#things you said drabbles

[hypnagogics]

ellie. whose form of motivating you to do coursework is camping out under your desk and rewarding you with her skilled mouth every time you complete a task. ♡ pink silken tongue running up the inside your trembling thighs—the wet spot on your chair only spreading towards all sides, her warm murmurs of prase raising goosebumps from your skin, her strong, calloused hands squeezing every so often, reminding you to resume your work if you want to get the real deal.

keep going baby, almost there, yeah? c'mon, just do a couple more, then m'all yours. gonna give you whatever you want.

[gardenofnoah]

“Does it bother you?”

A blond head turns toward you in your peripheral. The next turn is a tilt slightly to the right, and it makes you smile. You’d never tell Katsuki, but he does have the mannerisms of a golden retriever.

Or maybe a well-trained doberman.

“That I can’t,” you pause, trying to find the most lighthearted term for the heaviest feeling in your heart. “Be touched. Right now.”

The ‘right now�� is unnecessary and dishonest, but your brain clings to temporary reasoning to make it feel better. You don’t know for whom.

He scoffs. It’s abrasive as he always is, and it dissipates a little of the tension you feel. You expect him to leave it at that, but he doesn’t.

“M’not—” he pauses, perhaps thinking of a kind way to say a hard thing, too. “I just want…to be here. With you.”

He goes red before he even finishes the sentence and it’s so unlike him that you bark out a laugh before you can stop it. The urge to put you in a headlock is so clear on his face but, ever mindful of your boundaries, he sticks to half heartedly nailing you in the face with the nearest pillow. He drags a palm down his own and pointedly looks away from you, eyes narrowing with each giggle that slips from you.

The meaning is not lost on you, though. Katsuki is not a man of many graceful words but you hear him anyway—I just need you here. I want nothing but you next to me.

It’s hard to remember that. Katsuki’s a good man, but he’s a man all the same, and sometimes your own fear of disappointing him—the fear that what you could offer with your body could not possibly be more meaningful than anything else you bring to the table—supersedes the safety you need to feel with him. How sad, that you’ve been so well programmed—how often you need the reassurance that you deserve to be treated with basic dignity, even when you have nothing to wager for it.

His vulnerability makes your heart swell in your chest. You reach across the bedspread—fingertips stopping just short of his, all you can do right now. You hope he understands, and you know that he does.

“I love you,” you tell him, needing him to know.

He hums, low in his throat. When his eyes meet yours, he’s open, for a moment. It’s hard for him, too—a different kind of vulnerability that he’s working on.

It takes only another moment for his shield to come back up, and then he’s rolling his eyes, scoffing out some half-hearted quip that he doesn’t mean.

You hear what he wants to say anyway.

[domoz]

A drabble trade with @doveywovy, with prompts "marriage hunt" and "cultural differences"

The brilliant orange of sunset feels like it takes an eternity to fade into dusk.

The strings of lanterns around the edges of the clearing make tonight's gathering of anxious young hopefuls look more like a festival than it has any right to. If it were only Uchiha out here, it practically would be -- there would be talking and dancing and everyone would be sizing up the others out to hunt tonight. But there’s a group of Senju huddled together on the far side of the clearing across from them, and so the atmosphere is decidedly flat. Both sides keep well apart from each other, separated only by the tiny group of participants from other clans.

"Yeah, there's no way someone's not ending up dead tonight." Izuna informs his brother. Madara groans.

"Repeating how bad of an idea you think this is isn't going to stop it at this point." Madara sighs. "Haven't you already made sure a thousand times that no one out tonight is planning on doing anything stupid?"

Izuna has had this argument with him constantly over the past few months, and he's still loath to admit that his brother has a point. Putting a pause to marriage hunts had been sensible when the village had been founded. Nearly two years in, though, and it's starting to seem like they don't have faith in their own creation to survive the pressures of a time-honored tradition.

So even though this is going to end in disaster, the best thing to do to ensure Konoha's long term survival -- and Izuna finds, these days, that he's begrudgingly in support of that outcome -- is to hold a hunt anyways, and just deal with whatever happens.

That doesn't mean he can't say I-told-you-so afterwards, though.

"Our people, yes, but I can't account for the rest of them. I mean, the Senju all came out without shoes, so it's not like my expectations are very high."

"If I've kept my mouth shut about whatever has your clan lighting fires and singing all hours of the night leading up to this, you can bite your tongue on our shoes." Tobirama’s deep voice cuts in, the man butting into their conversation by appearing from the treeline on the Senju side, where he's surely been working his perfectionist little fingers to the bone over something that's going to be a mess anyways.

Izuna turns to him with a retort like usual, but he finds himself staring open-mouthed instead. He's known roughly where Tobirama has been all day, but he hasn't had eyes on him until right this moment. He's not wearing one of the four outfits Izuna has ever seen him in. No armor, no shinobi blacks or training clothes or that mess of dye the Senju call formal clothes. He's in a wave patterned haori, a pair of hakama that's secured at the ankles, and -- and no shoes.

"What the hell?" Madara sputters out a response before Izuna can -- he's too distracted by the string of bells Tobirama has wrapped around one wrist like the rest of the Senju participants, chest squeezing tight with too many reactions to name. "What are you dressed like that for? You're joining?"

"I don't see why I wouldn't." Tobirama says in that tone he usually takes with Madara that makes it sound like the person he's talking to is very stupid, "I'm eligible, and there are several politically advantageous targets. If I participate I can also keep an eye on anyone who might be planning on causing trouble. It's good optics."

"Good optics?" Izuna says, a little too shrill, "You're the clan heir! Don't you have something arranged already?"

He'd always assumed so -- Izuna himself hasn't exactly been betrothed since before he was born, but the list of acceptable candidates for him to marry has never been very long.

He really shouldn't be surprised when Tobirama shakes his head; he's always known that the Senju don't care about bloodlines. They probably hadn't even had to read through the genealogies of all of their participating clan members beforehand.

