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nyaarr · 1 year

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Hi, i just wanted to say quickly that im rlly inspired by your WFI series on ao3, so much so i wrote my own fics (id love for u too have a tiny look at them🙏). I just think it's really good, even though the ending left me crying a little😭 I wondered if youre going to do any more Anahardt stuff at all? I understand youve slowed down since ow isnt for you anymore, and thats totally understandable. I just had a few questions;

-Were there any ideas you had (old and new) for fics, or headcanons or stuff that never made it into an actual post/fic? If so what were they, id love to know

-Ik u said WFI part 3 wouldnt come out, but i was thinking if i could write it for you instead? As in, you tell me about your ideas you had for it, and why it never took off, and perhaps i could write it myself? sort of like a little reboot. if not its totally fine👌im not offended.

But yk, if you ever get any ideas of picking the hammer back up, dont hesitate to let me know. love ur work btw, super awesome!

Hii!

First of all, thank you! You're very kind :) I would love to read your stories, and surely other people here too, so hit us with the link.

Blizzard killed the love I had for Overwatch. Not for the characters, you know, but the game itself. They destroyed WoW first, then came for OW, and I'm pissed. I'm so pissed I uninstalled both months ago and grieved what we could have had.

I have a short anahardt story almost finished. :< It's another "they get together" type of story. I really enjoy watching them get close I guess :3

I also have another big story that I'll never finish: an OW + Pacific Rim crossover that was going to be about Rein and Ana. It's actually two stories, because I never could decide which plot I liked most, so... I kind of wrote both in paralell :_) I might actually post the first chapter as standalone one of these days.

I had a million ideas for WFI3 and 4, some of which were written down in different grades of completioness. Since I dropped the project quite some time ago, I only really remember that I put on paper.

WFI3 was going to be a mashup of short stories happening on different years instead of longer chapters. I wanted to cover around 20 years or so, and this seemed the best way forward. It was going to start from where WFI2 ended, kind of fix things so that they were in friendly terms again but strictly nothing more, and end it with Rein's retirement and Ana's death.

WFI4 was going to be more similar to 1 and 2, and was going to show what Rein and Ana were doing on their own before their met again.

One of the ideas I wanted to explore for Rein --which might have never worked, but anyway-- was having a big discussion with Jack about what happened with Ana at OW headquarters, and then snatching his armour on the way out and becoming a sort of a fugitive (an idea I got from Ironhardt). This was going to be a bit in line about what Sombra said about Brigitte not knowing stuff about Rein's retiremnt. He would be in hiding but helping people until the fall of OW, where the UN would stop actively looking for him. Then Brigitte would join him after he comes to the Lindholm's house looking like what the cat brought : )

They were to go here and there and answer the recall on Gibraltar. Torb and Bastion were going to be there, just like Jack and Ana (with their masks on), Tracer, Winston, and others, and everything was going to go to hell pretty quickly from there.

I envisioned Bastion and Rein's encounter a bit more dramatic that what Blizzard showed us. Blizzard always hinted at Rein having some sort of trouble with his memory and whatnots, which I was going to address at the end of WFI3 (the reason for it) and in WFI4 (where sometimes he thinks he sees and hears things, like a rogue bastion ticking or Ana's ghost -- which happen to be very real).

WFI4 would have some of the ideas of the Anahardt 2018 stories I wrote as well. Particularly the conversation they have where Ana explains what happened to her and why she did what she did-- with the difference Rein wouldn't have caved this time. I wanted Ana to work hard this time to get him back. He deserved it lol.

I wanted WFI4 Ana to be different in quite some aspects, after everything that happened to her. She wasn't going to know which memories she had were real. So in a way, Rein would understand what she was going through. And I wanted Brigitte to be fiercely protective of him, hissing at Ana, so to speak, and telling her to stay away.

I'm all happy that you find inspiration on my stories and that they make you write. If you want to continue what I started, go for it. I won't share my drafts or ideas in more detail, since whatever you write has to be your story, not mine, but the universe is out there so to speak. Go ham. Have fun. And share when you're done!

I'll give you a little parting gift though. The first bit of WFI3:

Sep 2056 -- Sweden

“Yes, I am sure.” Torbjorn rolled his eye, his patience obviously running thin. “It’ll be fine. Aha. Yeah, we have the SUV he borrowed from HQ. Ah, what now?”

There was a moment of silence so poignant that Reinhardt looked at his friend. He was glaring at the coffee table as if he wanted to disintegrate it, but then his gaze softened.

“That’d be fine, I think. Thanks. Talk to you soon.”

He hung up with a flick of his wrist and leaned back on the bunch of pillows they were sharing in front of the TV.

“So…? What happened?”

“Dr Shollner seems positive that you’d recover sooner since this time the rest of your leg is not in pieces.”

“That’s a relief!”

“He will perform the surgery in two days, back at the base.”

Reinhardt swallowed. That was not the plan. He was supposed to fly to Sweden, fix his leg in the hospital where Angela’s parents used to work. The whole point was not going back to Switzerland yet.

“I know, I know,” Torbjorn sighed, closing his eye and resting his hand over his midsection. “I tried, but it wasn’t negotiable. The good news is you’ll be back home with us the next day.”

One night of being on bad drugs. He could manage that.

“The better news is I’m going with you. So you better behave; I need my beauty sleep.”

“What? No. You need to rest. There’s no need to—I’ve got this.”

“Shut up. I said I’m going, and I’m going,” he snorted softly. “I can do some designing from home, but I’d rather bring some of my equipment here.”

“Designing?”

“For my arm,” he waved his hand, lazily. “And for your armour. No point in having surgery now if the armour is not helping you enough.”

Reinhardt shifted in the pillows. He was not sure how much of his plight was his armour, and how much was just wear and tear. However, he would take armour improvements with grabby hands.

“And…” He started after a moment of silence, after noticing his friend was still frowning at whatever he learned over the phone. “Can you make it so that I could jump ah, let’s say, down from a building? Like taking a big plunge.”

“No! You should not be jumping off buildings. Wasn't last time more than enough?" The engineer glowered. "What’s gotten into you?”

“Ah, I was thinking it would be really cool if I could be deployed directly from the aircraft. You know, just dropping to the groooound, and boom!”

Torbjorn turned his head towards him, an indescribable expression on his face.

“No more brännvin for you. Or sugar.”

“Aww…"

#my art #overwatch #Wait for it

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radbeetle · 4 years

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|Call to Arms|

wow these screenshots are so old. do you know why i’ve been sitting on them for so long? because i wanted to finish the writing about this mission before I posted them

AND I DID. Check it out on AO3 or under the readmore.

“These robots were assaulted by institute synths.”

Katherine scrunched up her face and shielded her eyes as she looked up at Danse , who insisted on keeping his headlamp on.

“Um, sorry, I - I gotta ask… what are… synths?” and what’s the institute, for that matter, she thought to herself, but one question at a time.

“Technological abominations created by the institute, and let loose to run rampant throughout the commonwealth.” Danse’s voice was heavy with disgust, even through the buzzy modulation of his power armor.

“Danse. That’s… I get that you don’t like them, but what are they?” Katherine pleaded. “Just… in simple terms? Please?”

He scoffed. “I would have thought you familiar with them. Most in the Commonwealth seem to be.”

Katherine deflated, shoulders sinking. “Well… just… I’m out of the loop. Let’s leave it at that.”

The blank stare of the T-60’s helmet concealed Danse’s puzzlement. Regardless, he provided explanation. “Robots, built in the shape of man. A mannequin brought to life by machinery. They’re a mockery of humankind at best, and a blight upon this world at worst.”

Katherine bit her tongue, and suppressed her curiosity. As much as she wanted to know more, it was obvious Danse was biased. “I guess things have come a long way from the Mr. Handy, huh.” There was still a little bit of awe in her voice - she very much wanted to see these synths. Truly humanoid robots had always been a lofty goal of the industry… she had heard of RobCo’s Assaultrons, but they were still miles away.

Danse scoffed. “Unfortunately. Keep your eyes open as we move deeper into the facility. It’s highly likely that the Institute’s forces still have a presence here.” The paladin was already moving on, and Katherine was quick to follow.

“Mmm-hmm.” She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Part of her was brimming with curiosity about these synths… and part of her knew that if they could take down those protectrons, they could take down her.

“This place has really been trashed, huh? What do you think it was like back in the day?”

“Filled with men making poor decisions, I’m certain.”

Katherine pressed her lips. So much for small talk. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the hallways opened up into another room. Two dust coated windows framed a sliding door, which Danse was quick to investigate.

“This is the way forwards, but it seems to be locked tight. There’s no apparent way to open it from here.”

Katherine straightened up, and holstered her 10mm. “Oh, if there’s no visible controls on the door, they’re likely wired into a local terminal. It’s technically required for them have a way to bypass the lock through the hardware, in case of emergency, but they never make it easy. Security stuff. Uh…” she trailed off for a moment, glancing around the room. There were a few desks still standing on the opposite wall, terminals still intact. “Um, give me a moment.” She kicked a toppled chair away from the desk, and bent over the keyboard. “Mmm, this one’s still logged in. I guess there’s not really time to properly disconnect from your workstation when they’re bombing the city.” she muttered as she scrolled through the inbox.

“Any luck over there?” Danse inquired.

“I’ve got access to the internal mail system, uh, lots of reminders about security protocols and - ah-heh. Automated password change reminder. Looks like it’s for the lab access?” Katherine had a gnawing feeling in her gut that she was over-explaining things. Surely the paladin didn’t care about the specifics.

“That’s where we’re headed.”

“Great, yeah, uh.” She scanned the room again and scampered to the other still functional terminal. “Let’s hope…” she trailed off.

Danse took a few steps away from the laboratory door, turning to watch Katherine with mild curiosity, hidden behind the power armor helmet. She seemed quite at home amongst the terminals and technology. An unusual trait, compared to most of the wastelanders he met. Though he was initially skeptical of her claim to being a Vault Dweller - the Brotherhood had no record of a Vault 111, after all - he wondered if perhaps there was some truth to her statement.

“Hey!” Kate’s head popped up over the top of the terminal. “Got it.”

“Excellent. Let’s not waste any more time. If you could open the door?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah.” A swift keystroke and the door opened with the whnk-hsss of pneumatics.

Paladin Danse formed around, set once again to lead the way onward, through the facility - but the incandescent blue laser bolt that buzzed his power armor brought those plans to a standstill.

“Hostile detected.” The matter-of-fact statement and computerized voice carried no overt aggression, a sharp contrast to the flurry of laser fire passing through the now opened doorway.

“Synths! Take cover!”

Katherine didn’t need to be told - she dove for cover behind a fallen file cabinet the instant she caught sight of the laser’s flash. Her grip tightened around her pistol as she heard Danse shout - a cautious glimpse revealed that the synths - that’s what he said they were? - were prioritizing the Paladin as a target, paying no attention to her. She wasn’t sure if they had even noticed her.

A dozen thoughts all raced through her head, tangling together as she stared at the machines. Mannequins was the comparison Danse had drawn. He wasn’t too far off. They were battered, damaged, rubber skin torn to reveal steel skeletons and plastic components. Only a moment had passed before one of them turned its gaze to Kate. The faint yellow glow of its eyes and the exposed grimace of its metal skull was an eerie sight - and one that quickly exploded in a shower of sparks and shrapnel.

Danse had taken it out with a single headshot.

The moment was enough to jolt her back into action, and she followed up by returning fire. Her 10mm pistol wasn’t nearly as effective as the AER-9 laser rifle Danse carried, but it did the job.

“Hmph. Sent them to the scrap heap.” He noted the laser weaponry carried by the synths, and had a realization. He glanced at the pistol carried by his current associate, and offered her the backup laser rifle he had brought. “Take this. I’m certain there’ll be more of them, and they’ll be carrying microfusion cells. Energy will be more effective than a weapon of a ballistic nature.” The Paladin tossed the rifle towards Katherine, who caught it with a startled yelp. She turned the weapon over in her hands. She had a passing familiarity with the AER-9 - though she had never personally handled one, she understood the basic mechanisms, and microfusion cells were something she was well acquainted with.

She fastened her 10mm pistol to her belt and kept the laser in hand. Danse had already stepped over the smoldering wrecks of the synths, but her curiosity was too strong. She stopped in the middle of the room, and crouched down over one of the robots.

They had been shooting at me only minutes ago, she thought, and there was still part of her that was worried they might spring back to life. Yet despite that lurking fear, she had to get a closer look.

The situation struck her as a little morbid, perhaps. Moreso than examining a broken-down Mr. Handy, at least.

It was the faces, she thought. The eyes.

The Institute. That’s where Danse said they had come from. Katherine had seen how the world was torn apart, still ruined from the bombs dropped so long ago. But it seemed that somewhere out there, something had not just survived, but thrived. Moved on past the limits of the world she knew, developed things that General Atomics could only have dreamed of.

A weight settled somewhere deep in her chest as she turned one over. An aching sort of sadness.

She didn’t have a chance to process those feelings, to figure out the why behind them.

“What are you doing? Hurry up. We can’t waste any more time.” Danse snapped, irritated by what he saw as Kate’s dawdling.

“Oh.” Katherine’s response was quiet. She got to her feet, gaze lingering on the remains of the synths, before turning away to follow Danse once again, through the ruins of ArcJet.

Katherine was worn down by the repeated encounters with the institute synths - after the first firefight she stuck closer than ever to the paladin - and stayed behind him, too. The power armor could take a laser much better than she could.

She was sure Danse was scowling at her cowardice, under his helmet.

“This way leads to the engine core. We’ll have to pass through here to reach the location where they’ve likely stored the transmitter.”

Danse looked back to find Kate dragging her fingers through the dust on a long abandoned desk, staring at a box of long faded files and folders.

“Everything here stopped so suddenly… how many people do you think made it out?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“When… the bombs dropped.” Katherine clarified, her voice tinged with sadness.

Danse cocked his head. “I couldn’t tell you, and I doubt anyone in the commonwealth has that information, given how many years have passed since those events.” He scoffed. “Regardless, I would suggest against concerning yourself with the people of the past. Their actions brought the war upon themselves.”

Her only response to Danse’s declaration was to go very quiet.

The elevator ride that took them to the engine core was awkward; Katherine pressed herself into the back corner of the car and wondered how much a suit of T-60 power armor weighed. Every time the elevator creaked, or groaned, she flinched. The thought that it had gone two centuries without maintenance scared her.

Kate’s knuckles went white as she clutched the pitted railing, just leaning barely enough over to stare down to the depths of the room. Her eyes followed the length of the rocket booster back up, and turned to look back at Danse, whose attention was drawn upwards, assessing the staircase - and the massive gap where it had broken away over the past two centuries.

It wasn’t filling Katherine with confidence, that was for sure.

–

It was only a short few flights to the floor of the test chamber, thankfully. The ash crunched under Katherine’s feet, and she walked a line around the edge of the room, idly looking over the footprints she left.

Danse placed an armored hand on the cowl of the engine, which had laid dormant for over two centuries. He wondered briefly if the brotherhood would have a use for it.

Maybe if it were smaller. As it stood, there was no way to transport the thing.

“See if you can find a way to turn the power back on. Perhaps redirect it from other parts of the facility.”

“Yeah - yeah sure.” There were only two ways out of the room, aside from the stairs. An elevator, unpowered and unusable, and a set of heavy steel double doors, halfway open and leading to what looked like a maintenance hall, judging by the wires and pipes running along the concrete. Seemed promising - or so she hoped.

There was a… she supposed it was some sort of control room, judging by all the consoles and buttons present, but she didn’t pay much attention to it - another doorway at the rear of the room exposed a fusion generator, and that was much more promising when it came to potential power systems.

Not just one fusion generator, but two - and a terminal at the back of the room. She nudged the chair away from the desk, wheels leaving a trail in the dust. As she settled in, Kate’s fingers ran across the terminal keys. There was no elaborate security down here in the depths. It didn’t surprise her. But it did make her current task easier - and she was glad. She tapped her way through various options, scanning every choice and setting .

Ah. There we go. Auxiliary power. A few confirmations and…

She could hear the power systems coming to life in the walls around her, the faint buzz of electricity through wires, and the hum of mechanical systems powering up. That should have done it, if everything was still connected.

The fusion generators she had passed has turned quiet, and her gaze lingered on the fusion core left inside. Well… if that was no longer connected, no longer needed.

Push, turn, and a click as it disconnected, slipped into her pocket on the way out.

It was the sound of gunfire that made Katherine snap to attention once again. Or, more accurately, laser fire. Flashes of blue and red through the reinforced glass window of the control room.

The paladin’s shouts confirmed her assumption.

“Synths!”

She froze up, eyes darting across the room, tracking the barrage of blue bolts in front of her.

It felt like hours before Danse called out again, directed at her. “Do something, Vance! Don’t just - urgh - stand there!”

It was enough to jolt her into action.

She slammed her open palm down on the big red button on the console in front of her.

The sounds of laser fire weren’t enough to obscure the pre-recorded countdown that initiated.

“Command accepted. Test fire commencing in five… four…”

Katherine’s heart was doing backflips in her chest. “Test fi- oh god oh no job on that’s not -” She pounded on the window. “Danse!”

“Three… two…”

Danse didn’t have time to muster a response, under the onslaught of synths.“

"One. Engine firing.”

The roar of the engine was deafening, and Katherine’s immediate reaction was to cover her ears. The sound was matched in intensity by the engine’s output - even here behind the safety of the blast shield, she still felt the wave of heat.

Danse dropped to one knee, arm raised to shield his face. The steel of his power armor picked up a faint red glow around the edges under the engine’s flames.

The synths weren’t nearly as durable. Any of them immediately under the test engine were swiftly reduced to ash, and those with a little more distance crumpled to the floor within moments.

“Test firing completed with an efficiency rating of ninety-six point seven percent.”

Katherine was already at the blast doors by the time they swung open. Her footsteps crackled in the ash as she ran to Danse.

He hadn’t moved since going down, and that made her fearful.

But as she approached, he groaned, reaching for the laser rifle he had dropped.

“Danse? Oh my god I’m - shit, shit I’m sorry I didn’t know - I didn’t think - *are you okay?!” She was on the verge of panic.

“I’m fine.” Danse grunted, getting to his feet with a little more effort than usual.“Thanks to my power armor. Without it I would have fared no better than those damn synths.”

Katherine reached a hand out, a gesture of support, but as she placed it on his arm…

“Ouch!” She yelped, flinching backwards. The metal still held quite a bit of heat. She shook her hand - that was gonna leave a mark.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Maybe it wasn’t the wisest decision, but the results are acceptable enough.” The paladin gestured toward the elevator, where the call buttons were now lit up. “I strongly suggest we keep moving on. I don’t know how many more synths are in this building, or if they’re on their way to us again, and I’d rather not stand around to learn the answer.”

Perhaps it was more of a command than a suggestion, as he didn’t wait for a reply before heading towards the elevator.

“Um…” Kate hurried after him, still worried, though now for a different reason. “How much does that power armor weigh…? Is that going to be within the weight limit? I don’t - that elevator is two hundred years old and I know it hasn’t had regular maintenance, what if it -”

Danse turned around to look at Katherine. Even with his helmet obscuring his expression, she could sense his disapproval.

“Sorry.” She offered lamely, before going quiet and squeezing into the elevator car beside him.

It was a tight fit.

“All the information I’ve gathered indicates that the deep range transmitter is most likely stored in this control room,” Danse explained, “and there’s almost no evidence of scavenger activity in these parts of the facility.”

“What about the synths?”

“They arrived not long before we did, from the looks of things. If the deep range transmitter isn’t in the control room, one of the synths may have taken it. If that’s the case, we should hope they haven’t yet left the facility - if they’re still here, recovering the transmitter will be a simple task.”

“… more gunfights?”

“Very likely.”

Katherine clutched her laser rifle just a little tighter as they made their way towards the control room.

She was very conscious of her choice to keep behind Danse. The power armor protected him - and anyone behind him.

The tinny statement of “Hostile detected.” was the first sign of synths ahead, followed by the pchew of laser fire overhead.

“Contact!” Danse was the superior marksman between them and was quick to take out a trio of synths. They crumpled to the ground in rapid succession, and the third found its plastic skin burnt to ash as it fell.

Katherine was quick to offer fire against the last two synths as Danse reloaded - though none of her shots missed, she was far less accurate. It took more than twice as many shots for her to take them down.

“Well done.”

“Oh - um. Thank- thank you.” She never was great at handling praise, and was quick to scamper off in search of the transmitter, investigating the destroyed synths while Danse searched the room.

A few recovered microfusion cells found their way into her pockets, before a larger item caught her eye. She nudged the synth aside with her boot, uncovering… well, she wasn’t certain it was the deep range transmitter but it did have the look of a very complicated and very expensive piece of technology.

Katherine made her way back to Danse with the device slung under her arm. “Hey - I found this and um. Is this what you’re after?”

“That would be it, yes. Excellent! And it doesn’t appear to have sustained any damage.”

“Yeah, that’s good news.”

“There should be a way to exit the facility from here, so there won’t be any need to backtrack. Follow me.”

Danse wasn’t one to loiter - Katherine found it hard to keep up with him.

“… oh, another elevator.”

The service elevator led to an exit behind the ArcJet building, up a hill, sheltered inside a concrete structure. The commonwealth was quiet - there were no signs of any synths lingering outside. They were both equally relieved by this.

Danse took a few steps past the aged, rusting fence, and turned back to face Katherine. With his rifle holstered he reached up to remove his helmet, tucking it under one arm as he spoke. “well, I’m certain that could have gone smoother, but mission accomplished.”

Kate winced. She really had no frame of reference here. “I’m - I’m sorry. I didn’t…” She trailed off, deflating.

“While the operation was flawed, your contributions were still invaluable. Without your assistance I would certainly have been overwhelmed on multiple occasions. I’m not certain I could have retrieved the transmitter on my own.”

“Oh…!” There was surprise in Kate’s exclamation. She shuffled her feet a bit, awkward. “I’m… glad to hear that. I think.”

The paladin continued onward. “With that said, I believe we have two important matters to discuss. First and foremost is the deep range transmitter. If you’ll hand it to me, I’d like to compensate you for your assistance during this operation.”

“Yeah, yeah okay, here, this is, um. This is yours.” Kate offered Danse the device, which was swiftly packed away and secured.

He unholstered the rifle at his side, presenting it to Katherine. “Here. You clearly have an aptitude with technology - and with energy weapons. I think you’ll benefit from this; It’s my own personal modification to the standard issue AER9 laser rifle.”

“…really? Don’t you need this?” Katherine gingerly accepted the weapon, scanning it. She could see evidence of tinkering - and, of course, the brotherhood’s symbol stencilled along the barrel. She ran a thumb across the paint.

“It’s not the only weapon at my disposal. Besides, I believe in paying my debts.”

“Well then… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, civilian. Now, onto the second matter.”

Kate bit her tongue, unsure of what to expect.

“I wanted to make you a proposal. We had a lot thrown at us back there, and for the most part, you handled yourself exceptionally.”

She found herself wanting to disagree, but said nothing.

“Our op could have ended in disaster, but your determination kept that from happening. I believe that with a bit of training, you could be a valuable asset to the Brotherhood.”

“Erm.” Was she being recruited? She would have flunked out of the pre-war military almost instantly.

“The way I see it, you’ve got a choice. You could spend the rest of your life wandering the commonwealth, scrounging for supplies and trading your skills for a meager reward. Or, you could join the Brotherhood of Steel and make your mark on the world.” Danse shifted his weight, grip tightening on the helmet he still held.

“So, what do you say?”

Kate bit her lip. “The Brotherhood of Steel, huh? You guys are… aren’t you military?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Her hesitation was obvious. “Is this something I can think about? I don’t think I know enough here to, uh. to make a decision so quickly.”

“Of course. It’s a big decision. The offer still stands, and when you’ve made up your mind, you know where to find me.” Danse took a moment to put his helmet on once again, and his voice crackled out from within. “With all that said, I need to return to the police station. The deep range transmitter ought to be installed sooner, rather than later, so we can get in contact with the rest of the Brotherhood. Thank you again for your assistance, Vance. I wish you the best.”

