#extremely good colors and brushstrokes too.. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cherrynojutsu · 3 years ago

Text

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Chapter 4/?: Soothe

Sasuke arrives outside her building shortly before seven in the morning, an ubiquitous aubade sung by birds, polished and practiced for many years, lilting into his ears along the way. The village for the most part is still slowly awakening from its slumber; no merchants in the streets yet, and he only passes a few people here and there as light slowly seeps higher into the sky.

He carefully pushes open the glass door of the exterior portion of her complex, making sure to keep it quiet in case her neighbors are still asleep. As he goes up the stairs, he notices that all of the downstairs tenants’ lights are on, emanating from beneath the trio of entryways. Once he reaches the upper landing, he sees that Sakura’s light is on, too, though her other two neighbors' are not.

The doors of each unit are all painted different colors. Hers is sage green; he hadn’t been able to discern that previously, with the desaturation that night brings.

He's wondering if maybe he should knock to let her know he’s here, but then she emerges a few minutes early, beautiful and bright-eyed and full of life, pale yellow sunshine coating her from the large window with diamond patterning behind him.

She seems pretty awake already; she must be an early riser. She's carrying her tote bag again, and today she wears a dark skirt with a red top, along with a familiar pair of knee-high sandals. She's also wearing a smile, directed upwards at him.

"Good morning, Sasuke-kun," she acknowledges him softly, looking very happy to see him.

"...Morning." He keeps his voice low, because it is still a little hoarse. He tries to memorize her eyes again in the span of seconds before she turns to lock her door behind her.

It's 6:58 by the time they're out the glass door, her leading the way. They take the main road west a few blocks before turning to go north, this time. There are several more buildings that appear residential on her street. One of them has vines creeping up the sides, starting to bud after the warmer spring weather. He notes there is also a bakery on the corner, not open yet, but one that seems like the kind to also sell confections. He wonders if that factored into her apartment selection at all; he remembers she has a sweet tooth.

It is an easy silence they share on the walk there, bird calls lulling in as background noise again. There are more of them now, a more layered song than earlier, with a wider variety of voices filtering in and out.

Sakura leads them to a very small tea shop within five minutes of the hospital; it is quaint and simple, definitely not modern. It is also quite small, with only four or so small tables situated by windows, looking out towards the street. The entire establishment utilizes a spread of cinnamon-colored wood for its surfaces; floors, counters, and the shelving in the back, laden with neatly-labeled teas of several varieties in glass jars. He assumes the larger jars are store stock, with the smaller ones higher up on the shelves being available for purchase for use at home, if one decides they like a particular flavor enough.

He finds he likes the atmosphere. He figured he would. It's not a formal place, but rather one where you retrieve what you've ordered from the counter and can choose whether to stay or go. He supposes that makes sense; it’s closer to the busier part of the village. There appears to be a small area to the left of the counter where one can add cream, sugar, lemon, or honey, though he knows he won't. He vaguely remembers that she used to take lemon and sugar in her tea, and possibly cream, depending on the brew. Honey seems like something Sakura would like, too, now that he’s thinking about it.

He scans the menu briefly upon entering before deciding something hot with caffeine would probably be best. Sencha green tea is usually what he gravitates toward. He also enjoys black tea during cooler weather, and jasmine occasionally, though not often; it had been his mother’s favorite.

Once he orders, he says, "Hers, too," and glances back towards Sakura expectantly. She looks at him with a blush that rivals the color of her hair when she realizes he's offering to pay for hers.

"Oh! Um, lavender matcha. Hot, please."

His lips quirk upwards a little, because that is possibly the most Sakura thing she could have ordered.

It doesn’t take very long until it’s ready, as they’re not busy; they are the only ones there, thus far. He takes a sip while idling by the end of the counter as he watches her add honey and cream into hers, stirring carefully. It is one of the better blends of sencha he’s had, aside from a particular place nestled on the edge of the Land of Mountains, where he’s pretty sure the elderly woman who ran the place harvested the tea straight from her private garden. He had pilgrimaged there a total of five times on his journey, months scattered like the seasons in between.

It was an odd teahouse, more formal than this one and off the beaten path, not near any major landmarks, nor plotted on any map he’d seen before or after. The lady, who had wizened eyes of a crystal clear blue, slightly lighter in hue than Naruto’s, had served the brews in eclectic and sometimes chipped mugs and teacups, from which he had assumed after multiple visits must be a fairly vast collection. The china was different every time, but he had liked the tea itself so much he kept coming back, if he was anywhere near the area. Twice he had been the only customer there, the first two visits occurring during early morning hours, and there was something extremely cathartic about sitting at the table in the far corner, looking out the window as the sun rose higher in the sky until it no longer skimmed the horizon and the mountains in the distance.

The other three visits had occurred during the afternoon, so there had been at least one or two other people present, at those times. He had noticed that third time that other patrons were served out of much different teacups than he was; he had secretly suspected, after that, that the woman tried to match the stoneware from her collection to whatever she saw in her patrons.

There had been a father sitting with his daughter, who had looked to be around six or seven, on his third visit. The father’s teacup had been robust, solid with carved detail that appeared to have been created with something like a miniature chisel, and an earthenware glaze mix of green and russet, strangely looking similar to the color of seaweed. The daughter’s had been a smaller cup, dainty finery of opalescent sky blue, with a similar mother of pearl finish coating the inside. The girl had quickly drained her glass once she realized the inside was pretty, too; she had spent the rest of the time there in awe of its beauty, turning it in the light as her father watched with soft eyes, enjoying his own cup more slowly. Sasuke had thought it must have been an expensive teacup, not necessarily what you’d typically give a child that young, but the girl hadn’t chipped or broken it. Instead, she had been enamored by its beautiful finish, even more enthralled with the inside than she had been with the outside, and had handled it with great care.

He never saw the same cup twice, for him or any other customer there. He had hoped by the third and fourth time that this was a good sign, that it meant progress. Once he figured it out, he wished he’d examined the first two cups, near five months apart, with greater care; he had thought there might have been a lesson there he had missed. His first teacup, from what he remembered, had been rather plain: rounded, no handle, slightly hard to grip, a shiny black glaze with a burnt orange rim. The second time, he’d been served the sencha in another black piece of china, though this one must have been fired differently; there was no glaze at the very bottom of the outer portion of the vessel, bare toasted clay in an oatmeal color. Carved designs on the outer portion of the piece had nearly melted glaze off it, allowing for the viewer to see the true color of the clay body beneath, creating an effect of brushstrokes in the third dimension, rippling out of the darkness. That one had had a chip at the top, but it hadn’t compromised the structural integrity of the piece, and was easily avoided simply by sipping from the undamaged side.

The third cup had taken him off guard in its uniqueness, and is what had caused him to look to the girl and her father. He had analyzed theirs, and then his own cup closely for a long time that day, thinking. Still no handle, but it had been a bit more narrow, as well as taller, easier to grip. The glaze design was fascinating, a thick glossy black base coat overlaid with a strange dissolving mixture of sapphire and indigo. It had reminded him of a night sky in the middle of nowhere, tiny amounts of galaxy blues and violets barely visible to the naked eye in their sheer scope and complexity. The glaze itself also only covered around two thirds of the vessel, at an asymmetrical angle, with the remaining half left unglazed, as if it hadn’t dripped down to be fully covered yet because the artist had liked the way it looked as is.

When he went back for a fourth cup several months later, the lady had given him an entirely too knowing look, and served his tea in a somewhat misshapen mug, this time with a handle. The handle was awkward, too small, and slightly malformed; the mug’s overall shape seemed as though it may have been an artist’s first attempt, shoddily trimmed and uneven in many places. The glaze design itself was mesmerizing, though, something like a gradient this time, shifting from splattering black to sepia to a lighter color, akin to the inside of a water chestnut. It was almost as if the cup had been constructed by a beginner and then drenched in magisterial color by a master. The sencha had tasted just as good from that cup as it had from any of the others, despite the challenge of grasping it with any semblance of comfort.

The last cup had been only a few months ago: well-designed, with a near perfect handle, easy to hold. The foot and interior of the mug was a smoky gray, well-trimmed, but the exterior body of it was a white raku crackle, twisting patterns of scale-like ivory and black outlines, small dots sprinkled in between where the unevenness of the heat must have interfered in the firing process.

When he reached the very bottom of the vessel, having finished his tea, it had been gilded gold, metallic and astonishingly bright, catching the light of the sun coming through the farthest window, where he sat in the corner alone.

He had sat there staring at it for the better portion of an afternoon. It was a peculiar artistic choice.

This sencha is good, too, he thinks as he takes another sip, here with Sakura, also at a table in the farthest corner, looking out another window. Herbaceous, earthy, and light, and in a cup that matches hers. It feels cleansing on his sore throat, corrosion, not too hot but not lukewarm, either; a rather perfect medium between mellow and astringent. It is a nice way to greet the break of day.

“Thank you, Sasuke-kun," she murmurs, after they’ve been seated for a few seconds.

He nods; she’s still flushed as she says it. He can see it better now, in the bright light of the window. He takes another sip, and continues to enjoy looking at her.

“How is yours?” She asks.

“...I like it.” He considers his next words. “You didn’t add lemon.”

Her lips quirk upward, dimple appearing. “It doesn’t go the best with the lavender. They only have this kind on hand for the springtime.” She pauses, then adds, “I still put lemon in pretty much all my tea, otherwise.”

Sasuke inclines his head again, and she takes another sip.

They sit there for a while in a comfortable silence, watching more of the village wake up and people pass by from the window, on their way to work and other responsibilities. There are two small birds across the street, perched on the awning over an apartment building’s entrance. Finches, he deduces by their plumage and size. Perhaps they are looking for a mixture of materials with which to build a nest.

“It’s a good place to just sit and watch, in the morning,” Sakura mentions after a while, still looking out the window contentedly.

“...Is that your favorite thing about it?”

She meets his eyes, then, and smiles. “One of them.”

He looks at her expectantly, so she continues. “The tea itself is good. It’s close to the hospital, and I like... “ Her voice trails off, and she glances over at the station where she added cream and honey, lips still turned upwards. “I like that they don’t overfill the cup; it makes it easier to add what it needs.”

A ghost of a smile overtakes him. Practical, as always.

Sasuke finds himself contemplating what kind of teacup the elderly lady would give Sakura, if he took her there.

XXX

"You're a little on the skinny side for your height, now," Sakura notes as she writes down his information on the form he's given her, stepping off the scale; 163 pounds. "Not unhealthy, necessarily, but you should try to put on some weight."

They are at the hospital, in an exam room this time instead of her office. Her voice has shifted to something more professional, and Sasuke knows he is now with Sakura the clinician, though her affection is still an undercurrent in the way she's looking at him carefully with warm eyes. She’s already measured his height, and has his paperwork from his last physical to compare it to; apparently he’s grown another two inches since then.

He hopes he’s done growing, in that regard. It doesn’t seem likely that she’ll grow any taller; she’s twenty now, and they already have a considerable height difference. He doesn’t know how tall she is, exactly. He must hover over her by at least six or seven inches.

"Okay," He responds, because he trusts her judgment. Being away and mulling on his failures never gave him much of an appetite. Being back in Konoha hasn't much either, so far, but he can try. “How much?”

She looks somewhat surprised that he asked. “160 to 196 pounds is considered a normal range for six feet; I’d start with ten, and then evaluate from there.”

He nods. Her eyes linger on him, as if she’s contemplating saying something more. When she turns to set down her clipboard and grab the cuff typically used to measure blood pressure, he thinks she must have decided against it, whatever it was. He goes to sit in the patient’s chair, familiar with the routine at this point. He's gotten a physical near every year of his life that he’s spent in Konoha.

She sits on the wheeled chair that’s next to the desk, rolling it closer to him. He extends his right arm, and as she carefully adjusts the cuff, she tells him, tone casual, “You’ve got an inch on Naruto, now.”

There is a very stupid and juvenile part of him that takes immense satisfaction in this news, but she doesn’t look like she’s finished speaking yet. He waits for the rest.

She smiles apologetically. “He’s got about fifteen pounds on you, though. There’s some motivation for you.”

He pins her with a pointed stare, unimpressed but also a little amused. Motivation, indeed.

Her expression turns somewhat guilty, now. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I did his about a month ago; he came back from a mission with a cracked rib, and it needed to be updated.”

She starts increasing the pressure, and he suddenly becomes aware that she is closer to him than before, by the nature of the operation of the equipment. He had become aware of her physical proximity at roughly this point in the exam the last time, too.

He’s thankful it doesn’t seem to affect his blood pressure. “105 over 70; good,” she concludes, before reaching to remove the cuff from his arm. Her fingertips make brief contact with his skin, this time, and he has to fight an urge to shiver, even though they’re warm.

She picks up her pen to input this information in the appropriate slot, then sets it aside and puts away the cuff. When she turns back to him, she says, “Heart rate is next. Hold out your wrist, please.”

He holds out his right arm again, letting his elbow rest on the surface of the desk this time. Both of her hands come to grip his single one, lightly and carefully feeling for his pulse. He tries to hold very still, and to not think about how soft her hands are. He distracts himself by preoccupying his gaze with the clock on the wall behind her. It feels like a very long thirty seconds, though he knows by watching the hand tick that it’s actually not.

She doesn’t vocalize what the number is, just removes her hands finally and reaches for the pen to fill it in on the paper. He wonders if it was elevated.

“Heart and lungs next.” She reaches for the stethoscope, positioning it in her ears before leaning in to listen to his heart first, over his shirt. He looks to the ceiling.

It doesn’t take very long. “Sounds good. Lungs, next.” She gets up and comes around the chair slightly behind him. He shifts to pull the back portion of his shirt up to his shoulder; he remembers this from the last exam, too.

“It’ll be cold; I’m sorry,” she warns gently, before pressing the instrument to his back. She is nothing but professional as she asks him to take a few deep breaths. Routine, and very careful not to touch his skin with anything but the diaphragm of the stethoscope, cool metal.

It feels… different than the last exam. He had been a little on edge during this part, then, too, even though she was nothing but professional then, as well.

He is just… very aware that she is behind him, and that his shirt is pulled up, and she’s listening to him breathe and can see the skin of his back. And that he's kissed her.

The coolness slips away after a short amount of time. “Lung function sounds good.” He pulls his shirt back into place, feeling a faint sense of relief as he does so. She goes back to document her findings on the paperwork.

She then lays the stethoscope back in its appropriate place. Scanning the page, she asks, “Any issues with your hearing?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Sasuke responds. She dips her head in acknowledgement, filling in that box with what he assumes is non-applicable.

“Sense of smell?”

He recalls raspberries and antiseptic. “No.” She fills another box.

“Sinus or lymph node issues?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m assuming you’ve used the Sharingan and Rinnegan since last time, so I’ll look at your eyes towards the end.”

He nods, and she reaches for a light instrument to use to look at his throat, as well as one of the wooden sticks from a glass jar in the corner. “Throat next,” she says, flicking the light on.

He tries not to furrow his brow. He wasn't looking forward to this part.

He opens his mouth for the wood, reedlike and firm against his tongue, and then she’s shining the light in and frowning.

“Say ah, please.”

He complies, feeling quite undignified, though he knows it’s necessary and just part of her job. She removes the stick after a second, setting the flashlight instrument aside, and he closes his mouth.

"Teeth and gums look good, and your tonsils look fine, but your throat looks a little raw. Have you been sick recently?"

"Yes." It is technically the truth, though not in a viral sense.

She looks thoughtful as she’s making a note on her clipboard. “Within the past week?”

He nods. She must see him from the corner of her eye, because then she asks, while still writing, “Any other symptoms? Cough? Does it feel sore?”

“No.” He pauses, then clarifies. “No cough. A little sore. Not bad.”

Verdant eyes flick up to him for a long moment. He feels somewhat guilty; even if he knows the truth, she might be thinking right now that he’s been irresponsible, that he may have given her an illness via kissing.