"Wh-- you're not seriously joining a hunt for political convenience?" Madara cuts in before Tobirama can say something snarky. "That's cold, even for you, Senju."

Tobraima rolls his eyes, "It’s not like I’m aiming  to get married to someone who hates me. If it comes down to that, I won't hunt anyone at all."

The two of them devolve into bickering, but Izuna is hardly listening. Tobirama is either going to walk out of the woods married, or never allowed to marry at all. The stupid bastard probably even thinks he would prefer that.

…It’s not like Izuna can join and do anything about it -- but that's not true, he only shouldn't. Certainly no one would be able to raise any complaint about the two of them being too closely related and, well -- it's a hunt;  if it succeeds there's not really any challenging it anyways.

Tobirama makes a noise of disgust at whatever it is Madara just said and excuses himself with, "I have more important things to worry about tonight than your empty head."

Luckily, Madara is distracted by chasing after him to try and get the last word in, so he doesn't notice as Izuna slinks away to go mingle with the hunters on the Uchiha side of the clearing. Surely, someone has some spare red rope lying around? It’s not as though he’s about to let Tobirama be inflicted on anyone else.

[wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart]

Robin never really got boys talk.

When Sarah turned 14 she invited all the girls in band for a sleepover. It started out fun. After her parents went to bed they put on a creepy horror movie and watched it in a huge cuddle pile. They braided each other's hair and did each other's nails and squeezed each other during tense scenes and muffled their shrieks after a sudden jumpscare.

After that they watched another one. This time Sarah sneaked her mother's makeup kit down to the living room, and so lipstick and eyeshadow joined the mess of nail polish, hair clips and snacks already on the floor.

The second movie was different. In the first one, the blood was obviously fake and the acting wasn't the best (to say the least). But the second one was tense through and through. The cries of pain were so visceral that Robin shuddered, and in the end everyone was terrified. It was silently and unanimously agreed upon that everyone had had enough TV for the night. It was already 3 in the morning, but tomorrow was the weekend and right now Robin wouldn't be able to sleep even if she wanted to, and thus began Robin's first real boys talk.

It was funny at first. Sarah pretended to die of heartbreak when "the blond hot one" was unfortunately the second to die. Heather said the nerdy one with glasses and abs was cuter, which started a very heated discussion of whether blond or brown is the more attractive hair color. Robin had to defend her correct "redheads" opinion all by herself.

(When the others got into a stalemate Sarah turned to Robin. "C'mon", she pleaded, "you know that the blond one was hotter. Just tell us which one you found prettier! And don't forget that this is my birthday party."

Robin laughed at the ribbing, played a bit hard to get, until she finally admitted. "I actually found the first one who died the prettiest." Sarah was already halfway through her victory dance, when Robin corrected her. "No, I don't mean the dude. I mean the first one. The girl with the pink purse."

Everything was silent for a moment.

Then Emma laughed. "You don't have to be jealous Robin", she consoled, "you are also very pretty."

"Yeah, especially after our makeover!"

Robin laughed and agreed and continued on as if her world just hadn't been turned on its axis. Because she knew that the stirring in her gut and the beating of her heart had nothing to do with jealousy. She didn't find the blond one hot or the brunet one cute. That was the first time she really knew it. She liked the girl.)

It was a bit funny the first time, even though she couldn't really join. It got less funny the more it went on. Suddenly boys was the only thing everyone wanted to talk about. And worse: it wasn't just unreachable famous boys like singers or actors anymore. Suddenly it was all "oh, Steve Harrington is sooooo cute" or "oh my god, Tommy Hagan had suuuuuuch a glowup" and "I want to lick the sweat of his body after basketball practice" (this last one was applicable to multiple different people, including Steve and Tommy. It was not applicable for Chrissy when she exited cheerleading practice or Beth after football.)

She thought it would get better when Emma finally confessed to her crush and they actually got together, but no. It somehow got worse. Because "normal boy talk" turned into "experienced boy talk", and Robin wasn't allowed to admit that the only thing that got wet when she thought of Billy Hargrove was her mouth, because he made her want to throw up.

At first she'd say that she didn't have crushes. After a while of people refusing to believe her (even if she was telling the truth! Sometimes.) she started pretending to be into Steve Harrington. Every girl had a crush on Steve, so it made sense that she'd been embarrassed to admit that she was just like everybody else. He was way too far above her league for her friends to force her to "confess" and she could stare without fear when he passed by in the halls with the beautiful Tammy Thompson in his arms. Truly, it was a brilliant plan. It didn't stop the boys talk, though.

So she became a tomboy. She joined football and she hung out with boys and she cut her long hair into a bob. She lost a bit of touch with Emma and Sarah and the others, but she tried not to think about it too much. Instead she threw herself into sports and started hanging out more and more with Matt, the second trumpet in band.

And that was that. Sometimes she missed wearing dresses, but it was a relief not to have her mother insisting she "do something about that hair" anymore. She and Matt became best friends. She even considered telling him for a while. Until he sat her down and confessed his feelings.

She tried to let him down as gently as possible, and they never talked again. The cycle would repeat for multiple times.

Someone out there is laughing their ass off because who would have thought that the dude she pretended to have a crush on would turn out to be the missing half of her soul?

It started out like always. She teased him, he laughed. They suffered through customer service together. He was funny and surprisingly in touch with his emotions and apparently babysat a bunch of middle schoolers, which was equally hilarious and adorable to watch. They both enjoy sports and they both hate Billy Hargrove with a passion and Robin is heartbroken because she knows she can't get attached. She has already been through this too many times to allow it to happen again. She gets close with a guy, they become best friends, he confesses, she can't reciprocate, they never talk again.

This is what is going to happen. She should already be used to it, but it still hurts. It's better for her to keep her distance. To encourage him to flirt with other girls, even if she can see that he mostly does it to amuse her.

And then they uncover an actual real life Russian spy network right beneath their place of work like some fucking blockbuster. And then they are pumped up with drugs and the next thing she knows is that they are both throwing up in a cinema bathroom.

And then it happens. Of course it happens.

