#anyway shout out to sixteen year old me for writing something that's still around in 2022. i'm from the future i'm shaking your hand
i think it’s extremely important for anyone to be able to delete something they made off the internet if they don’t want it public anymore for any reason whatsoever, but i also think there is a lot of value in keeping your old fic or art up for all to see and for yourself to think about once in a while, cringe at a little maybe, and then just leave it there, as a gentle homage to who you once were and a record of the work you did to get to the things you’re making now
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DSMP Citizens POV- Part 1
I've seen a lot of the memes going around, but I'm not funny enough to write that, so here's my addition to the trend :p
This is part one, because I had a lot of fun with this and want to do it more.
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DSMP Citizen POV Masterlist
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Sometimes, it was odd for the residents of the Dream SMP to be reminded of the fact that the constant state of chaos that their server was in was not, in fact, reflective of every server.
"Why did we move here?" One woman in Snowchester whispers to another as the sirens go off for yet another nuke test and they duck down into their bunker.
The other shrugs. She doesn't have an answer. No one does.
Things started out all right, the people supposed. There weren't any wars, at least. Some of those who lived on the server before the Revolution could remember back far enough to tell you about the first true conflict, between Dream, the creator of their home, and TommyInnit, a sixteen-year-old who could yell shockingly loud, even for a teenager. Dream fought against Tommy and Tubbo (yet another teenager), and it seemed to all be in good fun.
Some will tell you now, though, that the signs of tension were already there, and when Wilbur Soot joined, those tensions only escalated.
One moment, things on the server were normal, the next, there was a Revolution.
"Did anyone else hear Dream shouting about 'white flags' this morning?" One person would ask their friends, and receive nods in return. "Anyone know what it's about?"
"A Revolution," one would respond. "Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are starting a new country."
"Oh," the first would hum. "How long until they get completely crushed?"
"Eh, I give 'em a week."
It was only a week, but it did not end the way anyone thought it would. Instead, L'Manburg gained its independence after TommyInnit gave up his discs once he lost a duel with Dream.
"Is the L'Manburg cabinet missing someone?"
"No, I don't think so. Anyway, did you hear that Dream just declared that Eret is to be crowned king?"
"...Can he do that?"
"He's Dream. He can do whatever he wants."
After the Revolution, when the server finally had more than one ruling faction, more than one place to live, things seemed to pick up a bit. President Soot, with Vice President Innit (VP Tommy, the people called him), ruled over L'Manburg, and called it a place of freedom. When word spread to other servers, people came to see for themselves.
And often, they stayed.
It was peaceful, for a while.
"President Soot announced he's holding an election," one man said to his wife one day.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Said it was for democracy." The man snorted. "He and Innit are the only party running, though. Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me."
"Darling, I know you're still salty about losing the war, but there's no reason to talk bad about a child," his wife said.
The man wrinkled his nose. "Still."
It was peaceful during the campaign.
For a while.
Then, though, Quackity announced that he was running for president, with GeorgeNotFound, best friend of Dream himself, as his running mate.
"This feels like a sitcom," one girl says as she watches the debate reruns with her friends.
"At least it's entertaining," her friend replies, shoving popcorn into his mouth.
And, for the people of the Dream SMP, from both L'Manburg and the Greater SMP, it was entertaining.
Until the election results came in, Schlatt was declared the winner, and President Soot and VP Tommy were banished.
"Dude, dude!" One teen says to their friends, running up to meet them on the Prime Path.
"What is it?"
"I just saw Technoblade join the server!"
The arrival of the Blood God shifted something in the people of the Dream SMP. When he joined Pogtopia, the rebellion being led by the two ex-leaders of the country, the people felt something settle within themselves.
All of a sudden, choosing sides wasn't as simple as where you live.
It was what you care about.
As the son of the ex-president burned down the old flag, the people of the Dream SMP, of (L')Manburg and of the Greater SMP, realized suddenly that they had to make a choice.
Without even wanting to, without doing anything to deserve it, they would have to fight.
Some people went to Pogtopia, some stayed in Manburg, some in the Greater SMP. Those in the latter two stayed where they were because they wanted to stay out of it.
It didn't change anything, in the end.
In Manburg, they watched their president (Emperor) fall further and further into alcohol, yelling at his cabinet and talking of expanding into territory that they had no right to.
In the Greater SMP, murmurs of King Eret's attempts to assist the Pogtopia rebels filled the alleyways.
In Pogtopia, people sat and watched the decline of the man that they had all once believed in. As Wilbur Soot slowly devolved until he was no longer recognizable as the man who had once led people to freedom, the residents of Pogtopia ate potatoes farmed by a man famous for his bloodlust and pretended that they were sleeping somewhere warm.
The day of the Manburg Festival, though, things felt better. Other than ex-president Soot and ex-VP Tommy (Wilbur and Tommy, the two insisted. No one listened), everyone, even the rebels in Pogtopia, were invited to attend. The people wandered through the stalls playing games, watching as Soot's son attempted (in vain) to drown Technoblade, buying food, and chatting with people from other factions, friends and family that they hadn't spoken to in weeks.
When the time came for the speeches, before the true festivities were set to begin, everyone was feeling good about the day. People congratulated Secretary Tubbo for a successful event, and offered him small words of encouragement for his speech coming up. The teenager would grin at all who spoke to him, and looked (rightfully) proud of how well he organized and decorated the festival.
Secretary Tubbo gave his speech, and people clapped, and then fell silent as President (Emperor) Schlatt laughed, asked for his Vice-President's assistance, and encased the teenager in a cage of concrete.
And then he called Technoblade to the stage.
And then, in front of the people of the Dream SMP, a teenager was executed in a spray of color that shot toward the sky.
Fireworks rained down on the people in the stands, then, and, regardless of where they were from, the people of the Dream SMP ran.
The Pogtopia ranks grew that day, and a nineteen-year-old who claimed to be a doctor without showing any credentials forced four other people to help her heal VP Tommy after he fought Technoblade in a pit, egged on by a man who once might have called himself his brother.
"How is this kid not dead yet?" One of the helpers asked, looking at the unconscious teenager's face.
"Pure spite?"
The first hummed. "Sounds about right."
One day, a bit after the festival, the people of Pogtopia woke to find Vice President Quackity walking through the ravine as if he owned the place.
One resident was noted to rub his eyes, blink three times, and then say, "It's too early for this shit," before heading back to bed.
A surprising number of people followed his lead.
Finally, the day of November 16th came, when Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit vowed to take their country back.
"I heard President Soot is planning to blow up L'Manburg," one Pogtopian woman mentioned to her friend as they suited up and prepared to fight, as they had signed up to be part of the forces.
"That's stupid," her friend replied.
"Bet you ten diamonds he blows something up."
"Fine."
As the country of L'Manburg blew sky-high, one woman was seen following another, screaming that she wanted her diamonds.
When Pogtopia won the war, the forces from both sides sat outside of the remains of the van as President Soot, VP Tommy, Secretary Tubbo, Dream, Technoblade, and many more, all piled inside to confront Emperor Schlatt.
They emerged fifteen minutes later, and Dream announced to the crowd that Schlatt was dead.
There was no time for the news to sink in, as they played hot potato with the presidency, going from VP Tommy to Wilbur Soot to Secretary Tubbo.
"President Soot is leaving, do you see that?"
"Probably going to the river to celebrate the win, if you know what I mean."
"Literally shut up. Never speak again. I hate you."
As the newly-inaugurated President Tubbo finished his speech, the people felt a wave of relief wash over them. Maybe the server could finally be peaceful once more.
Then, there was the tell-tale hiss of explosives under their feet, and the people ran as the ground beneath them fell away.
Stories of what happened next are conflicting, to say the least.
Words of President Soot dying in the explosion, of him turning the blade on himself, of another man killing him.
"He had wings," people who saw the man said. "Blonde hair, a green hat and robes. He stabbed Soot with the guy's own sword."
Technoblade apparently gave an incredible speech, and anyone who was there to witness it lamented that they hadn't recorded it.
Then, two Withers flew through the sky, and blood ran down the newly-exposed stones, and people who had never experienced death on the server before finally knew what it was like to die.
Afterward, though, when the anarchist had fled and the ex-President lay dead, President Tubbo, with VP Tommy by his side, stood and addressed the people, and made promises of a brighter future, and the hope and determination in his eyes was enough for the people to hope that maybe he was right.
("Whoa, cool wings, dude," a resident of L'Manburg said to their newest neighbor, a man in green with wings, burned across all the feathers, sprouting from his back. "Wait, what happened to them?"
"Oh, I was protecting my son from the explosion," the new resident replied.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Is your son all right at least?"
"No, he died just a few minutes afterward. His last life, too." The man sighed. "As much as I hate to admit it, he probably deserved it."
A beat. "What did he do?"
"Well, you may have heard of him. Wilbur Soot? He was the president here before Schlatt, I believe."
"...Holy shit, you're the bird man that killed President Soot!"
"Yeah, mate, that's me."
"...He was your son?"
"...Yeah."
"...What the fuck is wrong with your family?")
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invisible string - cale makar
a/n: another old fic rewritten for our fav defenseman sorry the gif I found is so large I could not find any horizontal ones I liked that fit my aesthetic rip
word count: 3.6k
warnings: alcohol, very brief mentions of blood/injury
summary: based on taylor swift’s invisible string
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You were going to miss this park.
Every Saturday afternoon you come here. Most of the time, you spent your day underneath the large oak tree planted in the center of the park, nose deep in whatever book you were currently reading. This month’s choice was I’ll Give You The Sun. Occasionally, you would do homework or take a nap, but your favorite thing to do was read. This oak tree was your favorite spot in all of Calgary, and you were really going to miss it.
After five years in Calgary, you were finally moving back home to Denver. Your family moved around a lot as your dad was transferred frequently, but your true home was Denver. You hadn’t been back there since you were six, but it was still home.
Calgary was always temporary. You knew eventually you’d pack up and leave, your parents dragging you along with them because you were only sixteen and had no choice, but it got exhausting after a while. You just wanted to stay somewhere.
Even though you knew your time in Calgary was limited, it didn’t stop you from falling in love with the city.
On the Saturdays that you spent tucked away underneath the tree, you always let your mind wander into daydreams of meeting someone there. You dreamed of being swept away in a whirlwind of a romance, and it all started with meeting someone at the park. All your daydreams could probably be tied back to the numerous romances you continuously read or due to the fact you longed for a teenage love, but what could you say? You were a hopeless romantic. Maybe it would be someone walking their dog or an afternoon jogger running into you or a lost tourist asking for directions. Either way, you thought it would be the most romantic meet-cute, under your special tree.
Five years passed, though, and your dreams of meeting someone dwindled until the only reasons you went to the park were purely for peace and quiet. Now, you were spending your last day in Calgary in your favorite spot, soaking up the sunshine as you finished your latest book.
On the last page, five paragraphs from being done, you heard a loud scream.
Your head snapped up, concentration broken as you searched around for the origin of the noise. Lo and behold, off in the distance, you saw the form of a boy rollerblading down the bike trail. There must have been some sticks or rocks on the path because the boy kept shouting as he wailed his arms around, unable to stop.
You watched as he continued stumbling for a few seconds before he careened off the trail and into the grass, tumbling onto the ground before rolling into a nearby tree.
Initially, your jaw dropped in shock, a soft gasp escaping as you covered your mouth with your hand. You waited a few seconds, watching for movement, and then you heard the pained groans coming from the injured boy.
The boy gradually pushed himself up by his hands, and you could see the bloody scrapes on his forearms even from your distance away. He slowly got back up on his feet, limping across the grass as he made his way back to the trail.
Not being able to help yourself, you began laughing at his misfortune. Now that you knew he was okay, the screaming and fall replayed in your mind, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the situation.
You thought you were far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to hear you, but you were sadly mistaken. The boy’s head turned to the sound of your laughter, and he followed it until his eyes met yours. You stopped laughing, but the smile on your face refused to fall as you took in his disheveled state.
He watched you try to hide your amused smile to no avail. It only took a few seconds of chuckling while directly staring at him before he returned your smile with one of his own. You saw a flash of teeth and the corner of his lips pulled into a smirk. He gave you one last glance, shaking his head slightly before turning back towards the direction he’d come from. You watched his figure rollerblade back down the path, avoiding the obstructions this time, and disappear from your vision.
The boy rollerbladed to the park the next Saturday. He skated by the same spot where he fell last week and glanced over to the centered oak tree, hoping to see you again, but you were nowhere to be found.
-
Cale couldn’t sleep. It seemed like no matter what he did, he just couldn’t fall asleep. The team had put him in a hotel for a few weeks while they worked on finding him a more permanent residence, but despite the comfort of the hotel bed, he didn’t find the mattress agreeable.
He’d been in Denver for two weeks now and he’d yet to see anything in the city besides the arena. His days were full of hockey practices and meetings, and his evenings were full of extra training at the gym. The latter was his own personal choice; he didn’t want to squander his chance at playing in the NHL and felt that he needed to train a little harder, being new and all.
He tossed and turned in bed for two hours before finally giving up. Sleep obviously wasn’t going to come to him soon, so he might as well kill some time instead.
Pulling out his phone, Cale searched ‘diners near me’ into Google and scrolled through the list of options. He selected the one nearest to him that was also open twenty-four hours, entered the address into maps, threw on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and was out of the door within three minutes.
The chilly, brisk walk to the diner took ten minutes from the hotel. Cale hadn’t been in Denver long, but he knew the weather was going to agree with him, if only because he had so much experience with the bitter cold Calgary winters.
A bell dinged above his head as he entered through the front door. Cale glanced around the small diner, noticing a few old truckers at the counter, a young teenage couple near the window, and a girl his age tucked away into a corner booth writing into a notebook.
A middle-aged woman with graying hair approached him at the front, a menu in her hand.
“Just one?” She asked him, noticing his lost puppy look. Cale nodded his head in agreement, following the lady to a secluded booth.
She set down the menu in front of him before pulling out a mug to pour him a cup of coffee.
“New around here?” She asked him as his eyes read the menu slowly.
“Is it that obvious?” He replied with an awkward chuckle.
“We usually have a small group of regulars. Your ‘deer caught in the headlights’ look is a dead giveaway,” she said with a warm smile. “I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.”
The woman walked back behind the counter, serving more coffee to the truckers. He saw one cook in the back kitchen ,but other than those two, no one else was working. Probably because it was a little past two in the morning on a Wednesday.
He took his time reading over the menu; he couldn’t decide if he wanted a breakfast platter or a nice burger with fries. He’d narrowed it down to two options when he saw you shuffle out of the corner booth, backpack slung over your shoulders.
You walked his way, the only path to the front door was past his table. His eyes connected with yours, and you gave him a warm smile.
Pausing next to his booth, he watched you as you leaned over his shoulder.
“If you’ve never been here before, I highly recommend the caramel and cream cheese French toast. It’s not on the menu, but they’ll make it anyway if you ask. Oh, and get tater tots instead of the hashbrowns, they’re a lot better,” you suggested.
You flashed him a bright smile, and Cale’s eyes lit up. It felt like he’d seen that smile before, an old memory from a dream that he couldn’t quite remember. He wanted to say thank you or maybe ask what your name was, but you continued on your way out the door before he got a chance to reply. His gaze stayed fixed on the swinging bell above the entrance long after he’d watched you turn down the corner and fade into the night.
His trance was broken when he heard the voice of the waitress call out to him.
“So, did you decide on something?” She asked, a knowing grin on her lips.
The two choices Cale was torn between suddenly vanished from his mind; he couldn’t even remember what he wanted to order before you said something. Cale bit his lip and thought about it. French toast really wasn’t on his diet. All he could do was hope that the extra hours he spent in the hotel gym would pay off and negate the sugar-filled and fatty calories he was about to consume.