She breaks eye contact eventually, and sets the pen down, standing to open the uppermost cupboard door in the exam room. His brow furrows, until she’s pulling down a small box that he sees has cough drops in them.

“We only have mixed berry; they’ll be kind of sweet, but it should help. Take a few for later, and put one in now, please.”

Sasuke blinks, and then takes a handful. He puts all but one in his pocket, and then unwraps the one left in his hand, putting it in his mouth, as she asked.

She arches to put the box back in the cupboard, and he forces himself to look elsewhere.

It does feel good on his throat, soothing. “...Thank you,” he says after a few more seconds, as she makes another note on his form.

“You’re welcome,” she replies. Then, back to clinical Sakura. “Any other issues? Abdominal, neurological?”

“No.”

She flips the page. “Infectious disease screening questions are next. Obviously you’ve traveled outside the village in the past 21 days, but have you been outside of Fire Country in that time?”

He thinks. “Rain, about thirteen days ago. Wind, 19 days ago.”

Sakura inclines her head, and writes in the information. He notices she keeps her eyes trained on the questionnaire now. “Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person with measles, mumps, or chickenpox in that time period?”

“No.” She checks the 'no' box.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person or source in that time period for any of the following: botulism, diphtheria, E. coli, encephalitis, hemorrhagic fever, hepatitis, influenza, listeriosis, malaria, meningitis, pneumonia, rabies, severe acute respiratory syndrome, smallpox, or yellow fever?”

“No.” He watches her check several 'no' boxes.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person in that time period who may have exposed you to any sexually transmitted infections?”

He’s glad she’s looking at the paper still, even if that answer is obvious. “No.” She checks several more 'no' boxes.

“And you didn’t have a fever earlier.” She checks another 'no' box. “And sore throat, but no shortness of breath at any point?”

“No.”

“Vomiting or diarrhea?”

“...Vomiting, yes,” he answers honestly. “No to the second.”

She nods, as if she knew that already from looking at his throat. She probably did. She’s good at what she does.

“Any kind of rash?”

“No.”

That’s the last question on the page, so she turns to the next one.

“Next is bloodwork. We’ll do a cholesterol screening, in regards to heart health, and then we’ll also do a general workup and run it for any infectious diseases. I don’t think we’ll find anything if it’s just the vomiting and resulting sore throat, but better safe than sorry.”

She then starts getting out the necessary supplies with which to get a blood sample. It doesn’t take very long; he holds out his right arm again, and Sakura finds the vein easily. “You’ll feel a pinch.” Within sixty seconds it’s over, and she’s pressing and holding the cotton to the dot of red before taping over it, a small pressure dressing.

“Leave that on for a few hours, please,” she advises, and he nods to indicate that he will. She makes quick work of labeling the blood sample, and sets it aside with the clipboard, he assumes for the end of the appointment.

She scribbles in a few more comments on the sheet, he assumes for whoever is running the tests. “Okay, just eyes and arm left. We’ll do eyes first. Any deterioration in vision that you’ve noticed?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll shine the light to check your pupils quick before I use chakra to look at them.” She grabs a different light tool, a penlight, and turns it on, before looking at him expectantly.

He blinks, curious what she’s waiting for, and then she asks softly, “Could you move your hair out of the way, please?”

Oh. He complies, and she shines the light in one eye, moving it slightly and monitoring the progress. She then does the same to his Rinnegan.

“Reactivity is good; no signs of defect.” She sets the penlight back where it belongs, then makes a note in his paperwork indicating that. Then she’s shifting her chair a tiny bit closer, so she can reach his eyes with her hands.

“Do you have a preference, which one I start with?” She asks. He shakes his head. “Okay; I’ll check the right eye first.” She reaches out with her left hand, pressing her thumb above his eye over his eyebrow, and her other four fingers lightly to his temple, just next to his eye socket.

Sasuke tries not to dwell on how close she is again as green chakra drizzles into his ocular system; he keeps his vision trained forward, as he knows he’s supposed to as she examines. There is a freckle on her right ear that he remembers focusing on, the last time; he does this time, too.

Around thirty seconds passes, before she informs him, “I’m going to funnel some chakra into the retina and optic nerve here; there’s some damage.”

He had suspected there might be, though his vision has not suffered; mostly there was just a bit of pain, sometimes. He hasn’t overworked it by any means, but he hasn’t completely abstained from using it since he’d last been healed by her, either. “Okay.”

The flow of her chakra works its way deeper, more of it now. This part has always relaxed him; her chakra really is quite calming, careful and gentle, threading its way behind his eye and wrapping around the nerve.

She works for about five minutes before the chakra starts to let up.

“...There. That should be a little better,” she says before lifting her hand from his right. “Look up, down, please.”

He complies.

“Left to right, now.” He does. “Good. Does it feel okay?”

He nods, meeting her eyes again finally. It feels stronger, no pain. He decides to verbalize that, even though he’s already nodded. “It’s better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him. “Good.” Then she’s detailing whatever she’s supposed to detail in the paperwork, before setting the pen down again.

“Left eye now.”

She repeats the process, frowning again. “There’s some damage here, too. I’ll fix it.”

This time, it takes longer; not quite ten minutes, but fairly close. He tries to focus on the wall behind her.

He had asked her once, when she was healing him following the war, if it used a lot of chakra. She had said not necessarily, but it depended on the level of damage. She also told him that it was moreso a delicate process, requiring careful manipulation, so he has tried not to talk during any healing sessions since.

When her hand finally pulls away, he’s gotten so used to the contact that it feels like a loss.

“Look up, down, please,” she requests again. Then left to right.

“Function looks good. How does it feel?”

“Better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him gently, just Sakura again for a second, before turning back to the form to finish the optical section.

Then, she turns the page. “Arm is last. Could you please roll up your sleeve to your shoulder?” He grabs his empty left sleeve with his right arm and starts shifting it upwards, rolling it so that it stays put once it’s to the top.

She touches the end of what’s left of the limb with careful fingers, soft but steady on marred skin and scar tissue. “I’ll look with chakra in a second, but any redness that you’ve noticed?”

“No.” He shifts his gaze forward, because her fingertips really are softer than he remembers.

“Any areas that occasionally feel warmer than is typical?”

He shakes his head.

“Swelling of any kind?”

“No.”

“Have you been stretching it as instructed?”

He meets her eyes, then. “Yes.” He wants her to know he listens to her recommendations.

Soft jade, and she’s smiling again. She moves her hands away momentarily, and grabs the clipboard with the papers, checking several boxes as he has indicated. He looks back forward.

“Any phantom limb pain?”

“Sometimes.”

“Residual limb pain?”

“...Sometimes.”

Her gaze flicks upward. “If you had to rate it on a scale, one being hardly anything and ten being the worst?”

“...Usually two or three.” He pauses, and she waits. “...Sometimes four or five.”

“How often, for the worst of it?”

He thinks. “Maybe twice or three times a month.” It’s a bit more often than that, but not by a lot.

She notes it on the paper; that must be a normal range. “Alright. I’ll check with chakra, now.” Her fingers come back to his stump, touching more firmly now. Green chakra starts to thread its way in.

Sakura frowns, after a second. “Nerve endings are a little inflamed. I’ll fix it.” The flow of her chakra increases, and he feels almost instant relief; he supposes it still hurt, faintly. Maybe he just got used to it. “Has it hurt in the last day or so?”

“...Late last night.”

She nods, as if that makes sense. “It won’t take too long. Maybe five minutes.”

He inclines his head just barely, not wanting to move while she’s working.

“You should let me know if it hurts again,” she suggests quietly, after a moment. “It doesn’t take much to fix.”

“...Okay.”

There is a comfortable silence for a few minutes as she works. He feels the chakra start to dilute a little towards the end of it.

“I’m going to stop my chakra and manually massage the tissue, now. It should help prolong the effect.”

He feels her chakra dissipate. She has done this to him before, throughout the rehabilitation process following the war; it was more important then, she’d said, to develop tolerance to touch and pressure of the residual limb. It had hurt, the first few times, but later in the healing process, he had secretly enjoyed it; it made it hurt much less, and the process itself felt… nice.

He had privately wondered what it would feel like on his back.

It elicits the same response now, too, kneading fingertips gradually increasing pressure to access deeper tissue, helping to work away pain that has lived there for a while.

"You wear your hair differently now," she comments after an incredibly nice period of time, still pressing tenderly in little circles, though the pressure is starting to taper off now, since they’re getting towards the end of five minutes; that was roughly the time she would do back then. Since there’s no chakra anymore, it must require less of her concentration.

He realizes he hasn’t shifted his hair back into place yet, then. He takes a moment, then responds quietly, furtively, "Most people dislike looking at the Rinnegan."

She doesn’t respond right away; just finishes massaging the end of his stump, then removes her hands to pick up her pen.

"Not me," she murmurs softly as she makes her final notations.

His heart flips in his chest, and he feels his face grow warm. He's glad she's focusing on the forms, so she can't see the effect her words have had.

The lozenge has dissolved fully, and his throat isn't as sore.

XXX

Sasuke goes to the Hokage’s office, after, to see if the dobe is there. He has some time to kill before lunch, and he wants to take him up on his offer to spar at some point, given that his eyes are freshly healed. Now that he knows Sakura’s schedule for the next few days, he can fill the rest of his time with whatever else. He’ll see her tomorrow at four, at the hospital, and then at Ichiraku’s on Saturday, and then for a bit after, too; they still need to confirm an actual time for that with Naruto and Kakashi. He assumes Sunday and Monday must be her days off. If they’re not, she works too much. He’s going to ask her tomorrow, he thinks.

Oddly, he finds only Kakashi in his office.

“Ah, Sasuke. Good morning,” he greets as he walks through the doors.

“...Morning.”

The copy ninja sizes him up with a single eye for a long moment, as if considering what to ask him. Sasuke braces himself.

"You got your physical done."

Sakura had said after the bloodwork was complete, she’d drop off the paperwork for him. "...I did."

"It went well, I assume."

"...It did."

"Wonderful," he says quietly, sounding pensive.

There is a very long pause.

“And the date, with Sakura this morning, before that? That went well, also?”

Sasuke deliberates. There is no teasing lilt to his old sensei's voice this time, just genuine curiosity, so he answers honestly, even though his neck warms and he doesn’t quite appreciate being spied on. “...It did.”

Kakashi gives him one of the widest and most genuine smiles he has ever seen him wear, beneath the mask.

“Wonderful,” the copy ninja says again, this time teeming clearly with pride and meaning.

“...Yeah.” Sasuke agrees, looking anywhere but at him.

Kakashi shuffles a few papers around his desk, and starts talking again, as if Sasuke has not just admitted to something he’s sure their sensei had suspicions about for the better portion of eight years. “Well, Naruto’s not here; I’m assuming that’s who you were looking for. Hinata’s leaving for a mission later today, around one, so I gave him the day off. I kind of assumed he’d use the opportunity to seek you out for a spar in the afternoon, after she leaves. He was going on about it yesterday, along with a Team Seven dinner on Saturday night; sounds like that will be at six.”

Sasuke just blinks, gears turning still; the scroll from yesterday is still on the desk, so he's not sure why he'd grant Naruto another day off so easily.

Kakashi further clarifies, smile shifting into something more sly. “I wouldn’t go over there before a little after one, if I were you.”

His first thought is oh, and he feels rather stupid. His next thought is gross. His old sensei is grinning, as if his reaction amuses him; he must have made some kind of face that belayed his internal thought process.

“Ah, love requited and besotten newlyweds. What a time." Sasuke's neck burns again, because he realizes after a second that the ‘love requited' portion of that is referring to Sakura and himself. Kakashi's moving on, though. "Anyway, now that I’ve given you too much information…” His voice trails off, and he looks at the intricate scroll tucked away at the table beside his desk, where Naruto usually sits. “If you’re not busy and want something to do until lunch, you could take a look at this scroll for me, since Naruto won’t be getting to it today.” He appears to be thinking, then adds. “For all his progress, he can still be less than perceptive, in certain instances. Your assistance could be invaluable, since I’m occupied with other tasks at the moment.”

Sasuke ponders for a bit; he has already read a good portion of the way through his books, and it’ll be a few hours before he needs to eat. It's not lost on him that this involves a level of trust in him on Kakashi's part, as whatever is in the scroll is likely not public knowledge.

He decides it can’t hurt, though he hopes he doesn’t get asked any more questions about Sakura. He makes his way to take Naruto’s seat, opening up the scroll.

He stares at it long and hard, rolling it out on the table to examine it more closely. Kakashi wordlessly grabs the stapler on his desk and sets it on the top end of the parchment, to hold it in place as he further unravels it. It appears to be a cipher, and quite a complicated one.

“...You think Naruto’s going to be able to crack this?” Sasuke questions incredulously, glancing towards his old sensei with his brows furrowed in doubt. His eyes catch as he does so on the framed photograph sitting on his desk; from this angle, the side instead of the front, he can now see that it’s their original Team Seven photo. He hasn't seen it in a long time.

Kakashi chuckles, not looking up from his paperwork. “Not at all, which is why I was helping him with it yesterday. It’s good practice for him, though, and at the very least, it does keep him busy when I don't have anything else for him to do.”

XXX

Sasuke ambles back to his apartment around noon. He made some progress on the cipher, enough that Kakashi said Naruto might actually be able to take it from there. It feels good to be of use.

It also feels good to have something to give the idiot shit over, when he goes to visit him later.

He empties the cough drops from his pocket into one of the cups he bought yesterday, and pops another one into his mouth before he starts getting out ingredients to cook. It feels good on his throat, menthol pleasantly numbing despite the slightly sweet taste. He pours a hefty amount of rice into a pot to start boiling, and then begins slicing carrots and scallions and mushrooms for takikomi gohan. It takes a while to slice with one arm, as holding the vegetables in place with one hand is a challenge, but he manages by summoning a clone. Once he’s done, he slips them in a pan with some salt and dashi stock. He also adds frozen peas before covering it with the lid to simmer.

Once that’s going, he washes his hand, then folds the comforter he had washed and left out to dry this morning, ultimately storing it in the closet. He stirs the vegetable mixture occasionally, after, reading more of his book while he waits for the rice to finish. The one about kenjutsu is more interesting than he thought it would be. He might finish it by the time he sees Sakura tomorrow.

He really hopes he can walk her home again; he hadn’t gotten a chance to kiss her today. She might not want him to, if she thinks he's sick, but somehow he suspects she likely understood it wasn't actual illness. She's good at what she does, and smart.

It’s a simple but savory lunch, a larger portion than he’s accustomed to. He eats all of it, albeit slowly, as he reads.

Uncannily, an abrupt and earsplitting knocking erupts on his door as he puts the last bite in his mouth to chew.

“TEME! Open up!” More incessant knocking. “I’m fucking bored, and Kakashi-sensei gave me the day off! Let’s spar!”

Sasuke rolls his eyes and closes his book before standing to rinse his dish, setting it in the sink to wash later, along with the pot and pan already rinsed and stacked there.

“Alright, dobe. You don’t need to bust down my door.”

He grabs another cough drop and removes the tape and cotton from his arm before he goes. It’s a little tender, but the blood has clotted by now.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like gold #fanfiction #this timely update brought to you by my pure unadulterated spite for studio pierrot

42 notes · View notes

vhsrights · 4 years ago

Note

MORE MOMILY BUT WITH A baby girl??? ;-;

this was super fun to write!! thank you :)

An Unusual Canvas

WC: 1794

---------

The soft footfalls of the little girl running on hardwood echoed against the walls. Her dark, silky curls bounced around her shoulders, flying freely behind her. Eyes full of sparkle, the girl was focused on her task. Small fingers grasped tighter around the brushes in her hand. She had to make sure that she got everything that her mama had asked for.

