#i mean technically the bi flag has pink not red but like... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mckinlily · 4 years

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shalluraweek day 1: stars/sky

Summary: stars/sky Shiro had a celebrity crush.

read on ao3: here

“Sure you’re not freaking out, Shiro?” said Keith, his voice bland and amused.

Shiro realized he was repeatedly doing and undoing the Velcro on the back of his (one) fingerless glove and quickly put his hands behind his back. Behind him, someone—probably Pidge—snorted.

Shiro breathed and looking around, forcing himself to take in his surroundings. Small office, lots of sound equipment, his and Keith’s guitars against the wall, air conditioner that made that annoying hum. Keith was nearest him, slouched in his leather jacket in a way that made Shiro wonder if he and Keith made it as a punk duo on Keith’s emo vibe alone. Sprawled across the couch was Lance, their PR and social media manager, sipping on a smoothie and clearly snickering at Shiro. Pidge was fighting Lance’s legs encroaching on her space on the couch. She worked on post-production with Hunk, a musical genius who played an impossible number of instruments and had a knack of fleshing out every song idea Keith and Shiro had into a massive hit, and helped Lance out where PR became technical. She was also definitely smirking at Shiro. Really, Hunk was the only one of them not actively laughing at him, and that was because his expression was worryingly close to pity.

Why did Shiro like these people again?

Oh yeah, because his band and the team behind it had become something like a second family.

And sometimes “family” meant “incredibly annoying.”

Shiro resisted the urge to fiddle with one of his piercings. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly.

“Yeah. Suuuuurre, you are,” drawled Lance.

Hunk shot Lance a look, clearly chiding him for not being sympathetic. He looked back to Shiro. “You really don’t need to be nervous.”

“Sure he does,” said Pidge, grinning over her glasses at him. Besides Keith, she has known Shiro the longest, and Shiro could see the blackmail in her eyes as she looked at him. She took on a sing-song voice, “It’s Allura.”

Just the look in Pidge's eyes was enough to make Shiro blush.

“Ugh, why are you like this?” Keith threw his hands in the air. “You sing your heart out to thousands of people an audience, take the lead in interviews, talk openly about being bi and having PTSD on YouTube, but having a conversation with one singer—”

“She’s not just another singer!” objected Shiro, scandalized. “She’s Allura. Do you have any idea the kinds of records she’s broken? Her latest album—”

“Yeah, yeah. We all know about your massive crush on Allura,” laughed Lance.

Shiro huffed. “That's not it.”

They didn't get it. It wasn’t just that Allura was totally hot (breathtakingly beautiful more like) or an incredible musician (which she definitely was) or had a voice that when she sang would make even sirens weep in jealousy (though she definitely did). She also was the kind of social activist Shiro dreamed of learning how to be. A political refugee who climbed her way to the top from nothing, she used her massive following to push for social change and speak out against inequality in all its forms. The way she handled personal attacks—on her race, her gender, her sexuality (pan, as seem on the flag in her Twitter profile)—with grace, dignity, and yet absolutely no apology left Shiro in awe. He respected the hell out of her, ever since the first time he saw a video of her neatly dissecting the intersection of racism and sexism in the music industry, and privately considered her one of his personal heroes.

And she was coming to the studio because someone thought it was a good idea for them to collab, and Shiro didn’t know how to deal.

“Okay, okay.” Lance rolled off the couch, picking up a can of whatever sugary death drink they were supposed to be promoting and opening it to hand to Shiro. “Time to chill out. Take a sip of our ‘paying for Pidge’s new sound system’ drink and remember you’rean internationally known star, too. It’s going to be fine. I planned it.”

“Oh, and that’s never come back to bite us before,” said Keith.

“Excuse you, I made Grumpy Cat Keith a meme! It’s was a stroke of marketing genius!”

Shiro opted to ignore Lance and Keith’s bickering, choosing instead to take a sip of the dubious promotional sports drink—

“I mean, worst come to worst, we could always use the footage to make another meme campaign if Shiro completely falls on his face.”

—only to immediately spit it out again. “Pidge!”

“Sorry,” smirked Pidge, unrepentant. Then her eyes fell on his shirt that he’d spilled his drink all over. “Oh. Uh. Actually sorry.”

