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helliontherapscallion · 4 years

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Warmth (Adrenaline Junkie Part 6)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: Self harm scars, mentions of panic attacks and hallucinations

Word count: 2,842

(A/N): This takes place about 6 months after the last chapter. Also, I was heavily inspired by Toothless’ prosthetic, I’m really excited to write more about it : )

You hummed to yourself as you walked down the cobblestone street of the village. The village was probably one of your favorite places to visit; it had quaint little shops and stalls decorating the main plaza that you adored, it was always interesting to see what’s being sold today. Though you always wore your cloak to cover your wings (well, wing and a now-feathered nub) whenever you visited to avoid the stares, you still regularly visited the main plaza for the shops.

The first time you visited after the incident was about a month ago with Wilbur, you two were looking for something to cook for dinner. You were trying to get used to having your wings out again, so you were wearing the jacket with the slits in the back that you always used to wear.

The feeling of people staring holes into you was a feeling you forgot about. You always got stares whenever you went into the village because of your wings, but now it felt like more and more people were staring at you as you passed them, probably because of your nub. Though some looked at you in pity, most looked at you with disgust.

You could hear children asking their mothers what happened to you. Their mothers would take one look at you and shield their children away from you staring at you with disgust. You even made one kid cry when he saw your wing; you didn’t blame him, you still couldn’t look at your nub without tearing up. An hour hasn’t even passed before you were asked by a police officer to leave because you were causing a disruption and being indecent in public.

Wilbur was pissed. “They’re fully clothed and they didn’t even talk to anybody, so how exactly were they being disruptive or indecent?”

The officer firmly held her ground, looking up to Wilbur’s tall form. “Sir, the people are complaining and it’s my job to make the public feel safe and comfortable. Look,” she sighed, “I really don’t want to have to ask them to leave, they’re not doing anything to directly threaten people. However, they are causing a disturbance with their,” she wrinkled her nose, “their thing, so I’m going to have to ask them to leave.”

“You have absolutely no right to tell them to leave. They-”

“Wilbur, it’s fine. I’ll leave,” turning back to the officer, you calmly stated “I’m sorry for causing a disturbance ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

She curtly nodded and stood watching you, probably making sure that you left the main plaza. Before you could turn to leave, Wilbur stopped you.

“(Y/n)-”

“No, Wilbur. It’s alright, I can wait outside the village for you.”

He sighed, looking through his leather satchel. “No, you won’t have to wait for me. We’ve got enough food for dinner anyways,” shooting one last heated glare at the police officer, he reached down to grab your hand. “Let’s go.”

He drug you quickly through the village with you having a little trouble keeping up with his long strides. Once you were out of the village, he slowed his pace and walked with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“(Y/n), I’m sor-”

“Don’t be Wil. It isn’t your fault. I honestly was expecting to get kicked out earlier.”

“Still, it’s not fair to you. You didn’t ask for this.”

“I know Wil, I’ll just wear my cloak next time I visit.”

He didn’t say anything to you after that. The rest of the walk home was shrouded in an awkward silence.

Another part of the village you loved was the library. It had tall shelves filled to the brim with all sorts of books and various cushioned furniture littered randomly amongst the maze of shelves. Whoever would walk into the library would immediately be hit by the strong scent of parchment and wood as soon as they would walk through the twin doors. You would usually browse books about redstone, but you had a different agenda today.

Today, you were looking for a book about leather working. You wanted to make a leather prosthetic wing so you could at least glide through the air. You weren’t sure if it would work though. From what you’ve read, nobody’s attempted to make a prosthetic wing. It made sense, being a hybrid was rare in and of itself, let alone a winged hybrid.

You missed flying more than anything. You would give anything to be able to be in the air again. You felt jittery and restless without flight. Sure, Philza took you on some flights with him every now and then, but it wasn’t the same. You yearned for the independence and liberation it gave you to fly alone.

After you found a book and checked it out with the librarian, you hastily set out for home. You were walking with a giddy smile on your face and a bounce in your step. Several people gave you strange looks as you passed them, but you were in too good of a mood to care. You finally figured out a way you could possibly fly again.

When you got home, you headed straight to your workshop to get to work on your prosthetic. Several blueprints were hung up around your desk, some for your TNT launcher (which you finished a few weeks ago) and others contained ideas for an automatic farm. Your pride and joy was hung up in the center of your bulletin board. It made you extremely happy just by looking at the prosthetic sketch.

Your redstone lamp illuminated the space in front of you as you focused on cutting a large strip of leather in front of you with great concentration. You needed to get the measurements exactly right, equal sized wings are integral for stability midair. The prosthetic was going to be about the same size as your left wing with thin iron rods giving the wing structure. You planned on making it identical to a bat’s wing with a few minor changes in shape to match your other wing. Once it actually was structurally sound and working, you would add proper joints so you could wear it around and decorate it. Until then, you’re making adjustments.

When you were done, you moved on to crafting and melding together the iron rods. Putting on your goggles and thick leather gloves, you used a bit of lava your family kept stored in another room in the basement to fuse the thin iron rods together. You carefully dipped one end of two rods into the bucket before pulling it out at a certain time to hold the molten ends together until they cooled. You repeated this process until you were melding the last piece on.

“HEY BITCH, DINNER’S READY. GET IT WHILE IT’S HOT!”

Yelping, you dropped the mold onto your desk. You picked it up in a panic without paying attention to where your arms went. Unknowingly, your sleeved arm was pressing up against the scorching iron of the bucket of lava.

“FUCK YOU YA FILTHY GREMLIN, A LITTLE WARNING WOULD’VE BEEN NICE!”

He started cackling. “FUCK YOU TOO! NOW GET UP HERE BEFORE I EAT YOUR DINNER.”

“YOU BETTER FUCKING NOT. I SWEAR TO- FUCK!”

You felt the nerves on the side of your forearm screaming as you yanked it away, leaving the crisp remains of a part of your sleeve stuck to the iron bucket. Two pairs of footsteps boomed down the steps and got louder as they rapidly approached you.

Wilbur’s deep voice worriedly called out to you. “Shit, (y/n) are you alright? Let me see.”

Before you could protest, he gently grabbed your wrist and pulled the sleeve of your jacket down. Adjoining the light burn, small horizontal scars and some fresh cuts lined your forearms. Shit, they were never supposed to find out.

Wilbur’s hand froze, gripping your wrist with an iron grip. You hissed at the feeling of some of your cuts reopening, causing him to quickly retract his hand. He now had his hands hovering over your arm unsure of what to do with them.

“(Y/n), wha-” Tommy cut himself off once he saw the panicked look on his older brother’s face. Following his gaze, his wide eyes met with your cuts.

You sighed, prying the goggles off from your face and pulling the gloves off from your hands. You put on a calm exterior, contrary to what you felt on the inside. They were never supposed to know. “Listen, you guys weren’t supposed to find out about this. None of you were. Please don’t tell Dad or Technoblade, I don’t need more people knowing.”

Tommy spoke up with an incredulous look. “(Y/n), what do you mean? We can’t just not tell them.”

“I know. Please, do it for me? Everything’s finally going back to normal and this will just make everything worse again. I promise I’ll stop, I swear.”

The two brothers looked at each other silently contemplating what they should do. On one hand, you were their sibling and you were hurting yourself. They needed to tell their dad that you were cutting. You only had two lives left and you could kill yourself doing that. Philza and Techno could help. On the other hand, they wanted you to feel normal in your own home. You were right in the fact that everything was starting to feel like it did before the incident. Plus, they would gladly help you through it.

They looked back at you with apprehensive expressions, speaking at the same time.

“(Y/n), we’re not gonna tell Dad or Techno.”

“We’re telling them.”

Tommy whipped his head up to look at his brother angrily. “Wilbur, we need to tell them.”

“Tommy, no-”

“Are you fucking stupid? Of course we have to-”

“Tommy. We don’t because I’ll be taking every sharp object away from them tonight. We’ll watch them and check their wrists to make sure that there’s no new cuts and they stay clean. We’ll help them.”

“But- they,” Tommy gave a frustrated sigh. “Fine. But we at least have to tell Techno about this. He can help us.”

Wilbur glanced at you with apologetic eyes. Before he could speak up, you interrupted him. “...Alright, as long as Dad doesn’t find out. He has enough to stress out about and he doesn’t need to worry about me again. Now, can we go upstairs for dinner? We’ve been down here for long enough already and Dad’s probably wondering why. Tell him that I’m gonna go clean up.”

Without giving them any room to argue, you speeded up the stairs and into your room. Closing the door and leaning your back on it, you let your calm facade drop into a panicked one. Shit, what if Tommy tells Dad? What were you supposed to do then? He’ll take away what little freedom you had left and you’ll be sinking into the depths of your depression again.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock and Philza’s voice. You held your breath as you prepared yourself for him to tell you that he knows your secret. “Hey hun, Wilbur and Tommy told me that you burned yourself,” you let out a relieved sigh. “Do you need me to look at it?”

Panic once again flared in your bloodstream. “N-no Dad, it’s just a little burn. I’ll be down in just a second I’m changing.”

“You sure? I can get you a potion.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“...Alright,” he sounded skeptical. “Just hurry up, dinner’s getting cold.”

The sound of his retreating footsteps sounded like music to your ears. You closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths before you moved to put on a long sleeved shirt.

Dinner was uncharacteristically quiet without Tommy, you, or Wilbur talking. Philza tried to carry the conversation with you four, but only Technoblade gave full responses. You, Tommy, and Wilbur only supplied a few words to a conversation when prompted.

Technoblade was suspicious. Sure, you and Wilbur were quiet sometimes, but Tommy? Tommy’s always loud and rambunctious. Something’s wrong, but what? What could’ve happened when Tommy and Wilbur went to go get you for dinner? They weren’t gone for long. He did hear you screaming profanities at Tommy for scaring you and overheard Tommy telling Philza about how you burned yourself, but how is that something that would shut you three up? He was going to confront his siblings after he finished tonight’s dishes.

Meanwhile, you, Tommy, and Wilbur were in your room. You were giving them your iron dagger.

“Is this all?”

“Yeah, Tommy. That’s all, search my room if you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t mind, I don’t have anything to hide from you anymore.”

They did just that. Looking under your bed, in your drawers, in your closet, and in the chest you kept for your supplies. You watched them propped up on your bed. While you were angry with yourself that you were so careless, you felt warm that they cared about you. They were great brothers.

After they were done turning your room upside down, Wilbur plopped down next to you and Tommy threw himself over your legs. You three laid there for a while just enjoying each other’s presence. It was nice to spend some time with your brothers, you didn’t get much free time to spend with them because you spent most of your time in your workshop.

The silence was broken by Tommy. “...So, how do you wanna go about telling Technoblade?”

“I’m… not exactly sure. Do we even have to tell him?”

Wilbur pursed his lips. “Even if you didn’t want to, I’m pretty sure he knows something’s up. He’s good at picking up on social cues.”

“Well if that’s the case, I might just wait until he comes to me. It’ll be easier.”

Your door swung open to reveal your piglin hybrid brother. He looked at you with a single eyebrow raised as his ear flicked. “What were you planning on telling me?”

Tommy and Wilbur looked at you expectantly. You shifted your body closer to the wall making room on your bed for him. He walked over and stiffly sat on the edge of your mattress. He gestured for you to talk to him. You slowly slid your sleeve down and showed him your arm. Besides his eyebrows slightly crinkling, he was as stoic as ever when he reached out to grab your wrist for a better look.

On the inside, the voices were almost as loud as when you died. They were nearly incoherent as several angry voices mixed together yelling at him for not noticing anything was wrong with you, the kid he vowed to protect when you first stole his crown and replaced it with a homemade paper one. Outside of the voices, he was furious at himself, he was supposed to protect you. He ran his fingers along the raised lines, gently tracing over every scar and scabbed over cut as if memorizing where every single one lays.

His monotone voice was gruff. “How long? Why?”

“About eight months now. I-I didn’t feel anything for a while after I respawned and I realized that pain helped me feel. It helped ground me when I hallucinated or had panic attacks.”

“...Do you feel anything now?”

“Yeah, I’m getting better Tech. I’m hallucinating less and I’m getting better at managing anxiety attacks. At this point, it's just a habit that I can’t drop.”

“Do you want to drop it?”

