#they were his only road out and for the very briefest time he had that and it mattered. losing them changed him in traceable ways

[honeysickledream]

'Overgrown' - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader | Chapter One

(photo credit: me [@honeysickledreams])

warnings | tags: F!reader, no use of Y/N and no physical descriptions of reader, reader is a healer and midwife, this is set in a very vague ‘middle ages’ time, forced/arranged marriage, angst, slow burn (heavy emphasis on slow), miscommunication, there’s no communication at this point honestly, relationship issues, relationship doubts, (mild) hurt with no comfort, no smut this time around but still minors DNI, mild horror/fear element towards the beginning (a nonexistent monster is described in detail + the briefest mentions of animal and possible person-on-person attacks along with it) | that’s everything off the top of my head, lmk if I missed anything!

word count: ~2.6k

synopsis: You had married Simon four months ago, the whole thing some stupid forced arrangement. You had left everything you knew behind to live with Simon in his cabin a few miles out from his hometown. You weren't sure you could classify your relationship as a marriage, or even say truthfully that you lived with him because he wasn't around very often. Some part of you hopes things improve, but you're not unwillingly to do what you can to live the life you'd originally planned for.

Next Part ->

Thin clouds softly colored purple and pink from the sunset drifted overhead. Street lamps burned away at the oil and cloth wicks. The townspeople flooded the rough streets as they went about their evening routines of visiting the markets, going home after a long day or meeting with others. Some mothers were wandering the alleyways where their unruly children wandered after being sent out to play. You did your best to move through the crowds of people, hopping onto the wooden promenades to get around the slower and louder groups so you wouldn’t have to trek home in total darkness. The walk back to the cabin was a few miles out, and after spending four months tending to mothers and their children, you had heard more than your fair share of stories about the shadows in the woods and the spindly-legged beasts that enjoyed gobbling up those who were out too late. Logically you knew those creatures weren’t out there, that the mothers were telling their children such stories to keep them from wandering off into the woods and finding themselves food for wolves and bears. But as you walked alone on the dirt road that cut through the thick of the woods, winding this way and that, with only a few thin paths branching off and leading to well-hidden cabins and cottages, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Like something was there behind the trees as it tried to make up its mind on whether you would be a tasty treat. You turned down the third path on the right that you came across, the old wooden sign reading ‘Riley’. The name had been etched into the surface haphazardly—either done by a child ages ago or by someone with shoddy penmanship. Somewhere in the depths of the woods, a branch snapped. Your blood ran cold, your heart racing as you tried to keep yourself from going stock still. The creepy stories from the mothers in town began to fill your mind. Images flashed behind your eyes of lanky creatures with bark-covered antlers that dripped with the blood of their victims, cloaks made from human skin and moss draped over their shoulders, their smiles too wide and full of rows of pointed, thin teeth. Those stories were nonsense, you had to tell yourself with each step you took. If there was something in the woods you needed to fear, it would be the wolves or bears that would charge you before they mauled your defenseless body, or perhaps a person lurking in the woods with whatever foul plans they had brewing in their mind. But the notion to fear those things didn’t enter your mind, they never did when something startled you in the woods. For some reason the fantastical, wicked creatures seemed more terrifying than the real threats. The fear you felt subsided as soon as you saw the heavy door to your cabin, the dark blue paint faded. No candles or lanterns were lit, not that you expected them to be, but a disappointment settled in her heart where the fear had been nonetheless. You unlocked the door slowly, slipped inside and locked the door loudly. Once your boots were off, your cloak hanging from the rack by the door, and your aged medical case in its place by the sword stand that was empty like always, you did a quick search around the cabin, lighting candles in the rooms as you ensured that they were clear. The two bedrooms were empty, undisturbed. Your most recent crochet project was still on the couch in a snarled mess, the furniture still angled the way you liked it. You did a quick sweep of the kitchen, making sure no little critters had managed to find their way into the cabin to sample your loaves of bread or tore into your sacks of sugar or crates of ripening fruits. With everything safe, just the way you’d left it that morning before making your rounds through town, you lit the fire in the parlor before lighting the open hearth in the kitchen.

The front door’s lock unlatched loudly right as your nightgown fell down the rest of your body. Without hesitation you grabbed the dagger you kept under the face-down journal on your nightstand. You knew only one other person had a key to the cabin, but who was to say someone hadn’t gotten a locksmith’s set or perhaps one of those damned creatures from those horrible nighttime stories had managed to slip their thin nails into the locks to trigger the mechanisms.

Knife brandished before you, poised to strike at anything even if it was just to buy a few more seconds of breath before dying, you crept down the hallway. You stuck to the right side because it was the side that never creaked, something you learned a few days into living here. The middle of the hallway seemed to creak only when it was nighttime, while the left side creaked morning, noon or night. There was nothing at the entrance of the hallway, and no one was lingering around the front door to the right or in the parlor which was dead ahead. As you looked left into the kitchen where your pot of stew was still bubbling away, you noticed a broad and tall figure wafting the savory smells towards their face. Their back was towards you, their attire dirty and ratty but it was deep green of their cloak that caught your eye and told you that it was safe to lower your blade. “You’re back,” you whispered as you slowly approached the figure who froze when your voice broke through the silence. You didn't bother to hide the faint disappointment in your tone. The scars of the person’s face glinted in the candle- and hearth-light of the kitchen as their head turned. “’Course I am,” the man rasped, voice tight as if he hadn’t spoken for days. “Been four weeks, told ya I’d be back around now.” You glared at him, not just for being so nonchalant about his arrival. It was night, you were alone, no one around, and he just waltzed in without announcing himself. If you hadn’t noticed the green to his cloak, you could’ve stabbed him which wouldn’t have ended well for anyone. “I take it you’re hungry,” you said under your breath. You didn’t wait for his response, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard and two spoons from the drawer. Luckily you’d made a bit more stew than usual, but you knew you’d be scrambling to find him more food after he scarfed his portion down. You stirred the stew and sighed. It had a little ways to go before it was ready to be eaten. “Go fetch yourself water for a bath and get clean. You smell like a wet dog rolled in a puddle of decay, Simon.” He returned the glare you’d given him moments ago but did as you said and went to the back garden for pails of water. He had bristled when you said his name, rather than referring to him as ‘Ghost’. That happened often after he spent a hefty amount of time with his three friends who only referred to him as ‘Ghost’. Everyone in town did the same, or they used a string of descriptors to refer to him. Simon had told you to not refer to him as ‘Ghost’ while withholding the reason why you were given special license on your wedding day.

Bitterness settled heavy on your tongue, memories of your wedding day suddenly filling your mind. Every muscle seemed to tense and tears brimmed in your eyes. You knew the whole situation was horrible for Simon, too, not just for you, but very little about his life had changed that day. At least to your eyes, he had been able to remain in his hometown, living in his family’s cabin all while you had to move far away from the family that forced you to become a Riley. You had to leave everyone you loved behind, most of your belongings still in your old bedroom hidden under white sheets until your family re-purposed them or sold them off. And the marriage remained as rocky as it had been on day one—and it had been four months since the wedding. When Simon was home, he was gone most of the day, leaving near sun-up and returning near sun-down. Sometimes he was called away with his three friends for a few days, and most recently, they’d been called away to do something for four weeks. The two of you rarely talked when he was around, rarely spent more than an hour in the same room. Oh, and there was no physical intimacy. None. Your sisters wrote to you often asking how married life was (and if you had found yourself to be with child yet, which they made sure to never write out so bluntly, preferring to inquire between the lines) and you had no idea how to politely tell them that they had witnessed your husband barely give you a peck on your awful wedding day to seal the vows, so why would they think the marriage had gotten even remotely physical enough for there to be the possibility of a child? As you stood there stewing over the stew, you weren’t even sure you wanted children with Simon. If it ever did happen, would he be a supportive husband to you through all the pains and changes, the scares and the happy moments, the horror and miracle that was birth? Would he care for the child in such a way that would charm you into wanting to give him a dozen more babies? A bubble popped on the surface of the stew, ripping you from your contemplations and rapidly growing dissatisfaction and anger at everything. You licked the spot on the back of your hand and smiled faintly. You were sure you’d perfected the seasonings this time, as well as the ratio of carrots to celery. It was then that Simon cleared his throat and you looked up at where he leaned against the door frame. He dressed in loose cotton trousers and a sleep shirt, his body cleaned of whatever filth he’d gotten on himself. He’d even trimmed his dark blond hair, which was a shame because the slight length had looked rather charming on him.

Then you realized you’d been in your own head long enough for him to fetch water, heat it, bathe and dress, and for the stew to finish cooking. All the little lines you fed yourself daily about making the best out of this strange and aggravating situation seemed to have done nothing but give you some momentary distraction when you saw happy couples and families loving interacting with each other. “There’s fresh bread in the larder,” you told him as you began to ladle stew into his bowl, making sure to given him most of the venison. You knew that whatever he and his friends did when they were called away left them without hearty meals most of the time. Even just a few days away often left Simon looking a bit leaner, but four weeks away? The hollowness to his scarred cheeks made something twist in your chest to see it. You sat the bowls down on the little table in the corner of the kitchen, then turned to find Simon slicing the loaf—no, loaves…God, you made a mental note to get up early tomorrow to bake more before you left to tend to your patients. He’d also grabbed a jar of apple butter and poured you both a cup of water, which you thanked him for under your breath. The two of you sat at the table, eating in the usual silence, staring off at the usual spots of the wall. Your eyes trained on the cobweb in the left corner of the wall behind him, and his eyes trained on the wall behind you. Your brows furrowed when Simon suddenly made a face that you caught out of the corner of your eye. He picked up the jar of apple butter, examining it, then took another bite of the bread that he’d slathered the mixture on. He made the same face and you sighed. “I bought that stuff a few days ago.” You took it from him when he offered it up. It smelled just fine, it looked just fine, too. No discoloration or signs of something growing. You spread a little bit of it on the corner of your bread and took a bite. Simon snapped his fingers in some sort of triumph when you grimaced, too. Something about the apple butter mixing with the savoriness of the stew, perhaps even with the slight acidity of the bread, made everything taste wrong. Worse than wrong. You took a gulp of water to wash down the horrid taste. Before any more mistakes were made with the apple butter, you closed the container and made your way to the larder. After searching the moderately dusty shelves, you grabbed a jar of pepper preserves that had been gifted to you two weeks ago by one of your patients after helping her deliver her third child and first daughter. You hand it to Ghost who wasted no time in opening it and spreading the contents onto a fresh slice of bread. He took a large bite and his eyes fluttered closed as he chewed slowly. “I’m not sure why you thought apple butter would go well with such a savory stew,” you said under your breath as you resumed eating.

“Thought it’d be tangier,” he muttered around his bite of food. “Stew’s good, though. Not too garlicky like the last time ya made it.” You stared blankly at him. For some reason the idea that he sometimes found your stews too garlicky made something flip in your mind. Maybe it was because it had been a long day and now he was back after so long away, your normal routine disrupted which always managed to put you on edge. You managed to hold you tongue and look back to your food, waiting for Simon to say something else. But he didn’t say anything. He fell back into his usual silence and your frustration grew a little more. You finished eating your stew and a slice of bread with the pepper spread. Since Simon was eating rather slow, you left cleaning the kitchen to him as you put your dishes in the wash basin. You made your way to your bedroom, locking yourself inside. Everything suddenly felt wrong in the cabin, in your body, even in your mind. Like you were sweltering in the summer heat and unable to find a way to cool down and relax, despite it being the middle of autumn and your bedroom was somewhat chilly. For hours, you tossed and turned, pushing your sheets on and off, this way and that. Your mind always wandering to what was hidden under the loose floorboard by the bedroom door. After a while, you managed to fall asleep, but your rest was fitful.

[mrsalwayswrite]

What Words Can't Say - Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry i'm a slow writer.

Warnings: language, people being jerks

Words: 5700

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

July 1943

Over the past few weeks that the 100th Bomb Group was stationed in Thorpe Abbotts, several traditions had emerged. The first was a breakfast of pancakes, bacon, eggs, all the works on mornings of missions. Another was the routine bike races around the tarmac on sunny days or inside in the mess hall on less than pleasant days. 

The one that the men most looked forward to was the baseball games on Sundays, if there was not a mission. Major Egan coordinated the teams and helped set up the baseball diamond in an open field down the road from the airbase. The rumors floating around were that the new CO, Colonel Harding, was a baseball fan and willingly paid a nearby farmer for access to the field. No one questioned it. The games were a moral boost and that was what mattered. 

In the afternoon heat, Abby faced the blazing sun, feeling a single drop of sweat drip down the back of her neck, but enjoying the slight tingle of burning as she soaked in its rays. The loud roar of a cheer from a distance away cracked a smile on her lips. 

With the blue skies on this particular Sunday, the baseball tournament was in full swing which meant most of the air base was quiet, including the hardstands and mechanic's hut. The mission two days ago had minimal casualties, only three forts lost and two in critical need of repair. Although there was always something to do or fix, Ken allowed those of the ground crew who wanted to participate or watch the game to go for the afternoon. Morale boost amongst the ground crew was as necessary as for those up in the skies. On this day, most of the crew had gone to watch, weary physically and mentally and needing a break. A few had stayed behind, including Ken and Abby, tirelessly working on the forts. 

“Abby, get your head out of the clouds.” Ken teased as he walked by her. 

She opened her hazel eyes and childishly stuck her tongue out at him, for disrupting her sunshine time. Simon, who was walking with Ken, chuckled at her, his bright blue gleaming and his thin mustache twitching. With a sigh, she returned to patching flak holes in Boeing Belle. 

A short time later, a smile broke out on her face as a loud yip reached her ears. She stepped down off the raised platform just in time to practically be tackled by the husky. 

“Good morning, sweet boy.” She cooed, kneeling down to press her face against the dog's head, receiving kisses for her devoted attention. “DeMarco playing baseball? He leave you all alone, you poor boy.”

“Good morning, Abby.”

She looked up, a smile still on her face. For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to admire the man walking towards her. The afternoon sun caught his blond locks, and with the humidity from the rainfall yesterday, it gave him a hazy halo about his head. Even though he was in his simple uniform trousers and shirt- it was too hot for the jacket or hat- and his aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, an aura of debonair clung to him like a second skin. Not for the first time did she wonder how a man could be so damn pretty. 

“Morning, Gale. How are you?” She replied, still kneeling on the hardstand. 

He stopped near her, the corners of his lips curled upward as he stared down at Abby and Meatball. “Doing fine. Yourself?” 

“I'm better now.” She rubbed her hands along the dog and pressed a quick kiss to his head. 

Although she may have alluded to seeing the dog making her feel better, that was not the whole truth. She always felt better after seeing Gale whenever he stopped by the mechanic's hut or the hardstands. It felt like something loosened within her chest, as if a fist clenched under her ribs only released when seeing that he was still okay, that he was still at Thorpe Abbotts.  

Which was wrong. Very wrong. She was not supposed to be attached to any of the airmen, and was not supposed to make friends with them. She had promised herself, tried to save herself from the heartbreak that would inevitably follow. 

But, dammit, Gale Cleven made that really hard to follow through. 

Whenever he wandered down to her area of the airbase, he always made a point to say hello and sometimes ask what she was doing. It was a minor thing, their conversations no more than a few minutes, yet it had begun to water the seed of friendship between them. That very seed which was planted when he shared his name with her and they shook hands. 

“How's the game going?”

He huffed lightly, moving the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “The fellas are having fun.”

“Is Colonel Harding watching?”

“I didn't see him.”

“Mmmm…what do you think about him?”

Gale glanced down at the pavement, seeming to think of his answer before opening his mouth. A trait she had noticed about him that she greatly admired. “Better than Huglin.” He finally said, meeting her gaze again. 

She snorted. Huglin was a hardass that while he was a good CO for missions, he lacked warmth and connection with his men. “I'll take your word for it.” She had not personally met Harding yet but most people that she asked approved of him. “You heading back?”

“Nah, was gonna go talk to Lemmons.”

“Okay. Can Meatball stay with me?”

“Sure. See ya, Abby.”

“Bye.”

They shared a smile before he headed over to where Ken and Simon stood, staring at an engine they had to remove yesterday in the rain. It had been shot to hell and it was a real debate if it was fixable or trashed. Ken thought they could do it, but even Abby was uncertain. The engine had been on fire when the pilot landed it two days ago. 

“Who's a good boy? Are you going to keep me company? Yeah?” She cooed to the husky, giving him one last kiss before standing. She wiped her hands off on her blue coveralls, surprisingly still clean for having been working a couple hours already. She adjusted her red handkerchief, making sure it still covered her hair and the bun on the back of her head. Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she returned to work. 

Thirty minutes later, she finished up the wing. Mentally taking inventory of her current supplies, she silently groaned to herself. She needed more before she started on the other side.  

“Come on, boy.” With Meatball by her side, they started the long walk over to the mechanic's hut. They passed Ken, Simon and Gale talking with the two local boys. She was surprised to see the boys, they did not usually come out on Sundays. Their mom wanted them home for church and chores but she must have let them go…or they snuck away. She would not put it past those two rascals. 

She surveyed the pile of metal outside, picking out one that would fit her needs. “Need more bolts.” She muttered aloud. A quick peek behind her showed Meatball avidly sniffing a hole in the ground, tail slowly wagging. Shaking her head at the silly pup, she darted inside the hut. Only grabbing a handful of bolts would not take long, Meatball would barely notice her missing presence. 

Abby and Ken tried to keep the place organized, like they had been taught from their fathers- easier to find things if everything is in its place; but with all the hands and occasional sticky fingers that came through the glorified shed, the place was an disorganized harmony that they learned to make due with. Even if she could occasionally hear Ken swearing under his breath at its state. 

Standing at the long metal table against one of the walls, she counted the bolts, mouthing the numbers, as she laid them in a line. She paid no mind as the door opened behind her, used to fellow grand crew coming and going often enough. After an eerily silent long minute, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her movements ceased. 

Cautiously, carefully, she looked behind her, like prey feeling the presence of a predator and unable to escape. What met her gaze caused her stomach to drop and her fists to clench. 

Captain Peter Thompson leaned against the wall next to the door, arms crossed over his barrel chest and beady eyes staring at her with an uncomfortable mixture of physical appreciation and animosity. The scar on his upper lip, most likely from cleft lip, was barely noticed when he smiled and flirted with the women on base, but somehow enhanced a spiteful side of him when showcasing a mocking smile. He was handsome enough, able to play up charm and manners when the need suited, but quiet rumors circulated of a different side of him. 

Unfortunately Abby knew this other side all too well. 

“For the life of me, I don't understand why they don't send your ass back to the States and leave the real work to the men. Lemmons might want you here but he's the only damn one.”

Slowly she turned around, leaning her back against the metal table. It only took one time to learn never to show her back to him. 

“I thought when Harding arrived, he'd finally put you in your place.” He sneered as he prowled forward, hands casually behind him in parade rest. 

The very air stilled in Abby's lungs, wondering what he would do this time, wondering how he snuck in here with no one's notice. 

He stopped next to the table, close enough to reach out and grasp her arm if he desired, a coiled snake ready to strike when the mood hit him. “But let me guess, Harding fucks you too, huh? Just like Huglin?” He scoffed. “That's the only reason the goddamn Brass keeps you here, for that sweet cunt.”

She could almost taste the blood in the mouth as she bit the inside of her cheek to keep quiet. It was better to let him spew his venom than to try and engage. His rank alone gave him authority, plus the military needed all of the men possible. She was disposable,  replaceable. 

And they both knew it. 

“You know what they say…there are only two places women should be– in the kitchen and in the bedroom. And clearly you're in neither one. Unless you like it in here, being bent over and fucked against the dirty table. Huh? That's it?”

She could not help the sharp inhale of breath at his heinous statement. Her insides quivered with the need to hit him, even if it got her sent home. But she resisted. 

His beady eyes scanned the table between them, narrowing at the bolts perfectly lined up. In that instant she knew what was coming before he acted. With a deliberate swipe of his hand, he sent the bolts flying across the ground, scattering in all directions.  

“Oops. Better clean that up.”

She refused to let him be the reason she was sent back to the States. Even as her teeth threatened to crack with how tightly she clenched her jaw, her spine ramrod straight, her muscles tight and ready for a fight, she held perfectly still. She absolutely knew she could take him down with a calculated hit. She had taken down bigger men than him before, which was not hard since he was short compared to most men, but still taller than herself. 

Yet THAT warning rang in the back of her head like a clanging gong, over and over, never stopping. 

So she held perfectly still, refusing to let him see how his words affected her. The only evidence was her white knuckle fists and her clenched jaw. She was a harbor, waiting out the storm. All she had to do was endure. 

“Anything to say? Huh?” He leaned closer, the scent of cigarettes and mint on his breath. 

“Is there a problem here?”

The sound of that deep drawl was like water on parched ground, a cool breeze on a hot day. Her fists unclenched just a barest amount, for she knew she was safe. She was no longer alone. 

Abby's eyes locked on the two men standing just inside the doorway. Relief and surprise skipping through her mind in sync. 

Thompson straightened up, slipping into his easy charm like a glove. “No, sir.”

Cleven stepped further in; aviator sunglasses hung from the front of his shirt allowing his steel eyes to remain locked on Thompson. “I don't believe we've been introduced, Major Buck Cleven of the 350th.”

“Captain Peter Thompson of the 389th.”

“Something you need, Captain?” Ken spoke up, arms crossed over his chest. Anger rolled off him in waves and skated across the floor.  

He grinned broadly as if this was all a big joke. “Came in here looking for something, can't remember the damn thing now. Must not have been that important.” He shrugged his shoulders then proceeded to lean back against the metal table.

“Well, if you remember what it is, I can help you but otherwise you need to remove yourself so we can focus on our jobs.” Ken stated, his tone dancing the line of military respect and insubordination. 

The Captain's jaw ticked. Slowly he pushed himself off the table, the snake uncoiling from its position, and puffed up his chest. 

But before he could open his mouth, Cleven cleared his throat. A threat. A warning that at this moment, he was not the ranking officer.

“Sir.” He hissed through his teeth at Cleven. Like a petulant child, he stormed out of the hut, shoulder knocking into Ken's on his way out since Ken barely shifted out of the doorway. 

Abby stared down at the scattered bolts on the floor, and inhaled her scream. There would always be misogynistic men in her world, but it was still a hard pill to swallow when they spewed their venom. Along with being purposefully sought to harass and Thompson's prior actions…tears of frustration welled in her eyes. Sometimes it was hard to pretend everyone was alright.  