Shiro looked down at his chest with mounting dismay. Of all the days to wear a white shirt (this was why he wore black: it wasn’t depressing, it was practical). The promotional drink was an unnatural red and splattered over most his front. It wasn’t something that could be hidden and Shiro could already tell the color wasn’t coming out.

“We could try rising it?” said Pidge, and she honestly sounded contrite.

“Dump the drink over all the shirt?” Keith offered.

“Hold on,” said Hunk. He started rummaging behind the couch. “I think Shiro’s vest from the Toronto show is in here. I know that shows off your prosthetic a lot without anything to go under it but—”

“That’s fine. You’re right: it’s probably the best option. Lance, when is Allura supposed to show up?”

Lance glanced at his phone. “Uh, now, actually?”

“All right. Not much time.” Shiro forced the panic to stay out of his voice. “Hunk—”

“Found it!”

“Good.” Shiro grabbed the back of his shirt, getting ready to pull it over his head. It had stuck to his chest where the drink spilled and was starting to feel sticky.

“Um, guys?”

Shiro yanked his shirt off, turning as he said, “Yeah, Pidge?”

But it wasn’t Pidge who answered.

“Oh my.”

Oh no.

Oh no nononononononono.

Allura—superstar, perfect, idolized Allura—was standing their doorway, blocking the way for the rest of her entourage. Shiro pressed his crumbled shirt to his chest in a vain attempt to preserve his modesty. Which was helped not at all by the way Allura (unfairly hot in skin-tight silver jeans and an adorable crop-top) was staring.

Staring. At him. Shiro. Who could feel that last of that godsforsaken drink drip to his bellybutton.

They both started talking at once.

“Sorry—”

“So sorry—”

“—I was just—”

“—Of course! Abs—I mean! Absolutely—”

“—you too—wait, that’s not—”

Pidge’s cackling laughter put a stop to their train wreck, but only gave more time for Shiro’s blush to attempt to melt his face off. Fortunately (or not so fortunately?), Allura didn’t seem to be faring much better.

“Should we give you two some privacy?” asked Lance, all waggling eyebrows.

“No, you should not,” said Allura, drawing herself up and doing a nice job of returning to professionalism considering Shiro was still half-naked and drowning in mortification. She brushes her hands on her pants. “Let’s return to business.”

Her assistant snorted behind her. “Like you can talk business when you just ogled his chest for five minutes.”

“Romelle!”

Well, at least Shiro wasn’t the only one mortified now.

“We’re here to discuss a collab, which is what we’ll do,” said Allura. But she met Shiro’s eyes looking sheepish and a tiny bit shy. "Unless..."

“Could I buy you a drink after this?”

That was not what Shiro intended to say.

But, holy crow, if Shiro had thought that pink crop-top looked hot on Allura before, it had nothing on the tiny, confident smirk growing on her face. “Hm. Are you referring to the one on your chest?”

Shiro's mouth continued to run without his permission.

“I was thinking we could work up to that.”

Keith pretended to gag behind him, but Shiro didn't care because Allura, freaking I-don’t-need-a-last-name-I’m-like-Beyonce Allura, was flirting with him and Shiro was pretty sure if he tried right now, he could fly.

“Ugh, gross. Gross! Hunk, don’t look!” said Pidge, scrambling to put her hands over Hunk’s eyes. Meanwhile, Lance was smiling like a shark.

“Perhaps we finish this up first?” said Allura. The way she was smiling at him made Shiro feel like there were tiny supernova going off in his chest.

“That—that works.” Frankly, Shiro was astonished his words still worked at this point.

Allura clapped her hands together with an authoritative “All right!” and yep, Shiro was in love. “Enough of this. Let’s get down to business.” She strode further into the room and consequently closer to Shiro. “On one condition,” she said, tapping Shiro’s chest.

“Yeah?”

“You keep that shirt off.”

Well.

Shiro felt his own smirk blooming on his face. He could work with that.