He starts his little speech and her heart is already breaking. She surprises herself when she realizes how much she started enjoying Steve's company. He is a dingus, but she is also a dingus and they just fit.

She is already preparing her apology in her head (oh fuck work is going to be so awkward), but what comes out instead is what she wishes she could've said every time this happened. What she wished she could have said every time she got close to another person, every time her parents questioned if she finally found a boyfriend. Something she really tried not to feel ashamed of, but it was so fucking hard when you had to keep it hidden all the time.

(She remembers when she used to train in front of the mirror. She would stare at herself and repeat again and again "I am Robin Buckley and I am a lesbian. I am a lesbian. I am-")

She doesn't breathe as she waits for what she knows what comes next. What has to come next. There is a reason she never told anyone, always kept it hidden and to herself even if she wanted to scream it into the world. He will mock her and he will out her and he will be disgusted and-

"Tammy Thompson?!"

Instead they have girls talk. And Robin finally gets it.

[dynamimight]

this one'll be titled, "swinter = katsuki"

how about one on the connections between katsuki and winter and you and summer and vice versa? the way that katsuki is all bright; eyes burning flames of stars and insurmountable fury, ready to take on anything. he works hard and works up a sweat and he likes that. his second wonder of the world is the summer heat: the first wonder is you.

you, with eyes that don't burn, but shine; twinkling in the cool gray light of the overcast sky. always relaxed, always calm, never jumping up for anything. katsuki thinks you're like snowfall: quiet and gorgeous, glittering through all walks of life. you move through space and time and change the very essence of it. everything slows when you're around, and before he knows it, you're everywhere: in the cracks of his summer streets, stretching icicle fingers through his hair, frosted over his glasses so he can only see you.

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Found

After some thinking I decided to write this little thing :3

I was thinking between this drabble and one that was about Dream and decided to go for this one.

Mostly because the timing for later in the series is just so much FUNNIER if this one is done first. (you guys will understand later)

First Drabble and original prompt by @spotaus Prev Drabble Next Drabble

No beta and no edits. We jsut going.

*---------------------*

Killer sighs as he rubs the sweat of his skull. You would think it is cooler now than the summer but it hardly matters when you are physically active.

Ugh. He hates cleaning duty.

Still he looks around the area he is cleaning up and grins proudly. They had realised that the decliding cliff was facing the south meaning it had so many sun hours.

Horror had offered they could grow grapes using the cliff side and because those where plants that liked to climb up they could use the vertical area to create more space!

Also leaving the flat area for them to do soemthing else with. Killer had been thinking about trying to convince the others to agree to animals but he may need to plead a bit more for that idea.

Still he looks over at Cross nad Horror, both are setting up trellises along the side to help start to grow. All preparation work for their first season of course.

Tehy hadn't quite decided what they would make of the grapes, maybe even just sell the grapes themselves. But they will figure it out. Killer had offered the obvious wine but he hadn't been too excited about it himself. Seemed like a bad idea to make wine when you have a babybones running around.

Even so. Tehy aren't in a hurry. They first need to manage to grow some to begin with.

Killer stretches his limbs when he hears a strange sizzle. Killer blinks and looks back up the side of the cliff before looking at Cross and Horror confused. Both looking up themselves as they no doubt heard it as well.

They assend their, newly repaired, stairs and get to their normal area. It looks fine but Dust is also out and looking around wiht a frown on his face.

Killer gets to his side "Ngihtmare?"

Dust hums "in the nest. Sleeping with his bat." he looks around again and shoots Killer a look "sound?"

Killer shrugs, he has no idea. Cross shoots upright as he looks up "oh no..."

Killer looks up himself and feels himself freeze. becuase he knows those glitching effects. The sizzling gets louder and with the sound of ripping fabric the very universe opens up.

Moment later a figure they all know appears.

Error blinks as he looks around before spotting them. He huffs annoyed "hello abominations. I am looking for your boss." he looks around and frowns "Why are you in this dump?"

Killer freezes. Waht do they do?! Normally it was Nightmare who contacted Error about things he wanted or shifts or jobs or anything. Error coming to them?! Unusual! Also! How the fuck?!

Killer huffs as he crosses his arms "We are busy. How did you even find us here?" Did they leave traces? Did they mess up? Do they still need to move around again?!

Error looks smug as he jumps down from the roof and lands in front of them soundlessly "I obviously looked into the code of the multiverse, antivoid and void."

Killer feels a part of him relax. While most of them can in someway check a universe's code. Checking the code of the multiverse itself is a skill only Error can reliably do.

Error looks very annoyed as he crosses his arms "Do you ahve any idea how long it took me to find you? It is so annoying! Now. I got to talk business with nightmare. Where is that octopus?" he looks around.

Dust growls and glares at him "leave."

Error blinks and tilts his skull "Since when do you talk?"

Dust keeps glaring "Nightmare doesn't want to see you. Leave. You are not welcome."

Killer must admit Dust has guts but also Dust not the time!

Killer tries to nudge Dust further back but Dust refuses to move from his spot. Oh shit.

Error glares at Dust "You dare try and get in my way? The destroyer!?" he chackles as he raises a hand. Strings slowly appearing in the air "I will show you what happens if you do. Now. How about you-"

"Wait!"

Killer feels his skull freeze as he looks at the door. Oh no.

Error frowns and turns before looking confused at Nightmare. A large error sign in Error's sockets as he just stands there frozen. Nightmare doesn't say a word but just keeps looking at the other god.

Error blinks and slowly turns to Killer and points over his shoulder "you abominations made a tiny abomination?" Error looks utterly confused.

Killer almost wants to laugh at that notion but he just isn't sure what to say. What can he say to make Error leave them be? More importantly what can he say that would keep Error from telling everyone about what he saw here? Where could they even go if Error can just check the code of the multiverse to find them!?

Before Killer cna say anything else Nightmare takes a step closer. A very panicked sound leaves Cross before he just sprints by Error to stand between him and Nightmare. Keepign his arms spread in front of Nightmare as a living shield.

