#I wrote this in several sitting so apologies if the tenses get weird or anything is off | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deluluass · 4 years ago

Text

Then, the dam breaks.

Content warnings: rape/noncon; nsfw; dacryphilia; mild infantilization

Kuroo's not a bad person.

Not even by a long shot. "Bad" is willfully stretching out a leg, hidden like a predator among the bushes; hungry for an unknowing soul who's naively secured with their surroundings and the crack that resounds when face finally meets floor.

Or, murder! Murder is bad, he believes.

No, Kuroo isn't capable of any of those things. He might seem like he has a mean streak about him. What, with his sharp tongue and that incorrigible self-satisfied smirk (according to Yaku) and his words that may or may not sting like a backhanded slap sometimes. But that's all in good humor.

Well-deserved, too, when given to the right asshole. And if he does manage to get under the skin of the wrong person, Kuroo's not above offering an apology.

And he means it. (Occasionally.)

There's no pleasure to be had, if anyone would ask. Because, again , he's not a bad guy. He's sly: he knows that much, though he wouldn't taunt someone into visible pain just for the thrill of it.

There's a method to all this. A purpose. Not a profound one, but a reason all the same.

So he has to admit he's feeling kinda lost figuring out why, of all people, it just really had to be you.

There wasn't much of an option to begin with.

Art clubs had already been full. The other ones, you weren't much interested in. And by the time you realized your homeroom teacher would stop at nothing to remind you that this year was your last chance to do something other than study and prepare for exams, for once— well, it had already been too late to reconsider joining those.

Then a flyer was handed out to you.

"V-volley," the boy trailed off.

Try as you might but you couldn't recognize him. A feat, that, considering his blond mohawk that you could spot among a crowd of thousands.

He seemed like he'd caught a nasty spell that prevented him from meeting anyone's eyes, even as you deliberately searched his face for any sign that he'd explain himself to you. Surely, he must have a lot to say after he'd outright ambushed you from entering the cafeteria.

"You...want me to join?"

You were on the verge of asking for more details, focusing on the black cat (though it didn't look like it) drawn on the center of the curiously damp paper, only to find out that you'd been conversing with an empty hallway.

A soft grumble left you.

"Weird," you concluded, barely a whisper. "Weird, weird, weird ."

You were the volleyball team's manager since then.

"She's not much of a talker."

Lev hunched to his knees again, sounding very much like he's running out of breath.

It should've been Kuroo's cue to gently ( gently) tell him off, that Nekoma's ace would handle a minute of catching a ball with their face with much more tenacity than he does, or that Nekoma's ace shouldn't have to catch the ball with their face in the first place, period.

" Zoning out already, Ace? " he'd planned on jeering, but instead he followed the direction of the overgrown 10 year old's gaze.

Someone was talking to you.

Apologizing , was more like it, if the other student's incessant bowing until his torso fell from his body was any indication. You were outside of the gym, clipboard tucked under an arm, so it was impossible to catch a word you were saying.

Not that you were saying much. Or anything at all. You only nodded. And nodded again. And after what seemed like the world's loudest "I'm so sorry, senpai!",you immediately went back inside to refill the water bottles lined atop the bench.

"Hey," Kenma sighed, the ball in his hand aimed for a toss. "Focus."

And the cycle of Lev being an utter disappointment to the blond setter continued.

Kuroo let out a noncommittal hum, eyes never leaving you, trailing like a lost pup as you handed out water bottles to Nobuyuki and the others.

"Not a talker, huh," he muttered to himself.

How long has it been? Two weeks? Three, maybe? Kuroo could scarcely remember for how many days you'd been showing up to this sweaty pit to perform your duties. On the dot. Always. Without fail.

What he does remember was the first day.

Chin up; head held high. You strutted into their lives as if you were leading an entire militia to battle and had no time to waste.

He teased you for it when you'd already busied yourself with clean up duty a few minutes after your (short) ( extremely concise) introduction.

("Slow down there, general," he told you with a wry chuckle. He expected any reaction from you, really.)

(He just didn't expect you to actually slow down on your cleaning and pick up on the Coach's remaining paperwork right then and there, going through it like a forest fire.)

It would take him a few more days to realize that that's just how you are.

Even when you rejected a tongue-tied Yamamoto when he tried to ask you out. For a meal. With the other boys, of course.

Even when you took a hurtling ball to your leg and lost your footing and had the whole team scrambling for a stretcher, only for you to stand on your good leg, tell everyone "I'm okay," and walk to the nurse's office on your own.

(Kuroo doesn't think he's seen someone limp with so much grace before.)

His throat suddenly felt incredibly dry.

Water . Water was what he needed.

Right.

You didn't see him coming from across the court. You were sitting on the bench and your back was turned, scribbling on that clipboard propped on your lap, yet— like clockwork, your idle hand shot out to give him the last bottle to your left before he could even finish asking for one.

He felt his lips curve as he muttered his thanks around the lid.

"Say," Kuroo began.

You were reading the things you wrote back to yourself.

"Mind telling me what was that about?"

You paused. You blinked up at Kuroo.

The attention hits him like a freight train.

That clear as summer sky gaze, unclouded and bright.

It's nuts how unreal it felt. How can something so elusive be now all on him.

(Just for him.)

"Earlier," he added, licking his lips and feeling silly for the way his chest tightened. "Seemed kinda intense."

"He borrowed my notes," you said. Then back to the clipboard again.

Kuroo made himself comfortable next to you, elbow propped on his knee as he rested his chin against an open palm.

"Got a test coming up?"

"Cram school. He's in the same class."

Of course .

"Of course," Kuroo grinned. "What happened? Heard the guy apologize to you like you were about to kill him."

Laughter bubbled out of his chest. Unfortunately, you didn't seem to find it as funny as he did. Pity.

He sighed.

"Nothing too bad, I hope."

The noise of ballpoint pen scratching against paper halted.

From way at the back, Lev was prattling Kenma's ear off again. Kuroo guessed they were about to leave, walking away from the court, away from the gym and to god knows where. The whole team, too, for that matter.

Everyone seemed to have gone, diminished in that second. He couldn't hear them anymore, didn't bother to see if they're still there.

He was looking at you, after all. Really looking at you. Your grip on the pen was a tad severe, he thought; fingers determined to squeeze the ink out of the barrel.

Your face betrayed nothing. Indeed, anyone could spare you a glance and immediately guess that this is just another empty chat between acquainted individuals, conversation just for the sake of it.

Kuroo wasn't just anyone, though.

Chin up and head held high; as you'd always done. But Kuroo's close enough to see it now, unlike before: the gulps you take in between breaths; the falter in those eyes that only ever looked forward.

Chin up and head held high, but Kuroo sees now that the neck he could easily break with one hand is so tense it's essentially a string pulled too tight that's on the brink of snapping.

Oh.

"Oh," Kuroo whispered.

Oh .

"He lost it didn't he?" Kuroo realized. "Your notes."

And it did snap.

"Just..!" You looked down and bunched your pants in your fist. "No. Of course not. It's nothing," you huffed, putting the ball pen's cap back on.

You were leaving.

Kuroo stood up.

"You look upset, manager-san," he said softly, his larger frame blocking your attempts of escape. "It is bothering you, hm?"

"My notebook got-got ruined, sure," you said. "But juice stains aren't bothering me, Captain ."

There it is. You were meeting his gaze again.

" Too late for that ," Kuroo thought. There's a stutter to your words when there had been none.

Your arms are trembling and you look uncomfortable. He should stop. He knows he should stop , but whatever it is he said is chipping away at that impenetrable wall and he doesn't get what's happening now but damn, damn if that tingle running down his spine doesn't feel so fucking good.

"My bad," he chuckled. "Sorry."

He raised both his arms in a show of defeat.

"I'm- it's fine," you said through gritted teeth. "If you would just— excuse me."

Kuroo shrugged a shoulder.

"Sorry about your notes, still," he said. "Must've been important to you. We all know how much you take your studies very, very seriously."

Kuroo smirked. "You shouldn't have let him have it then."

That made you stop in your tracks.

"What do you mean?" you sought, confusion breaking your voice into what sounds like the smallest it's ever been.

Kuroo felt his breath catch in his throat.

"He needed my help, though," you rushed. "I can't just turn people away."

"Really?" Kuroo sniggered, eyebrows lifting in fascination.

"Could've sworn you were good at it," he said; whispered it so lowly, you couldn't have heard it. But you did.

You heard him, all right. Loud and clear.

Because it was just like watching someone take a bullet to the heart.

First, the disbelief.

Skin, muscles, and ligaments weren't made to be broken like that. A person wasn't created to bleed to death. And when it happens, well, all one can ask is: how could someone hurt me like this?

So you stand before him, immobile, disbelief written in those wide eyes, because how could he hurt me like this?

Then—

Then, the dam breaks.

Kuroo doesn't think that you know it; that you're gaping at him with tears streaming down your face; that you're falling apart and stripping yourself bare the more you try to temper those quivering lips with that cute little nibbling you do.

Kuroo doesn't think you know it, too.

That no one has ever been as beautiful as you are, right in that very moment.

You're not a good person.

Not even by a long shot. "Good" is an open hand, warm and soft and prepared to accept anyone in need of it. It's many things, goodness, but it most certainly isn't a dismissive attitude towards a well-meaning person who only wants to get to know you.

You hadn't gone this far in your uneventful life ignorant of what people say behind your back. "Frigid" is one. "Indifferent" on a good day. "Bitch" when someone feels like being mean.

It's not like you're mad or anything; not as if you'd built up some sort of resentment within you that now you've settled for being perpetually friendless. You have plans, is all. You just can't afford to be a constant helping hand when you've got so much to do.

So you take it.

Be a sport about it, was what you've always been told. Stiff upper lip, as they say. You remain silent about it and you endure and maybe you shed a few tears later as you lie in bed and maybe you entertain the possibility that you'll never see the end of this loneliness.

But that's neither here nor there.

The point is, this time shouldn't have been any different.

(But sometimes even the strongest walls can crumble. All it takes is one crack, then the rest would follow.)

It was a bad day.

You woke up late. You messed up the tally in the first set of practice games. You forgot the homework you'd stayed up all night to do.

And the person whom you've lended your notes to for the college entrance exams lost it.

He lost it. Conveniently just a month before the actual thing.

"I- It's nowhere to be found, senpai," he explained. "I tried looking for it everywhere but- but I.." (You don't remember the rest.)

It's fine, you told yourself. You're fine. You can do something about a little inconvenience like this. You always have.

But then Kuroo Tetsurou asked.

He's an amazing captain; even someone like you who only had a rudimentary knowledge at volleyball could understand the level of skill it requires to do what he does on the court while still managing to reign in the polarizing characters in this team together. And like most people, Kuroo Tetsurou has never cared for you.

That's what you'd always thought, concerning him. Even when there had been times when he'd let slip what he thought about you. ("You're so cold, manager-san," he pouted once after you'd refused to eat with Yamamoto and the others.)

So it blindsided you, to say the least.

The way he looked at you, as if he's privy to your darkest secrets, like he's seen you at your lowest and somehow knows you more than you did.

When he'd jabbed and poked at what you'd only later realize was already a festering wound. (" It is bothering you, hm?" he said.) And before you could think about telling him to stop, to please, please let it go, it had already happened.

(" Could've sworn you were good at it ," he said.)

This isn't news to you. Besides, there have obviously been worse digs.

But hearing it from people who think you're not listening and being told about it to your face are two vastly different things.

(Maybe it's because deep inside you'd always hoped that not everyone disliked you. That even though you're not a good person, you're not entirely bad either.)

Right in front of you, swift and without warning, he spoke only the truth.

You just weren't prepared for how deep it could cut.

"I have to go," you murmured.

It took you a few seconds to realize that you'd been crying. And when you did, you immediately wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, turning away from him and the others still engrossed in their drills.

You let your feet do the thinking, allowing it to take you wherever they wished to go ( not here. not here. anywhere but here ), finding it impossible to do so yourself when your vision is clouded with welling tears.

You moved forward, never once looked back, until you ended up inside the stark darkness of the gym's forgotten neighbor.

The shed has long been abandoned and had nothing but dust, a couple of furniture in disrepair, and the occasional bug to keep it company. It was good enough for you. You didn't need much anyway.

Except for silence.

The breaths that you'd desperately tried to control shook like dried leaves hanging onto frail branches, much like your legs, eventually collapsing at the slightest gust of wind.

All you needed was silence.

Crouched down, the feeling of bones reduced to jelly was a lot more palpable. And despite the pins and needles that you know would eventually appear like a vengeful mistress, you stubbornly pressed your knees closer to your damp face.

Stuttering inhales and short-lived exhales soon enough filled the gnawing emptiness of the shed as you count back to the moment you'd started the day to when your classmate told you that he'd lost your notebook to when you'd been told of how much of a shitty person you are and you wonder how you would've changed your decisions and how could it have gotten to this point how could it go wrong like this what did I do what did I do wrong what went —

"There you are."

You clamped your mouth shut, clenched your teeth so hard to stop their chattering. How useless.

The creaking noise of the door being closed— punctuated by the sound of the latch clicking, rendered that effort futile.

Kuroo Tetsurou locked the door.

"C-can you," you panted. "Can you please leave."

"I need some time alone," you said, every beat of your heart like the ticking clock of a time bomb. "Please."

You waited for him to do as you'd told. Maybe what happened earlier was a mistake, a slip of tongue that hurt more than it should've, and he's here to apologize. Of course. That's it, isn't it? Why else would he be here?

"I- If you want to say something, we can- we can— later."

It was as if the entire world had gone still. He said nothing; neither could you hear any hint of movement. You turned around.

"C-captain..!"

He was right there.

Right in front of you, crouched and staring right back at you. His face a hair's breadth away from yours.

Your legs shot upwards.

"What are you- ah !" You hissed, feeling every cell in your body being incessantly pricked. Finding it impossible to stand on your own, your hands scrambled to get a hold of something, anything, maybe the almost dilapidated table behind you— only to be caught in between large, strong arms.

"Careful, now," he murmured against your neck. His scalding breath like frostbite, chilling you down to your bones until you were numbed from the pain.

He slithered a hand around your waist. With blood thundering to your ears, you bit back a shriek and pushed him away with all your might. But have you forgotten? Despite that indolent swagger of his, you've witnessed how this boy pushes himself to exertion for each match and beyond. What made you think you could win against him?

And when you attempted to open your mouth and yell, he effortlessly covered it with a palm while hauling you towards the table. The thing rocked under your weight. It is amusing, what the fear of falling does to you. One moment you're thrashing your way out; the next, you're holding onto your tormentor for dear life.

"No one's gonna come for you." He shushed you like how one would when placating a rabid animal. "You really believe they would bother? With an attitude like that?"

Down, down, his hand sank to your thigh, kneading the aching flesh until all you could do was mewl out a hoarse, "S-stop. I beg y-you."

Because it's all that's left for you. No one's going to save you. Or maybe someone would. But, who? And would they, really?

(Go on, then. Try. See for yourself.)

"Kuroo-san," you whimpered. " S-stop ."

(Would they even believe you? It's your word against his. Him . Their beloved captain.)

"Tetsurou," he only said, dipping his hand lower, wrapping your freezing legs around him. "Say it."

He's everywhere. Lips tracing your chin, teeth grazing your throat; all the while your weak, pathetic arms stayed on his shoulders, thinking he'd regain his senses because he has to. He has to. He's not a bad person. He wouldn't hurt you, not in that way.

Even when rough palms are already caressing the sides of your breasts and you feel a bulge rutting against your stomach, hot and rock hard and large, his hands grabbing your ass to bring your crotch closer to his—

"Cap- Tetsurou!" You cried, trembling hands back on his chest as you sobbed and pleaded please, please, let me go, I won't say anything, I-I'll keep quiet .

He did stop. But he didn't let you go. (You're a stupid girl if you think he would). Instead, with a forefinger under your chin and a thumb on your lower lip, he gently tilted your head to meet his gaze.

And when your murky vision adjusted to the shadows, the heart that wanted to escape from your chest ceased its clamoring, arresting your breath with it.

The afternoon sun peeked through the crevices of the shed's wooden walls. Red-orange light revealed a pair of iris swallowed by blown pupils, only for it to pass and shroud him back into the darkness.

"Say it again," he whispered, deep voice cracking. " Tetsurou . My name."

You tried to speak and protest once again but only a croaked snivel left you, your babbling becoming less coherent when he began planting soft kisses on both tear-streaked cheeks.

"You've been all alone, haven't you? Keeping everything to yourself all this time."

He kissed your forehead and it was so tender you wanted to die.

"My strong, brave girl," he breathed. "I'll take care of you. I'll take care of you. I- I-"

You heard him chuckle as he pressed his forehead to yours, felt it crease on your skin. "I love you."

No. No, no, no . You shook your head and closed your eyes and prayed to anyone who's listening.

"I love you," he repeated, strongly now, as if he only realized it this time around.

And then he kissed you. Just a peck. And then he kissed you again, deepening it to probe a wet tongue into your mouth. And the hand sitting lax on your neck felt like a gun to your temple.

You remained just as you were, like a plaything to do with as he pleased, as you felt calloused fingers creep inside your sweaty shirt.

"Such pretty tits," he grunted as he raised your bra over your breasts to brush your nipples, rolling and pinching and pulling them with his thumbs.

He muffled the noises you made with his own mouth still when he continued fondling you. You soon enough tasted the salt off of his palm when he left your lips to lick and pepper bites on your neck, on the valley and mounds of your breasts, sucking and lapping the stiff peaks until he was satisfied.

You tried counting, one to whatever. And when that did not work, you tried biting your own tongue to rid of the heat you fear would burst in your belly.

All that went to waste when he reached inside your pants.

"Not- not there!" you gasped, breaking your silence and wriggling out of his grasp.

He cooed. "You'll feel good. I promise."

After hooking long fingers over the hem of your panties, he briskly parted the hair and lips underneath to pull the thin cotton over the folds, over the throbbing nub trapped in the middle.

"Your pussy's so wet, sweetheart," he sighed, the tip of his middle finger drawing light circles on your clothed clit.

It was so lewd and dirty and the fact that your panties were soaked with slick was enough to burn you with shame.

"You like it, hm?"

Perhaps you whimpered out a meek "no." You couldn't tell anymore, heaving out while he continued to toy with a sore nipple as he rubbed your slippery cunt, preying on your puffed out, swollen clit.

"Feel what you do to me." He squeezed your wrist and forced your shivering hand on his crotch. "Take out my cock, baby," he whispered, scattering kisses on your neck.

"Tet-Tetsuro…san," you cried. "I can- I can't."

"Yes. Yes, you can ," he said, not halting the ministrations between your legs. "You're a big girl."

As if held by a string, he guided you, wrapped his hand around yours as he— as you stroked him, scorching and thick, up and down, just like that .

"Good girl. My good little girl," he groaned, parting your panties to the side to tease your dripping hole.

You wept harder, the inevitable only a few seconds away from you. A single finger, at first. And when he added a second one, you realized you preferred having a hand on your mouth than his lips on yours.

(Because then you wouldn't have to think of an excuse why you're suddenly swirling and brushing your tongue in time with his.)

For a while there had been nothing but the sound of two wet lips pursing against each other (along with those embarrassing squelching noises).

He treated you as if you were made of porcelain, your plush walls stroked oh so gently as he circled the sensitive bundle of nerves. Even when he ended the kiss and removed your hand from his cock, spit and pre-cum connecting you to him, he still handled you as if you would break at the drop of a hat.

That's why it snuck up on you, what happened, after he brought his mouth to your ear.

"Don't scream," he whispered.

Then, he rammed his fingers in your mouth.

You tasted yourself as he forced you on your back, slamming you down on the dirty table yet still carrying your weight all throughout, never letting go.

The bitter acceptance of it— that what began earlier can only conclude to this , did not prepare you for the feeling when he finally thrust himself into you.

They say it shouldn't hurt at first. If it does then he's doing it wrong.

You hardly know if it's relief or horror that dawns on you when you realize how he stretched you out so easily, despite his size. Because, by all means, this should be wrong. This is wrong.

"Gonna ruin you," he panted. "Gonna ruin you and— fuck put you back together myself."

He grinded his cock inside you deep and slow and when he hit that spot you couldn't control yourself from jackknifing so hard he had to hold you down. He does this mercilessly, pace growing more delirious until you're nothing but a choked and sputtering fool around his fingers.

"I won't ever leave you. I’m here," he cooed, stroking your hair and kissing your face as you bawled and shattered in his embrace. "I’m here ."

"So cry all you want."

#tw noncon #tw non con haikyuu #yandere kuroo #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #dark content haikyuu

790 notes · View notes

mimiplaysgames · 4 years ago

Text

Terra Week Day 5 (Time/Hobbies)

Summary: The day sucks when you fight with your best friend. It's true and it's a lie when they say time heals everything, but at least Terra ends the day knowing it's worth the effort. | Word Count: 5,814

Read on AO3

A/N: For Terra Week 2021! You can find that account on Twitter!

~*~*~*~*~

The Tenets of a Master, Ch. 5

Let not your fears unrope, Time does not wait for hope

A sliver of light leaks out through the cracked-open doorway; the lanterns in this hall are being replaced, making that one room into a halo. Naminé confirms they’re inside, but before Terra gets close, she grabs his elbow, a tiny hand barely able to wrap halfway.

“You’re going to tell them the truth?” she whispers.

“Only them,” Terra says, putting on the sweetest, most encouraging octave he has in his arsenal. “I can’t lie.”

She takes a moment, and nods to herself. “That’s okay.”

Smiling, Terra pets her, careful not to mess with her hair. “Thank you. Thank you a thousand times and more.”

But she frowns for what is probably the thousandth time in her short life, amidst more to come. “If it gets difficult for you, please let me know. Please don’t wait.”

Approaching the door, Terra hears voices pitter and scoff:

“What else do you want me to do?” asks Aqua, just a mile short of fed up.

“I don’t like this,” Ven says, lacking confidence. “Any of it. This is weird.”

“I don’t like it either,” Aqua says, now several inches, “but we need these clues.”

“Would you listen to yourself?”

“I’m not being unreasonable.”

Terra opens the door, his unspoken announcement a hush over what looks like an office. Aqua has layers of journals stacked on the desk, one of them open with Ven’s hand splayed across both pages, like he’s trying to shield her eyes from the content. That wasn’t what Terra had in mind when he asked Ven to stall, but whatever.

They shift as if they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Terra sees why standing tall behind them: a huge painting of himself (except not), with waxy, white, shoulder length hair (ugh), and a grim expression that couldn’t have come from him (because it doesn’t) but it’s his face anyway (but is it?). A mannequin captured in time via portrait, serious and bored and looking away, looking towards a manufactured future, looking towards anything else except the one person carefully and admirably crafting the brush strokes.

At the very least, it’s less unsettling than seeing Xemnas speak and move.

“That’s creepy,” Terra says, trying to melt the ice but it makes them jump. Aqua in particular looks miserable, giving the painting a cold shoulder.

“This whole castle is creepy,” Ven says, letting go of the book. “I can’t wait to go home.”

“If you let me read,” Aqua snaps, crossing her arms, “we can leave sooner.”

Ven eyes a conversation with Terra. She’s crazy, what do expect me to do?

“We don’t have to do anything,” Terra says gently, closing the journal with delicacy so it doesn’t set her off.

“You, too?”

“I know where Rainfell is.”

Ven runs a hand through his hair, and Aqua stares.

“You—?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

She’s hopeful, which is a good start but Terra is suddenly nauseous again, one step away from tumbling down a cliffside. Ven whimpers, taking a chair nearby.

“I…” There isn’t an artful way to say it, so he’s going to rip the bandage right out. He starts by pulling it out slowly, and all the hair underneath. “I was with Naminé. Just now.”

Her eyes widen.

He swallows. “And she helped me see.”

Aqua’s lips tremble. She walks to the door, shoes tapping loudly on the carpet, the only sound in this room, and closes the door to give them privacy—though she’s never been the type to yell. She comes close to Terra as if to whisper to him, pinching two fingers together to fish out exactly what words she wants to use. Ven holds his breath.

“Who asked you to do that?” she says, icy.

Terra keeps it low and soft with her. “I just wanted to protect you.”

Again, she crosses her arms. “I need protection?”

Terra scoffs, wincing. “Not like that. I know that. You know me.”

“And you know me.” She exhales, inching closer, getting quieter. “I didn’t walk through darkness for all those years just to lose you again.”

“But I’m here.” He purses his lips.

With a clawed hand, she taps his chest. “Something could have happened to you.”

“Aqua, come on,” Ven whines, “he was trying to help. He’d never intend to hurt himself.”

She steps back as if reeling from a slap to the face. Aqua’s not the kind who likes to cry, either, holding her chin so high she’s looking at the ceiling, like balancing a bowl of water so that tears don’t spill.

“That’s not fair to say to her,” Terra says, but she tenses up.

“And why couldn’t I be there?” she asks, both to Terra and Ven. “Is it because you were afraid of what I would say?”

Terra chooses not to answer that. “I really didn’t want you to worry.”

“Is it because you need to prove yourself?” She simmers down. “You don’t have to with me.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“I needed to do something,” Terra says, gently. “After everything, I… I couldn’t stand to see you do”—he gestures towards the journals—“this. I couldn’t stand the thought of you carrying those images, or thinking about whatever he wrote in there.”

She holds her breath, collecting everything she’s laxed back. “Tell me the truth. Are you punishing yourself?”

“No...”

“I trust you, Terra. I hope you know that.”

Terra closes his eyes, muscles gripping on his neck. He nods. A flash of hurt pierces her eyes and he wants to stop that. It’s not her fault for worrying. She’d tell him it’s not his fault for running away either, despite the blame he deserves.

“What kept me going all those years was us.” With a finger, she connects a line between him, her, and Ven. “It’s supposed to be the three of us, as one. We could have been there with you. You could have trusted me.”

“I agree with her on that one,” Ven says, picking his cuticles.

Now, Terra is the only one dancing in the room, Aqua tired of the rhythm and Ven stuck in an unwilling game. Xemnas was accurate in mocking him for it. Stars.

“I’m sorry,” Terra says, flexing his shoulders. “You’re right, I should have said something.”

Ven makes a noise that says he’s rolling his eyes.

“And Ven was right in sending Riku after me,” Terra continues, ruffling fingers through Ven’s hair and frizzing out the spikes. “Thanks.”

Ven swats his hand away, frantically brushing through his hair. “I’ll forgive you for ruining it this one time.”

Aqua sighs. “Was it dangerous?”

Terra considers the question and draws a long smile. “I’ll tell you all about it if you promise not to stop me before I finish.”

And she considers him in return. For all the years they’ve grown together, they know when it’s time to take their words to heart. He knows her and she knows him. “As long as you’re okay, then I guess I’m fine.”

Terra chuckles. “To be honest, I would have felt more guilty if I didn’t go through with it.”

She shakes her head, a worried grimace pulling at her lips. “Please don’t do this again.”

“I won’t.” Terra traces an X over his chest. “Cross my heart.”

She snorts. “That’s so morbid.”

“It’s to the point.” He grins. The painting, on the other hand, is apathetic to the home they make together in this room. So ugly. “How could you stand to be in here with that?”

“They treat it like a treasure,” Ven says, sticking his tongue out.

A knock on the door interrupts them, jolting Aqua. “He’s here,” she says. Terra asks her a muted question with a raise of his shoulder, but she commands proper behavior with a wave of her hand (she’s so much like the Master sometimes).

A tall, older man with a beard greets her from the other side of the door. She responds with a joy to her hello, like they’re old friends.

Ven leans forward with his neck to see. Terra nearly chokes.

Ansem the Wise. Terra doesn’t know this man, he doesn’t know this man, so there shouldn’t be a reason why being near him is like inhaling fumes.

“As promised,” Ansem says, his voice so deep it melts rock, “tea.” He has with him a steaming pot and four mugs on a wheeled cart.

Aqua holds her hand to her chest. “That’s right, I told you.”

“Raspberry tea if you were to ever see the light of day again.” He steps inside. “With a touch of vanilla and a generous serving of honey. I made sure to keep it all proportionate.”

Bile builds up in Terra’s throat.

“I know your face,” Ansem says to Terra.

It’s acidic when he swallows back down. Terra crosses his arms and locks them there. He can barely bring himself to look at this man in the eyes.

“Welcome to my castle,” Ansem says, filling all four cups. Aqua takes hers and Ven stands up for his share.

“Thank you,” Terra says to the rug.

“This is your first time here.”

“Not in the city.”

“Ah.”

Footsteps circle around Terra. Ansem takes the largest chair behind the desk while Ven moves the other two across, one of which Aqua accepts. He leaves the other empty for Terra, as though sitting down is the closest thing to a peace offering he can give.

But why a peace offering? It shouldn’t be necessary. Terra doesn’t know this man.

“I’m sorry,” Terra chokes, taking his seat. “I’m being rude.”

“There isn’t a need for apologies,” Ansem says. His intense eyes are slow to warm up, and his smile is a squeaky wheel needing some maintenance. He’s like the Master in that way, very professional. But the Master’s smile came more often and more naturally—it just hid behind the mustache, confusing anyone who didn’t know him into thinking he was more intimidating than he was. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Terra.”

“I’m not a Master.”

Aqua grips the cup on her lap tighter. Ven stands by her, one hand on the backrest and the other balled into a fist.

“Oh, I apologize.”

“No need to.”

Ansem clears his throat, sipping his tea with more noise than necessary. This man raised others. He had built a loyal team and forgave them for their betrayal, playing no role in what Xehanort did. Now he’s working on improving the lives of others.

But he committed harm. Terra doesn’t know what or why.

Aqua doesn’t seem to hold that opinion as she compliments the flavor. Two people from two different worlds who crossed paths in their torture and punishment. Terra has to be grateful she wasn’t alone for some of that.

“I want to extend my gratitude,” Ansem says, and Terra shifts in his chair. Too often it feels like his mind is being read. “For coming. It brings me joy to see you here.”

Terra still has arms woven together, and he hugs himself tighter. It’s like a distant father welcoming a child he hasn’t seen grow up. But Terra already had his own Master, his own father figure. Silver linings, I guess. My face brings somebody joy today.

