#I’ll be in a better place waiting and it’ll kill me doubly if I look down and see yall weeping

[lacunasbalustrade]

There’s this limbo of : yes my tumblr account is linked to a place my siblings are in, therefore they could theoretically look at this, equating my death and deactivation. however they are not going to look at this as they are incapable of using social media other than Facebook. I am safe.

[ibijau]

Deathbed Wedding pt 10

Lan Xichen learns a little more about his family, and preparations for the wedding begin (also on AO3)

News travelled fast inside Lotus Pier. Upon hearing about what had been decided, Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng rushed to see Lan Xichen, curious to get more details. All three boys were clearly in great distress over what had happened. Jiang Cheng in particular felt intense guilt, since he confessed that it was while protecting him that Nie Huaisang had been fatally wounded. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji also insisted on taking their share of the blame.

The two of them had ended up trapped in that cave after everyone had escaped, they explained, forced to kill on their own the monster living there. They hadn’t thought to check whether Nie Huaisang was dead or alive until they were rescued, when they insisted his body needed to be brought home. Because of his injuries they had simply assumed the worst right away, and now felt that if they had noticed earlier that he was alive, they might have tried to heal him somehow.

Lan Xichen, at first, was angry over that mistake. Then, realising the scope of Nie Huaisang’s wounds, seeing what state the two other boys were in even after being cared for, hearing how Jiang Cheng had rushed to Lotus Pier to get help, he decided it would be unfair to blame them. They had done the best they could.

When he returned from his negotiations with Qingheng-Jun, Nie Mingjue agreed with that sentiment. He placed the blame on Qingheng-Jun for lying about the chance of changing his mind, and on Wen Chao for his badly organised hunt. The three younger boys seemed somewhat relieved to hear that, though they also did not seem to fully believe him. When Yu Ziyuan ordered Jiang Cheng to go in town and help Nie Mingjue find a pair of wedding robes and a paper effigy to take Nie Huaisang's place in the wedding, her son did not look particularly at ease. He still obeyed without questions, but seemed very nervous as he left with Nie Mingjue.

In fact, as Yu Ziyuan gave orders to everyone to hurriedly prepare for a wedding the next day, nobody dared object to anything. They all dashed away to do whatever task she’d given them, until only she and Lan Xichen, still kneeling by the bed, remained in the room where Nie Huaisang laid. Now that they were alone she looked somewhat less terrifying, and Lan Xichen thought there might even be pity in her eyes as she watched him and Nie Huaisang.

“Yu-furen, I am deeply grateful for your kindness today,” he said, letting go a moment of Nie Huaisang’s hand to bow to her. “I realise what trouble this must be causing you, and I am sorry. Whatever happens in the future, I am in your debt for what you have done. I will work hard so this doesn’t negatively impact the relationship between our sects.”

“Your father doesn’t have a tenth of the influence on Gusu Lan’s life that he thinks he has,” Yu Ziyuan retorted indifferently. “I know who really rules your sect, and after this I am still in good terms with your uncle. Qingheng-Jun’s opinion is nothing to me, or to my husband. In fact, I did this more to annoy him than to help you, boy.”

Lan Xichen couldn’t help a small gasp, which made her laugh.

“Are you really surprised?” she asked, walking closer to the bed. “I might not have been on very good terms with Yu Chenxi when we were young, and I don’t agree with what she’s done, but she still deserved better than to be locked up and forced to marry a man she didn’t like.”

Politely, Lan Xichen smiled at her, unsure what she was talking about. This, in turn, made her frown.

“You do know that your mother was from Meishan Yu, don’t you?” Yi Ziyuan asked, eliciting another gasp from him. “Pah. I shouldn’t be surprised. Your father is an idiot, your uncle holds a grudge like nobody, and you were young when she died. She’d left our sect anyway, over a disagreement that blew out of proportion. Her temper was always bad.”

Lan Xichen gaped at her. His mother was never a topic for conversation at home, and all he knew of her were those precious few moments when his brother and him were allowed to visit her. She had never spoken of her past during those visits, and Lan Xichen had never heard anyone call her anything but Madam Lan. Even her grave did not bear her name, and she had been denied a tablet in the ancestral hall out of deference for the elder she had murdered who was already honoured there. Qingheng-Jun, ashamed of an impulsive marriage that had brought him no joy, had done his best to erase his wife from everyone's memory.

Feeling tears coming again, Lan Xichen bowed once more before Madam Yu, lower than before.

“I did not know this. Thank you Yu-furen for sharing this information, I am now doubly grateful to you. I hope in the future, you will allow me to ask you about… about Yu Chenxi, if that is not too unpleasant to you.”

“Rise up, boy,” Yu Ziyuan ordered impatiently. “This isn’t some great favour I’d be doing you. But if you want to know so badly, I will tell my mother to write to you. As I’ve said I wasn’t very close to Yu Chenxi, but I can at least help you find people who were.”

Ignoring her order, Lan Xichen was about to bow again when there was a knock on the door, followed by Meng Yao coming in with a bowl on a tray. He appeared surprised to find Lan Xichen still there, and exchanged a look with Yu Ziyuan who shrugged and motioned for him to come closer to the bed.

Meng Yao obeyed, putting the tray down on the nightstand next to the bed, then taking the bowl and slowly coaxing the unconscious Nie Huaisang to drink the dark liquid inside, one spoonful at a time. Lan Xichen looked on with curiosity.

“Medicine?”

“Hm. To help with the current situation,” Meng Yao cautiously explained.

“May I… may I give it to him? I feel so useless, everyone is doing something now, while I’m just staying here. I… I want to help him.”

Meng Yao hesitated, and glanced at Yu Ziyuan who shrugged again.

“You can help him when you’re married to him,” she decided. "For now, he is still the responsibility of Qinghe Nie, so it's normal for one of its disciples to care for him."

Meng Yao relaxed and continued his task, while Lan Xichen, disappointed and unsure what else to do, took again Nie Huaisang’s hand. 

"You're not wrong about being useless," Yu Ziyuan remarked. "If you want to help this badly, go see if the kitchens need anything. They're always short on people, and I'm sure they'll find you something to do other than mope around like this." 

Although cooking wasn't something he was proficient at in any way, Lan Xichen still felt grateful to be given a task at last. He rose up and made to leave, only to change his mind and quickly come press a kiss to Nie Huaisang’s forehead. 

"I'll be back, A-Sang," he promised. "And tomorrow we'll get married."

"You certainly will," Yu Ziyuan agreed with a smirk. "And I've checked already: it'll be an auspicious day for it." 

-

There was plenty of work to be done in the kitchen, just as Yu Ziyuan had predicted, and some of it could be done even by someone as unskilled as Lan Xichen. He was given a knife, a pile of vegetables to peel, and asked to do his best if he wanted a decent wedding feast. Food was not particularly on his mind at the moment, but having something to do with his hands, and an unusual task at that, forced him to focus on what he was doing instead of worrying about what was to come. All of his anger and grief were taken out on those unfortunate vegetables.

Whenever he took a break, Lan Xichen found himself watching Jiang Yanli give orders and handle everything, helping the cooks when needed. She seemed perfectly at ease doing this, a stark contrast to the meek young woman he’d occasionally spotted during conferences, and who upon learning they might get engaged had shyly said she was sorry they were pushed together when neither of them wanted this. Lan Xichen felt deeply sorry as well that she would not get a better husband, and wondered how odd this situation might be for her, helping prepared a feast to marry her suitor to a dying person.

He must have looked at her too often. After their eyes met a few times, Jiang Yanli came to see him and asked how he was handling things.

“I fear I’m not very good at peeling carrots,” he confessed. “But I’ll continue trying, since it’s the only thing I can do.”

“You’re better at it than my brothers,” she assured him. “But I was asking more about… about this situation. I cannot imagine what this must be like.”

“I imagine your position is unpleasant as well. I am sorry that you and your family have gotten mixed up into our affairs this way.”

Jiang Yanli smiled. “If your father and my mother have their way, it seems your family affairs will be my family affairs someday. And even if that doesn’t happen, Nie gongzi protected my brother, so this concerns us, in a way. I am so glad Jiang Cheng made such a good friend.”

Lan Xichen nodded, his eyes falling to the pile of badly peeled vegetables in front of him. 

He should have been glad, perhaps, that people suddenly were taking notice of Nie Huaisang, but he couldn’t help being upset. Mostly, because apparently Nie Huaisang had had to get himself nearly killed to be really appreciated. In Lan Xichen's opinion, Nie Huaisang should have been noticed for his other qualities, the ones that were truly a part of him, rather than this recklessness he had only acquired when forced to. Lan Xichen had come to love and respect Nie Huaisang for his cleverness, his artistic skill, his good understanding of how people thought, and he wished others would have respected him for the same reasons.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to upset you,” Jiang Yanli said. “I will leave you alone. There’s a lot to be done before tomorrow, and it’s already late.”

“It is, and I am grateful for your efforts, Jiang-guniang.”

Jiang Yanli turned away, ready to go help some more.

“Jiang-guniang, wait,” Lan Xichen called. “I… I have to say something more.”

She stopped, and smiled at him with such sincere concern it almost hurt.

“I’m listening.”

Lan Xichen took a deep breath to centre himself.

“Jiang-guniang, if it does come to a marriage between us when this is over, I will do my best to be a good husband. I know you do not want me as your husband, and I am sorry you might be forced into this anyway. And so I will endeavour to make sure you are happy, as much as it is in my power to do so. I have little to offer you, except my friendship and respect, but I will gladly give you both.”

“That is more than my last fiancé was willing to give me,” Jiang Yanli replied with a strained smile. “More than many women get. I am a reasonable person, Lan gongzi, and I will satisfy myself with that, if this does happen.”

She went back to work then, leaving Lan Xichen alone with his pile of miserable carrots, to go with his miserable mood. 