Error frowns at him and studies Nightmare.

Nightmare gulps before he has that same tiny grumpy stubborn look on his face that Killer just adores. Nightmare huffs as he crosses his arms "What? I thought you wanted to talk?"

Error stares and then he takes a step back "what the fuck?"

Killer mutters it before he cans top himself "language" look they all had just been trying to fix their own cursing a bit but it is habit for all of them.

Error dismisses him as he takes a step closer. Cross summons a weapon and growls at Error "Not a step closer. you can talk from a distance."

Error rubs his sockets. Stares at Nightmare. Rubs his sockets again. Stares at Nightmare again. Then he calls up the code screen for this universe. Looks at Nightmare again. the he looks at Killer and just mutters "What?"

Well would you look at that. Aparently even the destroyer hadn't seen everything in the multiverse.

Dust takes this chance to get to Ngihtmare as well and pick him up. he huffs "What is wrong? You are acting like you have never seen a child before."

Error stands there before waving at Nightmare "That is Ngihtmare! The Nightmare?!"

Horror just crosses his arms and raises a brow "so?"

Error blinks and the error messages around him get a bit worse before he waves at Ngihtmare again "So!? Since when is he a child?!"

Killer grins himself even if his soul pulses quickly. He makes a show of leaning against one of their new fenches "I mean. For a while now. Since his birth. Then again his age was frozen when he corrupted so..." he shrugs.

Error stares at him "No?! He wasn't a child?! He was... You know! Adult? dripping goop and tentacles?! Remind you of anything?!"

Killer raises a brow and shrgus "yeah. Turns out? Not an adult. Just a babybones with magical god apples making a corruption shield around him and temporarily giving him the body he needed to do his god thing." Killer figures it is fine to tell Error. Error will be able to find out anyway and honestly they don't need Error being mad at them for lying.

Error stares at him. Looks back at Ngihtmare. then looks back at Killer for a moment "you aren't shitting me? You are fucking serious?"

Killer sends him a look "dude. seriously. there is a six year old here. Try to not swear." he shrugs and walks over to join Cross and Dust, and Horror for that matter. Killer continues speaking as he walks "It is hardly needed to curse the whole time."

Nightmare shoots him a look and mutters "hypocrit."

Killer grins "you know my tiny boss!" he grins and pokes the tiny cheek. Nightmare looks away embarresed and flustered. mh... weird.. normally he doesn't mind the poking...

Error frowns as he looks to the side before looking at Nightmare "So what now? No goop?"

Ngihtmare glances at Error for a moment before nodding. It takes him a bit to find the right words. Nightmare still speaks softly but with how quiet it is his voice still seems loud "I... I am sitll a god... I think... Just not of balance anymore. I can't do stuff with that anymore..."

Error stares at them for a moment. looks around the area. Then looks down thinking. there is a small loading bar showing his thought process.

It hits full and he straightens "well... I am leaving." he turns to the side adn starts to mess with a coding window again.

Killer frowns "That is it?!"

Error pauses and shrgus "obviously? I was looking for Nightmare, you know, king of negativity and god of balance and all that sh-... stuff..." he glances at them before looking back at the window "Nightmare isn't that anymore. So I will have to figure something else out."

Cross looks anxious as he steps forwards "No one can know! If they know...." he rubs his hands "Just... please..."

Error pauses again and shrugs "Don't see the point in sharing. After all. He isn't the god of negativity. And when people ask about him they want to find the gooped up bas- guy who had all powerful magic and abilities... Why give them the location of a child and his group of babysitters?" and Error disappears through a portal.

A long silence.

They... are fine?

That... that was pretty much him saying he wouldn't tell anyone right?

Like... They are good?

Killer glances at the others and they all share slightly unsure looks. Nightmare however looks at where Error disappeared.

Nightmare just stares before getting a very tiny grin as he hides his face a bit and mutters "he is cool..."

Killer freezes. Nightmare's tiny blush. the embarresment. the way he tried to looks tough and controlled and cool... before when Ngihtamre always searched Error out. The fact Nightmare was always very willing and easy about helping Error even if it hardly helped his own goal.

No.

No absolutely not!

Killer turns to Nightmare and makes him look at him. Ngihtmare huffs and looks annoyed while Killer stares at him "No."

Dust shoots him a look "Killer what are you even saying-"

Killer continues as he stares at Nightmare "No. No crushing on Error. I don't care he is technically the only other god who was nice to you or was understanding about your work. You are not allowed to have a crush on him. He is dangerous and crazy and you can do so much better."

Ngihtamre has a lsightly panicked look on his face as he looks away and mutters "I don't... he is jsut..."

Cross blinks before laughing "Killer calm down. It is just a little crush. Kids have those all the time."

Killer shakes his skull "Nightmare will evnetually grow up again!" may take them ages or not. Hell they don't know how gods grow up but still! Killer isn't allowing it! No way! He looks back at Ngihtmare "You are too young and too tiny to even think about liking others like that so stop that. And even if you do start thinking like that WHEN you are an apropriate age! You aren't allowed to like him because he is crazy and you deserve so much better!"

Horror chuckles "what is the appropriate age?"

Killer's mind blanks before he answers "When he is thirty! Physically! AT LEAST!" and even then Killer isn't sure about it.

Cross snorts "you aren't even thirty... physically."

Killer huffs "And I am a bad example. We don't do what i do." he stares at Ngihtmare.

Nightmare just looks down embarresed before pushign his face back into Dust's shoulder.

Killer will accept that answer for now. But maybe he will need to look through the stuff they have. Clearly no romance novels or movies are allowed anymore. He will have to check it all. Honestly what are those people thinking?! Showing romance to such young minds!

Cross snorts and leans closer to Dust "Somehow I did not expect Killer to be the anti-date parent. Yet here we are."

Dust hums "same. expected it to be me."

Horror chuckles as he leads them back inside.

They still remain watchful and pack some emergancy bags. If they notice even the tiniest sign that their location is compromised they are leaving. They give Crop and update and ask him to watch out as well.

But..