“Abby–” 

She cut off her cousin. “I'm fine. I just came for more bolts.” She knelt down, blinking furiously to beat back the tears as she gathered up what was in arm's reach. 

When a second pair of hands reached out to grab the bolts scattered, her breath hitched in her throat. Tears sprang forth renewed at the kind action. Without looking up, she knew who it was. 

“Thank you.” She murmured, standing up but keeping her eyes downcast as she placed things on the table. 

“If he's harrassessing you–” Cleven started, coming up beside her and placing the bolts down. 

She shook her head, discreetly trying to blink away the extra moisture before it leaked out of her eyes. “It's alright. I've dealt with men like him before.” She hoped her voice sounded strong because to her own ears, it precariously wobbled. 

“Abby–” 

At her nickname, she looked up into his blue eyes, momentarily drowning in the vastness of them. With his tall, lithe frame beside her, arm almost brushing hers, she considered if it was possible to be pulled into his orbit. If from the warmth and care he manifested, people unconsciously gravitated towards him hoping to bask in that quiet confidence and warmth he wore as easily as his uniform.

Her answer clearly did not satisfy him like she had meant for it to with the way his gaze hardened. “If you want me to report him–”

“No.” She sighed, giving up the fight and wiping away the tears still trying to escape. “If someone was bothering Major Egan or Lieutenant Biddick, you wouldn't–”

“Damn right, I would.” He stated, an absolute resolution in his voice. “I look out for my friends.”

“I…I'll let you know. He doesn't stop over often.”

“Okay, if something changes…”

She nodded, understanding what he was implying. 

Cleven looked over at Ken. “Same goes for you. If anyone is bothering you or your crew, let me know. I'll deal with it.”

“Yes, sir.” Ken grinned, running a hand through his curls. “If I can say, Buck, you can be mighty intimidating when you want to be.”

Cleven shook his head with a small smile on his face. “Thank you.”

The trio silently cleaned up the rest of the mess. Afterwards, Cleven headed out, but left Meatball for her to watch over. The ploy lacked subtlety, but she was silently grateful for the excuse to keep the dog nearby. After what just happened, she did not think her nerves could handle someone else sneaking up on her. 

As they walked back out to the hardstands, Ken nudged her shoulder, gathering her attention. “When did Buck start calling you ‘Abby’?” 

“Umm…why?”

“No reason, I thought you preferred to be called ‘Slugger’.”

“Oh, I guess…I don't really care.” She shrugged. 

“Uh huh.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“There's–” Her mind caught on to what he was implying. A flush of heat shot through her that she was positive reflected on her cheeks. “What? No! Stop thinking like that. No!”

“If you say so.” He turned towards the busted engine he wanted to revive, whistling a jaunty tune. 

“Ughhh…” She glanced down at the dog by her side. “Boys are annoying…and stupid. Don't forget stupid.”

Meatball wagged his tail in agreement. 

*****

Abby's head was in the clouds as she headed towards her hut from the mess hall. It had been all nighter, working on the forts for today's mission. Ken practically dragged her to the mess hall after watching the forts take off, forcing her to eat before releasing her to go crash in her cot for a few hours until they had to deal with the aftermath of the mission. 

Fear circled around her head like a vulture, waiting to sink it's claws into her. Worry crept along her torso to encase her chest like a thorny vine. It was hard to focus, it was hard to breathe. Her turbulent thoughts cycloned around one central thought- which boys of the 100th would return. 

And she hated it. 

She had tried so hard to not befriend them, to not care. It was easier that way. All she had to do was keep her head down and fix the forts. Simple as that. She had not come to England to make friends. Her role was simply to help Ken. That was it. Simple. Easy. There was no need to be friends with the pilots and their crews. She should have been invisible to them. 

But they refused to let her hide. 

Somehow in the last two months, these fellow Americans had accepted her, and the other ground crew, as valuable members of their group. Friendship was the currency they thrived on, freely given and shared. 

The early morning's air nipped at her cheeks, but by now they were numb from being exposed to the chill all night. Silent like a sentry, she stood off to the side of the tarmac, hands in the pockets of her coveralls and watching the pilots and crews jump down off their trucks and saunter to their forts. 

The first to approach her was DeMarco. He handed her Meatball's leash, said a quick goodbye to his dog, then thanked her and headed back. Next was Major Egan as he walked by with Blakely. He sent her a cheeky wink and a ‘see ya later, Sluggar!’. When Biddick and his crew walked by, he smiled and waved, refusing to stop until she smiled and waved back. He let out a loud cheer that his men echoed in the quiet dawn. 

Lastly was Major Cleven…

Gale. 

“How's she looking?” He asked in that lazy drawl. 

“She's doing good, keep her that way, please?”

“I'll do my best.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck under his pretty blue scarf. “I'll be seeing you later, Abby.”

“I'll watch the skies for you.” 

At her soft statement, he dropped his head for a moment, a smile dancing across his mouth. When he looked back up, his smile was such a beautiful sight, it momentarily stole her breath away. His eyes were crinkled slightly, lips pulled back inviting like a curtain drawn to reveal white teeth. It was the way he smiled down at her, how he beamed…

Now, a little over an hour later, she trudged to her cot with Meatball by her side. All she wanted- needed- was to curl up in her bed and sleep. That was all her brain could focus on. Get to the hut, crawl into bed, sleep. 

As she reached for the doorknob to her hut, it jerked open before her fingers could touch it, startling her semi-awake. 

“Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there.” Grace politely stated, but with an edge that let you know it was not meant politely.  She stepped out of the door, forcing Abby to take a step to the side and out of the way. Following Grace was another woman. Abby thought she had seen the other woman before, maybe she was a receptionist for Harding? Both were dressed in crisp uniforms, with brunette hair perfectly curled, makeup flawless and lips red like cherries. 

Exhaustion wormed its way through her brain, riddling it with empty thoughts. So her attention towards Grace  and the other woman was fleeting at most. Without a second thought, she sent Meatball into the hut before stepping past the threshold herself. 

“You know,” Grace started, causing Abby to turn around and look at her, “if you put some effort into your appearance, you might look pretty.”

The other woman snorted, a weird nasally sound. “If she stopped looking like a greasy little boy, maybe.”

“Perhaps then one of the men will pay you some attention. It's a well-known fact, no man wants a wife who doesn't look ladylike.” Grace placed her hand over her ample bosom. “Just my advice. Us ladies have to look out for each other, right?”

“Um…Okay.” Abby stepped inside the hut, allowing the door to slam closed behind her. 

She hated how tired she was, how stressed and worried and in her own head. Normally, Grace's callous remarks she could ignore. But today it felt like too much, that little bit of water that made the cup overflow. 

What made it worse was the echoes of her own mother's voice in their words. The complaints of how her body more resembled that of a boy than a lady. How her breasts were too small to entice and her legs too skinny. That working on cars was not ladylike. How if she just wore this dress, how pretty she would be. No man wants a lady without class and playing with the dogs is disgusting. How her mother only wanted the best future for her…

Without changing out of her coveralls or taking her handkerchief off her head, she crawled onto her cot without a single care of how dirty she was. Meatball jumped up, doing an awkward shuffle to find a comfortable spot before settling his head on the pillow and body next to hers. 

Then she cried into his fur.  

*****

The melody felt as if from a long forgotten memory, perhaps something she heard on the radio in her dad's garage. No words came to mind, just the instruments and so Abby quietly hummed what she could remember. Anything to distract from her own thoughts and her current actions. 

The mission earlier today ended in success- the target destroyed. Most of the men returned, but not all, and some returned bleeding and crying or dead carried by their forts and friends. 

Like a sail unfurled in the wind, allowing its ship to sail freely, something released within her chest as she watched the forts land and their crews emerge. She tried to focus on helping the ground crew, yet her eyes continued to dart to the men loading up in the trucks- counting, assessing, scanning for faces she knew, for those she worried about. 

For one in particular. 

Her gaze finally located him as he stood next to a truck, watching his crew slowly pile in. His head swiveled around, as if looking for someone. She wondered if he was searching for Major Egan, wanting to check in on his best friend. Everyone knew how close those two were, supposedly since flight school. Two sides of the same coin. Or like Mary teased- the yin and yang to warm her bed. 

Still humming, she moved around the waist gunner's position of Piccadilly Lily, attempting to scrub away the splatters of dried blood.  Most of the fresh blood was gone, washed out with a bucket of hot water. She wondered if he lived or died and exactly whose blood this was. Ken was better at remembering all the faces and who belonged to which fort. They all seemed to jumble up in her head. 

A loud rustling came from further inside the fort but she paid no mind. Ken was supposed to be checking the damage to the ball turret. 

“Ouch, shit!”

“Are you okay?” She called out, wringing the rag in her hand. 

“Fine!” 

She smirked to herself but continued to clean. She remembered the first time she had cleaned out a bloody fort, she vomited in the grass off the hardstand after. Months of doing this though, she could compartmentalize. She tried to pretend it was red paint, like her little cousins used to get into and then paint the walls of her uncle's house. Simpler times. 

“Alright, what is it?”

“What?”

“What's bothering you?” Ken's head popped up from the ball turret before lifting himself onto the catwalk. 

“Why would something be bothering me?” 

“You're humming.”

That was not what she was expecting to hear. After her little cry and nap earlier, she had tried her best to hide the evidence. She splashed cold water on her face several times, attempting to lessen the puffiness and redness around her eyes. She figured Ken would ask her about it at some point but perhaps it was not as apparent after all. “What?” 

“You're humming.”

“So?” She was still boggled what that had to do with anything. 

“Something is bothering you and you're trying not to think about it, so you're humming.” Ken said matter-of-factly, hand and eyes running over the sides of the fort and all the bullet holes. 

“It's nothing.”

“Abby–”

“I'm serious. I'm fine.” She looked around, satisfied with her work. “I'm going to dump this water.”

She left before he could answer, not interested in talking about anything on her mind. Her thoughts were scrambled like a bowl of spaghetti noodles. The gray clouds and light rain matched her melancholy mood. 

She tossed the bloody water in the nearby grass, heading towards the mechanic's hut. Her handkerchief was lightly saturated by the time she reached the hut, the excess water running down her face. An uncomfortable feeling but one she was used to, as it always seemed to rain in England. It was a miracle they did not get sick more often from all the hours they worked in wet conditions. 

When the door opened behind her only a minute or so after she walked through, she sighed knowing the conversation she had run away from had followed her. 

“Abby, what's going on?” 

“Ken, I said I'm fine.”

Ignoring her snark, he pulled himself up to sit on one of the work tables and leaned back, clearly making himself comfortable. Instead of immediately pressing her, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and wiped his hands on the damp rag hanging from his toolbelt. 

In that moment she deflated, her frustration with him following evaporating like mist under the sun. In the moment, he appeared like Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders, but oh so young. Far too young to have the responsibility of so many men's lives on his shoulders, both on the ground and the sky. A weight he carried with respect, but she wondered how much that weight chipped away at him. Each life and fort lost. Another fracturing of his psyche. Yet somehow he always had a kind (or sarcastic, depending on the man) word to try and cheer them up. He rarely left the hardstands. More than once Abby found him asleep in the mechanic's hut or in a fort. 

A different kind of tear flooded her eyes. Without a word, she pulled herself up to sit next to her cousin, wrapping her arms around his torso, both of them damp from the rain but she did not care. Immediately, he straightened and returned the hug, drawing her close as if to share strength. 

“I worry about the men too. It's hard seeing–” He sniffled before continuing. “I wish there was more that we can do.”

“I don't want to see friends die.” She admitted in a whisper. 

“Me either…but you can't push everyone away. Please don't push me away.”

Her heart broke at how vulnerable and sad he sounded. She hugged him tighter. “I know, I'm so sorry. It's hard. Today is…it's been a hard day.”

“Yeah. I understand.” 

They released one another, not before she pressed a sisterly kiss to the top of his head. Instead of returning to work, they both leaned back against the wall behind them, shoulders touching and legs dangling off the side of the table. 

“Sometimes…sometimes I regret asking you to come with me.” He stated with a huff, wringing the rag between his hands again. “You left everything behind when you moved in with us. I could see how hard it was on you, but necessary. Then you just start to open up and make friends and…and well, a part of me regrets dragging you over here because you lost that.”

“Ken, I could have stayed. I know that. I chose to come with you.” She would chose Ken over any friend, he had to know that. 

“And I thank God every day for that. But it's still a guilt I carry.”

“You silly boy. Stop it. I'm happy to be here with you. It'd have been miserable in Arkansas without you.” She reached up to ruffle his hair like when they were kids. 

“Ughhh…stoppp…”

She chuckled, settling her hands in her lap. “I was thinking about going home…back to Tennessee before everything happened.”

“I figured. I know you missed your father…and Judy.” He leaned his head against hers. “What else is floating around in that big head of yours?”

“I don't have a big head.”

“I beg to differ.”

She lightly smacked his leg, then settled back. “It's stupid.” 

“Okay…”

“Grace said– I can't believe I'm getting upset over something she said. It's so stupid.”

“Alright, now I definitely need to know.”

“She told me I'd be prettier if I put effort into my appearance.”

Ken sat up straight and blinked slowly as if his mind could not comprehend her words. “Really? That blonde bitch said that?”

Abby gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Along with some other things.”

He wrinkled his nose but instead of saying anything, kept silent, a furrow eventually appearing between his brows. After a quiet minute, he spoke up. “Do you miss it?”

“What?”

“Dressing up. Y'know, wearing the dresses and makeup with your mother. Do you miss it?”

A thousand memories flooded her mind, both pleasant and painful. Memories of laughter and dances, of humiliation and remorse. Memories that pulled at her heart strings yet also cemented walls around her mind. 

“I…I don't know.” She answered honestly. “I miss aspects of it. I liked feeling beautiful but…I hated the attention, you know. It was better with your mother and sister, when we'd get ready on Sundays. I could feel beautiful without feeling like a…a showpony. Or something.”

“I was thinking more of a prized hog but–” 

She smacked him again for good measure.  

“Well, it's Simon's birthday tomorrow. We were talking about going to the pub to celebrate. That would give you an excuse to dress up.”

This was the first she was hearing of the event. “I…I don't have a dress.” 

“You live in a hut full of women. Someone has to have a dress you can borrow.”

Butterflies swarmed her stomach and her mouth suddenly felt uncomfortably dry. She did have a dress hidden at the bottom of her footlocker, tucked away like a baby blanket, out of sight but still cherished. Was she ready to wear it? She had not worn a dress since coming over to England. The one time she went out with Ada and a few other nurses she stayed in her coveralls since she met them straight from the hardstands. 

As if sensing her budding fear, Ken nudged her shoulder, dislodging her thoughts from piling on top of get. “It'll be fine. We'll go to the pub in town. Everyone goes to the Officer's Club, so it'll be quiet.”

She bit her bottom lip as her mind furiously reviewed the pros and cons. Underneath it all, to her surprise, was the desire to dress up and go. To forget the war, blood and grease she was surrounded in. To wear a pretty dress and lipstick. Something she used to do before her mother ruined it. 

“Alright.”

Ken perked up. “Yeah?”

“Alright.” She slowly repeated. “I'll go…I'll dress up.”

What she heard from the nurses implied most of the nightly celebrations were held at the Officer's Club and that was where everyone congregated. So traveling into the small village nearby, away from the airbase and all the people that knew her…she could do it. A quiet night away actually sounded like a break the mechanics could use. 

She could do this. 

Tag List: @beebeechaos

[dariusult]

FFXIV Write Day 3- Tempest

The peal of thunder roared overhead as thick, acrid smoke rolled over the undulating meadows of Eastern Coerthas, blending with the gray sky above and casting the entire countryside in a sickly twilight. It was hard to tell what time of day it was- the dragons had struck the hamlet of Owl's Nest at first light, and it had been some time since then.

Dravanian incursions were nothing new to the peoples of Coerthas, and an attack of any kind was usually met with a prompt response from Ishgard's stalwart defenders, but this day's attack had been different. The platoons of Temple Knights and Convictors that had been dispatched to defend the town could find neither hide nor hair of the attacking dragons—only the carnage they had left in their wake. The units reported as much, eager to call a conclusion to their investigation before the clouds overhead, which were threatening to unleash a deluge of rain and lighting, made good on said threats.

Those reports were the last word Ishgard received from the two ill-fated patrols, and it became clear that the enemy was still, in fact, afield. A foe who could evade the roving eyes of Ishgard’s temple knights necessitated a more serious deployment of martial prowess. To wit, the Knights Dragoon.

A small column of figures marched down the muddy road into the valley wherein the tiny pastoral settlement of Owl's Nest was situated. Two thin rows of five knights each, bedecked in heavy cloaks the color of dust and smoke, each carrying a lance in hand as they silently trod the path towards the rising pillars of smoke, now barely visible through the rain and wind.

"I've figured it out..." Ser Ancel Vandauroix, a clean-shaven Elezen man, said grimly to the knight marching alongside him. "Two entire platoons vanishing without a trace during a storm such as this..." He motioned up to the sky with his head, causing water to cascade down off his hood and splatter against his chin. "'Tis the work of none other than Beithir."

The knight he had addressed turned her head, throwing him a sidelong glance from under her hood. She was a Hyuran woman, many years the junior of the knight walking next to her. She was currently the youngest member of the Knights Dragoon, a former scullery maid-turned-temple knight who had earned her lance when she managed to successfully kill a fully grown dragon with little more than a dagger and an arming sword.

"Mark my words, Magnolia." Ser Vandauroix continued. "If we do encounter the vile Levinstrike this day, leave it to the senior knights. 'Tis not a foe to take lightly."

"I've heard of Beithir." The young dragoon now identified as 'Magnolia' replied. "The dragon that nearly killed Ser Guilliard De Chardinne."

"The very same." Ser Vandauroix replied. "Have a mind to watch yo-"

A flash of lightning suddenly blinded Magnolia, forcing to the young Dragoon to shield her eyes and squint as the roar of thunder filled her ears, completely blinding and deafening her to the world for only the briefest of moments. She felt a rush of air, then a splash of warmth across her face, and the sudden taste of copper in her mouth. The knight lowered her arm and noticed she was suddenly alone, the sharp aroma of ozone permeating her surroundings. Magnolia reached up and wiped the water from her face as her eyes darted back and forth across her surroundings. Some of the other Dragoons she had deployed with were sprawled across the ground, having been scattered across the hillside like a child's discarded toys.

Magnolia slowly lowered her hand from her face, a streak of red drawing her eyes down to her palm, which was smeared with blood. She stared wide-eyed at the blood streaked across her hand, only snapping back to reality when she heard one of the other knights shouting over the wind and the rain. She turned her head just in time to catch another flash of lightning across her field of vision, followed by another peal of thunder, and the knight who had been shouting was suddenly gone, only his lance tumbling down the hill he'd been standing on serving as any proof he'd been there in the first place. It was extremely obvious now why Beithir had earned the moniker 'Levinstrike'.

Magnolia rushed off the road to a small hillock where a few of the other knights had crawled to shelter and quickly threw herself to the ground behind it, landing next to the other two knights.

"Hells, Magnolia..." One of the knights remarked upon the Hyuran woman's arrival. "Is that your blood?"

Magnolia looked down at her cloak, it was slowly washing off but her frontside had been nearly coated with blood from Beithir's first strike. The young Dragoon looked up to the other two knights and shook her head. "I think it's Ser Vandauroix's."

"Halone have mercy..." The other knight whimpered to himself and shrunk even lower behind the mound.

The three knights sat silently in the rain for a moment, each quietly considering courses of action ranging from gathering the other members of the troop and proceeding to Owl's nest, to simply running away from the battlefield. Not that any self-respecting member of the Knights Dragoon would ever flee in the face of the Dravanian menace. But they could certainly think about it.

Before any of the Dragoons could suggest a course of action, a loud 'thud' followed by a pained grunt sounded out from over the tiny hill, back in the direction of the road. Magnolia quickly peeked up and spied the familiar form of a man in drachen armor, wrapped in a torn and mangled rain cloak. Blood soaked through the cloth and pooled around his broken body, which lay in a heap in the middle of the road. Pained moans were just barely audible over the rain as the horribly maimed knight lay alone in the mud. Magnolia turned to look at the other two knights, who had also worked up the courage to peer over the crest of the hill. She leaned over to the two of them, whispering as quietly as she could given the noisy weather. "That's Ser Vandauroix. He's still alive!"

"Don't go out there." One of the other knights cautioned immediately. "Why'd he just suddenly turn up in the middle of the road in that state? It's using him as bait."

"It wants to lure us out and pick us off." The third knight hissed under his breath. "The gods-damned coward!"

Magnolia furrowed her brow, quickly looking back up over the hill to Ser Vandauroix's battered form and then back down at the other two knights. They were right of course—this was obviously a trap. Yet regardless of his status as bait, Ser Vandauroix was alive, though the odds of him remaining that way were rather low if no one went out there to save him. Magnolia swallowed hard and lowered her head, resting it against the soggy grass as she shut her eyes hard against the water flowing down her forehead. It was a trap, she knew it was a trap. But he needed help. There was no room for doubt. She reached down and picked her lance up off the ground, lifting her head and training her eyes on her fallen comrade. "I'm going out there."

"Are you insane!?" One of the knights shouted, flabbergasted.

"I can't leave him." Magnolia said as she scrambled up over the hill, not bothering to give either man time to argue with her decision. She crested the hill and broke into a sprint, tucking her lance under her arm as she quickly closed the distance between herself and Ser Vandauroix. Beithir was undoubtedly watching and preparing to strike, and if she wanted to stand any chance she'd need to anticipate the attack. A flash always preceded the Dragon striking, and it never lingered after it struck. The rush of air she'd felt when it had blown past her during its first strike led her to believe that when it struck, it moved in a straight line- no changing directions or retreating back the way it had come.

As she closed in, her eyes darted around her surroundings, plotting the most likely avenue of attack that the enemy would take. The clearest path was straight along the road, and it had dropped Ser Vandauroix in a spot that would've made striking along that angle extremely easy.

There was a sudden flash, and Magnolia knew her time was up. Without a moment's hesitation she immediately leapt up into the air, twisting around and bringing her lance point to bear, blindly thrusting it down into the space she'd been occupying just a split second before. Metal pierced flesh as the sharpened tip of her polearm found purchase in something. A piercing shriek filled her ears and she found herself being ripped up into the air as she held on tightly to the haft of her lance.

