreds of hikers every day. We began the hike early the next morning, joining the crowds coming in for the day hike, and started the arduous climb to the top. After a couple of hours, we made it up unscathed and stopped for a lunch of trail mix and dried fruit to take it all in. It quickly became clear why so many people embarked on this trek - the landscape was truly magnificent. With panoramic views of the dark red and black Red Crater on one side, and the stark turquoise and blue hues of the Emerald Lakes to the other, we were awed and humbled to be in such a beautiful place. The descent down the other side of the volcano proved to be a bit difficult, as the tread was entirely ash and sand, but we made our way down with only a few stumbles and continued on the circuit trail. Happy to be away from the big crowds, we powered on towards our next campsite, the Oturere Hut.

We made it to the Oturere Hut by 2 pm with 9 miles of hiking under our belts. We still felt pretty energized, and the next hut was only 5 miles away, so we made the decision to stop for a snack and then carry on to catch up with our original campsite reservations. While we were taking a break at the Oturere Hut, the hut ranger informed us with the sad news that just an hour after we had descended from Red Crater, a 75-year-old German man hiking with his son had died at the top due to a heart attack. The Maori tribe that presides over the Tongariro Crossing placed what they call a Rahui over the area, which restricts access to the crossing for 3 days. The Rahui is put in place to acknowledge the person who died and the mourning of their loved ones, and also to allow the spirit of land to recover from the fatality. With a heavy heart, we continued our way on the trail towards our next destination, the Waihohonu Hut and Campsite.

We arrived at Waihohonu after a couple of hours with sore feet and aching backs, feeling exhausted but accomplished after a long 14 mile day. Our campsite bordered a creek, and after setting up our tent we took a refreshing and freezing dip before making dinner. We spent the evening relaxing in the hut, chatting with fellow hikers, and reading our books. In the morning, we were back on the trail by 9:15 am to complete a final 10 mile day back to Whakapapa. I was a little bit grumpy that morning- Chris’ normal hiking pace is more of a light jog for me, and for the first two or so miles Chris was speeding ahead, intent on passing the multiple groups of hikers in front of us. After the first hour and a half I was drained, hungry, and irritable, so we stopped for a snack and some water before carrying on down the path. I was in much better spirits as we hiked through the hummocks and hollows of the final stretch of the circuit, with the striking Mount Ngauruhoe (better known for it’s appearance as Mount Doom in Lord of the Rings) in view the whole way. With only a few miles to go, we stopped at the top of Taranaki Falls for a break, and then completed the final stretch. The Tongariro Circuit was a difficult, rewarding trek and we felt very satisfied, albeit fatigued, to finish it in 3 days. Our first stop post-hike was a hot shower followed by a large pizza - a sequence of events that’s becoming a tradition for us after finishing a Great Walk.

In the days since we finished the crossing, we have been in the coastal city of Whanganui on the central western coast of the North Island. We got lucky with a sunny 75°F day and spent a few hours relaxing in the sun at Kai Iwi Beach. After staying one night in the city, we wanted to get a little more off the beaten path and ventured to a free campsite that was right on the beach about 30 minutes north of the city. We had no expectation of what it would be like, all we knew was that it was right on the coast, but we ended up at one of the most spectacular locations we’ve encountered in New Zealand thus far. Aside from 2 other vans parked down the road, we had a cliffside campsite overlooking the ocean all to ourselves. We ventured down onto the beach, only to be surprised yet again by a completely empty black sand beach lined with incredible cliffs and caves the whole way down. Many of the campsites and beautiful vistas we’ve visited so far have been busy and often crowded by other tourists, so we were excited to find a hidden gem of New Zealand without even trying. Long Beach and Cave Beach were definitely a highlight of our trip so far.

Today we are heading south towards Wellington, and in a few days we will take a ferry from the North Island to begin our adventure in the South Island. Everyone we’ve talked to tells us that the South Island will blow us away, so we are very excited to make our way down there. In 10 days we’ll start our next Great Walk, the Abel Tasman Coastal Track, a gorgeous trek along the northern beaches of the south island!

Lots of love from us both,

Bryn and Christopher

1 note · View note

ttime42 · 6 years ago

Text

2018 Fic Roundup

This is a list of fics (in no particular order) I read last year. Many of these I finished. Some of them I started and didn't finish because it turned out they weren't for me. Others are rereads. Thanks to all the wonderful authors who fill fandom with life.

Watson's Folly by Diana Williams

John Watson, the new Earl of Saughton, is madly in love with the beautiful Mary Morstan. But he has returned from the Peninsular War to find his family on the brink of ruin and his ancestral home mortgaged to the hilt. He has little choice when he is introduced to Mycroft Holmes, a civil servant of apparently unlimited wealth and no social ambitions for himself - but with his eyes firmly fixed on a suitable match for his only brother, the unorthodox and irascible Omega Sherlock Holmes. Can John forget the woman he loved and find happiness with a man so very different from his lost love?

To the Sticking Place by blueink3

Renowned Shakespearean actor Sherlock Holmes has finally burned all of his bridges in the theatre industry save for his constant director, Greg Lestrade. John Watson has made a name for himself in the musical theatre circuit, but age and injury are working against him. Can they reinvent themselves for an all-male Macbeth without killing one another?

The Yellow Poppies by SilentAuror

Sherlock is threatened and assaulted in the hospital immediately after having been shot in the heart, first by Mary, then by Magnussen. As he recovers at Baker Street with John and plans the attack on Appledore with Mycroft, he fights to work through the trauma caused by these two visits. Set during His Last Vow.

The Vapor Variant by 88thParallel

They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril.

They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear.

Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”

Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods.

Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.

The Sock Index by distantstarlight

John and Sherlock live at 221 B Baker Street. Everything is back to normal with the long-time friends....or is it?

The Shop Boy by EventHorizon

Sometimes, taking care of Sherlock had its benefits...

The School Boy by EventHorizon

As Mycroft and Lestrade pursue their own relationship, Sherlock learns the meaning of friendship with the new boy in his school, John Watson.

The Science of Musicality by circ_bamboo

Classical musician AU: Sherlock is a professional solo violinist, and John is his new accompanist collaborator. They've got a recital in three months, and someone doesn't want them to do it.

The Riven Crown by The_Kingmaker

‘We may have won the battle, but I fear the war with winter is just beginning.’

The aftermath of war is no laughing matter. Those who died must be honoured, those who are wounded must be healed, and those who remain need food and clothing, peace and sanctuary. With Thorin's life hanging in the balance, it is up to Bilbo and the rest of the Company to rule the rag-tag remnants of Erebor in his place.

Then there is the matter of the gold...

Can Bilbo save both king and kingdom, or is Erebor destined to fall deeper into ruin?

The Men Who Talked Between the Words by Odamaki (locked to Ao3)

John expected to be a father some day; he expected to have the house, and the wife and the nice suburban job. Sherlock never expected to have children, in part because he never expected to make it past 30. As it turns out, you don't get a choice. Crammed into Baker Street with a baby, John struggles with single-parenthood and his own fears, while Sherlock treads the fine line between doing too little and saying too much.

The Guarded Secret by mycapeisplaid

After his war injury, John feels broken, small, and useless. On a whim, he takes a position as a security guard of sorts at the gorgeous Holmes Hall in Yorkshire. As it turns out, he is not as broken, small, or useless as he thinks. A story of beauty and blossom, murder and mystery, loss and love.

The Clash of Storm and Sea by QuinnAnderson

Music School AU. The first time John heard Sherlock play, he knew he was done for. Johnlock.

The Burning Heart by May_Shepard

When Sherlock dies, John Watson feels like his life is over too. He’s completely shut down, until Mark Morstan, a new nurse at John’s medical clinic, catches his attention, and helps him uncover the long buried truth of his attraction to men.

Although he’s certain he’ll never get over Sherlock, John plans to move on, and build a new life with Mark, unaware that Sherlock is not quite as dead as he appears, and that Mark is hiding secrets of his own.

The Bluest of Blue by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John

John Watson's 10th season as a Denali National Park Ranger was shaping up to look like all the years before.

Until a special team from Europe was flown into the Park for a summer-long wolf-tracking research project, and the head of that research team was wearing a perfectly tailored suit.

Gimme Shelter by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John

All John Watson wants is the feeling of a freshly waxed surfboard under his feet and the hot California sun baking down onto his back. To finally go pro in the newly formed world of professional surfing and leave the dark memories of his past behind him as he rips across the face of a towering blue barrel. To lounge beside the beach bonfire every evening with an ice cold beer tucked into the cool sand beside him and listen to Pink Floyd and the Doors while the saltwater dries in his sun bleached hair.