“Leia? Bird? Is that you?” The older woman was turned to face the far wall, her body perking up at the click of the doorjamb.

“Mama! I got the bushes!” The little girl lowered off of her tiptoes and pushed the door open.

“Brushes, Bird, they’re called brushes. Thank you. Are you ready?” The girl enthusiastically offered her hand forward, teeming with bristled brushes, to Emily.

Emily turned around and beamed at her daughter. Today, JJ was going out to run errands and Emily was going to paint Leia’s room. Well, she’d had a better idea but JJ didn’t need to know about that just yet. The girl in front of her somehow had managed to look like a spitting image of herself and her wife. That was one of the perks of being able to pick your donor, she believed.

“Br-bru-brushes.” The girl sounded the word out slowly, just like her Mommy had done when she taught her how to say “snack”. “Look, Mama, I said it! Brushes! Yeah, I wanna paint.”

Emily nodded zealously at the girl’s accomplishment and noted the twinkle in her eye. It was one that she saw in JJ’s when the blonde was focused on a task. She took the brushes from Leia and sprawled them on the dark mat that covered the light carpet. Turning to her side, she pulled the two paint cans close to the brushes, creating their “painting station”. Leia excitedly clapped her hands, ready to paint.

“Okay, so we are going to paint your room a nice yellow color. Then, I have a special surprise for you. Does that sound good?” When she received a staggering yes, Emily turned her attention back to the light, yellow paint can.

The girl nodded her head and pushed back her sleeves, copying Emily. She beckoned the little girl to her, spinning her around to pull her hair into a loose ponytail. They didn’t need paint getting in Leia’s hair too. Walking back to her spot on the wall, Leia clapped her hands. It was now time to paint. The floor was safely covered and the girls had everything they needed.

Emily reached over and handed Leia a wide, dark-bristled brush. She popped open the tin of paint, tediously demonstrating to Leia how to dip her brush in and remove the excess paint on the side. Leia’s eyes followed her every move and took in every detail. JJ and Emily had understood that her observation and logic skills were highly developed since she was a baby, making things more interesting for them. Mimicking her Mama’s motions, Leia got a large glob of paint on her brush. She looked over at Emily, hesitant to make the first mark.

“Together, Bird.” Emily held hope in her eyes, pushing Leia to smile as they simultaneously touched their brushes to the wall.

“Look, Mama! I’m doing it!” Her brushstrokes were even as she artfully glided her brush against the wall. She squealed out of excitement.

“Wow, Bird, that’s great. Why don’t we cover a little bit more with yellow before I tell you about the surprise?” Emily glanced over at the girl’s work, impressed at her proficiency. A natural artist, JJ will love that. “Just do that little bit by your knees and then we can stop with the yellow.”

“Okay, Mama.” Leia’s eyebrows furrowed and her tongue stuck out a little bit as she focused on her painting once more. Emily admired her daughter while setting down her own wide brush, selecting smaller brushes, and bringing the other paint forward.

“I’m done.” The little girl set down her brush and looked expectantly at Emily. “Surprise time?”

“Yes, Bird, surprise time. I know this is your room, and you picked the yellow, so I had an idea. We can do something to make the room really pretty and then show Mommy when she gets home. Do you want to draw butterflies with me?” Emily beamed at her daughter, knowing how much JJ would love the butterflies on the wall.

“Butterfly?” It took Leia a little bit of time to process. “Yeah, I wanna do it, Mama! We can make the room pretty for Mommy.”

“Sounds great, Bird. Okay then, pick a color to paint with. Do you want blue or red?” She gestured to the paint cans in front of the little girl.

“Blue! Blue! Mommy loves blue and I do too, so I wanna paint with blue.” Leia bounced up and down excitedly, teeming with new energy at the thought of drawing butterflies.

Emily and Leia giggled as they set up to draw their butterflies. Both took smaller brushes and carefully brought their paint to where they needed it. Leia sat on the ground beside Emily, eyeing her mama for directions on what to do.

“Okay, Bird, the first thing you’re gonna do is get some black and make a small, fat line like this.” The woman cautiously made the middle of the butterfly, making sure the paint didn’t run. She then turned her attention to what Leia was doing. “Perfect, just like that. You can stop it there.”

Guiding the little girl, Emily helped her draw the curved outline of each wing. They went slowly, monitoring the inching paintbrush extremely carefully. Satisfied with each exaggerated curve, Emily and Leia admired each of their butterfly outlines. Emily’s was heavily intricate, exhibiting multiple patterns and intricate lines. Every delicate stroke popped against the light wall, making Emily that much more excited to show JJ.

“Bird, are you ready to dry it? I have to use the hairdryer so that it’s not wet when we add your blue and my red.” Emily inquired the young girl was examining her dark outline on the wall. “I have it right here so we can put it on high and do it quickly.”

“Okay, Mama. You can dry it. I wanna add the blue.”

Leia backed away from the wall as Emily plugged in the dryer to the nearby outlet. The dryer was loud but it was efficient. Leia giggled at the warm, high-powered heat and decided to blow on the wall as well to help the process. Emily’s eyes filled with tears of laughter at her daughter’s adorable behavior. Several minutes passed and eventually the wall was dry.

“Mama, I dried it. Look, the butterfly is hot.”

“Yes, Bird, you did! Alright, now let’s add your blue and my red. Are you ready?”

“Mhmm. Let’s do it, Mama.”

Leia and Emily simultaneously dipped their brushes into their paint, eyeing the butterflies on the wall. Letting out a deep sigh, Leia followed Emily and put her first line of paint. She had been doing coloring books since she was a kid and staying in the lines had never been a problem for her. It may have been a shock to JJ and Emily, but this was the big leagues. No mess-ups were really allowed. The girl’s eyebrows furrowed once more, her tongue barely poking out from between her lips as she carefully added the blue to the yellow wall.

She had just finished a piece of the left-wing when she accidentally hit her brush against Emily’s arm. The blue was vibrant against her pale skin, the streak covering a part of her forearm. Leia froze and looked up to her Mama in surprise. Her lips moved to quickly form an “O”, not knowing what to say.

Emily didn’t look mad at her, so what was going to happen? The amusement on the brunette’s face intensified as she formed a plan. Opening all of the paint tins had already left residual pain on her hands, some accumulating perfectly on the tip of her pointer finger. Taking advantage of her daughter’s shock and letting her childish nature take over, Emily quickly bopped Leia’s nose.

The paint was cool against her nose and it took Leia a full 5 seconds to register what Emily had done. She crossed her eyes in hopes of seeing what had happened to her nose and spotted the paint.

“Mama, my nose is red! You put red on my nose.” Leia spoke with surprise lacing her voice. Emily tried her best to keep her laughter from bursting out.

“I did, Bird. You look like Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.” Emily joked lightly as she tilted her head, examining Leia’s nose more.

“Rudoff? He looks funny.”

With that, Leia dissolved into giggles. She decided to copy Emily and touched the end of her brush. Taking quick and unsteady steps forward, attempting to bop Emily’s nose. She missed and her paint-laden finger gave her a blue cheek instead.

“Leia! Oh, come here you.” Emily laughed and grabbed Leia, who squealed as Emily took her thumb and ran it in a curved line across her forehead.

The two had gotten lost in their antics enough that they missed the sound of JJ’s shoes clicking against the hardwood. The blonde heard the two’s chuckles from down the hallway and wondered what was so funny. Emily was supposed to be painting Leia’s room. So what had they gotten into?

“Guys? What are you two doing?” JJ asked as she pushed the door open.

Emily and Leia froze. Mommy’s home. Without another thought, Emily turned the little girl around and held her up to JJ.

“Look, Jen. Simba.” The brunette looked slightly ridiculous sitting on the ground, their 5-year-old held up in her hands. Leia didn’t understand what just happened.

“What?”

“Simba,” Emily repeated herself with mirth on her face.

“You’re such a goof. Leia, what were you guys doing?” JJ turned to ask their daughter, knowing that Emily would not tell her what she wanted to hear.

“Making butterflies for you, Mommy. See, I made the blue one.” Leia dropped to the ground and pointed to her painting on the wall.

JJ almost gasped out of shock. Her first thought was to worry, but knowing Emily and how much she cared for Leia, there soon wasn’t a doubt in her mind that everything had been done correctly. The paintings were beautiful and so was her family.

“Aww, baby. They look so cute! Here, I’ll help you and we can put more butterflies on the wall.” JJ took off her shoes and coat, lowering to the ground on the other side of Leia. Giving Emily one loving glance, the family giggled and returned to their painting.

#writing #jemily #momily #userjemilyology #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #leia prentiss jareau #canvas #painting #fluff #they're a family #prompt #mc content hours

38 notes · View notes

longitud-de-onda · 5 years ago

Text

Porque el querer causa pena, pena que no tiene fin

pairing; mad sad genius (we never got a name) x reader summary; you can love someone with all your heart, but nothing compares to the madness that exists in their absence rating; t warnings; language, a bit of alcohol, angst, it isn’t specifically covid-19 but it is a pandemic science fiction story, so the quarantine and other situations are taken to the extreme which could be potentially triggering depending on how you’re handling the quarantine. word count; 3.0k a/n; this is fanfic for ngozi anyanwu’s for all the lovesick mad sad geniuses which aside from pedro’s amazing performance, is a brilliant monologue. we’re taking the title from the rosalía song (maldición, cap. 10: cordura) that helped inspire this.

You met him at an art gallery. It was your own show, and you were standing in the corner drinking wine from a clear plastic cup, the edge of which was sharp against your lips. You held a paper plate with five almonds, a mozzarella and tomato crostini, and a mini chocolate cupcake carefully balanced in your other hand.

He was standing in front of your favorite piece. No one else was. Probably because the gallery owner told you it wasn’t the sort of work that would stop anyone. That out of all the work in your collection, it was the type that belonged in the back, where it would be found by the people who cared enough to wander there, whose interest would likely be piqued enough for them to enjoy it. It hurt to hang it up on the back wall and not up in the front where you wanted it.

But he hadn’t stopped at everything else. He had walked into the gallery minutes before, giving every painting a quick glance before settling on the one in front of which he was standing. He had been there for almost five minutes before you decided to walk up next to him.

He looked over upon seeing you approach and your heart stopped. He was the most beautiful person you had ever seen. His smile reached his eyes and you found yourself falling into them. You almost asked him if he would model for you.

You didn’t paint portraits.

“This one is beautiful,” he told you.

You smiled and took a sip of your wine. You didn’t need convincing that it was beautiful. That much you already knew. It was the one piece you were confident beyond belief about.

“What do you like about it?” you asked, jutting your chin up at the painting in question.

“The artist seems to have cared. You can see the brushstrokes. They’re more detailed than the others. Someone only spends that much time on something they really care about.”

That was when you fell in love with him. Thirty-three words. That was all it took.

Your first date was dinner after the gallery closed for the night and he dragged you out to his favorite burger joint because he said you deserved it after opening an exhibition. After wolfing down more than enough food and splitting a tub of fries, you spilled out onto the streets in a pile of laughter and joy and you’ll never forget the look on his face when you asked for his number.

Your second date was a night you’ll never forget. He had taken two days to contact you after the first night, and you had begun to worry you would never hear from him again, but he called you and said he wanted to meet you at 6pm the next day and to dress nicely. You showed up where he told you too and he was there with that goddamn smile.

He took you to a Chinese restaurant and said I’d take you somewhere nicer but I don’t think you’re that kind of woman. And you would have slapped any other guy in the face but he looked so earnest and he was right about you. It was like he could read you like a book. And when you laughed he’d sometimes stop laughing with you just to stare with a certain reverence that made you question what you did to deserve the sort of man who looked at you that way.

He took you past all the big theaters showing musicals and stopped at one tucked away with a modest set of doors but the grandest entry hall you had ever seen. You let him lead the way as he took you through the doors into the auditorium and you walked down the aisles to seats near the front.

You didn’t know what you had done to let him know you loved comedies, but he had picked out the perfect play. By the time it was over your stomach hurt from laughing so hard and your eyes held the watery ring around them from your tears. You hit the cool night air just as it started raining, and any other time you would have run for cover but with him and his smile next to you, you didn’t give a shit.

The aimless wandering that night was your favorite part. You were doubled over laughing as he told you the parts of the play he liked, and the parts he didn’t.

“She was a fucking genius and a poet, you know?” he said.

“Who?”

“The playwright.”

“What? Why?” you asked.

“She wrote a play about another fucking genius,” he said. “And despite it being the funniest shit ever made, it still had all those deep-ass lines. You know, like, ‘If you got one friend when you die then most people never have something like you.”

And he didn’t know why you started giggling until you calmed yourself enough to tell him what the real quote was in between fits of laughter. He had that look from earlier that night on his face. The one where it was like he didn’t even know you could see him. He gazed at you like he could see you. Not just on the surface, but underneath everything too. Like he could see every thought that went through your head and took the time to hold every one and appreciate it before letting it go.

He leaned down to kiss you and you tilted your head up to meet him and you wondered how you hadn’t kissed him before. Why you didn’t when you said goodbye your first night. Why you didn’t when you were getting to know him over a burger. Why you didn’t let him kiss you that first fucking moment when you fell in love, right there, after he told you about your own goddamn brush strokes.

You fell in love all over again the following weekend when he took you to his favorite spot in the park, a large grassy hill overlooking all the kids playing below and you spread out a blanket and ate sandwiches that he had put into little ziploc bags. You told him that he should have packed some wine and he said baby, we didn’t need any alcohol our first two dates and you flushed and told him about the wine you had at the gallery and he laughed.

“I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to walk up to you without it,” you protested when he jokingly expressed mild disappointment.

“If you hadn’t walked up, I probably would have shouted ‘where’s the fucking artist, I need to talk to her!’ by the end of the night,” he said, and you found yourself laughing again.

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened at one of my exhibits,” you said.

You met him every morning before work to go out for coffee, even if it meant waking up an extra hour early because he’s a morning person. You had his coffee order memorized by the third day.

He invited you to his apartment one day and you found yourself laughing over home videos of him as a kid late into the night. When you said goodbye, your heart yearned to stay. To take one of his shirts and wear it as you curled up next to him in bed. Instead, you kissed him good night.

After dinner one evening, you brought him to your place and showed him the little studio you had in the most well-lit room. He spent almost an hour exploring it, asking you questions about every little thing, the brand of paints you liked best, the angle you preferred to set your easel, your favorite tools, your favorite color, and telling you how honored he was to be in the workplace of a genius.

You didn’t tell him he was the smartest person you had ever met.

You didn’t tell him that he was the genius out of the two of you. That he could talk about his work and you could listen for hours to his voice but not understand a single word he said. That he would talk like no one was listening and then say the most serious shit. The sort of thing that made you rethink life, and by the time you had escaped from your thoughts he was already on another topic, rambling about the multitudes of things he loved. He saw the beauty in everything.

How the hell could a man like him love you?

He was the sort of person you would hear about in movies. The type to never stop dreaming. Someone watching the two of you would think you both mad. He had his head in the clouds and you would watch from below in awe as if his brain was firing off fireworks, and then you would speak about anything and he would give you that smile and that goddamn look that drove you crazy.

Your entire life he was there, living his own life without ever having met you, and you often wondered how many times you had almost met. You lived in the same city, surely there must have been times. Hundreds if not thousands of moments in which your paths nearly crossed. Whether what kept you from meeting was a mere 3 feet of distance in a crowd or a mere 3 minutes of time and space in which one of you was running late or early to something along which way you would have found him.

But you were lucky to have met him when you did. Gotten to share the brief moments while they lasted. That was before the virus hit.