Katherine found herself staring after Danse as he turned and left, heavy footsteps echoing off the hills around them. She shook her head as if to clear it. This whole thing had taken her off track, and she sighed. She had always been praised for her willingness to help, but so often that kept her away from her own tasks.

She certainly wasn’t going to make it to Diamond City today, she realized - the sky was still light, but she knew that wasn’t going to last much longer.

There weren’t enough hours in the day. That had been true two hundred years ago, and it was still true now.

She wasn’t looking forward to setting up camp for the night.

#fallout 4 #screenshots #paladin danse #fallout oc #sole survivor katherine #radbeetle screenshots #beetle's ocs #radbeetle writes #i might have to start just linking to the longer things on ao3 because wow this one went long #katherine's memories

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inhuman-obey-me · 3 years

Text

Deadly Envy

Word Count: 1.8k Description: Perhaps directing insults directly to the Avatar of Envy's face is a mistake -- or, Leviathan reminds some demons of their place. Part of the A Demon's Nature series. Finally got back to continuing this, so here's Leviathan! Apologies for the delay, hope this is okay;; Note: Vepar is a demon associated with the sea and is one of the 72 demons that Solomon has a pact with, mentioned in the Ars Goetia. They were often depicted as a merman. Lassal is a minor demon named in the Liber de Angelis and is associated with the moon. Can also be found on AO3 here. content warning: blood, brute force violence, mild gore, use of hallucinogens

The Avatar of Envy was not one to find comfort in being alone with his thoughts, but there were times where he would wander to a certain cove by the oceanside, a place just for him where he found a sense of peace, a sense of belonging. The taste of salt in the air, the gentle spray of ocean mist, the sound of the waves crashing into the surrounding rocks -- yes, this was another home for him, one he dearly missed.

Leviathan closed his eyes, basking in the light of the Devildom moon as he debated going into the water tonight. It would be nice to go for a swim, but he was also itching to get back home and watch the latest episode of the anime he had recently gotten into.

“Well, well, who do we have here?”

Leviathan’s eyes snapped open, his body tense as he recognized the voice of the demon who unceremoniously interrupted him.

“Vepar,” the name left the sea serpent’s lips in a near hiss. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, enjoying the view this fine evening. I assume you’re doing the same? What a surprise, to see you actually outside! I thought you loved the computer screen more these days.” They laughed, a ripple of malice present in what should have been a joyous sound.

Of all demons, why did it have to be Vepar that had found his sanctuary? Every time Leviathan looked at them, or thought about them, envy bubbled in his chest and filled every fiber of his being.

Vepar had been one of the angels who fell alongside the brothers in the Great Celestial War - one of the few survivors outside of his family - and had been a rather high-ranking officer in the army at the time. After becoming a demon, they managed to become a Captain in Hell’s Royal Navy, following Leviathan as his subordinate. Or, that’s how it would have appeared, if it wasn’t for the fact that Vepar had seemingly lost all respect for their superior.

Their relationship was practically non-existent these days, as the Royal Navy hadn’t been active in centuries. They were never terribly close to begin with, but a great chasm seemed to have opened up between them as the years passed and Leviathan watched Vepar be so … successful.

How was it that this demon who ranked beneath him had managed to climb up so much higher in the social sphere? In true normie fashion, they had no issue conversing with strangers and seemed to make friends wherever they went. They were smooth with their words, charming with their smile, and always knew the right thing to say.

Except when it came to Leviathan.

“What’s with that look? I was just speaking the truth, wasn’t I?” Vepar grins, their mockery obvious. They brush a long lock of hair from their face before looking over their shoulder. “Oh, Lassal, look who I found!” They call out behind them, and soon another demon appears from the dark, his wispy white hair reflecting the moonlight. He was one of the lesser demons who seemed to cling to Vepar whenever they were together.

“Ah, Lord Leviathan..!” Lassal starts a bit nervously, unsure how to act in this situation. After all, he often joined in on the endless ribbing of the Avatar of Envy. The Greater Demon was never around to hear it, so what was the harm? “It’s, uh, nice to see you.”

“I was just telling him how strange it was to see him here. After all, I don’t think there’s a video game store anywhere near this area.” Vepar continues, the deriding smile still on his face. “Such a rare sighting of the ever-elusive demon. And all alone, too … but, I suppose it’s true that you don’t have any friends.”

Leviathan glares at the long-haired demon, his hands now curled into fists as they continue their jabs. Has he really become such a joke? Of course, a worthless otaku like me doesn’t deserve any respect, he thinks, They only care about my position when they have to…

“I would offer you to join us, but… hmm, you’d honestly just kill the mood.” Vepar shrugs, turning to Lassal, and attempts to get him to join in. “Isn’t that right? I mean, we all know how pathetic he is!”

The jealous thoughts continue to invade his mind. They only care because of my brothers. I’m obviously the weakest link, huh? Even Solomon liked Vepar enough to make a pact with them … they might be even better friends than we are …

“R-right!” Lassal easily bends to the other demon’s will. “Sorry, Leviathan, but you’re not really fun to have around.”

And then they feel comfortable enough to talk like this to me, to my face?! They have all the qualities I lack, everything is so much easier for them, and I’m just a laughing stock who only deserves mockery, huh? Is that it..?

“Oh, so polite. Come now, weren’t we talking earlier of how sad of a demon he is?”

“Yeah,” All nervousness is gone from Lassal, a rather smug expression taking over his features instead. “It’s hard to believe that he’s one of the demons ruling over us...it’s funny because even he knows how depressing he is, isn’t that right?”

They really think they’re so much better than me?!

“And to think, he’s Grand Admiral -- ”

“SHUT UP!” Leviathan finally speaks, his envy burning hot and turning into rage as he lunges at Vepar, his claws digging into their throat. “You actually think you can just talk to me like that?” His eyes shift, turning more snake-like while ink spreads through his sclera. His horns grow larger, his tail longer, and his teeth look a bit too sharp when he growls at them. “May I remind you that YOU serve under ME?”

A gargled choke manages to leave the caught demon’s mouth, their eyes wide in surprise. Lassal, who let out a squeak of terror when the third-born attacked, was trying to scurry away from the scene -- only to be caught by Leviathan’s tail in a tight grip.

“And where do you think you’re going?” The sea serpent shot a deadly glare at the lower-level demon, hoisting him up into the air to dangle upside-down. Leviathan turns his attention back to the other demon, trying to stop himself from ripping their head off right then and there.

“I might not be the most sociable guy, or the most popular, or the coolest, or … whatever! But if you really think you can just talk shit to my face and get away with it, you’ve got another thing coming.” His forked tongue slips through his lips with a menacing hiss. “It seems you both need a reminder that I’m the Third Demon Lord, your superior, your Greater, your ruler.”

“I-I’m sorry…” Vepar manages to get out, their previous haughty air vanishing as dread sunk in, a heaviness sinking into their bones. “I--”

“Oh, save your fucking apologies, Vepar!” Leviathan spits at their face. “If it wasn’t for your little pact with Solomon, I would kill you this instant.” He momentarily digs his claws further into their skin. “Your little friend, on the other hand…”

Lassal whimpers, trying to shake his head furiously. “P-please Lord Leviathan! I-I only said such things b-because Vepar made me! They -- “ His words are cut off with a choke as the Avatar’s tail tightens around their neck as Leviathan brings him close to his own face.

“Wow, throwing them under the bus? I guess I can’t expect anything more from the likes of you.” Leviathan sneers, the claws of his free hand going to drag down along Lassal’s face, venom leaving their tips and entering his bloodstream. With a flick of his tail he slams Lassal into the ground head-first, the jagged rock they were upon cracking slightly from the force. “If you thought I was going to go cry in my room because of your taunting, you were sadly mistaken.”

Lassal’s skull was fractured, blood dripping from the head wound caused by impact. If he was trying to say anything more, it came out in incoherent words and sounds, which soon turned into struggling screams. The venom that now coursed through his veins had a hallucinogenic quality that made the victim feel as if they were drowning, and it seemed to be working rather well. Leviathan thrashed him about again, making sure to smash his skull against the rock over and over and over and over and --

“Leviathan, stop! He’s dead!” Vepar screams, managing to get some more words out as the grip on their throat had slightly loosened while the Avatar was preoccupied with the other demon. Leviathan makes sure to deliver one more whack for good measure before dropping Lassal to the ground, his head smashed to bits and nothing more than a messy pile of bone, blood, and flesh.

“So he is.” His voice is cold, distant. His orange-purple eyes are glowing as he turns his attention back to the still living demon. “Now, as for you, Vepar… what was it that you wanted to say earlier? Something about how you couldn’t believe I could still be called the Grand Admiral of Hell’s Navy?”

“I-I didn’t say that, I just … look, I’m sorry, okay? You just a-appeared to have become so weak, you -- “

“...became an easy target?” Leviathan finishes their thought. “Well, let this be a lesson, Vepar. Think you’re better than me all you want, think you have so much more than I do, but at the end of the day…” He drags his claws down Vepar’s chest, sharp points sinking into their flesh and creating several large gashes that spurt dark ichor. They bite their lip in an attempt to hold back their cries of pain, tears streaming down their cheeks. “...I am at the top. I have more power than you do, and I will make sure that your existence will be a miserable one if you dare challenge me again.”

Mumbled words left Vepar’s lips, soon followed by a sharp cry when Leviathan sank his claws into their torso once more.

“What was that?”

“Y-yes Grand Admiral, sir. N-never again, sir!” The words tumbled out without a second thought, the demon trying not to let his body tremble too much from the mix of fear and pain.

“Good.” Leviathan retracts his claws and lets Vepar slump to the ground to their knees, his cold gaze lingering on them for a moment before looking over to the mangled corpse of Lassal. Turning away from the scene, Leviathan begins to walk away, raising a hand in the air.

“Clean that mess up.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder to fix the fellow sea demon a menacing glare. “And that’s an order.”

#obey me #obey me swd #obey me!#obey me leviathan #om! leviathan #obey me fic #demons being demons #series: a demon's nature #writings #the all encompassing [mod] cosmos #have some cool and violent levi which we need more of <3

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

Note

I am *endlessly* curious about how Wei Wuxian ended up at the Cloud Recess, and very satisfied my internal suspicion that the Lan and the Jiang were busy rebuilding their power/plotting a coup was right. Though I'm now curious about their reaction to 'Meng Yao is being kept around, and as Empress at that'.

spontaneous fic extra for Good Help - ao3 link

Good news! one of Nie Huaisang’s letters started, which was never good news. My brother has finally become gainfully employed! He will no longer be a burden on society, a good-for-nothing that does nothing but idle his days away, bringing shame upon our family name.

Wei Wuxian blinked down at the letter. “Jiang Cheng,” he said. “Did I manage to hit my head and wake up in a world where Nie Mingjue is not the Empress?”

“No,” Jiang Cheng said, looking bored. He was officially there on Jin sect business, though everyone politely pretended that he wasn’t very clearly there to see Wei Wuxian or, for those not in the know, sent by his husband, who had virtually no cutsleeve tendencies at all, to get him somewhere that wasn’t Lanling. It was an excuse they used rather a lot to get Jiang Cheng to where he needed to be. “He’s definitely still the Empress. Keep reading.”

Wei Wuxian kept reading.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said a second later. “Someone mistook him for a guard? How?!”

“I mean, it’s not as ridiculous as you might think. No one’s seen him in years,” Jiang Cheng said, finally breaking his mask of boredom in favor of a grin. “He’s always behind all those veils – I’m pretty sure his fashion sense as Empress is ‘how much can I look like the curtain I’m trying to hide behind’.”

“But he’s so –” Wei Wuxian moved his hands around in an attempt to encompass very broad shoulders, a narrow waist, muscles, and also height. “Notable!”

“It’s been a while since you’ve been to court, hasn’t it? He’s always up on that platform far away from everyone else – you know how Wen Ruohan likes to look down on everyone – and everything around him has been resized for him; he looks more proportional that way. And if you didn’t know, and there’s no reason that this Meng Yao fellow would know…”

“Still!”

“No, really, it’s not that strange! You know how Wen Ruohan’s guards of the inner hall are dressed, all fancy Wen sect robes, and that’s all Nie Mingjue has other than his Empress get-up, which obviously isn’t appropriate for when he wants to go outside to train Baxia. He would’ve been wearing the right clothes and walking in the right place, and he is what you’d expect a guard to look like…if you bumped into him at random, as happened here, it’s a reasonable mistake to make.”

“He hired him as his secretary,” Wei Wuxian marveled. “Just – wow. Wow. Mingjue-xiong is going to break him in half, the first time he tries anything.”

“Maybe,” Jiang Cheng said. “Maybe not.”

Someone needs to go assassinate this Meng Yao person right away, Nie Huaisang’s next letter – nominally addressed to Lan Wangji this time – said. I think my brother might actually like him. A upstart Jin bastard that worked his way up through the Fire Palace – do you think all these years with Wen Ruohan has rotted da-ge’s sense of taste?

“He doesn’t actually mean that we should assassinate him,” Wei Wuxian told Lan Wangji, who nodded in agreement. “We still need the viceroy to remain in his place as the target. He’s just being dramatic.”

If Nie Huaisang actually wanted Wei Wuxian to assassinate someone, he had other ways of asking.

That was a fair portion of what Wei Wuxian did these days, actually, other than work on his ideas for demonic cultivation and warm Lan Wangji’s bed. Ironically enough, of the three, the last was his actual job: after Wen Chao had his golden core destroyed as punishment for having dared fight back when the Wen sect invaded the Lotus Pier – a temper tantrum at not being allowed to do the same to Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian suspected, since Wen Ruohan had even then already planned to sell the heirs of the Jiang sect to the highest bidder – Lan Wangji had, after quietly rescuing him at Jiang Cheng’s frantic instigation and with Nie Huaisang’s connivance, announced that he was keeping him as a personal pet.

Wen Ruohan had been pressuring the Lan sect to adopt some vices, simply because he knew it would make them uncomfortable – Lan Qiren had been a particular target – and he’d been satisfied by the notion of one of Lan Qiren’s precious nephews, the Jades of Lan, deciding to keep a whore, even if he’d insisted on having Wei Wuxian inspected to make sure he’d been thoroughly used.

(Proving it had not been a hardship, not when Wei Wuxian had a lover as thorough and tireless as Lan Wangji. Joke’s on you, Wen Ruohan!)

Still, even as Wei Wuxian did (in his opinion) some of his best work on his back and puzzled his way through demonic cultivation as the only possible route for him now – Lan Qiren helped him with some of the musical cultivation bits, and also in arguing to the Lan sect elders that some type of cultivation was better than nothing, and anyway there was a limit to how much trouble he could cause while under close supervision – he had also started up a sideline in taking out their political enemies on account of being the one of them that people would least suspect. No one even remembered his name anymore!

“Maybe we should go to court and check him out,” Wei Wuxian added thoughtfully. “See what he’s like, make sure he’s not leading Nie Mingjue down the wrong path, that sort of thing.”

They could pass along some of Nie Huaisang’s messages, too.

There was that whole coup they were planning, even if it was far less interesting than Nie Mingjue actually making a friend for the first time in over a decade…

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agreed. “Wei Ying has good judgment.”

“I do! If he’s nice – though there’s no chance he’ll be nice, he’s from the Fire Palace – I’ll tell Nie Huaisang that I approve,” Wei Wuxian decided. “If he’s awful, I’ll send a ghost to haunt him until he can’t sleep. If he’s a little awful but seems salvageable, I’ll…I don’t know…I’ll set some dogs on him!”

Lan Wangji’s eyebrows went up.

“You’ll set some dogs on him!”

The eyebrows went down.

“Rude, Lan Zhan. Very rude.”

“So having now seen Meng Yao and my da-ge interact with my own two eyes, I’ve decided that they’re going to get married,” Nie Huaisang announced.

“Is that wise?” Wei Wuxian asked, even though he actually thought Meng Yao was pretty cool. He was so good at being nice to people that he disliked, so incredibly efficient, so thoughtful, and best of all only very rarely followed up on the occasional murder-eyes he liked to shoot people when he thought no one was looking; it had actually been the fact that he and Lan Wangji had both vouched for him that had convinced Nie Huaisang to change his plans to account for his brother’s preferences. “Making him the Empress? He’ll be bossing your brother around in no time.”

“He’s already bossing my brother around, and that’s the way my brother likes it,” Nie Huaisang said. “Making Meng Yao the mother of the Empire – above ten thousand, below one – is the ideal way to sate his hunger for power in a way that makes him feel confident that he won’t be so easily replaced the way a viceroy or prime minister would be, and therefore unlikely to betray us. Also, it will make Jin Guangshan have an aneurysm, and that will be hilarious.”

“I like that,” Jiang Cheng said. “Also, didn’t we agree that you were going to be the prime minister?”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said patiently. “You are going to be prime minster, and I’m going to be your empty-headed but pretty former Imperial Consort wife.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘former Imperial Consort’ isn’t usually a thing.”

“Yes, well, it’s a coup, we make the rules. It’d be such a shame not to use this nice bureaucracy that Wen Ruohan set up for us…Wei-xiong, what about you?”

“What about me? I’m very happy as Lan Zhan’s whore.”

Jiang Cheng tried to hit him, but Wei Wuxian dodged, cackling. “Maybe I’ll start spending his money on fancy clothing and living it up now that I’m his official mistress,” he said. “I have Wang Lingjiao’s example to look up to, don’t I..?”

“I would like to marry Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji opined, and Wei Wuxian suddenly felt all gooey inside.

“I meant what will we do with him in the government,” Nie Huaisang said, long-suffering. “You’re all useless – though not as useless as me, of course.”

Jiang Cheng pressed a kiss to his cheek. “No one’s as useless as you, my little good-for-nothing.”

“And don’t any of you forget it!” Nie Huasiang exclaimed, then elbowed Jiang Cheng in the ribs. “Don’t touch me, you married man. Get a proper divorce before you try making your way into my bed; what sort of girl do you think I am?”

“You can’t be serious!” Jiang Cheng spluttered. “Jin Zixuan is drawing up the papers right now –”

“I feel like I deserve a proper wedding, don’t you?” Nie Huaisang asked Wei Wuxian, who started laughing. “I didn’t get a proper one the last time around –”

“We’ve been sleeping together for years!”

“We were having a thrilling affair under the nose of an evil tyrannical dictator. Who’s to say that the spark’s still there?”

“Oh you want spark,” Jiang Cheng said. “I’ll give you spark –”

#mdzs #wei wuxian #lan wangji #jiang cheng #nie huaisang #my fic #my fics #good help #I saw this ask and got Inspired #barid-bel-medar

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littlemisspascal · 4 years

Text

Death and an Angel part 11

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary: “When we get out of here, Din will fly us far, far away,” you murmur, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the baby's resumed chewing. “I promise you we’ll be happy together.”

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,511

Warnings: captured reader, angst, bonding with Grogu, plot plot plot

Author Note: To anyone and everyone sticking with this series, I love you so much! I know the plot is more than a little thick right now, but answers are slowly but surely being revealed.

Links to Part 1 and Part 10 and Part 12

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

You pace the length of the cell, brow furrowed as you try to organize your racing thoughts. Between the chilly atmosphere and the severed bond wailing for its other half, you imagine you outwardly resemble the jittery and unbalanced mess you feel internally. You refuse to feel humiliated by your appearance, not when the witnesses are Gideon and his minions. They can think what they want about you, believe they have broken your spirit, because that just means they won’t expect it when you free yourself until it’s too late.

However, part two of your plan of escape is proving to be more challenging to conceptualize than you initially thought. The collar is tightly wound around your neck to the point of chafing. Apparently the rule of being able to slip two fingers under a collar is only applicable to animals in Gideon’s eyes because your attempt of slipping your finger between skin and metal is dissuaded by another electric shock zipping through your body.

However, as you lightly trail your fingertips over the cold metal, you’re surprised to feel a noticeable dip in the back. It’s not a design flaw, you think as you try to visualize it in your mind. Your heartbeat quickens as realization strikes: it’s a keyhole.

Any excitement you might feel at your discovery is spoiled by the fact a keyhole is useless without a key. You look at the laser gate, further disappointed as you contemplate the complexity of the tunnel system. There could be dozens of cells down here, potentially thousands of hiding places for Gideon to keep the key to the collar secure. Not to mention, you don’t even know what the key looks like. It could be hanging right outside the cell and you’d have no idea.

Lost in the sea of disparaging thoughts, you don’t notice the return of the baby crawling through the hole in the wall until he latches onto your foot. Startled, you barely manage to refrain from shouting a curse as you stare down at him. He giggles, clearly amused by your wide-eyed expression, and then slaps a silver plastic bag against your shin using the hand that isn’t gripping his favorite black cloth.

“Did you bring me a present?” you ask, taking a seat on the pallet and lifting him up onto your lap. This time when you reach forward, he willingly lets you take the item from him instead of trying to take a chunk out of your hand.

You tear open the plastic, revealing its contents to be five teal-colored cookies.

“Wow, bud,” you murmur, holding one up between pinched fingers. The treat smells distinctively like vanilla. From what you’ve witnessed, you doubt Gideon is the type to offer his prisoners dessert with their meals which means these were probably stolen from somewhere. “Where did you find these?”

The baby only babbles unintelligibly in response, gesturing with his free hand in the direction of somewhere beyond the laser gate. You nod along, feigning understanding, but your eyes can’t help but drift to his collar when he turns his head. The keyhole for his collar is smaller than you expect to see which has you quickly theorizing there is not one universal key for all of the collars. If that theory is true, then it raises the difficulty of escaping yet another level.

With a sigh you cram the cookie into your mouth, finding the tiniest smidge of joy in its crunchiness.

“When we get out of here I’ll buy you a dozen boxes of these,” you tell him once you’ve swallowed, offering him one of the cookies. He coos excitedly and takes a large bite, uncaring of the blue crumbs that rain down upon his coat. “And once Din sees you, I bet he’ll want to spoil you rotten, too. He has a not-so-secret soft spot for kids.”

The baby’s head tilts, reacting to the name-drop by making a confused gurgling sound around his mouthful.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” you scold gently, tapping his nose with your finger and laughing under your breath when it proceeds to scrunch up in an adorable manner. Leaning your head back against the wall, you’re unable to keep the note of wistful longing out of your voice as you explain, “Din is my soulmate. To the rest of the world, he’s known as Death. They’ll have you believe he’s someone to be feared and avoided at all cost. But luckily I’m here to tell you the truth.”

He stares up at you, snack seemingly forgotten in favor of listening intently to every word coming out of your mouth. Distantly you think you should be a little scared by how intense his gaze is, as if he’s attempting to look past your skin to the soul beneath, but you remind yourself all babies are innately curious and don’t know it’s rude to stare.

“He’ll never admit to it himself, but underneath all that beskar armor, he is the most socially inept being in the galaxy. I swear, bud, the first time I met him I thought it was impossible for him to say more than two words or else he’d hurt himself.” Your lips twitch at the memory, the smallest of smiles you can make without it feeling forced. “Still, despite his horrible first impression, I couldn’t get him off my mind. I wouldn’t call it love at first sight, but—look, I know how crazy this sounds, okay? But I felt like I had to get to know him better. There was this voice in my head insisting we couldn’t just remain strangers. It took about ten thousand questions and three more meetings for me to earn his trust enough for him to take off his helmet and let me see his face.”

You take a deep breath and stroke your finger over the baby’s ears, needing to feel something other than the flaring pulse of pain from the bond. “One look at those beautiful brown eyes and I was done for.”

Saying Din’s eyes are brown feels sinful. It’s like saying the ocean is blue—accurate, but not detailed enough to describe its depth and volatility. There are days when his eyes are the shade of brown reminding you of leather bound journals—ancient and full of profound wisdom, meant to be admired and cherished for an entire lifetime. Other times, they are the kind of brown that matches your favorite chocolate pastry from the bakery down the street from your apartment—decadent and warm with the slightest hint of temptation.

“When we get out of here, Din will fly us far, far away,” you murmur, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the baby's resumed chewing. “I promise you we’ll all be happy together.”

And I’ll never get tired of seeing those brown eyes everyday.

The hours start to bleed into one another. The baby snoozes in your lap, head pillowed on your thigh, but you have no idea if it’s night or day. Gideon had said he’d let you talk to Din ‘tomorrow’, but that doesn’t tell you how many days you’ve been here in total.