#shallura #shalluraweek2020 #mckinlily writes: VLD fic #can't follow a prompt to save my life but i'm going to try

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thesmalltowngal · 5 years

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Snowbaz #19- I’m Always Sure Of You

Otp Prompt #19: Simon insists that he’s okay with Baz’s homosexuality. So okay, in fact, that he demands that they go on a double date (Baz with Niall and Simon with Agatha). Of course, Simon is angry when Agatha seems to express interest in Niall… so he decides to flirt with Baz to make her jealous.

I know I haven’t posted in forever- I’ve just been so stressed and tired lately. This one is just five pages of fluffy filler sentences, but I don’t think it’s half bad.

“Baz, it’s fine,” I insist as he rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. I swear- here how’s this?” I take a step closer to him while setting up my proposition. “How about we go on a double date so I can show you how okay with it I am. I’m so okay with it.” I never thought Baz was gay. I mean, it would explain why he never had a girlfriend (but not how he never had a boyfriend- I would suspect that a fit bloke like him would attract every non-straight guy at Watford), but I just… I suppose I never thought about it before. But trying not to think about it after I found a pride flag in his notebook (he was showering and plotting- I was snooping) was bloody hard.

He raises an eyebrow at me now (he knows I fucking hate it when he does that) before replying. “Snow, you don’t have to-”

I cut him off in a rush. “I know! I know I don’t have to but I want to. Agatha and I, and you and some bloke.” He thinks for a moment. (I didn’t think he’d actually consider it).

“I’d have to find a date.” He sneers at me. (But a soft sneer, if that makes sense).

“Crowley, I’m sure it won’t be hard for you to find one…” I mutter, mostly to myself. He sighs defeatedly, and I know I’ve won. (Probably because he knows I’d never let up).

…

Agatha isn’t happy when I tell her the news. “Baz is what?!” She whispers furiously in the hall I pulled her off to.

“Gay, Agatha. But that’s not the point. The point is that we’re going on a double date with him and a bloke this Saturday. Okay?” Her entire face falls, and I can almost hear the words that are probably pinging around in her head. ‘If Baz is gay, I don’t have a chance,’ or ‘Maybe I can convert him.’ But that’s not how it works. Because 1. She has a boyfriend, 2. Baz is our enemy, and 3. You can’t just convert someone. That’s not how it works, even if Agatha is the most beautiful girl at Watford. (If converting was possible, I’m sure Baz’d probably convert about half of the Watford boys).

She thinks for a moment before saying, “I thought you hated Baz…” “I do,” The response is almost like an immediate reaction. Like I don’t even think about the answer before responding. It’s like the way it’s supposed to be- always has been. It’s a sure thing; like night and day. You can always count on the sun to come back up, and the moon to come out later, just as you can count on me hating Baz. “I do, but I just want to show him that I support him.”

“Why?” She crinkles her nose and furrows her brow. Why do I want to support Baz? I suppose I don’t really bloody know.

“Well because I… well I- I don’t really know, Aggie. It just feels like the thing to do.” As she nods her head, I smile and squeeze her hand before walking away, mentally preparing myself to see Baz in class when I feel as though I know some sort of big secret that is meant only for my ears. (Even though technically he never formally told me- I had to find out by snooping).

…

Baz looks weirdly handsome in a green suit. Granted, he looks bloody handsome in anything (the tosser), but this green suit looks especially good on him. It fits him just right, snug in the correct places without showing off too much (although I suppose he does have plenty to show off, I’m sure). His hair (usually slicked back) is falling in waves around his face, framing his sharp jawline and cheekbones. (It makes his eyes look bluer; his hair, that is). He made reservations at an Italian restaurant off campus (we got special permission from The Mage to go), so everyone is dressed up kind of fancy. I felt like a blundering git when I had to ask Baz to borrow a suit. He had a grey one that fit me just fine.

Getting ready together is kind of weird- especially since we’re going out together in a little bit. Well not together together. Just… to the same place. Usually when we get ready in the morning, we go to the same place but we leave at different times. Now, we’re wordlessly moving around each other, getting ready separately to go to the same place at the same time. Every now and then I’ll look over at Baz and he’ll say ‘Stop staring, Snow,’ so I’ll look away and blush. (I can’t help but blush. Not because I’m embarrassed or anything, but because it’s my body’s knee jerk reaction).