You were sitting on his kitchen counter, covered in acrylic paint he had bought at the grocery store as the two of you detailed messy renditions of Van Gogh’s work on his cabinet doors, and he had wrapped his dirty hands around your waist, leaving two purple handprints on your painting shirt, and pulled you into a kiss. And this one was different. It was deeper, searching for more. There was more heat and passion. Your whole relationship, months of it, had been slow and beautiful and intimate, but there were times where it was more like friendship then romance and neither of you minded as you walked along the fine line between the two, happy with the state of things as they were. But you had loved him since the first day and you didn’t mind the idea of, one day, collapsing naked and sweaty into bed with him instead of snuggling up against his side as he wrapped you in his arms like he usually did when you did decide to spend the night.

But that was for another day. You broke apart after minutes to return to your project. By the end of the night you were screwing the doors back in and he was admiring everything. If you were being honest, he was completely helpless when it came to handiwork. Couldn’t hammer a nail, tighten a screw, sand some wood, or even recreate a decent Starry Starry Night, but that didn’t matter. Because his kitchen looked vibrant and beautiful and the art reminded you of all the ideas you could see swirling in his head. The fucking genius.

The reports had started to come in by then, but it wasn’t until the following morning that you realized how serious everything had gotten. Schools announced that day that they were closing. He called to tell you he was working from home. You got the call that evening that you would be too.

A week later and you had met with him once, in the park. It was a long trek for both of you, living on opposite sides of the city. But the brief kisses, kind words, and soft touches on the waist, thighs, arms, neck, jaw, nose, back, anything? Those were all worth it.

The following day you learned you couldn’t leave your neighborhood. You video-chatted with him in tears. If only you had let yourself follow the thoughts of moving in with him instead of stamping them out as soon as they started to take root in your head. If only you had let him spend the night one more time. So you wouldn’t be clinging to his fading smell on the t-shirt you stole from his closet.

It was like your whole world cut out when the strikes started. No internet. No cell service. No connection. The postal service was all but gone, and you had no way of connecting with him. Your only source of news was the newspaper, three times a week, delivered to your doorstep. And your neighbor who got it every day and would shout to you the important things.

You wished you had photos of him framed around the house.

Then when you did, the sight of him staring at you from every corner of your apartment was enough to drive you mad with longing that you took them all down.

When the government got the strikes under control, they started to introduce the plans for rolling out the internet services again. Things had become grim. You spent every night dreaming of him, but you were starting to forget his face. Did his nose curve that much? Were the creases around his eyes that deep? Was his shabby beard that full? Did he have dimples, or were you just making that up?

You would stare at the photos on your phone, desperately trying to commit him to memory. Remember how he looked when the man in the photo came to life in three dimensions. How did he walk? How did he wave his hands?

By that time, life was different. You didn’t make art anymore. What was once your life had been shoved into your studio room, the light turned off, and the tubes of paint left to dry up. Your apartment didn’t smell like clay and charcoal and linseed oil anymore. You didn’t have it in you to keep painting. You went to the grocery store once every fourteen days, grabbing produce and frozen goods, bottles of alcohol and some cleaning supplies before handing over your newly minted ration card to receive the staples. Rice, pasta, beans, eggs, flour, sugar, a couple bags of dried fruit, a bottle of milk. It wasn’t so bad when you lived on your own, but you felt bad for the mothers and fathers in line behind you, knowing that their children might be too picky to even eat the food they were lucky to get.

The introduction of connectivity services was a slow process. Neighborhood by neighborhood across the country so as not to overwhelm the systems. There were new rules. It was only to be used for three things: education, work, and essential communication between legal family members.

Your finger hovered over the call button next to his name hundreds of times, but you could never press it out of fear that someone would be watching or listening. You knew that when you walked the streets they were. It was likely the same for your phone now too.

One day in a drunken fit of anger and yearning and the craze of love, you deleted all the photos on your phone, hoping that maybe without them you could forget how much you missed him.

You tried to forget him. But every night you dreamt of his slowly warping face. You wondered if he was doing the same.

Sometimes you would watch the DVDs you had and try to replace his image in your head with the actors. Sometimes it would work and weeks would go by with only dreams of the movies. But it would always lose its effectiveness. Usually around the time that you remembered that he was probably your soulmate and you didn’t get enough time.

In every single one of the possibilities of your lives together that you daydreamed about for hours every day, there was never enough time. But this reality was the worst. You were sure of that.

You had read every book in your house. Read every poem you could get your hands on, even the ones you had risked your life for in searching them on the internet, carefully saving pdfs and screenshots and printing them out on the dwindling paper in your apartment. Words didn’t do the same thing they used to anymore. They didn’t bring joy and excitement and escape. You stopped reading them.

You talked with your neighbor for the first time in a month. It seemed that almost everyone had stopped reading books. You wondered if people stopped doing other things too.

The world before was starting to blur around the edges. You couldn’t remember if the path you liked to walk in the park had such an erratic course or if it was more subtle than you could remember. What did you like to do on the weekends? There was a place, a building, that you liked to go to. You couldn’t remember what it was called or what was inside, but you remember the feeling of standing there. The musty smell and the awe and the sensation that you were staring out at all of humanity. And you had no idea what the fuck it was.

You weren’t sure how much of the world before you had forgotten. But you couldn’t shake him from your memory. You wished you could.

When you weren’t working you were cooking or eating or sleeping. And when you weren’t doing that, it constituted the dangerous time where you didn’t have anything to do and nothing to interest you.

And every fucking thing you did, be that making pasta or lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, made you think of him. You had loved him as you’d never loved anyone before. And you never told him. Did he even know that you loved him? Did he know that you knew he loved you back?

You would close your eyes and the only thing you were sure of in your mind’s image of him was that goddamn smile.

taglists; (let me know if you want to be added, removed, or moved around)

perm taglist; @turquiosenights @el-lizzie @sparrows-books @dxxkxx @opheliaelysia @trashbin2 @rzrcrst @arcadianempress @stevieharrrr @peterparkers-tingle @blushingwueen @coredrive @lokiaddicted @mserynlarsen @badassbaker @1-800-fandomtrashqueen @flower-petal-blooming @talesfromtheguild @eupphoriaaa @weirdowithnobeardo @gaybroadwayloser @randomness501 @adikaofmandalore @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @poesdxmerons @bountyguild @sinnamon-bunn @readsalot73 @gooddaykate @rage-isaquietthing

pedro taglist; @pascalisthepunkest @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @mrsparknuts @souls-rain @twomoonstwosuns @sophiasescape

#for all the lovesick mad sad geniuses #pedro pacal #24hourplays #ngozi anyanwu #camila writes #rated t #under 5 #angst #pedro fics #fatlmsg #fatlmsg fics #mad sad genius x reader

325 notes · View notes

wukodork · 1 year ago

Text

Good news, you can get most of what you need at something like walmart! If you have like a gaming store that sells minatures they're also a really good place to get supplies, although they'll be more expensive usually. (You'll also run into people that paint minis at a gaming store, who will also be able to help).

In terms of sealant- whatever you get may need to be watered down some. The key thing is that it dries clear, I've actually considered using Mod Podge bc I've had good experiences with their glue and they also make matte and gloss sealants. Citadel and Army Painter are brands that mini painters use a lot, but I'm not sure how easy it is to get those offline or if they come in non spray versions.

In terms of paint/pencils....You need acrylic paint. You can get the cheapest possible, as long as it's acrylic. The difference in quality between cheap and expensive acrylic paint is how watered down it is and you need thin layers of paint if you don't want brushstrokes to show os that doesn't matter.

As for pencils.....it really depends on what kind of look you want? Watercolor pencils are popular, but you won't get bright colors with them without also using a TON of sealant. (Each time you seal it's like adding a layer in an art program, and these need a LOT of layers to look good). Watercolor pencils are nice, but I'd honestly just use them for sketching things out.

If you want like a subtle gradient in parts (like if you or someone you know wears blush, that kind of look) you will, at some point, want some pastels. Not oil pastels, the hard ones. Bc you can lift pigment from them with a brush and dust it on. Again, cheaper ones have less pigment, but you honestly don't NEED the super expensive ones for this.

Etsy is, weirdly, a good place for hair! Shimmerlocks and CustomDollHairAU are two stores I personally use and reccomend in general. The second is based in Australia, but they do free shipping on orders over $35. This is for like, doll hair fiber (saran, synatra, nylon, etc) but you can also use yarn. If you do use yarn I highly reccomend making sure you can stand how it feels and that it's not mixed fibers (so 100% acrylic, 100% wool, w/ as long as it's 100%).

This is a really good tut on making yarn wefts, and this channel also has tutorials on making wigs in multiple styles as well.

youtube

If you're not using wefts (you can make wefts out of doll hair too, but it's better of you sew those instead of using glue), then you'll likely use either the tension method or the needle and thread method.

The tension method is the one you'll see more custom doll vloggers use. You take a few fibers of hair into the broken eye of a needle and stab it into one of the hair holes. It can actually feel pretty fun sometimes or be super tedious (depending on how stabby you're feeling that day). If you see someone mentioning a "reroot tool" they're likely using this method and talking about a needle thats stuck pointy end into some kind of handle and has the eye of the neddle cut at an angle. You can make your own, but lots of places that sell doll hair will sell one as well if you'd prefer someone else do it. (No video linked here bc this is so many doll custom vids and every one I can think of isn't just the reroot). Keep in mind you HAVE to glue the inside of the head after you're done to secure the hair.

The other rerooting method, needle and thread, is less common. In addition to the doll hair, you need an intact "doll needle" which is a pretty long needle. I found some at walmart, but if it's easier to go to a crafts store than your walmart equivalent they should have them too. You also need a sturdy thread (I've also heard extremely thin fishing line works). Here's a good example of a needle and thread with pictures.

Uhh I think that's everytbing you asked?

Hello dollblr! So I’ve been wanting to do my first doll custom and well I wanted to ask y'all what kind of supplies should I get? I mean I do know the standard supplies but I’m looking for alternatives. Like I can’t buy Mr.Super Clear even though I know it’s highly reccomended (I don’t have a ventilated area to use it so spray sealant is off the list for me.) Also things like paint and pencils, what’s something good quality I can get for a fair price?? And hair rerooting/wig making where do I even start with finding hair??? Also please anyone experienced in doll customization please give me some tips, tricks, and further advice, thank you!

#doll custom #I have approximate knowledge of many things #Youtube

27 notes · View notes

dindjarindiaries · 4 years ago

Note

Can you do #30 - Painting the house that ends in a paint fight and giggles - for our soft Tin Can, pwease

character: Din Djarin

prompt: Painting the house that ends in a paint fight and giggles

warnings: soft!Din is a given, good ole fashioned fluff

rating: G

masterlist

After years of running around with the Mandalorian and doing whatever you could to rid of the Imperial threat surrounding the child, you finally did it.

You’ve finally exchanged your marriage vows and have settled down—now having a house that isn’t the cold interior of the Razor Crest.

The project of today is to give the house some color. You and Din have already purged the nearest marketplace for all your supplies, including a smaller brush for the child who’s still in your care. Thanks to the remote location you chose for your house, Din can be helmetless in the outdoors and not have to worry about others seeing him. You’re nearly in awe at the sight of him looking so domestic in his lack of beskar, instead wearing a tunic with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of light pants to mind the heat of the nearby sun that warms your backs.

Often, you still find yourself in disbelief that you get to see Din’s face now, and he’ll take advantage of that. Whilst painting, he’ll catch you looking and either give you a smile that makes you weak in the knees or throw you a wink that has a similar effect. During all of this, the child works with intense focus beside you, his little three-fingered hands brushing over the same piece of wood repeatedly as his large eyes narrow in concentration. The moment makes you truly feel as if you’re a little family.

But after long enough, you’re ready to disturb the peace.

Din’s smug looks at the effects his face and expressions gives you has you craving a bit of revenge. Subtly, you work your way over until you’re painting just beside him, relieved to see that he isn’t too suspicious of the movement. When you get an open opportunity, you pretend to trip, causing your brush to leave a wet trail of white paint over the exposed part of Din’s right arm. He looks over at you in a quick movement, his charcoal eyes widened in surprise. You shrug with a mischievous smile.

“Sorry,” you say in an amused tone. “I tripped.”

Din’s eyes narrow at you, and you can see the same mischief you feel reflected in his gaze. “I’ve never thought of you as clumsy, cyar’ika.” Din’s usual rasp is laced with a hint of playfulness, and you watch as one of his eyebrows quirks up at you.

You pretend to return to your painting, attempting to bite back a smile. “Accidents happen.”

Din pauses for a moment. “Yes. They do.” His voice is low and contemplative. You see his hand make a brushstroke just beside your own before he continues. “I know you wouldn’t pick a fight with a Mandalorian on purpose... right?”

When you finally look over at Din again, you meet his dark gaze that’s sparkling with amusement and intrigue now, trying to read him for whatever will come next. “And what if I was?”

Din’s brow lifts as the ghost of a sly smile appears on his lips. “Then I would win.”

Before you can get a response out, Din reaches his brush forward to catch the tip of your nose, leaving a white mark there as you gasp dramatically. A loud chuckle rumbles from Din’s chest, and you take that moment of distraction to dip your brush in your bucket and flick the paint towards him. Specks of white trail across his tunic and splatter in a few places on his face, causing him to shake his head as he dips his own brush in his bucket and lunges towards you.

You squeal as Din hooks one arm around your waist, pulling you to the ground underneath him as he attacks the skin on your arms and neck with constant strokes of the brush. You can’t stop laughing as you try to push him away, his own laughs gracing your hearing as you constantly reach for his wrist. When you finally catch it, you try to turn it back towards him, easily losing that battle thanks to his aforementioned Mandalorian training. Still, you have your own brush in your other hand, and you swing that forward to leave a solid white streak across his cheek and nose. Din drops his jaw in dramatic shock at your actions, causing you to laugh even harder.

Unable to continue up the fight thanks to the adorable sight of you cracking up, Din does the same, keeping his arm around you as he lays in the grass beside you and pulls you close. He chuckles with you, noting particularly how your eyes sparkle as you laugh. When you both fall silent, Din lifts his brush up slowly, letting it meet your cheek as he starts to make precise strokes across it. You furrow your brow.

“What’re you doing?” you inquire, keeping your voice low so as to not throw off his focus.

“I’m painting.” Din answers as if it’s obvious.

“Okay, but what are you painting, you scoundrel?” You let out a giggle with your words.

Din finally pulls away with a small smile, studying whatever work he’s left behind on your cheek. “A mudhorn,” he informs you. “Our clan’s symbol.”

Your heart softens as you hold his sweet gaze, watching the way it lights up upon seeing your smile grow. There are so many words you want to say, but you know actions will speak louder, so you begin to lean in for a kiss. Before your lips can meet, however, you feel a new weight on your legs, and you look down to see the child crawling over to you both. His ears are drooped as if he’s feeling left out. Both you and Din chuckle softly as Din brings his brush to the child’s face, leaving just a bit of paint on the tip of his nose. The child giggles in delight.

“Now you match your buir, ad’ika.” Din smiles wide as he abandons his brush in the grass in favor of picking up the child. He coos with delight as his little hands reach out for Din’s face, grabbing his white-painted cheeks and pressing his brow against his father’s. Your chest warms as you lean against Din’s shoulder, admiring the sight and forgetting all about the painting job you’ve just extremely derailed.

permanent tag list: @mikahid @bestintheparsec @stilllivindue2spite @xbrujita @mandalorianspace @blushingwueen @sevvysaurus @myakai13 @thisis-theway @beskars @rachelloveseveryone @theindiealto @hiscyarika @burningsoulbloodyheart @wickedfrsgrl @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @bookwafflefangirl @cable-kenobi @ezraslittleblondestreak @hdlynn @your-pixels-are-showing @b0n-chann @javier-djarin

#DINNNNNNNNNN #i am so soft for him it's not eVEN FUNNY ANYMORE #>:( come hug me rn #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #drabbles #dindjarindiaries

151 notes · View notes

wherearemyglassesbro · 4 years ago

Text

A h/etalia Umbrella academy au but it isn’t actually one, it’s just inspired by UA kinda...idk

//Uh keep in mind that this is going straight from the drafts onto your dash and uhhh there will for sure be spelling errors so don’t roast me lmao

Roman ‘Roma’ Vargas: An eccentric billionaire who founded the Academy of the World’s Finest (or the AWF for short). He gets bored very quickly and went from buying rockets to building hotels to managing casinos to buying children. A very crazy sequence of events! (Roma has many secrets but I don’t feel like fleshing it’s out rn this is just the bare bones of this just for fun!! And if you’ve seen both seasons of UA you probably already knows what you need to know). One faithful day, October 1st 1989, multiple beautiful babies were born from women who were not pregnant the day they were born. This phenomenon made itself known to Roma and he was off to find as many of these children that he could! He sent his staff all over the world to buy these children. He successfully purchased 9.