Your legs have started to feel numb from sitting in the same position so long, but the last thing you want is to wake him up by moving. The importance of him feeling safe enough to be vulnerable and sleep is not lost on you. His desire for attention and physical contact is so painfully obvious you hate thinking about how often he must have been ignored before your arrival.

As he sleeps, you’re unable to resist your curiosity any longer and carefully maneuver the piece of cloth out of his grip. Despite its aged and dirty appearance, it is still surprisingly soft to touch. Whatever article of clothing this was torn from must have been well-tailored, you think, imagining a hooded cloak or perhaps a long coat. Your nose twitches when you hold the cloth close to your face to better study it, reacting to the variety of odors embedded in the wool fibers. Maker knows how long the kid’s been dragging the fabric around with him without it being washed regularly, so you shouldn’t be surprised it has absorbed a couple dozen scents.

Still, the faint essence of smoke you detect swirls around in your brain even long after you’ve laid the cloth back over him like a makeshift blanket. Memories of your death start to resurface again despite your best mental efforts to push them away, causing your stomach to clench with nausea as you recall the horrific stench of charred remains.

It isn’t the same, you tell yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and forcing your head to clear itself. It can’t be because that day was fifty years ago and he’s only just a baby.

You repeat these thoughts like a mantra until, without meaning to, you fall into a dreamless sleep.

You’re startled awake by hands seizing hold of your arms and pulling you up onto your feet without warning. You yelp at the sudden rush back to consciousness, brain scrambling to make sense of everything. Your eyes sweep the ground, panic washing over you like a bucket of cold water when you fail to see a tiny green body.

“It’s time, pet,” the twi’lek’s voice hits your ears and you turn to see her standing near the cell’s entrance, a lantern in one hand and a shiny blade in the other. “The Moff is expecting you.”

It takes you a minute to process in your frazzled state, but you realize it must be time to talk to Din. You’re shoved forward by whoever has your arms twisted behind your back, but you manage another quick survey of the cell. There is no sign the baby was ever here and you send a quick prayer to the Maker he had snuck back through the hole without anyone seeing him.

You have mixed feelings about not being blindfolded as you’re led through the underground labyrinth. On one hand, you get to observe everything and everyone you come across, making as many mental notes to flip through later when you’re alone. On the other, you think this must be an intimidation tactic. Gideon wants you to see everything so you know with absolute certainty how high the odds are stacked against you.

There are cells identical in appearance to yours on either side of you, carved into the tunnel rock and blocked from entry by laser gates. Except not one of them contains a prisoner. Either you have severely overestimated the size of Gideon’s collection, or he is purposefully keeping you separate from the rest for reasons known only to him.

Another surprising and unsettling observation you make is how many different types of species Gideon has employed as minions—human, rodian, trandoshan, you even spot a devaronian in the mix. Except for the Cupid twi’lek in front of you, everyone you come across is mortal. It does not make much sense to you why a seraph as powerful as Gideon is relying on mortal henchmen to help maintain control of his secret prison. Your gut instinct is insisting you’re missing a vital piece of information and you don’t like being in the dark about it.

The tunnel you’re being marched down eventually opens up into a larger cavernous space with several dozen lanterns hanging along the walls providing ample lighting. There are several crates spread about the area, and some have been pried open to reveal they are packed full of blasters and ammunition. You rack your brain trying to determine the purpose of the weapons. Yes, clearly, they are meant to cause havoc and destruction, but why are they here? Who or what is the target they will be aimed at?

Gideon stands in the middle of the room next to an empty chair. On his other side is a mortal human male, bald-headed with ginger facial scruff, who has two blaster pistols holstered around his chest and yet another one held by a droid arm attached to his backpack. Overkill much?

You’re shoved in the direction of the chair and gruffly told to sit. Huffing, you wordlessly obey and try not to squirm as all eyes lock onto you as if you’re going to perform a trick for their entertainment.

“You have a minute to record your message,” Gideon says, holding out a piece of paper towards you. “These words I have prepared must be included in those precious sixty seconds or you might find me reluctant to allow you to send a second recording.”

Is he serious? This isn’t the arrangement you previously discussed with him.

“Record?” you repeat, reluctantly taking the paper.

“I never said you would have the opportunity of speaking to Death face-to-face.” You want more than anything to tear the condescending smirk off his face with your fingernails. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, isn’t that the mortal saying? You would know better than me, living amongst them in that quaint little apartment on Umbriel.”

Of course he knows about your home. Of kriffing course he does.

Heartbeat quickening, you avoid eye contact by scanning the few lines of words he’s written, eyebrows slowly inching up your forehead the more you read. “I don’t understand. This isn’t a demand to kill anyone. What does it mean?”

“Now is not the time for you to know,” he answers cryptically.

You shake your head, insisting, “Well maybe it should be. He knows me better than anyone. He’ll be able to tell I’m confused and—“

Gideon’s heavy sigh interrupts you. Then, quicker than you anticipate, he steps to the side of you and unsheathes his sword, its black blade positioned at your throat. It happens in one fluid movement, and the danger of your current predicament doesn’t sink in until the frightening humming notes of the weapon register in your eardrums seconds later. Your expressionless mask wavers, facial muscles tightening as you fail to refrain from flinching.

“All that is required from you, Cupid 1-1-7, is for you to speak from the heart and convince him to follow this one instruction. Do you think you can accomplish that?” he asks the question as if you have an actual choice. Like you can walk away now and there will be no hurt feelings.

But that is ridiculous. Everyone knows Cupids don’t get to have choices. Not when they are only given orders to obey.

You give him the tiniest of nods, careful not to let your skin make contact with the blade. “Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s begin.”

The nav computer on the Razor Crest contains the coordinates of every moon and planet within each region of the galaxy. There is not one inch of space unknown to Din and yet his search for his angel continues to remain unsuccessful. He doesn’t consider the possibility of her being deceased for even half a second. As her soulmate he would have felt her passing the moment it happened. The bond he shares with his angel might be young and fragile still, but he doesn’t doubt her loss would eviscerate him in the same merciless manner he had done to Hess.

His inability to find her can only mean a powerful immortal is involved in her capture. As Death he roams the universe as a neutral entity. The only enemies he encountered—and he uses that term loosely—were foolish mortals thinking they could outlive their destined time by fighting him, only to ultimately meet their fated ends in the process. Prior to Hess’ demise, he had upheld his sworn creed to the universe and never once was tempted to defy the natural order or break a sacred rule.

Although admittedly strange to consider, the thought that maybe his angel’s capture isn’t meant to deliberately hurt him or her is one that keeps crossing his mind. Perhaps they are merely pieces in a game neither of them recognize nor want to willingly participate in.

As Din sits in the pilot’s seat, staring at the screen dispassionately through the visor of his helmet still coated with Hess’ blood, he is well-aware of Bo-Katan standing behind him, attempting to freeze him solid with her iciest glare.

She is the bravest of his reapers, unafraid to piss him off and counteract his opinions with her own. Yet ever since they left Hess’ body hanging in the warehouse and returned to the Crest, she’s not said one word to him, seemingly content to suffer in silence as a background presence while he contemplates whether he should be the one to track down the twi’lek Hess referenced or if he should have his reapers engage in the hunt.

“We’re going to talk about what happened,” Bo-Katan says coolly.

He grinds his teeth. “We will talk if and when I want to.”

“No.” She forcefully pulls at his chair, turning it around to face her. A snarl escapes him, animalistic and furious, but her green eyes don’t even blink, not the least bit intimidated. “You reaped a soul before it’s destined time. The universe isn’t going to easily forgive you for that. There will be consequences.”

“The only thing that matters is getting her back,” he answers. It’s the truth too. The second his angel was taken he knew there was not one rule he wouldn’t break to have her back in his arms—consequences be damned.

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” Bo-Katan asks, looking him over as if she no longer recognizes him. Her eyes linger just a second too long on his bloodstained gloves. “You’re losing your mind over a soulmate you’ve barely known a year.”

“Have you ever had someone you loved taken from you?” Din counters.

She scowls, eyes narrowing with loathing. “How dare you compare—”

“Answer the question!” he shouts, slamming his fist down on the armrest hard enough the metal creaks ominously.

“Yes.” Her chin dips briefly towards her chest as she takes a second to compose herself. “You know I have.”

Din does know. Hours prior to every major catastrophic event in the galaxy’s history he’s felt an invisible leash wrap around him, pulling him in the direction of the tragedy and demanding he be there to personally reap the souls of the victims in the aftermath. He had witnessed the destruction of Bo-Katan’s homeworld when it was ravaged by a series of bombings orchestrated by an unknown enemy. Thousands had been killed, including Bo-Katan’s sister.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch too long, voice unwavering as he says, “And if you had the chance, would you not kill the one responsible for your pain?”

“It wouldn’t bring her back. Not any of them.”

Din sighs, glancing away, but Bo-Katan surprises him not even ten seconds later, apparently unfinished.

“I’d still do it though,” she says, not sounding the least bit guilty for admitting to hypothetical murder. “I’d carve the heart out of whoever set off those bombs and force-feed it to them.”

“We’re more alike than you may think,” Din says. “Think about that before you question my actions again.”

Any potential response from his reaper is interrupted by the beeping of an incoming transmission. He turns his chair at once, noticing the recorded message’s origin source is a random scrambling of letters and numbers. Every instinct is telling him he won’t like what he sees, but his hand reaches forward anyways, as if possessed by an unseen force, and presses the button to view the recording.

His angel appears as a holographic figure and immediately his eyes zero in on the collar around her neck. Anger threatens to course through his veins again, but Din forces his lungs to draw in a deep breath. Now is not the time to unleash his temper. Now is the time to listen and commit every word she says to memory, to study her every feature for any sign she’s been hurt.

“Death,” she begins, and his entire body tenses at the use of his title and not his name. It’s been so long since she’s addressed him as such, he knows it can’t be accidental. “I hope this message reaches you wherever you are. More than anything I wish I could be with you right now. I’m so sorry I broke my pinky promise to you, sweetheart. The way our bond is...I hate to think you’re feeling as much pain as I do.”

Din’s heart shatters when she starts to anxiously rub at her soulmate marking, sniffling quietly. His fingers itch with the overwhelming longing to hold her hand.

“I’m not safe here. What they’ve threatened to do to me...it scares me. I-I need to ask you a favor, a very important one.” A few teardrops escape the corners of her eyes and drip down her cheeks. Din bites the inside of his mouth so harshly he tastes blood. “If you want to protect me, then you must let go.”

The transmission goes dead.

Tag List: @leilei-draws, @theocatkov, @vintagesaph, @stardust-and-starlight, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @gallowsjoker, @rhiannon-russo, @randomness501, @sylphene, @softly-sad, @maytheglitter, @melobee, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @eleinemk, @captain-jebi, @aerynwrites, @promiscuoussatan, @stilllivindue2spite, @coaaster, @lin-djarin, @oh-no-a-whovian, @over300books, @chibi-yuki, @becauseican2, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @nicotinebirds

#din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #Din Djarin #death and an angel #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #my writing

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verai-marcel · 3 years

Text

Forever and Always (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur x F!Reader)

Summary: You reminisce about your life and have a sweet moment with your family.

Author’s Notes: I was listening to a podcast about wedding dress design and got inspired.

Tags: pure fluff, Arthur x F!Reader

Word Count: 1644

AO3 Link is right here, darlin’.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Twenty-five years.

A quarter of a century.

Funny how time flies, and all of a sudden you're nearly fifty years old. Looking back, you can see the crazy turn of events in your life like some kind of movie, detached and yet feeling every single emotion as if you were there in that moment.

***

Fresh out of college, you remembered the night you found your partner sleeping with your roommate. The white hot rage and cold grip of disbelief sent you fleeing into the rain, into the streets, into a bar in the middle of the night. As you meandered between sadness and anger, a bartender had given you a cold glass of orange juice, soda water, and a bit of ice, with a shot of grenadine.

"Here ya go, sweetheart. On the house."

You had looked up and drowned in eyes the color of volcanic springs, finding the same warmth and comfort in his kind gaze. Taking a cautious sip of the drink, you found it to be the perfect drink, not too sweet, and took your time savoring it.

"What brings you here tonight?" he had asked.

After a moment of silence, he held up his hand. "You don't need to tell me if you don't want to."

He leaned in close. "But I'm happy to listen, whenever yer ready."

His sweet smile undid you, and you poured out your heart. He seemed to nod along with your story, as a stranger would, but there was a steadily growing fire in his eyes. After a while, after a few interruptions from other customers ordering drinks, you had finished venting, nursing the last of your drink and debating what your next move should be.

"Alright folks, last call!" the bartender shouted. A few people came up and got one last drink before he started to clean up.

"Well, thank you for listening to me," you said, dropping a tip on the bar. "I really appreciate it."

"I didn't catch yer name."

You told him.

He smiled. "I'm Arthur. Could… could ya wait a bit? I'll walk you home."

You slumped. "I don't want to go home."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at you. "Where were you goin' to go, then?"

You shrugged. "Walk around until sunrise, I guess. Not feeling sleepy."

He tilted his head as he observed you. After a few moments, he shook his head. "If you don't mind, you can come sleep on my couch. You need some rest, darlin'."

"Um…" As sweet as he was, you had just met him.

Arthur pulled out a pen and scribbled something on the back of a bar coaster before giving it to you. "Here's my address. You send it to someone you trust, so they know where you are."

Touched by his offer and his understanding of your hesitation, you agreed. You texted his address to your best friend who lived a city away and told her that you were staying with a new friend and that you'd call her in the morning and tell her everything.

Then you waited until Arthur was done with his shift and followed him home.

***

That was years ago. He had helped you deal with the whole situation with your ex-significant other and ex-roommate. He stood outside as backup while you confronted the two of them and told them that you were leaving. Then you found yourself temporarily moving in with Arthur, bunking on his sleeper sofa for a couple of weeks while you searched for another place to live.

And then you slept in his bed. And your temporary move became permanent.

Life continued. You slept together, in the adult sense of the term. You got pregnant. You dated. You gave birth. He proposed. You got married. He finished college. You became the breadwinner while he worked part time and took care of your daughter.

Nothing went in the 'normal' order of things, but what was normal, anyway?

Looking at the photos of your wonderful daughter when she was a small child, you smiled as you heard the doorbell ring.

"Hey Mom!"

"Hi Avery!" You greeted her with a warm hug. She was twenty-three now, working hard during her first year out of college. You got to see her a couple times a month, and each visit made you smile, no matter how grumpy she might be.

Today the two of you were just hanging out, having tea and going through some of the old boxes in the attic, when she pulled out an old scrapbook.

"Wow, didn't know you did scrapbooking."

"I didn't, I only made one for my wedding."

Together the two of you looked through your silly notes and hand picked photos, telling her the story behind each one, and who each person was.

"Do you still have your wedding dress?" she asked after seeing the photos of you and Arthur, dressed up in a tuxedo that barely fit his broad shoulders.

"I do, somewhere."

After some time searching, you found it, brushed it off, and held it up to your body. "I don't think it'll fit, I've gotten a bit wider since I wore it."

"C'mon Mom, just try it!"

Smiling, the two of you went to your bedroom and you managed to shove yourself mostly into the dress. Except for the shoulders.

"I've gotten more buff," you joked as you pulled the dress off yourself. "You try it."

Avery took the dress, stared at it for a moment, and with your help, pulled it on. It looked like it fit, until she moved her arms.

The sound of a seam ripping made you both pause.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry–"

You patted her shoulder. "It's fine, sweetie. It's just a dress, it can be fixed. And you look beautiful in it."

Your daughter grinned, and you could see Arthur's eyes and smile on her face.

After she spun around a few times, she took it off and handed it back to you. Out of curiosity, you checked which seams had torn.

"It might fit you now," Avery joked.

"Sure, why not?"

You pulled it back on, and sure enough, the seams that had torn were the very ones stopping you from fitting your thicker arms through. You turned around and looked in the mirror. Twirling around a bit, you suddenly felt young again, remembering the first time you had tried this dress. Your two closest friends had been by your side, encouraging you to buy the dress because you were so pleased with it.

And you remembered the last time you had worn this dress, walking down the aisle with Arthur, hand in hand, the two of you grinning at each other as if there was nothing else in the world, just the two of you, happily in love.

"Let's take some photos outside!" Avery suggested, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

Smiling at your daughter, you walked through your house and out to the small backyard that Arthur lovingly cared for, with a small waterfall and herb garden.

He was there, kneeling in the dirt, planting some new basil plants. He turned around at the sound of the back door opening.

"What're you two doin'–"

Arthur's words stopped abruptly as his jaw dropped. He hadn't seen you in that dress since the wedding, and for him, time stopped and all he saw was his beautiful lady, dressed in white, smiling like a goddess.

He quickly washed his hands with the garden hose, wiped them on his jeans, and came towards you.

"Beautiful, just like an angel," he said in awe.

You went to him, holding your hands out to him. He took them and brought them close to his heart before lifting your hands to his lips and kissing your fingers oh so so tenderly.

"Amazin', I feel the same as I did on our weddin' day, seein' you like this."

"I'm a little wider now…"

"That don't matter none," he said, leaning closer to you. His forehead touched yours and he looked into your eyes. "Yer always lovely."

"Awww!"

Avery's exclamation brought the two of you back to reality. She had her phone out and had been taking photos of the two of you, a giant grin on her face.

"I'll send these to you later, after I touch them up a bit," she said. "I, uh, got an errand to run. Bye Dad, bye Mom, I'll catch you later!"

She left, giving you a conspiratorial wink. You looked back at Arthur to find that his eyes hadn't left you for a single moment.

He was in his late fifties now, streaks of grey in his hair, giving him a sophisticated appearance. He smiled much more these days, finding happiness in tending his small garden and being outside in the sunlight. He was still strong, still broad shouldered, but he had filled out a little from your delicious home cooked meals.

And he still looked at you like you were his entire world.

"Should we go inside?" you asked with a mischievous smirk.

"I got mud on me," he said, although he didn't resist when you pulled him into the house.

"I'll get you all clean," you said. "Then we can get dirty."

"Darlin'," he said as if he was chastising you, yet he was chuckling softly as he let you lead the way.

***

That night, looking at the photos Avery had emailed, you realized how the two of you appeared, so deep in love. You both looked younger in her photos, and you wondered if it was because of the photo editing.

Showing Arthur, he just smiled and kissed your cheek, his whiskers scraping your skin lightly as he nuzzled you.

"See? Told you my feelin's fer you would never change." He pulled you into his arms and held you close.

"You'll always be my shinin' star."

--------------------

End Notes: I started with a small idea and it kinda got longer. Oops.

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #RDR2 fanfic #arthur x fem!reader #Writing #Fanfic #Fluff

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guqin-and-flute · 4 years

Note

Ok but. What is JGY’s reaction to hearing. that. Apparently. A-Fu... doesn’t? Have a knife/lock pick on him at all times???

LXC: Why Would Our Child Have A KNIFE (the lock picks a LITTE more reasonable)

NMJ: Hmmmmm (idk What he’d say)

JGY:.....(trying to figure out how to answer ‘perverts and theifs’ without revealing more of his messed up childhood)

[WOW, I apparently wrote this months ago, put it in my drafts and completely forgot about it?? This happens when A-Fu is about 3, so before And A-Fu Makes Four. TW: Vague allusions to hypothetical and past child abuse/predatory adults]

[3zun Raise Jingyi AU] [Main Fic][Ao3 Link]

“When were we thinking he was going to get one?” Jin Guangyao idly pressed his index finger around the rim of a tiny sauce dish. The force he exerted fell into sync with the steady, confident rhythm of Nie Mingjue’s knife cuts, echoing throughout the kitchen, his eyes watching the dip and flash of the gradient of blue, like the waves of the ocean. Dark to light to dark to light.

Lan Xichen hummed in thought as he sorted the vegetables A-Fu had helped grow in the little practice garden with Huaisang near the late Second Madam Nie’s flowers. His long fingers lightly turned them this way and that against the heavily marked counter. “Their progress dictates when they receive their first spiritual tool, but they received practice swords to build their strength when--” he obligingly cut himself off when Jin Guangyao gave a light, correcting shake of his head without looking up.

“Not a spiritual tool; his first knife for defense. I was taught the precautions of it when I was much younger than him, so I wondered if you had spoken to him about it already and decided to wait.” Dark to light to dark to--the knife strokes had stopped and there was silence. He raised his eyes and found both of them looking at him with varying degrees of confusion and concern.

“What are you talking about? We’ve barely just taught him that knives are not to be touched,” Nie Mingjue demanded with a frown. “The ‘little Baxia incident’ only happened last month. Have you forgotten already?”

Jin Guangyao bit the inside of his cheek to quell the rush of irritation at the accusation in his voice, and responded with a cool smile. “No, I haven’t.”

“Usually they begin with wooden swords to build their strength and to teach them proper etiquette. I’m confused. Have we talked about a knife before?” Lan Xichen was studying his face as if he were trying to draw the answer from him through his gaze, searching and puzzled.

A strangeness that sometimes rose in Jin Guangyao all at once widened the gulf between their lives impossibly under their gaze, yawned to show the canyon of space that separated their experiences and his own. Gentry. Safety. Comfort. The outlines of his own wickedly sharp blades, tucked into sash, sleeve, and boot seemed to warm at his awareness. As soon as he had been able to understand speech and balance on his own feet, there had been a blade in his possession and it was not until this exact moment that he realized this might not be universal.

It shouldn’t surprise him--and in a way, it didn’t. It made sense that they would feel safe within their own lands, their own homes, tucked away in neat little boxes of what was ‘yours’ and ‘mine’. They had not had to live in a place that was ‘theirs’ where you were unwelcome and unsafe. Where anyone could come and go as they pleased. Could use whatever they chose. He had just never considered that anyone would be so...arrogantly confident. Naïve. He had simply thought that perhaps they waited a little longer before teaching their children--though 3 had seemed almost egregiously old.

This was a different world that he was raising his son in. This had been an alienating mistake, once again reminding them that he did not belong, that he was not the same as them. He smiled. “My mistake, I must have misheard.”

The other two traded a look that immediately told him that this was not something they would allow him to brush past. Nie Mingjue’s frown deepened. Purposefully, Jin Guangyao relaxed his shoulders and went back to spinning the dish, as if the tension of an uncomfortable conversation was not already creeping through the room.

“A-Yao,” Xichen said in that gentle way that felt like his hair was being stroked, but in the wrong way, prickles that were not wholly pleasant nor wholly uncomfortable. He wanted to swat away the sensation. This tone was the precursor of being Seen when he had not meant for it. “A-Fu doesn’t need to protect himself here the same way that you did. The sort people he is with are different from the ones that you grew up with.”

His press on the bowl rim was a little too hard this time, spinning it out from under his hand as it wobbled around noisily against the wood. His smile tugged up lopsided, the edge of it sharpening. Because they were alone, together, and they knew him. Because so often he was completely sheathed away. Because it was such a sweet and thoughtless thing to say.

“Er-ge,” he said in the same patient, understanding tone he had used. “I think maybe you’ve forgotten the sort of people who visited where I grew up in the first place.”

The silent consideration that deepened in Lan Xichen’s face was exactly the point; not pity, not shock. But the allowance of a redirection and the reminder of exactly how Jin Guangyao had come to be in this position. Who his mother was. His father. The gentry are not more civilized. Their coin makes their weight and words heavier and their rules and learning help to veil their nature. But at their core, they are just as despicable. The only true difference between them is power.

Watching this disturbance cloud the eyes of the man he loved, he felt the bite of his bitterness melt into a dull ache, a yearning. Except you. Except the most principled and gentle of men. Beyond him, Nie Mingjue was frowning with narrowed eyes and that yearning grew barbs, the sharpness of it a million tiny pinpricks. And you, you....

“Have you seen anyone....” Nie Mingjue’s voice was a dark growl, grating to a stop before he could voice the unspeakable.

When he would have bowed his head or deepened his smile in the presence of others, Jin Guangyao instead let the mask drop away entirely and stared at him. Voice tight and low, he asked, “If I had, would I stay silent?” Would they still be breathing? hung heavy between them all, unspoken because it was unneeded, because he, of all people, knew.