I decide to break the awkward silence as we’re finishing getting ready and putting our shoes on. “So… who are you going with?” He looks at me curiously but then just sneers.

“Niall,” He says it simply, but when seeing my eyes pop out of my head, he clarifies. “We’re not together, you bloody halfwit. Although he’s bi, he’s not my type.” He lets out a short laugh and I can’t help but wonder who actually is his type. Probably someone posh and rich and perfectly controlled.

“So then why not go with someone you like?” I inquire. He looks at me for a moment, thinking. (Maybe plotting).

“I am a collectible that very few can acquire, Snow,” He scoffs and stands, looking at me expectantly. “Ready?” I nod and get up to open the door for him. He simply rolls his eyes and says (voice heavy with sarcasm), “How chivalrous.” I just roll my eyes and close the door behind us.

…

Agatha is still not in a good mood. She wasn’t in a good mood on the way to the restaurant (although she smiled when I told her how pretty she looked), and she’s not in a good mood now, sitting at our table and waiting to order. (Sidenote: I don’t like Baz and Niall together. Niall makes Baz laugh, and when Baz took his hand, Niall blushed and smiled. They probably plot my demise with each other). There’s a certain tension in the air, which I suppose is to be expected when you’re having dinner with your enemy.

“So, um, Agatha. How’s your… family?” Niall asks politely. She smiles at him a little and lets my hand go from under the table, starting to talk animatedly with him. Baz and I stay silent as they laugh together, but I catch Baz smiling at Niall ever so slightly as he talks. My heart twists in my chest (I can’t believe Agatha is flirting with Baz’s date- I suppose now that she knows Baz is gay, she needs to find some other bloke to flirt with) (Part of me is relieved). She is so obviously flirting with him that it’s just painful to watch.

When we finally get to ordering, Agatha is still smiling brightly with Niall, and when the server leaves, they go right back to talking. If she wants to flirt with someone’s date while she’s here with me… I suppose two can play that game. I turn my full attention to Baz and prepare myself for snarky remarks and sneers. “So Baz. What’s your… favorite violin song to play?” He looks at me like he thinks I’m joking, so I give him a look to tell him that I’m serious.

He (hesitantly) says, “‘The Last Rose of Summer I suppose…” He smiles like he’s trying not to. He likes talking about this, but he doesn’t trust me not to make fun of him. He can trust me.

“Which is…?” I let out a little laugh with him as he goes on.

“It’s a beautiful song that took me years to learn, and…” He continues on, a spark in his eye that shows that he’s passionate about this. It’s odd to admit it, but it’s slightly endearing to hear him talk about something he loves like we’re friends. (If this is what it would be like to be friends… maybe I wouldn’t mind so much).

When he’s done talking, he goes back to closed off, but all I want to do is get him talking again. “Crowley, what’s your favorite song to listen to on the violin?” It’s probably just my imagination, but I think I see a little pink rise to his cheeks. Just enough to make me think I see it, but not enough for me to be sure if it’s real or just my imagination.

“Er, it’s um…” He stumbles over his words more than usual, which is weird. “It’s called Bite. By Troye Sivan.” I can feel myself lean slightly back in shock. I’ve heard that song before (by a gay artist- Baz is more homosexual than I ever thought) and it’s wonderful. I couldn’t help but hum it for weeks after the first time I had heard it. It’s funny to me that that’s his favorite song to hear on the violin.

“I love that song!” I exclaim, Agatha and Niall’s conversation barely even registering in my brain anymore.

For a second- just a second, I see Baz’s hard exterior soften as he says, “You do?” I nod my head vigorously. It seems like he’s about to say more, but our food gets to the table, promptly cutting off all conversation and making Baz go on red alert again. For that split second that he seemed open (I can’t help but be proud of the fact that I made him feel that way), he was actually enjoyable, which is odd to admit. For a moment, I didn’t want to cut his bloody head off or light him on fire. And he even seemed like he didn’t hate me.

