#Do you want to build a snow seal? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

devnmon · 1 year ago

Text

Hidden Comforts (Under the Covers)

Summary: Winter in the prison keeps Daryl awake for days, and it seems his only solution for rest is seeking you out in the dead of night.

a/n: yep. it’s me, devnmon, writing yet another daryl fic after months of not writing. here’s one of my favorite trope(s), tweaked a bit for the likes of this fic: the one bed trope. lots of cute pining from both sides, shyness and uncertainty for the like of the masses. i hope u guys will survive as this is the softest shit i’ve ever fucking wrote. enjoy <3 [credit 2 cafekitsune for dividers]

warnings: none

wc: 2k

Windows froze solid shook against the wind and ice raining down from the sky, along with inches upon inches of snow to make the prison courtyard a white frontier. The only thing this kind of weather helped was depleting the amount of walkers around, ones who hadn’t frozen solid against a tree or upright in the ice.

Among the cold walls of the prison, a shiver of slight wind continuously fled through the building. There were god knows how many cracks in the foundation, windows that were void of panes, not to mention the ginormous hole in one of the halls that had been sealed off from the otherwise livable quarters. All the rebuilding of your home, yet the frigid temperatures persisted.

It was cold enough outside, your group couldn’t help the breeze finding its way in above all they’ve done to patch the place up. There was no way of setting a fire for just a smidge of warmth, either. So, the remaining members of your group were left to the clothes on their backs, and whatever they’d scavenged from the cells to help fend off the frozen temperatures.

Outside, the wind rapped against windows and a shiver ran through your body. You’d been hunched over in your cell, layers upon layers of clothing attempted to clothe yourself from the weather. It did nothing to help the cold from seeping to your core. Your teeth chittered against one another, a hand wrapping around the wool blanket from your mattress to cover your body with it.

From a distance, you heard footsteps down the hall. Probably just Rick or Daryl making their rounds in the cell blocks to see how everyone was holding up during the storm. It was hard for everyone, especially the new people taken in from Woodbury and Judith, Rick’s infant daughter, to deal with this discomfort of winter.

Thudding of feet on the stone flooring became louder minute by minute, knowing now that it had to be one of the two men, now, leaders of your group of survivors you called family. You weren’t as advanced as Daryl was with his tracking, so you really couldn’t tell which one of the men it was. Though, as the steps became louder, it came to your attention the distinct sound of heeled boots, as well as metal clinking on his belt. It was only a moment before you heard the sound of the sheet blocking your cell doorway being pulled back.

“Hey. How you holdin’ up?”

Hesitating on movement at first, you sighed, then turned toward the southern voice in the doorway. Rick stood in the hallway, hand on his hip, the other holding the curtain back.

“Hey, Rick. I’m... hanging in there… best I can. Not much I can do to change how fucking cold it is but… how’s everyone else doing?”

You hear him respond from the hall, “They’re managing. Carl was askin’ about you though, wanted to make sure you were okay. He’s spending the night with Judith.”

“Mm, okay. I’ll check in with him later… or tomorrow. Whenever I’m not freezing my ass off..” Chuckling, you shift the blanket tighter around you.

“Right, well don’t freeze to death tonight, ‘kay? We need you,” He says, beginning to drop the curtain until he pulls it back open and says, “Daryl was askin’ about you earlier.”

“Daryl was? What- what did he say?” You double blinked in surprise at such an idea.

You had just recently become close with him, but it would be a lie if you said you weren’t holding back some teeny tiny feelings for him. A teeny tiny crush that made being in the mere presence of him overwhelming. Your palms always began sweating whenever he got close to you, making your voice shake and train of thought lost in the way he held himself. Daryl was intimidating, but you knew he was kind, and even quite funny amidst the struggles he’s been through.

“Somethin’ about him not being able to sleep in this cold. Was wondering the same about you. He’ll probably be up all night...” Rick scratched the back of his head.

“Poor guy... I mean I thought he was a night owl, but I couldn’t imagine not being able to sleep at all.” You stated, concern for him growing.

“He’s had it rough. But I don’t think he’ll put his head down even if he got within an inch of being tired. Would you check on him if you get the chance?”

“Sure. You should go get some rest yourself. You definitely need it.”

“Yeah, I’ll try. Have a good night.” You smile at him this time as he drops the sheet fully this time, the clicking of his heeled boots drifting away.

What kept you awake for the next half hour was the thought of what went on behind those pretty eyes of his, always considering everyone around him while not thinking of himself at all. You sigh, I wish I could make things better for you. Show you how much love you deserve. Fuck…

You drift off after that, succumbing to fatigue that had your eyelids feeling a hundred pounds heavy.

A couple hours pass before slight stirring outside your small room catches your observant ear. It was far past midnight yet, late enough for everyone with a normal sleep schedule to be out like a light.

You lay in bed, eyes still closed, thinking, who the hell is up at this hour?

The footsteps fade to nothing, thinking whoever it was went back to sleep, perhaps to use the bathroom or something. Then you heard someone clear their throat from the hall, sounding right outside your sheet. It’s then your eyes shot open, peering over to the entrance of the room. You’re about to call out, but remember the dozens of sleeping individuals in the other cells. So you wait.

Sure enough, you hear a sigh still outside of your room, patiently waiting for some, if any, response.

You hear a faint call out of your name, given by someone with a low, surly voice. It takes a minute to register in your head as to who it was, and then you remember what Rick told you earlier.

“Daryl? That you?” Rubbing your eyes from sleep, you sit up.

“Yeah, ‘s me.” You hear his faint footsteps approach slowly, his silhouette painting a dark figure against the white of your sheet. His hand lifts it, peering in with curiosity.

“Come- come in. You don’t have to stay out there.” You state, waving him into the cell, noticing his poncho thrown over his usual leather jacket and shirt. When he’s fully in the room, you notice the dark circles lingering under his blues, proving Rick’s knowledge of the man was true.

“I didn’t wake ya, did I? Shit- couldn’t sleep. Been up forever.”

Shaking your head, you give a small smile, “No, don’t worry. I got some sleep but the cold wasn’t really helping.”

He nods, chewing the inner side of his lip.

“What’s up, Daryl?”

“I just- Ya know this weather, there ain’t a smidge of heat in this damn prison. No matter how many blankets I got.” He half chuckles, but you can tell it’s more of a scoff. Daryl’s wringing his hands within each other and pacing across the floor.

“I know, feels like I’m wearing ten layers of clothes just to not freeze to death. It’s fucking awful. Like I’ve never seen…” You stop for a moment, taking in his stressed state before he glances at you, “Uh.. never seen Georgia of all places have harsh snow like this. Lived here all my life and it’s never been this bad.”

“Yeah, me too. Except that was when we had electricity, and fuckin- road pavers or some shit. I don’t fuckin’ know.” Daryl picks up the chuckle you let out at his words, and you’re nodding when he looks over again.

“Hey, listen. It’s late and I know you didn’t come all the way from the perch to talk to me about the weather.. so really, what’s on your mind?”

Daryl’s pacing halts abruptly, knowing you can read him like a book. It feels as though his stomach turns inside out when he thinks about what he really wants to say. “I uh… I’ve been up for probably two, no, three days now, haven’t been able to sleep since the cold. And… fuck.“

“You know you can tell me anything.” He huffs out a breath and nods to himself, almost like he’d been trying to hype himself up for wanted, no, needed to say. His hesitation had already made you anxious and you wanted to pick his brain to ease all his worries. But you stayed silent and let him speak.

“Okay, listen. I’m damn freezing… and uh, I know you run warm. Like a damn furnace in the summer. But I was wonderin’ if… You wouldn’t mind if I… um, lay with ya?”

You hold off on responding for a moment as his words turn the gears in your head. Daryl wanted to… lay in bed? With you? Just the idea of his body that close to you made your hands sweat. Your eyes darted around swiftly, before you responded.

“Like, in- in my bed? With me?”

“Uh, yeah. Feels like that’s the only way I’m gonna be able to get some shuteye.” His eyebrows furrowed, and you noticed his fidgeting hands. Your silence made him immediately think it was a shit idea and he should’ve just kept it to himself. Should’ve just suffered through the fatigue and gone back to his perch. He began to realize you were about to deny him. What was he thinking?

“Daryl, this bed is not big enough for the two of us.” You chuckled playfully and watched his stern face drop.

“Oh, alrigh’. Sorry t’bother ya.” He began to turn his broad shoulders toward the door.

“But…”

He froze in his steps, turning back.

“Your warmth and rest is more important to me. So, get your ass over here.” A small smile formed on your tired face, painting the tips of his ears red. Daryl kicked off his shoes by the doorway and padded over to your bed. Once you moved to lay down on your side, you lay your head on the edge of your pillow, inviting him to share the blanket with you, your arm out in a welcoming embrace.

Daryl, still caught off guard with the fact that you were letting him be this close to you, kept his poncho on and crawled in next to you on the creaky mattress. He wasn’t surprised at the warmth radiating off you once he fully laid down next to you. The second he looked up at your face, the realization that your faces were inches away made his eyes widen.

“Glad you’re not one to shy away in close quarters..” You giggle, gazing at his facial features for the first time, and this is as close as the two of you have ever been. A corner of his mouth quirks upwards, the smallest inkling of a smile on his face.

“This tiny ass bed is somehow more comfy than mine. Maybe ‘cause you’re here..” You could tell Daryl’s fatigue was catching up with him, as his words slurred, and his eyes began to flutter closed. A piece of his hair falls in front of his eyes, and you move your hand up to move it from covering his eyelids. Once your fingertip ghosts over his face, he flinched, only slightly for a moment and remembered you’re there. He knows you’d never hurt him, leaning into your movement, his shoulders easing up their tightness.

“Shh.. get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Your voice is low and soft, it right about lulls him to sleep.

“M’kay, sunshine.” Daryl scoots in, pressing an inch or so closer to you. You don’t realize at first, but his right hand lays directly on top of yours. His warm hand caresses your palm, slightly moving your fingers to intertwine in his. You cup his cheek, and lightly press a kiss to his forehead. He grumbles to himself a bit more, till you sense he’s fallen asleep, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as well.

He's warm and familiar, safe and closer than ever. You wanted to breathe in the scent of his leather jacket and never let go.

Seems like you were just what he needed for a good night’s rest.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #ryesff #the walking dead fanfiction #daryl dixon x you #daryl x you #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon #devnmon writes

506 notes · View notes

poppy-s-rampage · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 2: Welcome to Gotham!

Warnings: A little bit of blood, breakdown and emotional distress.

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

Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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

After finally closing up the last wound, Clockwork took a moment to look over his work. All of the young Halfa’s wounds have been sealed and treated with diluted ectoplasm. It was only enough to make the injuries look a week old at best but it will have to do.

The Ancient lifted his staff and in one swift movement ripped a hole in the fabric of reality. CW then carefully cradled Danny in his arms. Then both the Ancient and the Halfa stepped into the portal.

On the other side, they were met with an emaciated woman clad in a red and black Victorian dress accompanied by a small rose decorated matching hat. In her hand a small umbrella made of lace and what seemed to be black clouds.

Her delicate snow white skin furrowed by ink black veins. Her blood red lips striking against the pallor of her face were pursed in worry. Her eyes, even while covered by her laced black veil, didn’t hide her apprehension.

The woman’s dress’s neckline was fashioned in the silhouette of a bat. Pearls scattered like falling stars across the red and black folds of the garment. Her waist encased in a tight bodice was embellished by small golden coins and feathers. The red fishtail spilling on the ground lazily trailing after its mistress.

The woman bowed her head, greeting the Ancient and his charge.

“Lord Clockwork.” Her raspy yet somehow suave voice resonated into the night.

“Lady Gotham.” He responded while slightly dipping his head down.

The city spirit glanced at the boy in the other’s arm. His bandaged form and torn clothes were not what first captured her attention. What truly horrified her was the state of the young Halfa’s core. Wrapped and cracked, barely a breath away from breaking and ceasing to exist.

Her own aching at the view, screaming at her to take the boy, wrap him in a bundle of blankets and nurse/guard him until at full health.

Being ended was reserved to the lowest of the low. It was a last resort that should only be used should the offender be irredeemable and too dangerous to be contained. To think that this almost happened and still could to her own king and one so young.

It was nauseating.

Lady Gotham forced herself to look away, turning her attention back to Clockwork.

“I assume he is the charge you want to bring into my care.”

“He is.” Clockwork responded.

The woman nodded, the smoke and black clouds in her umbrella spreading around her.

“Then if you will follow me.”

Lady Gotham faded and became one with the smog. The black mass zooming towards Midtown Gotham, the ancient of time on its heels.

They soon arrived in front of a small but clean apartment building. The two ghosts phased through the wall of the top floor only to be greeted by the view of a spacious yet cozy loft.

The unit was furnished with all the necessary furniture, non-ecto-contaminated food already stocked in the fridge. The space was designed in order to facilitate Daniel’s recovery. The boy would already be going through hell with his recovery and grief; it was best not to add insult to injury.

The city spirit having taken back physical form, leads Clockwork towards the bed on the second floor of the loft.

Once inside, the Ancient carefully sets Danny down on the bed and slowly covers him with a soft blanket. He then produced a pen and a neon green notepad from who knows where and started writing.

Lady Gotham approached the ghost.

“Lord ClockWork, pardon my intrusion, but wouldn’t it be best for you to explain the situation to the young king face to face.”

Clockwork paused.

“Young Daniel is too unstable to be dealing with the emotional distress my presence would bring. He has been hurt enough as it is.”

“Those excuses are nothing but the words of a coward.”

“Pardon me?”

“You are not. Are you truly running away in order to protect the boy or are you doing so to save yourself?”

“…”

“Tell me, Lord Clockwork. When the young king awakens, would he prefer to be met with an insincere apology letter from a coward or the genuine words of a man admitting to his mistakes?”

Clockwork couldn’t even utter a word.He didn’t have any excuse to defend himself. The city spirit was right.

“Your words are as sharp as ever, old friend.”

“I speak nothing but the truth, Master of Time. However, it seems to me that you are already set on your decision.”

“I-”

“I hope in your interest that you made the right choice.” The Lady snapped.

The woman turned away but not without leaving a few departing words.

“Or that at least you are prepared to face the consequences.”

Lady Gotham disappeared in a whirlwind of smog.

Clock work turned back to Daniel watching as his face scrunched up when the old ghost brushed a strand of hair away from his face.

His old core flared with parental love.

He looked so peaceful, as if nothing ever went wrong. However, In just a few hours, he would wake up and reality would come crashing down.

His bright and joyous protegee. The one he couldn’t help but adore every version of. The one he subconsciously adopted as his own child.

Clockwork couldn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to face the hatred and pain his pupil would inevitably direct at him.

Gotham was right.

The Master of Time set down the notepad on the night table

He was a coward.

—-------

*A few hours later*

As the first few rays of sunshine broke through Gotham’s thick smog, a young black and white haired boy slowly woke up from his slumber.

It was comfortable, the soft fluffy blanket brushing against his achy skin. The warmth that comes with being cocooned in the safety of your own bed. Danny didn’t want to open his eyes. But he needed to wake up, in just a few moments Jazz would come knocking at his door to drag him to school.

The soft familiar knock never came, but the memories sure did.

Danny snapped his eyes open. Tears threatening to fall.

Clockwork -LiaR- ,the reveal, the capture -BeTraYaL-, the experiments -PaIN-, Jazz, Sam, Tucker,-PAINPAINPAIN mY FauLT- the wails, blood, explosion, death -MurDEreR!-, pain, Core breaking, burning, melting- PAIN PAIN PAIN! I ShOuLD be DeAD!-.

The Halfa now fully awake kicked the blanket enveloping him away and tried to get out of the bed.

His legs still injured and unable to support his weight gave out and he collapsed on the wooden floor in a heap.

The sharp pain of jolting his injuries and face planting further cemented to Danny that he wasn’t dreaming and that the nightmare was fully real.

“...no…NONONONONONO! Please, no! Please! I BEG YOU! PLEASE! JAZZ, TUCK, SAM PLEASE! DONT BE REAL! PLEASE!” Danny tried to say, but the only thing that came out were erratic breaths that could vaguely be associated with words. His damaged throat made it impossible to even breathe without it flaring in pain.

Choked and pained sobs filled the once silent room.

The young Halfa still collapsed on the floor cried , slowly curling up on himself hugging his knees.

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

Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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

See you next time!

68 notes · View notes

jungle-angel · 1 year ago

Text

A King's Home Is His Castle (Admiral!Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: You and Bob have worked so hard to build lives for yourselves and for your family and despite what others say, home will always be a special place for you, Bob and your little ones.

Warnings: Misogynistic remarks from a Naval officer, language, Admiral Bob popping off and pulling rank etc.

Tagging: @bradleybeachbabe @sebsxphia @floralfloyd and any other mutuals who have kept me going since day one. Guys, this is for you

Bob couldn't really stand having to go to half of these Navy functions, especially now since the weather was shitty and everyone was coming down with seasonal illnesses. Already he could feel the onset of it, the scratchiness in his throat, the body aches and pains, the swollen nodes in his neck and the achy wetness that had settled in his chest.

The last place Bob had wanted to be was at the Seaport Hotel, his clammy skin pricking with goosebumps under his Navy dress blacks as the snow had begun to fall. In he went, heading to the ballroom where all the other Navymen and women had gathered to celebrate Cyclone's birthday. Good God he felt terrible, just plain sick and terrible.

"Admiral Floyd!" boomed a gravely, deep voice. "Good to see you."

"Admiral Hauser," Bob greeted, shaking his hand. "Likewise."

"How's the family?"

"Never better," Bob said with a smile. "(Y/N) and I are excited, we've got a new little one due in a month."

"Good on ya kid," Admiral Hauser replied. "I'll see if I can bring back a case of cigars from Southeast Asia when my carrier crew ships out for duty."

"Oh that's right," Bob said, suddenly remembering. "You're training with the Royal Thai Navy SEALS aren't you?"

"None other," Admiral Hauser chuckled. "Admiral Nataya said he wants his units in shape for duty and that's what we're gonna do."

Bob and Admiral Hauser shared a few good laughs, but it couldn't do much to suppress the annoying tickle in his throat.

"Jeez Bob, you look like hell," Jake remarked.

"I feel like it," Bob answered, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "I think Auggie caught something at school and brought it home."

"Uh oh, speaking of diseases," Jake muttered under his breath. "Here comes one right now."

"Oh God no," Bob whispered.

Sure enough it was, Admiral Terrance Hamilton, the bane of the unit's existence. Bob couldn't stand the prick for the life of him let alone work with him. The shithead had already gone completely grey, the results of self-induced stress and problems that had been of his own creation. A bore to the enth degree, Admiral Hamilton talked excessively of finance, a hobby of his that seemed to overtake his mind, a man unable to understand the outside interests of others. He had profusely made fun of Bob for enjoying books that weren't about hard, cut and dry facts and couldn't stand the fact that Bob and the other Daggers had chosen to send their children to a school where creativity and imagination were the prime focus of the curriculum. Hell, Hamilton had even gone so far as to make lewd and rather unseemly jokes about (Y/N) Floyd, Bob's beloved wife and the mother of his children. Bob could practically smell the arrogance radiating off the man as he approached, the self-righteous gleam in his eyes and the stiffness of his perfectly pressed Navy dress blacks.

"Admiral Floyd," Hamilton greeted, shaking Bob's hand.

"Admiral Hamilton," Bob said with a rather curt politeness. "How are you?"

Hamilton replied with only a scoffing chuckle. "How do you think I'm doing?" he questioned. "I've been dealing with a passive aggressive woman who can't seem to wrap her head around what's going on lately."

Bob only nodded and gave him a polite smile. He could feel the cold negativity creeping in under his skin. "Sorry to hear that," was all Bob said.

"Ah, there's nothing that can be done," Hamilton answered with a wave of his hand. "How about the wife?"

"We're uh.....we're getting ready for a new baby in the family," Bob told him. "This is our fourth."

"Hah!" Hamilton laughed. "Must be doing something right if you can keep her full of you."

Bob and Jake cast a glance at each other, scrunching their eyebrows together. "I beg your pardon sir?" Bob asked.

"Can't keep her off you huh?" Hamilton said with a chuckle. "Sweet and demure on the outside but a fiend in the bedroom?"

"Sir I'm sorry but I don't....."

"It's a joke," Hamilton cut in.

