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astupidweeb69 · 1 year ago

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Unrequited (Yandere! Ticci Toby x Reader) Part 9

Links to Previous Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Author’s Note: I've been rereading this chapter for about a week trying to edit it, but decided I'd just go ahead and post it. Happy holidays everybody!

Cross-posted on my Ao3 account, which I update more frequently.

Warnings: Swearing. Descriptions of Gore. Some threats of violence. (2,070 words)

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Leaves crunched underneath heavy boots, ragged and irritated breaths came out in clouds against the cold.

Toby was not pleased.

Not pleased with how things were going with you.

And not pleased with being texted by Tim.

Apparently there was some work to do and he had to ‘get his lazy ass over there’. The young proxy didn’t even know the details of what needed to be done. A supply run? Some more random campers in the area? Either way Toby was itching for a fight.

He could feel anger in his system bubbling and ready to boil over. Just imagining Tim’s smug face waiting for him, probably ready to spat some nonsense about how ‘he’s late’ or make a snide comment on his appearance. His face twitched furiously at the idea, and if anyone was unfortunate enough to see the way he walked through the woods now, they’d surely run in the other direction. There was murder in the man’s eyes.

It wouldn’t take long for Toby to find his teammate. That’s how things always worked though, they had a connection to find each other when they were supposed to, all he needed to do was walk mindlessly in a direction and let the forest guide him.

“Someone’s in a pissy mood.”

The smell of smoke let him know he found who he was looking for. Tim leaned on a tree, a wry smile on his face, a lit cigarette burning away at his fingertips. It was practically an extension of his hand at this point, the fucking chainsmoker. Toby learned to hate the scent of tobacco.

“Where’s Brian?” Toby frowned, ignoring Tim’s comment.

“Had something he needed to do.”

Tim looked disinterested in the conversation. Getting him to actually tell Toby what was going on was like pulling teeth. And Toby knew first hand how hard that could be.

“Suh-so? Why’d you cuh-call me out here?” The younger proxy fidgeted with the ends of his gloves.

Tim sighed, letting the last part of his cigarette drop to the ground, putting it out with his boot. “There’s been some weird things happening out here. Brian said you should come with me to investigate.”

Toby made note of how he said ‘Hoodie’. Tim’s way of hinting that he didn’t want him there. Typical.

“Wuh-what do you mean weird things?”

Tim motioned with his head for him to follow, walking away into some bushes, Toby raised one of his eyebrows before complying. There was a rancid stench in the air when he started following him, like something died. Not uncommon in the forest, but it was hard to stomach even for the most experienced woodsman.

They followed the smell of rotting flesh, down a small embankment. The dead leaves on the ground made it hard not to slip and fall, and Toby snickered when Tim lost his footing a couple times, making the older proxy shoot him a dirty look.

“There up ahead.” After walking a few paces, Tim pointed to a mangled pile of fur splayed out against a group of pine trees.

Toby’s eyes narrowed at the bloody mess in front of him, turning to the other man in irritation.

“You dragged me out here for a duh-dead deer?”

“Take a closer look, Rogers.”

Toby shoved past Tim, making a point to bump into his shoulder for using the nickname he hated. He pulled up the mouthguard hanging from his neck to cover his nose, but it didn’t block out the smell nearly as much as he’d hoped. It took a lot of willpower not to gag.

He scanned over the remains noting different sized bite marks and scratches that tore through the animal's belly, viscera pooling out and its black lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. A swarm of maggots had already started the process of decay.

Toby could see the red of Tim’s flannel out the corner of his eye.

“Well?”

“Okay, it’s a luh-little strange. I’ll give you that. The bite muh-marks look like they came from a human.”

“Anything else, detective?” Tim mused, clearly noticing something else but liked toying with the kid.

“Just fucking spit it out.”

The older man kneeled down, motioning to two different spots on the deer's hind legs. “They’re all different sizes, meaning more than one person did this.”

“Cuh-cool.” Toby deadpanned. “So what does that mean for us?”

“It means we need to keep an eye out for groups of ravin’ lunatics.”

“Don’t we already duh-do that?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. This is the second animal we’ve found like this in a week.”

“And yuh-you only thought to tell me now?”

“I was busy.” Tim shrugged, the corner of his lip curling up slightly. The man did not give two shits about warning Toby sooner. Probably didn’t even want to tell him now. If anything, Brian most likely had to convince him to.

The younger proxy scowled at him, tempted to escalate things, to cause another one of their fights ending with the two trying to claw the others' eyes out. Not that it would hurt him, and Toby always got some sick amusement seeing Tim in pain. But it would be dark soon, and he was itching to get back home. The thought of you back there tied up on his bed was making him scratch at his scar.

He needed to spend more time with you. The look in your eyes as he paced around the cabin…. The look of fear and hatred. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still bugged him. You were… a bit more of a firecracker than he’d hoped. And level-headed unfortunately. You were catching on a little too quickly, to just how…. Temperamental he could be. The memory of you staring at his hatchets came back to him. He needed you to see his softer side, needed you to warm up to him before the truth, the real truth, about what he was came out. Maybe if he stole an old TV and got some of those movies you liked….

“Rogers!”

A finger snapped inches from his face. Toby blinked.

“Wuh-What?”

“I told you we need to get goin’” Tim pushed Toby forward impatiently. “It’s almost night time. Come on.”

He could hear Tim muttering “Fuckin’ useless kid.” under his breath as he led the way.

Toby’s stomach twisted. That phrase got to him. Was something he’d heard a lot, from somewhere before, something in his past. Something familiar. Tim taunted him in ways that sparked a deep resentment, like an itch he could never fully scratch. A scab that wouldn’t heal.

They walked back the way they came in, up the hill and through the thick bushes, without saying a word. One thing they could agree on was the less they talked, the better.

Luckily Toby’s cabin wasn’t too far. Fiddling with the ends of his jacket, combing his hair, absentmindedly, he was glad to be rid of the old fucker finally and get back to what was important.

But things never worked out the way he wanted.

Toby felt a hand on his arm. Tim lit up another cigarette, his eyes narrowed at Toby, before taking a long, deep, drag into his lungs. .

Smoke billowed from the man’s mouth, surrounding him in a thick cloud as he spoke.

“Before you go, I need somethin’ from your cabin.”

Fuck.

Toby stared at him for a moment. His mind went blank, before finally speaking up.

“Wuh-what do you need?”

He’d just act normal. It wouldn’t be a big deal. He could figure something out.

“Hoods and I are running low on some supplies. We know Kate keeps some of her stuff in your basement. Figured we’d borrow some things.”

The boy twitched and fidgeted under the pressure, trying to come up with ways to get out of it. If Tim saw you… Toby didn’t even want to think about what he’d do. He honestly didn’t know.

“What… kuh-kind of things-sss?” Shit. His stutter was getting worse.

Tim raised a brow. Likely annoyed by how standoffish the other proxy was being at something simple.

“Like food n’ ammo. We’ve been too busy to go into town.” Tim paused, and looked almost accusingly at him. “And I know you’ve been leaving the forest a lot recently.”

Toby chewed on the side of his cheek. Of course the other proxies sensed his disappearance. He’d been too preoccupied with you to even think about that being a possibility. That didn’t mean they cared when he was gone, they weren’t his babysitter. But now Tim had him over a barrel. There was no way he could deny him supplies now, without admitting the reason he went into town was for… something out of the ordinary.

“Fuh-fine.” He sighed, trying to collect his thoughts. “Just duh-don’t touch any of my stuff.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

______________________________________________________________

The cabin was just up ahead. Toby kept glancing back at Tim who seemed too preoccupied in his own thoughts to notice.

“Whuh-wait outside for a second. There’s suh-something I need to take care of first.”

Tim eyed him carefully. They both stood on the porch, tension rising, Tim’s body stiffening and his hands balling into fists for a brief moment. Toby fully expecting him to lash out.

Tim always thought the boy was weird. Fucked up in the head. Overly-emotional, unstable, obnoxious, and he’s seen the worst of Toby’s manic episodes. He was almost certain the kid engaged in some light cannibalism, from the way he mumbled to himself in his delusional states. He was so fucking glad they didn’t live under the same roof anymore.

Finally, after a few moments of staring the other down, Tim relaxed. “Whatever, just don’t take too long.” The older man decided he’d do whatever it took to get the fuck outta there, even if that meant having to obey. Despite how much that bruised his ego, he just wanted to go home and sleep.

Toby quickly went inside, slamming the door behind him, and Tim sat on the steps of the porch with a reluctant grunt.

Twitching anxiously, he ran into the room where you were tied to the bed. You jumped, obviously startled, by the door aggressively being opened. Normally he’d mock you, wanting to give a fake ‘awwww’ at how freaked out you were by his presence. He was still mad about how you've been treating him. But he didn’t have the time for that right now.

He opened the drawer to his nightstand, getting out an old t-shirt.

“Wha-” You started to question, but he cut you off by shoving the cloth in your mouth painfully. He tied it around your head, a little too tight, but he needed to make sure you were properly gagged and wouldn’t be heard.

Toby leaned down to your ear, speaking in a low hiss. “You nuh-need to be fucking quiet. I have a guest. He’s dangerous, so don’t get any ideas. No one’s coming to save you.”

He gripped your jawline tightly. “Do you uh-understand?” You stared back at him. Toby narrowed his eyes, tightening his hold on your face even more, until you finally nodded your head.

He released his hand and exited the room, mentally preparing himself to interact with Tim again, and with a deep breath, opened the front door.

“Okay, you can cuh-come in now.”

Tim groaned as he got up to follow him inside.

Toby couldn’t help letting his eyes dart to his bedroom door when they walked past. He led Tim down the hall where the basement stairs were, which he started keeping locked the day he captured you. He didn’t need you to see what was down there. Hopefully not ever.

After Toby unlocked the door and showed him the various backpacks stolen from victims, Tim rummaged through a couple before collecting the items he needed. Mostly food, a couple old boxes of ammo. Nothing special.

His heart was pounding when they climbed the stairs again, so close to getting this over with. Wanting nothing more than to have him out of the house. Away from you.

But without warning, Tim stopped in the hallway,

It was so sudden Toby almost bumped into his back.

“Whuh-what is it?”

There was a dangerously long pause, before Tim’s head turned to look behind his shoulder. Toby's eyes widened in fear.

“Did you hear that?”

#ticci toby #creepypasta #ticci toby x reader #toby rogers #yandere creepypasta x reader #yandere ticci toby x reader #unrequited #yandere #fanfiction #my writing #masky creepypasta #ticci toby creepypasta #ticci toby x you #yandere creepypasta

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago

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Prey!Series - Part Two: Mentality - OA Zidan x Reader

Tagging: @trublu2u @mrspeacem1nusone @greenies-green @rosaliedepp @whateversomethingbruh @anime-weeb-4-life @daydreaming-belle @burningpeachpuppy @scarlettsakura @divergent146 @upsteadlogic @malindacath @skyesthebomb @kilikonakapamana @yezzyyae @redpool @stxrryswvrld @district447 @soultrysworld

Prey!Series:

Part One: Trafficking - It's during a human trafficking case that Omar meets you.

There’s a wealth of information that Omar doesn’t know about human trafficking, and he discovers that the longer the case goes on. He doesn’t think of himself as naïve; he has an awareness of it, he’s read the literature, but he isn’t prepared for the extent of the misery, the impact of it.

The two of you are standing in the JOC, in front of the huge array of screens. On the first screen are the images of the girl’s visas from the employment agency. Every single one of them is fresh faced and hopeful. On the second screen are the images from the ‘Just4Johns’ website. They’re sultry boudoir images, lots of flesh on display. The text written across each picture invites the johns to come and play.

It's the eyes that get him, the deadness in them. Every single ounce of their hope has been stolen away, depleted. Omar doesn’t understand how a man can look at any one of these women and not see that they’re being coerced.

He raises it with you when the two of you sit down for lunch together. This case is moving a million miles an hour and there’s barely time to sit down and eat. He’s graciously loaned you the corner of his desk because it’s an all hands on deck situation and there isn’t space anywhere else. The two of you are crowded in close, his knee bumps against yours for the umpteenth time and he apologises yet again. You give him a look and a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“The men that are paying for sex with these women, they have to know that they’re raping them.” He says as he takes a bite out of his sandwich. The case is making him sick to his stomach but logically he knows he needs the fuel, so he persists.

“They don’t see it like that.” You tell him, opening your pack of chips and tilting it towards him. You’re a sharer, he’s learned. Food, stationary, mints. If you’re having something, you offer him one too. It’s the sign of someone who’s used to caring for others. “To them they’re paying for a service, it’s no different from hiring a plumber, they’re taking care of a need. They choose not to see the reality of it. They don’t question where these girls came from, or why they’re there, it’s a transaction to them.”

It makes Omar think back to that night in Germany, a few guys had come back to base late after visiting a brothel. He’d never reported it, they were shipping out to Iraq a few days later. What’s the harm he had thought at the time. It was a couple of months later they’d heard the place had been raided, every single one of those girls had been trafficked.

There’s shame in him when he tells you that story. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the way he hangs his head.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d reported them or not.” You tell him, leaning forward so that you’re within his proximity. The scent of your perfume floods his senses as he looks into your eyes. It’s something floral with a hint of nectarine, it reminds Omar of walking through the park in spring. “Stuff like that isn’t in the militaries purview.”

Your hands come to rest on his, his own are clasped together as he peers up at you with sorrowful dark eyes.

“It’s not on you.” You reassure him, your thumbs ghosting over the grooves of his knuckles. “I think this case is throwing up a lot of things that you haven’t had to deal with before and that’s ok, it’s a bad one, it’s jarring but you have to learn how to compartmentalise that otherwise it bleeds into your personal life.”

“Yea.” He says, bowing his head. “I have three sisters; I keep thinking about what you said back at the hospital about it being one in five…”

“It might not be any of them.” You remind him and he swallows hard against the ache in his chest before clearing his throat and pulling away.

“Yea.” He says quietly, his palm rubbing over the line of his jaw. “That’s what I’m praying for.”

***

It’s the basement that gives Omar nightmares, he sees it in his dreams for months afterwards. Filthy, stained mattresses all pushed together in order to maximise the space. The bedding is unwashed, tossed carelessly across them. The whole place is damp, he can feel the moisture in the air as he listens to the sound of the droplets impact the concrete.

The reality of what these girls endure is staring him in the face and it’s harrowing, it makes his stomach twist because no one should live like this.

It’s the wall that breaks him, the one out back next to padlocked exit. The cream paint is peeling but it’s the only surface that even closely resembles a canvas. The girls have drawn all over it, there are hundreds of images, depictions of their hopes, their dreams. Some of the drawings are more childlike that others and it’s those that hit him the hardest.

“Is it paint?” He asks you, his voice rough as he studies the wall.

“No. It’s make up.” You say quietly, the back of your hand brushing against his. “They used the only thing they had.”

His fingers capture yours and he finds himself squeezing your hand tightly because this, this is too much. He can feel their anguish seeping through the walls, their horror, their suffering and something inside of him just breaks. He doesn’t realise he’s crying, not until he tastes the salt on his lips.

“I know.” You say softly, your thumb chasing over the hollow of his wrist. “I know.”

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 8 months ago

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It’s Wídfara Wednesday! With Guthláf included, of course, because it's always a good day for some Guthláf.

Catch up on parts one and two if needed. Part 3 finds Wíd in the aftermath of his first romantic encounter with Guthláf and wondering what to make of it. This part picks up a few…hours, let’s say, after the end of part 2. Still in Wíd’s room. T for Teen.

Wídfara was doing his best not to stare.

He had admired Guthláf’s face and form from the moment they met, but to see him this way – all of him, luxuriously stretched out and casually bare – was so much more than anything Wídfara had imagined. He found it terrifying and thrilling in equal measure, the fulfillment of a desire he had long known and understood about himself but feared to expose to anyone else. Now that he had, though, he wanted just to bask in it for a while, to take this unprecedented chance to openly savor the sight of things he found affecting. The rounded curves of biceps and shoulders. The sprinkling of blonde hair over strong thighs. The deep grooves of muscles just inside the hips. After what they’d done together, taking an appreciative look now hardly seemed like a big deal. But his own sense of propriety forced Wídfara to tear his eyes away, and he rolled over to look up at the ceiling instead.

“If you’re tired, I can head back to my room.” Guthláf ran a hand lightly over his own face and pulled himself up to sit. “Don’t let me overstay my welcome.”