The table lapses back into silence for a second as we begin eating, but Agatha quickly goes back to talking with Niall. I should be paying attention to make sure no funny business is going on, but instead I can’t take my eyes off of Baz. (And not because I think he’s plotting, this time).I just let myself admire the way his eyes crinkle sometimes when he smiles at something Niall says. The way he runs his hands through his hair like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and how he doesn’t eat much on his plate, but when he does, he puts his hand over his mouth, embarrassed. (I wonder if he has an eating disorder) (I actually think his fangs pop out when he eats; his cheeks always look fuller when he’s around food).

“So Snow, did you get the History of Magicks essay done?” Baz turns his attention to me, and I feel lighter for some reason. Ha, I want to say to Niall. (For reasons I’d rather not think about at the moment).

“I, um-”

“Because if you didn’t, like the bloody tosser you are, I suppose I could help you and your small brain,” Even though he through in insults, I’m still taken aback by his offer. He would help me with my essay? Voluntarily? Who is this bloke and what has he done with Baz? (I suppose he’s had a few glasses of wine- maybe he’s slightly buzzed) (can vampires get buzzed?)

“I suppose… yeah, that’d be…er- nice, I suppose.” I stumble over my words more than usual (which is very very much) when I’m talking to him. Maybe if he helps me with my essay, we can have more nice moments like this. (I mentally slap myself for wanting more moments like this with my ever-plotting enemy).

He smiles a small smile at me and goes to take another bite of his spaghetti. When I look over, I see Agatha twirling her fucking hair and laughing with Niall like he’s the worlds funniest guy. Suddenly I remember what I had wanted to do before; make her jealous. I lean forward in my chair a little towards Baz and smile sweetly at him. (It’s a first; a nice first). He just quirks that infernal eyebrow at me as he continues to chew.

“Tell me a joke, Baz.” I smile extra brightly at him. I try to add extra sweetness into my voice, which is the polar opposite of the venom usually laced in my tone when I talk to him.

“Okay?” He says it like a question- like he’s waiting for me to explain why I’m being weird. (Maybe because I feel kind of fuzzy right now. Maybe because I feel kind of fuzzy whenever I’m around him). “Today at the bank, an old lady told me to check her balance. So I pushed her over.” He delivers it hesitantly, but still well enough for me to chuckle out loud. I try to laugh extra hard like Agatha but it comes out as kind of forced, so Baz slightly frowns and looks down.

“That one is actually really funny!” I try to catch his eyes, and when I finally do, I hold his gaze for a few moments. I realize now that out of all the years I’ve lived with him and all of the times that I’ve fought with him, I’ve never really looked him in the eyes. I think I was always scared about what I’d find there. Anger, disgust, disdain- complete and utter repulsion. But looking into his blue-grey eyes, I only see softness. Some hesitance; sadness, maybe. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then Baz’s soul is beautiful and soft and full of love. (Can vampires have souls?) (I think they do. Baz certainly does, at least).

When I look into his eyes, it almost seems like the rest of the restaurant fades away. Just turns into black until Baz and I are the only two people left in the room- maybe even the world. But he looks away (back to Niall) and blushes (only just barely) before I get to indulge myself in ‘getting lost in his eyes’ for much longer. When I look over, I see Agatha playfully putting her hand on Niall’s arm across the table, lingering for a second longer than she should have. (If it isn’t clear, we are probably going to fight after this dinner).

“Looks like Wellbelove seems to want to swap dates,” Baz looks back at me and smiles a bit, adding just a small sneer to it. (It doesn’t look menacing- it just kind of looks sweet). I want to tell him that that’s okay; switching dates would be perfectly fine with me. (I don’t know why I want to tell him that. Or why I feel that way).

Instead, I say, “Yes, I suppose…” And trail off. (He hates it when I do that). He looks at me curiously as I look back to see Agatha’s hand on Niall’s arm again. I decide to do something stupid.

Before he can say anything, I take his wrist that’s laying on the table and lace my fingers through his. He sucks a breath in between his teeth and then lets out a shuddering breath. His hand is cold and calloused in mine, but it’s an oddly soothing feeling. I know that this isn’t affecting Agatha (she’s not even looking), but I can’t bring myself to let go. (That is now on my list of things not to think about).

“What are you doing, Snow?” He curls his lip, but doesn’t let go- even as I start rubbing soothing circles into the back of his hand.

