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fuzzyducktyphoon · 1 year ago

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Killua x Mika x Hoodie brawl 👕👕

Killua was sitting on the chair waiting for Mika after she was late in returning home... It was midnight now after Mika finally entered and found Killua with a cold and annoyed face.

“Have you not slept yet Killua...I told you not to wait for me?”

Mika says as she takes off her shoes

Killua looked at Mika, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"I told you to be back by 10. It's now midnight,"

he said, his voice low and threatening.

"You're lucky I didn't go looking for you."

"And no, I haven't slept yet,"

he continued, still glaring at her.

"If you hadn't kept me up with your incessant chatter earlier, maybe I would have been able to get some rest."

“Don't put the blame on me...you know I work hard,”

Mika says as she approaches him and crosses her arms

Killua scoffed at Mika's words.

"Work hard? You call that work?"

He asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"All you do is talk and socialize all day long. I should have known better than to expect anything from someone like you."

He turned away from her, trying to hide the frustration he felt. But he couldn't help but mutter under his breath,

"And another thing, if you're going to be out so late, at least have the decency to text or call me."

“Why, are you afraid for me or what?”

she teases him.

Killua's face flushed red at Mika's teasing, his anger momentarily forgotten.

"I am not afraid!"

He retorted sharply.

"It's just common courtesy to let someone know where you are."

He took a deep breath to calm himself down before continuing.

"Besides, I have things to do too,"

he said through gritted teeth.

"And having to wait up for you all the time is really starting to get on my nerves."

"Oh, don't lie. You're worried about me, haha. You know I'm strong,"

Mika says, making a cute defensive move.

Killua rolled his eyes at Mika's antics.

"I'm not lying,"

he insisted, trying to ignore the way her words were getting under his skin.

"And yes, I know you're strong. But that doesn't mean you can just do whatever you want without considering others."

He sighed heavily, feeling like they were going in circles again.

"Look, let's just try and get some sleep,"

he suggested reluctantly.

"We have a big day tomorrow with training and all."

“Wait, I have something for you,”

Mika says as she takes out a black hoodie from the bag,

“I bought it for you, haha.”

She holds it up to him.

Killua's eyes narrowed at the sight of the black hoodie. It looked comfortable and stylish at the same time, something that he would definitely wear. But he knew better than to show any enthusiasm around Mika.

"I don't need any gifts from you,"

he said coldly, looking away from the hoodie.

"Just try and remember your curfew from now on."

Mika looks at the hoodie and looks down sadly...

“Okay,”

she says as she puts the hoodie on the sofa and goes into the bathroom and closes the door.

Killua watched as Mika put the hoodie on the sofa and went into the bathroom. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for being so harsh with her, even if she did deserve it.

He sighed heavily and got up from his chair, walking over to the couch. With a quick glance at the bathroom door, he picked up the black hoodie and held it close to his chest. It smelled like Mika, which only served to annoy him more.

As he sat back down in his chair, he resolved to ignore Mika for the rest of the night and focus on getting some sleep.

(The next day)

As the sun rose over the training grounds, Killua continued to practice his Nen with Gon and Zushi. His focus was sharp, his mind clear of any thoughts of the previous night's argument with Mika.

The training was intense, and the air was thick with the sounds of their Nen exercises. Killua felt himself growing stronger with every strike and every movement.

By mid-afternoon, Killua, Gon, and Zushi were sweaty and exhausted from their training. They took a much-needed break to catch their breath and rehydrate.

"So, where's Mika today?"

Zushi asked between gulps of water.

"She didn't train with us today ."

"She probably just slept in,"

Killua muttered, not taking his eyes off the tree line where they'd seen a few birds fly off earlier. He was still annoyed with her and didn't want to talk about her.

But Zushi wasn't deterred.

"She didn't answer when we called her this morning either,"

he said, frowning.

"Do you"

Killua scowled at Zushi.

"I don't know,"

he said through gritted teeth.