Number 1, purchased for $10,000 in Las Vegas: Number 1 was picked to be number 1 because Roma thought he was such a strong looking baby. Alfred was actually purchased fifth out of his siblings but no one knows that except Roma himself. Alfred, from a young age, was able to cause an obscene amount of damage. When he held Roma’s hand while learning to walk, he crushed the bones in his hand. When he kicked a soccer ball down the hallway, it went through the wall like a meteor. When he knocked on Arthurs door to bother him, the door snapped in half (and Art screamed bloody murder). He has an insane amount of strength without even trying! It was very hard for him to get a handle on it because he’s so spontaneous and isn’t really one to think before acting but once he and hs siblings started training for hero work?? That was his motivation to be better, to control his power to use it against bad guys!!! He’s the golden boy of the family, he never disobeys Roma and will never, even now, say anything bad about him. ‘Hey! He’s my dad, he saved me from whatever shithole life I was destined to have in Nevada. I couldn’t be more thankful for my life! And mom, if you’re watching this...Thanks. I don’t know who you are but...Thank you’

Number 2, purchased for $25,000 in Le Mans: Number 2’s power presented itself only after he learned to talk. Francis’s power of persuasion is both a blessing and a curse for him. He’s struggled greatly with being ‘number 2’, he wants the same validation and attention as ‘number 1’ gets. He doesn’t think it’s fair. He often used his power for bad things arond the house like ‘J'ai entendu une rumeur that you broke every finger on your right hand!’ that was a very gruesome morning for Alfred and the scolding that Francis got scarred him for life as he was insulted and cursed out in front of his family. Even after that, he still kept up his happy exterior. He was also usually the face of the AWF, appearing on magazine covers which he may or may not have influenced the writers just a bit. His power is strong but he does not use it on Roma because he’s terrified of what would happen if he did!! As he’s gotten older, he’s falls off the wagon a little but he’s trying to make a solid recovery. Also, when he was 7 he found out he was born in France! He then forced himself to become totally fluent in French and taught himself to have a French accent too. Whoopie....

Number 3, purchased for $1000 in Sicily: Number 3 is a dangerous child, he was from day one. When he was born, he was presenting a 116 degree fever yet he was acting totally normal. His mother was convinced he was the devil and was more than happy to sell him off to Roma. Roma felt a deep connection to Lovi from the start....Lovi looked like him. He looked like he could be his biological son. Lovi got special treatment from Roma often but he still felt overshadowed by his siblings. I mean, a majority of his siblings are pretty blondes. He felt left out often. But he would channel that anger into training and cooking! He has a trick that he likes to do, cracking an egg into his palm and cooking it. That one impresses Alfred every time! Not that he’s hard to impress. Lovi would often push himself too far in his quest to be the best and snap at his siblings, leaving him even more alienated from them. He spent a lot of time around Roma and Feli, mostly Roma. He got a lot of one-on-one training with him and a lot of praise too. All he ever wanted to do was be perfect for his father. He set bad guys on fire, did interviews on live tv, set fire to a warehouse full of gang members, all kinds of stuff that he never would have done on his own. Stuff that he didn’t want to do. All so he could impress Roma

Number 4, purchased for $700 outside of Berlin: Number 4 has always been hyper and loud! But his powers suddenly developed over night, which was terrifying for him. Gilbert awoke in the middle of the night to pee one night and was met with a ghost in the bathtub. Naturally, Roma encouraged him to speak with ghosts and would make him go to cemeteries to talk to the dead. Ghosts scared him so he’d secretly take Benadryl to knock himself out but as he got older, he realized that he couldn’t be scared anymore cause these ghosts needed a friend :( so he used these ghosts to fight in missions and in return, he’d play games with them and chat with them, just being friend with the ones who had a hard time crossing over :’) he likes using his powers for good but feels like he’s taking advantage of his ghost friends sometimes which took the fun out of crime fighting

Number 5, given to Roma for free outside of Kyoto: Number 5 got a late start compared to his siblings. His powers took awhile longer to manifest and he had trouble learning to read. But once he caught up, he proved himself to be the smartest out of all of them. Smarter than some of them combined, even. Kiku still often indulged in his siblings antics but at the same time, he felt he was somewhat superior to them. He learned to poof himself from one side of the room to the other, starting off small. He figured out he could time travel one night when Francis and Gil were hammered and knocked a vase over. Kiku felt every muscle in his body tense, then a sensation of falling, then he was suddenly 10 seconds in the past!! Wow!! He caught the vase before it could hit the ground and kicked Fran so he fell down, leaving him to sleep on the foyer floor while Gil just stood there like ‘wtf...?’. When Roma started berating him for ‘getting too cocky’, Kiku threw a bit of a hissy fit and decided to jump to the future!! He did and landed himself in the aftermath of the 2019 apocalypse, unable to get back home cause he wore himself out and had no idea what he had even done to get himself there in the first place lmao sucker.

Number 6, purchased for $10,000 in York: Number 6 was an extremely fussy baby. All he did was cry and cry and cry, it was very frustrating for Roma since the other babies were somewhat easier to handle. Arthur was indeed a handful. When he was hungry, baby food tins and spoons would float out of the pantry and over to his highchair. When he wanted to torment his siblings, he’d take their things and throw them across the room with his mind. When a sinking was annoying him, he’d simply lift them up and shove them out of his room. Easy. He is probably the smartest or second smartest of his siblings. He isn’t the most athletic but he spent lots of time studying, so much so that Roma had to constantly buy new books for Art to read to keep him mentally stimulated. He was often a voice of reason though no one listened to him. When fighting he was very useful!! He never needed to get close to the bad guys, he could throw them around without moving a muscle! The only downside is that it wore him out after awhile...Ugh. He avoided the media but did do interviews with his mask on, encouraging kids his age to stay in school! By the time Art was 13, he was taking college level tests and reading college level material so...he’s one smart cookie

Number 7, given to Roma for free in undisclosed location in Russia: Number 7 is too powerful for her own good. At a young age, Francis was told to convince her that she had no powers. This was done in secret, only Roma, the house staff, Francis and Kiku knew it happened. Everyone else was oblivious and left out of the loop. Vanya has the ability to shake the earth, to cause obscene amounts of damage in the blink of an eye. Her power was something that Roma could have never prepared himself for. So from that day on, Vanya was a ‘normal girl’. She watched from the sidelines as her siblings got to train and fight. She sat with Feli to paint or sew or just talk. She went through every day feeling worthless, like she wasn’t meant to be a part of this family. She channeled her feelings into art, painting canvasses worth of rainy cities or melting people. She made a series of paintings depicting her siblings’ abilities through chunky brushstrokes and vibrant colors. Each painting sold for over one million dollars. She thought her art career would impress her father. It didn’t.

Number 8, purchased for $15,000 and 10 cows outside of Oslo: Number 8 was always a quiet boy, he kept to himself and Roma thought he may be powerless as well for almost 5 years until lightning struck the house...on a bright sunny day...not a cloud in the sky. Turns out Lukas and Kiku were arguing. They were only 5 so they were just shrieking and yelling nonsense then BAM!!!! Lighting. Roma was so terrified but Lukas was giggling and shooting soarks out of his hands, his hair sticking up like crazy. He was always quiet and reserved, he spent a lot of time in the library or on the roof just looking out over the city. He didn’t like sneaking out of the house like his brothers and sisters did but he went ‘to keep an eye on them’...he always had fun though. He stayed away from the media and wore a mask that his most of his face so he wouldn’t be recognized. Sadly, in a tough fight in a hostage situation, Lukas was shot and killed when he was 15, right when he was starting to consider writing a book about hero work and how as he aged, he was becoming more confident in himself due to helping others. It was a tragic loss for his siblings

Number 9, purchased for $800 and a new car in La Coruna: Number 9 was successful from the start, surpassing her siblings in height very very fast. Her power just happens to be her speed. Carmen, as a baby, was a lot to handle since she crawled around the house at 40 miles an hour. Even her sleep schedule was quick, she’d take a 20 minute speed nap and have enough energy to run around for hours after. When she was introduced to the idea of being a hero, she agreed so fast that she nearly bit her tongue off. She always got her chores done quick, helped around the house, all of that since a task that would take 3 hours only took a few minutes for her. She was a great female role model and did many interviews for teen magazines to encourage girls to be their best, that has always been her message. She even wrote ‘GRLPWR’ on her cheeks in black paint before heading off to fight crime in case she had her picture taken. Roma wasn’t a huge fan of that but she didn’t care too much :) she has always stuck up for her sisters!! And she has always been close to Fran and Gil but as they got older, their interests began to differ so she found herself hanging with Vanya and Arthur more

Feliciano Vargas: Roma Vargas’s only biological son. He does not have powers and often felt left out when he was left behind while his siblings went on missions. He’s 2 years younger than the rest of them and is often referred to as ‘stupid little brother’ by Lovino which hurt his feelings. When he was a baby, they were like 2 and a half so they didn’t see him as ‘aww look my baby brother!’ They just found him annoying cause he cried a lot. Like his siblings, he never met his mom but he does feel good knowing that he will always have his dad. When he and the academy kids fight, he will often rub it in their faces that at least Roma is his biological dad. That really rubs salt in the wounds, huh? Feli has always gotten on well with Vanya, they got left behind all the time so they got to paint and play music together :) they made eachother very happy

Gilbert and Lukas: Gil didn’t really like Lukas much when they were younger cause Lukas was just...quiet and reserved. Gil is the exact opposite. But now that Lukas is dead, Gil pities him and hangs out with him. They trained a lot together but Gil got embarassed when they trained cause if someone were to walk in, they’d just see Gil shouting and punching at nothing so...They trained in the dark at 3am on the roof where they wouldnt be interrupted. Now that Gil is older, he can channel Lukas almostperfectly. Lukas has an almost totally physical form when Gil uses his powers, allowing Lukas to channel lightning the way he was able to when he was alive. Lukas doesn’t like doing that too often cause it’s a bit cruel, getting to feel alive when you’re not :/

Kuma: Kuma was a normal polar bear that was experimented on in a lab that Roma funded. The scientists combined his DNA with monkey and human DNA and after much trial and error, they were able to get his brain to process English. So he wears a collar that allows him to talk. He scolded the kids for running around in the house but then five minutes later he’d let them ride his back while HE ran around the halls :) he was like a fun uncle to them. He wore a bow tie :)

Wan yu: Roma fell in love with a woman from China when he was younger. She was studying culinary arts in Italy and he absolutely fell head over heels for her. But things didn’t work out. So once the tech came around, he had an advanced robot version of his first love created for the sole purpose of loving him and his children. She was programmed to be a great role model, compassionate, patient and...A good cook. The kids all called her mom or ma and even though she never technically had favorites, she was always fond of little Kiku. She was the one who taught him to read when he had trouble doing so and she’s stay up late with him in secret to help him catch up in other languages. The kids all had to learn Italian, English, Spanish, Greek and Russian bedore they were even 8 years old. Since Kiku took a bit longer to grasp that kind of stuff, she would sneak him down to the library to have one-on-one lessons with him. :) she was also very caring when it came to Alfred, she saw how hard he pushed himself sometimes and it hurt her to watch. She made cookies for him on especially rough days

Lukas’s death: Lukas’s death hit Arthur, Vanya and Gilbert especially hard. Arthur and Lukas bonded over similar interests, Lukas and Vanya played chess all the time and gossiped and Gilbert always thought that Lukas was the coolest sibling he had. His death was used as motivation for everyone else to continue training. Gilbert ‘summoned’ Lukas three days after his death and Lukas has followed him around ever sicne. Lukas wasn’t avtually summoned, he’d been secretly roaming the house for days and decided to just let Gil think he summoned him. Roma was depressed about his son’s death for a week or so but he never really allowed himself to feel negative emotions for too long so he was over it a bit...too quickly.

39 notes · View notes

belettewrites · 4 years ago

Text

Some mountains and a dog part 8

previous | next | AO3 | masterpost

The thing about that forest was that it felt welcoming. Looking around him was like looking at those small drawings children got at school when they were good – or so he was told. Rare were the children getting to enjoy this, paper was expensive and he avoided being around nobility as much as he could, but Ciri had mentioned, in passing, that she used to get them from Eist when she had done particularly well in her lessons.

But the forest did look like a painting, like something you’d see in an illustrated book for children – the good kind of book, where nothing bad happened, the kind that you read to children after they had a nightmare. A painting, as if Melitele Herself had added small brushstrokes of colors. Dark green for the pines, and a lighter one for the fern; birds flying, small dots of red around their necks. And, the richest color of them all, a bright gold for the sunbeams that were coming through the branches and warming the ground.

This scenery didn’t make the forest look like a threatening place, and it was unnerving. It wasn’t silent, either, and Geralt almost wished it was, because he at least would have known that something was lurking around, scaring the birds and other animals away. But the only thing lurking around was him, and the lack of apparent threat made him feel uneasy.

Or maybe that feeling came from the fact that he had kissed Jaskier right before leaving. Maybe. Geralt tried not to think about it.

Tried being the key word here, because he wasn’t exactly succeeding. To think that he hadn’t realized it right as it happened, that he had done it like he had been dreaming of doing it for a while now without seeing what he was doing – it had felt so natural, to just get closer and kiss him, as if they had done it a thousand times before, a good luck and goodbye kiss, a promise to come back safe.

But they hadn’t done it before. It wasn’t a thing that they did. It was something Geralt oh so desperately longed for, but couldn’t have. It was… one would call it longing, the thing he felt – he had thought he had it under control, that being Jaskier’s friend was enough, and in a sense it was, he would take whatever the other man would give him, but for his mind to betray him like that –

Geralt was furious at himself, because he had overstepped his boundaries and had forced a kiss on Jaskier, had taken advantage of his friend before leaving without apologizing, because apparently he had been so out of his mind that he hadn’t realized before it was too late.

A distracted Witcher was a dead one, no matter the circumstances. It shouldn’t have happened for multiple reasons, the first one being that Jaskier hadn’t consented to this – it made Geralt feel sick. He hoped his friend would be able to forgive him. If he couldn’t, well, Geralt hoped that Jaskier would at least let him help him down the mountain, before they parted ways – why was it always on mountains that Geralt found ways to fuck up?

He viciously stepped on a branch that had fallen, almost disappointed when it didn’t crack under his foot. A bird sang in a tree next to him, and he glared at it. Everything reminded him of Jaskier, and of the way he had –

Something howled from deeper in the forest, ahead of him. He wasn’t walking on a path, there weren’t any, but he was hoping he’d find one made by animals as they passed through. He clenched his teeth and his fist, and started walking faster, looking out for stumps and other holes in the ground, his bag with some potions at his side. He would take care of whatever it was, go back, and apologize – and maybe confess, too, because there was no other way he would be able to explain what he had done without telling Jaskier that he loved him.

It would mean losing his bard, but Jaskier’s happiness mattered more to him than his own.

***

To say that Geralt hadn’t fucking expected this would be an understatement.

That being said, Geralt hadn’t fucking expected this.