You fell silent. You never really considered stopping before. Before, you would do it to give yourself something to focus on when you were overwhelmed, but now you would do it out of habit. It somehow felt wrong when you skipped a session and it usually threw your entire day off. You would feel drained for the entire day if you didn’t do it. It was one of the only consistent things in your life.

“(Y/n), c’mon you don’t want to keep doing this, right?” Tommy asked before Wilbur reached over and slapped him upside his head.

“I think,” you breathed out, unsure of yourself, “I want to get better.”

Techno looked at his brothers. “Did you two take their blades?”

Tommy held up the iron dagger and wove it around haphazardly in the air. Techno reached over and pocketed the dagger before discarding his golden crown and placing it on your nightstand. He took off his weighted fluffy cloak and neatly draped it over a nearby chest. He maneuvered his body so that he was laying on your other side and wrapped a lazy arm over your chest.

With Wilbur on your right side with your wing draped over him, Tommy laying on your stomach with Wilbur reaching down to hold him, and Techno pulling you close to his body, you were pleasantly warm. You were slowly drifting off, being lulled to sleep by Techno’s slow heartbeat. You blissfully fell asleep surrounded by your brothers’ love.

Inspo for the cuddle pile (credit goes to og artist, zillychu): https://zillychu.home.blog/tag/heart-squad-cuddle-pile/

Taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@acecarddraws @goldenstarofthunderclan @ravennightingaleandavatempus @dirtydiavolo @yeiras-world @immadatmostthings @hee-hee-haw @jackalopedoodles @m1lkmandan @vanhakirja @im-a-depressed-gay @coolleviauchihadreamerlove @questioning-sanity @camisascam

@bongwaterflavoredgatorade @kakamiissad @jayistrash @lifestylesleep @speedymaximoff @sun-shark-tooth @appetiteofapeoplepleaser @starchildnatalya @kinismanditory @dragons-lurk-here @rinzyx05 @the-wandering-pan-ace @sparkling-gayyyy @angelic-scent @shinipii @dont-hug-me-im-a-fander @izzydimensional @used-avocado

#sbi x reader #platonic #philza x reader #technoblade x reader #wilbur soot x reader #tommyinnit x reader #sibling reader #platonic cuddle pile #platonic cuddling #hurt/comfort #mcyt x reader #mcyt #sbi #tw: scars #tw: hallucinations #tw: panic attack #tw: self harm

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danikindofwrites · 3 years

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Wednesday, March 9th.

After a night of some dodgy rest after hopping planes all day yesterday, it is time for the first March update for The Rising Night as promised!

I was going to originally post this yesterday in between my flights, but as I should have expected there were some things that came up with getting to and from planes that cut into that time so I decided to do it today instead. Some of the things I was planning on talking about have been touched on briefly in the late February update I posted, but going into this one it should have a little bit more information as well as a few big changes.

Writing My idea for this month is mostly on planning. I spent a good amount of the end of February and the beginning of March on mapping out the character creation portions as new things have been added and old things changed to better reflect the story (which will be discussed in the next section in full). I lot of this month in particular is going to stay in that direction towards mapping paths and options clearly for myself so that when I return home I can code them out properly, I’m a very visual person so I like being able to see how the paths connect to each other to better understand the branching and different options for MC so I don’t get myself lost or repeat things unnecessarily. With that being said, there are some minors things being rewritten in the Prologue itself, mainly to just fix wording and grammar and adding additional information to make it clearer, but other than that the Prologue is generally ready to go straight to demo since it has no choices set into it and purely writing until it hits the character creation portion right after. While touching up on the prologue, a lot of my mapping of course is Chapter One. It’s in a rough state right now, but it’s a major focus this month, a lot of it is going to be environmental and world building and really spend some time on understanding the mental state of MC and the few other characters introduced in Chapter One Before heading into the nitty gritty of Chapter Two. Asks/reactions (nsfw included) are open and welcome through the entirety of March to make up for having to wait on other things, so don’t be afraid to send anything in even if it is to just say hello :)

Character Creation There was originally only a few select things that were going to be incorporated for MC to give a sizable amount of customization without it seeming like I was going overboard for coding or accidentally making MC my own character instead of your character, but I realized a lot of it turned out to be very vague and too impersonal for such an important role and wanted to change it even if it meant putting in more work time, it is well worth it. Thanks to the input you guys have given me since posting TRN’s promo and some planning out on my part there is now going to be more options for MC such as where MC grew up based on MC’s race, who they grew up with (family, taken in by family friend, orphaned/street kid), and while I was originally going to implement some of the following options already I now have more variation for choosing an MC that is deaf/hard of hearing, mute/nonverbal, and options for prosthetics for MC , and with being able to choose your MC’s race (Vae, Tithess and Aidem options) there are now wider options for hair, eyes and skin based on MC’s race which all will also uniquely impact character interactions and scenes.

Illustrations This is March’s main focus blog wise. I’ll be answering any questions/reactions that come up, but other then mapping writing being away from home allows me to get out more things like sketches and character art to really bring The Rising Night to life and hopefully show some of the aesthetic I hope to achieve. I was able to finish up a few light scenes while traveling yesterday and will start to be posted tonight and as I said in the February update there will also be two Official Character Art pieces being finished this month, as of right now it is looking like it will be Enoc’s and M!Rowul’s that will be finished but that is subject to change as of right now. There will sketches of the other characters coming out as well scattered through the month, but a lot of them will be more concept art to get a feel for their official pieces.

Master List I realized I have a lot of information specifically about the world of The Rising Night that I have yet to answer and not just keep in my head, but a few of the pieces that I have managed to answer such as locations, information about people and politics, are kind of just floating out there randomly right now. So I will be posting more about some of the base world of Eddathil and compiling it together in a masterlist for easier access to more specific things so people don’t have to go searching through my posts going forward to find either niche information or answers to their questions that have already been given. This might take a while as I will be trying to spread some of the information out and not bombard people’s pages all at once, but I can start compiling what I already have and getting it all together, in the meantime don’t be afraid to ask or request information about things or even just let me know what questions you’d like to see answered for the master list so I know what areas to focus on getting information out about! Along those lines, the first thing I think I’ll be getting out to clarify some information and to help refer back to things will be a World Map that is at the moment unfinished and missing a few locations, but will clear up some larger locations that have been mentioned in past posts.

I think that’s about it for this update, as I’ve stated before my trip is going to last until the 22nd, but that really only hinders my coding right now and not the actual writing or planning of things so there is still lots to look forward to this month!

TLDR; Character creation mapped out, rough mapping of CH 1, asks/reactions open, LOTS of character creation additions, a map of the world, art posts coming this month and a big ol‘ masterlist for better navigation!

#dev log #I’m still pretty tired from the airport #but there should be a start to some art posts out tonight #thanks to everyone who has shown support for TRN!#The rising night if #monthly update #Interactive fiction #twine game

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betelgeuse-1988 · 3 years

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okay I've never made. a request b4, but uhhh anything nsfw with lawrence + a trans man reader? no real requirements or anything, maybe just like having it be soft n loving,, idk I have a crush on this man n yr writing is lovely <3

omg thank you so much for the request!! and i'm so honored you like my writing fjhdsakfhsa

anyway here it is! i hope it's soft enough for you <3

lawrence x ftm reader (this is my first time writing an explicitly trans reader; lmk if there are any ways i can improve/things i should change!)

warnings: cockwarming, petnames galore!!, unprotected sex, + this was written at 1:00am so big sorry if there are mistakes

“Lawrence?” you said, peaking into his office. It had been a while since the two of you spent a night together, and you were curious as to what had him stuck in his office so late recently.

“Yes, darling?” He said, not looking up from his work. He was sketching something again, Lawrence would always tell you it was just a secret project for a friend. Despite being absorbed by his work, he had a wide smile on his face at the sound of your voice.

Your relationship with the doctor was...strange to say the least. You were hired as an assistant to help him around his mostly-barren apartment after his separation and especially after he received his prosthetic foot. It was a winter job, for you, in order to make some money while off from college. After that, and a few other events most may deem “unethical”, you moved in and developed a budding relationship with the doctor.

“I just…” you trailed off, nervous to ask him for anything all of a sudden. You looked away but also began walking into his office. Perhaps, even for a while, being closer to him would provide you with the necessary confidence to reveal your desires and curiosities. “I wanted to know when you were coming to bed?”

“Oh, darling,” he said, still not looking up at you. “I got home from work late and I really need to finish this as soon as possible. I’m sorry, but…” he stopped, finally looking into your eyes to see your apprehension and just how lonely you looked. “But, why don’t you come here and keep me company?”

You moved to sit in a chair next to his desk, saved for when you would finish work for class with him in his office. Lawrence, however, stopped you before you could actually sit all the way down. “No, I meant, why don’t you come here and sit like a good boy?” he said, patting his lap gently. You smiled and nodded, walking to Lawrence’s side, ready to sit down on his lap. “Ah ah ah,” he stopped you again, pulling down the zipper on his pants. Lawrence pulled out his cock, jerking it to make sure it’s fully hard. Getting wet at the prospect of having sex in his office, something Lawrence was usually turned off by, you pulled down the shorts you were going to sleep in. The doctor chuckled at your eagerness, continuing to jerk himself off slowly. “Now, darling, you’re gonna sit here like the good boy you are and you’re gonna stay as still as possible with my cock in your hole, okay? And if you behave, I’ll fuck you on my desk like you’ve always wanted.”

Too caught up in his words, there was nothing elegant about your response. You could already hear the overeagerness in your voice, without having said anything. “Okay, I’ll try to be good for you, Lawrence.” You walked over to him, fingering yourself open for him. He watched you as he jerked himself off, precum leaking from the tip of his cock already. He rubbed a hand up and down your side as you worked yourself up to three fingers. Once you could thrust them inside comfortably, you pulled them out and finally seated yourself on Lawrence’s member. Feeling him fill you completely right away, without moving, was odd. It was hard not to twitch or squirm, but Lawrence kept an arm wrapped around you. It was a tight grip, reassuring you that you could follow his orders. You were so distracted by keeping still you couldn’t really pay attention to what Lawrence was writing or drawing, only grounded by the few places where you could feel him touching you, skin-to-skin.

It could have been minutes or hours, but the time seemed to tick by like years. You could feel yourself getting wetter, becoming sloppy with how you were stretched around his dick. You were desperate for friction, for Lawrence to just completely wreck you when he tapped your stomach and put his pen down.

“You were so good for me, such a good boy. Now, do you want your reward?” Lawrence pressed delicate kisses on your back, rubbing your stomach as he thrust gently into you.

“Lawrence, please. Need you to fuck me, right here,” you moaned out desperately.

“Shh, it’s gonna be okay. Get up and bend over the desk.”

You hopped off him gently, not wanting to upset his leg more than it probably already was with how long you were sitting in his lap. You pushed some of the papers he had just been working on off to the side, laying directly on his work calendar (filled out with color-coded events and special dates). You felt Lawrence get up behind you, not bothering to discard any other pieces of clothing, his cock poking proudly out of his pants. His khaki pants still cinched by his belt, with a light blue shirt on top and a loose-hanging red tie. You felt like the doctor’s little boytoy, sneaking around during work hours. And, yet, he looked at you, so full of love and admiration, that you knew he genuinely loved and cared about you.

He entered you again, setting a brutal pace easily. Lawrence slipped in, filling you completely and quickly. You were both sensitive from the lengthy cockwarming, approaching your orgasm quickly. Helping to draw yourself closer, you jerked yourself off, desperate to finally reach your orgasm. Lawrence gripped your hips as his thrusting became quicker with an approaching orgasm. Feeling his cock twitch, you encouraged him to cum inside of you. “Cum inside me, Lawrence. Please, please, need it so bad. Make me cum, fill me up.”

His hips slowed down against yours as he groaned through his orgasm, your head dropping to the desk. Lawrence’s cum, on top of his desperate thrusting through his orgasm, helped you to reach yours, squeezing around his cock, finishing off his orgasm. Lawrence sighed contently behind you, pulling out to let you get up. He handed you the discarded shorts as you stretched, ready to head to bed for the night. But, instead of accepting the shorts right away, you pulled him in for a hug, kissing his cheek sloppily.

“Thank you, Larry. You always know what I need,” you snuggle into his neck, content to be in his loving presence after so long. “I love you, darling.”

He snorts at your use of his favorite petname, but he squeezes you extra tight. “Love you, too, darling.”