"And I really couldn't care less."

He turned his attention back to the tree line, hoping to catch another glimpse of a bird or some other wildlife that might distract him from Mika and her annoying habits.

But as much as he tried to focus on the training and their surroundings, thoughts of Mika kept creeping back into his mind.

By late afternoon, Killua was tired and hungry.

While they were walking, Killua was looking at Zushi.

"What's wrong?"

Killua asked, concern lacing his voice.

Zushi shook his head, coming out of his reverie.

"Nothing...it's just...Mika isn't answering our calls anymore,"

he admitted quietly.

"I hope she's okay."

Killua paused outside Mika's door, his hand hovering over the knob. He knew she was still upset with him, but he also couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

After a few moments of hesitation, he turned the knob slowly and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click

The room was quiet, the only sound the gentle rustling of curtains as the afternoon sunlight filtered through the window. Mika's bed was unmade, her sheets and pillows tossed haphazardly to the side. Her backpack was still by the door, untouched since they'd returned from training.

Killua moved cautiously towards Mika's bed, his heart racing with a strange mixture of dread and concern. He didn't want to find anything wrong with her, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

As he reached the side of her bed, he gently nudged her shoulder.

"Mika?"

He whispered.

"Are you okay?"

“What do you want?”

Mika says, turning her back to him .

Killua's eyes widened at Mika's sharp tone. He hadn't meant to startle her, but his worry was getting the better of him.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay,"

he said quietly, taking a tentative step closer.

"You haven't been answering our calls all day."

Mika let out a frustrated sigh and rolled over to face him. Her expression softened slightly as she saw the concern in his eyes.

"I'm fine,"

she said, though it sounded more like a forced assertion than an actual statement of well-being.

"I just needed some time alone, okay?"

Killua knows that she is still angry because he rejected the gift of the hoodie. He looked at the sofa and found that the hoodie was still there. It was purple, Killua's favorite color.

Killua's eyes darted towards the sofa, noting the black hoodie still sitting on top of it. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for being so dismissive of Mika's gift.

"Look,"

he said, clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry about how I reacted to your gift."

He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"It was just...a lot going on and I didn't handle it well."

Mika looked at him skeptically, but didn't interrupt.

"I should have been more understanding,"

Killua went on.

"And I definitely shouldn't have made you feel bad about it. It's just...you know how much I like purple."

He shrugged sheepishly.

There was silence in the room for a moment as they both processed what had been said. Finally, Mika let out a sigh.

"Fine,"

she said reluctantly.

Killua reached over and carefully picked up the Violet hoodie, holding it out in front of him. He couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious as he slipped it on, aware that Mika was watching him.

The fabric was soft against his skin, and he had to admit that it did look good on him. He pulled the hood over his head, hiding his face from Mika as he adjusted the fit.

"Thank you,"

he mumbled into the hood.

"For the gift."

There was another moment of silence before Mika spoke.

"You're welcome,"

she said quietly.

They sat there in an awkward silence for a few more moments before Killua stood up.

"Well,"

he said, clearing his throat.

"I guess I'll see you around, then."

Mika nodded, not looking at him as he left the room. As the door closed behind him, she let out a sigh and leaned back against her pillows,

As the door to Killua's room clicked shut, he let out a slow breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. He walked over to his bed and sat down heavily, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

But even as he tried to push away thoughts of Mika, he couldn't help but lean forward and take a deep whiff of the Violet hoodie. It smelled like her, warm and inviting, and for a moment, he just closed his eyes and savored the scent.

He knew they had a long way to go before they could be anything more than annoying roommates, but for now, he would enjoy this small victory - accepting Mika's gift without any arguments.

With a soft smile on his face, Killua reached into his drawer and pulled out a picture of Alluka, tucking it underneath the fabric of the hoodie so she would always be close to him.