"Doesn't seem like a joke to me," Jake said rather coldly.

"Oh c'mon Seresin," Hamilton chuckled. "Laugh a little bit. That's not the worst you've heard I'm sure."

Bob could feel the heat filling his face and something coiling in his chest. The audacity of this man.....the pure, sheer audacity to make those remarks and in public of all places!

"So I hear the boy's in school huh?" Hamilton enquired.

"Yes," Bob answered, swirling the amber whiskey and half melted ice cubes in his glass. "Just started the kindergarten program at the Waldorf school near where we live. The rest of the squad's kids are in his class as well."

"One of those hippie schools I presume," Hamilton said, scoffing a little. "If I had kids I wouldn't pay to have them waste their education on art and music."

Oh now he was getting mad. Bob knew that there was nothing worse in the world than feeling sick and angry all at once. He couldn't tell if it was heat from his sore throat or from the anger that boiled in his blood, but something was about to boil over.

"You said your on what? Your fourth kid too?"

"Yes."

"Jeez," Hamilton sniffed. "I'd have no patience for that, a bunch of kids running around the house screaming, talking back and being undisciplined. And let me guess, your little wifey wants a whole baseball team?"

That was it......that was officially the straw that had broken the camel's back. Jake saw a flash in Bob's eyes as Bob calmly took a sip of his whiskey, never once breaking eye contact with the slimy little twerp.

"Let me tell you something Admiral Hamilton.....Sir," Bob said, sharply emphasizing the last word. "Do you have any idea what family actually means or are you just that blind and ignorant?"

"Sorry?"

"You have no idea what (y/n) and I have been through in our eight years of marriage so far," Bob said icily. "You don't have a clue what we've both given up to be together and to build the lives we have now. In fact I think you might be a little bit jealous."

"Jealous?" Hamilton questioned.

"Yes, jealous," Bob answered sharply. "Because you walked all over the people who have tried to help you, the very same people you deemed to be out to get you because you always thought you were in the right about everything."

"Admiral Floyd, I....I never...." Hamilton chuckled nervously.

"And another thing too," Bob interrupted. "You've always been jealous of what everybody else has. I've heard you, day after day complain about people that are married, have kids or have this or that. Don't think I haven't heard you complain about Lieutenant Avery and her wife celebrating fifteen years together or Lieutenant Parker and his husband finally adopting a kid they've been fighting for, for the last year and a half or even Admiral Seresin and his wife, Rachel, celebrating their own wedding anniversary."

Admiral Hamilton simply froze, a dead look in his eyes and unable to speak.

"One more thing," Bob said, the heated hardness in his tone becoming obvious. "If I ever and I mean ever.......catch you making unseemly remarks about my wife or any of the other Navy wives every again, I'll make sure that your Navy career is ruined and that your reputation has a huge yellow stain. Hell, that might even be a good nickname for you, now that I think about it. How do you like that Admiral Seresin?

"I'm starting to think that's not such a bad idea," Jake said with a huge, shit-eating grin crawling across his face. "Old Yellow-Stain....it's got a nice ring to it."

He could see that Hamilton was fuming, Bob having hit him right where it hurt the most.

"You think you're better than everybody else don't you?" Hamilton fumed. "If it's one think I can't stand it's privleged little pricks who think they're better than everybody else."

"So you?" Bob questioned, raising his eyebrows.

Hamilton's face began to turn bright red.

"Sorry Admiral," Bob said, his cheeky, lopsided grin forming on his face. "But the only person you're hurting is yourself."

Oh could he feel the anger beginning to radiate from the insulted Admiral, his eyes were like ice, his eyebrows turned down in a scowl that would have a brand new seaman running scared.

"So might I propose a toast," Bob said. "To Admiral Hamilton, the greatest insult to the Navy since Admiral Richmond K. Turner."

It was a split second before Bob flung the remaining whiskey in his glass into Hamilton's face, the slimy gimp's jaw hanging open in shock as the amber liquid ran down his face and dripped onto his dress uniform. Admiral Hamilton huffed and stormed off, leaving the ballroom and the two other higher ranking Admirals in his wake.

"Well that went over like a fart during Christmas Mass," Jake laughed.

Bob laughed but it was interrupted by a bone cracking wet cough.

"Alright," Jake said. "What do you say we stay for the cutting of the cake and then go home?"

Bob grimaced and nodded, trying to take in a breath. They stayed just a little while longer before at last, they were able to jump in Jake's truck and head for home.

The snow was coming down a little bit harder, the plows just having gone by and the heat blasting as music played from Jake's phone in the cupholder.

"Nice pop-off by the way," Jake chuckled.

"That actually felt really good," Bob laughed.

"You got nasty though! I'm proud!" Jake exclaimed.

They laughed the whole way home until Jake pulled in the driveway, the two huge Victorian homes side by side in what was known as "Admiral's Village". Bob gathered his cap and walked along the sidewalk, up the path and onto the front porch where he lived with you and your children. Much to his surprise, the lights were still on inside which meant that the babies would still be awake, more so if school was called off the next day.

He opened the door and headed inside, the house warm and cozy and the smell of a fresh dinner wafting from the kitchen. The scritching of nails on the hardwood floor signaled the arrival of the family dogs, Tank, Bandit and the two newest additions to your family, a little black Scottish terrier that Auggie had named Jock, and a little Pekingese puppy you and Bob had named Dolly after she had been found outside the Dolly Madison house in DC. She was still so tiny, only half the size of Jock and dwarfed in comparison to the others.

Bob gave them all the scritches they could possibly ask for, scooping Dolly up off her stubby little legs and into the curve of his elbow before he made his way into the kitchen.

There you were, just having seated Auggie, Patrick and Diedre at the table, the smell of a warm, freshly roasted chicken out of the oven and resting in the pan on the stove while the smell of your homemade cinnamon spice cake cooling on the counter.

"DADDY!!!!!!" The babies chirped as they practically jumped off their seats at the table.

"Come give me hugs babies!" Bob laughed as Dolly sprang to the floor, leaving him to throw his arms around your children and litter their cheeks with kisses.

"Baba! Baba I want kissy!" Diedre demanded as she tried to push past her brothers.

"C'mere princess," Bob chuckled, scooping her up off her feet and pressing a big, wet kiss to her cheek which made her giggle.

Bob looked over at you in your burgundy colored shawl sweater, He could almost feel the hot flush himself, though it might have been due to the burning clump of mucous in his throat more than anything else.

"There's my handsome king of the castle," you teased as you took each other in your arms.

Bob pressed a sweet kiss to your lips before nuzzling your cheeks. "Sorry sweet cheeks," he said. "I think I'm getting sick."

"I'll say," you remarked, holding the back of your hand to his forehead. "You're warmer than usual. Auggie must've brought something home from school."

"Sorry if I get you sick sweetheart," he apologized.

"Oh Bob c'mon," you assured him. "I teach at that same school and my first graders this year still don't know how to cover their mouths."

Bob laughed a little before the coughing caught him again. You called the babies back into the kitchen to come and get their plates, plating everyone's dinners before you, Bob and the little ones were all seated in the dining room. Once grace was said, the five of you dug right in and went back and forth about how the day and evening's events had gone.

"How was the birthday celebration for Cyclone?" you asked him.

"Well," Bob said before finishing the last bite of asparagus. "Funny you should ask that."

He explained every little bit about what had happened, even the parts that he knew might upset you. Yet despite the awful remarks made by one of the naval commanders, you remained level headed and calm.

"You watch," you chuckled. "He'll say the wrong thing at the wrong time and Hamilton's Navy career will be over."

Once dinner was eaten, you loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, cleaning up and putting away the leftovers for the next day while Bob lit a fire in the living room fireplace. He went away upstairs to switch into something more comfortable, the flannel pjs you had gotten him for Christmas the year before.

You made him a hot green tea, slipping in one of your herb packets for seasonal illnesses and let it steep before handing it off to him. "Mommy! Mommy!" Auggie chirped, bouncing with excitement as he tried to hand you one of the books off the shelf. "Can we read a story?"

"Go right by the fireplace and we'll read a story before bed ok?" you told him. "I've gotta get Daddy settled first."

Auggie giggled and ran off to get nice and warm by the fireplace, all three of the kids having just slipped into their pjs and dragging a blanket and their favorite stuffie down from their bedrooms.

“Chivalry!---why, maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affection---the stay of the oppressed, the redresser of grievances, the curb of the power of the tyrant ---Nobility were but an empty name without her, and liberty finds the best protection in her lance and her sword.” You read.

You, Bob and the babies were completely engrossed in Ivanhoe, the strange and wonderful tale of a Saxon knight and his adventures during the reign of Richard The Lionheart. He loved the way you read, your voice comforting and soft, like the cozy wool throw blanket he had wrapped himself in. Bob didn't care what anyone said. He loved nights like this, when you and him would gather around the fire with the babies to read to them before bed, losing yourselves in the adventures, fantasy and fun of it all.

It wasn't long before the babies had all fallen asleep with Bob carrying them upstairs, one at a time and not wanting you to hurt yourself since his sister had insisted on no heavy lifting at all. Once they were all asleep, it was just you and him, the two of you on the comfy old sofa in the living room, warming yourselves by the fire and his big, gentle hand rubbing soft circles on your obvious bump.

"Jeez (y/n) he's going nuts," Bob chuckled, feeling the tiny little feet kicking against his palm.

"He knows it's you," you hummed happily, a lazy smile worn on your face as you leaned against Bob and relaxed into his touch.

Bob bent a little lower and pressed a loving kiss to your bump. "I love you my precious boy," he whispered. "You, your momma and your brothers and sister mean everything to me."

You both snuggled close together, letting the troubles of the day run off like rain on a roof. The snow kept falling hard outside, but the warmth and coziness of your home enveloping the two of you fully as you and your husband fell asleep with the fire crackling away through the night. When you woke up the next morning, greeted by the look of pure love on Bob's face, you were both grateful beyond words for each other and the life you had built.

#top gun maverick #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #admiral!bob #admiral! bob floyd #jake hangman seresin #admiral!jake #admiral! jake hangman seresin #dagger squad

323 notes · View notes

dronebiscuitbat · 2 months ago

Text

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 80)

The first step in a long list was to set up a lab outside the bunker. N and V helping to move debris and burned out vehicles from the area right outside. And a small team of workers setting up temporary shelters to work in and hooking it up to the main power grid.

Uzi did her part, standing over a map with the locations of each landing pod, there were around ten of them within salvaging range, in various conditions ranging from utterly destroyed to lightly damaged.

“We'll start with the pod in the corpse spire. It's the most intact, since I've already attempted some repairs.” The building she was standing in was made from thin scrap metal, welded together hastily to serve as a planning room. Tera was sitting on the edge of the table, eyes darting to the 20 or so people huddled around her mother and the map.

It had only taken exactly 24 hours for them to set up this rudimentary workshop, she hadn't been joking when she'd said workers were incredibly efficient in large groups.

Even so, the inside of the building was still drafty, and some snow still found it's way inside. It didn't matter, it still served it's purpose well enough.

“We still have that big ass fork lift?” She asked into the room, and a drone behind her with white eyelights gave her a curt nod.

“Good, we'll need it to move the pod.” She circled the closest pod on the map- the corpse spire. Eyes a certain degree of determined as she sighed.

She was working with Khan’s team of engineers, the ones most experienced with doing something this large or complex. Even so, she still felt weird being the one basically in charge.

“Right, need to get that lift out here, then we'll head out to recover the pod.” At that, several people left; presumably to make good on that request. While a few more fluttered around the planning room, sealing up holes in the thin walls or writing on notebooks.

She wasn't used to giving orders, and she certainly wasn't used to people following them without much question. This was her plan, and she was really the best drone to see it through due to her previous work on the pod, but that didn't mean she wasn't incredibly nervous about leading a team. She'd only ever worked by herself.

A small knock on the empty doorframe caught her attention and she looked back, finding N hovering there, covered in a dusting of rust and a thin veneer of old motor oil.

“All the cars are moved. V said she was going to do a sweep to make sure the perimeter is secure. Need anything?” He smiled tiredly, though it was significantly less full of poorly hidden dread. With a job to do and a plan made, there was definitely more hope behind his visor.

“Nothing other then more sleep.” She replied bitterly, though her ire more directed towards the situation then him. She felt his radiating heat come closer and she had to fight against the urge to lean back into him and curl up into it.

“You sure? What about a break? You've been up on your feet for hours.” His tone grew more soft, and it now drew the attention of a couple of her team members from their tasks, they very unsubtlely tried to hide either behind a notebook or another task, but she could see the soft smiles and knowing looks.

“I'm fine, I'll take a break when we get the first pod in…” She waved him off, not wanting to be soft in front of her team. She'd already exposed herself once, live on stage. That wasn't about to happen again.

“Uzi that could take all night, plus, it's going to be sunrise soon, we can't be out here.” She blinked, oh yeah, she hadn't thought of that, her N and V were limited to nighttime hours, it was lucky that nights on Copper-9 were rather long, but it still put a crunch on things.

“Sh-” She looked at Tera, who was now looking at her curiously, Uzi grumbled as she censored herself, knowing that Tera was beginning to pick up more words. “Shoot. I forgot, how long do we have?”

“About an hour.” He replied, and she groaned. That wasn't nearly enough time to do what she wanted. She'd really wanted to get started on reverse engineering the first pod ASAP.

“Dang it. Ugh, okay… my feet are starting to hurt anyway…” She admitted sheepishly, which was true, she'd had to start shifting her weight differently do to her increased weight, putting pressure on her feet and back.

And, like the gentleman N was, he took that opportunity to quite literally sweep her off her feet. Picking her up bridal style in a single swift motion that had her let out a yelp.

The drones around her started to snicker, amused at N's open affection and Uzi's flushed, upset expression in return, an extremely violet blush invading her face.

“I can walk N!” She protested, feeling much too vulnerable for the public eye.

“What? It's not like everyone doesn't already know.” N smirked, which had the effect of making her more flustered, especially when the team she was supposed to be overseeing were now giggling at her expense.

“Bite me!” She seethed, crossing her arms before slumping in defeat, there was no escaping N's iron grip. She was taking a break, unwillingly.

“Uh, when the others get back, can you guys tell them we'll get the pod tomorrow night?” She fumbled over her request, mostly because N was still holding her as she made it, so much for garnering respect…

“Sure thing boss.” Someone relayed, giving her a small two fingered salutea while smirking. Uzi growled in indignation, and Tera pounced into her open arms half a second later with an excited trill.

“Let's just go before I die of embarrassment…” She mumbled, burying her head into his shoulder as N laughed, walking out of the small temporary structure and unsheathing his wings with a startling crack.

He went off the the direction of their nest, wind rushing and snow blowing past the family as he streaked through the air at high speeds, she could hear Tera laughing excitedly, but Uzi just gripped her tighter, making sure she wouldn't fall.

They were at the nest in less then ten minutes, N gently laying her within it's warm, safe, confines. Checking the heavy sheets put over the windows to block out even the slightest bit of cold.

Despite her indignation, she quickly relaxed, the muscles that now helped support her back beginning to decompress and her tail freeing itself without much conscious input.

Absent-mindedly, she tapped her own core, giving out a yelp as it shocked her with a tiny white spark, the core was sensitive duh. But now it was even more sensitive, becoming uncomfortable even with just the sensation of her clothing rubbing up against it.

It wasn't like she was going to wear her loose, low hanging shirts while in public though, so power through it she did.

“You good?” N asked after he did his obligatory ‘nest checks’. It seemed instinctual for him to make sure everything in the surrounding area was safe before he settled down with her, now joining beside her.

Tera crawled and rolled around the nest, taking pillows and throwing them small distances before attempting to chase after them on all fours. Easily entertaining herself.

“Y-yeah. Just startled myself. My core is getting super sensitive…” She hummed, curling up into N's comforting warmth the second she was able, purring softly when she felt N's fingers run through her hair.

“Is that… normal?” He asked, he assumed yes, she wasn't freaking out about it.

“Yup. Just another lovely symptom…” She deadpanned, feeling a yawn overtake her. She hadn't slept a wink during the construction of the workshop, nor any after she'd accidentally announced her pregnancy to the whole bunker.

“You should rest. It's not healthy for you or the baby to stay awake this long.” He hummed, she could feel his tail curl around hers, the beating of his core the perfect lullaby.

“Only if you actually sleep this time.” Uzi replied, and N chuckled, ignoring the way his core felt like lead or his visor angerly blinked that he needed to recharge. He'd tried, he just couldn't! His processors wouldn't let him go to sleep where something could sneak up on them.

“I'll try lovely.” The term of endearment made her curl up tighter into his chest and he sighed as he watched her drift off into sleep mode. His purrs, his tail and his warmth perfectly curated to relax his chosen mate.

Instead, he watched his kit play with a fond smile. Even if he couldn't sleep, he felt satisfied that he could at least keep then safe.

At least… until he heard a loud clang hit the side of the nest and he immediately detangled himself from her, growling louder then he'd ever had before in his life.

His processors were screaming again;

This was their nest! This was a special place, it was for his mate and her alone!

He came teeth bared and claws unseathed, a great territorial roar ringing out of his chest and his eyes in a vibrant red ‘X’. And the uncontrolled slashing of his claw was met with a sword, clashing against each other with a clatter.

V had narrowly avoided getting her head slashed off. Her eyelights hollow as she stared at him, the red drained from his visor and his thoughts returned from primal and erratic.

“V?”

“Holy fuck, you nearly took my head off!” She exclaimed, hanging off the side of the building much like he was.

“I-I'm sorry,, I don't know what came over me…” He blinked, the sudden outburst of uncharacteristic rage being gone in an instant.

“I think that was my fault… I snuck up on you.” She admitted, he could see her visibly relax, her head dipped inside the sheets, eyes falling on a still sleeping Uzi and an energetic kit.

“Is… there room for another? I uh… don't feel comfortable leaving you two out here alone.” Her tail was kinking as if just asking was uncomfortable for her.

N sighed, looking at the tint of purple beginning to crest of the horizon.

“There's not enough time for you to go anywhere if I said no.”

Not that he would've, despite his initial, very territorial reaction, V's presence was extremely welcome, a second drone to keep watch for threats.

He moved a sheet back with his tail to invite her in, and she gave him an uncertain smile as she crawled inside, eyes taking a scan around the nest as if she was memorizing it.

Tera threw herself on her, chirping loudly: “Vee!”

N curled himself around Uzi once more, this time however, sleep mode tugged on his visor, and he looked up at V, displaying how exhausted he was unintentionally.

“I got this one. That's why I'm here… I think?” She hummed, and with that conformation he quickly lost consciousness. V laying herself close to- but a respectful distance away from, the slumbering couple.

Next ->

#murder drones #uzi doorman #serial designation n #nuzi #biscuitbites #oil is thicker then blood #tera doorman #serial designation v #im making v get out of her comfort zone #and uzi for that matter #N's not having her anti-pda bull anymore

68 notes · View notes

3d-wifey · 11 months ago

Text

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 11

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 8.3k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn A/N: LADIES N GENTLEMEN, THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR! there are multiple POV changes in this, I'm training yall for the arena and Mockingjay. FYI: I was so disheartened bc this felt like the worst past I've written for this story :(((

Past (xii) - Finnick

[21 & 22] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick is sitting at his desk, probably looking as worn out and exhausted as he feels. It’s early morning, and he hasn’t slept for two days. He’s been writing for hours, trying to find the right words to say. The sun had just set when he poured himself into the seat, and now—he glances to his left—the first tendrils of sunlight are peaking up.

The room is quiet, except for Finnick's labored breathing. His hands are shaking, a side effect of the stress that's been building inside him like a pressure cooker. Snow's visit has left him reeling, unable to process the implications of the deal he's been forced to make. He knows he must write you a letter, but the thought fills him with despondency. Something that normally fills him with insurmountable excitement and anticipation fills him with devastation. It feels like, like… There’s nothing he can compare it to. Not everything feels like something else and Finnick knows this kind of grief is very rarely experienced.

What is he supposed to do? He hasn’t opened the last letter you sent, knowing it will be the last one that won’t carry the weight of mourning. He knows that you'll write to him again, that you won’t take this lying down. You’ll write and write, and he...will do nothing.

It sits in front of him, innocuous and unassuming. Something devastating folded in a green envelope and wrapped in your scent like a well-dressed bomb. Does his fear outweigh his longing for you?