Nie Mingjue blew out a breath and considered the knife in his hands, the bits of greenery clinging to its blade before he shook his head and met his gaze again. “No.”

Well. At least they had that understanding. “No,” he agreed, bringing his voice back to mild, settling his expression. He picked up the dish and set it delicately on its side and spun it, the blurred blue whirl making a little orb slowly traversing its way over the table. “It’s simply something to consider, I suppose.”

He felt the weight of Xichen’s gaze move off of him and knew he was trading a look with Nie Mingjue that he didn’t want to unravel. So he kept his eyes on the liquid shine of that sphere. It was clear to him now that speaking to the both of them together had been a mistake. He had thought it efficient, since they so rarely could bear to inhabit the same room all together. Stupid.

“I’ll start teaching him some more hand to hand combat. Would that suffice?” The rhythmic, solid ‘thunk’ of the knife was back under the shortness in Nie Mingjue’s tone.

A warmth pressed to his side as Xichen slid onto the bench next to him and Jin Guangyao’s hand was engulfed in his gentle grip. He did not look up, but instead used his other hand to flick the now wobbling sauce dish, tilting it off its axis so it rolled out of its spin and clattered noisily to a stop, upside down. No. “Whatever you both think is best. I suppose was being paranoid.”

Xichen’s hand squeezed and Jin Guangyao knew there was enough strength in him to crush every slender bone in his hand. And that Xichen would never use it. “You’re being a good father,” Xichen murmured. “But, remember, A-Yao, he has us. He will never be alone.” Not like you were, he seemed to mean. Oh, Er-ge.

Did your mother mean to die when she did? He wanted to ask, oh so gently. Mingjue’s parents, Huaisang’s? Our son's birth parents? Of all people, would my mother leave me in that place willingly? His palm rested over the back of the little bowl, let the coolness of it combat the spiced and rising wet heat of the kitchen.

“A-Yao?” A murmur as, across the room, Nie Mingjue began loading the wok and loud hissing flooded over them, blurring Xichen’s quiet voice.

Jin Guangyao looked up at him; the sweet sympathy in his dark eyes, the tug of sorrow at his lips. He pulled out a smile and laid his head on Xichen’s firm shoulder. Turning the dish over, he set his finger again on the rim, tipping it rhythmically, now soundless in the boiling noise around them. Dark to light to dark to light.

“Of course.”

#Anonymous #my fic #my stuff #3zun raise jingyi au #Don't know how this one disappeared into my drafts but here it is now!#3zun raise jingyi au content

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fangirlwriting-stories · 3 years

Text

These Unprecedented Times

Chapter One

AO3 Link

Chapter Three: Intrusive Thoughts

Introducing Roman next had absolutely been the right move. Janus hadn’t seen either him or Thomas that happy or excited in a long time. He hadn’t felt that positive for a while himself, either. Things seem to have improved in the Mindscape too. Virgil was glad Thomas had finally brushed his teeth, as he’d been worried about cavities. Patton liked the idea of using their next video to help others, and Logan appreciated that Thomas was at least beginning to take care of himself. And Remus, for once, had moved on from disease and death, albeit in a Remus way.

“And we should definitely tell all of the viewers how soap is bad for you,” he said with a nod during their attempted movie night. “And that they should never shower ever again. And how deodorant is delicious and so if they want to eat it—”

“Remus,” Janus cut him off, and Remus looked at him. Janus paused the movie. “Would you like to come to the brainstorming session tomorrow?”

Remus started grinning. “Really?”

Janus nodded. “So long as you at least try to stay on the video topic, I see no reason not to have you there. You are Creativity too, after all.”

Remus gave a cry of delight and bounced up off the couch, springing onto the wall, and down onto the floor, and then on top of the table. “I get to meet Thomas!” he screeched.

“You couldn’t have sent me out of the room for that?” Virgil grumbled, covering his ears.

“I’m not sure it would have made that much of a difference,” Janus said, as the other three sides showed up in the doorway.

“What in the world is going on?” Patton called.

“I invited Remus to the brainstorm tomorrow,” Janus called, trying to make himself heard over Remus, which was a task all its own.

Patton’s immediate discomfort was obvious, but he wasn’t really the one Janus was worried about. “Is that alright with you, Roman?” he called.

Roman looked unsure. “You sure he’s not just going to start talking about death again?” he asked.

“I can’t rule out that possibility entirely, he is Remus,” Janus said, as Remus leapt down off the ceiling and landed on the couch again. “But he seems to like the video idea you’ve come up with. And I think he could have things to add.”

Roman still didn’t look fully comfortable with the idea, but after a minute he sighed. “Alright,” he said. “I suppose it’s not really fair to keep him exiled from brainstorms.”

Remus started vibrating in excitement again. “We get to brainstorm together Ro-ro!” he called, leaping up and running over to pull Roman into a hug. The level of excitement he was currently at meant that Roman was beginning to be shaken up and down.

“Okay let go of me!” Roman yelled, though Remus naturally did no such thing.

“He’s really excited, huh?” Virgil said from Janus’ other side, and he was starting to smile.

“Well, how would you react if you got to meet Thomas?” Janus asked.

“I’d start panicking.”

“Right, yeah, that does sound more like you,” Janus admitted.

“Hey, Jan?”

Janus turned to face Virgil more. “Yes?”

“You really think this is a good idea?”

Janus looked back to Remus starting to swing Roman back and forth in between flipping him upside down over his head. “I do.”

“Alright,” Virgil said, though he still sounded unsure. “I trust you.”

“I appreciate it,” Janus said. “I imagine I’ll get a different reaction from Logan and Patton.”

“Yep. Good luck,” Virgil said, patting him on the back. Janus shoved him halfheartedly, and prepared himself for the conversation he’d definitely be having with a couple other sides later. Either way, this was a good idea.

Most likely.

…

“But do you really think—”

“Yes, Patton, I really, really, really think this is a good idea. Really,” Janus said, trying to avoid the impulse to look up at the ceiling. To his surprise, Logan hadn’t seemed to have much of an issue with introducing Remus, but that didn’t mean Janus was spared from the moral side, who had pulled him into the Mindscape kitchen right before he went to go meet Thomas.

“He’s just… he’s not exactly the best side we have around,” Patton muttered, rubbing at his arm.

“No, but I don’t really think any of us are the ‘best side’ in the way you mean,” Janus said coolly. “Thomas needs all of us, Patton.”

“I know that,” Patton said. “I just… Remus?”

“Remus,” Janus agreed. “He’s making an effort to stay on the video topic, and that’s asking a lot of him. And he’s Creativity too. It’s not fair to let Roman do all of the work in that department. To Remus or Roman.”

“Roman’s managed alright without him so far,” Patton said quietly.

Janus drew himself further upright. “No,” he said. “Roman has been having a breakdown about the fact that he doesn’t think he’s good enough. He really hasn’t been managing alright, and shutting Thomas off from an entire side of his Creativity is in no way a good idea. The three of them need to learn to work together. And that’s not such a terrible idea for you to be considering, either,” Janus said, crossing his arms.

Patton narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think it’s a little unfair for you to be talking about working together when you’re only letting sides through to Thomas when you want to?”

“Maybe,” Janus said. “Or maybe if you were making more of an effort to work together I’d be more willing to let you talk to Thomas. We could have this argument all day. I need to go introduce Thomas to Remus.” Janus turned and headed for the door.

“What if he doesn’t like him?” Patton asked, and Janus stopped. He turned back around.

“How do you know how Thomas will react to Remus?” he asked.

“You want to start working together? Fine. Thomas doesn’t like the kinds of things Remus comes up with. I can’t imagine why he’d like Remus in spite of that. Just…” Patton sighed. “Look. I can’t honestly say that I want Thomas to dislike Remus. It wouldn’t be fun for Remus, and I don’t want that for him. I’m just saying you should prepare yourselves for the possibility.” Patton looked hesitant for a moment. “Maybe… maybe you should prepare Thomas for the possibility. Maybe that would help?”

Janus was about to snap back a reply when he considered the statement for a moment longer. “You know…” he said. “That’s actually not a terrible idea.” He looked up at Patton and nodded. “Thanks.”

“Oh. Um, you’re welcome kiddo.”

Janus disregarded the kiddo comment and sunk out to see Thomas, without Remus or Roman for the moment.

…

Thomas was surprised when Self-Interest showed up alone again. “No Escapism today?” he asked, setting down the notebook he’d been getting ready to use to brainstorm.

“He’ll be here in a moment,” Self-Interest said. “I just thought it would be fair to give you a heads up that the other half of your creativity will be coming today too.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. “Didn’t you say that was my Intrusive Thoughts? I thought I wasn’t ready to meet him.”

“He’s been calmer as of late. You have noticed, haven’t you?” Self-Interest asked.

Thomas paused, and realized after a moment that he had noticed less invasive thoughts about death and disease lately.

“I told him he could join if he tried to stay on topic. But a forewarning, he’s… not very good at that. It just might be a lot, and I wanted to give you a chance to prepare yourself to be a little overwhelmed.”

Thomas nodded uneasily.

“He cares quite a bit,” Self-Interest said. “In his own way. He’s just… a lot sometimes.”

Thomas crossed his arms, feeling a little unsettled. “It sounds like you don’t think I’ll like him.”

“Well, he’s the creative thoughts you don’t want for a reason,” Self-Interest muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… don’t want you to be expecting another Escapism and be disappointed. Because he’s really excited for this, and if you end up acting disappointed, I just…”

“Hey,” Thomas cut him off by reaching out and grabbing his hand. “Does he mean a lot to you?”

Self-Interest looked up at him in surprise. “What?”

“It sounds like he means a lot to you.”

“I… I practically raised him,” Self-Interest admitted.

“Okay. Then it’ll be fine. I’m not going to be rude to someone who matters that much to you. I know to expect someone a little eccentric. It’ll be okay.”

“A little eccentric is putting it mildly,” Self-Interest muttered. “But alright. I’ll go get them both.”

Thomas nodded, and Self-Interest sank back down again. Thomas prepared himself for getting overwhelmed or maybe screamed at, and not a moment too soon, because after a second there appeared in front of him someone who looked similar to Escapism, though with a black and green outfit and a much crazier grin on his face.

“Thomathy!” the side exclaimed. “Wow, you look exactly like I thought you would!”

“Like… you?” Thomas asked in confusion.

“Like shit! You really should try some eyeshadow, I can show you how I do mine!”

“I think I’m okay,” Thomas said, making note of the purple eyeshadow smeared all around the side’s face in a way that didn’t look exactly flattering.

“You didn’t let me finish,” said Self-Interest, as he rose up with Escapism, the latter of whom looked nervous and the former of whom looked weary.

“You said I could go see Thomas,” Intrusive Thoughts said, turning and bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. “So I did!”

“I said, ‘Yes, you can go, but.’ There was more coming.”

“Wait, I missed a butthole? Was it juicy?”

Thomas couldn’t help the startled laugh that came out of him, and Intrusive Thoughts grinned back over at him. “Hi,” Thomas said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi! I’m your Intrusive Thoughts, but that’s kind of a mouthful, so you can just call me Remus!”

Thomas blinked. “Uh… okay?”

“Wait, how come he gets to tell him his name first?” Escapism asked, sounding offended.

“Wait,” Thomas said. “You all have names?”

“No one was stopping you from telling him your name,” Remus said, grinning back at Escapism. “I just got here first. I win, fucker!”

“What— that’s not even— Remus is a terrible name anyway!”

Remus gave a long and clearly not actually offended gasp. “Bold words coming from someone named Stinky Poo Poo Side The Third.”

“That… that’s not actually your name, is it?” Thomas asked in concern, glancing back at Escapism. “Because if you want to pick a different one—”

“Roman,” the side groaned, burying his head in his hands. “He’s Remus, I’m Roman.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. “Okay.” He glanced over at Self-Interest, who was massaging his temple and looking very done with the whole situation.

“Why did I think it was a good idea to send you both here together?” Self-Interest muttered.

“Well, you did, no take backsies!” Remus called. “Anyway!” he swung back around and plopped himself down on the couch next to Thomas. “I have some thoughts on this video idea of yours!”

“I figured,” Thomas admitted. “You are my creativity too, aren’t you?”

“I am! So! Let’s you and me talk about the wonderful world of soap allergies.”

Roman joined them after another moment, and after a little bit of a bumpy start, he and Remus started to work off of each other well. Roman seemed to be very good at picking out what ideas from Remus’ ramblings would actually be helpful, and then they could start working on how to use them. By the end of the brainstorming session, Thomas had a section planned in the video about how to stop hyperfocusing on world event stuff, brought up by Remus admitting that even he had been starting to get a little bored with all of it.

And by the time they all called it quits for a while and Thomas got ready to go make some dinner, he wasn’t sure what Self-Interest had ever been worried about. He liked Remus just fine.

Self-Interest stuck around after Roman and Remus both headed back to what they called the Mindscape (Thomas made a mental note to ask about that later), and followed Thomas into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Thomas said, looking at him. “You alright? You look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Self-Interest scoffed. “I’m… just curious.”

“About?”

“What you thought about Remus,” Self-Interest said, looking down casually at the gloves on his hands, as if this was merely a fleeting curiosity he wanted satisfied.

Thomas melted a little inside. “Oh, you really love him, don’t you?” he asked.

“Wha— I— of course not,” Self-Interest said, crossing his arms and looking indignantly up towards the ceiling. “I simply want to know if I have to spend the night consoling him. It will take such a large chunk out of my self care time, so I’d rather avoid it if I could.”

Thomas chuckled and shook his head. “You don’t need to worry,” he said, getting out a pot to make mac and cheese in. “I definitely don’t dislike him. I don’t see how I could, to be honest. He’s like a big excitable puppy.”

Self-Interest laughed. “That’s a pretty fair comparison,” he admitted. “You really do like him?”

“I really do,” Thomas said, smiling amusedly back over his shoulder. He saw Self-Interest’s shoulders slump slightly in relief and felt a little bad the next second. Had Thomas been unintentionally mean to Remus in the past? Or well, to his function, he supposed. He didn’t want to make any of his sides think he wouldn’t like them. Especially when every one of them so far had seemed to adore him so completely. He was a little awed by how much, if he was being honest.

“Okay,” Self-Interest said. “Good. In that case, I have things I should really—”

“Come sit and have dinner with me,” Thomas cut him off, surprising Self-Interest into silence.

“Excuse me?”

“Come sit with me while I have dinner,” Thomas said. “If you’d like to, of course.”

“I… really? You want me to stick around?”

Yeah, Thomas decided he didn’t like that tone being in any side’s voice. He was going to do his best to get rid of it from all the ones he met. “I rather appreciate your company,” he said, and went to go get the box of mac and cheese noodles to put in the water.

“I… alright then,” Self-Interest said, moving to lean tentatively against the counter. “I suppose I could spare an hour or so.”

“Good,” Thomas said. “It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to.” And with that, he started preparing the rest of the ingredients while chatting pleasantly with Self-Interest as he did.

Chapter Four

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #janus sanders #remus sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #my fic

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avversiera-writes · 3 years

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touch your heart [senju tobirama/you] - chapter 2

Summary: Hashirama might go down as the worst matchmaker in history, but he thinks he might be on to something. Tobirama sees through his brother's schemes and is determined not to fall for it. Or fall for you.

Word Count: about 4k

AO3 LINK TO TOUCH YOUR HEART

AOR SERIES LINK TO ‘TIL DEATH DO US PART

[<<<CHAPTER ONE]

The due dates that Tobirama gave you are more reasonable and flexible than you thought. You try to find something to complain about so you can relay it to Madara later and earn a small smile from him, but no, there is no reason to complain about it. The only thing you want to complain about are his so-called rules. Tobirama is not about leisure or lightening up, though that is not a bother to you if you are going to be honest. Planning to mess with him a little is just an attempt to wipe off that serious face of his. You want to know him based on what you see from him, not from what other people have told you.

However, you also do not want to mess things up. You are determined to work as hard as he does for this project because it is special to the village and for the children that are going to be attending the Academy.

Also because you know you’ll get paid for it. You have been running low on money these days ever since you bought your own place.

Now that you are older, you wish you had the proper education to be a shinobi. You have to learn most of your skills along the way and apart from your family who had basically banished you, and even now, you are still learning as there are a lot of things that you missed.

Now, the children that are going to grow up here have something better for the future. They have more choices and bigger chances to become good shinobis.

You get settled in your bed, which is literally the only furniture your place has. It is your dining table, your workplace, and also your resting place. Your weapons are littered on the floor, and your swords are leaning against the wall in one corner of the room. The books and the scrolls given to you lay open or stacked near your bed where you can reach for it. Some clean laundry you have yet to get to sit on the foot of your bed, and the space you are currently lying on is the only space your bed can make for you at the moment.

Quaint, but it has a lot of potential.

Your new home, which is situated just at the edge of the village and newly built, is a home for civilians and also other shinobis who are not part of a clan, or those who rather have a place for themselves. This is a sign that the village is growing, and more and more families are becoming involved with it.

You force yourself to go through the many materials that you need to read and study up on for the rest of the night until midnight, and you begin to write your suggestions after going through the material once again. You are good at absorbing information, but at the same time, you have trouble keeping still for a very long time. Sometimes you have the unfortunate ability to memorize the wrong things because your mind zeroes into whatever your brain wants to obsess over.

However, you have made it this far. You can adjust.

You hope.

You are pretty sure that Tobirama is sending you around the village in a goose chase just so that he can work on the curriculum himself. It’s obvious he did not want you near him with all those rules about preserving his boundaries. The said goose chase sounds reasonable enough–talk to the members of the clans, the ones who are the keeper of their knowledge and history and write them down. He did not even look you in the face when he sent you away, he just gave you a list of what to ask the clans residing in Konoha and a blank notebook and a scroll for you to record all of the information in.

This whole ordeal occupied you for the whole day and it also happens to bleed through the next day, in which you are convinced Tobirama has completed at least half the work.

The thought does not make you happy. You want to do something, damn it. You feel like your life depends on it.

Another day passes, and this time, Tobirama has you looking for artists, merchants, inventors and other skilled people in Konoha and recording their name and the location to find them. This part you understand well because you know that Hashirama wants to expand on other skills, but it feels so tedious and it makes the day longer. Not to mention, you do not really know anyone since you have been busy polishing your skills with Madara. Now that you think about it, you spend an awful lot of time with the man, ever since you came here.

Before you know it, you are breaking into a run towards the Hokage mansion.

Tobirama cannot be left to his own devices. You will not let him take this from you.

You find the white-haired man seated on his usual spot, hand poised elegantly over a sheet of paper and eyes moving along the lines of a book he is reading.

“Finished already?” Tobirama says in a very flat tone.

“Yeah, of course, I already know the people to put down.” Okay, that was a lie, and you know Tobirama had caught that because he glances at you briefly with narrowed eyes.

You walk up to him and you lay out the information you gathered today.

“Where’s your family from?” Tobirama straight up asks you without any preamble. The expression on his face does not change though you can feel that he is bothered by you.

You are taken aback by a beat, but you have no problem answering it. You have memorized the lines that you have to say that it begins to feel true. “They are a little far north from here, but they’re just traders, merchants, skillsmen.”

“Of what?”

“With the right amount of money, anything.” You say in an even, but casual tone. “They don’t like shinobi, so I left to make a living of my own.”

You can tell Tobirama did not like your answer. He puts his pen down and you feel him scrutinizing you.

"You have any friends?" He immediately follows up.

However, you have long mastered the skills of deflecting and only letting people know certain things about you. They always see what they want to see in you, never bothering to put two and two together that you are just painting a pretty picture for them to look at.

"Too many," you reply vaguely.

Tobirama sighs, and his eyes narrow.

“I cannot trust you if you continue to evade me. This is integral to this village and its future, and I cannot have, no, I cannot afford to waste time or make mistakes,” Tobirama says and he meets your eyes.

“I can promise you, I am ready to work just as much as you so let's not get personal,” you lean back and cross your arms. “And after this, I will get out of your hair forever. You wouldn’t even have to hear from me.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, but you can tell he is satisfied with your answer. “Oh please, with a village this small, and me, holding an important position in the said village, you cannot guarantee that.”

You smirk and you pull out the chair across from him. “Touché, Lord Tobirama,” you emphasize the lord with a mocking tone.

Tobirama grits his jaw visibly and he grabs his pen almost angrily. You are starting to think that maybe this is what Tobirama generally looks like.

“Get to work.”

“What is it this time? List the several types of drinks the people in this village make? Investigate the best type of fabric to wear for each season?” You prompt, unable to keep the grin from spreading across your lips. He just let you get away with calling him lord.

Adding a title to someone’s name is supposed to be a sign of respect, but the way you say it makes it sound derogatory. Like you’re cursing him.

Tobirama looks about ready to yell, and part of you wants him to take the bait. You lean closer to gauge his reactions and you watch him immediately school his expression. It is like watching a magic show, one moment something is there, the next, it disappears.

“Well, if you wanted me to make up more tasks for you to do, you should have just asked,” Tobirama deadpans.

You watch him, intrigued. “Wow. Are you trying to be funny, or are you trying to insult me?”

“Please stop talking when I am working,” Tobirama does not sound like he is pleading. He hands you a stack of books to go through. “I want you to compile a list of necessary skills that you deem important, and I will do the same. We can discuss and vet on which skills are required to learn for each grade level right after.”

You let out a breezy laugh, and you note how Tobirama seems to twitch at the sound. “Right, right, fine.” You pause. “Have you looked at my notes?”

“Of course I have,” Tobirama huffs and he shoots you a distasteful glare, and to you, it looks like he’s tired of talking. “I will make my own notes on where you’re lacking and then you revise it.”

“What do we need those for?” You ask, genuinely curious. “What else are we in charge of making?”

“The reason I had you seek out artists, writers, bookmakers, and the like, is because we will commission them to make textbooks,” Tobirama explains. “We just need to get the information together. Meanwhile, I would also like to fill this library and another public library with other kinds of books.”

You tap your chin. “Your brother tells me you like to invent things and all that. Are you going to include your research and your inventions in the library?”

Tobirama sighs, visibly withering at the statement that his brother talks behind his back, but he revives himself enough to get back to his work. “Depends on what my brother approves of.”

You let out an involuntary chuckle. Here are the two most powerful known shinobis in the world right now, and they argue over mundane things.

Tobirama raises an eyebrow at you and you shake your head.

He takes that as a sign to keep on working, so you decide to keep to yourself.

Surprisingly, you are starting to enjoy this. It’s not as bad as you imagined.

Perhaps you spoke too soon, because here you are at the crack of dawn–no not even the crack of dawn because the surroundings are still dark blue. You yawn as you arrive, and find Tobirama waiting in the middle of the training ground in a different outfit you have not seen him in. He seems to only have one color palette; he wears a navy wrap-around jacket that has a collar in a lighter shade of blue. The sleeves are short, showing off his muscles, and all of this is tied with a light yellow-green belt around his waist. A sword is secured to his belt, and it hangs on his side ready to be drawn. A happuri guards his forehead and the sides of his face, and for some reason, this makes him look more authoritarian and older. A mesh armor peeks through the space between his collars and even in your sleepiness, you note a defined torso that you keep to yourself.

You do not even see an ounce of sleepiness in him and you huff.

Tobirama merely glances at you, but every time he looks at you, it feels like he is already exasperated.

“Is it just us?” You try not to sound too whiny. “Also I ate breakfast, I’m not falling for whatever it is you have in mind.”

“And what do you think is on my mind?”

“I don’t know? A test of survival, starving us for days in the forest with only the surroundings as our resource?” You rest a hand on your two swords–an uchigatana and a wakizashi, both the same in appearance and made from the same metal.

“I said not to eat too much breakfast, I did not discourage you from it.” Tobirama lets out a sarcastic sigh–something he can really pull off well. “I am not that cruel.”

You hear an excited gasp behind you and you turn to find Sarutobi Hiruzen and Shimura Danzo walking towards the two of you.

“Tobirama-sensei!” Hiruzen calls enthusiastically, at the crack of dawn. “I hope you don’t mind, I brought my friend again!”

You glance at Tobirama and you see his face visibly soften at the sight of his student.