That's all he wants, that is, until the hot young phenom taking Oahu and the Hawaiian shores by storm steps up next to him in the sand in the second round of the 1976 International Surf Competition.

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada and ShinySherlock (locked to Ao3)

Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose--is it a pirate's life for him?

The Bells of King’s College by SilentAuror

It's only been two weeks since Eurus Holmes disrupted their lives when Mycroft sends John and Sherlock to Cambridge to pose as an engaged couple at a wedding show in the hopes of solving six unsolved deaths...

Summit Fever by J_Baillier

After graduating from medical school, John Watson followed his heart to the Himalayas. Ten years later, he's a haunted cynic working for his ex-lover's trekking and mountaineering company. Will leading an expedition to Annapurna I—the most lethal of all the world's highest mountains—shake John out of his reverie, and who is the mystery client added to the group at the last minute?

Share the Stars with You by EventHorizon

Set in Victorian times, we find Mycroft as a sedentary man of wealth and power and Greg as an explorer, a true man of action. Given their opposite natures, could it be these two might actually achieve the one thing neither has ever thought possible - finding someone to love?

School for Scandal by rubberbird

Sherlock lusts from afar. John tries to fool himself.

Saving Sherlock Holmes by earlgreytea68

Sherlock Holmes, schoolboy. Yeah, that basically sums it up.

Performance in a Leading Role by Mad_Lori

Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?

Paradigm Shift by distantstarlight

Sherlock Holmes is the world's only consulting detective. He's also a virgin, and has staunchly remained that way. One night he's on a case like normal but he sees someone who after a single glance turns everything Sherlock thought he knew about himself completely around. Enter one John Watson, doctor, soldier....stripper?

In the Still of the Night by SilentAuror

As locals on the Northeastern coast begin to report UFO sightings, life at Baker Street becomes significantly awkward as John brings up his desire for more than friendship and Sherlock refuses him. They embark on the investigation from the confines of the tiny cottage Mycroft has rented for them, attempting to navigate both the clues of the case as well as their own inability to communicate...

In Search of a Word: A Symphony of First Times by queenfanfiction

There is a new concertmaster at the London Symphony, and John Watson is starting to fall a little bit in love with both the music and the man making it.

How Long? by TheBritishBourbon

Sherlock never got to jump off the roof of St. Barts, he never got the chance. Sherlock was abducted and held for 5 years, but now he has escaped. What awaits him as he returns to reality?

Every Star in the Sky Knows Your Name by Jaune_Chat

Mal's latest pair of passengers slowly reveals they have more of a connection to the crew than anyone would have thought, when Simon discovers that Sherlock and his sister had been in the same government program over a decade and a half apart. Sherlock's friend John, his rescuer and keeper, tells the crew the story of living a life on the run, something that is both less and more familiar than anyone expects.

Enigma by khorazir

It’s the autumn of 1941, war is raging in Europe, German U-boats are raiding Allied convoys in the Atlantic, the Luftwaffe is bombing English cities, and the cryptographers at Bletchley Park are working feverishly to decode their enemies' encrypted communications. One should consider this challenge and distraction enough for capricious codebreaker Sherlock Holmes. But the true enigmas are yet waiting to be deciphered: an unbreakable code, a strange murder, and the arrival of Surgeon Captain John H. Watson of the Royal Navy.

Electric Pink Hand Grenade by BeautifulFiction

"If Sherlock's brain is a hard drive, then these attacks are an electro-magnetic pulse." Sherlock Holmes does not do anything by half, not even a migraine. It falls to John to witness one of the greatest minds he has ever known tear itself apart, and he must do his best to help Sherlock pick up the pieces.

Butterbeer by green_violin_bow

One of very few students left at Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday, final-year Slytherin student Mycroft Holmes finds himself thrown together with Gryffindor Quidditch team captain Greg Lestrade. An unlikely friendship, but one that blossoms in the huge, mostly-empty castle.

Boyfriend Material by PoppyAlexander

Boston Brawlers' team captain John Watson longs for two things: a championship before he retires, and a boyfriend. Assigned to room with goaltender Sherlock Holmes--known around the league as both a genius and a "weird dude"--on Brawlers' roadtrips, John discovers the things they have in common that lead to an easy friendship and a convenient arrangement.

Slow-burn, adversaries-to-friends-to-lovers, romantic comedy.

Alternate Universe - Sports/Ice Hockey

Babylon by BeautifulFiction_FMA

Two years after retrieving his brother's body from the Gate of Truth Edward Elric is still paying the price. Will his debt ever be repaid, or will it finally cost him everything? (Originally published 2007 on fanfiction.net and livejournal)

An improbable love by slowroad

Sherlock is a famous violinist who is going through a bit of a slump. He's lonely and miserable. It has been three years since John was invalided home from Afghanistan. He's slowly getting his life together, but he's lonelier than he's ever been. And then, the the two of them meet…

Albion and the Woodsman by Glenmore

Post Series 3. Sherlock and John are devastated after Mary Morstan makes her final moves. Sherlock relapses at the crack house, John walks around the world ...and a lot happens in between. Parentlock, in the good way.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee

Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab.

Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters?

{SPOILER: Of course not. That would be boring.}

Guarantee there will be drama. And explosions. And Will is gonna do something cocky and stupid. Really good chance for some zero-gravity boinking (bet ya didn't even know you needed that in your life).

Gonna be a wild ride... prepare for blast off.

A Fold in the Universe by darkest_bird

Alpha Sherlock and Omega John are in a relationship. Prime Sherlock and Prime John are not. So what happens when a freak fold in the universe switches one John for the other?

#fanfic #fanfiction #ficrec #fic rec #bbc sherlock fanfic

6 notes · View notes

mx-fawkes · 7 years ago

Text

Die Historic on The Furby Road

Hey, thanks so much for the support and also for sending me on the most fun story research I’ve done in a while.

Junkrat spent more time in Roadhog's basement than he probably should. There wasn't much of use down here, just boxes of things Roadhog didn't want to look at or didn't think were reusable. He didn't have the keen scrapper instincts Junkrat did though, he'd once found a whole box of good quality cables down here. Roadhog couldn't even remember what they were supposed to be for!

He'd be lying if he said he didn't like the glimpses of what Roadhog had once been like he sometimes found down here. Never anything too revealing, no photographs or birth certificates, but things like a box of maps, carved wooden objects and an oversized mannequin were tantalizing hints of what had been important to Roadhog once upon a time.

Pawing through boxes in the semi-darkness was usually not a good idea, but he was pretty sure there was nothing too dangerous down here. He'd never found any signs of animal life, and it wasn't like- he froze as his hand brushed against something fluffy, taking two deep breaths before slowly pulling his hand away, hoping not to draw attention. Leaning back he flicked on his lighter, staring into the box in horrified curiosity.

Two lifeless eyes stared back at him.

The scream made it all the way to the garage, Roadhog putting down his tools with a sigh. It wasn't the first time Junkrat had freaked out on one of his basement diving expeditions, he'd once mistaken an old dressmakers dummy for an omnic, ready to burn the whole place to the ground before Roadhog dragged it out into the light.

Groans of protest came from the stairs as Junkrat ran for the surface, clutching a dusty cardboard box. "Roadie Roadie Roadie! You'll never guess what I found!"

The mask tilted questioningly.

"I mean I dunno what they are, but you probably do. Some kind of robot birds?"

He dumped the box on the floor between them, throwing it open and pulling out one the creatures, covered in black and white fur. "Pretty weird right?"

Roadhog's sharp intake of breath was audible through the mask, pulling the box closer to look at the contents. He'd forgotten he'd even had these.

Junkrat didn't seem to notice, messing with the one he'd picked up. "So, what are they?"

"Furbies."

"Right. Furbies. What are they about then?"

How to explain a Furby? Weird bird things that had been beloved by children that later found them creepy and annoying. Friends for a lonely kid who never got the hang of talking to people and wasn't allowed a real pet? An old toy that kept a community of fans long after they stopped being made?

"Kids toys. They can talk and respond to certain words." He winced as Junkrat shook the one he was holding.

"Hello?" He poked it when it didn't respond. "It's not talking, reckon it's dead?"

"There's a power switch on the bottom."

Junkrat flipped it over, trying to wake it up as he flipped the switch back and forth. "Still dead."

"Maybe the batteries need changing." Where they were meant to get AA batteries from was beyond him. Obsolete before he was even born, he doubted anyone here collected tech ancient enough to need a supply.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice Junkrat prising off the battery cover until he heard the yell of pain. A glance showed the batteries corroded and leaking, quickly grabbing Junkrat's hand before he put it in his mouth. "Don't. Go wash it."