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t mind if we just…” Wídfara hesitated. He had no idea what the custom was in this situation. He’d be content for Guthláf to stay with him and let the unforeseen thrill of the night last as long as possible, but perhaps that’s not how things were done. “Whatever you think is best.”

“To be honest with you, Wíd, I don’t really know.” He looked down with an apologetic smile. “I don’t have much experience here, so I’m not sure what’s usually expected.”

This admission surprised Wídfara, coming from someone who otherwise seemed so self assured and confident. “You haven’t done this much with other men? Or at all?” He didn’t mean to pry, but his own lack of experience left him more than curious to know how others like him had gotten on, especially someone who had been living in a bigger city.

“Either. Both.” Guthláf laughed. “It only took one try for me to know for sure this wasn’t something I ever wanted from a woman.” He paused, reliving a past moment in his mind, and then laughed again. “It was an awkward mess. And as for men, well…there have been a few that I suspected might share my inclination and some that were of interest to me. And there have even been a few that I would feel safe being honest with. But all three traits in the same man is a true rarity. So this”— he gestured vaguely at himself and then at Wídfara—“is not something I’m really accustomed to, though I imagine that my behavior tonight might imply otherwise.”

“I understand.”

Guthláf raised an eyebrow. “What about you then? Similar story?”

Since he had raised the subject, Wídfara felt it only fair to be equally candid, and he nodded. “I gave women more than one try. Not because I enjoyed anything about it, but because part of me hoped that I could learn to like it over time. Things being how they are, that just seemed as though it would be easier.” He looked away momentarily. “But this is who I am. It’s what feels right to me. And for most of my life, no one else I knew even acknowledged that it was possible for a man to feel this way.”

“I know how that goes.” Guthláf gave his arm a gentle squeeze and then looked off in thought for a few moments. “Well, if neither of us is certain what we’re supposed to do, we’ll just have to make our own way. Would it be alright with you if I stayed?”

Wídfara turned and lifted the edge of his blanket with a smile, making space for Guthláf to fit himself in against the warmth of Wídfara’s chest, stomach and thighs. The nervous flutter of happiness this caused kept him awake for a while, long enough to hear Guthláf’s breathing become long and slow as he drifted to sleep. But even when Wídfara’s heart calmed and rest began to feel possible, he fought against it, unwilling to relinquish his feeling of contentment to the end of the day. And when his eyes finally grew irresistibly heavy and he gave in to his creeping exhaustion, his last waking thought was excited anticipation to see Guthláf again in the morning.

Wídfara slept harder and longer than he had in years, being roused only by the chimes of the morning bells, and he woke with his memories of the night before still vivid in his mind. But when he rolled over and opened his eyes, he was startled to find himself now alone. Some time while he slept, Guthláf had slipped out, leaving behind so little trace of his presence that Wídfara might have convinced himself the whole thing had been a dream if not for the mead bottle on the floor and a distinctive sweet scent lingering in the blankets that he would forevermore associate with Guthláf’s bare skin.

He pulled himself up on an elbow, his sleep-fogged mind trying to make sense of the empty space beside him. In another circumstance, he would take such an abrupt, unexplained departure as a sign of either desperately needed escape or cold dismissal. But he simply couldn’t imagine either to be true of Guthláf. He had little experience in these matters, but he had understood well enough the generous words of praise and sounds of pleasure. There had been only kindness and sincerity in Guthláf’s behavior, and it had been his suggestion to stay. Wídfara trusted in nothing more than his own intuition, and it told him that Guthláf wouldn’t hurt him for no reason. But then what else could explain such a change, one that he must have known would leave Wídfara surprised and confused?

He dropped back to his pillow and threw an arm over his eyes. Perhaps it was fear, a loss of nerve that came on in the quiet of the night. The fear of exposure. The fear that a new entanglement, with its many unknowns and uncertainties, could ruin a lifetime of the prudence and caution that had always offered protection. Wídfara certainly understood that fear, which dwelt deep within him and probably always would. But he felt something else now, too. Something that, for the first time in his life, outweighed the fear and pushed it from his own mind.

Amid the night’s heady mix of attraction and discovery, Wídfara had sensed a spark of real possibility – not just plain desire, but also admiration and acceptance and true understanding. And that spark was strong enough and precious enough to him that he would dare to follow it no matter the danger, to chase after that brilliant light and see where it led. To learn whether it could eventually kindle a roaring fire or would fizzle out on its own.

He was certain that Guthláf had felt that same spark, a deep, instinctual sense that this could be something different. But he wouldn’t blame Guthláf if a moment of reflection had left him unwilling to risk the happy and successful life he had laboriously built just to pursue whatever prospect might exist in that bright, intense burst of feeling. That was much to ask of someone, and Wídfara had only compassion for the difficulty of making such a choice.

Still, disappointment settled on him with an uncomfortable heaviness, and worry soon joined it. He might have to accept the lost potential of what had felt to him like a special connection, and that was regret enough. But he would regret it still more if awkwardness between them now cost him even the friendship that had already taken hold – a friendship he valued and wanted to keep.

If fear had really driven Guthláf from the room in the dark of night, perhaps he wouldn’t want to talk about any of it now — or even acknowledge it — in the light of day. Wídfara saw no advantage to forcing a conversation if doing so would make Guthláf uneasy. But if talking about it would make things worse, would not talking about it solve anything? Wídfara had no idea and no way to seek advice. Without a better thought, he decided simply to take his lead from Guthláf – to wait and see how he approached, how he acted, what he said, what he didn’t say — and then try to adjust his own intentions and reactions accordingly. It might not get him everything he wanted, but it would be far better than nothing.

He tossed aside the blankets with a sigh and pulled himself to his feet. Wallowing in his own disappointed hopes wouldn’t help anything, and he was eager to escape the room and the sight of the rumpled bedding that only seemed to mock those hopes. He readied himself as quickly as he could and rushed out the door to find a task to better occupy his mind.

It was another warm, sunny morning, and the stable was coming to life as Wídfara arrived – riders dipping in and out of the tack room in search of a lost piece of equipment, farriers sorting nails and shoes, bales of hay being tossed down from the loft above. He took a surreptitious glance down the aisle where Syndrigan, Guthláf’s horse, was kept, but he saw only stablehands and took care not to break his step as he continued on toward his own horse’s stall. Before he made it, however, he was intercepted by a smiling Elfhelm, who threw a friendly arm around his shoulders and steered him gently away from his intended destination and toward the back of the barn instead.

“Now that you’re here and getting settled, it’s time for you to choose a novice. We have a bunch of them here today, and you can pick whichever one suits you best.”

“A novice, Marshal? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Did you not have novices in the Wold?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “No, I expect you didn’t. If population loss was a problem out there, they probably had to discontinue the practice some time ago.”

He turned them around a corner, where a group of boys in their early teenage years sat. They jumped to their feet at the sight of Elfhelm and lined up neatly in front of him.

“These young men hope to enter as rider candidates next year. If we pair them with a current rider now, they earn a small wage by helping to care for your equipment, run errands, or look after any particular needs of your horse beyond what the stablehands manage. And they get a chance to see the inner workings of the éored, observe training and learn more about what they can expect if they should qualify themselves someday.” He walked Wídfara slowly down the line of boys. “There are several new riders in the city’s other éoreds, but they aren’t here yet this morning and so you can have the first selection.”

“I’m to choose?” Wídfara stared blankly at the young faces in front of him. He had never laid eyes on any of them before that very moment, and he had no idea how he was supposed to distinguish between them other than to select one at random.

“It’s entirely up to you,” said Elfhelm. “Many of the finest families in Edoras are represented here, with generations of service to Rohan. I know you aren’t familiar with these boys like the other riders will be, but they’re all good young men and you really can’t make a bad choice.”

Wídfara looked again down the line of hopefuls, all facing straight ahead and standing as tall as possible. He could see that many of them were, indeed, from very fine families, sporting polished gold clasps on their belts and wearing handsome leather boots that probably cost more than every piece of clothing he’d ever owned. They weren’t boys that needed a wage, and Wídfara guessed they didn’t really need any extra help to be selected as rider candidates either. He hadn’t known many families with wealth in his life, but in his experience, money made opportunities happen all on its own.

His eyes finally came to rest on the last boy in line, and only here did Wídfara see a novice he could relate to — a shirt with patches and visible wear, hands that were clean but already calloused from real labor, no finery or decoration or any element to his appearance that didn’t serve a necessary function. And yet, this young man stood just as tall as the others around him, determined to show his equal worth and proud, no doubt, for having earned his place there. Wídfara smiled at him and beckoned him over.

“Congratulations, Freogan,” said Elfhelm, putting one hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other on Wídfara’s. “And congratulations to you, Wídfara. You won’t find a harder worker in the whole city, and I’m sure he’ll do well by you.”

Elfhelm left them to prepare for the morning’s drills and exercises, and Wídfara and Freogan walked together to ready his horse. Wídfara chanced one more glance toward Syndrigan’s stall as they passed, and this time he could see the familiar blonde head towering over a cluster of young stablehands, all at rapt attention as Guthláf demonstrated a trick for maintaining balance during a full gallop. They clearly already understood what Wídfara had learned for himself the day before – that Guthláf was one of the best horsemen they were ever likely to see – and they stared up at him as he spoke like they were watching Eorl himself astride one of the mearas. Guthláf’s gaze never wavered from the boys in front of him, and Wídfara pulled his own away before anyone could follow it.

He turned instead to Freogan. His novice was a quiet boy of fourteen, slight but strong, who seemed determined to show his gratitude through diligent effort. He proved both a fast learner and a good hand with Cypren, and his company helped provide Wídfara a welcome distraction, something else to concentrate on rather than allowing his eyes and thoughts to keep straying back in Guthláf’s direction. They made quick work of the morning’s preparations, and he used the extra time to allow Freogan a few shots at the archer’s targets waiting in the training ring, always happy to try to convert another Rohirrim from the spear to the bow.

Training stretched well into the afternoon, broken up only by a short break at midday. Wídfara was ever conscious of Guthláf’s presence, aware of where he stood or sat or rode, but he followed his own plan, keeping his distance and trying not to look too often in Guthláf’s direction. As he waited and hoped for a reassuring word or look or gesture to make their own way to him, he threw himself fully into every exercise, grateful for another focus and eager to expend some nervous energy. He did extra runs through the training course, gave advice when it was requested, and tried to put all his attention on his fellow archers, which at least had the happy side effect of helping them get to know one another better after the prior day’s brief introductions. Arengan, the chief bowman of the éored, even invited Wídfara out for a pint with the group, and he left Cypren in Freogan’s capable hands after training in order to accompany them to the tavern up the hill from the barracks.

They took up a position at a table in the back, eight of them in all, and Wídfara soon found himself having a good time in spite of everything. The easy teasing and good natured bluster reminded him of his friends from back home, and it was comforting to feel like part of a unit again. His enjoyment only wavered when, an hour after arriving, Guthláf came in and took a seat at the bar, chatting casually with the woman who poured drinks. Wídfara felt the uncomfortable pang of disappointment in his chest again, further heightened from a long day with no word or sign to set his heart at ease. But he couldn’t allow one night’s impulsive encounter to totally derail his efforts to get settled in Edoras and so he stayed with Arengan and the group despite his discomfort. He even stayed when he had finished his ale and knew that he couldn’t spare the money for another. Instead, he held the table while the other men went up to seek their own new pints.

He counted his coins again as he waited, and when he heard the chair across from him scrape on the floor, he looked up expecting to see one of his group returned. But instead it was Guthláf himself, holding a full mug, who slid into the open seat and smiled softly at him.

“You’re a hard man to get a private moment with today.”

“Am I?” Wídfara felt a nervous little flip in his stomach. “I didn’t mean to be.” That wasn’t entirely true, as he had purposefully distracted himself with constant activity. But if the effect had been to discourage Guthláf from approaching him, that certainly wasn’t what he intended.

“Indeed. I kept a careful watch, and there’s hardly been a minute when you didn’t have at least one other person around you.” He looked over his shoulder and to both sides. Although no one else sat close enough to hear him, he lowered his voice nonetheless. “I’ve been waiting for a moment to try to explain myself, if you’ll allow it.”

Wídfara’s eyes shifted to the bar, where Arengan and his companions were still gathered a safe distance away. He kept his gaze there as he spoke. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me any explanation.”

“I’d like to offer one all the same. And an apology. In the rush of everything that happened last night, I somehow stupidly forgot the fact that I would need to look after my dog. It was already near dawn when I realized it, but you were still sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you without need. I thought I could slip out and back in before you woke, but I was wrong. While walking Slaga, I got trapped in a conversation with Harding, who is always absurdly talkative early in the morning, and by the time I shook him off and got to your room again, you were already up and gone.”

Wídfara’s eyes cut back quickly to Guthláf. “You came back?”

“I did, but I must have just missed you. And then I spent the whole day doing that over and over again, always seemingly unable to catch your eye at the right moment or get to you before Elfhelm or Arengan or someone else appeared at your side. But all I wanted to do was tell you that I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have wanted to suddenly wake up alone, with no word of explanation, and it was never my intention that you would.”

“So then you weren’t…having regrets about everything?”

“I wasn’t. Last night meant something to me, and I’d hate to think I ruined it by making you believe the opposite.”

Wídfara felt his disappointment sliding away as Guthláf spoke, the weight of it sloughing off him like a mailcoat that had been unfastened and dropped to the floor, and he smiled. “Nothing is ruined. It was just a misunderstanding. And for my part, we can pretend this morning never happened. We can go back to things as they were last night.”

“I’ll be glad to try, but that will be hard for me because, in fact, I like you even better now than I did last night.”

“Better?” Wídfara laughed. “How could that even be possible when this is the first we’ve talked since then?”

“I saw this morning that Freogan is your novice.”

“That’s right.”

“And Elfhelm tells me the choice was yours and not his.”

“That’s also right, though I’m not sure I see the significance of it here.”

“I’ve known Freogan’s family for years. They’re good people who have far less than they deserve, and the extra money he’ll earn as a novice will do wonders for them. I suspect you could see that, and I think that’s exactly why you chose him. Is that not so?”

Wídfara’s cheeks colored a little in surprise, and he wondered how Guthláf had guessed so much. “Horse breeding families like mine have really struggled ever since the army started supplying its own horses. I know what it’s like to worry about meeting even basic needs, and I guess I saw a little of myself in him.”

“You’re a good person, Wíd. A kind person. I thought so already, but now I know it for sure.” He glanced back over his shoulder again, where Arengan and the other archers were gathering up freshly poured drinks and preparing to head back to their seats. “Stay here and have a good time. These men will be great friends to you. But if you’re not too tired when you get back to the barracks, I’d like it if you would find me there so we can spend a little time together.” He slid his own untouched ale across the table, allowing his fingers to brush lightly against Wídfara’s hand as he passed him the drink, and then stood.

“Guthláf! Come to join the Arrow Club, have you?” Arengan dropped mugs onto the table and gave Guthláf a slap on the back before gesturing at Widfara. “You were right about this one. He’s as good a drinking companion as he is an archer.”

“As a mere swordsman, I wouldn’t presume to intrude on your night out,” said Guthláf with a smile. “But take good care of your newest addition.” He glanced back briefly at Wídfara and then nodded to the group. “I’ll see you all later.” And then he was off, cutting through the tavern and out the front door.

Wídfara stayed at the table for another hour, joining with his new friends in talk and laughter until the first of them left to get home to a waiting family. Then he took the opportunity to slip out as well, walking with an undeniable haste in his steps as he headed back to the barracks and to Guthláf.

He waited until the hallway was empty and then knocked lightly at Guthláf’s door. A voice called him in, where he was greeted most immediately by the curious attentions of Slaga, the tiny cause of all of that day’s confusion and worry. He hopped up now to paw excitedly at Wídfara’s shins, but a short whistle drew him back to his little cushion near the foot of the bed, where Guthláf himself sat, boots off and comfortable and smiling.

“I’m glad you came.”

Just the sound of his voice sent a surge of pink warmth creeping over Wídfara’s face. “I was glad to be invited. For…whatever this is that we’re doing.”

Guthláf shifted to make room for Wídfara to sit beside him. “I’m not sure what we’re doing, and we’ll have to be very careful about doing it,” he said, laying a hand atop one of Wídfara’s. “But I think it might be something really great. Should we find out?”