He picks it up, holding it gingerly in his hands.

No, he realizes, it doesn’t.

He’s careful to tear the seal on the flap and your perfume wafts up like a surprise. He takes a deep breath, savoring the scent, trying to steel himself for what comes next.

Dear Finn,

I feel like I’ve missed you longer than I’ve had the chance to know you. It's been three months now, but maybe by the time this letter gets to you, we'll both be on our way to the Capitol. I'm working on being more optimistic, but that uphill battle is becoming steeper the longer I'm away from you.

I keep thinking about when I first met you. When I looked into your eyes, I didn't see fireworks exploding or any of that other shit they depict in those gaudy Capitol romance novels. I looked into your eyes and saw you, something far more breathtaking than fireworks. And what a sight you were.

Three years back, you said something I never agreed with, that it was hard to love you. At the moment, I didn’t get to say what I really wanted to because I was eighteen and the thought of being so emotionally vulnerable made my teeth itch.

I wanted to say that you aren't hard to love. I wanted to say loving you has been the easiest thing I have ever done. And that's why it was so difficult. I could never let myself love you—let myself have you because how could I possibly deserve to? But that’s the kicker. It’s not hard to love you, Finn, it’s impossible not to.

Something happened recently that made me realize that I’m not the most forthcoming person when it comes to my feelings. But, Finn, know that my love for you is never in doubt. How I feel about you may be complex, but it’s not complicated. I love you desperately, humanly, simply. Without even trying, you peel me back to my core, but if you only dug a little deeper you’d find your picture framed and hanging along the walls of my soul.

I miss you, more than I was prepared to—and I was prepared to miss you considerably.

We may not be next to each other, but we’re under the same sky, and each glowing point on that backdrop of black is a star—a sun at the center of someone’s solar system.

In some other universe, on a different Earth, there’s a girl in love with a boy whose freckles run like constellations. On another, there’s a girl who’s in love with how her boy’s eyes squint when he smiles.

That's the one constant. There are billions of stars, billions of universes, and I love you in every one of them.

Tears are blurring his vision before he can read how you close the letter and he has to sit back as the full weight of what he’s about to do hits him all at once. Your words are like a balm to his soul, but they burn him just as much as they soothe him. A reminder of what he’s losing just as much as a reminder of what he’s fighting for. There was never a need to put a label on what you two had, what you were to each other because it would never be replicated. It had always just been ‘yours’. Now, with a flick of his pen, it’ll be nothing.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe there’s a way I can explain why I’m doing this, some kind of code or something. Maybe I can still meet with her, just in secret. But Snow… It always comes back to Snow.

Snow reads these letters, and surely he'll be more vigilant of Finnick to make sure he keeps his side of the deal. Besides, if you knew the real reason he’s doing this—that it’s against his will, that he wouldn’t even think to do this in his worst nightmare—you’ll latch on, consequences be damned.

He’s doing this for you. He has to remind himself that it’s your life on the line here, not just his heart.

Still.

He's careful when folding the letter back, only bending it along the preexisting lines. He sets it beside himself.

He picks up a piece of paper from the stack in front of him tucked against the wall, twirling his pen along his fingers. His leg bounces, nails tapping on the desk.

He writes something down and comes to a stuttering halt. It isn't good enough. He crumbles it up, throws it in the trash, and picks up a new one.

Write, crumble, trash, repeat.

He's stuck in a loop, unable to find the right words. The pressure is building, and he can feel himself starting to crack. He needs to get this done, needs to find a way to say goodbye.

Write, crumble, trash, repeat.

He's lost track of time, doesn't know how long he's been sitting here. The words are eluding him, and he's starting to feel like he's lost his grip on reality.

Finally, he puts pen to paper and the words flow out of him like a dam breaking. He writes about his love for you, about how much he misses you, about how impossible it is to imagine a future without you. He writes about his fear and his grief, about the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He writes you goodbye.

When he's done, he holds your letter carefully, tucking it back into its envelope. He knows what he has to do, knows that there's no turning back now.

With trembling hands, he picks up the tan envelope and slides his letter inside. He seals it with a kiss, feeling the weight of his decision like a physical burden.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and places the letter on the stack in front of him. It's done. The words are written, the decision made.

He sits back in his chair, feeling numb and hollow. He doesn't know what comes next, but he knows that he'll face it head-on. For you.

Past (xii) - You

[21 & 22] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

Finnick's reply came faster than you expected it to.

You plop down in your office chair, giddy as you rub at your sore cheeks. You've been smiling like an idiot since you picked up the letter from the Mayor's office. You tear into the envelope and pause.

The words are kind of smudged, dried drops of something smearing the ink. Luckily, you can still read it.

My heart,

My moon and stars.

I must have rewritten these words at least a dozen times by now. You should see the pile of crumpled paper next to me. You'd call it wasteful, but I'm sure you'd be secretly charmed by how nervous you make me after all these years.

There's no way to dance around it, and I know how much you hate when people mince their words.

It pains me to think it, let alone write it.

This will be my last letter to you.

I know you have a hundred and one questions bouncing around that beautiful brain of yours, you'll want to know why. And the answer is, there is no why. I've decided that it's best, for both of us, to stop. Stop the letters, stop the meetings.

It ends here.

I don't want you to hate me. But if that makes it easier for you to stay away from me, then despise me. More than the Peacekeepers, more than the Capitol, more than Snow. Take that loathing and hold onto it like you used to hold me.

But, selfishly, I want you to know what I'll be holding onto.

Those little moments outside of time where you and I were the center of each other's universe, two stars orbiting each other. The balcony of my room, the floor of yours.

I want you to know this because I don't want you to doubt that I love you.

Because I do. I love you. I could say it a thousand times, and it still wouldn't be enough. I could say it until my tongue falls off and I'd find a way to sign it to you.

I could live a thousand lifetimes, be a thousand different people, and I will never love someone like I love you.

I think of your smile and I fall in love again. I think of your touch and I fall in love again. I won't leave you without you knowing this. I'd sooner stop breathing.

There are plenty of things I should be thanking you for, but if I tried to make a list, I'd run out of paper.

I felt...free with you. As free as anyone can be in our situation. I've never felt so close to another person before—I never let myself.

I thought it would pass eventually, like a sand castle when it's high tide. Noticeable, beautiful, but temporary.

But I can tell you now, that was such bullshit. Since that first dance, there was never a moment I wasn’t in love with you. I loved you before I knew I was capable of it, before I knew I had it in me, and you had my heart before I even knew it was there. I saw the thorns of your past and held my hands out, ready to bleed if it meant I could touch you.

And that scared me. The very thing that gave me strength was my biggest weakness. That’s a hard pill to swallow at sixteen and it’s just as daunting at twenty-two.

Years ago, you asked me if I could wish for anything, what would it be? I still wish I was a different person, someone you could be proud of. And I wish that person got to grow old with you.

God, you don't know how badly I want to grow old with you.

I have no doubt that there's a planet out there under a different sun where we end up together. Hand in hand with the two kids we always talked about. A little girl that'll have me wrapped around her finger because she'll look just like you. And a little boy that'll drive you up the wall because he's a little too much like me. That universe is where my heart lives.

We'll find it someday, just you and me. Until then, they'll find our love written in the stars. In every constellation.

-Yours until words lose meaning,

Finnick O.

You reread the letter.

Then reread it again. You keep rereading it until the words refuse to sit still, letters blurring together.

It ends here? What’s he talking about? He can't possibly mean the two of you. He can't.

But he’s ending it. He ended it.

Why would he—?

He said there’s no reason, but…but there has to be.

You try to think of anything you did—anything you said that could have led to this but you're coming up blank.

This doesn't make any sense. It doesn't line up with the Finnick you know.

The letter says that he loves you, and you thought you knew he loved you, but it’s pretty hard to believe that when he’s leaving you.

He promised he'd stay with you, he promised, and Finnick doesn't break his promises. Not with you. No. Not after everything you've been through together. You only have each other.

The paper falls from your trembling hands to the desk.

No. You only have Finnick. But, Finnick—he doesn't want you anymore, right? So, where does that leave you? What else do you have?

A grandfather clock ticks in the background, though it sounds muted to your ears.

You look down at the paper and find wet spots, and ink more smeared than before. Your cheeks are wet. Are you crying?

Stupid. You grit your teeth, fury mixing with despair. Stupid tears. Stupid Finnick. You wipe at your cheeks roughly, angry at yourself for being weak enough to cry over him. There are a million and one reasons this could have happened and they all begin and end with you. You have no one to blame but yourself.

You know what it feels like for your body to break. You know what it is to be drained down to your skin, nerves, muscles, and bones. You've come eerily close to knowing what it's like to have your mind broken.

But this is new. This is what it feels like to have your heart broken. It's sudden, and it rips you apart on its way in. Not an arrow, but a knife. Cold and serated. It's quicker than you thought it'd be, but it hurts just the same.

You’re so cold. You don't think you've ever been this cold before. Not even when you were nine and you got such bad hyperthermia that you couldn’t work for the rest of the winter. He always ran hot, you think distantly. And all his warmth has left you.

You hold on to yourself because no one else will. You would have preferred your body breaking. At least that heals.

“I can’t,” you weep, stuttering over betrayal and loss, “I can’t do this alone.”

You press your forehead into the desk, your body shaking with the sobs you’re holding back. It hurts so bad. Pain sits rooted in your chest, sharp and rigid like a peach pit. Your heart doesn’t beat, it throbs. Throbs like a festering wound, irritated and infected.

You pull at your shirt and dig your nails into your chest. If you press hard enough through the skin and fascia and muscles, you could pull out the problem.

But that’s impossible. There’s nothing there. It’s the absence that hurts, that gaping Finnick-shaped hole.

Did you get ahead of yourself? Thinking anything could last with someone who shines as bright as him? Maybe…maybe if you were a little more like him, if you shined just as bright.

You snort, anger flaring briefly.

You’re not a star, you’re not even the moon. How can the sun love the same darkness it chases away?

He described the ocean to you once. Vast and endless, like it could go on forever. And he told you about all the people who get lost at sea. Now you’re one of them.

You have capsized, water rushing up past your neck and into your mouth and nose, just as salty as your tears. Your lungs burn from the lack of air, you can’t breathe and no one will come for you because you're as good as dead.

Here you sit in your study in your home that isn’t really yours, far away from any ocean, but you're drowning anyway.

You drown and you drown and you drown and you do it alone.

Present (X) - Finnick

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL

It’s a last resort, a unanimous choice between them all. A wordless decision that the victors made to appeal to the Capitol citizens. Though they’re all using different means, it’s all for the same result. That’s what Finnick has to remind himself when he’s called on stage after Beetee.

The crowd screams at his entrance and he locks his hands behind his back. He smiles, nodding to his adoring fans as he stands beside Caesar.

“Finnick, I understand you have a message for somebody out there. A special somebody.” The crowd hoots and hollers at the dramatics of it all and the idea of one of them being the special someone close to his heart. He chuckles and looks down. The Capitols being painfully predictable is finally paying off. All according to plan. “Can we hear it?”

He could spew some generic flowery shit that could apply to literally anyone he’s come in contact with, but…

He looks at the camera. Fourteen victors will perform before you, so you should still be in your dressing room. Are you watching? Watching him?

"My love, my star. My heart is yours. And…and if I had to pick a place to die, it would be in the warmth of your arms. Your smile, the last thing I see and your lips, the last thing I taste. Everything I have ever done, I have done for you.”

Caesar pouts at the audience as they coo at his love letter and he wishes they never heard it. He wishes he could have said it to you directly. Those words, they’re yours and they should have been for your ears only. And, yet, here he is, relaying his heart to you through a screen.

Look how far we’ve fallen, Star.

“Oh, my. That’s very touching, Finnick. Isn’t it? I’m sure whoever it is, is listening and feeling truly loved.”

“I hope you’re right, Caesar.”

They allowed Mags to opt out of her interview on account of her not being able to speak. How kind, he scoffs. He settles on the raised platform beside her and he briefly squeezes her hand.

You okay? He mouths and she nods, smiling.

One by one, each victor comes with their own approach to sway the masses. Oh, he knows there's no way they'll be canceling the games. Finnick is more likely to drain the ocean with a teaspoon before Snow even considers stopping this cruelty. But it’s worth a shot, he supposes. It can’t possibly make going into the arena any worse.

Besides Johanna's impassioned speech, nothing the other victors do stands out to him. Then, you're called out.

He sinks his teeth into his lip as the audience applauds at your entrance.

From what he can recall, your outfit is a remix of the dress you wore in your first interview as if it has aged and matured with you. It’s gained a long train and the hip-high thigh slits that your stylist is known for.

You blow kisses to the crowd and they, understandably, go wild. You turn to Caesar with a smile and the overhead lights shine on you, painting your skin in soft lighting like a blanket. He takes a breath. And another, until he notices he’s breathing in sync with you.

He blinks when the crowd breaks into raucous laughter and realizes he’s missed something.

"Oh, we all know just how shy you are." Caesar smiles, holding his laugh behind clenched teeth in that way of his that reminds Finnick of an overachieving beaver. The crowd laughs with him and your cheeks must hurt from holding that coy smile. "Now, the last time we talked, you said you were composing a new piece." Caesar pulls a violin out from…somewhere behind him and presents it to you like a gift. Finnick doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he didn’t think you’d use the violin as your strategy. Mostly because of how much you hate it. Or maybe you don’t anymore. Perhaps you’ve grown to love it and he’s none the wiser. “Can you play it for us now?" The crowd clamors in ooohs and ahhhs at the idea. It's always been a privilege to hear you play. Finnick watches your face closely.

It wasn't your favorite thing to do, but you took to it like a fish to water. Usually, Snow would have you play at the more "personal" get-togethers. But every once in a while, you would compose a song for Finnick . And when it was just the two of you, you'd share it with him. He'd sit in front of you in awe as you played. He doesn't have a musical bone in his body, but he can hum every piece from memory.

“You’re kinda putting me on the spot here, but, sure. I would love to play it for you all.” You laugh. You place the instrument under your chin and position your fingers and bow.

And you play.

It's not showy like the pieces you usually play for the public. Not grand or performative, but soft and soulful. Melancholy. It feels nostalgic almost, like something you would write for him.

The haunting melody carries throughout the silent room, and it is as if everyone is breathing with the lilting notes. Everyone but Finnick, who can't seem to catch his breath.

He looks down, squeezing his eyes shut, nose scrunching as he fights back tears. Because as much as you may hate the instrument, you play it as if it's an extension of your body. And you've always been better at showing how you feel than saying it.

It sounds like a goodbye.

You come to a stop and Finnick's lungs stop constricting with your movements.

When you finish, it’s quiet before Caesar clears his throat and gives you a small smile that almost looks genuine.

“That was marvelous, my dear. Truly moving—wasn’t that moving?” He asks the audience, and Finnick will be surprised if there’s a dry eye in the crowd. Even their applause sounds sad.

“Thank you, Caesar.” You nod at the praise. “You taught me so much—all of you. If I had known this would be the last time I got to play for you—” You trail off into a sob and the crowd coos. The words may be fake, but he isn’t too sure about the tears. He wonders if you think you won’t make it out of the arena alive—not that he would let that happen. If he could just talk to you, and have an actual conversation, he could know what you’re thinking.

Caesar pats your lower back and Finnick’s eyes narrow. “And you played beautifully.”

You hand the violin back with a watery smile and, fake or not, Finnick hates to see you cry.

You’re met with a standing ovation as you climb to your place on the platform. With the way the victors are positioned, he stands directly behind you. Or, well, strictly speaking, he’s more diagonal than directly behind you. Still, how lucky is he? He could, theoretically, lean forward and catch a whiff of your perfume—

He gathers himself, straightening up and lacing his fingers behind his back. He squeezes the space between his thumb and forefinger.

Katniss spins and her wedding dress transforms in a flurry of fire before their eyes.

“Again with the fire.” He mutters under his breath.

The crowd is in awe as she spreads her wings, but he isn’t so easily cowed. Though, he might not be the target audience. Finnick’s never been particularly fond of birds, even if they are mockingjays.

"You know Katniss and I, we've been luckier than most. And I wouldn't have any regrets at all if it weren't…if—" Peeta stops himself, glancing around nervously.

"If it weren't for what? What?"

“If it weren’t for the baby.”

Now, that catches his attention. Gasps echo throughout the room at Peeta’s revelation. Finnick’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline with how high they raise. Caesar tries to do damage control, but the situation is quickly escalating.

“Call off the games!”

“This is cruel!”

He purses his lips around a growing smile, but he can’t hide it for long when the crowd starts shouting. That’s…certainly one way to get the audience riled up. He catches the slight smirk on Peeta’s face as he watches the commotion he caused and Finnick’s a little jealous.

Chaos unfurls in a way he never thought the Capitols were capable of. They’ve always been so docile; sheep shepherded into any direction Snow lead them. But it makes sense. The romance act was meant to fool the Capitol and fool them, it has. He hides the vindictive glee he feels at the riot breaking out in the name of the victors, but only barely. He would kill to see Snow's face right now.

How does it feel, he wonders, to see your people rebel in support of the savages you tried to paint us out to be?

He looks over, brows furrowed, as Mags takes his hand with a proud smile and he glances down in time to see you take Chaff’s hand. He pauses for a moment before taking the hand the woman from Five offers him. In sync, the victors all raise their hands in a show of solidarity.

“Stop the games!”

“Call them off!”

Finnick grins big at the mayhem unfolding before him and they keep shouting long after the lights cut out.

Present (X) - You & Finnick

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL

“Star!”

It didn't take long for the tributes to be escorted off the platforms and as he chases after you, Finnick realizes that he vastly underestimated just how many people stood between you and him. He isn't sure if he's too far away for you to hear or if you’re actively ignoring him.

”Star!” Finnick pushes through the crowd of victors and stage crew to get closer. Chaff glances at him and now he knows for sure that you’re ignoring him.

“Stubborn.” He mutters as some of his fellow victors let him pass, glancing at him before continuing their conversations. But, as he’s said before, he’s just as stubborn as you. He racks his brain for something that’ll catch your attention before he loses what might be his last chance with you. “The message was for you! ”

You pause at the entrance of the elevator at Finnick's shout. You're so close to getting away, so close. Your escape is a hair's breadth and a footstep away, but you remember how you felt sitting in your dressing room watching Finnick's interview. Was there a pang of jealousy over the possibility of the message being for someone else? Honestly, it couldn't even be categorized as jealousy.

You look over your shoulder and his lungs stop constricting. He’s got you. Now, for the hardest part: keeping you.

There are dozens of eyes on him, people milling around as if they aren’t honed in on whatever this is. He can’t blame them for being curious, he’s a little confused himself. He went into this with no plan, not that he would have been able to stick to one with how you’re looking at him.

“What?” As he approaches, the lingering crowd fully parts for him. You regard the gathering audience warily.

“What I said, the message—it was for you.” He repeats.

He can’t afford to be coy, that hasn't worked the last dozen times he's attempted a conversation with you and it definitely won't work now. He knows if he doesn’t catch you now, there won’t be any more chances.

Peeta dropped a baby bomb, and, somehow, this is the most dramatic thing to happen tonight. His eyes are locked intently on you, either unaware of all the attention he’s captured or just uncaring.

You look over to Chaff for help but he just smirks at your growing embarrassment. You watch in disbelief as he walks away using the excuse of finding Seeder to escape.

“Finnick, this isn’t the time.” You glance between him and the floor, tracing the threading in his boots instead of the desperation in his eyes.

"Can you please just,” he shifts his weight on his feet, "can you look at me, Star? Please, look at me." He lifts his hand like he aims to reach you, but hesitates.

This situation is developing into something far more intimate than your current company should allow. More intimate than you should allow. You can always walk away, turn your back to him, and get on one of the idle elevators—let it end here, once and for all. The only thing stopping you would be the completely unfounded guilt and regret.

You don't owe him anything, let alone your time.

And, yet. Yet, yet, yet.

Maybe you can get some sort of closure and set clear boundaries before you go into the arena and—that reasoning sounds weak even to you.

Both of you could die tomorrow and truthfully, you don't want to walk away from him; you've never wanted to.

Besides, it's not like he can hurt you any worse than he already has.

Finnick jolts when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist, a sensation he should be accustomed to but has grown foreign.

You pull him away from eavesdropping ears, but not from nosey eyes. With how front and center Finnick has made this, you feel like a spectacle, but when haven't you?