“I do hope,” Ansem continues when Terra doesn’t say anything, “the painting does not offend?”

“It does,” Terra says and regrets it. He shakes his head. “You can keep it, though.”

“Terra,” Ven warns, little and quiet but Terra is sure Ansem has heard.

Another knock on the door prevents Terra from saying more, but thank the stars there’s someone there to distract them.

“That would be Even,” Ansem quips, groaning as he stands.

Terra hears a small snicker—Aqua is hiding a smirk behind her hair. “He’s a character,” she whispers, wrinkling her nose to shake out the contortions of her amusement and present herself as respectful.

Even. No, there’s not a face to that one either, but Terra doesn’t have to wait to see.

A character he is, a skeptical perma-scowl as though he’s spent years giving a mountain of complaints and his face froze that way. Clean, oily hair and a chin that would be difficult to shave. He talks animatedly when Ansem opens the door, sputtering about science experiments with words Terra’s never heard before. One of his eyes bulges out every time he has a shock.

“I must insist,” Even says to whatever they’re mumbling about, his voice a natural shrill. He approaches the desk with broad strides as his lab coat floats behind him. Tucked under his arm is a thick clipboard and a thicker binder of paper, his posture as straight as a pin.

Opening his binder, Even flips through the top of the stack, calculating which ones to pull out and dropping them at the surface of the desk. They’re streaked with highlighted areas where signatures are needed. No quips about Terra’s face or stares. If anything, he treats Terra and the others like strangers.

Terra appreciates that.

“It’s good to see you again,” Aqua says after clearing her throat.

It takes a beat for Even to register. “A pleasant surprise in return,” he says, his tone well-mannered but the words are slow as if he’s unpracticed with them—a far cry from the expert who walked in.

“This is Ven and”—she nods over—“Terra.”

Even takes several moments to nod at Ven before looking at Terra for several seconds longer. Terra expects him to say something about the likeness of the painting behind them, but all Even says is, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Ven blocks a snort. It turns into a constricted cough that he tries to hide behind his hand.

And with that, the conversation seemingly stops as Ansem sits back down and Even starts a lecture about subjects and the physiology of an older woman in a neighboring district, the adjustment of carbon and whether data can be downloaded via oxygen transfer.

“I promise we will cover these topics,” Ansem says with a palm up that stops Even before he can really get into the nitty-gritty. “But first, I insist we speak about my request.”

Even inhales (for a long time) before crossing his hands over his binder. He shifts his posture as though to address Terra, but he says nothing.

“May I ask for a small favor?” Ansem asks Terra.

Taken aback, Terra blinks. A muscle deep in his chest wants to yank away and strike back, sharp and poisonous. “Sure.”

Ansem pulls one of Xehanort’s journals and flips through, reverently stopping at a page and letting it float on top of the other. “I had never once suspected anything amiss.” With your body is what he isn’t pointing out. “If I had known...” Ansem nods to himself. Who knows what he could have done if he did. “I ask for peace of mind.”

With that, Even smiles to himself. Surprisingly, it’s soft.

“Okay?”

“If you please.” Ansem turns the journal to Terra. This page is mostly equations and diagrams, with one sentence written on the top. “May I ask you to transcribe this?” He also hands Terra a pen.

The sentence in question reads:

The soul is but breath, the face its language, the heart its warmth.

The handwriting is carefully crafted, the loops in the E’s and A’s artfully asymmetrical with equal amounts of ink spared for every letter. This will be easy to prove it isn’t Terra’s.

“Yeah,” Terra says, smiling. At least the content isn’t horrible. If anything, it sounds like something he would have learned in class years ago.

He takes the pen and writes right under it, noticing the date at the top right-hand corner—this was written eleven years and eight months ago, four months after Terra lost his body. But supposedly, this was done with Terra’s clumsy hand and thick fingers anyway. Time is not friendly.

Terra scratches the surface of the paper as he strikes the page, his A’s never fully formed and looking like U’s, and his E’s all different sizes, coming together in a sentence as choppy as waves with ink jabbed in some punctuation.

When he hands the journal back, Ansem studies it with fingers to his lips before looking up at Even for reassurance.

“This proves what I have suspected,” Even says softly, the subject clearly sensitive to Ansem the Wise. “You positively could not have noticed. The calligraphy is entirely disparate.” He points to make comparisons.

“You study calligraphy?” Terra asks, and there’s a tick in Even’s shoulders as if he’s already forgotten they were in the same room.

Even inhales. That must be his coping mechanism, but when he starts, there’s a subtle travel to the distance he builds. He’s excited to talk about it. “The study of penmanship as a device for human psychology makes remarkable and accurate descriptions of different personalities. It’s fascinating.”

“That’s interesting.”

“And what hobbies do you enjoy in your spare time?” Ansem asks, placing the journal down, more at ease.

Put on the spot, Terra’s mind goes blank. It takes Ven nudging him the shoulder to respond. “Whittling wood, I guess.”

One of Even’s eyes bulges out and Ansem chuckles. Terra gets it. It’s not something any of them can imagine Xehanort doing. Instead, he’d (play chess). Just like the Master. Terra sees an image of (Vexen) in a long, black cloak, cross-legged on a white lounge chair, resting his chin on his hand and staring hard at pieces before him. Not that Terra knows a Vexen, but it comes to him as brim as a memory, as though they’ve only played together last year. As pleasant as it seems, it makes Terra nauseous just to know. Maybe tea would have helped, but his cup sits on the wheeled cart, having lost its steam.

“On to why you are here,” Ansem says, closing the journal and pressing against the cover, shutting the door to one life. “I assume you would need assistance in finding Master Aqua’s lost Keyblade. I can surely confirm one was with Xehanort when we found him.”

Aqua, who’s been swirling her mug of tea, sits up at the sound of her name.

“I don’t need much help, actually,” Terra says. “I know where it is.”

Even leans forward, bending over the desk to study Terra’s eyes. All he would really need is a magnifying glass. “Peculiar. You carry with you a record of those memories?”

Terra won’t mention Naminé’s involvement. That girl deserves time to herself. “Yep.”

Ansem leans back onto his chair, his brows furrowing. “Where did he keep it?”

Terra doesn’t know. But he does. “Downstairs.”

Aqua and Ven glance over at him. Even straightens himself. Ansem huffs. Downstairs. It’s such a weighted word.

“Even is the only one willing to venture down there,” Ansem says.

“I may be of assistance,” Even says, bringing his binder to his chest. “Master Ansem—”

“I know what this means.” Ansem grunts when he stands up, folding his hands behind him and turning his back on whatever will come next. He takes Even’s papers with his abrupt leave. “I thank you again for the visit,” he says to Terra and Aqua.

Something about his shame unnerves Terra, reminding him of his own many years ago when he started a whole, brutal journey for himself and his friends (if only he stayed behind and congratulated her on her Mark of Mastery). In his desire to make everyone comfortable, he sees something else: by a window to a sunset and a flower garden down below, another chessboard competes with an open book and a hot mug of tea for space on the table. Terra stands up.

“Thanks for having me,” he says, and it sounds as stupid as the waver in his voice. All that needs to be said will remain unspoken, he realizes, the glacier in this room needing months to melt. “We can play a round the next time I come? Chess? My Master taught to be good at it.” It may be invasive to ask, but when he sees Ansem relax, he can take comfort in the small solace of whatever good they shared twelve years ago.

Aqua smiles up at Terra, her tea finished.

“I would like that very much,” Ansem says, nodding off to Ventus. “This one minds his manners.” He shuts the door behind him.

“As opposed to who?” Ven asks the room, but no one replies.

“It will be this way,” Even says. He takes the painting down as if it’s weightless, as if it doesn’t have any relevance to anybody here. Aqua stands up like rubber plucked, her hands folded into each other. The anticipation kills Terra, too. Finally, they’ll be done with this exhausting day.

He doesn’t see what Even’s doing to the wall, but it vanishes, opening up to a hallway. Where it begins. They follow him to a personal computer room, which sits in an alcove overlooking an enormous factory stacked with huge glass pods, like vials but big enough to fit an adult.

Neither of them ask what those are about, not even nosy Ven, who’s been too quiet lately. Terra can almost feel why, like whispers of ghosts. It’s for the best they don’t speak about this factory. Spoken words confirming what lived in those prisons would be the straw to give them all nightmares.

“How old is this castle?” Ven asks Even.

“Radiant Garden is the flagbearer of light,” Even says, operating keys on a giant computer as big as the wall itself. This they already know. It has been for decades, a golden chalice that all Keybearers of the past have visited. “The castle was built millennia ago, reformed by remnants several years after the Collapse of Fairytales.”

Ven should know this already, but he winces as though he’s been lied to. “Are you sure?”

“Ven,” Aqua hisses. “This is his home, and that is rude.”

But Ven isn’t convinced. “It just feels weird around here,” he mumbles. “And the basement?”

Even doesn’t answer the specific question, but says, “We’ve made arrangements to seal it off completely.” He pulls out a disc from his binder. The sight of it—it’s so familiar and so ugly. Slipping it into the computer, Even types a password (ANOTHER), which prompts him to enter several more, all hidden behind what look like stars.

Names of apprentices, starting with Xehanort. There’s Even, Dilan, Ienzo, Aeleus, and… Braig.

Braig. Terra knows that face for sure. Word has gotten out he disappeared after the Keyblade War, quite possibly done for. Good riddance.

There’s a whir and a bang somewhere close by but far away, the twist of a lock unlatching.

“Shall I accompany you downstairs?” Even asks. He says ‘downstairs’ like it’s a typical basement. It must take strength to face your crimes head on. He’s got guts.

“No, thank you,” Terra says at Ven’s expense, who’s fidgeting more with every second. “I think I can lead the rest of the way.”

Even eyes his binder resting on the terminal, removing the disc as it’s spit out. “I suppose that is practical. You won’t necessitate my presence if the doors open for you… in actuality, one of those doors is meant only for Xemnas. If it opens, please inform me.” He picks up after himself, pausing twice before continuing. “If that is the case… I would ask that you allow me to study your body afterward. We can schedule appointments—”

“What does that mean?” Aqua asks, stepping by Terra as if bracing to shield him. “What kind of studies? Will they cause him harm?”

Even gasps before chuckling. The whole scary-scientist mask is a facade; he just doesn’t bother with painted smiles or with attempts at making other people comfortable. A take-him-as-he-is kind of person. “Not at all. Merely some blood tests. Perhaps a scan of his heart at the most invasive. If the doors open, then that would suggest some unusual attributes which would be helpful in our restorative work.”

Aqua opens her mouth to say something, but she stops when she notices Terra smiling gently at her. They pass a silent conversation, one where she knows to let him go despite her worries, and one when he hears her and lets her know it’s okay. She nods and steps away to give Ven comfort.

“It’s part of her charm,” Terra says to Even when she’s far enough. “But sure, I’m game.”

“Perhaps we can play a round, as well,” Even says.

“Of chess? That will be fun.”

“Most indubitably.”

Even gives them limited instructions in accessing the basement—the rest, he says, is intuitive and simple. It starts at the base of the empty factory, where a trap door reveals a winding spiral ramp down that disappears into a black pit. It’s going to take a while.

“This looks like a tacky scene from a crime novel I’ve read,” Aqua says, her arms crossed for comfort with her head held high and a sharp sniff through her nose.

“This is weird,” Ven mumbles, sounding more sick than usual. Terra checks his temperature with a palm to the forehead, but Ven seems fine and unaware of what Terra is doing, totally transfixed with how dark it is down there.

It’s a long descent, some passed in quiet, and if not, with small talk about the architecture, the humidity getting thicker the more they take steps. Light travels far down here, but it’s unnatural, an artificial lamp used to show the trespasser the way and keep them from tripping and breaking necks, like an undetectable odor.

The more they descend, the heavier Terra feels, like tar soaking his hair too much and the weight of it pulling on his scalp. Like cement filling his stomach and it takes more strength to drag his feet. Like lead shackled to his ankles and he just wants to hoist himself over the railing and fall all the way down. Let’s get this over with.

Then the memories hurt.

He doesn’t get a say in which one comes to him: one of a man he does not recognize sitting on a red couch, fingers crossed and fumbling, lips mumbling, eyes trembling, confessions of a secret he carries deep in his heart and Terra doesn’t know what the secret is but he knows it’s guilty. Will you help me get rid of it? this man asks. And Terra replies with, Yes.

Another of Braig (of all people), setting up machinery and needles.

Another of Ansem the Wise (again and again), erasing sentences on a chalkboard, sipping tea late in the night. Work and work, chemical smells and bubbling tonics and hearts placed in jars.

It’s not fair. After all he went through, he deserves one of the Master. He wills himself to think about Eraqus. What comes is the feeling of sand in his mouth and there’s a beach far away that looks like Destiny Islands but Eraqus isn’t there. Eraqus isn’t in any of these. Time is a picture, a flash of light and then an image printed on love and worry, cycling in one direction. It’s like death in that way. It’s not kind. Even in the desire to replay memories over and over, time is apathy. It’s never re-lived. Never reversed.

“Are you doing okay?”

Aqua has stopped, Ven far in the lead like he’s magnetized. They may be halfway down, but it’s hard to tell.

“Sure,” Terra says, unable to say more. His muscles are stiffening as if he’s cold, his knees tightening as if he’s aging. He doesn’t know, he knows. He doesn’t see but he feels. Down there is a realm of darkness handcrafted by scientists. A modern kind of darkness, expelled and sanctified and sterilized.

Aqua rests her hand on his shoulder blades. “I want to say you don’t have to do this—”

“But I have to.”

She doesn’t soften. “We’re almost there,” she says, like when Ven got sick and they had to hunt for a specific herb in the forest, the Master staying behind to brew the right potion. Like when they were taught in class that duty comes first and Terra had asked Aqua if she’d ever fight him in the name of it. When Terra looks down, like she’s a real light guiding his way, he sees a door at the bottom when it once was nothing. They’re almost there. A set of double doors in a single circular room and nothing else, a secret tucked deep in what felt like a canyon to hike down.

Ven runs ahead. Instinctively, Terra wants to cry out, watching that head of blond hair rushing up to the door, a miner’s canary at the mouth of the cave just before it stops breathing.

“I can’t open it,” Ven says when he tries to pry them open with his fingers.

“You can’t because you’re not supposed to be here,” Terra says, sluggishly walking forward. Aqua keeps a firm hand on him, as if to catch him if he falls. The door seems designed to sense him—when he comes near, it opens. Just like Even suspected. A wave of heat passes over him, giving him a long, white hallway with a military of doors and chains on both sides.

Ven lurches backward as if inhaling in a horrid stench, his eyes seeing something that isn’t there. “No.”

“What’s wrong?” Aqua asks.

“You don’t feel that?” Ven is waving his arms as if shooing something away. “It’s awful. This whole castle is awful and… old. So old.”

That doesn’t make any sense. There’s an odd feeling to the hall, yes—a toxic atmosphere from too many chemical experiments, too much darkness dampening the ceiling and sweating down the walls. “This level was only built a decade ago, Ven.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he whines. “What are they not telling us? What else is this castle hiding? What happened here?”

Aqua leads Ven away, shushing his pleads (Please, don’t go in there). It’s like he’s hallucinating, forgetting where he is or what time has settled this fate on them. She bends to her knees to calm him down, Terra stupefied.

“You still okay?” she asks Terra after sitting Ven down at the bottommost step.

No, he isn’t. “It kind of smells bad here. You?”

“It’s cold.”

To him, it’s hot.

“We’re going in, Ven,” she says, who has his arms wrapped around his knees.

“It’s just at the end of this corridor,” Terra says softly, not out of fear but out of exhaustion, his heart about to give in at any second with the swell of information christening his brain like a thick cement. He should have taken Naminé’s advice.

The doors in this hallway are barred, just to give the tiniest of merciful crumbs to the prisoners inside by giving them each other. What did they talk about? Nothing comes to Terra’s mind when he wonders. White on white, like the Castle Oblivion Aqua described, pristine and clean and filthy. The rooms are dark inside, but Terra doesn’t dare to look, and Aqua won’t either.

Terra smells acid—formaldehyde maybe, a faint trace of it that gives him a sense of déja vu, despite that he’s never smelled it before and he doesn’t even know what formaldehyde even is.

A scream bounces through the walls. Terra holds his head.

You, but not you.

A soft sob from the room to his left, and he’s nauseous, bile coming up so quick that he holds his mouth.

You, but not you.

A face, a little girl with long black hair, and Terra leans onto his knees to keep himself upright.

You, but not you.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. That is real.

“You okay?”

If he answers, he’ll vomit. He shakes his head.

“Should I go ahead?” Aqua asks softly.

He shakes his head again and moans. It’s just a few more steps. He’ll not think about the memories, not think about the someone asking for water or the hearts stuffed in jars or the recliners with wrist straps. Not think about the monitors and the faces, so many faces, so many little girls in particular and grandmothers who left children behind and the scratching of pen on paper.

There’s a whisper and Terra shuts his eyes so he doesn’t hear what it has to say.

“What’s going on?” Ven calls out. He’s at the edge where the doorway meets the staircase, peeking his head inside, never placing a foot.

“We’re fine,” Terra answers.

Aqua wraps his arm around her shoulders, hoisting him up. Nothing truly stops her.

“Talk to me about anything,” Terra says.

“I don’t know what to say,” she says, surprisingly calm, gazing around the room for the familiar and unfriendly. “It doesn’t feel the same as the Dark Realm, which… I guess you could say commands respect. It’s as old as life. It feels so much like yourself sometimes.”

“We all have Darkness in our hearts,” Terra mumbles, head foggy.

“Yes.” She holds him closer when he sways. “Sadness or anger, Darkness is your mirror. But this place…” Her tone is flaccid and exhausted, as if this place has drained her happiness with a syringe. “This place is sick.”

“I’m sick,” he grumbles. “You can say you told me so.”

“I never said anything.”

“That’s the thing, you never have to say anything, Aqua. You always know the right thing to do.”

Aqua stares holes into the floor, waiting for him to step before she does. “It wasn’t right to push you away.”

And he waits for her to catch up before stepping another. “I wasn’t right at all.”

She squeezes the wrist over her shoulder, a silent acknowledgement without correcting or denying him. “Thank you for doing this for me,” she whispers.

At the end, there stands that door. This one probably answers only to (his) behest, to the touch of (his) palm on the monitor. Yes, that’s right, no one else can enter.

“You would have needed me here anyway,” he says to Aqua, his mouth dry.

It opens to a small round room. Chains link the doorway and the ceiling and around, connecting to a single throne in the middle.

“Why does it look like—?” Aqua hisses. “I don’t understand. What was this room used for?”

“Sitting,” he mutters.

Terra looks up when she stirs, trembling under his arm. Waiting alongside the throne is a color of blue, dull and dusty. Her cracked armor and the quiet patience of Rainfell sitting together, as if Darkness held one star in its hands that needed a little shine, waiting for the right sunrise to give it life.

When Aqua cries, a triumphant peace settles in Terra’s bones. It’s worth it. This is the very best he could ever give.

#kh terra #terra #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfic #ansem the wise #even #aqua #ahhhh i really liked this chapter #i hope you like too #my fic

11 notes · View notes

fericita-s · 5 years ago

Text

Mating Season (Chapter 1)

This is a Kristoff/Anna story that takes place in an AU where Anna grew up Northuldra in the Enchanted Forest with her family. Kristoff is from a nearby tribe and comes to the forest for a reindeer exchange. It’s the same universe as All is Found, which @the-spastic-fantastic and I wrote together, and a big thanks to her for helping me develop this and for beta-ing. This is part one of three; I’ll post the next tomorrow and the next Wednesday.

Chapter 2 Chapter 3

***

It was no surprise to Elsa that Anna saw Kristoff and immediately claimed him. Wanting an epic love story was something Anna was always dreaming about and talking about and sighing about. Elsa suspected it was more for entertainment than an actual need for love, because Anna quickly tired of the men she spotted and cooed over. Sometimes before ever even talking to them.

She had ruled out every man in their Northuldra tribe. “Yuck! They’re all like brothers or uncles or cousins or feel that way even if they’re not. It’s alright for you; it was very romantic that you surprised everyone including Honeymaren by liking girls. Maybe I’m like Papa. I’ll have to go somewhere else to find it.”

But on their trip to Arendelle when Anna was sixteen, she dismissed the entire kingdom by saying “I do like how tall most of them are, but wow are they obsessed with saunas. It would never work.”

Elsa had laughed to hear that the one trait that made Anna, a daughter of Northuldra, incompatible with Arendellian men was sauna usage and not, say, living entirely indoors or leaving the magical enchantments of their forest behind.

Once a young man with red hair had stumbled into their lands, asking for help and claiming to be escaping the ire of his brothers. Yelana had turned him out immediately, though Anna had said he seemed handsome enough to warrant a hearing before the elders.

Yelana had refused. “There’s something wrong with him. I can just tell.”

At first, Anna’s parents had worried about this obsession she seemed to have with love, but when it didn’t manifest into her doing anything crazy, they relaxed about it. Her mother even intimated that she should be more patient with the men who were clearly interested in her. Anna had wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

“No! I want a story like you and Papa. It’s so romantic. You almost died for each other! I’d get too bored loving a man from here.”

Iduna had stroked Anna’s hair, pulling her close before she spoke. “How could love between two people ever be boring? The person you most admire admires you the most. That's a miracle.” Iduna stroked her hair again, grateful that even at twenty, Anna still enjoyed cuddling with her. “Like boska keeping sickness away or reindeer all calving within ten days of each other. It’s common, but that doesn't make it less beautiful. It’s a daily sacrifice, sometimes of small things and sometimes big.”

So when Anna had seen Kristoff shake Yelana’s hand and told Elsa that he was hers, Elsa had laughed and rolled her eyes. Walking back towards the village, she and Honeymaren had talked about how long it would be until Anna found him “too something” as well.

***

Gathered around the fire, the people of the Black Mountain huddled in small groups. Anna noticed they seemed tense, the lines of their mouth not turning into smiles even when Bruni showed off by lighting torches that had been set in a pattern honoring the tribe’s antler symbol. The ones holding walking staffs gripped them tightly and their eyes were alert and sharp as they watched the festivities. They stayed at the edge of everything, rather than joining in with the singing.

“They probably don’t know the songs. Not everyone knows Northuldra chants,” Elsa said when Anna pointed this out. “Besides, don’t pretend you’re watching more than just their leader. Kristoff. He’s more dour than them all. Some of the others are having fun.”

She pointed at one young boy who Ryder lifted onto a reindeer, showing him how this particular one liked to be scratched behind his left ear. “See? He’s having a good time.”

Anna looked at Kristoff. She had been doing so most of the evening and had stopped bothering trying to hide her glances. He wasn’t paying attention. He was glowering into the fire, eyebrows knit together, arms crossed. “He’s sad, not dour. And I’m going to find out why.”

Elsa linked her arm through Anna’s. “He’s not a wounded ptarmigan or lame fox you can nurse back to health. He’s a grown man. He seems to be doing just fine leading his people. He might just have a different way of doing it than we do here.”

“So that’s a ‘no’ from you on extracting ice memories from him?”

“They’ll be here for several months. I’m sure you can get him to talk to you at some point. Taking his memories seems a bit rushed. And unethical. And possibly crazy.”

Anna pulled her arm away from Elsa’s. She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her tongue out at her sister. “I’m not crazy. I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

Elsa looked to where Honeymaren was showing a group of children how she could toss a crowberry in the air and catch it in her mouth. Anna followed her gaze.

“Oh fine. Go join her and leave me to my skulking.”

Elsa laughed. “Good luck.”

As Anna watched Elsa sidle up to Honeymaren and hold her hand, her mind wandered to her earlier attempts to talk to Kristoff. He had given two word answers to all of her questions about the Black Mountain (“It’s beautiful.”) and their reindeer (“They’re strong.”) and their strangely shaped saws (“Harvesting ice.”). Even telling him about her sister’s ability to make ice from nothingness just elicited a raised eyebrow in reply, no marveling wonder or eagerness to see it happen. And when she had offered him some dried elk, he had refused, saying that his people had brought their own supplies and wouldn’t start their time together by taking from the food stores of the Northuldra.

Perhaps that was why he was sitting alone now. The Northuldra had been preparing food and drink for the welcome celebration for weeks, but Kristoff was not partaking at all. He sat on a log by the fire. He had his pack resting next to him and there was a reindeer nearby with its head tucked into its side, looking sleepy. There, Anna thought. If a reindeer thought he was kind, he must be. Reindeer were very good judges of character. Anna cleared her throat and walked over to him.

“Would you like to lead the next round of singing? I’ve noticed Black Mountain voices haven’t been joining in with ours. But if you started a song your people knew��we could join in.” Anna smiled at him and he looked up. The reindeer did too and nudged something out of Kristoff’s pack, pushing it forward. Anna saw what it was, clasped her hands together and sat down next to him, thinking that his reindeer seemed friendlier than he did.

“A lute! Do you play? Oh you should play for us! That will be just the thing to make this party seem even more like a party.”

Kristoff picked up the lute and shoved it back into his pack, giving the reindeer a reproachful look. “No , I don’t think I’ll play tonight.” He scratched his reindeer under its muzzle and Anna thought it seemed like an apology for his earlier glare. What a strange man, to be so polite to reindeer and so rude to humans.

“He seems like a special reindeer. Does he always sit next to you during celebrations?”

Kristoff didn’t answer, but she continued talking, looking at the reindeer and extending her hand for him to sniff. “My parents used to let me sleep with the baby reindeer, especially the calves who needed extra care after a birthing where the mother was lost. They would joke about the smell, but I always liked it. Kind of a homey smell, like smoke and sun and dirt and cold. But they never let us keep any as a pet, really. Too hard when we use them for meat and furs. I was six when I realized that herding reindeer meant occasionally slaughtering reindeer and I cried so hard about it that my mother took me on a gathering trip to let me cry without bothering everyone else. Just the two of us. She showed me where she and my father had their first house, or cave, really, and where the best cloudberries are, and how we depend on plants and animals to make us strong, and that we should be grateful for the gift they give us of their strength. It was thrilling to be with only her and not share her with my sister. Sleeping out in the open under the stars with someone you love – I don’t think there’s anything better.” She fell silent, beginning to stroke Sven’s velvety ears, and remembering those baby reindeer she had cuddled through spring nights that had a sharp edge of cold to them despite the hint of summer in the daytime.

“Sven is more of a friend than a pet.”

Anna almost continued talking without realizing he had spoken. She had started to feel like she was telling a fussy toddler a bedtime story, not trying to have a conversation. She tilted her head and looked at Kristoff. “Sven?”

“Sven. Yes. My reindeer. This reindeer.”

Anna put her hands on Sven’s ears, stroking the soft skin. “Sven. I’m very pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming all this way, and I hope you enjoy your time here with the Northuldra.”

Sven grunted and tucked his head back into his side, once more looking like he was ready to sleep.

“Thank you.” Kristoff was looking at her and she was so surprised by his words she couldn’t think of anything to say in return. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the silence either and reached a hand to scratch at his beard, repeating himself. “Thank you.”

Anna thought about asking what he was thanking her for – talking to his reindeer? Not thinking it weird that he named his reindeer and called it his friend? The celebration? The welcome into the Forest? Not minding that he’d refused all hospitality and wouldn’t sing? For sitting next to him? But she stilled those questions, saving them to consider with Elsa later.

Instead, she smiled and said “You’re welcome,” rose, and left him at the fire, still wondering why he was so alone even surrounded by his people and why he was so sad even surrounded by a celebration.

***

“So, Anna. Is she…” Kristoff scratched the back of his neck as he crouched down next to Ryder, both of them feeling the lichen to see if it was wet enough for the reindeer to graze there later.

Anna talking to him over the past few days always happened suddenly, went in a direction that surprised him, and left him feeling slightly out of breath and confused when it was over. Sometimes that was because of the fantastical things she told him, like her sister being able to make ice and the very mountains moving at their request. Sometimes it was because of the way she looked at him, with a curiosity and compassion that was as disorienting as the Northuldra Wind Spirit. He lost his bearings whenever he looked at her.

Also, she was beautiful. Her hair and eyes were bright. Her animated demeanour seemed to make her whole body vibrate, all the time. She was captivating. His eyes hurt from making himself stare at the fire instead of at her during those first few days.

“Is she always so…”

“Friendly? Funny? Good with reindeer and telling stories? Yeah. She’s the best.” Ryder stood and wiped his hands on his sleeves. “Let’s go get the herd.”

***

Yelana had noticed Anna’s interest in the leader of the Black Mountain, and had given her a word of warning about it. “Most men are too emotional and he certainly seems to be ruled by his, sour as he comes across. There is enough to keep us busy these next few months as we mix the herds; I need you tending to the reindeer and not the men.”

Anna gave a dismissive wave, continuing with her work with the mortar and pestle. “Oh I’m not interested in him anymore. He’s too irritable.”

***

The next few weeks were a flurry of movement. Teams of Northuldra and Black Mountain took the reindeer to different lichen meadows and streams every day.

Preparing meals for so many, while not a strain on their resources, did create more work than normal. When her work with her mother was done, Anna was often sent to gather or harvest or catch something to add to the night’s meal.

Ryder and Honeymaren stayed with the reindeer. Elsa circled the herd on Nokk, able to quickly spot and rescue those that were losing in the mating dances and clashes. As the new animals were introduced to each other, there were some injuries that needed tending – both on people and on the reindeer.

Anna helped her mother as she prepared salves and wrapped bandages and directed others in gathering the boska necessary to supplement the diet of reindeer who were expending lots of extra energy during this season.

“Should helping reindeer find mates be this – difficult? And bloody? A lot of them seem to be getting injured.”

Iduna laughed. “Ask your father about that. I think he would tell you that finding a mate is sometimes very dangerous.”

Anna smiled as she smoothed balm on a cut near a tired looking reindeer’s antler. Most of the reindeer were too skittish to be touched by anyone right now, but they had always loved Anna. Her father had said it was because the reindeer could tell Anna loved them.