#AHH i'm so tired i promise to get to the last few reqs tomorrow morning xoxo <333 #lawrence gordon x reader #ask #nsft #minors dni

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softlighter · 4 years

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Blake feels haggard, and world-weary, but a passing painter asks her to pose for her a few times and the resulting painting is a masterpiece. Blake doesn't understand how Yang sees her as anything but weather-beaten, while Yang doesn't understand Blake's inability to see her own beauty or self-worth.

I hope you know how much I adored this prompt, nonny friend! I hope it was worth the wait. Also posted as “sketch of hope” on Ao3!

~~~

Blake takes a drink of her tea. It’s over-seeped and bitter, something no amount of milk or honey will fix, but it’s tea, and it’s warm going down. Still, she squeezes more honey into the chipped ceramic mug and stirs it in. Her eyes feel heavy, but she flips open her book once more and begins reading where she left off. It’s something she’s read before but it’s as worn and familiar as her sweater; just what she needs right now.

Another sip of tea, her nose crinkling as she’s hit with the sour and sweet syrupy taste, but she still downs half the cup. She would normally go to her favorite cafe, a ten minute’s walk away from her apartment, but it’s too much effort to exert right now. Everything is too much effort right now, hell, she’s just happy she managed to leave the apartment today. It’s something, it’s an improvement, even if this tea is awful and she wants to crawl back to her bed.

She puts her book down and sighs, rubbing her forehead. It’s a beautiful day. The sky is a crisp blue with fluffy clouds like cotton candy, and the spring wind is sweet with florals. Blake is at an outdoor cafe, and it’s a beautiful day. It’s a beautiful day, and she should be grateful.

But she’s not, and she’s tired.

Blake leans back in her chair, picking apart her croissant with her fingers and popping a bite in her mouth. At least their croissants are decent. She takes another bite, directly from the pastry this time, and casually brushes the crumbs off her sweater. Blake scans her surroundings and the few other occupied tables at the cafe. It’s still relatively cold, and not many are apparently wanting to brave the sharp nip of the rickety metal table and chairs.

But there’s a couple speaking in hushed tones and giggling every few minutes, even if their noses and cheeks are pink. There’s a group of boys across the patio playing some kind of game with dice and they shout loudly every once in a while, even with the couple sending them dirty looks. There’s another woman across from her, also sitting alone, but she is scribbling in a notebook.

She drifts back to her tea and croissant, but the back of her neck prickles, and her ears instinctively stiffen. Blake looks up once more, and she meets eyes of bright lilac. Her cheeks feel hot, but she doesn’t look away, despite herself. The other woman is blushing too, though, and she smiles sheepishly at Blake. “Guess I should’ve known better,” the woman says.

Blake’s brow furrows. “Pardon?” she says, more on instinct than anything else.

The woman’s face turns a deeper red, and she gestures toward her notebook. “I know I should’ve asked permission, but-”

“Were you drawing me?”

The woman nods sheepishly. “Sorry. It’s a bad habit. One of my old art teachers always encouraged it, said we got more natural looking sketches that way, but people don’t exactly like it. But, well, I couldn’t help myself. Hard habit to break, and you’re a perfect study.”

“I am?” Blake snorts. “Hardly.”

The woman frowns, her pink mouth curling downward. “Well, I say you are.” The woman hesitates before scooting closer to Blake’s chair. “You’re not upset?”

Blake shrugs. She doesn’t feel much beyond the heat in her cheeks and curling in her stomach, doesn’t feel much at all these days. Her eyes drop down to the notebook before looking back up at the woman. “I feel like there’s a compliment in there. Somewhere.”

The woman smiles, and she looks over her shoulder before getting up and taking the seat across from Blake at her table. Blake raises her brows, but she says nothing as the woman slides her notebook to her. “What do you think?” she asks.

Blake studies the dark lines, the way they curve and dance across the page in sketches and hatches. It’s obviously just a sketch, but the word just demeans the art before her, ignores the simplistic beauty of something in progres. The woman is talented, obviously so, but Blake still frowns. “That’s not what I look like,” she says finally, even though it, obviously, her.

“Maybe it’s not how you see you, but it’s how I see you,” the woman says.

Blake scoffs, but her eyes linger over the page before she forces herself to slide the notebook back. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m a good sense of character.” The woman closes the notebook and smiles at her, tucking a long blonde strand of her back behind her ear and underneath a purple hat the same color as her eyes, but even the electric lilac of the wool dulls in comparison to her eyes. “Can I ask a favor?”

“You can ask whatever you want, doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

“Would you consider posing for me?”

Blake blinks. “What?”

The woman nods brightly. “Come to my studio, with proper lighting and stuff like that.”

“Again, what?” Her brows knit together, and she’s not sure if she’s amused or concerned. “I don’t know you.” And you’re not going to want to know me.

The woman shrugs. “Are you a serial killer?”

“No, but-”

“We can stay here if you’re more comfortable with that,” the woman presses. “You’re just- well, you’re exactly who I’ve been looking for.” Blake’s stomach turns, but the woman quickly adds, “I mean, just, wow, that sounds so creepy, but seriously. You’re a delight to draw.” The woman laughs. “That’s not much better, is it?”

Despite herself, she smiles. “No,” she agrees. “It’s not.” She considers and tilts her head, her fingers tapping against the cool metal of the table. “If you want to, I’ll be here for a bit longer. So do whatever you like.”

The woman’s face breaks out into a bright grin. “Thanks!” She laughs, scratching the back of her neck. “I’m Yang, by the way.”

“Blake.” Yang extends her hand, and Blake nearly gasps when she sees Yang’s arm. Yang’s smile fades. Blake stumbles for her words, her tongue feeling thick and clumsy. “That’s beautiful,” Blake says finally, taking her hand in her own. The metal is cold in her hands, but smooth. “I take it you designed it?”

That warm smile returns. “Yeah, I did,” Yang admits, and she rolls her sleeve up to her elbow. The prosthetic is sleek, but there’s a thousand images all painted onto the metal. Sunflowers, roses, and lilacs all creep up and over her fingers to her palms, bright and abundant, before the blooms swirl into gleaming golden scales and, finally, crackling flames. She’s never seen anything like it, and she can’t help but stare. “Painting with my left hand is hell, though.”

“Well, you did an amazing job,” Blake says, forcing herself to wrench her eyes away from the breathing art to meet Yang’s eyes.

“I mean, if I’m gonna be wearing it all the time, it better be, you know?” Yang shrugs, but she opens the notebook once more. Her pencil appears from nowhere, and Yang starts sketching, her eyes on the page. She looks up at Blake and smiles. “You can keep reading, if you’d like.”

And she would’ve, but instead she says, “I thought you wanted me to pose for you.” Yang’s jaw slackens, and Blake smiles to herself. “Tell me what to do, artiste.”

Yang laughs. “Pick something comfortable for you,” Yang says. “This can be my proper warm up.”

Blake straightens her shoulders and leans her elbow onto the table before resting her chin on her hand. She’s staring at Yang in this position, she realizes, but Yang just smiles again and resumes sketching. Her pencil flies across the paper, sure and steady but light, and Yang looks up at her, but it’s different. Her eyes are appraising now, still warm, but studying her. Studying her like she’s a piece of art, like she’s something beautiful.

“I thought you said this was your warm up,” Blake says a few minutes later. “This looks pretty intense to me.”

Yang shrugs, still looking down at her paper. “You speak to me,” Yang says simply. Blake’s stomach clenches. “Maybe I’ve found my muse in you.”

“I’ve never believed in muses.”

The corner of Yang’s lip quirks up. She’s so quick to smile. “Well, I do,” Yang says. Yang checks her watch, frowns, and looks up at her, and her eyes are soft. “I gotta go, but if you’re ever around Sixth Street, I work on thirty-eighth. You’ll know it when you see it. Feel free to drop by to see the finished product.”

“Alright.” She doesn’t address the offer, just lets it sit between them as Yang packs up. “Have a nice day, Yang.”

But Yang rips out the first drawing and hands it to her with that bright smile. “Just so you remember how I see you, Blake.” Yang winks, and then she’s gone. Blake swallows hard, her eyes unexpectedly hot, and she stares at the sketch.

When she gets home, she tapes it to the wall next to her bed before burrowing back under the covers and letting oblivion take her.

~~~

Blake tells herself that the bakery on Sixth is why she’s there, that she’s had a craving for their challah bread and the bakery’s bread closer to her apartment isn’t what she’s craving. She tells herself that, but she still takes the long way to Sixth and walks around so she’s on the higher end of stress addresses. The apartments here are nice and made of bricks, colorful and inviting. Perfect for Yang.

But thirty-eight takes the cake. There’s a mural on the bricks, and it’s a collision of paint and color and wonder. Even in the overcast day, Blake’s eyes can’t get enough of it. She instinctively knows Yang did it, and a smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it.

She bites her lip, but she can’t stop herself from walking up the stairs to the door. Blake knocks, and she hears a voice within call, “One sec!” Her heart skips a beat, and her hands bunch into fists. This was a bad idea. This was a very, very bad idea.

But the door opens, and Yang is there. She’s in a tank top and paint-speckled jeans and her long blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail. Blake weakly waves, and Yang just grins at her. “I’m happy you’re here,” Yang says, holding the door open. “Wanna come in?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” she says, trailing off, but she still steps through the door. “Should I take my shoes off?”

“Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Blake looks down to Yang’s bare feet and slips out of her shoes, all too aware of her pastel lemon-patterned socks. But Yang doesn’t even give her or her feet a second glance before ducking deeper into the apartment, and Blake’s stomach clenches.

This is a bad idea. This is a very, very bad idea.

But she follows Yang deeper into the house, and with every step she has to stop and stare. Art is everywhere, but she can tell it’s not just Yang’s. There’s monochrome paintings and stunning glossy photographs and sketches done in smeared charcoal over every square inch, and Blake wonders what it must be like in Yang’s mind, what it’s like to see beauty everywhere she looks.

Yang leads her through a small kitchenette and into the real show. There’s canvases everywhere, leaning against the walls and blank and ready to be painted, in all sizes. The easel is already set up with wet paint. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Blake says, biting her lip.

Yang waves her off and tosses her a bottle of water, which Blake manages to catch somehow. “You’re not, trust me,” Yang says. “This can wait.” Yang takes the canvas off the easel and smiles at her. “So, you here to pose or to see what I did with the sketches?”

“Both, I guess.”

Yang laughs and grabs a smaller canvas, carefully handing it over to her. “Take a look.”

It’s of Blake’s hands, the paint thick and chunky but somehow creates an incredibly smooth picture despite the obvious physical texture. Her hands seem delicate but sturdy, like Yang had snapped a photo of her in movement, acting with purpose and surety and certainty. Her hands have been painted with light haloing around them, a soft buttery gold that warms the icy blue background. Like she’s a saint. Like she’s capable of being a blessing, of blessing someone. Like she’s good.

Her fingers hover over the smooth whirls of paint that seem to arch off the canvas and beg her to touch them, to feel what she imagines is silky soft. But she pulls her hand back, even if she doesn’t dare wrench her gaze away. “Beautiful,” she whispers, her throat thick. Yang even noticed the small scar on her right ring finger from a papercut that somehow left a pale scar and the freckle on the inside of her left index finger.

“Thank you,” Yang says, and when Blake looks up, Yang is smiling. “But this is just the start.” Yang takes the painting from her hands and sets it back down before gesturing Blake over to a chair by the window. “Here, just sit down here and look up or down, your choice!”

Blake gives her a quizzical look, but she still sits down. Yang’s hands hover around her but don’t ever touch her, something she appreciates. The stool isn’t the most comfortable, but she quickly settles in a position. “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asks as Yang settles behind her canvas. She’s looking at the feet of the easel, but when she raises her eyes she can make eye contact with Yang.