A trail of curses followed Junkrat as he ran for the sink, swilling his hand in the water. "The fuck was that?" "Battery acid." "What kind of battery has acid in!?"

He shrugged, wiping the base of the furby clean with a nearby rag. "All of them did back before 2030."

It wasn't long before Junkrat strode back over, wiping his burnt fingers on his shorts. "It felt more like an alkaline burn." Like he could tell the difference. "Of course I can tell the difference!" He lent on Roadhog's arm, glaring at the old batteries. "Reckon I could rewire it to fit a proper battery. One that won't melt and burn people." - One dismantled remote control and a bit of solder later the Furby twitched, blue eyes blinking open. "u-nye-loo-lay-doo?" Its voice was rough, the speaker hadn't lasted well. Junkrat sat it on the desk triumphantly., "It's alive!"

The furby shifted, whirring quietly as its ears moved up and down. "Doo?" They both stared at it. "Yoo?"

Junkrat hummed, moving closer. "Do I what?"

"Boo."

Junkrat pointed a screwdriver at it, face scrunched in displeasure. "Look, either you start making sense or we're moving onto brain surgery."

Mako fished a manual out of the box, holding it in front of Junkrat until he snatched it, mumbling to himself as he read the instructions.

"Oh, we have to teach it English?" He shifted into a dramatic stance, raising on arm and closing his eyes, voice uncomfortably loud in the small space. "We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service—two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end." He cracked an eye open, looking down at the Furby like he was expecting applause. "A man may fish with a worm that has eaten the flesh of a king, and eat the fish that has fed on that worm. "

It chirped in response. "Me no listen."

"Alright you little-" Roadhog grabbed the hand that went for the screwdriver, pointing firmly at the Furbish-to-English dictionary.

Junkrat took it with a heavy sigh. "Fiiiine, wee tee kah wah tee?"

"Wah Tee!" The low fidelity wail it began to make wouldn't be out of place in a horror film, neither would Junkrat's burst of laughter. He continued to flick through the guide. trying out new phrases as he went. It was almost comical, both staring wide-eyed at each other making nonsense sounds. Roadhog felt he should have seen this coming somehow, he'd spent his youth with a creature that always stared, always wanted attention and refused to shut up, and now he had Junkrat.

Quickly exhausting the commands, Junkrat dropped the manual. "Is that it? It only knows like five things."

"It's pre-millennium tech."

"Pretty sure they had better things than this pre-millennium."

"It was a kids toy."

Junkrat leant back, staring up at him. "So what, you kept a box full of toys you had when you were a kid?"

The clicking of the toy filled the silence until Roadhog finally replied.

"Only had one when I was a kid, got the rest when I was older."

"Why?"

Roadhog turned back to the box, fishing through until he found the right one. Green with a painted faceplate and a custom-made raincoat.

"People used to customize them for fun. Some people just changed their appearance a little, others changed the shape completely or attached them to other things. Lot of people added better AI."

"Huh. Maybe I would've done that if I was around back then."

Had Junkrat ever had a hobby? He loved building and blowing things up but they were also the closest thing he had to a job. Had he ever done anything without a purpose, anything that wasn't wired to survival in his brain? Hell, it had been a long time since Roadhog had made something just for fun.

"Do you want to do one now?"

Junkrat's eyes shone, bouncing to his feet. "Really? One of yours?" Furbies scattered as Junkrat upended the box, picking out one he liked. "This one!"

"No."

"Why not? It's practically falling apart anyway, not like I can make it any worse."

Because it had been with him for forty years. It had meant so much to him as a kid and even now he couldn't bear to get rid of it He didn't say a word, but Junkrat seemed to get it anyway, looking slightly stricken as he put it back in the box with exaggerated care.

"Hey, no worries mate, I'll use a different one. Wanna pick one out for me?"

Roadhog placed a blue and pink model in Junkrat's outstretched hand. "Paint it, circuit bend it. Do what you like with it."

"Thanks mate. Ooh! I think I've still got some of the gold spray paint left from doing the bricks."

He skipped away, leaving Roadhog to stare at remaining furbies. Well, no reason he couldn't mix this old part of himself with who he was now. They didn't see each other for a few hours after that, both working on their own projects. It wasn't until the next day that Junkrat decided he was finished, proudly strutting into the room and presenting his piece to Roadhog.

"Okay so first I used soot and grease to dye it black, didn't completely work, you can still see the original colours a bit. The fur on it's stomach was too patchy to fix so I covered it with this sack material, then since it had those dots around it#s belly first I did 'em over with some rivets I had going spare. Sprayed the ears and mask bit gold then gave it the goggles we snatched from that prick with the chainsaw a while back." "S'good." Junkrat followed his gaze to the clunky bit of plastic at the bottom.

"That's the second best bit. Basically I was like, what's the point of having a pet that's stuck in one place?" He reached below it, flicking the switch. It cooed as it floated into the air, hovering around his shoulder.

“Used some of the bits from that old assistance drone, the one I made into the scarecrow bot you thought was too creepy?“

Roadhog had never said it was creepy, but he hadn't liked the idea of a humanoid figure floating outside his farmhouse at night, even it was in the hope of scaring away anyone who wanted to try and get them while they were sleeping. He could feel Junkrat's desperate desire for a follow-up question. "What's the best bit?"

It should be impossible for anyone to smile so wide. Junkrat plucked the toy from the air, pointing it towards the open doorway.

"Fire in the hole!"

A tap to the head and it let out a distorted scream, a stream of flame shooting through its open beak, "Imagine treading on that in the dark!"

Note to self, make sure that's turned off before Junkrat forgets about it and treads on it in the dark.

"So what did you make then?"

Roadhog reached into the box, pulling out his creation as Junkrat gasped in delight.

Its lilac fur had been dyed a vivid orange, face plate sprayed with chrome. The beak had been covered with carved yellowing teeth. A tiny decorated leather jacket sat on its non-existent shoulders, open to show a survival belt with a tiny knife attached. "I love it! Did'ya do anything with the insides?"

A flick of the switch and glowing yellow eyes completed the look, It danced in place before speaking in a clear, deep voice. "kah-boh-dah-kah-way-loh-kah-boh-koh-koh!"

#roadrat #mx fics #furby #Overwatch

55 notes · View notes

snacc-noir · 7 years ago

Text

Kim Week, Day 6: Swimming

Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Summary: Kim teaches Markov to swim. Again.

“Where exactly are we going?”

Kim shot a side-long smirk at the high-teched robot flying behind him, furthering the adjustment of the blue towel slung over his shoulder. “It’s a surprise, Markov,” he said with little repression of his excitement. “But we’re gonna have heaps of fun.”

“Max didn’t program me with the ability to predict surprises.”

Kim pushed on the swinging entryway door to let himself and Markov slip through the threshold. “That’s because you’re not supposed to predict surprises.”

He looked thoughtful. “Max said to be careful of your surprises.”

Kim tossed the swimming bag in his grasp under a nearby bench and sighed. Max had told him to do a fun activity with his robot while he went to his Math competition thing, and yet warned Markov to be careful of his always fun surprises? Rude.

He commenced into his stretching-routine without facing him and murmured, “He was probably talking about Alix.”

Markov’s digital eyes pixilated into question marks as he hovered beside Kim. “But there’s a zero-percent chance of that? I can remember and record every conversation my microphone picks up. Would you like me to play Max saying to be cautious of what your surprises actually involve?”

He froze stretching his arms and held back a groan.

The robot had been away from his creator ten minutes and already he wouldn’t stop talking about him.

“No, it’s fine,” he assured though his teeth. “But you don’t have to take everything that Max says seriously.”

“Max is my best friend. He set my rules and fills me with knowledge I cannot gain myself.”

“Max isn’t here now,” Kim leered as he whipped off his hoodie and stretched his cap on. “Don’t worry about anything he’s said about me. You finally get to have some fun with your favourite uncle Kim!”

Markov observed him with scepticism as he slid into the empty community pool beside their standing point. “Are we going to time your laps?”

“Nope. Today isn’t even one of my swimming days, that’s why Ondine isn’t here.” He folded his arms atop the gravel pool edge and peered up at Markov. “I’m going to teach you how to swim.”

He stared. “Swim?”

“Yep! Don’t worry though, you don’t have to get in the water. It’s always nerve-racking the first time, so you can watch me from the edge.”

Markov stayed silent as he hovered above a bench. Kim began to tread water and outstretched his arms over his head.

“This one’s called freestyle. It’s not actually a free style, because you have to do it in a particular way. You kick your feet with ballerina toes while your stroke looks like this.” His uplifted arms moved in un-sync windmill motions.