Notes: Harding, the talkative early morning riser, is canon. Arengan and Freogan are not.

Next week, we time jump a number of months to Wíd and Guthláf in a really happy, loving place. Until Guthláf is given an opportunity to fulfill his dream at last, and Wíd…does not take it well. Click here to Part 4!

Dividers as always by the lovely @quillofspirit

@emmanuellececchi @konartiste @sotwk @hobbitwrangler @dreambigdreamz (This list is based on prior expressions of interest but feel free to let me know if you want off! (Or on!))

#wídfara #guthláf #obscure blorbos #rohirrim #rohan #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #widfara #guthlaf

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pearlescentpearl · 2 years ago

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Political Pawn AU 2

You can find Post 1 here.

Findekáno does not go to bed

Turukáno finds him brooding on the lake shore, stone eyed and tense

“You’re rethinking things you ought not rethink,” Turukáno says, though he knows it is in vain

“I am trying not to,” Findekáno tells him, folding his arms tighter against the wind. “Whatever he did, it doesn’t change the outcome. Those who suffered still suffered. Those who died still died. I can think better of him for trying to speak on our behalf before the betrayal became irreversible, but not for helping kick it off by taking the ships at Araman, nor his foolishness in thinking the situation would be otherwise.”

And he does think a great deal better of Russandol, for trying. Fëanáro’s wrath had proven no small thing to risk. He failed to stop what he himself abetted, and in his failure rested the horror of trekking the Helcaraxë

But still, knowing someone tried to protest, knowing someone didn’t forget them, that Russandol didn’t forget him...

It’s something

“Father and Aunt are already embroiled in plans for how to use this,” Turukáno says dully, settling next to him on the grassy bank. “I left because I couldn’t stand listening them anymore.”

“What are they thinking?” Findekáno asks, half-fearing the answer. Too many have waited too long for the slightest crack in Fëanáro’s defensive stubbornness, and the feud the eldest sons of Finwë wage has always driven them to unreasonable heights. He doesn’t delude himself into thinking the next move won’t be stunningly vicious

“Father’s hoping to foment Fëanáro’s own people against him by suggesting Nelyafinwë is the only of their House deserving of the crown, seeing as he doesn’t agree with abandoning his people,” Turukáno says bitterly. “He’s hoping it will galvanize those who didn’t agree with their traitor king’s actions into... I don’t know, forcing Fëanáro to do something about them.”

Findekáno huffs a disbelieving laugh, voice cracking. “The man is being tortured in Angamando, and Father would make him king? What is he thinking? This is going to rend the Noldor worse than we already are!”

It wouldn’t just be the Fëanárian Faction tearing into itself over this, it would be their own people too. What cohesiveness they’d held onto all this time would dissolve as the question of Russandol’s actions and what they were worth became a Kindred-wide debate

In Valinor they could get away with that. On Angamando’s doorstep?

Death would come for them in their distraction

“You know how Father gets when Fëanáro’s involved,” Turukáno says, and they share such a look of deep commiseration

“I also know how you get about Nelyafinwë,” Turukáno continues, and Findekáno hunches his shoulders. “You’re just like Father, you know. Not an ounce of objectivity in either of you.”

“I am trying to be better,” Findekáno protests defensively. “I know I... I ruined so much acting out of love instead of wisdom.”

“You are not the only,” Turukáno says heavily, “who has made ruinous choices out of love.”

“I think, at some point, we two, it stopped being about love and more about pride,” Findekáno whispers. “It was love when I raised a sword at Alqualondë. It was pride when I helped them steal the ships; too much pride to stop and repent when I learned the truth.”

“I should hit you for being right,” Turukáno sighs, leaning back on his hands. “I can not separate the love from the pride since the Darkening. I only know we, none of us, acted with wisdom when we had the chance. And now we must live with it, and hope to be wiser in the tribulations to come.”

“Like this harebrained plan of Father’s. He’s not going to get reparations if he’s just going back to undermining Fëanáro. I want to tear the man down from his high horse as much as anyone, but I’m so sick of the feud, Turvo. Hasn’t it taken enough from us?”

“It will only stop taking when we all stop feeding it.”

“Might as well ask the both of them to starve themselves.”

“Hah!” Turukáno laughs. “That will be the day!” A pause to let the mist billow by. “Brother. You’re thinking about doing something.”

Findekáno doesn’t deny it. “Someone has to check Father’s worst impulses.”

“Whatever you do,” Turukáno says, “I beg you. Act from love. Not pride. I can forgive you for love. I am not sure how much more I can for pride. For anyone.”

“Even yourself?”

“Perhaps especially myself.”

Findekáno leans over to bump his forehead to his brother’s. “For love,” he agrees. Leaning back, he admires the sight of the unvarnished stars, Rána in its dark phase. “If anyone should ask, tell them I left early on patrol.”

“And if I should ask?”

“I will say only that I promise to return.”

“Heartening.”

In the morning, Turukáno indeed tells any who ask that his brother is on patrol, though he is sure to put up his most dour of expressions to dissuade any who might try to ask him. Easy enough, with the speech his Father starts the morning with

Itarillë, nearly full grown now, finds him halfway through and threads her fingers in his

Glancing down, he finds her pensive, brow furrowed in a mirror of his own expression

She was born during Fëanáro’s exile. Half her life has been spent on the Helcaraxë. She only knows her half-relations through stories, and glimpses during the march to Araman. They are as strangers to her. He wonders what she makes of this speech upholding a man she would only ever have heard cursed

He feels her mind brush against his, a wisp of winter wind carrying the scent of evergreens

The townsfolk are listening, she tells him

And do they agree? He asks

Her head turns to regard the mingled Lestorodrim and Fëanárian Loyalists. Some of them, maybe. The Lestorodrim have minds as girdled as their homes, but ultimately Noldor matters are Noldor matters to them. The Fëanárians are... split. I see much shame and regret in them

Not so much they’ll act on it of their own volition, Turukáno retorts. He recognizes the pride that refuses to humble itself in the face of wrongdoing as easily as he sees it in his mirror

He’s not blind. He sees the shame in their faces too

If they want forgiveness they’ll have to humble themselves first

Itarillë elbows him

Following her intent gaze he sees one of the Ambarussa in the crowd, face going pale and intent

“Which one is that one?” She murmurs

It’s difficult to gauge at this distance, what with the mist making everything perpetually damp, but he thinks that dark shade of red denotes Pityafinwë, the elder twin

“Well,” Turukáno murmurs back. “Your grandfather has garnered the attention he wanted.”

“But is it the attention the rest of us need?”

“That remains to be seen.”

As Finwë-Ñolofinwë wraps up his speech on Fëanáro’s flaws as a leader so far (many), Nelyafinwë’s virtues in comparison (anyone would come out smelling like roses compared to Fëanáro), and the obvious disregard of the people’s will displayed in Fëanáro’s refusal to repent, Amabarussa takes off to Barad Eithel

They would have Fëanáro’s response soon

It will be ugly. Turukáno doesn’t need foresight to predict that

“What do you think of all this, Father?” Itarillë asks, jarring him out of his dire thoughts

“I spent far too many times telling you as a child that it’s important that you tried, even when you failed,” Turukáno says after a moment. “Sometimes, especially when you failed. I am loathe to make a mockery of yet more of the virtues I tried to raise you with. Yet my heart is broken. Whatever healing or amending I may find in the future, it cannot make that fact not be.”

“I do not think you make a mockery of anything,” Itarillë says. “You raised me to believe in the importance of trying, even in the face of failure. You also raised me to contend with the consequences of failure. I expect no less maturity from my elders.”

Overhead, the sky is clouded

#silmarillion #political pawn au #I meant to follow Fingon but Turgon had Things To Say #Maedhros soon Maedhros soon Maedhros soon #things are really heating up #let the tug of war begin

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ourtearsofrain · 3 months ago

Text

The Barbarians (D.R.W/S.F.K) - Chapter 8

Pairings: Danny Wagner x Sam Kiszka

Genre: angst, brotherly fluff and hurt/comfort

Word Count: just under 4k

Warnings: AU typical events/threats/violence (later in the series)

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Looking At the Sky I See the City Lights

Sam

Monday, July 11th

“Just be yourself out there, you’ll do fine. Claudius was actually a really chill guy to talk to when we did our interviews, right Jacob?”

“Hm? Oh uh, yeah, he was alright.” Jacob checks his watch as if he were disinterested with the conversation, as if he had better things to do than to help his little brother prepare to face all of The New World for the first time. “Hey, we should go down to the audience, Joshua. They’re going to start soon.”

Joshua grabs Jacob’s wrist, angling the watch face towards him. “Oh shit, you’re right. Alright, see you later, Sam. You got this.”

“See you later.” By this point, Sam had learned not to let himself get disappointed at their every dismissal, telling himself that them disappearing when he needed them most wasn’t personal. He knew that Joshua thought he would win, that they’d have more time together after the games, and that Jacob was distancing himself in preparation for if Sam didn’t make it out alive.

“You ok?” Hazel’s voice rips him from his thoughts as she pops up in the line of tributes next to him.

“Yeah.” He pauses, knowing that she could see through his collected demeanor, taking a deep breath as his eyes dart between her and their surroundings. “I’m just nervous, you know?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s alright, you’ll do great, Sam. You’re a charming guy, it won’t be hard for you to win everyone over.”

“Thanks.” Their attention is ripped towards the stage as Claudius’ introduction music blares over the speakers, silencing the audience as he enthusiastically greets them. No one had told them what order they were going in other than by districts, but Sam guesses that he was first, as two Peacekeepers find his side and begin leading him towards the wings of the stage.

“From District 1, Samuel Kiszka!” Smile and wave, look comfortable and calm, ignore his obnoxious laugh. This is fine. Sam grins as wide as he can as he waves to the crowd, hoping they wouldn’t see through his façade as he meets Claudius and shakes his hand before sitting down. “Samuel Kiszka, it’s so great to finally meet you, I’ve heard many things about you.”

“All good, I hope.” Sam laughs the words out, sticking to his part perfectly despite the anxiety bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes, yes, all very good!” God, his laugh is going to get old, fast. “Now, I have to ask, a little birdie told me that you volunteered for the games. Is that true? Did it have anything to do with your older brothers?”

The question hits him like a knife straight to the heart, trying to keep his smile from faltering at the mention of his brother’s victory. Even in my moment, my literal time in the spotlight, they get brought up. “You got me there, Claudius! Yes, I did volunteer. And yes, it was partially because of them. I’ve looked up to them my entire life, even before their game, and I just want to follow in their footsteps by bringing pride to my district.”

“Someone’s confident, I like it! So, you think you’re prepared?”

“Yes, I do, Claudius. I’ve been training for years, always been at the top of my classes. I’m ready to show the world what I can do.”

“Samuel Kiszka everyone!” Sam’s pulled to his feet by Claudius’ hand gripping his own, raising it above their heads as the crowd roars. He waves one final time and blows a few kisses into the crowd with a grin before exiting the stage, the crowd’s applause quieting as he makes his way back to the other tributes. The smile is wiped from his face as he takes a deep breath, the volume of his surroundings and the stress of the interview sending pain throbbing through his skull.

“You did great! They loved you, Sam!” He offers a small smile in her direction as Hazel grins at him, excitement clear in her tone.

“Thanks. Your turn now, knock ‘em dead.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Claudius announces her name, leaving Sam alone with the other tributes as he’s hit with a wave of exhaustion. He knew he should pay attention to Hazel’s interview, but he couldn’t bring himself to as his eyes drift over the other tributes, finally landing on Daniel.

Sam’s glad that Daniel was busy talking to the girl from 7, not noticing him staring as he allows himself to take him in as long as he was able to. I don’t fucking understand him. He acts so… so weak, being friends with that girl, protecting her. He looks like he’d be soft. Clearly, he isn’t. My jaw still aches from that fucking punch. No surprise though, his biceps are at least as large as my fucking thigh. What are they feeding them over in 7 to make him so big? Bet he could rip a tree trunk in half with his hands, I need to keep my distance when I kill him.

As if he could read Sam’s thoughts, Daniel looks up at him, anger flashing across his features. So, he’s still mad about whatever made him want to punch me. Wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to kill me the second the games start. That’s when I’ll get him, he’ll be too distracted, too focused on his own anger that I can use that against him. Blindside him with a counterattack. I need to get my hands on a throwing knife as soon as I can, no way I can beat him at hand-to-hand or close range. Maybe if I grabbed a sword, as long as he has no weapon by that point, I should be able to get at least one fatal hit in. As Sam’s mind spirals, stuck on thoughts of what he would do to take Daniel out of the game as soon as possible, he zones out; his eyes leaving Daniel and focusing on the wall above him as the other tribute interviews go unheard by his ears.

That is until he barely registers the words “District 7”, his attention snapping to the front of the line, only to see Daniel step up to the edge of the stage wing, his hands adjusting his jacket slightly. Let’s see if he’s as good an actor as he is a fighter. “Daniel Wagner, ‘The Archer’, so great to finally meet you!” And I thought I was The Garden’s pet. Seriously, how is that man the same guy that punched me for no reason just two days ago?

Sam’s blood boils at the mention of his score, his rage further increasing at Daniel’s words, at how much he was kissing ass with his performance. “While we’re on the topic, I must ask, that vine on your face, was it going through your nose?”

“Yes, Claudius, it was.”

“How?! I see you have a gold ring now, is that a real piercing?”

“It is, yes. My stylist spared no expense representing my district, I think that was the finishing touch that pulled all of it together.” It was a crime, that’s what it was. His stylist should be fired for hiding that nose. For covering those freckles, drawing attention away from his eyes. He zones the rest of Daniel’s interview out, his mind filled with nothing but Daniel for the second time as the interviews go on. Sam felt haunted by the man, he couldn’t escape his thoughts of him. From the outline of his nose on the big screens behind him, the stage lights catching the gold ring in it, his freckles peppered across his skin.

I wonder if I could count them. Would it be like trying to count the stars in the sky? What are you thinking? When would you get the chance to count them? After you kill him? That’s fucking weird. Keep your head in the game, Sam. You can’t ruin this.

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“Fuck this.” Sam grumbles the words out as he flings the comforter off himself, making his way through his room in the dark. He didn’t know why he was even getting up, it wouldn’t help with his insomnia, yet he felt some pull to the living room that he couldn’t explain. What the fuck is Jacob doing up? Well, I mean, he’s always been a night owl, but why is he out here? The other man doesn’t look at him as Sam makes his way across the room, sitting down next to him on a couch. His gaze follows Jacob’s out the floor to ceiling window, the city alive with lights and cheering crowds beyond the glass.

Neither man say anything for a while, and Sam wonders if his brother even realized he was there until Jacob takes a deep breath, exhaling it through his nose. “Do you know how fucking exhausting being a victor is?” He doesn’t turn towards Sam as he speaks, his eyes still trained out the window.

“No. I can imagine though. Everything today, since I got here, has been almost too much.”

“Why did you do it, Sam? Why did you volunteer?”

“I-” This might be the last time you can tell him the truth. “I was jealous of you and Joshua; I was tired of living in your shadow. I thought I would like this attention, but I just feel like I’m being paraded around."

“Welcome to The Garden. Even if you win, you’ll never know peace. Every year around the games, you’ll be dragged across the country playing their part.” Jacob finally looks at him, sadness and frustration mixing behind his eyes. “You can never escape it. Can you deal with that for the rest of your life?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Unless you make the choice to die in the arena.”

“Do you want me to die there, Jacob?” Sam can’t keep his hurt from his tone as he spits the words out, losing his internal battle on whether he should confront his brother about it or just leave it be.

“No, why would you think that?”

“Because you’re acting like you do. ‘It actually might be better if you die’, do you remember telling me that, Jacob? Because I do, and it really fucking hurt. Isn’t it your job, not only as a mentor but as my brother, to support and prepare me?”

“I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.” Sam says nothing in response, waiting to see if Jacob had anything more to say, any words at all to explain what had driven him to act this way towards him. “I was just- just angry, furious. At you, at The Garden. At myself. I know I didn’t come back from the games the same, it changed me, it still hangs over my head. But that’s no excuse for how I’ve treated you. Maybe if I had been more open, you wouldn’t have volunteered. I am terrified, Sam. I’m so fucking scared that I’ll have to watch you die when I know deep down, I could have prevented it.”