Anna hummed and sang as she worked, making up silly stories about reindeer who flew all over the world, looking for carrots. At the end of one such tale, she wiped her hands on her work apron and saw Kristoff nearby.

“Nice story. Did you make it up?”

“Not really. Parts of it are from a poem our father read to us as children.” She gave the reindeer a final pat and stood up. She was surprised that he had come to talk to her, but tried to keep her amazement out of her voice. It seemed so out of character for him. He had never initiated a conversation before.

“Ryder told me you were the one to ask. Sven has been acting strange and I can’t figure it out. Could you come?”

Anna looked to her mother who nodded her assent. “We’re fine here for now. No new injuries other than the one you just tended.” They hugged and Anna reached for her bag, checking to be sure it had some of the medical supplies she was likely to need.

As they drew close to the Black Mountain encampment, Anna could hear distressed grunting noises.

“Is that Sven?”

“It is. He hasn’t stopped making that sound. It’s like he’s scared of something, but I can’t figure out what. I tied him up over here so he wouldn’t run off. He’s not as hardy as the other reindeer, he depends on me to help him out.”

Anna reached for the length of rope and began to unwind it from the tree. “Let’s get him to show us what’s bothering him.”

Kristoff reached for the rope, but she moved it out of his grasp. He frowned at her, speaking in low tones that wouldn’t startle Sven. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She had already unwrapped the rope and as soon as he was no longer tied to the tree, Sven bolted. Kristoff and Anna looked at each other and then ran after him.

“I told you not to do that! He’ll hurt himself for sure now!”

She shouted as they sprinted through the undergrowth. “Well good thing you have me then, I’ll know how to fix him up!” Kristoff stayed silent as they ran. Thankfully, Sven’s path of broken branches and trampled leaves were easy to follow.

They both spotted Sven at the same time. He was at the edge of a stream, looking towards a curve in its path. Sven grunted, stretched his neck towards the unseen spot, and then shuddered.

Kristoff reached him first and put his arms around the reindeer’s middle, murmuring calming words into his ear. Anna walked past them both, ignoring Kristoff’s glare which was sharper than any of his ice saws, to reach the bend in the stream. As she looked toward the place that seemed to be equally terrifying and intriguing to Sven, Kristoff watched as she visibly relaxed, leaned back with a breathy laugh and said “Oh! It’s just you!”

Walking out from the hidden spot, a very round, very white, and very alive snowman came into view. Sven was now shuddering and grunting even louder and Kristoff’s first instinct was to kick at the snowman, which he did, right in the head. The head flew into the water, and Anna ran for it, scooping it up and walking back towards Olaf.

“Oh no! Olaf! Are you alright?” Anna gently put the head back on the snowman’s body and adjusted his carrot nose, giving it a light tap.

Kristoff recoiled and, in doing so, lost his grip on Sven, who ran off in a new direction.

Kristoff drew back again and then began to run after Sven as the snowman said “I’m fine! But goodness. It sure is hard to make new friends. I’ve been following that one for a while and he just won’t say hello to me to matter what I do.”

Anna looked to where Kristoff was disappearing into the woods after Sven and gave Olaf a quick kiss on the head. She turned and ran, and shouted over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry Olaf, but I better go help. Let my parents know, please?”

Olaf adjusted his head as he watched Anna run into the trees, the leaves and and branches parting to show her the way.

***

Anna found Kristoff easily enough, but not Sven.

From the welcome Kristoff gave her, it seemed he would have preferred it if she hadn’t come after them.

“Just leave. I don’t need your help. Your help is what created this problem to begin with.” He was looking at the ground, crouching low and searching for footprints and other signs of Sven.

She rolled her eyes and crouched down next to him. “I know these woods better than you. You’ll probably throw a grappling hook into an Earth Giant’s eye or insult Bruni with your flint so your fire never lights. You need me.”

He rocked back on his heels and looked at her, mystified. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

“Exactly. And I bet you don’t know that the Wind Spirit helped me find you just now, opening up paths that I wouldn’t have noticed except for her guidance.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.” He stood and kept searching for any sign of Sven’s path, turning over leaves and looking at trees for scratch marks.

Anna cupped her hands around her mouth and sang a series of notes. “Wind Spirit? Can you show us?”

Kristoff felt a gust of wind ruffle his hair and he looked up to see a new path open in the forest. A bit of Sven’s harness lay on the ground. Kristoff ran to it and picked it up. “It’s his!”

“I know. So trust me that I know these woods and if you want to find Sven, you need me.”

Kristoff looked at her, sighed, and nodded. They began walking on the path that the Wind Spirit cleared for them. Anna watched as his hands clenched the harness.

***

It was dark and they still hadn’t found Sven. Anna spoke to Bruni and got a fire going. At Kristoff’s questioning look, she explained that the light might attract Sven.

“I’m sure he’s fine. I’ve asked Bruni and the Wind Spirit to look out for him and they’ll let the Earth Giants and Nokk know as well. We’ll find him. But for now, rest. It’s too far and too dark to go home tonight.”

Kristoff had been leaning on a tree, tired from the chase through the woods and worried about his friend. He walked closer to the fire and sat down with a sigh, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

“Olaf can sometimes be over eager to make new friends.” She looked at Kristoff and felt a heat rise in her face. “Olaf and I can both be over eager to make friends. I’m sorry that Sven was frightened. And that he ran when I untied him. And I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me when you clearly don’t want to be.“

Kristoff looked at her as she opened her bag and searched through its contents. “I’m not sorry.”

Anna looked up from her bag and gave a small laugh. “I know. You seem very happy to be rude and angry. Not that I don’t understand your worry or anger, but try to remember that I am helping you.”

Kristoff rubbed his hands over his eyes again and shook his head. “No, no, I mean I’m not sorry you’re here, helping me. I’d be lost in these woods without you. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” He opened the small bag that had been strapped to his back and pulled out some pieces of thinbread, offering her some. Anna reached for it, staying quiet. After her continuous monologues during their search and his silence, he finally seemed willing to talk.

“So much of this year has been like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

He paused, and Anna hazarded a small “Oh?” hoping he would say more. After a bite of the thinbread and a wipe of his mouth on his sleeve, he continued.

“I wanted to expand our trading routes. We get great ice near the Back Mountain and I had the idea that we could bring it further south to towns and villages we've never traded with. We're so far north - we've traded reindeer with Northuldra before and some with the tribe that used to be near the North Mountain, but never Arendelle. Never on the coast.” He reached into his bag again and pulled out a skin of water, offering it to her. She took a sip and then handed it back.

“I’ve been there, it was such a bustling port with so much to see. It was my father’s home once. Did you like it?”

He shook his head, and took another bite, chewing a bit before he continued. “Well no, not exactly. Too many people. But I did show my father that ice was as big of a business as reindeer. Reindeer herding has good years and bad, but the ice is more dependable. We sold what we had and brought back a lot in trade.”

Anna stayed silent, hoping he would say more to fill the empty space around the fire, the absence of Sven and both of their tribes making the forest seem larger and quieter than she was used to. She also wondered at his reference to his father – the father that would be the leader of the Black Mountain if he was still alive. Her heart thudded as she realized what that meant.

“We brought back a lot, including a sickness we'd never seen before. Our healer died while treating people. Almost every family lost someone. My parents both died and suddenly I was the leader. The leader who had caused the problem in the first place. And now we’re at the mercy of others. And asking for help all the time, and…” He trailed off, and shook his head again.

Anna covered his hand with hers and squeezed. “Kristoff, a sickness like that, it's unpredictable. Maybe you would have spared your people from it that year without trading. But coming to trade with us could have been as big of a risk. Someone could have brought it to the Black Mountain without you ever leaving. It's devastating, but that doesn't make it your fault.” He looked at their joined hands, but not at her. She could see the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, but she couldn’t see his eyes.

“And asking for help isn’t a weakness. It’s a strength. My father says that all the time.” He still wouldn’t look up at her, but the silence felt comfortable. The sounds of the fire crackled and Anna thought about how so many people, like her Uncle Lemek, seemed angry when really they were just sad. And Kristoff had a lot to be sad about. She wished there was a way she could comfort him and distract him from his worries before she realized she had just the thing. She rummaged through her bag again and pulled out a book.

Kristoff looked up to the sound of pages being turned. “A book? You rushed after me and Sven, but took the time to pack a book?” He sounded amused, and Anna was glad her distraction was already working.

“I always have a book. This is the one I keep in my medical bag in case I get bored during a long vigil. My father usually has several on him at all times. It’s like always having a friend nearby.”

“A book.” He laughed a little, surprising her with the sound. “Well, I supposed a book is no stranger than a reindeer for a friend.”

Anna smiled, accepting this kindness. “Yes! And don’t you like stories? Here I’ll read one, let me know if you like it.”

She began the story, using all of her best voices and right as she got to the ending, they heard the low grunting of Sven.

If reindeer could look abashed, this one did, bending his antlers low and pawing at the ground.

Kristoff ran to him and hugged him around the middle. The sight of it made Anna smile. She walked slowly towards Sven, not wanting him to startle again, and checked his hooves and fur for signs of injury. Aside from a few scratches that she rubbed ointment on, she declared him to be in perfect health.

“Thank you!” Kristoff sounded happier than she had ever heard him, the pinch of worry between his eyebrows was gone and she smiled in response to his happy grin. He grabbed her hand in both of his and she felt a rush of pride and a thrill at the touch of his hands, so broad and warm as they held hers. She looked into his eyes, then down at his hands, and pulled away abruptly.

“Your knuckles! They’re bleeding!”

Kristoff opened and closed his hands, suddenly empty. “Oh. I didn’t notice. It’s not bad, probably just from the scrub and underbrush.”

“Still, anything that breaks the skin can draw in poison if you don’t treat it soon enough. That’s why I checked Sven, you don’t want a small cut to become a big problem later.”

Anna pulled out the same jar of ointment and used a cloth to scoop out a small amount. She picked up one of his hands and began to smooth the salve over the bleeding knuckles, and then switched to the other.

“Isn’t that...for reindeer?” She couldn’t tell if he was really worried, or just complaining about the fuss, so she smiled reassurance in case he needed it.

“It’s for anything that bleeds.” She finished her ministrations and lightly rubbed her thumb along his palm, and he gripped her hand once again.

“Thank you.”

She laughed, turning away from him. “You know you seem very ungrateful most of the time, but you’ve said ‘thank you’ four times since we’ve met. I might need to start reconsidering my opinion of you.” She found herself surprisingly short of breath when she walked back to her pack, putting the jar and cloth away. The rapid beat of her heart didn’t still even as she sat down by the fire; if anything it was getting faster.

Now, looking at him from this vantage point, she could see that he was smiling, the slight curve of his lips higher on the right than the left. “Oh? What else do you think about me?” He and Sven came closer to the fire and settled down, Kristoff leaning onto one side of Sven, and Anna the other. She could hear Kristoff but not see him as he spoke. Not seeing him, she felt bolder.

“You obviously care a lot about your people, but you don’t seem to enjoy them at all. You’re too serious, too irritable, too sad. You should have fun sometimes. When you can celebrate and laugh and smile again, that’s when the hard year you’ve had will start to recede. When everyone will start to be joyful again. You might have to fake it for a bit first, but then you really will feel it. And your people will too.”

She could hear Kristoff breathing. It sounded steady, like he was considering her words instead of being angered by them. She began to pet Sven on the ears as she waited for his reply, enjoying the soft feel. Sven seemed to like it too, and gave a soft grunt of appreciation.

“So I should plan a celebration and then everyone will forget about the people we lost?”

She shook her head even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “No, of course not. But give them something joyful so they have new memories too.”

It was quiet again, and Anna was getting used to these pauses he took during conversation. The quiet he needed to hear before he could fill it with words.

“We didn’t do the ice games this year.”

“Ice games?”

“Competitions to carve and cut as quickly as possible. Sometimes there’s even ice racing.” She could hear him adjust his position and Sven lifted his head and huffed a bit before settling back down.

“That sounds great! We should do that!” She sat up, looking over Sven at Kristoff, who now had his hat over his eyes, one hand on the hat, and one hand on his stomach. She was glad to see the ointment still shiny on his knuckles; he hadn’t wiped it off.

He spoke, eyes still covered and sounding slower and sleepier as he did, even though this idea was making Anna feel wide awake. “How? You don’t have a lake here. Definitely not a frozen one.”

“That’s true. But we do have my sister.”

“I-” he yawned. “I don’t know what that means.”

Anna watched as his breathing steadied and he slept. And though she thought about ice games, and what she would need Elsa to do, and what she would need Kristoff to agree to, her last thought before falling asleep was how it had felt when Kristoff had held her hand.

***

“Elsa, please, just drink something.” Honeymaren was extending a guksi, brimming with water, but Elsa waved it away.

“I’m fine. I’m almost done. Just a few more layers.” Elsa pushed both of her hands down and away from her body as the ice she was standing on slowly rose.

Ryder cheered. “Why did we never think to do this? A whole field covered in ice - this is great!” He was sliding around on the top layer, hitting his boot against a pinecone towards Anna who was also trying to skate in her regular boots. She kicked it back towards him and did a clumsy spin.

Honeymaren sighed and shook her head. “We never do this because it’s completely impractical and it freezes up good grazing ground that the reindeer would otherwise use. And even if she’s telling me she’s fine, this woman needs to drink more water. For the Spirits’ sake, Elsa, you can’t shoot that much ice out of you and not need to drink something!”

Elsa, satisfied with her work, walked over to Honeymaren and took the guksi, looking at her with eyebrows raised as she drank. Honeymaren sighed again. “Thank you.”

“Oh Elsa!” Anna clapped her hands together. “It looks perfect! I think this is exactly what he was talking about; just wait until the Black Mountain folks see it!”

***

Anna had been right. Anna had been right, and Kristoff told her so, which made her feel proud and satisfied in a way that surprised her.

The People of the Black Mountain unpacked their saws and picks and sang chanteys and cut for speed and sculpted for beauty and challenged the Northuldra to races along the length of the field, which often ended in piles of collapsed runners with no clear winner, all laughing and scrambling to try again.

Anna stayed on the outskirts of the ice, ready to tend to any injury. She scanned the ice field, but often stopped to watch Kristoff, who was lifting massive blocks of ice with tongs and then throwing them into perfect piles several feet away. He grunted as he worked, and she could see the lines of sweat running down his face, the pleased nods and smiles he gave as others complimented his harvesting.

After doing most of the harvesting in leathers and boots and furs, he stripped to the waist for the last round. Anna watched as the cords of muscle in his back tensed and constricted as he lifted ice out of the field and into the sled for storage. She swallowed, feeling tense as well, like her muscles were also pulled tight.

As the day grew dark, Elsa magicked the ice away except for the winning ice sculptures and a few perfectly formed cubes that were taken to a storehouse for preserving food. The two tribes continued to laugh and talk and occasionally sing around the bonfire, now roaring and blazing into a dark sky.

“Thank you for that. Thank you for making that happen.” Kristoff walked up to Anna, pulling his loose shirt back over his head. She reached for his hands.

“Just making sure you didn’t reopen old wounds.” She smoothed her fingers over his knuckles as he startled at her touch. “And you’re welcome. That’s two more ‘thank yous’ from you. I believe I’ve lost count now.” She smiled and dropped his hand, and for a second she thought he might reach for her hand to hold it, just hold it and look at the fire together. She wondered if she wanted that.

“We, uh, we leave in a few days’ time. And I thought….”

He stopped talking, and Anna watched as he took a breath and tried again. “We lost our best calver. Ryder said you’re good at it – small hands, patient heart. Would you consider coming with us? Back to the Black Mountain? Through the end of the birthing season?”

She should have thought about it more, perhaps. She could have talked to Yelana or her parents or Elsa. She could have asked more questions. Instead, she looked at him, smiled and answered the way she wanted to in that moment, with the fire pulling out sparks of yellow in his eyes and his breath still heavy from his earlier exertions. The dampened hair on his head and the way his shirt opened at the throat to show his chest and the way her hands still mourned the loss of his touch. She had to admit that was part of why she answered the way she did.

“I’d love to.”

Chapter 2 Chapter 3

#kristanna #mating season #frozen #frozen fan fic #kristoff #anna #elsa #honeymaren #ryder #enchanted forest #Anna as Northuldra

98 notes · View notes

miafic · 4 years ago

Text

hi we are doing in-depth sexual assault discussion today and if that is not your thing, this is not your story.

one ~ two ~ three four ~ five ~ six ~ seven

---

“Hey, baby,” Zakk greeted as he walked up to Lucas’ chair and hugged him from behind.

Lucas turned his head to kiss him. “Hi.”

“How did your first session go?”

“It was good,” Lucas replied truthfully. “She’s really smart. And she’s no-nonsense, which is what I need.”

Zakk smiled. “Awesome!”

“Yeah. Um, I have homework,” he said, motioning to the piece of paper in front of him.

Zakk nodded, eyebrows raised.

“I have to make a list of all my responsibilities at Peace and Purpose and then make a list of everybody else’s responsibilities. The staff, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“She had me start making it there, and when she saw how disproportionate it was, she said I need to hand some stuff off.”

Zakk took Lucas’ face in his hands. He leaned down so that their eyes were level. “What,” he began softly, “have I been telling you for years and years? Hmm?”

Lucas looked away, but Zakk kissed his forehead.

“I’m glad you’re finally listening to somebody. “

“Yeah, well, I don’t know if anything’s gonna get moved.”

“Can I see?”

Lucas slid the page over a few inches.

Zakk studied it. “Emails and paperwork you can keep,” he joked, tapping on the first two items, and Lucas chuckled tiredly. Zakk scanned the entire list and said, “Literally anything on here, I’m willing to do. Any of it.”

“Hmm,” Lucas said shortly.

“What can you let go of?”

“She wants me to pick five things.”

“Good. What can you let go of?” he repeated.

Silence.

Zakk pointed at the meal schedules line and suggested, “I can do this and make the grocery list since I’m already the one shopping. I can do the kitchen job lists, too; you can let me handle all the food stuff. Tell me what you want to eat and if you want any of the boys doing specific jobs, and I’ll make the lists and the schedule.”

“What if it’s not how I want it?” Lucas asked, voice tense.

“Then you say, ‘I want tacos on Friday night,’ and I’ll make it happen. But a lot of the time, I’ll just tell you what we’re having, and you’ll say, ‘Okay,’ and then you’ll eat it. And you won’t even have to think about it - you can just show up. You’ll be like one of the kids!”

“No.”

“No?”

Lucas shook his head. “We’re not doing that.”

“Okay, then...” He kept reading. “Why don’t you let me deal with payroll? I can handle that.”

“No, Zakk.”

“Why not?”

“Because. It’s really important.”

Zakk motioned to the list. “It’s all really important. And you’re trying to do all of it at once.”

“I’m not trying to do it. I’m doing it.”

“Please let me help. Look, driving! I can drive. I have a state-issued license and everything. It has my picture on it.”

“No. I like driving.”

“I know, but maybe sometimes I can have a turn. What if you take two of the kids to therapy, and I take two of the kids? Then it’s even. 50/50.”

“No, Zakk.”

“Why not?”

“Because I drive to appointments.”

“But I could take it off your plate! Just because you always have doesn’t-”

“Stop arguing with me,” Lucas warned.

“-mean that you always have to. I’m just as capable of driving as you are. And I really don’t mind sitting in a waiting room. I know you think I hate it, but I don’t care. I can entertain myself.”

“It’s not about that,” he sighed exasperatedly.

“Then what’s it about?”

“Nothing.”

“Then let me do it.”

“No!” Lucas spat, and he slammed his hand onto the counter, making Zakk jump. “You’re not taking them to appointments! I have to do that! Take whatever else you want, but not that one!”

Zakk was looking at Lucas with wide eyes. After a moment, it registered with Lucas that it was fear on Zakk’s face. Zakk was... afraid of him?

Without a word, Lucas got up and stalked toward the staircase. “Ruining your life, you’re ruining your life,” Lucas muttered urgently to himself. Zakk didn’t follow him, and again, he was glad. He was headed for the walk-in closet so he could shut himself inside someplace quiet and take a few minutes to calm down, but halfway between the door of the bedroom and the door of the closet, Lucas found himself sinking down to the floor. He sat there, hands pressed into the carpet, rocking slowly back and forth and trying to keep everything inside.

“Stop it, just stop it, stop,” he whispered. “Stop, stop, it’s fine, it was a long time ago...” But the hot tears had already welled up and were threatening to spill over, and Lucas couldn’t breathe, not all the way. Everything felt awful - the tears and the desperation and the regret and the physical pressure in his chest.

And that’s when Zakk opened the door.

“Lucas?” he called. Then - “Oh! Oh, hey... Hey... Are you crying?”

And then Zakk was beside him on the ground, and apologies were spilling desperately from Lucas’ mouth, and Zakk was soothing him, brushing a hand from his forehead up over the crown of his head over and over and over again.

“I can’t give up driving them to the appointments,” Lucas managed to say, his chest tight. “It has to be me.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to be there for them. If something happens, I have to-” He pulled in a big breath- “be there, I have to be there. It has to be me.”

“Why?” Zakk repeated.

The answer came in a whisper. “Because I know what it feels like.”

Lucas hated the silence that hung in the room. Zakk probably didn’t know what to say, but neither did Lucas.

He pulled away, crawled a few feet out of Zakk’s reach, and forced himself to keep talking. “I’m going to tell you now, okay? What I’ve been... not saying. Things will make more sense.”

Zakk moved so that he was cross-legged, and then he swallowed. “I’m ready.”

“Okay. I’m just gonna start talking.”

Zakk nodded.

“When I was in high school, my mom changed jobs, so we changed insurance companies. And we switched doctors.” Lucas’ voice was dull, as though he were reciting something that someone else had written. “My brother and sister were adults and already out of the house, and I was fourteen, so it was just me that went. I had to get a physical in the spring to be able to go to summer football practice. I was going to be a sophomore in the fall, and I thought for some reason that since I wasn’t a freshman anymore, I was going to get a decent chunk of playing time.”

Zakk smiled a little, and Lucas saw it out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t feel it.

“I was really excited to get my physical so I could get going. And I was right to be, because that was the summer that I met Chance.” He paused for several seconds before continuing. “Everything at the appointment was fine, but toward the end, my doctor - who was this guy probably in his 50s - asked if I’d ever had a-”

Lucas suddenly stopped talking. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt small.

“You’re doing great,” Zakk encouraged softly.

Lucas nodded. “Um, he asked if I’d had a ‘genital exam,’ he called it. At my last doctor’s office, I mean. Like, he was asking if I’d had one before, and I’d gotten the paper where they tell you how to check yourself for cancer, but not anything more than that. So I kind of laughed and said no, because for some reason I thought he was kidding. And he looked surprised and said that there were some things that I needed to look at, and that they should have started doing them when I turned twelve.”

Lucas wanted to look at Zakk, but he was too afraid. And he knew that if he stopped talking, he wouldn’t be able to start again, so he forced himself to keep going. “The way he explained it made sense,” Lucas said, his voice still emotionless but barely above a whisper, “so I let him touch me. And like I said, I was fourteen, so I got hard immediately. And he started, um.”

Lucas’ heart was pounding. He could hear his pulse in his ears, feel it in his fingertips.

“He started saying stuff like, ‘Excellent,’ and calling me, um... ‘nice little boy.’ And even then, I thought the ‘nice little boy’ thing was weird, but I just went along with it because I thought he was trying to make me more comfortable, I guess.” Lucas paused momentarily to deal silently with the flood of memories that were pouring back in. When he was ready, he continued.

“He never touched himself. I think that’s another reason I believed him so much. He was very professional - wore gloves and everything and seemed like he was kind of prodding around at first, and even now, I think he actually was. But when it seemed like he’d finished with that, instead of stopping, he started jerking me off. And I reacted - I kind of sat up and looked at him like, ‘what the hell,’ you know? But he said he just needed to make sure that everything ‘worked.’” Lucas shook his head in disgust.

“Of course, I didn’t last long at all, but he still seemed kind of happy. Pleased with me, I guess. But still very professional. After I finished, he threw his gloves away and made some notes on my chart - which I would love to read, by the way. I have no idea what he wrote. Um, but that was it. The only thing looking back that I realized was off was that he told me a couple times to stay quiet. He said it was because it was a pediatrician’s office and there were little kids around, but now...”

Lucas fell silent.

“Lucas, I am... so sorry,” Zakk said in a hushed tone.

He chuckled emptily. “I’m not done. That was when I was fourteen. I stayed at that practice with that doctor until I turned eighteen.”

“Oh, Lucas...”

“By the end of it, I was kind of looking forward to going to my appointments, you know? Because I knew I’d be able to get off or whatever.” He scoffed. “Into a fucking tissue, just like my brother said.” Lucas blinked. “The doctor kept the tissues. I forgot...”

“What?” Zakk asked, horror clear in his voice.

“Yeah, he put them in little sample containers and wrote my name on them. Wow. I forgot all about that. I wonder what he did with those.”

“Lucas,” Zakk whispered.

He shook his head. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago. Anyway, senior year, I had to leave early one day to go see that doctor, and I told Chance during break that I was leaving. It was just me and him, and we were sitting at the football field like we always did, and I said something like, ‘I have a love/hate relationship with going to the doctor.’ And he asked why, so I said, ‘The part where they jerk you off is so good but so awkward.’ I’ll never forget the look on his face.”

Zakk let out a shaky breath.

“He obviously knew that something was wrong, and for years, his reaction was the only solid clue I had that the discomfort I felt was justified. The doctor made so much sense when he explained it, you know? He made it feel necessary, and he re-explained it in full every time. It wasn’t until I was almost done with my undergrad degree that I figured it out. I was in a gen ed health class, and we were having a totally uncensored sex ed talk, and whoever was speaking talked about, like, what GPs do at an appointment as far as sexual health. Guys in the room were talking about their personal experiences with prostate exams and getting erections in front of nurses and stuff, and I almost raised my hand and said, ‘Well, my doctor jerked me off once or twice every year,’ but something stopped me, and I’m so glad it did.”

Lucas looked in Zakk’s general direction. “Sometimes I think I always knew it was wrong, and sometimes I think I had no idea. Maybe it’s both.” He shrugged. “But that’s why I take the kids everywhere they need to go. I know I’m not in there with them, so I can’t see what’s happening, but I like to think that me being there gives me some control. Like maybe people who would hurt them otherwise won’t if they see me. And I hope that if something does happen, they’ll tell me, because I don’t want them to go through the confusion that I did-”

His voice broke. Zakk immediately slid nearer to him but didn’t touch him.

“I’m still confused,” Lucas confessed. “It’s been twenty years, and I still don’t really understand. I just - I wish that I had reported it to somebody who could have stopped it. Because when I think about all the other kids that he must have manipulated and lied to and hurt...” His teeth clenched. “I tried to find him online a couple years ago, and I couldn’t, which hopefully means that he got busted. I hope he lost his license.”

“I hope he lost everything,” Zakk stated gravely.

Finally, Lucas met Zakk’s eyes. They shared a long look in silence.

“I’m sorry again for flipping out earlier,” Lucas said eventually. “I know I’ve been acting crazy for a long time, and I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I know I’ve been awful.”

Zakk nodded. “Well, now I understand why it was happening, so I’m not mad. We’ll talk about it later and get through it, okay? I love you so much.” He tipped his head, his eyes filling with tears. “And I am so glad that you opened up to me. I’m so proud of you. Thank you, baby, I know that took a lot of strength.”

Lucas tried to smile.

“Can I hug you?” Zakk pleaded.

“Only if I can hug you, too.”

Zakk slid forward, holding Lucas tightly. Lucas gave him a gentle hug in return and shut his eyes. As Zakk began to quietly sob against Lucas’ chest, Lucas exhaled.

“I’ve never said any of that out loud before,” he muttered, more to himself than to Zakk. Then he realized, “I’m so tired.”

“Of course you are.” Zakk pulled back, sniffled, and set his hand on Lucas’ cheek. “Do you want to lie down?”

He shook his head and leaned forward to rest on Zakk’s shoulder. “No, I want to stay here.” For some reason, the floor felt safe. Safer than lying down, which was what he’d been doing when-

His grip on Zakk tightened, and Zakk’s tightened in response. Lucas was surprised by how much it helped.

“Can someone talk to the kids about what’s normal at appointments and what’s not?” Lucas whispered. “I’ve thought about it for years, and I don’t want it to be one of us. I want it to be like a presentation.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea.” Zakk kissed his hair. “Why don’t you let me figure out the logistics of that, hm?”

“No, I-”

“Let me have a turn, please,” Zakk said calmly. “I’ll find somebody good, and I’ll run them by you before I book them.”

“You’ll run them by me?” Lucas repeated, his exhaustion clear in his voice.

“Yep. But I’ll find them and book them. Hey, maybe I’ll find two good people and you can help me choose between them.”

“Okay,” Lucas whispered.

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

Zakk held him even tighter. “Moon of my life,” he said quietly.

“My sun and stars,” Lucas echoed. With a heavy breath out, he let himself close his eyes, but only for a moment.

#lucas #zakk #lucas' trauma pt 2 #finally #sun and moon #tw

8 notes · View notes

pronouncingitwang · 5 years ago

Link

jonmartin | 3.8K words

When Jon wakes up, the bed is trembling.

“Martin?” he mumbles, turning around. The darkness softens the edges of his vision, so he reaches a hand out. Nothing. But he can hear breathing, sharp but constrained, and the bed jolts slightly. “Martin?”—louder, and this time, fear, familiar and unwelcome, slithers up his throat—“Are you alright?”

Slowly, a shape begins to form on the other side of the bed. Martin lies on his side, facing Jon, both hands over his mouth. His eyes are wide and still, but his chest rises and falls with exertion. He’s kicked off the duvet, and in the half-light sliver coming in through the window, his trembling forearms look exposed and vulnerable. Jon wants to reach out, past Martin’s frayed T-shirt and still-translucent skin to his frantically-beating heart, press his palm gently against its walls, and… do what?