“And I didn’t know Y/N-sensei’s joining us!” Hiruzen bounds up to you and you reach up to ruffle his hair. He turns to you and points at Tobirama. “He’s a really cool sensei! Really cool!”

Tobirama suddenly looks constipated and you laugh out loud.

“We’ll see, kiddo,” you tell him. “We’ll see.”

Two more kids come, and the girl, Utatane Koharu, somehow looks pissed, which you can suddenly relate to. The boy beside her, Mitokado Homura, looks more calm and composed as he adjusts his glasses on his face.

Tobirama nods, and then he breaks off into a light jog. Obediently, the kids follow after him and you grudgingly follow behind them. They must be used to this.

After a few rounds, the kids start to stretch and you do the same as well, and everything has been pretty calm. You watch as the kids do sets of push-ups, sit-ups, calisthenics and you are impressed at their stamina. They’re barely twelve, but then again, if you are training under Senju Tobirama, you can tell that you will be pushed to your limit.

You feel a pang of envy from these kids for a moment, but you push it away. There is no reason to look back into the past and feel bitter about how things worked out.

“So what’s next, sensei?” Hiruzen inquires. You can see how much these kids admire the man.

“Sparring,” Tobirama replies. “Since Danzo’s here, you guys are evenly matched. Last man standing gets to fight me.”

“What about Y/N-sensei?” Danzo interjects.

“Yeah, what about me?” You smirk, and you lighten your voice so that it sounds more childish.

You can feel Koharu rolling her eyes.

You narrow your eyes at him and let out a small stream of breath through your mouth. “I see.”

Tobirama slightly raises his chin haughtily. It suits him. He does not need to speak to dominate the atmosphere. He shrugs, and it sparks something in you.

“I’ll still try my best,” you smirk, but underneath your facade, you are starting to get annoyed. Which is new, because you are generally a patient person.

Tobirama takes Hiruzen and Koharu while you take the other two to coach during their matches. You stand in between Danzo and Homura, watching their small faces study each other.

“Don’t kill each other,” you advise, and you start their match.

The two go at each other, with Danzo throwing the first punch. You back off a little to make sure that you can see their stances.

Homura whirls around and his foot juts out, with his heel aiming towards Danzo’s head. Danzo ducks down, and kicks at Homura’s stomach the moment he regains his posture from the kick.

Homura staggers back, and now he is on the defensive, blocking Danzo’s hits and kicks, barely dodging them as he keeps backing away. You notice the hits and misses from each boy.

“Homura, don’t back away!” You yell out. “Get closer to him!”

Homura does as you say, and Danzo is unable to land a hit on him, limiting his movements unless–

Danzo jumps back to get away, and kicks Homura on the chest.

“Nice!” You cheer.

“Sensei, whose side are you on?” Homura complains and his hand comes up to rub his chest.

You laugh. “Neither!” You glance at both of their faces. “Okay, you two, come here.”

Danzo and Homura face each other again.

“Save your movements, don’t be so generous with them,” you tell them. “Don’t punch just to punch. Again!”

The two boys come at each other and you stand back to watch them again. This time, you do not offer any more suggestions. You glance to where Tobirama is at, and he is squatting on the ground, his eyes trained on the students’ footwork.

You hear him call out that Hiruzen’s feet are too far apart.

You snap back to the two boys just in time to watch Homura flip Danzo on his back.

You walk over and you peer at Danzo. “You okay?”

“Yes,” the boy wheezes out.

“Alright, you’re done,” you chuckle and you look at Homura. “You win, then. Good job. Help him up.”

You glance at the other group, and you see Koharu sock Hiruzen straight to his face and Tobirama jump up to his feet. Hiruzen gets to his feet, and you see a trickle of blood coming out of his nose.

When Hiruzen gets closer, you ruffle his hair affectionately and you laugh as he grimaces.

“Not funny!” He whines nasally.

“Keep your hands up next time!” You taunt even though he may already know this.

Tobirama puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him towards a rock so that he can sit. “Sit up and lean forward,” he tells his student.

The rest of the kids walk towards him to watch and poke fun at Hiruzen.

You stay back and cross your arms to watch them. You know that there is no place for you to be there.

Once Tobirama is finished attending to his student, he turns to you. “Koharu, you’re the referee.”

You size him up, your eyes travelling from his face and down to his waist. What was one of his rules again?

Anticipation builds in your core, and your hand rests on the scabbard of your sword, your thumb playing at the hilt.

“Are we including tricks today?” You inquire.

“If you want,” Tobirama curtly replies.

Koharu starts the fight, and Tobirama wastes no time coming at you.

His first hit is heavy, and you block it with both of your forearms and brace yourself by stepping back one leg. You are quick to grab his wrist as you twist your arm and you step forward, meaning to put your leg behind his, but he breaks away from you and disturbs the momentum that you were going to use against him.

You are quick to back away because he comes at you without stopping.

He is fast, and he is heavy with his hands. You notice his open hands, ready for grappling. His stance is lower, and you know that it will be hard to knock him off balance, and the effects of kicking at his head will go to his advantage.

You need an opening.

You launch yourself at him, and as he prepares himself to grab you, you drop to your knees and slide in between his legs, hitting his knee as you pass him by. He turns to your direction, and you quickly use his bent knee to step and kick towards his head. He blocks you and you see him almost grab at your ankle.

You do not give him a chance to gather himself, and you swing again at him, this time using his shoulder to propel yourself around him and using his weight and yours, you are able to lock his head with your legs. Just as you are about to go for another twist to bring him to the ground, Tobirama counters by catching you and launching you off of him.

“You fight like an assassin,” Tobirama says as you roll to the ground and to your feet.

“Are you impressed?” You grin at him, half jokingly.

Tobirama does not answer you, but it looks like he is about to say something worse as he charges at you.

You step closer to him so that he does not follow through his movement, and you grab the hilt of his sword and then you strike your palm at his chest to send him back. You whirl around to brandish his sword in the air.

What was one of his rules? You suddenly remember.

Do not touch my things, unless I give them to you.

For a moment, everyone freezes.

You study the blade in your hand.

“This is a very nice sword,” you muse, and you strike at the air and flip it, testing the weight. You run a finger on the blunt edge of his sword. “Well-balanced and thin, but very sharp. Excellent for accurate and fast hits...and conducting lightning.”

Tobirama’s face grows stormy. His fists tighten.

You twist blade with a slight twist of your wrist, and you hand it with the hilt towards him. “Sorry. I was curious.”

Tobirama takes his sword and quickly sheathes it. You note a minuscule change in his expression, but it quickly passes and you are disappointed for not being quick enough to note it.

“So, is this a tie?” Koharu asks, uncertain.

“Yes,” Tobirama grits through his teeth.

You watch Tobirama’s tense shoulders and decide to leave him alone. You probably went too far today.

“Well, that was fun, but I have to go,” you say, even though the rest of your day is pretty much free. "I have some friends to meet."

Tobirama suspects that you certainly do not have any friends to meet, but he does not say anything more. He’s probably eager to make you go. There is nothing he would want more.

“Aw!” Hiruzen cries out. His nose bleed has stopped. “Thanks for coming by, sensei!”

You wink at the kids, and you make your exit, your hand still remembering the feel of Tobirama’s sword. It is oddly familiar, and you wonder if the craftsmanship is similar to your own blade.

You can feel Tobirama’s stare behind you and it burns the back of your neck as if he is shooting laser beams at you, and just when you glance back to regard it, he is turning away and conversing with his students about hand seals.

Though it was just a joke and a way to catch him by surprise, you can’t help but feel that you just stomped over the thin olive branch that he was handing out to you.

You note to yourself to make it up to him tomorrow.

[CHAPTER THREE >>>]

#angelica writes #avversiera writes #'til death do us part #tobirama #Tobirama Senju #Senju Tobirama #tobirama x reader #senju tobirama x reader #senju tobirama x you #tobirama x you #naruto fanfiction

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hotchnisslovechild · 3 years

Text

On the Sidelines

Chapter One

Holly and Marvyn meet and have a few beers.

A/N: i've recently fallen in love with the show big shot and grown quite attached to the relationship between holly and marvyn. i'll be needing something to hold me over as i wait for season 2 to be announced and released *fingers crossed*, so i thought i'd write a little something about these two. i’m not sure if any of you on here watch the show at all, but i feel like posting this here anyway. i recommend binging the first season of the show on disney+ :)

Pairing: Marvyn Korn/Holly Barrett (Big Shot) Rating: T Word Count: 2,302 AO3 Link

Today is the day. The day Holly gets to meet her new coaching partner and the team meets their new head coach. Changing into her practice clothes, something resembling both anxiety and excitement burrows itself in Holly’s nerves. Her thoughts run wild as she anticipates meeting the great Coach Marvyn Korn for the first time.

Holly would be lying if she said she didn’t have a little crush on Coach Korn. Of course, she admired his great looks, but she found his coaching to be just as fascinating, if not more. Watching him coach was electrifying. He’s animated, excited, always moving around, unable to sit still for a single play. He saw the court and everything happening all at once, managing his players like a brilliant conductor of an orchestra. She learned a lot from him by studying his coaching methods at Wisconsin from the comfort of her living room couch. He unknowingly taught her about defensive schemes and rotations, end-of-game scenarios, the importance of teaching your players every detail of the game and correcting their mistakes so they can improve. He undoubtedly loved the game and coaching it. His enthusiasm for the sport was infectious to his team in every game, and it paid off. That was until he threw it all away. And ended up here, at an all-girls private high school in California.

Taking a deep breath, the assistant coach walks into her office, her excited nerves to make a good impression mingling with her eagerness to get the season started with a new coach. After tapping Shave and a Haircut on the window separating her office from Marvyn’s, she lets herself in, extending a hand to greet him.

“Holly Barrett, Assistant Coach,” she greets with an enthusiastic smile, borderline out of breath from the anticipation of finally meeting him. She studies him. His looks. His demeanor. He looks better than he did on TV — if that’s even possible. She finds his dark features beguiling. And those eyes. She could get lost in those light-colored eyes. There’s a lack of actual light in them, however. He seems unenthused, maybe a bit on edge. But she shrugs it off, attributing the lack of energy to nervousness.

“Marvyn Korn,” he says, shaking her outstretched hand, holding on to it a bit longer than necessary, caught off guard by the bright energy of the woman standing before him. She’s the first person at this school to greet him in a way that resembles any sort of kindness. No one at Westbrook wants him there. Hell, he doesn’t even want to be there. This is just one step towards getting back to college ball.

“It’s a great honor, Coach,” she says, letting go of his hand and walking towards the front of his desk, “I’m a big fan. You have no idea,” she admits, trying her hardest not to come across as creepy or weird. They are going to be working together pretty closely for the next few months, so she wants to start things off right with him, not scare him away or freak him out. She’s sure he’s already a bit freaked out being transplanted into an all-girls high school after coaching college men for so many years, and she’s not caught off guard when he then asks her for advice on coaching girls.

“Well, I'm tempted to say just treat 'em like the boys,” she starts, debating whether or not she wants to continue that thought. It’s probably not the best idea to offend the head coach on his first day on the job.

“But?” he pushes.

“You didn't treat the boys so well,” she answers matter-of-factly.

“Do you have any advice that might actually be helpful?”

She tells him that the girls on this Westbrook team are future leaders who are anxious to get started and can be a bit much. “Don’t pretend, they’ll see right through it,” she adds finally. And I’ll see right through it she thinks. “Other than that… let’s go coach some basketball,” she says brightly.

Marvyn tries his best not to roll his eyes as he gets up from his chair and heads onto the court to meet the girls. He doesn’t want to be there. He doesn’t want to coach a bunch of rich high school girls. Everything about this gig is a demotion for him. From college to high school. From men to girls. His disregard for this job is anything but hidden as he walks out of his office, dreading the official start of his role as Head Basketball Coach at Westbrook.

Holly follows closely behind him, excited and ready for a fresh start with a new coach to work with. Their previous coach had been nothing short of insufferable, constantly telling Holly she had no say in the team, diminishing her role as a coach, making it clear she was not in charge. Despite his harshness towards Holly, he coddled the girls on the team, always telling them what they wanted to hear. The lack of discipline never got the team anywhere, but Holly bit her tongue, knowing that whatever she had to say didn’t matter to her then-colleague. Marvyn gives her a sliver of hope for the team’s future and hers. She knows Marvyn will run things differently, and she hopes that this change will be a good change.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

After one practice and not even one drink into their casual rendezvous at a sports bar, Holly concludes that Marvyn certainly is different from their previous coach, but she’s hesitant to consider the change a positive one. He takes the game too seriously, prioritizes the end goal of winning and success over the feelings of the girls on the team. To him, they are just pawns in his own lifelong game of basketball. They are X’s and O’s, not individuals worthy of being treated with respect. He practically committed every sin of working with teens in the book. He demeaned them, embarrassed them, and disrespected them all in the span of one practice.

“My life is basketball,” he begins, “Everyone in my life are basketball players. A good coach can't be successful if he becomes friends with his players.”

“What about after work?”

“There is no after work. Not if you wanna win. There's diagramming plays, there's watching tapes, the recruiting, but there's no after work.”

Holly lets out a breath. His version of reality is nearly incomprehensible to her. Never in her life has she met someone more polarizing and stuck in his way than this man in a tracksuit sitting in the booth with her. She almost feels sorry for him. He doesn’t have any friends, and he spends all of his time thinking about basketball and how to make his team better.

“I guess I don't have to ask what happened to your marriage,” Holly says boldly, venturing into the untouched territory of his personal life as she takes a sip of her beer.

“Nope. What happened to yours?” he returns. He checked her out in the teacher portal the day before. He’s all about preparation, and that does not exclude doing some research on his assistant coach.

Her eyes grow wide. How the hell did he know I was previously married? She thinks to herself. “None of your business,” she retorts, sidestepping his question as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not wanting to air out her dirty laundry in front of her colleague, especially considering they just met some few hours ago.

“It is my business. Add to that, you opened the door because you asked about my marriage.” She scoffs in response, now regretting bringing up the topic of failed marriages.

Marvyn opens up about his divorce first, telling her that his wife left him, which Holly deduces was because Marvyn is such a workaholic. “She figured that she deserved more, that she could do better. So she did,” Marvyn explains. “Your turn.”

“Same,” she utters, wanting nothing to do with this conversation any longer, “He realized he could do better.”

“Why?” He pushes once more, his stubbornness starting to set Holly’s nerves on fire.

“None of your business,” she says, her voice laced with more attitude than she intended.

“If it speaks to your character, it is my business.”

Looking down at her lap, Holly lets out a quick breath. She has her back up again the door of the closet, refusing to expose the skeletons locked in there. Her marital past is not something she’s particularly proud of or that she looks back on with much joy. It’s hard to talk about without feeling embarrassed, feeling ashamed that she had an affair with a man named Matt, who happened to be her husband’s best friend.

The neglect from her husband eventually pushed her over the edge to do what she would never forgive herself for. The person who was supposed to love her the most in this world stopping caring. She was left unfulfilled and disconnected from the man she once loved. He was absent. Even when he was there, he wasn’t actually there. They didn’t even bother to fight anymore. They simply coexisted in a house that no longer felt like home.

She really wasn’t thinking at all when it happened the first time. She had an itch to scratch, and Matt was there.

“I cheated on him,” Holly discloses finally, “I had an affair. Worst thing a spouse can do, I suppose. Short of neglect, maybe,” she explains, purposefully vague, hoping he doesn’t interrogate her further.

“Are you saying my betrayal was worse?” he asks, suddenly feeling defensive.

“I’m saying his was worse. But yeah, yours too, I guess, if that's what you're guilty of.” The weight of her words hangs in the air between them. He watches as she shifts once more in her seat, visibly uncomfortable with the level of openness of the conversation.

Holly sighs. “Wow. This is a really nice ‘How do you do? Let's get a beer’,” she says with a subtle bite of sarcasm, avoiding his gaze and reaching for her beer.

“This isn't a ‘How do you do? Let's get a beer’. You have an agenda.” She rolls her eyes at his accusation, although there is some truth to it. She does have something she wants to talk to him about. “You clearly have an agenda, so get to it.”

“You are profoundly unlikable. You know that, right?” She doesn’t even try to hide the sourness of her tone.

“You're just scratching the surface. If you have something to say to me, please say it. 'Cause I'd like to get back and work on the Laguna game.”

God, he’s so fucking persistent. “Okay.” She set aside her beer, leaning in towards him. “Marvyn, these are high school girls we are working with. I know your tried-and-tested ways of coaching got you far at the collegiate level, but these girls can’t be treated like they are men in college.”

“And why not?” Her point evidently went right over his head.

“Because they are different. They don’t handle criticism like those men do. They take things personal. They won’t be responsive to your derogatory, hotheaded way of giving feedback or your ‘my way or the highway’ mentality. These girls need to be inspired and supported, not embarrassed and disrespected. These girls don’t just kiss the ring. If they aren’t respected, they are going to try to get the upper hand. And they are quite good at it.”

“They’re not gonna get the upper hand with me,” he counters.

“Look at how scared of this you are.” She can’t understand how it’s so hard to just receive these girls as the complex people they are. This team won’t get anywhere if he doesn’t let go of all his unreasonable preconceptions and connect with these girls. He’s so stuck in this mindset that the team is beneath his abilities that he doesn’t realize he could actually learn something from these girls. And he shouldn’t be afraid of that. Holly is always learning new things from her students and players. When is Marvyn going to get it through his head that he can learn from these girls just as much as they can learn from him? It’s a two-way street.

“This is another thing. You don’t know me,” he snaps defensively, “so don’t pretend that you know me.”

“I don’t want to know you,” she says coolly, “I just want what’s best for the team,” she assures him, feigning sincerity, telling him exactly what he wants to hear whether it’s what she wants to say or not.

“Yeah.” He nods his head, thinking she’s finally seeing things from his point of view.

“Is that a good answer?” she asks as she raises her eyebrows, revealing the insincerity of her previous words. His face drops, catching on to her little game. She’s irritatingly clever.

The conversation comes to a quick end, interrupted by the other patrons of the bar cheering and applauding, celebrating a touchdown in the football game playing on all of the TVs.

They find themselves back in that same booth at the same sports bar the next night. As they sip on their beers, Marvyn expresses his doubts about coaching this team, telling Holly that he just doesn’t think he can do it.

“What else?” he asks after bringing up everything that’s happened with the girls in just his two first days, speaking so frantically Holly could hardly keep up. “What the hell else?” His apparent distress over coaching a bunch of high school girls makes her laugh. You would think the world was coming to an end based on how he was acting.

“I know. You're not prepared. Welcome to high school,” she quips.

“I- I had no idea what I was in for.”

Clearly.

#my first shot at a multichapter fic?#kind of scared #hopefully i keep it up #i strongly recommend watching this show #it's strangely addicting #gotta be laced w something #big shot #big shot on disney+#harvyn #harvyn fic #holly barrett #marvyn korn #disney+#big shot series #holly and marvyn #my fics #on the sidelines

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itcantbe · 3 years

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Zelink Week Day 6

We're nearly to the end of @zelinkweek2021! Today's prompt is "abnormality: malice/timeline alteration." I focused on the timeline alteration (in a roundabout way), though I suppose malice is in there a bit as well. The last two days of Zelink Week 2021 will be the last two chapters of "Under the Boardwalk." I've been so thrilled with how much excitement I've seen for this story and the great comments everyone has left here and on ao3. I appreciate it a lot! Today's chapter takes place during the events of chapter 2. It's a bit of a short one, but I promise I make it up to you in the final chapter.

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Read on ao3

Under the Boardwalk: Down By The Sea

The past few weeks had been wonderful. And weird. And horrible. And frustrating.

After that first night, when their “date” had gone so horribly wrong, after Link had figured her out, after she had broken his heart, they had reached a sort of understanding. He answered any question she might have about park operations, Ganondorf, what went on in the castle. He helped her sneak around the park at night after it closed a few times: photographing broken rides, missing caution signs, and anything else she thought might be useful. Her pictures had gotten much better once she didn’t have to hide what she was doing.

And, since he didn’t have a car, she’d take him home. Or they’d grab a bite to eat together, and she’d pay because she was thanking him for his help. It wasn’t a date.

But they talked, since sitting in awkward silence was unpleasant even if Link did hate her. If he did hate her, that was fine, since she hated herself for lying to him. For still lying to him. Their conversation had been stilted at first, the specter of her deception hanging between them like a dark, heavy curtain. But over the course of a few weeks, it settled into something comfortable, something easy. Her lie still hovered in the back of their every interaction, but it became less noticeable as the days passed. At first they only talked about her investigation, and made plans on how to gather more information. But soon they started to talk about more, and started sharing about their lives.

They talked about school. She talked about how it had been hard to prove herself in journalism school since she was the daughter of the editor in chief of the Hyrule Star Fragment. How she didn’t want to coast on name recognition, but despite how hard she had worked, no one took her seriously. He talked about how hard school had been. How he had been trying so hard to juggle school and work that he ended up failing at both, quietly admitting to her one night that he had gotten fired from his job and dropped out of school. How he still wasn’t sleeping well because the anxiety and stress of it all kept his mind spinning, even now.

“I guess I’m glad the park didn’t seem to care when they hired me.”

“How do you mean?”

Link shrugged, swiping a french fry through the mess of ketchup on his plate before popping it in his mouth. Zelda watched each movement and may have stared at his lips for a few moments longer than necessary. He had such a nice mouth, with full lips that she briefly imagined pressed to her own. He finished chewing and swallowed, and her imagination followed, her lips traveling from his mouth, across the line of his chin and down his throat, and then down, down, down … A blush rose to her cheeks when she realized she was ogling him like a drooling creep. Instead she pulled her gaze up to meet his eyes. His beautiful eyes, such an unusual shade of blue, that she could easily lose herself in all day.

Thankfully Link continued to talk, pulling her out of her increasingly lascivious thoughts.

“Yeah, they hired me on the spot. Barely asked any questions, just told me when to come in and who to report to.”

“Wow, that’s …”

“Lucky, right? And I get paid right away, they just give me an envelope of cash at the end of the week.”

“Wait, what? Did you fill out any forms, leave any references, anything?”

He shrugged again, hitching one shoulder up before dropping it down again. Zelda thought about sitting in his lap, running her fingers over that shoulder and down his back. Digging her nails into that shoulder as he … Goddess, what is WRONG with you? she asked herself.

“No, just left them my name and phone number.”

“No tax forms? They don’t take anything out of your wages for taxes? Link, that’s illegal! That’s tax fraud!”

She hauled out her notebook and wrote down what he’d told her, as well as some questions to ask.

Look into Gdorf tax records Research Hrl/C-Town employment law Proof of tax fraud????

“So this helps? You can use this for your story?”

Zelda looked up from her notes, the hopeful look on his face going right to her heart.

“Oh, this is the best angle yet! It could be difficult to pin Ganondorf on these other issues, but if anything would get him shut down and investigated, it’s tax fraud!”

Link’s face lit up at her words, as if she’d handed him a gift of the thing he wanted most in the world. She wanted to shove the table aside, tackle him to the floor and kiss him all over.

“I’ll need to visit the municipal tax records office tomorrow. I could use your help … if you’re not busy. I’ll make it worth your while!”

He looked at her a moment, as if considering his answer. She kept her eyes on her notes, trying to look as if his response either way didn’t matter to her. Making it worth his while meant buying him food. The boy loved to eat, attacking his food with relish, delighting in every bite he took, in a manner that always sent her imagination spiraling off into heated territory. Zelda wished making it “worth his while” meant burying his head between her thighs and digging her fingers into his hair as she moaned his name. She shoved the image aside before she could go much further and squirmed in her chair uncomfortably. She needed to get home before she did something she regretted and drove him off for good.

Lunch. She would buy him lunch.

“Uh … yeah, I’m free tomorrow. I can help you.”

She gave him a brilliant smile, relieved that he wanted to help, that he was willing to spend more time with her. Zelda greedily concocted reasons to spend time with him, claiming she needed his help, that she couldn’t do any of it without him. Which was true, despite her desire to shoulder it all on her own so she could prove herself. His help made it all so much easier, so much more pleasant. Almost fun.