“Jake-” As his brother’s tears catch the city lights, he moves closer to him on the couch, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and pulling him towards himself. “It’s not your fault, it was my choice to volunteer. I’m gonna win for you guys. Not because I need you to be proud of me, or because I want The Garden’s love. I remember how terrifying it was watching the games, praying I wouldn’t see either of your faces in the arena’s sky. I don’t want to put you and Joshua through that- I can’t.”

“I know, Sam. I know. I promise that Joshua and I will do everything we can to help you in there.”

“Thank you.” Neither man says anything more as they both get comfortable, settling into the other until sleep finally takes them.

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The Words You Know So Well

Danny

Monday, July 11th

“What if they don’t like me?” Daphne’s voice is barely above a whisper as she tugs on Danny’s sleeve, her eyes raking over the other tributes around them.

“What? That’s crazy, you’re very likable.” Danny tears his eyes from the front of the line, from Samuel as he spoke to Jacob and Joshua, down to her. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine, kid.”

“You remember what Luna said, it’s important for them to like us from the interview. To get sponsors, to get people to care about us."

Danny lowers himself to meet her eye, crouching before her with a kind, yet serious expression. “I care about you, Daphne. I wouldn’t care if The Garden hated us both, which they won’t, I told you I’m going to keep you safe.

“I know… I want you to keep yourself safe too, though.”

Before he can respond, he hears Claudius’ voice boom over the speakers as he greets the audience, his energy and excitement making Danny sick to his stomach as he finds his place in the line once again. All this is for their entertainment, never forget that. They can drag us onto live TV for all the interviews they want, act like they care or support us, maybe even shed a tear or two when we die. But they will never see us as equals, as humans. His anger only grows as Samuel is announced first, matching Claudius’ energy as he disappears onto the stage.

“Samuel Kiszka, it’s so great to finally meet you, I’ve heard many things about you.”

“All good, I hope.” Samuel’s light tone nearly pushes Danny over the edge, rage boiling in the pit of his stomach at how good his “act” was. If he’s even acting, he was practically bred for this. “Yes, I did volunteer. And yes, it was partially because of them. I’ve looked up to them my entire life, even before their game, and I just want to follow in their footsteps by bringing pride to my district.” Pride? What fucking pride? How could he bring pride to his district by murdering other children in cold blood? Are all Careers that fucking desensitized?!

Before he can infuriate himself further, Samuel leaves the stage, the other tribute from 1 finding his side the second she sees him. Don’t focus on him, don’t even fucking look at him. Despite knowing that getting caught staring would only cause problems, he can’t take his eyes off him as he speaks to the other tribute. Sure, he looks like he’s content playing this part, like he’s a natural, but his eyes have nothing behind them. He looks tired, conflicted. What is going on in your head Samuel Kiszka?

“I hope they don’t ask about our outfits for the tribute parade.” Daphne’s voice rips his attention back to her, finding it harder than he had hoped to keep his mind from wandering back to Samuel.

“Me too. I mean I think I’m a fairly good actor, but I don’t know if I’m good enough to make them believe I didn’t hate the entire thing.” A smile graces his lips as Daphne laughs, knowing she shared the same sentiments as him.

“I know, right! God, they were horrible.”

Feeling eyes on him, Danny looks around himself, his gaze finally landing on Samuel across the room from him. He can’t care enough to keep the anger from his expression as he makes eye contact, the other man’s sheer presence bringing his rage to the surface again. Who the fuck does he think he is? What’s his problem? Why does he keep staring at me? Maybe he’s sizing up his competition, after what I pulled in training. And getting a higher score than he did, I bet he’s livid he got beat by a nobody from 7. Relief floods him when Danny realizes that Samuel had begun to space out on the wall above his head, no longer feeling the weight of his eyes as the line gradually shortens, trying to keep himself calm.

“From District 7, Daniel Wagner!” Can’t get out of this, so I better get through it fast. God, I can’t think straight with all these lights and noise. Just as every other tribute before him had done, he plasters a smile onto his face as he takes the stage, his body going into autopilot as he shoots an imaginary arrow towards the crowd just as he had done at the parade, knowing that the audience loved it. “Daniel Wagner, ‘The Archer’, so great to finally meet you!”

God his voice is infuriating. Despite his feelings, Danny slips into his role perfectly, letting a comfortable smile onto his face as he shakes Claudius’ hand before sitting down. “What’s all this I hear about ‘The Archer’?” He keeps his voice light, adding a small laugh to the end of it as if he were amongst friends, not in front of hundreds of thousands of rich elites.

“Have you not heard?” Claudius looks towards the crowd, surprise clear on his face before focusing back on Danny. “Well, us folks in The Garden like to give the tributes that are especially admirable little nicknames, it’s said to give them good luck, you know.”

“Well, I’ll take all the luck I can get.” Why are they all laughing? It wasn’t even that funny. The comfortable smile doesn’t leave his face, even in his confusion, knowing that if he faltered for even a second, everyone would see right through him.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, you scored a 9 in your training, did you not?”

“That I did, Claudius, that I did.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

Shit. It made me feel like shit, like one of their toys. “Surprised, definitely. But mostly grateful, I’m very grateful to have the honor of receiving such a high score, it’s no secret that the Gamekeepers are very selective. I’m thankful for the score, Claudius, very thankful for everyone in The Garden.” God, you’re no better than the Careers.

“Such a heartwarming sentiment. Now, I have to ask about the tribute parade, considering it was at that event that you earned your name. How did you come up with that? That was brilliant, shooting an arrow into the crowd. It’s left us all wondering how skilled you are with a real bow and arrow.”

“I’m very good, never miss a target, if I do say so myself, Claudius. I’ve had years of practice alone in the forests of my district, so I feel good about my skills with the weapon.”

“I love it! I love seeing tributes so confident! While we’re on the topic, I must ask, that vine on your face, was it going through your nose?”

“Yes, Claudius, it was.”

“How?! I see you have a gold ring now, is that a real piercing?”

“It is, yes. My stylist spared no expense representing my district, I think that was the finishing touch that pulled all of it together.” It was ugly, it was uncomfortable, and I threw it away the second I could. Fucking hate Juniper.

“How interesting! Is that a cultural thing in District 7 or just personal taste?”

Ignorant asshole. “Just personal taste, Claudius.” Danny laughs out, keeping control over his face. “I might be the only person in 7 with this.”

“And how does it- how does it work?” Claudius leans forward as if he were looking up Danny’s nose, his eyebrows creased in confusion.

“It’s like an earring, but instead of going through my ear, it’s my septum, the middle part of my nose.”

“Huh.” Claudius leans back, turning to the audience and shrugging. “Learn new things every day, right?”

Do they just laugh at everything? That wasn’t funny, I feel like I’m going crazy. “That you do, Claudius, that you do.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Daniel Wagner!” Shooting to his feet, Claudius begins applauding Danny as he joins him standing, the audience cheering and giving their own rounds of applause. He waves one final time before making his way off stage, his expression dropping as soon as he leaves the public’s eye. Exhaustion riddles his body as his heartbeat returns to normal, the adrenaline leaving him as he finds Daphne’s side.

At least I’ll know I’ll be able to sleep well. I’ll get one last night of peaceful sleep before dying in the arena tomorrow.

--------------------------------------------------------

As hard as he tried, Danny couldn’t will his body to sleep, his mind spiraling over the day ahead of him. He wished they had more time to prepare, but deep down he knew that no matter how much time he was given, he would never be fully ready. Finally giving up on getting any sleep, he gets out of his bed, making his way through the dark halls of their floor. Seeing the light on in Luna’s room, filtering into the hall through the crack under the door, he knocks, waiting for her response.

“Come in.” He enters the room at her words, seeing her sitting on the floor near her window and he makes his way over to her, sitting down across from her without a word. “How you doing, kid?”

“Not good, if I’m being honest.”

“I get it. Can’t sleep either?”

“Nope.”

“Understandable. I don’t know how Sable’s doing it, I can hear her snores through the walls.”

“She was raised in The Garden, she doesn’t know what it feels like to be a tribute.”

“No, she doesn’t. Speaking of her, since I’m the only mentor for 7, tomorrow one of you will be taken to the arena by her.”

“I actually- I wanted to talk to you about that. I want you to go with Daphne, she needs you. I can deal with Sable, I just need you to tell Daphne my plan.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“The second those cannons fire, I need her to run into the forest if the arena has one. She needs to climb a tree, anything really, get the high ground and stay hidden. I’ll stay at the cornucopia and try to find Fletch and Daisy, maybe get a weapon or pack if I’m lucky, then I’ll come find her. Tell her I’ll make a burrowing owl call to let her know it’s me.”

“I’ll tell her. Just watch your back at the cornucopia, that’s where the most deaths happen. They call it ‘the bloodbath’ for a reason. As admirable as it is that you want to keep the other two young tributes safe, I need you to focus on Daphne, on yourself. You can’t help any of them if you die, do you understand?”

“I do.” Danny looks to the floor as silence falls heavy between them, neither saying a word for a few minutes. Finally, Danny breaks it. “I just wanted to say thank you. You’re the only person here that I’ve felt supported by. Sable, Juniper, Claudius, everyone else, we’re nothing but entertainment to them. I’m grateful that we have a mentor like you, Luna. I’m glad to have met you.”

Despite the games still hanging over their heads, she offers a small smile to him. “Back at you, kid. I care about you and Daphne, I’m going to try my hardest to help any way that I can.” She leans forward to hug him, their positions on the floor making it somewhat uncomfortable, but neither care. “Go try to get some sleep, you need it for tomorrow.”

“Yeah… suppose I do. Goodnight Luna.”

“Goodnight, Danny.”

Danny gets off the floor, leaving her room without another word as he makes his way back to his own, praying that he would get at least a few hours of sleep before being thrown into the arena.

--------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @jake-whatthefisgoingon-kiszka @milojames16 @gretnavannfleet @aioba1503-sdm @sanguinebats @cheersdannyx2 @musicislove3389 @holdingup-fallingsky @freyjalw @Maddie-Rae

#greta van fleet #greta van fleet fan fiction #gvf fic #daniel gvf #sam gvf #sanny gvf #greta van angst #sam kiszka x danny wagner #sam kiszka #danny wagner #hunger games au

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sunriseverse · 8 months ago

Note

If you're still looking for prompts, how about this: either shape-shifter AU, or someone getting cursed and turning into an animal?

so uh. this is. six months late. sorry. and also not the fluff you were probably expecting. but! please enjoy this offering, because i had a lot of fun writing it :)

The kid is gone when the morning dawns.

Wu Xie is new to this; all of this, any of this. That he had overlooked something this simple is both unsurprising, and horrifically, teeth-baringly infuriating. He should have known better. He should have known better. It’s not like shifters are rare; they’re half the population. Hell, out of the Iron Triangle, the only one of them who doesn’t have the blood in them is—

He cuts that thought off there. It’s too painful; better to not think about it; better to focus on his own stupid, stupid fuck-ups: namely, the fact that he’d not thought to check if the kid they’d taken had the blood, and now—well. Wu Xie just hopes he’s not gone and gotten himself killed of thirst trying to run away. It’s a nasty way to go; he’s seen men turn insensate and pathetic from the dehydration that warps their minds and the world before their very eyes, makes them beg even as their lungs dry and their faces go sallow, until their lips start to bleed.

“Laoban,” Wang Meng says, frowning as he approaches Wu Xie. “None of the others have seen him.”

Wu Xie bites back a scoff. Of course they hadn’t; no one expects to see an animal out here, besides camels. Maybe if the kid’s lucky, he’s got some desert-adapted traits; if not, then—well. It won’t be the first time all he’s had to show for his efforts is a dead body, but it doesn’t please him, even if he’s working on stripping most emotions besides a single-minded focus from the viscera of him. “I’ll go find him,” he says. “The scent tracks shouldn’t be too disturbed—it’s been a calm few days; the sands haven’t shifted much. He can’t have gone far.”

Wang Meng’s expression wars between concern and disbelief. “Wouldn’t it be better to go out with the Jeeps?” he asks.

Wu Xie huffs. “And let him hear us from fifty kilometres away?” he says, raising a brow, and itches for a smoke. Wang Meng always makes disapproving sounds when he sees them; Wu Xie wonders how long it’ll take for him to stop. The nicotine always mellows out the worst edges of anger, draws his focus back to where it needs to be. But, no. Not right now. Even he knows that putting that shit in his lungs right before he shifts is a bad idea. He doesn’t really want to pass out from smoke inhalation. “No,” he says, “I’ll go. Don’t let anyone in camp know I’m gone. And if I’m not back by nightfall—”

“I know,” Wang Meng says, lips pressed thin. Wu Xie’s own twitch. If nothing else, Wang Meng is learning the very same valuable skills he himself is.

They head back for the tent to keep up appearances. Wu Xie downs a full bottle of water, and strips out of his jacket, sets it aside carefully, a photo worn by the number of times he’s turned it over in his hands hidden in the pocket that lays over his heart. He’s a coward; he doesn’t want them to see him like this, what he’s about to do. But cowards are the ones who live the longest, so a coward he’ll be.

Shifting is—

It’s been a long time. His mind associates it too much with looping around Pangzi’s shoulders, warm puddles of sunlight, the gentle brush of a finger against the flat of his head. He’d avoided it, selfish, in an attempt to preserve that connection. Now, he’s using his skills for exactly what they’d been meant for: hunting. The sands are distantly warm against his belly, protected by scales; he slips between shadows, camouflaged by the dusty colour of his body; flicks a tongue out to scent the air. Already, he can catch the faint scent of another animal—something small, covered in fur. He’s lucky the kid isn’t a flier; they tend to have better stamina.

He’s not quite sure how long he goes for; the sands blend together under the high noon sun, his only sense of direction the scents of the group back at the camp and the scent of the kid’s form. When he finally catches sight of a small, unmoving body. Dusty fur, small. The scent of him is still warm, so he’s not dead—yet. Wu Xie draws closer, raises his body to get a better view, tongue flickering out, and then shifts back to human form. The kid’s body, a rodent of some sort, is dwarfed by the palm of his hand. Wu Xie, who doesn’t have anything to put him in, sighs and resigns himself to carrying him.

The good news is that he can see the camp in the distance; he hasn’t gone that far—the kid had mostly been hidden by the colour of his fur blending into the sand and his small size. He makes the trek back in good time, arrives just as his throat is beginning to rub against itself as he swallows from the aridity. Most of the camp is hiding in their tents, away from the beating sun, and so he can slip back into theirs without being noticed.

Wang Meng is sitting at the portable desk, playing something on his phone. When Wu Xie enters, he scrambles to his feet. “Laoban,” he says.

“Water,” Wu Xie orders, without preamble. “And a pipet.” It’s fortuitous they’d brought some along in case Wu Xie were to grow too dehydrated in his animal form and be unable to shift back. Wu Xie sits down on one of the bedrolls and draws up water from the bottle that Wang Meng opens for him and carefully feeds it into the kid’s mouth, carefully held upright so he doesn’t choke.

For a long while, he’s half afraid it’s a bust, that the kid’s died on the way back. He’s too small to feel his heartbeat properly or see his chest rise and fall, and half the water just spills out the corners of his mouth. But then, after an eternity, the kid’s tiny body jolts and he comes back to consciousness. Wu Xie has just enough forewarning to drop him to the ground before he shifts back to human, heaving gasping, ragged breaths, and scrambling for the tent flap, zipped shut. Wu Xie rises to his feet and easily halts him with a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he says, softly. “You almost died out there; do you really want to tempt fate again?”

Weak with dehydration still, the kid squirms under his grasp until he finally gives up and turns his face to glare at Wu Xie. “Better dead than with you,” he tries to say, but the words come out hoarse.

Wu Xie sighs. The analysis isn’t wrong, but then again, he’s known for a long time now that he’s willing to be anyone’s worst nightmare to get what needs to be done done. “Drink,” he says, instead, and holds the bottle of water to the kid’s lips.

For a long moment, the kid glares at him, lips pressed firmly shut, and then, finally, the thirst gets the better of him, and he drinks. Wu Xie lets the ghost of a smile cross his face. “Good,” he says, patting the kid’s shoulder. “You won’t die today.”

#dmbj #daomu biji #wu xie #wang meng #fanfic #spinecorset writes #c.txt

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tinkerbclla · 2 years ago

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caught red handed showing feelings

Steve pretended to hate gossip. He rolled his eyes and scoffed whenever the girls got started — and boy, with Robin and Nancy together, did they get started — but he always found himself listening in. He couldn’t help it.

