#this is a joke. i will not. i will wail 'no' like a petulant child. and then i will laugh. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wrathofrats · 5 months

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well... how abouuuttt "why dont you ever listen to me?" with a ghoul of your choice, maybe the other ghoul is mad at dew, or maybe dew is upset, maybe because hes been trying to communicate that hes struggling ajd the others havent picked up on it, and he just wants it to stop. idk im not that good at coming up with prompts on the spot but i hope this is a good enough idea!! 🤷

Hi it’s been ….. we aren’t going to talk about how long it’s been.

But I hope you enjoy, yall seem to love when I give Dew problems (don’t worry I love it too)

Slapping aether in here because it hurts

Anyways, cirrus makes a joke, dew needs a hug and aether is a very supportive boyfriend

Dew doesn’t know when it began to bother him.

He sat on the couch nonchalantly watching some horror movie cirrus had thrown on. The exorcist? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t think he really cares.

“Careful cir, you’ll give him nightmares” aether teased

“He is the nightmare” cirrus rolled her eyes in a response, a playful smile at her lips. It was a joke.

His chest feels hollow as aether ruffles his hair. Something about it didn’t feel right. A normal quip that would have him saying something stupid in response, or simply giving her the finger, suddenly didn’t have the same feeling to it.

He swallowed heavy, the salvia only added to the pit in his stomach.

It’s a gross feeling, something between knowing he’s overreacting and wanting to cry at the thought that they actually think he’s a nuisance. Both are untrue, the logical part in his brain tries to convince him but it doesn’t stop the tears that sting in the back of his eyes, the flush in his face or the way his head feels like it’s full of starch.

It was a joke.

He’s overreacting, he’s certain of it but he can’t stop himself from getting up and walking away without his usual banter.

“Dew? What’s up?” Aether calls after him, following him into the bathroom.

Dew shakes his head to save his dignity. His voice will shake and crack, he knows if he even tries to say he’s ok a sob will rack his body and he won’t be able to contain himself anymore.

He’s embarrassed because he’s overreacting and he’s clutching the sink as aether puts a supportive hand on his back but it feels patronizing because he knows he’s overreacting and he’s-

“Did we say something?”

Dew sobs. Quick, choked off like it wasn’t supposed to come out because it wasn’t. Because he’s overreacting and he shouldn’t be acting like this. Because it was a joke and he’s making a scene because he can’t help but overthink everything.

“Dew, it was a joke” aether embraces him, lightly to not overwhelm him, but he can’t leave him like this. Dew barely lets go of his vice grip on the counter top to let aether pull him into himself. “She didn’t mean it, we thought you liked jokes like that”

He doesn’t. He’s said that.

Dew shakes his head and pushes away from aether enough to speak.

The crack in his voice makes him wince as he chokes and gasps the sobs back to try and get out what he’s saying without being a complete mess, but it’s pathetic anyways, he feels like a child. The way aether stares in concern makes him feel like a petulant toddler throwing a fit.

“I can’t stand them anymore. I’ve said this”

“Have you?” Aether asks, genuinely. The fact that he’s being genuine almost makes it hurt more. He wishes aether would just let him be dramatic and leave him alone.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Dew all but wails. He’s louder than he means to be, another sob ringing out in the middle of his sentence. Aether looks confused and concerned, like dew has actually lost it this time, over a joke no less.

“I am, I am listening to you droplet, tell me what’s wrong”

It feels patronizing, dew knows aethers not trying to be but the frustration builds anyways.

“I’m tired aeth, I’m tired of you all acting like you hate me. No one ever acts like they genuinely like or want to be around me and it’s fucking heart wrenching” dew cries

“Water bug you know i-“ aether shakes his head, remorseful.

“No, aether you don’t understand. You all keep saying you hate me. It stings. I don’t know what to do I don’t understand why I’m the only one not worthy of kindness” dew clings to aethers shirt like if he lets go aether will disappear and stop listening to him.

“Dewdrop I’m sorry I didn’t know-“

“Stop please just - I don’t get it” dew sobs. He leans his head into aethers shirt, fist fulls of fabric brought up to his face as aether embraces him tightly.

Dew just weeps, a dam of emotions he can’t bare to vocalize comes out in tearful pleas instead.

“I don’t get it. I’m sorry. Please listen I’m sorry. I don’t understand” the demands come out in choked off cries, forceful sounds racking his small frame as aether hugs him tightly to try and get him to stop shaking.

Aether lowers them to the floor, holds dew in his lap and tries to soothe him.

“You’re not being dramatic, I’m sorry. We love you so much and I’m sorry we don’t say that” aether whispers into his hair.

Dew starts to quiet down as aether traces shapes into his back, the distraction well needed. He clings and listens and tries to focus on whatever aether is dragging into his skin with the tip of his fingers.

“So sorry waterbug, you’re ok, I love you so much. You’ve done nothing wrong”

Dew realizes what the shapes are.

He’s tracing hearts into his back.

#time to give dew pain again #I’m sorry man idk. love that thing but consider: I give him all my problems #also the important note of no one’s in the wrong here #sometimes communication is hard and so are emotions #aether would die for him ok? so would cirrus #the band ghost #ghost #fanfic #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #wrath writes #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #angst

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khazadspoon · 4 months

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Well it happened. Not quite full on cat-tle drive au but catboy rowdy au has now got written content.

I’m not sorry

———

As he approached the wagon, Gil knew something was wrong by the volume at which the voices were speaking. Rowdy and Wishbone were far from the quietest pair in camp, but this was loud even for them.

“What do you mean you don’t know? You- you’re the doctor here!” Rowdy nearly wailed.

“I mean exactly what I said! I don’t know how long and I don’t know why. I’ve done more than my fair share of doctorin’ on these drives, but I ain’t never seen anything like this so quit yelling and drink the damn tonic!”

Gil rounded the chuck wagon, readying himself to play mediator once again. He took a deep, steadying breath, and glanced around at the two men and-

-promptly blinked, shut his mouth, turned, and went to grab the bottle of whiskey sticking out of the supply wagon nearby.

He shook his head and ignored the call of “boss” and “Mister Favor” as he sat heavily on a crate next to the fire.

“I’m asleep,” he told himself, “dreaming, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed, five sharp pricks of pain shocking him. He glanced up despite his desire not to confront whatever was happening this time.

“Mister Favor, please, you gotta help me!”

Rowdy stared down at him with wide eyes Gil didn’t recognise. The usually bright but normal eyes were gone, replaced by slit pupils surrounded by a deep green so unlike Rowdy’s usual eye colour. When he sneered, as he so often did when upset or confused, sharp teeth glinted in the firelight. And his ears-

Well. They could only be described as cat’s ears. Pointed, furry, a dirty blonde colour like Rowdy’s hair, but flattened back like an… like an angry cat.

Gil took a long drink from the bottle and rubbed the back of his hand over his damp lips.

“Rowdy, this is the only time I’ll ask so think carefully before you do anything. I want you to punch me.”

Rowdy blinked, his ears (damned fluffy looking things) twitched forward. “What..? Why would I do that? Look, it’s not natural whatever’s happened to me but I need your help-”

“Punch me and I’ll wake up.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed again, the same sharp pain following and Gil realised he really wasn’t dreaming.

“Shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily, lifting the bottle to his lips once more.

Rowdy growled and it almost made Gil drop the bottle.

“This ain’t a joke, boss,” he said with a hiss, ears flattened and teeth bared. “I can’t just- just walk about like this! Look at me!”

Gil did, blinking slowly to ensure he wasn’t seeing things wrong. Rowdy watched him, eyes softening as he blinked back. His ears rose and pointed forward and Gil blinked slowly again. Rowdy copied the motion.

“Stop it!” Rowdy hissed, backing up and nearly falling over the coffee pot on the ground. Gil quickly rose and caught him with an arm around his waist.

“Careful,” he muttered, setting Rowdy back on his feet. The boy grumbled under his breath and turned, hands on his hips. Gil glanced up and down the length of his body and paused. “So… ears, eyes, teeth, goddamn claws but no tail?”

Rowdy flushed a dark pink when he whirled to snarl at Gil. “I’ve got a-!” He took a long, deep breath and let it out in one slow exhale. “I’ve got a tail. It’s just… short.”

Gil tried not to laugh, he really did. He failed. “First I’ve ever heard a man admit to that.”

“It’s not a joke!” Rowdy crossed his arms over his chest like a petulant child and Gil was glad the kid hadn’t decided to just drop his pants right there to prove himself. “It’s like- like a bobcat or something.”

There was a watery note to his voice. Gil mentally slapped himself and tried to rectify the situation as best he could. “I’m sorry, Rowdy. This is a lot, but that don’t mean I can make fun of you. We’ll deal with it, and we’ll find out how to fix it. If we can’t, then….” He trailed off and shrugged, reached out to grasp Rowdy’s arm. “We’ll learn to live with it.”

Rowdy looked up from under his long lashes, those strange cat’s eyes glinting eerily in the low light. “Really?”

“Really.”

They hadn’t actually been through anything this strange before, but Gil was quietly confident they’d figure out how to manage.

#rawhide #rowdy yates #gil favor #catboy rowdy #I can’t believe I’ve done this

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willowmckinley · 2 months

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FTH Practice 3

I am continuing to practice for Fandom Trumps Hate! Here is my fill for @magically-with-magic's prompt: "Tim and Rachel being bffs, commiserating over a recent Raylan shenanigan. Bonus points if Raylan is sitting right there pouting about it."

Words: 462

“Dearest sister,” Tim greets, stepping up behind Rachel with two coffees in hand.

“Beloved brother,” Rachel answers in a deadpan. She accepts her mug from his outstretched hand and takes a sip.

“Our darling Papa and most kind older brother have engaged in a tiff,” Tim answers.

“Oh, no. Whatever shall we do.” That Rachel can yes-and in the most uninterested tone of all time is one of Tim’s favorite jokes. Every time. It tickles him every time. She turns to see Art chewing Raylan out in his office.

“Quickly, precious sister! We must rescue our most affectionate older brother from our Papa’s most heinous clutches!” Tim says, almost as dry, but not quite. Rachel’s still got him beat. He’ll get her one day. He’ll get her to corpse before he does.

Rachel and Tim walk over, opening the door to Art’s office and closing it behind them.

“What are you two doing?” Art asks. His brow is furrowed.

“Papa!” Tim says. He sets his drink down on the side table next to the couch. He clasps his hands together in front of him. “In your grace, please spare our eldest, most wonderful brother, from your righteous fury.”

“What?” Art asks.

Rachel hands Tim her coffee and also clasps her hands together. “Loving Father.”

Tim almost chokes. Damn, she’s good.

“We know our elder brother’s many misdeeds have abused the kindness and love you have showered upon us, ever since we were babes rocked in bassinets,” Rachel continues.

“Hey!” Raylan exclaims.

“Stop,” Art says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Tim sets Rachel’s coffee down next to his. He clutches at his button up over his shirt and throws his other arm over his eyes, as if he is suffering from a fainting spell. “Precious brother has been framed!” Tim says with a faux wail.

“What?” Art asks again, still pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It is true, Father,” Rachel adds with a grave nod.

“See?” Raylan says, a bit petulant. Hey. Tim’s the only baby brother around here.