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You question him in a harsh whisper. “I don’t know what this is or what you think this is, but it is not the place for it. What if this gets back to Snow—”

“I don’t care.”

“—There’s already so much…what?”

“I don’t care.” He shakes his head, and for once, he’s not lying. “I don’t care if they hear us, or—or if this gets back to Snow.”

Your jaw shifts as you narrow your eyes up at him and there’s that anger he’s been expecting.

“Please, Star. Just…just let me speak.” He begs. Your face goes blank, a mask slotting into place like a lock with a key that Finnick has long since lost the right to. He blocks out the chatter around him.

“Not here.” He thinks he’s being rejected for a moment until you grab his wrist and drag him behind you. The elevators are filling in droves and you just so happen to pick the one housing some of the last people he wants to witness this.

Haymitch takes one look at your faces and the grip you have on his wrist and raises his hands in defense.

Haymitch turns to Katniss and Peeta. “Nuh-uh, believe me. You do not wanna be locked in here with them.” He shakes his head and steps out without a backwardsqasz glance and you contemplate going with him. “I’ll meet you guys up there.”

Johanna steps on in his place, elevator doors closing behind her. She looks between the four of you and whistles. Finnick sighs.

“There’s the happy couple.” You glance at Peeta and Katniss because she certainly isn’t talking about the two of you. “You caused quite the stir out there. Why didn’t you tell us you were expecting? We could have thrown you a baby shower.” You sigh through your nose. You don’t even have it in you to intervene in this conversation.

“What the hell is a baby shower—”

“We didn’t know how everyone would take it.” Peeta cuts Katniss off. “We’re already the newest victors. The baby might’ve painted an even bigger target on our backs.” He says without stuttering once.

“That’s a fantastic answer, Peeta.” Johanna crows sarcastically. “Did Haymitch prep you on that one or did you come up with it on your own?”

“No. No, it’s all me.” He assures with a downward smile. It certainly is all him. He’s the mastermind behind all of this, right? Ironically enough, Finnick doubts Katniss had any real part in making this ‘baby scandal’.

Finnick opens his mouth to make a quip but thinks better of it. You’re already aggravated at his presence and he honestly doesn’t want to remind you that he’s here. His only consolation is that you’re still holding his wrist, all five pads of your fingers are searing points on his skin.

Peeta gives you an imploring look, eyebrows raised as if to ask if you’re alright and you nod and—when did that happen?

It’s quiet, with no other sound than the nearly inaudible woosh of the elevator going between floors. No one makes an effort to break the steadily growing awkward silence. Finnick does, however, make the mistake of making eye contact with Johanna. She mouths you’re dead at him over your head and, yeah, that definitely fills him with much-needed confidence.

Present (X) - Finnick

[21 & 22] - THE CAPITOL; TRAINING CENTER; ELEVENTH FLOOR

“Alright. You wanted to speak.” Your dress flutters around your legs as you settle into a big green chair. That same giant green chair you sat in three years prior. You’ve both grown considerably since then. Just in two completely different directions. What a juxtaposition. “Speak.”

He stays where he’s standing a couple of feet away. He probably should have figured out what to do on the elevator ride, but, again, he’s without a plan. “Did you hear my message? When I was up there with Caesar? I know you were still getting ready—did you hear it?”

“I might’ve.” You shrug and cross your arms, still so stubborn. “Great strategy by the way. I’m sure you’ll reel in plenty of sponsors.”

“God, Star, it wasn’t for them. It wasn’t even for the fucking movement.” You raise a brow at his words but give no further outward reaction. He moves to stand before you, each step more unsure than the last. Your glare is scorching, but there’s been enough space between the two of you to house the sun. “Do you remember when you said my poetry was a gift? And—and that I shouldn’t waste it on them? You said you would never be tired of anything I do. Do you remember that night? What I said?” He implores. It was a special night full of promises and you gave him more than he deserved.

You look him over with a critical eye long enough that he’s sure you’re not going to answer. Especially when you turn to stare off to the side before sighing out of your nose.

“My heart, who am I to deprive you of what's yours by right? The air in my lungs, I breathe for you. The blood in my veins pumps for you. A leaf can’t stop itself from falling and neither could I. Everything I do, I do for you.” It only takes him half a second to recognize the lines and he’s stunned, transported back to that garden under the stars. “I remember all of them… I remember everything you’ve made for me.” You give him fleeting peripheral glances and avoid his gaze like you’re ashamed of that.

He nods, frantic and eager. He’s making headway. He honestly didn’t think you’d let him get this far. Your eyes widen when he drops down onto his knees before you smooth your face into a blank mask. “They’re all yours. And they’ll keep being yours even if you still hate me when I leave this room. Everything I’ve written since I met you has been for you.’’ He confesses, hands moving to grip the arms of your chair, but is it really a confession? The Capitols love his poetry because they adore the idea of Finnick Odair being devoted to them, longing for them and, for that, you’ve always been his muse.

You stare down at him, giving no indication that anything he’s said has swayed you. He grits his teeth through the sting of rejection and sighs, arms falling to his sides.

“I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“Why now?” You cut him off. “It’s been two years. You don’t owe me anything, Finnick, so if this a guilt thing—”

“I–It’s not. I mean, it is, but it’s not…it’s not why I’m here.” He sits back on his haunches, running a hand through his hair. “We could die tomorrow. And I don’t want you going into that arena thinking that I don’t love you or…or that I wanted to leave you.”

You squint at him, face twisting into a sour scowl.

“You said,” you drawl, slow and drawn out like you’re explaining something fundamental to a child, “you thought it was best if we ended it.”

He shakes his head. “I lied. I had to and I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know I hurt you and I know saying sorry won’t be enough, but please know sending that letter was the last thing I wanted to do. Leaving you was the last thing I wanted to do.”

“What? What are you talking about? You said—”

He holds his hands up, stopping your completely warranted stream of questions.

“I know. I know what I said and I never would have said it if Snow hadn’t shown up at my house—”

“Snow showed up at your house?” Your arms unfold and you lean forward so suddenly that he almost flinches back. “When?”

“Uh, a few weeks before I sent the letter. He’s the only reason I even sent it.” He scoffs, remembering the state he was left in after Snow offered the ultimatum. He doesn’t need to try to remember the words written in the letter he sent you because he’s never forgotten. They’re tattooed on the back of his eyelids, seared into his memory every time he blinks.

“What did he want? What did he say to make you…” He watches you try to articulate your confusion. What led to this? What could have possibly been worth giving you up?

“Snow, he was convinced that our relationship would somehow lead to—to civil unrest. His solution was to get rid of one of us, get rid of you. I couldn’t let that happen. He never explicitly said it, but you know how he is, how he speaks …I was scared. I was. I didn’t—” His voice cracks and you stare down at him with stunned, wide eyes. He wants to shuffle closer. He wants to sway into you and take some kind of comfort. But he doesn’t. “I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t just tell you because you would have tried to find some kind of loophole and we couldn’t afford to make him more hostile than he already was.”

You look to your left out of the wall-length windows and smirk, completely throwing Finnick off.

"Star?"

You stand. He watches as you pace the length of the room before turning on your heel and walking onto the balcony. He can do nothing more than follow you.

“He came to my house too, you know. Around the same time, I think. He wanted to remind me about how privileged I am.” You snort and that sick feeling is developing in his stomach, organs twisting to make room for the settling dread. He isn’t sure what he thought you’d do in light of the revelation, what he expected you to say, but it’s not this. “Went on and on about how thankful I should be that he was allowing us to be in a relationship and…and that as long as I kept myself in line, I could keep you.” You sigh, propping your elbows on the railing and placing your face in your hands.

He doesn’t know what to do. Speechless doesn’t even cover it. His anger is there, and he doesn’t see that ever leaving him...but he’s been angry for so long and tired for even longer.

“We played right into his hand, Finnick. He gained something from this, bastard that he is.” You scoff. You turn and sit with your back against the glass railing. "That's all that matters to him."

Finnick stews on it and many things are starting to make sense. In the months leading up to the event, the two of you started seeing each other less and less—long stretches of time where all he had was your perfume and words to keep him company. And considering Snow was the only way either of you were allowed to come to the Capitol… Of course. It all seems so fucking obvious now.

"I should have known better. Snow was never gonna kill you, he's too fucking—dammit.” He stops and shakes his head. So much lost time, so much pain. All unnecessary in the end.

“Come sit down, Finn.”

Finn.

He hasn't been called that in a long time. He takes a second to stare unseeingly at the stars before sliding down beside you.

It's quiet. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if there's anything he should say, and he's sure you feel the same. But he does know if it was up to you, you'd both sit in silence for the foreseeable future and he has two years' worth of confessions to make.

“The mo—” he stops, overwhelmed by how much he wants to say, but nothing feels good enough, “I loved you the moment you laughed at my stupid joke the first time we danced together and I have loved you ever since. Even when I wasn’t there to show you, even when I—I left you. I’ve loved you the entire way, Star. There are billions of suns out there, billions of universes, and I love you in every one.”

Your head whips up.

“I remember everything you’ve made for me too.” Your mouth twists, brows furrowing as you stare at him and he can’t express how good it feels to be seen.

"I don’t hate you.” You shrug a shoulder, smiling small and quick. “You said ‘even if you still hate me’, I don’t hate you.”

“...You don’t?”

“I tried to. For a while, I thought I did." He shouldn’t be surprised by that. He shouldn’t be hurt by something he explicitly told you to do in his letter. Finnick shouldn’t be a lot of things that he is. “But I just…couldn’t." You grimace "I didn’t even want to, after a while. I was just tired.”

His head thumps against the railing. He closes his eyes. There's a question on his tongue, an answer he shouldn't need but wants regardless.

“Is that why you stopped sending letters?” When he opens his eyes again, he’s relieved that you’re still facing him.

Your face twists like you’ve tasted something sour, something rotten. “I just…I was fine waiting for you, Finnick. It was hard, but it didn’t hurt. Not too bad, at least. I would’ve waited a thousand years because it would have been worth it to hold you for a second. And I could get through that because I knew you were waiting for me too. But, I realized you were never coming. And, eventually, I realized…you weren’t waiting either." You whisper, wrapping your arms around your legs as you pull your knees up. He stiffens, freezing in place as he tries to slow his heartbeat.

He drops his head, brows furrowed as he tries, and fails, to stop tears from forming. It's just, it's cruel. The one thing he promised himself he'd never do—leave you, hurt you—he had to do for you.

He wipes his face, pressing the base of his palms into his eyes.

"Star, I…I would never…It killed me to write that letter, you have to know that, right? Right ?" He implores, voice rough while his breath hitches repeatedly. His throat feels tight and swollen as he stutters over the words in his chest. The words you have to hear, the words he needs you to hear. You stare forward, refusing to look at him anymore and he turns to face you full-on, refusing to look at anything but you. "How can I let you know that? What can I do—to prove—that I'm sorry?"

He thought you both had changed too much to be fluent in what you two used to have. He thought it was a different language, but here, up close, he can see that it’s not so much a new language as it is a cipher. You just had to let him get close enough to understand again. He always thought you had such an open face, it was a wonder to him how you could lie so eloquently when you could never lie to him. But it wasn’t until he was shut out that he realized you were letting him read you, subconsciously or otherwise. He reads you now, eyes tracing your face eagerly—hungrily, and finds…remorse?

"I know you’re sorry. I know. And logically, knowing the truth should make it easier to get over it.” Your mouth opens and closes, hesitating. “But you left me." He nods hard enough to hurt his neck. "I did." And he's sorry, he's sorry, he's so sorry. He doesn't think there's enough air on the planet for him to tell you just how sorry he is. "You left me, Finnick. I know it isn’t rational to feel this way knowing you didn’t want to, but…” You lick your lips, resting your cheek on your knee. When you look up at him, actually look at him and not somewhere over his shoulder, the glossy state of your eyes has him digging his nails into his hands to ground himself. "It’s just—it’s a real challenge to separate you from that hurt." I’d take that hurt from you if I could, he thinks. I’d grit my teeth through the pain and wear it proudly if it meant you’d have a moment of relief. He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says, "I'm sorry, Star." Because, really, what else is there to say? There’s no way to describe everything he’s sorry for.

"...I'm sorry too." You say and he wants to tell you there’s nothing to apologize to him about, but you lock your pinky with his and it’s enough to make his throat tighten, and all he can manage is a wistful sigh at the feeling of coming home.

Far below you, the sound of the city is dampened by the distance but no less heard. He goes to speak but spots a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. It’s your ankle. Or specifically, what’s on your ankle.

“You wore it?” He asks, touching the fraternal twin of his own bracelet. He appraises what he thought was lost reverently. Tracing the grooves of the shells, the divets in the charms, the rough twine of the rope—it all feels like a live wire under his fingers.

“I never took it off.” You slip your heel off, loosening the straps of the bracelet and wiggling it down your foot. “I just thought it might be a little sad to parade it around when you didn’t want me.”

“There will never be a moment on this Earth of me not wanting you, not while I still have air in my lungs. Not even after.”

“And how’ll you manage that?” You ask, your eyes crinkling in that old mirth you used to wear around him like a beauty mark.

“For you? I’ll find a way.” He promises.

You hum, appraising the jewelry briefly before passing it to him. He smiles when you lift your hand, silently prompting him. He places the bracelet on you, tightening it on your wrist. It feels like muscle memory when he lifts your hand to place a kiss on the center shell.

The corner of your mouth twitches up and you nod. “Okay.”

He leans in, placing a hand on the base of your neck and pulling you towards him and he’s still in awe that you actually let him. He holds the back of your head as you bury your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around his slender waist.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness, it wouldn’t be fair.” He murmurs into the crown of your hair. “But after we do this, I want the chance to make it up to you." If you'll let him, he'll spend the rest of his life mending what he tore apart.

“I think…I’d like that.” You speak into his chest and he feels your voice more than he hears it. “It was for you too.”

“What was?”

“The song I played onstage. I wrote it after it all happened. I couldn’t touch the violin without thinking of you, Finn. You were the only person I ever wanted to play for.” You whisper and it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. Finnick’s taken by the sudden need to look in your eyes more than anything, to see and know you and be seen and known in return. He pulls back enough to look down at you.

“Star.” He begs you beseechingly, and there’s no hesitation when you look up at him. He grins. It feels like it’s been years. “There you are.”

You smile. It's small and heavier than he remembers, but it's there and he is as whole as he will ever be.

A/N: IMAGINE POURING YOUR HEART OUT AND EXPRESSING HEARTFELT INTIMACY TO THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE JUST TO GET DUMPED yeesh. fun fact: "...but if you only dug a little deeper you’d find your picture framed and hanging along the walls of my soul." I actually texted this to my beta reader about Finn from Adventure Time after seeing an edit bc I love him so much, but then I converted it into Finnick love. also, Finnick's letter was one of the first things I wrote for this story months ago. That balcony talk was inspired by Hozier's Unknown/Nth WE IN THE ARENA NEXT CHAPPY

#3d wifey talks #3d wifey answers #finnick odair x reader #hunger games catching fire #finnick odair #and they'd find us in a week #finnick #finnick odair fanfic #catching fire #the hunger games x reader #hunger games smut #hunger games fanfiction #finnick fanfic #thg finnick #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick imagine #hunger games finnick #the hunger games

153 notes · View notes

tealin · 1 year ago

Text

Antarctic Food

Below you will find my account of eating at McMurdo, but PBS did a whole special on it which has more privileged access and, like, moving pictures and stuff. I highly recommend watching that if you're at all interested in the food question.

As other pleasures in life are restricted or eliminated, food gains significance beyond mere nutrition. When removed from the comforts and diversions of civilisation for months or years at a time, polar explorers had to pay particular attention to the culinary side of their enterprise. Scott learned this the hard way on the Discovery, when their cook was so bad he was sent home after the first year and others took over his job in shifts. Shackleton, on his second visit to Antarctica, brought all sorts of tinned delicacies, and left a lot of them behind in his hut at Cape Royds, which the Terra Nova men would raid on day trips from Cape Evans. Scott was much more careful with his choice of cook on his second expedition, and in his journal he continually praises Clissold's cooking – though Atkinson, writing for a publication he knew no one would read, says that Archer (the ship's cook, who filled in after Clissold was invalided home) was a far superior chef, and made the miserable second winter that much more bearable.

The expeditions of the early 20th Century brought down crates and crates of imperishables – tinned vegetables, powdered milk and eggs, and dry goods like flour, sugar, and tea. These were necessary, of course, but were ultimately supplemental to the core of their diet, which was the produce of Antarctica itself. In fact, in a letter laying out contingency plans if the Terra Nova Expedition were stranded in Antarctica, Scott says not to worry for their safety because the continent provides enough food to keep a party happily fed; they would only be wanting the comforts of a civilised menu. Mostly what the continent provided was seals, whose meat (especially livers) contained enough Vitamin C to stave off scurvy, but penguins and their eggs also regularly passed through the kitchen, and the contents of the marine biologist's net – once properly enumerated and dissected, of course – would often end up in the frying pan. The Notothenia fish was commonly eaten at breakfast, appreciated for its 'sweet' and 'nutty' flavour. Notothenia’s claim to fame is the sugar in its blood that acts as an antifreeze, so this is hardly a surprise.

Thanks to the Antarctic Treaty forbidding the killing of animals for consumption, modern Antarctic larders are not stocked with local wildlife, and as far as I know, no one down there now has tasted the sweetness of Notothenia. They do, however, have the advantage of modern transport and food storage, not to mention a century's worth of advances in the study of nutrition, so the diet of the present-day Antarctican is fresher, healthier, and much more diverse.

McMurdo Station's annual food supply arrives in one lump delivery, every January, on a big cargo ship from California. From the harbour where the Discovery berthed, it goes into climate-controlled storage, either to the dry goods store or to the freezer, which is a whole building off the cafeteria in the main station hub. A freezer, in Antarctica? Why, yes, because food safety regulations require frozen food to be kept at a constant temperature, and the only way to ensure that is to build an enormous manmade freezer in the land of ice and snow. In the summer, temperatures at McMurdo will wander around freezing, so this is entirely practical, but for much of the year, it's actually warmer inside the freezer than outside.

The modern Antarctic commissariat is not entirely divorced from its Edwardian predecessor, though – frozen vegetables taste fresher than tinned, and are more nutritious and palatable, but they are not fresh; powdered milk and powdered eggs are still the status quo. During the summer, perishable groceries – called 'freshies' – come down on the flights from New Zealand, if there is room after the passengers and equipment are loaded. After a month of flight cancellations, fresh apples and oranges are greeted with as much delight as they were on the arrival of relief ships in the Heroic Age, and the appearance of a salad bar in the Galley prompts general rejoicing.

The US Antarctic Program has its roots in the Navy, and McMurdo is still provisioned by one of the big firms that supplies the US military. Having had experience with industrial-scale American catering in California, I had moderate expectations of the quality of food at McMurdo, but it was surprisingly good. One might argue that the excitement of being there and the daily energy expenditure would be a good sauce for anything, and this may be true, but against this I would argue that dry air impedes one's ability to taste – that fact it was so flavourful at all is significant. People kept apologising for the food in the Galley and I kept telling them, earnestly, that it was better than the food in the Disney commissary. They didn't believe me, but I firmly attest this; I ate at Disney on my return journey and have confirmed it by direct comparison. I know they were working with roughly the same quality of ingredients, but the chefs at McMurdo reliably made things delightful to eat, which is more than I can say for the other place. Why this should be is anyone's guess ... Working as a Galley Rat is one of the few ways enthusiasts can get down to the Ice, so it's full of keen, intelligent, and curious cooks, and maybe that rubs off on the food. There are people who come back to tackle the unique challenges of Antarctic cuisine year after year, so maybe they're more experienced and invested in the job. My personal theory is that because they have to eat the food, too, of course they're invested in making it tasty – I suspect the folks behind the counter in LA have much better meals waiting for them when they get home.

Mealtimes follow a strict schedule:

5:30-7:30 Breakfast (many a time I missed the cutoff, woe)

11:00-13:00 Lunch

17:00 to 19:30 Dinner. There was always a portion of the cafeteria serving breakfast food at this time; this was reserved for the night shift workers, who got a reprise of the day shift's dinner for their lunch. If you really liked whatever was served for dinner, nothing could stop you coming around again for another go at midnight.