Her eyes readjusted after the blinding flash and she found herself suddenly in the midst of the storm clouds looking up to see a massive black serpentine shape coiling through the air over her. The creature's head turned around and she saw two tiny pinpricks of malice, gazing down at her and smoldering with absolute hatred. This was Beithir.

Magnolia ripped her lance free from the Dragon's coils as it lunged down at her. She kicked off of its side and shot up into the air, narrowly avoiding its jaws a second time. The Dragoon quickly changed directions in the air with a blast of aether, using the sudden shift to escape Beithir's line of sight using its own body. The Levinstrike looked not unlike a massive snake, with an incredibly long body sporting two pairs of short limbs. Its back was covered in long spines that crackled with electricity- likely serving as the creature's primary source of flight in the place of wings, which it notably lacked.

As soon as Magnolia slipped out of the serpent's line of sight, she changed directions again. sending herself rocketing up over the creature and raising her lance in preparation to strike. She lunged downward, diving at a breakneck speed and thrusting her lance down, piercing into the dragon's neck.

It shrieked and turned its body contorting as it swung its tail around to strike blindly at Magnolia. She pulled her lance out of the serpent's hide and jumped again, twisting her body in the air so that she just barely managed to avoid the dragon's tail. She continued turning, preparing to change directions again, when she saw Beithir's eyes shining in the corner of her vision, the dragon was coiling around itself, twisting in the air, practically tying itself in knots to try to strike at Magnolia. Another burst of aether sent her flying up and away, but Beithir's jaws snapped down quickly, closing around her cloak and yanking her back down towards the serpent.

Hissing a curse through clenched teeth, Magnolia reached up and unclasped her cloak, practically ripping it off her shoulders as she was sent tumbling free of the dragon's grasp. The young Dragoon was thrown quite a distance away from Beithir and went falling back down through the clouds towards the ground—which she could now see rushing up to greet her. She cast her gaze back up, just in time to see the two malevolent coals of Beithir's eyes burning hatefully through the murk.

There was another flash, and a roar of thunder, Magnolia released a burst of Aether and darted to the side, turning and thrusting her lance into the space she had just been occupying. Nothing. A second flash, Magnolia changed directions again—feeling a rush of air soaring past her. Then a third flash, she dove again, down towards the ground. A fourth flash, and Magnolia spun in the air, thrusting her lance directly behind her, straight into the roof of Beithir's open mouth. The dragon howled and snapped at her, but she released her grip on her lance and rolled to the side, tumbling past Beithir's maw. Not wanting to waste this chance, the Dragoon reached out and grabbed onto one of the horns protruding from the serpent's head, managing to grip on tightly enough that she wasn't thrown free by the irate beast's thrashing as it coiled and spun in the air, bringing one of its comparatively tiny, clawed hands up to rip the lance from its mouth. Making the most of this opportunity, Magnolia reached down to her hip and gripped the handle of her dagger, flipping the clasp off of the sheath with her thumb and pulling the blade free. With a roar to rival the dragon's own, Magnolia pulled herself forward and drove her blade down into Beithir's right eye. The serpent shrieked and threw its head back, thrashing wildly until Magnolia was thrown free from her foe.

The young Dragoon flipped upright in the air just in time to reach the ground, sliding backwards on the slick terrain on her hands and feet until coming to a stop some distance away. Beithir whipped its head around and glared at Magnolia, now only a single pinprick of malice boring into her. The Dragoon tensed, expecting another flash, but instead Beithir turned and went shooting up and away into the clouds, shrieking and howling as the storm parted around it. She waited, tensed, ready for the faintest threat of an attack, but the serpent continued its flight, soaring further and higher as the sky cleared overhead until eventually there was nothing. Only then did Magnolia relax, slowly standing up to her full height and squinting after the dragon, which had now retreated beyond sight.

This had been the first time since any knights had first encountered Beithir that the dragon had been known to be wounded. Magnolia's actions would prove to save Ser Vandauroix's life- though his fighting days would be forever behind him. For her heroism in the face of danger and skill at arms in driving back Beithir, she would go on to bear the mantle of 'Levinstrike', taking the name Magnolia Eclair.

[itsohh]

Hardest Mission Yet

A/N: G/N reader, kiwi reader, I’m doing prettttyyy chill. ヽ(*￣▽￣*)ノ

Word count: 3305

Warnings: None

AO3

Originally, you hadn’t thought he was serious. Shuhrat was ever the one to keep his cards close to his heart. Opinions and thoughts were rarely spoken and when he did share, they were carefully thought out and rather logical. Which meant his emotions were rather pressed down and hidden. Perhaps why he was so good at card games. So when you heard him say those words,

“Would you like to meet my parents?”

You were thrown off guard. Meeting his parents would be so incredibly intimate in a sense. Shuhrat didn’t let people get close very easily, not at all. That question had changed the course of your entire Christmas for the year.

In the freezing cold of winter did you arrive. Shuhrat had left earlier than you had, your role at Rainbow demanding you stay as long as possible therefore only giving you a few days of freedom to spend at your heart's content. In all honestly, you hadn’t expected it to be so cold. While the airport was relatively warm, the briefest wind that caught you after leaving the plane had you fearful for the trek outside.

After security did you see him. Sitting patiently, Shuhrat had found a small corner of the airport. He stood up at your approach and while he was never one for PDA, this time would be the exception. A small greeting mumbled from his lips as his arms wrapped around you, your suitcase falling to the ground as you buried your face into his shoulder. Shuhrats' warm lips pressed against the top of your head causing a wave of relief and comfort to wash over your body.

Content at the moment, your eyes fluttered close as you took in his presence. For a man so normally distant, he certainly gave some of the best hugs. "I missed you." You mumbled into his shoulder.

"It's only been a few days." He seemed amused by the notion.

"Felt like an eternity doing all that paperwork." Your grip got a little bit tighter as you squeezed onto him.

"You're here now." Another kiss against your head was placed before he pulled back. A smile had graced his face and you wish you could keep it there forever.

"Let's go, it's only going to get colder as the day goes on and the drive is a decent distance away." His arm stuck out slightly and if you hadn't been paying attention you would have missed the small gesture. An offer. One that you accepted immediately, your hand wrapped around it as your free hand pulled on the suitcase behind you.

"So… anything I should know before meeting your parents?" There was an obvious nervousness in your voice as you looked out the passenger window of his car. While it wasn't in the process of snowing, a white blanket of snow had set over the land which crept as far as the eye could see.

"As you know my Ota is in the military, watch for his grip. He goes off his gut and first impressions mean a lot to him. He has been proven incorrect before though. " Shuhrats focus was on the road, not lifting his eyes from it even for a moment.

"My Ona, she may seem harsh at times. Pushy even, she is loud because she cares. Typically when visiting one would give a gift. We won't be. It puts him in a bad mood if he feels like he's being sucked up to. My parents don’t let me give them Christmas gifts either, Ona says me visiting is enough." A sigh left his mouth as he debated the final sentence. He figured it was a given but on the odd case, he had to make sure you knew. "Don't bring up my brother." Shuhrats grip on a wheel tightened slightly at the thought of his brother, a slight change in his tone.

Your hand came to rest on his thigh, giving it a small squeeze of comfort. While he didn't need it, it certainly wasn't unwelcome. "We will be seeing them tomorrow. Their home isn't too far from mine."

Shuhrat had selected his house based on location. On the outskirts of town, it was a relatively small house. Single story, but what really gave it value was the pure amount of land there. A decently sized front lawn covered in white and a back yard that gave path to the forest behind it. Ever the gentleman, Shuhrat helped you with your suitcase into the house which was surprisingly quite warm. The tiny embers left in the now black fireplace told you that he had a fire going before he had gone to pick you up.

The house was rather organized, everything seemed to have its own little place. Something that was replicated in the garage. While organised the garage was far messier, things were left half-done, which showed a testament to the amount of time he spend there. His home was a safe space for Shuhrat, just like his room on base. He was comfortable here, you could see it in the way his shoulders dropped a little. Shuhrat was happy, that much you could tell.

Night came and went and you soon found yourself on an unfamiliar doorstep. It was a two-story house, brick. The dynamic between the pair of you had changed. Normally whenever the pair of you went anywhere, Shuhrat would linger beside you or even slightly behind you. Quiet, he was content to evaluate things in silence behind you and allowed you to take the lead on most occasions. But here and now, the opposite was the occasion. Shuhrat stood in front of you, eyes determined as he knocked on the door.

His thumb rubbed over your knuckles to help calm the nerves that had worked their way up inside of you. Hostage extraction? Easy no problem. Sweep and clear of a building? Done. Meeting your partner's parents? By far the hardest thing you had ever done in your entire life. The door soon flung open and a short woman stood there, ushering the pair of you in and out of the cold. Her voice was loud and quick. Any hope you had to decipher her Russian was quickly thrown out the window as she spoke with Shuhrat. The sound of your name had your head snap to the woman who stood back to get a good look at you. Only then did she speak directly to you.

"Ah, we finally get to meet you. Welcome to our home, it's been a while since it's been this lively." She wrapped her arms around you, and a kiss on your cheek had you freeze for a second before you copied the same. "So good to see Shuhrat found someone."

"Let them take off their damn coats and shoes off before you assault them." A gruff voice came behind them. Peering behind her, you could see the older man behind her. Sheepishly she took a few steps back allowing you to take your coat off, Shuhrat took it from you and placed it on the hooks that were attached to the wall. His hand directed you to the slippers on the ground.

Eventually, you finally turned around, the warmness of their home now open to you as your coat hang on the wall. Again she pulled you into a hug with another kiss on your cheek. "I had begun to think Shuhrat would spend an eternity alone."

"Ona." Shuhrats voice had her pull away from you.

"Yes, yes Shuhrat." She hummed, her smile warm and forgiving. The pair of them started to immediately bicker, what they were saying you didn't know but from the tone, you could tell it was more Shuhrat whining and her insisting than anything. You hadn't ever seen him like this before and it made you smile. Regardless of age, he was, after all, their son.

She placed a kiss on his forehead, leaning up on her tippy toes to do so before she finally led the pair of you down the slim hallway. To the right of you, you passed a set of stairs that led to the second floor. Up there were three bedrooms and a bathroom while the rest of the house was on the first floor.

Shuhrats mother ushered the pair of you towards the dining room table where his father sat. From there, he had a decent view of the television which was on in the living room. He stood as you neared. At a rather close proximity, he held his hand out which you took. With a firm shake, he pulled you into a hug which caught you slightly off guard but recouped quickly. "It's nice to meet you, sir, thank you for allowing me into your home. The both of you." Your eyes flashed to the woman behind him in the kitchen.

"Pleased to meet you. Gave us quite the shock when Shuhrat asked if he could bring you here." He let go of you and you glanced over to your partner to see him pulling out a chair. His head gestured towards it and you soon found yourself sitting down in it before he found his place next to you.

"A pleasant shock!" She called from the kitchen. Even though she was a little further away, she was still very much part of the conversation.

"Shuhrat has told us little about you-"

"We would love to know more about you." He seemed used to his wife interrupting him, it was an interesting dynamic that showed their partnership.

"Well, the pair of us work together in the Military."

"Spetsnaz?" Shuhrats mother whipped her head around and his father let out a huff.

"Obviously not Spetsnaz-" With a huff, the pair of them quickly went back and forth in Russian until Shuhrat cleared his throat. There was no hostility in the pair and you could tell that they had been together for a very long time.

"Ah, we met in the program, uh Rainbow. I'm part of NZSAS."

"Ah, so that explains the unique accent." She hummed while Shuhrats father raised his brows.

"Far away from home."

"The cold takes a little bit to get used to but I appreciate travelling."

"Mmm summer down there isn't it?" He leaned back in his chair.

"It is, overly humid and hot. I think I much prefer being in the winter. I haven't been back for a while. Most of the time I spend on base in England. I have a decent amount of responsibilities." He cocked a brow at this, interested in more.

"I'm the head of medical  in the same department as Shuhrat." Redhammer. "And one of the senior medical staff members in Rainbow."

"A doctor?" Shuhrats mother came into the room, placing lunch on the table. While most medical staff were assigned to Wolfgaurd you found yourself preferring to look after your fellow headstrong operatives. With high stakes and high danger, injury was bound to happen and you were there to keep them on their feet.

"Yes, I graduated school early and later received my bachelor's in paramedical studies which is what I worked as while I worked on becoming a doctor."

"Why not just stay as a paramedic?" She asked as she took her seat at the table, her husband starting to dish out the food.

"I suppose I had my taste of the medical field and I wanted to do more."

"And the military?" He asked, making eye contact as your plated was filled up.

"I have a friend who summed up the thinking behind it rather well. Sometimes you have to take a life to save a life." A chuckle was caught under his breath as he leaned back in his chair.

"Your friend speaks wise words."

"I couldn't agree more, sir."

With the television turned off, the lunch went by relatively quietly. Shuhrat said little, you had been taking the meeting in stride. After lunch you offered to help clean up, Shuhrat automatically went to do so but his father pulled him away to the lounge and muttered something only he could understand.

Alone in the kitchen, you started to get to work washing up while she dried and put away the plates. "I'm glad the Shuhrat could find someone that works with his lifestyle." She eventually hummed out.

"We work well together as a team. Both in the workplace and out."

"Mmm. Shuhrat has always been a quiet one, even as a child. You don't mind that?"

"I think it signifies the importance of when he does speak up. Besides, when it's the pair of us he's a little more chatty." You turned around and leaned your elbows on the sink, looking at him through the open doors. A pause rang out as she studied your face, you too focused on Shuhrat as your mind ran.

"I think we understand each other at a fundamental level. There are things we don't always agree on sure, but… I don't know how to explain it." You huffed turning to face her. She had a knowing look on her face, one added with a secretive grin. The plate in her hand was placed down and she turned to you.

"You know, when Shuhrat called off his engagement I was terrified. While the pair of us of course supported him, admittedly me a little less." She held her hand next to her mouth. "Don't tell him I said that." She gave you a wink. "I never wanted him to be alone. I always believed loneliness was one of the worst things to be inflicted with. I just didn't want him to make a mistake. But now, the way you look at him and the way he looks at you, it reminds me of when his father and I were younger." You raised your brows at this news. "Even now, I don't think I could live without my husband. Shuhrat has the same look that his father has. Of course, those two will deny it. Those big puppy eyes of his, ah, haven't seen that on Shuhrats face since he was a child." You could feel your face become hot at her words.

"What was he like as a kid?"

"Oh by far the most curious boy. Always ripping things apart, a small young boy. He always preferred to play by himself if he had the chance. His brother used to drag him to outings." She chuckled at the memory. A light flickered in her eyes as she leaned over to glance at them.

"Come with me." She whispered.

"What about the dish-"

"Oh don't worry about that, I can do them later." She stole your hand and pulled you along.

"Mind the fourth step, it squeaks." She told you as she lead you up the thin stairs. Up into her bedroom, she took you. She pulled a small stool out from under the bed and placed it in front of her wardrobe. It was a wooden wardrobe, a large one at that. At the top of it, there was a shelf that she reached up to.

A thick photo album was pulled out and she dropped it on the bed. With a pat on the covers, she encouraged you to come sit down. "When we came to Russia, this was one of the things that I made sure we brought. Shuhrat was about five when we came." She opened the book and flipped through a few pages until you saw an old picture of what seemed to be her with a baby in her arms.

"I'm pretty sure this is him. My memory's certainly feeling the effects of age." She joked as she pointed to the babe. Brown hair covered his head as his hand curled around the finger of someone out of shot. You presumed it to be his father.

"He was just the cutest little baby." She cooed before she turned the page. There were a few pictures there. One was of what looked like Shuhrat and his brother, he looked about nine years old at the time. The pair of them were both covered head to toe in mud both grins the size of the moon. A football sat on the ground in front of them.

"Shuhrat was a good shot in football. It was a shame it was just me there to witness that game. I'm sure he could have had a good career as a sports star if he wanted to. But he was always determined to follow his father's steps." She hummed and pointed to the photo next to it. He looked about six or seven at the time. His father was all dressed up in military formal wear and in his arms, Shuhrat clung to him. They both had smiles on their face.

"It was always hard raising those two practically alone but on the days when we were all a family, it really made it worth it. Sometimes when we were on holiday we would go out for picnics until late. Shuhrat always fell asleep in the card and we had to carry him back. He always was the most peaceful sleeper."  The next two pages were of his brother until it came to a full-page picture of Shuhrat in military uniform, similar to the one his father.

“I remember we were both so proud of him…” Her face dropped a little. “At the same time though we both worry about him. You would think after all these years I would have got used to worrying about my boys while they are out fighting. I think it only gets harder.” Her voice was low, sad but it lit up again when her eyes met yours. “I’m glad to know he has someone who cares about him looking out for him.” Her hand landed on yours and gave it a squeeze.

“Ona.” A voice snapped both your and hers attention. Shuhrat stood in the hallway staring at the book on the bed, a light pink tint under his eyes.

“You were a pretty adorable kid Shuhrat.” His eyes widened just a tad and the tint spread across his face. Not many things embarrassed him and while you felt a little guilty you couldn’t help but chuckle lightly at the sight.

“You should come join us and we can continue looking.”

“Thank you for the lunch Ona but we should be going. The snow is starting to pick up.” She let out a small laugh and closed the book.

“Your welcome to borrow it if you like-”

“No.”Shuhrats voice was deadpan which just made her laugh ever a bit harder. She stood up from the bed and walked over to him, her hand went to his face.

“Never change Shuhrat.” There was a call from downstairs and she replied with a roll of her eyes. Down the stairs you went, trailing behind Shuhrat.

“Thank you both for allowing me into your home, I had a lovely time.” Once again you were pulled into her arms.

“Oh it was nothing, visit again for next year's Christmas.”

“Perhaps more of a warning though Shuhrat.” His father said over his wife's shoulder before he too said goodbye with a hug. Shuhrat helped you back into your coat before you laced up your shoes once again. When he opened the door, a considerable increase of snow had made it home on the ground, lightly coating your partner's car. Shuhrat certainly wasn’t lying about the increase in snow.

“Drive safe!” Shuhrats' mother called as the pair of you approached the car. Shuhrat didn’t verbally reply, only giving her a single nod. You caught a glimpse of his face as you entered the car, a gentle smile. A content smile. Shuhrat was happy.

[snailsandpuppy-dogtails]

Unspoken and Unseen

My brain told me the first part while i was driving home from the grocery store.  🤷‍♀️ I didn't intend on it being so long or doing what it did. Oh well. Garvez 16x6 retellingish wc: 2,052 ao3

It’s that smile. That breath stealing, lung crushing, heart shattering, smile- that she’d miss the most. The one that for the briefest of seconds disarms her and so she shoves up reinforcements because that smile lies, he could never love her like that, would never love her like that. But he did and he had and she knew it and that’s the part that hurts. She’s changed that smile, it’s a bit softer now, it’s guarded. She’s muted it and she hates that. She hates that she’s hurt him, because she loves him. So she notices when they’re walking through the door how he instinctively turns towards her, but she also notices how he kind of stops…kind of leans away, giving her respectable space. But she can’t let him. She can’t let him give up, and she feels terrible about it, she wants to let him slip away, she needs to let him slip away, because she can’t give him what he wants, even after all these years and the knowledge of that hurts her heart even more, she feels wicked and evil and awful. A villain in his love story.

But she can’t, something in her won’t let her, so she pulls them both in and god she misses him so much. His heart is on hers beating together, knocking on the ribs of the other, begging to be let in. His arm around her, she’s holding him so tight, and JJ, she’s there but not really, not in this moment, all she feels is Luke. So she lets herself slip, she slips instead of letting him slip, her whole body leaning into him, her head resting against his shoulder, a sigh of relief. He groans in protest, too tight, too much, but she finds his hand on JJ’s back and holds it with her own. He's alive.

The bomb scare confirmed why she wouldn’t be with him, but it didn’t alleviate anything, in fact it exacerbated it. Digging up old and polishing off to make new again.

Tyler’s free, she watches him go, too preoccupied with her own feelings to be cognizant of the situation. She realizes when it’s too late that he might need someone too. But he’s stubborn and she only grudgingly likes him. Under different circumstances, given more time, she could have befriended him, would have gotten along very well with him. They were like peas in a pod deep down, two sides of the same coin; Tyler is who she used to be. She watches as the doors close on his angry face knowing it won’t be the last time she sees it. She’s not surprised when she gets the call a few hours later. So she goes, because she’s a helper and a fixer. She knows what it’s like to find out the person you love has died. She also knows what it’s like to find out they haven’t died. She’s experienced that one far too many times. Somehow, the knowledge of them being safe doesn’t entirely wash away the fear and grief your body starts the process of digesting even while you still consciously cling to hope.

She picks him up. He’s drunk. He comments on how Esther looks just like her, he shouted as they were leave the precinct “OH don'ttellme I know whossyours” It was slurred and silly. She glared at him irritated at the dig and rolled her eyes because the corner of his mouth picked up. He was teasing her. She kept the window rolled down the whole drive and kept shoving his shoulder to keep him pointed out of her car, there was no WAY he was puking in here. His fingers curled over the rim of the window frame and he twisted his head just so, cheek resting on the cool metal, “I loved her you know,” She thinks he's talking about Allison, so she tries to be courteous and listen, “The Black Queen.” he clarifies. Penelope glanced at him, eyes leaving road, then back. She wishes he wouldn’t bring it up, wishes he’d leave it. “My friends and I, we’d meet up for LAN parties, but the games would get boring after a while and we’d end up going places we shouldn’t, trying to find people we couldn’t. We’d find the message boards talking about what they’d done, logging it all in awe. All of us had a crush on her. But I found her.” He ends sing-song.

She didn’t like this. She still valued what she did back then, it felt meaningful, but she was a hurt person letting another hurt person control her. She wouldn’t ever do that again, she wasn’t her anymore. “There’s nothing to find. She’s gone.” She’s still thinking about Luke. A hurt person, hurting someone else. She was the Shane in this situation. But, no, that wasn’t really right. She thinks about how she told him he can’t just show up anymore, even though she knew it would crush him. But he couldn’t because, really, he could, it would be a welcome intrusion any time.