He has to step it up. “The vile bastard child of your unholy affair on our beloved, dearest, late Mother,” Tim starts.

“Oh, Lord,” Art groans.

“Nelson,” Rachel supplies for context.

“That cad! He is the one who broke the fax machine!” Tim proclaims.

Art sighs, long and aggrieved. He rubs his face, nearly kneading himself like dough. “Is this true?” he asks. He doesn’t open his eyes, but all three of them know he directs this to Rachel.

“He spilled coffee all over it. It was broken before Raylan punched it,” Rachel says.

Tim feels like Watson. Or, maybe, like, if Columbo had an assistant. Didn’t Columbo have a dog? That’s Tim.

Art points to his door. “Out. All of you.”

#justie games #tim gutterson #rachel brooks #art mullen #raylan givens #nelson justified #justified fx #my fic

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swampofiniquity · 4 years

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Gasoline (Leon Kennedy x Reader)

Part Three of Point / Counterpoint

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 2829

Summary: It took several years and almost being killed on the job, but you and Leon finally reach the breaking point.

Warnings: Explicit sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, fighting

Part One / Part Two

You could feel the judgmental gazes of the rest of the team, could hear their frustrated muttering as they filed in behind you. Someone even dared to joke, quiet laughter breaking out until a sharp warning glare from Leon sent people scattering like cockroaches after the light switched on.

So much for all the hard work you had put in to earn their respect.

Your fists were clenched so tightly that your fingers ached and your palms stung from your nails digging into the tender flesh. Your tongue was bleeding from being held so tightly between your teeth for the hours it took for the mission party to return to HQ. It was all you could do to keep your frustration from exploding all over the place like a fifth grade science fair volcano.

You were beyond furious. Rage, white and hot coursed through your blood, searing your veins as Leon shoved you bodily into the elevator, his own anger rolling off him in sickening waves. Never before had either of you been so upset with one another.

The indignity of being thrown over his shoulder and removed from the mission like a petulant child. The utter disregard for your expertise or competency as an agent. The fucking audacity to stand between you and your target, to yell at you in front of the whole team. As the elevator climbed, you could concentrate on nothing else, not the vice-like grip he still had on your arm or the acrid, lingering scent of gunpowder on your clothes. Not even the nagging worry in the back of your head that this had done irreparable damage to your friendship.

After what seemed like forever, the elevator finally stopped at the top floor and Leon shoved you out, dragging you to his office and locking the door. He turned to you with a kindred fury burning in his blue eyes.

The room echoed with two warring shouts of “What the hell is wrong with you?” and “You nearly got yourself killed!”

“Goddamnit Leon, he was right there! Another second and I could have had him if you hadn’t -” you cut yourself off, fuming. Your hands shook as you slid off the ridiculous stiletto heels that were part of your disguise. It took every ounce of what little remained of your restraint to not hurl the uncomfortable shoes at his office window.

While you primarily served as medical support out in the field, being the youngest woman on the team you also did a fair amount of what was jokingly referred to as ‘honey pot’ missions, where your job was to dress a certain way, go in and extract information from or otherwise distract targets that had a known weakness for women. It was a bit demeaning having to show up to work in a thong and push-up bra, but you had been instrumental in putting some pretty big players in the B.O.W. market out of commission. You were damn good at your job, even in a dress and heels.

And you had never failed at it, until tonight.

“We had a plan!” he roared, stalking towards you until you were forced to take a step back. “You were not to engage until backup was ready. His security made you, you realize that right? Another second and you would have been dead!”

You shook your head, bristling under his glare, his anger feeding into your own. “You of all people should have trusted me!”

Leon growled, grabbing your shoulders and shoving you hard into the wall. A twisted, pained sort of scowl marred his face. Still furious, even beyond the shock of his actions, you bared your teeth at him in a cruel smile. You weren’t some spineless rookie agent he couldn't intimidate, and you were going to just let him manhandle you into submission.

After a tense moment, he finally took a step back and let you go. Leon rolled his neck and turned to walk to his desk, to put some distance between the two of you. But somehow, the sight of his back made you even more livid.

“Coward,” you hissed.

He was back in a second, pushing you roughly into the wall with his bulk and grabbing you by the throat. For a fleeting, terrifying second you thought he meant to squeeze, but then he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours so forcefully you were sure your lips would bruise.

It was less kissing than combat, the resulting embrace. It was remarkable how easy it was to go from hate to need. Or perhaps more aptly, for the two to blur together so seamlessly. As soon as you felt his hard body up against you and his lips pull viciously at your own, the boiling blood under your skin took on a different purpose.

It didn't matter that he was your friend or your superior or that he had just humiliated you on the job. Years of tension came to head spectacularly, leaving the two of you powerless to do anything but give in.

Your frantic hands clawed at his jacket as he gripped your waist and hauled you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around him. The ragged fabric of your once elegant gown, now torn and dirty from the harrowing failure of a mission, rucked up past your hips.

“Oh fuck,” you panted against his mouth, instinctively grinding into him. Leon groaned into the kiss and your head spun as you felt him harden through his pants.

"Jesus, gorgeous." Hit bit down on your lips as he pressed his growing erection further into you.

You were flushed. The room and your blood too hot. Your skin too sensitive. Your clothes felt like they were suffocating you. Desperately, you tried to reach the zipper of your dress with one shaking hand, the other anchoring tightly around his neck. But you couldn’t quite grasp it. A frustrated whine caught in your throat.

“Get me outta this,” you demanded, tearing your mouth from his. Leon nipped at your lips before reluctantly returning your bare feet to the floor.

Instead of bothering with the zipper, he used both hands to rip the satin fabric of your dress, the rasping sound of it tearing making you wince. What remained of the dress fell off you and pooled at your feet. His darkened eyes tracked its movement down your body and your feverish skin erupted in goosebumps under his gaze.

“Fuck,” he grunted and you weren’t sure what felt more intoxicating, finally being free of the restricting clothes or his reaction to your bared body.

You answered by throwing yourself back into his arms with enough force to make him stumble. He found his balance while you found the pulse point on the side of his neck and bit down. Leon gasped then sucked in air between his teeth as you used your tongue to soothe the mark.

“Desk,” you muttered against his skin, knowing that your legs were unlikely to hold you upright for much longer. It was the only word your brain could manage, most of its power now being focused on the feeling of his kiss, the strength of his arms, the musky spicy scent of his skin.

“No,” he bit out and his voice sounded ruined. “Here” With that he had you shoved up against the wall again, pinning you with his hips.

Your stomach swooped, like during a free-fall. He was impatient, near frantic, running his hands over every inch of you he could reach. The feeling of familiar hands in such unfamiliar territory, mixed with the adrenaline and anger from your fight left you shivering despite the fire you could feel building up to a steady roar beneath your skin.

You took a second to lament the fact that you couldn’t possibly undress him with even half as much flair or drama as he did you. Not needing to seduce anyone like you did, Leon had been running the mission from the shadows, and the usual jacket and jeans combo he was wearing was still pretty sturdy even after surviving the disastrous end of the job. You settled for slipping your hands under the jacket and sliding it down his broad shoulders. He grumbled, upset to have to take his hands off you to get the damn thing off, and flung it away carelessly. Any further attempt you made to divest him was foiled by Leon gripping both your wrists in one large hand and pinning them to the wall above your head.

“Later,” he breathed like a promise into your ear. He bent to suck and kiss down the taut muscles of your neck as his free hand grabbed one of your knees to drag up and hook around his waist. Unconsciously, you tilted your hips so your wet heat pressed firmly against the firm bulge at the front of his jeans. Your whole body shook as your clit caught and dragged deliciously on the rough denim.

All pretense, or what little was left of it, melted away at that point. Leon shuddered against you, then moved quickly to unfasten his fly and push his pants and shorts far enough down his hips to release his hard cock. You could feel the velvet heat of it brush against the inside of your thigh as it came free and a surge of liquid warmth swooshed past your belly and down to your cunt.

Without ceremony, he pulled your thong to the side and guided himself into you, bottoming out with a sharp snap of his hips. You cried out. It was almost too much, the sudden stretch and fullness. The intensity. Fuck, your best friend was inside you. You struggled, trying to pull your hands free, but his grip only tightened.

“Holy shit, Leon,” you moaned, his name leaving your lips in almost a wail as he started thrusting in earnest.

"God, you’re so fucking tight, so good,” he grit out through clenched teeth, his nails digging into the soft flesh of your thigh as he fucked you.

You tried to keep up and give as much as you took, but he set a rough, near punishing pace. And you were only human. It didn’t take long for the spreading warmth and tingles he elicited in you to expand, then violently contract.

Your climax hit you hard and fast, like a tidal wave. You thrashed, throwing your head back against the wall and crying out nonsense oaths, either uncaring or oblivious to the other offices on the floor that could surely hear you from behind the thin walls. Leon fucked you through it, not stopping or slowing, not even when the resulting contractions in your pussy made him shout out loud.

When the wave finally began to ebb and your energy started to bleed away, you sagged, boneless, in his grip. But Leon didn’t miss a beat, dropping your wrists in favor of seizing your hips with both hands. This forced you higher up on the wall, and change of angle made his thrusts hit home deeper, the blunt head of his cock hitting your cervix.

You gasped, fingers and nails clawing into his shoulders as you held on tight. It felt like he was trying to break you in two and the new, dull pain mixed exquisitely with the pleasure every movement still sent through you.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, burying his face into the side of your neck.

His arms were shaking now and you could tell he was close. You brought your other leg up to wrap around his waist and used what little strength you had left to match his pace with your hips.

That seemed to send him over the edge. A jagged moan ripped from his throat and his fingers tightened painfully into your flesh. With a few more deep thrusts and a gush of wet warmth, he came inside you, your name leaving his lips like some kind of sinful prayer.

“Fuck.”

You ran your hands through his mussed, sweaty hair as he came down and finally pulled out. Leon slumped forward, nuzzling the flushed skin of your chest. His five o’clock shadow tickled and you squirmed, clearly overstimulated. It was enough to take you out of the post-climax haze.

“Leon,” you whispered, fear and uncertainty starting to fill in the space in your chest that your previous rage and indignation had left behind. With some space and time to cool off, you had been reasonably sure your friendship could have bounced back from the earlier clusterfuck. But this… You knew a line had been crossed here that the pair of you had religiously toed for a reason .

You were now scared you had just ruined everything.

“I came so close to having to watch you die today.” It was so quiet that you wouldn’t have caught it if his face wasn’t still so close to yours. Leon took a shaky breath before finally meeting your eyes. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you.”

The honesty hit you like a sock to the gut. “ Leon -”

“No, just let me say something first.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I know I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did and I know that you’re a good agent, but damn it Y/N, you can be so fucking stubborn sometimes. I don’t know where you got it stuck in your head that you have to do everything yourself, but you don’t. You said I should have trusted you, but you gotta trust me too, sweetheart. Or else none of this shit works.”

Your heart sank, knotting with your stomach in guilt, as you finally realized what all the anger and yelling and fighting had been hiding. He wasn’t just upset that you had gone against his plan. He had been scared.

“I don’t - I didn’t,” you tried, but the words wouldn’t come.