#hunterxhun hunterxhunterfan hunterxhunterhisoka hxh hunterxhunter killuazoldyck mika_406gonfreecs gongyoohxhoc mika_yuki_hunter

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dyker-farmer · 5 years ago

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Ok this was supposed to be a quick draw and a description to go with, that blew into a full chapter and now it's also on Ao3 SO happy reading ig idk

I never see Shane works that don't go all in for romance nor explore the more realistic ugly parts of recovery, and I kind of crave That TM. So let me have at it too with the self-insert whump mumbo jumbo; no romo version.

Set post-8 hearts event, Farmer Uidelsib is two years or so in, full house built and married to Emily. They/them pronouns, same as me.

Diverges from then on, Shane-centric from an outside POV for the most part.

[[MORE]]

Take that can away if you can.

Gulp it down. Chapter 1/2/3/4

There's a few to-know to survive life in society, in the valley; there's no good way to comment on the age nor weight of both resident housewives, you can't say no to Evelyn's homemade cookies- and why would you, you fool-, you do not fight at the Saloon or you'll get no cheese anymore on your pizza and only sparkling water for drinks, and-

And you don't mess with Shane's alcohol related ritual.

Except I did, that night, because you do that, when your two-years long friendship with the guy taught you better than letting his impulses overcome yours, when your buddy is trying to recover from teenage long-lasting into early adulthood, trauma-enhanced heavy addiction, and you know, you know tomorrow he'll feel like absolute shit and question his right to therapy the moment he'll stop his pounding skull from splitting. Wonders what a three-dosage paracetamol can do.

At least he doesn't drink it out anymore.

So yeah, when you're in my shoes, you get that Joja store-bought crap out of Shane's hand, and you brace yourself for the incoming lash out.

The first fractions of seconds are always those to look closely into most. It's only a glimpse, but before the scowl slips on like a well-worn boxing glove ready to strike, there is always this open page I learned I needed to decipher as quick as I could.

Tonight, it's heartbreaking. When I peck his forehead- doting big sibling habits die hard, even when you're actually the youngest of the pair- the eyes I catch looking at me are so confused and bare of any emotion, except for the sorrow that goes beer-soaked tears, it pangs. I get used to the breakdowns, working in the fields I do when I'm off the farm's, but it's not the same when it's a friend.

When I straighten back, offensive beverage in hand, it's already gone in a flinch, away from the empty space behind the chair and onto the table, as he snarls.

"Wha- giv'me back- 's mine!" I don't know how much he drunk before he met up with me, but from the slurring, it's a Lot. A season and a half into sobriety. That's harsh.

I ignore him and walk behind him, pondering where to put the beer for now.

"Y-you can't just do that! It's my booze I got with m'money, not some- who d'you think you are?-" He sputters indignantly, angry tears fewer than the sad ones but still there. He tries to turn around and grab behind his back, but the wild movement is way off and only gets the chair to nearly topples down. I rush in time to stabilize it, and profit off the moment to set a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I can just do that, 'cus it's my house I got with my money, and I think I'm your pal who knows when you've had enough. Dude, I trust you to be an adult, but minutes before, you were already so torched I had to keep your neck upright so you didn't faceplant into the table, and you nearly just kissed my floor good evening. Not to mention you clung to my arms the whole way from the little entry stairs to the kitchen because, quoting, 'If I don't I'll fall in the hole and won't get up'."

I turn to the fridge again, going to open it, before I think better of it. Likely enough, we'll both forget it was there in the first place, it'll stink up my fridge- it's Joja's- and it'll be money out of Shane's pocket for nothing. I set it on the counter, with the rest of the pack. He'll put it to cool down when he's back to Marnie's. Or he won't, probably.

That's not a worry for now.

When I caught up with him, it was a few feet below my doorstep; he'd probably slipped up trying to climb the three steps up to it, and settled for it. He was nursing that same can, muttering to himself, head down, curled up on himself. Except for that leg sticked out, he probably hurt it when he fell, I'll have to look at that and work on it if it's too swollen. Hopefully that'll spare us from a visit to Harvey's.