She can’t let him be alone, she’s sure if he had anyone else near by he would have called them instead of her, so she takes Tyler to her house. She thinks he’ll make some comment about how cluttered and immature it is like he did her cat screensaver, instead it’s more flattery, he likes the colors, likes the vibrancy. He’s not so bad, Tyler Green, he’s even a color, she like’s colors. He’s like a hurt puppy, she thinks, a stray she’s taken home. Shouldn’t take stray home, no telling what they’ll do. She leads him to her couch and he promptly slumps over, head still spinning. She gets him a bucket, because well, he hasn’t thrown up yet, but she’s sure it’s only a matter of time, and a little green froggy icepack for his face. They talk. He tells her what happened. He wasn’t out for revenge, he wasn’t out to cause trouble. But it found him. She knows that feeling.

He sleeps for most of the day. While he’s resting she video chats with the team letting them know what she’s found, and runs pictures through facial recognition to help find the man in them. Their theory is the man locked up, Silvio, chose to stay locked up, take the blame for the murder to protect the man he loves. He’d rather them be apart thinking Juan was safe than together knowing it could lead to death. She knows that feeling too.

Tyler wakes up, his face or head or both making him moan out in pain while she’s on with the team, nearly blowing it- she needs to keep it quiet that he’s here, that she’s taken him home. They wouldn’t understand, they’d tell her it was dumb and unsafe. Luke even asks her if she’s safe. He plays it off as a joke, but she knows he knows, it’s why she lies. Tyler makes her tea, very sweet of him, and he only shows up at her side once he sees the computer close. No chance to be discovered. He’s sober now, he tells her about Allison, tells her about his pain, about how he thought it would make it all better- the knowing. And how it hasn’t. Again, a feeling she’s not unfamiliar with. Something she’ll never get used to.

But this script is comfortable, familiar, it’s one she’s been a part of for years, decades. Someone tells you their pain, you reciprocate, tell them your story so they know they’re not alone. She goes through the motions, the same lines she's said year after year in her grief group. The tears still well up, because even after decades to accept it, and therapy to adjust to it, she still feels guilty and she still misses them. But they meet on some plane, her and Tyler, understanding met, and he’s looking at her, and she can’t look away, the pain, the confusion, the realization that someone knows exactly how you feel, he’s leaning in and she starts to lean in before,

“Gahh!” Not right! Not right! Danger! This is why we don’t bring stray home!

Gut knotting, she pulls away in terror, rambling, putting physical and emotional distance between them. This place is too charged, this place is too small, out, they need out. She ushers him out, for a walk. Walk it off, Garcia. But while they’re out they continue to talk and it’s so nice, she’s missed having someone to talk to, someone to talk with. He’s talking about nothing, and she’s wondering what’s wrong with her, when she became so broken, when she became so isolated. With Luke it was the job, right? It was so obviously the job…but Tyler, he’s passionate, and caring, and sweet, and guarded, and dumb, and she pulled away. She won’t let herself get wrapped up with him either. Why? There are no charges being pressed, he’s free, he’s in the clear, he’s not a suspect anymore, he understands what she’s gone through, she understands what he’s feeling, and she wants to be there for him, through all of it. But she also knows she can’t. She knows it’s not right. But she doesn’t care, she’s not part of the FBI, right? And she’s been so lonely and he gets her…He's kind of comforting and comfortable even in the short amount of time they've known one another. If I feel so much now, what could it be like with time for more?

He’s talking about how he hasn’t been where they are in a while, it’s near Delilah’s, which despite wanting to figure out the personal conundrum she was in, sends her work-brain whirring. It hits her, it’s here, it’s this place, that’s the connection. His subtext is that he hasn’t been there because it reminds him of his murdered sister and oh god this was a terrible place to take him, but she needs to tell the team, she needs to go.

She rushes away, calling a cab. This could be it, she could have it, and then they could have him, and then she could just go back. Go back to her lonely life filled with platonic interactions to help distract from not having him. But Tyler, she thinks…and she turns back. She can’t leave him in this state a second time, here of all places, so she gives him her key, telling him she’ll meet him at home and runs away again. Running away. Again. She owes it to him, she owes it to herself- to see, to find out. She’s filled with hope and excitement and an overwhelming bubbling at having got it. The rush. It’s lucky, maybe this will be lucky. She runs back, stopping herself short, hands planting for balance as she brings her lips to his, a little sound of surprise trapped between their pressed mouths. She kisses him goodbye and it’s

nothing

She pulls away, looking at him, almost sad that it’s nothing, but can’t help the smile that spreads. It’s nothing and she knows what a something kiss feels like. And all the kings horses and all the kings men can’t save her or put her back together again.

On the cab ride over she thinks about Luke, about her, about Silvio and Juan, even Tyler and Allison and her parents to an extent. She realizes it doesn’t matter about trying to save someone from the hurt that might get them, because we can all get hurt regardless. Action, non-action, involvement, abandonment, carefully placed distance. Wasting time, that's all it was. Wasting time you could be with them, could be happy making the other happy, she didn’t want to do that any more. She wasn’t going to feel for anyone like she did Luke, even someone as weirdly fitting as Tyler didn’t fit, only Luke fit. But she’d hurt him in the process, he restrained himself and held back because he thought it hurt her, smile tarnishing, his heart tarnishing. She wanted to restore it, she wanted it to shine for her again, she needed it.

She was done not seeing that smile every day.

After this was over. She'd tell him, when it was over.

[krisingtons]

“Young Iida.”

“Yes, Sir?” 

When Tenya turned around, he found that All Might had made his way to the couch to sit beside Midoriya. He brought a hand to Midoriya’s knee, letting it rest there in a gesture Tenya recognized from the way his brother had done it many times to him. The silence stretched to the point where Tenya wondered if he had misheard or if All Might had forgotten his presence. Then, he spoke again.

“I didn’t get to say this to you before, after Hosu and everything, but…” Tenya stiffened as All Might hesitated, guilt curdling in his stomach. “But seeking revenge is a dark road to walk, no matter how much the villain needs to be put away.” 

Tenya thought of the Scourge of Kamino, the fear he had instilled in him and his friends, all the whispered rumors about him, the way All Might had used all of himself to defeat him, and silently wondered. Again, he refrained from voicing his curiosities out loud. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.”

“And also,” All Might said immediately after, turning to look at Tenya now. “If you get Midoriya into a situation like that again, I will have more than a few choice words for you, none of which you’ll want to hear.” 

For the briefest of seconds, Tenya considered defending his honor. He considered pointing out that he had said nothing to Midoriya about his plans in Hosu and that his friend had found him of his own accord. He considered mentioning that he followed Midoriya to Kamino, not the other way around, specifically to make sure that he didn’t do anything reckless.

But meeting All Might’s fierce gaze, all of those thoughts instantly dissipated from Tenya’s mind, knowing it would only end poorly for him. 

“Yes, Sir,” he said in calm resignation.

- for the writer ask game, please! <3

Thanks for submitting this for the passage commentary ask game!

So A Few Choice Words was me really wanting to address the fact that All Might would be more familiar with Iida's motivation to seek revenge then perhaps any other character in BNHA. I also think All Might would feel the need to address it, both as a teacher and because Izuku was involved in the whole thing.

In this scene, it took All Might a while to say any of this to Iida because he wanted to keep it just between the two of them. He also didn't want to single out Iida on purpose. Plenty of the other teachers did that and in a much blunter, "What the hell were you thinking?" kind of way. All Might didn't want to do that. At the same time, he was wrestling with his emotional reaction to the whole situation because of Izuku's involvement.

It should also be noted that All Might (in this fic, although I headcanon it, too) is fully aware that Izuku got involved on his own. So what All Might is mad at Iida about in terms of Izuku is not that he thinks Iida encouraged Izuku, but that All Might (subconsciously) believes that if Iida were truly a friend to Izuku, he would know that he can't put himself in harm's way without Izuku doing it with him. I honestly think that's part of what All Might means when he says, "You have some bad influences" right before the beach hug in canon. But I also don't think at this point All Might fully realizes he thinks this.

Iida, of course, doesn't fully understand that nuance here. But he does understand two things. First, that All Might is a very caring person and is extending that care towards him. Second, that even though All Might can show care to anyone, he is also extremely protective and will rank those who he feels he's supposed to protect above anyone else. Yes, he is supposed to protect Iida as his student, but Iida sees here that Izuku outranks him in All Might's mind. He might not know why, and he might see that All Might is trying to balance that, but Iida knows from this scene that All Might is firmly in Izuku's corner, which is why Iida doesn't push back.

[bumblerhizal-art]

Find the Word

Some time has passed since i last answered one of these, and i'm ready to go again! I was tagged by @heniareth to find four words across my WIPs, and in turn i would like to tag you back as well as @heapster-45 @wild-houseplant @badartxd and @icylook to find the words Time, Breath, Long, and/or Keep

Now please indulge yourselves to some classic wip clunk

Home (from Rites of Passage - rewrite of Novhen's origin, this segment is post canon divergence)

As the morning grogginess dissipated from Novhen's mind, awareness of his situation slowly trickled in in its place. He was in a frigid tent west of Highever, not within the familiar wooden walls of his family home. To his back was Tod, his fellow recruit, not Shianni or Soris or even Nesiara. And worst of all, he was a Warden. An elf with no place but the Deep Roads.

Novhen rubbed his eyes and rolled onto his back. This was his life now, and he had to learn to adjust. It was far too early for any respectable creature to be awake, but such was an expected consequence of residing in the company of humans.

There were voices outside the tent. Duncan and Riordan were already awake. They spoke in hushed tones but not so quietly that Novhen couldn't hear.

Today, they would finally conduct the Joining.

Novhen laid quietly for several more minutes, but they said nothing that would give away whatever secrets the Joining held. Finally, he went through the motions of getting up, making no attempt at stealth. The sooner this was done, the better.

Laugh (from Prisoner of Amaranthine - short rewrite of Nathaniel's recruitment)

Tabris leaned heavily on his cane. “Tell me. What would you do if I let you go?”

”If you let me go?” The very idea was ridiculous. “I... don't know. I only returned to Ferelden a month ago. My prospects here are all gone. If you let me go, I'll probably come back here. You might not catch me next time.”

He paused to consider the possibility. “You're really not making the best case for yourself. You know that, right?”

Nathaniel said, “I could lie if you’d prefer.”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

There was a playful ring in his voice and the briefest, faintest smirk on his face as he said that. What exactly was his angle?

The elf kept his eyes fixed on him as he straightened his posture. "Your family name seems to mean quite a bit to you. Perhaps you could begin the work to redeem it?”

He scoffed, “You're right. I'll go join King Alistair's service immediately. He'd be certain to give a Howe another chance.” 

Tabris smiled and let out a small laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. It gave little more insight to his thoughts than his previous expressions. It was a fake, diplomatic smile, and they both knew it.

“Can’t know ‘til you try,” he said.

Nathaniel glowered at him, “Have you reached your judgment, or do you plan to drag this torture out for the rest of the day?”

Bind (from A Crow's Word - a wip jumping off a post i made that gained some traction)

He hesitated. 

Zevran took advantage of his pause and tackled him onto the floor. He straddled Theron's hips and gently pressed another blade—where does he hide them all?—to his throat. From this angle, Theron could see Zevran's unmistakable, wide smirk perfectly.

"I believe I win this round, my dear Warden," he gloated.

Mindful of the knife, Theron replied, "Does that make it a draw or would you be up for another round?"

"I'll need to think it over first. Perhaps over dinner?"

Esmerelle interrupted, "You are being paid to kill the Warden-Commander, Crow, not court him!"

“Yes, yes, such a harsh taskmaster you are." He guided Theron’s chin up with the dagger. "Although, I must say, I am rather reluctant to kill such a handsome man."

Theron smirked, “You flatter me.”

“But unfortunately, our contract was binding, was it not?” she said impatiently. “Kill him.”

Sky (from The Day the Sky Broke - a quick series of snapshots taking place at the inciting incident of Inquisition)

The Warden-Commander of Ferelden was on an expedition far west of the known lands of Thedas. Even as far as his small party of Grey Wardens was from Vigil's Keep and the Frostback Mountains, they witnessed the tear being carved into the sky as the sun rose.

Anders nearly dropped his mug. "What in Andraste's twisted knickers is that?"

Over his drink, Warden-Commander Tabris answered wearily, "With any luck? Someone else's problem."

[reekierevelator]

On The Other Foot - Alle’s Tale

                                     A short fairytale for our times

I had a very happy childhood in Edinburgh. Being an only child my loving mother doted on me. But I saw very little of my father, John Rednic. My mother told me he loved me very much, but during those early years he was in the process of leaving his job as a manager at Oilygas Co. and setting up his own solar panels business. He worked all the hours God gave, seven days a week. He left for work before I woke up and arrived home after I’d gone to bed.  I suppose all that work must have paid off.  We became quite wealthy and moved to a big house in the Grange. We even had a housekeeper there, a lovely older woman called Meg. She rented a room several streets away and had lots of friends.  But sadly, as I entered my teenage years my mother died. Fortunately, Meg took me under her wing. She virtually took over as a substitute mother. Always cheerful and optimistic she liked having a young boy around to talk to. I took to following her as she worked. I watched how she carried out tasks - shopping, cooking, cleaning rooms, making beds, all the jobs necessary for the smooth running of a household.

           A year after my mother’s death one of our neighbours, Mrs Trublane, a widow who lived in a small gas-guzzling bungalow nearby with her two teenage sons, Driz and Antsy, began pestering my father with phone calls. Meg told me Mrs Trublane was constantly pleading with him for help, saying how hard it was for her without a husband to keep her house decent, find the money for her sons’ private education, and so on. I’d come across Driz and Antsy before, big lads but not the brightest, and faces like bags of nails. They were aggressive and, till now, I’d managed to keep out of their way.

One day Meg mentioned that to help with Mrs Trublane’s financial problems, and to prevent her persistent phone calls, my father had found her a minor job in his company.  And not long after that there were rumours that this had only made things worse for him. In the office Mrs Trublane was said to be constantly flirting with him, flouncing around, conniving to make other staff believe she was his favourite and that she enjoyed a special relationship with him. Her failure to get any work done also grated with the other staff and her constant interruptions distracted my father from important work.

           Around that time there occurred one of the few occasions when my father had more than the briefest of conversations with me. He announced he was going to re-marry. My stepmother would be Mrs Trublane. She would stop working in the office and come to live in our house. She would look after me along with her two sons. My father would make use of Mrs Trublane’s bungalow down the road. He explained that that way he could avoid disturbing everyone with his early starts, late returns, and would also have a quiet place to study company administrative and legal documents.

           When Mrs Trublane moved in she was grinning from ear to ear. She announced that she would take over everything and that I should call her ‘Mother’.  She dismissed Meg right away, saying Meg was unnecessary and her minimum wage excessive. My new step-brothers were proud to tell me that up till then a young African boy, Bashiir, had done all the housework in their bungalow. He worked for no pay at all and never even felt the need to leave the house. They joked that they often gave ‘Basher’ a bashing if he didn’t work hard enough. But Bashiir had somehow been misplaced during the disruption and chaos of the move and had disappeared. After establishing herself in the master bedroom ‘Mother’ allocated the other two big bedrooms, one of which had been mine, to her sons on the basis that they were slightly older than me so deserved the biggest rooms. I was directed into a very small, dark, spare room.

But it did not take long for ‘Mother’ to realize how much work Meg had actually been coping with. “You’ll have to help out,” she told me, fiercely gripping my arm, a menacing expression on her face.  And before long it became clear that I was responsible for many of the jobs Meg had done previously.  After that it wasn’t unusual for my step-mother and her sons to call me Basher by mistake. Once she had arranged for me to be ‘educated at home’ rather than attend school I was required to do all of the household tasks together with any other mending and decorating jobs she deemed necessary.  My clothes rapidly deteriorated into tattered rags.  

Thereafter, on the odd occasion my father did ask to see me ‘Mother’ made sure I bathed beforehand. Then she dressed me in my best suit of clothes before taking me down to her old bungalow for a brief interview with him.  My father always looked tired and overworked on those occasions so I tried hard not to give him any additional cause for anxiety. I invariably reassured him that all was well with me.  But once we returned home after these meetings my step-mother made me take off my good clothes and replace them with my usual ragged and dirty shirt and dungarees.  She said this was necessary because clothes were expensive and all the mucky jobs I had to do around the house would only spoil good clothes.  In any case, apart from the one good outfit I still retained, her sons had taken to wearing all my other clothes. My step-mother said this was necessary to save wasting money on buying them new clothes.  But somehow they also often had expensive new clothes to wear as well.

Sadly, only a few years after his re-marriage my father died.  The ex Mrs Trublane found an old will he had written in which all his worldly goods were left, in their entirety, to his wife.  Her solicitor confirmed that as his wife it meant she inherited everything. It seemed odd that nothing was specifically left to me but the solicitor explained it was irrelevant anyway since my step-mother would be financially secure, well able to take care of all my needs.

           ‘Mother’ and her sons only talked to me when telling me what work to do. The only person I could really confide in was Meg.  Having been dismissed as our housekeeper she had taken a job as a shop assistant at the local supermarket.  As one of my many duties was to do all the family shopping, regularly struggling home with very heavy bags, I sometimes saw her at the supermarket. She was always pleased to see me and surprised that I had to pay for everything with a credit card in my own name. It was something ‘Mother’ had arranged. She maintained that carrying cash around was very dangerous. Of course I had to give her all the shop receipts so she could check them back against the sums charged to the credit card. She paid off my credit card each month. I once suggested using the card to buy clothes for myself but she was adamant that my existing attire was perfectly adequate and that there was no need for anything else. She also told me sternly “I can’t possibly pay for anything that appears on your credit card statement that has been purchased without my prior approval. If you buy anything just for yourself I won’t be able to pay it off. You’ll be in debt with with no way of paying it off.” In chilling tones she stressed “That would mean terrible things happening to you. Policemen would haul you to court, you’d be put in prison and, as a young man, you would be abused by the worst kind of criminals.”

           I found I did not really mind hard work.  I was always first up in the morning to organise the log-burning stoves and to cook breakfasts. And I was last to bed after tidying up after everyone and taking out the rubbish. Being perpetually busy I usually managed to keep out of the way of the others. But what with the food shopping, making meals, washing dishes, doing the laundry, washing windows, polishing shoes and glasses, making beds, dusting and hoovering all the rooms, and doing handyman jobs like painting and gardening, I somehow often felt quite tired by night-time. There were times I didn’t even have the energy left to crawl up to my little bed. Instead I just slept beside the remaining warmth of the wood-burning stove. That way I was already on hand to get the stove going again when I woke up cold early in the morning. But it did mean bits of wood ash were sometimes stuck to my old clothes, something my step-brothers laughed about as they poked, prodded and punched me.

           One day at the supermarket Meg mentioned that my father’s company was being sold to GigantrixGreen, a huge multinational wind turbine operation.  When I’d lugged the shopping home I found my step-mother and her sons shouting and whooping with joy. Not only would she be receiving a lot of money from the company’s sale but she had also received a formal invitation for herself and her family to attend Gigantrix’s huge Hogmanay Party.  All the big bosses would be flying in for the event from all over the world. There would be a splendid banquet, free drinks of all kinds, good music from high quality bands, dancing, and all kinds of special gifts for everyone. The boys were euphoric, mad with excitement.  My step-mother’s eyes gleamed as she gave them detailed instructions on how to ‘snag a rich executive’s daughter’ and said she would RSVP immediately. It all sounded so wonderful that I dearly wanted to go. Unfortunately, spotting me still standing in the doorway, my step-mother grimaced, and scolded “But of course you won’t be able to go. You’ve got no decent clothes to wear and, anyway, the household duties will still have to be done as usual. They’ll keep you busy till late at night.”

           On the day of the big event, as the boys were trying on new suits and being trained by their mother on how to compliment girls on their finery, hairstyles, and jewellery, I was obliged, in rather low spirits, to trek again to the supermarket for another load of fancy foodstuffs - as ‘Mother’ planned to carry on celebrating the New Year for many more days - and a tin of spam for myself.  Meg was there.  She had already heard about the big party and consoled me when I explained why my step-mother could not let me go.

“Why not just go anyway Alle?” she asked. She leaned in conspiratorially to whisper “Your step-mother probably doesn’t know about the small lockup your father kept. I doubt it was mentioned in the will.  It’s where he kept all the things of your mother’s that he just couldn’t bear to part with.  All her lovely clothes are still there, her cosmetics too.  And he also kept the clothes there that he needed when accompanying such a beautiful woman – silk shirts, tuxedos, exotic Spanish leather shoes. And you know, you’ve grown over the last few years and now you look exactly like your father. I think you must be the same size he was.  And I’ve still got a key to the lock-up.  I’m sure your father wouldn’t mind.”

           I know my face lit up at the thought of wearing my father’s beautiful clothes but then I remembered – “I still can’t go Meg. There’s all that work to be done in the house.”

           But Meg had an answer for that too. “Once your step-mother and her sons have left for the party we’ll meet up, go to the lock-up and get you dressed. And after that you can let me into the house and I’ll get all the jobs done while you’re at the party.”

           “That would be fantastic,” I exclaimed. “I can’t thank you enough.”  For the first time in a long time a huge smile spread across my face. But then, almost as quickly, it vanished.  “But how am I going to get there?”

“Oh,” she said, “no need to worry on that score. I’ve already thought about it. There’s a rich man with a big Rolls Royce gets his chauffeur to pop in here regularly for a half dozen bottles of brandy. The chauffeur’s a pal of mine. He’ll be happy to do us a favour.  But mind,” she added, “he’s got work the next day and needs his sleep so he’ll have to have the car back and in its garage by midnight. And that goes for me too. I’ll have to leave the house before your step-mother and her sons get home. So make sure you’re back by midnight to give me your father’s clothes to take back to the lock-up.”

“That’s amazing Meg,” I answered full of gratitude. “That gives me a whole evening to thoroughly enjoy myself.” I could hardly believe my luck.

The night of the party everything went as Meg had planned.  Once the others had left in a taxi we visited the lock-up. I found a beautiful red silk shirt and a hand-stitched black velvet suit. Meg said they fitted me perfectly. Then I noticed a beautiful pair of soft leather Italian shoes with red stitched detailing. Meg pointed out “Those shoes are unique you know, especially made for your father, your mother’s last great birthday gift to him.” The fit was ideal. Meg warned “You’ll need to look after them,” while she expertly applied some hair gel and after-shave. She stood back to admire her handiwork and said I looked stunning.

The car arrived on time and whisked me off to the party.