Leon shook his head. “ I don’t ever want to feel like that again. I don’t care what I have to do, what we have to do, but I… I can’t lose you, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed, your heart clenching in affection for the man in front of you.

“Okay.” Leon pressed a kiss to your temple and sighed heavily, the tension finally starting to bleed from his body. Suddenly, he straightened, wrapped his arms snugly around your back, and started to carry you away from the wall.

You flailed for a moment as your center of gravity shifted, but Leon never dropped you. Even though your behavior from earlier would have warranted it. You felt awful about the whole shit show of a day. With some hindsight, you could admit that maybe you had been a little too hotheaded, a little too eager to prove your worth.

Though whether or not you were ready to admit that to Leon was another story.

“Where are we going?” you asked, stifling a laugh as his open pants slid down to his ankles, forcing him to waddle like an overgrown penguin.

“Couch. I’m exhausted and you’re getting heavy.”

You scoffed in fake indignation as he finally reached his goal and deposited you on the plush cushion of his office’s modest couch. Before he could pull away, you leaned in and caught his lips in a soft, tender kiss. His hands went to the back of your head, blunt nails massaging your scalp in a way that made you melt. When you pulled away, you didn’t bother to hide your smile.

Leon frowned down at you, forehead wrinkled in suspicion. “What was that for?”

You shrugged and pecked his lips again. “Just felt right, I guess. Hey - “ he started to straighten again, but you pulled him back down until he was practically straddling you on the couch. “You know I couldn’t bear losing you either, right? I - you’re important to me.”

The L-word had been on the tip of your tongue, but you forced it back down. You had said it to each other before, but only under strictly platonic circumstances and usually with the help of more than a few drinks. Not naked and vulnerable and thoroughly fucked. After the emotional whirlwind you had just been through, you weren’t sure you could survive opening that can of worms.

“Yeah, you’re important to me too, gorgeous.”

There were sure to be consequences, both numerous and harsh, from everything that occurred. The failed mission. Going against orders. Yelling at a senior agent in front of the entire team. And it would be nothing short of a miracle if no one found out about what had just happened between you and that same agent. You’d be lucky to walk away with a suspension.

But as Leon settled down next to you and tucked you gently into his side, you found it hard to focus on anything other than how good it felt to be in his arms.

#leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy fanfiction #resident evil fanfic #resident evil #leon kennedy smut

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leejungchans · 3 years

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— made with love...i mean telepathy.

word count: 1.4k words

content warnings: mentions of food

notes: words in [ ] represent the editors’ comments added in post-production; words in bold represent those spoken in english!! i added an additional ingredient because there’s an extra member!!

summary: ateez plays the telepathy relay cooking challenge on ateez treasure film.

a/n: my semester just ended and it feels really nice to finally be able to relax a bit and watch some going seventeen (ahhsjajs i just started stanning them and i love them so much😭🥺)!! i still have some assignments due later this month, but it’ll still be a lot nicer than the last two weeks bc they were hectic💀 i hope you’ve been well, the fourth wave of the pandemic is hitting where i live, so please stay safe!! happy reading and let me know what you think!!

you can watch the episode here!

Juliet paces around her single bedroom, waiting for her cue. She has no clue what the group challenge involves, nor why each member has to take turns playing.

She flops onto the bed, looking every bit like a starfish, and turns her head to look at the camera situated in the top corner of her room. “I’m so sleepy,” she whines, simply lying there for a few moments. [Are you going to fall asleep~]

As Juliet stares up the ceiling, eyes unfocused and lazy, the surreality of being back in Sydney sinks into her slowly. It felt like forever ago when she left home, not being able to see her family in person for years because of her trainee years and their conflicting schedules after her debut. It feels like a dream to finally not be in separate hemispheres with her home. Even better, she came back with her second family, eight boys who looked after her better than she did with herself.

Her vision blurs from a combination of tears and drowsiness, and she could feel her eyelids start to droop. She sits up with a jolt. “Wah, I almost fell asleep!” she says to the camera. “I can’t keep lying down here or I’ll really fall asleep, seriously!”

To keep herself awake, she gets up and plays “Wave” on her phone, occasionally singing along or dancing to the music while listening for her cue. [Let’s enjoy Juliet’s mini performance~]

Moments later, she hears Jongho yell from the base of the stairs, “If you’re the prettiest member in ATEEZ, come on out!”

“Oh! That must be me!” Juliet turns to the camera and cups her face with her hands to resemble a flower. [Blooming flower Juliet shows off her shining visuals~] “Wish me luck!” she says excitedly before leaving her room and skipping down the stairs.

Upon walking into the kitchen, her attention is immediately drawn by the lack of people in the adjoining living room. [Juliet enters prettily~]

“Hm? There’s no one here...” She pads over to the kitchen island and silently reads the instruction card. “Is that supposed to be Hongjoongie-oppa?” she giggles, asking no one in particular as she points at the cartoon version of their leader on the card.

She turns her attention to the ingredients, consisting of rice cakes, fish cakes, water, gochujang, chilli powder, soy sauce, sugar, diced green onions and peeled hard-boiled eggs.

“Oh my God, wah...I’m really stupid,” she admits after a while of pondering, turning to the camera in the living room behind her briefly. [So suddenly?] “I thought you weren’t going to refill the cups, but then if you didn’t, there wouldn’t be a point in this game because then we’d know which ones the others already added...” [A delayed realisation for Juliet ㅋㅋㅋㅋ]

“Okay, okay, okay, let’s think about this...” Juliet sighs and closes her eyes. [*programming noises* She is deep in thought...] “Hongjoongie-oppa, Seonghwa-oppa, Wooyoungie-oppa and Jongho-oppa already went, so one of them definitely added the water already, and I think the gochujang and rice cakes are in there too...”

Another sigh leaves her lips. “But if they all had this thought process also, would that mean they added in the more unexpected ingredients? Or should I just keep it simple and trust my gut?” [Lol, she’s so serious about this] Juliet playfully wriggles around like a petulant child. “Ah, I just want this tteokbokki to taste good! I’m getting kind of hungry...”

After a few more seconds, she picks up the cup with the eggs. [Juliet picks the hard-boiled eggs] “I like eggs,” she muses to herself as she moves towards the pot, and starts laughing when a hilarious thought crosses her mind. “Imagine if I lifted the lid and it was all just eggs in the pot. That’d be really funny.” [Luckily, ATEEZ will not be eating just eggs ♡]

To Juliet’s pleasant surprise, she lifts the lid to discover rice cakes cooking in a boiling red sauce, topped with the diced onions. “Oh, someone already added in the rice cakes! Good job!” Humming happily, she drops two eggs into the pot and puts the lid back on. [She made a good choice~ the tteokbokki is cooking well so far~] Off-camera, staff members guide her to a room just a few paces away from the kitchen where the four members are waiting. But before she enters, she shouts for the next person.

“Come on down if you’re the tall member who resembles a puppy!”

“Yah, great job!” Wooyoung says when she enters the room, and he high-fives the youngest member. Juliet beams from the praise.

“I did well, didn’t I?” she asks teasingly, high-fiving Jongho as well, obviously fishing for more compliments.

“You did, it’s going well so far,” Seonghwa replies, excitement clear in his tone. Next to him, Hongjoong nods in agreement as he readjusts his cap over his muted pink hair, faded from the bright red it was dyed months ago for their comeback. Juliet sits on one of the sofa’s armrests next to the oldest, as the other was occupied by Jongho.

The five of them watch the rest of game on the TV, squealing in happiness when Yunho and Mingi added the sugar and chilli powder respectively. [So far, each member chose different ingredients!!! Will they succeed?]

“PD-nim,” Wooyoung cheekily addresses the director behind the cameras in the room, “isn’t it going too well?” He bursts into his signature giggle as the others laugh along. [Who are you guys...?]

Juliet grins when she sees the matching smiles on the staffs’ faces. “Isn’t it boring? Aren’t you bored with this?” she cutely taunts, but almost immediately stops. “Oh, wait...I hope I didn’t just jinx us,” she adds sheepishly. [Master of foreshadowing...?]

She really should’ve seen it coming, because nothing is ever too good to be true. The group, now joined by Mingi, watch in shock and exasperation when Yeosang decides to add sugar like Yunho already did. [The tteokbokki’s already been messed up...]

Hongjoong whimpers, “We already added the sugar...”

“No! No!” they whisper-yell when Yeosang starts spooning the sugar, desperately trying to send telepathic signals. [Their telepathy fails for the first time] Their efforts are futile as the oblivious member happily skips over to the pot with the cup of sugar in his hand. [If you’re happy, that’s all that matters, Yeosang...] Juliet collapses to the floor and hits it with her fists as she wails.

Before he adds the sugar, Yeosang turns to the camera and gives a thumbs-up twice. [Hey guys! Aren’t I the best? Did I do well?] At this, Juliet’s expressions immediately sobers and she sits up on the floor. “Why is he giving us a thumbs-up?” she half-heartedly deadpans, “he’s the only one so far who chose the wrong thing.” [She hits Yeosang with a cold fact]

Her members and the staff laugh silently at her pouty face. “Yah, she’s really starting to get mad,” Yunho jokes, pointing to her face so the cameras can film it. [The tteokbokki is ruined, oppa...ㅠㅠ]

Things take a turn for the worst when San adds even more sugar while the other eight members can only watch helplessly through the screen. [Bitter smiles] “Is it supposed to be this sticky?” he asks innocently as he stirs the sugar into the pot.

“Not if you added something else!” Juliet whines, tossing away the cushion in her lap from mock frustration as the others cackle at her outburst. [Get ready to face the wrath of the maknae]

Wooyoung wraps his arms around her from behind. “Don’t get mad, don’t get mad!”

“Let’s eat!” San shouts, [The relay cooking is over] and the eight members instantly pile out of the room, loudly complaining as they curiously make their way over to the pot while Mingi chases San around the living room.

Juliet grabs a fork and spears it into a rice cake. Right away, the overwhelming sweetness attacks her taste buds and becomes the only thing she tastes. She winces, glancing at her members who have equally pained smiles on their faces. Yunho even saying it tastes like spicy red bean porridge.

She discreetly cranes her neck to find the camera, quickly realising she is mostly obscured by the others from it. She creeps to the other side of the island to grab the soy sauce and gochujang before sneakily dumping a good amount of both into the pot, stirring briskly in an attempt to disguise her actions, but they don’t go unnoticed by the members around her and the editors. [Juliet...what are you doing..? ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ] Jongho and Hongjoong watch her and snicker, the former pouring more water into their snack to mellow out the sickly sweetness of the sauce.

The game ends with everyone rinsing out the taste of the tteokbokki with, ironically, more sugary soda, and Juliet makes a mental reminder that the best course of action is to simply order takeout when it comes to ATEEZ.