Closing the menu without a second glance, he turned his attention towards the waitress. “Yeah, I’ll have the caramel and cream cheese french toast with tater tots, please.”
-
Cale was riding high. The team had just made it to the Stanley Cup finals, and no one could contain their excitement.
Going against the advice of their coaches, a few of them had decided to go out to celebrate. It was nothing big, just a small dive bar on the edge of the city. They wanted to celebrate their hard work, not get so trashed they’d be completely useless for practice tomorrow. They still had their toughest games ahead of them.
The bar was quiet, only a few local patrons were there besides the team. If anyone knew who they were, no one approached them about it. The night passed quickly, laughter and cheers filling the small space as pints of beer were drained.
“Makar, grab the next round,” his captain ordered, and he was too happy to do so. Cale was the resident golden retriever on the team. Someone would say ‘jump’ and Cale would ask ‘how high?’ but he didn’t feel used. He loved being a part of a team. So, he made his way across the room to the bar and ordered two more pints.
For you, it had been a hell of a week. And not in a good way. You finished your Bachelor’s degree almost two weeks ago, but the stress didn’t end when you turned in your last finals. Work was awful, but you still had another couple months until you began your life as a real career woman. You were stuck there for the rest of the summer, promising your supervisor that you wouldn’t leave during their busiest season just because you’d graduated even though you really wanted to put in your two weeks. It was a mistake to make that promise.
After spending a day running numbers and creating spreadsheets that a ten year old could’ve done, all you wanted right now was a drink: the strongest drink you could think of. Perhaps an entire bottle of whiskey if they’d allow it. Or if you could afford it.
The minute after your shift was over, you were out the door and removing the suffocating blazer before you’d even hit the sidewalk. You began the familiar route to your favorite bar, being that it was close to work, cheap, and almost always empty.
When you entered the small bar, you noticed it was slightly busier than normal. Still relatively quiet, but busier than you were used to. You didn’t let it deter you as you walked directly to the bar.
However, it seemed the universe wasn’t done punishing you because when you were five steps away from the countertop, someone turned around abruptly. A hard body slammed into yours along with half a pint of beer.
“Oh, fuck me!” You exclaimed in distress, throwing your hands up as the beer splashed all over your blouse.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!” The culprit said, setting the beers back on the bar behind him. He reached over to grab a handful of napkins and then began patting furiously at your top.
“It’s fine,” you sighed, “Today just really isn’t my day.” You took the napkins from one of his hands to dry yourself off.
You looked up to face the man who’d drenched you with cheap beer, and you were met with a dazzling pair of blue eyes. They looked familiar, as if you’d seen him before but couldn’t remember where.
He caught your stare, his lips quirking into a smile at the sight of you. Cale felt a tug inside him, like the feeling of butterflies, when he saw your face. Waves of coolness washed over him, and he was lost in your eyes.
“I’m sorry I ruined your shirt,” he said in a daze, unable to look away from you. He really hoped it didn’t come off as creepy, but little did he know you felt the same way.
“It’s okay, I wasn’t attached to it anyway,” you said, all your previous anger leaving your body. It was actually one of your nicer tops that would cost way too much money to dry clean now, but you weren’t thinking about that.
“Do I know you?” You both asked at the same time. The coincidence caused you two to burst out laughing, and he swore he’d heard that laugh before.
“How about I buy you a drink to make up for this?” He asked, beaming from ear to ear.
Your eyes twinkled as you nodded your head, and Cale felt his heart burst at your smile.
-
A year passed in a blurry haze. The night out at the bar turned into a two hour conversation with the stranger who’d spilled beer all over you. He apologized profusely the entire night and introduced himself to make up for it. He only ordered you two drinks, but you spent hours together laughing.
You told him about your hellish day and complained about work, and he recalled the wins and upcoming games he had in the next couple weeks. Soon, you were exchanging life stories and you found out he was originally from Calgary. You discussed your hobbies and interests outside of work, the best movies you’ve seen recently, and where in Denver you could find the most authentic Mexican food.
Eventually, it neared one in the morning, and Cale had to get home for practice in the morning. As much as he wanted to stay longer to talk to you, he knew he had to get going before his teammates ratted him out tomorrow.
“Do you mind if I walk you home?” He asked, the drinks between you finished long ago. It sounded a little odd asking a stranger he just met if he could essentially follow her home, but he hoped he didn’t give off stalker vibes.
“I’d like that,” you replied with a smile. It sounded a little odd agreeing to let a stranger you just met have your address, but something tugged at your heartstrings and told you to take the leap.
When he dropped you off outside of your apartment, he had asked for your number. That night turned into a first date and that first date turned into many dates. Cale easily swept you off your feet, and it was even easier to fall in love with him.
After years of dating the wrong guys, of being burned and cheated on and lied to, the world had sent you the perfect man. A man with a soul equivalent to a thousand beaming rays of sunshine all wrapped up in perfect blonde hair and blue eyes and rosy cheeks.
He did everything for you. He sent you flowers randomly, surprised you with your favorite takeout, and took you on the most extravagant dates. You went to his games, house sat his plants when he was on roadtrips, and left him little notes in his suitcases to find when he was away. You knew within two months of dating that he was the one you were going to end up with. Cale was your forever.
There were no awkward phases in your dating life, no uncertainties or questions about what you were as a couple. Cale was as taken with you as you were with him, and you both knew what you wanted out of your relationship. It felt like you knew each other for years, like he’d always been there in the back of your mind, just out of reach and waiting for you to find him.
You didn’t know how much you believed in fate, but it felt like the universe made him specifically for you. He understood you like no one did and you could communicate with him without ever saying a word. If soulmates and other halves did exist, there was no doubt in your mind that Cale was your missing piece.
It was a year after you began dating that Cale invited you back home with him. He wanted you to spend a few weeks over the summer with him and his family in Calgary.
Cale was elated to introduce you to his family. He planned on marrying you one day, and he wanted everyone to meet the woman who’d stolen his heart. Everything about you consumed him: your hair, your eyes, your smile. There wasn’t a single part of you he wasn’t madly in love with and there was nothing about you he’d change. It was a long time coming, you going home with him, and you couldn’t be more excited about it.
He spent the first few days showing you around his favorite childhood hangouts, the rinks he used to skate on and the pizza places he used to frequent with his friends. He showed you his high school, secret hidden spot near a small lake, and the best ice cream shop in all of Calgary.
It was one day when you were walking through the old park you used to read where you shared your favorite spot.
“When I lived here, I used to spend every weekend under that oak tree,” you said randomly, pointing out to the large tree across the grass.
“Really? I used to rollerblade through this park sometimes. One day I completely ate shit on this path,” he chuckled, remembering the painful memory. “I sprained my wrist and arm. Couldn’t play hockey for three weeks.”
“How old were you?” You asked curiously, thinking back to the day you saw a boy fall.
“Sixteen, maybe?” He replied, brows furrowing in thought. You and Cale were the same age.
“This might sound crazy, but I think I saw you fall that day,” you said. Cale turned to look into your eyes.
“Were you the girl laughing at me under the tree?” He asked skeptically. The blush forming on your cheeks and the way you broke eye contact answered the question for you.
“It was you! I always thought it was rude how you didn’t offer to help me,” he said with a hearty laugh.
“To be fair, I was worried when you fell down. But then you got up and seemed okay, so I didn’t bother,” you said defensively.
“Still, you sat there and laughed at me while I bled on the grass,” he teased, slugging your arm lightly.
“Well, it seems that everything turned out okay for you,” you said, rolling your eyes dramatically.
“Yeah, it did,” he replied wistfully, reaching down to hold your hand with his.
The two of you walked through the rest of the park, but your gaze kept flickering back to the center field where your tree sat, your brain replaying the daydreams you had about meeting your true love underneath that tree. A nostalgic smile spread across your face, and Cale noticed your suddenly cheery mood.
“What are you smiling about?” He asked, a playful grin of his own appearing. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw you smile.
“Nothing,” you replied, keeping the tender secret to yourself.
+1
Three years later, Cale took you home with him over the short winter break he got while the All-Star Game happened. You walked through the park together, a tradition that you created ever since that first summer back.
The air was cool and crisp, the skies a beautiful shade of purple and pink against the blue background. He led you over to your favorite tree, pulling you from the usual path you took around the park. In all the times you’ve been to the park with him, you’d never actually taken him to sit under your tree.
You felt butterflies erupt in your stomach at the feeling of being in your favorite spot with your favorite person. Your heart rate began to pick up as Cale dropped your hand to stand across from you, giving you a knowing smile.
When he took a step back, you felt the tears begin to well up in your eyes as if your heart knew where this was heading before your brain could process it. Cale lowered himself onto one knee before he pulled out a small velvet box from his coat pocket, opening it to reveal a diamond ring.
The fantasies you created in your mind all those years ago finally came to fruition that snowy day in January. All along you knew that one day you’d meet the love of your life under this tree even if you hadn’t realized it at the time, and you thanked whatever gods existed for the invisible strings that tied you to Cale.
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Title: Like Gold
Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.
Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.
Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)
AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes
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Chapter 7/?: Catalysts
Sasuke doesn’t indulge in baser needs often, despite the frustrating paradox that is the male endocrine system’s apparent determination to make him do so. He finds it feels… empty, after. Like there’s supposed to be something more, but instead there’s just whatever is situated above his head to stare at while his breathing levels out, an interminable abyss of silence and stars, or tree foliage, or apartment ceiling. Impulses and feelings of a sexual nature are probably normal for anyone his age, but in the past, satiating desires like this has made him feel guilty, given the context.
When he's not plagued by nightmares rife with gore and blood and bodies, or the occasional aching memory, his subconscious takes the opportunity to bombard him with dreams of a suggestive nature, having deduced somehow that it’s the most effective method to get him to… tend to things.
This variety of dream customarily involves pale pink hair, multifaceted eyes, and soft fingertips, branded into the part of his brain that controls his most base instincts with a hot iron.
He notes begrudgingly as he gazes at plain plaster above him, brows furrowed, that ostensibly, it works well enough, if the intricate mess of thoughts and feelings in his head and on his abdomen are anything to go by.
Sasuke would never admit it to anyone, but Sakura has headlined exclusively in nearly every sexually-charged dream he's ever had, and resultingly the majority of his sentient thoughts while indulging outside of dreaming, too. When they were Genin, it was innocent enough; he had reasoned that, being the main girl his age he associated with, it made sense his inadvertent dreams, beyond the scope of his control, involved her. He'd shaken it off in those early days as the by-product of the developing hormonal cocktail that is the pubescent masculine mind, and ignored the part of himself that kind of had a crush on her even then. Or definitively more than a crush, after the Chunin Exams and the hospital and jealousy.
He had tried convincing himself of the same thing at fourteen, once he'd left the village and had attempted to sever all bonds. It didn’t work, though; by that point he knew better, knew what the feeling he was trying to squash actually was.
Which meant it didn’t work at fifteen, either.
Nor sixteen, and definitely not seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen.
All of that has been wholly indecent on its own in the past, causing him to feel shameful every time it happens, and even more ashamed if it’s a rare day where he’s weak enough to act on it, a day where he wakes up mere seconds from an edge rather than minutes.
But this morning, he woke up on the tail end of all of that with the addition of freckles , of all things to fixate on, and he just knows he's never going to forget about them now, that they’re branded into his grey matter in perpetuity. Freckles just above the interior of a shoulder, eight of them, a small scattering he had been pressing his lips to, listening to a softly whispered Sasuke-kun, reaching around her with his only arm, so he could make her say his name like that again.
It is far from the first time he’s touched himself to the thought of Sakura, but it is the first time he’s indulged since they’ve been… together.
Except this time felt… different.
Less like an unrealistic reverie he should try to abstain from and more like an eventuality. Less guilt, too, or rather, almost none, because he’s in a relationship with her now, and he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to have feelings like this regarding her. Not that he is anywhere near ready to do anything about them, because he absolutely is not; he’s not certain he even comprehends that level of vulnerability, to touch another person and allow yourself to be touched by them, though he badly wants to, someday.
No, Sasuke doesn’t indulge in baser needs often… but he did this morning, when he woke up teetering just on the precipice, fantasizing about tiny tan flecks seen and unseen, and he’s trying to work through how he feels about it, this guilt surrounding the fact of not feeling guilty like he ordinarily does, as well as the lingering curiosity he’s struggling to force down regarding how many other freckles Sakura has.
Even moreso, he yearns for soft words that he has often thought may be sentimental to the point of being utterly quixotic. It's why he doesn’t typically submit to this kind of inclination in the first place; it’s meaningless on one’s own, he secretly thinks, though he has nothing to compare it to. No sense of connection or true lasting fulfillment like he imagines there must be, for people to talk about it the way they do; just pleasure that's there for a blinding scattered second and gone the next, with nothing tenderhearted or meaningful in the moments following as his vision refocuses and he picks up the pieces.
He stares at his ceiling, an aporia of longing and complicated compulsions ricocheting in the hallways of his head, or perhaps from his skull to the roof and back again, an absurd push and pull that leaves him with more questions than answers.
Has she ever thought about him the way he thinks about her?
What would it sound like, Sasuke-kun, when she’s like that?
Is it okay to feel like this, now? To think about her in this regard?
Sasuke is accustomed to not sleeping well - it comes with the territory of his lived experience, an unfortunate fact of life he’s somewhat learned to deal with - but during the mission to Sand, he'd slept fairly restfully, though in short increments of five or six hours. That's apparently the tipping point of how long he gets to go without being sojourned by some variety of vision in the night.
He eventually makes his way to the shower, using torrid water and soap to double cleanse what’s left of his mess. That's a big contributor to his consternation, too; it's so embarrassingly messy that it’s impossible to imagine ever doing anything like it with her . He flips the dial to cold after he’s bathed for the better portion of five minutes, because serpens caput is still burned into his retinas, and he’s hoping against hope to freeze it out of himself like he has tried to do with shame in the past.
It doesn’t work; it just induces shivering, algidity overwhelming the senses but doing nothing to distract the mind.
He shoves his face into his book after, desperate for the distraction a proverbial fiction featuring an old fisherman can provide and thinking once again that he needs to acquire a lamp. Anything to get the thought of pressing his lips to her freckles out of his head, because he’s pretty sure if he keeps thinking about it, he’ll have to take care of things for the second time today, and then he really won’t know how to feel.
So when a banging erupts on his apartment door shortly following eight, followed by a shout of, “TEME! I'm here, let’s go!”, all he can think is finally, because he knows it will at least get his mind off of this strange lack of guilt and a curiosity he’s not ready to unpack yet. The book helped, but he thinks he needs the challenge a fight against Naruto can provide to truly leave behind this level of prurience. He doesn’t know how he’s going to look her in the eye when they meet at three as they planned, otherwise.
Sasuke shoves on his sandals and grabs his chokuto before opening the door. “So you finally showed. Thought you'd sleep all morning.”
Naruto’s eyes narrow, indignant and already launching into a retort. Good. Maybe he’ll get some iota of order knocked back into him, enough to put compelling constellations away for the time being.
XXX
Sasuke feels monumentally better by noon. It’s another draw, an absolute whirlwind of swinging limbs that made it impossible to focus on anything else. He didn’t take joy in it necessarily, and he suspects Naruto bruised his ulna bone to the extent it almost cracked, but it helps, the diversion of pain; the tinge he feels when he moves it is a welcome hindrance. They’d stuck mainly to taijutsu and clashing weaponry, so physically, he’s pretty exhausted.