Seeing me step out of the Rolls in my handsome attire the doorman bowed slightly and did not bother asking to see an invitation. Instead I was ushered directly into a huge room wonderfully decorated in gold and silver and shown to a vacant plush chair at long oak table. Elegantly dressed pretty young women on either side and opposite me immediately began to chat, competing to tell me about the wonders of Gigantrix, about the business activities of their mothers and fathers, their global travels, opera and theatre events they had attended. I barely had an opportunity to reply except to say ‘Gosh’ or ‘How amazing’ or to smile graciously when they raised the bottles of champagne already on the table and re-filled my glass.  

The food was an extraordinary celebration of Scottish cuisine - Scotch broth, Cullen skink, or Cock-a-Leekie soups for starters; salmon, pheasant, venison, scallops and langoustines, with all kinds of roasted and baked Scottish potatoes. There were even stovies and Forfar bridies. Then afterwards tall glasses of cranachan together with black bun, Selkirk bannocks, Nevis and Dundee cakes. And not only champagne but a river of fine malts, beers and wines flowed from the free bar.  Splendidly dressed men and women were replete, stuffed to bursting point, yet when the famous folk-rock band, and Pete & Denzel, took to the raised stage at the far end of the room dozens of people quickly abandoned their seats and crowded on to the dance-floor.

It was then that I spotted my step-mother, smiling coquettishly in a low cut dress as leaned over a grey-faced old man talking in a monotone about stocks and share prices while intermittently puffing on a very large cigar. And my less than handsome step-brothers were busily engaged at another table trying to ingratiate themselves with a couple of unfortunately vapid young women. I was looking so different that I doubt any of them would have recognised me if I’d stepped right up and introduced myself. When I overheard Driz suggest doing some lines the girls and my step-brothers got up and left the room.

I asked several of the pretty women at my table to dance and was thoroughly enjoying myself.  I had only just sat down again when something electric seemed to pass through me as a breath-taking girl with sparkling eyes approached. She slipped her hand in mine, and pulled me back on to the dance-floor. In a well-cut black dress with an understated gold necklace and earrings she was a real princess, the most beautiful woman in the room. She stared into my eyes as we danced through several songs and when we eventually decided to sit down again she insisted on fetching me a glass of the rarest of malt whiskies from the bar saying “My father ordered the barmen to make it available only to his closest friends – but they won’t refuse me.”  

Only then did I glance up at the clock on the wall and, shocked, realize that it was fast approaching midnight.  A world famous band, Oblivion Beckons and the Swirling Stardust were already warming up on stage. I dearly wanted to stay, eagerly anticipating a possible New Year’s Eve kiss from my glamorous new partner.  But I pulled myself away. I had made a promise to Meg and to the chauffeur. I had to leave immediately.  I rushed from the hotel and, as arranged, found the chauffeur waiting for me in the Rolls Royce. I clambered into the car, breathing heavily, and it was only as the car raced down the road that, feeling some discomfort in my foot, I realized that in running from the hotel I had somehow managed to lose a shoe.

I got home just in time to tear off my father’s stunning clothes and to apologise profusely to Meg for the missing shoe.  But as we embraced and I wished her a Happy New Year she told me not to worry before she hurried away, the chauffeur insisting on taking her home before garaging the car. She called over her shoulder, “Just stuff the shoe in your shopping bag for now dear. I’ll phone the party venue and see if the other shoe has been handed in.”  

           The next day, New Year’s Day, I was in my usual rags, busily cleaning the oven before loading it with a large steak pie and baked potatoes, my step-mother having demanded the traditional meal, when the doorbell rang. As required, I rushed to answer the door.  A well-dressed woman I had never seen before stood in the doorway holding a large handbag and wished me a Happy New Year. She then proceeded to explain “I’m here on behalf of my employer.  He held a Hogmanay party last night with very many guests. His daughter, Charmaine, danced with a man she very much wants to see again, but unfortunately he had to depart as the party was preparing for the bells and clamouring to dance to Auld Lang Syne. She searched but failed to find him. She hadn’t had a chance to ask his name.  However, in rushing off so quickly the gentleman lost one of his highly unusual shoes which she had greatly admired. I’ve therefore been despatched by my boss, with the lost shoe, to visit all the families who replied to his original invitation. Charmaine hopes we’ll find the owner of the companion shoe so she can meet him again.”

“And who is your employer?” Alle could not help blurting out.

“Why he’s Old Munney, Old Munney Baggs, founder and owner of GigantrixGreen. Although it’s a multinational it’s still privately owned.  But Mr Baggs is very old now and when he passes on his daughter will be the firm’s new owner.”

I think I must have gasped audibly because my step-mother suddenly appeared behind me angrily demanding to know what was going on.  But once the visitor had explained she grinned enthusiastically and yelled, commanding her two sons to appear. They were with us almost instantly and immediately apprised of the situation. The woman opened her handbag but when she held up the shoe consternation gripped my step-brothers. Their mother seemed near to tears.  None of them recognised the shoe and after producing their own shoes and desperately trying to argue for similarity the boys eventually had to admit they were unable to provide a companion.

“That’s a pity,” said the visitor, “since whichever man does own the other shoe is the man Charmaine has clearly set her heart on.”

I couldn’t help myself.  My hand reached into the shopping bag which hung behind the door.  I slowly produced the shoe and held it up against the one still in the visitor’s hand.

“That’s the one!” she yelled. “You need to come with me right away.” And with that she whisked me away to her car leaving my step-mother, mouth agape, standing on the doorstep, her sons beside her gnashing their teeth.

So that’s the story of how we fell in love. I married Charmaine, or Charlie as she prefers to be called, soon after and, far from being a minion under the thumb of my step-mother and her sons I became the husband of a beautiful climate-campaigning billionaire.

Later, Old Munney Baggs’s lawyers were looking into the affairs of GigantrixGreen’s new acquisition, my father’s old solar panel company, and stumbled across a nondescript brown envelope left in my father’s office desk. It contained a will he had hand-written and signed. Though he had sadly died before formally depositing the new will with his solicitor it being a holograph statement meant it was legally admissible under Scottish law and superseded the will found by ‘Mother’. That old will was no longer valid. The new will made it clear that my father intended his second wife to inherit a modest sum of money together with her original bungalow. But ownership of the company, the main house, and everything else was left to me.  

I gave the house to Meg. She greatly deserved it for her work over many years. But I took the trouble, drawing on the expertise I had developed over the years, to offer my help in introducing my step-brothers to the various skills they would need in looking after the bungalow. Having let the authorities know about Bashiir, the boy who had gone missing, I suspected that when he was located my step-brothers would probably find themselves living on their own and, without any housework experience might well find it rather difficult to look after themselves. I hoped they would find my advice beneficial.

________________________________________________________________

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Smugglers Part 1

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)  

Din pulled his coat close against the wind. The cold breezes felt like shards of glass passing over his exposed skin and he wished to avoid the sensation as much as possible. He turned to see Misha doing the same; her head almost completely covered by the human wool head cover and he could only make out her emerald eye beneath it.

The two of them stood along a busy side street as cars and pedestrians went by in either direction. Winter had been greedy tonight as a layer of pure white snow had covered the streets and sidewalks making the area appear like a winter wonderland of a children story Din read when he was a child.

Peering down at his sleeve and pulled it back for the briefest of moments to look at his chronometer.

They’re late, he thought to himself.

Din felt a tug on his sleeve and looked over to see Misha looking up at him.

“I’m cold.” She said, “I don’t like it here.”

He could feel her trembling through his winter clothing and knew it was from more than just the cold swirling around them.

Kneeling down Din looked at Misha at her eye level. He placed a hand on her shoulder and was about to say something comforting and reassuring to her when a car pulled up alongside them.

A human vehicle driven on four wheels painted in a yellow and black checker pattern slowly rolled down a window and the driver inside spoke to them.

“You two look like you could use a ride.” The driver said jokingly.

Din looked into the cab but couldn’t make out the driver. They were human for sure, wearing a worn cab uniform of a bright yellow vest with brown pants; but they wore their cap on their head that tilted forward to cover much of their face. Aside from a scruffy unkempt beard Din could make nothing out for their face.    

“Thank you,” Din replied, “but I’m not sure where we would want to go.”

The cab driver flashed a smile to Din. “I hear the warden district is rather warm this time of day.”

Din’s eye’s widened for a moment before returning to a neutral expression.

“Now that you mention it, we could use some warmth.”

The door to the cab opened automatically and Din ushered Misha inside. Taking one last look down each end of the street Din then followed her inside the cab as the door slid shut again. ---------

For several blocks neither the driver nor his passengers spoke. The silent calm of the cab broken only by the flashes of street lights as the cab navigated through the busy city streets.

By the fifth block the Din finally spoke up.

“Are you Phoenix?”

To his surprise the cab driver chuckled. “And what if I said I wasn’t?” he replied as he slowed down at an intersection.

Din’s eyes went wide with panic but before he grabbed Misha and flung her out the window the cab driver continued. “Relax, young prince; I am the one and only Phoenix.”

The prince’s expression softened as he rested his hands on his jacket; the bulge of the pistol underneath firmly resting comfortably on his hip, ready for use.

“Before yesterday I had never even heard of you.”

The cab driver shrugged. “If everyone knows your name and face then you aren’t a very good smuggler.”

Din looked unconvinced. “I would have thought we would be meeting some place more….convenient; like a restaurant or theater.”

“You’ve been watching too many entertainment flicks.” The driver remarked as he slowed to a red light, “Putting aside the fact you have one of the most recognizable faces on this dirtball, talking in public invites too much risk of being overheard by strangers.”

“Were as here,” he tapped the roof of the car as if for good luck, “no one thinks twice about a cab driver chatting up his passengers.”

It frustrated him that he could not fault the smugglers logic but Din had to admit it was a clever solution.

“Now, let’s talk business.”

The cab turned on to an express route and merged into the swarms of other vehicles on the roadway.

“My price is not negotiable; you either pay now and I take you to my ship or you refuse and I take you back to the palace to drop off.”

Are you not the least bit curious why a prince and princess are trying to flee?”

Din looked over in surprise to see Misha had spoken up. She had said very little since they had fled the palace and he harbored a suspicion that she still held doubts on their flight to freedom.

The cab driver shook his head. “In my profession asking questions only makes my job harder.”

Taking one hand off the wheel the man called Phoenix reached down and pulled out a torch stick and put it in his mouth. He returned his free hand to the wheel only after lighting it and taking a deep breath of its contents.

“People pay me good money to get their items or themselves from one place to another without any headache.”

Din let out a scoff at the description. “You make it sound like you are a glorified delivery boy.”

“Oh I am.” Phoenix replied, shifting the torch stick from one side of his mouth to another. “You think I care what you call me? At this rate I can buy my own moon in the next three years.”

Din couldn’t think of a remark so sat in silence as the cab continued down the roadway. About an hour passed before the phoenix pulled off the roadway and stopped at a signal.

“Last call.” He said as he held out a free hand. “What’s it going to be your majesty?”

Din hated the mocking tone but knew that this would be his last chance to get himself and his sister off world safely. If he stayed behind they both would be dead by the end of the system cycle, but even if they left there was no guarantee that this smuggler would protect them. They were human after all and were notorious for seeking profit and personal wealth.

Still…..

Din removed a pouch from inside his jacket and tossed it to phoenix. They caught it casually and rustled it around in the palm of their hand as if counting it by weight alone.

“Smart choice.” Phoenix said as he turned left and drove the now two fugitives off to his waiting ship.

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

I am obsessed with the idea of Kyojuro falling for someone completely different than him, kinda like in uninterested but in my mind they actually have arguments (nothing major obv) and at first he doesn't have any interest in pushing it to be friends. Then suddenly everything he believes in (that love is supposed to be easy, always sweet, never complicated, recognizable) is shattered as he understands that love can in fact be complicated, difficult, not perfect, and that's okay. Idk if you like the idea but I just wanted to share!

a/n: honestly opposites-attracting, but only after turmoil is such a good trope but so overlooked imo- since i dont consider it enemies-lovers (theyre clearly distinctly different asldkfjasdf). also why is it hard to write like a passive-slightly aggressive rengoku? (it shouldn't be considering when he first met tanjiro his mind was literally 'execute child' LMFAO)

also, slight warning bc sanemi and you get into a fist fight lol (very confrontational y/n)

additionally: im not very happy with the outcome of this, and on top of that it's pretty short but hNNG i couldn't just keep this in my draft so im releasing it into the wild and ruNNING away

-x-x-x-

kyojuru is a certified optimist with the skills to back up his optimism

so when you entered his life with a polar opposite attitude, he tried thinking nothing of it

but your constant need to tell him that his optimism is suffocating or stiffling or even 'unrealistic' really grinded on his gears and even he has a limit

kyojuro is a good man, but he isnt a saint

at first it started with small little jabs to try and appease you when you would start talking about whatever came out of your mouth

"you should focus on training and not speaking so much"

"your pessimism is truly deep-seated, isn't it?"

"y/n, please less talking more action"

then somehow, it escalated

you both would bicker constantly- like a rat testing it's luck against a predator owl

it got to the point the hashira ranks and even kagaya knew of your distaste for each other and even teased you both about it

you both would argue over such simple, stupid things

so imagine his inner shock when he saw you caught in a screaming match against shinazugawa one day

arguing with sanemi was already a deadend road, hes about as hardheaded as a bull and will butt heads until he's knocked on his ass or unconscious

kyojuro wondered for the briefest of moments if you both looked like you did now, up in sanemi's face yelling at him while he yelled back trying to fight for the high ground

however, arguments with sanemi never lasted long- but that didn't mean the situation was resolved. they never lasted long because he almost always start a fistfight

and he will fight you no matter who you are- feminist sanemi says 'equal rights, equal fights'. his fists are rated E-for literally everyone

the moment you swung first- taking the one thing away from him that he had (the ability to strike first) it all just snowballed

you both were scrapping around in the dirt and grass and for some reason kyojuro didn't like it

there was a small scene of familiar faces around, all sighing and shaking their heads at the fight like it was just an ordinary day

but kyojuro strangely felt compelled to act- so he did

he quickly intervened, breaking up the fight between you and sanemi. he yanked you behind him, gripping your wrist and keeping you at his back so you didn't run or try to go after the wind hashira again

while kyojuro was confident he could hold you back, he was less certain he could do that and keep sanemi at bay as well, so he quickly took off. draggin you behind him by the wrist

when you both got far enough away, kyojuro made you sit down in front of him as he inspected your face

typical fistfight injuries scattered your skin and you refused to look at him, a scowl on your face the whole time he was inspecting you

"why do you care?" you had asked him and for some reason, it irked him but also hurt him

was he not supposed to care?

sure you got on his nerves and he wouldn't say he was exactly friends with you, but-

"i do not wish to see you injured, is that so wrong?"

"you didn't care before"

"that is not true!"

he yelled at you, just like he always did when you antagonized him- but this time it was different

he wasn't arguing because you pushed him, he was arguing because you were wrong and he did care

he did and hes finally realizing it

he didn't want you to be hurt and he didn't want you to fight with others- deep down he didn't even want you fighting with him

he wanted to form a better relationship with you- a bond with you like he has with others

kyojuro wanted to try and fix this messed up way you two communicated and he knew it would suck and you'd probably fight him the entire process

then he laughed, loud and long to himself at the though of it

you fighting him on not wanting to fight anymore?

that's just like you-

and he cared about all of you, like it or not

[iguana-braces]

Gravity Pt.1 (Hangman x Reader)

Part TWO of FOUR of the “Freefall” series -- Masterlist 

Description: After Top Gun, it’s back to reality for you and your new favorite wingman. 

Warnings: mentions of sex, alcohol, angst :), the briefest mention of injury

Word Count: 2.5k

(Notes are under the read-more)

MINORS DNI, 18+

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

Note: Splitting this chapter into two parts because it was becoming way too long for me to focus on. I like my fics in bite-sized chunks. 

Reader's callsign is still Arcade ❤️ And I'm stuffing ALL the canon into this one, hello Rooster, Phoenix, and Coyote (plus one-liner OCs)! The timeline for this is, uh…. vague at best (just like the timeline of Maverick, ayoo). Lots of time skips. Fill it in as you wish. Part Four will include the events of Maverick, so that’s the end point. 

Again, disclaimer that I don't know how the navy works at all and I can’t let myself spiral into 97 hours of deep-dive research for a single throwaway fic line/plot point. I'm winging it here (pun fully intended) 

This angst is brought to you by “Dancing With Our Hands Tied” by T Swift and….. “Stuck in the Moment” by Justin Bieber (don’t @ me, it’s a good and very applicable song)

-

-

-

You had become a Top Gun graduate, passing with flying colors despite the voice in the back of your head that had fought so hard to wash you out. But that was where you belonged, where you deserved to be, shoulder to shoulder with the best of the best. So, riding on a high of achievement, disbelief, and a few too many drinks, you capped off your graduation by finally making good on a few of the loaded innuendos that you and Jake had previously reserved for the tarmac. 

It was needy and rushed, both of you half-dressed in the backseat of your car on some deserted road just outside of town, the night before you’d be shipped back to your respective squadrons. Thirteen hours before you were on opposite ends of the planet, but at that moment, the two of you couldn’t be closer. 

"Come fly with me." When he said it that time, it wasn’t just an open invitation. It was a desire, a sigh pressed against your lips in a tone of voice you hadn’t ever heard from him before. Jake’s nose brushed against yours, your finger tracing the chain of his dog tags on his collarbone as you straddled him, still catching your breath. 

"That seems like a huge conflict of interest," you murmured in reply.

"I don't care. Nobody has to know." 

It was hard to say no to him like this, locked in each other's warmth as he left gentle kisses down the side of your neck. Who knew the Hangman had a soft side? And there was a certain thrill to the thought of keeping something like this secret. You wouldn’t have to answer to anyone else. You wouldn’t have to explain anything, labeling it and setting it in stone. It could be whatever you wanted it to be, your own private oasis where it was just him and you..

But rationality won out in the end and you chose to leave him with an off-hand, “Only in your dreams, Hangman.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was your idea to send letters. Jake was surprised when a package showed up for him less than a month later, even more surprised when he saw your name on the return address. 

You told him about the other pilots in your squadron, the crew, people you liked and the few people you couldn't stand. "Calico’s even more full of herself than you are, Mr. Perfection," you wrote. And as much as he wanted to reject that nickname, it was something personal between you two and that meant something. "But she's not Top Gun, now is she?" 

He could hear your teasing snark as clearly as if you were in the room with him. And there was a picture of you, standing on the tarmac in your flight suit grinning at the camera. You probably sent the same picture to your family and friends, but part of him wanted to think it was something that was meant for his eyes only. You wouldn't risk sending anything more risque through the mail, but his memories of that pitch-black romp in your car were still sharp enough to send his imagination running wild. Although he’d rather be executed by firing squad before he ever admitted to that. 

"What about you, Hangman?” One of his pilots had just gotten engaged and suddenly everyone was raving about their significant others, or lack thereof. Jake had tried to disengage from the conversation in the corner, but was roped back in. “You got someone back home?"

"Yeah, his mirror," Phoenix quipped. Jake shot her a glare from across the rec room, which was easily ignored. 

What the fuck was he supposed to say? What even were you two? That hadn’t yet been a topic of conversation in your letters. You had hooked up one time, which didn’t necessarily mean anything. At the same time, he felt something for you and had no interest in looking elsewhere for the same feeling, so you were exclusive in his mind. But exclusive what? "Yeah, I got someone." 

"Seriously?" 

"Yeah," Jake said, tipping his chair back on its legs. "And she wouldn't be caught dead wasting her time with the likes of you." 

That was a lie, you'd probably get along well with most of the people in his squadron, if you ever got the chance to meet them. Coyote would love you like one of his sisters, and the thought of that made Jake smile to himself. 

"Let me guess, she's Canadian, isn't she?" asked Moonshine, barely concealing her laughter as she spoke. 

"No, I've seen her," Coyote said, and Jake tried not to let his sigh of relief be too noticeable. Until Javy followed it with– “And Victoria’s Secret should be begging her to be an Angel.”

Jake almost flushed red. When he caught Javy’s eyes, a subtle shake of his head was enough to get him to change the subject immediately. Just in case anyone else found out the identity of his someone, Jake didn't want anything untoward to be said that somehow might make its way back to you through word of mouth.

When Jake finally sat down to write a letter in response, it took him nearly a week to finish it. It felt like he was back in school, having to write book reports and personal essays about shit he didn't care about, staring at the blank sheet of paper waiting for the damn thing to write itself. 

But this was something he cared about, or he wanted to at least. So he told you about his squadron and the crew. He mostly talked about Javy, another one of the few people on the planet he had let chip through his defenses. But he was hard pressed to come up with other things to write about. His family? Definitely not. He described them briefly the one time you asked, but otherwise, that topic remained neatly locked away in the recesses of Jake's mind. His hobbies? He was happy to share whatever developments in the field of aviation he came across. But it all just felt empty without you there to reply immediately. That was what worked so well between you two, the quickness. Working on the same wavelength, practically finishing each other's sentences. 

You called each other a few times at his insistence, but that didn't satisfy the itch either. It was hard to find somewhere to have a moment alone and the things he wanted to talk to you about were things that would make him commit homicide to prevent anyone else from finding out about. And it's not like you were there to experience the happenings of the ship that he was struggling to describe, so what was the point of it all?

But as months stretched into a year, something changed in your letters and your calls. Your typical reports of squadron antics and family developments shifted focus towards a single pilot, Lieutenant Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw. He was another Top Gun graduate, and suddenly, you couldn’t shut up about him. 

Rooster was playing piano.

Rooster was singing “Bennie and the Jets”. 

Rooster flies like a son of a gun. 

Rooster.

Rooster. 

Rooster. 

"You ever hear of this Rooster?" Jake asked Phoenix one day. Coyote hadn't heard of him and if anyone had, it'd be Phoenix. She seemed to know everything about everyone, and he often wondered just how much she knew about him. 

"Yes, I'm aware of roosters,” she replied. “Chickens, too. My aunt and uncle raise them." 

"No, he's a pilot. Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw." 

"Oh, that Rooster. Yeah, I know him. Went through training with him. Why?" 

There wasn't a more inconspicuous way to ease into this conversation, so Jake swallowed his nerves and pressed ahead, consciously keeping a certain air of disinterest in his voice. "What's he like?" 

Phoenix shrugged a little. "He's a good guy. Great pilot. Great singer, too, and absolutely hilarious once you get to know him. There was one time, he– Wait, why do you care?" 

Her eyes narrowed at him as she cocked her head to the side, like she was staring straight into his mind. Jake's pulse sped up, but he forced his tense muscles into a shrug. 

"Just wondering. What else do you know about him?" 