“You’re perfect.”

~~~

Blake comes back the next day. And the next day. And the next day, and the next day, until she’s been by Yang’s every day for two weeks.

“You know, I need to pay you,” Yang says suddenly one afternoon.

“What? Why?”

“I mean, you’re spending hours sitting in the same position. You’re providing a service, the least I can do is pay you for it.”

Blake shakes her head, her mouth dry. “No,” she says. “Please, don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Yang asks, her brow furrowing. “I mean, like, I’m pretty sure it’s unethical to not compensate you for doing this.”

Blake doesn’t say that she doesn’t have anything else to do, doesn’t say that she enjoys Yang’s quiet and loud company, doesn’t say that this is better than laying in bed and gives her a reason to shower. Instead, she says, “I don’t need the money.” It’s true, she doesn’t. When she sold the publishing house, she knew she would never have to work again, but, until a few months ago, she had still worked as an editor. Coco sometimes still texted her asking if she wanted to read manuscripts, but Blake usually gave her a noncommittal response. “And you buy me lunch, so call it even.”

Yang snorts. “Lunch is the least I can do,” she says, but she’s picked up her paintbrush once more and resumed. “Let me make you dinner one night.” Blake opens her mouth to respond, but Yang keeps going before she can. “I make a mean lasagna, and I always make too much, so you’d be doing me the favor.”

“Are you sure?” Blake asks. She’s barely eaten anything besides pastries and readied meals for months, and the sound of a home-cooked meal makes her stomach rumble.

“Yeah,” Yang says. “Least I can do.”

“It’s really not,” Blake says. Yang raises a brow, but she keeps painting, so Blake continues. “You’re just nice, Yang. Not everyone is as nice as you.”

“Well, I just want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.” Yang shrugs. “And maybe a little better than that if I can, but seriously, Blake. I don’t know who you hang out with, but you deserve nice things, and, dare I say, good things?” Yang winks at her. “You’re my muse. I think I’m allowed to give you as much as you give me.”

“I just sit here,” Blake says, but Yang is already shaking her head.

“No, Blake. You do so much more than that.”

~~~

Yang doesn’t show her any of the finished paintings after she sees the hands, but Blake knows she’s made several. She doesn’t mind not knowing, even if it makes her stomach twist. She wants to know what Yang sees, even if she doesn’t understand her perspective. How Yang can see her as anything good.

“So, uh, I have to tell you something,” Yang says one night after dinner, scratching the back of her neck.

Blake freezes up, but she nods. “Shoot.” She’s sick of you, she doesn’t want you, she’s done with you.

“Well, um, tomorrow is my mom’s birthday, and I won’t be around until after lunch.”

“Yeah, of course,” Blake says, her shoulders sagging. She’s washing the dishes, which Yang always protests her doing, but she still manages to get in there before Yang can. It’s the least she can do. “Is your family doing anything?”

“Not really. My, well, my mom died a couple years ago.” Blake stills, but Yang keeps talking. “And my sister is with my dad, but I got class in the morning, and I didn’t want to cancel.”

Blake pauses, setting the dish down on the drying rack. “Do you want to do something?” she asks. “Something for her?”

“Well, I usually get dinner at her old favorite restaurant here with my family or some friends, but I was thinking we can meet here and-”

“You should do that. Go out to dinner, I mean. Don’t- don’t feel obligated to hang out with me.”

“Obligated?” Yang repeats. “Blake, I do this because I want to. I want to be around you.” Yang’s voice wavers. “Do you not want to be around me?”

“No, I do, I just-” Blake sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t want to be a burden for you on a day like that. And you should see your friends.”

Yang is quiet for a moment. “Well, maybe I am,” she says carefully.

Blake turns around. “We’re friends?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.” Yang shrugs. “Unless you don’t wanna be friends, I mean.”

“No, I do! I really do, Yang.” She clears her throat and averts her gaze. “How about we go out to dinner? Celebrate her life and her wonderful daughter.”

Yang laughs, but the sound cracks briefly. “I’d like that.”