He stared for a while at the vegetables, then at the knife in his hand, wondering if any of this even had a point. Rage built up within him, turned against his father who had caused such suffering around him, against his mother for starting this whole chain of event, against Nie Huaisang for not seeing that Qingheng-Jun had set him on an impossible quest. Above all, he felt a burning rage against himself for being so weak and obedient that he hadn’t seized any of the chances offered to him to set things right before it was too late.

Had he been alone, Lan Xichen might have broken into tears, or screamed, or unsheathed his sword and turned it against the room around him, just to feel in control of something.

But he was not alone, and there was much to be done.

So he picked another carrot from the pile and started peeling it.

-

When morning came, Lan Xichen had not slept. 

Even after being kicked out of the kitchen when there was no longer anything for him to do, he simply had not been able to rest. He tried to go see Nie Huaisang, but his uncle caught him on the way there and told him it would be bad luck to see his fiancé before the ceremony.

The idea that their luck could be anything but bad anyway made Lan Xichen laugh and laugh, until he ended up crying against his uncle’s shoulder. Lan Qiren allowed it for a long while, then took him to the room that had been given to Lan Wangji where a mattress had been hurriedly added for him. Yu Ziyuan had offered to give Lan Xichen his own room, but Lan Qiren had insisted such an arrangement would be better.

For this, Lan Xichen was grateful. Even though his brother was not a very talkative person, nor a very demonstrative one, his company was still appreciated. Lan Wangji, who always fell asleep at the same hour, made the effort of staying awake alongside his brother and, at Lan Xichen’s request, told him the full story of what had happened in that cave. He tried to feel proud of his lover, but above all he felt once again bitter that Nie Huaisang had thought he needed to go to such lengths.

Eventually, Lan Wangji gave in to sleep, and Lan Xichen remained alone. He tried to sleep as well, guessing the day to come would be long. He had little success in doing so, too many thoughts running through his mind. When that failed, he tried to meditate instead, with little more success. So instead he resolved to simply wait until morning, and left the room as soon as the first hints of dawn appeared in the sky.

Unsure how much he would be allowed to wander, Lan Xichen went to walk by the piers, hoping the lake would bring him some peace. All it did, though, was deepen his sorrows as he found himself thinking that Nie Huaisang would have loved the way this scenery looked in the golden light of dawn, how pleasant it would have been to watch the sun rise together. They'd done it in the Cloud Recesses sometimes, on those few times they'd had a chance to spend the night chatting together. Lan Xichen remembered those as the most colourful sunrises of his life. He wondered how dull dawn would feel in the future, without Nie Huaisang to share it with. 

His mood darkened further when, as he walked back toward the buildings of Lotus Pier, Lan Xichen found himself face to face with his father who was also out for a morning stroll. Barely keeping his anger in check, Lan Xichen tried to pass by him without acknowledging him, only for Qingheng-Jun to grab his wrist.

“You will regret this,” his father warned. “It is morbid and will bring you bad luck.”

With more force than he would have allowed himself normally, Lan Xichen pulled his wrist free and glared at his father.

“I might regret it,” he conceded. “I also might not. Right now, I think it is the right thing to do. And didn’t Yu-furen say that she checked, that today is the most auspicious day possible for a wedding?”

“Yu Ziyuan is not kind enough to help others so easily. If she’s doing this, then she must have reasons of her own.”

Lan Xichen almost smiled, remembering Yu Ziyuan stating that her motivation wasn't kindness indeed, and more of a personal dislike against Qingheng-Jun. Growing up, Lan Xichen had sometimes felt guilty for holding a grudge against his absent father. There was a certain comfort to be found in discovering that others disliked him as well.

“I don’t think you have any right to judge others’ motivations, father,” Lan Xichen calmly retorted. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for my wedding. My husband is waiting.”

“Don’t come crying to me when this goes wrong!” Qingheng-Jun warned.

Lan Xichen stared at him in shock. Then, too exhausted to keep himself in check, he laughed.

“Not once in my life have I ever looked to you for comfort. Why would I start now?”

Before his father could scold him for being insolent and unfilial, Lan Xichen left. He had better things to worry about than his father's offended pride.

After all, it was his wedding day. 

[wellhalesbells]

fic help

i recently finished a fic project that got well out of hand and i’m having trouble jumping to my next.  since this last wasn’t sterek, or even tw, i would very much like to scarper back there but i cannot seem to settle on a project that does it for me (or, well, they kind of all do it for me, hence the problem).  

if you have the time and inclination and want to help me choose, i would very much appreciate it!

1. 

He opens his eyes to sharp sunlight, rays that’ve had time to hone themselves, coalesce, and start stabbing at strategic places in the apartment.  Like the backs of Derek’s eyelids.  The comforter around him is rumpled up, bunched in places from a restless sleeper.  Which he isn’t.  He frowns before it comes back to him.

Laura’s bed.

Stiles.

He’d woken up earlier in the pitch black with Stiles’ forehead pressed into the valley between his shoulder blades, breath a warm and reliable puff through his thin t-shirt, his hand clenched on the hill of Derek’s bicep, snagging him, pulling him back against him.

Derek hadn’t brushed him off.  Though it had given him a moment’s pause, strange without the swell of breasts between them, fingers digging and pulling him close to an unmistakably masculine chest.  But only a moment’s; he’d been asleep again minutes later.

He scrubs at the rough brillo on his jaw, the scent of coffee finally breaking through the haze of exhaustion.  He swings his legs out, toes flexing on the warm floorboards, and squints out the window at the brilliant day.  “Rain finally stopped,” he says, voice scratchy and breath foul.

[notes: a total au set in new york. laura’s been murdered and stiles was laura and derek’s emissary, though never that close to the grumpy younger brother. now they have to work together to find out who killed her, while coming to terms with the fact that the piece that made them work is gone.]

2.

“You’re letting demons possess you.”  It should come out scolding, furious, but Derek is too numb from the revelation.  Too willing to be wrong, to believe he’s misunderstood Stiles’ meaning.

Stiles squints, that slow roll and stretch of his muscles shifting his weight, clenching and unclenching his fingers on his forearms, an absentminded exploration of his regular capabilities now he was back in control of them.  “Can we really call it a ‘possession’ when I’m calling more shots than they do?  I advertise like an Air BnB and run the place like Alcatraz.  If I enjoy the power bump of my fire rose, well, isn’t that just a reward for doing the dirty work?  It’s all win-win on this side of the negotiating table.”

[notes: this is wholly because of the exchange between stiles and a recently met liam in canon, when stiles explains he was possessed by an evil spirit, and liam asks, “what are you now?” and stiles says, “better,” instead of ‘human.’ and i had a ‘well, well, welllll’ moment.]

3.

After a week or so, his mail’s transmuted from warm air and a spattering of dirt into a flyer for a pizza place roughly five miles away and an offer for a credit card.  He walks back up, the stairs offering a little less protestation, papers gripped tight in his hand and slips through the half-open door, rolling it closed behind him.

The heartbeat that knocks against his eardrums is sudden and unbalancing.

His head whips up, fangs dropping.

“Total cry for help, didn’t need a warrant.”  Gloved hands with bare fingers walk up the underside of a dried, brown leaf and the sick-sweet scent of decay slides into one of freshness and health.  The fern blossoms above the scratch of blunt fingernails along spidery veins.  Green belches out, overflows from the small clay pot.

[notes: um, definitely a derek returning to beacon hills fic and an uber powerful stiles, beyond that... ??? but i can make it a thing, heh ;)]

4.

Stiles rubs the pads of his fingers together, wiping the sticky residue off on his jeans.  Goes back in with his teeth.  A piece of electrical tape from the handle of his bat tears away.  It’s lost some of its adhesive but it’ll work for his purposes.  He catches the call before the last of ‘Good Old Days’ can fade out.

“‘Sup, Growls?”

A disappointed whuff of breath greets him.  “Your camera’s blocked because—?”  Scott cuts him off before he can even attempt a reply.  “Injured, lying, or underground?”

“You know one day I’ll score that entire trifecta and then?  Then I’m going to Disney World.”  Scott doesn’t bite and Stiles sighs.  “Busted it chasing those lady-hyena-things.  On the upside, I’m only one phone away from filling up my punch card.”

[notes: a harder, living-away-from-beacon-hills-after-he-and-derek-broke-up stiles in this and hunting down supes on his own, because he’s reckless and terrifying and an emotional landmine waiting to explode.]

5.

“No.  No, no.  Hey, no.  I see what you’re doing over there and I don’t ap—”  The stack of books leans too far and cascades down the front of the dresser, hits his floor, and explodes in every direction.  “What did I just say?”

His door whaps open, knob meet wall, and Scott stands there with a baking sheet held aloft in his hands.  “We don’t have renter’s insurance,” he offers, swinging it wildly in front of him.

“You say that as you put a knob-sized hole in my wall?”

Scott opens his eyes, which he’s scrunched closed as he pendulumed the baking supplies around.  He frowns at the flung door.  His stance goes from ‘making cookies my bitch’ to ‘depressed egg.’  “In my defense, I assumed we were being robbed.”

Stiles pats his head now that the baking sheet is no longer a weapon.  “And you also thought the robber would be compassionate enough not to rob us if he knew we don’t have renter’s insurance.”

[notes: i have literally no clue, i don’t remember the impetus for this AT ALL but i could definitely work with it, lol.]

6.

Stiles had finally arrived home for the holiday break, two days after he’d initially promised and with a half-hearted, what-can-you-do sort of shrug that offered little by way of explanation or excuse, and he’d flung himself out of the Jeep with his arms uncovered.  Derek had frowned hard seeing it for the first time.

He’s still frowning now.