I just shrug. I know he hates it when I shrug, and now he’s pulling his hand away with an eye roll, but I grip harder and stop him. “I don’t know… I don’t know, Basilton.” I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m flirting with my enemy and holding his hand to make my girlfriend jealous when

She is flirting with someone else

She’s not even looking

I am not even gay

All I really know is that I don’t want to let go of his hand. I don’t know what that means, or why that is, but I just really want to keep holding on.

All through the rest of dinner, I don’t let his hand go. He doesn’t make a move to remove it, either. Even as we eat, and as we pay for dinner, his hand stays planted firmly in mine. I know Niall has noticed- but he just looked and smirked. I don’t know if Agatha as noticed or not yet- she’s too busy flirting with Niall and hanging all over him.

When we get up to leave the restaurant, Baz finally starts pulling away, but I just wind my fingers more around his. He cocks his head at me, but gives in, letting me continue to hold his hand. Why is he letting me do this to him? Why do I want to keep doing it? I must be drunk. (I only had one glass of wine) (maybe drunk on Baz). Agatha is huddled close to Niall because she’s cold. (I don’t care). Maybe I’m a bad boyfriend. (I don’t bloody care much about that, either).

…

The walk back to rooms was uncomfortable and awkward at best. Agatha was dropped off at The Cloisters first. Before going inside, she leaned in and gave Niall a long hug, me a quick (and emotionless) peck on the cheek, and Baz a curt nod. (Baz and I didn’t stop holding hands- does that make me a bad person?) (No, it doesn’t. I don’t like Baz. I just like the way his hand feels in mine).

After Agatha was dropped off, the walk to Mummers is quiet and slightly awkward. Baz and I are still holding hands, and Niall walks a few feet away from us. When we drop him off at his room, he nods to both of us and slips in without a word. (I swear I saw him wink at Baz- maybe I’m just tired). Baz and I hesitate for a moment before starting to walk back to our room. (Crowley, I have to share a room with him after tonight). I’m sweating in my (Baz’s) suit as we near the door. For some reason, I just don’t want Baz to let go, but I know that once we get to our room, he’ll probably pull away and spit on me, grilling me about what the fuck was that, Snow?

But when we enter our room and I start walking to my bed, letting go of Baz’s hand, I feel a sharp tug at my hand. It pulls my entire arm back and forces me to spin around and stumble forward- right into my roommates’ arms. He spins me around (again, I suppose) so that my back is against our door and he’s holding my wrists to the door and by my sides. He’s so close that I can smell the spaghetti he just had for dinner. Looking into his eyes, I feel my heart flip in a way that it never did with Agatha. Is that possible?

“What in the fuck was with the hand holding and flirting, Snow?” I assume he’s trying to sound threatening, but he just sounds breathless. I stutter, looking for an answer.

I… I- I don’t know.” He gazes down at me, his eyes a soft contrast to the rest of his collected exterior.

“You never know, Simon Snow,” I gasp quietly when he says my name. He’s so close our noses are touching and I can feel every single place where his cold skin sets me on fire and I want to know the taste of his lips and-

I cut my own thoughts off when I say, “I know one thing.” “And what might that be?”

Deep breath. “I know that I want to kiss you.” The words that come out of my mouth surprise both me and him. At first he doesn’t say or do anything- just stands there staring at me.

“Well are you going to do something about it then, Snow?” His breath tickles my cheek.

“You called me Simon before.” He scoffs.

“I did no such-” I cut him off by pressing my lips to his. Cold. Soft. Wonderful. His eyes come up to cup my face and I grab fistfuls of his hair, tilting his head down to deepen the kiss. I could do this for hours. I feel free. Like that line from Baz’s favorite violin song: Kiss me on the mouth and set me free. Well Baz is doing exactly that.

I may not know much; Normal math, elocution, why I don’t feel romantic love when I’m with Agatha and why she feels the need to flirt with others right in front of me. But if there is one thing that I am always sure of; one thing I always know…

It’s that I love Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

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thedistantstorm · 5 years

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A SteelPoncho Dawning - Part 1

A Dawning romance featuring the Commander and the Clan Steward, their feelings for each other coming to a head during the first Dawning celebration following the Red War, featuring Lord Saladin, city food, eventual smut, and a whole lot of pining.