Nothing happens.

Not even a peep.

Nothing.

days go by and they slowly start to relax and get into their own rhythm again. Cleaning and repairing stuff. Getting ready for the next spring and talking with some town folk.

Today is a day that Killer, Dust and Nightmare are just laying in their nest watching an old western movie on the repaired tv, thank you Dust.

It is nice and calm untill.

sizzling.

Killer shoots upright and a small portal opens up. only for a black skeleton hand to drop something through it before it closes again.

It had fallen right in Nightmare's lap and Ngihtmare blinks confused at the small hastly packed present.

Dust looks over his shoulder and a check later and it seems fine. Dust nudges Nightmare and Nightmare first opens the small card.

Killer leans close and reads wiht them.

It is just a card saying 'so he knows which side to aim towards when he grows up.'. Which, weird.

Nightmare blinks at it before opening the present and he lets out a tiny gasp.

Killer stares as he sees a small woolen doll octopus. It is bright purple with a tiny grumpy face on it.

Nightmare feels the plush carefully as he stares at it with pure awe. A tiny purr starts to leave their baby bones.

Killer is going to have to make plans in advance to make sure that WHEN Nightmare is a teen he doesn't try and hang out with Error. Killer will also have to figure out how to successfully threaten a god.

On his 'to do' list it goes.

*---------------------*

First Drabble Prev Drabble Next Drabble

Also Also

Error finds them

gang: *panic*

Error leaves again because whatever but leaves a little plush for Nightmare.

Gang: ... okay.

Nightmare hugging the plush: I did always think he was real cool... *slightly wishful stare*

Killer realises baby has a first crush: ... *PANIC TIMES FIVE* absolutely not!

[dellephone]

things you said at the kitchen table + landoscar

By the time Oscar drags himself out of bed and makes his way into the kitchen, Lando is already moving around, toast in the toaster and coffee brewing. Oscar settles at the counter, eyes still bleary with sleep and looking soft in his hoodie. He puts his head on the table, gaze following Lando as he pads around the kitchen. Oscar doesn’t realize he closed his eyes until he hears the plate set down in front of him. Lifting his head, he blinks at the plate, then at Lando. Lando turns to grab two mugs, and presents one to him. Oscar reaches out to take his gratefully, eyes glancing up to meet Lando’s gaze. He mumbles a “thank you,” which results in a smile that makes Oscar’s heart stumble, slow and quiet, like it hasn’t quite woken up yet. He looks down at his plate and focuses on picking up a piece of toast to distract from the feeling in his chest.

[jadewritesficshere]

AU where Robin is going to the local community College for an arts degree. Convinces Steve during her second semester to sign up as a model so they can hang out during class. Robin convinces him its a win win situation, he gets paid to sit and look pretty and gets to spend time with her (that was previously interrupted by classes).

Eddie signs up for the class because he wants to get better at drawing for his DND meetings (plus for his degree he needs to have one artistic class and it was either this or theater, and he isnt sure if he'd have to perform but after getting accused in a hit and run that killed the local cheerleader, he isnt the most liked even though he was proven innocent). Eddie, who is late to class and the only seat left is next to Robin. The two start chatting and ignore the teacher going through the syllabus on the first day. This continues for the first three classes as the teacher goes over different techniques.

Fourth day of class, Steve is there. And Eddie is convinced he's seen an angel. He's seeing one of them sculptures by the ninja turtles come to life. The most gorgeous human he's ever seen. The imperfections make him more perfect. The freckles like constellations on his skin. The scars showing a fight that he undoubtedly was strong enough to survive. Robin clocks it in all of two seconds as Eddie is as red as a firetruck and hasn't said two words. Meanwhile, Steve is standing there feeling a little bad that Robin's new friend is so uncomfortable at the sight of him and his scars.

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Play It Out (2)

Part 1

Eddie turned around and immediately let out a sound like a leaking party balloon when the corset dug into his sides. "Yeaaaah...that's not ideal."

Steve scoffed and ran his hand through his impressive mane. His...really, really impressive mane. Eddie thought he would have previously noticed if Steve's hair was this big, but apparently he hadn't. Or there was something very different...very wrong. Steve hasn't noticed yet. "You think? I can't believe that we survived another dimension, mind battling shit, monsters with no faces and a giant fucking smoke spider, and then we get what, sucked into a haunted VHS for kids?" He sighed deeply and shook his head. "Can it get any worse?"

"Um..." Eddie gave a nervous chuckle, staring above Steve's eyes, where the head shaking revealed...something. "I think it just has." Reaching out, he removed Steve's hands from that incredibly fluffy hair and ran his own fingers through it, seeking with his fingertips until... "Yeah, so...um. Were you by any chance hiding horns in that Hawkins-famous hairdo or are these new?"

The look of horror on Steve's face was priceless. "Oh you've got to be kidding me." Steve rushed to the nearest window to examine his reflection. And sure enough, a pair of impressive horns was peeking from the rich brown waves, not large enough to be visible all the way but enough to make him look like a... "Hey Eddie? Did you see what fairy tales were on that tape?"

Eddie, crumpled in his yellow gold dress on the ground and currently battling with the high heels that were firmly secured around his ankles, shook his head. "Nah, man. Not that I'd be able to tell. My old man wasn't exactly the 'bedtime story' type. But since I'm wearing the worst clothes in the history of humankind and some supernatural asshole twisted my hair into a bun, I'd say I'm a princess." He shook his head, valiantly tugging on the sparkly shoe. "The stuff I never thought I'd say."

"Great. Because surprise, my parents weren't big on fairy tales either. So we're going in blind again, how do you even survive in this...whatever this is, if we don't know what story it is?" Steve finally abandoned touching his horns and unsuccessfully tried to comb his hair over them. It only made them stand out more and if Eddie wasn't engaged in a battle of his life with an ankle strap, he would have laughed. He finally managed to tug both of his shoes off and flung them to the distance, bending at the waist to stand up, when he winced in pain.