“Then tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

~~~

“No painting today?” Blake asks, slipping off her shoes as she enters Yang’s. Yang is wearing a jumpsuit the same color as her eyes, and there’s golden earrings cascading down onto her shoulders. She looks fancy. She looks good, and Blake can’t take her eyes off of her.

“Nope,” Yang says, smiling. “I wanna show you something.”

“Alright?”

Yang leads her to the upstairs with the actual kitchen and living room, spaces she’s practically lived in for the past few months. There’s a laptop open, which Yang silently slides to her. Blake raises her brows, but she reads the article title, and her heart stops.

“It’s not published yet,” Yang says, the words distant. “I wanted to surprise you but show you first.”

XIAO LONG’S ANGEL the title reads, and Blake silently scrolls through the unpublished article. There’s pictures of paintings, and she instantly knows they’re the paintings Yang did of her.

There’s none of her face. Nothing that could identify her. But there’s more of her hands, reaching and praying and receiving. There’s her silhouette in golden light, and she seems to be breathing and moving. There’s her bare shoulders and back, and there’s sharp golden shards of wings growing from her body. There’s her mouth curled in a smile and soft and shining, pink and rosy. There’s her dark hair cascading down her back as she reaches for something out of frame.

Pieces of her, and not. This isn’t her. She’s too broken to be this beautiful.

“Blake?” Yang asks, and that bright smile fades.

Blake wrenches her gaze from the laptop and stares down at her hands, her eyes hot. She’s not that, she can never be that. “That’s not me,” she says hoarsely, her voice shaking. “That’s not me, Yang.”

“It’s how I see you,” Yang says, her words a burning balm. “It’s you, Blake.”

Her throat closes up. “I’m not-”

“You are beautiful,” Yang says firmly. “You are beautiful and kind and amazing. And this is how I see you.” Yang hesitates, but she hands Blake a wrapped box. Her stomach turns, but she can’t stop herself from opening it with shaking hands.

A broken sob leaves her mouth. It’s her eyes.

Blake sets the canvas on the counter and closes her eyes, trying to breathe. “You don’t know me,” she says, and her voice cracks. “I’m not this person you see.”

Yang cups her face and leans down to look her in the eyes. “You are,” she says. “You are.” Her eyes dart to her lips, and Blake’s face flushes. “You are beautiful, and kind, and amazing,” Yang repeats. Her mouth parts. “And you are worthy, Blake.” Yang thumbs away a tear on her face and smiles sadly. “I just want you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“Yang-” She cuts herself off with a shaky breath. Instead of speaking, she leans into Yang’s touch. Her hands are soft but calloused with her work, but, most importantly, they’re Yang’s hands. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispers, but she still reaches back for Yang.

Yang smiles, and there’s tears in her lilac eyes too. “Yes, you do.”

She isn’t sure which one of them leans forward, if one or both of them do, but Yang’s mouth is on hers, and she can’t think. She doesn’t want to think beyond Yang. So Blake keeps her eyes closed and kisses her back, her hands grabbing onto Yang and not letting go.

Blake doesn’t deserve Yang. But Yang thinks she does, and maybe that can be enough. Maybe that will be enough, and Blake can love her. She doesn’t know, and there’s no way to know. But for the first time in months, in almost a year, she feels hope being sketched into her chest.

#rwby #bumbleby #my writing #answered prompt

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salenakingston · 4 years

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Mystery March Day 14 - Conceal

It began with a spark, nothing more than an idea that came from a light in the darkness that surrounded his life. He built wheels for a hamster that couldn’t use his back legs, so why couldn’t he build something for himself? It was an ambitious project to be sure. Such a thing had been attempted before, but there was only so much that could be done before limitations started popping up.

He wasn’t about to let that hold him back.

This wasn’t something he could build overnight, or even in the short span of time it took for Galahad’s own project. First came the sketches, notes pertaining to each section of this arm. There was already so much planning to do, even before the build process began. What kind of metal to use? How to ensure it would safely attach to his shoulder? How would he properly move the whole arm and fingers?

He would never admit it outloud, but it was incredibly frustrating. There were far too many times he thought about giving up, thinking there was no way he could do this.

But one look from those he cared about the most kept him pushing on. Finally they could see a tiny piece of the man they knew coming back. How could he let them down? He could do this.

He could do this.

He couldn’t do this.

The skeleton work of the arm had been done, though it looked more like a tangled mess of wires rather than an arm. The next logical step was working on the metal shell that would cover the interior. He wasn’t sure if it was growing frustration at the work, or his own declined mental state that made him throw the half built arm across his room, listening to it bounce off the wall.

Hand pressed against his forehead, trying so hard to keep himself from losing it completely.

A whine drew him away from his turmoil. To his right was Mystery… to his right was Mystery! Arthur scooted back in his chair, staring at the dog, irrational fear gripping at his being. Then he saw the shiny of something from the dog’s mouth. Mystery was holding the incomplete arm. Right… him and Vivi were over…

Taking care of him. He should be able to take care of himself.

Soon enough, she appeared in his room, a borrowed chair in hand. She set it down beside him, taking the arm from Mystery’s mouth. The blonde watched her, setting the piece back down in front of him. For a long moment, his eyes were fixated on it, Vivi’s hand still resting on it.

Like everything else, he didn’t have to face this alone.

A sigh passed through his lips, head lowered, but the tiniest smile creeping along his face, “Thanks Vivi…”

He could still do this.

He could do this.

He did it.

It took a long time, but his pride and joy was finally done. It took blood, sweat, and tears to finish, all quite literally. Anyone trying to build their own prosthetic, using themselves as a guinea pig, should know it would come with not only pain, but the occasional wound.

After all that, and one more visit to the doctors to make sure it had ports hooked up to his shoulder and nerves, his arm was ready. Vivi and his uncle marveled over the metal limb, commending him for completing it. The doctors assisting him were impressed with his design and intelligence to create something as advanced as this arm was. It was the greatest thing he made.

Too bad not everyone else saw it that way.

Arthur usually didn’t care what others thought of him. Why should he care that he was living with his uncle rather than his parents? Why should he care about how he portrayed himself with his looks? Why should he care that he liked to wear a puffy vest with pins? None of it ever mattered before.

But it did now.

He’d never really noticed how others looked at him until he walked around with his metal arm. At first, he ignored it. It was just another thing to add onto his list that defined him as weird. They never bothered him before. That’s what he kept telling himself. It didn’t matter.

But it did.

The more he went out, and the more their eyes fell on the metal, it was like he could read their minds. They didn’t see a revolutionary piece of technology. They didn’t see a man that worked so hard to try and find some sense of normality again. They didn’t see the hard work he poured into making it.

All they saw was a man with a fake arm. A fake arm because he lost his real one.

He wanted to believe he was being irrational. This was just his head messing with him like it always seemed to be doing, especially as of recently. He wanted to believe there was nothing wrong with it…

But it was hard to deny the looks cast on him when they landed on his metal arm.

He’d turned up the next day at Kingsmen Mechanics, a long sleeve shirt being worn rather than his usual short sleeved one. His eyes met with anyone he passed, watching for them to gaze over at him. They still looked, but not to the same extent they had before. All that could be seen was the metal hand, and that was easier to hide in his pockets. He hated this. He hated hiding his greatest creation.

All because he couldn’t take their judgement.

Why couldn’t this have not mattered like everything else he did?

It wasn’t hard for his uncle to pick up on the new habit of hiding his arm, that or avoiding as many people as he usually could. And of course he would bring it up to Vivi. Even in the comfort of his own home, he couldn’t seem to reveal it to her. He knew she would not judge him for it. She had been there with him the entire time, even helping him to build the damn thing.

What was wrong with him?

As if she could hear his own thoughts, she found a hand slipping to his metal one. It didn’t pull his attention towards her right away, as he couldn’t feel anything, but one tug could be felt along the shoulder. That drew his dulled gaze on her. Her smile always seemed to warm him, even if it was just a small one. It only seemed to grow for him, “There’s nothing wrong with you Artie. People should just mind their own business. What do they know?”

He admired her enthusiasm, but it did little to break the sudden mentality he developed, “I can’t stop them from looking Vivi.”

“So ignore them.”

“I… I wish it were that easy.”

He could see her smile falter, if only just for a moment. It was easier for her. She didn’t have anything off about her. Well.. that wasn’t entirely true. She did have one quirk, but it’s not like anyone was around besides himself and Mystery whenever it was present. It was grating on him, far more than anything else ever had. It wasn’t something he could simply ‘ignore.’

She must have caught onto that, adjusting her words, “Maybe you’re right… but they’ll stop eventually. It’s just so new. People will start seeing it for how great it actually is.”

“Maybe…”

She produced one of his short sleeve shirts, “You won’t know unless you actually start showing it off. You can always come to me if things get overwhelming.”

Fingers gripped along the fabric, but was set to the side, “Not yet… just a little longer.”

“Alright Artie.”

He felt another jerk on his shoulder, watching as his friend pushed the sleeve up. She looked over his project, holding it up so she could get a better look at it. Part of him was confused why she was bothering to do so, other than to mess around with it. No, it held something much more meaningful, “Will you tell me how it all works again?”

She, nor Lance for that matter, could understand robotics in the way Arthur could. Everything clicked with him, and any time he tried to explain the finer details to someone else, he always lost them. This was something different. It was meant to show she cared. She was as proud as him for the arm to be done. He found a smile again, “Yeah.”

#MysteryMarch2021 #mystery skulls animated #my writing #my submission

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snowbellewells · 4 years

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A Birthday Gift for @itsfabianadocarmo

So I have been LOVING @itsfabianadocarmo‘s CSR Aesthetic Picsets, and especially the ones telling the story of an alternate S7 in Hyperion Heights, but where Emma was also present as a waitress named Eva Cygnet. Then, as @itsfabianadocarmo and I began to chat on here more, I learned we share the exact same date of birth! (What are the odds?!?) So, my birthday twin, I began plotting a little surprise for you. I hope you’ll like it. It’s just a little one shot to go along with your first picset in that series (which I have hopefully attached so those who haven’t seen it can do so HERE). I hope you’ll enjoy this - and maybe, if I get a few more WIPs finished, more will accompany this one!

Anyway, I hope you have the very best birthday!! I’ve so enjoyed getting to know you!! :)

“Marmalade and Tea”

by: @snowbellewells

“What about this place, Tilly?” Rogers questioned his jittery passenger with a sidelong glance as he eased his classic Chevelle into a parking space along the sidewalk. “Looks cozy, hmm?”

Though making a valiant effort to remain patient and upbeat, the vagabond sprite he’d taken into his home and his affections had already shot down every dining establishment in a two block radius and he had begun to fear none would suffice and they’d run out of options. Not for the first time, the worry struck him that he was ill-equipped for the needs and wishes of a young lass such as Tilly. But she was so lost, so vulnerable - scrappy and resourceful as she might first appear - that he hadn’t been able to leave her fending for herself. She tugged at his emotions more than he could understand. All he knew in that moment was that he was far too hungry to get by on the toast and marmalade Tilly usually wanted for supper.

His young companion cocked her head to the side, staring out the passenger window to study the kitschy little diner her detective had indicated. She bit her lip in concentration, and Rogers held his breath, hoping this one might be a winner, until finally she bobbed her tawny head, light-brown waves of her hair rustling as she did so. “Yep! Let’s check it out!”

Without further hesitation or doubt, Tilly flung her door open and hopped out onto the sidewalk excitedly. Shaking his head at the quick change in disposition, Rogers found himself hurrying after her as she practically skipped up the walk toward the diner’s entrance, humming cheerily to herself. For all her deliberation of moments ago, once Tilly made up her mind, he had to admit she threw herself into any given course of action with gusto and commitment.

Catching up to Tilly at the door, Rogers playfully bowed to her with a crooked grin and raised eyebrow, “After you, milady,” he teased in his lilting voice, as he held the door open for her to pass.

To his delight, she giggled, just as he had hoped, her face lighting up with glee at the simple moment of playfulness. Lifting her chin regally, she preceded him into the diner with a haughty toss of her hair, “Why thank you, good sir,” she returned.

As she spoke, her shorter form brushed past him in the entry, and Rogers felt a current of recognition run through him - freezing him in place. It was as if he had spoken those very words, heard her exact response, lived the entire moment before. He blinked, trying to shake his head clear of such impossible nonsense. Not only had he only known Tilly for a few months, but before that he had been utterly alone, no one in his life to joke around with - or even to enjoy a pleasant lunch with as he and Tilly were doing now. He had to be mistaken, and yet…

He glanced to the young runaway, now living in his spare room and filling it to the brim with her colorful, splashy paintings and sketches as well as the trinkets and treasures she picked up on her daily rambles while he was at work. She too appeared startled, wide-eyed as though she were trying to process something which had flashed across her mind’s eye before vanishing again.

For a second, superimposed upon his vision of Tilly before him, he saw a younger version of her, dressed in a pretty dress and pinafore, a much younger iteration of her face gazing up at him in adoration. It was all he could do to hold onto his breath. What was happening to him?

Afraid to share what he had seen, knowing Tilly’s grip on reality could already sometimes be fragile, Rogers tried to push the strange near-reminiscence and the image aside, gesturing toward the counter in question to see if TIlly would prefer a seat there in the tall stools rather than a booth. She too seemed to shake a dazed expression from her face, and nodded, hopping onto the nearest seat quickly. He noticed her agitation though as she softly drummed her fingers on the countertop and swiveled in her seat.

Rogers wondered briefly if he should ask her what was wrong or let her pretend. Should he find out if she had seen something odd as well, and if so, what? He hated to disturb the equilibrium she had recently found; dreaded upsetting her or encouraging flights from reality. So he bit his tongue with effort and held back his questions. Instead, he asked what she had been working on in her latest art piece, and Tilly launched into a detailed and enthusiastic description of the enchanted setting of some Wonderland in a book she’d read.

Just as he was drawing in a breath of relief and feeling normalcy return, their waitress arrived before them. “Hello, welcome to Ruby Red’s! What can I start you off with today?” The voice was welcoming and pleasant, but lower and less gratingly perky than often assaulted one’s ears in such small, cutesy restaurants. The detective had hardly even picked up his menu, much less perused his choices, and he flushed, embarrassed to the very roots of his dark hair, scruffy cheeks pinking and even the tips of his subtly pointed ears taking on the hue. Tilly noticed, and elbowed him with a snicker, causing Rogers to fumble with the laminated sheet of their offerings and bring up his stiff, gloved hand as well to keep from dropping the menu. He’d been too busy pondering over his strange reverie and observing his younger companion’s disquiet, but she seemed to have thrown that aside and resumed her jovial nature once more, so he attempted to do the same.