"Tell me why you want to know first." Fuck. There was no way he’d get anything else out of Phoenix without first answering her riddles three and baring his soul to her. There was nothing else to be gained from this interaction. 

"We have mutual friends," Jake said, getting up to leave. 

"You have friends?” Phoenix smirked. “Color me surprised." 

Within a few weeks, Jake was making plans to come see you the second you got back on land. Why? He wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe just to see it for himself, to find out how great this Rooster really is and just how close the two of you were. 

No, he just wanted to see you. And he wanted to beg on his knees to spend the rest of his waking moments with you.

Or maybe he wanted to see you and to hear you make those noises again, the ones that had sounded so loud and clear in your backseat. 

But also, he wanted to see you and listen to everything you could possibly have to say, hanging on your every word, watching the way different expressions and emotions shaped your features. 

He just wanted and let the Navy be damned for keeping you apart this long. 

-

You hadn’t changed at all. You looked the same, sounded the same, acted the same as you did in his spot-on memories. But something was different. You haven’t seen her in ages, of course it’s gonna be fucking awkward, Jake tried to remind himself. Unfortunately, his only way of handling that awkwardness was to hide behind Mr. Perfection, even though that disguise had little effect on you now. And he wasn’t the only one hiding. There was something you weren’t saying, something hiding in the hesitant silence before and after you spoke. Was it something good? Was it bad? It was impossible to tell, even for someone who had once prided himself on being able to see through your disguises. 

After dinner, just when things were starting to feel familiar between the two of you, you brought Jake to your local haunt, a bar packed wall-to-wall with Navy personnel. That helped settle him further, although it felt a little off-putting that he was in “civilian clothes” instead of a uniform. Some of your squadron was there, and he began putting faces to the callsigns you’d mentioned before. Calico, Packer, Cameo, and–

"And that's Rooster," you said, gesturing towards the man across the pool table. In the four hours since he’d landed, Jake had completely forgotten what had sparked his cross-country excursion and now it all came rushing back to him. 

Yeah, this Rooster certainly looked like the ‘cock of the walk’. He’d seen the guy in one of your pictures before, a group photo, but that 4x6 picture failed to convey exactly how broad-shouldered and jacked your Lieutenant Bradshaw was, or the fact that he was just slightly taller than Jake. 

"I thought roosters were flightless birds," Jake sneered.

"Wow, someone knows their animals,” Rooster replied dryly. 

The toothpick in Jake’s mouth almost snapped with how hard he clenched his jaw. Before he could think of a scathing response, you chipped in with, “This is Hangman, everyone.”

That got their attention, even Rooster’s. 

“The Hangman?” Packer asked, eyes-widening. 

Oh, that sent his ego soaring. Perching on the edge of the pool table, Jake took out his toothpick in order to clearly enunciate the specifics of his achievement. “If you’re referring to the only active duty pilot with an air-to-air kill, then you’d be correct. That Hangman.”

Some of the pilots, especially the younger ones, exchanged glances and muttered words of surprise. Calico happily shook Hangman’s hand, followed by a few others. 

“Good to meet you, man,” she said, almost blushing. “Hey Arcade, why don’t you warn us next time you wanna bring a celebrity around?”

Your laugh was cut off by snort from the other side of the table. 

“I heard the other guy was in a plane as old as Eugene over there,” Rooster said coolly, nodding towards the gray-haired bartender. “Doesn’t seem like much of a fair fight, does it?”

Now Jake was starting to see red. Who does this guy think he is? And who does he think I am? Just then, he realized that while you were telling him how great Rooster was, you could’ve been telling Rooster how shitty Jake was and now he was panicking. 

“Well, I can’t get into the specifics of what happened, but it was a challenging encounter. Although, I understand your ignorance,” Jake said, putting his hands up in mock understanding. “It must be real easy to sit on your perch and talk shit about things you haven’t experienced, and probably never will experience, from what Arcade has told me.”

Taking a sip from his beer, Rooster’s dark eyes flicked over to you, but his nonchalant expression didn’t change. “And what has she told you about me?”

“You’re just… cautious. Slow to act.” Those weren’t your words exactly, but he’d inferred as much from what you did say about the times you flew with Rooster. You were more of a risk-taker, he wasn’t, and that was a problem. A problem you never had flying with Jake. “Not the kind of guy to make the first move, are you, Colonel Sanders?”

“No, I guess I’m not. But that’s better than acting impulsively and getting someone hurt. Great friend you have there, Arcade,” Rooster finished, nodding at you before he headed for the bar. And you watched him go. 

The other pilots brushed off Rooster’s critique and stayed encircled around Jake to ask question after question about Hangman’s claim to fame. He didn’t mind answering them. If he had met someone like himself when he was a younger pilot, he would’ve been front row asking the same questions too. It was only when the music changed that Jake noticed you had left his immediate vicinity as well. And surprise, surprise, you were with Rooster, laughing and nursing a beer next to the piano he was sat in front of. 

Was that your big secret? Jake had kind of sprung this visit on you, intending it to be a good kind of surprise. But it was feeling more like he was the one getting surprised. Especially when Rooster’s freestyling on the piano keys turned into a vaguely familiar melody and he began to sing. 

“Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away

If you can use some exotic booze

There's a bar in far Bombay

Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away”

Jake was floored. Come fly with me. That was what Jake had proposed to you the last time you saw each other. Those were his words, a fact you had seemed to have forgotten as you sang along with the crowd, hovering a little too close to Rooster’s shoulder. Had you told him all about that night too? Jake’s hands clenched tighter every time the other man looked at you, crooning Frank fucking Sinatra. He wanted to rip those aviators off Rooster’s nose and snap them in half. He wanted to hit something. Instead, he was the one feeling a searing pain as the glass in his hand shattered into shards under his grip.

[mwolf0epsilon]

A veteran's compulsion

Summary: Overtime the nightmares became compulsions.

[I wonder how the surviving clones viewed the inhibitor chips's influence when their existence wasn't really common knowledge.]

[THIS STORY IS NOW ON AO3]

---

Before the rise of the Empire they were just nightmares. Haunting images of loyal soldiers turning on their generals, fighting them, shooting them, shedding their blood under some kind of spell that sang in their blood and resonated deep within their bones.

After the Temple March they call it the compulsion. Especially after orders stop making sense and troopers are left to stagnate and rot, just like the aged equipment they'd often left behind on planets they marched through. As the sands if time trickle onward, their brains are filled not with a mantra but with questions that will never have an answer. Because the people who could have given it to them are dead. Slain by their hands. By the all consuming urge to kill. Prime's cursed DNA.

On Daiyu the siren song that had fogged up his thoughts had been quelled. Growing quieter and quieter the longer he roamed the streets begging for credits. The silence had brought him not peace, but a terrible disquiet in his soul. The kind that made his fellow clones, his vode, stare into empty space or consider their blasters with morbid fascination. Once upon a time not too long ago he'd been one among twenty others guarding some remote little outpost. Today he was singular. The only one of his kin who'd left rather than swallow the end of his blaster barrel when the thoughts became unbearable.

Begging was not a dignified life for a once proud soldier, but it was still much better than what he deserved. His guilty conscious made sure to remind him of this on a daily basis. He'd hit rock bottom long before he'd been dismissed to a remote little Imperial sector, and now he would decay in the streets until he too was nothing more than a forgotten carcass on the side of a road. Or so he'd thoughts.

One day so very similar to any other day of his pitiful existence, he'd seen a face that had stirred the compulsion. Tired and sad blue eyes, what was once fiery ginger hair and beard now streaked with silver, robes that didn't fool anyone. More familiar than different in the aged eyes of a homeless clone.

General Kenobi had regarded him with a look so full of pity and something else he couldn't recognize (it wasn't fear, he knew what fear looked like all too well). The siren song had begun to whisper even as he simply begged for just enough to eat a warm meal. Trying to push the mantra out of the forefront of his mind.

He didn't shed blood that day. But only by the skin of his teeth. Kenobi gave him credits, gave him the briefest of polite nods, then turned around and left. He was able to keep himself in place long enough that the words died down again, and the urge to pursue and kill died with them. For the first time in years the compulsion had lost the battle. Hopefully the next time he came across another Jetii, he'd be able to keep it at bay once again. Be able to spare them.

It becomes the new mantra, his prayer that he has it in him to be more than an unwavering killing machine. One that follows him everywhere he goes when a Clawdite and Ruurian somehow convince him to finally leave Daiyu with them. He's got a name and somewhat of a purpose now... Maybe he can beat the compulsion.

[bokettochild]

Master of the Wind

As requested by my lovely children @arsonisticscholar and @telemna-hyelle, as well as my wonderful sibling @i-am-1142, I have written the Wind and Revali prompt they tagged me in.

I hope you all enjoy! (Apologies that it's not longer...)

_____________________________________________________________

Ordinarily, Wind was a very patient person.

After all, sailing wasn’t exactly always adventure and excitement, and there were many days where he and the King of Red Lions had sailed endlessly with nothing in sight save the waves and the sky. It got boring fast when you only had an old boat to talk to, and the once restless tweenager had learned how to hold still and wait quietly for what he wanted. That wasn’t to say of course that Wind wasn’t impatient sometimes, but when it counted, he could hold his tongue and keep calm when things didn’t go his way.

Well, most of the time...

Right now is not one of those times.

They’d come to what at first had looked like it might be Wild’s Hyrule, what with the fields and guardians and various other things that the Champion could recognize as his own. Except the first Guardian they ran into completely ignored them and the road they stumbled ono a short while later was actually paved and maintained. That should have been clue enough, but it was when they’d finished crossing Hyrule field, fully soaked and misted over, that they’d found themselves in the midst of a bustling Castle Town that was, apparently, nothing like Wild’s own if the shock on the Champion’s face was saying anything.

They’d been spotted relatively quickly, several townsfolk staring after their group and Wild in particular, and before they quite knew what was happening there was a tall Gerudo woman stalking towards them with a tired look on her face and heavy cloak over her shoulders.

“Link, najmi qalilan, what are you doing here? The princess will not be pleased that you’ve abandoned your duties again.”

Cornflower blue stared up at the woman, in utter and complete shock that had Twilight laying a hand on his protégé's shoulder, eyes soft as Wild started tearing up. “Urbosa?”

The woman arched a crimson brow, eyes flickering with confusion for the briefest of moments before she was looking over their group and then back to Wild, eyes dark and searching as she stepped closer, one manicured hand reaching out to trace the lines of the scars across their champion’s face, to thread through his long hair as she gazed down into his eyes. “You are not of this world, are you, najma? You’re the other one, the hero they all talked about.” Wild didn’t respond, but it didn’t seem that the woman expected it, instead pulling the young knight into her arms with the soft jingle of her jewelry and an audible sniffle from the boy. “We heard of your struggles, Little One, we are proud.” As she pulled back, she ran a thumb over Wild’s cheek tenderly. “I’m sorry we couldn’t last to fight with you in that world.”

“I don’t-” Wild shook his head, confusion in his face and fingers clinging tightly to the dark arm resting on his shoulder. “How?”

Urbosa, if that’s what her name was, smiled. “One of Zelda’s creations brought your friends to this time to stop the Calamity in its steps, far before it could destroy the kingdom. Riju told me of your struggles and battles to regain the world, we’re all proud little one.” A mischievous smile pulled at the woman’s painted lips. “Even Revali.”

It was like a switch had flipped and Wild’s eyes were blowing wide as a nervous little giggle escaped him, building up and bubbling out of his throat in an ever-growing laugh as the champion wrapped his arms around himself and bent over with the force of his laughter. “Revali! Revali admitted he’s proud of me?”

The heroes exchanged looks of confusion as Wild and Urbosa laughed, Twilight’s hearty chuckles joining in as he thumped the kid’s back. “Guess birdbrain does have it in ‘im.” The rancher smirked, earning a curious look from the Gerudo before her eyes widened in recognition, blue lips pulling into another smile as she motioned to the rest of them. “I see why you did not accompany our allies; you are on a journey through time of your own it would seem, and I assume these are the other heroes of the past?” At the champion’s nod, she nodded knowingly. “I thought as much. Come, the Queen will be delighted to see all of you.”

An she was. Queen Zelda Winifred Hylia had spent several hours asking them questions and pouring over their armor and items while her knight, a nearly identical copy of Wild with only shorter hair and less scars to tell the two of them apart, stood back with a faint smile on his face, hand resting on the hilt of the master sword and light dancing in his eyes as he’d watched the queen. Wild himself had taken a moment to come to terms with his alternate self, but on the queen’s urging the two had stepped to the side of the room to talk and Wind could already see the light of mischief sparking in glimmering cornflower hues. This new Link’s eyes weren’t as bright; they lacked the ethereal glimmer in Wild’s gaze, but they were still the same shimmering color and the same soul sparked behind, making Time and Twilight smile knowingly while the two chattered at each other with more energy that, apparently, anyone had ever heard them talk to anyone before, or so the Champion’s claimed.

That was about the point that the queen had pulled Time aide to speak with him about their quest into her world, Sky being dragged after by the queen who wanted to get to know her ancestor. That left the other six of their number with the four champions.

Urbosa was on Twilight in an instant, eyes shining in a knowing manner as she spoke, Twilight flushing under her gaze in a way that had Warriors laughing and whispering ‘advice’ in the rancher’s ear before moving on to speak with this times Impa, who was already locked in conversation with their vet, chattering and snarking at the heroes with a fire that made Legend grin like a mad-man while Impa’s own smirk continued to grow, their verbal sparring getting more and more intense as Warriors would throw out the occasion jab to fuel them both further. Mipha had swept up to Hyrule with a kind smile and the two were already sitting cross-legged on the floor of the castle’s hall, chatting quietly as soft giggles escaped the two of them, both apparently switching healing methods and stories of their respective teams’ mishaps and stupidity. Wind smirked at that, it was only fitting, and when he glanced over to Four, it was to find him inspecting Daruk’s giant blade-like-thing with an intense stare, the Goron gently explaining the smithing process and, yeah, that made a lot of sense.

Unfortunately, that left Wind with the only Rito in the group.

Initially he’d been delighted, after all, he was the only one other than Wild to have Rito and it always made him happy to talk with Medli’s people, no matter what time they were in. But then Revali started talking.

There was nothing that made Wind more bored than people talking about themselves. Sure, his brothers telling the rest of them about their adventures or sharing little details about themselves was nice, but at least they had something of substance to be talking about; Revali just talked, about absolutely nothing at all, until Wind finally rolled his eyes and walked away.

The bird snorted. “Ah well, how could a child understand the thoughts of the master of winds? Go on, little Hylian, go join your little friends and talk with the insipid Champion of your own people, or that bothersome Goron.”

And well, that had been his plan, but no one insults his brothers, even if this new Link wasn’t one that he even knew yet. But the Hero of Light was essentially Wild’s twin, so that made him family, and thus someone who Wind wouldn’t stand to hear insulted, especially not by someone who claimed to be Light’s friend or team-mate.

“Their conversation would be more interesting,” he mused aloud, strolling casually away from the Rito. “After all, Wild and Light don’t spend all their time preening and fussing about themselves like a lossless cucco.”

And didn’t that make Revali’s feathers ruffle in irritation! He didn’t even bother biting back his smirk at the outraged look in the Rito Champion’s eyes as the warrior stiffened and stared down at him. “I am the Master of the Winds, child, I call them to my aid and stand alone among my people as the finest and best of all warriors! I am-”

“Full of yourself.” Wind cut him off with a roll of his eyes. “Honestly, I’d be embarressed to have to go back to the Sages and tell Medli that her descendants are so pompus, it would bring her shame like nothing ever would, especially to hear how you stir up discord about the hero. Ah well, I’ll save her the bother, it’s not like-”

“The sages would have no shame in seeing my prowess, you incorrigible-”

“Kick his ass, Wind!” Legend shouted, and when the duo looked over it was to see Wars and the vet both smirking, pride shining in their eyes while Impa cackled beside them.

Revali’s feathers ruffled further as he cocked ne bushy brow at their group. “No wonder the Hylian boy feels so comfortable among your number, you are as unrefined and churlish as he is.”

Wind scoffed, hands coming to rest on his hips. “Legend is a prince, I’ll have you know, and Wars here is Wild’s actual dad, and a noble-”

“This one as well.” Urbosa called out, firmly thumping Twilight on the back, eyes bright as she smiled over at them. “I’d watch your tongue, Revali, you don’t now who you might be speaking with.”

“He’s a common Hylian child.” The Rito warrior huffed.

“Hes the Master of the Winds.” Wild called over, eyes glimmering with mischief while his look-alike -doppelganger? Blow it all, Wind’s calling them twins now! - stared at him in confusion. The Rito seemed to take full offence at the words though, drawing himself up and staring down his beak at Wind. “Do you honestly expect me to believe this impudent child is a master of the winds? Tch, such a feat is one that requires years of mastery! Only I have achieved such a feat in all of the years of this kingdom and-”

A twitchy of Wind’s baton and the Rito was stumbling under the force of a strong gale that had blown out of nowhere and disappeared as it had never been there, leaving Revali gasping and staring over a Wind in shock.

He bowed low, full pirate swagger on display as he let the light breeze he’d summoned into the hall play about his hair and make his tunic flap softly (if he was going to be dramatic about it, he was pulling out all the stops, he was raised by drama kings after all). “Link, Hero and Master of Winds,” He introduced himself with a flourish and another light breeze to tease the Rito’s feathers further. “It is your honor, oh Rito churl.”

Revali huffed and Legend collapsed into the captain’s arms, wheezing with laughter.

[startanewdream]

The road home

Summary: Lily watches Harry and Ginny finding their way back to each other following the end of the war.

Note: For @madhulika18, who asked for more Hinny moments as seen by James and Lily. I could never decide if this is really part of Eyes Glistening (because Harry and Ginny have drama really, and I don't like them having drama), but it works either way, so I hope you enjoy these moments (also, I have a soft spot for Lily and Harry talking, so...)

_______

It’s all about the words that aren’t being said.

Once, a long time ago, Lily lived that with James. But it was different and, though, of course, it didn’t seem like that at the time, it was easier too. Her problems were unknowing her feelings, not understanding why she enjoyed his company and why she craved his smile, his light. She had fancied him for a long time before she understood what it was what she really felt for him — and until then it was only her heart beating faster when they would touch each other without meaning too (a brush of hands, sitting together closer than necessary), enjoying the perfume he’d left on his trace, finding excuses to be with him.

But after she had understood what she felt for him, somehow it had been easy. Awkward, sure, that first date when she was feeling stupid near him — until she remembered this was James, and being with him was good and blissful and then kissing him had felt as natural as breathing —, but there was never a question about how they felt about each other, never doubts that they would be together.

They had fought over many things, until they perfected the art of compromising, of understanding each other’s view, but there was never a breakup, never something that really kept them apart.

They are lucky on this, she knows.

Especially when she sees the look on Harry’s face, the way his eyes can’t help but follow Ginny as she walks around between the tables of the Great Hall, stopping to share words with her friends.

They haven’t talked yet. Lily knows this because Harry was gone with Ron and Hermione after the battle and then he slept for a full day. When he woke up, he called his parents and they talked then — the most difficult conversation Lily had ever had in her life and the one she knew she needed most. She and James. They needed to understand what had happened, why it had cost Harry’s life and what it had meant, but nothing had really prepared her to know her son had died.

Only the thought of it sends shivers through her body.

Harry is fine now, having come down to the Great Hall to lunch; there are fewer people at Hogwarts two days after the Battle, so they manage to find a place for them to sit quietly. It’s almost peaceful.

Except Harry is clearly not at peace.

‘Go talk to her,’ she whispers to him, and Harry turns to her with those eyes that are full of ghosts lately — he has seen and lived and died too much.

‘She doesn’t want me,’ he answers, breathing heavily as if the words are physically hurting him.

‘How do you know?’ James asks, exchanging a confused look with Lily.

‘Because she hasn’t come to talk to me.’

Lily thinks Harry didn’t go to her either, so maybe this is just a case of miscommunication. But she doesn’t say anything, because she believes things have to happen at the right time. And she has been watching Ginny too; every time Harry looks the other way, she glances in his direction, an expression on her face that Lily cannot understand exactly.

It seems to be ablaze.

_______

Later, Lily will define it as a dance where the dancers aren’t supposed to touch each other but still they synchronize their steps perfectly.

It’s unnerving, really, and she doesn’t know how they are really managing it, but if there is a quality she could attribute to both Harry and Ginny is stubbornness.

They can’t ignore each other, not really, not with how much they encounter each other — funerals and homages and dinners over the Burrow and rebuilding Hogwarts —, so instead they adopt a sort of relationship that’s just a shadow of how much they got along together.

Lily saw them before they even dated or had acknowledged their feelings for each other, and Harry and Ginny had shined together with chemistry as if they were two ingredients in a potion that demanded to be together. It was only friendship but there was sparkle and understanding and compassion and brightness. Lily remembers thinking that even if they didn’t develop romantic feelings for each other, they were truly soulmates.

And this is just one of the reasons why their current formal courtesy with each other bothers her so much. If they wanted to be only friends, there wasn’t much she could do. But they are not even friends lately, just two people who had gone through so much and hadn’t been able to share anything with each other despite wanting very much.

That’s the other thing that annoys her. They want more. Both of them.

She knows Harry, of course — he shares the same expressions and he wears his feelings on the same sleeve Lily does, so it’s easy —, and Lily likes to think she knows Ginny too, for the times they met, for all they’ve talked and for the fact that Ginny is usually blatant on her feelings when they are at the edge.

Usually. This time, it seems their stubbornness is getting the better of both of them.

They are alone most of the days of May. Hermione has gone to Australia to find her parents and Ron went with her, and Lily thinks this would be perfect for them to get together again – to have time to talk and to truly live their relationship without the threat of a storm above their heads.

But they don’t go to each other. They stay apart, even though Lily sees the cracks in their stubbornness when Harry breaks a glass after hearing Ginny talking about exchanging letters with an ex-boyfriend, and when Ginny suddenly leaves the room after Harry mentions Kingsley’s proposal to start the Aurors course.

James sees it too. He is always frowning when they are in the same room, and Lily knows no one rooted more for that relationship than James. So she is not surprised that he approaches her one morning when they are cleaning the mess the Death Eaters made in her office.

‘Do you remember when you forbade me from intervening in Harry’s love life?’ he asks in a nonchalant voice, cleaning a stain that looks a lot like blood on the carpet.

Lily nods with her head.