They’re resting in the dirt, making a valiant attempt at rehydrating. It’s moderately hot for this time of year, barely on the cusp of mid April, but it’s seeming like the Konoha heat will be returning with the same vengeance it always does. A small trickle of sweat sinks its way down his back.
Sasuke feels nearly normal again. Or normal to the extent he generally feels, anyways. He gets the urge to do something good - to tip the scale, so to speak.
"...The cutting board works. Thank you." It’s not what he’s most thankful for right now, but it’s a nice thing to say as substitution.
His friend grins at him. "Welcome! It was all me, by the way. Hinata-chan didn't even help me pick it out!" Naruto scratches his head, downing more water. He’s moving rather slowly, as if he is sore, too; Sasuke thinks perhaps he came close to beating him this round.
They stare upwards for a while, soaking in the sun as clouds roll lazily by. Birds fly overhead, finches and song sparrows twittering their selections, collecting materials to build more nests for this new season. It’s another effective distraction, one that fills him with a sense of nostalgia, replacing his earlier sense of compunction regarding the mystifying concept of physical love and the whims that accompany it.
Naruto speaks up after a bit. "Ne, teme, wanna go to the market with me? Hinata-chan asked me to get some groceries and some stuff for the backyard."
Sasuke glances at his teammate and contemplates. It can't hurt. He did want to pick up potatoes to make actual curry with, and he could get some other things, too. He'll still have time to shower before he meets Sakura at the hospital.
"...Sure."
Naruto takes longer to rise than he does, shuffling carefully as if he is in pain, but once he’s standing, he seems fine enough, stupid grin slapped on his face at Sasuke’s agreement to go with. They set off in the general direction of his building so he can drop off his weapon first. He gets dirty looks sometimes, walking around, though it’s not nearly as bad as when he first returned and it doesn’t bother him on the same level that it used to. When he’s with Naruto or Sakura, he gets less of them, but he can't imagine a sword strapped to his back in the market will do much to help his reputation.
Naruto doesn't allow the easy silence to last. "Y'know, teme, it's really good to have you back in the village. It feels like everything's finally coming together. We'll have to do some fun stuff this summer. And also in the fall!” Gears are turning behind cerulean eyes, and he adds, ”...Hmm, and the winter, too!"
"...Yeah." He stares at the mountain, thinking about what cherry blossom trees look like in summer and fall and winter. It will be nice to see the one across the street change colors throughout the seasons. Or the one on the hill, where they're going later today. He has seen their like numbering in the thousands, scattered everywhere on his journey - he’s highly cognizant of them, for obvious reasons - but he hasn’t been granted the privilege of watching the same one through the whole of a year’s growth cycle in a long time.
"Sakura-chan seems really cheery lately, too. Can't imagine why." The second sentence is said flippantly, without any real conviction, as if Naruto knows exactly why.
Sasuke glances at his teammate, neck warming and heart skipping a little at the mention of her. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing that Sakura is happy from secondhand sources; it makes him feel like he’s doing something right for once. Maybe not all his impulses are complicated in nature enough to require dissection, as he was accustomed to doing when he was away; spending time with her is one, and he's been indulging it often.
He briefly entertains the idea of outright telling Naruto that they're together, then, but the dobe is moving on before he comes up with the words. "Well, anyways. Wanna spar Monday morning, if neither of us get a mission by then?”
That’s… specific. Maybe he doesn’t need to say anything to him, after all; he’s sure it’s no coincidence that Naruto is asking about the exact time period Sakura is busy training with Ino, probably as aware of her schedule as Kakashi is. Their old sensei might have told him, he supposes, or maybe Sakura said something; Sasuke wonders when he last saw her.
“...Sure. If you think you can handle it.”
The response he gets is a slug on the left shoulder, but it’s not overly hard. Sasuke narrows his eyes in response more out of habit than any real malice. He sees as Naruto’s hand retreats and slips out of a fist that words are written on his palm. He didn’t notice it throughout the morning due to their hands constantly being locked around weapons or thrown in punches, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes; it's likely a grocery list.
Naruto leans against the brick downstairs while Sasuke drops off his sword, and then they head to the main market area as the dobe chatters. It’s fairly busy, it being a Saturday, but it’s not intolerably so; most people are busy eating around now.
Sasuke is completely unsurprised when Naruto beelines straight for the noodles; naturally he would be out of them. He takes the opportunity to procure a blend of wild rice. Thus far he only has white and brown in his own pantry, and he’s been trying to eat it often. He's always liked rice, but it’s high in calories, too, an easy way to try putting on weight. Another variety to choose from would be beneficial.
He trails after his friend to the baking supplies next, where Naruto examines containers of flour and sugar. Sasuke concludes Hinata must bake, because he’s confident any cookie prepared by the dobe could not possibly be edible. While his teammate is occupied, Sasuke turns the corner and procures a half dozen eggs, a large bag of potatoes, and two different varieties of tomatoes. The extra five pounds of weight held in the crook of his arm doesn’t do wonders for his bruised bone situation, but it’s not wholly unbearable; he’s fairly used to dealing with pain.
“Hinata-chan said to go to the gardening stall on the north end,” Naruto says once they’ve paid and exited the building, so they begin a course in that general direction. “She said they have the best perennial bulbs; that means they come back every year!”
Sasuke twitches, surprised he can even pronounce the word perennial if he’s lived this long without knowing what one is.
“Anyways, she wants to plant some, uh…” His voice trails off, and he peeks at his hand, where Sasuke now sees the names of flowers written in feminine writing that has to be Hinata’s.
Of course. Like he could spell the words, let alone read his own sloppy handwriting.
“Iris, phlox, and uh… echo-na-na-chee-ah.”
“Echinachea,” Sasuke corrects dully, giving him a withering look.
“Sure! That! She wants to plant those in the backyard, kind of line the house with them, since the front is looking pretty nice now. She said to get bulbs; they root better. They might bloom this year, but if not, they’ll for sure come in next year!”
“...And she entrusted you with this?” Sasuke asks, raising an eyebrow.
Naruto just laughs, utterly unphased. “Duh, that’s what the list is for, teme. Hinata-chan is super smart like that. Putting it on my hand makes sure I don’t lose it!”
They meander to the northern edge of the market, past the congregation of other stalls selling seeds and garden starters. It's getting towards the end of planting season for Fire Country, but there is still plenty to choose from here, allegorical gates of green swinging open in salutation. They pass some tomato plant starters, already starting to climb their cages, but Sasuke decides against it; his hand is full presently, and the bone still kind of hurts, and none of them are red heirloom tomatoes anyways, being smaller variations like plum or cherry or grape. He likes all tomatoes, honestly, but if he was going to grow one, he’d just want the one of a favorite to worry about. Repotting a starter would also require a planter, which he doesn’t have; another thing to carry.
The stall Naruto leads them to is probably the nicest one there, judiciously laid out and everything labeled neatly with precise calligraphy. The few tables the vendor has are overflowing with perennial starters, but Naruto goes to the three vertical displays of seeds and bulbs, so tall they are at eye level with both of them. They’re filled to the brim with diminutive packages, printed with large pictures of the flowers they contain the beginnings of, along with genus names and common names in smaller text. The blond examines them, surveying his hand, then the display, then back to his hand again in scrutiny.
Sasuke watches, resisting the urge to sigh and waiting for the inevitable.
“Hmm… I guess this would be a lot easier if I knew what any of these looked like. Gonna have to read them all.”
Sasuke rolls his eyes and steps forward to point to the section of iris bulbs to start with. He gives him a minute to work out which colors to pick, observing the throng of people entering and exiting around them, young and old and in-between.
Phlox are next; he directs his teammate to the appropriate section, where there are quite a few options of hues. Naruto examines them as if he is making a grand decision transformative in nature, mumbling to himself.
“Hmm… She likes blue and purple. Maybe I should…”
His own gaze wanders as he tunes Naruto out, taking in pictures of begonias and caladium on plastic shiny in the sunlight, before his vision locks on the far display.
He wanders over to it as if his body is moving of its own accord.
There are several varieties of lilies, he learns as he scans the packaging, oriental, trumpet, and what is apparently called nerine. White nerine lilies had been the variety his mother grew, lining their yard with curved porcelain petals, clusters emanating from many single stems.
He sets his groceries at his feet to free up his hand, picking up one of the packages to read the instructions on the back. His arm aches as he does so, but he couldn’t care less.
Nerine lily bulbs require good drainage. If there are still puddles in the prospective planting area 5-6 hours after rain, locate another site, or amend the soil with organic material to raise levels 2-3 inches. Nerine lilies also require soil that is somewhat gritty, though it also must be organically rich. Adding compost may increase nutrient content.
In spring, choose a location in full sun. If you are in a hotter region, site them where they will receive morning sun and afternoon shade, and plant the bulbs with an inch of the slender top above the soil surface. The top of the bulb is the area that looks like the stem of an onion. Install bulbs 8 to 11 inches apart for a massed look.
Nerine bulbs develop foliage that gather sun rays and strengthen the plants during the spring and summer months. Flower stalks develop in the fall. Provide water when the plants are actively growing, and very little when they are dormant.
You may cut the final flower stems to display decoratively. This will not hurt the plants and the cuts last long periods of time indoors. After they finish blooming for the year, cut off any remaining flower stalks. Your plants will rest for the winter months before sending up new growth in the springtime. Over time, nerine lilies will form clumps. They like to be crowded, so don’t feel pressed to divide them unless flower production begins to decrease. Clumps can then be dug, split apart, and moved to other parts of the garden, or shared with friends.
When Sasuke looks up, deep in thought, he notices Naruto searching for what he assumes is echinacea, flitting stiffly at random between the first two displays and scratching his head. Wordlessly with the package of lily bulbs still in hand, Sasuke points to the bottom right corner of the first, where several color selections are.
“Thanks, teme!” Naruto plows back to the specified stand and stoops down comically slowly, though Sasuke barely sees, gaze drawn pensively back to the packet he was examining.
The memorial stone has decent drainage, aside from the occasional hard rain like last weekend; that will become less common as the weather warms, and one or two monsoons a summer never drowned his mother’s lilies. Shade in the afternoon could be an issue, though. There’s a large oak tree on the west side that might cast some protection over it, but he only ever visits under the cover of night, so he’s unsure. He would have to examine the trajectory in person to gauge.
He considers the market bag the groceries were handed to him in earlier, studying it closely.
Carefully, he puts the package back where he found it, though his eyes linger on it. He’s no gardener, not like Sakura is, and besides, his arm hurts.
XXX
He’s leaning up against one of the blue columns outside of the hospital when Sakura emerges at three, sprightly as ever. She’s holding the two journals and the medical text from their first trip to the library; she said yesterday that she needed to return them, but there shouldn’t be any new ones she needs to check out just yet. He hadn’t stayed terribly long after they’d finished the tenmusu because he needed to shower and write his mission report, but they’d made plans to swing by the library and journey back up the hillside to read together again. There was also mention of possibly picking up food afterwards, to take to her place. Hazel Wood must be in her tote, hooked around her shoulder.
“Sasuke-kun,” she greets cheerfully. “Whew. It’s getting warm out already.”
“...It is,” Sasuke comments before he extends his hand for her texts, his own already held there, a silent offer to carry them for her.
She blushes as she passes them to him, sliding them into his hand. His eyes drift to the freckle on her cheek, and he wipes his mind blank by sheer willpower alone as they head east. The books aren’t as heavy as the groceries had been earlier, so it doesn’t hurt as much, but he's wondering at this point if the bone might actually have a small crack. He thinks he should ask her to look at it; maybe later, at her apartment.
“My balcony days may be numbered by now, at least until the fall comes,” Sakura observes as they meander.
He contemplates. “...Do you sit out there often?” It is so utterly befitting of her that he thinks he can picture it, her reading out there, surrounded by plants. He wonders if she ever admires the night sky. Their team had stargazed sometimes, on missions that first year as Genin.
Green eyes settle on him from his right. “I like to, when it’s nice out. A lot of times in the summer it gets too hot, though there is an occasional night when it’s cool enough. Fall is really the best for it. You can see the changing leaves from above. Even if it's a chillier day, it’s pleasant with some tea and a blanket in the evening."
He debates for a long moment, but decides against bringing up stout squirrels or chestnut-flavored everything or Naruto slipping on a leaf.
“...It sounds nice,” he comments simply instead, wondering if he’ll be invited to sit with her on her balcony, once fall arrives. They would have to sit kind of close; the space doesn’t seem very big from below, and it's cluttered with greenery.
Sakura smiles up at him, a look that says she agrees with his assessment.
Then, she offers softly, "You can sit out there sometime with me, if you'd like."
His neck warms; all he can do is nod and avert his gaze elsewhere, an abundance of something tender and sweet flaring to life in his belly.
Returning the books barely takes two minutes; they’re wandering towards the outskirts of the mountain in short order. Sakura sprawls in the same spot she did last time, so he takes up the same position, too, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, stable and strong.
And then his eyes catch on another freckle she has, this one near her elbow, and all he can think about is the slightly textured consistency of his ceiling, and whether the impulse to press his lips to her skin without guilt was an okay thing to feel.
She reads and he more contemplates than reads for about an hour, sprawled beneath the scant amount of shade provided by this tree that has lost its petals, trading them in for florets of a greener variety. It’s pleasant, once he can drown his inner disarray of thoughts. He eventually gets through a sliver of his book, though turning the pages is a little cumbersome, tinged lightly with pain. Perhaps he shouldn’t wait until later to ask her to examine his arm.
Sakura finishes her own book, though she keeps the pressed petal between its pages; she must have gotten through more of it while he was on the way to and from Suna. She just reclines there, after, looking up at the sky with her arms at her sides, near exactly the relaxed pose she used to lie in when they were younger.
Sasuke finishes the passage he’s on, and marks his place with the petal she’d plucked from his hair last week, before pointedly setting the text aside and following her eyes to the azure. Fluffy clouds are floating by as the sun inches closer to the west horizon, pushed steadily by the breeze.
“How is Ichika’s recommendation?” She questions.
“...Interesting.” He genuinely is enjoying reading it, despite his aberration.
Her head angles towards him, lying against a gnarled root at a slightly different angle. Her expression is curious, like she’s encouraging him to elaborate.
“Simple, but heavy with metaphors.” He considers for a second, then adds, “You might like it. Poetic.”
Full lips twist upwards. “Maybe I’ll read it next. Her recommendations are usually pretty apt; she gets a good read on people.”
“...How was yours?”
“Hmm.” She pauses, as if thinking it over. “A girl and her mother who get caught up in some bad luck. They inherit an estate - that’s where the title comes from - and supernatural things start happening. It’s kind of a story within a story situation; the grandmother they inherited the house from was an author, so they start going back and reading her writing for clues.”
“...A mystery.” It seems like she’ll read any genre. Mysteries would probably entertain her; she’s always liked to solve things.
She laughs, music to his ears. “Yeah, I suppose it is. It was pretty good. Well written; better than the last one.”
There is a pause.
“...Maybe I’ll read it next,” he echoes, her same words from earlier.
Green sparkles at him, amused before she shifts back towards the firmament.
“...Sounds like a book club.”
It is the most Sakura joke. He huffs a ghost of a laugh as more gauzy clouds drift idly by. It is peaceful, sitting here underneath the same sky as her, observing in easy silence through branches with fresh emerald buds.
And then Sasuke flexes his forearm, shifting slightly, and it still hurts. He considers; she probably won’t mind.
"...I think Naruto cracked my arm bone," he finally confides.
She turns to him, expression fluctuating immediately into one of disquiet, pink brows knotting closer in concern. He blinks and she's standing already, walking over and sitting cross-legged in the nearest open space, an indent in gnarled roots that she navigated through and found a place in as if it were nothing.