The one exception to this was Sunday, when a brunch would be served from 10 to 12. The service in the chapel started at 10 as well, and was very weak competition. Brunch was always excellent, and being the single day off, was often where one would meet up with people who were too busy during the week.

If you failed to make a mealtime for any reason, there was always something on offer. A fridge would be stocked with packaged leftovers, sandwiches, and other food-to-go – when I had a day out, I would eat breakfast and then grab my lunch from this fridge. On one occasion, dinner included fried okra (one of my faves, rarely had outside the States) and after stuffing myself with it, I nabbed two or three extra portions and cached them in my dorm room mini-fridge to enjoy later.

In a challenging environment, with a lot of people doing energy-intensive jobs, calories are important. There was only one rule regulating portions: Take what you want, but eat what you take. With a finite amount of food on hand, and delivery only once a year, food waste is anathema – if you need it, then eat it, but do not throw any away.

The menu seemed to originate with whatever presented itself in the enormous freezer, though perhaps in November and December it was dictated more by what remained in it, prior to the new shipment. We didn't suffer for want of variety, though: if anything, we benefited from a surfeit of prawns, including great bowls of them at Sunday brunch. I found myself wondering if the US military had a contract for most of the catch from the Gulf, and how much of their famously inflated budget went into that; I suspect, in reality, the kitchen just hit a seam of prawn in the recesses of the freezer and had to use it up. As a devotee of all shapes of sea bug, I was in seventh heaven, and did my level best to help McMurdo clear the surplus.

Once new food was defrosted and cooked up, it would cascade through various dishes down the week, as leftovers were repurposed to minimise waste. Usually this was successful, but sometimes they had to try a little harder ...

A variety of cuisines were offered, some of which were more successful than others. They seemed to reflect the makeup of the US military, for whom the rations would have been designed. The best dishes were the meat-and-potatoes variety (my minder said that if she were on Death Row, she'd ask for McMurdo Pot Roast for her last meal), Italian, Southern (see above re: okra), and what I assume was Tex Mex – the only misstep on the last count was an almost inedibly hot 'taco soup' which may have been more of a delivery vehicle for leftovers than an intentional dish. The only disappointments were anything attempting to be Asian, and the fish, which, due to the circumstances, was always overcooked. Provision was always made for vegetarians and even vegans, but I can't say I noticed many people adhering strictly to those diets. I suppose if the animals are already dead and in the freezer, there's little difference whether you eat them or not.

There was also, always, pizza. It was left in one of those tiered heated racks like you get at a buck-a-slice takeaway pizzeria, but this was no buck-a-slice pizza, this was McMurdo pizza, and McMurdo pizza is AMAZING. My brother-in-law's cousin went to super legit pizza school in Naples, and gets queues down the street wherever he opens a pizzeria. He makes the best pizza I have ever had anywhere; McMurdo’s wasn't quite as good as his, but it was pretty darn close. It's a testament to how good the rest of the food was that I didn't just have pizza for every meal. The pizza kitchen runs 24 hours a day, and takes orders for pickup from all across the base. If you're flying out to a field camp, it's good manners to take their pizza order and deliver it to them hot and fresh. For all the advances in food technology since the Heroic Age, surely the greatest has to be the McMurdo Pizza.

We were reminded constantly how important hydration was, and the Galley offered a range of liquids at all hours. To my surprise, what looked like a soda fountain offered not pop but fruit juice – grapefruit, orange, cranberry, and apple, though one or more often ran out before the end of breakfast. There were enormous urns of extremely weak coffee – a provision, I supposed, for its diuretic effects – though with 10-hour workdays and very early starts, a little more oomph would have gone a long way. Experienced hands, and those of discerning tastes, brought their own coffee or sourced it somehow from the stores. The kitchenette in the Crary library was full of people's personal coffee-making supplies as they sought a more effective brew.

I had been warned that if I liked tea, I should bring my own; this was a sound warning, as the black tea on offer looked and smelled as though it had been on a shelf for about a decade. What I had not been warned about was that the only 'milk' on hand for one's coffee or tea was, in most places, 'coffee whitener', a ubiquitous Americanism which I'd completely forgotten about (or supressed?) since moving away. For those who've not had the privilege of its acquaintance, this is a blend of margarine, sugar, synthetic vanilla, and titanium dioxide, rendered into a powder by some unknown chemical process and packaged up to pass for milk. (I think it might be illegal in Europe. I've certainly not seen it around.) The Galley had the base's only dispenser of actual mammalian lactation – reconstituted from powdered, of course. If I were to go again, I would bring a small bottle to fill there with 'real' milk, which I could take away for tea purposes elsewhere. There were boxes of UHT milk available for purchase in the shop, and had I been staying longer I might have invested in some, but for just a splash per cuppa, it hardly seemed worthwhile.

The undisputed star of the Galley was the soft serve ice cream dispenser, named Frosty Boy (or Boi), an ancient beast that was such an institution that it was rumoured the USAP had bought another one from a junkyard just for parts. The Thing to Do was, instead of putting milk or coffee whitener in your coffee, to use a dollop of Frosty Boy instead – I'm not sure which end of the dairy/non-dairy spectrum his product was nearest, but it did go well in the coffee, such as it was. More often than not while I was there, Frosty Boy exuded only a watery splutter rather than creamy delight – even when he was working, the product was rather gritty – but I was assured he was just going through a phase, and would be right again soon. I got the impression that if anyone tried replacing the machine with something more reliable, or which produced something more resembling ice cream, there'd be a protest. We shall see if Frosty Boy survives the station revamp, as the NSF seems keen to scrub out any vestiges of character ...

I have brought two things back from the McMurdo Galley, and they're things that go right back to the beginning: powdered milk and powdered egg. Even when I'm near a shop with both in fresh form, it's convenient to have the powdered on hand for recipes. I really only use milk to splash in my tea and coffee, so don't keep a large amount in my fridge, but recipes often call for far more than I have – so instead of making a trip for the extra, I can just mix it up on demand. I've also taken on the Perpetual Yoghurt: McMurdo makes its own yoghurt from its vast reserves of powdered milk, using a bit of the last batch to inoculate the next, and it turns out this is perfectly doable at home, too. Eggs eaten as eggs are better fresh, of course, but when providing structure in a recipe, no one's going to notice if they've been reconstituted, and then I can save my 'real' eggs for when they'll be appreciated. It's a good system, and economical, too. Alas, the pizza isn't as easy to replicate at home ...

For more information on McMurdo food – The Antarctic Sun newsletter put out this podcast: https://antarcticsun.usap.gov/features/4329/ I didn't mention how good the desserts were; I was lucky enough to share my time at McMurdo with Rose McAdoo, who was featured in this story on NPR: https://text.npr.org/779463164

#antarctica #food #mcmurdo station #cuisine #resourcefulness #powdered milk #frosty boi #pizza

162 notes · View notes

koishiro · 1 year ago

Text

# - 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : bumping into (what you thought was) your enemy on a winters morning, you realise he isn’t so much of the annoying boy you once thought he was. bakugo just wants you to know how deeply he feels for you, chasing that hug that was ripped so viciously away from him

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 : slight angst to fluff??

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 2k

=͟͟͞͞ ⌧ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 : i put this off for so long… (this is actually kinda pointless)

masterlist | bnha masterlist

I bundled myself up in my winter coat — the same old grey one my mother had bought me years prior, slowly falling apart yet still thick and warm. I hadn’t walked a block before I felt the chill of an impending snowstorm settling around my shoulders like a blanket; but undaunted by what lies ahead on this brisk morning walk towards the school building, I gathered up the courage to continue. There's something special about stepping out into nature after all - no matter what conditions lay ahead.

The cold morning air numbed my nose as the icy breath of winter settled upon the landscape. It was colder than usual, prompting me to draw my coat tightly around myself in an effort to contain my body's warmth. The trees were beautiful that day, with no green leaves in sight—just a blanket of fresh white snow dancing by way of a glimmering light between them and reflected off the frozen-over lake where a few daring children slid across its surface like seals on ice.

There was something indefinable in the crisp air and soft light of this morning that made me feel more alive. Everywhere around, colors shone in a sharper hue than usual, and birdsong sang through the trees with a special clarity. I half-closed my eyes and breathed it all in - cinnamon spice from somewhere nearby mingling with the smoky scent of woodfires out on nearby stalls; remembering shared Christmases back home surrounded by family laughter; wondering what they'd be doing right now.

I had been living in Japan not too long and was attending the prestigious U.A High School, where heroes came to refine their abilities and skills. But despite my best efforts, there was one boy who seemed to have a problem with me; he always picked on me for no reason other than maybe his own insecurity or jealousy of my growing reputation as a powerful hero. His taunts were unrelenting and every time I encountered him it felt like an assault from the inside out – I could let myself be thrown off balance by his words or strive to take back control of what he thought would break me down.

You were well aware of Bakugo's temper, which could sometimes spiral into an eruption of unchecked anger. But the most incredible thing about him was his restraint. Despite this misdirected fury, you never saw Bakugo direct it at anyone in particular — not even you who he had made a habit of singling out for years previously. It seemed that though his voice rose to a deafening pitch and those flares of emotion coursed through him like electricity, they somehow remained safely contained until they could eventually be dissipated in harmless fizzles and scowls against the wall or table instead aimed at any living soul.

Bakugo was a raging storm in human form, his temper quick to flare and his voice booming even when he wasn't speaking. His words were always tinted with anger or annoyance whenever you had the misfortune of being within earshot. You would frequently find yourself watching him from afar, holding your breath as if bracing for some kind of ripple effect akin to dropping a pebble in still water - any attempt at conversation instantly dissipated like dust in the wind no matter how innocent it seemed and although you never really liked him, there was an air of resignation that surrounded both your interactions; one born out of desperation and necessity rather than out of desire.

Still, something was different this time as he looked at you with a newfound emotion, like he had just caught a dazzling vision come to life outside the barriers that both societies had seemingly placed between you. His words were more gentle now and even in the cold winter air around you felt an unrestrained warmth; one that rapidly began to thaw your heart and have it beat with a foreign feeling you had never experienced before.

Bakugo stood before me like a soldier at rest – tall and proud, but still uncertain. His breath was visible in the cold winter air as he exhaled heavily. He wore his usual confidence on top of an otherwise unreadable face, clad in a fluffy navy bobble hat, the kind with woolen pom-poms and a soft foldover band. His signature orange winter coat was cut and draped around him like an ancient cape; two large buttons on either side kept it secured against his body. His feet were sheathed in high black Doc Martens - thick leather uppers, heavy rubber soles – which gave him both stability and protection from whatever might threaten below.

Tension emanated from him and his eyes flickered with nervous energy as he shifted from one foot to the other, not knowing what to say or do next. Despite this display of uncertainty I could feel how strong he was beneath it all; a force too powerful for any mere words or actions by himself alone to suppress.

The same could be said of me, though I was more shy and introverted compared to him. A soft pink scarf hung from my end, complimenting my skin and my hair situated in an intricate updo. I drew strength from his presence, becoming bolder as he shifted from one foot to the other.

He gestured with his outstretched hand, the metal of my house keys glinting in the morning light. "You dropped this, dumbass" he said softly. I looked down to see my own keychain lying in his open palm, each individual key jutting upwards like a tiny hill.

“Oh, thank you Bakugo” I gave a grateful smile and reached out my gloved hand for my keys but before I could take them back, Bakugo's fingers closed around them, drawing them closer to his chest - holding them captive. My gaze shifted to his face where a frown had planted itself across the brows of his deep eyes, “why do you always call me that?”

I gazed up at him, noting the pensive expression that had come across his face. It was clear to me this bothered him - why wouldn't I call him Bakugo? I had no reason to call him anything else nor did I want to. But instead of words, all that came out of my mouth was an uncertain "Sorry?"

His frustration had reached its boiling point. He gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists at his sides as the words left his lips - “you always call me Bakugo. Why?” His expression changed from one of anger to something sadder and more lost, as if he wanted desperately for someone to understand why he felt so frustrated all the time. His arms dropped limply down by his side in a gesture of helplessness and despair before finally turning away from me, instead glaring at the snow covered ground.

He moved forward slowly, his feet grinding out a path in the crisp white snow with each step. His winter coat was like a beacon amidst all the greys and whites of our silent surroundings; marking his presence for me to follow as I kept my distance behind him.

The surrounding trees were frozen and still, their icy frosted leaves reminding me of childhood winters when I stayed up late searching between constellations in night skies trying to find warmth amongst celestial forms. Breaking through our shared silence he muttered something under his breath that seemed small yet profound enough that it urged me closer towards him than ever before without us having said a word.

“‘m sorry”

I abruptly halted my steps, and heard Bakugo follow suit a few feet in front of me. My head spun around to face him, and I uttered in disbelief: “You’re sorry?” The sarcasm of my voice was thick enough to choke on, a scathing undertone only barely contained by its edge of seething contempt. “Do you know what exactly it is that you’re apologising for? Or is this simply another one of your feeble attempts at humour?"

Bakugo shifted uncomfortably in his spot, clearly not used to having to deal with these sorts of feelings - let alone apologise for them. His words were stilted and clumsy as he tried to express himself, "I’m a dick I know, but I don’t mean to be-"

Bakugo cut himself off as soon as he noticed the deadpan look on my face. His mouth quirked downwards into a frown and his eyes darted away from mine. He began to fidget, it was clear he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself in this uncomfortable moment.

He cleared his throat before speaking again, almost uncertainly at first. "I mean... I was aware of what I was doing, and I know you don't exactly like me," His voice was low now; slightly embarrassed by the admission of knowing our strained relationship for too long had been unrequited on both our parts.

"I can't help it," he continued, lifting his gaze back up towards mine. "You're just so... nice" He said the last bit softly, almost as if he were telling me a secret and didn't want anyone else to hear it. I felt my cheeks flush at the sudden compliment and found myself wanting to say something back, but I couldn't think of anything suitable.

I stared up at him as the words spilled out of his mouth, my brows furrowed in confusion, “You get along with everyone and it pisses me off” His voice was laced with frustration and anger, “the stares you get and the way people just find it so easy to approach you - it really fucking pisses me off”

Bakugo held his hands tightly in front of him, his eyes wild and bright with fury. His clenched fists trembled while he spoke, each word coming harder than the last. "And I'm over here thinking over what to say to you every fucking morning," he ranted, "every fucking morning while you greet everyone else in that damn class except for me!"

As the words left him like arrows flying from a bowstring, so did all of his remaining fight. He hung limply between them both; drained by what had just flown from his mouth as if a heavy veil had been lifted revealing something underneath too vulnerable and raw for him to handle.

My mind raced as I tried to figure out why he was so angered by something that had nothing to do with either one of us - why would I greet someone who’d snarl at me either way?

“Remember valentines? Those stupid flowers you got on your desk?”Of course I did, how could I not? It was the first time anyone got me anything remotely thoughtful. “I spent two fucking hours picking them out, for some stupid fucking meaning that got half-and-half a hug - he stole my hug!”

The words hit me like a slap across the face. I would've laughed at the pout on his face if it weren't for the sheer seriousness lacing his voice. He spoke of these small tokens of love with such wistfulness - as though he had been robbed of some deep, passionate feeling that those little flowers held within them.

His unchecked rage and emotions were evident on his features as if someone had given him back an empty box after holding out their hands for something valuable, something precious; his stolen hug.

Bakugo had tried to mask his handwriting without realising how similar it was to Shoto’s…

All this time I had thought it was Shoto who had given me those beautiful pink tulips tied with a delicate white laced bow. The sheer joy and amazement that filled my heart when I saw them sitting on my desk nearly made me squeal in delight. Without thinking, I ran over to where Shoto was standing and wrapped him in an enthusiastic hug only to now realize months later that it was Bakugo's broken frown behind those flowers all along.

”I didn't know…”, my words dragging from me like a broken record. My voice was but a whisper, laden with the pain he must've felt all this time. Those small gestures that had gone unnoticed had meant more than I could have ever guessed; it stung to know that they'd been overlooked completely when all he wanted was for them to be seen by me - for me to understand everything without him having to say anything at all.

“That’s what hurts,” he spoke louder now, but his resolution held no heat or spite - just hurt in its purest form; acknowledgement of what hadn't been realised earlier gracing his lips as I waited to hear whatever it was lingering in his voice.

"All I ever wanted was for you to see me," he said quietly, averting my gaze and swallowing hard before continuing. "I know that none of what I did is forgivable. But all these years, I kept on hoping that maybe someday you would actually see me"

He looked up at me, an unspoken plea in his eyes. "I'm not asking for you to forgive or forget - I just wanted you to understand why I made all of those mistakes, why my life became so disordered and chaotic. All those stupid things I did to you, pulling your hair or kicking your chair - all for you to see me, ‘m sorry”

Those two words had never held so much emotion before. All those teasing moments, all the crying I had done meant nothing yet meant everything.

Closing the small distance between our feet, I hugged him with such warmth it battled his own. Bakugo was clearly shocked at first, not realising its intent would end with my arms wrapped around his middle. He remained motionless for a moment, hesitating before slowly wrapping his own muscular arms around me in an embrace that felt like a shield from the world outside our small bubble of newly found comfort.

“What did they mean?” I said, my voice muffled by his orange puffer jacket. Tilting his head to level my own he stared down at me with a confused look, “the flowers, what did they mean?”

He moved in closer and pushed back the collar of his coat to get a better look into my eyes; I could smell a slight hint of cologne on him that was sweet but faint and it made me shiver slightly in response. His lips parted as if about to speak before he suddenly paused again and ran one hand through the sandy brown tresses on top of his head

“You can’t laugh at me, ‘kay?”

Resting my chin on his chest, I stared up at him in wonder. He mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out; asking him to repeat himself, he mumbled again, this time clearer: “I care for you” Those simple words sent a flood of emotion through me that felt like a million stars lighting up my eyes – “that’s what they mean”

Had I thought I’d be here now, wrapped in the arms of the boy I swore to hate as he whispers these words to me, I would've thought I was crazy.

I felt a warmth spreading through me even though it was colder than cold outside but that didn't matter because my heart no longer held any hate for him anymore; I had let it melt away with the first touch of our embrace beneath that snow-covered sky.

“Can I have my keys back now?”

—

=͟͟͞͞ ⌧ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 (2) : #3 in my 𝘶𝘱𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 / 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘴

— 𝘒𝘰𝘪 𝘹𝘰

129 notes · View notes

issybee06 · 7 months ago

Text

Because…

Part I

Warnings: swearing, underage drinking, smoking, talking about war, trauma dumping

Phosphenes

(n.) the colors or “stars” you see when you rub your eyes.

……………….…………………………………………………………

“Tadaima…”

Genma looked up from his scroll, wrinkling his nose, “Shit, Hime…what is Inoichi doing to you?”

I scoff, pulling the bag of groceries through the door before closing it, “thanks, you sure know how to flatter a girl.”

Genma smirked proudly, getting up from the couch, “my pleasure.”

He began rummaging through the bag, “did you get the sake?”

Glaring, I hit his arm with a carrot. Like a baby, he whined dramatically and I pulled out the sealed bottle, “yes I did, and you should have gotten it earlier today when you got off your shift!”

He groaned flopping on a chair, “but I had to get the cake!”

I give him a sharp glare, “do you know how hard it is to get Sake the day after new years? I had to go to 5 different stores, Genma, 5!”

He waves his hand dismissively, and I continue to put away the food in the fridge, “besides, I thought we were getting Gai new weights.”

Genma gave a dry laugh, “Fucking Asuma already got him that.”

I sigh, putting the last of the food away, “what times the party?”

“Didn’t you help Kurenai with the invites? It’s at 7.”

Nodding, I pull off the grey TI jacket and head to my room.

“I’m gonna shower-don’t! Eat the cookies!”

He whines, putting the cookie back, “it’s not like anyone’s gonna notice!”

“I will.”

………………………………………………………………………….

5 years ago, on October 10, the Nine tails was released from my Jinchūriki sensei, Uzumaki Kushina which resulted in the death of hundreds of Shinobi, including my sensei and our Yondaime Namikaze Minato.

And for the past 5 years, I have been working in the TI building under Yamanaka Inoichi along with one of my close classmates Morino Ibiki. While Ibiki shined in the torture part of the department, I working in the more intelligence part.

The poison department…wasn’t what I had gone for initially, I had wanted to be a field medic that actually got to go out of the village, but my medical Ninjutsu was mediocre and mediocre gets people dead.