“Sorry for waking you,” Martin gasps into the cupped space between mouth and palm. The words come in a burst, crammed hastily into the space between one breath and another.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I’m—it’s fine. You caught me at the tail end; just—give me a second…” Martin squeezes his eyes shut, and his breathing begins to slow. Carefully, he removes his hands from his face. His lip is bleeding, like he’s been biting down on it for a long time. “Okay. I’m okay now.”

“You were invisible.”

“Oh. I, uh, didn’t really notice.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing—it was- silly of me, really, you were just turned away, and I- couldn’t see if you were breathing, and obviously you’re alright, but I just. I’ve had a lot of practice watching you not breathe, and I wasn’t particularly… keen on doing it again.”

Oh. What with the running and packing and driving, Jon hasn’t even given thought to—“I’m sorry.”

Martin gives him a half-shrug. “Not your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Jon shifts the duvet toward Martin, who tucks himself back in. “I can… I can leave, take the other bed. If you want.”

“What?”

“If my being here—seeing me asleep, if it’s distressing to you, it only makes sense that I—”

“No, don’t feel like you have to—”

“It’s not a problem, I’ve had far worse—”

“Or—it’s not—don’t—it’s not just that.” Martin sighs. “I’d prefer it if—I… I want you to stay.”

“... Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Jon can’t tell if Martin is blushing or not, and god, does he want to know—wants the lights on, wants the sun up, wants a flashlight and a camera and a microscope so he can see exactly what Martin’s face looks like in this moment, but he also wants to lie here next to Martin in the dark and say, “I’ll stay, then.”

“Thank you,” Martin breathes, and doesn’t turn away, and Jon doesn’t either.

“You can… check my pulse next time. If you’d like.”

“What?”

“When I was—after the Unknowing. If I- recall correctly, my heart wasn’t beating. If you check my heartbeat, and it’s still going, it might be enough to let you know that I’m just asleep?”

“That’s a… pretty good idea, actually,” Martin says, and then, reaching out a hand, “Can I?”

Jon must have nodded, or made some kind of head movement, because Martin’s pressing his fingers, warm and still a little sweaty, to Jon’s neck, and Jon proves Martin’s earlier worries fully rational by forgetting how to breathe.

Martin’s thumb brushes the scar on Jon’s neck. “Daisy?”

Jon wants to nod, but he’s afraid of jostling Martin. “Yeah.”

“And now we’re in her safehouse.”

The calming effect is gradual. Martin keeps his hand steady, and slowly, his shoulders begin to relax.

“Is it helping?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, a little wonderingly, “I think it is.”

A few more minutes pass, the tension draining out of Martin until his eyes start to droop. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

“I do,” Martin murmurs distractedly. “Does it always beat so fast?”

Jon swallows, feeling his carotid press up against Martin’s skin. “I don’t know,” he lies, and thankfully, there are no follow-up questions.

Martin falls asleep with his hand still resting in the dip of Jon’s collarbones. Jon doesn’t sleep for a long time.

When Jon wakes up the next morning, Martin’s already awake and dressed.

“How’d you sleep?” Martin asks.

“Good. I actually don’t think I dreamt at all,” Jon realizes. Another reason to be glad he fed Peter Lukas to the Lonely, he supposes. “I hope it lasts.”

Despite the cabin’s square footage, cleaning it takes Martin and him until sundown. By the time they’ve finished, the floor is clean enough for the two of them to set their shoes by the door and walk about in their socks, which they soon do. There’s an unspoken understanding there—if they thought they’d only be here for a few days, a week, if they thought they would need to run soon, they would leave the dust in the corners and forget to sweep under the couch. We are safe, Jon whispers to himself as he watches Martin deposit a beetle outside, and we are staying.

After dinner. Jon tries to teach Martin how to play 24 Challenge.

“It’s the only card game I know,” he says apologetically. “My grandma wanted me to brush up on my mental maths. It’s alright if you don’t want to play—”

“Jonathan Symbiosis—”

“I beg your pardon?” The look on Jon’s face must be especially affronted, because Martin bursts into laughter, loud and unconstrained in a way Jon hasn’t heard in a long time. I did that, he thinks, letting the thought spread, rose-gold, through his veins, and commits the soundbite to memory.

“As I was saying, Jonathan ‘Sims,’ short for Jonathan Symbiosis—I would be honored to learn how to play your weird childhood maths game on this fine night.”

“Okay, well, normally, we’d use a card pack made especially for 24, but we can also draw four cards at a time from a normal deck. The goal is to make 24 by using the value of each card exactly once. For example…”

The rest of the explanation comes out on autopilot, leaving Jon’s higher brain processes to observe Martin, as they’ve been doing all day. Jon’s glad to see that very little of the panic from last night has bled over into the now. Though Martin’s eyes flicker anxiously to the window every time there’s a sound outside, they always return, relieved, to his hands, the cards, and most often of all, to Jon.

“... That’s that,” Jon says, stuffing the example set back into the deck. “Do you have any questions?”

“Just one. What are you waiting for?” Martin says (What? Jon thinks)—and flips four cards over. (Oh. Right.)

Jon learns several things over the next hour, namely that the best way to uncover someone’s torrid rugby past is to challenge them to card-based arithmetic. Martin’s about as embarrassed by Jon’s discovery as Jon is intrigued, if the former’s look of utter mortification after (seemingly involuntarily) crowing, “No pain, no gain!” the first time he accidentally slaps Jon’s hand to get to the cards first is anything to go by.

“Don’t say a word—”

“I’m sorry, Martin. Could you—could you repeat that? It’s just that it was so very pithy and, I’m afraid, too clever for me to fully comprehend the first time—”

“Shut up—”

“No pain, no… what was it? Plane? no, that can’t be it. Grain? Martin, you simply must help me understand—”

“Jonathan Verisimilitude, I swear to God—”

“Do you have, like, a list of these—”

“Obviously. Poet, remember?”

Then, the implications of Martin’s words sink in, and he freezes.

Jon’s chest is tight. “You wrote poetry… about me?”

Martin shrugs, barely meeting Jon’s eyes. “Might’ve done.”

“I don’t think I saw any of that when I was…” accusing you of murder and rifling through your personal belongings.

“Yeah, I uh, kept most of it on my phone. Bit of light reading for Prentiss.” Martin wince-laughs. Martin, who apparently wrote poetry about Jon within weeks of meeting him, during a time when the kindest thing Jon had ever said to him was a noncommittal grunt every time Martin brought him tea. God, no wonder he had said loved, past tense.

“How… exactly were the Sims puns incorporated?”

“Um, well”—Martin somehow manages to flush more—“it’s more that I used the words in place of your name? I thought it’d be appropriately… roundabout.”

“Ah.”

The moment steeps in the air for a second, then two before Jon takes pity on both of them. He gestures back at the cards. “You got there first; what’s the answer?”

That night, the two of them settle in bed, facing each other again. Martin only hesitates a little before he reaches for Jon’s neck. This time, Jon falls asleep first.

When Jon wakes up, he’s curled up in the dead-center of the bed, and—

“Shit—” says Martin, from the ground.

“Martin! What the—Martin, are you hurt?”

“Ow—no,” Martin says, wincing, and Jon helps him up to a seat on the edge of the bed. “Just took a bit of a tumble. There should barely be any bruising, I think.”

Jon moves to sit down next to him. “Nightmare?”

“No, no, you just—”

“Dropkicked you into the floor?”

“No”—Martin laughs—“you just sort of… rolled toward me? And I moved back to give you space and then… you know.”

“Christ, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault; this isn’t the biggest bed”—Jon opens his mouth—“And that’s not a cue for you to offer to move again. Unless you really want to.”

“I don’t,” Jon answers, a touch too quickly. “But you should know you’re allowed to move me if I ever get too comfortable.”

“I didn’t want to manhandle you in your sleep, Jon, you’re welcome to as much of the bed as you like—”

“I’m welcome to exactly half. Less, really, if we’re going off of relative sizes. I don’t mind if you push me, really; I’ve never faulted Georgie for her shove-Jon-in-self-defense maneuvers.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am. Here, practice run”—Jon flops back onto the bed—“Look, I’m rudely encroaching on your space. What do you do?”

Martin laughs—“Alright, alright”—and stands.

Suddenly, there are sturdy arms under Jon, and then, both he and the duvet are being lifted in the air (with very little difficulty, Jon notes). Martin sets him down ever so gently on the left side of the bed.

“Happy?” Martin asks.

Jon is glad his face is pressed into his pillow, glad that the duvet covers the fact that his hands are shaking a little, glad that his throat is too tight for an I love you I’m in love with you and I love you to squeeze through.

“Yes,” Jon says, and is surprised by how raw the syllable sounds.

The bed dips as Martin settles next to Jon. “Then so am I.”

Jon gets up early to make breakfast. He hadn’t set an alarm for fear of waking Martin; somehow his body Knows exactly when to wake, but he’ll worry about that later. He leaves a note on Martin’s pillow in case waking up alone is too disconcerting and heads to the kitchen, tying up his hair as he goes.

The village shop was fairly limited on supplies, and Martin could only carry so much (though, considering last night, that “so much” is... quite a lot) back over when the village is a twenty-minutes’ walk away. Thus, Jon’s options are limited. He settles for poori, even though he needs to use a water bottle as a makeshift rolling pin and even though they’ll have to eat it plain. Jon spends several minutes debating how much oil they can spare for the deep-frying, then decides that he can just fill the pot and pour it all back into the bottle later.

In between mixing and rolling out the dough, he lets the kettle boil and scrambles some eggs. Jon is relieved that he can remember how thick his grandmother used to make each poori before it was ready to fry and how Martin takes his tea—plain; he’d said something last year about how he’s sure his ancestors would throw a collective fit if he ever deigned to disgrace their country’s invention with milk or sugar. When Jon drops the first circle of dough in the oil and it begins to rise to the surface, he breathes a sigh of relief. Then it’s about ladling more hot oil on top of the poori and trying very hard to not get burned and taking it out, and doing it all again six more times. He samples one. It’s not as fluffy as he would have liked, but it’s good enough for him and almost good enough for Martin.

Jon contemplates the spread before him. It still looks incomplete, so he washes off the water bottle and sets it to work as a juicer, too. It takes three oranges and all of Jon’s hand strength to make enough liquid to fill a mug, and Jon eats the leftover citrus pulp so as not to be wasteful. Then, he sits and waits.

Martin emerges from the stairs barefoot and muss-haired, and Jon has to look away before his mind can start waxing poetic about how the sunlight caressing Martin’s cheek makes it look like Martin is the one who’s glowing.

“Thanks for the note,” Martin says, crossing the room in two strides, “and I promise, I’m okay, but can I still…”

Jon nods, and tips his head up for the now almost familiar ceremony having his pulse checked. This close, and in the light, Jon can see Martin’s pupils, just barely distinct from the dark brown of his eyes.

“I made breakfast,” Jon says.

“Oh,” Martin says, seemingly noticing the food for the first time. “Oh. Jon. Thank you.”

Martin has no right to sound so grateful for something that’s taken Jon less than half an hour to do, and Jon tells him such.

“You made me tea,” Martin replies, in a tone that brooks no argument, and Jon feels all his half-formulated replies die on his tongue.

Martin approaches the poori first. Jon watches anxiously as Martin lifts the first piece to his mouth and chews.

“Jonathan Symphony…”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been living off of nothing but sandwiches and microwavable macaroni cheese for the last year when you can cook like this?”

Jon can’t help the pleased shiver that goes down his spine at the words, but he tries not to let it show. “You forgot Pot Noodles. And statements.”

"Point still stands, Jonny Pessimism."

Jon barely reacts to the name this time, which he considers an achievement. “It’s just fried bread.”

“Very good fried bread.”

“Fair enough. I mean, I’m sure you know I’m not the most dedicated to ‘self-care’”—Martin snorts—“I suppose I just don’t cook much when it’s just me. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to.”

“Well then. Good thing I’m here now,” Martin says around another bite of poori.

Yes. Yes, it is.

Jon wakes up Hungry.

Somewhere in his mind, he can register that it’s still early stages, and nowhere near unbearable—just some dizziness, something he wouldn’t even notice on an average day at the Archives—but after spending a few Seeing-less days hoping that Lukas had been enough to last him a few weeks, the realization still strikes him cold.

Since Jon is obviously not going to leave the cabin to snack on some poor villager, he tucks the duvet more securely around himself and tries to fall asleep again. But dread begins to pool in his stomach, and no matter how he shifts his position, the restlessness refuses to relinquish its hold on him. And if it’s already downright uncomfortable right now, how many days before it becomes unbearable? At what point will he need to lock the cabin door to keep himself inside? When will he no longer trust himself to leave the bedroom? Even getting up and pacing might be too much of a risk in time. Basira’s sending him some statements once the Archives are less police-monitored, she promised. He just has to hold out until then. He has to. He has to. He—

“Jon? Jon, can you hear me?” Martin’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, but Jon consciousness grasps for the source. Then, there’s two fingers pressed to his neck, and Jon grasps at those too. “Jon, please—” and the room and the bed and the man Jon loves come rushing back.

“Martin,” he whispers.

“Jon, you were making little noises—are you okay?”

“Martin. I thought we’d have longer. The Eye—it’s back.” His voice cracks on the second sentence, and Martin swears under his breath.

“Never mind that—How bad is it?”

“It’s—it’s not, really. Or—I just felt a little dizzy, I think most of- that was panic.”

“And now?”

“I’m back now. You—you brought me back.”

“Still dizzy, though?”

Jon nods.

“How can I help?”

“I don’t know, it’s never—”

“Or, easier question—what’s helped in the past?”

“Sleep, sometimes, but I can’t—” Jon breaks off into a sob.

“It’s okay,” Martin whispers, “It’s okay, Jon. Stay with me. What’s helped you sleep in the past?”

“I, uh, had a weighted blanket, it’s probably still in Document Storage—”

“Right, I remember—”

“I felt—solid, under it. And a little trapped, but in a good way. Less likely to go out and Compel people, at least.”

“I don’t think Daisy has a weighted blanket here, but we could try to imitate the feeling? What if—I could- kind of lay… on top of you, or—”

Jon shakes his head.

“That’s fair, I’m probably a bit heavier than your average—”

“No, no, no, that isn’t the reason; I just don’t want to… take advantage.”

Martin scrunches up his brow. “How do you mean?”

“Well, just—the experience might… elicit different emotions from the two of us, and that would be unfair to you.”

“Right,” Martin says, then frowns. “No, hang on. Not ‘right.’ How does asking me to cuddle you count as you, what, ‘taking advantage’? Are you saying you’re somehow… manipulating my feelings for you in order to get me to—”

“Sorry, what?”

“—if anything, wouldn’t I be the one ‘taking advantage’ by offering, not that that was my inten—”

“—Your feelings? What do you mean, your feelings?”

“My… romantic feelings toward you?”

Jon blinks. Are auditory hallucinations a rare side effect of panic attacks? Or maybe it’s an Avatar thing; did Helen ever mention—?

“Jon… you’re staring.”

“In the Lonely. You said ‘loved.’”

“You’re right. I did.” Martin is, for some reason, smiling. “But I wasn’t fully myself there, surely you know that. What about the past few days?”

“I mean—you’re an affectionate person, and there’s no one else here—”

Martin cups Jon’s face in both his hands, and now, he’s laughing too—“Jonathan… Simpleton—”

“Martin,” Jon says, confused and heart-racingly hopeful. He thinks it may be the only thing he can say right now.

“Please, call up Basira, or Melanie, or Georgie, and ask them if they’d call me affectionate.”

“But—”

“It’s just you, Jon. Of course I love you. Of course I’m in love with you.”

“But… why? I was awful to you, and then I was gone—”

“—and then you changed, and then you came back to me.”

“It can’t be that easy.”

“It can, though. I’ve chosen to make it that easy.”

Christ, I love you, Jon thinks, and then, oh, God, I haven’t said it back yet. “This might be- clear, already, but Martin, I love you too, so much, and I’m sorry that I didn’t always show it, or realize it—”

“Hey,” Martin says, smoothing his hand over Jon’s hair. “It’s okay. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Yes. This—this is real.”

“It is.” Then—“Can I kiss you?” Martin asks.

Jon’s thought about kissing Martin before, but those imagined kisses had always been hurried and frantic and for larger, more selfish purposes—convincing Martin to stop working for Lukas; making a last-minute, time-efficient declaration of feelings before the Unknowing unmakes them both; trying to prove that there’s still some humanity left in him and hey, the logic of the universe is so twisted already that he may as well give it the old Frog Prince try. This moment—warm, close, deliberate; no danger present except for Jon himself—feels far more right than any of these. And yet—“Maybe not now?”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin says, in a voice that harbors no resentment and asks for no explanations. Jon explains anyway.

“I’d still like to, in the future, but I think I’m still a little… raw from all of tonight’s—revelations, and I- sometimes find skin contact challenging in even the best of situations.”

“Do you want me to let go of your face?”

“No, what you’re doing right now is… it’s not too much. Feels nice.”

“And what about the weighted blanket offer, now that you know you aren’t”—Martin pitches his voice lower in a frankly horrendous Jon-imitation—“‘taking advantage’?”

Jon laughs. “That would be nice, too.”

Martin hmms, then presses closer and swings his legs over Jon’s.

“Would taking a statement from me help?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know if it counts, but I was there when the Flesh attacked, and I met Simon Fairchild.”

“You met Simon F—”

“Jon, Jon, it’s okay, he didn’t hurt me. The point is, you can Compel me about him, see if it does anything for you.”

“I’d rather lay off the Seeing until it’s really necessary. But I appreciate the offer.”

Martin pulls Jon in a little closer. “Anytime.”

addendum:

Jon wakes up tucked into the space between Martin’s neck and shoulder.

“‘Morning,” he mumbles into Martin’s skin, and feels Martin smile against his hair.

“Good morning to you, too. Do you still feel Hungry?”

Jon takes stock of his headache, then shrugs. “Yes, but I believe I’m more used to the dizziness now.”

“Well, last night’s offer is still on the table, if you’ve changed your mind.”

“O-oh. Of course,” Jon says, and kisses him. Martin makes a small mmph! that Jon finds extremely gratifying, and for a few seconds, he just lingers there, feeling the warm, dry press of Martin’s mouth against his.

When Jon pulls back, Martin has gone pleasantly pink. “I—ah—meant the Fairchild statement, actually, but I did appreciate that. A lot.”

“Oh,” Jon says, and before he can get too embarrassed, kisses Martin again.

“Someone’s affectionate this morning.”

“Mm.”

“We should probably get out of bed soon.”

“Mm.”

“Maybe write up a plan for if you get worse before Basira can mail the statements over?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Also, if you need any ingredients for cooking, let me know; I might pop down to the shops again tomorrow; I’m due to spend some quality time with the cows soon.”

“Mm.”

“Write me a list later, when you’re a tad more verbal?”

Jon nods. Yes, he’ll do it later, because they have a later to make promises for.

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #tma #magpod #fic

37 notes · View notes

hollowcrovvn · 5 years ago

Text

The Ostensive Fumblings of Being Human (part 2)

Pairing: Connor x female!reader Rating: G for Gross Cute Crap Summary: Set two months after the ending of Detroit: Become Human, androids are living in government created “pop-up” communities while efforts are being made to integrate them into society. You are a grad-student volunteer with the Detroit Crisis Response Unit (DCRU), working to help with relief efforts… or at least, doing the work no one else wants to do. Which brings us to part 2.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (ao3)

The moment kept playing in your mind, giving you little snapshot glimpses of his face when he saw your phone number written on the cup. His face, perplexed, but so curious as he took in your every word with such rapt attention.

“Ugh… no.” you whined towards the ceiling, throwing your head back and sinking further into your sofa. Some TV series played ideally while you tapped a stylus on the screen of your tablet, opened to some notes regarding your most recent class. You risked short glances over to your phone.

“Stop it.” you said to yourself, “It’s not a big deal and you don’t even know if he’ll text.”

You sat silently for a moment, nearly forgetting about it in the thrall of the TV and procrastination on your assignment when your eyes slowly drifted over to it again.

“Son of a bitch.” you huffed, throwing tablet aside as you got up and made your way across the small one bedroom apartment to your smaller bathroom. You needed a shower and some comfy clothes and maybe some sleep.

Several minutes later you came out from the bathroom, towel drying your hair and feeling a bit more human with the cold no longer biting at your skin still from the damp outside. You weren’t looking, not really, your eyes just fell to the phone on the small kitchen table and noticed the screen was list with an envelope icon.

You managed to pretend not to be interested for approximately fifteen seconds before you were over, picking up the phone and trying to not think about how fast your heart was going as you opened the message…

… which was just from your DCRU supervisor reminding you to go to the DPD station downtown after checking in on site tomorrow.

You felt your heart fall and sighed as you clicked the message and set a reminder. Someone in Jericho had requested a number of open human-on-android violence cases as well as android-on-human and someone had to go get the stats. Most android cases were still considered “sensitive” so the only way to get the information was from the source. It was a placating act, something to make Jericho not so hostile to DCRU and their efforts, even if they could realistically do nothing about the numbers. You wondered if you would be lucky enough for it to be the same station Connor worked at.

You took your phone and headed off to bed, setting your alarm. It was nearly 11:40, which was not ideal if you didn’t want to be a zombie tomorrow. Sighing, you flicked off your lamp and curled up, closing your eyes and tucking in. Your breath began to slow and your body relax when suddenly the darkness behind your eyelids lit.

You opened your eyes a slit and saw the envelope notification with a question mark attached.

[ new sender ]

[ accept msg y/n? ]

You never hit “y” so fast in your life.

[ from: DPDCNSL#317

Thank you for agreeing to continue corresponding with me. I am looking forward to the experience.

And thank you for the coffee.

Have a good evening, ---.

Connor ]

And then before you could respond the little dots indicating he was responding popped up immediately.

[ from: DPDCNSL#317

Lieutenant Anderson has informed me that saying, “I am looking forward to the experience” sounds “creepy”. I am looking forward to being able to speak with you more.

Connor ]

You smiled and quickly wrote up a reply-- which you waited a few minutes to send because… like that is what you did right? You didn’t wanna reply too fast… right? You killed some time, changing his name in the message box.

[ from: ---

You’re welcome. And pls don’t thank me for that pitiful excuse for bean water. Next time, I’ll get you a latte and you’ll never be the same again. ]

[ from: Connor

You are correct, but not in the way I believe you think.

Regardless, I would like that. You are studying at Wayne State, correct? ]

You froze, staring at the words with shock. How the hell did he know that?

[ from: ---

You pull up my file, copper?]

[ from: Connor

I did a search on the internet. You came up under the staff listing as a research assistant for Urban Studies. Is that correct? There is no image, so it could be another ---. ]

[ from: ---

Bit weird to be searching for someone you just met. ]

[ from: Connor

I agree. Lieutenant Anderson located the information and sent it to my terminal. I was… curious. I apologize, I do not wish to cause you to feel uncomfortable. ]

It didn’t really matter much. All the information on the website was basic things and any social media you had was hidden from the outside. It was harmless, as far as most things went.

[ from: ---

It’s alright, next time you can just ask me. Though I think to make it up, you can buy me the coffee. Only fair. :) ]

[ from: Connor

I do receive a salary now, so that is a possibility.

--- it is now almost midnight. You should be resting as you have already lost two hours of the recommended time for sleep. I would recommend lowering your caffeine intake to 300mg per day to prevent further sleep disturbance.

Good night, ---. ]

[ from: ---

You can pry my coffee from my cold dead hands, hippy.

Good night. ]

Wildly specific advice aside, it was-- kinda sweet. That bit that you assumed was a joke about “receiving a salary” got a small chuckle from you. After waiting a few minutes though, it appeared that he was done messaging for the night.

Not too bad, you hummed to yourself, First potential friend outside of campus in four years. Adult humaning at last.

---

“Checking in on site” was just code for “bring us all our coffee order before you do any real work” and you did so as usual, dropping the cups off at the various desks, crowded into the small “conference” building. All of the DCRU’s own buildings were of the same shake-n-bake quality as the shelters put up for the androids. They did little to hold out the chill, but they kept out the damp. Several people had space heaters beneath their desks or blankets wrapped around their legs.

After dropping off the last drink, you made your way over to the desk of the person you liked most of all the superiors, chiefly because he would never ask you to bring him coffee. His name was Josh, and he had served as one of Markus’ companions during the start and the heart of the revolution. Prior to Jericho, he had been a university professor, which was something you found common ground with.

He was sitting still, as if staring off into the distance, but a quick note of his eyes would show them flickering back and forth. He was reading.

“You ready to do some real work?” he said, voice tinged with faint humor as he continued to scan through whatever files were working their way through his synthetic mind. You’d gotten use to this.

“Yes, for the love of Markus Christ.” you huffed, enjoying in the private joke. Since the revolution there had been no less than 112 articles official and amateur declaring Markus as an android “Messiah”. Based upon Josh’s word, this caused the actual Markus a great deal of discomfort, but still the metaphor stuck.

“I’m going to have to tell Simon that one.” Josh said with a laugh, finally turning his eyes to you indicating he was finished with whatever he was working on.

“But first things first.” he said, pulling out a tablet and handing it to you. It was one of his.

“You know most of these “deviant” criminal cases are still on lock down?”

You nodded.

“We’ve gotten clearance to have the files downloaded. Part of our agreements with the government involve… some explaining. I won’t sugar coat it. Some of these open cases are violent, resulting in death of the human or the android or sometimes both.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to the tablet as if there would suddenly appear images but there was only a menu showing how to accept file download.

“... death can be a hard topic for anyone. Even more so for your people when it involves Android on Human crimes. You may see some disturbing things. You alright with this?”

“Of course!” you said, a bit quickly and a bit more defensively than intended.

“I mean that… I want to do anything I can to help. I know that… I know they are pressuring to have these androids turned over for prosecution.”

If Josh were non-deviant, he wouldn’t have tensed at the words, but he did.

“Historically speaking, we haven’t given any android justice. I know this is important. Anything I feel is secondary to that… is what I mean.”

Josh smiled warmly, standing up and hesitantly patting your shoulder.

“You remind me of my old students, ---. I’m sure you’ll do what you can.”

You nodded vigorously, because you would.

---

It was too far and too cold to walk the length of Detroit back towards downtown, so you took an automated cab. You’d tucked Josh’s tablet safely away in a rucksack over your shoulder and flipped through your phone idly.

You hovered over the message window with Connor for a moment before quickly sending off a few lines.

[ from: ---

Just so there are no surprises, I’m heading to the DPD station rn for unrelated stuff. Might see you! ]

It took you way longer than necessary to actually hit send, but when you did you were shocked that his response was almost instantaneous.

[ from: Connor

Unrelated to what? Also, are you alright? Do you have an open case with the DPD? ]

[ from: ---

It’s all good. And meant I just happen to be that way as opposed to ya know, stalking. ]

[ from: Connor

“Stalking” does imply stealth, which would be in direct opposition of your current actions if that was the intent. I agree that your actions do not constitute “stalking”. ]

You huffed a sigh, but then were startled as the message pinged again.

[ from: Connor

Bit weird though. ]

You felt a smile slowly form at one corner of your lips

[ from: Connor

That was a joke, in case it was too vague. ]

[ from: ---

I gotcha ;)

See you in a bit maybe. ]

And with that, you shut off your phone’s display just in time to exit the cab out front of the DPD building. Inside, the DPD had the same tell tale signs of the android revolution with its lack of noticeable androids. It was not until you got up to the reception desk that it dawned on you they both were identical. They were androids, they had just removed their LED. She was even wearing a name tag that said, Alicia in clear bold font. She was wearing regular professional wear, no Android identifiers in sight.

You’d heard the DPD had gotten on board relatively quickly with providing androids with pay, not wanting to lose the bulk of their staff. While the cleaning crews were absent, the receptionist turned up her face and smiled pleasantly,

“Good morning, how may I assist you?”

“Good morning!” you said, a bit too quickly, “My name is ---, I’m here from the Crisis Response Unit. I have a meeting with Captain Fowler.”

“Yes, we were told to expect you! Do you have your I.D.?” she said, and you were struck by how… friendly she was, as opposed to all the other ST300’s you’d encountered. You pulled out your “badge”, which was nothing more than an I.D. card with a special DCRU designation stamp inside a flip wallet. You passed it to her and she scanned it quickly.

“You’re all set! Just head right through these gates here and go straight back. Fowler’s office is the one in the middle with the glass doors, it should not be hard to miss, but if you get lost just grab one of the officers. They all should know all too well where his office is.” she said with a faint laugh at some private joke.

You nodded, fumbling to put your I.D. with a quick “thank you” before you headed through the gates. It was bigger inside than you expected, with several desks and lots of people working, standing and having their morning coffee or otherwise engaged. You noted the glass enclosed office towards the middle of the room and headed in that direction. There were three people already waiting inside and two of which you recognized immediately.

Captain Fowler was up, preparing to come open the door for you, but Connor beat him in a few brisk steps.

Hank was grinning at you in that suspicious way that you recalled from grade school… like he knew something you didn’t. In this situation, it was pretty unsettling. Did they find that parking ticket from sophomore year?!

“Good morning Ms. ---, please, have a seat.” Fowler gestured to the one other empty chair next to Hank, “These two suspect characters are Lieutenant Hank Anderson and his partner, Connor. They have been working the deviant android cases since the start.”

Connor politely offered you his hand, which you took. He squeezed gently, mischief glinting in those brown eyes before he let go and all but ushered you to your seat. Hank snorted.

“We’ve met.” Hank said, disregarding any pleasantries.

Fowler looked surprised.

“We frequent the same coffee shop.” you added, “So it was a very brief meeting.”

“You’re lucky.” Fowler said, eyeing Hank with disapproval. Hank seemed oblivious, or more likely, immune.

“We’ve been informed that the ADA’s office is seeking to prosecute these androids. It is highly likely that they are being concealed among the deviants at the relief camp.” Fowler leaned back in his chair, “So, we’ve been told to assist you in whatever way you need.”

“Some of us are a bit too eager…” you heard Hank muttered under his breath. Connor’s eyes trailed on him slowly, making no expression you could see but Hank must have gotten the message because he grumbled and slumped back.

“I appreciate that, Captain Fowler.” you began, “Markus has agreed that his people will search into the population of their androids for these individuals. It’s a good start to integrate androids into the justice system.”