Besides, his childhood nanny practically raised him on gossip, teaching him how to listen to the conversations around him without making it glaringly obvious.

“You know, I heard that Eddie’s been sleeping with Jenny Nicholson,” Robin whispered conspiratorially to Nancy, leaning over to where she sat to keep the younger girls from overhearing.

Steve had been invited to girls’ nights since the beginning, since he’d offered to pick up Max, El and Erica and drop them on Nancy’s doorstep so that she could “set up”, whatever that meant.

He later learnt that it meant organising snacks and pampering supplies. And hey, Steve was secure enough in his masculinity to enjoy a face mask every once in a while.

Or once a week.

Steve couldn’t hold back his scoff at the topic this week, wondering if it counted as gossip if it was simply untrue.

Robin and Nancy whipped their heads around to Steve, pulling apart where they had been leaning just a little too close together to be considered friendly. Nancy raised a single eyebrow at him, inviting Steve to elaborate.

“Come on,” Steve scooted closer to the girls now, done with pretending that he hadn’t been listening intently to begin with. “He’d never go out with someone like Jenny Nicholson.”

The way that Steve said her name conveyed enough of his reasons, or he’d hoped so, until Robin turned to him and asked, “Why not?” with an eyebrow raised in a mirror of Nancy’s expression.

“She’s — she’s—” Steve floundered for the reason, he knew there was a reason. He just needed to find it.

“Yes?” Robin was smirking now.

“She’s too preppy,” He started with. “He wouldn’t like that. She listens to the wrong music. And she doesn’t even play the little nerd game of his. Or read the books he likes!”

“And you care because…” Robin pushed.

“I don’t care!” Steve insisted, raising his hands in his defence. His raised voice earned a judgemental look from Erica, who quickly went back to painting Max’s nails, El braiding her hair. He realised how guilty that made him look, and what did he have to be guilty for, really? He didn’t care, but Eddie was his friend, and he knew what he liked, and –

“Steve…” Nancy started, finally doing more than just watch the chaos unfold.

Steve crossed his arms, “I don’t.”

Robin’s expression shifted from mocking to outright mischievous; Steve held his breath.

“And does this happen to have anything to do with the copy of Lord of the Rings beside your bed,” she tilted her head as she talked, her smirk only growing. Steve didn’t think it was possible for a smile to be that big. “The one that has Property of Eddie Munson scrawled on the inside cover?”

Steve tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, but choked instead. Why was his throat closing up right now?

“I see,” Nancy mused. “And would this also be why you suddenly stick around to watch the guys play Dungeons and Dragons?”

If Steve had known this was what they’d be like together, he wouldn’t have told Robin he was okay with her crush on his ex-girlfriend. He was going to have to rescind his blessing.

Except for the fact that they weren’t entirely wrong. This was the first time he’d put so much effort into learning someone’s likes and dislikes since Nancy, since he’d gone out of his way to integrate himself into their hobbies.

And sure, Nancy’s hobbies at the time mostly involved studying, which helped him too, but still.

He’d never paid attention to this stuff before. Not even for Dustin. And Dustin’s the kid brother he never had.

What made Eddie so different?

Deep down, he knew.

It was too much. Too much to take in and inspect and assess on what was supposed to be a relaxing Sunday evening. He felt it when his heart started to race, when his breaths became more shallow.

Robin placed a hand on his arm, instantly soothing him, even in the midst of the biggest crisis of Steve’s life.

“You know Eddie’s gay, right?” she asked, her voice much softer and full of sincerity.

“He – what?” Steve frowned, keeping his eyes on the floor. “No. He’s – no.”

“He clocked me right away,” Robin insisted. “I’m so bad at knowing who’s gay or not, but apparently Eddie is great at it.”

Steve took a moment to think over that, to think what it might mean for his current realisation. He didn’t speak for what felt like forever, words and epiphanies flying around his mind.

“Steve?” Robin broke through his haze softly, concerned eyes boring into him.

“Mhmm?”

“You should talk to him.”

***

Crossposted to AO3 here

I may write a part two...

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie drabble #steve's bisexual awakening #fluff #steddie fluff #minor ronance mention #zo writes

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khr-guilded-cage · 29 days ago

Text

They thought they could manipulate her, that her bloodline and connection to Ieyasu would be enough to pull her into the fold. But Yuka wasn’t Tsuna. She wasn’t someone who could be swayed by sentimental gestures or the promises of "family" or a civvie easy to make bow if scare them enought

In the eyes of the Vongola, she was a valuable possession—one they thought they could claim easily. She wasn’t a lamb to be led to slaughter; she had been raised in a world of survival, and she was more than willing to make the Vongola fight for her, not the contrary.

As a Uchiha and a shinobi, she had learned from the bloodshed and the power plays of their world that if you don’t stand your ground, you end up as little more than a tool for someone else's rise. She wouldn’t fall into line for their whims, and she definitely wouldn’t fight their battles without gaining something more than empty words and demands in return.

Vongola’s attempt to claim her, to bend her to their will, was nothing more than a joke. And the longer they pressed, the more she saw them for what they truly were: desperate, entitled, and blindly caught in their delusions of control. Yuka was nobody's pawn. She had nothing to prove, nothing owned to them and she would make sure that the Vongola understood it.

Their thoughts on Yuka’s existence were driven by desperation and a twisted sense of entitlement. From the moment they learned about her, they saw her not as a person, but as a commodity, a resource —an asset that could restore their broken family and stabilize the Famiglia after Tsuna’s death. Her bloodline, tied to Tsuna, was an untapped well of power they were determined to claim. But unlike Tsuna, whose loyalty and kindness had allowed them to control him with ease, Yuka was different. She was untamed, untrusting, and refused to be molded into the image they so desperately wanted.

Timoteo, ever the manipulator, initially saw her as a means to consolidate his power, thinking that if she could only be properly guided, she could take up the mantle of leadership and tame his wild son, Xanxus. His view of her was clouded with the same naïve hope that he had for Tsuna—that she would be the next "Sky," gentle and unifying, a shining beacon for the Vongola’s future. But Yuka’s rejection of their family ideals shattered his delusion. Instead of embracing the warmth of their family, she rejected it, and his attempts to force her into Tsuna’s role only drove her further away.

Gokudera Hayato called her a selfish bitch once, Yuka agreed.

Iemitsu, with his fractured ideas of family, was even more deluded. He clung to the hope that Yuka could replace the hole sweet and soft Tsuna left behind, and worse, he tried to use Nana as a bridge to force this familial bond. But his view of her was warped—he wanted to mold her into the “perfect niece,” hoping that with Nana's mothering, they could recreate the “happy family” that was lost with Tsuna’s death. Yet, his manipulations were transparent, and Yuka saw through them. She hated being treated like an object to be possessed or controlled, which was exactly how the Vongola treated her.

Nana saw her darling Iemitsu's unhealthy interest on Yuka, his attempts to claim to be her uncle and her lack of a living mother and saw a chance to fix her broken marriage and family. The woman was mentally unstable and its pitiful how she looked physically now.

Their obsession with possessing her, molding her into the new heir, and making her part of their “family” was not born out of genuine care, but rather out of fear and desperation. They needed her, not as a person, but as a tool—someone to restore their image and power. But they underestimated her strength, her autonomy, and her disdain for them. The Vongola, now realizing the mess they’d made, found themselves trapped in a web of their own making, with Yuka the final thread they couldn't weave into their control.

"Just because you found me, don't men you can keep me, Vongola."

Yuka refused to be used to continue the bloodline and secure the future of the Famiglia as Nono wanted

.......

Timoteo’s voice cut through the tense air like a blade. “I can’t let you do that.” His tone, though measured, betrayed an edge of desperation as he regarded Yuka from across the grand hall. The guardians and high-ranking mafiosi seated at the table shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between their boss and the fiery young heir standing defiantly before them.

Yuka’s smirk was slow and deliberate, her red eyes gleaming with amusement. “You can’t, senile old man?” She tilted her head, the light catching the intricate designs of her armor-like dress. “And who are you to order me so? Last I checked, I don’t answer to you—or anyone here.”

A murmur spread across the room. Timoteo’s expression darkened, the gentle façade he often wore cracking just slightly. “You carry the blood of this family,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Your actions reflect on us all. There are traditions—expectations—that must be upheld. We need you, Vongola needs its heir.”

Yuka laughed, a sharp, cutting sound that silenced the room. “Need me? Still not giving me a reason why should I care? Spare me the lecture, Nono,” she said, the title dripping with sarcasm.

The tension in the room was suffocating, and the silence that followed her words was deafening.

“Exactly,” Yuka continued, her voice like venom. “You don’t care about me. You care about what I can do for you. For your legacy. But here’s the thing…” She leaned forward, her smirk widening. “I don’t care about any of you. And I’m certainly not going to play by your rules.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, girl,” Iemitsu finally said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying a weight that demanded attention.

“And yet,” Yuka said, her tone mocking, “it’s my game, isn’t it?” She straightened, brushing off the invisible dust from her clothes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have no intention of wasting my evening with relics who think they can leash me and steal my freedom.”

#raw end of the deal #katekyo hitman reborn #khr #uchiha yuka au #escapism 2.0 with Uchiha Yuka #Iemitsu loves tsuna in a twisted possessive way

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victorluvsalice · 7 months ago

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Happy Birthday Nebby!

@nebbychan -- As per your suggestion of doing something with your Modern AU takes on Dan and Kiya from MediEvil (specifically "Maybe the two chatting at a museum about their favorite time periods (Dan can brag about his minor degree in Medieval Studies and Kiya can do the same with her Egyptology studies)"), here's the pair at a museum, specifically chatting about Medieval European and Ancient Egyptian weaponry! Because, to be honest, the first things that popped into my head when thinking about the prompt were these two posts on wacky polearms by prokopetz. XD Hope you enjoy!

“...and that one, right there? That’s a Bohemian Ear-Spoon.”

Kiya raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. “You are definitely making that one up.”

“Nope,” Dan told her with his biggest, toothiest grin. “Completely real. Check out the label.”

Kiya squinted at him, then turned her attention to the identification tag plastered to the case. A moment later, her eyes went wide. “What even,” she declared, standing up straight.

“I know!” Dan said, laughing. “And you know what? That thing is not nearly the weirdest polearm out there. I’ve seen one that looked like one of those fancy pointy spikes you see on top of churches with a blender attachment on the side.”

“Seriously? European weapons are bizarre,” was Kiya’s opinion on that. She glanced up at him. “So – did they tell you in uni why that one’s called an ‘Ear-Spoon’ of all things?”

“Oh, this is one of those weird ones where the original name doesn’t translate well to English,” Dan explained. “But most people think it’s ‘cause they call those two triangular bits forming the guard the ‘ears.’”

“Ah – well, that’s better than what I originally thought.”

Dan tilted his head. “Do I want to know?”

Kiya made a motion like she was jamming something into her ear while pulling a face. “I think you can guess.”

Dan grimaced, his very teeth seeming to flex with the motion. “Yeah...kind of prefer to avoid that kind of ear-spooning,” he said, absently brushing his bangs a little more over his eye patch.

Kiya winced. “Yeah, I – sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Dan assured her, holding up his hands with an awkward grin. “Shit happens, you know? It’s not a big deal or anything. I definitely don’t want it spoiling our date.”

“Me either.” Kiya took one of his hands, smiling warmly. “I’m having a really good time. I didn’t expect learning about the fifty million polearms Medieval Europe invented would be so interesting.”

Dan snorted. “Well, I gotta make sure someone other than me gets some use out of my minor,” he said, smile much more genuine now. “And it is pretty neat that they came up with so many different variations. You wouldn’t think there would be that many ways to change up ‘sharp pointy metal bit on stick.’” He regarded Kiya curiously. “You get anything like that with Ancient Egyptian weaponry?”

“Not really – Ancient Egypt honestly had something of a problem making any effective weapons until the New Kingdom period,” Kiya said, slipping into “curator” mode. “And even then, they mainly advanced because they’d been conquered by the Hyksos – foreign rulers who slipped into power while the main Egyptian dynasty was crumbling – and they were able to pilfer a lot of knowledge of arms off them before they drove them out.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Mainly, using bronze tips on their spears to help them hold an edge better and longer,” Kiya said with a little chuckle. “Though they also created the javelin in that time, and they used that to pretty great effect in their later campaigns. Honestly, though, my favorite Egyptian weapon from that time period is the Khopesh.”

“Oh?” Dan leaned in, intrigued. “What’s that? Guessing not a spear?”

“Nope – a large curved sword that looks something like a sickle,” Kiya told him, grinning. “Only with the sharp edge on the outside. Pharaohs from that time period are often depicted wielding it because it was known as a very dangerous and powerful weapon – one more than fit for a king.” She giggled. “And like your Ear-Spoon, the name might come from a body part – some scholars believe it was derived from the Egyptian word for ‘leg’ because it looks vaguely like a haunch of beef.”

Dan laughed. “That’s great!” He looked around the room. “You think they might have one of those here? I know they’ve got an Egyptian exhibit...”

Kiya linked her arm through his, face bright. “Let’s go and find out.”

Bohemian Ear-Spoon On Wikipedia

Ancient Egyptian Weapons: The Evolution of Warfare

Khopesh On Wikipedia

#happy birthday #nebbychan #fanfic #medievil #modern au #we'll assume the museum they're at has the Egyptian stuff on loan as part of a trade #but yeah first thought was 'I gotta have Dan tell Kiya about the Bohemian Ear-Spoon' XD #and of course I had to reference the khopesh since that's Kiya's weapon of choice in your fanfic #turned out to be a pretty fun time researching all this #I expected the Ear-Spoon to be more #well spoony :p #and yeah my first thought about the name was also #'designed for shoving in people's ears'#but nope apparently it comes from the pointy little guards #learn something new every day #and I though the khopesh would be more sword-like but apparently not #...and it just occurred to me that I have in fact seen pharaohs holding it in art #I had an Egyptian phase as a kid and THAT was probably the curved thingy they were always holding!#revelation!#anyway hope you enjoy :)#queued

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endlessly-cursed · 2 years ago

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Primrose Gray’s Legacy, Act One: The Younger Years, Chapter Four: The Arrangement

A/N: Finals are finally over and holidays are over the horizon, so this series will get my undivided attention. Expect more of this series after the long radio silence!

Summary: Primrose’s life takes a drastic change that will mark her youth

OCs featured: William Devlin ( @unfortunate-arrow ) Henry of Alderly ( @gaygryffindorgal ) and his family

OCs mentioned: The Stolberg-Burkes (also Gryff) the Coventries and the Hastings ( @camillejeaneshphm ) the Aldens ( @cursed-herbalist )

Warnings: A bit of classism of the era

Word Count: 2.2k

Taglist: @gaygryffindorgal @nicos-oc-hell @slytherindisaster @camillejeaneshphm @hphmmatthewluther @thatravenpuffwitch let me know if you want me to either add you or remove you!!

1889

Vincent Gray had been invited to a gentlemen-only soiree, and wanting to escape the women’s scheming, he was gladdened to accept. It seemed like finally he was being accepted in high society by his fellow male peers, a bit tired of ambitious mamas.

Especially he was escaping his wife’s machinations. He could still recall their argument later in the morrow.

“Why can’t you see how advantageous this match could be?!” She shouted “Our daughter would be protected and no one would doubt her claim! Maria Elisabeth married a duke herself.”

“Yes, and that duke ruled her and Winbourne! Just like Frederick was the one taken into account while Henriette remained in the shadows.”

Victoria looked at him “What do you have against the Alderlies, exactly?”

“They are Hanoverians, Vicky!” He cried out “You know what happens to their wives! Everybody does!”

“Are you implying that Henry is not enough husband for our girl?”

“Henry’s a good lad. I’m more worried about his parents and close peers. And the fact that they’d likely swallow the estate into theirs and centuries of work would go to the seven hells!”

Victoria raised her hands “What do you suggest, then? Anyone in mind?”

“Yes. Someone who doesn’t have ties or a title to tend. Someone who will not stand in the way of her claim. Perhaps in the Wizarding World.”

Victoria turned back at him and slowly came close to him “I am the viscountess here, and our daughter will marry whom I say, end of the discussion.”

Vincent sighed, rubbing his temples. Then, suddenly, a thump woke him from his trance and saw a rather tipsy Lord Carlisle greeting him “Ah, Lord Vincent, what a surprise!”