"I think I broke a bone," wheezed Eddie and clutched his side. The smooth fabric of the corset was cool under his fingers and he frowned in disgust. Why the fuck was he the one in yellow when the color made him look like a scrawny canary? Meanwhile Steve was made for this bright yellow shiny monstrosity.

"What..." Steve looked horrified and immediately supported him, gently touching his abdomen, feeling a strange lump. "Shit, Eddie, that's bad, does it hurt?"

Eddie bit his lip, nodding. "Like a motherfucker," he muttered and pointed towards his back. "Can you get rid of this crap? Untie the corset? Like, five minutes ago?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure." His fingers quickly worked the corset open and gently tugged it loose, along with the upper part of the dress.

"Thank fuck." Eddie tore the offending piece of clothing from his chest, glaring daggers at it. It took him a while to notice that Steve was staring at his bare chest, concerned and...maybe a little flustered? Eddie would have liked to think so, but now he was too busy taking deep breaths. Small waists were overrated. "See anything you like, Harrington?"

Steve blinked, eyes still glued to Eddie's body. "What? Oh, no- well yes, but...sorry, what were you..." He took a step closer and gently laid his fingers onto Eddie's rib cage. "Where's that broken bone?"

"Uh...here?" Eddie waved the untied corset in Steve's face and, realizing the misunderstanding, laughed out loud. "Don't look at me like that, it was serious. Have you ever had a piece of plastic break and stab you right in your insides? Cheap clothes for a cheap fairy tale, I tell you!"

Steve visibly relaxed but he still punched his shoulder before adopting the oh so familiar angry mother stance. "Seriously, Munson, couldn't you have been a bit more specific? Just a little bit? Never scare me like that again, you hear me, I was this close to carrying you-"

His tirade was cut short by Eddie leaning into him and pressing his palm over Steve's mouth. They stood face to face, Eddie still with his hair tied back and only in the frilly white pantalettes since he managed to slip out of the skirt too. And maybe it would have been awkward, but Eddie's dark eyes were open wide as he leaned next to Steve's ear and whispered: "So, I don't want to freak you out even more, but I'm quiiite convinced a teacup just walked through the door."

Steve rolled his eyes and, when Eddie's hand didn't move, actually licked his palm. "Don't be ridiculous. It probably just rolled off a table or something," he said as Eddie nearly shrieked and proceeded to wipe his hand on the white fabric. "Maybe you haven't heard, but teacups can't walk-"

He was preparing to say more, to chastise Eddie for his ridiculous ideas. But then the door opened again and so did Steve's mouth, hanging open in comical surprise as a round teapot wobbled inside the door, rattling and calling in a high voice: "Dusty! Dusty, where did you go?"

Eddie crossed his arms and scoffed. "Yeah, Steve. Continue, I'm all ears about stuff that," he formed quotation marks in the air, "isn't possible."

Tag list: @f1ct1onwh0re @gregre369 @estrellami-1 @awkwardgravity1, @stevesworldxx, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @eboyawstenn, @theseaofdespair @mightbeasleep

[scratchandplaster]

Kicks

CW: pregnancy and its side effects, comfort

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"Fucking hell!"

Stitch by stitch, the yarn slipped off his needles. Shepard threw the half-finished potholder back on the bedside table, tired and disappointed.

Of all Grandma hobbies, he hoped knitting would be the easiest to learn. A terribly wrong estimate. But if nobody from either side of the family felt ready to swallow their pride and fill this role, he had to do it himself. Saved them all plenty of worry in the future anyway.

"I suck at this," Shepard confessed and looked imploringly at Claire, who waddled in from the en-suite.

"Very much so, love" she cackled, rolling under the blanket next to him, "but it will look great if you keep trying."

He shifted, then, stuffing a pillow underneath her feet and lifting her legs up. At the end of the day, the swelling got especially bad. With slow and gentle strokes, Shepard massaged along her sore muscles in a patient rhythm, the perfect way to help Claire settle down.

Nevertheless, the discomfort grew with every day. Soon. Soon, both were ready to welcome him into the world. Today, other issues had to be discussed.

"Why did a Marcy Smith, from three towns over, send you a check for 500 dollars? Reason for transfer: baby clothes…"

"A kind donation," she huffed, eyes closed in pain.

"Since when do you take handouts?"

"Since the father left without a word." Claire pouted, peeking through her lashes to admire her husband's dumbfounded expression, "I heard he ran away with his mistress, poor me."

"You're horrible." I love you.

"You like the new Dremel set I got you? Then stop whining," she teased, a smug grin on her lips.

Fair enough. Shepard usually had to be content with one or the other tale about uncurable illness to earn his income, maybe a lame dog to care for here and there. What could he say, Claire really was his better half, in every aspect.

Minute after minute, he kept guiding the pressure from her legs, until she protested, less than half-awake: "I need to pee."

"Again? "

"Tell that to him." She sighed and pointed down to her stomach.

"Please, stop bullying my girl," he whispered and pressed a kiss where he suspected his child's head. The little fist pushing against Shepard's cheek begged to differ.

"Did you see that?" He gasped, quietly marveling at how their baby tossed and turned under his fingers, like he was swimming laps for the fun of it. "Rude, Lukas, very rude."

Claire smiled down at her boys. Another twist inside her - and a bolt of sharp pain shot up to her lungs. It didn't matter how much she tried, she never got used to her son's late-night acrobatics; at least not without help.

"Can you do it again?"

"Sure." Shepard cleared his throat awkwardly. Who would have thought that his old hobby kept being useful? "But don't laugh if I'm still a bit rusty."

He joined her under the sheets, hands cupping under her stomach and lifting the weight of their son up, even if the relief only lingered for a short while.

"Alright, then. Take a deep breath in."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Prompt: bonus flashback/relapse/medical complications

@augusnippets @whumpyourdamnpears

[hotdamnitsmoony]

the marauders as conversations i’ve had with my friends pt2

sirius: *painting his face*

james: pads, what are you doing?

sirius: i’m doing goth makeup

james: why?

sirius: because i can james, because i can!

remus: ok but why are you doing it in your uniform, you’re getting paint all over it

sirius: *looks down at his clothes*

sirius: shit

[nonasemporium]

What is a nephew but a father?

i.