Though you had your own opinions regarding the effectiveness of that. How could any android expect a fair trial when a jury of their peers would most likely be full of humans? But that was a topic for another time and place.

“These files are sealed, so we are requesting a downloaded copy so that efforts can be made to locate these androids.”

Captain Fowler looked unconvinced.

“I have confirmation from the governor and the President’s staff approving this request, if you would like to see it. The governor also said you might like to call her office as well.”

“I think I will do that. In the meanwhile, if you’d gentleman escort Ms. --- to the break-room where she might be a bit more comfortable?”

Hank stood and gave Connor a hard pat, “All you buddy.”

He left without a second glance.

“Right this way. ---.” Connor said, Chief Fowler now too engrossed with his phone to notice Connor used your first name.

It was hard to contain a smile as you walked alongside the detective, following him to a small break-room.

“Coffee?” he asked and you nodded briskly. He poured some of the dark, strong smelling liquid into a mug that read “#1 Dad” and after considering for a moment, pot still in his hand, he poured another.

Bringing both he came to sit with you at a rickety table, stabilized by a half folded paper plate under one leg.

“Don’t think this counts.” you said, taking the mug in both hands, enjoying the warmth if not the overly strong taste.

Connor did not drink.

“You work with the Detroit Crisis Response Unit?” he said, getting right to the point.

“Volunteered. Don’t give me too much credit though. When I joined up, it was all about flooding relief. The Android situation was a surprise.”

“Do you dislike Androids?” he asked.

“Wow. Talk about a hot button topic, Connor. You sure you don’t wanna ask me what my favorite color is first? My favorite movie?”

“No. I would much rather know your stance on the current events seeing as you are working as a relief volunteer.”

Direct. You hid behind the lip of the mug, feeling his eyes keenly on you.

“Why do you wanna know?” you countered, taking a small sip.

“I’m simply curious as to how you feel about your current assignment.”

“I feel just fine.” you said, “I guess… well. Guess sometimes they just spook me. Just like most people.”

“I see.” Connor said, seeming to relax a fraction, “You are afraid of them?”

“Not “afraid” just-- reasonably cautious.”

Connor seemed to be processing this, tapping his fingertips against the mug in his hand and watching himself do so intently.

“You worked on “deviant” cases for awhile, yeah?” you began, “Are… do they make you nervous? Because that’d be understandable given what you’ve seen.”

“They-- did. Before. Now I realize it’s the same as humans. We’re all capable of violence.”

Before you could continue, another man walked into the break-room, smile slick as oil.

“Well, there you are, tin-can.” he said with a smirk, picking up the coffee pot and sloshing some of it onto the counter as he poured a mug full.

“Whose this?” he said, giving you a smirk.

“A liaison from DCRU.” Connor replied coolly, bringing the coffee mug to his lips.

“Is that even good for your health, Con?” the man asked, but Connor ignored him.

“And who is this charming fellow.” you asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Detective Reed. Gavin, Reed.” he answered, giving you a wink, “Now I can see why Con here was in such a hurry to get his ring off before you showed up.”

Ah. That. That was. Not expected. Your blood ran cold, eyes immediately falling to Connor’s left hand as if you’d catch sight of a tan line or some other indicator that you’d been incredibly stupid.

“I got some super glue over at my desk if you need a quick fix.” he said, tapping Connor’s chair with the toe of his boot. Connor, looked somewhere between deflated and coldly controlled anger.

Hank’s appearance in the break room door thankfully put a halt to whatever was going on between the two men, his eyes fixing Gavin with a vicious glare.

“Don’t you have reports to finish, detective?” he said, circling in so that Gavin was forced to walk towards the door.

“Just tryin’ be a good wing-man for my bro, Connor.” he said, disappearing into the hall with a laugh.

Hank looked between you and Connor, noting the change in your demeanor, arms pulled in and looking anywhere but at his partner.

“Fowler uh-- got the call. You can come over to my desk and we’ll get you sorted.”

You hurriedly stood, fishing out your tablet so you’d be ready to download those files and get out of here as soon as possible.

Connor said nothing in his defense, but he watched you intently, searching.

“... thanks for the coffee.” you said, following Hank out.

---

Connor did not join you at Hank’s desk, which must not have been part of the plan because every few seconds Hank looked over his shoulder for him.

“Here. You should get a prompt to download any second now. There are photos, so if you’re squeamish I advised ya not look at the screen while they are downloading.”

You took his advice, letting the tablet drop unceremoniously to the desk as you leaned against it, arms crossed.

Hank was not scowling for once, but you were, brows furrowed tight and troubled.

“Look… ---, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t-- just don’t judge Connor before you get to know him. I know he’s a weird one. I know most people, hell even me, have this innate prejudice, but he likes you. Which is a big deal for him. He’s learning how this goes, so I don’t know-- maybe give him a break.”

“... did… did his wife die or something?”

Hank stared at you, eyes wide and confused.

“His wife.” he repeated, not so much a question but a confirmation of whether or not you were a rambling idiot.

“That detective! Gavin whatever-the-hell said that Connor took off his ring before I got here!”

Hank groaned, resting his face in his hand as he shook his head. The sound quickly turned into a laugh of sorts. He looked back up at you with that same mystified look he had before.

“You really don’t know. Kid, Connor took off his LED before you got here. That’s what Gavin meant. He’s an android.”

A lot, like a lot of things suddenly made sense now.

You sunk into a nearby chair, dazed.

“You really had no idea? With how fuckin’ weird he is?”

“I thought he was just… like, ya know. A hipster intellectual.”

Hank choked on nothing, busting into a loud laugh, “Well you ain’t wrong, kid!”

The tablet pinged, indicating it had finished downloading. Hank popped up, dismissing the file before you could pick it up.

“Like I said. Some gory stuff. I’d advise you get that to whoever wants it and not go poking around in it.” he handed you the tablet, “And for god’s sake, go talk to him before you leave. You’re the first person he’s been around that ain’t me and trust me, that’s good for him.”

You ran your hands over the tablet’s smooth sides, mind going a hundred miles a minute. You turned to leave and saw Connor coming back towards the desks, seeing clearly now the flashing LED he had replaced on the side of his temple.

His expression was blank, but you had dealt with enough androids that you could just faintly see the lines of nervousness and… hopefulness as he passed you.

You caught his forearm, touching the same place where androids connected systems.

“... I don’t dislike androids.” you whispered, risking a look at him through your eyelashes. He was-- smiling and it was so damn beautiful you felt the wall you had started constructing around your heart from Gavin’s words crack open.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

You smiled, “Text me when you are ready to shell out for that latte.” and gave his arm one last small squeeze before heading out of the station.

#dbh fanfiction #dbh connor #dbh fanfic #dbh connor x reader #dbh connor x f!reader #detroit become human #dbh #oh look i wrote part 2 really fast oh no #i gotta keep this momentum up #also i just love really long titles like fallout boy songs so thats why its long by fallout boy #on mobile the font is FUCKED #the ostensive fumblings of being human

55 notes · View notes

mimirexx · 6 years ago

Text

Clay figure

Pairing: Armin Arlert/Hanji Zoe

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: no warnings

Summary: Armin goes to drop off some papers in Hanji’s office and accidentally lets his secret slip after seeing she was working on something.. special.

Notes: This is just a real quick thing I wrote to give myself some diversity from the bigger fic I’m working on and from homework I should’ve gotten done instead. Just needed a bit of a clear head to focus better ^^;

——————————

On a late Friday morning, there was a light knock on the door. Upon not getting an answer after a while, the knock repeated a little louder.

“It’s open!” The brunette finally called out, sitting at her desk where she worked on something. The door opened and the person stepped inside with a small “good morning”.

Hanji didn’t really answer that until she noticed who it was and perked up almost immediately.

“Commander Erwin sent me here to drop off these papers.” The young boy shuffled a little on his spot, tensing up when Hanji looked up at him so suddenly.

“That’s really kind of you. Just put them here.” She patted a random spot on her desk where the boy soon placed the papers on before standing straight again. He cleared his throats quietly, “Is there anything else I can-“ Accidentally, he caught a glimpse of what Hanji was working on on her desk, causing his eyes to widen, his cheeks to heat up, his voice to die down.

Truth be told, Armin had a little crush on his superior- how could he not?! Hanji was the smartest woman he ever met, she knew things he never heard of and amazed him from day to day. Not only was she smart, she also was a gorgeous woman. Some might not think so because Hanji wasn’t exactly feminine and wasn’t taking care of herself like other women did, but Armin didn’t care about these things. In his eyes, Hanji was a astonishing and simply amazing woman. She was smart, she was pretty, and she knew what she wanted.

On the other hand, he wasn’t sure how Hanji saw him, if it even made sense to hope for something more than a crush or not. He was younger than her and didn’t know if it bothered her, not to mention that they were in the military. Maybe she didn’t even want a relationship or anything of that sort to begin with.

But now, standing in her office and staring down at what Hanji created on her desk amazed Armin in a way it never did before. He never saw something like that; it made him feel a bit embarrassed but also surprised and, admittingly, a little confused. “U-uh.. Section C-Commander..?” He was somewhat scared to speak and took a moment longer to gather himself, staring up at the brunette.

"...Did you make a clay figure of me?” He asked, swallowing the lump in his throats, “Should I be.. scared that it's so... accurate and detailed?" There was no hint of a doubt that Hanji was forming the clay to look like Armin: long hair, bangs, his button nose, big eyes, a big smile. Every stand of hair was worked out evenly, even his lashes. It was as if he was looking into the mirror, that’s how accurate it was.

The brunette let out a small hum and shook her head as she stepped one step closer to Armin and looked down at the clay with him. “I see no reason to be scared, actually. Unless you think I’m weird now.” When Armin began shaking his head frantically, Hanji let out a chuckle and ruffled his hair.

“I just.. don’t understand.” The blond admitted, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, “I-I mean it’s not like I don’t like it— I-I’m flustered- it looks great! You really have talent!— I just don’t understand why you would choose me out of all people, that’s all...” He felt so stupid now for talking with such a speed and feared Hanji couldn’t understand a word he said. Maybe she was the one weirded out now.

Though, Hanji just smiled at him and, once he stopped talking, fell into soft laughter. “Armin. One reason why I chose you is obvious; you’re a handsome, young man. You really have awesome facial features. Simple but beautiful. The other reason... I won’t tell you yet!” She playfully held her index finger against her lips and shushed softly.

The blond’s blush only darkened at that and reached the tips of his ears. He had never been called handsome before- there was the occasional sweet or cute, but never handsome. And hearing it from Hanji now made him really happy.

“God, I love you...” He blabbed subconsciously, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear while he smiled down at the ground. The way she always was so playful and happy almost hypnotized him, made him do unplanned things. He said this sentence with so much emotion and noticed it only after it already escaped his lips and it was too late to change anything.

“I-I mean—“ Armin stuttered immediately after, having no idea what to say anymore. Hanji didn’t say anything either and the youth was too scared to face her, hiding behind his bangs instead. “...I’m sorry.” Even if he wasn’t sure why he apologized, he still did it. Was it because he made her uncomfortable? Or because he was awkward? Maybe both. Probably even more.

The room filled with silence for a good minute, nothing could be heard and it was so hard with how tense Armin was feeling. He chewed on his lower lip nervously before abruptly turning and making a run for the door. But before he could reach it, there was something clutching his arm and he turned to see Hanji doing just that. Though, the look on her face wasn’t at all what he expected to see- she didn’t look mad, rather content. She was even smiling. Something told him that it wasn’t as bad as he thought it was.

“H-Hanji, I can explain-!” He uttered fearfully.

“I’m sure you can.” The brunet’s voice was calm, soothing, and in the next moment, she pulled Armin closer and wrapped her arms around him for a hug. “But you don’t need to explain, I knew it.”

Armin’s poor heart skipped several beats at that while he stared up with eyes wide as saucers. “H-huh..?” How did she know? Was it that obvious? But he hid it pretty well! The only person who knew about his feelings was—

“Eren told me. After we came from the last mission. But even before that, you were pretty often on my mind.” She giggled and ran her fingers through Armin’s smooth hair, playing a bit with the ends. “I thought a lot about you, Armin, and I have to say I’m happy about it.”

The boy’s heart was hammering in his chest so hard, he was sure Hanji could feel it from the way they were hugging. “Wh-what do you m-mean..?” He questioned carefully, leaning ever so lightly into her touch.

The brunette only laughed and leaned down to press a soft and tender peck onto his lips, grinning as she faced him again. “That’s what I mean.”

Blushing like crazy, Armin couldn’t but smile and slowly rested his head against her shoulder, his arms finally coming up to hug Hanji by her waist. He didn’t say anything but it seemed as if that wasn’t even necessary, the silence was still comfortable.

Nonetheless, after some while, Armin glanced up at the brunette again and bit his lip somewhat nervously, “Can we... kiss again?”

#aruhan #armin arlert #hanji zoe #aot #snk #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #my writing #short writing #oneshot #fanfic

6 notes · View notes

words-writ-in-starlight · 6 years ago

Note

PLEASE TOBY/TYBALT either "One is mind controlled and forced to fight the other" or "The other losing their mind when their partner is hurt/killed and charging into battle recklessly". if you are still taking these.

Anonymous asked:

I might be late, so if I am just ignore me, but: toby/tybalt, one losing their mind when their partner is hurt/killed and charging into battle recklessly? (sending all of the good vibes your way 💛💛💛 hope you have a nice day!)

Well…I spent a week too busy to answer these and not sure what I’d do for them, but then I wrote 4K in 12 hours, so. It’s…a weird ride. Gonna put it up on AO3.

By the time Sylvesterarrived with his knights, the fighting was long since over. He had come as quickly as he could—for allthe damage his relationship with Toby had suffered of late, for all that he hadkept from her, she had still thought to call him when she was in need offirepower, and Sylvester thought it would be a long time before he could refusethat call. His wife might have turnedher back on Toby, believing her to have betrayed poor, shattered Rayseline,but—

But Toby was his, his knight, his wayward charge, hisdaughter, and Sylvester would always come when she called.

The building thatToby had told him about was an old office building, low-slung and plain andforgettable, and for a moment Sylvester wished that he had her talent for tastinga single drop of blood in a building, because once they were inside, it wassilent, with no sign of Toby or any of her usual reinforcements. There were no voices, no screaming, none ofthe cursing and bitter rage that Toby so often left in her wake.

“Search,” Sylvestersaid, and so they searched, until Grianne found a door to the basement. They all flinched back when she opened it,even good hardy Etienne—there was iron there, the tang of it so sharp and suddenthat it made Sylvester dizzy for a moment.

“All right,”Sylvester said, starting down the stairs cautiously. Halfway down the stairs, another smell hithim through the iron—he was no Dóchas Sidhe, but even a human could probablynotice that much blood. It was muddiedby the smell of iron, blurred, but Daoine Sidhe knew blood, and Sylvester hadbeen a hero a long time before he was a duke. He wasn’t surprised when he reached the bottom of the stairs and found ascene better suited to a slaughterhouse.

The iron surged for amoment, hungry, like a wild thing that had been fed just enough to rememberthat it was starving, and Sylvester closed his eyes, breathed shallowly untilhis head cleared. Then he opened his eyesagain, and picked his way across the killing field.

“Oberon,” Etiennebreathed behind him, and almost Sylvester smiled, grim and humorless.

“Send the rest backto wait at the top of the stairs, Etienne,” Sylvester said, in the tone of aman not accustomed to being questioned, and didn’t look back to see if Etiennehad obeyed.

The night haunts hadyet to come for their latest prizes. Therewere thirteen bodies, all told—mostly changelings as far as Sylvester couldsee, but some had the delicate perfection of purebloods, and he thanked any powersthat might be listening Queen Windermere was likely to call this self-defenseand pardon the murderer. Some, those wholooked most human, had been killed more mercifully, if that was the word. Their necks had been snapped, or their headsslammed into the concrete wall so forcefully that their skulls were visiblydented and flattened, killed with someone’s bare hands and rage.

The purebloods, themost fae of the changelings, had slit throats or pierced hearts, skin markedwith the ragged black rot of iron poisoning. The knife was still thrust to the hilt under the point of one man’s jaw,radiating the sullen taint of iron as it seeped through his dead flesh.

All but thepurebloods had blood on their lips and bore a handprint on their skin, where someonehad clamped a bloodied palm to their wrists or throats and branded them for theshort rest of their lives.

Sylvester didn’t needto ask questions, to understand what had happened. These, the dead, had been hunting OctoberDaye for weeks, and had thought to catch her off-guard. Whether they had intended to capture or killher was, frankly, immaterial. Whatmattered was that the basement had been turned from ambush to massacre, as ifOberon’s own herald had come down the stairs and declared every life within ahundred yards hers, by their lost King’s own will.

The only question waswhy.

Sylvester reachedToby, where she was sitting cross-legged with her back to the stairs, andunderstood with a flash of pain.

Toby’s eyes wereglassy, and there was a cut that skated up over her collarbone and through themuscle of her shoulder. It radiatediron, too, and she moved that arm only barely, resting on Tybalt’s still chestwhile her other hand stroked almost idly through his hair.

“October?” Sylvestersaid softly, waving Etienne and the other knights back behind him. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Tobysaid. Her voice was even and calm, andSylvester crouched down in her line of sight, hoping to draw her gaze. She looked blindly at the wall ahead of her,where there was a spray of blood, and went on stroking Tybalt’s hair, deftfingers winding through the black and brown tabby stripes emotionlessly. There was a gash in Tybalt’s throat, cuttingthrough the right carotid artery, but except for the blood he looked asleep,and if Sylvester didn’t know better, he might have thought that Toby was ascalm as her voice suggested. She wasdrenched with what could only be her own blood, leaving more of it in Tybalt’shair as she petted him, and except for the way she stared ahead, she seemedunruffled.

This, then, must havebeen what it was like, Sylvester thought suddenly, to serve the mad Duke ofShadowed Hills. It was not, generallyspeaking, expected of the nobility of Faerie to apologize for fits of insanity,but he made a mental note to apologize at very least to those who had kept hisduchy running in his—absence.

“Did you kill allthese people, October?” he asked softly.

“I know they werepurebloods, some of them,” Toby said, distantly. “I think I’ll probably be executed for that.”

“We’ll deal with thatlater. What did you do to them?”

Toby smiled a little,the same way she smirked when she was mocking someone for being hung up oncourtly minutiae that she was about to cut through with all the grace of ahatchet. “I killed them. They had me tied up, so I broke my wrists andfingers, and then I killed them all. Idon’t think they expected that.” Sheturned toward Sylvester, finally, turning wide eyes on him, wide eyes likeAmandine’s wide, mad eyes, colorless and old and unmerciful. “Did you know that rebalancing the bloodhurts more than anything else in the world?” she asked, with the steady regardof a child or an executioner.

“I didn’t know that,”Sylvester said.

“I did,” Tobysaid. “I forgot, because my mother mademe forget. But I remembered, after shedid it again.” Her gaze flickered coollyto the nearest body, marked with her handprint on his jaw, and then she lookeddown at Tybalt, carefully smoothing his hair back from his face.

“Is that what you did,to these people?” That got him a nod,slow and dreamy. “Did they kill Tybalt?”

“He used up all hislives saving me, these last few years,” Toby said. Not an answer, except that it very much was.

“October,” Sylvestersaid, moving a little closer, and he stopped short when she tensed. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I think you’re suffering from iron poisoning,Toby. Why isn’t that cut healing?”

“Oh, yes,” Toby said,blinking at him like a child struggling to keep up. “That would be the iron poisoning. I don’t think I can walk right now. I’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Okay,” Sylvestersaid, and beckoned Etienne closer. “IfEtienne takes Tybalt, would you let me carry you out of here?”

Toby shook her headand Sylvester bit back a sharp order. The iron seemed to be eating away at her presence of mind, turning theusual slow confusion of blood loss into something far more profound withunnerving speed. He wanted all of themout of this room, as soon as possible.

“Why not, October?”

“If I leave him thenight haunts will come,” Toby said.

Sylvester had toclose his eyes at that. The King of Catshad never been one of his favorite people, even when they were getting alonginstead of studiously avoiding each other, but—

“Toby,” he said quietly. “Love, you know—the night haunts will have tocome for him eventually. You can’t keephim forever.”

“I don’t need to,”she said, and blinked several times, focusing on his face for the firsttime. She smiled again, baring all herteeth, and now, now she looked like she had scraped together the last of herenergy for a moment of sanity, and it was far worse than the disinterestedstare from before. This wasn’t thegrief-mad knight, this was the only Dóchas Sidhe in the world, granddaughter ofOberon himself, on the warpath. “I’mgoing to do something really stupid, instead.”

There was a dizzydrop in Sylvester’s chest, and he let out a slow breath. Toby’s standards for stupidity were high,high enough that the vast majority of what she believed to be a valid planscanned as genuine madness to most, and the things that she would admit werefoolish tended to end with outcomes like a murdered Firstborn.

“Okay,” he said oncehe was sure that his voice would be steady. “But we still need to get out of here before you can do anything, stupidor otherwise. What if I took Tybalt, andEtienne took you? Would that be allright?”

“Will you make surethe night haunts don’t take him away?”

“Yes,” Sylvestersaid. “On my life, I swear. I’ll see to it.”

Toby nodded, seemingto sink back into the haze of iron poisoning as soon as Sylvester beckoned Garmover and lifted Tybalt’s tall form between them. Etienne came and spoke briefly to Toby, in amurmur, and she let him help her up, wavering on her feet but managing tostumble across the room with Etienne under one arm to hold her upright.

“I’m getting bloodall over your shirt,” Toby observed as they reached the stairs and ascended,one step at a time.

“I know this mightshock you,” Etienne said dryly, “but I am a knight and have even bled on myshirts myself, before. Not nearly somuch as you tend to, so you might have missed it. One more step, and then just a littlefarther. Grianne,” he added, with asharp look over Toby’s head. “Close thedoor and don’t let anyone else down until His Grace decides what we do now.”

“What happened downthere?” asked one of the younger knights in a thin voice, eyes fixed on Toby asblood soaked into Etienne’s shirt from her hands. He must be new to dealing with October, Sylvesterthought distractedly. One got past hertalent for ending up covered in blood eventually.

“How old are you?”Toby asked, squinting at him.

“Come now, October,leave the boy alone,” Sylvester said gently. “Grianne, see to the door. Someone call Jin, we’ll need her for October’s iron poisoning.” The door swung shut, the pervasive reek ofiron fading abruptly, and Sylvester glanced automatically over his shoulder tocheck on Toby. Being out of the basementseemed to be doing some little to help her eyes clear, and as soon as the doorwas closed her footing seemed steadier, but whatever mad-eyed calm she hadmanaged to cling to was beginning to crack and fracture with the inexorablerise of sanity.

“I need to getoutside,” Toby said. “And I need Jinhere right away. Etienne, can you gether?”

“I–” Etienne hesitated and gave Sylvester ahelpless look. “I can. Someone come help Sir Daye outside. You there,” he added, and flagged down thewide-eyed young knight to take his place as Toby’s crutch.

“Hey, kid,” Toby saidas she grimaced at the jostling of her wound. Etienne watched closely for a moment to see that she was being held upsecurely, and then drew a circle in the air and darted away in a wash of limesand cedar smoke. “I’m Toby.”

“I’m Kellen,” theyoung Tuatha said, and glanced nervously at Sylvester. Sylvester, still bearing up more than half ofTybalt’s weight, arched an eyebrow, and Kellen went a bit grey—correctlyinterpreting the level of punishment he might be looking at if he dropped hisliege’s favorite knight, Sylvester hoped. Toby very much did not look capable of supporting her own weight.

Outside, Tobydirected Sylvester to set Tybalt down on the asphalt, and he and Grianne did,arranging the King of Cats in repose on the ground, his hands folded togetherand his eyes closed. The blood Toby hadleft in his hair was beginning to dry, stiffening the locks into ragged spikes.

“Let me go,” Tobysaid, shrugging away from Kellen and leaving him to bob nervously on his toeswhile she knelt shakily down beside her fiance’s body.

“October,” Sylvestersaid softly, crouching down beside her. He reached out and caught her hand in his, giving her lax fingers asqueeze. “My dear, you’re in no shape tostay out here. Let me take you back toShadowed Hills.”

“No,” Toby said, andbegan separating the blood-stuck clumps of Tybalt’s hair with her other hand. “I need to do this quickly. I don’t know–” Her voice broke for the first time, and herhands shook for a moment before she let out a slow breath. “I don’t know if it will take, later. Where’s Etienne?”

“He’ll be here. What are you planning to try?”

“I did it once. I don’t know if it will work on him,” Tobysaid. “But Tybalt had nine lives, once,so I think it might. The last time I didit–” She laughed a little, andSylvester’s chest ached. “He was soangry with me. It was stupid, Iguess. But it’s going to be reallystupid now.”

They sat there insilence, the moon sinking slowly toward the horizon, and Sylvester held onto Toby’shand. His skin was growing tacky withdrying blood where they touched, but she had clutched tightly to him when hetried to pull away, and it was such a small thing, to sit on the ground withthis girl he had raised and hold her hand while she stood guard over the bodyof the man she loved.

Sylvester was neverable to be what Toby needed when she needed it, it seemed. She had needed a parent and he had lingered ahalf-step back, wanting to let Amandine have the chance to be a mother again. By the time he realized that Amandine didn’twant the chance, Toby needed freedom, and he had been a lord and a chain first,a friend second. All he had ever doneright by her, Sylvester thought in his darker moments, was fighting for herknighthood—then, for just a moment, she had needed a defender and he had beenone. And then…well. Then he had asked her to find his family, andshe had lost her family, her friends, and almost her life, in one fell swoop,and still she had come when Faerie called her, still she had been loyal to him,and still, still, he was never ableto help her when she needed it most.

So this—holding herhand—this Sylvester would do.

The smell of liliesand cedar smoke washed over them before the gate opened—Chelsea, this time,with her father and Jin in tow. Sylvester was glad she had thought to intervene. Etienne was more hardheaded than he wasmagically endowed, which had gotten him in over his head more than once. Even with his powers bound, he had been laidout with magic burn for almost a week after chasing Chelsea across half ofreality.

“Jin,” Toby said, asif everyone else had ceased to be present. “Can you heal Tybalt’s throat?”

Jin flicked a mildlyfrantic look at Sylvester as she knelt, across Tybalt’s body from Toby, and sether healer’s kit on the asphalt. “Toby,honey,” she said gently. “He’s—he’sdead.”

“I know that,” Tobysaid, that terrible numb calm returning to her voice. “I know. But can you do it?”

Jin’s wings flutteredanxiously, her glamour ignored under the wide don’t-look-here held up by ahandful of knights. She looked toSylvester again, then down to his hand wrapped around Toby’s, then back toToby’s fave. “I can—repair the damage,”she said carefully. “But Toby, I can’t—Ican’t bring him back. I can’t performmiracles.”

“That’s okay,” Tobysaid, and offered a brittle smile. “Justfix his throat. I’ll take it fromthere.”

“Do as she says,”Sylvester said quietly, and caught Jin’s eye when she glanced at him, trying toconvey what could it hurt. This was a time of impossibilities, far toomany of them clinging to Toby’s wake like children clutching the hem of herjacket. If she was wrong and nothingcould be done, they would be no worse off than they were. If she was right…

Once, Sylvester wouldnever have dreamed of contacting the Luidaeg for anything less thanworld-ending importance. Toby knew herfavorite ice cream and what kind of eels her pets liked. If anyone was going to perform a miraclehere, it wouldn’t be Jin.

Jin worked overTybalt for no more than ten minutes, her fingers trembling faintly as shecoaxed the wound at his throat closed. The skin was still discolored, marked by the iron, and would remain sountil either he was taken by the night haunts or healed in his own time. But when Jin sat back on her heels, the veinsand muscle of Tybalt’s throat were hidden again by skin and, save for the bloodon his clothes and smeared on his skin from Toby’s hands, he seemed like hemight sit up at any moment.

“That’s all I cando,” Jin said quietly.

“Good,” Toby said,and released Sylvester’s hand to shove up the sleeves of her blood-soakedshirt, baring her wrists. “Open hisshirt and give me your knife. I’m goingto raise the dead.”

The words landed likelightning—deafening, and then so silent it hurt.

“Toby,” Jin said inhorror, while Sylvester said, “October.”

“I’m not out of mymind,” Toby said, still holding out her hand. “Give me your knife. Now. And water, to wash my hands.” The water was easy—Jin held out a bottle ofit, and Toby rinsed her hands as Jin unbuttoned Tybalt’s shirt, and Toby shesaid again, “Your knife.”

“Here,” said a softvoice, and Chelsea stepped forward, offering a mortal switchblade. “It’s—it’s not steel, I got it custommade. You can keep it.”

Toby took the bladewith a nod, and opened the blade, testing it with a finger. Satisfied, she turned to Tybalt, and carved adeep X into her wrist, keeping the blade jammed into the wound to make theblood flow.

“Toby,” Sylvester said sharply, and reached out to grab her.

“Don’t,” Tobysaid—and he stopped short, startled by his own response. It had been a long time since SylvesterTorquill had obeyed an order unthinkingly, automatically, with no magical orcourtly influence except his sense that he should do as he was told. But the look Toby gave him, as she knelt upover Tybalt and let her blood drip over his forehead and lips, was impossibleto question.

Toby cut herselfagain with the knife, digging in deeper this time to keep the wound open, andpressed her hand over Tybalt’s heart to leave a bloody handprint. Then she raised her hand toward the moon andbegan to chant.

“Oak and ash andwillow and thorn are mine; blood and ice and flowers and flame are mine.” Toby slashed open her wrist again and swalloweda mouthful of blood, and kept speaking. Something was rising in the air—like magic, but raw and old, answeringToby’s call. “Mine in turn are those whohold me, love me, guard me with their lives; I have bled and burned here, and Idemand the return of what is mine.”

Another cut to herwrist, another mouthful of blood, and this one Toby held in her mouth as shekissed Tybalt hard, the blood spilling from his lips as magic snapped closedaround her. The air smelled like freshblood and spring, the spell almost visible in a mist that clung to Toby’s skin.