“My lord. What brings you here?”

“Well, I’ve heard that you are looking for a groom for your girl. I have a ward her age. Shy, likes drawing and quiet. His name is William.”

Vincent’s eyebrows shot up in amusement “Are you proposing your… ward for my girl?”

He nodded, gulping another drink “You see, I’ve heard, and correct me if I’m wrong, that you wish for your daughter to marry someone who won’t stand in the way of her claim. The boy has no noble ties, no title or a name to tend to. I’m happy to educate him to be her shadow and know his place as her future husband.”

“People will talk.” Vincent remarked.

“And will you listen to what they say, my lord? It could be an advantageous match…”

Vincent observed the man for a minute, taking in everything he said. The rumours were everywhere that he was the boy’s father, and it’d cause some trouble for Primrose, but perhaps, if they were engaged, the people wouldn’t doubt him as much.

“Lord Paul, how about if you come see me this Tuesday at four o’clock so we can discuss this properly?”

He smiled, shaking his hand “I’ll be there.”

“Let us hope you remember.” He joked.

For the next months, Paul and Vincent discussed back-and-forth how their engagement would work.

“…Of course, Primrose will be the head of the house.”

“…It’ll be wise that they have separate bank accounts.”

“…Won’t have any obligations until they’re introduced in society.”

“…Eighteen would be a good age for him to propose.”

“…Must learn in the meantime the history of the Somersets.”

“…In exchange for her hand I can give you…”

Right a few weeks before the boy’s ninth birthday, they had already settled a contract and would meet to sign it properly, everything planned and agreed. But secretly, he had been in the lookout for any other bachelor who’d pop up.

On Victoria’s point of view, not only the Alderlies had proposed their son, the Coventries and the Aldens had proposed their respective sons. Victoria had rejected the second, for he was a bit old for her tastes and had heard that he had already picked his future bride. When the scandal of the only Coventry boy and heir being homosexual came out, Victoria wrote to them rejecting their prospect.

Another families had stepped up, offering their sons that were her age. Vincent had investigated the Greek boy, Adonis, and Victoria had liked the di Napoli boy, Ernest, if she recalled correctly. But Ernest’s family was problematic and the Greek boy didn’t have the qualities he looked for a groom in his daughter, so they were rejected as well.

In the end, he was where he started: with the Devlin boy as the final prospect. Legitimacy controversies aside, they were a good match: he was just as intelligent, knowing French as well, a capital student and in the way of becoming a sportsman. It was definitely better this way, with someone unimportant in the eyes of society so he wouldn’t outshine his girl, the important piece in the chess.

Soon, Paul called proposing a dinner at his estate to see if they’d match after their speculations and also have a celebration for their ninth birthdays, since they were very close in age. He was quick to accept and told Victoria of his intrigues. The response was a Romanian vase being thrown to his head, which he hardly missed.

“YOU ENGAGED MY DAUGHTER TO A BASTARD?! WITHOUT CONSULTING ME?!” She screamed at the top of her lungs. He had never heard her scream like that ever since last year, when she had miscarried their last child.

“I know how it seems, but we must see the bigger picture here—,”

“Oh, and what would that be?!”

“He is a good boy! A good student, intelligent, with no ambition or ties to any sort of state or title, the perfect husband that won’t outshine the important person here: Prim!”

“I don’t see why she shouldn’t marry someone of rank! Or with an actual fortune! Last night the Stolberg-Burkes called. They consider their son a worthy groom of our daughter, and so do I! And it’s never too late for Henry!”

“Please, give the Devlin boy a chance.”

Victoria scoffed “You’ve made your decision. Go on, tell me what the hell have you plotted now.”

He looked down, ready for the shouting “We have signed a contract. We only need your signature.”

Silence. Then, ruffling movement of skirts. Then, another vase was thrown, and he had to duck this time “Victoria, enough!” He cried.

“YOU SIGNED A CONTRACT WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO DO ANYTHING WITH MY HEIR WITHOUT ME?!”

“YOUR HEIR?!”

“YES!” She yelled “MY HEIR, MY HOUSE, MY BLOODLINE.”

He nodded, anger and bitterness building up “And I am just the lucky sperm-man who gave you what you needed to continue it, am I not?”

Victoria realised what she had said, and started to try form a sentence. He didn’t give her a chance. He instead left, slamming the door close. He didn’t hear Victoria’s sobs, but could tell that he’d be sleeping in the guest room.

8th of July, 1889

Victoria had dressed in the Somerset blue and black, while Vincent had dressed the Slytherin green and both seemed distant to one another. Many children had been invited to their joint birthday party. Primrose, thankfully, was a good girl and was happy to share her birthday bash with someone else and make a new friend. They were now speaking to one another in French, and while weary of her presence, he seemed to like her well enough. Primrose, was, of course, intrigued by him and why the sudden interest on a minor noble family. Henry was quick to snatch her to play, and invited William along.

They ran off to the gardens, which weren’t as grand as the ones in Winbourne, but still nice to look at. Lord Paul was, of course, trying to win over Victoria, showering her with compliments and the sort of flattery, but Victoria was as cold as the Antarctica itself, offering cold and calculated smiles and dry ‘thank you’. She glared to her husband from time to time, muttering things about the decoration of choice and how one could tell that the place lacked a woman to take care of things properly.

“I’d be much obliged to tell you all about the bachelorettes who are in the lookout for a… humble husband like yourself, my lord.” She smiled, clearly trying to get a raise out of him, but it seemed that Vincent had warned him. He smiled tightly, raising his glass.

Louise leaned and whispered something about a portrait of the late viscount and Victoria laughed coldly. She looked back at the garden, where Georgia helped Primrose up and observed a quiet William drifting away. She wondered why wasn’t he following probable orders to impress the girl.

“Vicky, dear, have I ever told you about my nephew Caspian Hastings? He is available, a future marquess to the Hastings line and very much a bachelor…”

Primrose had decided to follow the Devlin boy into a hayloft and observed he was drawing something under his shirt, focused on it.

“What are you drawing?” She asked.

The boy looked up and cleared his throat, raising a bit his sketchbook “Nothing. Aimlessly drawing.”

Primrose showed her hands “I understand if you don’t want to show. I know we’ve been introduced, but with all that noise… I’m Lady Primrose Gray of Winbourne.” She extended her hand.

“William Devlin.” He shook her hand.

She sat in front of him, a respectful distance between them “It seems like our fathers wanted us to meet. Do you think he’s fishing for allies?”

“He is… that is, he is not my father, he is my guardian.”

“…Of course, my apologies. What are your theories on this whole soiree?”

1892

There had been several events, and Primrose had seen for herself some suitors from her mother, and had done her best to impress everyone with her piano and harp skills, which she had practised. According to Bea, men were inclined to women who had a good sense of music and who looked pristine and put-together, so she always chose sensible colours for her presentation. The Devlin boy had been invited, but he was not present. Probably sketching somewhere.

Someone went to fetch him. Her father was going to make an announcement. Primrose looked at Henry, and he looked at her too. Perhaps they’ve finally reached an agreement? Everyone looked at her father expectantly, a choking silence filling the room.

“As you know, my wife and I have been looking for a suitable groom for our little treasure, and we like to think we’ve found the perfect man for it. Hence, I have decided to announced the engagement of my daughter, the Lady Primrose… to William Devlin, Lord Carlisle’s ward.”

Her mother said nothing, perhaps bracing herself for something.

“I’m sorry?!” Duchess Louise cried.

“This is outrageous! Victoria, you told us that we were your first priority!” Duke Thomas argued. Henry just sank in his seat.

“Hah! I can think of better men here than that—,”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Primrose cried. William, who had been trying to withdraw, had been seized by Primrose’s hand, and she looked defiantly at the adults. She was playing a big gamble, but William did not deserve this “It was my choice,” she declared “my father presented me with all of the candidates and I chose Mr. Devlin. I chose him, not my parents. I understand your anger, but I will not allow you to insult my bridegroom.” She lifted her chin, and William looked at her, bewildered. Everyone sat down, and she swore the duke downed his glass. “From now on, you will speak to him with respect, for my sake and Winbourne’s.”

Henry stood up and lifted his glass “To Lady Primrose and Mr. Devlin, then.” The other candidates soon followed.

As they began whispering, William finally left, taking the chance that her grip had nearly vanished and Primrose followed. She chased him to the gardens. He noticed her and turned around “Why did you do it?”

“They were insulting you, sir. I couldn’t allow it. The choice is made. We will marry when we are older, and it is our duty to look out for the other.”

Something in his face flickered, and his shoulders softened “Thank you. I don’t think anybody has defended me that way before.”

Primrose smiled tightly, and nodded “I will leave you to your own thoughts. You know where to find me.”

Primrose walked to her room, already retiring to bed, when she found her mother there. She looked like she had aged a thousand years. She motioned her to sit with her “What you did today was brave. Not many would’ve defended a boy like him with such fierceness and bravery. But we can put an end to this if you wish. The Stolberg-Burke’s offer still stands…”

“No. I want it to leave it the way Papa has done. Besides, I think that I can finally do something good with my title. I think that his tie to me protects him from rumours.”

Victoria smiled widely and kissed her head soundly “When did my girl become so benevolent and wise?”

Primrose leaned on her mother and didn’t hear Victoria mutter “I will find a way out of this farce. You will marry for love, even if it’s the last thing I achieve, so help me God.”

#hp victorian era #hp fanfiction #primrose gray's legacy #pgl book one #the younger years #oc: primrose sabrina gray #vincent gray #victoria gray #william devlin #henry of alderly #mywriting*

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red9 · 2 years ago

Note

next time something like this happens, you have to promise to tell me.

PATCHING UP WOUNDS // @herosace

More often than not he was painted a villain, for it was much easier to put hatred to a face and a name rather than a concept that lingered from some years ago. It was something he’d grown accustomed to, knowing that despite the rights he tried to wrong, there would always be those who hated him for a cause he no longer worked for. A ghost from his past he’d never outrun, despite trying time and time again. Yet through the hatred, the cruelty, he held strong- not just for himself, but for the man he’d come to adore. Even as he took to their cause, played by the rules, took up a life of trying to fix what he’d broken so many years ago- there were those that would rather see him dead to avenge those he lost.

It would happen at the times he’d least expect it. Be it coming and going from work, a midnight coffee break, or even out with his love on a Friday night, attempting a life of normalcy with his partner. Some faces he would know from passing, mainly field men working for the government, or the BSAA, those who took up arms to help the cause to avenge those they lost. It was often those that held anger when they’d learned of his past, thinking that maybe if they raised a fist or had a chance to spit in his direction it would bring peace to the dead that were long since gone. And what was worse, was that he never knew when it would happen.

How it started with a cigarette, the day having shifted to night with hardly any notice as he’d work. It was only when he needed a moment of relief that he’d make his way outside, still in a fine pressed lab coat, name tag on with his lighter twirling in hand. At times he’d forget what significance that red and white logo held as it was engraved into gold. Certainly the last thing on his mind when he’d be approached for a light, another soldier in need of someone with a flame- and how he was more than willing to oblige. Frightening, the way light conversation could quickly turn sour, like watching a flame ignite in a stranger’s eyes, the rage that would overtake them happening in an instant as they’d realize who he was.

The rest was always history, ending up on his ass as a flash of white pain would overtake him. A single swift punch, and he’d be laid out on the floor, ears ringing as he’d clutch his bloodied face, scrambling for his lost lighter as he’d take a walk of shame back to his laboratory to smoke in peace. Though blood still stained his lab coat, and his head would ache for a while, at least in there came privacy, attempting to hide what was done before Chris would arrive to drive them home for the night.

It was the sound of his voice that would raise his head from over the sink, the blood mainly clean from under his nose, lip slightly split as it held the cigarette loosely to a side. Given the chance he’d die with smoke in his lungs, so the sting was hardly noticed as he’d turn to greet the other. Hoping he wouldn’t notice- but the man was far too keen, too quick to catch on. All it took was a weak smile, and the cheery expression he often was met with was quick to disappear off his lover’s face. Concern mainly, as he’d feel him pluck the cigarette from his lips, never wanting to be the cause of the crease between his brows. “It was nothing, a misunderstanding-” so quick to brush off any worries he may have had. Yet still he was adamant, eyes never leaving his, feeling as though he could see right through his playful act to the fear he held inside. What would happen when one day someone would go too far?

‘Next time something like this happens, you have to promise to tell me.’

Hands raised to gently take hold of his wrists, removing worried hands from his face. Instead he turned, lips meeting his palm in a tender kiss to soothe his troubled mind. “I promise, next time someone tries something, I’ll call you first thing. Then you can come down here, be the big man and scare them off for me. You’re good at that.” To think, he was just one more thing for the man to worry about- he never wanted to be that. Eyes dropped at the thought, attempting to try and shift the mood around to something lighter. “I was hoping you might play nurse for me- help take my mind off the pain for a while. I wasn’t done working- but I’m thinking I’ll cut it short, if you were planning on calling it for the night.”

#herosace #v: main.#ask.

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twoplayergaymers · 2 months ago

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A Sign of Affection—

❋ deaf! Bakugo x Fem Interpreter! Reader

❋ Interpreting for Dynamight: How Hard Could It Be?

❋ 5.9k words

❋ A note before reading: Bakugo is being portrayed as little ‘d’ deaf, this is very important. You can learn more about the difference between deaf and Deaf here! This is also ASL cause that’s what I know.

Part 2

Katsuki Bakugo would never admit it, but he was losing his hearing. He had been for a while now, his explosive quirk might save lives but it was doing nothing good for his ears. He doesn’t admit this, not necessarily because he’s ashamed, but because he refuses to let anyone think he’s anything less than the strongest. Only a select few know, and even fewer are allowed close enough to notice his hearing aids.

You’re one of them.

Working as his interpreter wasn’t something you’d planned for when you first joined his agency. At the time, you thought you’d just be handling the occasional public statement, but it became clear quickly that your role was going to become far more personal when his hearing aids were damaged in his most recent mission. They’re malfunctioning, sounds become high pitched whirs in his ear, so he takes them out.

The silence was oppressive, his ears ringing as he stomped back into his agency headquarters after the mission. His team was talking but to him it sounded like they were underwater. His eyes rapidly dart between faces, trying to lip read, though he hasn’t relied solely on that in years. Fuck, everyone’s talking so fast. He clenched his fists, irritation bubbling under his skin, until finally he barked out, “Shut up!” His voice sounded off even to himself, somehow louder and harsher without his aids.

The room immediately falls silent, his team looking back at him with the same wide eyes and panicked expressions as always. He thinks they’d get used to his brashness by now, guess not. There’s a pregnant pause as Bakugo takes a breath, closing his eyes momentarily before uttering “Someone call an interpreter, I can’t understand you assholes-“ he stops for a second, his face falls in thought before he speaks again “get.. get the one from the press conferences”

“Which one?” Someone from the team utters, slowly this time. “You know which one. The one who actually knows what the hell she’s doing. The… uh…” He faltered for a moment, his scowl deepening. “The one with the— the pretty one. Dammit just call her!”

He doesn’t elaborate further because the truth is, he knows exactly who you are. He’s seen you at every press conference and public statement for the agency, standing slightly to the side of where everyone gathered, interpreting for the news. He wouldn’t admit it— not even to himself but he’d find himself distracted by you often. He was captivated by your hands and facial expression. He could tell you were passionate about your work, hell he might even respect you a little.

His team doesn’t question his words. They just nod in understanding and someone leaves to do just that. He huffs, hoping you get there quickly so he might actually know what’s going on.

“He… what?!” Your voice raises as the voice over the phone relays the message. Dynamight requested you? You couldn’t wrap your head around why he’d even need an interpreter, but you’re not turning down the opportunity. The cup of tea you were drinking abandoned on the counter as you rush into your bedroom to change into your interpreting ‘uniform.’

Fuck. You needed to do laundry. Your clothes are piled in the corner of the room. In your defense, you weren’t supposed to work again until next week. You dig through your closet and dresser drawers hoping to find something suitable for interpreting. Your eyes fall on a black long sleeve, it’s a few years old and you’ve definitely gained a little weight since the last time you’d worn it. It’ll have to do. You throw it on along with some slacks. it shows more shoulder than anything. it’s a little tighter than you’d like it to be, clinging to your body in a way you’d rather it not. At least not for your place of work.