[This is it for the telepathy relay cooking. The challenge is complete!]

a/n: ahshjahs i had no idea how to end this💀💀thank you so much for reading🥺💗

#scenarios.juliet #ateez 9th member #ateez ninth member #kpop oc #idol oc #ateez oc #kpop addition #idol addition #ateez addition #kpop imagines #idol imagines #ateez imagines #kpop au #idol au #ateez au

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kriffani · 4 years

Text

Second Chances (chapter three)

One could classify it as typical teenage angst, but Theo becomes increasingly anxious before even arriving to Alderaan. He fights against himself as he begins to question his capability concerning the weight of both his role in the mission, and his role as a Jedi Padawan.

warnings: mentions of injury (non-fatal), self-deprecating speech

word count: 2.5k

chapter one / chapter two

taglist: @hansoulo @cherrykenobi

Coruscant mornings were cold. Too cold. Theo clutched his canteen and scowled, watching as the steam from his caf billowed up and away into the frigid air. He always brewed it too hot. Obi-Wan often teased him by asking if Theo actually intended to drink “that crude, bitter beverage.” Which to Obi-Wan’s dismay, he did. The padawan yawned. Unable to go back to sleep, he had chosen to have breakfast and go to the hangar early. Too early. This blows. Any other time of day, he would have been delighted to be there. The civilian employees were friendly, and Theo rather enjoyed spending time on his own projects and working alongside them. But it was early morning, and it was obnoxiously cold. Mechanics began to mill about, once in a while tossing Theo a friendly nod or wave, which he politely returned. The hum of electricity filled the air as the overhead lights turned on, signaling the start of a standard work day. 0500, finally. He twisted the cap onto his canteen and clipped it to his pack. Theo stood up and rolled his neck, grimacing as he heard the vertebrae pop. Footsteps sounded from behind him, careful and sure.

“Good morning, Master.”

“Good morning, Theo.” Plo raised a brow, taking note of the bags underneath his padawan’s eyes. “It seems you’ve been here for quite some time, are you alright?”

“Physically, or emotionally?” Masking his problems with humor, a skill he had picked up from Obi-Wan. Guilt tugged at him again.

“You’re avoiding the question.” His Master’s tone was as sharp as durasteel. Theo cringed. Okay, none of those jokes today.

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “It’s just...it’s not the right time to talk about it. We’re about to leave on a mission. It can wait.” Apparently, he hadn’t been as convincing as he’d hoped. Plo narrowed his gaze.

“Is it about your surgical scars? If they are giving you discomfort at this stage, we should--what is so humorous to you?” He planted his hands on his hips, astonished by Theo’s mirthful fit.

“My scars are fine Buir, thanks.” Theo’s lighthearted smile shifted, becoming serious. “Honestly, I’ve been having premonitions. I was planning on talking to you about them sooner rather than later, but I’m going to wait until after the mission to avoid distractions.” Theo gave Plo’s shoulder a reassuring pat, attempting to lift the mood.

“I see, I am relieved that your recovery is still stable.”

“Thank you.” Theo clapped his hands together. “Ready to go, Master Plo?”

“Yes. Have you gone over the plans?” The two Jedi boarded the ship, giving each of the pilots a wave before heading to the common area.

“Not very thoroughly, why?” He drew out the ‘y’ sound, skeptical of where the conversation was going.

“I figured that was the case.” Plo shot him a disapproving once-over. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be wearing your tunic.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Theo laughed nervously.

“You’re not going to be traveling as a Jedi. When we arrive on Alderaan, you will enter the Palace dressed as a pilot. I will leave Alderaan with Senator Organa’s security detail and a decoy, and you will depart with the real Senator. You will travel with him on civilian transport. Alone.”

“Shouldn’t you be the one going on the transport with him? I don’t think I’m suited for that kind of role.” The padawan scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

“No. Kel-Dor rarely travel beyond Dorin, my identity as a Jedi would be rather obvious, and his cover would be lost as well. As for your suitability, we have discussed this. You will be successful unless you allow your humility to become insecurity.” Plo ruffled Theo’s hair, at which the boy ducked away, grumbling in true disgruntled-teenager fashion.

------

This was it. Boredom had completely consumed him, and he was confident that it had been at least three days since they left Coruscant. He felt sluggish. Heavy, and like his soul was oozing out of every pore.

“Master, are we there yet? I’m dying over here.” Theo lay draped over his chair like a despondent child. The effects of his caf had long since worn off, leaving him with his unfiltered brain as his only escape.

“Not yet, we have about two and a half-hours to go.” Plo teased.

“Two and a half hours.” The boy groaned.

“Your patience is lacking today, Padawan.”

“Well there’s nothing to do! We’ve been in space for over thirteen hours! Thirteen!” Theo threw his hands up.

“You can meditate.” The Kel Dor chuckled. “It may help cure you of your boredom, or your lack of patience...” he paused “or perhaps you could gain some insight into your premonitions.” Theo blew a raspberry. He wasn’t going to waste his energy trying to fight this battle, Master Plo was probably right anyway--he always was.

“Maybe I can...” He plopped to the floor and sat cross-legged. Theo closed his eyes and breathed in slowly as he attempted to quiet his mind. It didn’t work. Too many thoughts. Head full.

“Nope. Not today. Brain’s off the walls.” Theo leapt up and dusted his hands off on his thighs.

“Padawan.”

“I can’t do it, Master.”

“Padawan-”

“It’s too much, I can’t not think.”

“Padawan! You do not have to bear your thoughts alone. Come, sit with me. We shall meditate together.” Theo caved in at his words, and the two Jedi settled to face each other on the floor.

Theo closed his eyes again, and tried aggressively to will away the visions.

“Well you’re certainly not going to make any progress in that manner.” Plo hummed.

“Gee thanks, O Wise One.” Theo huffed and opened an eye to glare at his Master. “I’m fine.”

“Oh I’m sure. That’s why you’re so disagreeable. I was going to offer to help you, but if you don’t want it…” If Kel-Dor were physically able to do so, Plo Koon would have been smirking.

“I do! It’s just...” He sighed. “I’ve been a padawan for four years, I should be able to handle something as basic as meditation.”

“One can struggle regardless of how much training they have had. I am offering to help you because you need it. Try to have a little more patience with yourself, and with me.”

“Alright, Master.” Attempting to relax for a third time, he felt as though he were laying on hot, itchy sand.

“Allow the Force to surround you, allow yourself to become one with it.” He felt Plo’s presence at the edge of his consciousness, almost as if he were knocking to come in. Theo opened the door, lulled into a state of serenity by the fading voice of his mentor. Plo had been the only real constant in his life, an entity of stability and comfort. Theo wasn’t sure whether or not he was too attached to Plo. His mind wandered to Jango again. The Mandalorian was a loyal man, a good friend, and a comically incompetent guardian. The bounty hunter would often leaving Theo to await his return alone, stating that his destination was “no place for di’kutla little kids.” He would be gone for days. Or weeks. Or forever. Master Plo wasn’t like that. Since the moment Theo began learning at the Temple, Plo Koon had been by his side. For every stumble, error, hesitation, or lapse in judgement that Theo made, his Master had been there to balance him, steady, patient, reassuring and forgiving. Theo saw him as a father, and he wasn’t very subtle about it.

------

Two years ago:

“Kriff it all!” A powerpack and two hydrospanners clattered to the hangar floor as Theo threw the medkit back onto the tool cart.

“You cannot fix everything, little one.” Plo stood with his arms crossed, staring firmly at the petulant padawan before him.

“Well…” He scoffed, “I should be able to!” He angrily tore open the package with his teeth and wrapped the bacta patch around his finger.

“There will always be things that need fixing. Your work would never be finished.” Plo Koon had proved himself to be exceedingly tolerant. This was Theo’s fifth fit of anger this week alone, and most other Masters would have likely deemed him unfit for apprenticeship by now.

“What’s the point if I can’t do it? I’m worthless!” Theo growled.

“You are not. You are learning. Mistakes are opportunities for reflection and improvement. They are to be embraced.”

“But--”

“Theo, it does not serve you to be afraid of mere possibilities.”

“But what’s the blasted point of even trying if I know there’s a mere possibility I’m gonna mess it up?” The boy wailed.

“That’s not certain, and if it was, it wouldn’t be the end of all things. It’s quite foolish to demand constant perfection of yourself. Your worth is not measured by what you accomplish.” Plo reasoned. Where is all of this suddenly coming from, he wondered. Is it something I said? No...I’ve been careful with him.

“But what if I do it wrong and it malfunctions? I don’t want you to die because of me! I can’t...I won’t...” He had done it again. Suddenly, Theo’s Jedi-issue boots were incredibly interesting. Had they always been brown leather? (Yes, they had.) The Code was the very first thing he learned, and somehow he managed to be painfully bad at following it properly. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no death, there is the Force. He was definitely in for it this time. Theo braced himself for a lecture, but was surprised to feel a gentle pressure on his shoulders when Plo knelt down in front of him.

“Padawan, look at me.” The Kel-Dor spoke softly. No response. He sighed. “Look at me. It is crucial that you know this.” The boy glanced up, just briefly enough to be satisfactory. “You are capable, clever, strong-willed, and kind. You will become a remarkable Jedi.” Theo nodded, posture softening.

“Thank you.” He mumbled.

“I don’t expect you to properly repair a carbon compressor on your first attempt, especially not alone. And I trust your ability to correctly perform repairs that you are familiar with. Alas, you must learn them first.”

“Makes sense...I think I got caught up in everything I already knew.”

“It happens to all of us.”

“I’m sorry. I used you as an outlet, you didn’t deserve it.” Theo drew his lip between his teeth.

“I understand your frustration and you need not apologize further. Now, let us not linger on the past, we must finish fixing this carbon compressor.” Plo turned the boy around to face the ship. “This time, be sure not to tighten the bolt with too much force. That’s how accidents like this” he jested, pointing to Theo’s bandaged finger, “happen. The quartered socket spanner would also be a more suitable tool for this particular task, as the angle will give you better leverage.”

“Oh, that’s much easier. I see now! Thanks, Buir.”

------

The ship lurched, snapping the two Jedi out of their meditation, and Theo grumbled in protest. He rather liked that memory.

“Apologies for the disturbance, sirs, but we’ve entered the Alderaan system.” Captain Thorn’s voice crackled through the intercom, signaling their imminent return to duty.

“So Master, I know about the mission, but what about Senator Organa himself? What’s he like?” Theo hadn’t met very many politicians. He knew of Senator Padme Amidala from Anakin’s stories, and he had met Chancellor Palpatine on several occasions, but that was about it.

“Senator Bail Organa is a just man. He is a pacifist with an affinity for ethics, I believe you’ll like him. Especially since he’s one of the people responsible for the Galactic Rights Bill.” Plo picked up his cloak and draped it over his shoulders.

“I’ve been really busy lately with my Shyriiwook comprehension exam coming up, and I kinda haven’t been paying as much attention to politics as I should, care to refresh me?” The padawan flashed a sheepish grin, provoking a weary sigh from the Kel-Dor.

“This Bill would safeguard an individual’s right to self-expression. It would be effective immediately, and has the power to overrule the local laws of star systems and planets. It is crucial for the safety of minority groups who may be targeted for superficial things such as appearance or use of a dialect. Those who would most benefit from this are religious groups and those with an atypical relationship to traditional social roles in their respective societies.”

“That last part sounds so...scripted. Was that a quote?” Theo asked, as the two began to make their way toward the front of the ship.

“From the Bill itself, yes. The section it belongs to was written by Senator Organa.” Plo explained.

“How is the Bill going to be effective? What kind of ‘targeting’ are we talking about? Harassment, refusal of service, homicide?”