Just before he adjourns the Consensus, Commander Zavala says, “A reminder that Lord Saladin will be arriving next week with the intent of hosting the Iron Banner through the Dawning. I would remind everyone that with the Faction Rallies, Crucible, and Iron Banner all inevitably inspiring competition that we remember what this time of year is about. Dismissed.”

Per usual, Hawthorne is waiting for him when he exits the hall. Usually, one or both of them are too hyped up to do anything productive after the hostilities that typically consume these bi-weekly gatherings of the powers that be. Especially with her adjusting to her new role, specifically the responsibilities, protocols, and expectations that came with, Suraya had taken to asking the Commander questions or voicing her concerns afterward, and he found that such discussions were best done either over a meal, or at the very least, some caffeine. The walk down to the City usually gave her some freedom to think through her questions and, more importantly, get some fresh air after spending hours locked up in the Vanguard Hall.

It was getting colder, scant flakes of snow breezing by as they fall into step together. They are almost to the area of the Tower reserved as residences for the Vanguard and any other high-ranking officials who chose to keep a flat atop the wall when her steps slow and she looks at the swirling snow around them.

“It’s a long walk down there,” She says to him. “You want to ditch the armor and put on something that actually keeps you warm?”

He laughs. “I will be fine, Suraya. The Light is useful to Guardians for more than battle.” He puts a hand on her cheek. She is frigid. He is pleasantly warm.

He feels the grumble she makes through his palm before he removes his hand. “Okay, got it. Awoken furnace.” She rolls her eyes in mock irritation. “Must be nice.”

“I learned very little about solar abilities aside from this,” Zavala hums back. “It certainly has its advantages, but burning hammers do not interest me.”

“I thought it was a maul?”

He shrugs. She giggles. “Of course,” He backpedals, suddenly self-aware of his flippancy, “All of the Titan orders and abilities are of equal importance, do not get me wrong-”

She nudges his forearm with her elbow. “No need to explain it to me, Zavala. I am the last person to be passing judgement. But, speaking of judgement,” She segways for as much for his personal comfort as for sake of moving the conversation along, “This meeting was way lighter on it than the others, thankfully. Anyway, I would like to know more about Saladin-”

“Lord Saladin.”

“Yeah, him-”

“No, I mean Lord Saladin. He was my teacher, Suraya. He is deserving of your respect.”

“Sure. Lord Saladin,” She agrees, with a roll of her eyes that he'll never break her of, “Tell me about him over lunch. Especially stories about both of you. Also,” She leans over to him conspiratorially, falling out of step with him to do so, “This diner we’re going to? It has amazing pie.”

Of course it does, Zavala thinks. That earns her a laugh as he shakes his head. “I'm beginning to think this is all a rouse to coerce me to take you for a meal. Do you actually have things you need to discuss?”

“Please. If I insisted on doing this every time I needed help, we’d go at least three times a day.” She ducks her head, giving him a sheepish smile. “I actually have questions I save up, since, y’know, I haven’t been alive for more than this age of the city and you’re ancient enough to remember most of them - I think.”

He rolls his eyes. “I might be old, but I’m not senile, Hawthorne.”

“Most of the time,” Suraya teases, brown eyes sparkling with a playful glint. She pulls her hood closer to her neck to abate the cold, and his eyes narrow on rosy cheeks and a pink nose. Ignoring her jibe, he can’t help but wonder if she would prefer a scarf in periwinkle or red.

He enjoys spending these afternoons(and the occasional evening) with her, following meetings of the Consensus. Over the last few months since her appointment as Clan Steward, he's had the distinct pleasure of watching her come into her own. He'd asked her to stay and monitor the clans because she had owned them since they were civilian flags waving in the refugee camps at the farm. She excelled at bringing people together, at inspiring unity amongst the Guardians as well as the general population both inside and out of the walls.

Hawthorne, for all her reputation as someone who flew off the handle - there were rumors amongst FOTC about what she could do with a frying pan that she always brushed off(which meant they were true) - was surprisingly poised in Consensus meetings. She'd come in humble but firm, and eager to debate things for the benefit of her people - all people. Instead of screaming when someone voiced something that contradicted her beliefs, she backed up cool statements with fact.