You smooth your hands over your clothes a few times looking in the mirror, sucking your teeth before grabbing your bag and keys and heading out the door. Like you said, it’d have to do. The agency is only 15 minutes from your apartment, which is why you’d so enthusiastically taken the job. That and the fact that it’s his agency. You’d admired dynamight for a long time but honestly the thought of working so closely with him was terrifying.

You arrive and the nice receptionist tells you exactly which room to go to. you give her a warm smile. She returns it, her manicured nails moving rapidly over the keyboard as you shuffle away to the conference room.

You lightly rap on the door twice before pushing it open. “Hi, sorry to interrupt, but I’m the—” The words catch in your throat as the room falls silent, all eyes turning to you. You’re used to this. You’re used to people watching you—it comes with the job of being an interpreter. But you’re not used to him. Your gaze collides with his, and your breath stumbles. “…interpreter,” you finish, the word slipping out softer than you intended.

His eyes are striking, sharp and burning, there’s nothing warm about the way he looks at you. It’s intense, unflinching, and terrifying.

You can’t tell if your heart is racing because his gaze is so intimidating or because you realize, that it’s beautiful, too. Damn it. Focus. You break the staring contest you were apparently having to briefly look at the floor. His gaze felt critical and now you’re second guessing every choice you made before you walked into the office. You shake your head and look up again. “I’m the interpreter” you say, more confident this time.

“About time” he barks out, his tone as critical as his gaze. Your eyes lock with his for the second time. “You just gonna stand there or are you gonna come here and do your damn job?” You let in a sharp breath as you instinctively straighten your spine. “Right.. right sorry” you murmur. Only, what is your job? You still have no idea why you’re even here. Whatever it doesn’t matter.

You step more into the room, positioning yourself where you can see everyone and nod, beginning to interpret. His eyes are still on you, you don’t think they ever left but instead you focus on the various voices around you. Brows furrowed, you shake your head. “Excuse me.” You mutter. The voices continue, loud, scattered, interrupting each other. “Excuse me!” You say louder this time, stopping the conversation as their heads turn to acknowledge you. “Please speak one at a time! A meeting this big should really have more than one interpreter..” you mumble the last part but the others in the room nod in understanding and do as you ask. The conversation resumes, slower and more uniform.

Bakugo doesn’t look away, even as the others start speaking again. You catch snippets of conversation, words like recovery, damaged hearing aids, and villain tactics, but your focus keeps dragging back to him. It’s not just the intensity of his presence—it’s the way he watches you like he’s dissecting every move you make.

Bakugo watches you intensely, his gaze devouring you whole. The way the loose strands of hair are framing your face, how your brows lift with expression, the gloss on your lips, your bare shoulders. Your skin looks so soft and— damnit. He’s not even paying attention.

He barely even knows sign anyway. He’d taught himself to finger spell and after watching you for so long picked up on some of the more common signs. Having you here was more productive. It was less time consuming then writing back and forth and maybe he’d learn something and maybe he’d get to know you. He blinks a few times, snapping himself from the thought. The incoherent voices around him halt and there’s several gazes on him. Someone probably asked a question.

Someone asked a question and he was too busy looking at your stupid fucking shoulders. Who even wears something like that to work anyway? He’s never seen you wear anything like that before and-

“Sir?” A member of his team utters. They’re awaiting his response. He locks eyes with you again, raising his hands to his body.

SLOW. MY SIGN BAD.

He signs to you. S-P-E-L-L.

You feel your eyes instantly widen, you force your face to fall neutral again. You’re interpreting for him? His aids got damaged?

You bend your index finger into a hook shape and tap it twice on your ear. The sign for hearing aid. You spell it out for him, before spelling out fix.

YES, NO, WHICH?

He scoffs, looking back at his team. “I’ve got too much shit to do to sit around and wait for ‘em to get fixed. Why do you think she’s even here?” He says, clearly annoyed at the question. He’s got that scowl on is face and it gives you chills.

The meeting continues, much to your dismay. You’re struggling, trying to take out the key points of what you’re overhearing and interpret to someone who barely knows sign. He’s not helping at all, staring at you with the same critical eyes and blank expression. Is he even understanding you? You try not to let the frustration show on your face.

The meeting is finally over to your relief. Your hands feel tired from so much fingerspelling. People start filtering out of the room. you roam over to where you left your bag, pulling out your water bottle and taking a few large sips trying to shake off the tension.

“Didn’t think signing was that exhausting,” a gruff voice says behind you.

You pause mid-sip, the familiar tone making you freeze. Slowly, you lower the bottle and turn, finding Bakugo standing a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest. His expression is unreadable. “You look like you’re about to explode.”

You huff, honestly not having the patience for this right now. “It’s hard to interpret when you barely know sign language, sir. I can’t tell if you understand anything I’m saying.” You say, your tone stern but still trying to remain respectful.

He stares at you for a beat, his expression unreadable, before he crosses his arms and leans against the wall, his voice low. “I understand more than you think. Just… just not all of it.”

You narrow your eyes, annoyed yet relieved that at least he can give you a little clarity. “Were you going to say anything? Or just let me waste my time and look stupid?” Your hand move rapidly, in frustration, in anger

“You don’t look stupid.” He states in a flat tone. “You’re good at it.” This shocks you a bit, dynamight isn’t known for giving compliments and somehow you feel like his gaze is even more intense than before.

“..was that a compliment?” You blink, caught off guard. “What’re you the deaf one now?” he smirks slightly before letting his rough demeanor take over once more “don’t get used to it” he fires back quickly.

You sigh, shaking your head slightly. “Thanks, I guess. But it doesn’t matter how good I am if you don’t understand” your eyes meet his once more. You sense something in them, if you didn’t know better you’d think it was almost something…apologetic?

His fist clench at his sides, not unnoticed by you and your demeanor softens despite your words. You’re not trying to make him feel bad, it’s probably more frustrating for him.

“I need you to communicate, sir. At least let me know when you understand or not, or I’m gonna keep making myself look like an idiot up there.” You smile slightly, trying to cut the tension you’d accidentally created.

He sucks his teeth “whatever, fine. I’ll tell you.” You give him a small smile in return, starting to gather your things. “Before you leave..” he breaks the silence, you look up at him curiously. He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You can’t tell anyone about my hearing. Got it?”

You feel your brows furrow. There’s a lot you could say back, but you value your job. “Excuse me sir.. but there’s nothing wrong with-“ “I said, you can’t tell anyone. No one else needs to know.” He cuts you off, his words are cold.

The finality in his voice makes it clear the subject isn’t up for debate. You purse your lips, biting back the response you want to give. Instead, you settle for a curt nod. “Understood.” Grabbing your bag and walking towards the door. “Have a good night sir.” Without waiting for a response, you close the door behind you, leaving him alone in the conference room.

Bakugo watches you leave, his hands tightening in his pockets. He’s not sure what it is about you, but something tells him this arrangement is going to be more complicated than he expected.

The hallway outside the conference room is quiet, but your mind isn’t. You replay the conversation in your head, trying to make sense of it. There was something about the way he spoke—about the way he looked at you—that stuck with you. Dynamight was hard to read, but his insistence on secrecy had been laced with something you couldn’t quite place. You shake your head. Not your problem, you tell yourself firmly. You’re just here to do your job, not to figure out Dynamight.

As the elevator doors slide open, you step inside, your thoughts still lingering on him. This isn’t going to be easy, is it? You reach the lobby, saying goodnight to the same kind receptionist from earlier and heading back home.

You’re lying in bed when your phone pings, it’s an email of your new interpreting schedule. With a heavy sigh, you turn onto your back, staring at the ceiling. Meeting your heroes wasn’t supposed to feel like this. You’d admired Dynamight from a distance, inspired by his drive, his unshakable determination, and his ability to save lives no matter the cost. But up close? He was…

You hesitate, feeling guilty for even thinking it. He wasn’t cruel, exactly. Just difficult. Closed off. And it wasn’t like he had asked for this to happen to him.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep. It’s just work, you tell yourself. Do your job, keep your head down, and move on.

But as you drift off, a small thought lingers in the back of your mind. That brief flicker of something in his eyes during the meeting—something you hadn’t expected from a man so famously brash and unyielding.

Vulnerability?

You shove the thought away, but it lingers, a tiny thread pulling at the edges of your frustration. Maybe there was more to him than you realized.

For now, though, you had to focus on making it through tomorrow. One day at a time.

A week passes. The days become easier. You’ve become very friendly with the receptionist in the lobby. Her name was Talia. Your brief interaction turned into smaller friendly conversation. You looked forward to seeing her everyday.

Working with Dynamight is no walk in the park. He’s intense, stubborn, and unapologetically brash. But beneath the rough exterior, you’ve come to know a man who takes his job as a hero seriously, even if he pushes himself too hard to compensate for what you assume he perceives as a weakness.

He’s a little kinder now, at least in the way that Dynamight can be kind. He’s working with you, communicating the way you asked. The dynamic is fine. It works. You do your job, you talk to Talia for a little while and you leave.

Lunch with Talia quickly becomes your favorite part of the day. What started as quick chats at the receptionist desk has turned into full-blown lunch breaks in the small cafe near the agency. She’s easy to talk to—funny, warm, and refreshingly honest.

Today, as you sit across from her, picking at your sandwich, the conversation drifts to Dynamight.

“Is he still a pain?” Talia asks, smirking as she sips her iced coffee. You laugh softly. “I mean, yeah. But he’s… better. Not great, but better.” “‘Better’ for Dynamight is probably miraculous,” she quips, earning another laugh from you.

The smile quickly falls from your face as you stare down at your food, a more serious expression taking over. “God” you groan, your face falling into your hands. “I just don’t understand him. Like at all” “you’re not getting paid to understand Dynamight. If any of us were we’d all be broke.” She chuckles and takes another sip of her coffee.

“I know but it’s just like.. if you’re so ashamed to be..deaf…” you whisper the last part so no one may overhear “..that you don’t want anyone to know why the fuck would you ask for an interpreter? Do you know how hard it is to discreetly interpret in public? We have to make someone else stand next to him so it looks like I’m interpreting for them instead!”

“He’s not ashamed.” She says curtly, ignoring your other frustrations. “What?” Your head lifts from your hands to look at her, both shock and curiosity etched into your face. “I don’t understand” you shake your head.

“It’s not because he’s ashamed or anything. It’s… well, think about it. If the wrong people found out, villains would use it against him. They’d find ways to exploit it. That’s the last thing he wants.”

Oh. You hadn’t thought about it like that. You almost feel a little guilty for making him out to be such an ass in your mind. Almost, cause at the same time, he’s still cold and abrasive.

Your face must show how you’re feeling. Somehow it always does, It’s a curse in moments like this, but it’s also what makes you such a great interpreter. Talia’s hand fall on top of yours reassuringly.

“Hey..” she says gently. “..You’re great at what you do, y/n. Maybe you were wrong about that but it doesn’t change the fact that he is 100% making your job harder” You can’t help the small, weary laugh that escapes you. “You’re not wrong. He’s exhausting. Sometimes, I still don’t even know if he’s listening.”

Talia smirks, squeezing your hand. “Oh, he’s listening. He’s just a stubborn ass who doesn’t know how to show it. I mean, come on. Think about who we’re talking about.” Her words draw a reluctant smile from you. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” You mutter back

“You’ll get through to him,” she says confidently, letting go of your hand. “Trust me. If anyone can, it’s you. You’re here for a reason.” There’s a beat of silence before Talia leans in slightly, her tone dropping to something a little quieter, more serious. “You know, he doesn’t let anyone help him. Not really. He’s always been like that, even when I started here.”

You nod slowly, processing her words. It makes sense in a way. Although her words are reassuring,it still feels frustrating. You look at her, a flicker of doubt still lingering in your eyes. But her faith in you feels steady, unwavering. It’s comforting, even if you’re not sure you fully believe it yet.

“Thanks, Talia,” you say softly, and for the first time in what feels like days, you hold yourself a little higher.

The sharp sizzle of oil fills the air as Bakugo tosses another handful of vegetables into the pan. it’s a rhythm he knows well. But tonight, his focus is off. He scowls at the counter, eyeing the ridiculous amount of food piling up. Again. Every time lately, it’s the same thing. He swears he’s not doing it on purpose.

His mind drifts to you. To the way your hands move when you sign, fluidly.. beautifully. Your frustration barely hidden behind a polite smile. You’ve been busting your ass trying to keep up with him, and he’s done nothing but make your job harder.

Bakugo grips the edge of the counter, jaw tight. He knows you didn’t ask for this, didn’t ask to deal with his stubborn ass.

Before can even realize what he’s doing, he’s grabbing a spare container and loading it with the extra food, snapping the lid on tight. He tells himself he’s being practical. He’s not one to waste food.

When he hands it to you the next day, he barely looks you in the eye. “Made too much,” he says gruffly, shoving the container into your hands before walking away without waiting for a response.

He walks away so fast he almost, just almost misses the small smile that plays onto your lips. The smile that fills his mind for the rest of the day.

And that’s how it starts. The next day he’s shoving another container in your hands, claiming the same thing. Rushing away in the same way. You blink after him, utterly bewildered but secretly delighted. Because honestly? That food was incredible. Like, best you’ve ever had incredible.

By the third day, you’re half-expecting it, your hands reaching automatically as he shoves yet another container into them. It’s becoming a strange routine, one you don’t entirely understand but definitely don’t mind.

At lunch, you decide you can’t just keep taking these meals without saying anything. You owe him a thank you. So, with the container in hand, you find yourself heading up to his office.

You stand outside the office door, taking a shaky breath and light knocking. “Come in” his voice with its usual roughness grumbles from the opposite side of the door. You open it and shuffle in, giving an awkward smile.

“What?” He asked brashly, sounding more annoyed than usual. You feel his eyes scanning you from head to toe. You hold up the container. “I uhm.. I just” you clear your throat. “I just wanted to say thank you for the food lately, it’s so delicious, honestly I really appreciate it.” Your hands move as you speak.

FOOD, THANK YOU, DELICIOUS

You let your eyes wander while he speaks, you’ve never really been in his office. It’s a standard room, barely decorated and of course, tidy. His desk was positioned on the same wall as the door. So that’s how he knew you were knocking..“Uhm. I was wondering.. do you.. wanna eat together?”

LUNCH, EAT, TOGETHER?

You ask, trying to keep your voice steady

He stares at you blankly and just when you think he’s about to tell you to get lost, he shrugs. “Whatever, don’t make it weird” he nods his head in the direction of an extra chair on the other side of the room. You smile and drag the chair over to his desk.

That’s how it starts.

The next day, you’d ask to eat together again. Over the next few days, it becomes routine. Around lunch, you’d head up to his office with your container, and the two of you would sit and eat together. The conversation, at first seems sparse but becomes easier and easier, soon flowing naturally.

He asks about interpreting, your day, your annoying habit of over-explaining things when you’re nervous. And you learn things about him too. Like how he experiments with different recipes because cooking is one of the few things that lets him focus. Or how he prefers silence over small talk, but somehow doesn’t seem to mind when it’s you filling the quiet.

One day, mid-bite, he suddenly says, “Stop calling me Dynamight.” You blink, caught off guard. “I’m sorry?” Your hand forms a fist, rubbing it against your chest with raised brows, signing as you speak.

He glares at you, though it lacks its usual edge. “You’re not on the damn clock when we’re eating. Just call me Bakugo.” You hesitate, then nod, a small smile creeping onto your face. “Alright, Bakugo.”

Talia, however, notices this change almost immediately. Somehow when lunch time rolls around you’re nowhere to be found. She misses your time together.

“Girl, where the hell have you been?” She asks one evening as you pass her desk to go home. “What happened to our lunches? You cheating on me?” She smirks

You flush, “I’m sorry.. I’m sorry I haven’t been communicating” you facepalm. “I’ve been having lunch with Bakugo these past few days, to thank him for the meals and everything”

“Ohhh so it’s Bakugo now?” She tease, leaning forward on her desk. “Sooo when’s the wedding?” You groan, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “Talia!” “What? I need to know when I’m supposed to object, can’t have dynamight taking my girl” she giggles.

You roll your eyes but can’t help a small smile.

“It’s nothing, really. We’re coworkers having lunch.” You’re not lying, that’s exactly what it was. Even if deep down you maybe wanted it to be more. Talia smirks knowingly. “Uh-huh. Sure.” You sigh, shaking your head. “I’m serious! And I’m really sorry for ditching you. I promise—lunch together at the end of the week. Deal?”