Bad memories. Not mine, and it's warm and not raining outside, but. Déjà-vu.

Anyways, he looked the picture of "help I've fallen and I can't get up- and even if I can I won't because Fuck You", and it's been a hassle to have him cooperate. But when I asked if he wanted to leave, he shook his head with a fervor no somnolent drunk should have. That resulted in a lovely streak of vomit down the wall right next to the door. That's also for later. If Eryza doesn't lap it up. Ew. This cat's never predictable.

Now, he's staring at his hands, sitting at my table, contemplating something too far down for me to see- or maybe just zoning out with a sleeping brain. Then he mumbles. "Sorry."

I get back to the table and sit at arm's length across of him. "Nah, 's okay. I don't mind being a helping hand or touchy-feely, must be the frog-eater in me. Not for the helping part." I'd chuckle but my quip falls on deaf ears.

I go to put my hand over his. When he doesn't blink at it, I try and shake a reply out of him, gently. He startles and hawkeyes our joined fingers. When he's finally looking at me, I raise a single eyebrow. He doesn't say anything, but when he pulls back his arm, I let him. We both straighten up, and it's hard to keep up the eye contact.

"So…" There's a heavy air on us. Suddenly, like the last year didn't happen, we're sitting a stride away of each other, and yet it feels like he's all the way back to the forest, looking down at waves.

"Do you want me to do something?" I bend myself a little closer to him, not moving otherwise.

He puts his head in his hands, shivering. Can't tell if it's the AC or his system kicking the alcohol out, or itself, in stress. I think I hear something, but it might as just be his shuddering breath.

"Shane" I insist, voice level, not pressing. "I need words. I want to help, I truly don't mind, but I need words to know what to do." He's never shown signs of going nonverbal before. If he does, I'll improvise. Until then… I need words.

Time ticks slowly as we wait. Then, with great effort and deep fatigue, he drags his palms up from under his nose to his temple, spreading some snot and wet tears across his face from his scrunched shut eyes. Lips trembling but finally showing, that attempt to let out a sound that's not too garbled. He coughs, sniffles a bit, breathe in again, sounding like a sick dog, and blows through gritted teeth before his jaws go slack. Eyes still closed, he whispers, and I have to lower myself some more toward his crouched form to catch it.

"Can I get something to drink…?" His voice is hoarse.

The demand could be comical, if we were into sour humor. And we usually are. But right now, we're not finding the joke in the lines. I stand silently, and as I walk to the fridge again, I let my hand brush his shoulder- same spot as before.

I take a minute to choose, look into the pantry. When I'm back at the table with my items of choice, he's still sitting there, his cheek is cushioned on his arms, face hidden from view. His shoulder, except for the occasional tremor, rise and fall in rythm with his snores. Breaks my heart to interrupt that, but not really. Hangovers are mean bitches with the sharpest nail art on the blackest of boards.

"Psst, dude. C'mon." I rustle his hair backward. He hates when I do that, says it tickles, and it makes him sneeze. So I obligatory do it once a day if I can. Let's say today's my late quota for the last four days I haven't seen him.

He gruffly tells me to kindly refrain from such pleasantries, and raise bleary eyes back up at the table. I can also guess he tried to bat a hand at me, but his coordination is off and he slaps himself lightly on the ear. Then he glares bewildered at his hand for a few seconds, obviously insulted. I profit of this moment to grab a small basin from under the sink, on second thought.

When he brings his attention back to me, I'm sitting again. Between us, a jug of fresh milk from this morning, a small sack of peppers, and a juice carafe sit aside a green glass bottle. There's also some bread, mostly for me to munch on. Because, hmmm dough. He squints at it all, especially at the bottle. Probably trying to read the label.

"Yeah no, didn't get you one of my best wine, not sorry."

"Hot pepper… juice?" He looks at the actual peppers next to it. "With actual peppers?" And then I get the squint too.