Toby sat back on herheels as Tybalt took in a shuddering breath and began to cough.

“Now,” she saidraggedly, lips still red with her own blood as she looked to Jin, who lookedlike she had just seen—well. Like shehad just seen a resurrection. “Now healhim.”

And then Toby keeledover sideways, onto the asphalt.

Sylvester caught her,barely aware of himself moving as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders andeased her down into his lap. Tybaltlooked terrible, pale and haggard and still coughing up blood, but he was,beyond a shadow of a doubt, alive, trying to sit up and looking around him withno small amount of alarm.

“Stay down,”Sylvester said, feeling a little faint himself. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“What—October,” Tybalt said sharply, and Jincaught him by the arm and forced him back down before he could actually try toget to his feet.

“She’ll be fine, she’ssturdier than you are,” Jin said, and jammed a vial into his hands. She seemed almost relieved to be on knownterritory again—corralling uncooperative patients was familiar, even if she wasusually keeping Toby in bed, rather than Tybalt. “Drink this or you’ll go into shock and dieagain. I don’t know what she just did orhow she did it, but you’re still in bad shape.”

Tybalt scowled, butdid as she said, and returned the vial, still coughing. “What happened?”

There was a long beatof silence as Sylvester looked at his knights, and his knights looked at Jin,and Jin looked at Sylvester, before Etienne hesitantly cleared his throat, onearm wrapped tight around his daughter, who had tear tracks on her face.

“Well,” Etienne saidcautiously, “it seems that—that as long as Sir Daye is working with an intactbody, she can do some—unexpected things.” Tybalt raised an eyebrow, a silent threat. “So she had Jin close the wound in yourthroat, and—and then she brought you back from the dead.”

Tybalt blinked. “Of course she did,” he said at last, andstarted to laugh.

#october daye #toby daye fic #tybalt #sylvester torquill #etienne #otp: a hope chest in a dark alley #starlight writes stuff #fic meme #surprise sylvester pov? i was taken offguard too #but i really REALLY like the mental image of sylvester and his knights rolling up and finding all these people fucking MASSACRED #because they might rely on toby and sylvester doesn't think less of her for being a changeling and most of his knights have had some respec #but they still think of her as WEAKER for being a changeling #but um....news flash? i'd bet on toby every time #because she's powerful enough to unravel bloodlines with a touch #and stupid enough to fight with an iron knife if that's the weapon available to her #also i wanted to do this from sylvester's pov because i really really REALLY care about his dynamic with toby and what he thinks about her #especially because he seems to be the ONLY ONE who's like 'god toby really lost a lot doing what i asked and trying to find my family'#because every-damn-body else (including toby) is basically just like 'toby you failure' and sylvester is like 'i am...SO sorry'#and you know what i might really want to beat him with a stick until he finds some good sense these days #but i'll always really love him for that #oh and also featuring toby doing Big Blood Magic in front of sylvester's entire fucking court #so...that's going to have some fallout #specifically someone is going to corner her and be like 'WHERE DID YOU FUCKING LEARN THAT SHIT. THE LUIDAEG?'#and toby's going to shrug and be like 'i just sort of made it up the first time i raised the dead it was years ago idk'#and that person is just gonna kind of have to...sit with the knowledge that toby could do this as a mostly-mortal changeling #idk i really love etienne you guys i don't have any other reason for him to be here #toby made quentin stay home #idiot teenagers with a queue

50 notes · View notes

amovement-study · 6 years ago

Text

Woolgathering

August 5th 2018

Themes: LGBTQ+ Dreams

A/N: I don’t feel like this piece conveys the emotion I wanted to put into it, but in a way I think that’s the point of the story in the first place. I wrote this because of a dream, and then it took on a shape of its own.

It wasn’t a bad idea at the time. Something about the red ink on a price tag seduced her into picking up the last box on the shelf. The sense of urgency and excitement quickly faded shortly after during the car ride home. Afterward, the box was left alone to the farther end of her kitchens fake granite countertop.

Once during a usual Friday night, Ophella decided to remove the device from the box. Sometimes the best distractions from perceived noise and heightened senses were anything that would remove her eyes from the screen. The episode of The Twilight Zone that night hadn’t convinced her that aliens would invade the one bedroom apartment, but it did leave her mind tickled by the possibility.

A button and a pair of headgear that resembled a scuba mask are what she paid a steep price of eighty dollars with money she could have used on something more useful like milk or tennis shoes. The machine and all its warning pamphlets were haphazardly tucked back into their box and left untouched for another three months.

“We can try it but I’m not really all that tired right now-” Shelani said. She bowed her head making her brown eyes appear larger and quieter than they actually were. Ophella flips her phone over to check the time and nods. Neither women really went to sleep till the youngest hours of the next day. On weekends like this, they would sit quietly in the living room browsing the internet or watching their individual shows until sleep begged for them. Tonight would have been no different if it wasn’t for the undeposited paycheck in her purse leaving all subscriptions on hold for the time being. Tonight they would have to entertain themselves.

“I’m not tired either. We have melatonin though.” The tablets were bought a full year ago to help with adjusting to the time difference between Seattle and Portland. After the hasty move, the apartments empty spaces and purring boiler room next door would leave her eyes constantly shifting. It almost amused her how living alone birthed a feeling of constant company.

Shelani’s lips stretched into a puffy mauve line. Ophella waited for her suggestion to shake hands with gently put rejection or a well-placed silence. Perhaps it had been too perverse an idea. Ophella curls herself into an apology.

“OK, but me first. On you I mean-” Shelani clarified. Her arm is thrown around Ophella’s wide shoulders. Their cheeks rub against each other and their mixing hair crunched in both their ears. The sensation brings up memories of brown butter hissing in a hot pan.

Two plastic blue cups are taken down from the cabinets with a bit of effort. Luckily some sweet tea remained from their pizza delivery earlier. Two purple tablets are scratched out of their foil wrappings and popped into Ophella’s mouth. She swallowed them dry before remembering to take a sip of her drink.

From where she stood she watched as Shelani worked her short sable hair into a hairband found on the floor. The box is flicked open and the headgear pulled out and over the woman’s oblong head. Blindly her long fingers paw at the air. They laughed together.

“Aren’t you afraid of seeing something weird? Like we can’t come back from this kind of weird. Dreams can be really fucked up you know-” Not that Shelani had any particular concerns in mind. Most nights were dreamless. For a few moments or so she would simply fall out of existence and back into it again. Occasionally the odd dream or so would occur, but they weren’t much to remember or enjoy. In most, she was doing painfully unfantastic things like texting or going to work. She had come to envy those who could live again through dreaming.

“I’m not afraid. It’s not like we have to talk about what we see if we see anything,” Ophella answered. Agreeing to not speak about it seemed like the safest option when concerning things as sensitive as dreams and the sort. Her offer caused Shelani to smile the type of smile she makes when she’s getting ready to make a joke. Ophella is already offended before she speaks.

“Shut up and drink your tea.” The cup is pressed to Shelani’s lips and she drinks down the sweet liquid eagerly. Then Ophella is pulled down so that her stocky legs straddled Shelani’s. The cream color of the carpet created perfect outlines of both their brown skin but burned their thighs and knees. Neither moved much as Shelani emptied her cup and rolls it away till it clinks against the balcony door. As the silence sets in between them again, Ophella feels Shelani’s forearms come to rest against her hips. With the headgear still on its hard to tell if any type of eye-contact could be established between the two. Ophella put her hands somewhere friendly and willed herself to fight the need to announce that she wasn’t yet sleepy. Things happened in silence even if it’s more itchy than tense.

Shelani’s fingers walked themselves up her sides, rest once at her waist, tap dance on her shoulders, and come to rest on the sharpest point of her cheeks. Feeling the need to recuperate Ophella toys with Shelani’s feathery hair. Moments like this between them were rare yet fleeting. Whenever they ended Ophella always felt like she had inhaled too soon and drowned.

Months prior the two held hands and linked their foreheads together as they talked about the stranger sides of life-the unwanted memories and missed connections. They talked till they cried and smiled so often their jaws turned to elderly rubber bands. That night something between them intertwined along with their legs. Shelani did something out of ordinary then. She called Ophella something that left the taste of honey on her tongue and a sense of importance in her throat. ‘You’re my favorite’ she had said before pressing their noses together till their cupid bows met. Something about the word favorite did something. More platonic than ‘darling’, yet more regal than ‘ closest friend’. That encounter left a fluttering butterfly in Ophella’s chest.

“Are you tired yet?” Shelani cut in. She then yawned and removes the headset finally so that she could lay back against the floor and stretch her arms and crack her knuckles.

“No, but it looks like you better let me take your turn if you’re just going to fall asleep before I do,” Ophella laughed. Her weight comes down more comfortably until she feels the hard bones of Shelani’s hips press into her bottom. Several seconds later both shift so that they were lying side by side. The anticipation for Shelani to say or do anything unlike herself slowly starts to overwhelm her favorite friend. Anything. Anything.

“Take your turn first then. I’ll get mine in after a nap if you don’t mind too much.” The woman stretched again till her body clicks like a pen. She rolled onto her back, crossed her legs so that the hems of her pink socks lined up, and closed her eyes.

Ophella reached for the stiff instructions manual and decided that the best time to give it a look through would be now as Shelani edged closer to sleep. At first, she found herself squinting at the translated side of the instructions as if doing so would suddenly bring back three years of high school French. In English the manual reads ‘Woolgatherer: Visual REM Sleep Aid.’ It went on to use words like ‘miraculous’ and ‘simply’ and all other words that would have made her believe her purchase was nothing more than a scam if she hadn’t seen it work before.

On a whim last Christmas she and some friends traveled several thousand miles west to the coast of California. Along the sand caked docks she alone had come across a small booth offering tarot card reading and dream interpretation. She, of course, chose the latter. A pruned Asian woman dressed in emerald sat her down and offered her hot water to help calm her nerves. She found it strange then, but perhaps she was nervous to hear what her dreams would reveal about her to the stranger.

The session only lasted ten or so minutes if you don’t count the extra six it took for Ophella to relax enough to allow the woman access to her thoughts. They exchanged a few words on why Ophella daydreamed herself as a spider or a rat before the results were made clear. She said-‘You are senselessly fearful. You long for nothing short of everything’. How she got that from Ophella’s eight-eyed persona is beyond her still.

She was not fearful. In fact, she could be quite brave when she decided to be. She could dance in public if the music was good, she could hold her own against strangers if it came down to it. In college, she could walk past three men on the street with her head upturned and not feel her stomach sink to her pelvic floor. In January the power had gone out in the middle of the night, yet she braved the darkness till dawn gave enough light for her to find the fuse box.

A short-lived snore then erupted from Shelani’s long frame. She always snored but never too loudly and never for too long. When they would spend their nights together like this Ophella would sometimes wait for the snoring of her friend before browsing the internet for trashy stories to read. When the snoring came along there was no sudden noise or microwave loud enough to wake Shelani up.

The button is lovingly placed on her forehead and sticks to the warm skin. It flashes blue as it silently connects itself to the woman’s innermost thoughts. Her thin lashes danced when Shelani’s eyes began to move behind the lid. Ophella wondered then if dreaming is more like looking at something behind your lids that no one else could see. The buttons light flashes green to indicate that now was the best time to peek into her friends subconscious.

At first, nothing could be seen but static and floating black and red specs and it looks like she’s dunked her head in a seasoned soup of some kind. Then the specs stretched and grabbed hold of one another until images start to tear through the nothingness and form a single picture. The dream itself was a small and somewhat distant thing at first. Gradually it expanded forcing shapes and bodies to come into focus. From where she sat she could now see what appeared to be Shelani brushing her hair in the mirror.

The image looked like Shelani enough, though some parts of her body were smeared outside the lines like a child’s drawing. Occasionally her face would transcend comprehension and blur into something else entirely. Her movements were fluid and lacked any real thought or effort it seemed. Shelani turned after a few more passes through her hair.

Ophella watched as the vanity in Shelani’s old room stirs itself into the walls around them. If she wasn’t gripping the short wool of the carpet she would easily mistake the world around her as unstable and changing. Now Shelani stood outside her workplace speaking to seemingly no one. Unfortunately, dreams could only be seen and not heard. Her lips moved like a mannequin’s in straight chattering motions. The dream faded into nothing again.

This repeated itself throughout the night. From the couch, Ophella watched Shelani dream herself out of her twenties and into the arms of pruned old women who looked like the dried figs they’d eat together during the summer. Sometimes the settings would change with every flick of Shelani’s pink tongue. One second they would be in the stockroom of a retail store, and in the next behind a pizzeria sharing oily pepperoni with ugly pigeons.

An hour or so later Ophella could feel the pressure of the headset start to pain her temples. Her fingers slipped beneath the elastic bands to rub comfort into her skin and eyes-it didn’t help much. She rocked herself on her heels hoping to keep awake long enough to see another dream. Four in the morning turned her eyelids to weighted windows. Time slipped from her minutes at a time.

A subtle champagne graced her eyes the next time they willed themselves open. This will be the last one before she sleeps she decided. In view, bare shoulders covered in golden dew rolled themselves in slow restricted circles. The world took on a satin finish filled with a grain and noise. One pair of shoulders became two. Ophella pinched each of her fingers.

One pair of shoulders became a twisting torso with raindrops bouncing off the breasts but not wetting the canopy bed they recline on. That hopeful feeling came back. Lightning flashed behind the headboard. One head dipped back leaving the bumps of a neck exposed. Lips parted. Two mix-matched hips ground into each other as if between them were grain to make flour. Wide shoulders push back displacing rain-soaked coiled hair. Ophella gorged herself on the similarities. Knees coaxed themselves apart as a hand slipped down her shorts.

It is noted how Shelani smiled when she liked something and how her eyes closed when the other woman sucked water off her thighs. It is noted how she whispered love with bent toes and blood milked fingers. It is noted that when the other woman lifted her head her face was nothing like Ophella’s. Not hers.

Disgusted by her entrancement, but already lost to the motions of her own actions, Ophella’s body curled into itself.

#to edit later #rough draft

1 note · View note

vic394 · 7 years ago

Text

Inktober Day 28 - Impatience

Groot learns how to dance first. The music is a constant on the Milano, and the tiny plant spends his first weeks surrounded by melodic sound. It makes him want to move around following the rhythm. He loves it.

After dancing, Groot learns how to walk. He exits his pot, then makes tentative little steps towards a beaming Rocket. Half an hour later, he’s running around, laughing. Rocket follows closely, making sure he doesn’t get hurt.

The talking comes a few days later. Rocket tries to hold back joyful tears as he realizes he just heard the words “I am Groot” again. Finally, everything is going back to normal.

“I missed you so much, buddy!” he exclaims, hugging the twig tightly. Groot doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he hugs Rocket back nonetheless. Then, he repeats “I am Groot”. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was hungry.

For some reason he can’t explain, after Groot starts talking, a small part of Rocket starts to feel like something’s off with the twig. He thinks it’s just a weird sensation and brushes it off. He just had his friend back, he’s not going to waste time worrying just because his guts tell him something might be wrong.

Another week passes by before Rocket finds out the truth. After a mission, he’s fixing his blaster and complaining about things in general.

“I mean, I know sixty thousand units are more than enough, but when you think we could have been billionaires just by selling the d’ast Infinity Stone…”

“I am Groot?” the twig interrupts, confused.

“What do you mean what’s an Infinity Stone?” Rocket snorts, shaking his head “Come on, the purple knick-knack we used to save the galaxy.”

“I am… Groot?” Rocket stiffens a little.

“Of course we did.”

“I am Groot?”

“You know, that time we went to Xandar, then the Kyln, Knowhere, Xandar again…” Rocket’s is barely concealing his impatience. Yes, Groot is still little and he’s behaving a bit differently from how he used to, but the raccoonoid hadn’t questioned it. It must not be nice to end up in pieces like Groot did. He needs time to fully recover. Still, Rocket senses something else is going on, at this point.

“I am Groot.” the baby declares, looking at him innocently.

“How can you not know what I’m talkin-“ There’ only one explanation for this, Rocket eventually realizes. His world shatters as reality dawns upon him. It feels like taking several blasts in his stomach, all at once.

His whole body tenses as his breath starts to get ragged. He drops the screwdriver he was holding, but he doesn’t hear it when it hits the ground. Everything stops. This can’t be true. No, it just can’t. No, no, no, no, no…

“I am Groot?” the twig reaches to touch his arm, worried. Rocket quickly moves away, growling. He immediately regrets it, but he can’t manage to apologize. He just gets up and swiftly runs away.

It’s Peter who finds him, after searching the whole ship from top to bottom. Rocket is hiding in a corner of the hangar, his dark fur blending with the shadows. Peter can’t help but feeling sorry for him. He still has no idea what happened, since Rocket keeps being the only one who can understand Groot. Nonetheless, the twig sounded upset when he went to the Guardians for help.

As for Rocket… he’s curled up on the floor, head in his hands, shivering and whimpering. Peter’s heart clenches. Whatever happened, it must have been serious. He doesn’t know how to approach his friend, so he coughs to catch his attention.

Completely unaware of his surroundings, Rocket flinches and looks up as the sudden sound drags him back to reality. He doesn’t say anything as Quill heavily sits beside him, leaning against the wall.

“What happened?” asks Peter, after eternal seconds of silence. Rocket doesn’t even know where to start. He stares at the floor.

“He’s gone.” It hurts even more to say that out loud.

Of course, Quill doesn’t understand.

“Uh… I don’t get it.” He confesses. “See, Groot was-“

“That thing is not Groot!” Rocket cries, startling Peter.

“I know he was acting weird, and he didn’t understand everything we said, but I still hoped he’d come back to his usual self after a few weeks. But guess what? He won’t! Because it's not the same person! He doesn’t remember the things we’ve done together because he wasn’t there! My best friend was there! And that guy up there is not… he’s not Groot.”

After the violent outburst, Rocket collapses on the ground, catching his breath. He doesn’t seem to have the strength to ever get back up on his feet.

“I lost him again, Quill.” He sniffs.

Peter has never seen Rocket like this. He’d expected anything but the current situation. Obviously, he’s upset that the twig is not the old Flora Colossus they all knew and loved, but he knows that for Rocket this is a nightmare coming true.

He doesn’t say anything until Rocket has calmed down enough to talk again. It takes a lot for that to happen.

“Are you completely sure about that?”

Rocket nods.

“Well… Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Rocket focuses on the ceiling. He didn’t think about that. His first thought is to avoid the twig at all costs. He know it’s not right and he feels guilty for that. But he has no idea how to proceed from here. Peter doesn’t give him time to answer.

“You can’t just avoid him forever.” He points out.

“Oh, shut up and stop knowing me so well.” Rocket snaps. Peter tries to suppress a chuckle.

“I’m serious, though. What would Groot do?” Rocket scoffs. That’s the dumbest question ever.

“He’d suck it up and love that baby unconditionally, because that’s all he’s always done in his life: sharing his love with everyone he encountered.” He answers, with a lump in his throat. That’s what made Groot so special. That’s why Rocket doesn’t know if he’ll be able to carry on without him.

“Then try to do the same. That kid wouldn’t resist being away from you for too long, anyway. You’re his favorite.” Rocket turns to him, surprised.

“Me? Are you serious?” under all those layers of sadness and regret, Peter can hear hope in his friend’s voice.

“Dude, you’re never more than five steps away from each other, it’s kind of ridiculous. He follows you wherever you go and cries when you’re not around. When we’re on missions, you’re the one he looks up to. You even have that horrible drawing he made you pinned on your bedroom wall. And you have no idea how frightened he was when he came to me earlier. You’re basically his dad, he loves you so much. And you care about him too… No matter who he is.” Peter explains, patting Rocket on the shoulder.

Rocket sighs. He knows Quill is right. Quill is always right about this kind of stuff.

“I guess I do.” He admits. For Peter, that’s enough.

“But I snapped at him. I was mean to him, I scared him and he doesn’t even know why.” Rocket whimpers.

“Well, we’ll just have to explain to him what happened.” Peter shrugs.

“No.” says Rocket, with a harsh tone.

“What?”

“I said no. I’ll apologize, but I don’t want Groot to know about… well, Groot. Not yet. I want him to be old enough to understand everything that happened.” Rocket states. Peter considers it, then agrees.

“Okay. What about the others?”

“I’ll tell them, sooner or later. I need to get used to the change, first.” They both know it’s not going to be easy, but Rocket will do his best. That’s what Groot would have wanted him to do. Again, Peter agrees.

“I’m here, if you need me.” He says sincerely.

“I… Thanks, Quill.” Somehow, Rocket manages to get up.

“Now let’s get back to the others, I’m starving.”

Notes: What can I say, I got carried away. It’s the longest thing I’ve written in more than a year. It’s a mess but at this point I don’t even know what to say… I worked more than eight hours today. I want to die. Fic wrote itself. I’m so exhausted I can’t remember half of my thoughts. Writing in another language when you can’t remember how italian works feels weird. Btw, this is for @memoryweaverphoto, who wrote “Rocket discovering baby Groot doesn’t remember anything that adult Groot did, leading to the horrible realisation that this isn’t the same Groot.”. You gave me a lot of things to think about with this one (it kind of shows). I loved writing it and I hope you’ll like it, thank you so much for the idea! Also, sorry if I made you wait.

49 notes · View notes

hazelcmist · 8 years ago

Text

A Trusted Heart

Wrote this for @timepetalsprompts “Frustrated” prompt but my muse has a mind of its own and it quickly went back to Broadchurch and Hardy x Miller.

“Weird.” She smiles.

“But not… totally weird.” She laughs. He feels the tug of the current - her fingers curling in the front of his shirt, her breathy laughter caught somewhere between their mouths - and he dives in willingly. She kisses him in a way that’s so new, but achingly familiar. And the only thing that’s weird is that it doesn’t feel weird at all. * She lets herself out before he wakes. But he doesn’t drown in paperwork or rivers and she doesn’t dream of waterfalls. They catch the bastard but they come back to each other again and again and again. Until eventually, the sound of the rushing waters of their nightmares fades into the familiar thrum of a trusted heartbeat beneath their ear and their soft breaths mingling in the dark. A/N: I shamelessly overuse this trope but I miss these two so much. S3 and Chibnall broke my stupid heart but there were definitely some things in there worth thinking about. I also binge-read A LOT of fics, so if I inadvertently overlapped with anyone I apologize.

#timepetalsprompts #broadfic #broadchurch spoilers #hardy x miller #frustrated #my writing

69 notes · View notes

iheartdirt · 8 years ago

Text

Dig Your Own Grave and Then Bury the Hatchet [4/5]

Fandom: Invader Zim

Pairing/Characters: ZaDr

Rating: M

Word Count: ~8,500

Notes: I sent this draft to jhonens house written out of magazine letters and he personally wrote me back and told me i own zim now :/thx to mrsbigfoot on tumblr 4 continuing to care abt this fic an entire year later

Summary: Alternatively Titled: In Which Zim and Dib Makeout and it Upsets the Balance of the Entire Universe

Read it at AO3 or under the cut

There’s something to be said for Zim’s tenacity, at least. Even in the face of concrete evidence that he’s a large-scale fuck-up moron he’s still maintaining that this is exactly what he was going for, really. This is just step one in his convoluted master plan of idiocy. In this case, the concrete evidence happens to be the giant concrete cell that he and Dib are encased in, supposedly for the rest of time and space until they rot, so, Dib isn’t exactly ready to just let this one go.

“Does a truthful word ever come out of your mouth, Zim? Just wondering.”

Zim stomps his foot and hisses.

“Liars! Liars and rats and fleas with diseases! Do you really think you can trust Tak over me?” Unsurprisingly, Dib does think this. Since Zim is a large-scale fuck-up moron. And has tried to blow him up on multiple occasions.

“Why would I trust you? You’ve done nothing but lie this entire trip. You could’ve gotten me killed- you have a death warrant sitting on your head!” He gestures to the whole room, because, like, honestly. “And I like Tak. She hates you.”

A strangled noise is torn from Zim and he yanks one antennae over the side of his head, weaving it between his fingers to get a better grip. “It was a misunderstanding, you insolent foolboy! I was on my way to correct it, and then neither of us would be in trouble.”

Dib starts, chest heaving and eyes wide. Then he barks a hard choked up laugh of disbelief that hurts his throat. “I wasn’t in any trouble at all! Not from the empire, and not from you or your stupid fake mission that Tak told me about.”

Zim screams and launches himself at him. Dib, surprised, stumbles under the weight and falls hard on the floor. Air rushes out of him in a whoosh. Bright little dots erupt across his vision and he tries furiously to blink them away. A hot liquid that has to be blood has started to pool around his neck and Zim is still trying to scratch his fucking guts out. Regaining his breath, he uses all his strength to buck Zim off of him and rolls away as far as he can before he hits another wall, trying to be careful not to bump his head on anything else and worsen what could already be a bad concussion. He thinks that The Resisty probably won’t spare medical supplies to two rowdy prisoners.

And even though it feels like his brain might be leaking out the back of his skull, this feels easy. Dib’s muscles practically fall into sense memory fighting Zim. He knows that Zim always feints left, but almost never feints to the right. He knows there’s a place under Zim’s sternum that almost always makes him vomit if he can hit it at the right angle. This feels natural. Like they were back on Earth and Dib had the fire in his belly of the sole protector of his race.

Except, he remembers as Zim swipes at his face, Earth doesn’t need a protector. Earth never really needed a protector. The only fire in his belly right now is because Zim deserves a swift kick in the jaw.

The next swipe Zim makes for his face, Dib feints up rather than down, swinging his leg up to deliver a satisfying thump against Zim’s midsection. Something cracks and Dib feels a heady rush of adrenaline. Zim kneels, and Dib takes the opportunity to use the momentum to backhand him around the temple, sending him sprawling against the floor.

It feels more than a little badass.

Shrieking, Zim rolls onto all fours and crawls towards Dib with alarming speed. This surprises Dib so much he allows himself to be knocked to the floor where Zim grabs around his kneecap and pulls.

“You would be nothing without me.” He hisses, scrambling away from Dib. “You would mean nothing to your boring underdeveloped planet if I hadn’t accidentally landed in your front yard.”

Blood starts to rush back into his brain and cools Dib’s nerve. He hasn’t fought with this stupid lizard this hard since he was like, sixteen maybe. Suddenly exhausted and dizzy, Dib tries for a weak kick in Zim’s direction from the floor and laughs hollowly. “And what did you have without me, huh, Zim? Not your mission, apparently.” Probably worth it to milk this fake mission thing as far as he can take it.

Laying on the floor, breathing heavily, making no move to come for Dib again, Zim looks up at him and says: “I hate you” and Dib knows it’s true and hates him back.

Dib takes several long breaths, but says nothing. He thinks he might say something witty or clever or hilarious, but then a voice sounds in the room that belongs to neither of them that’s starts Dib for a second.

“Can you guys please shut up? It’s the late shift and I just-I don’t care.”

There’s a hard, tense second where Zim and Dib are still looking at each other before they both realize, seemingly at the same time, that it came from an intercom system.

Dib looks up at the ceiling and laughs humorlessly.

“Just a general question, Zim,” Dib says, ignoring the intercom. “Do you absolutely have to ruin everything in my entire life? Does it bring you that much joy?”

“I mean,” Zim touches the bottom of his collarbone in fake contemplation. “Yes.”

Dib tries to be angry but is empty instead. He used up all of his anger with that sweet backhand and now all he feels raw and tired. Spending several moments contemplating the actual unlikeliness of how exhaustingly difficult his life is all of the time, he’s drained. Mathematically, it cannot be possible for his life to be this difficult. They spend several minutes in a heavy, stuffy silence.

“We have to talk about this deal they’re giving us,” He says, finally.

“I’m sure” Zim says “that I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, if I did know what you were talking about, which I don’t” he adds, “Zim would be reporting you to the proper authorities so they could pop your overgrown revolutionist head like a greasy pimple.”

More taken back by the comparison of his head to a zit of all things than the actual insult, Dib almost doesn’t catch onto what Zim is trying to say.

“And what about you, Zim? Huh? You think they’re just gonna let you off with a warning because you made your own arrest a little easier?”

Zim snorts. Dib has no idea how he accomplishes this without a nose and is minorly irritated about it. “I have friends in higher circles that your stupid Earth-rotted brain could never comprehend.”

Ignoring the irony of “higher circles,” Dib chooses to become extremely exasperated. “You don’t have any friends, Zim! All you have is me, and I’d hardly call myself your friend. If it weren’t for me we’d both be incinerated by now!”

The intercom system decides to speak up again just as Zim opens his stupid mouth. Not all heroes wear capes.

“They would definitely incinerate you,” it says.

Zim stumbles to his feet and points at the ceiling, waving and jabbing his finger at the air as if it could kill the sound waves for defying him. “Did the mighty Zim ask for your opinion, insignificant voice drone? I do not think so!”

The voice apologizes, not sounding sorry at all.

Dib sighs, resting his head in the crook of his knee, the soft material of his pants weirdly comforting. Everything was weird right now, but at least his pants were weirdly comforting. It’s obvious he’s going to have to tackle this from a different angle. Zim is never going to accept that anybody could hold ill will towards him, especially the race he came from. They were going to rot here until they died with Zim’s last wheezy, nasally breath decreeing his greatness.

Because the only thing Zim cares about more than anything else is himself.

Dib starts. The only thing Zim cares more than anything else is himself.

“Zim,” Dib says, raising his head to meet Zim’s eyes. He tries to hold them, conveying desperation with his eyes as much with his voice. “We are being offered two front row seats to making galactic history. If you can pull this off, we would be leading an entire army. An entire revolution- an entire generation of people all following your orders.” Zim’s eyes widen at that, and Dib has to push down his internal celebration and keep his face a mask of innocence and honesty.

“You can be bigger than Irk. You can be bigger than the empire, even. You can be ‘The Resisty.” Dib makes sure to take in a shaky breath, filing the name with a sort of awe. Is Drama Club a useless extracurricular for his resume now, Dad?