Galaxy black ink bands both of Stiles’ wrists like delicate bracelets and creeps up his forearms in curving, flowing lines that vary in size and width.  It might look something like seaweed dancing in an underwater current if not for the fact that, well — Derek glances down at his own bare forearms —

If not for the fact that it looks like pain.  Pain the way he knows it, secondhand and agonizing.  Pain that is tarry black anguish glutting his veins and poisoning his blood.

He’s not going to analyze why Stiles would choose to etch that into his skin.

Mostly because he doesn’t need to.

Derek knows what the nogitsune did to him, and he knows Stiles hasn’t come close to putting that behind him, or done much to try to.

[notes: long after stiles has contented himself with being the token human of the pack, his spark manifests, unfortunately not... well and doubly unfortunately, long after deaton has left town. scott will only accept one emissary now so stiles has to try to figure out how to properly become one.  it’s not going well, and not only because no one can seem to figure out why his spark ‘works’ the way it does but also because, after the nogitsune, power hardly rests easy on stiles’ shoulders.]

7.

It’s really fucking with his head how much Derek’s whole creature-of-the-night thing isn’t jiving with his sleeping-until-noon existence.

And it’s not just that Derek can’t seem to grasp that Stiles’ skin is a living record.  That when there’s the clear afterimage of a mouth on his neck, he and his dad have to valiantly pretend neither one of them notice it for the next week.  It’s not just that though.  It’s also—

Stiles has secrets.  He likes them.  Collects them.  It’s a comfort thing, a control thing maybe.  Sometimes they’re big, sometimes they’re not, but they’re always his.   Theories, actions, thoughts, things of his own that will only ever be his.  

Except.

Except he doesn’t have secrets, not anymore, not around a fucking werewolf.  Derek can smell them through his pores, hear him chasing them down from across a crowded room, cock his head and listen to the lie in his pulse.  There’s nothing sacred anymore, nothing private, and Stiles can’t anymore.

[notes: okay, it’s just... i never see this? and, being honest, i could not date a friggin’ werewolf. i’m not even a secret person as much as i just enjoy being alone and you would have to make sustained EFFORT to be alone - you’d have to go farther, mask whatever you did if you didn’t want it known, have someone who wouldn’t ask why or what you were doing (which is just like when people ask me NOW what i’m doing and i don’t want to say ‘writing explicit gay sex, thanks for asking, mom’).  i’m not on board. i could totes see stiles not being on board and, of course, he’d rather magic a ‘solution’ than have a conversation, my dumb little dummy. this one would definitely need the most work since i would probably rewrite everything i’ve already got, it just doesn’t... gel well.]

[laws-yellow-submarine]

Can you do a scenario for Law realizes he's in love with a female pirate that everytime Law goes and talk to her he messes up or embarrass himself. His crew, the straw hats, white beard and red hair shanks crew knows about this and tries to help him but makes it worse (like giving him wrong ideas etc.) But in the end they find out she feels the same way. Law finally gets to be with her, also add a rough NSFW please

Hellooooo!~ Thank you for waiting for this one! I ended up kinda getting away from the original request, I think, and I left out the Whitebeard and Red Haired pirates (I just couldn’t figure out how to fit them in there), but it just kept going and going and eventually I had this super long monstrosity haha but it’s still pretty close to what you requested, so I hope you enjoy it! I worked really hard on it! 😁

He hadn’t expected to see her again.

It would’ve been easier if he hadn’t.

Instead, Law now had to deal with being in close proximity with someone who made him...feel things. As if being stuck on an island with the absolutely insane Straw Hat Pirates wasn’t enough. 

Still, he figured he could do a decent job of avoiding all of them, and promptly gave the order to his crew that he was not to be disturbed, and then shut himself in the infirmary of the Polar Tang until further notice.

That only worked for about three hours.

Law was just cleaning up from one of his many planned experiments for that weekend when the unmistakable sound of FLIP FLOP FLIP FLOP came sounding down the hall. He groaned, head in his hands, as Straw Hat’s shout of “TORAO!! COME OUT HERE! WHATCHA HIDING FOR?!” came through the door, accompanied by a flurry of harsh knocks. His crew were gonna get it.

“Ah! There you are! Come on, Torao, you gotta check this place out! There’s so many other pirates here, and there’s FOOD!!” Law sighed as he let Luffy drag him back outside, noting Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo standing nearby, looking away from him, whistling into the air.

Traitors.

Luffy continued to rattle things off about their location, not that Law was listening. He was, unfortunately, used to this by now and knew fighting it was futile. As long as they steered clear of her, he could handle it.

Fate obviously hated him.

As Luffy pulled him to the feast he’d mentioned, Law’s eyes locked on a familiar female pirate, his gut immediately doing flip flops in a way that made him sick, and he hated it. But he was too late to pretend he hadn’t noticed her because there she was, waving at him with a small smile on her face that did nothing to stop the heat creeping over Law’s entire body. Instead of responding, he jerked his face away from her, looking instead at the group Luffy had pulled him to.

Ever since their alliance, the Straw Hats and the Heart Pirates had gotten along rather well; and despite Law’s statements that he did not consider them friends, everyone knew it wasn’t true; including him. Not that that ever stopped him from denying it. Loudly. Finally pulling his arm free from the other captain’s grasp, Law angrily sat amongst the group, remaining stoic despite the friendly chatter surrounding him.

On occasion he’d glance up, catching glances of her here and there, unable to help himself. Something about the way she was with her own crew, laughing and joking, kept him transfixed, even to the point that he failed to realize his present company had noticed where his attention was. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Law saw Luffy’s face stretched into an impossible grin, snickering in his direction. Raising a brow, Law leaned back to get away from the rubbery man, noticing the rest of the Straw Hats giving him some strangely amused looks.

“What?” He barked out. Luffy snickered some more.

“You like her don’t ya, Torao? You keep looking over there!” Great. Even Luffy of all people noticed. This was getting out of hand.

“Of course not, you idiot!” Law ground out, pushing Luffy away, ignoring the laughter coming from the people around him. He felt his face start to heat up, wishing he’d locked the door to the submarine earlier so he wouldn’t be in this mess right now.

“Hmhmhm Torao-kun, you should go talk to her,” Nico Robin told him with a soft smile, drawing agreement from the rest of her crew, as well as his own.

“Yeah, Captain! Go get laid!” Came Shachi’s voice beside him, before Penguin smacked his head into the floor snapping “idiot!” Law rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the migraine that was forming.

“No,” he said, leaving no room for argument. 

The Straw Hats apparently didn’t realize that.

“Ahh need help, eh? Well, as a woman I’ll help you out, but it’ll cost you!” Nami told him, eyes mysteriously shaped like Beli signs. “I’ll even give you a discount! How’s 300,000 Beli sound?”

“No!” He said, a little more forcefully this time.

“Hm, Torao, you should woo the lady with a home cooked meal! No better way to reach a lady’s heart,” Sanji advised, though his eyes were on said lady, who somehow hadn’t overheard any of this yet despite them making no efforts to be quiet about it. The Heart Pirates burst out laughing.

“Haha! Cap can’t cook! He’d kill the poor thing!” Law glared at them, devising some new punishment for when they set sail again to get back at his friends for their teasing.

“THEN I SHALL WOO THE LADY MYSELF!” Sanji yelled, eyes forming into full hearts as he swooned around their group. Law found himself wishing the floor would swallow him whole. This was the last time he ever hung out with anyone. Ever.

“Noooo! Just give her meat, Torao! Everybody likes meat!”

“That doesn’t work on everybody, idiot!”

“I’ll go over and talk you up, Torao! No one can resist a story by me, ‘brave warrior of the sea’, Usopp!”

“She’s SUPER cute, definitely go talk to her!”

“Captain, do you think she knows any female bears?”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE CONCERNED ABOUT?!”

“Ask to see her pant-AHH!” 

“STOP ASKING PEOPLE THAT!!”

With each new sentence thrown at him, Law could feel his headache grow, his brows twitching in annoyance until finally he couldn’t stop himself from standing up and shouting, “I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP!”

“Help with what?” Came an innocent voice from behind him. Law felt the color drain from his face as he turned around to see her standing there, eyes shining up at him with curiosity. He stood there staring at her, not sure if there was anything he could say that would make this situation easier on him. 

He was going to kill every single one of them.

“Ok then,” she laughed when he didn’t answer her. “Trafalgar Law, right? I believe we’ve met before?”

He gulped, once again contemplating the possibility of the floor becoming very hungry for vaguely Trafalgar-Law-Shaped things, but unfortunately that didn’t seem to be happening any time soon. “I don’t keep track of everyone I come across.” He said rather bluntly, pleased that no matter how much of a mess he was on the inside, that didn’t reflect in his words.

“Well if it jogs your memory, you ended up getting us out of a bind with some Marines quite a ways back. Pretty sure it was on accident, but thanks nonetheless. Of course, you also took something of my captain’s, so I should be gutting you where you stand right now.”

He, of course, remembered the entire interaction. Both pirate crews had come across a rather large Marine warship, though by the time Law got there, her ship was about to be boarded. He was still on his way to becoming a Warlord at the time, and so used the opportunity to dispatch the Marines and take the captain’s heart, adding it to his collection until he could turn them in for the Warlord’s open spot. She’d tried to fight him for it, at the time, challenging him for her captain, and crew’s, honor. He’d merely gone back to his sub and left, using his devil fruit for a quick getaway, but she’d left an impression that he couldn’t get out of his head. Things would’ve been easier if they’d never crossed paths again, he thought, but even after all this time his infatuation with her had only grown. It didn’t help that he’d poured over her wanted posters as they popped up in the newspapers, but it seemed like no matter what he did, she wouldn’t leave his head, nor would those sparkling eyes of hers daring him to take her on, despite having known who he was.

He didn’t tell her any of this of course, the floor wasn’t quite ready to eat him alive just yet. 