‘Maybe it’s time to change that rule?’ James asks then, now sounding hopeful.

Lily throws him the briefest of the looks, without turning away her attention from the cauldrons she is supposed to check if anything is worth saving.

‘Harry would hate it if we did anything.’

‘Harry would hate it if he knew we were doing anything.’

‘And James Potter can be discreet? How many detentions did you get just because you couldn’t help but flaunt your work?’

He raises his eyebrows challengingly.

‘That Slug Club dinner on my birthday. I was so discreet no one ever found out what we were doing.’

Lily blushes. He was absurdly quiet that night, indeed, despite her attempts otherwise.

‘Fine, you’ve got a point. Go on, but I’m warning you, if Ginny realizes what you are trying to do, she will hex you and I won’t stop.’

‘As long as she hexes me on their wedding day, I won’t complain,’ James says unabashedly, and Lily has to grin.

She is not feeling much confident — James’ love plans took him three years to her agree to date him, after all, and even then she had fallen in love with him when he had given up on any plan at all —, but she can’t deny James is creative and it’s better trying anything than watching Harry sigh all over the place, heartbroken and unhappy.

During the year they were out, their house has been searched over and over; their furniture is broken and there are spots of red ink — or blood — in every room, with curses or slurs written on every wall. They could just easily destroy the house and build a new one, but it feels good to clean the place; it feels like a new beginning.

Maybe this is what James is hoping to give Harry and Ginny because he asks for her help in rebuilding their house. Ginny accepts surprisingly quickly, probably guessing that Harry will still be occupied with the work at Hogwarts.

‘Thanks for the help,’ Lily says after she and Ginny manage to clean the debris away from the stairs, so now the first floor is available for them to start cleaning up the rooms.

‘No problem, it’s good to be out of the house,’ Ginny notes, drying the sweat on her face. ‘Sometimes it feels… too claustrophobic there.’

Lily raises her eyebrows, indicating around the hall, where the number of things still to be organized makes the corridor seem a lot smaller than it is. Ginny gives a small chuckle.

‘It’s just — Mom is trying to compensate, I think. Ron is not here and I am the youngest and she needs to take care of something, after — after everything that happened. So, yeah, I need some time to myself.’

‘Are you sure there is nothing else you would like to do?’ Lily asks, concerned now. Ginny just shrugs.

‘Since I can’t fly, this seems like the best available option,’ she says. ‘And it feels good to be doing something — and there is so much to do here. The Death Eaters made a mess.’

‘That could be said for everywhere.’

‘And everyone,’ Ginny adds softly, and she returns to the cabinet she is trying to fix without saying anything further, but Lily doesn’t think she needs to. She saw Neville’s bruises, she saw Luna’s scars and she has a pretty good idea of how it was at Hogwarts under Voldemort’s regime.

But Ginny keeps her marks quietly, and Lily knows there is only one person she will be able to talk to.

The next day, James comes home earlier from Hogwarts with Harry. There is an awkward moment when Harry and Ginny meet in the kitchen and James mentions that now the main work over Hogwarts is done, Harry volunteered to help get his home back again.

‘Any problem?’ James asks genially, making both Harry and Ginny jump.

‘No,’ they say at the same time, and it doesn’t convince anyone.

Lily never noticed how big their house was until she realizes Harry and Ginny still manage to avoid each other except during mealtimes, so she decides they can get past subtlety. She and James start to ask them for help for the same rooms until they eventually are paired in the same tasks.

She doesn’t hear them talking, but it seems to work, albeit at the slowest pace ever.

‘You won’t believe who asked Sirius for an interview,’ James says one night after they settled for the day and they are having dinner before Ginny returns to her house. ‘Rita Skeeter.’

‘What scoop does she want now?’ Harry asks, rolling his eyes. ‘I am still awaiting her biography about me.’

‘What will be called?’, Ginny asks, and Harry turns to her with his eyes already shining with the joke.

‘Easy. Harry Potter, chosen or undesirable one?’

She laughs – it’s a short tentative laugh, but it’s there, and Harry smiles too. James exchanges a look with Lily, but she shakes her head warningly to him.

‘What Skeeter wanted with Sirius?’ she asks, putting the conversation back into place. It was just a shared joke. There is still a long road ahead.

‘Oh, gossip on you and me, actually, which unfortunately is something Sirius thinks it’s too funny to pass – and also he has a soft spot for Skeeter.’

Harry chokes on his drink.

‘Soft spot?’

‘Oh, please, don’t tell me –‘ Ginny raises her eyebrows, exchanging a bewildered look with Harry. ‘Sirius and Rita Skeeter?’

James chuckles.

‘No, he just likes her because of the animagus stuff. He says he can’t fault her for being one.’

‘Oh, much better,’ Ginny sighs. Then she bits her lip before looking back at Harry. ‘Can you imagine them together? Rita Skeeter as your godmother?’

‘I would have to quit Sirius from his job as godfather,’ Harry says, pretending to gag. ‘He would clearly be underqualified.’

There is another small giggle and that’s it for the night.

They are talking again at least, even if it is still not like it used to be. There are no whispered words during their time together during the day and they don’t seem to be secretly snogging. But they talk sometimes, and once or twice Lily hears a laugh when she passes the room they are in.

But it’s only two weeks later that something seems to happen.

Lily is in her room, finishing to set up the bed so she and James will finally be able to sleep there, when the voices catch her up on her window.

‘You are bleeding.’

‘It’s just a cut, Harry, no big deal.’

‘It was a splinter, there can still be something there.’

‘I told you, I took everything off. I will just press it, it will stop bleeding in a minute.’

‘I can help you, I – I know a lot of healing spells.’

There is a pause.

‘Me too, but I also know that the bleeding will stop. It’s not deep.’

‘How do you –‘

‘Same way you know, Harry.’ There is a note of tension in Ginny’s voice. ‘I had to learn.’

‘Ginny –‘

‘What? Do you think you were the only one who had a hard time?’

And she storms inside, giving him no time to answer.

Harry is subdued that night, even more reserved than natural, and when she passes his room late at night, she sees the light is on. For a second Lily wonders if she should call James, but then she sighs and knocks on his door.

‘Harry?’

In answer, the door opens quietly. Lily enters his room to see Harry fully clothed on his bed; he is holding something and, with a start, she realizes it’s the Marauder’s Map. That’s a weird thing for Harry to be consulting in the middle of the night.

‘Can’t sleep?’ she asks, sitting on the edge of his bed and running her hand through his hair comfortingly. He shrugs. ‘Anything to do with that fight with Ginny?’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘Hearing behind doors, Mum?’

‘No need, you were talking under my window.’

‘Next fight I will make sure we are far,’ he says with a grimace.

‘There will be a next fight?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admits, and this prospect doesn’t seem to make him better. ‘If I asked you something, would you be honest with me?’

‘Wasn’t I always, Harry?’

He smiles for a second before his expression is grave and uncertain.

‘Do you think I am self-centred?’

Lily blinks.

‘No one would accuse you of being selfish, Harry, I mean –’

She doesn’t know where to begin, considering all the sacrifices she had seen Harry make over the years — he gave his life —, but Harry shakes his head.

‘Not selfish, I mean – the summer after my fourth year, when Voldemort was back, I said plenty of things –’

‘You were under a lot of stress, no one –’

‘I know, but I was complaining about how everything happened to me and now I am thinking that maybe, somehow, I never stopped to think that things happen to other people too.’

Lily squeezes his hand.

‘It is not a suffering competition, Harry.’

‘I don’t know if I see it that way. I mean, when I saw Neville for the first time, with all his bruises and looking so hurt, I still wished it could be me, staying at Hogwarts and fighting because it seemed easier and it never occurred to me that she could – they could – have had a difficult time too. It still seemed… just school.’

He pauses to pick up the Marauder’s Map, opening it even if there is no map showing there.

‘I used to take the Map last year to watch over her,’ he whispers, his face flushing. ‘And I saw her dot and I never thought that she could be in trouble. I knew they were rebelling, but… it didn’t feel like it was something real.’

‘Well, that’s why you should talk to each other. None of you will understand if you keep avoiding each other.’

‘She is mad at me.’

‘Of course she is. You are avoiding her.’

He doesn’t answer.

‘You need to talk, Harry. Go there. Try it.’

He blinks, a hint of a smile on his lips.

‘Are you suggesting that I go visit my ex-girlfriend in the middle of the night?’

‘I’m pretty sure you will just talk if she doesn’t hex you first,’ Lily says brightly. Then she smiles softly. ‘You could wait until tomorrow, Harry, but I have the feeling you both have been waiting too long. And this isn’t any of your styles. You are both people of action.’

Harry grins now, standing up.

‘I will go then. Thanks for the tip, Mum.’

Lily accepts the soft kiss he gives her on the cheek.

‘Just be safe, Harry.’

_______

Harry seems to be in a better mood the next morning, despite the fact that he slept a few hours that night — Lily knows he returned by five, just as the sun was rising.

But she doesn’t say anything, just smiling to herself when Harry’s face lights up when the fireplace erupts into emerald flames and Ginny appears, dusting her clothes. They exchange a look that it’s still not there yet, but it’s soft and promising. James looks in her direction, surprised, and she promises to explain later.

It’s not Summer yet, but the days of May and then June get warmer and then Harry and Ginny are spending more time outside, though there isn’t much to fix there.

At least, not material things.

James keeps an eye on them — he wouldn’t resist not doing so —, telling her that most of the time they just seem to be taking long strolls and talking.

One day they return from their walk holding hands, and Lily has to lock James inside the room so he doesn’t say anything. Harry and Ginny are still not there.

The road home takes time.

On the second weekend of June they have the hottest day yet and they take some time off; James transfigures a pool in the backyard that neither Harry nor Ginny seems to enjoy other than to sit at the edge of the pool and take off their shoes to wet their feet. Instead of helping to ease any tension, the pool seems to create some weight over them, making them more silent than usual, so James suggests they go flying instead.

‘My Firebolt is gone,’ Harry remembers, wincing, and Lily knows it’s not the broomstick he is really missing right now. Harry lost a friend that day.

‘Mine was burnt by the Carrows last year,’ Ginny adds, her voice casual as if it’s nothing important.

They don’t end up doing anything after that.

In the afternoon, James gets a call from Sirius and Lily decides to just stay home, finishing the Wolfsbane Potions she will need to deliver to Remus by the end of the week. She is quietly lost in her favourite potion world when she hears the voices, and it’s just because they are whispering, rather than talking normally, that it draws her attention.

‘Are you sure?’ Ginny is asking, her voice unusually hesitant.

‘Only if you are,’ he whispers, sounding just as unstable.

Lily approaches the window and withdraws the curtains as little as she needs. Harry and Ginny are still by the pool, standing facing each other, and without looking away from Harry, she takes off her shirt, to reveal her bikini under it.

Harry gasps, but Lily knows that what is taking his breath away are the marks on Ginny’s torso — faint scars of cuts and small yellowed bruises that remained from the battle, over a month ago.

Ginny bits her lip, her arms trembling as if she wants to cover herself. Harry finally takes a step in her direction, looking her in the eyes now.

'Thank you for showing me,’ he whispers and then he sighs. 'My turn'.

His hands are shaking as he goes to unbutton his shirt, until Ginny raises her hands.

'May I?'

Harry nods slowly.

Ginny keeps her head high, not looking away from Harry's eyes, until she finishes opening all the buttons from his shirt and taking it off.

Then her eyes fall to his chest and Ginny freezes.

Lily knows what she is seeing, even though Lily can't see it from her angle: Harry's new lightning scar, across his chest, over his heart, where the Killing Curse hit him for the second time in his life.

'Harry,’ Ginny sighs, pain evident in her voice. She raises her hand, looking at him, questioning him silently. Harry nods once more.

Then Ginny takes a step closer to him, touching his chest, and Lily knows that she must be feeling his heart over it.

She lets the curtain fall and returns to her potion.

She is not surprised when they return home holding hands and she only tells James later (so he doesn't say anything during dinner because she knows her husband) that Ginny kissed Harry softly on the lips when she thought no one was seeing them.

[moonbeamsung]

You’re Just a Boy in a Blueberry Field

No fruit is sweeter than a summer love.

member: haechan

au: blueberry farmer!haechan x gn!reader

word count: 5.0k

genre: fluff, very light angst

warnings: mentions of food

author’s note: It’s here! I actually wrote most of this last summer, but only recently did I find the time to edit and get it ready to be posted. I added some parts and changed a few things, and now I like it quite a lot, so I hope you do as well! Thank you @astroboy-lele​ for beta-reading :) As always I would love to hear any feedback on this, and I hope that you enjoy the fic!

taglist: @astroboy-lele @kyuwoyo @rvse-hvvck @nakamotocore @kisshim @leejunini @chicksung @mrkcore @radiorenjun @moon-jun @jisungiest @stayctday @byutafy @jujubean23 @treasurehobi​ @bluejaem​ @lyshoonn​ @vera-liscious​ @allegxdly​ @cupfullofjeno​ @thats-a-jen-no-no​ @yo-ddream​

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @culture-cafe @dreamlab-nct @k-dinernet 

Thank you lovely Ana @rvse-hvvck for this additional header!

Donghyuck knows everything there is to know about those blueberries.

Without even pausing for the briefest of moments to think, to instinctively recall the information instilled in him throughout his childhood spent on the farm, he can answer any question that’s thrown at him. He can point out just the right color of berry to pick so that they’ll be ripe when you eat them later. Likewise, he can also tell you which ones are best to eat now, as you pick them, pretending not to notice when you pop one or two into your mouth and grinning when your eyes light up from the sweetness.

A day comes where he, filled with mischief as usual, places a not-so-ripe blueberry into your hand, and you, being so wrapped up in the peacefulness of the morning that surrounds you, fail to notice its red color and don’t think twice about lifting it to your lips, biting into it with your teeth. When the tart taste meets your tongue, your face contorts into an expression that elicits a raucous fit of laughter from him. You’re the first one in the fields that day. When the sun had risen on the horizon, the fleeting touch of color in the sky that dawn left behind still lingering above, he had been there, sitting on the front porch as always to greet customers.

Donghyuck knows every bug that loves to rest on the branches of the blueberry bushes. After spending so much time next to you as you scan them for the pops of vivid blues and purples that are hidden behind jade green leaves, he begins to learn that you are not fond of any bug, no matter how harmless. It’s cute, he thinks, how you inspect every berry that you drop into your basket, fearing that some small creature is lurking on it. If you do find something, he hears a small noise of both surprise and disgust before you fling the perfectly good berry away from you. It also hurts a little, knowing that it’s one less for you to take home.

When more people arrive at the farm after you, he’s forced to leave your side and get them started on their own search for the delicious fruit that’s nestled among the branches of nearly every bush. And if they ask where the best ones are, he specifically points them in the direction of the fields where you aren’t. It isn’t a lie, really, because they’ve had a good harvest everywhere this year.

...Okay, so maybe it’s a little selfish on his part, but who can blame him for wanting you to have some of the most plentiful bushes all to yourself?

Wednesdays are his favorite because it’s always the least crowded of all the mornings they’re open for business, and he can spend more time following you as you make your way down the rows, admiring the focus on your face and the way that you sometimes pause mid-reach, closing your eyes and standing still as the sun peeks through the clouds and casts its warm glow down onto the farm. A gentle sigh tumbles from your lips, darkened by the violet nectar that remains from the countless blueberries that have crossed their usually pink-tinted threshold. You resume your search after a few seconds, catching his eye and returning a smile he didn’t even know was there.

He makes the berries taste a little sweeter when he’s next to you. The purple juice that stains your fingers is a little darker. The sun feels brighter and warmer than ever, its heat shining down onto your skin.

One particular morning, after you finish picking all the blueberries you can carry, you decide to accompany Donghyuck on the porch, sitting beside each other in matching rocking chairs that first belonged to his great-grandparents, the farm’s founders. The familiar sounds of birds chirping and the low mumbling amongst customers meet your ears. You both gaze fondly at the horizon while immersed in casual chatter, all the while tending to several families as they come and go.

Whenever a car turns off of the two-lane, paved road and onto the noisy gravel path leading into a small grassy area that functions as a parking lot, Donghyuck excuses himself from the lively conversation both of you always find yourselves sharing. He stands, brushing his hands off on his faded denim overalls that are only slightly too large for his frame. His hand lifts up the baseball cap he always wears while the other runs through his hair, and your gaze falls on the back of his neck where it rests in longer strands. You always wonder why he keeps it like that since he complains about how hot it makes him feel. The humid summer air is stifling enough as it is, after all. The thought vanishes only moments after it arrives, though, and he flashes a brilliant grin at you over his shoulder as he descends the wooden stairs leading down to the patio.

Today, a happy looking family gets out of a shiny silver minivan. The mother and father with two kids, a boy and a girl, make their way toward the covered patio and Donghyuck bounds down the steps like always, grabbing 4 stacked pails in his calloused hands. You lean forward a little in the creaky old rocking chair, your weight in your toes, ears just barely picking up his conversation with them. He greets the parents warmly, shaking their hands and then he kneels down to be eye-level with the small children. The little boy seems shy as he clasps his fingers in front of him, thumbs twiddling back and forth, while his sister is clearly the opposite. She skips over to the much taller boy, saying hello.

“Do you two like blueberries?” He asks them, one arm resting on his knee and the other extending a pail out in front of him. The young girl nods enthusiastically before she takes the container from his hand and turns around, passing it to her brother as he nods, making eye contact with Donghyuck for the first time. A small smile grows on his face when he’s met with the wider one of the unfamiliar but still welcoming stranger. His sister speaks up again, “Every Friday we get to help Mom make her famous blueberry pie!”

“Is that right?”

“Yep! In the morning we always go to the supermarket and get fresh blueberries,” she explains. Her mother leans down, softly telling her that this week they’re here to pick blueberries instead, fresh from the farm they were grown on.

“Really? So that means we’re not buying them at the store anymore?”

“Well, honey, today we can pick enough blueberries to last us for a whole month’s worth of blueberry pies.”

“And besides,” Donghyuck starts, still kneeling on the ground next to her, his boot leaving an imprint in the dirt underneath it, “it’ll taste even better since you picked them yourselves, don’t you think?” The boy punctuates his question with a wink.

The young boy steps up for the first time, grin stretching even wider as he finds the courage to happily agree with the wise words. Exclaiming eagerly and in a way that only a child can, he takes his sister by the hand that’s not holding his small bucket before scurrying off, their parents close behind after grabbing pails for each other as well as a third that their daughter had forgotten in the midst of the excitement.

As Donghyuck joins you on the porch once again, you can’t help but smile as you remember how he interacts with each and every customer that passes through the weathered fence surrounding the property. When he talks to kids in particular, his eyes seem to light up, and you see just how much of a kid he still is deep down. His playfulness never fails to make an appearance whenever you spend time with him.

You’re thankful for the moo of a cow in the distance that interrupts his question of why you’re smiling like an idiot and hopefully drowns out the steady sound of your pounding heart.

The next week he tells you that the rest of his family is out of town, and he’s been left with the responsibility of running the farm all on his own. He usually does most of the work himself these days anyway since he’s getting older and more mature, although some of his jokes say otherwise. You miss the way his mom would poke her head out of the upstairs window of the main house, calling out a greeting to you both from across the property, overjoyed at the sight of her son spending time with the particular customer he’s mentioned so many times before. Whether he would share an amusing anecdote of yours with his siblings at the dinner table or point out something that reminded him of you, it was far too easy for her to figure out how he feels about you.

In an effort to spend more time with him, keep him company and just help out in general, you offer to stay at the house with him for a little while. Or at least until his family gets back from their trip, and to your delight, he agrees. You arrive in the late evening, on a day when the fields are closed, just in time to catch the setting sun as it disappears behind the trees and power lines that seem to stretch for miles in the distance. Tugging an overnight bag of belongings with you, you knock twice on the wood of his front door.

It opens swiftly and Donghyuck welcomes you inside, wearing an apron that he must have outgrown 10 years ago, at least. You snicker at the snug choice of attire and he shoves your shoulder, though not with enough force to make you stumble. He whines a little in that saccharine-sweet voice of his that makes your heart clench, but you don’t give in. Not this time.

When the farm is closed for the day, the family has a chance to pick from some of the bushes that are planted in a more secluded area, all to ensure that they also have a big enough supply of the fruit to last them for the season. So Donghyuck had woken up at the crack of dawn, although you aren’t sure why. He had made his way downstairs and out into the dewy air of the morning, gathering just enough blueberries to bake a cobbler that night when you came over, since he’d learned it was your favorite treat after hours of conversation about anything and everything. The recipe comes straight from his great-grandfather, he informs you, and it’s written on a yellowing piece of paper in handwriting that you couldn’t read even if you tried. He, however, can somehow decode the seemingly nonsensical swirls and lines on the page. You suppose it’s part of the magic of the family recipe that gets passed down with it.

Donning an apron yourself, you join him at the sink as you begin washing the berries, gently grabbing a handful at a time as you let the tap water clean them. When you both reach into the large container at the same time, your hands brush and you almost scoff at the swell of your heart that you feel inside your chest.

As you’re working together to make the batter that you will soon pour into his mother’s finest glass baking pan, Donghyuck briskly swipes his fingertip on the side of the bowl where the mixer had splattered the combined ingredients, extending it in your direction. You raise an eyebrow at the boy and said fingertip before turning your head away.

“If you really think that I would lick that off your finger, then you’re terribly mistaken.”

Coyly, the mischief-maker in question retorts back as you glance at his impishly delighted expression. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive,” you state rather firmly, but matching the mirth in his eyes with a glimmer of amusement in your own. “I’ll settle for the spatula, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Donghyuck rolls his eyes, your answer completely expected. At least he tried. 

You won’t deny that you enjoy sampling a bit of the batter of a dessert as much as anyone. But not that much.

Left with no choice, he takes himself up on his own offer and sticks his finger into his mouth with an audible ‘pop,’ exaggerating the action just to get a rise out of you, feeling the upward curl of his lips when you react ever so slightly with a silent chuckle.

You’re adding the last bit of flour to the mixture when you accidentally get some of the powdery substance on your hand in the process. Turning the automatic mixer off, you momentarily forget about your stained skin and you make the mistake of wiping your face with the back of your wrist, smearing the white stuff on your cheek. Donghyuck notices, of course, and an innocent attempt to help clean up the mess only ends with the two of you blushing like crazy.

“Let me help you,” he speaks up.