The robot still looked confused. “The only stroke I’ve ever heard of is the one related to brain failure.” He made a gasping noise. “Your brain isn’t failing, is it Kim?! Alix can’t be right!” he bellowed indignantly. “Marinette said she was joking! You’re not dying, are you?! Oh no, Max would be so angry with me if I let you die while you’re babysitting me!”

Kim’s arms deflated to melt in the water. “Uh—no, I’m not… dying?” He shook his head. “That’s a different type of stroke. This type of stroke is one that swimmers do. There’s a few I can teach you. Like breaststroke.”

“Is that the ‘frog’ one you mentioned while Paris was flooded?”

“Yes!” He overlay his arms across the water and pushed them outwards, formulating ripples. “This is what your arms do, except out in front of your head while you’re swimming since you’re face-down in the water. Your legs move like a frog.”

“I have very interesting facts about frogs in my memory-drive,” Markov spoke with gestures of his mechanical hand. “Nathaniel showed me one in real life. I thought it was very fascinating, and then Alix placed it on me. I had such a fright one of my wires short-circuited.”

Kim blinked at him, before waving it off. “Well, I told you I was better than Alix. You’re lucky you weren’t stuck with her for today.”

As he morphed into a different position to begin backstroke, Markov halted his swimming when exclaiming, “Actually, Max intended to hand me to her for today.”

Kim arched himself upright and creased his brows. “What do you mean?”

“Alix was too busy helping her dad with something to take care of me today, so Max called you. He was hesitant because of the last ice cream incident.”

He couldn’t hide his frown. “Max trusted Alix more than me?”

“Well Marinette was another option but—”

Ping.

Markov flew to the bag beneath the bench he was hovering over. “That sounded like your phone.”

“Can you check it please?”

He used his claw-like hand to unzip the swimming bag and rummaged for the requested object. He raised it out and read the alighted screen. “Max is wondering how we are doing.”

Kim swum to the pool’s edge. “Um… say we’re going good, but don’t give him the idea of where we are.”

Markov beamed and nodded. “Got it.”

A thin, metallic pointer opened from his chest so he could type the answer on the phone. After a few taps were made, Markov secured the phone back in the swimming bag and returned his hovered position over the bench.

“Are you ready for the next demonstration?” Kim locked his hands upon the edge’s grip and hoisted himself out of the pool. “Because this is the funnest one.”

“Do you mean the most fun?”

Kim stood and flicked a few droplets away. “Sure.”

“If you are showing me a swimming technique, then why are you not in the water?”

His lips curved into his famed grin. “Because I’m about to be.” He took a few steps away from Markov, and swivelled to face the pool. His heals dug into the gravel while his toes fell over the edge.

Markov watched Kim squat before raising his arms into a pencil pose and leaping in.

A gush of water soared at the contact to make a circular wave around where Kim had jumped. It looked incredible, the robot decided.

“That’s—” Kim gasped as his head emerged from the water, “—what a dive is. It’s my favourite thing to do in swimming. I could teach you how to do it, too.”

Markov was buzzing with excitement. He had never seen such fun involved with the water before, and he found himself willing to perform the same trick that Kim did instantly.

“Yes! I would love that.”

Kim smiled and raised himself out of the pool again.

“Okay, so first of all you’re going to come to the edge and—”

“KIM!”

Through the swirl of surprise Kim almost tipped himself backwards into the pool if he hadn’t caught himself at the last second.

With blown eyes he flashed to the sound and was undoubtedly even more stunned to see Max standing at the entryway looking a way Kim had never seen him.

Very, very angry.

“Are you trying to kill Markov?!”

Kim contemplated that maybe ‘accidently’ falling into the pool wasn’t such a bad idea after all as his friend surged towards him.

“Wh—How?!” Kim stared at him in the ridiculousness scenario, trying to comprehend if it was real or not. “Why are you here?!”

Instantaneously—as though he had been anticipating the question—Max held up his phone displaying a series of text messages.

“‘We’re going good’,” Max read off the screen. “‘One-hundred-percent not at the pool learning to swim. Don’t get the idea, please. Lots of love, Kim’.”

A wave of realisation washed over him.

Kim looked at Markov accusingly.

“I said don’t make it sound like we’re at the pool!”

The robot’s eyes pixelated into exclamation marks. “I told Max that we weren’t here! Just like you said.”

Kim sighed and brought his hand up to his face.

Max was shooting daggers at the swimming-truck clad teen as his fisted hands pressed his hips. “You’re lucky they postponed the competition for an hour, or I wouldn’t have been able to come.” He shoved his phone in his pocket and stomped further up to Kim. “You do realise if Markov went in the water that he would malfunction and electrocute you?!”

Kim tipped his head back and groaned as if he were a child scolded by a parent. “I wasn’t going to let him get in the water,” he whined. “Just above it. To follow my lead.”

Max stared at him doubtfully.

“I was just about to teach him how to dive! —In the air of course. We were having so much fun!” Kim tossed a smile to Markov and patted his head. “He loves his uncle Kim.”

Max sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to fend off a headache.

“I think Alix will be receiving full-custody of babysitting duties after this.”

#le chien kim #we are miraculous #kim appreciation week #miraculous ladybug #markov #max kante

18 notes · View notes

gcnenineteen-blog · 8 years ago

Text

HE COMES HERE. HE HAS A BURNED HAND.

She had begun seeing the graffiti about four months ago, appearing in stark crimson spray paint first on the alley wall of the deli six blocks from her office building, then on a park bench near her usual bus stop in Brooklyn. The lost pet posters she was used to; she checked them regularly out of habit, the way someone might read the classifieds with only a vague sense of what they’re looking for, but rarely made an effort to look for the people they described, largely uninterested in her civic duty toward her fellow undead. But when the can-toi stooped to such obvious warnings, you took notice, because it meant that more subtle methods hadn’t worked to eliminate the problem - it meant that the person they were after wasn’t just an inconvenience, but a danger.

She knew about the Burned Man, of course - what vampire in NYC didn’t? He was the latest fashionable urban legend, something thrilling and frightening to gossip about in the Dixie Pig on Saturday evenings: a figure taken straight out of Dracula, an Abraham Van Helsing for the modern age, and he allegedly did his hunting with horrifying efficiency. They said he could smell the death in you, would know you for what you were at a glance - that he had some sort of glam that hid him until it was too late. She knew there had been too many disappearances lately, too many to blame them all on vampires growing bored with New York and picking up stakes - no pun intended - but she had never credited the rumors. It was too fanciful, too storybook, tailored too perfectly to vampiric primal fears; the Burned Man was no more real than the Jersey Devil, which had after all been nothing but a mutie goat that had wandered into the Pine Barrens through a thinny and mauled no more than a handful of hikers before expiring in its own tumorous juices. She’d thought, at most, that ‘our irish setter - one wounded paw’ was a psychic, someone the can-toi wanted for the Breakers. Someone they’d have under control in a month.

But she was standing a block from her new bus stop now, looking at the back wall of the pub across the street, reading the warning there - no whimsical chalk stars or comets, just red text that shouted at the eyes. They were dead serious. The direct servants of the Crimson King not only believed the Burned Man was real, that he was a threat - they believed that he had been in no fewer than three of the places she frequented regularly. It wasn’t just unsettling - she had bypassed unsettled days ago. It was actually frightening.

It had been nearly fifty years since she’d genuinely been afraid of something. The disease stole compassion first, because a predator wouldn’t survive if it could empathize with the animals it was supposed to hunt, but over time all of the other emotions seemed to go too - it was like progressively going colorblind, and after awhile you almost forgot what things like yellow and orange had looked like, until they returned without warning and scorched your eyes. She was afraid, but she also needed to work if she didn’t want to depend entirely on the good graces of Richard Sayre and his cronies - and the mistake that would undo her, on this gorgeous late fall afternoon, was the simple, universal assumption that nothing truly bad can happen in the middle of the day.

She sat at the bus stop, back stiff, smoothing her dark brown hair with a slender, olive hand. Her nerves were rattled, yes, but she felt fine - the overblown incompetent she did secretarial work for was so prodigiously fat that she could afford to drink from him twice a week, and she had left him in his office in a daze, totally unaware that it wasn’t his cock she had sucked. She’d started to notice small sores at the corners of his mouth, and wondered how much longer it would be before she needed a new job. She wondered if he’d given what he’d caught to his wife - if the woman could even bear to be touched by him at all. She wouldn’t have blamed her if she couldn’t, not at all.