“Ah, hello Lass,” he offered awkwardly, reaching up to scratch behind his ear uncertainly and wishing for at least the hundredth time that he were a bit more suave and self-assured. “Sorry about that, haven’t quite made up my mind yet.” Looking to offer her an apologetic smile, Rogers nearly swallowed his own tongue at the sight before him.

Their waitress was stunning. Surely the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. She was dressed simply in a sleeveless chambray button-down top and khaki skirt that came to mid-thigh toped with short red apron. Yet, even with her bright fall of blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and dark, plastic-framed glasses on her nose, she was dazzling to his senses.

“That’s quite alright,” she assured with an easy smile. “Maybe just your drink orders while you decide?”

“Right you are, Miss…” he paused, stumbling over his words and inherent politeness when he realized he didn’t know her last name. “Ah... Eva?” he finished sheepishly as his eyes found the small plastic nametag she wore.

Not seeming in the least put off by his nerves or fumbling manner - in fact, if Tilly, who was watching the exchange with a deviously pleased grin and avid interest, were any sort of judge, their pretty waitress seemed decidedly charmed. Nodding, the woman hurried to answer him. “Yep, Eva, that’s right. Eva Cygnet.” She reached out to shake his hand only to find that he hesitated to offer his, leading her eyes to fall on the prosthetic she had failed to notice. Rogers’ eyes fell to the countertop, lips pressed together in a firm line, but his head shot back up in surprise when she laid her hand atop his gloved replacement appendage, kindly adding, and holding his gaze until it was clear she meant her words and that the false hand didn’t bother her at all. “Glad you decided to visit us today, Mr. …?”

“Rogers,” the detective spoke up, confidence growing in his voice as he marveled at the woman’s simple kindness and understanding. “Joel Rogers, Hyperion Heights detective.” His cheeks flushed again, not sure why he’d added that part, but holding her gaze all the same.

Tilly, however, was now completely won over. Seeing the change that had come over her friend and benefactor in the short exchange with this Eva Cygnet, and just how amazed he seemed by her mere presence, Tilly was practically beaming. With a bounce of enthusiasm, she chirped, “Best on the force, that’s him!”

Ms. Cygnet chuckled easily, flattering laughlines crinkling the corners of eyes that might have seemed a bit tired when she first reached their seats, but now appeared friendly and amused. “Good to know,” she said seriously, turning her attention to Tilly then. “If we have any trouble here, I’ll know just who to call.”

Tilly nodded smartly, reaching out to shake Eva Cygnet’s hand readily and then adding, “And you don’t have to wait on my order, either. Could I just have toast with butter and orange marmalade and a glass of milk?”

Eva’s head tilted as if uncertain, and possibly even trying to decide if the younger woman was playing some sort of trick on her. She scrunched her nose in a thoughtful way that made Rogers want to reach out and tap the tip of it with his finger, an urge he barely managed to wrestle down. Finally, the waitress seemed to make up her mind, and with a shrug, jotted Tilly’s order on her pad. “If you’re sure that’s all you want, you can certainly have it. Our bread is baked fresh right here in our kitchen every day - and Granny makes the preserves herself as well - best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Granny?” Tilly repeated curiously as she looked at their server.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Eva offered. “Mrs Lucas, the owner. Most of us have worked here forever, so it’s almost like family, and that’s what we all call her. She told me her name was Granny when she hired me.” Shaking her head, she leaned in closer to Tilly in a conspiratorial whisper. “We just finally got her to take a two week vacation for the first time in years. She went to Colorado to see her granddaughter and her husband and great-grandkids. He’s some sort of woodsman, forestry officer, something like that, and they live in a national park basically. Granny’s been thinking about it for ages, and Ruby - this place is named after her - keeps begging her to, saying she and Pete would love to have her stay with them. And so she finally did it!”

Tilly’s eyes were shining, looking as thrilled with the happy story as if she too knew the people Eva spoke of so fondly. “Wow,” she commented. “That sounds amazing.”

“Yup,” Eva confirmed, with a bob of her head, “but look at me gabbing on when you’d probably like your food sometime today!”

She turned to Joel then, a patient look on her face and pen poised to take down his order as well. He would never have assumed it had anything to do with him (it did) but she looked flushed and more than a bit apologetic, and he wanted to tell her that he would listen to her stories all day. She could read them the entire menu word-for-word, and he would welcome it if that was what it took to keep her near.

“What would you recommend?” he questioned instead, brow furrowing in consternation as he almost added “Love” at the end of his request.

Eva grinned, offering her pick without hesitation. “This may sound crazy. I’ve been told more than once I’ve got the palate of a 10-year-old, but I’d have the grilled cheese club. The bread’s all crisp and buttery and there’s this secret sauce and bacon in the cheese. It’s just melty, perfect goodness.”

Winking at her, badly, both eyes seeming to close as if unable to work independently, Rogers took her at her word. “Sold! That does sound delicious, maybe with a side of - “

“Onion rings?”

“Yes, exactly! Brilliant, Lass.”

“You have good taste,” Eva Cygnet offered sagely. “I’ll always pick onion rings over fries myself. And to drink?”

“Iced tea, please,” he concluded, handing his menu to her as Tilly did the same.

When she had taken off to place the order, assuring them it wouldn’t be long, Tilly nudged him repeatedly, looking all-too-excited. “Was that flirting?!?” she half-whispered, half-squealed in a tone that felt entirely too noticeable to Rogers’ ears. “Ohmygoodness! Adorable! I’ve never seen you like that, Detective!” More nudging and giggling followed, even after Eva returned with their food, until Joel honestly wanted to slide under the counter and out of sight. However, the food was as delicious as promised, and he found himself happy in a way he hadn’t been in some time - despite any lingering embarrassment.

Tilly seemed to feel the same satisfaction, even asking Eva when she returned with the bill and to hear what they thought of the food, if they sold the marmalade by the jar.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Eva laughed good naturedly as she rang them up. “Though I’ve been telling Granny she should.” She paused for a second as Joel offered her a twenty and her fingers deftly made change. “You’ll just have to come back often to have more.”

Her words were spoken to Tilly, but her glance darted over to take in the handsome dark-haired detective as well, hopeful as they studied his face quickly before flickering away again.

“That we will,” Tilly affirmed, her look bouncing back and forth between her friend and the waitress mischievously. “Don’t you worry.”

“Aye,” Rogers added with his own crooked smile, reaching out to take his receipt. “I’ve no doubt we’ll be returning often.”

His words cut off abruptly when he and Eva’s fingers touched. The thin cash register paper crumpled as their fingertips met, and his calloused fingers brushed her soft palm. Pictures flashed behind his eyes - of her golden hair cascading loose from her ponytail and his hand tangling in it, of her in a pale pink dress and his favorite leather jacket draped over her shoulders, the two of them sitting by the water somewhere passing a flask of rum back and forth, her fingers clutching at his collar desperately while she hauled him to her for a kiss, surrounded by green leaves and sticky humid air. It was all the more shocking for his having so recently experienced something so similar with Tilly, but if possible this with Eva Cygnet was even more intense. There was no way to deny what he saw - or the way it made him feel.

Eva said nothing, but was similarly arrested by pictures in her own mind: this man before her running his tongue along his lower lip as he flirts with her shamelessly, opening an old-fashioned spyglass with his mouth and then offering it to her as well, brushing her hair back over her shoulder with a hook at the end of his arm in place of the prosthetic, him standing with her by some sort of well, holding out a ring on a necklace chain.

Both of detective and waitress stumbled backward with similarly stunned gasps for air. Their hands fell to their sides, Rogers’ flexing unconsciously as if he had been shocked, and the receipt falling forgotten to the floor between them.

Neither were able to speak, until another customer behind them cleared his throat impatiently, and Tilly linked her arm through the detective’s, propelling him toward the door. “Thanks! We’ll see you soon.”

Eva moved to ring up the next tab, but her fingertips danced over her lips briefly, as if feeling the tingle of a kiss that didn’t happen. “Good,” she thought to herself. She could only hope those words were true.

Tagging just a few others who might enjoy (or have seen enjoying the aesthetic inspiration!) : @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @tiganasummertree

#csr ff #cs alt s7 headcanon fic #csr oneshot #birthday fic gift #for @itsfabianadocarmo

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 4 years

Text

We Care, But At What Price?

Summary: Sequel to "We Care Not". As Hiccup lies sick in bed, the other Riders reflect a little on the past they share with him and how overly protective they are of him now.

Rating: Teen and up

Words: 2 482

Author’s Notes: Sequel that was written quite a while ago, but never posted. Might take this idea to dabble with it in a different fic someday.

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Enjoy!

We Care Not (The first fic)

Ao3

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"This is stupid. This is so, so stupid."

Astrid finds herself shushing Hiccup's shaky mumblings as she dabs his forehead with a soaked cloth. It is sweaty and she can feel the heat radiating through the layer separating her hand and his skin.

Hiccup is lying in bed before her on a stack of furs and blankets, all gathered from the other Riders. He wears only a single layer of clothing in spite of the cold Winter plaguing the Edge. His armor hangs forgotten on the back of a chair on the ground floor.

"I should be out there doing patrols or think of something to stop Viggo, not be stuck here in bed." There is a certain resentment in his tone that Astrid doesn't quite appreciate, she resists the urge to demand that he apologize to himself.

That kind of anger, she knows it is directed at only one man in this room and, besides her, the single other presence here is Toothless and Astrid is certain Hiccup can never be mad at him.

Her free hand is held in both of his own on his stomach.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. It's just a fever." She tries to tell him and Toothless rumbles in agreement. The Night Fury is taking up all the space on one side of the bed. Ever since his Rider has fallen ill, he hasn't left much. He worries.

"I shouldn't be having a fever. I'm not a kid anymore, I shouldn't be getting sick every Winter." Still Hiccup argues, his voice cracks. Even with the fire warming his hut, his woolen tunic, the dragon, and the covers, he shivers terribly.

He doesn't get sick as often as he used to when he was a growing boy, but when he does this always happens. The times Hiccup does fall ill, he falls hard.

Astrid sighs when she hears his comment. Indeed, the Winters here in the Archipelago are never kind to Hiccup. If he isn't sick, then the cold is taking its toll on his leg or some other old injury of his. And then there is also Devastating Winter.

"It's okay to get sick, Hiccup. You wouldn't be giving us such a bad time if we were stuck in bed." That shuts him up, at least. He can't argue with her about that, he knows she is right.

Instead, Hiccup lets his eyes fall closed. He sniffs, his nose is clogged. His cheeks feel so unbearably hot.

Astrid will never admit it to him out loud, but she does find herself worrying during the coldest seasons on Berk. Devastating Winter especially. It wasn't given this name for no reason.

If there is a season cold enough to keep even the Hooligans of Berk indoors for days or weeks at a time, cold enough to keep even the dragons inside, it is certainly that. Before the Edge, whenever she was stuck inside, Astrid would often find herself guilty of sitting around and worrying about Hiccup.

She often wondered as she sat there sharpening her dagger at the fire, was he lying sick in bed? As she ate dinner with her family, was Stoick trying to get some food into his ill son in the meantime? As she checked up on Stormfly, was Toothless watching over his Rider day and night?

Every time Devastating Winter allowed Berk to set foot outside again, it was a relief to her to see him alive and well.

Oddly enough, it wasn't a concern she ever had for the other Riders. And not because she didn't care for them, because she did and a lot more than she let on.

Grabbing the pitcher standing on a stool next to her, Astrid notices that it is empty. Time to grab some more water.

"I'm going to get some more water. I'll be right back." She tells Hiccup, even though he probably isn't conscious anymore, judging by his calm breathing. He may have dozed off.

Which is a good thing, he needs his rest and his body demands it. She lets him sleep.

Astrid briefly scratches Toothless behind an ear fin and walks down from their loft with the pitcher in hand. Downstairs, she meets with the other Riders, who are all gathered in Hiccup's hut.

There is a snowfall going on outside and so it is warmer to stay inside. She knows even the Dragons are huddled together over at their stables. She also knows that there is only one reason why the others are here and it isn't quite because of the weather.

Fishlegs is reading at the table and so is Tuffnut, though the latter isn't as into it as the former is. His face is lying on it. Ruffnut and Snotlout are playing Maces and Talons in one corner, though neither of them are all that interested in their game either.

As Astrid comes down, Fishlegs looks up.

"Is he sleeping?" He asks, putting his book down.

"Yeah, he is." She answers and makes her way over to a barrel with water. Opening the top, she lowers the pitcher into it to bring back up with her.

Ever since Hiccup fell sick two days earlier, he's been drifting in and out of sleep. He is feverish, he is coughing almost continuously, but he is, at the very least, not delirious. So far, his mind remains untouched by the fever. A good sign, they all figure.

Silence returns, but as she ascends back up the stairs, Astrid can't help but notice that the pieces on the board game Ruff and Lout are playing with are no longer being moved.

Returning up to the loft, Toothless greets her with a purr and Astrid gives him a small smile. She replaces the pitcher on its original spot next to the empty mug and then grabs the cloth she'd left on Hiccup's forehead.

Dipping it into the bowl of water standing on that same stool, Astrid stops mid-action when she hears movement. Out of the corner of her eyes, she notices him rolling onto his side away from her. He lets out a deep sigh followed by more coughing. Hiccup nuzzles into his pillow and settles again for the time being.

Astrid relaxes, she isn't even aware she tensed up. Wetting the cloth again, she wrings it out a bit and places it on his temple instead.

"Toothless, I'm going downstairs. You'll watch over him, won't you?" Though she knows she doesn't even need to ask, Toothless still gives her a croon before placing his head down on the bed to fix his gaze on his Rider as Astrid joins the others again.

Ruffnut watches her descend, a frown present on her face. Snotlout doesn't seem to mind that he needs to wait on her next move.

The quiet continues until Astrid takes a seat at the table where Fishlegs and Tuffnut are already sitting at.

She waits. She knows there is something Ruffnut wants to talk about the moment she stops playing her game with Snotlout.

Astrid even sits down on the chair with her front facing the other and looks at her. It is her way of asking "what's up?"

"It's weird, right?" Ruffnut starts now that Astrid has taken a seat. Snotlout, Fishlegs, and Tuff all look at her.

"We know Hiccup's gonna be just fine. He's pretty much indestructible at this point anyway. And yet..." Her voice trails off.

"We're still worried to death?" Snotlout finishes for her.

"Yeah, Fishlegs even says he's doing better than yesterday," Tuffnut speaks up as well and Fishlegs nods to confirm it. Hiccup is already on the mend.

"He should be back up on his feet soon."