And she could revel in the occasional shy smile Link gave her before he remembered that he was still upset with her, in the heat and electricity that seemed to shoot between them every time they accidentally brushed together. The way he helped her organize her notes. The way he suggested new places to look for information, or new angles to approach the story. The way she could pretend they had something more than a working relationship, that she might have a chance to enact some of the fantasies she seemed to almost drown in whenever they were together. The way she could pretend she hadn’t treated him like crap from the beginning, hadn’t lied and led him on.

Then maybe they could have dated for real. Maybe she could have kissed him in every way she had thought of in the past few weeks. Maybe she could have had something meaningful with him. Or maybe she could have done the work herself, being honest and approaching him as a source and nothing more. Maybe then he wouldn’t have gotten as involved as he did. Maybe then she wouldn’t be watching Ganondorf dangle him by the throat over the mouth of the most dangerous slide ever built, Link’s legs and arms held together by zip ties so that he couldn’t do anything to help himself. Maybe then Link wouldn’t die because of her.

Zelda had planned to take Link somewhere a little nicer after they broke into Ganondorf’s office, to dig through the file cabinets and desk drawers. She had planned to tell him her true feelings. Maybe he would have forgiven her, and they could start over. Maybe she could have held his hand again. Maybe they could have been anywhere but here.

Zelda screamed as Ganondorf let Link go and he disappeared into the black depths of the slide. Nothing mattered any more except Link; not her reputation, not her story, not shutting down the park. Only making sure Link was okay, that he lived, that he didn’t regret the day they’d met, and every minute he’d spent with her after that.

She didn’t take time to think, or try to escape her bonds, or to call for help. She just acted, adrenaline surging through her as she counted every minute that passed as one less minute of Link’s survival. All she did was note how close Ganondorf was himself to the entrance to the slide, and how all it would take one good shove to send him down.

And she attacked.

#zelink week 2021 #legend of zelda #zelink #my fic #my writing #breath of the wild #zinkwink2021 #legend of zelda fanfiction #zelink fic #under the boardwalk #theme park au #I'm sure I forget tags each time

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sitp-recs · 3 years

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Hi! I love your blog and the efforts you put into reccing. My question is less about recs themselves and more how you organise your recs 'behind the scenes.' As someone who is hyper organised in some ways and frantically disorganised in others, it would be really cool to know the process that goes into maintaining a rec blog like this if you're happy to share (and of course absolutely no worries if not) <3

Oh my gosh I am so flattered to see you here! As a reader, there are few things cooler than one of your all-time favorite authors saying they appreciate your blog, thank you so much <3 sorry for the extremely long reply ahead, it’s been so long since I’ve answered anything that wasn’t a reclist I got a bit too excited here 😂

First of all, I feel you on a spiritual level re: being organized for some things but not for others; in fact, I struggle a lot between those two sides of the same coin when it comes to fandom. I’ve always been a bit of a chaotic reader - I don’t keep track of my reads, my 600 bookmarks are all mixed without tags, my phone currently has 85 open tabs - most of them fics I wanna read or reread, plus the epics I save on my Marked for Later list... and then never read them lol.

All in all, I’m a complete mess at keeping track of my reads and because my memory is not very good with specific details, I used to take a lot longer to put a reclist together when I started doing this. In this sense, you could say I don’t really organize my blog at all 😂 I try and give up on queueing, I lose links to old reclists and never add them on my masterlist, I don’t even have a backup in case my blog gets deleted, that’s the level of chaos we’re talking about here lol give me danger or nothing

But if we’re talking about making the lists and feeding the blog on a regular basis, after a while you kinda... fall into a routine and get used to your own process, I think? It’s still hard work but reasonably time-consuming once you find a method that actually works for you. I have good memory for titles so first I’ll go through my bookmarks, then depending on the request I also check AO3’s tags to find fics I’ve read before but haven’t kept track of. I only rec stuff I’ve read and enjoyed - unless we’re talking about tropes that aren’t my jam, in which case I either leave the room to people more familiar with them or I tag other reclists, or I highlight fics that I’ve read at some point and might work for someone else. To be honest most of my lists feature the same fics over and over, some of them are quite similar if you look closely!

This process has been working well for me so far, and despite being quite energy-consuming, it’s also a nice therapy! That’s why I keep doing it now that I don’t have as much time to read and write single recs. One thing that helped me along the way was accepting that I wouldn’t be able to deliver every ask, or make the “ultimate reclist”, and that’s okay. I try to encompass as many tropes and authors as I can, but truth is I’m not a fandom authority and there’s a lot I haven’t - and won’t - read. So once I let go of the pressure to deliver perfect lists and really internalized that these are just a few personal suggestions, things became easier.

On that note, reccing is something that can get stressful pretty quickly - either because you’re too perfectionist and feel like you gotta know everything, or because some people come at you being rude and demanding - so setting boundaries to both yourself and the others is necessary and healthy imo! Wow ok this really became a tl;dr rant and I’m not even sure I got to answer your ask properly, but I appreciate you taking the time to send it! It’s always fun to take a minute and reflect on these topics. Hope you’re having a great weekend! Welcome back!

#asks #writcraft #a legend ❤️

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willgrahymn · 4 years

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Crushing Fear

wow can you believe I’m posting one of my fics on tumblr? me neither.

Tags: prinxiety, love confessions, some point close after FWSA, flower language, some swearing, and light angst but mostly fluff (oh and I throw shade at Janus).

Summary: Virgil didn't even remember how long he had spent repressing his dumb crush, but with Thomas falling in love, it felt harder to ignore the feelings welling up in his chest. All he knew was that he couldn't admit it out loud. Luckily for him, Roman was a romantic who couldn't stand to let a chance at love go uninvited, even if he didn't always feel deserving of it.

Word count: 3334

I’ll reblog with ao3 link since I know tumblr is dumb about it :)

There were a lot of things Virgil loved about Roman. He loved the way Roman would push back his hair whenever he caught a glimpse of himself or felt nervous and he loved the way it always fell in his face again. He loved the way his eyes lit up when Virgil asked about a show or a musical he knew the prince liked. To be honest, it was hard to think of something he didn't love. Even things he once thought were annoying had become endearing to him.

It didn’t matter. He had a reputation to at least try to maintain, he’d already gone so damn soft around the others since the light sides and Thomas came to get him back and Roman made that sweet little speech in the darkness of his room.

“You make us better.” It was like a song he played on repeat. At the time, Roman was the last person he expected to convince him that this could be his home – his family – but somehow he did. He may have been a jerk early on, but maybe, Virgil thought, he really was a knight in shining armor. Roman was more like him than he once thought; using fake confidence to cover up insecurities was nothing new.

And now, years later, here he was lying in bed like a yearning gay fool with music that wasn’t loud enough to block out his thoughts. He figured his little crush would be something that he could just hide away until it wasn’t even there. That plan was failing horribly though, especially when Roman could steal his breath by just looking at him. He didn't know how to handle feelings that felt bigger than himself.

Would it be smart to try something now? Probably not. What would he even do? Roman always talked of big, grand gestures that could literally and figuratively sweep one off their feet. Virgil didn’t consider himself good at plenty of things, and wooing someone like he was in a movie happened to be on the list. The farthest he'd gotten with confrontation was making Thomas talk to Nico, all because he couldn't stand to see Roman so heartbroken. He could feel the darkness below his eyes lighten to that embarrassingly glittery purple at the memory of how proud Roman was.

But Roman was Creativity and had his own little kingdom in the imagination. Virgil was sure that if he wanted a boyfriend he could just make the man of his dreams who would do anything and everything for him without the slightest hesitation. It seemed existence wasn’t fair like that.

He could just barely hear a knock sounding at the door, Virgil's eyes immediately darting over to where the sound had come. He debated whether or not he should respond. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like his friends, but his same old avoidant tendencies from before never went away.

“Virgil?” Roman asked. His voice making Virgil freeze and want to melt away at the same time. “Are you awake?”

Fuck, shit, some other words Patton would disapprove of. What time was it? 1:30? He couldn’t blame Roman for assuming he was still out, especially since it was the truth not too long ago. He almost felt sorry for his sleep schedule, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. No matter how hard Logan tried to help he always found himself digging through the kitchen at 5 in the morning, and not because he was an early riser. He paused his music, hanging his headphones on his headboard. Listening to Sally’s Song for the 17th time could wait for later.

He heard Roman laugh, and it felt like roses.

“That’s alright. If anyone here knows anything about beauty sleep, it’s me. The glasses gays are insisting that I awaken the beast though, so you better at least have something on before I barge in.”

Virgil wasn’t sure if Roman was talking to himself or knew he was being heard. He just burrowed deeper under his covers. He didn't want Roman to find him awake and think he was ignoring him, even if it was kind of the truth.

The door creaked. It sounded like something from a shitty horror movie. The heavy footsteps didn’t make it any more calming either. Roman was never this quiet. He refused to open his eyes, even as his blanket was pulled away from his face. He couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath as he felt cool air shock his skin.

“Awh, c’mon! I’m the actor here. Your eyes were closed too tight, for one thing,”

Virgil sighed, opening his eyes and squinting at the light. “I thought you were here to wake me up, not give me acting lessons.”

“Good morning to you too, Mourning Glory. It’s not my fault if you want to hide away all day, I’m just giving tips on being more realistic.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, biting the inside of his lip to resist smiling. Wanting to stay calm as if he knew what he was doing.

“You’ve teased me about being a vampire before. Can’t I play the part?”

“Oh, trust me, you’re perfect for the role. Sadly for you, there are two very insistent Sides saying you have to be a real functioning part of the mind, so unless you want me to carry you out there and make a whole scene, you better come down on your own.”

Virgil sighed, rolling onto his back as his eyes adjusted to the light. The two stared at each other. Testing each other. Not getting out of bed never sounded more tempting.

He gave in, rambling. “Sure, okay, whatever.” He sighed, reaching out and taking hold of Roman’s hand, letting the prince pull him upright. Whether it was he or Roman who ended up bringing them so close was something he could stay up late thinking about later. Now wasn’t the time to focus on rough palms or scarred skin that he once bandaged up while cursing out the ever-so-reckless Roman for sneaking out on quests, leaving Virgil to hunt him down with nothing but adrenaline and a certain level of knowingness in his dread.

He tried to bite back a yawn. His eyes widening at the warm feeling of a hand pressed to his face, of a thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. It wasn’t unwelcome, to be honest, he could probably fall back asleep just like this. He’d be okay waking up every morning if they were like this. If the romantic side offered it. If Virgil would allow himself to accept and experience it.

“How long have you been up?”

“Anywhere between 20 minutes to 2 hours. I don’t really know.”

Roman smiled, betraying the worried look in his eyes. It was probably just the effect of his room, that’s what Virgil hoped it was anyway. He tried not to show any disappointment when Roman’s hand fell to the bed.

“I’ll be down in a few,” Virgil continued, “just let me take care of my makeup first.”

Roman’s eyes trailed him as he got up and moved over towards his desk in the corner of the room, flicking on the light as he went by. Why is he fucking staring?

“While I’m here, I was wondering if you’d care to join me for a quest this evening? Or maybe we could throw a ball for the mind palace? I know it’s not your thing, but I thought it might be fun? Or y’know, something else more low-key.”

“Uh, yeah you know I’m not big on big things,” Virgil replied, looking over to the prince picking at a loose thread on the cuffs of his sleeves. “You know if you want to hang out you can just ask, you don't need some extravagant event going on to get me alone with you.”

Roman nodded, not seeming any calmer than before. Virgil's brows furrowed, worries flowed through him as if it were his blood. He didn't want to make Roman talk if he didn't want to, but god was it nerve-racking.

At the very least, it seemed like he wouldn't be putting on any more black eyeshadow to try and hide its changes.

Roman, on the other hand, decided not to question why the Side no longer seemed interested in putting his makeup on, and being grateful for the fact Virgil took advantage of the fact they could conjure themselves into different outfits rather than changing right then and there.

The two stayed there, an awkward silence taking over the room before a crash sounded from the living room.

“We should probably go.”

Virgil simply nodded, pulling his jacket tighter around as he followed Roman out of the room.

Luckily, the crash had only come from Patton knocking over a stack of DVDs, CDs, and a few other things. Another lost-glasses incident. It was a miracle nothing got broken.

The day itself would have felt completely normal if not for the fact Roman kept looking at him. Starting off as unsure as they did in his room, and slowly brightening like he had finally figured out a plothole in one of his stories. It was even more unsettling when he realized Roman was no longer there, vanished off to do god knows what.

So Virgil spent the next couple of hours trying to ignore the feeling of his fears eating him from the inside out like a moth to a sweater. He wouldn’t mind the holes if they didn’t leave him so uncomfortable. But then again, maybe that was fitting for his aesthetic. Torn-up shirts and jeans to pair with his torn-up emotions. At least he found solace in the darkness of his outfits.

It didn’t take long to get bored of the mundane mind palace.

Maybe I should take Roman up on that quest idea. He thought, his foot bounced, hanging over the side of the couch. Even if it wasn’t in his list of Shit Virgil Can Do Without Fucking Up, it was better than sitting around and waiting for nothing.

Virgil got up silently, giving a quick two-finger salute to Logan who had started reading some new detective novel before he sunk out. Appearing again before Roman’s door. Maybe he was just self-conscious, but it looked bigger than it was. Like behind it would be some hidden treasure that he finally reached.

It wasn’t entirely wrong. Roman was certainly someone to be treasured, even if he made mistakes. He just wished the other Sides would help him understand it.

He held his breath as he knocked, jolting back when it swung open almost instantly.

“You’re here!” Roman exclaimed, bouncing on his heels.

“Uh, yeah. I thought I’d take you up on your offer from earlier… if it’s still up, anyway.”

“Oh! Yeah, totally!” The prince tugged at his collar, not making eye contact. Virgil couldn’t help but smile slightly at the prince's giddiness. “I was just working on something if you’d care to see it?”

“You know I wanna see whatever you come up with, even if it’s some rewrite of Frozen.”

Roman bounced again, holding his hands out, palms up. He looked at Virgil with an emotion he couldn’t name, but it made him feel anxious in a good kind of way. Not anything like the dread he was used to. He placed his hands on Roman’s, and it wasn’t till they were sinking out and into the imagination that he realized it was the same kind of feeling from when Nico first texted Thomas about meeting up again. He held Roman’s hands a little tighter.

When he opened his eyes, they were surrounded by flowers.

“Woah…”

“Do you like it? I had to sneak into Logan’s room and borrow a few of his books.”

“I– yeah. It’s beautiful. And don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” He stepped away, wandering the circular little garden. He could only recognize so many. “Didn’t know you had a thing for landscaping.”

“I try my best. Honestly, I’m just happy neither of us has allergies.”

“Gosh, you’re such a dork.” Virgil laughed, petting the petals of a rose. Not paying attention to the way Roman watched him and shifted his weight every so often nor how warm his cheeks had become. “Do you know what any of them mean?”

“I do, but I think if I tell you, you’ll realize how predictable I am.”

“Go for it.”

“Well, roses are pretty well known. The red ones are anyway. Love, passion, romance, and courage. Things like that.” Roman said, walking closer. His boots clicking against the walkway’s pavement.

He stood close by yet just far enough for Virgil not to feel like he was being dissected under his gaze. It was an unreasonable thing to think after all the time they had spent becoming friends, he knew that. Yet part of him continued to scream that one day Roman would look at him and find out how horrible he thought himself to be and never want to be around him again. Maybe that was why he refused to confess just how much he liked Roman. It was a weight that crushed his chest every day yet made him feel dizzyingly light.

It was all too complicated.

“What about the purple ones?”

“It kind of varies by shade, but most of the time it’s about love at first sight or enchantment. A lot of the flowers here have to do with that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, should’ve been able to figure that one out myself.”

Roman shrugged. “It’s no matter, I just want to make sure you understand what they mean.” He looked to Virgil, again with that unnamed emotion. “You do get what I’m trying to say, right?”

For a moment, he hoped he did.

“Uh, yeah? Princey, I get it, you’re a hopeless romantic. You don’t have to spell it out for me.” He bit the inside of his lip, then asked. “What are they for?”

Roman looked at him with what he could only see as sympathy.

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I really do think you need it spelled out.”

Virgil scoffed, going to argue before he was cut off.

“First,” Roman began, reaching for Virgil’s hand, “You take him by the hand. That’s as far as you got before we both started screaming, anyway. So I suppose I’ll just have to wing it from here. I know I haven’t always been the best to you. I know I still make mistakes, and I really don’t want this to be one of them.”

“Roman–”

“I’m not finished. Virgil, out of all the other’s, you’re always the one who notices when I’m upset. You’re always the one who lets me bitch about Deceit without saying I was wrong for trusting him and then wrong for not. Really, you’re the only one I can bitch about the dark sides to, period. Logan is so reserved about it, and Patton is, well, he’s Patton. He tries to see the good in everyone.”

Roman paused, catching his breath. Virgil thought it best not to speak. He didn’t think he’d even be able to if he wanted.

“What I’m getting is that I trust you. I trust you because you’re my best friend and you listen to what I say even if it’s dumb. Because when I don’t feel like talking you're always down to just watch classic Disney movies and fill in coloring books. I know you don't realize it, but you do a hell of a lot more good than you believe, and I love you for that. You don’t have to say it back or even feel the same, I know you’re pretty reluctant about it. I just need you to know.”

Virgil stared at him, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of love. Roman had said ‘I love you’ before, but not like this. What the fuck do you even do when your crush confesses they like you, more so, that you aren’t obligated to like them back? Complicated, and now surreal.

“You really mean it? All of it??”

“Of course I do, my Columbine Cutie! I could never lie to someone about love, I hope you know that.” Roman replied. Waving his hand as he conjured a mix of red and purple columbines, tucking them gently behind Virgil’s ear. Both knowing it was the truth, that Roman wouldn’t subject someone to such a thing because he knew how it felt.

But he still trusted Virgil with his love all the same. Trusted that it wouldn’t be taken advantage of or used against him.

“How long have you known?”

“You know, I think I fell for you far before I knew it.”

Virgil huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I uh… I think it was the same for me. Falling for you, that is.” God, it felt so weird to say it. Good, too. “I’m sorry I don’t know what to say. I never thought I’d end up here. I care about you too. I love you, I mean.”

And Roman… Roman just started to beam, shining like the sun as Virgil tripped over his words. He bounced, hands waving as he did. Despite his lingering fear, Virgil couldn’t stop the excitement Roman radiated and the wonder of it all from seeping in under his skin, a feeling like vibrations that he could only try to shake out. And there were hands cupping his face and there were words he didn’t hear. He still knew what they asked. “Fucking yes.” was all he could bring himself to give as a response before Roman’s lips were on his.

Strawberry chapstick and the faint scent of cherry blossom perfume were all that went through his head, it was the only thing that really could. He held onto Roman’s uniform like if he let go it would all disappear. Another dream reminding him of what he thought he couldn’t have.

When Roman pulled away and Virgil opened his eyes, he was still there.

He was real. Everything that had happened was real. He couldn’t help but giggle at how fantastical it was.

Roman brushed his bangs away, just enough to fully show his eyes. “Your eyeshadow changed again,” he announced, bouncing on his heels once again. Virgil groaned, turning away. “It’s a good look for you. Especially with how much you blush, my Lavender Love.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s adorable.”

Virgil knew from the grin on Roman’s face that it had only intensified.

“Whatever. I just– for what it’s worth– I appreciate it. All of this. I’d probably die never telling you shit about how I felt if you didn’t do it first.”

Roman softened, “Maybe, or maybe you’d end up pushing yourself like you did to Thomas. Either way, I’m happy with it if you are.”

Virgil nodded, the two going silent. Roman rocked back and forth still quietly bouncing, probably thinking of what to say next.

Slowly, Virgil opened his arms, smiling nervously to his crush– lover– whatever they were. He wasn’t all that open to touch, but Roman was so far off from everything else it didn’t matter. The prince smiled, pulling Virgil close to him and pressing a kiss to his magenta-colored hair.

“I’m happy to be your knight as long as you want me to be. Whatever it is that gets thrown our way, I’ll fight for you as you have for me. You deserve to shine every day like you are now.”

“Jesus, Princey. You already made your dramatic love declaration, but... thank you. I want you to be happy too.”

The two held each other, and for the moment, everything was okay. No dark sides, no fear, no challenging life debates. It was unescapable, of course, but it didn’t matter. They could survive and fight this hell of a world. They could make the other realize how lovable they were. Because they had each other.

#Sanders Sides #Prinxiety #Roman Sanders #Virgil Sanders #prinxiety fic #your validation. hand it over SDLCVFH #ugh bye im gonna cry about this #Virgil's Volumes

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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years

Text

a slow voice on a wave of phase

Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

Roman has seen colors in sounds for as long as he can remember, and Logan's voice paints the night sky across his vision. It's no wonder that he falls in love with him, though it is surprising that he took this long to realize it.

(Wherein Roman pines, Remus' input is surprisingly helpful, and Logan has a lot more feelings than anyone is giving him credit for.)

Content Warnings: Remus-typical inappropriateness, mild Roman-typical insecurity

Word Count: 5,629

Pairings: Logince, platonic Creativitwins, brief mention of Dukeceit

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

The idea comes to him suddenly, and by ‘suddenly,’ he means ‘with the force of a giant shark crashing through the wall of his bedroom at ninety miles per hour,’ because that is how Remus makes his entrance: half-naked, dripping wet, and straddling the back of a two-and-a-half ton great white.

“Tada!” Remus crows, sliding onto the floor. “You bet I couldn’t do it!” The shark, presumably irritated either by the lack of water dooming it to slow asphyxiation or by the loud, annoying man yelling in its face, flops around on the floor helplessly. Roman watches it through half-lidded eyes, and briefly considers getting up to deal with it before it starts knocking things over.

“But the proof’s in the pudding!” his brother continues, slapping the shark with a wink. Who the wink is directed at, Roman has no idea. Hopefully not the shark, though he wouldn’t put it past him. “Or in the big-ass shark! It only ate me three times before I got to ride it!” At this, he makes a disgusting motion with his hips, calling attention to the fact that his swimming trunks really do not cover enough, and Roman wonders just what, exactly, he did to deserve this treatment.

“What are you doing in my room?” he demands. Or at least, he means to demand; it comes out sounding more like an exhausted sigh, and he supposes that he shouldn’t have expected anything different. Lying in bed in pajamas is not a position from which one can demand much of anything, even if that one happens to be a prince with an incredible amount of creative power at his fingertips.

Not that he’s feeling much creative power at the moment.

Remus finally seems to register his tone and position. He stalks forward, his nose wrinkling, and Roman is greeted with a close-up view of his brother’s bare chest, which is just about par the course. It could be worse, he supposes. At least he’s shirtless and not pantsless. Mostly.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Remus asks. “Ooh, was it a spider, like, the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout, except the waterspout’s your--”

“Oh my god,” he says, and finally works up the willpower to sit up and shove his brother away. “Can you stop?”

“Can’t stop won’t stop!” Remus trills gleefully, but Roman ignores him in favor of standing to inspect the shark in the middle of his bedroom floor. It is, he has to admit, a bit impressive, and all those teeth are equal parts cool and terrifying. He would likely be more impressed if it wasn’t expiring on his carpet, or if there wasn’t a shark-sized hole in his wall leading to parts unknown. He frowns, focusing and waving a hand, and both the shark and the damage disappear. Unfortunately, the water all over the floor does not.

“Wow,” Remus says. “You are no fun.”

“If you think I’m leaving an open path to your side of the Imagination in my room, you’re…” Remus grins at him, propping his head up in his hands and waggling his eyebrows expectantly. “... nevermind.”

“I never do mind,” Remus agrees, and takes the initiative to flop down onto his bed, thus getting water all over his bedsheets, because he’s an inconsiderate jerk. “So, what’s got you all down in the dumps? Usually, I crash a shark through your wall and you get all pissy about it, but you’re being boring. What gives?”

Roman glares, and seriously considers trying to remove him too. There was a time when he would have been able to do so easily, a time when he knew for a fact that he belonged in the light and Remus belonged in the dark, with all of the other things that ooze and crawl. But things aren’t so black and white these days, and now that Thomas has begun to tentatively ask for Remus’ input every now and again, it’s harder than ever to make him leave when he gets it in his head that he wants to be somewhere. He is, in that way, a bit like a pimple, or a particularly persistent mold. Neither of which he can actually call him to his face, because he’ll just take it as a compliment, but the fact remains that once he grows on, it is incredibly difficult to scrape him off.