It wasn’t like I was disappointed, medics don’t actually engage in combat and my mother said my talents in jutsu would be waisted sitting on the sidelines.

But I guess sitting in a lab all day making and looking at the components of poisons is so much better. Either way I’m still not out there.

It’s still winter in Konoha, and despite being in the land of Fire, it got fucking cold.

Snow licked at our feet as Genma and I walked to Gais apartment, which was already booming with music and people talking.

I sighed, a large cloud of air coming out of my mouth. Genma wrapped an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me.

“Hey, easy up Hime. Let’s have fun getting shit faced with people we like.”

I laughed, “whatever you say, Baka.”

We walked up the first flight of stairs, heading to Gais second story apartment. Genma knocked on the door, giving two crisp knocks before being interrupted when Gai all but ripped the door open.

“MY OLD TEAMMATES!! YOU MADE IT AND JUST IN TIME FOR KARAOKE!!”

Genma and I smiled, and I wrapped my arms around Gai as he picked me up in a hug almost crushing the cookies, “happy birthday Gai-kun, sorry we’re a little late.”

“Nonsense! You’re here! That’s all that matters!”

Genma passed Gai the Sake bottle, smiling, “Happy 19th, Gai.”

Gai had always been the baby of our team, with me being a year older and Genma being 3years Gais senior, we as the older two took it in our power to baby Gai as much as we could…but now he was 19 and a full fledged Jonin.

Gai grinned at the Sake and then at Genma, “Genma! You sly dog! Where’d you find this?!”

I rolled my eyes as Genma gave me an apologetic look before nudging me in so that we wouldn’t freeze to death. Gai, the ever social butterfly, had invited not only our graduating academy class but also many other shinobi.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as soon as I pulled my coat off, “Since you’re late, you own two shots!”

I laughed, taking the small shot glass and swigging it. It burned like a mother Fucker, shinobi alcohol has always been made stronger, but the feeling was familiar.

I couldn’t count all the times I had snuck off with Genma and/or Gai with a bottle of the cheep stuff when we were younger.

Genma and I got used to it quick, but poor Gai had never been able to get over being a lightweight…but boy was he a fun drunk.

Asuma two years ago had convinced Drunk Gai to run from the village gate to the stone head completely butt naked, and he had raised that challenge by doing it while running backwards on his hands.

No one could stop laughing for two days.

Gai laughed loudly, shaking the apartment with his booming voice, “now that you’re here, WE CAN START THE DRINKING GAMES!”

It had been an hour since Genma and I had arrived, and the alcohol and bright lights of the party was starting to get to my head.

I slipped out, opting to stand on the outside balcony. It was cold, like I had thought, but it was calming compared to the heat of 20+ shinobis crammed into Gais apartment. I enjoyed parties, I really did, but sometimes it all got too much.

I blame Asuma for this habit I think as I pull outa pack of cigarettes. Pulling one out, I place it between my lips as I search myself for my lighter.

Nothing. No lighter, meant it was in my fucking jacket at home.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair before raising my hands to start weaving the all too familiar signs , when suddenly my body stiffened.

This chakra….

Fuck.

“Those things will kill you, you know.”

Turning my head, I look up, eyes softening at the source of the voice.

“You’re late, Kakashi. Party started at 7.”

The dog mask with the red painted on smile tilted, and the moon caught the soft glow of his lone Sharingan. He slowly and silently moved down the roof to be in the light, and I turned to face him fully.

“Oh? The time must have…slipped my mind.”

I frown, the cigarette dangling from my lips, “you should have come earlier. He’s your best friend, Kakashi-”

“Inu, (Y/n), I’m not off right now.”

My frown deepened, and I sigh,“Right.”

His mask tilted more, almost comically, “New haircut?”

I scowl, knowing he was being an ass. Stupid Genma a week ago had made a wrong swipe of his kunai during training, ending with me getting a free cut. Now, the hair curled just shy of my shoulders.

“Shout out to my barber.”

“Maybe I should see if Genma does men.” he evenly spoke and found a second there I could have sworn his tone was teasing.

I hum, weaving a few hand signs before blowing a small flame to light the cigarette And he hops down from the roof silently.

He stands fully, and I forget how tall the once shrimpy silver-haired man was when we were kids.

He’s still lean, not muscler like Gai, but he’s toned and I can’t help but press myself further away from him into the railing with a blush I convince myself that is from the alcohol.

Kakashi…ever since that day had barely showed his face around the village, opting to stay in the shadows. But every now and then, people were graced with getting a glimpse of him. It had been a good 2 years since we’d been this close, and that was in a room full of our comrades and in front of the council.

This, despite having all our friends a plate of glass away, was different.

“Those things will kill you.”

He repeated, tone commanding. I furrowed my brows until it clicked on my head that he wasn't some Anbu subordinate anymore, but a captain.

Still, I had never listened to him when we were kids…why start now?

I make eye contact as I take my first drag, and let the smoke swirl around me when I blow it out. I feel his eyes narrow, and I smirk with all the grace my drunk ass could muster up in front of Hatake Fucking Kakashi.

“If I die because of this, then that means I didn’t die a gory death in battle…and I’d say that’s a pretty good death for me.”

*let's see if you guys like this! If you do I'll write more!*

#hatake kakashi x reader #kakashi x reader #anbu kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake x reader #kakashi x reader smut #kakashi x reader #naruto shippuden #naruto #genma shiranui #might gai #anko mitarashi

33 notes · View notes

theoperativeif · 10 months ago

Text

The Blackout (The Operative/Wrath of an Empire)

Benjamin Hewitt used to love the snow. Loved the sound it made as the leather boots his mother had gifted moved through it. He loved that bite that nipped at his nose. He loved snowball fights with his two sisters as they yelled at him for stealing one of their toys. The winter wonderland that always greeted their home was his to explore.

He thought it would last forever.

He wished that wonder had stayed, hoped that it wasn't tainted. But now, when he thought of the white reaper that danced around him, he only could see the frozen faces of friends, innocents, and animals. Waking up each morning and shaking the body of a fellow only to realize the reaper lay with him that night and took his breath.

That reaper had taken his mother when the war came to their home. He found them all there. Why did it spare him each time when it took so many he cared for? Now it mocked him with memories and gifts it once bestowed.

That was oh so long ago.

Hewitt watched the snow flutter in his hands before turning it over and letting it blow away from him.

In front of him, the four bodies lay motionless under the snow. They were in a partially dug ditch, the ground frozen solid by the long winter storms that raged across Parem. One of those storms was still swirling above them like an ancient predator seeking to sweep them away.

But here, the snow buried its own. Why not him?

Major Hewitt sighed, brushing a layer of snow that had settled on his hat. He turned, a frown creasing his forehead as the platoon leader of the 2nd platoon walked over, saluting him.

"Building secured Sir, but we found something in the shelter underneath," Lieutenant Grace Mallory said, her dull blue eyes coldly watching him.

"Thank you, Lieutenant dismissed," Hewitt said, waving his hand as he stared over at the building.

Observation post Echo was a large, partially above-ground bunker with multiple lines of sight for the automatic turrets sticking out on its side. It also had an attached tower that could see for miles in clear weather.

His men had secured the facility, several outposts had lost communications in the previous hours. They had to wait for the storm to clear before it was safe for shuttle flights to check on them.

Hewitt stepped through the metal doorway, the door swinging shut with a loud bang before locking. The gunmetal gray hallways led to the various bunker defensive systems. Operating gun controls, camera systems and other control consoles took up the first rooms.

Something was not right.

The heating was off, water frozen in cups, and food was frostbitten as they passed by the small kitchen. Hewitt stopped, counting the plates and cups that littered the several tables. Obviously, whatever happened made the men leave their meals uneaten.

Nearly fifty men manned this post. And now not a single soul apart from the four outside being buried by the snow.

Commonwealth soldiers saluted him as he passed, their bright armor giving them an almost heavenly appearance, seeming to glow in the lights. Their large needle rifles were at the ready, and even they seemed put off.

He walked back into the hallway before stopping, his eyes tracing the long marks along the wall. They looked like claw marks, the metal was torn open like paper.

"What could do something like that?" Lieutenant Mallory wondered aloud, running her own fingers along it.

"How did it even get in? The facility seemed sealed when we arrived," Hewitt said, gesturing for one of the soldiers, "find Lieutenant Gormly, tell him to have his platoon sweep the perimeter and the outer building again."

The soldier saluted before rushing outside.

"This is what we wanted you to see," Lieutenant Mallory said as they descended downstairs to the underground sections, "we found one body, it was in an interesting shape."

They led him to the bottom of the stairs, quickly turning and heading to one of the officer's quarters.

Hewitt stared at the body pinned to the wall by a large pipe, a pool of blood below it. The concrete where the pipe had struck had cracked. What in the name of mother Earth could do that?

"It looks like something fired out of a cannon," Malloy wondered, her fingers exploring the cracks running up the wall, "maybe a combat bot?"

"Imperials don't use those," Hewitt reminded her, shaking his head. Only their own forces used ai intensive ground combat systems, after the Imperial Forge incident, their adversaries have been extremely cautious in their implementation of ai military assets.

"Maybe they gave it a try," Malloy said, shrugging, "either way my guess is something got in here and the boys chased it out into the forest. We should try and catch up to them."

"That doesn't make any sense," Hewitt said, crossing his arms. Whatever got in here made it through the bunker, why wasn't there more of a fight? The number of men between it and this room alone should of been a nightmare of bullets and armored troops—instead, only a few bodies.

"Patterson was the commander," Hewitt stated rather then asked. Patterson was a competent enough XO. His aggression would explain why he set out after the intruder, "do we have an idea of where they were heading?"

Malloy nodded, pulling out a data pad and handing it to Hewitt, who scrutinized it. It was a personal log, damaged but unlocked and functioning. He pressed play.

He listened to the first sentence, garbled audio making him grimace. He skipped to the last entry. Not even four hours ago.

"Captain Patterson reporting. We were attacked by some creature and took only one casualty. but the damn thing hacked our systems and downloaded all known information on our defenses. We've been unable to contact any other posts, we are setting out towards the airfield twenty miles south of here in the morning, I will leave four of my men to seal the compound and guard it. Hopefully, we can warn-" The message abruptly ended.

Twelve hours. They had time to catch up then.

"Malloy! Tell our shuttle to head to the airfield and sound the alarm, then have reinforcements get to us. We will trek south to catch up to Patterson and his troops."

Malloy hesitated for the barest moment before saluting, rushing off to inform the shuttle pilots.

Fifteen minutes later all soldiers were assembled outside the bunker. Hewitt ordered them to proceed south at double pace to catch up to Patterson and his men. He arranged for Gormly's platoon to stay ahead of the man group, with orders to suppress and withdraw to the main force if engaged.

As the shuttle took off and faded into the distance, Hewitt wondered if he was making the right decision, but he knew time was of the essence. He made a call, and he would live with it for the rest of his life. However long that is. He thought with a grimace.

For the first twenty minutes, all was silent. Until Gormly requested his presence.

He found the lieutenant standing in front of a large pine tree, the man's round face visible now that his helmet was off as he inspected something on the tree.

It was only when Hewitt got close that he realized what he thought was another soldier leaning against the tree, was a corpse. A headless corpse.

"Ours?" Hewitt asked uneasily, looking at the soldiers in defensive positions around them, "or-"

"One of Patterson's men," Gormly responded in his usual gruff manner, "his armor is untouched, notice the cut to his neck, something sharp went clean through it. I guess he was at the back of the group, poor bastard never even got noticed. Tracks all lead south."

"Keep your squads close to each other, we don't know what we are dealing with."

Gormly's platoon continued ahead, reporting more and more tracks of Patterson's men. It was clear the longer the trek went, Patterson clumped his men closer and closer until they were all within a few feet of each other, moving enmass south.

"First platoon reporting contact!" the short-range radio burst to life suddenly, sporadic gunfire echoing close ahead of them before Gormly's gruff voice cut in, "cease fire! Friendlies!"

Hewitt moved towards First platoon, several soldiers accompanying him.

Soldiers were tending to a soldier on the ground, a bullet wound in his shoulder. Another soldier was standing a ways away, eyes wide, seeming in a daze, his armor wasn't like the others, his was cracked and barely functioning.

"He's one of Patterson, he was running when he stumbled on squad three," he said matter of factly, turning to the wounded trooper, "you gonna live Harris?"

"Yes Sir," the soldier gave him a thumbs up before pointing at the new soldier, "come here."

The soldier took a hesitant step forward, almost stumbling, "I'm so sorry I thought-"

"Whats your name trooper?" Hewitt asked, arms crossed, he didn't care, no one was killed, he just need information fast.

He didn't respond, swaying on his feet. It almost looked like he was drunk.

"Where is Patterson?" Hewitt demanded, looking behind him he noticed a small bloom of smoke in the distance, followed by an explosion rumbling through the air.

"Camp," the man croaked, pointing behind him.

"Show us."

The walk was short, Hewitt followed Gormly's platoon as Vincent led them to a small clearing. Hewitt's heart sank as a lump formed in his throat.

"Mother of," Gormly trailed off before spinning around, "sweep the area now!"

Soldiers quicking split into search teams, cautiously moving ahead.

In front of them in the clearing sat a large camp. It was destroyed. Tents lay scattered, fires still smoldering. Bodies littered the area. Hewitt slowly moved forward, soldiers ahead of him checking the collapsed tents and the more intact bodies.

He passed two bodies still kneeling, their hands palm up and their heads removed.

Feet stuck out of the snow by one tent with a hand sticking out of another.

"What the fuck does this?" Gormly muttered, crouching down next to one of the arms, "what exploded?"

"It wasn't from the camp," Hewitt said, his heart pounding in his ears as he reached a realization, pointing towards the smoke still a short distance off, "Gormly you don't think?"

"The shuttle?" Gormly's eyes widened, "no, they wouldn't land without direct orders!"

Mallory's platoon was reaching the clearing when Hewitt gave her the order to investigate the smoke, "withdraw to our position here right away if engaged." He stressed those instructions, as their situation was getting worse by the second.

They found Patterson's body towards the middle of the camp, his head shoved deep into a camp fires coals, small pockets of fire creeping up his back. There were drag marks leading up to his body.

When they pulled him out his face was unrecognizable. His skull had been smashed badly, with cracks spreading down the forehead, eyes and mouth shattered. Hewitt hoped that he had been dead when whatever it was had dragged him to the fire.

"Mark the location for recovery teams, " Hewitt instructed, slowly looking around before stopping. High above in one of the trees a body was slung over the branches, body smoking as if it had been burnt. He withdrew his sidearm, aiming and firing a single shot just above the body.

The clearing went silent, soldiers on alert and looking towards him, confused.

Nothing happened. Hewitt frowned, he could of sworn he saw something.

"Major this is second platoon reporting," Mallory's voice came over the short-range communications, "its the shuttle, its in another clearing a quarter of a kilometer ahead, bodies here. Seems like they tried to perform a pickup when something or someone caught them."

Damn. This was bad, he had alerted the nearby outposts that they were out here. But without the shuttle warning the airfield, would they bother checking? Surely they would. He hoped.

"Sir we might have something here, there seems to-" Mallory's voice cut in as the wind began to pick up.

"Say again 2nd platoon we seem to be having issues with the storm," a communications operator said next to Hewitt, the young man straining to hear as the wind picked up even more, causing the both of them to brace themselves.

"Contact!" the words hung in the air, as Hewitt's eyes went wide, he knew it.

Whatever had taken out Patterson was still around. And they were the next target.

"First platoon and third platoon move up to support second, double time!" Hewitt ordered, "Operator see if you can get any information from second, and tell them we are coming from North of their position!"

The silence caused Hewitt to turn, the comms operator was dead, his head opened up like a red flower as crimson flowed over the snow.

"Contact rear!" A soldier shouted, firing up into the trees before a shot hit him, sending him flying.

Sharpshooter.

Hewitt dove behind cover as he spotted a shimmer high in the trees, "suppressing fire on those trees! Aim high!"

Soldiers at the rear of the two platoons began firing into the treetops. Hewitt watched as sparks lit up on one branch. And for the briefest moment, he saw a soldier of some kind, a blue and white ghost.

"Contact fro-" The soldiers heading towards second's position went flying backwards, crimson spraying across snow like paint on a canvas.

Hewitt scrambled back, drawing his sidearm and firing as a formless shimmer dashed through his men. Heads and limbs falling motionless to the ground.

Gormly fired his shotgun at it as he emerged chasing after it, several soldiers following.

The thing briefly appeared, a humanoid form of metal seeming to weave between the bullets, a long blade lashing out, nearly cutting a man in two. When bullets did hit it they seemed to bounce harmlessly off, or just stagger it.

Gormly scrambled back, narrowly avoiding the blade.

Mallory soon emerged behind him, bleeding from a severe gash but still in the fight.

Hewitt tossed his pistol aside, grabbing up a rifle and prying the amputated hand from it.

Gormly fired a shot point blank, the things blade flying from its grasp.

In the blink of an eye it grabbed his leg, swinging him like a child swings a doll and slamming him against a tree. The sickly crack made Hewitt's blood run cold as Gormly's bent body hit the snow.

Hewitt fired all his rifles ammo, picking up another and another.

It just didn't care.

Mallory was next, and it grabbed her by the face, blue energy suddenly arcing from its wrist.

There were screams.

Even as Hewitt desperately fired, trying to distract it somehow, it still held her as her body smoked and twisted in its grip.

It let go of her, her face charred beyond recognition. A deathly silence fell across the massacre, it was only them now.

Hewitt crouched, his hand searching a fallen soldiers belt, his fingers grasping around his only chance.

It turned, the shimmering vanishing and finally letting him see his foe. It was human, or at least he thought, a metal suit with soulless eyes stared at him.

It took a step, its weight crunching down into a body. It paused, looking down in some sick fascination. This was his chance.

Hewitt pulled the pin, waiting a moment before throwing it. He dove to the side, covering his head.

There was an explosion, fragments flying up.

Hewitt's brief smile of victory vanished as the thing took another step, black scorch marks now painting its armor.

"No," Hewitt muttered as he slowly got up, "what the hell are you? Why?"

The thing tilted its head before raising its arm. The was a sound, followed by a pain in his chest. Hewitt looked down, staring at the small dart in his chest. His world began to spin, before darkness took him.

There were sounds. The wind weaving through trees. The crunching a something moving through snow. Was it his imagination? Was he dreaming? Was he dead?

Am I dead? He wondered. Trying to open his eyes or move had no results.

He had come so far. They all had. Now to die in the forest, with no one knowing what happened.

How can that be how this ends?

He didn't know how much time had passed. All Hewitt had was the cold, that cold feeling creeping more and more through him was the only thing he had. Until even that began to fade. Replaced by warmth. And a voice.

"Sir?"

Hewitt, blinked, harsh light burning his eyes as he blinked again and again. And with each time the world began to reform.

"Sir, can you hear me?" He put a face to the voice, a tall woman of dark complexion smiled at him, her uniform was that of a nurse. Frankly, to Hewitt, it was like being woken by an angel.

Hewitt nodded a confirmation to her, his throat burning as he swallowed.

"How long?"

"Its been three days since you were brought in."

Three days. He had to warn the outposts, the airfield.

"I need to contact my superiors," Hewitt rasped, trying to sit up, the nurse gently tried to keep him lying down, "please, all my men."

"That wont be necessary Major," A new voice spoke up as a man walked into the room, Hewitt knew the uniform, "please give us a moment nurse."

The woman nodded, smiling at Hewitt before walking out of the room. The man watched her leave, his smile vanishing as he turned back to Hewitt.

"My name is Issac, I am with the Commonwealth's Intelligence Burea. I know you've had a rough few days so I will be straightforward. From this moment you are hereby discharged from the army. In fact we are already on a transport taking you home. Your pension will remain intact. But, if you ever mention something of what you think happened there. Well, lets just say I am a lot less friendly on repeat visits." The man said, smiling again.

"But, my soldiers, they deserve-" Hewitt started.

"They served the Commonwealth well. Accidents do happen though, he paused, stretching dramatically, "I think I am going to let you get some rest. Do keep what I said in mind. And I do mean this in the most caring way, I hope we don't have to meet again. Enjoy retirement."

He turned and walked away, leaving Hewitt alone.

Several days later Imperial forces would launch a full scale invasion of the planet. And no one would remember the blackout that proceeded it.