Fifty years ago, she might have felt some stirring of horror at her own train of thought, at how casual and flippant it was - she could even remember a time when she had felt horror over it, long ago - but she had, as they said, lived since then. Why should she care if her fat, lecherous boss died of the GRID? Why should she care if his wife, or even his wife’s mistress caught it? What should she care if the whole of the tri-boroughs caught it? If she had learned anything about people in the last half century, it was that there were always more of them, much the same as the last had been, and that only the calamity of all calamities would ever succeed in wiping them out entirely. It was none of her business.

She wrinkled her nose at a sudden waft of unpleasant odor - the tang of whiskey, overlaying a smell that reminded her vaguely of a fish market. Her back stiffened a little further when a tall, lanky man dropped down on the far end of the bench from her: he was obviously homeless, bundled in a ratty coat and jeans faded to the color of dishwater, leather shoes whose expensive brand she could only excuse by their battered condition - he had pulled them from a dumpster, probably, and worn the tread threadbare since. There was no debating the source of that stench, and she felt a ping of irritation and contempt, avoiding the man’s haggard face with the reflexive ease most Haves experience when confronted with a Have Not. Don’t make eye contact, the maxim went, and she wouldn’t, because he might ask for change, or take her attention as an invitation to begin some delusional panegyric. Christ, but he stank.

The homeless man sat blessedly silent and unobtrusive beside her, hands jammed into his pockets and face buried in the collar of his coat, but she still felt a flood of relief when she saw the bus approaching, and shot to her feet with a haste that bordered on rudeness. She didn’t care - the homeless were, in her own opinion and that of many of her friends, useful only as a very last resort. If one had to stoop to feeding from vagrants, one was either incompetent or desperately ill - or possessing unaccountable poor taste.

She boarded, paid her fare, and chose a seat halfway down the length of the bus, preparing to settle in with the half-finished book in her purse. Another wave of that stench stopped her before she had even opened the cover. The homeless man had boarded the bus behind her, slotting coins slowly into the farebox, and she firmly glanced away the moment he turned down the aisle, holding her breath as he passed. He took a seat near the back of the bus - probably planned to sleep there until he was kicked out at the end of the circuit - and the driver pulled away into the thoroughfare, leaving her in a steel box with that horrible stink.

After suffering it for five minutes, she glanced cautiously to the left and ahead of her, gauging the reaction of the other passengers - really, it smelled so bad she thought someone else must have noticed it, but none of the other commuters seemed bothered. The old woman sitting across the aisle from her had glanced toward the back of the bus once with an expression of sadness, or maybe pity, but that was all. Humans had weaker senses as a rule, but she didn’t know how they could miss it - that horrible, pervasive scent of raw fish.

And...and something else, she thought. The overlaying smell of alcohol made it hard to pick out, but there was something beneath it, too - a sort of musky, polecat odor that made her think of roadkill. She curled her lip at the thought, then frowned at a tickling of familiarity the smell tried to bring her. It was a vague thing, and she couldn’t quite seem to get it, fleeing further away the harder she tried to focus on it. Shaking her head like a dog trying to clear its ears of water, she determinedly opened her book and tried to read.

She managed twenty minutes of the hour-long drive across town before she finally gave into the urge to actually turn around in her seat and look at the man, whose presence she didn’t seem able to completely shut out. She had been prepared to look away immediately if she thought he might catch her, but she found that she needn’t have worried: the homeless man did indeed appear to have fallen asleep, his forehead pressed to the grimy bus window, mouth a little ajar, breathing slow and even. He was older, long, steel gray hair shot through with strands of shock white, but just looking at his pale, bearded face, she couldn’t have said if he was fifty or seventy. She got the sense that he might have been remarkably handsome, once - in the strong cleft of his chin, the shape of his jaw, the evenly spaced eyes - but she couldn’t bring herself to find any beauty in the dirty ruin of a thing he was now. She felt another surge of contempt for him, stronger this time.

He had stuffed one hand into his coat as if to hold in the warmth, and his other hand rested lax on his lap, tough, pitted fingers curled between the V of his bowed knees. He looked dead to the world, and she thought the odds that he would get off before her stop extremely slim. She thought of mentioning the man to the driver and asking to have him removed, but she had seen him pay his fare, and no one else seemed the least bit bothered by him, or even aware of him.

She tried to read again, actually angry now, but after little more than a page or so found her mind wandering, snagging again and again on that lingering sense of familiarity that was trying to become memory somewhere in the back of her mind. It niggled at her, like something important that she knew she had forgotten, and she smoothed her hair again, didn’t see the single silver disc of an iris gleaming at her from under coal gray eyelashes. The elusive memory began to infuriate her even more than the smell, and she was glaring intently out the window when the bus passed Tom & Jerry’s Artistic Deli, and the muscles in her lower belly tightened into a stone.

All at once, it recurred to her: she remembered this smell from the first time she had seen the graffiti, on the alley wall of that very deli. She had had to pass through the alley to get to the subway station from the Italian restaurant across the street, where she had stayed late with a date she had ultimately decided she could do better than. She had noted the graffiti then, passed it by, and then had given herself quite a scare along the following blocks toward the subway. It had been that smell - not the booze, but the fishy stink, and that underlying, musky odor that tickled something in her lizard brain. She had fancied she heard footsteps behind her, been absolutely convinced at one point that she was being stalked, and had made the trip down the last block at a clipped walk with her keys clenched between her fingers, thinking Burned Man, Burned Man, Burned Man.

But she had reached the station safely, mingling among the night shift commuters unharmed. She had looked up the street before descending the stairs underground, and all she had seen had been-

Had been a homeless man, staggering across the street toward the bar on the far side.

She sucked in a breath between her teeth, first resisting the urge to turn and look again, and then giving into it, turning her head very slowly over her right shoulder so she could see him, across the aisle and three rows back. He was still asleep; his face had slid a little down the pane of the bus window, pulling up the top lid of his eye to reveal a crescent of cornea, and his breathing was still slow - and in his lap sat an unblemished hand. She was about to turn around again and scold herself for being stupid when her eye fixed on his right arm stuffed into his coat - hiding the hand.

They’re whispering his name through this disappearing land, but hidden in his coat is a red right hand.

Who wrote that? It didn’t matter. A flicker of real fear had begun to take the place of paranoia, and she desperately tried to place his face, to determine if she had ever seen it before. It was hopeless; she hadn’t seen the face of the hobo that night by the subway, and who in New York paid attention to the faces of the homeless anyway?

God, but what if that was it? They said the Burned Man had a glam, something that kept him safe from notice until he was right behind you, but why would he need a glam when every New Yorker worked so hard not to see vagrants by choice that it eventually became second nature? A homeless man was the only type of person in the city who never looked out of place, and as a result never drew any especial attention.

Her heart hadn’t beat in over half a century, but she felt as if it had lodged itself in her throat, and when the old woman across the aisle gave her a curious look, she turned stiffly to face the front of the bus again, fear crawling on her back like a skittering insect. She was safe - she had to be. Who could look less like a vampire than she did? Middle-aged, middle-class, pretty but not beautiful, modestly dressed, second-generation immigrant from Italy - there were tens of thousands of women just like her in this city, and to think that she might be suspected of anything so far-fetched was ludicrous. The homeless man was human - foul-smelling, but undoubtedly human. She had nothing to fear.

The homeless man snorted, then belched, face sliding a little further down the pane. If he was pretending, he was very good, and she tried again to convince herself that she was being silly, shutting her eyes tight, and trying to clear her mind. She wasn’t such of a much as far as power went, had never been all that potent even among her own class of vampires, but her senses were still keen, and with concentration she could call upon them - call upon them to hear the quiet rasp of his steady breathing. And the steady thrum of his heart, thud-thud, thud-thud.

Too fast. The man’s heart wasn’t just clipping along, it was racing, and all at once she was in a paroxysm of terror, absolutely certain of his identity. Certain that she was trapped in a bus with the Burned Man, and that there was nothing she could do. Cry out? Make a scene? No, she would look like the aggressor, with him feigning sleep so artfully back there, and even if she didn’t simply provoke him into pouncing on her immediately, she could be detained, and he could just wait in some alley for her to leave. Ask to be let off the bus, go somewhere crowded? She’d give away that she knew, then, and he might simply follow her. No matter where she went, it would close eventually, and she would have to leave - he’d just have to lie in wait.

Home. She would have to go home, exactly as she had intended - she had a gun in her closet, and once she was inside she could call in at the Dixie Pig. If she said the Burned Man was outside of her house, the can-toi would be at her door in minutes, and he would either be caught or driven away. If the latter happened, she would just appeal to Sayre to relocate her. It would cost her a few more years’ debt, but she could cope with that for peace of mind. Yes, there - that was a solid plan.