"And yet..." Snotlout mutters. His eyes briefly travel up to the loft, though he can't see Hiccup.

Standing back up again, Astrid makes her way to the back of the hut, where most of Hiccup's stuff is kept. She can feel the eyes of the other Riders on her.

Toothless' several different prosthetic tailfins are hanging on that wall, but for as much of an eyecatcher as they are, Astrid's attention is only on one chest.

"What're you doing?" Snotlout asks, his chin resting on the table in front of him.

"Searching for something Hiccup can do? Something to lighten the mood." Astrid replies, crouching down in front of the chest and opening it up. She briefly rolls her eyes at how disorganized it is and begins to search through it. Within seconds she still finds what she is looking for, despite the mess inside.

It is a little book he uses for his sketches. Or rather, one of the many he uses that way. Hiccup went through a lot of them in just one year.

Flipping it open, she wants to see if this one hasn't been filled in yet. Something instantly strikes her as odd, however.

The drawings inside of this one were made by a kid.

They are still good. Very good. And the only conclusion Astrid can come to is that these are Hiccup's from when he was still very little and he kept them. So Hiccup is someone who can get a little nostalgic, who knew?

Struck by nostalgia herself, she keeps looking through them, sitting down on the wooden floor. She is engrossed. Many of them look vaguely familiar to her.

She halts when she comes upon one particular drawing in the book.

Astrid remembers having a dear friend once. She is reminded of her now, of little Unn that never got to grow up, as she stares at what appears to be a hand-drawn portrait of a little girl with baby blue eyes and shoulder-length black hair.

Though this had clearly been drawn by a very young individual, she can recognize these strokes from anywhere. This one had been drawn by Hiccup, too. A long, long time ago. Gods, she never knew he still had any of these. Let alone this one.

He drew this when they were... What? Four? Five years old? They are both eighteen now. How has he managed to keep these for so long?

Astrid stares quietly at the picture. A dull aching makes its way into her chest and there is a hitch in her breath, her eyes are wet. She hasn't thought of her childhood friend in a long while.

"Hey, I know her." Astrid didn't expect anyone to be standing behind her, but she doesn't jump when Snotlout speaks up out of the blue.

He kneels next to where she is sitting and Astrid allows him to take a look.

"She's-um... Ugh, what's her name."

"Unn. She was..." Astrid helps him remember, but she doesn't get much farther beyond that. It is strange, she didn't have any problem saying it before. Why is it suddenly so hard?

"One of the ones that didn't make it." Snotlout returns the favor and finishes that thought for her.

"Yeah." She takes the book back when he hands it to her. She can hear footsteps approaching.

"Oh man, talk about a blast to the past," Ruffnut mutters, her hands on her hips.

Taking a glance over her shoulder, Astrid sees that Tuffnut and Fishlegs are there as well.

"Are there any others?" Fishlegs asks hopefully. It is the timidest he has sounded in a long while.

Astrid briefly skims through the rest of this particular sketchbook and she shakes her head. There are no more.

"Should we check if any of Hiccup's other old notebooks are in there?" Snotlout asks and for once he isn't suggesting looking through someone else's stuff just for the fun of it.

"Guys, I was only looking in here to give Hiccup something to do next time he wakes up. You know how antsy he can get when he's stuck in bed for too long. I'm not randomly looking through his stuff." Is Astrid's reply when a simple "no" would've sufficed.

"Yeah, I know. I was just curious, you know." Snotlout shrugs in response. He is uncharacteristically muted today, as they all are.

It is quiet for another moment before Ruffnut speaks up again. Astrid almost feels compelled to look at the picture of her friend again.

"It brings you back, doesn't it?" She asks her friends, her tone solemn.

"So many of us didn't make it." Fishlegs happens to mention and saying it out loud somehow makes their mood even more dreary than it already is. If that is at all possible.

"I've never really thought about it before, but there are a lot of kids on Berk now. Compared to... You know." Tuffnut reminisces quietly.

"Before the war ended," Ruffnut adds and her brother nods.

It was such a change, one that happened so slow and yet so fast. With how lively Berk is now, it is sometimes hard to remember what it was like before the dragons had come to live with them, before the one responsible for so much heartbreak had been dethroned. And this change, they all know who was responsible for it.

The Riders are all quiet for another moment of reflection. They are all thinking of the same person.

It is odd. Sometimes they still have moments in which they just look at each other and ask "why did we ever dislike this guy?" as soon as Hiccup leaves the room.

"Why weren't we friends before?"

"Why did it take us so long?"

The past three years of friendship did muddle their memories just a tad bit, but this brings it all right back.

They used to dislike Hiccup because he was the weird one. They disliked him because the adults did. They disliked him because he was sure to be the next one to leave them.

And now look at them.

Hiccup is upstairs in bed suffering from an illness he has had before and would recover from again. He is doing fine. He is angry at himself, but otherwise, he is doing just fine.

And yet, they worry. They worry so much they spent most of the last two days here in his hut. The evening of the third day is drawing near.

Upstairs, Hiccup starts coughing and it doesn't let up for a good couple of seconds.

"I'm fine, Bud." The coughing fit wakes him up and the Riders hear Hiccup reassure his dragon, but still, Fishlegs is already running up the stairs just to make sure if there isn't any help that he may need.

"Fish-Fishlegs? Fishlegs, I'm fine! It was just a cough, I'm fine." The rest of them, still on the ground floor, relax again.

Look at how much has changed.

When they were kids, they were afraid to care and their effort not to had lead to them barely caring for him at all. Now that they finally do, they are too afraid to lose him.

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queercreati · 4 years

Text

Marvel Headcanons; Winterwidow

Russian Dirty talk in public- nobody understands them, so they always get away with it.

No PDA at work (Well, none that non-Russian speakers understand ^), but they have a surprisingly intimate relationship at home.

Playing with hair all the time. All the time. Braids, ironing, dye, hair cuts, it goes on.

Dance parties in the living room to all kinds of music- classical, pop, rock, and Nat even once played some 40′s music and Bucky taught her the dance styles popular back then.

Late night conversations about the nightmares that will never stop, for both of them.

After the first time they slept together, Bucky saw the saw all the scars he left, both in the red room and outside, and apologized for all of them.

They adopt two kids, a girl they name Kate Sarah Romanova-Barnes and a boy they name Clint Ivan Romanova-Barnes. (Steve and Clint cried when they found out)

One time Natasha walked in on Kate trying to dye her hair red like hers. They had a blast doing it together.

The family speaks mostly in Russian at home. After summer break the kids show up at school with slight Russian accents and while they get some shit for it, most of their peers think it’s pretty cool that their parents speak another language.

Once Steve walked in on Bucky shouting in Russian about something, and he thought he was yelling at Natasha and lectured him on it until Natasha said, “Um... You do realize he was yelling at the table, right? He stubbed his toe.” Steve apologized.

Part two of the previous one, Steve once babysat the kids and when they got into an argument in Russian he didn’t realize Mini Clint was cussing his sister out until Kate tattled. He told Bucky, who told Nat, who grounded Clint for a week.

They live in Brooklyn, about seven blocks from where Bucky lived in the forties. Once he took the kids to the apartment he once shared with Steve that had been turned into a museum and pointed out everything they got wrong.

Bucky spoke Yiddish as a kid with his parents, and he taught some words to his kids. However, they sometimes speak Romanian- mainly so they can talk without Nat understanding them *Cough, Cookie Jar Raids, Cough*

Steve gives Mini Clint art lessons, mostly sketching. He’s made portraits of his entire family.

The kids see the entirety of the avengers and their families as extended family- Clint’s kids, Morgan, Peter, Harvey, and even Talos’s daughter are like the siblings and cousins they never had.

They went to Russia once, when Kate was ten and Mini Clint was twelve, and explained their histories and all the horrible things they both did. The conversation ended with the kids holding their parents in the hotel room, all of them crying and promising they still loved them, they where their parents no matter what they did, no matter what was done to them. When they returned to the states, they began training them to be spies- without the horrific methods of the Red Room.

The kids’ first major league baseball game was also Natasha’s first. All three of them quickly became addicted to cracker jack, and Bucky explained how, way back when, the prizes were much better.

Kate grows up to lead S.H.I.E.L.D alongside Steve and Peggy’s granddaughter Eliza Rogers-Carter (Who she starts dating) and her brother.

Kate is called Sarah by Steve. He tells her that she reminds him of Sarah, and when she starts dating Eliza, Eliza calls her Sarah as well.

Eliza and Steve try to teach Gaelic to Kate, and she prenteds to be really bad at it when she’s known it since she was seven thanks to her mom.

Bucky writes poetry, as rhyming facts helps with his memory issues. Sometimes he and Mini Clint stay up late writing poetry together, spouting off rhymes at random moments.

Natasha and Bucky call each other Soldat.

Clint Romanova-Barnes is called Mini Clint by just about everyone, including his sister.

Natasha was once woken up by her seven-year-old son and five-year-old daughter telling her they had nightmares. She smiled tiredly at them and said, “Yeah, me too.”

When they where younger, the kids got out of embarrassing nicknames by having their parents talk to them in Russian in public. Then it got embarrassing to speak Russian, and that stopped.

Mini Clint is adopted from Korea. When he was nineteen, the whole family went to Korea to meet his birth family. When they met for the first time, Bucky was shocked to have Mini Clint’s father tell him he couldn’t be happier that his son had a man like Bucky as his dad.

Everyone has dyed their hair red at some point to match Natasha’s, not just Kate.

Part 3 of Steve Rogers Doesn’t Understand Russian: When Eliza started learning Russian from her girlfriend Kate, she invited her grandfather to join in. Only then did he realize all the conversations Bucky and Natasha had at work in Russian years before were so... explicit.

Natasha and Bucky once received an Email from Mini Clint’s teacher when he was 14 that their son was disturbing the class with all his ‘Inappropriate and gory knowledge” of WW2 and the Cold War. Bucky walked into his history class one day, without his prosthetic I may add, and stopped the teacher mid-sentence and said, “I’m going to really teach you about World War Two.” He proceeded to tell the class about his experience in the war, and as soon as he finished Natasha walked in and explained the truth of Soviet Russia to them. The teacher was speechless.

Natasha once said she adopted two kids because, if she and Bucky ever died, she didn’t want her kids to be alone the way she was when her parents were killed.

When Kate came out to her parents as a Lesbian, Bucky handed Natasha forty dollars.

When Mini Clint needed to fulfill his service hours, he decided to volunteer at the local hospital. Natasha joined him whenever she could.

They’re all morning people, except for Natasha, who suffers from serious insomnia. Saturday mornings before the kids move out are basically one long quiet game because no one wants to face the wrath of a woken-up Black Widow.

Part 4 of Steve Rogers sort of understands Russian now: When Kate and Eliza have conversations similar to what Natasha and Bucky used to, he would yell at them to stop. They didn’t.

One time Kate came home with two broken ribs and her wrist dislocated. When her parents asked her what happened, who should they beat up, she grinned wickedly at them and said, “You don’t have too. He looks worse then I do.” Turns out he beat her up because she kissed his ex. His ex was the one who beat him up, not Kate.

Stranger Things is the family’s collective favorite show, but for different reasons. Natasha is impressed at the accuracy of the Russian, Bucky’s a sucker for Romance, Kate’s in it for the violence, and Mini Clint loves two things about this show: The effects, and his family’s screaming.

-BASED ENTIRELY ON THE COMICS, THE ORIGINAL CHARACTERS ARE OPEN TO USE-

#winterwidow #headcanon #pride #bilingual #marvel #natasha romanov #bucky #fluff #kids #steve rogers #captain america #black widow #the winter soilder #avengers #clint barton #buckynat

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ericsonclan · 4 years

Text

Remembering Faces

Summary: Clementine sees Louis drawing something at the picnic tables and walks over to find the reason behind his actions is a somber one.

Read on A03:

Clementine made her way out to the front yard on her crutches. Willy was in the midst of reworking her prosthetic, so it was back to crutches for the next few days. It was pretty quiet out front. Aasim was on watch. Violet pushed AJ in the tire swing. Omar and Ruby must be working in the greenhouse. And Louis sat at one of the picnic tables, a look of concentration on his face as he sketched on a plain piece of paper. Curious to see what he was up to, Clementine made her way over to him, her crutches swinging lightly as she moved quickly across the lawn. “Looks like your artistic talents go beyond music,”

Louis looked up at the compliment, giving his girlfriend a small smile. “Hey, Clem. Crutches treating you alright?”

“Well enough,” Clementine leaned them against the table before plopping down next to him. “What are you drawing?”

Louis’ arm was covering his work. Reluctantly, he pulled the paper back to reveal a picture of a tall, chestnut-haired boy.

Clementine squinted at it a second before her eyes widened in recognition. “Is that Mitch?”

“Yeah. The best likeness I can get of him anyway,” Louis looked down at the paper in disappointment. “I wanted to capture something on paper, you know, before the memories fade. But I can’t draw him right,”

“I could tell it was him,”

Louis’ shook his head. “That’s not enough. I want to be able to take out this drawing to show someone someday and say, ‘That’s Mitch’. Have all the little details right, like the way he used to smile every time Willy said something stupid or how his hair always used to get into his eyes when he was busy concentrating on something. Stuff like that,” Louis shifted the piece of paper to the side and Clementine saw that there were several underneath it. Those pages held portraits of Brody, Tenn, Marlon and the twins.

Clementine looked over at Louis with concern. She could tell that this was bothering him in a deeper sense than artistic inability. This was his only shot at remembering what his friends looked like. Remembering his family. She laid a hand on top of Louis’, causing him to look over at her. “Would you like me to try too? I’m sure it wouldn’t be perfect, but maybe I can help get some other details right. With practice I’m sure we’ll both get better,”

Louis’ expression softened at her offer. “Thanks. I appreciate it,” He handed her a fresh sheet of paper and the two of them got to work.

After a while, A.J. came over to check on what they were doing. He wanted to join in, so Louis handed him a piece of paper and a box of crayons since he and Clem were using all the pencils. Violet sat next to A.J. and across from Louis, commenting that for all she knew their drawings were perfect, but she couldn’t see shit so she’d never know. She and Louis soon fell into conversation, reminiscing about their fallen friends. Brody, Mitch and Tenn were all spoken of fondly. Marlon and the twins were skirted over, though kind, soft-spoken words were offered toward each of them. Clementine listened in, enjoying seeing their faces light up at the memories and wishing she’d had longer with those they’d lost.

Violet, despite protests on her part, eventually was convinced by Louis to give drawing a try. She hunched over her paper, eyes narrowed in concentration as she tried her best to draw both Minnie and Sophie. A.J. had drawn Tenn and proudly showed the picture to Clem and Louis before a thoughtful expression came across his face and he declared he was going to check on Willy, running off without another word. Clementine considered pursuing him but decided against it. A.J. deserved some space to think. She would bring it up later though, at a time where they could talk alone for as long as needed.