#if: the operative #writing #interactive fiction #the operative short story

30 notes · View notes

silver--scar · 2 months ago

Text

Better game idea for South Park (not that Snow Day was bad I fucking loved watching gameplays)

New Kid's fart from TFBW caused a rip between universes (yeah yeah fuck multiverses it's overdone yada yada)

The rip is in Mephesto's lab, a giant rippling crack pulsating with energy and other science stuff. Almost the entire town of South Park is there, news, military, scientists, and even just the general public.

Cue New Kid feeling a pull, a beckoning, a whisper, and they slowly walk to the portal despite death threats from the military, who are shocked that they didn't manage to scare a little kid (insert inadequacy joke)

They warn New Kid it could be dangerous, they don't know what it is or what it could do and that it smells really bad, but, almost as if they don't hear them, New Kid reaches in...

And pulls out another New Kid, but from a different world.

Then another comes through, and another, and they just keep coming.

South Park is hyped, because then they can grow their population and become an even bigger town, with more buildings and shit.

Then you're thrown into the game. Open world. Optional between 2d or 3d. And you just walk around and explore. You see the randomly generated New Kids hanging out and playing games, mixes between medieval and superheroes, and for the tutorial, you play with them. Because there's a connection, like New Kid finally found the people who understand them, because they are them.

I'm not too sure about the gameplay aspect. Maybe sorta like The Last of Us? Where you sneak around, scavenge shit, and build your own weapons and stuff.

Because, news flash, things aren't well.

There's too many New Kids. South Park can't accommodate them all. They bit off more than they can chew. So they try to find a way to seal the whole back up and return the New Kids back inside without any regard if it works or not.

New Kids retaliate, and take over the whole town. Sorta like that one episode where the gang gets all their parents arrested, except it's not just the adults, they lock up most of the original South Park kids as well. Why? Because in every timeline, the New Kids are just used for the gang's needs (think Hankey's rant in Snow Day), and they want justice over all timelines.

So you, as the OG New Kid, you must go throughout the town to rescue them, but you can't just waltz your way through, because your character is a high value target, so you sneak around and take out the other New Kids.

The South Park kids are all scattered, with the least important ones not that looked after, so you're able to rescue them first, and you gain combat buddies.

Like say, as you're looking around, you find Butters just moping and wailing in a little cage, begging for mercy and to be set free, and there's, like, one New Kid guard because who the hell is gonna wanna rescue Butters? You are. And boom, he's your first combat buddy, and he specializes in melee. Sorta like Far Cry 5 with your human/animal companions.

Actually as I'm writing this, I realize this is very Far Cry 5-esque...

I'm just writing a Far Cry 5 au with The Last of Us weapon crafting FUCK

Shit I'm posting this anyway I spent too long writing this all down jfjfbsjks

#south park #just spouting nonsense #someone sedate me #i need to go back to making art

7 notes · View notes

lemonluvgirl · 1 year ago

Note

Hugs! I think you’re great!!

You’re being hard on yourself, but your writing has brought me and others so much joy!!

Go reread your favorite fic you’ve written or sit down and write a fun piece of smut as a treat. 😘

Dear Anon, this sweet post completely inspired me to write this:

If someone had asked me to pinpoint the moment it happened, I couldn’t say.

All I know is that we went into the woods as two survivors who had lost practically everything, except the will to live.

I taught him how to fish, and hunt, and gather plants.

He taught me how to thatch the roof of the bombed out old house by the lake and how to seal the cracks in the windowsills, and how to shape clay and bake it into usable things. Like bowls and cups.

We taught each other how to carry on, and it was easier to face the silence, and the emptiness when you knew there was someone else facing it with you.

Those first few months were grueling. It was a race against time to load up on as much game and edibles as we could.

I had to build additional meat drying racks and Peeta had to build a smoker for all the fish we caught.

There was so much work, so much to do. I was the the more knowledgeable of the two of us. So I thought it was my responsibility to make sure we were prepared, ready for anything. I was gruff with him at first. All business and extremely irritable. He never took it personally. In fact he seemed to take it instride. He was good at turning things around. Seeing opportunities where at frist glance I saw problems.

Over time we started to do better, and we got along. We worked together as a team and found solutions to problems I never could have fixed on my own. It started to get easier, and when that happened, it was easy to forget about everything else.

Still, touching never came easy to me.

Not after everything I had lost.

So even though I felt like after two months I could name the number of freckles on Peeta’s face because his was the only face I stared at day after day, that didn’t mean I wanted to touch him.

Or him to touch me.

The only exception was when one of us was hurt.

Which happened with unavoidable frequency.

Cuts and scrapes and burns and insect bites had to be cleaned, and closely monitored. Infection was always a danger, even more so in the wild where treatments were few and far between.

I cleaned any wounds he couldn’t reach and he did the same for me.

His hands were so much bigger than mine. Calloused but warm everytime. He always gently bandaged me up and applied salve with a the lightest touch of his fingertip.

So featherlight I almost didn’t feel it.

I asked him once, how he had gotten his light touch and that night he explained about how he used to decorate the cakes at the bakery.

The sad, wistful smile and the suspicious sheen in his eye was enough to have me hurrying to close down the conversation.

Talking about the past never led anywhere good.

So I guess in all honestly there were two things I wasn’t very good at. Touching, and talking.

That first winter came and went and we scraped by.

It was uncomfortable being cooped up for long stretches of time, but we made do.

When lake thawed, and the snow melted, and all the world came alive again we were a few pounds lighter, and a few shades paler, but not much worse for wear.

Peeta immediately started building back up our woodpile, now that it was possible to spend longer amounts of time outside without freezing the tip of your nose off.

He started making plans to build more shelves inside the house so we could store more dried meat and food.

“Come next winter, we’ll be better prepared.” He said with determination.

I didn’t argue with him. Or tell him how I was used to losing much more weight in the winter time back when I lived in the Seam.

Spring, real spring made itself known a few weeks later. With soft showers springling over the earth and tender shoots bursting out of the ground, seaking the sun that had come out to play once more.

Giving life and ligh to a world that had had enough darkness for a season.

When the rains let up, I tugged Peeta out of doors with a grass-woven basket in hand and told him to gather up every dandelion and borage and wild bit of lavender he could find. And then I taught him that you could eat them.

Summer followed spring and brought a heat that was perfect for swimming.

Peeta admitted shyly that he didn’t know how to swim. So I spent the summer teaching him.

Long afternoons floating under the hot sun lead to a deep tan for me and a moderate sunburn for him.

I had to apply salve on the back of his neck, his shoulders, and the tips of his ears.

It wasn’t quite as difficult as I thought it would be.

In the fall season, at summer’s end, when the cold air blowing down from the mountains hit the still-warm water of the lake, a steamy fog would rise across the surface of the water. Enveloping the ground in a hazy mist.

It was easy to imagine we were the only two people left in the world on days like that. Maybe we were. The only thing we really knew for sure was there was no home to go back to. All we had was what was ahead of us and what we built for ourselves with our own two hands.

Every morning, no matter the weather, Peeta would go outside to check on the supplies, and if the woodpile were low, he’d set to work filling it up again.

I would watch him from the one intact window of the lake house as I sipped mint tea from a rough-hewn mug he had made for me out of clay. I’d watch him from the window, the only one we hadn’t boarded up in preparation for winter, and I’d hum quietly to myself, something with no words and no set melody. Just whatever came to me.

Peeta’s feet would be swallowed up by the mist and sometimes, depending on the thickness of the fog, his upper legs and hips would be too.

But not his torso. Or his arms. Or his face. Those were still visible. And my eyes would trace the way the fabric of his shirt stretched across his broad back. How his arms would smoothly and effortlessly swing the axe down. How sweat would dampen his collar and the ash-blond waves would stick to his forehead.

He made quick work of the wood most days.

He had strength in his hands. The kind that could inflict real damage if he were ever inclined. But I knew his heart was not inclined towards cruelty or shows of strength for showing off’s sake.

As much as he liked to joke, and play, Peeta was an introspective kind of soul. He had unspoken principles that he exuded. Things he never talked about but lived by just the same. He made them known in the way he spoke, in the way he walked, worked, and above all, in the way he cared.

For everything. For the house, and the things we filled it with. For the food and supplies we gathered. For the lake, the plants, and even the animals.

Everything had a place and a purpose and he learned how to live off the land with a quiet kind of enthusiasm and respect that surprised me. I had not expected him to adapt half as well as he did, and certainly not as quickly.

But after a few months, Peeta started to thrive.

He didn’t complain about the hard work, or the inconvenience, or the solitude.

He got up every morning and stepped outside the door and took a few seconds to just breathe.

And in those five seconds, he looked freer than I had ever felt in my entire life. And then he was ready to go. Ready for any task, any trek, any objective.

Except walking quietly. That was the one beginner skill he never seemed to master no matter how much he tried. But it was ok. I’m better at hunting anyway.

It was hard not to resent him just a little bit for enjoying the wilderness maybe even more than I did. Which was ridiculous, but I had a long history with these woods, and by all accounts, Peeta had grown up his whole life in town. It shouldn’t have been so easy for him.

And maybe I felt a little territorial at first. The woods were supposed to be my thing. My place. My sanctuary.

The woods had given me joy and adventure when I was a child. They had given me life when I was a young starving adolescent. And now that I returned to them a grown woman they were no less harsh or dangerous. But they were still stunning. They were still the place where I felt I could best be myself. Where I could drink in the clean air and expel any worry that didn’t have to do with hunting or foraging. Or making sure Peeta didn’t wander too far from camp when he went in search of new colors for his homemade inks.

I learned little by little to share the woods with him, in all their grandeur, in the same way, my father once shared them with me.

And in the quiet hours of the morning, I could get away with just watching him bask in their natural brilliance for a few minutes. Uninterrupted. Without self-consciousness creeping in because he was always too absorbed to notice.

So I was free to notice things about him.

Like how there seemed to be entire worlds hidden away inside of him. His eyes would take on a special look of focus when he examined a plant, or when he looked at a bird, or a rock, that I could spend hours trying to analyze, but never figure out.

Or how sometimes the autumn sunset would hit his hair just right and for a second it would look softly dazzling, with warm colors like a fading fire.

Or how when the weather was clear and the sky was cloudless, the lake would look like a pristine jewel so untouched and startlingly blue that the only thing more beautiful was the way it was almost an exact match for the shade of Peeta’s eyes.

Or how all the world was quiet when I watched his strong gentle hands at work. Chopping wood. Setting a fishing line. Hanging up herbs to dry. Painting spots of color on the back wall.

All the world felt new when I looked into his eyes.

And here, in the fierce wilderness where my father taught me to love the plants and the trees and every growing thing, I started to love the thing growing silently, steadily, between Peeta and me.

The night was full.

Full of the deep dark quiet that fell over everything that needed to sleep when the sun went down.

Full of the night time symphony of the wide wild woods we called home.

Bull frogs croaked, crickets chirped, owls hooted. And in the distance, wolves or wild dogs howled.

Peeta always made sure we had enough wood to feed the fire the whole night and I always made sure that the lantern was ready.

We kept the door barred, to keep out any unwanted predators.

But the only thing we couldn’t keep out completely was the dreams.

Dreams of a different life, full of the song of different voices, different faces, and life long since past. When I dreamed those kinds of dreams I often couldn’t fall back asleep. I knew Peeta had dreams like that too but after he tried to talk about it once, we got into such a big fight that he never brought it up again.

So, yes, the nights were full. But often they left me feeling empty.

He stopped pretending to sleep through my nightmares during that second winter. He started waking me before they could go on too long. Often he wouldn’t say anything, as he looked down at me, he’d just heave this big breath, like there was so much he could say, or maybe wanted to, but he wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear him say it. So he just stayed quiet. Propped his back up against the wall next to my sleeping pallet and just stayed. Watching over me.

I allowed myself to be sleepy, to let the exhaustion take over when he was near. I rested my head on his shoulder. Folded the old threadbare blanket I had salvaged from my old home over our legs, and closed my eyes.

The dark didn’t seem so dark and the nightmares didn’t feel so inescapable when he stayed with me.

We traded stories of our childhoods, never naming names but we both knew who they were about.

His favorite was the one I told him about two sisters who loved each other beyond measure and how they found ways to make each other smile no matter how poor they grew. He said he admired how tirelessly the older sister worked to provide for the younger, even going so far as to use her money from the first buck she ever shot, to buy her younger sister a goat for her birthday.

“Was the goat still wearing the pink ribbon?” He asked when I told him about how the younger sister used her healing knowledge and her goodness to bring the goat back from the brink of death.

“I think so.” I answer. “Why?” I ask, curious.

“Just trying to get an accurate picture.” He says.

He tells me stories about a little boy who grew up with two older brothers, who were always pulling pranks and getting into scrapes. He talks about how the little boy loved painting and art but hardly found the time or the materials to practice except on special occasions when someone would order a fancy cake from the family’s bakery.

Then the world would come alive for the little boy, who reshaped it into something beautiful with tiny images created out of sugar and fondant and food coloring.

But he had to be very careful not to waste ingredients or the fire-breathing she-dragon who ruled the kitchen would punish him for being wasteful. Often giving him only the stalest bread, the kind that was practically moldy, to eat.

“I always wondered if you ate cake and cookies everyday.” I admitted quietly, after his story was done.

“Oh, no.” He says, stifling a yawn. It’s late, and we’ve stayed up longer than usual, just talking. “Hardly ever, unless we got invited to the same celebration where the cake was being served. Practically everything we ate was stale. That’s why my father was so keen on buying your squirrels and berries. Sometimes that was the only fresh food we saw all week.”

He snuggles down closer, burying the side of his face against the side of my head. In my hair. I fall asleep dreaming about what it must have been like to have enough food but only be able to eat other people's leftovers.

One night he tells me the story about a little boy who fell in love with a girl who had a voice like a sunrise. He tells me about her mother and father who had a love so true that it crossed boundaries, divides, and prejudices just to exist. He paints the boy’s father as a footnote of unrequited love. And the girl as this beautiful free spirit who never looked at the little boy twice, at least not until they were the only two people left in the entire world—

“That’s not true.” I interrupt, voice thick and choking with emotion.

“Are you crying? Katniss, please don’t cry.” He pleads. “I’m sorry. I never should have brought it up. I know you don’t like talking about the past, and these kinds of things and —”

“But I did.” I protest. “I did see you, that day with the bread, and every day after that.” I tell him, tears streaming down my face.

“Did you?” he breathes, voice softer than a whisper. As fragile as the moonbeams floating through the open window. Then, in a stronger voice, “You don’t have to say that, to try and make me feel better. You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

“I knew you were strong. You could throw a hundred-pound sack of flour over your head like it was nothing. Ever since 8th grade. You came in second in the wrestling tournament. And I knew you were smart and good with people. You always knew what to say in class and you had so many friends at school. I saw you, Peeta. I always meant to say thank you for the bread but—”

I’m cut off by him leaning in and resting his forehead against mine. I watch him take in a breath and heave it out. A light shudder passes through him.

“I never needed a thank you, for the bread. I never needed anything at all. I just hoped that it helped you in some way. And if it did, that was enough for me. Katniss I never could have dreamed that you’d notice all those things about me.”

He looks at me he’s just discovered something wonderful and completely surprising. He smiles that smile of his. The one that’s so genuinely sweet with just the perfect hint of shyness. That smile does things to me. It makes more words tumble out.

“I know a lot more now. You’re a painter. And a baker, even if the only bread you can make now is acorn flatbread. You never use berries to sweeten your tea, even when they’re in season. You always double-knot your shoelaces. You always sleep with the window open-”

His hands cup my face, his warm breath ghosts over my lips. He looks into my eyes for permission, but all I can think before I touch my lips to his, is that this would have happened anyway.

This is always where we were heading, Peeta and I.

Even if we hadn’t been the only ones left, we would have gravitated to each other.

Because I need him. I need him like air. Like water. And yet it’s more than survival. It’s more than just the way my body yearns, and hunger ignites in my veins in an entirely new way.

It’s the warmth and heat of being touched by someone that knows me, perhaps better than I know myself. He has memorized every facial expression and every errant sound from the grumbling of my stomach to the way I cry out for him in the dark.

But the sounds I make when he puts his hands on me, are not cries of fear. Distress, maybe, but only because I never, ever want him to stop touching me—ever.

And I don’t want his mouth to stop kissing me, except after he makes me fall apart with his tongue and then everything is just a bit too sensitive for a little while.

But that’s ok because then it’s his turn and oh, there’s nothing more beautiful than seeing the person who means the world to you come completely unglued at your touch.

Peeta’s never been as exquisite as he is when he’s completely bare and open to me, yearning, straining, for his peak. And even though it's clear that neither of us has very much experience with these kinds of things, what we do know is each other. Every breathy moan and deep sigh is a map to guide us to each other’s pleasure.

It may be new, and it may be scary at first, but it's us, and that makes it okay. To get lost in the sensation. To lose ourselves in each other, chasing the stars that burst beneath our very skin.

For all the thrumming pulse of passion that drives us, when it happens it’s still sweet, and slow. Like the bud turning towards the sun. The ice thawing from the tree branches. The animals coming out of their burrows and nests and waking up to a world of sunlight and possibility. It’s the thing that exists inside all creatures after they’ve braved the darkest of winters and come out the other side.

The feeling of death giving way to life. The past to the future. Fear letting go, and being replaced with something else.

The hope that life can be good again, despite our losses. That we can go on.

I know now that what I need is not the detachment of life without touch, severed forever from my past and divorced from the idea of family. I need the dandelion in the spring, the vibrant, enduring promise that dawn will come and make the world new, and us along with it.

What I need is him.

So when Peeta asks me in the morning if I love him, I say I do.

#thg #thg fanfiction #lemonluvwrites #lemonluvanswers #everlark fanfiction #everlark smut #nonexplicit smut #I wrote this for fun #self indulgent #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen

64 notes · View notes

freedomforthewin · 7 months ago

Text

Do You Want to Build a Snowman? (Part 1)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

“Gale,” a young boy’s voice called out excitedly, his hand shaking his friend awake. “Gale! Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

“John, go to sleep,” Gale grunted tiredly at his best friend, who was now climbing onto Gale’s bed.

“I just can’t,” John said, his back collapsing against Gale’s body. “The sky’s awake,” he said, dramatically laying his hand against his forehead and switching hands as he continued speaking, “so I’m awake. And so I have to play!” he finished, waving his hands in front of him.

“Go play by yourself.” Gale pushed John off the bed. John landed on the floor with a thud. John frowned, thought for a moment, and then came up with an idea. He stood up and leaned closer to his best friend.

“Do you want to build a snowman?” he tempted, a mischievous smile on his face. That did the trick. Gale opened his eyes, smiling.

John put on socks, boots, snowpants, gloves, and a jacket. Gale put on all of that as well, except for the gloves. He didn’t need the jacket either as the cold didn’t bother him, but he wore it to keep his clothes dry.

The two six-year-olds rushed down to the basement, where they wouldn’t wake anyone up.

“Do the magic! Do the magic!” John said, laughing. Gale waved his hands, a ball of snow surrounded by white light appearing in front of them. “Woah.” John watched, mesmerized.

“Ready?” Gale asked excitedly. John nodded. Gale’s hands sprung upwards and the magic shot towards the ceiling, forming a large cloud that was spreading across the length of the ceiling.

“This is amazing!” John exclaimed, as the snow fell around them, his hands stretching out as he ran around.

Gale chuckled. He waved his hands, making enough snow on the ground for them to play with.

They proceeded to build a snowman.

John also insisted that the snowman needed a friend, and so he decided to build a snow seal. Why a seal? Because, according to John, the snowman likes to have friends who are different from him, too. Gale just smiled and helped him build the snow seal.

Gale then built two snow forts, and the boys took their positions behind them, made a bunch of snowballs, and threw those snowballs at each other while ducking behind their respective forts.

Gale then built a playground slide with a ladder behind it, the whole thing made out of ice.

John was climbing the ladder of the slide when suddenly his foot slipped. He lost his balance and started to fall. Gale was on the ladder behind him and tried to quickly shoot out snow to catch him. However, Gale’s magic accidentally hit John in the head, and John fell to the ground, unconscious.

“John!” Gale jumped down from the ladder and rushed over to him to check on him. John didn’t stir. Instead, a small section of his hair turned white.

Gale freaked out and ran upstairs, waking up John’s parents, who were also Gale’s guardians.