He can remember calloused, sun-damaged hands more easily than the leather-sheathed and thin fingers of his father.

He can remember being three and reaching up, his own phalanges tiny and pale in the torchlight, clasped delicately by those huge tanned paws of the man who would become his cavalier. Even then, he grasped, barely, that this man was meant to be used.

But a toddler does not know what using is. They only know needing. And he needed him then–had needed him for first steps and first words and first wantings. When his aged and noble father was busy and his devout, graceful mother was praying, it was Colum, molded alongside his two brothers for this very purpose, who stood behind him.

He can’t remember the other two being there as well. For him, there was only Colum.

ii.

At five, he was taught the man was not only his quiet protector, but his sacrifice.

Sacrifice hadn’t meant much to him yet. He had heard it only a handful of times, in the mourning carols of the church, in the hymns to inspire, in the stories spread about God and his Lyctors and their Noble Deeds. And so Colum became sacrifice which became Noble Deed which became Colum again, and the world made sense.

He was learning many things about nobility, even then, about what is Right and what is Wrong and why there is Suffering and how there can be Salvation. And Noble Deed became Right and Noble Deed became Salvation and Colum, too, became these things.

Sometimes, in his memories of childlike blasphemies, his father had seemed like God to him, but one could not fault something so small for these mix-ups. He, at least, tried to forgive these blasphemes. At least he knew now that was heresy, and the only other being to know of it was that sacrifice he still struggled to grasp.

iii.

He was seven when he first purposefully breathed in the seemingly pitless strength of Colum’s soul.

Of course, before this, he was taught the taste of it, suckling through his earliest struggles of illness and waning flesh by taking tiny pulls of vitality from his constant companion. He had been weak many times as he grew, the cost demanded from a true necromancer, and it was Colum who always had life to give.

At seven, it was simply the beginnings of the teachings to do it purposefully.

Purpose, he was told, was very essential. So essential it triumphed over things like discomfort or anxiety or any pitiful scrambling for questioning. It was not his place to ask why it was, it was his place instead to accept what it was.

He learned this lesson very well. Soon, the only questions he had were in the quiet, when only his nephew was at his side. Quiet when his hair was braided at his back by hands so tough they may as well be hide, but gentle as the down of a dove.

iv.

Eight was an important birthday. At least, it felt as such. Heavy in his mind, burdensome in the way any coming of age should be, weighed down in the significance of its reverberance.

Colum took him to the towers his father never visited and told him of three brothers made from mud to mold into shields. He told him of childhoods lost to obligations they could hardly bear, of trainings in poisonous sunlight and against a blood sickness that sounded familiar, but wrong.

He told him other stories as well. Stories his mother would have made no time for, stories no one else would think he needed to hear. He told him what it meant to hunt and hurt, he told him the sacrality of life, he told him of oaths and sureness and hesitations.

He told him he, too, was a valuable life, and that his path was cleared for him, but would still need to be walked with care.

He tried to memorize every word. He rolled over the weight of it in his mind. He was eight and he was forgiveness and he was Sacrifice as well and Sacrifice was Salvation was Sacrosanct. It made sense, of course, because eight was an important birthday, just as he had assumed.

He asked for tea, had seen tea served a hundred times to his parents at their most Righteous, and Colum had looked at him, eyes deep and brown and knowing everything there was to know in this universe, and he made the tea sweet and he made the tea bitter and Silas felt he knew this was Correct, too.

v.

By ten, he had begun to notice the wear of weather against Colum. The jaundicing of his flesh. The way his jaw clenched when he siphoned, the shudder that passed through that big, sheltering body when he practiced making light from life and truth from spirit.

By ten, he was beginning to fathom more of Sacrifice and Salvation and they were bitter and they were sweet.

Colum’s fingers did not falter when he buttoned up his tunics. Did not shake when he cleaned the chainmail that sat hefty on his slender shoulders. Did not waver when fastening the protection of leather over his own broadness. Silas knew by now he would not fill out the same as his nephew, and knew also he had not been built to carry the same burdens.

They were necromancer and cavalier. They were adept and shield. They were filament and foundation.

vi.

He was not even yet twelve, just before really, when the training intensified to such an extent he would choke on sweat and nightmares from the cost of it.

His father was displeased by his stuttering. His mother turned from him as if he was nothing. He could hardly steady himself and so Colum, Blessed and Righteous and Noble, everything that he could ever admire, all that he aimed to complement, became more the pillar of his penitence.

It was Colum who soothed him through the Truth in the Tome. It was Colum–whose voice had broken in the years of draining between them, whose voice would only break more as it continued–who murmured him through his oaths. It was Colum who stayed firm when the idea of a fallible God nearly swept him away.

He wanted to cling to the childhood he had attempted to discard, but it was too late. He had no more time for Innocence.

He thought of being eight and of three brothers laid at the altar, and finally he thought of Loss.

vii.

Of course, as he grew, he also grew finally to see the faults in his fetal dependence on Colum. His shield, yes, but also his sword. His tool. Gracefully, his nephew did not bring this back to him as he settled into his place, truly, finally.

Fourteen to fifteen to sixteen, to the day that revenant came from that depraved place, that waste of memory and assault to their order, screaming about her lost son and the numerous lost sons and daughters and infants of a wretched planet, and he took his Sureness and he took his Sentence with him to the First House and even as it began, he Knew he would have to be their Salvation, and with Colum at his back, he Knew it would be swift and it would be merciful and it would be more than the damned deserved.

He did not think to ask the man who had always carried him if the weight would crush him. It was simply not a possibility to consider.

viii.

When he felt Colum leave, the familiar mass of a soul larger than there were edges for, a soul he had drank from all his life, a soul that never left him even as he had learned to drink it in like an ocean of conviction, he had not even first known to mourn.

He couldn’t. It wasn’t right, it could not be Right.