To be fair, it was not as if he had expected anything; he had walked inside the forest ready to fight (ready to forget what he had just done), ready to do his witchering and to go back to the house (ready to go back to Jaskier), ready to fix the problem (ready to apologize).

He didn’t know for how long he had been in the forest – one always lost track of time when they couldn’t see the sun in the sky, even a witcher, but he knew that he had been walking for what could have been two hours or more before he had heard the howling coming from afar. After that, he had walked for maybe half an hour before hearing more noises, something that had sounded like two people talking and dogs playing on the ground, yapping and growling – young dogs, by the sound of it.

It intrigued him. Why would people be out there? He and Jaskier might have been in the forest, but they had stayed close to paths already traced. They had not… ventured three hours away from them.

Geralt started walking more slowly, careful not to step on anything that would have alerted them of his presence; he must have done something wrong, though, because the noises suddenly stopped. All noises, in fact, seemed to have stopped, the only thing he could hear being the wind softly whispering between the trees.

He carried on, walking towards where he thought he had heard the voices coming – and he could hear heartbeats now, someone was there. Someone, or something. He paused to listen. They were beating rapidly – whoever, whatever it was was scared, which meant that they – it – had heard him. It wasn’t good. Scared people or animals tended to react impulsively, and Geralt had promised to Jaskier that he would come back uninjured.

There was a clearing ahead of him, he could see it by the way there was much more light over there. He didn’t draw his sword. No need to, not yet. If there indeed was someone there, Geralt didn’t want to burst in, sword in hand, seemingly ready to attack – his reputation had been more or less mended by Jaskier’s songs, but anyone would be scared shitless of a Witcher coming out of the woods.

The trees soon parted ways, letting him distinguish silhouettes. He could see two, maybe three people standing in the clearing, looking in his direction. So they had heard him, and they were indeed people. Hoping he didn’t appear that threatening, he approached them.

“Hello,” he said, stepping in the clearing, taking in the sight in front of him. Three people, an unlit fire and – and nothing else. Which was weird, because Geralt could hear six heartbeats.

He wished Jaskier was here, as he often did; Jaskier would have known what to say, would have known how to ask why the fuck were there people without bags, in a clearing in the middle of a forest, without sounding aggressive or threatening.

But Jaskier wasn’t here, so Geralt had to do this himself.

“Hello,” the woman nodded. Her clothes needed some mending, as did the ones of her two companions, a man and a teenage girl who might have been only slightly older than Ciri. It made Geralt’s heart ache, but he also didn’t miss the way his medallion was softly vibrating against his chest. They were magic, and he hoped they weren’t fae, because if they were –

“Everything alright?” Geralt asked, still not drawing his sword, but searching around him for the source of the three other heartbeats. The vegetation around the clearing was dense and perfect to hide in. He counted again – yes, six heartbeats, three in front of him and the others coming from around him. All extremely nervous.

He heard a small whine coming from the bushes, one that sounded like Charcoal’s, but a pitch higher, as if it were a very young dog that had made it. The woman glanced at the bushes before looking back at Geralt, nervously stretching her hands.

“Yes, yes of course, sir. We were just-”

Cutting whatever she had been about to say, two dogs ran out of the bushes, landing at her feet, yapping happily. Her eyes widened in horror as she looked at Geralt, who suddenly realized that they weren’t dogs, but young wolves. Cubs. A third wolf, fully adult, came out and growled at him, standing protectively in front of the younger ones.

Geralt took a step back, his medallion vibrating more than before.

“You’re shifters,” he breathed, making sure to watch the adult wolf’s movements. Its yellow eyes didn’t leave Geralt’s, and the cubs, having apparently understood that something was going on, hid behind it.

“Please don’t hurt us,” the woman pleaded, stepping in front of the teenage girl who had tears in her eyes.

The whole situation had made Geralt tense his shoulders and frown; knowing how that made him look he tried to relax a bit, not smiling but definitely not frowning anymore. He put his hands in front of him in the traditional ‘I’m not being a threat, I’m not going to attack you’ gesture.

“I’m not going to,” he said, and the wolf growled. “I wouldn’t.”

“You say that,” the man who had been silent until now snarled, “but I see your medallion, your swords. You’re a Witcher, your kind kills monsters.”

“You aren’t monsters,” Geralt frowned.

Something shifted in the air, his medallion vibrating once more, and where once stood an adult wolf was now a tall woman, hair loosely tied and a scar on her cheek, sword on her hips.

“Aren’t we?” she almost barked, her eyes glowing fiercely, “Aren’t we? We’ve been thrown out like dogs when our village learned what we were, why wouldn’t a witcher be different? If people that were once close to us stoned us, why would you spare us?”

“Are you the ones that have been attacking the sheep?” Geralt replied instead. He wouldn’t hurt them if they didn’t threaten Lila and Violet’s security, but he couldn’t tell them that, they wouldn’t believe him. They seemed harmless – but wolves had teeth and claws and could use them.

“We’re forced to hide, witcher, we’re forced to hunt and sleep outside. Winters get tough, went the game gets rarer – you can’t blame us for taking a sheep that they don’t need to survive, not like we do.”

Geralt was suddenly reminded of his first meeting with Jaskier, of the elves and of Filavandrel, of how they had justified stealing from the valley as a means to an end, because they had no other choice. The pack of shifters in front of him was like them, if less regal; they hadn’t asked for anything, were merely trying to survive. Though maybe, unlike the elves, they could be reasoned with.

The two cubs were still hiding behind the tall woman’s legs – she was the leader of the pack, then. Tears were rolling down the teenage girl’s face; from fear or pain, Geralt didn’t know.

“The shepherdesses would welcome you,” he told the leader, “You don’t have to hide. You need to talk to them, offer your services – I think they would gladly give you a sheep in exchange for labor.”

She squinted her eyes and didn’t reply, assessing him.

“You give humans a lot of credit,” the only man of the pack replied. “How can you know that they will?”

He reminded Geralt of Lambert, in a way. So he replied like he would have replied to his brother.

“After you attacked their dog, leaving it in such a shape that they had to put an end to its misery, you mean? Some humans are good, and the shepherdesses are.”

Geralt looked at them, truly looked at them. He didn’t want to hurt them – it would be against his witcher code. As nonexistent as that code might be – a way for him to refuse contracts –, it was based on his own morals, and he absolutely refused to harm another sentient being. Though he would do what he needed to do in order to protect Violet and Lila – he quite liked them, the way they were around each other and with Jaskier.

He almost groaned. Why the fuck had he thought about Jaskier? It seemed that his mind couldn’t stay away from what had happened for long. Guilt and love didn’t go well together.

He tried to focus on the task at hand. Distracted witchers didn’t last, he berated himself. He would deal with the Jaskier situation when he would be back.

“But if you don’t,” Geralt warned, his voice a bit colder, “I’ll do whatever is necessary for you to stop being a threat to their safety. I understand you need to survive, I know how it is to have a cub to protect, but you’re putting them in danger. I’m sure they would accept to help you, if you asked.”

Violet hadn’t flinched when she had recognized him as a Witcher, Lila had welcomed them at her table and had served them lunch, hosting them and lending them towels that had been obviously gifted to her by her wife. They were kind, he knew. They would welcome the shifters in their house, looking at them a bit coldly after learning that they had been to the ones that had killed their dog, but they wouldn’t throw an entire family out. It wasn’t like them. Geralt had maybe known them for only a day and half, but he thought himself to be a good judge of character, and Violet and Lila were reliable people.

The tall woman glared at him. Geralt was feeling a bit threatened, if he was being honest. He would be able to win in a fight against her if the need arose, but there were two other adults here, plus the teenage girl, and he knew he wouldn’t make it out of it uninjured. He wouldn’t have time to take his potions, and he was away enough from Jaskier that the other man wouldn’t be able to help him, let alone actually find him here.

“We’ll think about it, witcher. We won’t harm the sheep for now, but I can’t guarantee that it’ll continue if the shepherdesses aren’t able to help us.”

Geralt nodded. It was fair, and all he could ask of them.

“Now go back before the night falls, witcher.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he had nothing to add. He would tell Violet and Lila what he had seen and done, and they would get to decide what they would do next. He hoped they would be okay, though – both the two wives and the shifters. Some people were played a cruel hand by Destiny, humans but not enough to be accepted among them, and he could only hope that they would be able to find a safe haven in the form of Violet and Lila’s hospitality.

He turned around, not really liking the fact that he was facing away from them, but not having any choice. In theory they wouldn’t attack him now, because he had established the fact that he was no threat for them, but he had to stay careful, years of training screaming at him to not face away from your enemy.

Geralt walked in silence, thinking about what he would tell Violet and Lila. He had expected a fight against some ungodly creature, and here he was, unscathed, his potions still tinkling in his bag. Jaskier would be relieved, but also disappointed – he would have to lie if he wanted to make a ballad out of this. Maybe he would turn it into a song about how Geralt had defeated a monster that could only be found in mountains, terrorizing the shepherds, lurking on its prey for days before finally attacking them.

Geralt would pretend to be bothered by the inaccuracy of the song, secretly admiring how his bard was able to twist events to get a way better story out of them, and would buy him more ale. Then they would go to their shared room, and Jaskier would braid his hair while humming a soft song, and Geralt would stay still, relaxing under the soft touches of his hair, wishing that he could reciprocate Jaskier’s tenderness-

Fuck. But that wouldn’t happen again, wouldn’t it? Not with Jaskier knowing how Geralt felt. Maybe he would stay, maybe he would not. Watching him leave again would be Geralt’s nightmare manifesting in front of his own eyes, but he’d let it happen. He would let a lot of things happen for Jaskier.

#Geraskier #The Witcher #Geralt of Rivia #Jaskier #mine #geraskier fic #Geralt is worrying for nothing #which is a big mood tbh #anyway only two parts left!#i think #I just realized that I apparently don't know how to count to ten so #who knows #certainly not me

3 notes · View notes

everythingisawayoflife · 4 years ago

Text

The Wrath and The Dawn Zutara AU: Chapter 1-The Wedding

A/N: This is based off a book I absolutely adore called The Wrath and The Dawn by Renee Ahdieh. I recommended this book (and it’s sequel) in my post called Books You Should Read (find that post on my blog cause I can’t add a link). I was reading the web comic on webtoons that goes along with the story and after reading a comment that said the deuteroganist reminded them of Zuko, I couldn’t help myself and inspiration hit. So, without further ado, here’s my new fanfiction. Likes, comments, and reblogs are heavily appreciated!

The maids whirled around her in swirls of Fire Nation reds and yellows. Her wedding was today. Everything ran through her mind, her mysterious fiance, at the forefront. Katara watched in her mirror as her maids combed her messy brown hair into something neat and silky that cascaded down her back. One maid, a meek and tiny girl, bundled up Katara’s hair into a top knot to match that of Firelord Zuko.

“Thank you,” Katara acknowledged the girl. The girl stiffened, her pale face becoming flushed with color. It became clear that these maids went unappreciated and that no one truly appreciated their hard work and special talents.

“Y-You’re welcome,” The girl stammered, giving a quick and awkward bow.

A gentle smile crossed Katara’s face as she dismissed the girl out of her chambers. The other maids stayed to paint Katara’s face in traditional Fire Nation makeup, or as Katara privately called it, clown makeup. Other than that smile she offered to the shy maid just a few seconds earlier, she had no reason to smile in this palace. This was a place she had no intention of being, but was willing to stay in this prison after the turmoil of last week. Last week was what drove Katara to the steps of the Firelord’s home. It had been an impossibly long journey from the Southern Water Tribe to the Fire Nation by herself, but she made it. Jia would’ve been so proud.

Jia had been a lively character, more reckless than Katara could describe. Risk was Jia’s middle name. It was always Jia who would be out penguin sledding from dusk til dawn. When Jia had said a sorrowful goodbye to Katara last week, Katara had no idea that her lifelong friend would be gone forever. The screaming of Jia’s parents when they discovered what happened to their daughter still haunted Katara. Jia was the Firelord’s seventieth bride. Word had reached all corners of the world just how dangerous it was to be married to Firelord Zuko. It just hadn’t reached their tiny corner in time. Katara couldn’t bear the thought of Jia’s precious body being rudely discarded after her murder. It had only been a day. Katara forced back tears as a maid painted a smooth brushstroke of black eyeliner over her eyelid.

No one knew why Zuko had a continuous murder streak that concerned her new brides. No one outside of the palace walls knew. There were whispers of why but just thinking about it seemed illegal. Katara trapped herself with Zuko to find out why. When she first locked eyes with the Firelord, she greeted him with an icy glare, cold enough to pierce through the skin. His glare was just as cold. Katara found that odd considering his eyes were a warm and welcome honey color. When she told him she volunteered to be his next wife, his face was as rock hard as stone. His courtesans, however, were far from it. Some looked on at her with eyes saying she was insane and some just shook their heads sadly, not knowing she was aware of the cost. It was strange having another Southern Water Tribe girl come waltzing into the palace asking for a hand in death. The whispers and rumors on the streets never broke her.

Katara refocused herself, studying her reflection in the mirror. Her icy blue eyes hadn’t melted with the warmth of the Fire Nation. Her eyes greatly contrasted with the Fire Nation garments she’d been heavily adorned with. The maids must’ve heard she was Water Tribe because she found some subtle references to her home woven in the silk. She was even provided with a betrothal necklace, carved with the Fire Nation insignia. It was a meaningless piece of jewelry, considering it came from a murderer. He probably didn’t even carve it himself, she thought. Regardless of whether it was his handiwork or not, the necklace meant nothing coming from him. She wanted to tear it and smash the intricately carved rock with her foot but she held it together for her family. Oh, her poor family. As if losing her mother wasn’t enough. Kya’s death took an extreme toll on her father, brother, grandmother, and herself. If her mother were here now, she wouldn’t know what to say to her. Katara’s maids had obviously finished decorating her for the upcoming ceremony, so she quickly dismissed them.

She continued to stare deeply into her soul. Every decision she had ever made in her life led her to this prison. She was here with a purpose. She was here for herself. She was here for Jia. She was here for every other girl who died at the hands of Firelord Zuko. She was determined to make it to the next sunrise, and the one after that. She was here to end the madness once and for all. She was here to kill the Firelord.

“I’m so sorry Dad,” She whispered to herself. “I disobeyed you but I had to. Jia’s death shall not be in vain. She and every other girl will get the justice they deserve. I hope you can find in it your heart to forgive me.”

If only her father could hear her apology. She wished Sokka could hear it too. She missed her brother’s jokes and laughter in her ear. The deafening silence of the room spoke tremendous volumes. With the exception of the rumbling crowd forming outside of the palace, all was quiet and still in her Queen Suite. She felt disgusted to say it, let alone think it. She’d only be Fire Lady for so long. When she executed her plan and him, she could live out the rest of her life knowing justice had been served. His death would end everyone’s internal suffering and she’d feel closure for Jia. She wasn’t just here for Water Tribe. Earth Kingdom, Air Nomad, and Fire Nation girls had lost their innocent lives because the monster that is Firelord Zuko.

Shaking her out of her thoughts, a guard knocked on Katara’s door. She stood and held a regal position, attempting to maintain a certain air of dominance over this measly guard.

“Enter,” She responded.

The heavy doors opened to reveal a tall, broad shouldered guard, obviously there to subdue her in case she tried anything. However, unlike those she had see so far, his similarly colored eyes to Zuko’s, were warm and kind. He looked sympathetic, almost.

“My lady,” The guard said. “It is time. Are you ready?” The guard offered her an arm to walk her to the wedding hall.

Katara elegantly reached for him and slid her arm through his. She patted his hand, smiling vaguely at him.

“More than you’ll ever know.”

. . .

A/N: I’m still working out who’s character I want to be who because there are more characters going to be introduced that I’m not still sure who all is gonna be included. Please read the books because they are so good and highly entertaining! Lmk if you’ve read the books or what you think of the story! Again, likes, comments, and reblogs are GREATLY appreciated.