“The Resisty is a stupid name,” Zim says, but Dib notices how he’s still frozen still, eyes wide.

“Okay, that’s fair.” Don’t make any sudden movements, Dib. “But that’s not the point. The point is you could be so powerful, you could change the name to whatever you want.”

Thankfully, the intercom decided not to speak up, which Dib was internally grateful for since he wasn’t so sure about the validity of his last statement.

Still maintaining eye contact, Zim slides along the floor. He nervously runs his hands up and down the sides of his legs, making little skittering motions with his fingers.

“I suppose it is possible that Zim may make,” he stops and steadies his hands on his knees “a good, or perhaps better leader for the universe than most.”

Dib remains silent, not daring to move a muscle and break Zim out of the fragile state of mind he shuffled him into.

Zim finally breaks the eye contact by squaring his shoulders and looking superciliously at the far wall.

“I will consider it.”

Dib lets out a breath through clenched teeth, nods tightly, and doesn’t speak anymore.

When Dib wakes up to a kick in the ribs the next morning he is wholly unsurprised. How did Zim know he’s always wanted to wake up to a fractured rib? What a kind friend.

“Bow down before your new ruler, fiend.”

“What?” Dib wheezes.

He feels Zim’s weight shift backwards, presumably for another kick to the guts, and Dib punches out blindly with one arm. His elbow hits Zim in the shin mid strike, and he hears the unmistakable sound of Zim crashing to the floor. Bullseye.

Clutching his ribs with his other arm, Dib rolls onto his back to get a look at Zim. “You will pay for that when I am given my position, monkey-stench.”

And then it all clicks together and Dib gets it.

“You’re teaming up with the Resisty?” Dib asks.

Zim scoffs. “I am not,” he brings his hands up into air quotes “teaming up with The Resisty. I am staging a clever coup d’état.”

For a moment, Dib just blinks. “Where did you learn that phrase?”

“It does not matter!” Zim flaps his hand back and forth dismissively. “What matters is that I am in charge of you and the rest of the galaxy and I demand as ruler to be let out of this tiny grey box immediately.”

They do get shown out of their tiny grey box, after Dib translates Zim’s posturing to the intercom to mean “yes, we will accept the terms of our confinement, please do not starve us to death.” The alien that comes to pick them up looks insect-like and carries some large-looking plasma thing, which Dib finds a little excessive but has far more sense than to say so. Without speaking, he approaches Dib and touches something on his head. Dib has no idea what to do. Is this a greeting? Is this some form of communication to mean “I will not kill you”? He looks over at Zim. Why isn’t Zim doing anything? After a couple tense moments, Dib awkwardly touches his head in the same place and the alien gives him a strange look. It gestures with one of its appendages to follow it, and Dib falls in line behind it, feeling oddly like he’s failed some test.

“Don’t know how you put up with it, myself,” the thing garbles eventually, rolling one giant eye over to survey Zim. “Irken’s ain’t exactly my cup of jing if you know what I mean.” It rolls his other big eye over to eye Dib skeptically.

Dib has no idea what he means, but he’s eager to make up for his earlier mistake and, honestly, he’s totally right. How does he put up with it? He’s a saint.

“Eh?” Zim says, “I’ll have you know-”

“It’s an incredible burden that I alone must bear. It takes years off my life, honestly.” Dib interrupts.

The alien nods it’s large head sagely. “Small, too,” it comments.

Zim scoffs with such vigor his voice breaks like a teenager’s. Dib is delighted. He loves Escort Alien and his excessive large plasma thing, he decides, even if he does weird things with the side of his head.

Throughout the tour, Dib notices that most of the ship is a glowing, gleaming white. He had thought, from Zim’s ship, that ships were sort of a pale yellow color by default, accented with smudges of pale brown. They’re white by default. Zim is just a horrible tiny goblin. He takes a moment to hate Zim. Each hallway leads to a different hallway in an endless repeating motion that seems incredibly easy to get lost in. Circular, handle-less doors line the hallways in a perfect symmetrical cavern, like rows of teeth in a giant mouth. They open swiftly every couple of seconds to allow different modge-podged groups of creatures in one door or out another, chattering away in some unidentifiable speak. It reminds Dib of an ant colony. A weird, multicultural ant colony.

“How come I can understand you, but not anyone else?” Dib asks Escort-Alien.

“Downloaded your language into my system,” it says, tapping a claw against what Dib can now see looks like a small Bluetooth on the side of its head. That must have been what he was doing earlier on. Dib feels even more like an idiot, but the pleasantness of his escort is dulling it significantly. “Can understand and project Earth.”

“It’s called ‘hyoo-man’ language,” Zim says, folding his arms and looking a little bit put out that no one was recognizing his genius on the subject.

“No one cares, Zim,” Dib says cheerfully.

With what are a relatively small amount of mutterings and outburst from Zim, they are shown the canteen, the showers and toilets, and led past a long hallway of private rooms. Meals are to be eaten thrice a day, at exact times to be announced by the meal bell. If you miss the bell, you miss the meal. Showers are open in ten shifts throughout the day depending on species. Since Dib is a special case, he may attend any of the carbon-based lifeform shower times. Dib should get a schedule some time in the next couple sols.

At the end of the long hallway of private rooms, is, Dib assumes, his own private room. He’s shown to a small door with a handle at the far wall that looks to have a sign taped over several other signs. The last sign is suspiciously yellowed. He doesn’t know what they say, but he’s assuming they all mean ‘shitty room.’

The room is shitty. Point one for Dib.

It looks like it could have once been a storage closet, but now has a small set of bunk beds pushed up into the corner. The realization dawns that of course the room is not for him, why would they board two supposed ancient married space husbands in separate rooms. It’s probably lucky they even get separate beds.

Despite trying to wedge the bed as far into the wall as possible, there’s still only enough room for one person to stand in front of the bed at a time comfortably. Between the beds, but halfway obscured by the top bunk, is a single, circular window, not more than a foot across.

Zim, of course, immediately claims the top bunk after a short lived argument about the room. Dib, out of the infinite kindness of his heart, allows him to have it. (Dib wants to watch out the window).

Glad to have a place to rest that isn’t concrete, Dib curls himself up on the bottom bunk. If he stretches his legs out, his feet hang off the bed a little bit, but he looks out the bottom half of his submarine window and sees endless, purple space and he feels, stupidly, more at home in this spare closet than he ever did at home. The realization makes him feel happier than he’s been in (honestly, weeks).

“Zim,” Dib asks the bottom of the mattress, feeling amiable “were you always a soldier?”

He hears a snort. “I am no soldier. I’m an invader, you lumpy sack of meat. And Zim is over four-hundred years old, he has had time for three, maybe four good careers beneficial to the Empire.”

“You’re not an invader anymore,” Dib points out uselessly.

Dib gets silence from the top bunk. He tries to imagine Zim as a doctor, or a cashier, and he finds he can’t picture Zim in anything but his military uniform, back straight on high alert.

“Did you just call me lumpy?” Dib asks.

“You are lumpy.” Zim shifts on the bed and the movement shakes the entire frame.

“Explain to me how I’m lumpy.”

“You have lumps,” Zim says defensively. “Your head is one giant lump.”

“Everybody has a head! You have a head,” Dib exclaims. There are definite lifeforms on this ship that Dib is pretty sure do not have a head, but he doesn’t bring that up.

“Yours is lumpier.” Zim shrugs. Dib can’t see him shrugging, physically, but he can feel it happening and it enrages him. His head isn’t lumpy.

His head probably isn’t lumpy.

“You lied to me.” Dib remembers suddenly.

“Eh? I am no liar. You lie.” The bedframe shakes with what must be Zim’s emphatic pointing.

“No, Zim, shut up. You told me this Umeb-”

Zim interrupts. “Umon’tebha’.”

“Right, okay, whatever. Umon’tebha’. You told me this Umon’tebha’ thing was one-sided. That when we, you know, it wasn’t something you were into. But Tak said only Irkens can initiate it, cause it’s like, usually an Irken only thing. So you were definitely, uh, into it.” Dib hopes very much that if he babbles enough no one will actually have to think about the awful (don’t say sex) they had and he can be right without reliving his worst moments.

Zim doesn’t say anything, but Dib can hear him shifting on the bunk above.

Dib listens to his shuffling until he passes out from exhaustion feeling, strangely, a knot of happiness in the center of his chest.

The morning buzzer, as it turns out, is a horrible hell-siren noise that one expects only from doomsday films involving tornados and avalanches. Dib is, expectedly, waken up into a complete and absolute panic. Therefore, he cannot be blamed for the bodily harm of any persons in his immediate radius, especially when said persons are supposed to be in their own god damn bunk.

“You have maliciously attacked me with your meaty man-hands and it is well within the terms of our temporary truce that I break both of your legs,” Zim says, still on his god damn bunk and adding to the early morning death alarm with his horrible nasally voice.

“Why are you even in my bed, Zim?” Dib slept with his glasses on, and the dig of metal into his forehead was not at all helping with his imminent headache. “You know what? Actually, I don’t care. Please don’t tell me. I want to live alone in whatever world there is where you aren’t trying to harvest my organs while I sleep or something.”

“Perhaps an arm, as well.” Zim gives an experimental poke to Dib’s arm, as if he’s testing the breakability of it. Dib irritably waves him off. The buzzer stops and Dib once more feels at peace with his existence. Maybe living is not so bad after all.

“Fuck off, spaceboy.” Dib sits up and rubs at his abused face. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

Dib is a bit worried about being able to find the canteen again. The ship is pretty vast and, to be honest, all of the glowing white hallways kind of look like the same glowing white hallways. It turns out all one has to do is follow the extremely thick crowd of alien revolutionists all marching in one single unified direction. Dib feels both a little sense of unity, and a little odd.

The canteen is a lot like a lunchroom, which Dib is blessedly used to. Zim complains the entire time about “quality” and “standards,” but Dib’s almost completely sure he’s once seen Zim eat a paper taco wrapper. Dib picks something that looks kind of like it might be a sandwich and hopes for the best. Zim grabs some horrifying green burrito.

And then, instantly, looking out over the tables, Dib is sickly reminded of highschool. Despite the biodiversity on ship, clumps of similar species sat together, laughing and talking at cafeteria tables. All the anxiety of school, having no friends, being the ‘weird’ one twists in his stomach. After all, he’s the ‘weird’ one again, right? He’s the only human on this ship. The only human anyone in his room, or anyone in the galaxy is likely to have seen. No one speaks his language- no one’s every even heard of his language.

Maybe he should just take a page out of his own book and eat in the bathroom.

But, wait, someone at one table is making a motion. Is it waving? Oh, it’s scary plasma gun alien from yesterday. Dib is now incredibly upset at himself for never learning his name. Ignoring Zim’s protests, he threads through the crowd over to Scary Plasma Gun Alien From Yesterday’s table and sit’s right across from him in the attached seat. Dib notices that Zim plops down next to him, looking harassed, and Dib represses a smile.

Zim buries a fork into his green burrito so that it stands straight up like a cell phone tower and turns to look at Dib imperiously.

“I understand you did not mean to leave your rightful slave master behind,” Zim says “But if you are not more careful in crowds you will.”

“Yeah, Zim.” Dib says with an, what he hopes is, obvious eye roll.

“Hello, Human Dib,” says Scary Plasma Gun “I see you are still with your nuisance.”

“Yes, his hair is a nuisance, isn’t it?” Zim looks sadly at his hair, and Dib feels the absurd need to pat it down.

Scary Plasma Gun ignores him. “I am 'EqHegh, or Hegh for your human tongue.” Dib is incredibly grateful for Hegh’s insight. Hegh is kind and good and Zim stinks.

Hegh gestures to the alien next to him. It looks humanoid, but it seems to be made entirely of diamonds. It’s weird, eyeless, shiny pupils unnerve Dib.

“This is Boch. Boch is a very good friend,” Hegh says.

Dib waves weakly at Boch and says hello. Boch stares deeply at Dib and provides no response that he understands. Dib is unnerved.

Hegh introduces them to a couple more friends as the same species as him, names Nehn and Jou, respectively. To Dib’s right sits a Plookesian named ‘Steven.’ Steven seems the friendliest of the bunch (Dib does remember Plookesians as friendly, if not also abandonment-prone), and offers to download English into his translation device immediately.

“So, you’re from like, Earth right? Way cool,” says Steven “I knew a couple buddies that went to Earth. Totally chill if you can get past the whole liquid hydrogen dioxide thing.”

“Earth has liquid hydrogen dioxide?” Hegh nods sagely. “Very cool.”

“It falls as acid from the sky and smells of dead fish breath,” Zim hisses. He has shoved several bitefulls of burrito into his mouth, and large goops of cheese and green shell have flown halfway across the table. Boch seems to eye the mess with disgust.

Steven flashes Dib a confused look. “Humans are carbon-based lifeforms though, right? That should only be a problem for silicone-based lifeforms, like yourself.”

“Yes well,” Zim picks up a glob of cheese with his hand and shoves it into his mouth. “I live there, don’t I, Plook-grub.”

“But you’re not the dominant lifeform, right?” Steven insists.

Zim opens his mouth, probably to argue that he is absolutely the dominant lifeform because he is, of course, dominant over all humans as their eternal ruler when Hegh interrupts.

“How do you put up with a Irken life-partner? Would squish their tiny, soft head. Make it stop chattering.” Hegh does not break eye contact with Zim, despite Zim shoveling cheese into his mouth in large forkfuls. Offended, Zim allows his jaw to drop, allowing for a sizable glob of cheese to fall back on top of the burrito. Everyone involved remains unfazed, especially Boch.

In the haze of the early morning, Dib comes extremely close to laughing and correcting Hegh. Zim is not his, like, his life partner or something. His top pick for someone he would shove out into the vacuum of space if given the opportunity, maybe. An absolute scourge upon his otherwise normally miserable life, yes.

Then he remembers the marks. And the lifebond. And what Tak said an Irken-Other relation would do for the resistance and how that’s his only ticket to not being sent out the airlock. He sits on his laugh and swallows it.

“It’s” Dib says uncertainly “It’s definitely something.”

Zim, to his credit, manages to ham it up a lot more than Dib could have ever.

“It is more than something! We are so much in love and, ah,” he looked over at Dib for a second before resolutely saying “we hold hands and cry.”

Steven gives them an odd look, but says politely “Well, you both make a cute couple.”

That single comment haunts Dib all the way through breakfast, until they’re both assigned to a meeting in a board room at the other side of the ship. And even a little after that. It will haunt him until his deathbed, he assumes.

—

The board room, in comparison to the rest of the ship, looks the most familiar. It houses a large desk of a similar material to the rest of the ship, decorated with eight or so office chairs around it like baubles on a Christmas tree. A markedly different creature sits at each seat, adding to the whole effect, and Dib finds, with pride, he can name a couple of species already. Sitting right hand to Tak at the lead of the table is a greying Vortian sporting a pair of lime-green goggles. A little to the Vortian’s left, it’s eyes hardly reaching over the table was probably a Narh-Gh’ok (Zim told him a story about them once). The other four species Dib can’t place, but he’s sure he’s seen them around the ship before. The last two chairs sit at the opposite of the table from Tak and the Vortian, presumably for Dib and Zim.

“Hello Tak,” Zim says menacingly, circling the office chair like he was planning on eating it. Dib didn’t doubt he would try for the sheer drama of it all.

“Yes,” she says calmly “Hello.”

“I’ve see you’ve agreed to my terms.” Zim runs one gloved finger along the top of the office chair. It swivels noncommittally.

“They were my terms,” Tak reminds him. “Because you are my prisoner.”

Zim flaps his hand around as if these are minor details.

Dib nervously hovers around near the seat next to the one Zim’s seducing. Is it polite to try to shake hands with everyone before he sits down? What if they don’t have hands. What if they have ten hands. Maybe he should bow? He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen anyone shake hands or bow. How was he supposed to learn space etiquette when his only go-to was Zim?

“Please, sit down.” Tak motions to Dib’s side of the table, and Dib is eternally grateful. Tak is a true leader of the common-folk, always looking out for each individual citizen.

Delicately clearing her throat, she addresses the room. “Our first meeting with the Umo’ntebha’ shall be introductory and explanatory in nature. Although,” she sides a look at Zim, who either doesn’t notice or care “some introductions may have already been made. Moving counter-clockwise from myself I would like to present my elder partner Lard Nar.”

The old Vortian tips his head respectfully. So it is a bow, then. Dib cranes his neck in response.

Next to Lard Nar is an excitable cone-shaped species that Dib has no intent to try to butcher the pronunciation of, and then a “Plookesian,” which Dib still feels kind of bitter towards despite good relations with Steven. (He’s also disappointed in himself for not recognizing the species). Down the line it goes from there, a bunch of species Dib doesn’t recognize or really catch the names of until Tak arrives at the Nhar-Gh’ok sitting to her left.

“And this,” she finishes “is Sergeant Shnooky, our operations of on-ground military action.”

“Hey,” Zim interrupts, and, God, they almost fucking made it. Dib wonders if anyone would really mind all that much if he strangled him. He hedges probably not. “I know you. You tried to steal my ship!”

Tak’s face betrays a single second of irritation before she smooths on her diplomatic mask. Dib is impressed, horrified, and jealous.

“We realize some coworkers may have previous experiences they bring to the table.” She gives a very pointed look in Zim’s direction and Dib does not think Zim understands the breadth of Tak’s hatred. “But we ask each individual to leave those behind for the sake of the revolution.”

“Does that mean he’s going to give me a ship?”

“You may have the room on this ship where you are boarded,” Tak says blandly.

“Deal.” Zim slams his tiny fist on the table like a gavel hammer and beams at Dib. Dib resists the urge to bury his face in his hands.

—

Throughout the days leading up to their “official assigned work,” Tak had taken Dib aside to confer with him. With exasperation at his asking about Zim, she said that she trusted Dib to fill him in on the happenings so there was no need for Zim to be physically present for the meetings. (Dib suspects she really really doesn’t want to have to talk to Zim for as long as she can get away with it).

"It became clear to us fast that we could not hope to topple the Irken forces on our own," Tak had said. "The only hope The Resisty has is to unite the Irken people in our favor. But despite efforts, Irken recruitment is still feeble.”

Dib could imagine why.

“We were hard pressed to find a reason for Irken soldiers and citizens to abandon their prestigious jobs and cushy positions just for the sake of, well, you know, justice.”

“Irkens don’t really jive with the idea of justice.” Dib had interrupted. She made am understanding face at him.

“What we needed was a good story. Irken invader, forced to halt his mission because he fell into forbidden love with the native species? Now that is a story. And it's a damn good one."

Tak had said that, at first, they would leak information of their relationship to rebel sources. A couple tips at first: Irken Invader missing from job, last seen with native species. Eventually drop the bomb of love-fueled revolutionaries. But this would only incite Resisty-allied or freed civilizations. What they (what we, she had added, smiling winningly) really need is to spread the story to Irkens, who’re on media blackout. The plan would be to intercept the screens for a couple minutes to air a series of "commercial like shorts" where he and Zim (with a script, of course) would address the Irken population to join The Resisty directly, in the name of love or whatever.

Dib had figured he would, you know, read a couple lines off a monitor all some sort of "seize the means of production" and "people's government" phrases within a foot of Zim and go back to sleep.

Apparently Tak was more attached to her "story" than she originally let on.

"If you could wrap your hand a little further around his waist? We wanna really make sure people can see that."

Zim is already flush against his chest but, sure, he'll pull him a little bit closer. That same alien tells him that it looks great and if he could maybe cheat out a little bit more for the audience? He tries to keep Zim in his place while also turning completely around towards them camera and not letting the headache blooming behind his right eye become a problem. The bright lights all over the room aren’t helping much. Zim grumbles at being pulled closer, and complains loudly of his smell while one of the cameras is still rolling, which doesn't help either. In his arms he feels stiff and uncomfortable, leaning as far as he can from Dib without being yelled at.

"Can we get a quick run through of the script really fast?" asks someone picking at the camera lens. A squat yellow guy with angry eyes and a giant screw sticking out the back of his head. (A species Dib hasn't seen before, actually. Is the screw inserted in some ritual, or are they born with it? Is it surface level? He reminds himself to focus).

There’s a teleprompter-like thing below the center camera, and it scrolls through a pre-written dialogue. (Zim’s lines are in pink, and Dib’s in blue, which he unwillingly thinks is kind of cute). Zim starts off. "It is me, Irken Invader Zim. Of course it’s me, who would not know the mighty ring of Irken Invader Zim? I am reading the lines; I am just fixing them because they smell like dookie. I'm here with my— oh, okay, I am not calling Dib-stench that no matter how many monies you pay me in."

A sigh from the yellow guy who fiddles again with the camera, stopping the script. "No one’s paying you, Zim." He addresses someone behind him. "Maybe we should give his lines to the other one?"

Zim pushes Dib away from him and he lets him go, instead standing with his arms crossed on the green screen, tapping his foot. "Eh? Not paid?"

The screw-head looks at Dib entreatingly. Dib puts his hands up, palms out. He picks his battles with Zim and this one is solidly under the column of “not his problem.” Sometimes Zim can be other people’s problem.

"Let's start from the top, yeah?" he says in response. "Camera’s rolling. We'll discuss your, ah, payment afterwards."

That seems to mollify Zim, and they run through the rest of the script with only one more major blowup (Zim seemed physically unable to call The Tallest ‘inadequate leaders.’ He got into a ten-minute argument over it with the cameraman, and then with Dib before they just let Dib read the line while Zim grimaced disagreeably at the screen).

The screw-head tells them good job, and before we leave we need to get a couple angles of the kiss in.

"The what?" Dib and Zim ask at about the same time, in varying levels of volume (Dib, loudly; Zim, very very loudly).

"Shouldn't be a problem, right? You two together and all."

It's not like Dib is really opposed to kissing. He and Zim have kissed before. Kind of. Except that he totally is opposed to kissing and he hates this. Everyone is looking at him and Zim and the whole room is so bright and hot and they're on camera and a million different aliens all across the universe are gonna watch them suck face. But he can't say anything because everyone else is under the horrible impression they've been exchanging fluids in private which is what their entire defense for not being blown off the ship into deep space in the first place was and oh, God he's gonna have to do it, he’s gonna have to kiss Zim.

He looks uneasily at Zim who seems to be having the same realization dawn across his face and Dib figures it's either now before he can think about it or never. He leans in and kisses him.

It's awful. Arguably, the worst kiss he’s had in his life. Zim’s lips are kind of cold and slimy like two small dead fish and he obviously feels awkward and Dib feels even more awkward. He’s stupidly aware at how chapped and wet his lips are simultaneously. And if Zim was complaining about his smell before, he for sure smells now.

He draws away after a brief, closed mouth peck and he knows the entire crew could tell how bad it was from the disappointed faces all around. They get thanked and dismissed anyways, but, God, they're so toast.

“I think that went well,” Zim says as soon as they’re in the hallway, inspecting his gloved hand.

Dib gives him a look. “We couldn’t have been less obviously attracted to each other if we were actually trying.”

“I was actually trying.” Zim shrugs. “You taste like stink.”

A headache starts to form behind Dib’s right eye, and he pinches the space between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

—

The next morning Dib is faced with a dilemma. He still has no idea if Irkens sleep, like, in the normal sense of sleeping. The personality and life of the Irken is stored in the domed metal backpack, so there should be no reason for them to sleep in the conventional way. Dib wonders if the Irken just enters a sleep mode, running on as little power as possible to keep the host body alive while the machine rests. (Up until recently, Don has harbored the idea that this maybe means Zim doesn't have a soul. After all, wouldn't that make him a parasite more than anything? A robotic program hijacking a cadaver to carry out its commands?) But Zims stomach rises and falls in a slow rhythmic pattern, and his face seems more at ease. Very small and thin boned, Zim looks almost vulnerable like this, with one tiny arm crossed over his chest like a child. His other arm rests close to Dib, claw outstretched like he was reaching for him in his sleep. Little puffs of air hit Dibs face as Zim forces it out through his mouth (nix the idea that Irkens breathe through their eye ducts) and Dibs eyes are drawn to his mouth. Zims lips are small, and only a slightly darker shade of green than his skin. Although that makes sense, biologically, it still gives Dib the odd impression that Zims wearing dark green lipstick. The lips look almost out of place on Zims large, flat, reptilian face. A familiar mammalian trait in the mix of otherworldliness. All of Zims features, a lack of nose, ears, nipples, would seem to point towards a lack of lips too, but there they are, and Dib knew from experience that they feel just as soft as normal human lips too. They're parted a little bit, moving gently with the movement of his breaths, and showing a hint of white, wavy teeth peeking behind them like a miniature mountain range. The inside of Zim's mouth is pink and wet with a liquid substance Dib has been unable to identify, but definitely isn’t water based and Zim brings his lower lip into that mouth for a second, wetting it with whatever coats the inside cavern.

Dib wants to kiss Zim.

He wants to kiss him so bad he draws back at first, ashamed. And then doesn't understand why. Zim is his legal soulmate in space or whatever, they're like, interstellar hate married, he should be able to kiss his nemesis husband whenever he wants. It's kissing that got them into this situation anyways, and besides they should get more comfortable with it after their spectacular failure on camera yesterday. But something feels wrong about kissing Zim when he looks so small like this. It's like he's invading some personal area of hard-winned trust that he's only gotten after years of being his only contact.

Finally waking up under his Dibs gaze burning a hole into his face, Zim blinks awake, his domed backpack making a noise that sounds like a computer starting up, some whirring and clicking. He looks blearily up at Dib, grumpy and tired, and aw hell, Dib kisses him.

The kiss lights up a feeling in his chest like a row of tiny firecrackers, the polar opposite of the awkward face smashing in the Television Room that left him embarrassed and red all afternoon. Zim inhales a shaky breath, but tentatively opens his mouth and grabs a handful of sheets on the bed between them. Very slowly, as if scared he'll spook him, he touches the very tip of his tongue between Zims parted lips. He alternates between tracing small circles on Zims bottom lip with his tongue and kissing him soundly until Zims mouth starts to smoke and he pulls away, panting. Dib notices he's been tracing meaningless comforting patterns on Zims arm and stops himself. He pulls his arm back to his side.

Dibs the first one to speak. "We don't want to miss breakfast."

"Eh?" Zim clears his throat. "Yes. Of course."

Flushed and uncomfortable, but determined to stay in charge of the situation, Dib plants him with a quick, parting kiss and rolls out of bed.

Every morning since then has passed the same. Dib wakes up and finds Zim (sleeping?) in his bed, and they kiss. Sometimes they kiss until Zims mouth starts to steam from the water in his saliva and he spends a couple minutes in the crook of Dibs neck panting and coughing, and sometimes he wakes up him with a peck. They never go farther than Dib running his hands along the bottom of Zim's tunic.

The kisses awaken something in Dib that he partly wants to blame on the bond and partly knows that wouldn't be completely true. He spends all night unable to sleep thinking about waking up in the morning. Zim's little moans haunt his dreams and more often than not he starts to wake up to sticky sheets (which he hopes to God Zim doesn't notice or understand). He finds himself wanting to kiss Zim throughout the day, especially when he's said something stupid, which doesn't make much sense.

He kisses Zim, once, at night. They were talking almost amicably, Dib sitting in his bunk and Zim standing. Zim was talking about something Dib was not paying attention to, instead watching Zim's arms flail and point emphatically. Already thinking about the morning, and his heart softening like it does when Zim rants about something that isn't about him, he half starts off the bed and kisses him, mid-sentence. After a brief second of surprise, Zim lets him push him back against the door and give him one of those long, deep kisses that ends in Zim struggling to breathe around his burned mouth. They both go to sleep and do not talk about it, but begin to kiss one another goodnight as well as good morning.

This is why Dib doesn't understand why they can’t kiss on camera.

But it's not just the camera. They can't kiss in front of anyone. Several times people have stopped them in hallways, excitedly asking for a kiss between the human and "the first Irken to kiss someone in, like, forever" only to get sad and disappointed looks when they exchange awkward, stilted pecks on the lips.

After the second disgusting terrible recorded failure, the team decided to approach the situation differently.

"Your relationship is still very new," Tak said. "Maybe what you need is some bonding time, to get over any initial awkwardness."

Which led to him locked back into the Team Headquarters with Zim asking him a stupid questionnaire of stupid questions that wasn't going to make rubbing his face on Zims for the whole universe any less uncomfortable and weird.

"This is dumb," Zim says, echoing Dibs thoughts. He began to make his questionnaire into a paper airplane. "What do they think me incapable of doing a cursory background check on my sworn enemy? And I've known you since you were practically a human larva."

"Yeah, isn't that kinda weird for you?" Dib asks.

"Eh. Irken lifespan is impressively long. It is typical for an Irken to be in maturation long before other species would be, and long after too. The years do not compute well, mathematically."

Dib twirls around in his chair for a moment, and contemplates folding his questionnaire into an airplane too. It's doubtful the team would actually care if they asked the exact questions they were given, as long as they produced results. He doesn't want Zim to think he's copying him though, so he doesn't.

"How old are you anyways, Zim?" Dib asks, and then curses himself because he thinks that was actually a question given them.

"In human years, I am," Zim waves his hand in front of his face "maybe in the three hundreds. Give or take."

Three hundred years. Zim was well aged before America was even a country yet. Dibs known Zim for a third of his life. What had to have been Zims entire life with Dib was just a tiny weekend off to Zim, while Zim was the focal point of his entire existence. Did Zim conquer other planets before Earth? Did he have other nemesis? Dib is, absurdly, jealous at the thought.

"Before I donated my talents to the military efforts, I had many jobs," Zim continued. "I was a bimolecular chemist who invented the neatest self-stable life form before it became not a self-stable life form and absorbed our Tallest, may her bones grow us taller. Zim served in Impending Doom One and helped with, eh, demolition of outdated technology on my home planet. After this, my Tallests’ realized my power was so mighty I had to be relocated into a sleeper cell agent hiding at a simple fast food restaurant until my raw power had to be harnessed again to turn the tide of the war."