“All, and more. However, the most pressing concern and reason for urgency lies in denial of medical care. Over the last several centuries, there have been an increase of differences in socio-cultural interpretations of identity across the galaxy. In some places, this is a catalyst for conflict and consequently, there have been a total of around five hundred cases across thirty-four systems just last year. One thing the Bill is designed to do is prevent governments or medical organizations from prohibiting access to medicine and care on the basis of these differences.”

“I see, and I take it that this is seen as a problem by some because they disagree with any views that differ from their own, or because of money.” Theo glowered.

“As it is with most ‘debates’ on such things.”

“It’s cowardly.”

“Indeed.” The door to the bridge slid open, and Theo’s chagrin was almost forgotten. Alderaan was beautiful. The city of Aldera sat nestled neatly in a valley and surrounded by tall, snowy peaks. It was exactly as described in the stories he’d heard from older padawans.

“Wow, what a place.” He murmured.

“Right?” The co-pilot turned to flash the Jedi a grin. Theo nodded in agreement. She gave him a breathy laugh. “I’ve never been here either, I was just short of giddy when we heard what our next assignment would be!” He now understood what Master Yoda meant when he called all beings “luminous.” She certainly was. I’ll probably never see her again after this, that’s really too bad.

“We’re approaching the city. Juno, prep the landing gear.”

“Yes, Captain!” She chirped.

“Well Master, looks like I’d better get ready. See you shortly.” Theo didn’t wait for a response before he slipped back into the other room. When he returned a few moments later, his discomfort was visible. Plo restrained himself from poking fun at his student, but oh, he really wanted to.

“Man, civilian clothes just don’t feel right.” The boy whined, tugging at the sleeves. Theo scrunched his nose in disgust when they didn’t loosen. “How long do I have to wear this?”

“Not long, we’ve arrived. Take your pack with you and remember, be subtle.”

#its finally fucking here #tcw #plo koon #sw oc #sw fanfic #sw x oc #star wars #the clone wars #its real dad plo hours #if i have typos or grammar mistakes pls lmk i die every time

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rubyredsparks · 5 years

Text

Blossoming Souls Ch. 8

Relationship(s): Romantic Logince, Moxiety; Platonic every other relationship

“Tags” for the whole story: morally grey!deceit, Deceit, Remus, Thomas as a character, Romance, Minor violence, someone’s potty mouth, Foul language, Minor homophobia (it’s not that bad), Miscommunication (this one is though), Friendship

Chapter Summary: Dress up Logan time! Also, Roman gets a kick in the ass by a good friend.

Roman was humiliated.

And because of that he was hiding in Noble Joan’s rooms instead of Leo’s this time. Because he had decided an upgrade in hiding was the best decision in his twenty-three years of life.

“Roman, what the fuck?” Joan asked, staring at Roman’s body hidden in the blankets. “Care to tell me why the hell you’re hiding in my bed?”

Roman made a noise to try and answer them. He had hoped that he said ‘Nothing’, but it came out more as a ‘Nfmhm’.

“Doesn’t answer my question, dude.” They sat on the edge of the bed, hand hovering over Roman’s leg. “Are you sick or...?”

Roman uncovered his head, “I’m fine,” before immediately covering his head with the blankets again.

“Right, someone who’s fine would definitely hide their head under the covers like a baby,” Joan said dubiously, crossing their arms.

“Exactly, so leave me alone,” Roman said, trying to burrow under the covers even more.

“No can do, Princey,” they said, patting his leg. “The welcoming ceremony for your Prince Intended is tonight, and I think your valet is beside himself with worry trying to find you. No doubt you’re needed for a fitting.”

“Ernesto needs to cool his jets,” Roman muttered darkly.

“So do you,” Joan said, hands wrapping around Roman’s legs before yanking him clear off their bed.

Roman shrieked, trying to save himself from falling, but only succeeded in tumbling off the bed, tangled in blankets.

He glared at the Cheshire grin on Joan’s face, wanting nothing more than to punch their grin off their face.

Instead he slumped against the bed frame, blankets secure around his shoulders. A petulant pout was on his lips, and his shoulders hunched in as he vainly hugged himself in comfort.

Joan’s smile slid off their face, and Roman felt a small sort of happiness for wiping that shit-eating grin off their face before his black mood settled back.

“What’s wrong?” They asked, sliding down next to Roman, shoulder to shoulder.

“I messed up, Joan,” Roman admitted quietly.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, Joan, I sincerely, seriously screwed up.” Roman took a deep breath before explaining to them what he did.

They whistled lowly when he finished, fixing him with a slightly impressed and disappointed look. “Wow, you did fuck up.”

“Joan,” Roman whigned, hands shaking their arm slightly. “You’re supposed to cheer me up, not agree with me.”

“When did I ever agree to that?”

“When you agreed to be friends with me,” Roman answered promptly.

“Well, damn, can I get a refund?” Joan snorted at the pathetic look Roman gave them before knocking his shoulder with theirs. “Relax, I’m pulling your leg. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

“My underwear is just fine, thank you very much,” Roman muttered.

“You know what I mean,” Joan said. “So you royally screwed up, what are you gonna do about it?”

“Hide in these blankets ‘til the day I die.” Roman said, already trying to burrow his head back into the covers.

“What, no. That’s not what I- Will you take those damned blankets off your head?” They wrenched the duvet off Roman’s head as he whinged and half-heartedly tried to reach for them back.

“Stop acting like a child, Roman.” Joan said sternly. “You’re the Crown Prince. You were coronated just a few months ago, and now your Intended is here. You have to welcome him here, and you can’t blow this off like you did these past few weeks.”

“I know, Joan, I know.” Roman scowled, running a hand through his wavy hair and cursing when he tugged at a knot.

“But how can I show my face to him after I lied to him for days. Not to mention having him find out via gossip and not me.”

“That’s your problem, not mine,” they shrugged, pulling them up much to the Prince’s protests. “Maybe do something to make it up to him. Flowers or some shit. People like flowers.”

They ushered him toward the door, pulling it open as Roman perked up, head tilted and hair falling in front of his eyes in thought. “You really think so?”

“No clue,” they pushed him out the door. “Goodbye and good luck,” and promptly shut the door in his face.

Roman blinked.

Then blinked again.

This was the third time that a door slammed in his face. This was becoming a habit.

But first, “Joan! Come on, Joan! Help me!” He pounded on the door furiously, hearing the muffled laughter behind the wood. “I can hear you laughing, you bastard!”

“Your Highness!” Roman paled as he heard Ernesto’s high pitched wail. He could hear the pounding of footsteps, and his feet were running before his mind could catch up.

Nothing against Ernesto, but his scrutiny and high regard for prim and proprietary could be so exhausting day in and day out. The man only talked about work, and made jokes about buttons.

Buttons, for Lady's sake. Could anyone get anymore dull?

“Your Highness!” came the screech again, and Roman quickened his pace.

His head was ducked, looking at his scurrying feet. Years of practice making it easy to weave in and out of servants’ ways as he tried to outrun the unusually quick valet, rounding the corner.

“Oof!”

He was met with a hard chest. Papers and books flew into the air, cutting through Roman’s face as he was met with startled blue eyes and a familiar cross face.

“Your Highness, thank you so much for creating this mess.” Prince Logan’s icy tone wasn’t hard to mistake, and Roman winced at that jab.

Hurriedly, he crouched down to gather all the loose leaf papers, carefully putting them into the inside of one of the books he picked up. Meticulously making sure that whatever papers he picked up did not have any creases in them.

Lady only knew how Prince Logan would react to his papers creased and folded.

Handing them back to Logan, he tried for a smile against the cold glare sent his way. “I’m sorry about that, My Prince.”

Logan didn’t respond, merely sidestepping him and walking away.

“Your Highness!” Ernesto’s voice was much closer this time.

Roman cursed, setting forward to run again. He could make it up to the Prince next time.

At the Welcoming Ball Ceremony.

Where they were to be announced as Intendeds.

Hopefully, Logan will be able to forgive him by the time they reach the altar.

Roman subconsciously brought up the icy glare, the cold blue eyes that bore into him and the sneer on Prince Logan’s lips. Beautiful, kissable lips.

Then again… he winced at the memory, maybe not.

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

“I don’t understand.”

“Your Highness, please,” a man with platinum blond hair sighed, exasperated. "Must I explain again? Your attendants have informed me that you haven't any formal clothes for the Welcoming Ball tonight. It's my job to tailor and fit you into proper clothes for the ball. Which is in a few hours now, might I add."

"No, I understood that. What I don't understand is why I need new clothes. I have formalwear."

Logan watched as the man, who was slightly taller than him, rested both hands over his face, letting out a long sigh and mumbling to himself.

He looked up again, and Logan's memory tickled with the name Tan, and said, "Well, your Highness, your attendants came to me and said that your formalwear was well…. How can I say this delicately?"

Tan looked him up and down, eyes scrutinizing and brow raised, "Your style is too simplistic. It lacks colour, style, basically everything.

"Now with my help, you're going to look gorgeous." Tan pulled out racks of clothes out of seemingly nowhere, and to Logan's embarrassment, the other attendants in the room started to strip him to his boxers.

Logan was bare to the world, and while Tan clicked his tongue, he hadn't made Logan stand naked in the room.

"Now what colours do you look good in," Tan mused, a finger on his lips.

"His Highness looks good in blue!" Someone chimed, and Logan whipped around to see Patton's beaming face.

The man was still dressed in casual wear, but the sheen of sweat could clearly be seen and bits of grime and dirt speckled his body.

But the smile on his face outshone the sun.

"You too, Patton?" Logan groaned, burying his face into his hands and feeling his face run hot in embarrassment.

Logan barely noticed as attendants started to take his measurements, and he allowed for his body to be moved this way and that.

"Highness, I'm just looking out for you!" He pouted, lips twitching, betraying a smile.

Logan's eyes narrowed. "You're the one who told Tan about my quote on quote 'lack of formalwear' aren't you?"

Patton at least had the good grace to look a little guilty. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe."

Logan sighed, "It's alright, there's nothing to do about it now."

A loud smack startled them, and the two turned to Tan. There was a wicked smile on his face as he slapped the measuring tape in his hands.

"Oh, we're about to do something about it," Tan promised, diabolical gleam in his brown eyes.

Logan had never felt more like an experiment in his life. Tan had poked and prodded him with so many needles and tight clothing that Logan felt like he would burst with uncomfortableness.

He stood there-- like a porcelain doll-- being twisted and turned and forced to show off his body under Tan's critical gaze.

The man was merciless, putting him in outfit after outfit with barely space to breathe in between.

He would hem and haw at each style, stalking around him with eyes like a hawk.

After what felt like weeks of being stabbed and clucked at when he moved even remotely in the wrong direction, Tan finally clapped his hands, giddy smile stretched across his face.

"You look fantastic, darling."

Logan looked down, and. Wow. He had been expecting something fancy, reams of gold and silk or curlicues of lace.

But this?

This was not what he was expecting.

He was cloaked in blue, of course, Tan had taken note of Patton's comment, fitting it into his design.

It was a deep, luscious blue, the petticoat trailing nearly past his ankles. Black lace outlined the hem and edges with elegant patterns of Wysteria sewn into the fabric.