Wordlessly, Sasuke holds it out for her to inspect once she’s seated, and she gently rests her fingertips on his forearm.
"It’s from this morning?” Sakura asks, looking concerned in a way that makes his heart thump a little. Or maybe it’s from her hands encircling his skin.
He nods; she must have deduced that they trained earlier. She prods gently before threading green chakra beneath his skin towards the bone, probing for a break.
She frowns. "Oblique fracture in the ulna, though it's very slight and non-displaced.” Her gaze flicks up to him, and all at once, it’s the exam room again, him hyper aware of how close she is to him even though this is clinician Sakura. “I’ll fix it; you really shouldn't have been carrying anything on it."
It takes him a moment to realize she’s referring to him carrying her books earlier, because he’s thinking about the groceries from the market, which were definitively heavier. Her proximity and the aroma of tart berry and the freckle on her cheekbone are all incredibly distracting. Especially the freckle. He peers at her fingers, glowing verdant, and notices one on the inner portion of her right wrist, too.
"...Sorry." He says finally, flicking his eyes back up to her nervously after a long minute is spent mending marrow back together. She inclines her head back down to his arm, apparently accepting his apology for not mentioning it sooner. It's an odd sensation; he can feel the crack fusing from the inside out, ataractic chakra seeping into the diaphysis to fortify.
He feels like he should clarify, so he adds as she works, eyes fixed on her face which has settled in concentration, “I thought it was just bruised at first.” She nods as if that makes sense, working on it for another minute or so without glancing up.
He hopes she's not mad at him. Sasuke shifts his gaze downwards, something in him sinking.
“Flex it, then bend, please,” she requests, not moving her digits; she must need to feel the arm move to determine if it’s healed. He does as she asks and it’s notedly improved, no lingering pain.
“It’s better. Thank you.” He looks upwards just as she does, hoping the jade will still be soft on charcoal.
It is, startlingly so, and she’s flushing all of a sudden, dropping her hands from his arm and rising to her feet a step away, as if she, too, just realized how close they were. It's different here, daylight and not part of their routine like her entryway is becoming.
“You’re welcome,” she says somewhat hastily, complexion darkening. He’s not sure he’s much better; his neck is warm, and he remembers very specifically where each of her fingers had just been on his skin, like the ten points of contact are singed into his epidermis, and likely his grey matter, too.
As he tries to force his pulse to even out, Sakura adds, softly, “You could have just come in with him.”
His brows furrow in confusion. “...What?”
Sakura blinks, countenance appearing as if she is sorting through a problem in her head. Pink dissolves back to her normal coloring.
“Naruto came in with a slipped back rib, earlier today. I assumed it was from sparring with you.” She rolls her eyes, then. “He went and got groceries before coming in; he had them with him. Luckily nothing chilled; he had to wait for a bit.”
"...He didn't say anything about his rib." Now the slow rising and crouching is making more sense.
She sighs, closing her eyes for a second as if something has become clear, but she only replies, "Ah. Of course."
"...Wouldn’t shut up?"
"...Yeah." She turns away slightly, cheeks stained anew for some reason; it makes him curious what their third teammate babbled to her about. "He said as I was kicking him out that he was going to plant flower bulbs with Hinata this afternoon. He showed me the ones he picked. It’s good timing; the perfect time of year to plant some. Pretty soon it'll be too warm."
He lets those words drizzle slowly into his being, a little gentler than a summer monsoon.
"...Our next Hokage can't pronounce echinacea," he eventually tells her.
She chuckles with mirth, a sweet sound he finds relieving; she must have gathered he was present for that endeavor, now, and she can't be too mad at him if he can still make her laugh. Sasuke inwardly hopes she doesn’t gather that he also got groceries; he doesn’t think she’d be very impressed. It was kind of stupid to do that with a questionable arm, in retrospect.
"No," Sakura acknowledges finally, appearing highly entertained. "And he didn’t know what a perennial was until this morning, yet he’s planting an army of them. Probably without reading the directions."
They look over the village together for a lengthy moment in which he considers text printed on the back of a white package.
Then she says his name, so quietly it’s almost a whisper. "Sasuke-kun.”
He angles to her, and sweet jade is on him again, ebbing seafoam cresting as the late afternoon sunlight hits her.
"Thank you for telling me about your arm. In the future, please come to the hospital, if I'm working. You can wait in my office, if you’d prefer. I don't mind; use the window.” Her expression changes to troubled, and suddenly she is no longer the clinician version of Sakura; everything is tinged with something more, something that burns him in its intensity. “You shouldn’t just… suffer in silence, if something hurts. Even if you think it’s nothing. Please tell me."
Oh. She’s not mad, just worried. Heat grazes his ears, and he swallows, staring down at his forearm.
He wants to be close to her. He really does.
"Okay,” he agrees, and means it, carefully meeting green.
They head down the hill together to seek dinner before the rush hits, deciding to go to the yakitori stand she mentioned when he first returned. She chatters about how Naruto wants to have a bonfire in his backyard, once summer’s here and everything is planted.
“...He’s excited about his yard,” Sasuke comments after they’ve ordered, leaning against the wall of the exterior waiting for their takeout. He requested his without the sauce, since Sakura said it’s on the sweeter side for yakitori.
Sakura grins, and she’s really pretty, shadows of a nearby tree dappling her skin, cheeks still red because he paid. It’s only fair; she’s been feeding him. “Yeah, he is. I’d like to see their flowers and garden in the back, eventually. I’m sure once they’ve got it how they want it, they’ll have all kinds of get-togethers back there. Last year we carved pumpkins at their place, instead of at Ino’s and Sai’s; there’s less mess to clean up if it’s outside. He said today that you should come this year.”
“...What?”
She blinks as if remembering something, then smiles sheepishly. “So I never mentioned this, because it happened after I…” She flushes, and she looks away for a second. “...After I sent a letter for the month already, but Sai learned about this artistic thing they do in the Land of Woods, a couple years ago.” Her gaze shifts back to his. “They hollow out pumpkins and carve designs into them, in late October. Warding off evil spirits as they go into the cooler season or something; they put them on their doorsteps with candles in them so the carvings light up the night. It’s odd, but I think it’s become a tradition now. It’s fun, once you get the hang of it. We roast the seeds with salt and Hinata bakes pumpkin bread.”
That sounds entirely odd and completely characteristic of Sai; he supposes there is the artistic angle to consider. Sasuke passed through the Land of Woods three separate times, but never in the fall. “What kind of designs?”
She smiles as if she’s trying not to laugh; his expression must be that of one who is exceedingly perplexed. He supposes it’s not an expression he wears often. “Well, they’re supposed to be scary, I think, but we don’t really do well at making them that way. They’re more funny or decorative. Sai makes pretty good ones, I guess, mean faces with sharp teeth.”
“...What do you carve?”
Her eyes twinkle. “I tried a leaf, the first year, and a crescent moon the second. Sai and I teamed up to carve one for Kakashi-sensei, too, last year; a scarecrow with a cat.”
A crescent moon is not at all what he would have guessed she’d gravitate towards; he thinks immediately of the Six Paths Yin Seal that once adorned a hand he no longer has. Then he comprehends the final part of that sentence.
“...A cat?”
“Oh. Yeah, he got a cat.”
“...His summons are dogs.”
She giggles. “Yeah, Naruto and I thought it was weird at first, too, but he does kind of seem like he’d be more of a cat person overall, the more we thought about it.” Sakura shrugs. “He’s in the village most of the time now, being Hokage, so I guess he thought he could be around enough to take care of one? They’re more low-maintenance than a dog would be. I usually get tasked with feeding it and changing its litter, when he travels to watch the Chunin and Jonin Exams.”
Momentarily, he wonders if Sakura knows what’s under Kakashi’s mask; their old sensei allowing her into his space in his absence may have given her opportunities for some form of low-key reconnaissance on the matter.
Then his brain seizes on another notion, one that’s far more amusing, because she said she teamed up with Sai, and that can only mean one thing.
“...What does Naruto carve?”
Sakura’s grin widens as if she perceives exactly what thought he’s just had. She probably does; she knows him well. “He’s terrible at it. His never look like anything; just orange mush. He loves it, though, and Hinata puts it on their front step anyway.”
He snorts. Figures.
A bell dings, so they peer back in, and sure enough, their food is ready. Sakura steps forward to collect it, thanking the worker, but as she turns, she pauses.
Sasuke follows her gaze, and sees none other than their third teammate in the street, walking their direction and waving emphatically. He’s wearing a different pair of pants, knees absolutely covered in dirt and grass stains.
“Oi, teme! Sakura-chan!”
Sakura glances up to him before swiveling towards the road, their food in hand; Sasuke trails close behind, pushing apart the hanging banners of the stand as he steps beyond the threshold of the restaurant.
“Naruto,” Sakura greets when they’re out in the open.
“...Dobe.”
“Looks like you’ve planted everything,” Sakura says more than asks, gesturing to his pants as evidence.
“Hehe, yep, all of ‘em! It was work, but it will be worth it, later in the year.” Naruto scratches his head, grinning. Sasuke lets those words sink in, too, drenching dead roots.
“And now you’re getting Hinata yakitori as a treat?” Sakura pushes, seeming incredibly amused.
“Well…” Naruto looks away bashfully, grinning ear to ear. “Yeah. Gotta repay her somehow. She has good ideas. I just follow her lead.” He looks back to them, then. “Did you tell teme about all our awesome plans?”
Sasuke’s focus falls to Sakura, who is flushed, biting her lip in a smile.
“I may have started to.”
“Well, good, because our yard is going to be totally the best, and if he thinks he’s getting out of it...” the dobe points at him accusingly, “Then I’ll kick his ass!”
Sasuke scoffs. “As if you could.”
Sakura shakes her head, pink locks fluttering with the motion. “Always with the physicalities... Anyways, I’m sure it will be lovely, when everything finally comes together.”
An uncommonly stretched pause passes where blue eyes zero in on the food container Sakura is holding, before they travel up to the two of them.
The grin shifts to something remarkably tender.
“...Yeah. I’m sure it will be.” He says it with the utmost confidence, like he is as certain about it as he is about the sun rising tomorrow, and Sasuke gets the sense that he is no longer referring to gardening.
The moment passes, and then Naruto is punching them each on the shoulder respectively and sidestepping away towards the yakitori stand. “Anyways, gotta go, so I’ll catch ya later! I’m guessing you have plans of your own.”
Sasuke blinks as their teammate disappears into the restaurant, ears burning a little. When his vision travels down to his right, Sakura is blushing a dark red. She meets his gaze, smiling sheepishly.
They turn to go to her building. The entire way there, Sasuke considers everything in the beginnings of a green that seems endless, nurtured by people from all walks of life. He has been noticing it this whole time, since his return, but now he's thinking about how dull it would be without it, whether it’s dirt roads or lifeless grey granite. This is not the wilds, where seeds sprout unabated. Here, one must put in the work to grow things, find suitable locations and till the soil.
When they reach Sakura’s apartment, his eye lingers on her plants as he follows her inside. She sets the takeout on the table by her window. A shadow of a leaf from the jasmine above them is cast hazily out of focus on her left cheek.
“Would you like any sauce with yours? I could make some teriyaki sauce quick, or I have lemons I’ll be cutting up anyway for mine.”
“...Lemon?” Citrus complements chicken, he knows, but he understands that to mean she’s planning on putting it on hers, over top of the yakitori sauce.
Her lips curve upwards. “I like it on other things, too. It’s good on yakitori.”
So Sakura slices a lemon and it sits on the center of the table between them as they eat. She drizzles her yakitori with three of them, and he takes the other three. The chicken is pretty good, tart with the citrus and seared alongside green onions. It’s still warm, as it wasn’t a long walk to her place at all, a convenient sort of sustenance.
“...What else do you like lemon on?”
She chews thoughtfully, swallowing before answering. “Hmm, a lot of things. Fish, even ones that are usually served with lime. Pork. I like it on vegetables, too. Salads, pasta, rice. Most desserts that include lemon I like, as well.” She pauses again, and adds, “Lemonade, if it’s homemade.”
No wonder they’re always in her fridge. “...And tea.”
His heart flips at the way she smiles at him.
“...And tea,” she agrees.
They watch the streets fill and empty from her window, finishing the meal in a companionable reticence, smelling faintly of citrus rind and shadowed by greenery from above.
He helps her prepare decaffeinated sencha after, trying not to stare at the freckle on her cheek. He’s pondering this morning further, the notions of impetus and yearning, and also the way she says his name, but this time uttered softly under a cherry blossom tree with an invitation into her office, if something hurts.
Sakura cares about him. A lot. Sasuke knows this, has known for years, but it’s the actions of her affection, the way she expresses it purely and simply as if it’s a true north cascading through her veins, that has inched its way into his bone marrow, engraved on the latibule he carved inwardly to avoid dry swallowing life’s more bitter medicines.
As she stirs sugar and honey into her own cup, she asks, “Care for a chess rematch?”
He doesn’t even have to think about it; he nods his assent. It’s time to test something.
They arrange the board together at her table. The first round, Sasuke cautiously plans every move, surveying alternating squares and attempting to predict what strategy Sakura will employ. In some instances, he mirrors her, moving a rook a turn after she does, shifting a pawn out of imminent danger, and so on. It’s a very involved way to play, requiring attentive calculation of each move.
It’s a prolonged match that he eventually loses with a final sweeping motion of her remaining bishop, but it’s fairly close.
“...Again?”
She grins and wordlessly starts setting up the pieces she has captured, so he begins to set up hers. It’s an interesting task, a message of opposites, her setting up his dark figures and him setting up her light ones.
The second round, he simply follows his instincts, negating planning ahead farther than a couple of turns. If he gets an impulse to shift a pawn one way, he does. If his gut tells him to move the knight into her territory or to retreat a rook, he goes with it.
It drags on for the better part of an hour, and ends in a stalemate.
The smile she gives him is breathtaking, a broad and warmhearted validation.
“You’re good,” she comments, jade eyes dancing with joy. He gets the impression that it is not often she gets forced into a draw. He wonders who else she plays with. It can't be Naruto, but maybe Sai or Ino also play.
“...So are you.” He is somewhat reassured now. His impulses used to be ruinous, stemming from anger and anxiety and loss, but perhaps his journey helped in that regard. He just needs to make sure they're rooted in the right things, whether it be logic or affection, and then the major task becomes to feel rather than to overthink.
When he kisses her good night in her entryway, another movie watched and plans for tomorrow later, he doesn’t reach for the freckle the first time, though his hand twitches with the longing to. It’s treasured, this tender pressing of lips that feels like dipping a toe into still water. It is imbued with both of her hands resting on his shoulders again, ten fingertips that have him in her grip more than she could possibly fathom.
He studies her eyes when he pulls away, staring down into soft depths of viridescence. He will drown in them someday, he thinks, slowly but surely working up the courage to wade into the deep end.
The second time he kisses her, he lets himself graze her cheek to truly appreciate the difference, allowing acknowledgment of the impulse, compelled forward rather than backward as if bound by some metaphorical form of northern star situated on the rise of her cheekbone.
Sakura leans into his touch once more as she did yesterday, but this time, she brings up her own hand and delicately lets her fingertips rest atop the outside of his, as if she encourages the caress, thumb brushing against his knuckle as his lips gently brush hers. Her other hand stays resting on his clavicle, a tender embrace, osculant in a way he has hoped for countless times, inclusive of this morning.
It is exactly what he needed, a catalyst of encouragement comprised of a heat that is gentle, coaxing, but still brands him all the same.