“What gives is that I want you out of my room,” he tries, crossing his arms, but Remus makes a tsking sound.

“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s why you were lying there all sad and shit? You looked like someone that decided that their idea of fun is to lie down in the middle of the street and see what happens.” He pauses. “Actually, do you think Thomas would--”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

He pouts. “Boo,” he says. “You never let me do anything. But I mean, really Ro Ro, it can’t be a creative block. I’ve seen you in one of those, and you get all whiny and sick and then you start acting like you’re a poet in the 18oos and you’ve got consumption.” He lays a hand across his brow. “Oh me oh my, if only I could write one last poem before I cough my whole lungs out of my body. Ooh, could you imagine what that would look like? Your lungs, just sliding out of your mouth like big grey sacks?”

“First of all, no, gross,” Roman says. “Also, I didn’t know poets dying of consumption sounded like congested Southern belles.”

Remus waves a hand. “Eh, not the point,” he says. “And maybe the poets didn’t, but you sure do.”

“Hey--”

“But my point,” he continues, “is that it can’t be that, ‘cause Thomas has got a backlog of weeks’ worth of ideas to peruse if he actually wants to do something, which means that’s not your issue.” He rolls over on his side, so as better to make eye contact. “So what is your deal?”

Roman opens his mouth and promptly closes it again. Honestly, if this were about anything else, he might consider telling him. As annoying as he is, he feels closer to Remus now than he has in years, perhaps to the point where he could feel comfortable sharing something personal. Sure, Remus will probably laugh or make fun, or twist it into something weird or a horrible innuendo, but at least it would be out there, in the open, and someone else would know of it. At least there would be proof of its existence outside of his own mind.

But this? Can he share this?

Because the deal isn’t a messed up audition or a troublesome idea. It isn’t even one of his usual personal issues, like the self-doubt that creeps into his mind in the small hours of the morning, the whispered thought that none of his ideas are worthy of use, that he himself is failing in his purpose, a mere facsimile of the prince that he is supposed to be.

No. For once, it’s not that, and he refuses to fall down that rabbit hole.

The deal is that Logan has a voice like a galaxy, shot through with silver and streaked with stars, and today, Roman has realized that he is in love.

-----

It took a while for either of them to notice that none of the others experience the world the way they do. They never thought to question it; Roman saw colors in sound, and Remus heard music in images, and that was just the way it was. It wasn’t until they were a bit older that they figured out that the weird looks they garnered when they brought it up, when Roman mentioned a teacher with a corn-yellow drawl or when Remus talked about a picture in 3/4 time, weren’t just disapproval directed at the way the Creativities saw the world, but instead a genuine lack of understanding.

They stopped talking about it, eventually. Or rather, Roman stopped talking about it, and Remus accepted that nobody would pay attention to his eccentricities as long as he presented them in a certain way.

So really, it’s not that Roman is hiding it. It’s just never come up.

Remus’ voice is like an oil spill, black and thick and oozing, but with flashes of lime green running through it, the color of slime and radioactive waste. Patton’s is pink, yellow, and blue all swirled together, like a field of flowers, or every flavor of cotton candy all at once. Virgil’s voice is more difficult to pin down; once, he thought it was a black, swirling smoke, but as the years have passed, Roman has realized that the smoke is not black, but dark purple, only showing its true color when light is shined through it. Janus’ is similarly difficult to interpret, but lately, he has likened it to a still, quiet forest, all dark green and brown, secrets lurking just under the surface.

But Logan’s has always been his favorite. Because Logan’s voice sounds like space itself, a backdrop of black peppered with millions of shining, twinkling lights, mixed with bright galaxies and spinning nebulae, vast and beautiful and incomprehensible. At his calmest, it is a void, the light of the stars distant and cold, but when he gets excited, when he begins to ramble about a topic, the stars increase in number and illuminate his whole face, swirling in his eyes and hair, and Roman could listen to him for days.

He’s always known that he has a bit of a crush. But he’s always thought that a crush was all it was, and if it was a bit longer-lasting than crushes are meant to be, well, it’s not as if there are a lot of other options. The mindscape proper only has seven inhabitants, and it would feel wrong to try to date someone from the Imagination, considering that he controls the place. So, he’s been content to linger on his feelings for Logan, never pushing for anything more than he would be willing to give, because another thing that he’s always known is that never in a million years would his feelings be returned.

Logan, as he has said himself so many times, does not do feelings. And even though Roman knows very well that Logan is not nearly as unfeeling as he would like to pretend to be, that does not mean that he would be comfortable with, or even open to the idea of a relationship. And even if he were, he would not choose to be with him, would not choose the embodiment of dreams and fantasies, everything that logic attempts to deny. So it’s a hopeless crush, a one-sided romance for the ages, the type of story that Roman would be captivated with if he weren’t at the center of it, if thinking about it didn’t make his chest tight and his eyes sting.

But this morning--

Oh, gods of Olympus, this morning--

He has no idea what prompted the epiphany. By all rights, this morning was like any other morning: Patton at the pancake griddle, Virgil slumped and half-awake at the table, Logan sipping at his coffee. Roman made his usual stunning and gorgeous entrance, ready to tackle the day’s challenges like a true knight would, and traded his usual morning barbs with Virgil. But before he could even sit down, Logan looked up at him, smiled slightly, and said, “Good morning, Roman,” a galaxy glittering around him, and Roman took a brief moment to think about how much he loves him.

And then stopped up short. Because, what? Love? No?

Except, yes.

These feelings have been bursting in his chest for so long, fireworks setting off whenever Logan speaks, whenever Logan so much as looks his way. And he thought they were a crush, no more than that, if not ignorable then at least possible to work around. But that’s not right, has never been right, and in this instant, years’ worth of suppositions came crashing down around his ears.

So, his mind racing, the silence stretching too long, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“I, uh, forgot a thing,” he stammered, and beat a hasty retreat back to his room, ignoring the way Patton called after him. Upon closing the door behind him, he changed back into his pajamas and collapsed back on his bed, his mind whirling, intent on not facing anybody else until he has to.

Because he loves Logan. Is in love with Logan. Has been in love with Logan for years and years now, has been pining away without even understanding that that was what he was doing.

Frankly, he’s not sure he can think of a worse position to be in.

-----

Which brings him here: his floor wet, his arms crossed, and Remus staring expectantly at him, waiting for an explanation. And Remus isn’t one to back down easily, which leaves Roman in a predicament.

He could try lying. But he’s not sure he could lie well enough about this, and frankly, he doesn’t want to risk Janus getting himself involved. But the only other option is the truth, and he’s not sure he wants Remus to know the truth, not sure he trusts Remus not to hold it over his head, to mock him or to stick his fingers in an open wound that he himself has only just discovered.

Because Remus would definitely do that. Both literally and figuratively.

“Bro,” Remus says, looking amused, “whatever it is, I’m almost positive it’s not that deep. You know what is deep?”

“What?” Roman replies, hoping beyond hope for a change of topic.

“My butt!” Remus says, and then cackles.

Roman buries his face in his hands, and Remus’ laughter stretches on and on and on, filling the room with slick oil, painting the walls with slime and noxious fumes, and green squiggles worm their way onto the backs of his eyelids, and he absolutely cannot do this right now.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he mumbles into his hands, and the laughter cuts off abruptly.

“You’re what?” Remus asks, and Roman looks up from his hands. Remus has sat up in his bed, and is staring at him with a peculiarly intent expression.

“I’m in love with Logan,” he repeats, firmer this time. He holds Remus’ gaze, daring him to say something, so of course, Remus does, erupting into laughter once again.

“You can’t be serious,” he says in between giggles. “Really? Logan? He’s such a stick in the mud. A stick in the mud with a stick up his butt. It’s like a flag, except, instead of a flag it’s Logan, because the stick is both in the mud and up his butt.” He pauses, and Roman’s face must be doing something, because Remus sobers just a bit, raising an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re actually serious.”

He groans, plopping down in the middle of the floor, ignoring the way the dampness of the carpet seeps into his pants. “I don’t know what to do,” he moans, more to air his grievance than to accomplish anything else. It’s not as if he’s expecting Remus to have any useful suggestions for him.

But Remus shifts on the bed so he can face him completely. “Okay, you’re gonna have to explain this one to me, because I don’t get it,” he says. “Whenever I look at Logan, I get robot noises and video game music on full blast.” He breaks off, humming a few bars, and Roman has to admit that it’s not an unpleasant tune, though not one he would think to associate with Logan. “Plus,” Remus continues, “he’s so boring. Sure, he’s fun to wind up, but he’s all about the rules and being logical and no, Thomas can’t do that, he’ll get acid burns, so why don’t we watch a documentary instead?” He says the last in an almost perfect imitation of Logan’s voice, his face darkening. Oddly, when Remus does it, Roman doesn’t connect the sound with space at all, hearing only the same oily splatters that his brother’s voice usually consists of. “I don’t want to watch documentaries. I want to do shit.”

Roman shakes his head. “You don’t hear what his voice actually sounds like,” he insists. “It’s… gods above, he talks, and it’s like he brings all the stars down to earth. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in my life.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “And sometimes he smiles and says something smart, and I’m just, wow, I would die for you. Do you know how pretty his smile is? And he’s so frickin’ smart.”

Remus’ expression has frozen halfway between awe and disgust. “You’ve got it bad,” he says, and Roman groans.

“You think I don’t know that?” he says. “I just don’t know what to do about it!” He sighs. “Theoretically, I know all about romance and wooing. I’m the romance guy! But when I think about wooing Logan, my stomach gets all twisted up in knots. Like a sad pretzel. I mean, grand gestures and gifts are the way to go, right? But what even could I give him that he would like? He hates things that are ‘frivolous and unrealistic,’ but that’s my whole thing!”

Remus cocks his head. “Bones,” he says sagely.

He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Give him some bones,” Remus says, nodding, like this makes perfect sense. “Like, two, maybe three bones. Boys like bones.”

“... Where am I getting these bones?”

Remus’ face brightens. “I’ve got a few extra!” he proclaims. “Wanna see?”

“I-- no,” he says. “Stop. I’m not giving him bones. Why do you--” No, best not to question. “Nevermind. Is that how you got Janus to date you?”

Remus grins. “Nah,” he says. “I mean, maybe that helped. I think what really did it was that I wrote him our song.”

“You wrote him a song?”

“No, stupid, our song,” he says. “Like, how I look at him and I hear a song. And then I’ve got a song, too. So I figured out a way to mash them together. And then I gave it to him.” He sighs, almost dreamily, if Remus has a dreamy setting. Roman would like to never hear that again, thank you, because frankly, he doesn’t much want to hear about whatever weird relationship his brother has with Deceit, and he sort of regrets bringing it up in the first place. “He really, really liked it. Said it was the best thing he’d ever heard.” Remus pauses, an odd light entering his eyes. “He said something about it being from the heart. I tried giving him my actual heart, but then he said that wasn’t what he meant.”

“From the heart,” he mutters, considering. So, something heartfelt, personal. Remus literally gave Deceit something that showed how he perceived him, everything that he felt. But how can he do the same and make sure that it’s something Logan likes? Logan likes science, likes math and numbers, likes facts, and Roman doesn’t know anything about any of those things. All he knows is how Logan makes him feel and the way his voice shines like starlight in his mind’s eye, and he’s not sure how to translate that into something Logan would appreciate, or even understand.

And then it comes: the idea.

“Holy shit,” he says, spine straightening, the burst of inspiration setting his mind to whirring. For an instant, he sees it dancing before him, an image of perfection, within his reach if only he can replicate exactly what he envisions. “Remus, you’re a genius!”

Remus gawks. “I am?” he asks, and his face brightens. “I already knew that, but fuck yeah!”

Roman laughs, bright and free, clambering to his feet. “Okay, okay, I know what I’m doing,” he says. “So I need you to get out, but god, thank you so much.”

Remus hops off the bed without protest. “Anytime, bro bro,” he says, sauntering toward the door. “Remember to put in a good word with Tommy-boy for me. And if you end up fucking, put a sock on the door.”

“You’re gross,” Roman says, pushing him out. The words carry no bite, and the last thing he sees before closing the door in his face is Remus grinning at him, an expression of pure delight.

-----

In the end, it takes him a week. A week holed up in his room, only occasionally emerging to grab food, and he knows he’s making everyone else worry, but he can’t stop himself, doesn’t dare stop until what he sees in his mind has been set to paper, exactly how he wants it. It has been so long since an idea has gripped him like this, since he has been so inspired to create, since he has been so sure in his ability to make something beautiful, and he feels as though he could subsist on his exhilaration alone.

When it is done, he steps back, admires his handiwork, and proceeds to sleep for twenty-two hours straight.

On the eighth day, he steps out into the hallway, canvas tucked securely under his arm, and makes his way down the hall to Logan’s room.

He takes a deep breath before knocking, hoping to steady his nerves. He hasn’t had much time, these past few days, to worry about whether or not Logan would like it, but now, he’s wondering if this was a mistake, if this is something that would be better kept to himself. He can wave off the others’ concern by pretending he was working on hypothetical ideas, or that a quest in the Imagination ran over-long. He doesn’t actually have to give this to Logan at all, doesn’t have to bare himself like this, doesn’t have to risk his scorn and judgement.

But what else is love, in the end, if not a risk worth taking?

He knocks, and moments later, hears footsteps from inside. He barely has time to check that there is a smile on his face before Logan opens the door, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Roman,” he greets, and though nothing outwardly changes, Roman’s brain insists that a shooting star streaks across his vision. “We haven’t seen much of you these past few days.”

“Ah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “right, sorry. I just got caught up in the creative process, you know how it is.”

“I do not,” Logan says. “Nevertheless, I am glad to see you well.” He pauses. “I was… somewhat concerned after your hasty exit the last time I saw you. I wanted to ensure that I did not do something to offend you.”

Oh, shit. He’s been so busy that he hadn’t bothered to think about how that moment might have been interpreted. And there is an odd note in Logan’s tone that implies that this is actually something that’s been troubling him, and Roman feels like kicking himself for letting him worry about it.

“No, no, not at all!” he says, gesturing with his free hand. “I just got struck with inspiration in that very moment, so of course, I needed to retreat before the idea was lost.” He winces internally as the words leave his mouth. It is a lie, but only just; it certainly wasn’t inspiration that he was struck with. That came later.

“I see,” Logan says, and Roman hopes that he isn’t imagining the way his shoulders relax, if only slightly. “That is good to hear. In that case, was there something you needed from me?”

“I--” He breaks off, swallowing hard. This is the moment of truth, the last second in which he could turn back. He is, essentially, offering up all of his emotions on a silver platter, even if Logan likely won’t recognize that fact. Still, rejection at this point would hurt worse than any failed audition, worse than any mistake he has ever made, and he has made so many.

But he has spent so long on this. He wants it to be seen by its object.

“This is for you,” he blurts out, and shoves the canvas out in front of him like a shield. Logan takes it, startled, and Roman watches as his eyes flicker across the painting, widening ever so slightly.

After a week’s worth of work, he knows exactly what Logan is seeing. A painting of blacks and dark blues and purples, pinpricks of whites and yellows and reds, a display of the cosmos swirling on a backdrop of the void. Everything that Roman sees when Logan speaks is here: the inky darkness of his calm, the supernova of his anger, the stars that glitter and twirl in his excitement. It is like no view of space that mankind has ever seen, because this universe is Logan, completely and utterly, is comprised of the galaxies that drip from his tongue when he speaks.

This is how Roman sees him. This is how Roman loves him.

The silence stretches on for a long time, so long that Roman is tempted to declare the whole thing a bust, to laugh and play it off like it’s no big deal, like his heart won’t be completely and utterly crushed if Logan hates it.

“You painted this?” Logan finally asks. His voice sounds choked, a star collapsing in on itself. Roman shuffles his feet.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I just thought, um, you like space? So I, uh. Do you like it?”

He tries not to sound needy, tries not to sound like his happiness is contingent on the answer he receives. He’s not sure how much he succeeds.

“It’s… adequate,” Logan replies, and Roman could dance, could sing his relief to any and all who would listen, because he knows Logan well enough to know what that means. And if that’s the best he’ll get, he’ll take it and go and be glad, because Logan likes it, and that is more than enough for him. He feels like he’s on top of the world, like he’s floating in space himself, orbiting the moon and staring into the sun and being blinded and loving every minute of it.

“Actually,” Logan says, and for a second, Roman’s heart drops into his shoes, before he continues with, “it’s… it’s far more than adequate. I don’t know much about art, but I know a piece of expert craftsmanship when I see one.” He looks up at Roman, his eyes shining. “You made this for me?”

There is an emotion in his voice that Roman cannot name, but it is speckled with so many stars, more than he thinks he’s ever seen at once. More stars than void, at least, shining and shimmering with light.

And Roman wasn’t planning to do this. Was planning to take this slowly, was planning to give Logan his offering and leave, using his reaction as a gauge for the next step, if he dared to take a next step at all, if he came away with the conclusion that Logan would not hate him for attempting a romance. But the way Logan is staring at him, wide-eyed and open, as if he has been gifted something incredibly precious, makes him want Logan to understand just how much this means, just how much it says. Just how much of his heart and soul he is putting on the line.

Dear sweet Beyonce, he’s actually going to do it, isn’t he?

“I did,” he says. “Um, okay, I’ve never actually explained this to anyone, so bear with me.” Logan tilts his head, confused, but is otherwise silent. “Uh, have you ever heard of the thing where people’s senses get crossed? Like, say, you associate a color with a particular number or letter?”

Logan’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you referring to synesthesia?” he asks.

He can’t stop his smile. Logan’s heard of it. Maybe that will make this easier. “Yeah, that,” he says. “So, uh, Remus and I have that. He hears music when he looks at things, and I, uh. Well. I’ve sort of got the opposite.”

Logan stares at him. “You’re telling me,” he says, “that all these years, you’ve both perceived the world in an entirely different way from the rest of us, and you’ve never said a word about it?”

He winces. “I suppose?” he says. “Are you angry?”

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Logan is angry. He didn’t intend for Logan to be angry. He’s going to be angry if Logan is angry, angry with himself for spoiling this moment, for daring to reach for more than he could have. He should have left it alone, should have taken Logan’s enjoyment of the painting for what it was and not pushed for anything more. God, his heart feels as though it’s trying to claw its way out of his throat.

But Logan shakes his head. “No, just… surprised,” he says. “When you say you have the opposite of what Remus does, do you mean that you see images when you listen to music?”

“Sort of?” he says. “Not really images, more just arrangements of colors, if that makes sense. And I don’t actually see it with my eyes, just in my head, even though it feels like I’m seeing it with my eyes, sometimes. Even though I know I’m not really.” He pauses for a breath. He doesn’t think he’s explaining himself very well, but Logan is sill listening, so he has no choice but to push on. “And, um, not just music. Any sound, really.”

Logan nods, seeming to take it in stride. “I think I understand,” he says. “It truly is fascinating how so many of us exhibit traits and quirks that Thomas himself does not.” A measure of excitement bleeds into his voice, flaring up like the sun, and Roman resists the urge to blurt out something incredibly sappy and highly inappropriate for the moment. “So, this painting--” He glances back down at the painting, still gripped in both hands, and then abruptly stops talking.

“It’s, uh, it’s you,” Roman says, attempting to fill up the sudden quiet. “It’s your voice. I mean, it’s what I see when I hear your voice.”

“It’s… me?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You… you see this when I talk?”

“Uh huh,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Logan’s head is lowered, his voice too soft to read well, and Roman’s nerves begin to return in full force. “Was this weird? I’m sorry if this was weird. I just, your voice is so gorgeous, and I really wanted to paint it, and I’m probably making this worse, aren’t I? If you don’t like it anymore you don’t have to keep it.”

At last, Logan raises his head. His face is burning bright red, and Roman really, really hopes it’s not in fury, hopes that he hasn’t just ruined everything. Slowly, Logan sets the painting down to rest against the wall and steps forward. Roman, for his part, is rooted in place, tracking every movement, every breath.

“Roman,” Logan says. “Don’t be idiotic.”

And then, he backs Roman against the wall and kisses him.

He doesn’t kiss like Roman would have expected. There is nothing cold about it, nothing clinical; instead, he is hard and demanding, insistent and passionate, and as soon as Roman’s brain reboots, he returns it just as eagerly, deepening it, placing his hands on the sides of Logan’s face to hold him there, hold him where he can taste him, because he has fantasized about this moment but never, ever thought that this dream could come true. And when Logan pulls back, he doesn’t go far, his face lingering bare inches from his own. His breaths puff across his skin, and behind his glasses, his pupils are dilated.

“So I take it you like it,” Roman says. His voice is hoarse.

“I do,” Logan says. His face is flushed, twisted in what is probably embarrassment, but he doesn’t look away. “And lately, I have found myself rather liking you, too. I, ah, didn’t think you returned the sentiment.”

Roman blinks, and then, throws back his head and laughs. “Are you serious?” he asks. “We could have been doing this already?” He tugs Logan’s face closer to his, resting their foreheads together. Logan turns an even more brilliant shade of scarlet. “Just in case I didn’t make it clear,” he says, “I really, really like you, Logan.” He strokes a thumb across his cheek. “My galaxy,” he breathes. “My starlight.”

Logan makes a noise deep in the back of his throat. “Yes,” he says, and it’s almost a squeak. “That is satisfactory.”

And with that, with starlight gleaming behind his eyes and his heart tapping out double-time, Roman laughs, and pulls Logan back in.

-----

A few nights later, he finds a collection of questionably-shaped bones sitting on his dresser. He is less than enthusiastic, but Logan seems interested, so he kisses his boyfriend-- his boyfriend!-- on the top of his head and leaves him to his scientific study. Of bones. Because Logan is a weird nerd, but that’s alright, because he loves him both in spite of it and because of it.

He just. Loves Logan. All of him. So much. And Logan likes him back, and now they’re together, and really, nothing could be better than this.

He briefly considers the merits of getting Remus a gift basket, but ultimately decides against it. They’ve never needed that sort of thing between them, and if the next time Remus intrudes on his space, he doesn’t protest as much as he usually would? Well, they both understand, and that’s more than enough.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina

#sanders sides #ts sides #logince #creativitwins #ts roman #roman sanders #ts remus #remus sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #sympathetic remus #long post #my fic #*blows kiss to my collection of disney movies*#this one's for you roman #happy birthday to the best gay disney prince

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scullydubois · 3 years

Text

Only the Light Ch. 19

Fate touches Scully's life, as does her own free will.

-----------------------

Can you still call something a miracle when you could not have gone on without it? When, if it hadn’t happened, the death knell would have sounded in your memory? Is that really a miracle, or is it just what had to occur? Certainly what keeps you breathing wouldn’t be so highly esteemed if the chips fell the other way. It would be called a tragedy, and no one wants to live in a world where every moment is caught between the two.

Scully existed there for a little while, but she’s escaped. Maybe for good. Because this--the Lace’s sacrifice, her signature on the adoption paper, her baby in her arms--is no miracle. This is God realizing she’s gotten her fair share, that he owes her a break. This is her fate.

In more normal circumstances, the foster family and the adoptive parent would have no contact. Social services would handle the transition. Since those barriers are already broken in Emily’s case, the state allows the Lace’s and their son to accompany Emily as she’s turned over to Scully. The nondescript woman in the polo shirt joins them as a witness to the custody change, and so they all find themselves at Bill Jr.’s house--of all places--for one grievous goodbye and a destined hello.

Mrs. Lace passes Emily to Scully moments after the family walks through the door. Her red-rimmed eyes reveal the depth of her agony.

“Take her,” she says. “I need to start letting go while she’s still in my sight.”

Scully bites her lip, feels Emily’s pudgy hand press into her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lace. I can’t imagine how hard this must be. I’ll make good on my promise to send pictures and updates, I swear.”

“Thank you, Dana.” She sighs. “It’ll be an adjustment.”