“So why aren’t you?” He asked instead, genuinely curious though trying not to let that on. A fight with her would be a shame.

“Eh, he was a shitty captain,” She said rather nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders as if it was a fact. He had to agree to some extent; from what he remembered, her captain had all but handed his heart over himself. “Got someone much better in charge now.”

“Then you’re doubly welcome,” Law said, ignoring the many eyes piercing his back as they watched them talk. He was surprised at how easy this was so far, but he still didn’t want to do this with them all watching.

Not that he really planned on continuing the conversation at this point. He figured they were done.

“Hey, you wanna go for a walk or something? You seem like you could use some air,” She offered, expression completely innocent, though he was floored that she could read him that well after only brief meetings. He could still feel the others’ eyes burning holes in his back, could practically hear them urging him on; so Law gave a great sigh as if it was a huge inconvenience to him, and nodded, following her away from the crowd.

Once away from the group, he found it was actually easy to be near her. They didn’t talk, merely walked in companionable silence, exploring the area that was apparently very popular for pirates. 

“You know, I saw you looking at me before,” she said, causing his breath to hitch just ever so slightly in alarm at having been caught. Dammit.

“I was looking at everyone. Better to assess a situation before any shit hits the fan.”

“See, I’d believe you if you hadn’t kept looking at me,” she laughed, not seeming at all upset by it. He raised a brow at her, trying to figure out what game she was playing. She just continued to stare back at him with those eyes that made heat flush through his body. “It’s ok, you know. I was looking at you too.”

That actually made him pause, staring at her as he short-circuited, unsure how to proceed. Oh sure, he’d slept with plenty of people in the past, but he’d never felt anything for them. If all he wanted to do was “get laid”, as Shachi put it, this would’ve been no sweat. 

Damn feelings, making everything so complicated.

“Were you looking to try challenging me again?”

“Ha! I knew you remembered me!” Fuck, he’d slipped up. He could no longer call himself neutral in this. He stood rooted to the spot as he tried to come up with a response that wouldn’t give himself away completely. “But no, I just thought you were pretty cute.”

“Cute?!” She nearly collapsed in a fit of giggles, leaning against a tree for support. Law regarded her for a moment, trying to decide if she was telling the truth or if this was all some weird trick to get back at him for taking her captain’s heart. He stepped closer to her; before she realized it he’d trapped her against the tree, leaving no room for escape. She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes smoldering in a way that mirrored his own expression. “Cute, hm, Name-ya?”

She smirked, “You even know my name, hm?” Law didn’t respond, instead capturing her lips with his own as he pinned her against the tree, her hands reaching around his neck to settle in his dark hair. Her touch on his skin was electric, sending shocks through him at every tug at his scalp; his own hands grasped at her hips, touching the bare skin under her shirt and sending shivers down her spine. He waited a moment for her to protest, and when she didn’t he slid his hands higher, cupping her breasts through her bra under her shirt.

He slid one hand under the bra, kneading the flesh there and eliciting delicious moans from the girl in front of him, while his other hand travelled to the front of her pants, playing with the button and zipper for a second before slipping his hand down the front of her jeans. He smirked against her lips as she gasped, bucking against his hand as he reached between her legs, playing with the sensitive skin there. Law moved his head, kissing under her jaw down to her shoulder, relishing in the sounds she was making, glad that they’d moved far enough away from everyone that no one could hear what was going on. 

He groaned as he felt one of her hands brush against the outside of his jeans, having grown hard before he even realized it. His body wanted her touch, craved it like he hadn’t craved another person before, but he didn’t want to rush through this. His hands slid away from her body, causing a small, but arousing, whine to fall from her lips as he grasped her shoulders, spinning her around and pressing her against the tree once more. 

Law pulled her jeans down around her thighs, just enough for him to get a good view of her ass, before resuming his ministrations from before; one hand on her breast, the other between her legs, as he pressed his clothed erection against her behind. At this point, all she could do was hold herself up, her legs trembling as he worked her near climax. As her moans grew in pitch, slowly turning into cries of pleasure, he slowed, causing her to rock her hips against his hand in hopes of keeping the same pace he’d had. Instead, he pulled away, peeling his jacket off and laying it on the ground, then pulling his jeans open, allowing his member free as she turned around to face him again.

Her cheeks were a gorgeous shade of red, her eyes glazed over in lust despite him having cut her off before orgasm. He gave her another searing kiss, guiding her to her knees to kneel in front of him on his jacket. She didn’t need any further instruction, taking him fully into her mouth almost immediately, to his surprise. His hands wound into her hair, pulling her head back in a way that let him control the pace for now. She looked him straight in the eye as he did so, causing his arousal to grow even more. A quick glance over her body showed him something he didn’t expect: she was touching herself while she sucked him off, apparently still peeved that he hadn’t finished what he’d started yet. 

That wouldn’t do.

He pulled her off him, surprising her at how sudden it was, then flipped her around before grabbing a condom from his pocket, though not putting it on yet. He pushed her down by the shoulders, keeping her on her knees as he knelt by her, teasing her clit once again with his fingers. She rocked against his hand, all but begging for release, but he wasn’t quite ready to give it to her yet.

“Patience, Name-ya,” Law said, smirking against her hip as he lay kisses along her skin, nearing her clit but not close enough.

“Oh fuck you,” she whimpered, eliciting a low chuckle from him as he kissed her inner thigh, causing her to bite her lip.

“How bad do you want it, Name-ya?” He drew his tongue over her clit, to her opening, in one slow, agonizing stroke, cause her to clench up and let out a whine that almost made him give up control right then and there. He wanted to taste more of her.

“Please, oh please,” she begged easily. “I want it so bad. Please just make me cum.” He groaned, not expecting such an earnest request, but more than happy to oblige. Law lapped at her pussy a few more times, savoring every sound she made, before leaning back to put the condom on. He knelt behind her, teasing her with his cock for only a moment before entering swiftly and easily, letting out a satisfied sigh at the feeling.

Law began slow at first, letting her get used to him, then picked up the pace as he drove into her, pushing her face into the fabric of his coat, muffling every cry she made. Which was probably just as well, as he wanted to avoid anyone walking in on this. He knew they both were close, and it wasn’t long before he felt her walls clench around him. He leaned forward, mouth at her shoulder as he thrust only a few more times and came himself, groaning into her skin, their sweat mixing as they lay against each other, panting for breath.

He pulled out of her with a deep breath, suddenly exhausted. They got redressed in silence, not even looking at each other until Law couldn’t find his hat. Turning towards her, he found it in her hands, but what was more surprising was the smile on her face. It was...shy, almost embarrassed, and he worried what that meant about what just occurred.

“Here,” She said, handing his hat to him. “Umm, this is probably going to sound stupid but...I’d like to see you again. Not just to do that, though that was enjoyable, but...I dunno, I’d like to spend time with you. If that’s ok. I totally understand if not.” She wouldn’t look at him, and his eyes widened at what she was saying.

“...I’d like that,” He was more surprised that he meant it. 

It may not be how normal relationships started out, but he supposed, he wasn’t exactly normal.

“Definitely cute,” he heard her giggle beside him. Law smirked, kissing her one last time to shut her up, before they headed back to their respective crews.

[besidemethewholedamntime]

most sane and sunly 

Happy New Year @recoveringrabbit ! It’s me, Rebecca, your secret santa! This is very belated but Merry Christmas! I had a lot of fun writing your gift and I hope it’s alright. Your prompt was beautiful and gave me so any ideas and in the end I went with this one. I hope 2019 brings you all the best for a wonderful bean like you! Thank you! 

Summary:

'“Fitz?” She calls, heart in her throat. Disappointment at this stage would kill her, surely. “Is that you?”

“Who else would it bloody be?” He shouts, but then grins and it’s like the sunshine has come early but of course it hasn’t, for when she runs out to meet him she can still feel the raindrops on her face, only she doesn’t care.'

Sometimes it takes a little while for the things we love to come home, but eventually they always do. A historical au for the lovely bean that is @recoveringrabbit for the secret santa gift exchange!

{Read on Ao3}

or you can read it below if you don’t wish to on Ao3!

It’s raining.

Jemma’s noticed that, lately, it always seems to be raining on a Tuesday. It starts around nine in the morning with a  light drizzle, progressing to full on torrential downpour by lunch. After that it’s a steady downpour until around three, where, quite suddenly, the water seems to stop, like somebody has turned off a tap, and the most brilliant sunshine fills the sky. Of course, by then, everything is wet and nobody wants to go outside and it’s far too late in the day to accomplish anything meaningful but all the same Jemma finds it quite beautiful.

She is waiting for the sunshine when he comes back. An empty bandstand stands in the centre of the park, and provides adequate shelter even during the worst of downpours. It’s peaceful here, nobody wanting to be outside during the horrendous weather, and so during the drizzle she makes her way out here with her book and notebooks and textbooks and stays until the late afternoon sunshine makes it so she can go home. The war has left her without a job and eager to return to her studies, though many disapproving of that choice. The peace afforded to her on these wonderfully rainy Tuesdays are something she does not take for granted.

At first she doesn’t see it’s him. It’s September, for a start. Many who are going to return have already done so, and those too wounded have not been prophesied to return for a good while yet. She hasn’t heard from him, is another thing. The last letter was almost six months ago, the last time she laid eyes on her best friend was over a year ago. Every day since victory was announced she has held onto hope that he will contact her in some way or another but months have passed and every day, quite without meaning to, she feels the hope grow looser on her fingers and she is so desperately afraid that one day it’ll slip away forever.

“Jemma?”

The voice seems to be her imagination at first, the result of many lonely hours sitting on this uncomfortably hard seat. There can’t be anybody out here in this rain. Only a fool like her would venture out into it. Sighing, Jemma moves her neck from side to side without looking up and goes back to reading.