#zutara #the wrath and the dawn au #fanfic

14 notes · View notes

phykios · 4 years ago

Text

the marble king, part 6 [read on ao3]

It came upon him quite suddenly, and with no hint of a warning.

They had stayed two extra days in the ancient settlement at Olbia, for which Percy was extraordinarily grateful. He had spent much of the first day in something of a state of total exhaustion; after his morning ministrations, he had sat himself in front of the Empress , fully intent on making her riverworthy by lunchtime, and the next thing he knew, Annabeth had been shaking him awake, the sun frighteningly low in the sky. Thankfully, she did not comment on his fatigue, but suggested that they extend their rest for one more day, citing her own need for rest, rather than drawing attention to his.

That extra day had worked wonders for his health, however, and on the third morning, they set sail on the Danapris , with clear eyes and bright spirits, leaving the Pontus Axeinos behind entirely. The current did not prove to be much of an issue, thankfully, the waters easily obeying his commands, and they made good time traveling Northwards.

For the first time in quite a while, he was feeling rather good about his situation. Yes, he was cast adrift from his people, and yes, he was harboring the most secret of devotions towards a woman who, were it not for their circumstances, likely would have nothing to do with him--yet the sun was high, the wind was swift, and the Empress sailed smoothly. As a son of the sea, there was not much else that Percy required.

So, of course, that was when he felt it.

His friends had, once upon a time, attempted to relate to him the feeling of suddenly being beneath the waves. It had been mostly described as a feeling of shock, an abrupt disturbance to one’s sense of self, cold and terrible. For Percy, who thrived in the water, he could not sympathize, not one iota. Submerging himself in the ocean felt like coming home, like his father’s warm embrace, a rare and precious gift among children of his kind. To dread and fear it would be anathema to his very being.

He imagined this is what his friends had attempted to describe.

The cold draped over him like a cloak, fastening around his neck, blanketing his shoulders and his spine. Percy felt as though something had scratched long, spindly nails across his most sensitive nerves, jarring and grating, sending shivers up and down his skin.

He felt seasick--a virtual impossibility, but that was the only way he could make sense of it. He felt as though there was something churning in his stomach, pulling him back and forth along an invisible line, so small it could be nearly undetectable, were it not for the fact that, should this continue for much longer, he would be violently ill.

Something pulled at his heart, grasping, fingers threading their way through his ribs and wrapping their digits around his bones, holding him down, holding him back, but the current of the river could not be broken so easily, and he was yanked forward, falling to his hands and knees to the deck with a violent thud .

“Percy!”

He could not even enjoy the fact that Annabeth had rushed to his side in concern.

Her hands patted at his shoulders and his neck, propping him upright against the side of their boat. “Percy,” she said, worry warping her sweet voice, “Percy, what is it? Are you ill? Should we stop? If you require it, we can take another day to rest--”

“What was that?” he wondered, hissing as he tried to sit up straighter. His abdomen ached, the muscles seizing as though he had been put through one of Clarice’s more intense training regimens, and he nearly folded over again, pulled tight. In a flash, one of Annabeth’s hands was at his stomach, rubbing over the taut flesh in a soothing, relaxing manner. “It felt--” he gasped, “it felt like--”

“Breathe, Percy,” she murmured. “Give yourself a moment to breathe.”

Closing his eyes against the cold light of the sun and the sudden sting of tears, he breathed in as Chiron had taught him, first through the nose, then held for a count of four, then released through the mouth. Little by little, he relaxed, the muscles easing beneath her fingers. He shuddered, his breath coming in short, sharp pants, his whole frame shaking as she continued to gentle him.

In any other situation, this arrangement would have felt like something plucked straight from one of his dreams, only now he could feel no pleasure at the touch of her hand. There was only shame and sorrow in him, a groaning loss for something that he could not name swelling deep inside of his body, a coldness from within. He felt empty, as though pieces of him had suddenly vanished, stolen by the chill hand that had crept its way into his body.

But all waves must crest, and this one did as well, crashing over him in a final, agonizing swell, before ebbing back into the fog of unidentified emotion, leaving behind a void of feeling.

“There,” said Annabeth. “Just breathe.”

Slowly, he came back into himself, his consciousness spreading once again into each nerve and extremity. His breath was harsh, panting, and all at once, they both realized that Annabeth’s hands were still on him, long after they should have been. She retracted them, a faint blush dusting her nose and her cheeks.

“Are you alright?” she asked, looking just left of his ear.

“Yes,” he groaned, feeling nothing of the sort, “I am fine, I merely--ugh.” He shook himself, rather like a dog, as though he could liberate himself from the phantom feeling of fingers around his heart. “Did you feel that?”

She frowned, her lip between her teeth. “I… no. Not--not like you, clearly.”

“ Malaka .” Groping around with a hand, his fingers only met the hard wood, until Annabeth, somehow able to divine his needs, pressed her waterskin into his hand. He did not drink from it, but poured it over his head instead, and the familiar feeling helped pull him back into himself. “That was most unpleasant.”

“Should we stop for a rest?” she asked.

On unsteady legs, he pulled himself up, grasping the edge of the Empress for support, Annabeth rising with him, her hands fluttering about his person like frantic birds. “No,” he grunted. “We have tarried here too long already. I shall be fine.”

“Are you sure? I am more than happy to--”

The Empress jerked forward. “Enough,” Percy said. “We continue on. Tighten the sail.”

Casting him a doubtful look, nevertheless, she complied, and they return to their speedy, steady glide. She retreated to the bow of the boat, her gaze turned ever North, so she could not see Percy curl himself over the lip, nearly folded in half, his stomach roiling as he peered into the depths of the Danapris .

The river was freshwater--he could smell it, could sense it in the vapors coming off of the surface, settling into his very skin--its color a deep, deep blue, a careless brushstroke through the emerald green fields and forests which surrounded them, at once familiar and so utterly alien to his sensibilities. It was not empty, no, for he could sense the fish and the insects and the birds which depended on it for its very survival, but it felt… strange.

There were presences, he could tell, down at the bottom of the river, spirits of the water who watched them pass, cold and apathetic. Had he not been a wiser man, he may have mistaken them for naiads, who pledged their fealty to his father, and honored the lord of the sea, though they did not serve in his court. The naiads would give Percy the same honors, should he happen upon their homes, or require their assistance.

These spirits, he knew, would not.

We bear you no ill will, he thought, sending his request down to the spirits below, though perhaps foolishly, as he was unsure whether or not they would heed his words at all, let alone comply. Let us go in peace .

No creature made to stop them, neither magical nor mundane, and Percy and Annabeth carried on in silence.

Then, the voice.

Tarry not, thalassinos, he thought he it say, a slithering, whispering thing, sliding through his ear, winding its way down his spine. Be on your way, and do not return, lest you and the svear come to an unfortunate end.

Annabeth looked back at him, worry creasing her brow. He gingerly sat himself down in the stern of the ship, his hand still clutching the wood of the boat, for support, for something real, something he could grasp and touch and know to be solid.

Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back, breathing as quietly as he could. In the silence of his thoughts, he imagined that he could hear these strange river spirits still, chattering away to themselves in a language he did not understand, honeyed and smooth and dark all at once, words of gossip and of warning.

In its most wild spaces, it seemed that the world still possessed some magic after all. Here in these lands so strange to him, at least there was power to behold, magic to be seen and felt and known. Unlike the Aegean, the court of Poseidon. Unlike his home, now lost to the merciless march of time.

Percy tried to find comfort in that.

***

Seven rapids, Annabeth had told him. Well, by his count, they were on the fifth.

Portaging the Empress had not, as he feared, been too difficult a task to undertake. They were both quite strong for their small frames, as well as, in Percy’s case, bolstered by a quick touch of the river. When they could not tip the boat upside down, as the mast prevented them from doing so, they took their cue from their old Ottoman enemies, and cut down a few of the thinner trees in order to make a portable log road. Annabeth, using her ropes, devised a pulley system, and between the two of them, they made fair enough time.

Fair enough time, he said. In truth, it was long, grueling work. Each cataract took the better part of a day to circumnavigate, and this was just the two of them and their pitifully dwindling amount of food. Percy simply could not imagine the time and effort it had taken to move great, big Viking longships, with all their passengers and cargo, back and forth, South and North. The very thought of it was enough to cause his head to ache.

It was the fifth day, and Percy was unloading the logs which they had taken with them up the river, the Empress docked on the shore. Another clever idea from his companion; this way, they could reuse the wood they had already gathered, and they would not have to waste time cutting more trees for a similar purpose. Annabeth had gone on ahead to scout their path, as she had done each day prior, for the way was no longer so clear, and they did not want to expend their energy on pointless endeavors.

A grave error, as they would soon come to discover.

The roaring of the waters of the rapid could be heard even this far away from it, a wall of titanic sound, yet even that was shattered by the piercing scream which rang out all around him.

Percy froze, casting around his gaze. “Annabeth?” he called after a moment, but he received no response.

Then again, a scream.

It was unmistakably hers.

Dropping the log onto the dirt, he charged North in the direction of the terrible sound, his steel sword drawn and at the ready. He and Annabeth had kept their mortal weapons on their person for this very purpose, in case they should meet mortal danger upon the road, though of course, he had his magical blade in his pocket should he ever require it.

He was not sure which danger he would have preferred.

Up ahead, he could hear men’s voices, talking loudly amongst themselves, in a tongue he could not understand, but oh, he recognized that tone of voice they had, boorish, oafish, and cruel. Skidding to a sort of a stop, he ducked behind a tree, Annabeth’s soft voice suddenly in his ear, bidding him to have a look about his surroundings before he did anything rash or foolish. Heart in his throat, he peeked round the trunk, his battle-honed instincts absorbing the field in a single second: three men, armored in patchwork; no horses that he could see nor sense, which implied a lack of reinforcements to come; three swords brandished, two of a more reasonable size and one absolute brute of a blade, which looked as though it had to be wielded by two hands; Annabeth, on her knees, snarling up at the man who had her hair in his fist.

Percy saw red.

The man nearest him, the poor soul, never even saw it coming. One moment he stood, leering at his captive, then the next, he toppled over, red blooming through the weave of his unprotected back.

Fortunately for the brute who dared to lay his hands on Annabeth, Percy’s path to him was blocked by the barrel-chested man with the long, heavy sword, who leveled his weapon at Percy’s chest, sneering. He should have probably thanked his own god, whoever it might have been, that Percy was so far from the River right now. Because if they had been even a few paces closer, he’d probably already be drowning where he stood.

Ugly, pale-faced, and foul, he jerked his head towards Annabeth. “ Gunai ?” he asked, hairy brow raised, then laughed at Percy’s deepening scowl.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Annabeth move up off of her knees to a kind of crouch, subtle enough that, to the man who held her, it seemed that she was merely struggling. Once she caught his gaze, she flicked her eyes downwards, towards her feet, where he saw that she had moved the bulk of her weight to one leg, the other one outstretched.

She would trip her target, leaving the man with the long sword to Percy. A part of him, eternally fourteen and as annoyed with the daughter of Athena as he was in love with her, rankled at the thought that she did not actually need his help, but the more rational part of himself--even from that time--knew that, sometimes, she did. And in those times, they could work together towards victory, as always.

So to draw the men’s attention from her, he let out a battle cry worthy of Pan, and let loose upon the larger man with a strident clash of metal on metal. In his periphery, he saw a flash of brown, then a yelp and a muted thud. Unfortunately, he could not spare any more attention to Annabeth, who had her situation well in hand, it sounded, as the brute with the giant sword bore down on him.

Percy’s arms shook as their blades met, again and again. Clearly, this man was used to his strength and height working towards his advantage, for he loomed large over Percy, and Percy was not a small man. Step by step, he hammered at Percy’s guard, forcing him back towards the edge of the clearing. His blade skipped off of Percy’s, glancing him in the arm, leaving a line of searing fire, and Percy cried out.

For any normal man, he would have been doomed, up against such a monster. For Percy, however, who at the tender age of twelve had challenged the god of war to a duel and won, it was not so much of a challenge.

Sidestepping the man’s ever-widening slash, he darted in with his shorter sword, cutting a line through the skin of his exposed stomach. As a mighty tree, the man crashed to the ground, falling face first into the dirt.

He turned to see Annabeth similarly victorious over her own opponent, her clothes disheveled and askew, her hair thrown wildly about. Where he lay on his back, the handle of a knife stuck out from his chest, sunken deep into his body. With a growl, she spat on the man’s corpse, and she hissed, “ Patzinak! ”

“Are you alright?” He asked, eyes scanning her body for any sign of an injury.

“I am fine, phykios ,” she snapped, then paused, as she seemed to remember all that had just transpired. She looked at him with a frown, then asked, “Are you?”

“It is only a flesh wound.” He held up his arm so that she could see for herself.

“They probably have a water skin around here somewhere,” she said. “We can treat you and then clean off.”

The men may have had a camp nearby, but perhaps they carried water on them. Kneeling down, he gingerly lifted the dead man’s body from the ground, searching for any supplies he may have had.

“Oh…” he heard Annabeth then groan. Frantic, he whirled towards her, terrified he had missed some life threatening wound upon her person, tormented by visions of her pale and bleeding--but no, she remained upright, standing tall and proud, her long hair gathered in her hands as she looked at it distastefully. “ Malaka ,” she swore under her breath. “This will be an absolute nightmare to clean.”

Percy opened his mouth, ostensibly to offer his assistance, or some comfort, but… well, she was not incorrect.

What was not covered in dirt was hopelessly, perhaps irreversibly tangled up on itself, a bird’s nest of black gold, limp and ragged and lifeless. Where the dead man had grasped it in his fist, it clumped together in thick, rigid lines, matted with dark blood.

Chewing her lip, she contemplated her hair, then turned back to the bandit who still lay bleeding a few feet away. “Percy,” she said, her voice sort of far away. “You should cut my hair.”

He was so startled he dropped his sword, inhaling his own saliva, nearly choking on it. “Wha--” he stammered, “what--”

“It is more trouble than it’s worth, truly,” she said, demonstrating her point as she tried to untangle a particularly stubborn curl. “Rather than waste time trying to fix it, it should be easier for you to remove it.”

“I--” he coughed. “But, why me?” Percy winced at his tone, hoarse and broken. “Surely you could cut it off yourself.” The blood was mostly on the end bits, hanging down over her shoulder and her… well, they were easily within her grasp.

Annabeth pursed her lips, casting her eyes to the ground. “I…” she swallowed. “It will not be even if I do it myself,” she offered, weakly. “And I will not be able to reach it all.”

Stepping over the fallen trunk, she made her way over to him, her knife in her hand, wiping the blood off on her dress, a sight which Percy knew well. Annabeth had had him at knifepoint more times than he cared to remember, sometimes seriously, sometimes in a joking manner, but now she held it out to him, hilt first, grey eyes shaded and unreadable.

“I would ask this favor of you, Percy,” she said. “Please.”

For a moment, they only breathed together. The wind blew gently, the fallen leaves at their feet wrapping them in a circle of jade and emerald, entwined.

He nodded. “Very well,” he said, taking the knife from her hands. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned round, presenting her hair and her back to him.

A dangerous position for a daughter of Athena, he supposed, to turn her back on a son of Poseidon, armed with a knife.

He tucked the knife in his belt, and lay a hand on her shoulder instead, and she jumped. “I apologize,” he said. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“It--it is fine.” He brought his hand to her hair, and her shoulders tensed even further. “Proceed as you will.”

“I will cut about here,” he said, fingering the muddy strands just below her shoulder. “Above where it is most saturated with blood.” She could still braid it then, though not as gloriously as before.

Her hair moved in his hand as she shook her head. “Further.”

This close, he could feel her shiver as he moved his hand higher. Now, it lay at the base of her neck. Her skin was warm, the little hairs there soft against his palm. “Here?” he asked.