But the last fifteen minutes of the drive felt like an eternity, constantly aware of his slow breathing and dark polecat odor somewhere behind her, and it took all of her willpower not to run off the bus the moment the door was opened. She walked slowly, forcing herself to look absent, natural, and preoccupied, and when she reached the curb she even took a moment to glance at her watch - in reality, glancing over it at the bus window, where the homeless man was apparently still sleeping, his breath visibly fogging the window. He stayed there, unmoving, even as the bus door closed and it began to pull away with a shriek of gears and exhaust. She watched, nonplussed, as it chugged on down the street and turned onto the adjoining avenue, and out of sight.

And just like that, he was gone. Swept out of her life, and after another minute of standing she had to make herself turn in the other direction and begin to walk. For the average person - and, for all that she had died sixty years ago, in mindset at least she was an average person - six blocks of walking is more than enough to begin doubting the memory of an irrational fear. What feels so visceral and absolutely true in the heat of the moment becomes vague, uncertain, because the mind is eager to discard the confounding, and will look without thinking for reasons to do so.

By the time she stepped into her brownstone and considered actually contacting Sayre, she didn’t just feel silly - she felt ridiculous. Was she really going to give Richard Sayre and his bookies a foot through the door of her privacy because she had gotten spooked by a sleeping homeless man on the bus? It was two in the afternoon, for Christ’s sake - broad daylight! The idea that that haggard man on the bus might have planned their meeting and deliberately stalked her now, when the world was alive with light, was stupid and absurd, and even if he had gotten off at the next stop, he would have had no way of knowing where she’d gone from there. She was not going to call Sayre.

She did take the revolver out of the closet and load it, but she placed it on the coffee table when she sat down in her loungewear to read and listen to a record, and after an hour she had nearly forgotten about it. By four, she had forgotten about it, and got up to make herself a late lunch, leaving the gun in the living room. When she discovered that the trash was full beyond her ability to jam it back down into the can and, grumbling, slipped on shoes to take it out, she did not take the gun with her.

The sunlight had taken on a darker hue as early afternoon became late, but it was still a gorgeous day out, and she took a moment to breathe it in before padding down the front steps and heading around to the dumpster between her building and the next. It didn’t smell half so pleasant in the alley - it didn’t matter how much money you paid per month, alleyways in New York always smelled like wet garbage - and she held her nose as she flipped the dumpster’s lid up and dropped her bag inside. She held it, and did not smell that musky polecat odor when it mingled with the rest of the alley stink. If the shriek and crash of a car accident close by hadn’t startled her into turning, she would have died immediately.

A heavy carpenter’s hammer cut through the air inches from her head with a sharp whoomp, and she uttered a breathless scream, turning to see the man from the bus, his shock-white hair windblown, chapped lips drawn back over his teeth - shock and fury mingling in a pair of wide, wild, red-rimmed eyes. She tried to scream again, but could manage nothing, because it wasn’t the hand holding the hammer that had arrested her attention, but the other one, clutching what she realized had been her book, forgotten on the bus - her book, with her name and mailing address written inside the back cover. And the hand that held it was hideous, mottled - and a dark, livid red.

“No, no, no, please,” she hissed, backing away from him, further into the alley. He advanced on her, and in the avidity of those pale eyes she thought she read not just rage, but fear. Was he scared? Afraid now that his ambush had been foiled and the element of surprise was lost? She was afraid, oh yes, but she was also a predator, and even a fearful predator is crafty - perhaps especially then. Always looking for the way out.

“Please, I don’t understand - I haven’t done anything to you!” Her voice cracked and quailed, and as she made her body small and held up her tiny hands in a warding off gesture, she was sure this time that she saw him hesitate, saw him swallow, saw those pale eyes flicker. The thing inside of her with its low cunning scented the air, smelling vulnerability. “I don’t have any money - it’s all inside! Bu-but...but you can have my jewelry!” She started to frantically remove her sapphire earrings, then went for her emerald ring as well when she saw an expression of horror dawn on his face. “Here, take them!” She shoved her palms out at him, and he actually took a step backward, holding up the disgusting ruin of a hand that held her book as if to say ‘oh cripes, I’m so sorry, my mistake’, mouth working soundlessly.

“Please, I don’t want to die.” She played up the pathos as much as she could, hearkening back to decades-old memories of what it had been like to feel, and he staggered back another step, arms dropping to his sides, bamboozled by doubt. When his fingers went lax around the handle of the hammer, she knew she had him, and lunged.

There were vampires more powerful than she - most of them, in fact. She walked by day in exchange for her weakness, but even she could dominate this human given an opening - her strength would surely match his, even if it didn’t exceed it. Serpentine fangs slitted through her gums with shocking abruptness as she pounced on him, wrapped her arms around his neck and locked her legs around his waist like a lover - but when she sealed her lips to his neck, she both felt and intended nothing but ruin.

Her teeth did not so much as graze his skin. The second her mouth made contact with his flesh, she was overwhelmed with that stench, that dark animal musk that had been lingering under the smell of raw fish like a dirty secret - it hit her like an open-palmed slap to the face, and she immediately began to heave, driven away from that primeval pheromone by instinct that was now wired in her blood. Not for you, that smell said. He is not for you. You are not allowed. Unclean. Unclean.

She staggered away from him, gagging, and in the moments before her death - her final death - she looked up and saw a horror. There was a sickly, bruised blue aura hanging around the old man’s head like a miasma, slicked over his cheeks and his chin and down his neck like glowing paint, staining his tongue, his teeth. All at once she knew that roadkill stench for what it was - the mark of the Unclean, who had drank of the Old Blood but not changed. Not dead, not undead, but never again truly living, cast out from the natural order into a no man’s land where neither side would greet them as kin. She had heard of it as a form of punishment, but never of a time in recent history when it had actually been done.

“Unclean-” She moaned, gut still wrenching, and for a moment the man looked absolutely thunderstruck with what some dim, forgotten part of her recognized as anguish. He looked gutted, wretched - and then furious, and when he swung the hammer back over his head, she screamed. And because this was New York City, even her neighbors that were home on a weekday afternoon did not look out their windows.

The homeless man stood in the alley in the aftermath of what he had done. He looked down at the crumpled pile of untenanted loungewear, the shock of brown hair, the little pile of teeth. Old-fashioned fillings - couldn’t have been done any later than the forties. After a moment he listlessly scuffed the teeth down a storm drain, and kicked the hair into a pile of garbage, where it looked like a discarded wig. He knelt down and reached for the clothes, then stopped. For a long moment he simply knelt there in the alley - then, very slowly, even fearfully, he traced the sign of the cross in the air in front of himself, and spoke with the voice of a man expecting to be struck.

“May the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ, the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and of all the saints, whatever good you have done or suffering you have endured, heal your sins and reward you with eternal life. Amen.” Silence reigned again, half-expectant, but no thunderbolt descended from the cloudless sky to smite him. Perhaps even the Unclean were permitted to dispense sacraments when the cause was just - because the woman who had left her copy of The Collected Works of Robert Browning on a bus in Queens two and a half hours ago was not undeserving of prayer.

Because she, like a Saint Bernard that once lived in Castle Rock, Maine, had always tried to be a good person, and had never wanted to hurt anybody. And like that poor dog, she had stuck her head into a cave and been bitten by a bat, and all of the misery that had followed, both for her and those around her, came down to no more than a virus. The disease had stolen her humanity, rather than her reason, and if the woman she had been today had willfully contributed to the spread of the AIDs crisis, the woman she had been once could not be blamed for it. For that woman, who had been dead indeed for nearly sixty years, it had never been a matter of choice.

The man in the alley picked up the clothing and jewelry, and dropped them into the dumpster, then pulled a few bags of trash over them. Even if they were discovered when the woman’s disappearance was noticed, he wasn’t concerned - what evidence was there of murder? The teeth had already been washed away in the greywater, and the hair might be perplexing, but would lead nowhere. He left the alley the way he had come, and wandered back down to the bus stop.

When the 4:30 bus arrived, he boarded it, and when he saw the bar he had had in mind out the window, spotted the graffiti on the bench in front of it, he decided to stay on a few more stops - and the city swallowed him, because it was hungry. The city was always hungry, and not all of those it devoured were unwilling.

#;; DRABBLE #;; MUSE : CALLAHAN #me: has like five perfectly good drabble prompts in my inbox #my brain: hey but how about this totally unrelated idea?#me: wow buddy you're absolutely right #anyway here's 'don callahan is a reverse-cryptid - the vignette'

4 notes · View notes

everlarkbirthdaygifts · 8 years ago

Text

Happy Birthday page-28!