“Jemma? Is that you?”

Surely she can’t be this tired. True, she didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, but not so little that it would warrant imagining this much. She shakes her head and picks up something new from her pile. Perhaps a different sort of stimulation is the answer.

“Bloody hell, it’s tipping it down. Jemma Anne Simmons!”

Now that voice and that special kind of grumpiness she would know anywhere and her head snaps up at the familiar sound she hasn’t heard in so long. It can’t be… but it is. A lone figure in Army greens, walking with a slight limp, with longer hair and a beard she doesn’t remember is coming towards her and she squints to make doubly sure through the rain.

“Fitz?” She calls, heart in her throat. Disappointment at this stage would kill her, surely. “Is that you?”

“Who else would it bloody be?” He shouts, but then grins and it’s like the sunshine has come early but of course it hasn’t, for when she runs out to meet him she can still feel the raindrops on her face, only she doesn’t care. How could she, when her best-friend is back from what she was almost sure was the dead?

“Fitz!” She exclaims, throwing her arms around him, mindful of the force she exerts on his body. “You’re back. You’re properly back.”

“’Course I am.” Except his voice wavers a little bit and it sounds like there was a time when he wasn’t quite sure he would be. His arms come around her, so sure and strong, and he presses a kiss on the top of her hair. “I’ve missed you, Jemma.”

“Not as much as I’ve missed you,” she mumbles into his shoulder, not caring that there are tears in her eyes and most likely snot on his uniform. It’s not like he’ll need it anymore. She pulls back, shakily wiping her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re home. Just out of the blue like this!”

He smiles nervously, letting go of her to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, me neither, if I’m honest. Wasn’t expecting to get away this quick.”

A downward glance at his leg and she remembers suddenly what she noticed moments ago. “Oh, Fitz, your leg! What happened?”

A laugh that’s not quite a laugh at all. “A bit of a long story, that one.” He looks past her to the bandstand. “Do you mind if we sit down? It gets a bit sore if I stand for too long.”

Jemma suddenly realises that it’s still raining torrentially and she is only in her lightest of jackets and, by now, is soaked something terribly. Her hair is plastered to her face and she has to swipe it away in order to continue to marvel at Fitz. “Of course. Here, I’ll help you.” And offers her arm, which he accepts with a grateful smile. The weight he exerts, she notices, is considerably lighter than what it would have been the last time she saw him. Casting a critical eye, Jemma takes in his hollow cheeks and papery eyelids, but says nothing.

Once under shelter she shrugs off her jacket and gives it to Fitz to sit on. At his doubtful look she points to the cushion that she brought for herself. Fitz only laughs and shakes his head, before shuffling onto it. Jemma recognises the look if relief on his face; the benches do not provide the most comfortable place to sit.

“Thought of everything, I see,” Fitz comments, stretching out his bad leg.

“I’m studying. My grandmother doesn’t approve and neither do many of her friends that always seem to be visiting so I come here to get some peace and quiet.”

Fitz nods with approval. “Good,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You’re too smart not to go to university.”

It’s almost embarrassing, but she hasn’t had encouragement in so long that tears begin to burn her eyes. She pretends to sift through her books so he won’t see. “I suppose we shall see about that. Working as a nurse for the past few years has made me rather rusty, I’m afraid.”

Not that she regrets it, of course. Tending to the wounded brought to the countryside to convalesce is not something to be regretted. Oh, how many things she has learned and taken from the experience. The importance of the simple things: a good cup of tea, the smell of the rain, a kind word and a hand to hold. All the same, it’s put her plans for university on hold for considerably longer than Jemma previously thought they would be.

“Jemma Simmons being rusty? Nah, I don’t believe it,” Fitz teases her, a familiar glint in his eyes. Something in Jemma’s heart settles into place. Something comes home.

“You should.” She smiles ruefully, but then shifts the conversation away from her, uncomfortable with the spotlight. “So, tell me all of it.”

An uneasy look comes across Fitz’s face. The light goes out of his eyes. “Not much to tell.” Even his voice is different, sounding shrouded, hiding something underneath.

“Oh, come off it. I haven’t heard from you in almost six months. Surely things have happened.”

“Well, yeah, things have happened, Jemma; there was a war on. Doesn’t mean you want to hear about it.”

This is when she knows he simply has to tell her, otherwise whatever it is will eat away at him for years and years to come. She shuffles closer, rests a hand on his knee.

“You’re my best friend, Fitz,” she tells him, quite quietly but ever so matter-of-factly. “I want to hear about everything.”

He looks grateful and with a deep breath and his hand griping hers, he begins to tell his story.

Once, when Jemma was a child and beginning her everlasting phase of curiosity, her mother had warned her that there were some questions you didn’t want to hear the answer to. There are some things you can’t unhear, Jemma, her mother had told her sternly. Some things you’ll hear and they’ll rattle about your head for years. One day you’ll learn that there are things you’re better off not knowing.

It had made no sense, because even with answers you didn’t want, you still had more pieces of the puzzle and could make more sense of the world with the whole truth. It had never made sense, until just now. Fitz’s shaky breath and choked voice surrounding the words that he speaks are almost too much, and Jemma’s horrified to find that, if she didn’t love him the way she does, she would have to ask him to stop.

For he tells her about the things he’s seen, the horrors he’s witnessed. He tells her of the emaciated refugees with paper skin and empty eyes. He tells her of the fellow soldiers, his brothers in arms, that were one moment beside him laughing and the next quite still and broken on the ground. He tells her of the explosion, of the burning oil and the flying shrapnel that seemed to come from everywhere, and of the painful months that follows where there was nothing he wanted more in the world than just to sleep forevermore.

And after there’s nothing she can say except, “You came back.” And how she wishes she was brave enough to add to me.

Fitz nods, running a hand under his eyes. “Came back.” Then he digs around in his inside breast pocket and produces something that Jemma cannot yet see. “Brought this, too.” He unfurls his fingers to produce a ring.

It’s nothing special. A simple silver band with the tiniest of stones set a little off-centre into the metal. There’s no sunshine yet, for it’s not quite late enough, but it sparkles absolutely magnificently.

“A ring,” she mumbles, though more to herself than to him. At first it doesn’t quite click, because why would it? They’ve been friends for as long as she can remember, done everything they could together. They’ve been through it all – even a war for goodness sake. Why on Earth would she assume he would want anything more?

And then she thinks and softly goes oh and realises that she’s answered her own question.

“I know it’s a bit quick,” Fitz says quite breathily, “and it’s nothing special. But the thing is, it’s been in my pocket for the last three years and I thought it was about time to give it to you.”

Jemma disagrees; she thinks it’s the most special thing that she could ever lay eyes on. With wide eyes, too afraid to touch it yet, she says, “You mean you’ve taken it everywhere?”

“Everywhere.” He coughs, runs his other hand through his hair. “I’ve wanted to give it to you for a while but I… I didn’t want you to be promised to a ghost.”

With teary eyes she looks up at him. There’s no word in her extensive vocabulary, nothing that could ever help put name to this feeling in her heart. “I um, I suppose that makes sense.”

He laughs a little, as if to say of course. “It’s lucky, really. I wanted to take care of the bloody thing ‘cause I was scared I’d lose it so I was extra careful.” His voice goes quiet for a second. “Got a lot to thank it for.” Then back to the way it was before. “I thought I lost it at the hospital there; they take all your personal stuff out of your uniform and it was in this torn bit of lining in my pocket but…” He stops, a little bit breathless, like he can’t believe it. “It was still here.”

Jemma, somehow, feels this relief, too. “Well, thank goodness for that.”

Fitz’s head snaps up; she’s rather surprised it doesn’t pop. “Really?”

“Yes.” She feels a smile grow of its own accord. “It would have.”

It would have been a shame, but the greater one would have been if he had never returned at all. Not a shame, but devastating in a way that would not be recoverable. A ring is something appreciated and adored but not essential. Not like Fitz.

While he has carried this ring to keep him going, she has only carried the memory of him, and constantly wondered if this is all she would have for the rest of her life.

“So,” he ventures, licking his lips nervously. She wonders what kissing him will be like. “Does that mean that you’ll marry me?”

Right now she feels as though she is floating; suddenly there is no uncomfortable bench beneath her cushion and her feet are not sinking into soggy soles. There is nothing except love love love all around.

However, she is still Jemma Simmons. Still logical and practical. Still knows what’s expected, after all.

“There’s nothing I would love more but, oh, Fitz, we’ve never even been to the dancing.”

They’ve been to the pictures and they’ve strolled in the park, and taken picnics at the beach; everything one would do with a significant other they intended to marry. They’ve just never been to the dancing at the town hall on a Friday night. She’s never spun with him, watching the rest of the room fade away, making it seem as though they’re the only two that could ever be.

It’s not important to her, not really. It’s what her grandmother would expect, and his mother, and all of those adults that have made it their business to have a say in what they do with their (quite grownup) lives. Though she tries not to, there’s still a small part of her that does indeed care of what they will think of an engagement quite sprung on them out of the blue, even if it is to their dear Fitz.

(Though, there’s also a part of her that thinks her grandmother will be quite relieved she is marrying anybody, for with Jemma insisting on going back to university, she had been worried that nobody would be able to deal with a girl much more qualified than they.)

“Oh, um, no,” Fitz begins slowly, looking down at his leg. “Don’t suppose we have been dancing, actually.”

She feels truly terrible, her heart sinking into her stomach like a lead weight. Putting her hands on either side of his face, resting her forehead on his, she tries to convey how sorry she is, the truth in her next words. “It doesn’t mater. I do not care. About any of it.”

“You deserve it, though.” Eyes closed, he breathes deeply; she rejoices in the warm air she feels over her face. Opens his eyes with fire int the blue. “We’ll go, we’ll dance.”