“Further.”

His eyes widened. “You can’t mean--”

“I do,” she said. “I want it all gone.”

This was extreme, to say the least. “Are you certain? Surely it cannot be that difficult to keep so tidy.”

And, well, perhaps he was being selfish. Such beautiful hair, it gave her the air of a princess. Or an empress , his traitorous mind supplied him, a noble, golden woman, whose hair fell down in twin plaits over her body--

“Those men targeted me,” she said, cutting into his poorly-timed fantasy, “because they thought me to be your… because I am a woman.” He could not see her blush, but he could feel it, hot against his hand. “I should not like to experience that again. I can don a shirt and trousers with ease, but my hair is too obviously a symbol of my gender, and thus, I should like to part with it, for we still have a long way to go before we reach my father’s house.”

Of course. This was a precautionary measure, one that might better ensure her safety. Feeling rather ashamed of himself for his impure thoughts towards, he put all notion of her beautiful, beautiful visage aside, and resolved to grant her this favor. Her hair, her appearance, her loveliness, these things did not matter, he chastised himself furiously, in comparison to her health and security.

“Alright,” he said, so softly. “Allow me.”

He had some experience with braids. His darling sister, little Esther, had their mother’s long brown hair, thick and wavy, which puffed up in the humidity of summer, wild and untamable. In this respect, Annabeth’s hair was quite similar, though of course, the mud and blood made it somewhat stiffer. Still, he persevered, weaving strand over strand in order to more easily remove it in one fell swoop, and with each pass of his hand, he felt Annabeth relax, until she nearly dropped out of her perfect posture.

Though he had lost track of the days long ago, he knew that this was the most time he had spent with her since their childhood adventures searching for the fleece of Colchis. During that time, they had found themselves at the mercy of one of several monsters, the beguiling island of the Sirens. Annabeth, in a fit of curiosity worthy of her bloodline, wished to hear the voices of the Sirens for herself, as the great Odysseus once had. Though Percy had bound her to the mast as she had requested, he had foolishly forgotten to relieve her of her knife--the same blade which she had given him just now--and she had escaped her bonds, and would have nearly died upon the rocks, had Percy not leapt in after her, taking her with him underneath the water where the Sirens’ cries could not reach her. In that dark and sacred space, a pocket of air at the bottom of the sea, she had wept in his arms, tormented by a vision of utopia, a piece of which he had mistakenly seen for himself.

They had been so young, then. So young, their friendship so fresh, and yet she still had trusted him with that knowledge. She had trusted him again, during the siege, and now, beside the ever violent rapid, which roared in the distance, churning angrily, yet unable to penetrate the quiet which surrounded them now.

Her plait finished, he ran a hand down the length of it, long and beautiful, and said a silent farewell. “I will cut it now,” he told her, and he felt her nod.

Hesitating for a single heartbeat, he brought the flat of the blade to her ear, and she flinched.

Cutting her hair was not as simple a task as he had imagined it to be. Even the cleaner sections were thick, the knife blade simply not sharp enough to slice through them so easily. It took a little bit of work in the arm, the cut on his bicep aching a bit as he sawed through her locks. There was no sound now, save for their mingled breaths, and the near-silent shick of the knife as it met resistance.

Before either of them had realized it, Percy had reached the other side. Her braid hung on by a handful of threads. “Nearly there,” he said. She nodded, ever so faintly.

And like that, it was gone. With a final cut, he severed the last few strands, and the thing came off in its entirety, that golden rope so heavy in his hand. “There,” he said, sorrowful in a manner he could not quite name. “It is finished.”

She lifted a hand to her head, running her fingers through the newly shorn locks. “It feels so light,” she wondered at it, her fingertips dancing around the base of her skull, searching for something long gone. “As though the burden of the sky has been lifted from my shoulders once more.”

He huffed a laugh. “Surely it could not have been that irritating,” he said. It had been too beautiful for it to be such trouble for her. And she had kept it long the entire time he’d known her.

Then she turned.

Oh, no , he thought.

“Well?” she asked, suddenly quite shy. Her hand still rested on top of her head, her eyes full of trepidation. “Am I sufficiently boyish?”

“You…” he licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “You…”

If he had thought she was beautiful before with her gorgeous hair, he was utterly unprepared for how adorable she was without it.

Her curls now fell just beneath her eyes, the gold highlighting the silver. Her eyes, seemingly larger than they used to be, now gazed at him free of impediment, from a face entirely unobstructed and free. Without the curtain of her hair, she did seem to stand straighter, the light catching on her high cheekbones and the sweet slope of her nose.

It took a moment to realize that he was staring. “Well,” he said, flushing, “you look… um…”

Before his passing, Carlo had attempted to instruct him in the ways of wooing women. Now that he recalled it, actually, the man did seem to put a strange emphasis on speaking to children of Athena. In any case, one of his chief lessons was thus, that there was a fine line to tread when speaking to a woman about her beauty. One could neither flatter too much nor too little, for both were false claims, and women preferred it when men spoke plainly.

But how could he tell her that she shone even more brightly in his eyes now than she ever had before? How could he be honest with her when her stated goal was to shun feminine beauty, and pass undetected beneath the cruel man’s gaze?

“I am… not certain you could pass as a man,” he said, carefully, “though, perhaps, you could be seen as a particularly delicate one.”

Were she a boy, he wished to say, then she would be the loveliest boy that Percy had seen in his entire life, even more beautiful than Adonis, Narcissus, or Ganymede. He thought back to two of the mortal men whom he had greatly admired, Lukas and Iason, both handsome blond men, and surmised, with a slight air of hysteria, that Annabeth made for an even more handsome man than either of them.

At that, she scowled. “It will have to do,” she growled, stalking back over to the dead man. “Go and gather what is left of our supplies.”

Immediately, he protested. “And leave you here? There could be more bandits around.”

She glared at him, so fierce and full of fury that he physically retreated. “I will be taking this man’s shirt,” she snapped, “and I would prefer to do so without any company.”

Oh. “Ah--of course,” he said, backing up even further and tripping over a dead branch. “I will… leave you to it.” Then, red-faced, he turned on his heel, and ran back to the Empress.

#percabeth #my fic #pjo #the marble king #and we pine.... and we pine some more........#darkmagyk

5 notes · View notes

kiritonarukami · 4 years ago

Text

Studios: EMT Squared

Source: Light novel

Genres: Adventure, Comedy, Fantasy

Synopsis: “Fifteen-year-old Yuna prefers staying home and obsessively playing her favorite VRMMO to doing anything else, including going to school. When a strange new update gives her a one-of-a-kind bear outfit that comes with overpowered abilities, Yuna is torn: the outfit is unbearably cute, but too embarrassing to wear in-game. But then she suddenly finds herself transported into the world of the game, facing down monsters and magic for real, and the bear suit becomes the best weapon she has!”

-Seven Seas Entertainment

First Impression:

There’s a charm to really cute characters that can also obliterate anything in their path. From the PV it looks like it might be even cuter than BOFURI! Let’s dive into it!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Good news and bad news from this first scene…which do you want to hear first? OK, bad news first…looks like the artwork and animation will a little rough through the show, clear signs are the extremely zoomed in face of the boy and the minimal amount of background character details. Maybe some parts are simplified so that the more intense or important can get a big up in animation but as of right now the standard for the base animation is as basic as it can get. Good news, Yuna is just as cute as I imagined her to be!

I like that there’s no set tone, it’s a wide variety of colors that help set in the mood throughout the show. I also really like all of the patterns and brushstrokes in the background, it gives it a nice punch aside from Yuna’s adorable bear onesie (I seriously can’t get over it…WHERE CAN I GET ONE?!). So looks like there are win and losses with the art, up to you to how much you can tolerate. I really enjoy it so far!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

I’m curious as to how her bear onsie actually works, are there any drawbacks at all? Can she really just attack with anything she can think of?! That’s a terrifyingly dangerous onsie…I WANT IT. Also keep in mind that this episode takes place later in the series (approx. chapters 24-27 in the manga, not sure where in the light novel…), which would explain the abrupt introductions and going straight into the action with minimal context. I would assume that starting from next episode it’ll slow down and explain things from the beginning.

Recommendation:

For the majority of anime fans, I don’t think this is worth the time while there are so many other better shows this season. The art is OK and the story is cute but not something that you can easily invest yourself into. This show has is aimed towards a certain audience (me I’m audience) and will not be everyone’s cup of tea. I do enjoy the cuteness of the show and of course the bear theme! I’ll be continuing but for others…I would just suggest to pass.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider buying me a

Ko-fi!

Or if you want to be on my Patrons page, you can become one on my

Patreon!

Bears, bears, and Bears?! Oh my! This Beary adorable show will have you wanting to get a bear onsie like Yuna! But remember to not underestimate Yuna and her onsie because they pack quite a punch! Check out Kuma Kuma Kuma Bear! Studios: EMT Squared Source: Light novel Genres: Adventure, Comedy, Fantasy Synopsis: “Fifteen-year-old Yuna prefers staying home and obsessively playing her favorite VRMMO to doing anything else, including going to school.

#くまクマ熊ベアー #kiritosfirstimpressions #Kuma Kuma Kuma Bear #The Bears Bear a Bare Kuma

1 note · View note

quillreflections · 5 years ago

Text

Title: Strawberry Avalanche

Chapter: 7

Series: Yugioh Zexal

Pairing: Trey Arclight/reader

Disclaimer: I started this when I was younger so the early chapters are kinda shitty lmao

If you were a beautiful sound in the echoes all around, then I’d be your harmony.

You took a deep breath as you bounded up the front stairs, coming to a slow halt in front of the giant doors. Hopefully the Arclights were in a better mood today. A gruff voice echoed over your shoulder as you hesitated. "What are you waiting for? I've got much better stuff to be doing." You tensed up at the chilly tone of Kite's voice, quickly knocking loudly on the door. You didn't really wanna stand with these guys for much longer. . . As if on cue, the door swung open and Trey grinned brightly at you and the ragtag group you'd gathered. Standing behind you on the stairs were almost all your friends; Yuma, Bronk and Caswell had been ecstatic to join in, and with a few extra promises you'd looped Shark and Kite into the deal too. Tori'd come along and had been eyeing you the entire time, not too keen on the idea behind your entire project. Somehow Ray had caught wind of the ordeal, and he'd brought along Alito, with Dumon following out of curiosity and Mizar coming along to keep everyone out of trouble. (He was actually interested, though. You could see it in his eyes.) They hadn't agreed to help quite yet, but they were clearly interested in watching for awhile- hopefully they agreed, once they saw what was going on, because the more people you had, the better. Trey nodded, smiling brightly as he greeted you all. "Come on in! You can leave your stuff in the coatroom- right over there!" He waved in some general direction before grabbing you by the sleeve and pulling you away, down the hall and into the room he'd set up. He'd clearly gone all-out in getting everything ready, since the two of you wanted to finish most of the project today; it was one of the spare rooms, and all the furniture had been shoved to the side, the floor was covered in white sheets to protect the hardwood. Off in one corner, by the floor-length windows, another sheet had been set up as a backdrop, with several spotlights and a few cameras and tripods. On the floor in the center of the room was a multitude of colored paints and different brushes. Michael turned to you, still smiling. "Do you think we'll need anything else?" You shook your head as the rest of the group wandered in, accompanied by the other Arclight brothers. "I think we've got most everything we need, so. . ." you clapped your hands together, unable to stop the probably extremely thirsty smirk crossing your face as you turned to the others. ". . . boys, I'm gonna need you to remove your shirts." ☆☆☆ You. . . you were leaning awfully close to Thomas. And he was leaning awfully close to you. Michael's breath caught in his throat as his older brother smirked, leaning forward to whisper something in your ear as you dragged the paintbrush across his collarbone. Thomas' red eyes darted over to the youngest brother, absolutely relishing in the visible chill frosting over his face. "Trey, what's wrong? Are you done?" Trey blinked, bringing his attention back to what he'd been doing. Yuma was staring at him in confusion, wondering why he'd stopped working. Trey chuckled and shook his head quickly, dipping his brush back in the red paint and getting back to work. "S-sorry! I was just thinking about something." Yuma shifted a bit in order to keep his eyes on his friend as he worked. "Are you sure you don't wanna talk about it? You looked kinda mad." Trey shook his head again, quickly changing the subject. You picked up the finest-pointed brush, coating it in the purple paint and bringing your hand up to Quattro's face. It was incredibly difficult not to blush as he stared intently at you. You slowly traced the end of his duel gazer's design, carefully drawing it out into a jagged pattern that went down his jaw and crossed his neck to meet the lines you'd painted over his collar. Every few moments he'd let out a sigh, occasionally shifting forward and leaning into you even more. Eventually you couldn't take his advances, dropping the paintbrush with a heavy sigh. "Quattro. . . why don't you go take a seat under the lights, and let this dry a bit?" "Aww, I was enjoying that. I'd hate to have to share you." You just shrugged awkwardly, not really sure what kind of reaction he wanted. Clearly that wasn't it, and he frowned as he wandered to the edge of the room. You stretched your hand a bit, massaging it and rolling your wrist before motioning Shark over. You didn't notice, but Trey visibly relaxed as his older brother walked away from you- Yuma noticed, though. His eyes wandered between you and his friend, and he slowly realized what had been bothering the other boy. Usually he's not that good at keeping quiet, but thankfully his voice was low as he spoke.

"Hey. . . you do like her, don't you?"

Trey's brushstrokes faltered a bit, but he recovered quickly. Yuma's his friend, so he can be told the truth- there's a lot of resolve in his voice as he responds with a solid "Yes, I very much do." Yuma's satisfied with that answer, going back to humming as Michael reaches for a different paint color.

☆☆☆

You sighed heavily, slumping against the kitchen counter.

Today you'd finished painting the older Arclights- Quattro's design was sharp and took a lot of space on his skin, whereas Quinton's was a very methodical pattern- as well as Yuma and Shark; unfortunately you'd run out of paint, so you only planned the designs for the others. The Barians had also been roped into agreeing to help you, so you needed to work on designs for them too-

"So, {Name}, what do you want for dinner? I think we have some leftovers, but if you can wait for a bit, I can make something pretty quickly-" Michael glanced at the clock before peering into the fridge. You looked at your own watch, amazed that it had gotten so late. You'd been having a lot of fun working, but it had been exhausting, and then you'd taken more time to photograph the already-finished designs-

"Hey Michael, you remember when we were kids? We'd have breakfast for dinner?"

"Yeah, that was pretty fun, wasn't it? Do you wanna do that again?"

You nodded, and he got to work on scrambling some eggs. He knows exactly how you like them, so there's nothing to worry about. You'd always enjoyed watching him work in the kitchen; he seemed like some kind of wizard, or maybe an angel. His movements were smooth and very soothing, his eyes always focused but sparkling with enthusiasm- he was always so careful not to get anything dangerous near you, and he'd memorized your favorites and least favorites, so he always knew exactly what to whip up whenever you were over. As he worked, he glanced at you over his shoulder. "Hey, do you want to sleep over again tonight?"

You were exhausted, and although you knew the Arclights would drive you home so you didn't have to make that walk in the dark, you didn't really feel like getting up right now- you nodded and Michael grinned. "You can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in, and we've got plenty of spare rooms- but we can always set you up in my room too, if you want- ah, I'll find some old movies to watch before bed-"

You closed your eyes as he spoke, just enjoying the sound of his voice. This feeling- you'd missed him so much while he'd been gone, and were beyond overjoyed to finally have him back. Spending all this time with him was great, and made you happier than you'd been in awhile.

Before you opened your eyes and started helping with the cooking, you let yourself think for just a moment about how great it would be to come home to him one day, when the two of you were fully grown. It'd be really nice to stay with him forever, wouldn't it?

#strawberry avalanche #trey arclight #yugioh #Zexal

3 notes · View notes