His tunic is sheer black, cut and angled to show off his chest. Logan balked at showing so much skin, but seeing Tan's evil eye he chose not to protest.

Hands reaching up to adjust his tie before falling limply at his side. There was no ascot or tie around his neck, making him feel oddly naked without it, lost without his shield.

His pants, fitted as they were, ran down his legs, just on the edge of too tight, extenuating his legs and other features.

All in all, he looked….

"Gorgeous."

Logan looked up sharply at that, spinning around to face the speaker. The word was spoken tenderly, reverent and breathless.

By a man he was angry with.

Prince Roman of Eiehde stood in the doorway of his room. He slowly walked inside, mutters and heads bowed from the servants as he got closer.

The Prince was wearing white, laced in golden fabrics. A sheer, white skirt that seemed to be sewn into his coattails trailing his legs.

Gold epaulettes on his jacket shoulders with red and gold thread sewn into the front covers of the jacket with little aster blossoms in the fabric. A red sash trailed from his right shoulder to his hip. Medals were pinned on his left jacket, right above his heart.

His pants were slack, mesh, fluttering about his legs in something akin to a dress. His hair tied up in a loose ponytail, disobedient brown-red curls flying about his face.

All in all, a very gender-ambiguous style of clothing for the Prince of Eiedhe.

"Your Highness," Logan said carefully from atop his pedestal. "What are you doing here?"

The anger he felt for the Prince wasn't as high as it had been earlier that day. It simmered in his stomach, the lie like lead.

Something flashed in the Prince's eyes that Logan couldn't decipher, but he could swear that it was pain and hurt in those red-brown eyes.

Roman straightened his back, his feet positioned scant few inches away from Logan. He held out his right hand, left fisted behind him resting on the small of his back.

"I am here to escort His Royal Highness of Aowhea, Prince Logan, to the Welcoming Ball."

Logan clenched his jaw. With that formal wording, Logan couldn't refuse lest he cause a scandal for refusing.

The two were of near equal status, but Logan was the guest here. Refusing would be an insult and a half that would mean tense conditions on his return.

He knew that he had to accept the hand that the Prince was offering.

Daintily, he laid his hand atop of Roman's, suppressing a wince when he closed around it, and with Roman's help, stepped down from the pedestal.

Stepping down was a mistake. Logan was stood next to the man, and he could feel the heat emanating from the man himself.

Bringing back memories of their first meeting and subsequent… sleepover and cuddle session.

Fighting down a blush, Logan looked up at Prince Roman, instantly disliking the height difference between them. It was only a few inches at most, but he was still forced to look up at the man.

The close proximity was near stifling, but not so horrible.

Roman's hand was hot, warming his own. And reminded him that they were still holding hands but surprisingly Logan found that he didn't want to let go.

His hand was dark against Roman, a stark contrast. He could feel the calloused blisters in the hard worked skin. Roman's hand practically enveloped Logan's, his hand feeling small and dainty.

It was overwhelming, different and awkward.

"Shall we take our leave?" Roman's low timbre reverberated within him, and Logan was close enough to practically feel the vibrations.

Logan barely suppressed a shiver, taking a moment to collect himself. "Yes… let us do so."

"Your Highness, wait."

Both men turned to look at Patton, who was holding up a light red and gold piece of fabric.

Patton smirked, fixing the ascot around Logan's neck. "There, now you can go. Bye bye, have fun!"

Logan rolled his eyes, but felt his heart stutter at the implication around his neck.

Roman raked his eyes over him, dark and dangerous. "Well?"

Logan nodded silently, the once protective piece of fabric choking him.

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

Masterpost | Previous | Next

#blossoming souls #my writing #chapter 8 #logince #moxiety

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veridium · 6 years

Text

Short Story: Theia Gets Cold Feet

It’s night four in The Emerald Graves. Seeker Cassandra and Inquisitor Theia Trevelyan sit by the camp fire, just north of Villa Maurel. Cassandra finally gets the chance to ask the nosy questions for once.

The greenery was dark and lush around them, new and wondrous for Theia, who for many years would sketch or paint daydreams of faraway places such as these. Laying on her side, legs tucked, she watched the fire crackle and cast flights of shadows on its surroundings. Funny thing, fire. Well, not funny, but something peculiar. Although, she had seen enough of it for a life time.

“I wonder something. Something about your abilities,” Cassandra said, an elbow resting on her knee, multiple bandages on her arm from the day’s skirmishes.

“Hm? What specifically?” Theia responded, her voice husky with fatigue, but nevertheless intrigued.

“I know about the pathways of study for mages, but perhaps it is more personal than erudite. Why you do what you do, I mean,” Cassandra rolled her head around, cracking a couple sore bones in her neck tediously.

Theia chuckled in a hush tone. She had been through many phases of her self-discovery, including her powers, her abilities, and what she did and did not like to do. Well, what she’d rather not be able to do, anyway. First it was her family, who had a disdain for any and all ability. Then it was her tutors, who had their own worries and at times seemed to only craft student in their images rather than pay attention their individuality. Templars, who wanted to know to who to blame for the scortched fireplace or the frozen doors. This time, though, from a friend, she felt as though it wouldn’t come back to bite her in the ass.

“You ask, I’ll answer, Seeker,” she teased, rolling onto her back to gaze up at the abundant stars.

“Why do you favor ice and storm abilities?” Cassandra said, her solid voice had a rare tone of childlike curiosity.

Theia thought about it for a moment.

“When I was young, no more than 8 years old, my brother, Tristan decided he would see if my sister’s and my hair could catch on fire. He broke off a candle from the dining hall and lit the thing like a flare. He caught my sister at her mirror, combing her hair, and snuck up behind her. He singed a chunk of it. I still remember her shriek. Tris, you’re banquet meat! She wailed, and wailed. It took months for her hair to go back to normal, because she wouldn’t cut it. Her hair was fair like mine, and the color is coveted in our family. Even if half of it looks like burnt kindling.”

Cassandra scoffed. “Such a petulant child, your brother sounds like.”

“He had foolish phases. Now, he’s a scholar, but he still lacks a certain kind of...tact,” Theia said with a grin on her lips. Her brother was many things, but he was loved.

“So, what happened when he came for you?”

“Well, my sister was older, so he thought I would be easier to fool. He found me in the garden, by our bed chambers. A small terrace with a bird’s fountain. I would go there and splash the water, as if I could cause a great flood if I just splattered my hands fast and hard enough! Hah. But, when he got to me, I was able to see him coming. Candle, and all. I got scared and hid behind the fountain. I heard his steps coming closer and closer, and I closed my eyes as if I could turn invisible.”

Cassandra’s eyes locked on Theia as she seemed to tell a great, epic story out of a childhood memory. How endearing, she thought, to discover such dangerous talents out of something so...docile.

“I thought I was done for, but then I heard something crackling, like the ice thawing on the river. My brother gasped and dropped the candle, and the noise made me look up. The flame on the candle was out. Actually, it was frozen over with ice. He looked at me like I was a demon crawling on all-fours. I didn’t even think at the time that it was me, my magic, defending myself. I was just as shocked and terrified as he was.”

“Remarkable. Did he finally leave you alone?” Cassandra asked.

“He did, for the rest of my life,” Theia replied, a soft yawn escaping her mouth. She shook her head to wake herself up a bit.

“Oh. I see,” Cassandra looked toward the fire. “I suppose that is predictable.”

“It was. It is. I still write, though. One letter goes to my Mother, and she disperses the details accordingly. It’s best that way.”

“The proclivity for ice, then, stayed with you all this time?”

“Yes and no. I stopped and started, especially when my lack of pyro knowledge became a weakness. I was supposed to be well-rounded. I never enjoyed it as much as I did learning how to freeze entire boulders to break, or strike a tree down with a beautiful stroke of lightening,” Theia’s purple eyes danced with subtle energy. She could still see all the “firsts”: first lightening lock, first ice wall. It was enthralling to be so capable.

“Some wouldn’t be as jubilant, but we all have paths in life we must give our all too. I remember when we first met, I thought you were a walking explosive with a mouth,” a smirk came from the Seeker’s mouth.

“I thought so of you, too, but look at us now. Dormant as stone,” Theia said, her arms stretching over her head.

“Stone is anything but, Inquisitor.”

“Valid. Especially when encased in a sheet of ice and whirling through a lightening cloak,” she said with excitement.

“Inquisitor, please refrain from the light show, if you don’t mind.”

“Only in my dreams, Seeker. Only in my dreams.”

There was a moment of breath, where both watched the flames and kept quiet. Then, second question.

“Does this mean abilities are more pertaining to what gratifies you, instead of objective capability?” Cassandra’s chin tilted.

Theia shook her head, lips pursed with care. “Not at all. It’s complicated, friend. You can’t expect such things as magic to be “point A” and “point B” processes. Everyone’s journey is as fraught as being alive is. Just a big, bloody mess at times.”

“But then, where is the line of personal responsibility?”

“When you find it for the Seekers, Templars, and warrior forces of Thedas, let me know. It may be nearby that.”

“Point taken.”

Theia sighed. “I know for me, it was about staying disciplined, and dedicated to myself. I had no one in my corner for...a long while, and I was so young. When I saw ice, when I say electricity come from my two hands, I felt as though I was connecting with myself as raw material. Organic power. I had been taught to hate myself for being alien, unnatural, unwanted, but...everything about my power felt raw and earnest.” The rubbed the back of her head, her hair knotted and dry. Brittle from the cold air.

“Part nature, part conditioning, those fears...” Cassandra thought out loud.

“It’s part-everything. At least for me, it doesn’t matter. But I knew peers who would beat themselves against standards. Some would kill to be the best and brightest Knight Enchanters one day. Others acted like they wanted the whole world to burn down, roof to soil. Some got to where they needed to be, others suffered for a long time. I was lucky I was in touch with who I needed to be. Not always, but in the end.”

“Would you have done anything different as an apprentice? As a child?”

Theia pondered, and then chuckled under her breath. “If I could, I’d go back and freeze my brother’s hands to his mouth. That would have sent Mother into an episode for a week, though. Worth it still? Probably.”

Cassandra smiled lightly. “Running before walking. I can sympathize. My strategy would have featured more blunt-force-object appeal, though.”

“It’s your style, don’t suppress it,” Theia teased.

The fire popped with a stray spark, and both the women took it as a reminder to keep noises low while others slept.

“Do you see your views on mages changing since we’ve become friends, Seeker?”

“As much as I understand you, Inquisitor, old habits take long to rest. I feel obligated to a higher standard than heeding the existence of those close to me. If everyone in power yielded to the likeness of one or two friends, boundaries would break down.”

“But, does it then follow that those boundaries which oppress must remain?”One of Theia’s eyebrows raised with question.

“Not at all. There’s...nuance.”

“I wish you could say the same to the conditions of those made tranquil.”

The tension rose, but it was a sorry kind, a bruised kind.

“We do not have all the answers, Inquisitor. But we do have all the reason to find them.”

“I agree.”

“I am glad you challenge me. Even as I put up a front. We should continue these conversations. I wish more would.”

“And I hope they are paired with actions.”

Cassandra swallowed hard. “Maker, I do, too.”

Theia rolled onto her hip and lifted a hand, opening the palm flat. “Good, I would hate to have things be so...static,” she joked, a spark of purple escaping her hand, gone as quick as it came.