Maybe it's okay to want to skim her freckles and more, to allow the affinities he has to breathe. They’re together now; it stands to reason they'll one day venture into territory more uncharted, if he can concede to that kind of vulnerability. Not that he’s anywhere near ready for that - he’s not - but his instincts don’t appear to be all disastrously calamitous. Touching her cheek is something she clearly welcomes.
Sasuke gave in to darker tendencies once. Perhaps it's okay to give in to lighter ones; nothing grows in the absence of light, after all. He brushes a thumb across the high point of her cheekbone once more with her hand encompassing his before they part, embracing a new habit prior to whispering good night.
The way she smiles up at him, skin aflush and glimmering eyes, is everything.
XXX
He inspects the stone and the soil surrounding it for a long while, heavy-heartedly trying to ignore the encyclopedia of names in favor of envisioning what it would look like with lilies surrounding it. Less lugubrious, probably. The trajectory of the tree’s shadow would touch the stone in the evening, he sees, now that he’s here in person. He only ever haunts this place after nightfall when there's less chance of someone happening upon him. He wishes it was more secluded for that reason; maybe healing happens in the sunshine, and that’s why he still struggles with coming here after so many years, creature of the night that he is.
Evenings with Sakura feel like healing, though, and they linger after hours consistently. Maybe next time he’ll visit his dead kin at twilight, a brittle sort of compromise.
He'll see if the impulse still grips him tomorrow, and then decide. He knows his mother would like them. Itachi would, too, although it never feels like he's here, not the same way that it feels like the rest of them are, the air weighted with an accursed brand of perfume pouring outward in all directions.
White lilies may be able to touch the light in his stead for the time being. Even if they don’t grow, he at least will know he tried, and there is always next year. By then, he may have the capability of asking Sakura if she would help him; she’s clearly a capable gardener, and there should be less sediment, if he puts in the work.
By the time he leaves for his apartment, a thin layer has loosened.
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i’ve seen this film before (this is an old story)
༶•┈┈ oikawa tooru x gn!reader | angst
༶•┈┈ general m.list
tags/warnings: angst (with an okay ending), swear words, oikawa doesn’t become a pro, kinda college au, author was listening to the folklore album and also mother mother while writing this, i think that’s warning enough
word count: 1.48k
a/n: this was originally supposed to be some sort of prose poetry for my poetry sideblog but it didn’t work out so </3 also, trying out a somewhat new writing style hehe :3
“someone has to leave first. this is a very old story. there is no other version of this story.”
― richard siken, war of the foxes
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
it goes like this: you fight over something small (it's never just something small), and after a while with whom the fault lies doesn't matter anymore (a double-edged sword: the fighting and the screaming and the shouting and the mocking).
it goes like this: radio silence, no missed calls, no unopened texts. oikawa, a character study: lover becomes roommate becomes a shadow you see slipping out the door if you wake up early enough. take-out ordered for one, a bed too large and cold. blankets that swamp you.
it ends like this: you cave first (you always cave first). oikawa is too proud to apologize and you are too tired and it is easier to brush all the broken pieces of each other under the rug (it's old, you don't remember where it came from, only that it's the colour of mold and smells like mothballs, despite your best efforts) and pretend the we are fucked up, we are fucking this up away. you hate the way this story ends, there is no other ending to this story.
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
"tooru," you say, and the click of the door as he shuts it behind him rings like a gunshot. "do you know what day it is?"
oikawa is breathtaking, as always. "no," he says, casting his eyes to the moldy rug at your feet and then away, off to the side, "what day is it?" oikawa is breathtaking, and as always, he's a bad liar.
you smile, make no effort to pull it to your eyes. "it's pasta day," you answer, and it's as hollow as the ring-pop he gave you as a promise when you were younger (when you had thought you were in love; when you were in love).
he nods. "thanks for cooking dinner." he chucks off his shoes and socks in an act of practiced nonchalance.
there is no pasta day.
"welcome home," you tell him belatedly. he hums, says nothing in return.
(stilted conversation: the second stage of a terminal relationship.)
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
once, you were young and in love.
it's been proven: youth and love makes one foolish.
the story, or the prologue - it goes like this: you meet oikawa at an impressionable age (the boy next door, the golden boy, the boy the coaches eye in a game, the boy all the girls talk about, the boy). he proceeds to make quite an impression on you (a burn from sparklers on a beach at a festival, a failed ollie that left a scar on your knee, bruised wrists from volleyball, the - invisible, but you know it’s there, just as oikawa knows - stitch over the exit wound in your chest). you grow up beside him and along the way, convince yourself that sticking with him is a natural progression (cherry blossoms bloom for only two weeks).
you and oikawa, him and you. it has always been the two of you. this story is very old, this story always ends the same way.
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
you’re fucked up. you and oikawa, him and you - somewhere, along the way, you’d gotten fucked up. you don’t know who fucked it up first, it doesn’t matter anymore. (nothing matters but the brush of oikawa’s lips on your lips and the delicate flutter of his lashes and the rent that you cannot afford without a roommate).
oikawa is waiting on the couch when you come home (you came home later than usual - you’d seen him talking to a girl who had batted her lashes at him prettily the way he used to do to you). you shut the door behind you like a judge’s hammer, you slip out of your shoes and socks like water through earnest, cupped palms.
“late night?” he asks (no welcome home).
“yeah,” you reply (no i’m home). “i wanted to finish more of my project.”
oikawa hums, looks at you from beneath those damned lashes. “that essay?” he shifts, lifts his feet from the moldy-looking rug to sit cross-legged.
“yeah,” you say again. (you’d submitted the essay a month ago. you’re working on a presentation due in a week now).
“i ordered pizza,” oikawa says after a pause, “it should be arriving soon.”
you nod, step over the genkan and into the one-bedroom apartment. “thanks,” you tell him, “i’ll be right out.”
the bell rings while you’re changing into loungewear. you step out of the room just in time to see oikawa take the pizza out of the delivery girl’s hands - the same girl you’d seen touch his arm and smile (there is no home).
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
oikawa’s working part-time at a local diner that keeps long hours. you’re working on a degree.
here’s the thing: he could probably afford a one-bedroom apartment of his own if he’s smart about his money.
here’s the thing: you can’t.
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
“someone has to leave first,” wakatoshi tells you over lunch, “richard siken said so.”
“who?” there’s a tear right down the middle of your carrot-heart.
“someone who left first, or someone who was left. does it really matter?”
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
here’s the point: oikawa with his long lashes and bedhead. oikawa’s sleepy smile in the mornings (you remember more than you know), the exact dip of his smile, the map you have of the lines of his palms.
the point is: oikawa staying out and not coming home (you stopped counting after the first month, but your heart still knows), waking up to a cold bed because oikawa started leaving earlier (to go the gym, he says). hesitancy in hands where there once was security, the subtle fall of a satellite out of orbit, the gradual fall out of the childhood familiarity of being young and in love. the point is -
the point is always oikawa.
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
oikawa gets a new, better, actual job. he’s a volleyball coach at a high school, now.
you find out almost a month later, through takahiro and issei.
“oikawa’s confident they’ll make it to nationals this year,” issei says conversationally, sawing into his steak, “says his kids are promising.”
“what?” (you’ve seen this film before.)
“you know,” takahiro says, “the volleyball kids he’s coaching.” you did not know.
“ah,” you say anyway, fingers slipping around the fork in your hands and grasping onto the far edge of a cliff, “how could i forget.”
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
you finish your degree. you get a (relatively) stable job at a nearby design office.
here’s the thing: they pay you well for a fresh graduate. here’s the thing: you can probably afford a one-bedroom apartment of your own if you’re smart about your money.
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
“i’m moving out,” you say the moment oikawa opens the door, “thank you for everything.” (despite everything, you mean it. he’s taught you so many things.)
he smiles (it looks the same as what you imagine you’d smiled like the day of your first anniversary). “okay,” he says, and you think that that’s that.
“i’m sorry,” he says after a moment.
“yeah,” you say, “i am too.”
“thank you,” he continues, eyes almost the same shade as the day he’d brought you on a picnic, “i’ll always love you, you know that, right?”
you do (you feel the same, it is not the same love as when you had been fourteen and sixteen and seventeen and eighteen and nineteen, but it is still love).
“me too,” you say because there is nothing else to say, “you’re important to me. you’ll always be important to me.” it’s true: he was your first kiss and your first love and your first best friend and the first person you’re leaving first.
oikawa smiles, and disappears into the bathroom.
you stare at the ugly rug at your feet.
“is this okay?” you ask the broken pieces of you and him (curled around the jagged edges of each other, thorn to petal, bruise to open wound), “this is an okay ending, right?”
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
here’s the point: oikawa as the boy you loved, oikawa as your youth, oikawa as a part of the past you will always hold close but not be held behind by.
a study in relationships: someone will always leave first, it is a very old story.
introspection and a universal truth: youth and love makes one foolish, being foolish is not always a bad thing.
the point is: someone will always leave first, sometimes people fall out of love, sometimes familiarity is not enough to hold them together.
an old story, another universal truth: someone will always leave first, it is not always a bad ending.
»»————- ————- ————- ¤ ————- ————- ————-««
as always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated!! :D do drop me an ask if you’d like to be added to my general taglist :”)
p.s if you liked this, it would Be Cool if you leave me an ask / scream in the reblog tags because it would satisfy my need for validation 💔💔
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Okay so anonymous on instagram asked me “how do you think the lead up to the prank went down? Like what did snape do to anger Sirius so much he shared that secret?” And I’ve thought about this an awful lot so here’s my interpretation: (Snape defenders... scroll past this one maybe.)
“Fuck, I need to go back,” Sirius announced as he James and Peter slowly made their way towards the shack.
“What? Why?”
“Forgot his jumper.”
Sirius couldn’t see James well in the dark but he was pretty sure he’d rolled his eyes. “But...”
“Please, James. We’re going to be early anyway and we only just left. It’ll take two seconds. Come on, it’s Moony’s favourite. He likes having it after transformations. I was going to get him some chocolate too...”
“Ugh, fine. You are annoyingly cute towards him, you know that?”
Sirius grinned, “Come on, then, I don’t fancy my chances getting back without the invisibility cloak. If anyone sees me on the grounds I’m done for.”
They huddled back toward the castle, Peter still in his animagus form as the cloak would not accommodate three teenage boys. James and Peter stayed under the cloak in the courtyard and Sirius bounded through the corridors towards their dormitory.
It was summer and the moon was rising later now, it was definitely after hours but if he got up to the dormitory unseen, he could grab the map to take extra precaution on the way back down.
They still had half an hour before Remus’ transformation would begin, he had time. He made it all the way to the seventh floor before he was interrupted.
“Out of bed, Black?”
Sirius refrained from punching a wall as he slowly turned around. “As you can see, Severus, I’m on my way there now.” He indicated to the portrait hole which was only metres from him.
“Where are your friends, by the way?”
“In bed, I’d imagine,” he answered, bluntly.
“Strange. It’s a full moon tonight, isn’t it?”
Sirius strode towards him and pushed him firmly into the wall. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He snapped.
“Ask Loony Lupin, why don’t you?” Snape spat back.
“Don’t call him that!” Sirius pressed his forearm harder against his chest, making him wince uncomfortably.
“You’re very protective of your friend...” Sirius almost fell over when he felt it. A familiar surge of magic embedding its way into his head, swarming his memories. “I’m sorry,” Snape said coldly, “I meant boyfriend.”
“You—” Sirius raised his wand and held it straight to his throat. “Legilimency,” he all but shouted. “You can’t— that’s not—”
“Very good. Well recognised.”
Sirius’ mother had used it in him before, it wasn’t hard to recognise. “Why the fuck are you learning that? Who’s teaching you?”
“Library books. I’m teaching myself. Are you... impressed?”
Sirius punched him, hard, and Snape stumbled before clasping his hand against his face. He screwed his eyes shut again and Sirius tried to resist it. He tried, but he couldn’t.
“The shrieking shack? That’s— that’s not even far away!” Snape shouted. “Do you realise how dangerous that is?”
“Use legilimency one more time Severus and I swear you’ll regret it for a year.”
“The headmaster probably wouldn’t believe you,” Snape drawled, a small grin spreading on his busted lip. “Which sixteen year old is capable of magic that advanced?”
Sirius really wished he could disclose the animagus thing right about now.
“Dumbledore may believe me, however, if I told him I was... recklessly exploring the castle late at night, trying to prove I wasn’t scared of the shack when I accidentally discovered a monster lurking. Maybe this happened as I fled for my life?” He indicated to where Sirius had punched him.
Sirius pressed his arm against Severus’ neck and watched his eyes widen slightly in panic. “Yes, well, that would require you to get into the shack, wouldn’t it.”
He pressed his arm harder when he felt Severus start to enter his head again. “You really want to know?”
Severus glared at him, clearly trying not to gasp for breath.
“It’s the whomping willow,” Snape wheezed, “I saw it in your mind.”
“Brilliant,” Sirius hissed. “Then you just press the knot on the tree and boom. The tree stops. Follow the passage and see what your fucking curiosity gets you.”
He let Snape go and he all but sprinted away. Sirius did punch a wall then. He was blind with rage. Legilimency had been used on him the night he ran away. His whole body still tingled with it as he stormed up the stairs, grabbing Remus’ things.
He jumped half to death when he was suddenly grabbed upon exiting the portrait hole. “Fucking hell, James. Don’t do that whilst invisible.”
“What happened to your hand?”
Sirius looked down at it. It was swollen and bruising. Then, he almost stopped breathing. It was like something had clicked in him, like the rage had parted a way for coherent thoughts to re-enter his brain.
“Snape knows,” he said quickly.
“Bloody hell,” James groaned. “It’s fine, he’ll go to dumbledore and just—”
“No, James,” Sirius clutched his robe, his uninjured hand ghostly white. “He knows how to get past the tree.”
A series of emotions filled and left James’ face in a fraction of a second. The one he settled on in the end was a wide eyed stare. “You— you told him?”
“I didn’t mean to! He knows how to do—” James was sprinting away before Sirius could even finish his sentence. He saw Peter scurry after him too, still in his animagus form.
Sirius couldn’t get his legs to move in order to follow. Instead, he collapsed onto the floor and inhaled shakily, once, twice, before letting a sob tear through him.
He’d heard that he wasn’t good enough hundreds of times. It turned out he wasn’t good enough for Remus either.
(A/N: Due to angsty headcannon I shall be posting a fluff oneshot tomorrow. Anyway, I’ve had this little headcannon for a while now so when someone requested it I decided to write it... here you are. “The prank” is the most out of character thing for Sirius, it was simply written as a plot device to make Snape look good and him look bad. I don’t actually think it was a prank. Sirius didn’t do it for a laugh, he wouldn’t. Anyway, that’s just my interpretation but I feel like I know Sirius better than jkr does tbh...)
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lacuna- part 1
din/reader
she’s here!!!!! she’s here!!!!! i decided to split it up into parts to give me more time to write and put u all (ellie) out of your misery. thank you for being patient, and thank you to everyone who was so kind about the teaser!!
set waaaaaay before the series, this is Target Practice Din
MASTERLIST
word count: just shy of 2.5k
warnings: some swears bc it’s me, overuse of italics, probably some spelling mistakes, non graphic smut but it is Highly Implied, so for that reason 18+ only pls no babies.
“Have you ever removed your helmet?”
“No.” He grits out.
“Has it ever been removed by others?”
“Never.”
He’s lying.
___________________
You practically fly down from the cockpit the second you touch down, shoving Ran between the shoulder blades. He stumbles down the last few feet of the ramp, and skids across the ground on his ass. In any other situation, you might have laughed. But in any other situation, you probably wouldn’t have pushed him.