Mr. Egan concernedly took John in his arms, and they all went to the car and drove to the cabin in the woods, which was the home of a witch doctor they had heard about.

Thankfully, the witch was able to heal John. She waved her hand across John’s head.

“He’s a lucky boy,” the witch said. “If you had brought him any later, we could have lost him for good.”

“He almost died?” Gale asked, shocked.

“Yes.”

Gale let out a small gasp and pressed his hand against his mouth. Mrs. Egan put her arm around Gale and pulled him closer to her.

“We know you didn’t mean to hurt him,” she tried to reassure him, but it was clear she was scared of what had almost happened.

“Nevertheless, we need to be careful about your powers,” Mr. Egan stated.

“Yes,” the witch agreed. “Having magic is a wonderful thing, but it can also be quite dangerous. Use caution, and then all will be fine.”

Gale nodded and looked at his still unconscious friend in concern.

“He’s fine now, but unfortunately, he will not remember that you have magic, as this magic is what hurt him,” the witch informed them.

“He won’t remember my powers?” Gale asked hesitantly.

“It’s for the best, Gale,” Mr. Egan said quietly.

Gale sighed.

They went home and laid John in his bed.

After they left John’s room, the adults told Gale that it was best they keep his magic a secret from John and that he must never let the magic show. Gale nodded numbly.

The next day, John saw Gale go into Gale’s room. John happily tried to go to him, but Gale quickly shut the door. John stared at the closed door, confused and hurt.

#John Egan #Gale Clevan #Masters of the Air and Frozen crossover fanfiction #The boys are six-years-old #Friendship #Best friends #John Egan almost died #Separation #I got the idea of the snow seal from what my sibling did years ago #My sibling’s school had a snow day years ago (it’s when schools close due to really bad winter weather)#My sibling went to the backyard and built a snow seal lol #Callum Turner #Austin Butler #Young Gale and Callum #Fluff

10 notes · View notes

beaiola · 11 months ago

Text

Winter Fics

Thank you so much for the tags @stereopticons, @smblmn, @apothecarose, @a-noble-dragon, @tyfinn, @trickiwooao3 and @likerealpeopledo-on-ao3 (and sorry it took me so long to get round to this!)

Turns out I've written a few wintery fics, most of them written for the Frozen Over Fests which I love (with two more fics set to join this list with this year's fest!)

See the list under the cut because it's long!

Fire and Snow (E, 12,665 words)

(The only one not written for a Frozen Over fest)

When a snowstorm hits Schitt's Creek, David is very excited to spend it snuggled up with the man he loves in their new home. Unfortunately, Patrick has other things on his mind.

Like It Was Before (E, 11,556 words)

Patrick wants to get more involved in the creative and buying decisions for the store. David is okay with this, until he sees the potential supplier Patrick has been spending so much time with and the way he looks at Patrick. He feels the need to stake his claim on his man.

Through the Dark (E, 12,325 words)

Following a nasty argument, David storms out into the cold winter night, leaving Patrick to ponder the repercussions if David leaves him and decide what to do next.

Weathering the Storm (E, 22,140 words)

David is... less than pleased to learn the team building retreat is mandatory.

He's even more annoyed when the bus that shows up to take them there looks like it should have been decommissioned in the 70s.

When he learns his roommate for the trip is the accountant who's been bothering him since he joined the company? He doesn't know how he's going to get through this.

Why couldn't Stevie have just faked a broken leg?

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot? (M, 6348 words)

Five New Year's Eves that failed to live up to David's expectations and one that surpassed them.

Cabin Fever (E, 17,880 words)

When he hears that Twyla's cousin has a place he rents out, David leaps at the chance to have some time on his own away from his sister in the next bed, and his parents in the next room, to think about what he's going to do with the Blouse Barn money. What he isn't expecting is for the guy who delivers firewood to the guests in the cabin to be so ridiculously gorgeous.

He really doesn't need the distraction. Unfortunately, the more he gets to know Patrick, the harder it is to ignore his growing attraction.

Just For You (T, 8,722 words)

The thing is, David really does love wrapping gifts. It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of it, in the glide of the scissors through artfully decorated gift wrap, the folding of the paper sheet into sharp creases, the decisive press of tape to seal the loose edges, and the precise placement of a bow or ribbon. There’s something intensely satisfying about laying down the scissors and seeing the final product, all the neat corners and tidy edges, finished off with the flair of a curling ribbon.

When David sees the poorly-wrapped presents his friend has prepared to send out to his friends and family he can't sit by and let it happen, not if he can do something to help. The fact that he happens to be quietly in love and pining for Patrick is beside the point - he's doing this for the sake of good taste.

... Although Patrick's smile is an extra bonus.

#schitt's creek fanfic #iola17 #my fic

16 notes · View notes

unpublishedwriter · 2 years ago

Text

If we make it through December

Fandom: The Last Of Us

Characters: Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, Gn reader insert

Warnings: This is NOT a ship fic. Father/Daughter relationship, Father/Child relationship, mentions of abuse, mentions of blood, not very graphic description of injuries, hurt/comfort, found family, usage of they/them pronounce for reader.

Summery: After escaping David and his people Joel, Ellie and y/n make their escape through the forest. Once they find a place to stop for the night the three must come to terms with what they've been through and what they've become.

A/N: So this is my first time posting a fic online (wattpad who? sorry don't know what ur talking ab I definitely didn't have a wattpad when i was 11) so like bare with me please haha. Any and all constructive criticism is welcome:) Y/n and Ellie aren't actually related (unless u want them to be ofc) but they see each other as siblings. Reader is older then Ellie but still a teen (in my mind they are 17 but u can choose whatever age u want). Can be read as both game tlou fic and show tlou fic cuz I love both and didn't put any specific descriptions for Joel or Ellie. Also English isn't my first language, I triple checked the spelling but if you find any mistakes then sorry! This fic is dedicated to everyone that looked at Joel Miller and said "damn, i wish he was my dad"

They didn’t know how long they’ve been running for. Joel kept a firm grip on both kids, completely ignoring the ache from his right side where his wound was stitched up.

The pain didn’t matter. What mattered were the two kids he kept an iron grip on. The two kids that had been taking care of him, two kids who had to fight to survive while he was unconscious. Two kids that had to kill while he was in that basement. Two kids that he failed.

His kids.

He couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t let himself drown in guilt.

No, he had to keep pushing forward, he had to put as much distance between them and that awful village.

He had to get his kids to safety.

Then he’s going to check if–

No, he’s going to check where and how they’ve been hurt, because as much as he wished for it, there was no way they got out of this without any injuries.

He had already noticed the blood running from Ellie's nose and the giant bruise on y/n’s cheek.

The two teens were covered in blood, head to toe, and Joel prayed that most of that blood wasn’t their own.

Time didn’t feel real as they kept pushing forward, going wherever their eyes could see. The kids held on tightly to Joel, almost as if to make sure that he wouldn’t disappear, to make sure he was really there.

The wind started picking up and it looked like a snow storm was coming.

While the storm would cover up their tracks, Joel’s stomach sank as he looked around and saw nothing but trees. Joel didn’t know what to do, he only knew that they wouldn’t survive outside.

He kept walking forward, against the wind, as the two kids gripped him harder, practically wrapping him into their arms from both sides.

They were all exhausted, on the verge of collapsing, and the wind was getting stronger.

It can’t end like this. He can’t fail them again. He can’t lose them. Not again.

Maybe luck was finally on their side, or maybe the god that Joel had long since stopped believing in had heard his prayers, but as they walked out of the woods Joel saw the outskirts of a small town.

The ice cold wind was blasting in their faces, but they were together and they were almost there. They’ll be ok. They’ll have to be.

The closest building to them was some sort of store, probably a drug store by the looks of how small it was. It's doors and windows were intact so it was their best option at that moment.

The three made their way in and reluctantly pulled apart to check if there were any infected, or people. They were relieved to find out that the place was empty.

Joel pulled one of the shelves to the door, barricading it. The windows were sealed and boarded up so no one could see inside but some light still filtered through the cracks. The light was grey and cold, the outside now completely overtaken by the snow storm.

No one’s gonna find us here.

Joel walked away from the window and turned around to look at the two teens. Ellie and y/n were once again checking every corner of the store, making sure there was nothing bad in there with them.

“Hey” Joel spoke softly and both teens stopped what they were doing. They looked at him, their eyes still frantic. “We’re ok here, we’re safe.” Joel assured them but it didn’t seem to ease them. They were shaken, bloodied and bruised and it was all his fault.

No, there’s no time for that now. They need me.

Joel walked over to the side of the store that seemed to be the most clean of any rubble, then he put down his backpack and his gun. He looked back at the two kids who were still standing in the same places, staring at him. He nodded his head to the side, calling them over. Y/n closed the door to the storage room as Ellie walked over and put down her bag.

She didn’t remember when she got it back, nor when she had put it on. It didn’t matter much. Even if she’d lost it, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Y/n also walked over putting down their own bag, then their gun and their bat. But as they looked at the bat, or rather the half dried blood on it, they decided to put it a little further away from them.

They didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want the reminder of the things they’ve been through, the things they’ve done. They knew that they did what had to be done, had to protect themselves and their sister, but their stomach still turned as they remembered the screams of those man.

They quickly forced themselves out of it. This isn’t the time for it. They needed to make sure that the others were ok, they can deal with it later.

“How’s your wound?” They asked nodding towards Joel. Y/n looked at his shirt, noting that there was no blood on the side of his injury, which probably meant that his stitches were still intact.

“It’s alright, I’m alright.” He reassured them. They nodded softly and before he could ask them whatever it is he wanted to ask them, they had turned to Ellie, looking her up and down, holding her upper arms gently.

“What about you? Did they get you anywhere? How’s your nose?” They looked at Ellie’s face, searching it for an answer but Ellie just looked back at them blankly before shaking her head and looking down.

Y/n wasn’t sure they believed her, but they didn’t want to push. They didn’t find any wounds on her so they decided that the best first thing to do was to get Ellie cleaned up.

Joel rolled out his sleeping bag on the floor next to a wall so y/n gently sat Ellie down on it before walking over to their pack. They pulled out an old shirt and without thinking about it ripped off a big chunk. Then they took out their water bottle and poured some of the water on the cloth, ignoring how the water made the open gashes under their, now soaked, bandages burn.

Ellie was sitting there, completely zoned out and Joel was trying to figure out how to warm this place up. Even though they were inside, the walls and the floors were made of concrete, and the heating wasn’t working for obvious reasons. It was cold but he couldn’t start a fire since the windows were sealed shut.

Y/n gently tilted Ellie’s head towards them, only holding her by the chin. Ellie was still spaced out, shaking both from the cold and the stress still running through her body. Y/n knew what she was thinking about, trying to process the horrors of the past few days.

She must’ve been so scared, alone in that horrible cage. Y/n didn’t know exactly what happened to Ellie, they were stuck in a different room in their own cage, but through their own experience they knew that this is something Ellie will be haunted by for a very long time.

Y/n gently started wiping away the blood on Ellie’s face. Her nose stopped bleeding a while ago, which y/n took as good news.

Joel, seeing how much Ellie was shaking and not knowing what else to do, took Ellie’s sleeping bag from her backpack and unzipped it all the way. He walked over to where y/n was now carefully wiping the blood from Ellie’s hands, and wrapped the sleeping bag around Ellie hoping that it would warm her up. Then he walked over to where y/n had left the other part of their, now ripped, shirt and picked it up.

Snow had flown in when they got inside and was now sitting in a pile next to the entrance. Joel wrapped as much snow as he could into the cloth and walked back over to y/n who was still trying to get blood off of Ellie. He gently took the wet cloth from y/n’s hands to which they protested and tried to get the cloth back but he stopped them. “It’s ok, I got her.” He spoke softly. “Here, put this on your cheek.” He held out the improvised cold pack to them.

Y/n looked between the pack and Joel, who nodded softly for them to take it. So they did, and then put it on their cheek. They didn’t notice how badly it was hurting until now. “Thanks.” They said to Joel who just nodded and turned back to Ellie, wiping the remaining blood off of her.

Y/n sat there for a second, not really sure of what to do.

These past few weeks as Joel was recovering y/n was constantly busy. They were the one to check on his wound, they were the one going out to hunt and look through the empty houses for anything of use, they were the one to take the watch at night so that Ellie could sleep.

Y/n needed something to do, something to distract them from all these thoughts and feelings in them. They walked over to where their backpack was and sat down next to it. With their free hand they ruffled through their belongings until they found their first aid kit. It was mostly empty now, after all the time of tending to Joel’s wound, but it still had a roll of gauze. They put down their ‘cold pack’ and started to undo the bandages that were currently on their hands.

They were soaked in blood, both their own and the blood of the hunters. Their hands had chapped from the cold, so much so that gashes split open in their skin, causing their hands to bleed. They didn’t have anything to treat their hands with so their best option was to wrap them up, at least to prevent infection.

Taking the gauze off proved itself to be an issue. Their hands were shaking more than usually and it was very painful to peel the gauze from the skin. They struggled a lot but finally freed their left hand.

Wrapping the hand, as it turns out, was going to be even more of a challenge. Last time they did it their hands were not in that bad of a condition. But after all that time in the cold and all the fighting they found their hands in terrible shape. They had to handle it. They had to.

They had to fix their hands, and go back to taking care of the little family they now had. They needed to protect them no matter the cost. They weren’t going to let their hands stop them from doing so.

They had to keep them safe, they had to- “Let me see that.” Y/n looked up to see Joel now kneeling down in front of them. They looked behind him to see Ellie who was now clean of blood, except for her clothes but it was still an improvement, wrapped in the sleeping bag and looking through the crack in the bordered up window.

They then looked back at Joel whose hand was reaching for their now bandage-less hand. Not touching them, just giving them the option.

They held out their left arm which Joel gently took, avoiding all the open wounds. He looked it over, then reached over to the now almost melted ‘cold pack’ next to y/n, got the remaining snow out of it, and gently started to wipe away the blood on their hand. Then he took the new gauze and started wrapping it around y/n’s fingers, asking them if it was too tight or if it hurt every once in a while.

Once he was done with that hand, he repeated the process on their right hand, just as gently and carefully. Once he was done, Joel helped y/n put everything back into their pack and then helped them get up. “We’ll find you something to help with that later, ok?”

Y/n nodded and picked up their own sleeping bag and walked over to where Ellie was starting to drift off. Joel sat down next to Ellie after pulling out the gun out of his holster. He stayed close to her but gave her space. Ellie however moved closer to him, leaning on his side for warmth and comfort. Y/n mirrored her, they sat down on the opposite side of Joel, unwrapped and fully unzipped their sleeping bag, and then carefully placed it on top of their and Joel’s legs.

Finally, a heavy silence took over them. None of them could talk, all three were lost in their own thoughts, trying to process all that had just occurred.

As it got darker outside, Ellie lied down on the ground, putting her head on Joel's thigh. She looked like a child. Of course Ellie was only 14 and still was a kid but right there and then she looked even younger, curled up at Joel’s side, sleep finally taking over her. Joel put his hand on her arm.

“You should get some sleep.” Y/n whispered to him. “I can take first watch.”

“No it’s alright, you should sleep tonight.” He said in a lowered voice as to not wake Ellie.

He saw that y/n was about to disagree but he shook his head. “I’ve slept enough already, and knowing you, you probably got no sleep at all.” Y/n got quiet and turned their head to look forward instead of at him.

They looked exhausted, their skin was sickly pale and the bags under their eyes were almost as dark as that horrible bruise on their cheek. They were a stark contrast to the bright and funny teenager he got to know these past four months. The teenager that always had a look of wonder on their face, finding beauty even in the broken world around them.

Sometimes when something reminded them of their past they’d get lost in thought, their eyes only focusing on the ground under them, but they’d always comeback to reality quickly, if not for themselves then surely for Ellie who’d talk her heart out until y/n said something back.

The same Ellie at his side that hasn’t said a word in hours. It was uncomfortable to not hear Ellie's voice for so long. No questions, no puns, no sarcastic comments.

And while now Ellie was asleep, Joel knew that she wouldn’t be back to her normal self tomorrow.

His heart clenched as he realized that there’s a possibility she’d never go back to her normal self. Neither of them might. What if his two children will never be the same again? No more stupid jokes, no more silly arguments, no more talks about the stars, no more questions about the past and the future, no more wonder.

No more Ellie and y/n.

How could he have let this happen? Doubt and guilt started clawing at his mind again. His weaknesses led to this. Because of him these two wonderful kids have been stripped of their identities. It was all his fault.

He failed again and again and aga-

His thoughts stopped in their tracks as he felt y/n lean their head on his shoulder. Y/n wanted to stay up, they wanted to protect the two people they loved the most, but their body was betraying them.

After weeks of barely any sleep, after all the fighting and running, they were shutting down.

They needed to let go, they needed to sleep for at least a little bit, but they were so afraid that while they slept something terrible would happen and they’d wake up all alone, without a trace of either Joel or Ellie.

Their eyes were drooping as they fought to stay awake. They tilted their head a bit upwards as they whispered

“Joel?”

He hummed, letting them know that they had his full attention.

“I’m so tired.” They whispered.

It was a confession. It was more than just about their body. They were tired on so many levels.

They were tired of being an adult when they should have been a kid, they were tired of being scared, they were tired of being unloved.

They confessed that to him, quietly, not expecting him to understand it on any other level other than that of a physical tiredness.

But Joel understood. Of course he did. They were his child.

And it didn’t matter that he didn’t see them grow up, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t there when they spoke their first words or took their first steps.

It didn’t matter that they weren’t tied by blood.

All that mattered was that they were there by his side, and he was going to take care of them.

He was going to take care of both of them, both Ellie and y/n, because now he had two children.

It didn’t matter that he failed, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t as strong as he thought he had to be to protect them. They were his kids and there was nothing he could do about that now.

All his doubt and all his guilt was nothing compared to how much he cared about the two kids that were now clinging to him.

He let go of the gun he was holding, leaving it in his lap, then he wrapped his now free hand around y/n’s shoulder, and y/n hid their face in his neck as they felt tears welling in their eyes.

“It’s ok, you’re ok now. I’m here, you can sleep. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m right here. I’ll take care of you, I promise.” He reassured them quietly.

That was all it took for y/n to start sobbing. He held them tightly as they let it all out.

Joel had only seen them cry two times.

First time after Henry and Sam, when they held on tightly to a shaking Ellie, covering up the young girls eyes when Henry pointed the gun at himself.

The second time was back in Jackson, in that little room on the second floor.

He regretted what he said, he regretted how he made those kids feel.

Quiet tears slipped down both of their faces when he told them that they were not his children and he was not their dad. He was lying to them as much as he was lying to himself.

But the way they were crying right now… he’d never seen them cry like this.

They were trying to be as silent as possible, both for his and Ellie’s sake. Their body shook as they took in rigid breaths.

Joel felt their tears on his neck, and it broke his heart.

That was the moment that he vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to make sure that neither of his kids had anything more to cry about like that.

He knew that they’ve been through a lot. He knew that the two charming kids that had not only broken down his walls, but also crawled into his very heart and made themselves at home there, had lived through things that no human, let alone a child, should ever live though.

He knew that they’ve lost people, he knew that they’ve been neglected and abused, left to fend for themselves for years.

And as sad as it made him he knew that there was nothing he could do to change that.

But as y/n finally fell asleep, their tears still wet on their cheeks and on his neck, and as he held the two sleeping kids in his arms he once again made a vow to himself.

A vow to give these kids a childhood, a family, a home.

He knew that they still had a long road ahead of them, their journey wasn’t done yet.

But they’ll get through it.

They’ll finish this whole vaccine business and go back to Tommy's. He’ll teach them everything he knows, he’ll take care of them.

They showed him that, what he thought had died all those 20 years ago with Sarah, was still there within him. So he’ll do the same for them, he’ll show them that they can still be kids.

He’ll show them what it’s like to have a family and he’ll watch them grow up.

Yes, the road ahead was long and hard, and he knew that this wasn’t their last challenge.

But it didn’t matter because they were all together.

They had each other and if that wasn’t worth fighting for then he didn’t know what was.

#tlou #the last of us #joel miller #joel tlou #ellie williams #ellie tlou #fanfic #fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #joel and ellie #joel and reader #found family #hurt/comfort #tlou spoilers #ellie and reader #reader insert #gn reader #gender neutral reader

45 notes · View notes