Cassandra had seen this kind of clever trick from the Inquisitor before. It used to make her flinch with concern, but now it annoyed her like a younger sibling’s chides.

“Hilarious, Inquisitor.”

#oc stuff #fanfic #Theia Trevelyan #cassandra pentaghast #dragon age inquisition #the emerald graves

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neutralvld-feed · 6 years

Text

i used to recognise myself (it's funny how reflections change)

Link to AO3

title from James Bay - LET IT GO

Lance disappears three years into the war.

It’s in the final stages of their biggest battle against the Emperor Zarkon yet; but then again, each time they fight it’s the biggest battle until now, a loop of destruction and risk rising as each side struggles for the upper hand. It is almost repeat of their first coup against the Galra tyranny as Haggar activates a wormhole that rips Voltron apart, each lion flung into a separate section of space like stuffed toys in the possession of a petulant child. Emperor Zarkon isn’t aiming to kill with this move, that much seems obvious. It’s a tactical move to stall for time and bring the Alliance in disorder for as long as he can. The Alliance is a fully working system of cooperation by now, but Voltron is still the figurehead of the ship, the symbol of hope.

Allura and Coran find Shiro first, chilling on an ice planet, and Pidge crash-lands on the planet Alkari and is back in business within two days. Hunk takes a little longer to find, but the blade of Marmora tracks him down somewhere in the Quazrt galaxy soon enough. Keith, an experienced and well-worn warrior of Marmora by now, volunteers to pick him up.

Everyone expects Lance to be with Hunk, because that’s the way it works; Lance and Hunk, side by side, taking down whatever bad guy stands in their path through excessive screaming and heartfelt reunions.

Lance isn’t with him. Everyone starts to worry.

They find the red lion in Galra territory, being used as bait to lure in Voltron.

No Lance.

Lance isn’t replaceable, but they manage.

They can’t afford to wait, not stuck in the middle of a universal war that encompasses all they know. Lives are stake; Keith understands this now, and swallows his pride as his friends look on when he walks into Red for the first time in, well- a little less than two years.

The Blade has taught him more than Voltron ever could; to not ride that wave of anger, think in a practical, rational way that won’t jeopardize the mission, to work in a team without strangling his partners with a failed bagel (long story). That fire is still there, but it’s channeled differently now. Risks are still something he takes, over-emotionality still gets the better of him on occasions, and he never, ever gives up even when he should. But- and Shiro confirms this when Red bursts to life- he knows how to swallow his pride for the good of the mission.

The roar of Red reverberates through the walls of the castle, and it feels a little like they’ve given up on Lance.

None of them have given up on Lance.

Pidge has bags under her eyes from the night-hours spent searching through signals for a sign. Shiro hides tears whenever they find something of Lance’s strewn around in the castle. Allura sometimes disappears for hours, doing something no one dares ask her about. Coran exhausts all his underworld contacts asking for news, and Keith gets into arguments with Kolivan in his frustration of the Blade’s uneventful search. Hunk is perhaps the worst; a little rougher towards the other paladins, a little jagged at the edges.

Slowly a month turns into two, two turns into six, and six into a year.

They will never give up, but it gets pretty close sometimes.

The things that drives them crazy is that they don’t know. They don’t know whether Lance is dead, alive, or imprisoned. They don’t know anything. If the Galra had him, they would have gloated and used Lance against them by now. They would have heard something through the grapevine. The last news all of them have of Lance is his yell as they got sucked into Haggar’s wormhole. He could be anywhere, or nowhere at all.

The universe has never seemed so big.

Hunk looses his right leg because of a stupid mistake during battle, and it’s the trigger pin to Voltron almost falling apart. They hold onto the threads of their weird little family, tie it all together with whatever string of affection they can find, but everyone is so, so tired of war.

Keith leaves as soon as Matt Holt connects with Red. It’s a surprising development for his character type, but Matt is the ideal right hand man to Shiro, and works together in a synchronicity with Pidge that Keith will never achieve. Both of them never give up, both of them are fighters, both of them are passionate about what they do, and more importantly, they are both survivors. Matt just loves a little differently.

Occasionally Matt will say something that reminds everyone of Lance, which is often, and the forbidding silence in the room speaks for itself. Yet Matt also holds them all together when they can’t themselves, makes Allura smile for the first time in a month, gets Pidge to go to sleep, cracks jokes with Coran, is a shoulder to cry on for Hunk, guides Shiro in the right direction when his frustration at the war gets the best of him. Matt fills in all the little holes Lance’s absence tore into them, and he hems the edges of the large tear that is uniquely Lance’s.

They look on Earth, a last desperate bid to find him. They check with his family in Cuba because if Lance could have gone anywhere on Earth, it would be there. Pidge runs scans for facial recognition that go over the whole globe, thanks to alien tech. It’s all very hush hush, because the Earth doesn’t know about extraterrestrial life yet, let alone the war; the general consensus of the rest of the universe is that a planet must discover other planets and not vice versa.

A couple of them hate that they feel a little relief mixed in with the disappointment; they like to think that Lance would have fought tooth and nail to get back to them if he could, not fled back to Earth.

Perhaps the worst of it all is that the universe starts to forget Lance. It has been two years, by now, and he is no longer a priority, not when Voltron seems to be functioning fine. When all that they can hear is radio silence, it’s hard to find a reason to keep looking. Pidge realizes she can’t fully remember the sound of his voice. Hunk forgets what room in the castle he used to sleep in. Shiro wakes up one morning and realizes he hasn’t thought about Lance in a week. When there’s nothing around to remind them of him, how are they supposed to remember?

It’s the not knowing that gets to them the most. They may be paladins of Voltron, but they are also people who don’t have much hope left inside them; in the dark, one of them will confess that they sometimes wish they knew for sure that Lance was dead, because at least then they could have an answer. It tears everyone apart with guilt, bit by bit.

They deal, because they have to.

***

After two years, ten months and four days of nothing, they get something.

Or, more accurately, Keith gets a gun to the temple.

It’s a run-of-the-mill Blade mission; get onto planet AW384, a hub for rogues and all sort of nasty individuals that belongs to neither the Galra nor the Alliance, find the what’s-the-name that’s supposed to help them build a new weapon, then get the hell out of Dodge before anyone sees. It’s a stealth mission, essentially, never Keith’s forte but he’s perfectly capable.

Or so he thinks until Keith realizes he’s being followed, which is rather unpractical yet nothing he can’t deal with. Shadows loom as he ducks into a nearby alley, away from the crowded streets where black-market vendors yell and sell their products in a chaos of bustling figures. The rickety buildings on either side reach several stories high, held together by wood and pure determination. Keith takes into a quick succession of steps, leaping onto a nearby crate and scaling upwards until he hangs off the stray bar of a collapsed balcony. Beneath him, the shadow following him out of the corner of his eye the past hour slips into the alley and walks under him, cautious.

Keith drops down, knife in hand, when the cloaked figure whirls around just in time to press him into the wall with his hands behind his back. Keith struggles for a moment, but the person has him pinned on all points. Hot breath fans over his neck as he hears the click of a safety going off. Cold metal presses to his temple. It’s such a simple yet efficient move that Keith doesn’t know how to react, caught off guard.

This is it, Keith thinks. I’m going to die on goddamn planet AW384 at the hands of some amateur assassin.

“Who are you?”

The gruff question is as surprising as the sudden push that sends him back to the wall, thin black sleeve falling back to reveal a tanned arm that presses into his throat. The gun is now digging into his gut, and Keith- Keith knows the slope of that nose, the jutted angle of that chin.

Keith isn’t proud of what he does next. But the fast right hook that knocks Lance out and sends him crumpling down to the dirty stones feels shockingly satisfying.

***

The man- because he’s obviously a man now, none of them have been children for years- that wears Lance’s scarred face is an empty shell of what he once was. The man that slumps on the castle couch looks like the life has been knocked out of him. This man is defensive, face shuttered, and refuses to speak. This man is not Lance.

Matt and Lance observe each other like animals in a zoo, weary. The shock has seemed to paralyze everyone except Matt and Keith; Keith has already explained Lance doesn’t remember anything past three years ago. Lance won’t tell them anything else, it’s clear he doesn’t trust these strangers who all seem to know who he is, where he’s from, and have abducted him from the only environment he’s familiar with to keep him captive in a flying spaceship.

The hem of Lance’s cotton pants lifts up a little as he stretches, tired. Everyone hesitates as metal flashes, before suddenly Hunk- so silent and restrained and obviously terrified out his mind to everyone but Lance, who speaks to them as if he were a stranger- lets out a wail and rushes over. Lance is bundled up in a hug, tense as the pulled string of a bow, and when Hunk starts to sob into his shoulder, he awkwardly pats him on the back.

Lance is missing his left leg.

Thing is, Lance doesn’t know what he’s missing. He knows there’s something, there was always a something since he woke up, afraid and fending for himself. But it’s so abstract, so transparent, he spends his nights roaming over the castle as if it can somehow lead him to it. Occasionally he sleepwalks, and it gives everyone a painful sort of hope, because Lance seems to be following the same routes he did all those years ago. Shiro finds him curled up over the kitchen table one night when he goes to get a midnight snack. He doesn’t stir once as Shiro cradles him like a small child and brings him to Pidge’s room where she’s still working through some code with Matt by her side, just in case he decides to wander off again.

Lance wakes up that morning feeling safe, curled into the warm blankets with Pidge cuddled into his side, a feeling he doesn’t remember, yet somehow does. It gives them hope.

Hunk and Allura take him swimming in the castle pool after they describe it to him too enthusiastically, and that hope evaporates when he almost drowns in the deep end, crawling out coughing like a drowned cat.

Lance tries to figure out where he fits in in this mess of a family, but he feels like the lost piece of a puzzle that’s been found again, except the edges are frayed and broken and he doesn’t quite fit even though he should. Lance doesn’t belong in Voltron anymore; they’ve all adapted too much, he has no more roles to take on.

Rumour start to spread of his return, and the Alliance asks what Lance will contribute to the war.

They can’t give them an answer, because there is none. Lance was never replaceable, but they adapted to his loss; that is how this war works. Voltron has always been for its sentimentality, but most others are not. Lance used to be a great diplomat, but that was taken away along with his memories. Lance is too lost within himself to be of any use to others, is rude and angry and volatile and when they meet with the Blade of Marmora, Keith hurts to see himself in this distorted version of Lance. The other paladins sympathise, of course, how can they not?- their friend is back. But he’s not the same. Whenever they talk to Lance, he feels as if they’re expecting something from him he can’t give, an undeniable pressure on his shoulders to do something, to go back to whoever the boy he used to be was. They tell him about this boy; he’s not him, can’t imagine being him. To his friends, he’s Lance. To himself, he never even had a name.

Sometimes, Pidge will catch Lance in the hangars, staring at Blue from the floor like she holds all his answers; tiny vulnerable man and big metal lion.

It takes a screaming match between him and Allura, very much one-sided on his part as he explodes into a mess of frustration only to be met with cool-headed sympathy, so condescending and kind and he hates it because his memories aren’t coming back, it’s not going to happen, give up on him, he doesn’t need their hope!

Allura asks him how he knew how to follow Keith. Lance turns into the silence after a gunshot.