His determination stirs up such feelings of fondness she wonders how she’s never noticed it for all these years. For it’s always been there – these feelings are not new. They are as familiar to her as breathing, have been as reliable and sure like a heartbeat, rarely noticed but always giving life in the background.

“Alright.” She nods. “We shall go dancing.”

He grins. “You just uh, might need to carry me.”

“Oh, Fitz,” she laughs, closing her eyes to keep the tears gathering inside. “Always.”

He fumbles with the ring, and she cottons on that it’s supposed to go on her finger. It slides on without the least bit of resistance, just as she knew it would.

And finally, finally, it’s time to kiss him and it’s nothing like she thought it would be but that’s alright. It’s wonderful and fantastic and more.

“We’re getting married,” she tells him, giggling in a way that she only reserves for the most special of occasions.

Fitz, for his part, still looks a little shocked by it. “I suppose we are.”

There’s warmth on her face, and Jemma realises it doesn’t only come from within; the sun has come out early. She begins to gather up all of her things. Fitz takes a few minutes and rolls his leg from side to side but stands up and begins to help.

“Well, where to first?” He asks her, looking at her textbooks. “Soon to be Dr Jemma Simmons?”

“Dr Fitzsimmons,” she corrects, enjoying the immediate grin it produces. “I suppose we should get you to your mum – she’ll be ever so glad to see you.”

Glad is perhaps an understatement, for his mother is a woman who does not do things by halves. Jemma hopes she notices his leg before giving him a hug that will turn his bones to crumbs.

"I meant it, you know," she says suddenly, a desperate ache of need making itself known in her chest. Her callous comment has left her feeling empty. "That I would carry you. In all manners. Forever."

"Oh, Jemma." His voice is like honey - sweet and smooth and exactly right. It fills her and she is so glad in the sensation that it takes a second before she fully knows that it's love. "I know. Just like I hope you know that I'd carry you, too."

She presses a kiss to his cheek. "We'll carry each other." And she knows they will. They will carry each other the way they truly always have done. In their hands and in their minds and in their hearts until the time comes where there shall be no need for it because their bones shall be laid to rest in such a way that it will be impossible for them to become separated.

His mother lives a little outside of Perth, and so they begin to walk, arm in arm, to the bus stop. The raindrops make everything glisten in the surprisingly warm Summer sunshine. To Jemma, the world feels as bright and new as it ever could. Oh, how she cannot wait for their next adventure.

“It’ll be nice,” she tells him, feeling like she could float away, “just a fifteen minute bus journey and then you’ll be home.”

He laughs and she turns to him, expecting to see some sort of mocking look on his face. Instead there is only love and there’s only tenderness in his voice when he tells her, “I already am.”

[vaultsexteen]

It was close to 5 in the morning right now, but it wasn’t like anyone could tell - Alaska was always dark as shit, doubly so when snowstorms blotted out the sky, and Skinny Dick’s eyes were so shot to hell that he had a tough time even when the sun was out. Which was why at Skinny Dick’s Inn, the lights always stayed on, 24/7; it was a beacon for any weary travelers going down the old highways leading up to Fairbanks, and it helped Dick not stumble into any of the stuffed animals when he wanted to go to the old outhouse to take a leak.

Now, as a bartender, he’d seen his fair share of folks who were down and out on their luck: mercs after a job gone bust, people with barely a cap to their name trying to stave off frostbite, that kind of thing. A lot of them came through Skinny Dick’s bar, and most of them got a room at the inn and went away by the next day, off to the next job - or the next bar, if they weren’t so lucky.

He’s been kind of wracking his brain with this latest one, though - a ghoul in a fancy brahmin-leather overcoat and gloves had come in, and she’d rented a room for a whole week. Usually, she’d go out, come back and buy a lot of the hard stuff, go to her room for the night, and return the bottles in the morning. After a few days, it looks like she opted to stay at the bar this time; in fact, she’d been at the bar all day, chatting up the other customers and even getting a bit friendly with a couple of them. Right now, as he was tidying up for the morning, she was sat at the far end of the bar nursing her sixth bottle of Skinny Dick’s Special Hooch, looking like she was gonna burn a hole in the cabin with nothing but her stare. He’d put a few plays on the jukebox, for his sake as much as hers - it was pretty hard to be sad to Let The Good Times Roll, after all.

Positioning himself behind the bar to take stock of whatever spirits he still had left, he figured that he might as well try to check up on the tenant. “Anything else I can get’cha?”

She shakes her head, and smirks. “Nah. You can take this one back,” she said, raising the now-empty bottle triumphantly.

A bottle of Special Hooch was enough to get a ghoul drunk, and six bottles were probably enough to give even a ghoul alcohol poisoning, but she’d gone through all of them like they were water and she didn’t seem any more wasted for it. Skinny Dick didn’t know whether to feel impressed, terrified, or just sad about that; he just nodded and took the bottle, then stashed it under the bar to take back to the still later.

Meanwhile, the tenant had taken out a small, colorful glass pipe and a lighter from her coat, and then lit the pipe. A smell that was something between rubbing alcohol and battery acid began to fill the air as she took a few puffs.

“What’s that, there?” he asked, mostly curious. No way in hell it could be tobacco, and if it was some kind of mutated strain of weed, it was really mutated.

The acid smoke formed a small cloud around her as she laughed. “Got the recipe from out west,” she says, “from a bunch of ghouls in… where was it?” She turns the pipe over, and smiles. “Mexico, I think. Yanks call it smooch.”

“Smells like an energy cell shit itself,” he chuckles. “Jesus, what’s in that?”

Her smile widens. “Hey, irradiated cave fungus and Abraxo can do wonders. You should try it for yourself,” she says, holding out the pipe.

Well, if Skinny Dick stands for anything, it’s that everything ought to be tried at least once. And if he drops dead, it’ll at least have been in the spirit of exploration - so he takes the pipe, takes a hit, and waits to become the first ghoul ever launched into space. It doesn’t happen, but he does feel a bit lighter, just like how he remembers how a reefer used to make him feel. Plenty impressive, he’ll give it that.

“Good, huh?” she says, looking the most at ease he’s ever seen her. “And there was only a drop of the stuff in that kindling. It’s plenty potent - so I wouldn’t recommend it for humans.” She takes the pipe back, and takes another puff. “Tends to turn ‘em into vegetables. Makes a killing in the ghoul market, though.”

He leans over the bar, the old wood creaking under his weight. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where anybody could get a dealer for that stuff, wouldja?” he whispers, though there’s no real need to. “A fella might be looking to buy some real soon.”

Her smile only grew bigger. “You lookin’ at ‘er.” She lets the pipe hang around her mouth as she extends a hand. “Chives Chen, independent trader, at your service.”

“Skinny Dick,” he says, taking her hand in his own, “owner and proprietor of Skinny Dick’s.”

“Committed to the brand.” Chives nods once. “I like that.” Pulling her hand away, she rests her elbows on the bar and cradles her head in her other hand. “Listen, Dick, can I talk to you on the level?”

He shrugs. “Shoot. We’re talkin’ now, right?”

“Right…” She sits up straight, and folds her hands like she’s playing poker, without the cards. “Listen, my company is interested in expanding our routes, see, and I heard from a little birdie that the Alaskan frontier might be in the market for some Brahma.”

“Y’ heard right. Always willing to trade for more meat around these parts.” He finds himself nodding along - so far, he likes the cut of her jib. “Not a lot of grazing ‘round here, see, and folks need all the grub they can get. Hard enough to keep everybody halfway fed in here, so I could use a steady line of beef.”

She raises her brows, then. “My good Dick,” she says, hint of a laugh tinting her voice, “I think you misunderstood me. I never said I was selling any meat.”

“What d’you got, then? Leather? Horns?” He pauses. “Glue...?”

“Keep going. Maybe you’ll even get it.”

“Don’t make me guess, ma’am,” he groans, throwing his hands up. “I feel like I’m on an episode of Red Tag, over here!” He can’t help but laugh at his own joke, even if there was no way in hell anyone would’ve cared about remembering old game shows.

She takes the pipe out of her mouth and takes a long drag - the smell of the weird smoke doesn’t really get any better with time, especially not when it was being blown in your face. “That was the one Johnny Collins hosted, right?”

“Right, right.” He takes out his own leather pouch of hand-rolled tobacco from his apron, and strikes a match. “Y’know, he’d say somethin’ like, ‘you’re it, America!’, and he’d ask people these fuckin’ impossible questions while they did these challenges…” He lights the cigarette, then takes a long, deep breath.

“Yeah, swimming through jello and trying to hit an apple on some guy’s head,” she adds, laughing. “You could win shit like, what, a voucher for one week’s worth of gas? A whole case of smokes?”

“If you were lucky, you could win a trip to Hawaii or something.” He takes an ashtray out from behind the bar, and taps some ash into it. “Say, you ever been there?”

Chives shakes her head. “Lots of places under the sun I ain’t been to yet, Dick, and that includes most of The Last Frontier.” She dumps out some acidic-smelling ash from her pipe onto the ashtray, and sighs. “I’ll cut right past the fat of it, man. I got a lot of people out in California who have a lot of jet to sell. You want in, or what?”

“...Oh,” he says, halfway into putting the cig near his lipless mouth, “oh, that was it.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “Yeah - nah. Not that I don’t like jet, but… look, you’re not gonna find much buyers for that ‘round here.” He takes a drag and adds, “Down south in Anchorage, though, I hear they eat jet for breakfast, so you might wanna take a look-see for your friends over there.” He taps his chin, then, as he struggles to remember something else. “Some other folks, too… damn, what was it called again? Psykerjet? Ah, I dunno exactly, but they like that shit.”