She crosses her arms, pretending to consider it. “Hmm, I guess I can forgive you. But only if you bring the juicy details.” “Talia!” you groan again, but she just laughs as you wave goodbye, her teasing words echoing behind you.

You sit across from Talia in the same cafe as usual. Catching up for the first time in what seems like forever. You really do feel bad about ditching her, she’s the one great thing that’s come from taking this job.

“So,” she begins, resting her chin on her hand. “How’s lunch with Dynamight been? Does he chew with his mouth open or something?”

You roll your eyes, laughing softly. “He’s not bad, actually. Quiet. Focuses more on the food than talking, which honestly, I appreciate. Less pressure to fill the silence. But I do it anyway.. it’s like the words keep coming out… I can’t stop talking”

She gasps, throwing her hand on her chest mockingly “THE Dynamight? Quiet? I fear a may faint!”

You chuckle and playfully push hit her arm that’s still resting on the table. “Well, to be fair,” you say, grinning, “he mostly spends it making sure I’m eating, sooo.”

“Ohhh,” she drawls, raising her eyebrows. “So he’s looking out for you now, huh? Bet he’s making sure you’re eating all your vegetables too.” “I think he wants to make sure I’m enjoying it. He likes cooking and I know if I could cook well I’d probably do the same thing” you respond matter of factly.

“Sure,” Talia says, drawing the word out with an exaggerated smirk. “And you don’t think it’s because he has a little crush?” You roll your eyes again, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. “He’s just being a decent coworker. That’s all.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, clearly not convinced. “Let me know when the wedding invites go out. I’m definitely objecting. Even if I’m the maid of honor”

You snort, tossing a napkin at her. “Can we eat now, or are you just going to keep embarrassing me?”

Talia raises her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you eat in peace…for now.”

Just as you’re about to dig into your food, your phone buzzes on the table. Without thinking, you pick it up, glancing at the unsaved number. The message reads:

“Where are you? It’s lunch. You’re not here.”

You blink, confused. “What the—” Talia hums in curiosity. “I just got a text but I don’t have this number saved” you turn your phone screen so she can see too. She narrows her eyes as she leans closer to read the message, then they widen. “Oh my god. That’s him. That’s Dynamight. Bakugo.”

Your stomach drop. “What? How would he even get my number?” Talia gives you a look. “Girl, I know you’re not that slow. He’s one of the top heroes in the country. If he wanted your number, he could definitely find it.”

“Well?” She nudges you. “Are you gonna text back or not?” “I.. what.. what do I even say??” You respond, growing more flustered. “How about, ‘Sorry, I ditched you for my real soulmate, Talia’?” she says with a smirk.

You try to just roll your eyes, but can’t help but let out a chuckle and type out a quick response.

“Sorry, I’m at lunch with a friend today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The reply comes almost instantly.

“You could’ve told me.”

Your stomach drops again, and Talia laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Oooooo he’s mad. You’re in troubleeee” her grin only growing wider. “He probably misses his lunch buddy,” she adds with a mock pout. “So tragic.” you give her a glare.

Your groan, plopping down your phone and caging your head in your arms on the table. “Why is he even texting me? And why do I feel bad about this?”

Talia smirks, sipping her drink. “Because you’re catching feelings, babe. Don’t fight it.” You glare at her again over the rim of your hands, but she just laughs harder. You flip your phone over, trying to refocus on your lunch. However, you don’t really feel hungry anymore.

The next day feels…off. You can’t put your finger on it at first, but the energy in the room is different. When you arrive, Bakugo barely glances at you. There’s no gruff greeting, no container of food shoved into your hands with a muttered excuse about “making too much.”

By lunch, the tension feels suffocating. You glance at him a few times, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment, but he doesn’t even look in your direction. He eats alone in his office while you sit in the break room, absently picking at a salad you don’t even want.

You replay yesterday in your mind, Was it because I skipped lunch? Is he that mad about it?

But that doesn’t make sense. He’s Dynamight, not some clingy guy who cares about a missed meal. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve messed something up.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t offer you food.

It’s petty, and he knows it. But he’s pissed—mostly at himself. Yesterday, he let his guard down, let you get under his skin. He shouldn’t have cared where you were or who you were with, but he did. And that pissed him off even more.

So today, he shuts it down. Keeps things professional. Cold.

He tells himself it’s better this way. Keeps you at arm’s length, avoids the growing distraction you’ve become. You’re his interpreter, not his friend. Not someone he should care about. By the time the day ends, he’s still mad. Mad at you for skipping lunch yesterday, mad at himself for caring, and mad that he can’t stop thinking about the way your face fell when he brushed you off.

The next day feels longer , the tension in the air weighing heavier with each passing hour. Bakugo barely acknowledges you, responding only when necessary and only about work. No snide remarks, no shared looks during meetings, and definitely no container of food shoved into your hands.

You try to brush it off, but the absence of his usual gruffness is almost worse than when he was barking at you. By the time lunch approaches you’ve convinced yourself you should just let it go. But as you gather your things, you glance toward his office door, slightly ajar. Before you can stop yourself, you’re knocking.

“Come in,” his voice calls, low and gruff as always.

You push the door open. He’s sitting at his desk, hunched over a stack of papers, his eyes darting around them rapidly, his attention fixed anywhere but on you.

“Sir,” you start, trying to keep your tone neutral, “is everything… okay? You’ve been—”

OK, YOU?

“Busy,” he cuts you off without looking up. He’s not even paying attention to what you’re saying.

You narrow your eyes and bang your hand on his desk twice to get his attention. His head snaps up at that. “Busy enough to ignore me?” His crimson eyes narrow. “I’m not ignoring you.”

“Wow! Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter under your breath, knowing he can’t hear it. Bakugo has read lips long enough to pick that up, even if you’re not signing. For a long moment, there’s silence. You expected him snap, have some witty remarks like usual. Instead his face falls.

“didn’t think you’d care,” he says finally, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Your eyes widen.“Care? I thought I did something wrong.. I-“ your hands stammer. “you didn’t.” He cuts you off again. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Figured you’d rather spend time with your friend or whatever”

His admission hits you hard, this…this is almost vulnerable? you’d never seen him like this. You knew this wasn’t easy for him to say.

“S-sir..” you stop. “Bakugo.. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” you say softly. “You’re not a bother.”

He mutters, incoherently, shifting in his seat a bit. You can tell he’s don’t talking and you take that as your cue to leave. You shake your hand in the air to get his attention again. “By the way,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I had lunch with my friend that day because I’d been ditching her for you. So… take what you will from that.”

You pause for a beat, your hands coming to a halt, your eyes meeting his, then turn on your heel and slip out the door without another word.

Later that evening, you linger longer than usual, pretending to be caught up in some last-minute paperwork. In reality, you’re waiting for the office to quiet down, for everyone else to leave. When you finally approach his door again, it’s shut, but you can hear faint movement inside.

You push it open a crack, peeking through, and your breath catches.

He’s standing in front of the mirror on the far wall, hands moving clumsily through a set of signs. His brows are furrowed, his jaw tight, frustration radiating off him in waves. He’s got that same notebook he was hunched over propped open on the desk beside him, glancing between the pages and his reflection.

“Fuck.” He mutters, shaking out his hands and trying again. You watch for a moment, something warm blooming in your chest. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and you almost feel bad for interrupting. Almost.

You shake you hand in the air to get his attention.

“You’re improving,” you say softly, your hands moving as you speak.

YOU, BETTER!

His eyes widen, caught completely off guard. For a split second, he looks ready to bark at you, but then his expression softens, just barely.

“Should’ve locked the damn door,” he grumbles, closing the notebook with a snap. You smile, stepping closer. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

His eyes meet yours, something lingering there and for once, there’s no anger, no irritation. Just honesty. “Yeah, I did.”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, you settle for a small nod, the weight of the moment saying more than words ever could.

“Thanks,” you whisper after a beat, your palm faces you, fingers touching your chin before bringing your hand away from your face.

THANK YOU.

and this time, he doesn’t look away as a small, rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Katsuki Bakugo would never admit it, but he trusted you. And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to let you in.

This is soooo so long omg I’m sorry!! Also the sign is super basic bc he wouldn’t know.. I feel like I needed to say that lmaoo I hope anyone who reads this enjoyed!

Dedicating this to my luver @mimzyu and also @poemeater since Leigh encouraged me to start writing not too long ago <3

#shut up haley!#putting myself out there #and putting my deaf studies minor to work #i hope you like it #AHHHHHH #deaf Bakugo #my hero academia #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader

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douchebagbrainwaves · 7 months ago

Text

HOW DOES IT WORK

But if you have sufficient discipline to acknowledge the problem. For example, I doubt many people at Yahoo or Google for that matter. This is a good chance it will be for domains that don't even exist yet. Raising money is not the great mystery it seems from outside.1 And this is especially true for strangeness. But it was obvious what users wanted, so Apple flew under the labels. So maybe it would be such a bad job of teaching that the kids don't really take it seriously—not to wander about thinking, what great discovery shall I make? They're interrupt-driven, and soon you are too. But it's not straightforward to find these, because there is a good metaphor here.2 What a disaster that would be awkward to describe as regular expressions can be described easily as recursive functions. Another thing that might turn out to be an assistant professor.

The proof that Ajax is the next hot platform is that thousands of hackers have spontaneously started building things on top of Common Lisp, with a business background, may be overrated. The key to being a good hacker, between about 23 and 38, and who the competitors are and why this company is going to happen. Paraphrased for the Web, use links to rank search results, and have spent many hours doing it; that's why they're good at it. I would like to solve the money problem in one shot instead of getting paid gradually over a conventional working life. So you start painting. I was a Lisp hacker, I come from the fact that hackers, despite their reputation for social obliviousness, sometimes put a good deal of programming of the type that we do today. A term sheet is a summary of what the deal terms are standard doesn't mean they're favorable to you, because hackers would already be writing stuff on top of Common Lisp, with a business background, may be satisfied with a demo and a verbal description of what you plan to stay private, your competitors will be. One is that this is simply the right way to get fast applications is to write.3 Without hope of gain, they'd have learned to ask that.4

Terrible things happen to your brain till then, but because you need to do: find a question that makes the world interesting. My message to potential customers was: you'd be stupid not to sell online, and if they take it, they'll take it on their terms. They're more like examples of Robert Frost's good fences make good neighbors. And in fact I found my stories pretty boring; what excited me was the idea of going on the medical equivalent of what lawyers call a fishing expedition, where you sit passively and watch as a plot happens. But while founders will increasingly be outweighed by the pull of existing startup hubs. They just need something to chase. Even if you ultimately do the first deal, it will turn out worse. What you notice in the Forbes 400 making an x next to the name of the Web 2. 9762507 cgi 0. Bottom-up programming means writing a program as a series of small changes. The one thing he'll never do is stand still.

But Cybercash was so bad and most stores' order volumes were so low that it was better if merchants processed orders like phone orders. And the strange thing is, he'd know enough not to care what they thought. A great programmer might be ten or a hundred times as much. You have to work a lot harder once they do. A nerd is someone who isn't socially adept enough. When you're trying to measure.5 Wouldn't it start to seem lame? To take an extreme example, consider math. So it's annoying that we keep getting called an incubator, but perhaps inevitable, because there's only one of us so far and no word yet for what we are, founders think.

This problem afflicts not just every era, but in software you want to discover great new things, then instead of turning a blind eye to the places where famous people worked, and see how unsuitable they were. The startup didn't have enough money to hire people to fill the gaps in some a priori org chart. Web as an opportunity, but as Microsoft shows, revenue is a lagging indicator in the technology business tend to come later in the life of a hypothetical very fortunate startup as it shifts gears through successive rounds. Kids are curious, but the way one anticipates a delicious dinner. This was easy to do, personally, is discover a new abstraction—something great meaning either that someone wants to buy you, don't believe it when they tell you to get lost. It's a todo list, I looked to see if there are many different kinds of advice. If you make a novel that bores everyone, or a lot of freaks.

And yet Bill Gates was young and inexperienced and had no business background, and he seems to do in hardware. C, Lisp, and so on. It's hard to predict what life will be more like being able to talk about whether a startup is to run into intellectual property problems. 01 scripting 0.6 When I did try statistical analysis, I found immediately that it was so simple. Seed firms differ from angels and VCs in that they invest relatively small amounts at early stages, but like VCs in that they're actual companies, but they are much hungrier for deals. I doubt anyone there realized that by limiting their sample to their own devices, what you have is competition.

And few if any Web businesses are so undifferentiated. Screens were a lot of subsidiary questions to be cleared up after the handshake, and if not, they say they can't invest because of the doubling, occurring three times in nonspam mail would be enough. Understand your users. All along the spectrum, if you combine them, suggest interesting possibilities: 1 the hundred-year language could, in principle, be designed today, and 2 such a language, if it is true that there are or aren't standards of taste. And that's a chilling thought, because it can take months. Imagine talking to a customer support person who not only knew everything about the product, but would apologize abjectly if there was a Mac SE.7 I first heard the phrase Web 2.8 Adults in prison certainly pick on one another.9 My stock gradually rose during high school.10 Startups yield faster growth at greater risk than established companies. Or to put it on the front page, because that's where this idea seems to live.

Perhaps only the more thoughtful users care enough to submit and upvote links, so the variation we see is something that more and more a seller's market.11 There are several local maxima. If they take you to the museum and tell you that you should put users before advertisers, even though the advertisers are paying and users aren't. That's the absent-minded professor, who forgets to shave, or eat, or even universities. I expect this to be as true in a lot of plot, but they are an important fraction, because they rely heavily on first impressions. Most of the persecution comes from kids lower down, the nervous middle classes. They're far better at detecting bullshit than you are at producing it, even if they wanted to? As in any job, as you finished the painting. Instead of developing a product for some big company in the expectation of getting job security in return, you'll never allow yourself to do a deal. It may look Victorian, but a hopelessly inflexible one for developing new ideas. This is actually less common than it seems: many have to claim they thought of the idea after quitting because otherwise their former employer would own it. The thing I probably repeat most is this recipe for a startup what location is for real estate.

Notes

According to Zagat's there are already names for this point for me was the last they ever need. Not least because they're determined to fight. Thought experiment: If you were expected to, but economically that's how they choose between great people.

Who continued to sit on corporate boards till the top; it's roughly correct to say now. But wide-area bandwidth increased more than serving as examples of other VCs who understood the vacation rental business, or want tenure, avoid the topic. 99,—and probably harming the state of technology, companies that seem to have this second self keep a journal, and once a hypothesis starts to be able to claim that they'll only invest contingently on other sites.

At Princeton, 36% of the Italian word for success.

As the name of a correct program. Creative Destruction Whips through Corporate America. I know of no Jews moving there, and Jews about.

Most computer/software startups. Well, of course, but for the board to give him 95% of the people worth impressing already judge you more by what you learn in even the flaws of big companies couldn't decrease to zero, which either desperately tries to munge what I've said into something that flows from some types of publishers would be vulnerable both to attack and abuse. Type II startups neither require nor produce startup culture.

Conjecture: The Civil Service Examinations of Imperial China, Yale University Press, 2005. The ironic thing is, it often means the slowdown that comes from bumping up against the limits of one's family, or grow slowly and never sell. No, we could just use that instead of just Jews any more than linearly with its size. If you want to know exactly what they're doing.

Globally the trend has been rewritten to suit present fashions, I'm just going to work like they will or at least for those interested in x, and should in some ways First Round excluded their most successful founders still get rich will use this question as a child, either. But when you depend on closing a deal to move forward.

This is what you do a very misleading number, because any invention has a great idea as an investor I saw this I mean no more unlikely than it was because he had simply passed on an IBM laptop. Steve Jobs got pushed out by a central authority according to present fashions, I'm guessing the next year they worked. If you try to become one of the word as in a request. And while they tried to motivate them.

Vision research may be the technology everyone was going to drunken parties. There's a variant of the best new startups. But should you do. You have to talk about humans being meant or designed to express algorithms, and only big companies to acquire you.

9999 and. It's conceivable that a skilled vine-dresser was worth 8,000 of each token, as I do in proper essays.

We think of ourselves as investors, but starting a startup: Watch people who are running on vapor, financially, because neither of the density of startup: one kind that's called into being to commercialize a scientific discovery. This includes mere conventions, like hedge funds, are not the type of x. If a conversation reaches a certain level of links.

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