“What the fuck was that?”
He only sputters out a half baked excuse about the mission, it’s enough to have you drawing your blaster. Only it's not in the holster you keep strapped to your thigh.
Your gaze is cold as ice as you turn to see your gun dangling from Mando’s index finger. He stands above you on the ramp, apparently unaffected by your outrage even though Ran’s actions could have ended very differently for all four of you. Xi’an laughs haughtily from a crate inside the ship, she’s lucky you’re unarmed.
“He almost got us killed.” You reason, not even sparing a glance at the man still cowering from you on the floor. Mando shrugs. Like it's nothing.
“And yet, we made it.” He says, dropping the blaster back into your holster as he descends the ramp.
You’re all only alive because you were quick enough on your feet to take over, because you were on the guns, because you made the lightspeed calculations mid-dogfight to get the fuck out of there. Something everyone else seems to have conveniently not noticed. Ran’s on his feet, dusting himself off, Mando has already stalked off into the hangar, and Xi’an’s hot on his heels. You heave an annoyed sigh, adrenaline leaching the energy from your bones, and scuff your boots the rest of the way down the ramp. Ran catches your arm when you pass him, grip just a little too tight to be friendly.
“Empire’s always looking for pilots, I could just put you back where I found you.” He says lowly as you rip your arm from him. It’s not an empty threat. He knows there’s nothing left for you on Corellia besides an arrest warrant and a swift execution. There’ll be bruises in the shape of his fingertips by morning, you can feel them already. It’s not the first time and, if you’re being honest, you know it won’t be the last. The pouch of credits Qin hands you for a job well done makes that particular pill a little easier to choke down, at least.
Your room at Ran’s space station isn’t much, but you’ve done what you can. There’s only a bed and a desk, the matching chair missing long before you moved in, a shelving unit and a viewport. An old blanket, loosely crocheted and full of holes, lies crumpled atop the sheets. It was white once, used to swaddle you as a baby, but that was before the sweat and the ash and the bloodstains. It’s the only thing you’d brought with you when you had to run, wrapped around your shoulders to shield you from the night’s chill at the last minute. You hadn’t even had time to put shoes on. The viewport window is another comfort, barely bigger than the datapad that lies forgotten on your pillow, but you pay the boss dearly for your view. Lights blinking on the ceiling reflect in the scratched glass, and the mismatched floor panels creak under your weight as they always do. It’s home, even if the space station itself feels like the loneliest place in the universe sometimes. With one last glance at the swirling stars as the station slowly turns, you’re practically asleep before your head hits the pillow.
You have to pee.
One look out into the corridor presents you with closed doors and lowered lights. Sleep hours, then. It’s hard to keep track of time when it’s always night outside, although living off-planet isn’t so bad once you get used to it. Rest here comes when you can get it, as opposed to the fancy artificial sunrise/sunset lighting cycles you’ve heard about on inner rim stations. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s awake to judge you for shuffling to the bathroom in your socks anyway.
The light is too bright in comparison to the dim hall, and you almost jump back from your reflection in the small mirror. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled shirt, you really should have done something with your hair before you passed out. You’re sure you’ve never looked more exhausted. Sleep hasn’t come easy in the few years you’ve spent on the station, dreams plagued by flashes of the reason you came here in the first place. Running, choking on the smoke in your lungs, an old friend’s blood splattering across your cheek. The only rest you really get is when you work yourself down to the bone, until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore, but you know you’re not the only one.
The door across from yours is open when you go back to your room, Mando standing in the frame, backlit by a lamp like he’s the hero from one of those propaganda movies you snuck into as a kid. You pause in your own doorway, it’s probably a bad idea to call him out on it. It’d probably only start an argument and then you’d have to deal with the only person you could count on to watch your six being mad at you.
“You should have backed me up earlier.” Your mouth takes the decision away from you. He waits for a moment, silently, like he’s expecting you to say more. But you leave it there.
“I did.”
You’re turning to shut the door when he finally answers, and it takes everything in you not to shout at him in the middle of the hall.
“If that’s what backing someone up looks like to Mandalorians, then I think I’d rather you didn’t at all.” You hiss, exhaustion feeding into your anger. It’s not the way you should be speaking to him, or anyone, but you’re just too tired to care.
Mando’s spine goes rigid and you almost regret the dig, not that you have time to think about it before he’s walking right towards you and backing you into the darkness of your room. You can just about see the ceiling panel lights blink in the reflection of his visor. It’s only as he moves that you spot the bag slung over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” You ask, barely a whisper. You’ve never been this close to him before, chest to chest, alone. The warmth you can feel even from under the armour threatens to make your head spin.
“Home.” He leaves it at that. Never one to use more words than he needs to. You didn’t even know he had a home to go back to. There’s a lot you don’t know about the man in front of you, but he’s loyal to the bone. That much is plain to see.
“Don’t you ever think about going home?”
“My home is here.” Your answer is final, although you can feel the raised eyebrow through his helmet. You’re no more attached to the space station than you are any of the planets you’ve yet to visit. It’s not home, nowhere is. But you’ve been here since you were sixteen, years before the rest of your team, it’s as close as you’ll get to belonging somewhere. Mando doesn’t respond, doesn’t ask any questions, only stands with you for a long moment. Breathing. He’s good like that. You’ve never felt the pressure to fill any silence with him, he seems to exist so comfortably in it. It’s easier that way, probably for you both. You don’t know much about Mandalorians, the only stories you’ve heard are the ones Qin told you drunk in a seedy cantina when Mando first joined. Horror stories. If his past is anything similar to yours, he’s grateful for the absence of questions too.
“So it’s goodbye, then?” You’re yet to break his stare.
“Yes.”
Is he closer, somehow?
“Would you have said goodbye if I wasn’t already awake?”
He’s definitely closer.
Mando reaches behind him to tap the control panel on the wall, sliding the door shut and leaving you in the darkness. He lets his bag slip off his shoulder, lowering it to the floor suspiciously silently for one you know is crammed with weaponry, and walks you further into the room. You can’t really see much at all, only the steady blinking of the little red lights in the ceiling.
“You trust me?” It’s so quiet, you wonder if you imagined the words.
He’s never given you a reason not to.
“Keep your eyes closed?”
“I promise.”
It takes a moment before he lifts the lip of the helmet high enough, and another long few seconds of just being without barriers for him to kiss you. And kiss you he does.
The breath you get in before your lips touch is all him, turning your insides to liquid gold. Everywhere he touches you sets a fire. For a man so rough, he is so careful, he handles you as though you’ll break at the slightest breeze. As though he is wholly undeserving of such sweetness. Part of you thinks he’s convinced he is. It’s a first and a last kiss, a hello and a goodbye kiss, the way he tries to suffocate himself in you is evidence enough that you won’t be here again. You won’t get to have him like this again. He stays close when you finally break apart, taking his helmet off completely and placing it down on your desk with a decisive thunk.
“Mando-”
“Din. My name is Din.” He shouldn’t tell you. He shouldn’t have taken his helmet off, he shouldn’t have even thought about it. Although his fear of losing everything he has is almost overwhelming, it’s nothing compared to this. The fear that you would never know him as he is, as he has always been. The relief that brings tears to his eyes when you don’t shy away, when you lean into him. Like you want him too. You shouldn’t hold his creed in your hands but he gives it willingly. Of course he does. He’s never really been able to deny you anything.
“Din.”
The smile is so clear in your voice as you whisper it back to him. The way you say his name sounds like a song. A prayer. Hushed and reverent like it’s something sacred, something holy. He knows it’s safe on your tongue. Din lays you back on the bed, gently, wool of the ratty blanket soft against your skin.
Din. He’s nothing but gentle with you. Hands barely there as they pull layers of clothing from the both of you, stripping himself of his armour, of The Mandalorian. Until there’s just him. Just a man, no more and no less than anybody else. A man who wishes he hadn’t been so stubborn and dismissive of his own desires; wishes he’d given in to this, to you, sooner. His mouth doesn’t leave your skin for a second, like he could digest you one kiss at a time if he tried hard enough. Part of him doesn’t want to leave, he wants to stay in this bed with you in the dark and just exist. Your body in his hands and your moans in his mouth and absolutely nothing else. He needs you in between his teeth, on his tongue. He’s never needed anything else quite so badly.
The emotion isn’t lost on you, it’s the first and last time you’ll ever be with him. He’ll go after this, you don’t pretend otherwise. You won’t get to have him, in any way you want to, after this. So you lose yourself in him, in everything he gives and takes on those threadbare blankets in your room. The taste of him gets committed to memory and you swear you’ll never eat again if it means his sweat stays on your tongue. You dig your nails hard into his shoulders, you hope he’ll look at them before they fade. Hope he’ll see the marks you gave him and know that he is wanted. He is so desperately wanted and he has no idea. You kiss him with reckless abandon, cards on the table in all but words. So he can know, so he can come back. If that’s what he wants.
You stay tangled with him for a long time. Spit cooled and sweat dried. You’ve never stayed this long with anybody, but you’re not speeding to the ‘fresher. You want to drench yourself in everything he is until you never feel without him again.
“Take the Razor Crest. She’s old but virtually untraceable, and faster than anything else in that hangar. I think you can handle her.” You laugh lightly, tracing a finger over the ridge of his wrist where his arm is curled tight around your chest. Din wishes he could drown in the sound.
He takes your advice, once you’re asleep. Once he’s convinced himself to pull away from your warmth and go back to the life he knows. The one without you. The Razor Crest looms over him in the empty hangar, but something about its presence is comforting when he knows you were the one to put her together.
“He took the fucking Crest!”
The shout from the corridor jolts you awake, significantly warmer than you should be, and you find your old shirt and sweatpants pulled back on your body. Din. The thought of him so carefully redressing you, touch gentle enough not to wake you, makes your heart swell. It shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. With a heavy sigh, you flick the lights on from the panel by your bed and pull yourself to your feet. The door slides open with a wave of your hand by the door panel and you’re met with a very angry, very red-faced, Ran.
“You wouldn’t know anything about this would you, sweetheart?” He grounds out, eyes zeroing in on the mark you know Din sucked into your shoulder only hours ago. You pull the neckline of your top back up to where it should be and shake your head tiredly. Even if you hadn’t been thoroughly rammed into your mattress the night before, it’s far too early for anyone to be shouting up a storm. The rest of the crew come filtering out, rubbing eyes and calling out accusations at each other. It’s enough to give you a headache.
Maybe a space station in the middle of nowhere isn’t a forever home after all. Maybe there’s somewhere else out there for you. Maybe it just took somebody else taking the leap to make up your mind.
You don’t know where you’ll end up, but you have a pretty good idea of where to start.
_________________
TAGLIST (people who showed interest pls lmk if u want to be removed)
@remmysbounty @aq-vetina @brothersdrxke
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The other night best friend and I (yes, that best friend) were riffing on trans Neil headcanons over the phone, but a realistic trans treatment of aftg gets dark real fast, so without further ado:
~The Mafia May Be Sexist (But It’s Not Transphobic!) AU ~
(tmmbsbintau, if you will)
Does this premise make sense? No, but if Nora can write about made up mafia sports, I can write a nonsense AU where transphobia doesn’t exist okay this is my party and ill be self-indulgent if i want to
We open with baby Neil, who was named after his maternal grandmother or smthg idk
Now lets say Neil is one of those “I always knew I was trans” kids
So even at a fairly young age he was like, nope this is wrong
For the most part his dad basically ignores him (what use is a girl to me???) but if he makes the mistake of getting in the way it’s the usual shit with knives and hot irons and basically Neil’s bog-standard Traumatic Childhood
His mom signs him up to play Exy to get him out of the house, and he loves it, because of course he does
Now tiny Neil may be terrified of his father
But remember transphobia isn’t real
So he when he’s about ten years old he tells his parents over dinner
His mom just puts her fork down and says that’s alright
But Nathan
Nathan
Nathan’s eyes start to glow
He has a son? Not a useless daughter?
He’s practically levitating with glee
And Neil, poor Neil, who has never had any positive reinforcement—from either parent, Mary, you’re not innocent in this—he soaks it up
Nathan puts both hands on his son’s—his son’s!—shoulders and dubs him Nathaniel
His son, his heir, his legacy
Mary takes one look at the possessive look in her husband’s eyes and thinks oh hell no
For the next few days Nathan absolutely showers Nathaniel with affection
He takes him to the hairdresser and buys him a whole new wardrobe, neglecting his mafia duties in order to dote upon his new son
It is possibly the happiest week of Nathaniel’s life
And then he wakes up in the night with his mother’s hand on his mouth and is given less than a minute to pack his things
Now he’s grown up in a criminal household; the notion of making a run for it isn’t exactly foreign to him
But it’s not until they’re in the car that Nathaniel realizes that his father is nowhere to be seen
Where’s dad? He asks
Shut up, his mother hisses, and slams the car into gear
From then on, he is never Nathaniel
His mother is 100% on board with his transition, but…not really anything beyond that
After all, people will be looking for a woman and a trans boy, which means Mary’s investment in Neil’s gender pretty much starts and ends with him passing as cis
She gets him all the medical treatments he needs (on the black market, since they’re on the run)—puberty blockers when he’s younger, testosterone when he’s older
But he’s never allowed to acknowledge being trans whatsoever
Not to his classmates, not to his teachers
He never gets the chance to have a queer community, or explore the nuances of his gender, because the only presentation they can afford for him to have is Masculine Cis Boy. The restriction is stifling. It’s suffocating.
Neil hates her for it
His life was, so briefly, perfect
He had his father’s love and approval for a day, a week, and he is both old enough to remember his father’s cruelty and young enough to believe that it could end
Nathan is incandescent
When he realizes what Mary has done he goes to the Moriyamas in a storm of fury
She stole my SON! He bellows
Now the Moriyama’s didn’t particularly care about Neil back when they thought he was a girl
Girls in the mafia are basically just for child-rearing, so he wasn’t a threat
So once they figure out what Nathan is talking about (this takes a sec, owing to Nathan having not previously gotten around to telling them about Nathaniel’s revelation), their first thought is that look, we might do the nepotism thing here in our family, but underlings don’t get to do the nepotism thing. Sorry, them’s the breaks
Obviously, Mary has to die—nobody’s disputing that, a woman who robbed her husband and stole his son? Only death will right that wrong—but Kengo tells Nathan that he’ll help find Nathaniel on the condition that he’s given to the Ravens upon capture
Nathan is utterly confident that his son—his son!—will perform admirably. He accepts the deal without a second thought
So they’re on the run for years and years, and Neil’s resentment towards his mother festers, but he never acts out too much, and he doesn’t contact his father
He almost does a couple times, but then he presses his hand to the iron scar on his shoulder and he can’t quite make himself go through with it
He’s sixteen when Nathan catches up with them in Seattle
There’s a shootout and Mary and Neil almost get away
But
Nathan arrives
Nathaniel! He shouts. My boy!
And Neil lurches to a stop
There is his father, walking towards him, his eyes still shining with the same fierce love and pride from when he was ten
Nathaniel, his father says. Hasn’t this gone on long enough?
Come home.
Mary is trying to drag Neil away, but he’s too fixated on his father
Can I? Neil asks. Can I really?
Of course, Nathan says. Everything is forgiven. I’ve even secured you a place on the Ravens. Didn’t you always love Exy? Come home with me, Nathaniel
Neil can barely believe it. His father is offering him everything he ever wanted. His mother has been keeping him from this, his whole life?
Why would they run?