Chives doesn’t look disappointed by the news; in fact, there’s a new glint in her eye that would’ve been easy to miss, but he’s seen it before. “Alright. Thanks for the tip, Dick.” She puts her pipe back in her coat, pulls out a single cap, and she sets it on the bar as gently as can be. Then she gets up, and walks off in the direction of the rooms. “You’ve been a big help.”

“No prob,” he says, but she’s soon out of sight. He takes the time to inspect the cap she set down; an old, relatively unbent Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle-cap. He thought there was nothing special about it besides the fact that Sunset caps were pretty rare around these parts, until he turned it around - there, someone had painted a shiny, blue star in the middle.

When he came back from the outhouse to do his usual morning rounds at the rooms, he saw that the room Chives had rented was pretty tidy already. He takes a final look around - she hadn’t moved much stuff around or hid anything in the floorboards, which was fine and dandy with him. Skinny Dick supposed that she’d packed her bags and moved on to the next job - or the next bar, if it came down to that - but he found himself rooting for her all the same.

[flyingsassysaddles]

After the Soviet Union

Ivan Braginsky was miserable. The Soviet Union had collapsed, his economy was in ruins, and he had to deal with that STUPID American’s look of triumph, an expression that said, oh, I’m sorry, were you are a superpower? I didn’t notice over the sound of ALL MY MONEY! Mwhwhaha! It didn’t help that he now owed the American 45 bucks from a bet back in 1945.  

But the worst part of it all was the loneliness. During the Soviet Union, there was always people mulling and working around the house, talking and laughing and filling the large mansion with cheerful banter and at least some noise. But all of the Soviet states left, with Kazakhstan being the last one to skip out the door. She even punched his shoulder and cackled about how she was going to destroy the rest of Central Asia, before telling him that she hoped she and Russia could still trade after this mess was over.

And once she was gone, the house had gone quiet. Deathly quiet. The only sounds came from the howling winds and the mansion’s occasionally shudders. Ivan would sit in his room and listen, hoping to hear Latvia yelling about impossible to cook food, or the Caucasus nations throwing rocks at each other with glee, or even the sound of his older sister humming away while finishing the laundry. But there was nothing, and the house remained a solemn tomb of memories long gone, and a fancy casket for a bitter old man who wanted to hide away in the ground and never come out. His sulking lasted for weeks, months, before one nation had enough.

“IVAANJAV!” The house roared, and Russia fell out of his chair in surprise. Did the house finally learn how to talk? And why did it sound like an angry Mongolia?

“IVAANJAV, I KNOW YOU ARE HERE!” Oh god that wasn’t the house, Ivan realized rather stupidly, still a bit hungover from his vodka drinking session from last night. That WAS Mongolia. Oh god, he worried, Mongolia didn’t come here to kill him did he? He heard that happened sometimes with empires and their subjects. But, he reasoned, Mongolia didn’t live here, and he was an independent nation! He couldn’t have come here to kill him. Right?

“IVAANJAV, FOR THE LAST FRICKING TIME, I KNOW YOU ARE HERE! SHOW YOURSELF YOU VODKA LOVING COWARD!” Better safe than sorry, Russia decided, and jumped out of the kitchen and to into his locked weapon supply room upstairs.

“WELL THEN, IF THAT’S HOW YOU WANT TO PLAY YOU RUSSIAN DRUNK, LET’S GO! I HAVE ALL DAY TO FIND YOU!” the house rumbled, and Russia took a gun and spear from off one of the walls  and pointed them at the door in fear. No way the Mongol was going to get him! Not when he still had 326 fully functional guns in the same room!

“READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!” Ivan waited in silence, skin crawling with fear and eyes wide, tracking the door’s every move. The minutes dragged on, and the Russian slowly began to relax slightly, gun pointed a bit down. Then an hour past, and Ivan was lulled into a sense of safety, putting his gun on the ground where he was sitting and searching through his pocket for any vodka or food that he usually had stashed all over his house (except for the weapon room dammit). Time walked on, and Russia boredly looked at one of his guns that he won from Alfred (he had an entire collection along with angry letters from Alfred to send them back, which he never did of course). More time sped by, and Russia was debating coming out to fight Mongolia just for the entertainment when the door slammed open and an angry looking braided hair man glared at the terrified Russian with god like fury.

“You see, THIS is why I DON’T DO NICE THINGS! I come all the way from ASIA to come see you, AND YOU’RE HIDING FROM ME IN A ROOM! I spent 3 HOURS LOOKING FOR YOU IN THIS BLASTED HOUSE!” Mongolia roared, grabbing Ivan’s collar and pulling him off the ground, thoroughly pissed off. “AND I FIND YOU HIDING IN A CLOSET!”

“It’s a weapon room,” he corrected meekly, only for Mongolia to drop him onto the ground and jab at his chest with every furious word the Mongolian had to say.

“WELL, if it’s a WEAPON ROOM I suppose that makes it alright that I was on a plane for SIX hours to come and cheer you up and had to look around your MANSION WITHOUT ANY FOOD OR WATER OR ANYONE TO SAY HELLO! Because after all, it's a WEAPON ROOM!” Mongolia threw his hands in the air and started to walk out. “THIS is why I never listen to Tibet. Go cheer up your friend, he said, it’ll be a fun trip, he said, he wouldn’t hide in any CLOSETS, he said. I’m never taking that monk’s advice again.”

Ivan’s eyes widen and he rushed out of the weapon room trying to catch up to the furious Mongol. “Look Munkhbat, I’m sorry, I didn't know!” He caught up to the fairly short man on the stairs, grabbing his sleeves and panting from walking so fast. “Please,” he said in between gasps of air, “Stay for awhile, you came all this way after all.”

The former empire looked at the doubled over man, still gasping for air, and decided that he really did need to have a talk with Ivaanjav. The Russian looked like a goat that had been in the wild and eating nothing but wild flowers for years. Not to mention the Mongol was hungry.  

“Alright fine. I’ll stay. But you have to give me food,” Mongolia grunted, and went down the rest of the stairs to the kitchen.

“Thank you Munkhbat! I was simply frightened, I didn’t mean to insult you.” Ivan gave a sigh of relief and looked around the kitchen, before realizing with a face full of embarrassment that he hadn’t cleaned the kitchen in three months. The mongol sat on a chair behind him, looking at the destroyed kitchen with a critical eye. Ivaanjav was in even worse shape than he thought.

“Sorry about the kitchen, I haven’t cleaned up in a while.”

“I can see that.”

“Um, would you like some food?” Mongolia raised an eyebrow. “Right, stupid question. What food would you like?”

“Anything that isn’t filled with vodka and the smell of death, which is what I assume is half of what you have.”

“Pickles it is.” Ivan grabbed a jar of pickles from the top shelf, and placed in on the table in front of Mongolia, putting down a paper plate and a couple of plastic forks down as well. Ivan sat down,  and they both looked at their quite pathetic meal, before Munkhbat decided to address the elephant in the large, awkward, and more than a little sad room.

“Ivaanjav, you’re a mess.”

“I know, the food is a little bad but-”

“No, I mean YOU are a mess. Look at yourself! You obviously haven’t changed your clothes in weeks, and the house is in complete disarray! Just look of your kitchen you are always so proud of! It’s terrible. All of your things are being destroyed and falling apart and rotting because you are not taking care of anything. This place is a mess, The kitchen is a mess. But the biggest, worst, most rotting mess in this room, is you.”

Ivan’s eyes went wide. He looked around the kitchen he used to be so proud of back in the Soviet days, looked up at the ceiling where a spot of fungus could be seen on the ancient roof, and then glanced down at himself, at his stained coat and unwashed hair, his nails coated with dirt and skin gritty from oil and spilled alcohol. He looked at it all, and then at Munkhbat’s severe face.  And then Ivan started to cry.

Mongolia led him to the couch in an adjoining room as Ivan sobbed his heart out, collapsing on the couch and hugging a pillow soon filled with snot and tears. Ivan cried and cried, harder than he cried after the death of Anastasia, harder than he cried during all the wars he had to fight as a child, harder than when Germany stabbed him the back, harder than he ever left anyone hear. He cried for his lost Soviet Union. He cried because how he lost the great, terrible game between him and America. He cried because of the way the house creaked and groaned with no one to sweep its cobwebs or mop the floor. He cried because he would never, ever be able to cry this way again, like the world had crashed and burned, and he was the only that got singed, and everyone was happy to see the whole world die, and leave him alone burning in the dirt. He cried and he cried, letting his heart out in the open for all to see, lost in a pile of emotions he would never feel again.

Through it all, Munkhbat sat besides him, giving tissues when asked and bringing over water when it was not. He listened as his former charge cried loneliness and fear and sorrow. He sat by and waited until Ivan had cried every emotion out of him, leaving an empty shell of a man who sat numbly on the couch and sniffled every once in awhile, blowing his nose and hugging the pillow tighter. He sat there when Ivan finally said something comprehensible, the first real, unfiltered thought he had since everyone had left him to die alone, since the world had left to watch him burn.

“Do we have any food?”

It took something digging, but Munkhbat managed to produce some bread he had found deep in the cupboard. After that proved to be insufficient to the now doubly hungry men, Mongolia swallowed his pride and ordered chinese food. After yelling at the lady on the phone for a few minutes (“What do you mean you can’t deliver in this location?! It’s not THAT far from Moscow! Get your stupid chinese food over to this address or I will burn you restaurant to the ground! I’m hungry and I know your address god dammit!), the food arrived and they sat down at the newly cleaned table, talking of times past long ago.  

“I know how you feel Ivaanjav. When I fell apart after the Mongol Empire, I felt excruciating pain for years. I could hardly move! It was a miracle that Buddha didn’t call me up to afterlife right then.”

“You felt the terrible pain of loneliness and sadness that feels like it could swallow your being because everyone hates you and wish you’d simply disappear so they can get your land?”