Secretly, he liked to believe he had rubbed off on her - a little. Of course, the last time he'd thought that in a meeting, she'd thrown an absolute fit at something he personally had said, refused to meet with him afterward, and come back hours later to debate with him until the early morning hours.

He remembered fondly taking her to breakfast once they’d finished going round after round of mental warfare. She’d apologized quietly into her tea for the myriad of insults she’d volleyed at him, saying that she was only trying to do what was best for the clans and their people. They looked to her, and she was beholden to defend their best interests wherever possible. His reply was to convince the waitress to bring her the largest slice of apple pie, fresh from the baker's oven, and make her promise never to change.

It is undeniable that he values her opinion, her spirit, her company. She is invaluable to him. A friend. It has been quite some time since he’s truly had a friend. Despite technically pulling rank, they regarded each other as equals, she being his civilian counterpart in all but name.

Not that he needs a sounding board. Certainly, they discuss major issues, and he’d be remiss if he denied ever asking her opinion on items he’d been pressed to decide for the City, but theirs was an easy camaraderie.

She would spend hours reading up on the City’s history, that of their enemies, the Factions, and even the occasional recreational story he’d send her way when he felt she needed a break. In the same way, she’d know exactly when to clear her throat, pull the tablet out of his hands, and force him to take a break - even if she cleverly disguised it as needing him to tend to her until he was out of his own head. His Ghost was certainly pleased with the arrangement, Zavala’s mental health had never been more in hand.

It had probably been a century - maybe more - since he’d looked forward to more than just work. His work was important, irrefutably so, but he found he had a clearer resolve with more anchors than those constantly being forced upon him by political bodies who would see him rip himself apart to please all their whims.

He found himself eager to set aside his reports in lieu of spending quiet evenings lost in crochet while she thumbed through a book, journalled, or tended to Louis. More likely, she’d do all three with the day’s crucible matches playing quietly in the background, take-away containers scattered across one of their kitchen tables if she was feeling adverse to cooking. And oh, if there was something that was incredible about Suraya Hawthorne that was not humanity or clan related, it was that the woman could cook.

At first it had come as a surprise, her casual refusal of more enthusiastic plans for a night spent in his company, sometimes exchanging few words and almost always ending in him waking her to send her home or to her bed while he saw himself out. The rough 'n tumble vibe others so commonly appointed to her could not be further from the truth. She drank very little, hated large, boisterous taverns, and kept a small circle of friends. There was something comfortable about their arrangement, their companionship. Something that came from not discussing, not making it any more than it was.

...Something that was easily avoided, but fierce and strong, exhilarating and new. He refused to really think about it, for fear of ruining the balance they’d managed to attain - that stark contrast from their original interactions during the war, at the Farm. He knew he trusted Suraya Hawthorne with his life, she’d certainly saved it a time or two. He knew in his heart of hearts that she too trusted him implicitly. That was enough. He dared not consider that soft edge in her glances, the occasional brushes of fingertips(or arms, or legs, or her head on his shoulder), their ridiculous ability to wind up on the same wavelength despite varying experiences.

Zavala is pragmatic, rational. He knows better than to look at things through the lens of what he wants, and instead to see them as they are. But so much of it really seems to be the same, no matter how he looks at it. Which is why he refuses to think about it, and instead cherish whatever interactions they have, for what they are. No reading into it allowed.

Even if it meant ignoring that warm, tight feeling in his chest at her successes, or the lack of air in his lungs when she'd look at him a certain way - the way that said she sees him as a man who is more than a title or an immortal or a weapon or a leader, sees beyond arcing fists and too-bright eyes into a soul that is old and new all at once. Or, even still, holding her heartbreak close to his own when she failed, allowing her space when all he wanted was to hold her close and chase it away.

No, he absolutely couldn’t think about it, because he’d be in way over his head, and everything would change.

#destiny fanfiction #SteelPoncho #zavala x hawthorne #suraya hawthorne #commander zavala #the dawning #dawning romance #mutual pining #feels and fluff #steelponcho dawning fic #my writing

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