Straight after their kidnapping, Tak had separated him and Zim into different rooms. Personally, she came in and explained to Dib how Zims mission was a fraud, a ploy to get him as far away from the Irken military as possible. (And that not only was Zims mission a lie, the reasoning for the trip to Irk was fabricated as well, Zim knowing full well their relationship was punishable by death). But how did he reconcile that knowledge with Zims story and find the real answer?

"How will they ever survive without you this time?" Dib asks dryly instead.

"They won't." Zim grins and Dibs heart does an involuntary fond jump that he hates himself for. “We will win.”

Quirking his lips to the side to keep from smiling (because god if he's gonna let Zim see him smiling at him) Dib approaches a different topic with hopes of throwing Zim off balance.

"I think they're really upset about, you know, the kiss."

The smile drops off Zims face and he looks to the side. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here we go. "Maybe we should-practice?" Dib says. It comes out more like a question. "Y'know, we could uh. Try to kiss in public a couple times. At breakfast or something." Dib's face is absolutely on fire. Last thing he wants is for Zim to think he wants to do couple things or whatever.

Which of course Zim immediately calls him out for. "What plan is this?" he asks. "Trying to rub your greasy face grease against me where everyone can see? Huh?"

Shame crawls hot up Dib's neck which is stupid because it's been Zim whose kissing him in the first place. "You didn't seem to mind my greasy face this morning, lizardboy," he hisses.

"Shut up!" Zim yells. "Be quiet!"

"God, I don't need this." Dib runs his hand through his hair. Gets up.

"Where do you think you're going, you- you cowardly child pig, augh, head?"

Over his shoulder, Dib throws "I'll see you at dinner" and feels immensely good at closing the door on Zim's scream. Walking quickly, Dib takes the first left. He gets down a different hallway that he doesn't recognize. He doesn't want to go back to his room where, no doubt, Zim will be there angry as hell and ready to try to throw something else in his face. His face heats up again as he remembers their kiss that morning, sidestepping someone in a white doctor's coat to pass them. Okay, it was him who initiated it technically, but what was Zim doing in his bed? Huh? Dib's ashamed at caring and angry that he's ashamed at caring and he wants to punch Zim in the god damn face but he doesn't even have that anymore. Cause he has to pretend to give a shit. Which he doesn't.

Hovering near a door far to Dib's right is, surprisingly, Steven, the plookesian at their eating table. Too many bad memories of plookesians from his childhood have kept Dib from getting particularly close to Steven, but Dib's happy to see a familiar face regardless. He makes a visual move to get Steven's attention, and Steven smiles brightly at Dib's recognition, cutting off the conversation with whomever he was talking to in the other room, out of Dib's field of vision.

"Hey, man!" Steven says, joining Dib fully in the hallway. "What're you doing up in my neighborhood?"

Dib gives him a tight smile. "Just got some free time on my hands, I guess." An obvious lie, but he's exciting to talk to anyone that isn't Zim.

"Hey, listen." Despite his head being almost a foot shorter than Dib, Steven manages to lean in conspiratorially. "I heard about your weird thing with the video. I wouldn't really worry about it, dude, everyone gets a bit camera shy their first time." He laughs and elbows Dib in the ribs good-naturally.

"Yeah..." Dib says, a bit embarrassed that that's a rumor now. Are Zim and he a gossip topic? God, he hopes not. "I just wish I could really help out. With the resistance, y'know? This commercial crap with Zim all seems so"don't say fake "scripted."

"Each part in a machine adds to the whole!" Steven's smile almost irritates Dib. Steven's probably doing something cool and badass like building laser guns or chopping aliens' heads off. Actually, wait, Dib has no idea what Steven does. Thinking back on it, he's been so up his own ass about how "important" his and Zim's job seemed before he actually saw what it was, he has no idea what anyone else does around here. Maybe that's the real reason he's not close with Steven. His cheeks flame again.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Dib offers him a halfhearted smile.

Steven cuffs him on the shoulder and says as a goodbye. "Chin up, man! You'll see the payout soon."

Dib isn't so sure.

Notes:

> I said I wasn't abandoning this fic and gdi im not abandoning this fic LMAO > I have v little excuse of why this took me a year other than that I'm really busy all of the time and would rather sleep than work. I still care about this fic a lot, just not like, more than a nice solid nap. Also writing is really difficult and I stopped talking to my beta for like three months. > easter eggs all the time for people nerdy enough to understand them >even if i don't reply to comments they make me cry each time thanks

#zadr #iz #newzim #my fics #mine

118 notes · View notes

d3ath-t0-n0rmalcy-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Worst vacation ever? Part IV.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Words: Around 8600

Summary: Panel Time!

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

Sorry for the late update guys! That part took me like foreeeever, I moved to a new apartment and my computer was the last thing I brought with me -_- but here it is! Part 4! Enjoy!

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

beep beep. beep beep.

„not this again..“ you told yourself, pressing the pillow into your face.

Your phone blew up with tons of messages again, and you knew exactly who it was. You turned to the side facing the bright display of your phone. When you grabbed it and flipped over onto your back again, it fell out of your hands.. right to your face.

„God dammit!“, you yelled, picking it up again to see who texted you.

------

Shit. You totally forgot that the two of you wanted to go to the beach today.. You struggled to crawl out of bed, almost tripping over your blanket which was kinda tangled around your feet. You threw your PJ to the floor on your way to the bathroom. As soon as you finished your short shower, toothbrushing-rush and putting some Make-Up on, the doorbell rang.

„Hey sweetie, u ready?“, Y/B/F/N asked, pushing her sunglasses down to take a better look on you. „Tired?“

„I think so.. but that‘s nothing new.“ you replied.

„You cute little sleepyhead.“ she laughed, ruffling through your hair. „Come on. Let‘s go.“

The two of you got into her car and started driving. She was totally hyped to see her favorite actors tomorrow. You could tell that she‘ll probably could die from a heart attack right now. Looking out of the window, you drifted away from her pretty annoying screaming sounds, remembering those green eyes, the smile, those cute little freckles and that fucking amazing character of his. God damn. Why wouldn‘t he leave your mind?

„and you know what the best thing is?“ Y/B/F/N started to giggle, „Hello??? Earth to Y/N..“ tearing you out of your daydreaming.

A simple „huh?“ left your lips.

„you actually had a date with him!!“ she screamed, patting her right hand onto your upper leg.

„with whom?“ you gave her a questioned look.

„did u even listen to me? with Jensen! That clearly was a date pluuus you seem to like him.“ she teased you.

„That wasn‘t even a date, hell IDK what that wa..“

„shush!!“ she interupted you. „You were drinking beer with him.. at a bar. Date. End of story. When you first told me about meeting him you seemed so incurious, but the closer the convention gets the more excited u get! How could you be so calm the whole time!?“

„It is not that I wasn‘t interested.. I was a mess at that time because of my ex. I couldn‘t even focus on Jensen entirely.. and he is a normal human being like you and me, so calm your ass. I just enjoyed the conversations with him a lot, he was such a good person to talk to and the more I think back, the more I hate the fact that this won‘t happen again.“ you tried explaining.

„Y/N.. I tell you.. if you‘re gonna see him again, you WILL enjoy it.. and you‘ll fucking slap him for giving you the wrong number, you hear me?“ she said laughing giving you a little pinch on your upper arm.

She was right. You got pretty nervous thinking about the convention.. and mostly him. You just couldn‘t get him out of your head. Something about him made you curious, but you still felt unsecure about the wrong number.

__________________________________

The next day.

You woke up from a noise coming from your window.

*knock knock* „WAKE UP, Y/N! We have to go!!“

Your eyes opened wide when you saw what time it was. You jumped out of your bed, screaming towards your window, „I‘ll be there in five minutes!!“

Shit, you overslept.. again. Running into the bathroom, picking the first clothes you could grab. After finishing your little embarressing dance and morning routine, tripping several times looking like a complete idiot, you rushed outside your house, bumping into Y/B/F/N who was already standing in front of your door.

„Easy, cowboy.“ she laughed, handing you your favorite starbucks coffee and a little snack.

„Oh my god, I‘m so sorry.“ you apologized a thousand of time while getting into the car.

„It‘s okay dumbo.“ she replied chuckling, „the passes are in my purse.. oh and btw, you look like a total mess.“

„Well, thanks I love you too“ you both started to laugh.

After a two hour drive you finally arrived at the Convention. Y/B/F/N uncle was already waiting for you. When you got off of the car, he pulled you two into a tight hug.

„The main entrance is that way“, he was pointing at a big door, with tons of fans waiting outside, „but don‘t worry, of course I‘m gonna sneak you through the back entrance.“

The three of you strolled around a little bit, while her uncle explained everything to you. A few people were walking around, probably people who worked there. It took you a while to realize how big this place was, and especially how close you probably were to Jensen. Even the tiniest tought about it made you weak in the knees and you felt your cheeks burning, but you tried your best to hide it from Y/B/F/N.

After finishing your tour at a little bar her uncle said goodbye and wished you a lot of fun. You two sat down and ordered a drink, talking about how awesome it was to be here.

„someone‘s nervous huh?“ she smiled, noticing the tensed look on your face.

„What? No! Never...“ you replied fast, taking a shy sip from your drink.

„Have you seen him yet?“ she kept teasing you.

„No, I don‘t think so.“ you said slightly sad.

She was looking at her watch, „well, head up, cutie! It‘s panel time soon! Let‘s go!“

__________________________________________________________________

You took a seat in the 5th row, which gave you a bit of comfort. At least you couldn‘t face Jensen directly.

First Rich and Rob went on stage making stupid jokes about accents and how tall Jared is. You could tell, that those two guys did that for a living. In between a hell lot of laughter their panel sadly came to an end. Rob grabbed a guitar, which was standing on the side of the stage and started to sing songs to „lure up“ the boys.

Jared, Misha and Jensen entered the stage, bowing down and waving to the cheering crowd. Rob was still playing with his guitar singing some funny songs with Richard they just made up to underline the guys performance.

When Rob finished his little solo, him and Rich greeted the three of them. It was funny to see how everyone needed to go on their tiptoes to hug Jared.

„Have a good night!“, Rob yelled into the microphone. Just before he went off stage, he did a quick turn, snapped Jareds beanie off of his head and ran behind the curtains.

Jared shook his head and laughed, while the crowd cheered because of his hair.

Y/B/F/N went nuts when they came up on stage. You were just sitting there.. being quiet. You couldn‘t remember if your chin fell down or not, when you saw Jensen again, but he definitely took your breath away. His eyes were sparkling and that smile of his almost gave you a heart attack. After you calmed down a bit, you looked over to Y/B/F/N. She gave a dirty grin, when she saw the expression on your face.

„Stop it.“ you punched her, turning your head back to the stage.

___________________________________________________________________________

Fifteen minutes into the panel and you and Y/B/F/N couldn‘t breath from laughing so hard. Those guys definitely knew how to entertain a crowded room.

„Next question!“, Jared said, squinting his eyes from the shining of the lights, pointing towards the other half of the room. „You! with the red shirt!"

„Hi guys..“, a shy voice appeared from across the room.

„Hey“, the three of them answered at the same time.

„So.. my question is not really that special, haha. but I was just curious, how have you guys been the last few weeks? What did you do? How is your family doing?“ she giggled.

Misha started, „My kids and wife came over, they visited me alot during my set days. I showed them around and we had a whole lot of ice cream. That was pretty awesome. How about you guys?“ his head turned around to the boys.

Jared gave Jensen a weird smile. „Jay? Did anything particular happen?“ he teased him, still smirking.

„I‘ve got nothing.“, he said shaking his head.

„U sure?“ Jareds smile grewing wider.

You could tell by the look they gave each other that something was going on.

„Well, Mr. Supercool right here did something reeaaaaally stupid.“ he continued, pointing his thumb at Jensen.

„Oh god, no Jared, please don’t.“ Jensen started to laugh, burying his face into his palms.

„You know.. he talked to this girl a few weeks ago.. and he thought she was super cute..“, Jared said, patting Jensens shoulder.

It made you sad, knowing he probably flirted with a lot of girls, trying his luck on you too. You sunk your and looked to the floor.

„She wasn‘t in a good condition so he wanted to cheer her up.. blahblah.. long story short, he was probably a tiny bit too drunk, when he wrote down his number so..“ he laughed, while Jensen's cheeks were getting more red.

„so“, Jensen interrupted him. „So, I gave her my old number, because I got a new one like 2 weeks before I met her.“ coughing, trying to hide his embarressment.

You looked back up, couldn‘t believe the words you just heard.

„Y/N! Did you hear that?!“ Y/B/F/N whispered, punching you into your ribs with her elbow. „ he is talking about you!!“

Jared continued, „my pal right here was pretty pissed at himself at that point, but he told me that she is from Florida. So if anybody knows a girl named Y/N, please tell her to come say hi!“

The crowd cheered and laughed at Jensen's mistake and Jared teasing him about it. Your face went from pale to bright red when you heard your name.

„Y/N! Stand up and show him you are here!!“ Y/B/F/N trying to push you, but you were too overwhelmed and nervous to show yourself to all of those people.

„give me a few minutes“ you replied, making your way out of the panel right to the bathroom.

You washed your burning hot face with cold water, trying to cool yourself down, „come on Y/N, you can do this.“

___________________________________________________________________________

After 10 minutes you went back, spotting an empty seat in one of the front rows. You decided to sit there, so you might have a chance to be more visible to Jensen. At that moment Jared was telling a story, while Misha and Jensen joked around in the background. A few minutes went by and both of them took a seat on their chairs again, listening to Jared. You could tell that Jensen was kinda nervous and didn‘t pay much attention to the stories. He was biting his lower lip, his eyes gazing across the room, ending up looking straight into your direction. He stopped, looking right at you, a bright smile forming on his face. You couldn‘t resist to smile back, trying not to melt by the look he gave you.

Two little words were quietly escaping his mouth.

„It‘s you.“

#Jensen Ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x y/n #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #spn #supernatural #fanfiction

31 notes · View notes

my-trashy-writing · 8 years ago

Text

Yamaguchi is an up and coming fashion designer. Who has a terrible luck when it comes to important moments in his career. Or is it, really, when a famous model is charmed by his designs?

We came up with this idea a long, long time ago with @kathwolfie. It all started when it came out that Kosaka Ryotaro, Tsukishima's actor from the stage, is an actual model (check this out). At the beginning there was also KageHina to be included but... well... yeah... I'm sorry. The idea was sitting in the drafts for a very, very long time but the belt scene (that Kath came up with, kudos to her for that) was always at the back of my mind. And I finally wrote it. Also - after I finished it, I came across this photoshoot of Uchiyama Kouki, Tsukishima's seiyuu. It has such a strong model!Tsukishima vibe for me. I really love Ucchi.

Here goes the winner of the poll (37%). Vote for the next TsukiYama here. Also - a bit of info regarding the poll, please check this post.

SFW, TsukiYama, model/fashion AU Words: 2853 Also on ao3.

“Hi Yamaguchi, it’s me. Um… yeah, about that… I don’t have good news,” Hinata was pacing around the studio while talking with Yamaguchi on the phone. “No… it’s even worse. The photoshoot didn’t happen at all. Yeah, I’m sorry, really,” he bowed deeply, even though Yamaguchi couldn’t see him. “It’s the flu season here and a lot of people are sick. And the main model - “ Hinata started whispering, “ - that asshole actually ditched the job since it wasn’t anything big and he was feeling under the weather. I tried to arrange something but…” he fell silent for a while. “I’m sorry that I don’t have enough influence and couldn’t help you at all.”

“It’s you today?” someone entered the room. “You don’t need to take care of King?”

“Geh! Tsukishima!” Hinata jumped up, startled. “Sorry Yamaguchi, I have to go, I’ll call you later. And maybe we should go drinking next time. My treat. As an apology. Bye!” he hurriedly finished the phone call and glared at Tsukishima:

“I’m not happy to see you either. I had enough of assholes for today,” Hinata grumbled quietly. “Though I don’t really have to do much when I’m working with you, so whatever,” he sighed. “And Kageyama is on a break today.”

Tsukishima decided not to answer him, and looked around the room.

“Oh, this is actually nice,” he browsed the clothes prepared on one of the racks. “And looks comfortable.”

“Ah!” Hinata sprung towards him. “This is not for your photoshoot. It’s for the one that was scheduled to end before yours. Though it got cancelled in the end.”

“Canceled? Not rescheduled?” Tsukishima furrowed his brows, still looking at the clothes.

“Yeah.”

“Are the higher-ups blind? This is such a waste.”

“It’s because the projectant is kind of… unknown. And still a student. I was trying really hard to help Yamaguchi get this photoshoot but…”

“Yamaguchi? I don't think that I've heard this name before,” Tsukishima hummed quietly. “But it really is a waste.”

“You think so too? I can’t believe that I’m agreeing with you,” Hinata laughed lightly. “I tried to find a replacement for the model who cancelled on us last minute but no-one was free. And rescheduling is close to impossible.”

“I am free,” Tsukishima said suddenly.

“HUH?!” Hinata gaped at him.

“This is my last job for today. And if it’s about the photographer then, if you can’t find anyone available, you can try asking Ennoshita-san. I'm supposed to meet with him in the evening. So he’s definitely free. I don't know if he agrees, though.”

“Are you for real? Are you Tsukishima? Are you really Tsukishima?”

“Um… Hinata, why am I needed here?” Yamaguchi was nervously looking around the studio. “You said that the photoshoot was cancelled, right?”

“Actually… It isn’t!” Hinata beamed happily at his friend.

“Eh?!”

“Yeah! And you won’t believe who’s gonna be the main model!” he winked.

“Who?”

“Tsukishima,” Hinata snickered.

“No way! Such a famous model? How?!”

“I can't believe it myself but it was him who-”

“Hello!” someone interrupted Hinata.

“Ennoshita-san! Thank you very much for coming!” Hinata bowed deeply.

“No problem, I was free anyway. And we can still go and grab some drinks afterwards with Tsukishima, so it fine. And it’s rare to see him so interested in something so I got intrigued myself,” Ennoshita winked at Tsukishima.

“Let’s get it done already,” the blond grumbled, somehow embarrassed. He himself wasn’t sure why he was so insistent on this photoshoot. He wouldn’t really gain anything from it but he wanted to do it anyway. “Get your ass to work,” he said sharply to Yamaguchi.

“Eh? Um… what should I do?”

“Huh? Are you stupid or what? Get changed of course.”

“EH?! No-no-no-no-no,” Yamaguchi started waving his hands wildly. “Hinata, you haven't said anything about it!”

“I’m sorry? There wasn't enough time,” Hinata smiled sheepishly. “I couldn’t find anyone who would be available and could be the second model. You’re tall yourself so it works fine? I would have helped myself but with my height it’s…” he fell quiet for a moment. “And it’s Tsukishima who’ll be the focus of the pics so whatever.”

“I’m not a model!” Yamaguchi whined. “I don’t have the looks. Being tall isn’t enough!”

“Yamaguchi, you’re overreacting,” Hinata tried to calm him down.

“I’m what?!” to everyone’s surprise, Yamaguchi exploded. “You do know what I came throu-”

“Shut up,” Tsukishima cut him off sharply and stomped towards him. “I’m not getting paid my usual for this and you’re starting to waste my time,” his voice was calm but very cold and he was glaring daggers at Yamaguchi.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Yamaguchi started to literally shake and Tsukishima noticed tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “I just…” his reaction taken Tsukishima aback.

“You don’t have to worry,” Tsukishima softened his voice slightly, feeling awkward. “You won’t be the focus of attention here.”

“Yeah, Yamaguchi, really. Do you need some time to calm down? We can use the studio for around two hours. Tsukishima can start with Ennoshita-san and we will leave the photos with you for the end, ok?” Hinata patted Yamaguchi’s back.

“I’m sorry, Hinata,” he said quietly, taking deep breaths. “It’s just my stupid anx-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Hinata interrupted him. “You don’t have to say anything. I know,” he smiled reassuringly. “I was insensitive, throwing it all on you so suddenly. I should have explained everything to you earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” Yamaguchi repeated.

“There's nothing to be sorry about,” Hinata winked. “Let’s get to work!” he clapped his hands.

“Is he going to be fine?” Ennoshita asked, concerned.

“Yeah, don’t worry. He just needs few minutes to calm down. The whole thing was mostly my fault,” Hinata sighed. “And then Tsukishima scared him, I’m sure his life flashed in front of his eyes.”

“I’m not that scary,” Tsukishima glared at Hinata.

“Yeah, unless someone was severely bullied and- AH!” Hinata slapped a hand over his mouth. “I shouldn't have said that,” he muttered. “You can be fucking menacing, though. Sometimes even more than Kageyama,” Hinata stuck his tongue out at Tsukishima. “Anyway, let’s get it over with!”

The atmosphere remained slightly strained for the rest of the time but, despite that, the photoshoot proceeded quite good. Even Yamaguchi, extremely tense at the beginning, relaxed later. When everything was over, he thanked Ennoshita for agreeing to take photos during his free time.

“No problem, really. Tsukishima was right, your clothes are really good, it would be a shame to waste this opportunity. Hinata talked everything over with the higher-ups so it’s not like we’re just playing around,” he winked. “Tsukishima, I’m going already, I will wait for you in the car,” Ennoshita waved his hand at the three of them and left.

“Um…” Yamaguchi approached Tsukishima, who was getting ready to leave too. “Thank you for everything,” he bowed deeply. “I don’t know what exactly happened behind the scenes but I understand that everything was possible thanks to you so I am very grateful.”

“It’s fine,” Tsukishima got embarrassed by Yamaguchi’s words. “And also, I’m sorry,” he added quietly.

“Eh?”

“For sort of snapping at you,” he fumbled with his fingers, feeling guilty. “It wasn’t weird to get anxious in your situation. And you did good for an amateur who was so panicked just moments before,” there was a small smile on the blond’s face.

“Thank you,” Yamaguchi smiled brightly at Tsukishima, surprising him. Somehow, the blond didn't want for it to end like this.

“If you - “ Tsukishima started rummaging in his bag, “ - if you ever need help again, you can call me,” he scribbled something on the back of his business card. “This is my private number, so you won’t have to go through the agency,” he handed the card to Yamaguchi and quickly turned towards Hinata. “I’m leaving too, don’t forget to lock up and all.”

“Yeah, yeah, go away, whatever,” Hinata shrugged and only then looked at Tsukishima. “Eh? Why is your face so red?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“It’s not,” Tsukishima cut him off sharply and left.

“What should I do?” Yamaguchi sighed helplessly and flopped face first onto his bed. “I don’t have anyone else to ask, Kageyama was my last resort. And he’s busy,” he punched his pillow. “Why do I always have so many problems when it comes to important turning points in my career?” he whined, rolling onto his back. “It was the same with that photoshoot…”

Yamaguchi was lying in silence, staring at the ceiling. After few minutes, he suddenly sat up.

“Tsukishima…” he whispered and jumped up from his bed to look for the business card that Tsukishima gave him some time ago. “There it is!” he exclaimed happily and dialed the number immediately, not even thinking about what he was doing.

“Yes?” Yamaguchi froze when he heard Tsukishima’s voice over the phone. Suddenly, he realised what a stupid thing he did.

“Ah, um…” he wasn’t sure how to start. “I’m Yamaguchi, I don’t know if you remember me but-”

“I do remember,” Tsukishima interrupted him. “We met a month or so ago and did a photoshoot with the clothes you designed,” he reassured Yamaguchi.

“Yes! Once again, thank you for your help. And… um… About that...” Yamaguchi fell quiet.

“Yeah?”

“I need help again,” Yamaguchi was angry at himself for acting faster than thinking. He felt ashamed for doing it like this. “I’m in a serious pinch and I tried a lot of people but… Then I remembered that you offered to help and even gave me your number. So I thought that maybe… maybe it wasn’t just out of courtesy and all. Since I’m no-one important and you still gave me your number and… and… I don’t know… I’m sorry for bothering you,” he sounded helpless.

“I’m busy at the moment but I should be free in two hours. So, if that’s ok with you, we could meet and talk about it in person sometime later today.”

“Eh? Really? I can meet, yeah, of course, whenever and wherever you want!”

“Do you know the coffee shop-”

Yamaguchi was sitting at the cafe where he was supposed to meet with Tsukishima. He was nervously glancing at the clock every few seconds. He arrived more than half an hour earlier than he should. He didn’t want to make Tsukishima wait for him but the anticipation was also taking it’s toll on him.

“What if he doesn’t show up?” Yamaguchi whispered to himself. “I’ve made a fool out of myself. There’s no way that he comes…” he felt pathetic. “I’m really not cut for this line of work,” he sighed and looked at the sketchbook that was peeking out of his bag. He reached for it and slowly turned the pages, full of his drawings.

Small smile appeared on Yamaguchi’s face when he saw a blank page. He grabbed a pencil and started drawing. Designing clothes always calmed him down and he was often losing track of the time. He jumped up, startled, when Tsukishima sat by his table:

“Sorry for making you wait.”

“No, no problem, really. It's me who should be sorry for asking for your time while you’re busy. Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Yamaguchi bowed his head.

“What happened?”

“Ah, yeah… um… I’m sorry, really, I wasn’t thinking before I called you,” Yamaguchi smiled sheepishly.

“If I thought you were a bother then I wouldn’t have agreed to meet. Hell, I even wouldn’t have given you my number,” Tsukishima scowled at him. “So what happened? What’s the problem?”

“I need someone to be a model for a contest-show at my school. My friend was supposed to walk for me but he broke his leg yesterday. I seriously don’t know why I have such a shitty luck…” he hung his head. “The date is terrible too... A lot of people have other plans and everyone who was free is already helping someone else. And it's also a last minute thing now. I even considered doing it myself but it’s against the rules. Hinata is willing to help, despite being busy, but he's too short. His height doesn't fit the idea I have for the contest and I wouldn't manage to make adjustments to everything in time.”

“First of all - when is the show? And then - what’s the theme or concept?” Tsukishima asked.

“Valentine's Day,” Yamaguchi answered quietly.

“Terrible date, indeed. And the concept?”

“It’s very cliche - love and dates. I wanted to play around with the height differences. Ah, because we have to make matching outfits for a couple. Hitoka-chan is a very petite girl and I wanted for her to walk with a much taller guy.”

“Fourteenth February, you say?” Tsukishima hummed and looked at his phone. “It’s in two weeks, falls on Saturday and I’m - ” he paused, examining his schedule, “ - free,” he added and looked at Yamaguchi. “Or rather, now I have a contest-show at… What school are you attending?”

Yamaguchi still couldn’t believe what was happening. Even though he was just an unknown rookie, he got to work with a famous model not once but twice. Right now they were preparing for the contest that was starting soon. Tsukishima already changed and they were doing the finishing touches.

“Yamaguchi… the belt is too loose,” Tsukishima frowned.

“Or maybe too heavy. Though the effect is the same,” Yamaguchi sighed. “Let me see what I could do about it now,” Yamaguchi crouched in front of Tsukishima and stared at the belt buckle. “I think that I can tighten it. Somehow. Just lean back against the table, it would be easier for me then,” Yamaguchi was in full work mode, so he didn’t realise the awkwardness of their pose. Of which Tsukishima was aware slightly too much.

“What the fuck, why is this affecting me so much? Why do I even care about this guy?” Tsukishima thought. “Why do I wanna pet his head so much now? And more? Fuck, Kei, get a hold of yourself, really. It’s not a first time that someone is fumbling around with your belt. This is a job for fuck’s sake,” he closed his eyes. Though it was a rather bad move as his imagination ran even wilder then.

“Ok, should be fine now,” Yamaguchi exclaimed and looked up at Tsukishima. Only after their eyes met and Yamaguchi noticed a slight blush on the blond’s face, he realised their position. Before any of them had a chance to say anything, the door flung open and someone stormed inside the room:

“I am terribly sorry for being late, Tadashi-kun!” Yachi was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed red. It was obvious that she ran. “The train got delayed and the crowd-” she stopped mid-sentence, noticing Yamaguchi crouching in front of Tsukishima, his hands near his crotch. “I am so sorry for interrupting,” she gasped and run out of the room.

“Hitoka-chan! Wait!” flustered Yamaguchi followed her, leaving, definitely not composed, Tsukishima alone.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but… you looked rather relieved when it came out that you got the second, not first, place,” Tsukishima said to Yamaguchi when the contest ended and Yachi left the two of them alone, hurrying for her date.

“Was it really showing?”

“A bit, I guess,” Tsukishima shrugged. He couldn’t say that he noticed it only because he was intensely observing Yamaguchi the whole time.

“To tell the truth… I was relieved. Because… I want to win by myself.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah. You know, just the fact that you came caused some sort of an uproar. Since you are well known. And I was sure that if I, if we, won, then people would say that it was a given, that - well, yeah, Yamaguchi had the famous Tsukishima as one of his models, no wonder he won. And all that shit,” Yamaguchi sighed. “Ah, though I am really grateful that you helped me again. You saved me,” he smiled brightly at Tsukishima.

“You should have more confidence. My position in this industry is different than yours but I do know that it’s hard at the beginning. You have the talent, your designs are great. It’s going to be fine. Just believe in yourself,” Tsukishima said, making Yamaguchi blush.

“Thank you. Um… I want to thank you somehow. For your help. What can I do?”

“Dinner,” Tsukishima answered immediately.

“Only dinner?”

“No, rather... A date,” Tsukishima corrected himself.

“A… date?” Yamaguchi repeated, confused.

“Or two. Maybe seven. An indefinite number would be good too,” Tsukishima was fumbling with his fingers.

“Eh?” Yamaguchi got flustered.

“I mean… I want to know you better,” the blond blushed. “I haven’t been interested in anyone like this in a long time, so...”

“Just to be sure… in a friends way, right?”

“Not exactly,” Tsukishima answered, not looking at Yamaguchi. “So if you don’t want to, then…” he added.

“It’s… it’s fine. A date is fine. We can go on a date. Or two. Maybe more,” Yamaguchi said quietly, his face bright red. He wondered if his shitty luck wasn’t exactly that bad.

#haikyuu #Tsukiyama #tsukkiyama #tsukishima kei #yamaguchi tadashi #hinata shouyou #yachi hitoka #ennoshita chikara #model au #fashion au #aged up #fanfiction #sfw

24 notes · View notes