“Er, I was talking about more physical pain, feeling like I was being torn into pieces day after day after day, with my limbs randomly falling off and new scars popping up every once in awhile, but sure, that too I guess.”

“Does it ever get easier?” Russia asked softly, purring down his chow mein and staring at the white rice like it had all the answers.

The mongol shrugged. “It is like any loss. It hurts forever, but it dulls with time. Who knows? Maybe in 40 years you won’t even feel that sad anymore.”

“Oh.” Ivan looked back down at his rice. “What would you do if you were in my place then?”

“Besides relish in glory over all the land I owned?”

“Um, sure.”

“Join an army.”

“Really? What would you do for the sadness?” Ivan asked.

“Join an army.”

“The loneliness?”

“Join an army.”

“The lack of purpose?”

“Join an army, duh. That one was easy.”

“No friends?

“Join an army.”

“Would you do anything BESIDES joining an army?”

The mongol was quiet for a second, before scratching his braided hair in confusion and giving Russia a raised eyebrow. “Does joining a mercenary ring count?”

“I can’t believe you. Would you do anything BESIDES fighting?!”

“Of course not! I’m a fighter! The only way I’m still alive is because I hit my problems! If I feel bad, I’ll just follow my great leader Genghis Khan’s word of advice.”

“And what’s that?”

“Join an army.” Russia gave a cry of frustration and Mongolia let a tiny smirk rest on his face.

“Okay, what about if you were feeling like I was feeling, you couldn’t fight anyone, and had no way to join an army of any kind. What would you do then?” Ivan asked, trying to get an answer that could actually help him.

“That is the reason Tibet exists,” Munkhbat grinned, devouring more of his rice.

“So you’re saying I should seek the comfort of those I love?”

“Sure Ivaanjav. Whatever you say. Do we have any more rice?”

Soon all the food was gone, and the pair were sitting on the couch once more, remote in hand and surfing through Russian channels. They sat in silence, well, Mongolia was complaining about the crappy T.V reception, which was rich coming from a guy who never had reception at his place, as Russia pointed out, but that might have well been white noise. Generally, they sat in relative silence, until Russia finally spoke.

“Thanks for coming. I needed that,” he whispered, glancing at Munkhbat to see his reaction.

“Hmm? You mean making you cry? Don’t worry about it, I do it often, though not really on purpose. Think of it as tough love,” Munkhbat explained, before focusing back at the T.V.

“Mongolia?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for what I did to you when I was the Soviet Union.”

“Well, that’s in the past now, isn’t it?  Besides, at least you apologized, and that makes you twice the man China will ever be. Oh, go back a couple channels, I think I saw a Spanish opera.”     

[mangakachan]

I originally wrote this for the Sailor Moon OTP Secret Santa exchange organized by @idesofnovember...until I realized I had misread the request from my giftee. Even though this didn’t end up being gifted for the exchange, I want to share it withe the fandom anyway, especially with the UsaMamo fans out there. ;)

“Kentucky for Christmas!”: A Sailor Moon Christmas Story

by Mangaka-chan

A frigid December gust ruffled Usagi’s golden bangs and rustled the plastic bags in her hand. The blonde shuddered, her one layer of coat not quite sufficient to completely keep out the cold. Despite the weather, Usagi wore a wide grin on her face. As she entered the welcoming warmth of the apartment building and made her way to the elevator the grin on her face only grew bigger as the metal door of the elevator closed behind her with a soft “ding”.

The blonde looked down at the two heavy plastic bags in her hand, one containing a large paper bucket, the other held two boxes stacked on top of one another. Both were decorated in festive Christmas colors of yellow, red, and green, and featured the image of a smiling old man and the bold, white letters, “KFC”.*

Usagi took a deep breath of the smell of deep fried chicken now permeating the tiny chamber. Relishing the delicious scent, Usagi looked up when she felt the elevator come to a stop and the door reopened with another soft “ding”.

Practically hopping on her feet like her namesake animal, she crossed the short distance to a familiar door. Shuffling the bags in her hands to free one hand, she quickly patted her wind-blown hair and tugged her scarf back in place. Once she felt she was presentable, Usagi gave a firm press to the doorbell and waited with anticipation as the sound of footsteps approached the door.

As the door cracked open, Usagi belted out, “Merry Christmas, Mamo-chan!”

In front of her the dark haired Mamoru exclaimed in surprise, “Usako! I didn’t know you’d be coming today! What are those-“

Before he could finish, Usagi had walked into the apartment and had begun to take out the items in her bags. “It’s Christmas Eve, so I thought we’d have fried chicken together. See,” she gestured to the items laid out on the table, “I got the full set, including the party barrel, chocolate Christmas cake, and a salad!”

“Oh, that’s right,” Mamoru glanced at the calendar on his wall and looked back at the proud and beaming Usagi. “But aren’t you going to spend Christmas Eve with your family tonight?”

“I will, later tonight,” Usagi replied as she unbuttoned her coat and began setting out the utensils and plates that came with the chicken. Her blue eyes twinkled at Mamoru, “To be honest I didn’t get the idea to buy fried chicken until Kenji Papa mentioned this morning he’ll go pick up our family’s order of chicken before dinner. I kind of wish I had thought of it earlier though; the line at the nearest KFC was super long! It took two hours before I reached the counter!”

Mamoru frowned at the mental image of Usagi rubbing her hands together to stay warm in what felt like arctic conditions outside. She could’ve gotten sick waiting in line in weather like this, he thought to himself as he watched Usagi set the table when another thought occurred to him.

“Wait, but that means you’ll be eating fried chicken and cakes the whole day today…for lunch and dinner,” Mamoru grimaced. The prospect of eating that much sugary and greasy food in a day made him nausea just thinking about it, but the thought did not seem to bother Usagi in the least, who skipped from the table to stand in front of her beau.

“I don’t mind! And besides,” she pointed at the small bowl of chopped lettuce, cherry tomato and cucumber slices. “There’s salad! So it’s not so bad!”

As an aspiring future physician, Mamoru was at a loss for words. He rested his palm against his face and tried not to think about how many gym hours—or for that matter, doses of Lipidor—it would take to undo that much fat and sugar.*

With a sigh, Mamoru pulled his hand away and chastised gently, “Usako, I know this is a once a year thing, but you need to take better care of your body. First of all, you could’ve caught a cold standing outside in the cold for so long. As for the food…you eat a lot of sweets and snacks as it is, and while I love you no matter your weight, if you keep eating this type of diet it’ll be harmful to your body in the long run. You need to take care of yourself more.”

Seeing the disapproving expression on his face, the cheer that had buoyed Usagi through the cold earlier deflated and she turned her gaze to the floor. The apartment fell into an awkward silence, with only the faint sound of the traffic and the occasional gust of wind outside the balcony window to fill the void.

“Mamo-chan…”

Mamoru looked up when he felt Usagi tug lightly at the corner of his sleeve. His eyes softened and he reached for her hand, interlacing his fingers through hers.

“I know you’re worried about me, and you’re right, I should eat healthier. It’s just that…” Usagi paused, and Mamoru felt her grip on his hand tighten as she hesitated. After a pause, Usagi continued, her voice a whisper, “…You said you don’t remember anything from before your accident. I realized that meant you don’t remember any of the time you spent with your parents, be it at birthdays, Christmas, or New Years. So I wanted to make new memories with you, to spend Christmas Eve with you, to sit next to you at a table over a meal, and laugh and talk…”

Here Usagi’s voice cracked and she brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. Mamoru reached up and gently cupped Usagi’s face with his hand. Wiping a tear away with his thumb, he smiled tenderly at the girl before him and his heart swelled at the love he felt for her kind, loving soul.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Usako. I just…I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” Smiling ruefully, Mamoru said, “I’m sorry my worrying rather killed the festive mood. I appreciate all the effort you went to in order to make this day special, because I want to make new memories with you too, Usako.”

Leaning in, he planted a soft kiss on her lips. After pulling away, Mamoru was glad to see the tears had stopped and a faint smile had reappeared on his love’s face.

Mamoru returned her smile and said, “It’s a special day. Shall we’ll think of this meal as a treat then?”

Hearing this Usagi nodded once enthusiastically. “Yes! And I promise I’ll try to eat less sweets and snacks in the future. It’ll be my New Year’s resolution!”

“Haha,” Mamoru laughed. If he knew Usako and the nature of New Years resolution, this was going to be a doubly tough resolution.

Shrugging internally, Mamoru cleared the nagging thought of healthy eating habits from his mind. Today was Christmas Eve, and though he knew in his heart of hearts this would be the first of many Christmas Eves they would spend as a couple, he wanted to treasure the memory of their first Yuletide, together.

Taking Usagi’s hand, he led her to the dinning table and pulled out a chair for her. “Let’s tuck in then. It would be a shame if the food you waited two hours in line for gets cold.”

“Let’s! Oh, and Mamo-chan?”

Mamoru raised an eyebrow when he heard the sappy sweetness in Usagi’s voice. He knew that tone of voice, and it could only mean one thing.

“Yes, Odango?”

With a big, puppy-face grin, the blonde beamed, “Can I have the drum sticks?”

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

*In Japan Christians account for only about 1% of the population, so while Christmas is widely celebrated it is not an official holiday and the nature of festivities are very commercialized. A big part of that commercialization is the exceptionally successful advertising campaign launched by KFC in the 1970’s that promoted celebrating Christmas with a bucket of fried chicken. The idea is for people to buy a bucket of fried chicken and share it with family, much like how Americans share a turkey dinner with family during the Christmas holiday season. The name of this advertising campaign is “Kurisumasu ni wa Kentakkii!”, which means “Kentucky for Christmas!”, and is the inspiration for this story.

*The bit about Lipitor is actually anachronistic. This fanfic is set during Sailor Moon R, which aired from 1993 to 1994, but Lipitor first came onto the market in 1996.