Her husband taps the head of the little boy by his knee. “This is Andrew, our son. He wanted to make sure Emily has the best life possible, so he made you a guide to her favorite things.”

The boy--no more than five--holds up a construction paper booklet with crayon drawings of him and baby Emily. How To Mak My Sister Smile, his stilted handwriting reads. Scully’s heart skips a beat as she accepts it from him. She kneels down so he’s level with her and Emily.

“Thank you, Andrew. This is so sweet and I’ll be sure to read every bit of it and make sure your sister smiles every single day, okay?”

He nods, but tears cloud his vision.

Scully turns Emily so that she’s perched on her knee, facing Andrew. “Tell me--what’s your favorite thing to do with your sister?” she asks him softly.

He rubs his eyes and nose. “I like to show her my cars,” he stammers.

“Your cars? Wow!” Scully effuses. It’s not often that she gets to work on her kiddie voice, and she’ll need that now.

The color returns Andrew’s face. “Yeah, yeah, my race cars! I have a mat for them, and I push them around the track, and she watches. She likes the races. They make her laugh sometime.”

“Wow! You sound like a great big brother.”

“Yeah, and I like her bouncy thing too,” he sputters. “It was mine before.”

“An activity jumper,” Mr. Lace clarifies. “From Fisher-Price.”

“Ahh.” Scully’s happy to get any insight she can into her daughter’s early life. The Lace’s offered to send some toys with Emily, but Scully will only accept a couple onesies and Emily’s beloved stuffed rabbit. She doesn’t want to take any more from them than she already is.

She adjusts Emily on her knee, looks to Andrew. “Do you wanna give your sister a hug?”

“Okay.” He moves bashfully toward her and wraps his arms around Emily. He holds on until Emily begins to fuss, then steps back like he’s been caught sneaking away from time out.

“Emily’s lucky to have a big brother like you,” Scully tells him. “Your parents have my phone number, and you can call and talk to her whenever you want, okay? I know she can’t say much yet, but she’ll grow into it, and besides, she’ll recognize your voice.” Scully offers him a spirit-boosting smile. “Does that sound good?”

He nods, hands linked behind his back. Stranger shyness has taken over.

“Good. She’s gonna need her big brother to stick up for her.”

Scully stands up, clutching Emily to her chest.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lace,” Scully addresses them, “it’s impossible for me to sum up how deeply, deeply grateful I am for you and your sacrifice. It is no exaggeration to say that you have saved my life. I can already tell that Emily is so lucky to have been raised by you--that you have done an incredible job--and I hope that the two of us will continue to be a part of you and your son’s lives as Emily grows up.”

Mrs. Lace dabs her cheeks with a tissue. Mr. Lace frowns at his wife’s pain. “That means a great deal to us, Dana,” he replies.

“We feel blessed to have led Emily through her formative months,” his wife murmurs through her tear-strickenness.

The man nods. “She’s a wonderful kid, and I’m sure some of that comes from you.”

Scully smiles tautly. “I could say the same of you. Thank you for giving her the start I was denied from providing her.”

“You’ll let us know if you need any help, won’t you?”

“Of course. I’ll have your number on speed dial by the end of the night.”

The Lace’s formal goodbye had taken place at home, they said, and dragging out their visit would only make matters worse. They leave Bill Jr.’s house after a few short minutes, advancing down the front steps like a funeral procession.

When the door shuts and Scully’s baby is in her arms, she realizes that this will be her life for the rest of her life. What joy--! What horror--!

----------------------------

The heater’s gentle sigh provides a generous rush of white noise as the girls settle for sleep. It’s the time of year when San Diego’s nightly temperatures start drifting away from perfection, when sleeping with the windows open no longer has such appeal. According to Bill, it’s not cold enough to turn on the heating system (surprise, surprise) so he pulled a dusty space heater from the closet for the “girl’s room” to share. Like a gentleman, Mulder took the couch (as if he had any other option), leaving Scully, Missy, and now Emily with the guest room. A family affair, one generation rounded out by another.

It’s a convenient arrangement, really. Bill doesn’t have a crib and it’s not worth buying one for a single night, so Emily will be sleeping on the bed like a grown-up. If Missy weren’t there as a physical barrier, Scully would be taking the chance that Emily might roll off the unattended side. Instead, the little girl’s mother and aunt will be an arm’s length away for her first sleep with her new family. A symbolic gesture of the protection they hope to provide for the rest of her life.

It’s a wonder how smoothly the transition has gone. Emily hasn’t shed a single tear since the family she knew left her in this strange house. Then again, Scully has never seen her daughter cry; like her mother, she must not be prone to it.

Tara served a ham for dinner while Scully spooned mashed carrots and peas into Emily’s mouth, her helicopter parenting beginning early. Mulder made some joke about gourmet baby food, and everybody laughed except Bill, and Scully felt that she finally understood what was meant by family--some who share your blood will never fit into it, but some who were once strangers will more than make up for that absence.

And now, as Scully lowers her onesie-clad daughter onto the guest bed, there is peace. Terror, too, lingers in her mind, but it’s the unwarranted kind. She is the mother to a healthy baby girl. Yes, there will be challenges. Yes, a person loved separately from yourself is a person you could lose. But the summit has been reached; the worst did not happen, and now everything else pales in comparison. As far as Scully’s concerned, she can never be truly hurt again. Because if anything happens to Emily, well, this is what Scully asked for, and what gives her the right to complain? Beggars can’t be choosers, and she begged God for this...The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. This happened in the opposite order for her, so she can only assume more loss is to come, and she will accept it. She will.

Scully slides beneath the comforter, snaking her arm out from under to rest a hand on the small of her baby’s back. A comfort very familiar to her, and one she will bequeath to her daughter. They have the bed to themselves for now. Missy is in the living room downing a beer with the boys and trying to compete with (or mediate?) their trash talk. In the past, a situation like this might worry Scully, but those old concerns look so small now.

Only a few hours in, and she already feels much more at home with the title of mother, much more deserving of it. The first diaper she changed rivaled some of the operations she witnessed in med school, both in its gruesome nature and in requiring multiple pairs of hands. Mulder would help if Emily was a boy, he swore, but he claimed to be “out of his depth with her plumbing” as he put it. Missy quipped that you sure are and it made even Bill laugh and life was wonderfully rose-colored through Dana Scully’s eyes.

She hopes for sweet dreams for herself, but much more so, for her daughter, and she is aware that this is how it will be for the rest of time. Having been half-asleep when she was put down, Emily lulls into even-breathed dozing before Scully can decide on a lullaby. No harm done; Scully’s vocal cords haven’t seen regular exercise since college karaoke, and she’d hate to disappoint so soon.

When she opens her eyes again (she hadn’t realized she closed them, but apparently she had), Emily is deep in sleep, her eyelids twitching to the rhythm of her unseen dreams. And Missy has joined them too, her mouth drooping like it did when the sisters shared a bed every Christmas Eve. Scully doesn’t know what time it is, and with such a picture perfect view in front of her, she won’t dare to roll over and check the bedside clock. How nice it is to exist beyond time’s constraints, even for a moment.

Scully is as present, maybe, as she’s ever been. She’s touched by the past and the future, ironically giving her a heightened awareness of now. One side of her consciousness is borne back into childhood and the many nights she slept by her sister’s side--in this very city, in fact. The other sees a path of hope unfurling in front of it, finally. She wonders whether her happiness might multiply, like a drop of food coloring unleashed into water. Might Emily be the shield that she’s needed?...Maybe the loss she expects will not be what comes.

And what that could mean...she has meant, for a long time now, to plant Mulder firmly in her life. Partner is much too fleeting--the Bureau could close the X-Files tomorrow, and then they’d be nothing but ex-coworkers. They’ve established where they stand through silences that say more than words ever could. She loves him, he loves her, and my god, neither one wants to lose that. It’s only now that Scully is realizing that they haven’t--or she, rather, hasn’t--embraced what they have, and so there is nothing to lose, and very little to cherish.

With all this change in her life, she thinks, why not add that to the list?

--------------------------------------

They fly back into DC on Emily’s first birthday. November 2nd. Or at least, that’s the date that was left on the note at the foster agency. Scully isn’t sure exactly what she was doing last November 2nd, but she wasn’t having a baby, that’s certain. It was around the time of Aubrey, Missouri and BJ and nightmares, she remembers that. Plus, the phantom pregnancy, and the fear. The universe has a way of echoing itself.

They’re off to Mama Scully’s as soon as they make it off the tarmac. She’s aching to see her granddaughter, as she let Dana and Melissa know through a barrage of phone calls. I even made cupcakes and bought decorations for a warm welcome home! she insisted. Neither one of them can remember their mother being this excited about anything since...honestly? Ever. And they can’t blame her; Emily is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to their family. If only their father were here to meet her.

This is the sorrow that Scully has not had time to pick at. Her hero, her role model, the blueprint for all she wants Emily to be, not around to see it happen. She can’t think further than that; it’s the loose string that would unravel the sweater.

Mama Scully opens the door before they make it up the front steps, armed with yellow balloons and a party hat for the birthday girl. What a way to meet your grandmother.

“Hello dear!” It’s unclear whether she’s referring to Emily, one of her daughters, or the three as a unit. “Look at you…” she cups her hands around Emily’s head, and now they’re pretty sure who she’s referring to. “You’re like a little princess!”

Scully smirks. She’s glad to witness her mother’s happiness, of course, but they’ve just finished five hours of travelling with a baby. “Mom, please, could you save the theatrics for inside?”

“Oh, I have a whole other set of theatrics planned there,” Mama Scully quips. She clears the way, ushers the group into the house.

She touches Mulder’s shoulder as he passes. “Fox! I almost didn’t see you there.”

“Well, I can’t compete with Emily, so I don’t blame you.”

“She is precious, isn’t she?” Mrs. Scully gazes toward the doorway that Scully and Emily have since deserted. “There’s a place for you in Emily’s future, you know.”

Mulder shoves his hands in his pockets. “Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say to that, and besides, it should be up to Scully.

“Unless there’s another woman in your life…?”

“No, no, I just--” he chuckles. “I didn’t expect that.”

Mama Scully lays a hand on his arm. “I care about you, Fox. Your well-being is deeply connected with my daughter’s.”

“Yes, of course…” He really, really would like to go in now.

“And it’s important to me that she has a strong support system throughout this ordeal. Raising a child is a tremendous challenge, and I don’t want her to feel that the burden is hers alone.”

“I completely agree.”

“That’s why you should adopt Emily, too. Give her the gift of a father.”

Mulder’s brain short-circuits. “I--what? Mrs. Scully, I don’t know--”

She puts a hand on his back and leads him inside. “Think about it. You and Dana, forming a family for this child that needs one. It would be a little untraditional, of course, but the wedding could come in due time, no need to rush.”

Mulder’s head is spinning. This is a practical joke, right? The hidden cameras can feel free to reveal themselves any time now.

The pair stops in the front hallway, a safe distance from everyone else in the kitchen. Mulder tries to mold his thoughts into cohesive sentences.

“Mrs. Scully, your intentions are good, but I think this solution is a bit extreme. I’m more than happy to help with Emily as much as possible, but becoming her father would just make things more complicated for all involved. And trust me, even if I were onboard, there’s no way Dana would go for it.”

Mama Scully nods. “I anticipated that. I’m going to talk with her tonight, straighten things out.”

Mulder does an awkward side-to-side shuffle. “If there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that her mind is not easily changed.”

“Yes, well, I doubt this is something Dana has given much thought to. I’m hoping to get my argument across before she takes sides.”

“Mmm.” Mulder looks off toward the kitchen, where he would like to be.

“I’ll let Dana know that we’ve discussed my proposition,” Mama Scully continues, “and then you two can talk it over, alright? I don’t mean to force you into anything. It just feels like a logical step. I’m sure you’d agree that your relationship is deeper than that of many married couples.”

“Sure, but it’s very different too,” Mulder mutters. This is not a topic to delve into with his partner’s mother, of all people. “I don’t know that they can be compared.”

“Perhaps you should consider it.”

Mrs. Scully holds her hardened glance for a long second, and Mulder is the one who breaks. He scoots out of her direct line of sight, then gestures for her to go before him into the kitchen. “Shall we?”

------------------------------

They celebrate Emily’s 365th day around the sun like they’ve been by her side for every one of them. Before the crew arrived, Mama Scully whipped up vanilla cupcakes with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles, or as she put it, “a little bit of everything since I don’t know what she likes.” She even bought a happy birthday banner and sharpied in Emily’s name--not to mention five birthday hats and a humongous 1 candle that a single cupcake can barely hold up.

It’s a testament to Emily’s character that she’s so unbothered by it all. She lets Mama Scully slip the hat into place, shows no visible distress to the admiration she receives from the room. She prefers her mother’s arms over anyone else’s--they are, after all, the most familiar of the unfamiliar--but she’s content anywhere that welcomes her. And this is a place where she is most welcome.

Scully reminds herself to capture these little moments in her mind...Emily’s effervescent giggle as Missy tickles the bottoms of her feet, Mulder helping Mama Scully add extra sprinkles to each cupcake, the warm hug of a family’s company. Love, love, there is so much love here.

The time comes for cake and singing and blown-out candles. Well, candle in this case. Mulder performs the honor of lighting said candle as everyone gathers around, Emily nestled in her mother’s arms.

“Ready?” Mulder inquires. He conducts in time with his countdown. “One, two, one, two, three…”

The rendition is not in tune on anyone’s part (though Missy is the closest), but at least their intentions are harmonious. Scully’s heart swells. Mulder and Missy throw in a zany “and many more!” for the cherry on top of a joyous moment. Scully mourns its end; the birthday song is much too brief.

“Make a wish!” Missy chirps, and Scully leans forward and blows out the flame for her daughter. Safety, happiness, love...these are the things she asks for. These are the things that everyone deserves.

Scully’s not surprised when her mother pulls her aside a few minutes later and leads her to the library, leaving Emily at Missy and Mulder’s mercy. Her mother is fond of sentimental speeches, but not brave enough for an audience. Scully steels herself for a mushy-gushy outpouring.

Mama Scully shuts the door, turns to her daughter. “I’m overflowing with joy. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, mom,” Scully answers, tiresome already. “I’m a bit afraid this is all a dream that I’ll wake up from at any moment.”

“Pinch yourself. You’ll see that it’s not, I promise.”

Scully pinches her bicep, more for her mother’s amusement than anything. This is, in fact, reality.

“You must be very overwhelmed, I imagine,” Mrs. Scully remarks, beginning to pace. Scully follows with her eyes.

“There is a lot that I haven’t sorted out yet, yes,” Scully replies, her suspicion about her mother’s intentions growing. “Work, for example. I only have one more day off, and then I have to explain everything to Skinner, and hopefully I’ll qualify for maternity leave. But the Bureau isn’t very good about that, it’s only two weeks.”

“Just remember that I’m always available to babysit Emily if you need it.”

“I know, mom.”

Mama Scully allows herself to get side-tracked for a moment. “You have a crib though? And diapers, and a high chair?”

Scully nods. “Required for the home study.”

“Good.” Mama Scully sweeps back a wayward piece of her daughter’s hair. “I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re all alone in this.”

Her mother’s soft gaze unearths a sudden swell of emotion; tears prick at the back of Scully’s eyes. “I know, mom.”

“And I know that you’re gonna say you are Emily’s only legal guardian, and so you are technically alone, but you know what? You don’t have to be,” Mama Scully asserts. “There is someone out there who is willing to fill that void for you.”

Scully rolls her eyes, her brief emotional trance broken. “Don’t tell me you're gonna set me up with the Prizatskys’ son again.”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Scully laughs. “Besides, he’s engaged now.”

“Oh.” Scully tries to miss the patronization in her mother’s voice.

“What I’m saying is,” Mrs. Scully continues, “there is a man in your life who is loyal, trustworthy, hard-working, and in the perfect position to provide for you and Emily.”

“If you’re referring to Mulder,” Scully starts, an eyebrow raised, “I’m not exactly planning to shun him anytime soon.”

“Yes, but have you ever truly let him in?”

Mrs. Scully has aimed her arrow and hit her target, a stunning blow. The most damning parts of Scully’s inner dialogue have just been echoed back at her.

Wounded, she swallows hard. “That’s really none of your business. And just because he’s in my life doesn’t mean that he magically fills the role of Emily’s father. How would that even work? Emily would have to be shuttled back and forth...She’d be split between one parent and the other...It would make her life more hectic.”

“Dana, Dana…” Mama Scully pulls her daughter close, recognizing that she’s struck a nerve. Scully stiffens into the hug. “Remember when you were little, and your father would be gone on long deployments, and you’d draw pictures of him in his uniform, and tell your class about how your father was a Navy captain, and you were so proud? You barely had a sense of what that meant, but you knew he was doing something important.”

Scully relaxes into their embrace. “And when I missed him the worst, you’d let me wear his old sailor hat.”

“Yes.” Mama Scully takes a hearty breath. “I was there every day, feeding you, bathing you, sending you off to school...and you loved me, I don’t doubt that, but I wasn’t the one who put stars in your eyes.”

Scully nods against her mother’s shoulder. Damn, if she isn’t winding her way toward a convincing point.

“Emily’s gonna love you whatever you choose. But the fuller her life is--the more love she’s surrounded by--the more she’ll have to give, and the brighter her light will shine.”

Scully sniffles, shaken by the truth of this. God, to know as much love as she’s known in her life and resist it still. That’s not the way a life is meant to be lived.

“Thank you, mom,” she whispers in her mother’s ear. It’s an imprecise affirmation--encompassing everything and yet a specific something that she can no longer reject.

Scully pulls away, smiles at her mom. “No more meddling, okay? I’ll sort this out for myself.”

Mama Scully laughs. “You just needed that push. Now that the ball’s rolling, I’ll leave it alone.”

“You’d better,” Scully teases. She gestures toward the door. “I should get back to my baby.”

“Yes,” Mama Scully grins, “you should.”

-------------------------------

The knock on the door comes at a quarter to noon, as Scully expected. She didn’t expect that she’d be scrubbing grape juice off the tile when it happened, but hey, these are the disruptions everyone in her life will have to get used to. Including--especially--her.

“I’ll get it!” Missy’s voice breezes through the apartment.

A moment later, Scully finds herself level with a pair of black dress shoes. Big ones. A twelve if she had to guess.

“Scully, if you wanna know my shoe size, just ask,” Mulder jests, and has he read her mind? She feels like she’s been caught in a compromising act, though she’s done nothing but wipe up a sticky purple mess. She cranes her neck, looks up at him.

“Good morning, Mulder,” she mumbles, running her hand over the spill area. Coming up clean, she finds her footing. The top of her head is even with her partner’s collarbone.

Scully thumbs toward Emily, who is gobbling cheese crackers in her high chair without a care in the world. “Apparently she doesn’t like grape juice.”

“Grape juice?” Mulder jeers. “She knows orange juice is where it’s at.”

Scully ignores him, but makes a mental note to add OJ to the grocery list. And apple too, just to be safe.

“Let me get my shoes and I’ll be ready to go,” she says, shuffling off in her pantyhose without waiting for a response.

They have a lunchtime meeting with Skinner to explain...well, everything. Mulder doesn’t need to be there--as his partner was quick to remind him--but he insists on advocating for her. No amount of I’m not a damsel in distress, Mulder will put him off. She’s so much more than that, he knows. Hence why he’s got to do all he can so her life isn’t defined by its crises. Besides, he’ll take any excuse to sneak down to the office on his day off.

He told Scully he’d pick her up because it’d be easier on her, sure, but also because he has an important delivery to make. He nods to Missy, and she grabs the goods off the front table. He wanted to make his entrance before the big moment. His presence known, he’s ready to go.

“Emily, Uncle Mulder brought something for you!” Missy sing-songs as she places the gifts in Mulder’s hidden hands. The girl looks up, her attention easily diverted here and there.

Mulder tries to tip-toe forward--hands behind his back--without coming off as creepy, which is harder than it seems. He takes it as a good sign that Emily doesn’t spook and wonders what it means that Missy called him Uncle Mulder. Did she and Scully have a conversation about it? Is this what he’ll be known as? Or was that just a last minute reach to fill the space?

He pushes these thoughts away, focuses on the blue-eyed girl in front of him.

“Emily,” he begins, and it rolls off his tongue like a devotion, “I thought your bunny might like some friends.”

He reveals the fox first, then the UFO. His personal mark on Emily’s budding stuffed animal collection. She lets out a peep of astonishment and reaches for the fox, fascinated with its bushy tail. She hits it back and forth so it wags like a dog’s.

Mulder chuckles, his brain lighting up in places it never has before. Missy hangs back and waits for her sister to reemerge. Sure enough, Scully melts at the sight, stopping short so she doesn’t interrupt it. She clutches her heart. She and Missy share a smile.

“My, my, look at this,” Scully saunters in, ruffles Emily’s hair. “Do you know what this is, Em?” she asks, patting the fox. “This is a fox.” She points to Mulder. “And this is a Fox, too!”

Emily doesn’t get the joke, but that’s okay.

“And do you know what this is?” Mulder prompts, picking up the flying saucer. He moves it through the air like it’s flying. Emily reaches for it, and god, Mulder knows the feeling.

“This is a UFO, Emily,” Mulder tells her sweetly. “Aliens!”

“No, no.” Scully plucks the UFO from his hand. “No aliens, Em.”

She lays the saucer on the high chair tray. “Mama’s gotta go away for a little bit, but I’ll be back soon.” She kisses Em’s temple. “Auntie Missy will be right here.”

Missy steps forward. “We can play with Mr. Fox and the al--” Scully shoots her a look. ”The UFO!” she corrects, winking at Mulder. She scoops her niece out of the high chair. “Say ‘bye Mama!’”

Emily doesn’t have that grasp on words yet, and they all know it, but Missy gets her to wave. “Okay, now ‘bye Uncle Mulder!’” Another wave. Smiles all around.

Mulder and Scully move reluctantly toward the door. Scully groans as Missy and the baby girl slip from her view.

“They’ll be okay,” Mulder assures his partner.

“I know,” Scully sighs, “but will I?”

Mulder rests his hand in the familiar spot on her back as they exit her apartment. “Absolutely. Skinner will grant you the leave, and you’ll be back with your baby in no time.”

She nods, bites her lip, and slows, suddenly wistful. Mulder stops, turns to her. “Scully…?”

“Mulder, did my mom have a conversation with you?”

He nods.

“And...did you think it was kind of crazy too?”

He nods again.

She takes a breath and rises to her tip-toes. She could pretend not to know what she’s doing, but she does. Oh, she does.

“But not out of the realm of extreme possibility…?” she coos, eyes centered on his lips.

Mulder smiles shyly. He always expected it would be this way: Scully the coquette to his boyish ineptitude. Who knew she’d be stealing his lines.

His hands find her waist, pulling her closer there in the hallway. “No, no,” he muses, “I think it’s pretty solidly in the realm…” He nuzzles her neck, breathes in her sweet smell, and nibbles her ear, all in the beat of a hummingbird’s wing. “...of extreme possibility,” he purrs into her ear, satisfied with himself.

It reminds Scully of do you believe in the existence of ~extraterrestrials~ and how she knew then that he was a little bit unhinged, whip-snap smart, and too goddamn charming for his own good. That either fate or her own unconquerable desire would bring them together. She knows now that fate conspired to keep them apart. What’s unfolding is neither an act of its hand nor a last-ditch effort of a dead-end life. It is one choice among many, undertaken out of sheer belief in the happiness it could bring.

She looks into his eyes, which look back at her with a caramel-drizzle melt. Yes, yes, this is right. She fans a hand out on his cheek, runs her thumb over his mole. She has always wanted to touch it, but could never come up with a good excuse.

They’ve delayed the inevitable long enough. Scully leans in, still on her tip-toes, and Mulder bends to close the distance. Their lips meet, and there’s no fireworks. No, it’s simple serenity. Like coming home after a long time away--though this is a house they have never walked into until now, they have a feeling they will be walking into it for the rest of their lives.

And then Scully pulls away, and it’s over but it’s just beginning.

#a moment of happiness among all the angst <3 #thank you as always for reading #kinda sorta almost done #but i have one last angsty twist cause that's who i am #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #the x-files #txf #txf fic #fox mulder #dana scully #melissa scully #mine

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