She turned back to Louis who was up to his third sketch of Marlon. His tongue stuck slightly out of his mouth as he was fully engrossed in getting the color right on Marlon’s eyes. Clementine glanced at her own drawings. They were sketchy and ephemeral at best. Her relationships with Marlon and Brody had been so short, barely two days. The memories of them were complex and deep-seated. She’d tried to capture Brody’s kindness and the hope in her eyes when she’d talked about travelling. For Marlon she’d focused on her earlier memories of him, as the open-handed, giving leader of this group of kids. She wanted to draw him as Louis’ best friend, not what he’d become at the very end.

Her relationships with Mitch and Tenn had lasted longer. Both of their deaths still stung despite the myriad of losses she’d experienced. She’d done her best to replicate the bomb Mitch had worked on and how his brows had furrowed in annoyance as he worked so desperately to get it working so he could protect the school. They’d barely just warmed up to each other by the time he was gone. Clementine wished they’d had longer together. And Tenn… his expression still haunted her, the look of shock as he turned back to see A.J. and realized what he’d done before the life drained from his eyes. Had there been another way to save him and Louis, one she simply couldn’t see? Clementine would never know.

Eventually Ruby and Omar finished with dinner prep and everyone was called to eat. The papers and art supplies were tucked away as they ate their nightly stew and continued to reminisce of days gone by. Everyone laughed at stories of Louis’ and Marlon’s escapades and delighted in recalling all the dumbass stunts Mitch had pulled with knives and other makeshift weapons over the years. Ruby got a little teary-eyed remembering some of her favorite times with Brody and Violet spoke softly and fondly of Tenn, Sophie, and occasionally Minnie. The truths of their friends’ final moments and deaths felt so divorced from who they’d been in life. It was good to talk of happier times even though the memories refreshed dulled aches within their hearts.

After dinner Louis tenderly took Clementine’s hand in his own. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on her cheek before whispering in her ear. “Do you have time to stop by the music room? There’s something I want to share with you,”

Clementine nodded. Gathering her crutches, she followed Louis whose arms were full of art supplies. They made their way into the admin building, the soft rustle of dead leaves the only sound besides their footsteps in the empty rooms. Louis held the door open for Clementine before moving to put the art supplies away and grab something from one of the shelves. Clementine headed straight for the couch. Sitting down, she watched Louis as he used a chair to reach one of the highest shelves, pulling a small box down then walking over to join her on the couch. Prying off the lid, Louis revealed a series of drawings within, portraits of children and teens Clementine didn’t recognize.

“These were all drawn by Sophie,” Louis picked up one of the drawings, holding it out to Clementine. She took it in her own hands. It was a portrait of a young boy with large, thick-rimmed glasses upon his face. “She drew them throughout the years whenever we lost one of the kids. It was her way of honoring them, keeping a piece of them with of us so we’d always remember them,” Louis tapped on the drawing Clementine held. “That was Dewey. We lost him on the first night that walkers attacked the school. He was in the same room as me and Marlon, in the bunk across from us,” He pulled out another drawing, this one a portrait of a Latina girl who looked to be in her mid-teens. “Therissa was one of the strongest kids back when all this began. She helped figure out how to hunt and would always keep a level head whenever arguments broke out. She got bit while out hunting one day. Mitch had to-” Louis paused, his voice tightening. “He was the last one with her,”

Clementine took Louis’ hand in her own, gently rubbing her thumb along its side. It was sweet to see how much Louis cared but saddening at the same time. He had trauma just like her, pain she couldn’t touch. Silently, she reached into the box, pulling out another picture. A pale, thin boy stared back at her, his eyes issuing a challenge.

“That was Justin,” Louis’ tone grew somber. “He got a bunch of kids killed a few years back when they went way out past the school. Got into a huge fight with Marlon and somehow had the fucking nerve to blame it all on him. Some of the other kids agreed and left with Justin the next morning. We lost seven kids in two days. But Sophie still drew him and all the others that left. She said they should still be remembered in spite of all that,” There was a shuffling sound beside Louis and Clementine realized that he had placed all the portraits they’d drawn today beside him. “I figure if kids like that got a place in here, then Minnie and Marlon deserve one too,” He tucked the papers at the bottom of the stack before placing the lid back on the box.

“I’m glad you have them to remember everyone by,” Clementine murmured.

Louis nodded. “Tenn and Brody cleared out so much of Sophie’s art in the days following her and Minnie’s, well, disappearance. Most of it got buried at their graves. But I figured Sophie would want us to hold onto these. I just wish…” Louis sniffled, the tears he’d been holding back spilling out. “I wish I could draw the rest of them right. To finish Sophie’s work. Give her a portrait just as good as all the ones she made,”

Clementine leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Louis’ waist. She could feel the heat of his tears as he sobbed against her shoulder. Her own eyes prickled with unshed tears. She remembered the wrinkled, worn-out photo she’d carried of Lee for the year and a half after she lost him. How much joy and pain she felt whenever she looked upon it. The wrenching twist in her gut when she realized it had been lost. The fear over the passing years as certain details of him were lost to her, the permanence of his death sinking in more and more.

She carried all those she’d met and lost in those years on the road within her, the good and the bad. It was the same for Louis. Even within the safety of these walls, the Ericson kids had lost so many of their own. And those lives stuck with him just as much, the ghosts of his past, their memories a blessing as well as a burden.

Eventually the tears stopped. Louis continued to rest his head upon her shoulder. She could feel his heart beat against her. The rhythm was comforting. Grounding. Clementine felt her heart aching in a different way. There was a purity to it, the overwhelming love she felt for Louis filling her heart beyond its former limits. “Thank you. For sharing all this with me,”

“Thanks for listening,”

They pulled apart slowly. Clementine swept a hand across Louis’ cheek, brushing away the residual tears. “Ready to sleep?”

“Yeah. Let me just put these back,” Louis stood up, the box within his hands. He tucked it away where it had gone before, safe on the highest shelf. Then he scooted the chair back into place and came back to the couch, offering Clementine his hands.

She took them and came to a shaky balance on her foot, fingers clinging to Louis’ shirt till he had safely positioned the crutches under each arm. They made their way out of the room slowly, taking their time.

“Hey, Clem?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you,”

A happy thrill ran through her at the words. Clementine looked up at Louis, basking in the warmth she saw within his eyes. “I love you too,”

The rest of their walk was silent, grounded in unspoken understanding.

#twdg #twdg louis #twdg clementine #twdg aj #clouis #twdg sophie #twdg marlon #twdg brody #twdg mitch #twdg violet #angst #fanfic

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gothfoxx · 5 years

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Here's a prompt for you. How about Aizawa finding one of Izukus analysis notebooks and seeing how accurate and amazing (terrifying) Izuku's analysis is. (bonus if Aizawa reads the notes on him.) 10/10 proud dad.

Aizawa had been a teacher for a few years before he got his problem class, and his problem child. So when he saw said problem child writing in a notebook during the first week of school he thought nothing of it other than the kid was committed to school. Aizawa had had students like that before who needed to write down their thoughts before they’d forget and with Midoriya’s penchant for mumbling to himself it was no wonder. It became normal to see the kid nose deep in a notebook writing or sketching.

When Midoriya brought the book out during a guest lecture Aizawa was a little annoyed that the kid wasn’t paying attention. That was until the boy raised his hand and asked some very interesting and in-depth questions. Aizawa was impressed and then assumed that the writing was a form of thought organization more than for memory, Mic had to do that sometimes when his ADD was getting in the way. He decided to buy a few books to keep in his desk should the kid need one, it would be a shame if the kid couldn’t cope during class and lost focus.

During lunch one day Aizawa asked Yagi if he knew about the notebook Midoriya carried around. The other hero laughed when he heard the question, “Oh that. Well you see the boy is a huge hero fan. He had one on him when I first bumped into him during a villain attack in the city.” And that explains why Midoriya and the old man seemed to know each other at the beginning of the year. “I signed it too, you should have seen his face. I’m glad we crossed paths that day.” Yagi finished, he seemed to be reminiscing about the fated meeting. Aizawa thanked him quietly and left wondering what kind of stuff the kid would have to write for All Might of all people to consider him a huge fan.

He finally got a chance to see for himself what was in one of the notebooks, Midoriya had started a new one that was the same blue as the gym uniforms. There was another guest lecture but this time it wasn’t in the classroom but out on one of the training fields. Ms Marble, the durable hero, had volunteered to help demonstrate the kind of martial art she used for hand to hand. When she asked for a helper Midoriya’s hand went up like a bolt and his eyes lit up like a toddler with free rang of a toy store, the powdery white heroine giggled and called the greenett over. Giddy about being picked Midoriya excitedly handed his home room teacher the notebook he had been writing in earlier and rushed over to be the ‘helper’. Aizawa would never admit that the excitement radiating off of Midoriya was adorable but no sain person would have asked.

Curiosity got the better of him and while the greenett was busy Aizawa thumbed through the first few pages. He hadn’t been expecting what he found so when he realized what the book was he flipped back to the first page and began reading more carefully. Inside were the observations on a third of his student’s quirks, strengths-weaknesses-possible further training-psych evaluations-costume improvements. The amount of raw thoughts and data that was written down between the detailed pages reminded Aizawa of being in Nezu’s class when he was a student. The teacher, now principal, had the habit of going on tangents when something gained his interest. Aizawa felt a shiver run up his spine at the memory of those improv lectures.

He was about to close the book when he saw his hero name mixed into the ramblings of one of the data pages. Aizawa leafed to the next profile page. Looking back at him was a sketch of himself in his hero uniform, his goggles resting on top of his head. He shouldn’t read it, he was already nervous about the implications of these notes but each one of the profiles before had been insightful too.

Aizawa Shota

Hero name: Eraserhead

Status: Teacher-U.A., Underground

Strengths: fast, quiet, observant, proficient in hand to hand, can use weapons, can sleep anywhere

Weaknesses: Dry eye, Injuries to eyes or occipital lobe, children, cats

Training: quirk is dependent on both eyes so tracing to try and make it effective with one would be beneficial for when the dry eye acts up, learning to apply stage makeup and prosthetics for undercover work (see crawler entry), a long rang weapon that doesn’t tether him to the enemy

Thinking: depression?, paranoia?, ptsd, hyper logical(Spock-ish), codependency with Mic and Midnight. If one used Midnight or Mic they would have sway over Eraserhead. Same for the children in his care. He acts like he doesn’t care but he is Hypervigilant and goes out of his way to make sure his people are taken care of even at the cost of his own life. (USJ, chocolate incident, extra supplies)

Costume: less baggy so it can’t be grabbed as easy, tie up or cut hair to remove tell, bracers for joints

Extra: He uses the excuse of ruses when he decides against what he said before. He advocates for kids with less or non combative quirks to get into the hero courses. Believes that people can change and gives second chances. Cares, I saw him feeding the cats that live in the woods behind the school. Cares, when Hagakure had cramps and couldn’t do hero studies he sat with her in the infirmary and bought her a chocolate bar. Cares, Mineta says that Aizawa threatened to expell the perv if he catches him again (make sure he catches perv). He cares, he bought extra notebooks after he started watching me, he noticed and didn’t get made! He cares, once Todoroki feels safe enough I’ll convince him to tell Aizawa what happened.

The extras spilled over to the next page with a drawing of the cats that trust Aizawa enough to let him feed them. The normally in control man felt a burning in his eyes that meant if he could he would be crying. The kid wrote like someone showing him or others kindness was a foreign concept and that normally his writing would get him in trouble. The more Aizawa looked at it and the pages of free thought before it the more he saw a danger. This kid, his kid, hadn’t been allowed to make connections with those around him and had started writing about them to feel less isolated. If something had happened to push his kid there was a real possibility that Midoriya would have either shut down or cracked. Midoriya could have become a villain.

Looking up at the lesson going on, no one privy to the crisis happening in his head, Aizawa watched Midoriya get flung onto the mat laughing and asking to see the move again. The kid was made of strong stuff, stronger than his quirk and stronger than his tolerance for pain. This kid had survived something that left him feeling alone and scared enough that he feared writing would be punished! It showed a lot of trust the he had given Aizawa his notes, had trusted his teacher with a part of himself. Aizawa closed the book and watched the rest of the lesson thinking about how he could encourage his kid without scaring him off like a cat that had been hurt before. How was he going to support this analytical genius.....? He’d also have to figure out that part about Todoroki too, that was concerning too, but he would have to wait until one or both of the boys felt safe enough to talk alone with him.

The lesson finished up while Aizawa was still in his own thoughts. “Sensei? Sorry about dumping my things on you, that was very rude and short sighted of me.” The greenett apologized with a small bow. The kid seemed more embarrassed then leaving a notebook should envoke. “It’s fine problem child, not like I was busy anyway. You know you have a real talent?” That made the kid sputter and blush further. “No no it’s just a silly hobby from when I was a kid, it’s basically habit now! It’s nothing as special as a talent!” The kid tried to argue but it wasn’t from being humble, now that Aizawa was listening for it he could hear the plea of the attention to stop, for the spotlight to be taken off of him...out of fear. “Whatever you say kid, but I think it show promise in Criminal Analysis. If you’re interested I could see if the principal would take you on as a personal intern.” He offered, hoping the kid would take it. Nezu would be better with a traumatized kid, could relate with them better than he did adults.

The kid just nodded and tentatively reached for the book, Aizawa slowly met the kid halfway so Midoriya didn’t have to get to close. He would be changing his behavior around the kid, the kid would notice of course but he hoped the kid saw it for what it was. An acknowledgment. “Come on Midoriya, classes are over go get changed so we can go.” Aizawa stayed as he turned to head back to the main campus. “We, Sensei?” The kid didn’t miss anything huh, “Yeah, you took being Ms Marble’s punching bag like a pro so you deserve a treat. How does frozen mochi sound?” The concern and confusion on the kid’s face washed away and was replaced with relief and then a bright smile. “Thank you Sensei, I’ll be quick!” And with a bolt of green light the boy was headed for the locker room. “No problem champ.” Aizawa snorts a laugh at the empty air, well at least the kid felt safe enough to accept food from him. At least they weren’t at square one, he could help this kid. He WOULD help his kid.

Thanks for this one I love when Izuku gets the recognition he deserves!!!

#foxx writes #mha #bnha #mha midoriya #midoriya izuku #dadzawa #boku no hero academia #midoriyas notebooks #i keep including icecream #anon #prompt

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