He didn’t know. He just did.

Lance starts to hope again.

***

Lance finds a jacket, hidden in the back of a closet behind a frayed blue bathrobe where someone- he assumes Shiro- stuffed it all those years ago. The sleeves are frayed and there’s a rip in the left pocket, not to mention a weird goo stain on the hood. As he shakes off the dust, a folded photograph slips out and flutters to the ground. Lance picks it up, unfolds it, smoothes down the creases, takes a look and-

“We took this on the planet Feltriz.” Lance forces out, chest heaving with exertion. “It was right after Shiro came back, and Allura gave us a few hours off to enjoy the beach. Hunk and I annihilated Pidge, Coran and Keith in beach volley.”

Lance had come skidding into the kitchen all of a sudden, arms flailing and torpedoing towards Matt as soon as they caught sight of each other. Matt stares at him, eyes wide and spoon full of goo suspend mid-bite. Lance shakes the photograph at him, insistent, and he takes it hesitantly. “I don’t remember everything about it,” Lance barrels on, “but I know Shiro asked a local to take the picture for us. The camera was covered in slime for days afterwards, because apparently that’s what the inhabitants of that planet give off when they come into contact with metal.”

“How do y-” Matt tries to say.

“I don’t know! It just suddenly clicked and the memory was there and I remembered something- remembered! Do you know how weird that feels?”

The paper is faded, dusted, worn and frayed; but the smile Lance wears as he looks at it is the same that shines out of the photograph itself.

#voltron #vld #lance #neutralvld #neutral-vld writes #pidge #matt holt #shiro #keith #hunk #allura #coran #lance (voltron)#voltron fics #fic

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pizza-is-my-buziness · 7 years

Text

I wrote this ficlet for one of @aosficnet2′s weekly prompts! The prompt is “what is love” and so enjoy some random fluff and a Skimmons child!

"Boom!" Peggy shrieks, slamming her hands down onto the table. The plates and glasses rattle, producing the desired effect. She grins widely, looking at her mothers, undeniably pleased with herself.

Daisy sighs, puffing out her cheeks as she exhales. Jemma only smirks, rolling her eyes. "She gets that from you," she mutters, giving her wife a pointed look.

"What?" Daisy sputters, going for offended. "That's ridiculous…I don't…" Jemma's pointed look only increases in intensity. Daisy rolls her eyes. "I don't say 'boom,'" She grumbles, petulant.

Peggy doesn't seem at all bothered by the conversation going on around her. She just looks at Daisy, smiling widely. "I'm going to be a superhero just like you tomorrow, Mom," she says proudly, puffing out her chest as she speaks. "Everybody better watch out."

Peggy raises her hand, ready to cause another miniature earthquake at the table but Daisy reaches out, grabbing her hands before she can cause seismic activity. "And you're going to look amazing," she assures her daughter. "But remember, you can't-"

"Tell anyone the truth," Peggy parrots back with a roll of her eyes. People always say that Peggy looks like Jemma, even though the little girl is adopted; strangers who spot them in grocery stores or at the park are always quick to point out the resemblance between the two of them. Daisy sees it best whenever Peggy is rolling her eyes or lifting her eyebrows. "I know, you've told me that a million times."

Jemma gives her daughter an affectionate smile. "You're going to look great tomorrow, darling," she assures her. "Why don't you put your plate in the sink and go upstairs and take a shower before bed?"

Peggy dutifully does as she's been asked, scampering out of the kitchen and calling, "I'm going to try on my costume!" over her shoulder as she goes.

"It's probably good she doesn't have powers," Daisy remarks, leaning back in her chair. "She's pretty destructive without them."

"She just wants to be like her mom," Jemma teases her, kissing Daisy on the cheek as she gathers their plates, getting to her feet. Though there are definitely times when she is grateful not to have a future Inhuman in the house. One is just fine with her.

Daisy shrugs, getting to her feet. "I liked it better when she was trying to be like you," she points out, slipping her arms around Jemma's waist and pulling her close. "She looked pretty cute in that lab coat that Mack got for her. Though, you also look pretty cute in yours…" She presses a kiss to Jemma's neck.

Jemma laughs, tilting her head back to kiss Daisy. "Well, I suppose-"

She's interrupted by the sound of something crashing to the ground upstairs and just as quickly, Peggy is calling out, "It's okay! Nothing broke!"

It sounds a little bit like a cover up.

Jemma and Daisy exchange looks before hurrying out of the kitchen and toward their daughter's bedroom. Peggy is on the floor, frantically trying to gather up the books that are littering the floor thanks to the overturned bookshelf in the middle of the room. She looks up at her parents, eyes wide. "I was just trying to make an earthquake and-"

"Well it looks like you succeeded," Daisy remarks, appraising the damage. "Totally been in this situation."

Peggy smiles, getting to her feet. As she stands, the leg of her costume -put together so carefully the week before by May and Fitz- snags on the edge of the bookshelf and tears and the rip sounds like a sonic boom in the bedroom. Peggy looks down at the tattered costume, her face immediately crumpling and, within seconds, tears are streaming down her face. "It's ruined!" She howls, yanking at the fabric and making the tear worse. "It ripped!"

Daisy reaches for the bookshelf, unsnagging the fabric while Jemma reaches for Peggy, scooping the seven-year-old into her arms. She doesn't fit as easily as she once did but she still cuddles up to Jemma, sobbing dramatically against her shoulder. "It's okay," Jemma says as she rubs Peggy's back. "We can fix it."

Daisy holds up the torn piece of cloth, looking at her wife skeptically. Jemma makes a face, shrugging while attempting to soothe the wailing child. "No we can't!" Peggy cries, peeking over her shoulder to look at Daisy. Seeing the evidence of the torn costume doesn't seem to make things better. "The character dress-up day is tomorrow!"

"Well we still have tonight," Daisy points out, patting Peggy on the head. "We'll fix it. It's going to be okay."

Jemma trades Daisy the seven-year-old for the torn costume and Daisy carries Peggy toward the bathroom, reassuring her along the way that they'll get the costume situation all sorted out by tomorrow morning. She starts the shower, taking the costume as Peggy takes it off and tossing it back out to Jemma. Neither of them are really adept at using the sewing machine, hence the necessity of May and Fitz creating the tiny tactical suit and gauntlets in the first place. But desperate measures…

Daisy manages to get Peggy calmed down and by the time she's finished with her shower she's worn herself out enough to stop asking about her costume every five seconds. She's almost completely asleep by the time Daisy finishes brushing her hair and she crawls into bed without protest, wrapping her arms around her favorite stuffed bear and cuddling it to her. "My costume…" She says sleepily, her voice wobbly with the threat of approaching tears.

"We'll take care of it," Daisy assures her, smoothing her hair away from her forehead. "Don't worry. Just have sweet dreams."

Peggy nods, closing her eyes. Daisy kisses her forehead, rubbing her back until she's certain the girl is asleep. She switches off the light, leaving the Captain America nightlight on and cracking the door as she slips out of the bedroom.

Daisy finds Jemma sitting at the kitchen table, largely unused sewing machine sitting where the dinner dishes had been only an hour before. She's also got a needle between her lips, her brow furrowed as she attempts to line up the torn pantleg with the seam it was torn from.

"How's it going?" Daisy asks tentatively as she takes a set beside her, peering at the set-up that Jemma has spread out in front of her. "Can it be saved, Doc?"

Jemma sighs, setting the needle aside and shaking her head. "Maybe by someone far more skilled than myself," she mumbles, dejected.

"Impossible." Daisy waves a dismissive hand. "I mean what about that time you had to stitch up my bullet wound in that abandoned apartment?"

Jemma crinkles her nose. "The fact that you just compared stitching up a bullet wound to sewing our daughter's costume back together makes me question everything about my life."

Daisy laughs even though she's not entirely sure that Jemma meant it to be a joke. But Jemma smiles slightly and Daisy is pretty sure that if anyone can save Peggy's costume then it's going to be the woman who single-handedly saved Daisy's life too many times to count.

Though it quickly becomes obvious that Jemma disagrees with Daisy's mental assessment.

Or, perhaps, not so quickly. It takes nearly an hour of trying to sew the costume back together before Jemma finally tosses the crumpled fabric aside, scrubbing a hand across her face. Her eyes are burning and her vision is starting to cross and it's not even ten o'clock and she already feels impossibly exhausted. "Why is this so hard?" She grumbles into the palm of her hand. "Why can't I just get the damn seams to line up without bunching up the fabric…"

"Let me try." Daisy retrieves the discarded costume and a needle and thread. She feels pretty good about her efforts when she's able to get the thread through the eye of the needle and successfully complete one stitch.

Any self-confidence quickly evaporates when she pricks her finger and the next stitch is jagged and crooked and there's a gap between both pieces of fabric. She groans, leaning back in her chair. Jemma pats her shoulder sympathetically as Daisy pulls the stitch free, starting over.

Within the hour, Daisy is ready to give up. "What kind of school makes their kids dress up anyway?" She grumbles, wincing as she pricks her finger from the umpteenth time. "Hero Day. Please."

Jemma rests her head briefly on Daisy's shoulder. "Maybe we should consider home-schooling," she suggests wistfully. "Would it be completely unconscionable to keep her out of school tomorrow and take her to visit Maria at the Triskelion? It would be a great distraction."

While that idea does sound tempting, Daisy only shakes her head. "I'm going to figure this out," she states with more determination than she's feeling at the moment. "I have superpowers, I can do this."

Jemma lifts an eyebrow. "Are you going to shake the fabric back into place?"

Briefly, Daisy considers the possibilities.

Twenty more minutes pass before Daisy is ready to give up and crawl under the kitchen table. Jemma retrieves the costume, ready to give it another try. But she doesn't actually move to pick up the needle, just staring at the fabric.

"Every year when we start studying the chemical makeup of the brain my students always think it's funny to ask me the same question: 'what is love, Professor Simmons,'" she mimics with a roll of her eyes. "There's always some poor undergrad who's just had their heart broken and wants to hear me admit that it's really all just Norepinephrine and Dopamine and the like." She shakes her head. "This time I'm going to say 'love is staying up all hours of the night trying to sew your child's superhero costume back together so she can wear it to school the next day.'"

Daisy can't help but grin. "Yeah, they don't exactly cover that in the textbook, do they?"

Jemma shakes her head, kissing Daisy quickly. "Thank you for trying."

"Hey, we're in this together, right?" Daisy kisses her. "And I love you but…we can't do this."

"You're right," Jemma says with a groan, though she looks relieved that it's finally been said out loud. Now she can give up and feel like their efforts were valiant. "What are we going to do?"

Daisy takes a breath, her eyes meeting Jemma's. "You know what we have to do," she says and Jemma nods resolutely. "Call in the reinforcements."

It's nearly midnight when there's a knock on the door and both Daisy and Jemma hurry through the living room to open it. May's expression can best be described as unimpressed yet completely unsurprised. She only shakes her head as she steps into the house. "Let me see it."

Jemma and Daisy direct her toward the kitchen, high-fiving when May's back is turned. Clearly the day is saved. Peggy better win the award for best costume after all of this.

#skimmons #bioquake #aosficnet2 #aosficnet2 prompts #prompt: what is love

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