Happy Birthday @page-28! We hope you had a great day celebrating:) To help make your day is even better, @historywriter2007 has written you a lovely Everlark story :)

Rating: T

Katniss pulled her car along the curb in front of the newly renovated building and huffed as she put it in park. She was still fuming over the fact she had to come out here and review a coffee shop. A real coffee shop, not some place that sold coffee along with exquisite food, no a coffee shop. Katniss was a food critic, a damn good one, not a coffee critic; but her editor told her she owed one of the owners a favor so now Katniss was the one spending her afternoon at The Cornucopia Coffee Shop instead of trying to work on her pitch to Travel Panem.

Katniss took a deep breath and tried to collect herself before going in. She may be pissed about her assignment, but she was a professional and was going to act as such. The coffee shop was in an up and coming area of the Capital, many of the buildings were older and being renovated. The Cornucopia sat on a corner lot and appeared to have at least one apartment above it with the windows wide open. She pulled the doors open and walked in, the second she entered she noticed this was different than other coffee shops she’d been in. Unlike the ritzy chain shops with their dark wood and overpriced drinks this shop was bright, warm and inviting. There was no other way to put it in Katniss’ mind, the place felt like home. The wood floors and counters were light in color and the walls were all a warm beige besides the back wall which was a sunset orange.

Ed Sheeran played from a small speaker behind the bar so she knew someone was here but she couldn’t find them right away. She wondered to the counter and looked behind it to find a male with a very nice looking ass half in the display case.

“Excuse me.” She started, causing the man in the case to jump and hit his head with a loud bang followed by a whispered “shit.” He pushed his way out rubbing his hand along the back of his head, tousling his curly blonde hair in the process. When he straightened Katniss couldn’t help but to stare, he was around her age, medium height, well built, with bright blue eyes with a strong jaw and movie star looks.

She quickly regained her composure. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Katniss Everdeen with The Capital Times, I am supposed to be meeting a Peeta Mellark here.”

The man gave her a nervous smile and extended the hand that was not holding his head, “I’m Peeta, it’s nice to meet you. When they said they were going to send someone to review the place I didn’t think I would get someone as well known as you.”

“I was told Effie owed you a favor so here I am,” Katniss replied.

Peeta let out a huff. “No, she owes Haymitch a favor and then some. He’s a silent partner, believe me if you ever met him you wouldn’t want him near your food, but he does make a mean Whiskey Sour. He is the owner of the Arena Bar a few blocks over, my guess is he figured if he got them drunk the night before they would need coffee the next morning. I’m sorry they dragged you into this, I am sure this is beneath you.”

Although he was saying exactly what she was thinking moments ago she felt a pull to him, there was something about him that felt familiar and comfortable, she found she wanted to help him. “It’s not beneath me, just not what I’m used to. I’m willing to go ahead with the review if you are.”

Peeta smiled for real this time showing off his perfect white teeth and dimples, “Sure, so how do you want to go about this?”

“Why don’t you get a few of your house specialties together and we’ll go from there.”

Peeta nodded and started to gather some dishes, “Why don’t you take a look around while I get everything together.”

Katniss smiled at him then walked away from the bar to let him work. She found herself wandering towards the back where a picture hung that seemed very familiar to her. It was a meadow in the spring, filled with dandelions. Katniss was immediately enchanted by the painting, she felt like she could smell the green grass, it was just like she was back in District 12 where she grew up. Peeta’s heavy tread came up behind her, she spoke without turning around. “Who did this painting?”

He was placing the tray down at the table next to her as he answered. “I did. It’s of the meadow outside District 12. I went there a few times while visiting my grandparents.”

Katniss turned to look at him, but he was now the one lost in the painting. “I’m from 12, I’m surprised we never crossed paths before.”

“We were never there very long, my mother hated going to 12. I would sneak away for a bit to see the meadow if I got the chance, I always loved how peaceful it seemed, especially compared to the hustle of the Capital.”

“I loved it too, I would go there a lot after my father died. It was the only place I felt I could let go of everything for awhile.” Katniss was afraid of where the conversation would go after she uttered those words and she changed the subject. “So what did you bring me.”

The two sat at the small table next to them, “I have a cafe mocha, a latte, and a hot chocolate. Also, I brought a sample of the food items I am thinking of carrying when I open, a chocolate croissant and some cheesebuns.”

Katniss noticed he had a cup as well, “And what are you drinking?”

He paused to answer before taking his first sip. “Tea, just cream, no sugar.”

Katniss chose the cheesebun first and couldn’t stop the sound she made as she tasted the treat. It was savory, with just the right amount of herbs and cheese to make her taste buds explode with pleasure. When she opened her eyes and looked at Peeta, his mouth hung open and his cheeks had a slight blush, one which she was sure her’s now matched. He swallowed thickly before talking. “I’m guessing you like them.”

Katniss simply looked at him and nodded, no food ever made her moan in pleasure before, she then took a sip of the hot chocolate, which gave her a similar reaction. It was smooth, but thick at the same time. Not to mention the way the savory from the cheesebun and the sweetness of the hot chocolate met in her mouth; it was as if she was tasting heaven. If she had known coffee shops had this kind of flavor she would’ve added more to her circuit.

“Oh my God Peeta, this is amazing. Where did you get the recipes?”

“I made them up myself. It took some time, but I finally got them where I wanted them.”

As Katniss continued to try the drinks and food she asked Peeta more about the shop. He told her about how his grandparents had a bakery in 12, but he didn’t open a bakery due to the overhead. She, in turn, told him stories from her childhood, how she got out of 12 and that her sister was now studying medicine in District 4. Katniss also told Peeta about her idea for a new show where she would go around Panem trying restaurants and educating people about the forgotten history of each district. He was the first person who told her to go for it without finding a thousand reasons it would fail.

The conversation went on for hours, but neither noticed, they had stopped talking about the shop, it felt more like they were old friends catching up on lost time. Finally, Katniss realized it was getting dark outside. “I should get going so I can write the article, by the way, are there apartments upstairs? I know those are going for a premium in this area, I could mention it in the article if you’d like.”

“I’m the only one who lives up there. I bought the whole building and thought it would be better to only have my apartment up there. That way I could ensure I didn’t have a noisy neighbor keeping me up. Do you want to see it?” The words left Peeta’s mouth before he could stop them and the blush that took over his face made Katniss’ heartbeat speed up. She wanted to see the apartment, along with spending more time with its occupant, but she needed to keep things professional.

“No, that’s okay. I should get going. The article will be out in about a week, right before your grand opening.” Katniss spoke while trying to gather her notepad and other items, she needed to get out of there before she did something stupid like lick the bit of chocolate she just noticed in the corner of Peeta’s mouth. She couldn’t help the attraction she felt for him and it scared her.

If Peeta was thrown off he didn't let on, instead he gathered the now empty cups and plates and walked her to the door. “Well if you ever want a tour I would be happy to give you one.”

He gave her a shy smile that made everything in her melt, time to go. Katniss nodded and walked out the door shouting a thank you over her shoulder.

___

One week later Katniss found her way back to The Cornucopia with an advanced copy of the review she wrote. She never brought advance copies, but she couldn’t get Peeta out of her head. For once she decided to take a chance, plus her friend Joanna told her it’s time to do something with her life besides work. What’s the worst that could happen?

The door was open and Peeta was straightening up behind the bar, this time Imagine Dragons played over the speakers in the shop. Everything was ready for the grand opening which would be in two days. He looked up from the pile of plates and gave Katniss a big smile she couldn’t help matching. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Katniss answered while handing over the lifestyle section of the paper. “Well, I thought you would like to see what I wrote about the shop.”

Peeta took the paper and read the review while Katniss bit her bottom lip, she hadn’t been this nervous about a review since she wrote her first one for Effie.

Finally, he looked up. “You really think this is the best coffee shop you’ve ever been in?”

“I never write anything I don’t mean. I’m a horrible liar.” Katniss acknowledged.

“Thank you, this means a lot coming from the top restaurant critic in the Capital. Speaking of, where would you recommend someone go on a first date?”

Katniss felt a pit open up in her stomach, of course he would have a date. Peeta was far too attractive and nice to be single for long. She hoped her voice wouldn’t betray her as she spoke. “I would suggest The Ocean, as long as your date likes seafood that is.”

“Well Katniss, do you like seafood?” Peeta questioned.

Katniss stared at him with confusion, “Yes, why?”

Peeta chuckled and ran his thumb over her furrowed brows, “I would like to ask you out on a date. Now that the review is published we could go out right. Of course that’s only if you want to.”

Katniss released her breath, “I would like that very much, and maybe after I could get that tour of the new apartment upstairs.”