“Don’t be ridiculous, the pan’s not that heavy, and even if it was, I’m strong enough anyway—”

You’re about to pick up the glassware but his sudden strides over to you from across the large kitchen cause everything you were saying, doing, and thinking to come to a complete stop. You’ve never really had a problem with personal space before, but right now he’s leaning down and his face is so close that you’re afraid to even breathe for fear that the action might just throw you off balance and towards him. For fear that you might not push his chest away with your hands if that happens.

He’s bending his knees to match your eye level and his hand lifts from its place at his side, hovering in midair not far from where the flour still lingers on your skin. His eyes had been so focused on the stain but the shrinking proximity between you and him pulls his gaze from your cheek to your eyes, blown wide and confused because you still have no idea that there’s something on your face.

The undoubtedly palpable tension in the room almost reaches down his throat and pulls the words from his vocal chords in an effort to dispel the heavy air circulating around the both of you.

“There’s… uh… you have flour…”

Donghyuck still hasn’t broken the less than comfortable eye contact, but he’s unable to look away for reasons unknown to him. After an agonizing amount of seconds your brain switches on again, albeit slowly, and you’re able to properly process the position you’re currently in. Your own hand starts to lift and though the movement is slight, it’s enough to draw his eyes down to it and he finds the strength to complete his goal at last.

His thumb swipes across your cheek and without even thinking he pops it into his mouth once again, forgetting about the unpleasant taste of flour. The way that the boy’s face scrunches up when the bitter powder meets his tongue doesn’t eliminate the awkwardness completely, but it’s a start. You hastily make an effort to avert your gaze as you frantically wonder if he caught your face that’s surely as warm as a blazing fireplace, all because he did the unthinkable with that stupid finger of his.

You won’t let yourself dwell on how his hand is just the right size to cradle the side of your head, or how much nicer his lips look up close, or how they must taste like the blueberries that he snuck into his mouth as you made the cobbler, or how you wished he had used his lips on your cheek instead of his thumb.

How you wish he had closed the almost nonexistent distance between your flushed faces.

These thoughts do nothing to ease the steadily growing heat that’s currently taking over your skin. Your eyes land on the glass pan and you take the opportunity to grab it, acting as a sort of distraction for your mind and also as something to snap you both out of your embarrassed hazes.

You get the finished dessert into the oven with no trouble after that, and now you have a little over half an hour of time to kill before it’s ready, so Donghyuck leads you into the nicely furnished family room and plops down onto the plush couch. When you don’t immediately follow he glances up at you, sensing that you’re still hesitant after the awkward moment. He smiles softly and almost apologetically, as if he’s sending a silent signal that you’ll both move past it soon enough, an invitation to put the incident behind the two of you. And you accept it.

You take a deep breath before you sit down next to him, sinking into the cushions underneath and behind you. The material dips slightly under the weight of both your bodies and gravity itself seems to be in control as it pushes you together, shoulders bumping and the sides of your legs being pressed up against each other. Thankfully, the television roars to life with the laughter of a live audience on one of your favorite shows, and you exhale a puff of air you didn’t even know you were holding in. With every scene that lights up the large display, you curl up further and further into his side, his arm migrating across the back of the sofa and winding around your shoulder only a few centimeters at a time.

This feels like home. Donghyuck feels like home.

The buzzer of the oven interrupts when you’re halfway through another episode, prompting you to jump to your feet just as abruptly as the alarm-like noise had started blaring. Consequently his arm flops down by his side as he mentally curses the loud intrusion into what had become a comfortable atmosphere, an atmosphere that was finally surrounding you again after what felt like an eternity but had really only been an hour.

In no time, you’re returning from the kitchen, the warm blueberry contents of the cobbler oozing out onto the flowery pair of plates you had grabbed from the cupboard. Handing one to him and setting the other aside for yourself, you quickly go back around the corner to grab two tall cups of cold milk. Your second time joining him on the couch comes more easily, almost all of the earlier tension having dispersed into the room, wafting out the windows along with the delicious scent of the fruit baked into the sweet, flaky crust. In fact, you’re fairly sure that it’s strong enough for even his neighbors down the road to smell. Which reminds you: you need to package some up to deliver to them tomorrow, per Donghyuck’s suggestion.

You’re most definitely sure that he smells the aroma, of course, because it’s hard to ignore the eagerness with which he takes a large bite of the dessert. “We make better bakers that I thought we would,” the boy comments, taking a sip of milk. The white mustache that it creates above his top lip when he lifts the glass to his mouth is enough to make you giggle, and you’re unaware that this predictable reaction was his objective all along. He grins, rather satisfied.

With your stomach now full, a head-plaguing drowsiness begins to set in. It slowly fills your senses enough for you to drift off, fork nearly falling out of your hand and onto the floor before he catches it, along with your weight when you slump down against his shoulder. Donghyuck is barely able to reach one of the end tables, and he sets the dishes and silverware down next to the now empty cups. Your body unconsciously clings to his like a koala to a branch, with both hands clutching one of his arms and a leg hooked over his thighs.

He takes one look at you and wishes he could pause time, to stay here forever. It’s not every day that he meets someone who can easily match the amount of snark he possesses. Simultaneously, you also balance out the friendship you share with your compassion and sense of wonder about the world, always evident in your morning routine when you come to the fields. Donghyuck has noticed that you bring out those same qualities in him, perhaps more than anyone else ever has. And just like you’re holding him right now, he vows to hold on to you.

As much as he doesn’t want to get up and for the evening to progress, he knows he should, that it has to. So he manages to detach from the hold of your limbs, gently pushing himself up and off of the couch so he doesn’t disturb you.

Glancing at the large antique clock above the doorway that leads out into the hall, Donghyuck realizes it’s much later than he thought. He decides to turn in for the night, but on a regular day he usually finds himself still awake well past midnight, despite the need to wake up early the next morning and run the farm from the crack of dawn.

Since you’re tired and he doesn’t want to risk you waking up alone in an unfamiliar bed and place, he comes to the conclusion that he’ll join you. Only leaving your side for a moment, he puts the cobbler into the refrigerator and turns off the kitchen lights behind him as he goes. Softly padding halfway up the stairwell, Donghyuck makes sure there’s enough light for him to see where he’s going before making his way back into the living room one last time. He tucks one arm underneath both of your bent knees as tenderly as he can, and places the other behind the middle of your back, hand gently curling against your waist. He carries you with probably the most delicacy he’s shown in his entire life.

Going upstairs is generally an easy task, but doing so while carrying another person is a different story. He would never forgive himself if he were to hurt you in any way. If even your foot happened to bump the wall next to you, a burst of frustration at himself and his own carelessness would surface regardless of the impact’s intensity

Your position in his arms gives him yet another opportunity to gaze upon your peaceful expression, and he begins to think more deeply about what you are to him. Looking forward to your visits makes his work so much more enjoyable and worth it. You’re someone who truly appreciates what he and his family do for a living and you faithfully support them with your business as a customer whenever you can, which is a rare thing to find in most people that come. Most are just bored and in need of something to occupy themselves or their kids. Sometimes they don’t even pick that many berries. But you always make sure to bring your own basket, which holds just as many as if not more than the ones the farm provides, and fill it to the brim. In his eyes, you’re special.

Amidst the mostly-asleep state that you’re in, your eyes just barely open far enough to see a blurry picture of Donghyuck’s face as he carries you through the house and up into the bedroom he had suggested you share. He sets you down onto the soft mattress before pulling the covers up to your stomach, retreating into the attached bathroom to quickly change into a thin t-shirt and his favorite pair of plaid pajama pants.

The memory of that conversation floods back to you. Initially, you refused the offer, saying that he would rest better if he had more space to move around. But being the clingy person he is, he had pouted desperately as you struggled to stand your ground in the discussion. “Fine,” you had huffed, only half-frustrated with those doe eyes he always uses to get his way, and your lips had great difficulty holding back a smile.

The hum of electricity that can be heard emanating from the next room snaps you out of these thoughts, and is enough to wake you up a bit more. Your gaze scans the surroundings for a minute or two before he opens the door again, his eyes now looking as heavy as your own.

Donghyuck joins you under the blanket and shifts to lay on his side, facing you. It’s funny that you’re both able to adjust to a situation so intimate and new almost instantly. Still on your back, your head turns and you’re conscious enough to raise an eyebrow at the boy. There’s that pout again.

“Please?” He mumbles, his bottom lip jutting out in an action he’s perfected. You know exactly what he’s after: cuddles.

You don’t even try to hide the playful roll of your eyes as you scoot a little closer, but it’s not close enough for him. He gets impatient, meeting you halfway, and this time it’s him that flings a leg over yours. An endearing, small noise of contentment from him fills your ears as you take notice of his arms, now interlocked behind your neck and around your shoulders. You melt into the snug position, a hand landing on his forearm that’s laying across your chest. Turning ever so slightly to the side, your other hand winds around his middle and eventually rests just above his hip, pulling him into you even more. Donghyuck nuzzles his face into the side of your neck, a few strands of your hair tickling his skin as he sighs in complete and utter bliss.

Determined to savor the moment until the irresistible inevitability of slumber starts to overtake you once more, you fight to stay awake with all of your might. But in what you thought was only the blink of an eye, the glittering stars visible through the bay window’s sheer drapes morph into the pale golden rays of first light. There’s a soft murmur of your name along with an unintentional, almost imperceptible peck to the place where his lips meet your skin, and you’re wide awake. Not to mention a little shocked.

He’s utterly unfazed, though, slowly waking up now that the sun has gotten brighter, its beams filtering into the room and hitting his already glowing face that becomes a gorgeous honey-colored hue.

Donghyuck reluctantly withdraws his arms from your form after one last embrace, effortlessly rising from the wrinkled bed sheets and offering his hand to you when you start to do the same. A sleepy smile makes a home on his features and he reminds you of your task to deliver a portion of the dessert you made to his next-door neighbors.

That’s exactly what you do, first making yourselves presentable in the bathroom by smoothing down wild bed hair and freshening up your faces with cool water. Being around to see each other’s natural morning states is a major act of trust, and he doesn’t miss an opportunity to poke fun at you for it.

“How long does it normally take for you to do your hair every day before you come here?” His tone is dripping with feigned innocence, but the sly grin on his lips says otherwise.

“Shut up, Hyuck.”

Tupperware container in hand, your shoes step in rhythm with his as you amble along the grassy shoulder of the street together. Somehow you end up hand-in-hand by the time you reach his neighbors’ front patio.

“Donghyuck!” The elderly woman at the door greets him with a twinkling voice, her husband coming into view soon after. “Look who it is, honey,” she motions fondly to the boy who they both once knew to be much shorter and younger, but now is all grown up before their eyes. “You’re getting so tall. It seems like only yesterday you were scurrying through the blueberry fields and waving to us through the gaps in the fence.”

“Yes ma’am, it does,” he responds politely. The couple has been living there for as far back as he can remember, and quite honestly they feel as if they’ve become part of his family, too.

Her warm brown eyes light up. “Is this the customer your mother was telling me about last week? She mentioned how close you’ve become, and now I’m finally seeing it for myself. You make a lovely pair.”

“Oh—” Donghyuck startles. Not much can get him flustered, but he hadn’t exactly been anticipating for his mom to recount all the things he’s said about you to the sweetest and most innocent of elderly couples. Of course they would assume that there’s something going on.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, with you. He wouldn’t mind at all, really. He’ll just need to have a word about a little thing called privacy with his mother later.

You see the glint of panic in his eyes and speak up. It’s not often he makes such an easy target for teasing. “Thank you,” you state graciously, the smugness in the statement only noticeable to him. “We’re very happy together.” He feels you lean into him, fingers unwrapping from his and gripping the other side of his waist. You know exactly what you’re doing, and so does he.

Almost forgetting to hand over the slices of cobbler you’d cut earlier, Donghyuck nudges you to do so, and the four of you exchange thanks and farewells before you’re on your way back to the farm.

“Happy together, huh?”

“Shut up, Hyuck.” You mumble something else afterwards that he doesn’t quite catch.

“What’s that? Didn’t hear you,” he sings, stopping in his tracks. You do the same. “Shut up and what?”

“...And kiss me.”

After many days and many nights spent wondering, you can confirm that his lips do, indeed, taste as sweet as the blueberries in those fields.

[halfwaythereroyalwrites]

Long Enough (Oscar “Spooky” Diaz x Reader) Kilig One-Shot

Pairing: Oscar “Spooky” Diaz x Reader (tried to make this as gender neutral as possible)

Warnings: Fluffy not smutty like the title suggests 😅. Secondhand embarrassment from flirting. Mention of buying snacks. Play fighting. No other warnings I can think of unless your secondhand embarrassment is really bad. 

Word count: 2k+

Kilig is a Tagalog word to describe the feeling of excitement and exhilaration and possibly embarrassment from anything remotely romantic.

Masterlist

______________________________________

“Don’t you have some ‘important Santos business’ to do,” you teased, crossing your arms over your chest to reserve some warmth. 

“Nah, I thought we could go somewhere tonight,” Oscar replied, looking up at you from the driver’s seat of his red ‘63 Chevy Impala. Even from where you stood, you could smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne wafting through the air. The very cologne he knew drove you wild and therefore refused to name, no matter how many times you asked. A slight breeze blew between you, sending a chill through your body. These cold LA nights were rare, and it caught you by surprise to be caught in one when walking home from Monse’s place. 

The younger girl had asked you to have a night in with her to help take her mind off the latest drama with Cesar, and you happily obliged. Well...it was supposed to only be you and Monse. Five minutes into the night, Ruby and Jamal had shown up, eager to get in on a night of face masks, movies, and snacks. You didn’t realize how late it had been until you checked your phone and realized it was close to their curfew. After bidding Monse goodbye, you ushered Ruby and Jamal out and walked them back to their respective homes. This is how you got here now, in the middle of the street, talking to the big, bad leader of the Santos, Oscar Diaz. 

Better known as Spooky. 

“Where exactly are we going?” you asked, “There’s not much open right now.” 

“Just get in the car. I thought you liked mystery and shit,” Oscar quipped, his signature smirk on his full lips. Your eyes narrowed at his answer, wondering what Oscar had in mind. Your time with Oscar consisted of movie nights at his place with tension so thick, you can cut through it with a knife. This was new and unexpected, and you weren’t sure if the fluttering feeling in your chest was a good thing or a bad thing yet. “Come on. I know your ass is freezing out here.” 

You let out a dramatic sigh and walked over to the passenger’s side, mumbling loud enough for him to hear, “you’re lucky I’m fucking freezing out here...with your mysterious ass.” The passenger’s door was pushed open from the inside by Oscar, and you quickly ducked in and shut the door. Oscar shut the windows on his side, and you quickly did the same with your window, shutting out the air from further freezing you. He thankfully blasted the heater, and you wasted no time in adjusting the heaters to point directly at you, thawing the LA cold out of your body. “Why do you always drive with all your windows down? It’s so cold! See, feel!” Without warning, you grasped Oscar’s forearm with your cold, clammy hands. 

Oscar sucked air in through his teeth at your sudden intrusion but did not make a move to pry your hands away, “Fuck, you’re cold!” 

“See?! Ugh this is Southern California. We should never be this cold.” You retracted your hands away from him, realizing you were still holding on to his arm.

He smirked at the sight of you placing your face inches away from the nearest heater, the heater blowing your hair back, before shrugging, “I don’t know. I can warm you up if you want.” His voice became lower with every word he said, and you took notice of his raised eyebrow directed at you. 

You cleared your throat, which has suddenly become dry, before saying, “Can we please get something hot to drink before we go?” 

Oscar kissed his teeth before breaking out into a wide smile, making you forget the need to breathe for the briefest moment “Sure, buckle in.” 

“Ugh thank you!” You reached around and buckled yourself into your seat and proceeded to lean closer to the heaters. The car was silent as he steered one-handed through the dimly lit streets of Freeridge. There weren’t many people out, and the only sounds to be heard were the blasting heaters and the low rumble of the engine. You took a deep breath in and leaned back into the seat before asking, “So where are we going?” 

“I told you it was a surprise.” Another silence ensued as you turned your head to look at the Santos leader, who was looking straight ahead at the road, his face void of any expression.

“...but can I get a hint of where we’re going?” 

“No.” 

“...if we’re having a movie night, you could have just texted.” 

“It’s not a movie night.” 

“You haven’t texted me in the past few days,” you whispered. “That’s not like you.” 

“I had to figure some shit out. I’m here now, aren’t I?” His response made you press your lips together and look out your window, crossing your arms once more. You could feel the heat of Oscar’s gaze intermittently focusing on you, burning the side of your head. The rush of heat going to your ears was accompanied by the audible thumping in your chest. You leaned your body against the passenger’s side door as much as you could and started contemplating words to say when Oscar’s hand gripped your left thigh. “Hey. Hey look at me.” You continued to stare out the window. “Hey, I’m sorry alright? Things got real tense with the Prophet$, and I had to sort shit out. I forgot to text you. I’m sorry.” You turned to meet his gaze, and it seemed all your anger had melted away with just a look into his dark eyes. 

“Thank you. I was worried about you, and no one knew where you went, so I thought...something had happened to you,” you begrudgingly admitted, hyper-aware of the fact that Oscar’s hand on your thigh set a warm fire throughout your body. You wanted to throw up. Or hold his hand. Maybe. This...this...pounding in your chest. The sudden rush of warmth in your ears. The hairs on your arm standing up. Cold and hot at the same time with heat slowly crawling from your neck to your cheeks. What is this?! 

“You don’t gotta worry about me,” Oscar’s voice broke through your storming internal monologue. Did his voice get deeper somehow? “I’ll always come back for you, babe,” he chuckled. 

“Ok that’s...not necessary,” you made a weak attempt to push Oscar’s hand away as your cheeks burned in embarrassment over his new nickname for you. Oscar only squeezed your thigh in return and kept his hand exactly where it was. You watched him skillfully steer one-handed into the parking lot of the nearest corner store and turn the engine off. The still silence prompted you to turn your head to the handsome man seated next to you, only to find him already turned to you. 

“What are you looking at?” You saw Oscar’s devastatingly dark eyes flit back and forth, holding your gaze as if reading your eyes could give a hint of the storm currently occurring in your mind. Oscar let out a chuckle before squeezing your thigh and giving it a light slap. 

“Let’s grab snacks too. I’m hungry.” He let go of your thigh and exited the Impala, leaving you in a daze. Your hand instinctively covered the area on your thigh that his hand previously occupied, lightly feeling the remnants of his warm touch. Shaking your head at your actions, you unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the car door, only for the handle to be pulled away from your reach by Oscar, who had pulled the door open for you. You muttered a low thanks, eyebrows furrowed at the Santos leader. He locked the car before walking ahead of you and opening the front door of the corner store, holding it open for you to walk in, You glanced at him suspiciously before thanking him again and walking into the store, taking note of the slight brush of his hand against your hip. You made a beeline for the hot drink station at the back of the store, clasping your hands together and slightly shivering as you shuffled over. Oscar was not far behind you, acting as your taller shadow, his breath slightly fanning over your neck as he looked over your shoulder. You swallowed the knot forming in your throat and kept it suppressed by making small talk. When it came time to pay for your snacks, Oscar had pulled out a wad of bills faster than you could grab the card out of your wallet. He grabbed the snacks as you told him a halfhearted promise to pay him back. 

“Don’t worry about it. I gotchu,” he smiled, placing his hand on your waist and ushering you out the door. His cologne has taken over all your senses now, and the wires of your brain were beginning to short circuit. You found it hard to even think outside of this time with him. You found yourself taking notice of all the small ways he was currently driving you insane. 

Like the way he still kept a hold on your thigh as he drove. 

And how he told you about how he had watched the food show you had recommended on Netflix. 

And how he asked you to feed him a gummy worm and you felt the faint touch of his lips as you placed one in his mouth. 

He also told you to reply to a text from Sad Eyes on his behalf, telling him that he can’t hang out right now. 

And with every laugh and every smile, he would squeeze your thigh which would send a jolt of endorphins through your body.

Before long, the winding road Oscar was driving up on ended on a flat lookout. There were only two other cars there, considerably distanced from the two of you. Oscar had parked the car to where the trunk was facing the twinkling lights of Freeridge down below. Without saying a word, he got out of the car and popped the trunk open, where he pulled out a large blanket, big enough to fit the two of you. You got out of the car, clutching your drink, snacks in the other hand, and let a cheesing smile make its way onto your face. 

“What is this?” you asked Oscar who was now looking at you expectedly. 

“I thought we could just chill for tonight. See the stars and shit,” he gestured upwards to the dark sky. You giggled at the lack of stars in the sky. Typical for Los Angeles. You handed your drink to Oscar who took it without question. 

“May I?” you asked, looking between him and the trunk of his car. Oscar nodded, and you jumped up on the top of his trunk, and he followed suit, wrapping both you and him in the blanket. You rested your weight against him, placing your head on his shoulder. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you looked at the yellow lights of the city below. “Why did you actually bring me here?” 

“...I wanted to ask you something.” You slowly raised your head off his shoulder, and looked at him, his face laced with an emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

“What is it?” you whispered. 

Oscar cleared his throat before focusing his dark gaze on you. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, and I thought...that maybe...we could give this a real shot.” 

You grinned. “Oscar Diaz. Are you asking me to go steady with you?” 

Oscar kissed his teeth at your teasing grin. “Come on, I’m being serious!” 

“So am I! Are you asking me to be in a relationship or to be exclusive? They’re sort of different nowadays.”

“The first part.” 

“...I need to hear you say it.” 

Oscar gazed at you before cupping your face in his hand, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek. He whispered your name before asking, “will you be in a relationship with me?” You blinked at him a couple times before your hand came to meet his hand that was still caressing your face. You held his wrist and kissed the inside of his palm. 

“...what’s the magic word?” 

Oscar rolled his eyes at you before whispering, “please?”

You smiled before nodding, a little too enthusiastically. Oscar shook his head at you before returning your smile with a bright one of his own. “Ok now hold me,” you demanded, flinging his hand away from your cheek to go around your shoulder. You snuggled into the warmth of his body as he drew you closer and placed a kiss to your temple. “Took you long enough to ask me,” you whispered.  

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

______________________________________

A/N: I have finally broken my writer’s block. There’s quite a few life changes and obstacles I’m going through, and finally being able to finish a fic was so satisfying. Let me know what you think and if you want to be added to my taglist! 

General: @peppermintvanillaa @fantasticcopeaglepasta @panda-angela

Kilig taglist: @multifandomlife22 @thottiewinemom @princeabomination @svetlana-beilschmidt