He called him back because Colum had never refused an answer. Because Colum had always been the answer. He could not imagine another Truth. He could not imagine another Sense.

He had lost the fallibility of God, not once, but twice, and he had suffered the disobedience of Colum also twice in this horrid test, but he had not thought he could lose him. The lack of him was not something he could hold. Not something he could speak. Even as it was sinking into him, he still found the words in his mouth to bid him back, a babble of the first need he’d had.

And that was how he died.

.

What is an uncle but an infant?

[Also available here.]

[dellephone]

things you said after you kissed me + landoscar

“Oh.” Oscars eyes are wide, barely following Lando as he leans back. And yet, he still manages. It’s electrifying, Oscar’s eyes on him like this. It’s a struggle not to lean back in, see how long it takes for Oscar’s hands to catch up. Instead, he pulls away, lets Oscar come to him. All it takes is their last point of contact to separate, the graze of Lando’s hand against Oscar’s jaw, for Oscar’s eyes to sharpen. He grips Lando’s hand, places it back, firmly against his jaw, pulls him back in. Lando doesn’t pull away this time, happy to have achieved what he wanted. He can’t help the curve of his mouth, smug satisfaction forcing a smile. They only stop when a laugh escapes Lando’s lips. Oscar frowns in annoyance, but can hardly hold the expression for long, the laughter far too infectious. He tilts his head forward and does his best to kiss Lando through the giggles.

[chayscribbles]

a little Euna / Zeya flashback. Zeyna, if you will

this post i made a few days ago was driving me insane and i was possessed to write a little drabble that probably won't make the draft. this happens about a cycle (the equivalent of a month) before the events of the gemini heist. no real spoilers, but there is a little context revealed about Zeya's place in the crew before she went rogue.

words: 874

the gemini heist wip intro

EDIT: this drabble has a doodle now

Euna had barely stepped into the mess hall before a blue plasma dagger was at her throat.

Quick as lightning, she grabbed the arm that had her in a chokehold and yanked it off, flinging her attacker around. It took only a moment before a second, pink laser blade slashed at Euna’s right arm, creating a long, dark burnt streak along the plastic. Euna blindly lunged at the tiny person, but they leapt out of the way just in time, hopping onto the table and using it as a launching pad to grab one of the pipes running along the ceiling and haul themself up. They swung their body back and, on the return swing, kicked at Euna’s head. She dodged the boot— slamming into a shelf in the process, from which several cans of preserves noisily rolled off the sides— and fired at the ceiling with the blaster built into her cybernetic hand. The shot hit the pipe. It hissed, leaking steam into the room. The attacker plummeted. Before they could scramble away and take out their daggers again, Euna had both their hands pinned to the ground and a knee pressed against their chest.

For a moment, they both stayed still, breathlessly glaring at each other. Then Euna grinned.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” she said, releasing her hold on Zeya and getting to her feet.

Zeya simply smirked, shoving her sweat-dampened, shoulder-length dark hair out of her face as she sat up. Her eyes flitted up to the still-hissing pipe.

“Ah, shit,” Euna lamented, following her gaze. “Cap’s gonna kill us.”

“Not if you tell her you were stopping me from trying to escape again,” Zeya said with a shrug. For someone who carried two plasma daggers— they had been confiscated multiple times, but Zeya somehow always managed to get them back— her voice was surprisingly soft and feathery. Euna was still getting used to hearing it, as only recently did Zeya begin to talk around the other crewmates, and even then, it was very scarce to catch her talking to anyone but the Captain.

“Right. So she’s just gonna kill me. We all know you’re the Captain’s favourite no matter how many times you’ve tried to run.” Euna opened the fridge and pulled out two cans of iced lava root tea. She handed one to Zeya, still sitting, cross-legged, on the floor. “Also, was that you trying to escape? It looked like you just wanted to get your ass kicked.”

Zeya wordlessly took the tea and fiddled with the tab. Euna peered at her as she opened her own drink and took a swig. It was impossible to tell what Zeya was thinking at any given moment— her face was always so stony, she could either be contemplating her next attempted stabbing or trying to decide her next meal— but Euna had the impression the comment about the Captain had irked her.

“I was kidding, you know. About the favourites thing,” Euna said. “I just think Cap likes having you on the crew and wants you to stay once your contract is up.”

Zeya once again remained silent. She opened her can, but instead of drinking it, she picked at the tab with her fingernail. I probably should’ve just kept my mouth shut, Euna thought. Zeya’s contract was a touchy subject for her— based on the multiple attempts to escape the six cycle agreement to work for the Sirens without a cut of the crew’s earnings in exchange for food, lodging, and most importantly, not getting thrown out of the airlock for breaking into the ship and trying to steal from them in the first place, it was clear that she deeply resented the arrangement. 

But there was just over one cycle left before the contract was up, and in the last few weeks, there had been a tangible shift in the air, particularly in the way Captain Callisto interacted with Zeya. Everyone on the crew had noticed the way the Captain let little infractions slide, the way she let Zeya have a bit of an allowance to spend when the ship docked, the way she stopped confiscating the plasma daggers… And while Euna wouldn’t have minded having someone to spar with for a bit longer, eyebrows were being raised. 

The Captain denied any favouritism, but the last time someone had mentioned it around Zeya, she had pulled out her daggers, and it wasn’t Zeya who’d spent the night in the brig for “trying to start shit”.

“Forget I said anything,” Euna said quickly, not wanting to get into a real fight with Zeya right now. Not when the scar on her arm was still fresh. Gabi was probably going to think she was so annoying for needing repairs again. “I didn’t talk about the Captain, I didn’t talk about the contract—”

Zeya ripped the tab off her can and flicked it at Euna’s face, hitting her squarely in the cheek.

“Hey,” Euna protested as Zeya silently stormed out of the room with her drink, but didn’t make a move to follow her. 

She might not be the brightest person on the ship, but Euna knew it was best not to provoke a woman with two plasma daggers and a grudge.

[puppetgearing]

ALY

I WILL KILL (/POS) YOU