Peeta moved a hair from her face to behind her ear, “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #everlarkbirthdaydrabbles #everlarkbirthdaygifts #fan fic #by historywriter2007

115 notes · View notes

tendance-news · 8 years ago

Link

FUKUSHIMA DAIICHI NUCLEAR POWER PLANT, Japan — Four engineers hunched before a bank of monitors, one holding what looked like a game controller. They had spent a month training for what they were about to do: pilot a small robot into the contaminated heart of the ruined Fukushima nuclear plant.

Earlier robots had failed, getting caught on debris or suffering circuit malfunctions from excess radiation. But the newer version, called the Mini-Manbo, or “little sunfish,” was made of radiation-hardened materials with a sensor to help it avoid dangerous hot spots in the plant’s flooded reactor buildings.

The size of a shoe box, the Manbo used tiny propellers to hover and glide through water in a manner similar to an aerial drone.

After three days of carefully navigating through a shattered reactor building, the Manbo finally reached the heavily damaged Unit 3 reactor. There, the robot beamed back video of a gaping hole at the bottom of the reactor and, on the floor beneath it, clumps of what looked like solidified lava: the first images ever taken of the plant’s melted uranium fuel.

Continue reading the main story

Photo

The Mini-Manbo, at a demonstration in Yokosuka, Japan, is an underwater robot fitted with radiation-hardened materials and sensors. It succeeded where previous robots had failed, maneuvering around debris and avoiding excess radiation to locate the Fukushima plant’s spent, and highly dangerous, uranium fuel.CreditKo Sasaki for The New York Times

The discovery in July at Unit 3, and similar successes this year in locating the fuel of the plant’s other two ruined reactors, mark what Japanese officials hope will prove to be a turning point in the worst atomic disaster since Chernobyl.

The fate of the fuel had been one of the most enduring mysteries of the catastrophe, which occurred on March 11, 2011, when an earthquake and 50-foot tsunami knocked out vital cooling systems here at the plant.

Continue reading the main story

Left to overheat, three of the six reactors melted down. Their uranium fuel rods liquefied like candle wax, dripping to the bottom of the reactor vessels in a molten mass hot enough to burn through the steel walls and even penetrate the concrete floors below.

Robot finds potential fuel debris in reactor 3 at the Fukushima No. 1 power plant Video by International Research Institute for Nuclear Decommissioning, via The Japan Times

No one knew for sure exactly how far those molten fuel cores had traveled before desperate plant workers — later celebrated as the “Fukushima Fifty”— were able to cool them again by pumping water into the reactor buildings. With radiation levels so high, the fate of the fuel remained unknown.

As officials became more confident about managing the disaster, they began a search for the missing fuel. Scientists and engineers built radiation-resistant robots like the Manbo and a device like a huge X-ray machine that uses exotic space particles called muons to see the reactors’ innards.

Now that engineers say they have found the fuel, officials of the government and the utility that runs the plant hope to sway public opinion. Six and a half years after the accident spewed radiation over northern Japan, and at one point seemed to endanger Tokyo, the officials hope to persuade a skeptical world that the plant has moved out of post-disaster crisis mode and into something much less threatening: cleanup.

“Until now, we didn’t know exactly where the fuel was, or what it looked like,” said Takahiro Kimoto, a general manager in the nuclear power division of the plant’s operator, Tokyo Electric Power Co., or Tepco. “Now that we have seen it, we can make plans to retrieve it.”

Tepco is keen to portray the plant as one big industrial cleanup site. About 7,000 people work here, building new water storage tanks, moving radioactive debris to a new disposal site, and erecting enormous scaffoldings over reactor buildings torn apart by the huge hydrogen explosions that occurred during the accident.

Access to the plant is easier than it was just a year ago, when visitors still had to change into special protective clothing. These days, workers and visitors can move about all but the most dangerous areas in street clothes.

Continue reading the main story

Photo

The Unit 1 reactor at the Fukushima plant, whose top was blown away when it melted down on March 11, 2011. CreditKo Sasaki for The New York Times

Photo

From left, Unit 2, damage to Unit 1, and a tank at the Naraha technology center, situated in the evacuation zone around the Fukushima plant, where the Mini-Manbo was tested. CreditKo Sasaki for The New York Times

A Tepco guide explained this was because the central plant grounds had been deforested and paved over, sealing in contaminated soil.

During a recent visit, the mood within the plant was noticeably more relaxed, though movements were still tightly controlled and everyone was required to wear radiation-measuring badges. Inside a “resting building,” workers ate in a large cafeteria and bought snacks in a convenience store.

At the plant’s entrance, a sign warned: “Games like Pokemon GO are forbidden within the facility.”

“We have finished the debris cleanup and gotten the plant under control,” said the guide, Daisuke Hirose, a spokesman for Tepco’s subsidiary in charge of decommissioning the plant. “Now, we are finally preparing for decommissioning.”

In September, the prime minister’s office set a target date of 2021 — the 10th anniversary of the disaster — for the next significant stage, when workers begin extracting the melted fuel from at least one of the three destroyed reactors, though they have yet to choose which one.

The government admits that cleaning up the plant will take at least another three to four decades and tens of billions of dollars. A $100 million research center has been built nearby to help scientists and engineers develop a new generation of robots to enter the reactor buildings and scoop up the melted fuel.

At Chernobyl, the Soviets simply entombed the charred reactor in concrete after the deadly 1986 accident. But Japan has pledged to dismantle the Fukushima plant and decontaminate the surrounding countryside, which was home to about 160,000 people who were evacuated after accident.

Many of them have been allowed to return as the rural towns around the plant have been decontaminated. But without at least starting a cleanup of the plant itself, officials admit they will find it difficult to convince the public that the accident is truly over.

They also hope that beginning the cleanup will help them win the public’s consent to restart Japan’s undamaged nuclear plants, most of which remain shut down since the disaster.

Tepco and the government are treading cautiously to avoid further mishaps that could raise doubts that the plant is under control.

“They are being very methodical — too slow, some would say — in making a careful effort to avoid any missteps or nasty surprises,” said David Lochbaum, director of the nuclear safety project at the Union of Concerned Scientists, who was a co-author of a book on the disaster.

“They want to regain trust. They have learned that trust can be lost much quicker than it can be recovered.”

Continue reading the main story

Photo

A robot in a tank at the Naraha technology center, where engineers are testing new devices to explore the ruined Fukushima nuclear plant.CreditKo Sasaki for The New York Times

Photo

Other projects at the Naraha technology center. “This is a divine mission for Japan’s robot engineers,” said its director of research and development, Shinji Kawatsuma.CreditKo Sasaki for The New York Times

To show the course followed by the Manbo, Tepco’s Mr. Hirose guided me inside the building containing the undamaged Unit 5 reactor, which is structurally the same as two of the destroyed reactors.

Mr. Hirose pointed toward the spot on a narrow access ramp where two robots, including one that looked like a scorpion, got tangled in February by debris inside the ruined Unit 2.

Before engineers could free the scorpion, its monitoring screen faded to black as its electronic components were overcome by radiation, which Tepco said reached levels of 70 sieverts per hour. (A dose of one sievert is enough to cause radiation sickness in a human.)

Mr. Hirose then led me underneath the reactor, onto what is called the pedestal.

The bottom of the reactor looked like a collection of huge bolts — the access points for control rods used to speed up and slow down the nuclear reaction inside a healthy reactor. The pedestal was just a metal grating, with the building’s concrete floor visible below.

“The overheated fuel would have dropped from here, and melted through the grating around here,” Mr. Hirose said, as we squatted to avoid banging our heads on the reactor bottom. The entire area around the reactor was dark, and cluttered with pipes and machinery.

Continue reading the main story

Photo

Mr. Hirose entering the reactor of the undamaged Unit 5. The Japanese government has set a target date of 2021 to begin extracting the melted fuel from at least one of the three destroyed reactors.CreditKo Sasaki for The New York Times

To avoid getting entangled, the Manbo took three days to travel some 20 feet to the bottom of Unit 3.

To examine the other two reactors, engineers built a “snake” robot that could thread its way through wreckage, and the imaging device using muons, which can pass through most matter. The muon device has produced crude, ghostly images of the reactors’ interiors.

Extracting the melted fuel will present its own set of technical challenges, and risks.

Engineers are developing the new radiation-resistant robots at the Naraha Remote Technology Development Center. It includes a hangar-sized building to hold full-scale mock-ups of the plant and a virtual-reality room that simulates the interiors of the reactor buildings, including locations of known debris.

“I’ve been a robotic engineer for 30 years, and we’ve never faced anything as hard as this,” said Shinji Kawatsuma, director of research and development at the center. “This is a divine mission for Japan’s robot engineers.”

#IFTTT #Blogger

0 notes