And through this whole exchange Nathan has been getting closer, and Mary is pulling Neil back, and now he’s close enough to touch and the sound she makes is like something physical tears when she finally releases Neil and tries to flee
She isn’t fast enough
Nathan’s grin is as wide as the sun when his cleaver bites into Mary’s waist
Blood pours out
Neil screams
Mary clutches her side, staggering away, but it’s obvious she won’t make it far
Dad, no, Neil says. Don’t—
Shh, his father says. Don’t be afraid. She kept us apart all these years. She deserves to die.
And Neil—
Neil has hated his mother for most of his life
But he looks at the woman who has struggled so long to protect him—who has failed as often as she succeeded, but who fought anyway, everyday—and the man whose eyes are bright with glee at her pain
And he makes a choice
He only has a split second to see the betrayal in his father’s eyes before the pipe in his hand slams into his head and he pitches forward, unconscious
Neil does not wait to see if he survives
He grabs his mother and they run, her arm locked on his shoulder and her palm pressed to the wound on her side
Neil puts her in the passenger seat and jumps in, throwing the car in gear
You need a hospital, he says, frantic
No, she hisses, pinning a towel to her side. No hospitals
Guilt floods through him as he looks at her pale face
Sticky red handprints smear on everything she touches
I’m sorry, mom, he says, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—
Enough, she says. Drive
He drives
He drives, and drives, and he follows her instructions, and later he wouldn’t have been able to say if he actually thought she would survive; he believed it, because he had to, because he had never been without her; he knew better, because gut wounds are slow, but they are inexorable
He parks on the beach and there are tears pushing at his eyelids but he chokes them down
I’m sorry, he said, I never should have believed him. I’m sorry—
You never would have been enough for him, she says, and Neil flinches
Her hand finds his chin and she yanks him down to meet her eyes, her gaze fierce.
He never loved you, she says. He would have made you in his image, and when you failed he would have torn you apart. I would not—I would not watch him try to make my son a monster. Don’t—don’t waste it
Mom, what are you saying—
Promise me, she says
Promise you won’t go back to him
She is dying
Neil can’t refuse
He promises
She releases his face and her red fingerprints on his face burn like brands. He can feel them hours after the tears wash the blood away.
Her last few breaths are jagged as broken stones before she rattles to a stop, and Neil is alone
He burns her body and staggers out onto the road and he keeps moving, he keeps moving, because he knows if he stops he’ll shatter
His hesitation has cost him his mother’s life
But his action costs him his fathers love
In one blow, Neil broke the golden image Nathan had of his perfect son, and now all Nathan wants is to destroy him
He finds his way to Millport almost on instinct alone
He finds one of Mary’s contacts who can supply him with the hormones he needs to continue passing and squats in an empty house and speaks to none of his classmates
When the Exy team tryouts are announced, he goes, intending to only watch from a distance
Perhaps it is inevitable he’s sucked in
There is so little light in his life
Can he be forgiven for wanting one little spark?
The Foxes come for him in May, and Kevin doesn’t recognize him, because how would he? Even if they met as kids, Kevin never saw Neil post-transition
Wymack ends up telling him something about Kevin’s past and the truth about the Ravens, and Neil pales a little bit, remembering how his father had said he’d gotten Neil a place on their line-up and finally understanding why
And sometimes he looks at Kevin with blinding jealousy for the life Neil didn’t get to have, and sometimes he sees him nearly comatose with fear and drinking vodka like it’s water, and his stomach hurts thinking how cheerfully his father would have consigned him to the same fate
So canon proceeds and Neil still bitches Riko out on live TV, and Riko still manages to acquire Neil’s fingerprints
And would you believe that? The Foxes mouthy new rookie is [deadname], Nathan Wesninski’s brat?
Well, well, well
At the banquet Riko pokes and prods until Neil finally snaps, and as Dan drags the team away from the wreckage Jean grabs Neil’s arm and says, low and fast in French, You’ll meet with us later
Why the fuck would I do that? Neil demands
Because otherwise everyone will find out that the Butcher is your father
Neil can’t hide his flinch and Kevin’s eyes go wide
They flee the scene, but before they even reach Coach, Kevin is already rounding on Neil
Is it true? He croaks
Not now, Neil says
But Kevin reads confirmation in Neil’s deflection
I didn’t know [deadname] had a brother, he says
Now here is the thing
Names are obviously a touchy subject with a lot of trans people, and certainly with Neil in particular
But with everything that just happened, Neil is a bit preoccupied, and it’s been a long time since he’s associated himself with that name
Since before he stopped using it, truthfully
And so his response is out of his mouth before he can even think twice
“Who?”
Kevin nods seriously, because he is wise to the ways of mafia bosses, and it’s not exactly shocking that Nathan Wesninski had a mistress and a secret second child, especially considering his first child had been a girl
It’s several moments before Neil puts two and two together and realizes that he has inadvertently slipped through a perfect loophole
He’s failed his mother so many times, but at least this secret is still safe, and he clings to that
Neil’s gender doesn’t really affect his interpersonal relationships with the Foxes—he’s already changing out separately, so this isn’t even a whole other thing
It’s harder to hide his testosterone when he’s living in shared dorms, but he has everything in the safe and figures out the safest schedule to open it up when he’s sure Matt will be in class
Andrew finds out when they start hooking up
But remember transphobia isn’t real so it’s sort of more like Andrew goes to undo his pants and is like wait your dick is removeable? Okay.
And then he just gets on with it
So Binghamton and Baltimore happen as canon, and if Neil had ever harboured hopes that his father would forgive him and love him again, they’re broken for good when his father stalks in and sees him shivering and just grins
It is the smile of someone who has torn someone off a pedestal and is going to enjoy reducing them to dust
Nevermind that Nathan had been the one to put him on that pedestal in the first place
Stuart deus-ex-machinas us out of the maws of death and we end up back in that classic Baltimore scene with the Foxes, and they still claim him, and they still take him home
He tells them all about his mafia father and life on the run, and it doesn’t really click until later that he forgot to mention the trans thing
Not like he, you know, has to tell them, and being trans is hardly an issue in Exy since it’s co-ed, but it would probably be nice to see a real doctor instead of keep buying his hormones illegally
And moreover, he wants the Foxes to know him
So they hit the cabin in the mountains and everyone knows Neil doesn’t drink, but when Andrew pours him a shot, he takes it
Ooh, Nicky says, Is Neil about to start spilling his secrets?
Allison snorts. What secrets does he have left?
Uh, Neil says
Wait, Allison says. There’s more secrets????
Yeah, he says. Um, I’m trans
There’s a pause
Well, that’s no good, Allison said. We didn’t have a bet going on that
Everyone laughs, and Neil smiles, and he looks at the sunset and remembers his mother, and he remembers a life filled with hiding, and secrets, and loneliness
Bats swoop in the twilight beyond the cabin, and he turns towards the warmth and light inside, and he does not look back
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Sin
Created for: @ilysm-mybabybrother
Pairing: Dean x Reader / Sam x Reader / Dean x Sam
Warnings: Dub-Con
Additional tags: Cuckolding, Dirty talk, Praise kink
Word count: 2,076
A/N: Written for my @spnsecretsantaficexchange set up by my bae @negans-lucille-tblr as a present for the lovely @ilysm-mybabybrother (who I’ve been a long time stalker of, nbd). They requested something smutty with dirty talk / praise kink / cuckolding / and the brothers touching each other - potentially with Demon!Dean or BoyKing!Sam - I’ve gone with Soulless!Sam - I hope that’s still okay! I think I managed to work all the other kinks in there... Anyways I had a lot of fun writing it so I hope you enjoy it! Merry Christmas 🎄
Dividers: @firefly-in-darkness
Dean hadn’t let himself imagine this moment.
When Sam jumped into the pit with Lucifer riding shotgun, Dean made himself accept that. Bobby came back, Cas came back, but when Sam didn’t appear with them, he had to let him go. He promised he would let him go.
He kept his promise. He found a job in a garage in Texas. He wooed a girl who brought in a car that sounded like his old neighbours in Hell were trapped under the hood. He picked her up in the Impala and dropped her off on her doorstep with a kiss and a promise to call; and he actually called her. They weren’t living together, but they spent most of their time at each other’s apartments. Dean taught her a bunch of ways to doctor up boxed mac’n’cheese, and Y/N taught Dean how to mix cocktails with cheap whiskey that actually made it taste nice. The earth was still turning.
But now it had stopped, because Sam was standing in front of him, dripping in holy water and cut across his arm - not a monster or a demon, it was Sam. And Dean didn’t care that he got wet too when he pulled his little brother in for a bone crushing hug, because nothing could be wrong again now that Sam was back in his arms. At least, that’s what he’d thought two hours ago. Because now, as his wrists were getting rope burn and his ears were ringing with Y/N’s soft whimpers he knew something was wrong. Something was very wrong with Sam.
“Wow, Dean,” Sam had exclaimed when he introduced him to Y/N, who had been cooking dinner when he showed up at Dean’s door. “He’s lucky he met you first, darling.” Sam’s eyes dragged up and down her body hungrily, and Dean was taken aback because that was not like Sam at all. Usually Dean was the horndog between the two of them but, I guess you would get pretty horny being dead for a year, Dean reasoned to himself. He remembered that feeling, after he got back from Hell, of wanting something to really make him feel alive again. It would just be nice if Sam didn’t use his girlfriend to feel that.
But as the evening progressed, and dinner turned into drinks, and beer turned into liquor, Dean felt more and more like he might not get a say in the matter. Sam was all over Y/N, flirting harder than Dean had ever seen him flirt, and way better than Dean remembered him being at it, come to think of it. And Y/N wasn’t turning him away. She was laughing and smiling and getting him another drink, and being the perfect goddamn housewife all while Dean was sitting there watching the two of them.
And then when Y/N brought him a refill on his whiskey she shot Dean a look that he’d only seen once before, when she’d asked if they could take home the cute waitress so Dean could watch. Back then, Dean had thought he had the best damn girlfriend ever. He essentially got a front row seat to one of his favourite pornos. But the thought of her sleeping with Sammy... Dean wasn’t wild about that one. Except he didn’t know how to say that to Y/N and Sam, so he just kept drinking and hoped it didn’t come up. He wasn’t so lucky.
He tried to step in, when Sam put his hand on Y/N’s thigh and dug his fingers in - Dean gritted his teeth and choked out a cautious “Sam…” but the warning died in his throat when he looked into his little brother’s eyes and saw empty determination and cold hunger. He didn’t see his brother. “Y/N get away from him!” Dean shouted and reached for the knife stashed in the end table next to him, but Sam was faster, drawing his own and shoving it threateningly under Dean’s chin.
“Whatcha doing there, Dean?”
“What are you?”
“I’m your brother,” Sam teased, lips curled in an ugly imitation of Sam’s warm smile.
“What happened to you down there?” Dean demanded, because if this was Sam, something changed - something was different.
“Oh so much, big brother,” Sam laughed but there was no emotion behind it. “Learned a few things too. How ‘bout I show ya?” And now Dean’s hands were tied above his head with his own goddamn rope on his own goddamn bed, while Y/N was laid out between his legs with her head on his stomach as his own goddamn brother went down on her.
“Mm, you’ve got such a good little pussy, sweetheart,” Sam sighed, sucking on her clit and pulling a whine from her lips. Y/N’s breath ghosted over Dean’s naked cock, making it twitch despite his best efforts to be disgusted at what was happening right now. “Hope Dean’s been giving this cunt the attention it deserves.”
Y/N whimpered a little, but didn’t answer, prompting Sam to slap between her legs. “My brother been treating you good? Giving you enough cock to keep a pretty thing like you happy?”
“Yes,” Y/N gasped, clenching around the fingers Sam had just pushed inside her. “Yeah he’s good - mmh - so good to me,” she moaned.
“Yeah?” Sam sneered, twisting his fingers to push against Y/N’s clit and make her writhe. “What’s he best at? I’ve always wondered when I heard the moans from the next room.”
“Sam…” Dean complained, finding his impertinent big brother tone despite the situation he was in at the moment.
“His mouth,” Y/N sighed, happy to answer despite Dean’s protest. “I love his mouth, it’s so soft… and when he kisses you, it can take your breath away.”
“How romantic,” Sam smirked. “Always knew Dean was a bit of a softie deep down.”
“Fuck you,” Dean growled, pulling uselessly against his restraints again.
“Ladies first,” Sam laughed, and pulled his fingers from Y/N and sucked them clean, eyes boring into Dean’s while he swallowed his girlfriend’s slick. “Turn around baby, get on Dean’s cock,” Sam directed, landing a slap on Y/N’s ass when she turned and crawled over Dean. She shivered when she pressed his cock against her entrance, pulsing down slowly, working him inside her bit by bit.
“Oh look at you,” Sam cooed, brushing her hair off her shoulder so he could bite into her neck, pulling a moan from her chest. “Such a good girl teasing him like that, I didn’t even have to tell you to.” Y/N smiled to herself as she finally got Dean fully seated inside her, revelling in the stretch and fullness of it all. “How did Dean manage to find such a good little slut, huh?”
Y/N giggled lightly but didn’t say anything, just rolled her hips, drawing a gasp from Dean, whose eyes were squeezed tight in pleasure. Y/N felt so good around his dick. And he hated to admit it but he was in fucking heaven right now. This was so, so wrong but it was so hot, every other thought was being pushed out of his mind for the moment. He just wanted Y/N to keep moving, and he wanted Sam to keep talking.
Sam wrapped his fingers around the back of Y/N’s neck and shoved her forward, so she was lying chest to chest with Dean. “Give her a kiss Dean. It’s her favourite after all,” he teased. Dean wanted to find some retort to throw back at his brother, but Y/N’s lips were swallowing his before he got a chance, and he decided this was a better use of his breath anyways.
They kissed and licked and moaned as they ground together, Sam watching on and stroking himself lazily. He reached one hand forward and drew lazy patterns on Y/N’s ass which was bouncing so nicely on Dean’s cock. Sam bet it felt amazing to be inside her. “Mm, you’re fucking him so good, Y/N,” Sam praised, petting his hand down her back. “Look so hot with a cock inside you.” He crawled forward and draped himself over the couple, bumping his hips into Y/N’s and grinding against her ass. She moaned happily and fucked back harder, trying to rub against Sam as much as she could without pulling off of Dean.
A choked whine slipped through her lips when Sam’s cock caught between her cheeks and nudged at her other entrance. “Oh,” Sam grinned at her reaction and repeated his motion, pushing against the taut, puckered skin. “You have more in common with Dean than I thought.”
“What?” Y/N panted, confused and distracted by all the sensations she was swimming under.
“What, Dean never told you? Never asked you to fuck him up the ass?”
Dean’s eyes shot open, horrified. How did Sam know?
“You didn’t really think I didn’t know, did you, Dean?” Sam smirked, still rubbing himself against Y/N’s ass, but letting his fingers trail down further, skating over Dean’s inner thigh, making him jump. “You told me about Rhonda Hurley and the panties when I was sixteen, but I knew that wasn’t the whole story. I found the strap on after you picked me up from Stanford. How many girls you given it up to, big brother?”
“Fuck you,” Dean ground out, mortified.
“You know what, I just might,” Sam drew small circles with his fingertip the whole way across Dean’s skin until he reached his target. “What do you think, Y/N, should I give your boyfriend what he wants?”
“God yes,” she gasped, riding Dean hard, head buried in his shoulder.
Sam spit on his fingers and pressed them back against Dean’s ass, teasing his hole until it was nice and slick and he could slide a finger in without too much resistance. Dean was tense, trying to fight what Sam was doing, trying to fight wanting what Sam was doing, but he didn’t think he was strong enough. Sam’s finger twisting inside him actually felt amazing. It had been over a year since he’d let anyone fuck him and god, he had forgotten how fantastic it was, feeling this full, this whole.