"Hmph, I know you like your elongated hell tomatoes, man, what can i say."

At that, a feeble snort.

I decide that it is the highlight victory of my soirée.

"Welp, have at it." I gesture to the half-liter liquor glass right by his left.

He fumbles with the drinks and some splashes around, but I lay back on my chair, arms crossed, letting him do his thing. While I don't hold back from growing downright doting on him when I got to- or even when I don't- I don't see how more devotion right now would be not smothering. He can break my fancy glass cups if he wants and spill my milk, so long he doesn't cut himself or cry over it.

Now, you could be thinking that plain water would have done the trick just fine, if not better, in rehydrating him. Here's the thing, though; going from booze to tasteless liquid, for Shane, that's a sure way to puking his heart out. And I'd rather not have us deal with an acid bile throat burn on top of near alcohol poisoning. Sorry to not spare you the squeamish details, but his oesophagus is pretty sensitive ever since that stomach pumping back at the clinic. Hot fiery hell fruits he can do just fine, with relative moderation and hydratation- hence the milk and juice- but liquor bursting its way back from his guts? Nuh uh.

It had taken lots of coaxing, but he'd explained the plain tastes, or lackthereof, were very hard for him to deal with, especially when contrasting with strong ones like beers and whiskeys. I'd shackle it to gustative hypostimulation, but I don't know enough about him that way to say. He'd said sparkling water was a good compromise.

But I don't have sparkling water, because I do not like suffering.

I might buy a pack for when he visits though.

And I do know a handful about him already. Shackle that to perceptiveness and a stubborn streak on top of a year and so long camaraderie.

And having a certain uncontrollable fear of failing to act quick the next time coped with by accumulating information and patterns compulsively.

I shake my head to focus on the present again. He's switched from juices to soaking bread in milk to eat it small portion after small portion. He pauses in mid-bite when he catches me staring. He's still hunched on himself and red-faced and a tad bloated. His cheeks are drying and he's blown his nose. I smile calmly. Worst of the storm passed, unless I screw up and blow it.

"Ywou wan' chom'?" He offers a dripping piece of bread. In moments like this, when he's sobering but not quite, the resemblance with Jas are unmistakable. The glint in his reddened eyes that open wide, and his blank-but-not-quite wondering expression, it's all here to paint a scrutinizing but vulnerable picture of tired but bright minds.

"Nah thanks. You done with that milk?"

"...Sure." He eyes it, wary. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it. I take the drink off the table, and his gaze follows my movement until I bring it to my lips.

He frowns. A silent warning.

And as I lock onto him with a dead stare, not blinking a millisecond, I down the rest of the 2 liters jug in three, five gulps. I even take the time to lick my new mustache away, and close my mouth with a click of my tongue.

His expression is the macabre marriage of beffudled horror and pure affliction, disgust if you will. The face of someone who doesn't hate milk, but has grown out of it enough to not be able to live off the stuff like the brave souls I'm apart of. And probably with reason, as I actually can't, like most 20+ years old, digest the liquid in large amount. But I smile like a smug cat, perfectly content.

Cats really can't digest milk once adults, it's all social mythos.

We silently judge and fuck with each other like that for a while more, as more time passes, until the room's elephant gets it all humid with its prancing around. Enough that tears and nervous sweats start again, for no apparent reasons but the residual anxiety from the whole chain of events that led to this.

"I think we should talk about this."

--- to be continued.

#alcohol cw #emetophobia cw #self hatred cw #stardew valley shane #sdv shane #stardew valley #stardew valley farmer #sdv farmer #1!Dow Farm #Farmer Uidelsib #☆my art☆#♧Shane #*watch me push my autistic headcanons onto chicken boi*#*just you wait for the trans and hispanic ones*#*i'm about to destroy this man whole career of self depreciation*#*highly functionning dumbass energy vs immovable but movable force of sadness*#food cw #*fuck tumblr for not letting me put a read more on mobile rip ur dash y'all*#☆writing☆

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