Sam felt Dean accept what was happening, felt him relax around him, and took that as his cue to add more spit and another finger. Then another. He pulled them out when he felt Dean was ready and tugged Y/N back so she was sitting up against his chest. “You ready to cum, darling?” He snarled in her ear.
“Mmhmm,” Y/N whined, bouncing faster over Dean, but Sam hoisted her off his brother and sat her down between his legs where they’d started.
“You’re gonna get my cock nice and wet, aren’t you baby? Gonna be good and cum all over my cock?”
“Yes, fuck yes, please,” Y/N begged. Sam slammed in place inside her and didn’t hesitate before fucking her at a furious pace, rubbing his thumb over her clit and pulling scream after scream out of the girl writhing beneath him. He felt, with satisfaction, a surge of heat between her legs, and knew her cum was trickling out from between her thighs.
“Good girl,” Sam huffed, cold smile firmly in place. He pulled out and looked down to see veins of white dripping over his skin. “Got me nice and wet for your boyfriend, good job, sweetheart.” Y/N rolled out of the way, sated and dazed, and anxiously watched Sam climb over Dean and rub his cock between his legs.
Dean groaned, eyes pressed tight, trying to pretend he wasn’t about to let his little brother fuck him. Trying to pretend he didn’t desperately want his little brother to fuck him. But when Sam pushed in he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t love it. It felt so different to having a dildo in his ass, and it was so much better. It was warm, flesh and blood; his flesh and blood. When Dean clenched around him, Sam moaned and thrust harder into his brother. Dean loved how responsive he was, and did it again, earning himself another thrust.
“Think you’re being cute?” Sam panted and glared down at Dean, who smirked up at his little brother with his last vestige of self-respect.
“I think I’m adorable.”
“And I think you’re gonna regret that.”
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Okay, so I wanted to get this out, like twelve hours ago, buttttt Tumblr is having issues with me today and it wouldn’t let me. So anyways, better late than never!
This is a Christmas-y oneshot, set years Post-Mockingjay, with their first toastbaby. It’s completely canon-complacent and focuses on their lives and family after the war. It got way longer than I intended. Actually, originally, it was meant to be a Thanksgiving oneshot but uh... I took too long so it’s not Christmas. Only they call it Yuleday here, because I can’t imagine Panem calling it Christmas, idk why. Anyways, please read and enjoy!
Oh yeah, and thank you @rosegardeninwinter for writing the song Katniss sings to her daughter in here!
Summary : Everlark spend Yuleday with their daughter and the rest of their blended family.
The sticky vanilla liquid drying against the counter clings to my forearm. I wrinkle my nose slightly, the smell of vanilla too strong for my liking.
No, I prefer the smells of cinnamon and pine and fresh baked bread, I think to myself, as I watch my husband slip on a oven mitt and pull out a new loaf.
The kitchen is much messier than Peeta typically allows it to get, but he didn't have the time this week he anticipated he would to bake for our family's impending visit.
I lean unconsciously closer to the baked good, my mouth already watering at the sight. "Katniss," Peeta warns while he places a cake pan inside the oven, his voice growing stressed. "Be careful of the door." He gestures with his chin to the white-hot contraption just inches from my legs.
I roll my eyes at his fretting and pick up a piece of bread from a loaf we never finished last week. "Don't worry, I've been married to a baker for a while," I reply coyly as he begins to stir white, creamy homemade frosting around in a bowl. "I'm used to getting burned every so often."
It's his turn to send me a look now. "Yeah, because you forget to put a mitt on when touching the rack."
"Hmm, funny, my husband said at the time it was his fault for not warning me how hot it was," I shoot back as I dig my finger into the frosting bowl and pop the sugary substance into my mouth.
"That's sanitary," he deadpans and pushes me away from his workspace playfully.
"Oh, come on," I implore, pressing my hands against his chest as he tries to move me out of the kitchen and towards the living room. "Don't you ever sample your treats while making them?"
"No, Katniss," he replies, trying to remain serious but I see a smile peaking through. "Because I'm a professional."
I go to make a comment, pointing out every time before he's been less than professional in his workplace—with me, in particular. In the back room, with the most counterspace—when he leans down and plants a kiss on my lips. More than likely to shut me up.
"Yeah, this is sanitary," I tease against his mouth when we break apart ever so slightly.
Peeta leans back a little, keeping his chin still pressed against mine. "When have we ever cared about sanitary?"
I smirk up at him as his hands find my hips tenderly, his fingertips gliding underneath my shirt, touching the edge of my stomach. His lips find mine again or mine find his, but either way, in a matter of seconds I'm opening my mouth to let his tongue enter, eliciting a loud moan from him when my teeth graze his bottom lip.
"Mmm," he whispers when he pulls back again.
"Mmm?" I repeat, chuckling. "That's the best you can do?"
He tightens his arms around my waist, holding me to him. "I was about to say, I do enjoy taste testing my own frosting that way."
"Well, as long as you had a reason for invading my mouth."
"Like I said, I'm a strict professional."
Before I can reply back, there's a loud knock at our front door. Followed by another and then another, growing more noisy and cacophonous with the passing seconds.
Neither of us make a move to get the door. "Are you sure we have to invite Haymitch?" I inquire, my voice very serious.
"I believe I left that decision up to you, my love," Peeta replies cheekily, planting a small kiss on my nose.
"I can hear you two," Haymitch barks from the other side of the door before he knocks again, just as loud, and then rattles the doorknob. "Let me in, I'm freezing," he demands gruffly.
Peeta opens the door with a sardonic look, revealing our grouchy mentor and, at his feet, our tiny daughter, bundled up to keep from the cold. "Put a coat on, Haymitch."
"Why would I do that? I was coming here to sit by your fireplace all day anyway."
"Mommy!" Indigo shouts and races her chubby little legs in a beeline to me.
I scoop her up easily, having missed her for the entire forty-five minutes she was away from me. "Did you have a good time helping feed the geese?" I ask, in a tone I would have found absolutely embarrassing three years ago. I never even spoke to Prim in that tone.
"No, I hate them," she proclaims, very seriously, before laying her head against my shoulder exhaustedly. "They're very demanding cree-ters," she explains.
I nod, petting down her long, dark hair, moving it out of her little face, giving me access to the stunning blue eyes Peeta gave her. "They are very demanding creatures, aren't they?"
"But someone has to help Granpuh," she adds on the end, very matter-of-fact.
I shake my head at that, hoisting her higher on my hip. "I think Haymitch takes care of himself just fine, Indigo," I murmur sternly, as my old mentor passes by me, his eyes falling on the frosting bowl still sitting on the counter where we left it.
"Excuse me, Sweetheart. It's Grandpa to her," Haymitch corrects gruffly, pointing to my child.
Peeta hums as he leans against the doorframe, his shirt tightening up around his shoulders as he stretches his neck. "Katniss, remember when you were pregnant and Haymitch swore our kid wouldn't call him Grandpa?"
"I seem to remember that well."
"Yeah, well I seem to remember you saying no one is ever calling your daughter Indy and yet, here we are," the older man reminds me and all levity is gone from my face instantly, only to be replaced with irritation.
Three years ago when I gave birth, me and Peeta both agreed on the name Indigofera. Or, more like, he agreed because I liked the name.
I never expected to have a child. I spent majority of my life swearing I'd never procreate. The world I grew up in, the only world I knew, was nowhere I'd allow a child to grow up in. Not if I had any control of over.
Not when every year from the age of twelve to eighteen, my child could be stolen from me, could be taken away and tossed into a dressed up cage, forced to fight to the death, likely die on national television.
I'd never allow my child to live in that world.
That sentiment only grew stronger once a child of my own was no longer just a vague image, but a living, breathing, loud little being.
The idea of my Indigofera being subjected to the world I knew, the world that fell apart almost twenty years ago now, is beyond devastating to me.
I still wonder sometimes how Peeta ever was able to convince me to have a child.
As I think of him, he's right beside me, saying something quippy to Haymitch, before pulling Indigo out of my arms and unzipping her coat. I watch on at their exchange as she puts her tiny little hands on his cheeks, telling him happily about her time with Granpuh and the geese. I watch as Peeta's eyes brighten when he looks at her, I watch as she smiles more and more with his encouraging nods, prodding her to keep talking. I watch as she squeals out and laughs when he tickles her and kisses the side of her face.
And I still wonder, how on earth he convinced me to have a child.
But I'm thankful every day he did, from the bottom of my heart. That little girl is the most important being in both our lives and, though I had no idea at the time, we were not complete without her.
"Daddy, I'm hungry," Indigo complains as he starts to pull away, very obviously intending to head back to the kitchen and finish up baking and frosting.
"We're going to eat once Grandma and the others gets here, Bean," I promise, stepping in to scoop her back up.
"They're so slow," Indigo says, with no shame or remorse in her voice for the blunt statement.
"Indigo," Peeta chides gently. "That's not a nice thing to say."
"It's kind of true," I add sheepishly after a moment, agreeing with our daughter.
My husband just rolls his eyes at me now. "You're a bad influence on her."
"Oh, give me a break, Peeta!" I exclaim defensively. "You gave her chocolate pancakes for breakfast today. I think you're the bad influence."
"I made them for you too, Katniss," he reminds me wryly.
"That's a little different-"
"Hello," Haymitch interrupts as he plops down on the sofa, his usual spot in our house. "Some of us would like to eat Yuleday Dinner tonight."
"And?"
"And that's not going to happen if we don't let the boy work, Sweetheart."
The boy. Haymitch never did get new nicknames for us, despite Peeta being a man, a husband and a father for quite some time now.
Peeta hauls Haymitch up by the arm from his seat. "If you're going to be in my house, you're going to help me with dinner," he says firmly and Indigo giggles against my neck, watching her daddy drag her grandpa into the kitchen.
Haymitch being grandpa was only ever meant to be a joke. Neither me nor Peeta ever intended for Indigo to actually view Haymitch Abernathy as her grandfather.
Though it makes sense. He's been a constant in our lives since we were sixteen. And even when me and Haymitch are at each other's throats, he still shows up here, sitting on the couch, expecting dinner, at least once a week. He regularly shows up at the bakery Peeta runs now almost entirely on his own, asking for free samples. And he still loves our daughter like his own flesh and blood.
The only true gripe I have about Haymitch and Indigo's relationship is the nickname Indy. I knew when we named her Indigofera, after the mysterious plant that my father used to jokingly say was about as real to us as unicorns—the color plant was all but extinct long before I was even born—that her natural nickname would be Indigo. Peeta himself says we gave her a mouthful of a name, choosing to go as far as adding in a middle name that we both lacked ourselves. But something about the nickname Indy is extremely unappealing to me.
And as her mother, as the person who grew her and carried her inside me, and loves her more than all the things in the world combined, I think I should have final say on what she's called.
I'm abruptly pulled out of my thoughts by a soft, little hand pulling my tangled hair. "Mommy, what time does Finn get here?"
Of course, that's who Indigo is focused on. It's not just my mother arriving today to join us for our Yuleday Dinner. It's everyone that me and Peeta consider family.
Including Annie and Finn, her child with the sensual, alluring, kind-hearted Finnick Odair. The child who has taken after his father in ways that seemed unimaginable.
Indigo knows, even at three-years-old, that we always treat Finnick's memory with respect. We never forget him or anyone else that ever helped us make the country a safe place.
Of course, she's too young to fully understand. What she understands is Finn, who at eighteen, has all his father's looks and charm, is her suto-cousin, is her playmate and brings her presents. And as far as I'm concerned, that's all she needs to understand.
"In an hour," I reply gently, bringing myself back to reality. Pushing her dirty hair back, I lean my nose against her's, letting my eyes grow bigger. "You know what that means?"
She lets out a loud shriek of excitement and all but kicks her way out of my arms. "Bath time!" She yells as she propels herself excitedly towards the stairs, going on all fours to struggle her way up independently.
I stay inches behind her, making sure I'm able to catch her if she should tumble, but the precaution isn't necessary. Indigo gets to the top stair and takes off running towards the bathroom down the hall.
"Lots of bubbles," Indigo commands in a very serious tone as she watches me pour a cap full into her bath water.
I remind myself for the thousandth time to send Effie a thank you note for bath bubbles she sent weeks ago. My old escort is one of the few people I haven't kept in close contact with over the years and it's no surprise really. Me and Peeta never stopped looking at the Capitol with disdain, perhaps even more so after the war, and Effie, even with a good heart deep inside, is Capitol, through and through.
But she's still sent sporadic gifts here and there over the years. She's still called Haymitch dozens of times since the end of the war. She's still kept her mouth shut about Indigo's existence for the last three years and for that, I am indebted to my old escort for life.
Peeta and I agreed early on in my pregnancy that Indigo would never be property of the Capitol. It didn't matter how much safer the world was now, or how many new faces have come along for people to fawn over in the last eighteen years, or how adorable Indigo is, we both vowed with everything we had that no one outside our family and friends and community would know of her birth. If I did anything in my life, it would be protect my child.
The way I failed to protect my sister.
Even almost twenty years later, the memory still stung. The image of my sister being blown apart, right before my eyes, is permanently ingrained in my mind. I still wake up from nightmares, reliving Prim's last moments alive before the bombs took her away forever.
But the once searing pain had faded into a dull ache, a deep imbedded hurt that never went away entirely but instead became a part of who I was.
I help Indigo into the tub and instantly get to work, washing her up as she splashes around and plays with her bubbles. Technically Effie sent them to me, along with a lot of other useless items that I all but threw out immediately, but they were better used for Indigo. Whereas I saw the impracticality in many of Effie's gifts, Indigo saw a new luxury, a new toy, a new activity or adventure she could have.
It's the Peeta in her. It's his appreciation for beauty that he passed down to our daughter.
I've told him countless times in the last few years that if she turns out to have a massive spending addiction or have desires to live a luxurious life, it's all on him.
"Alright, eyes shut," I warn dramatically, waiting for her to cover her big blue eyes with her tiny palms before dousing her head with water.
After she's dried and dressed she runs into the kitchen barefoot and immediately flings herself onto Peeta, gripping his prosthetic leg. "Daddy, look how clean I am!"
He chuckles as he finishes wiping the counter off before scooping her up. "Imagine how clean you could be every day if Mommy didn't take you to the woods to play in the dirt?"
He's teasing me and I know it, but I still shoot him a dirty look. "She gets dirtier in Daddy's kitchen than the woods."
"Dirty? From baking?" He directs the questions towards the three-year-old in his arms. "No!"
Indigo gives him a shy smile before a loud giggle escapes and nodding her head, affirming his point. "See," he points out, gesturing to her grinning face.
"Daddy is the bad influence around here," I say as I pull her from his arms.
"Only because Mommy corrupted me," he says back as he moves to grab the broom, the last step in his clean up routine before the rest of our guests arrive.
He leans around me and Indigo to grab the cleaning device, before not so subtly sneaking a kiss on his way back. I just look to our daughter and, indicating to her father with my chin, wrinkle my nose dramatically, causing her to laugh more.
"Mommy's mad at you," she informs him, finding this very humorous.
"Hmm, is she?" Peeta asks, as if he's shocked by the news.
"Yes," I affirm. "For implying I dirty my child, when it's you who covers her in flour and cake batter every other day."
"Oh, well, Indy, whatever will we do to gain Mommy's forgiveness?" He isn't gaining any sort of forgiveness from me by using her annoying nickname. Still he pretends not to notice my narrowing eyes, as if after eighteen years he doesn't know me like the back of his hand.
"Bake her somting!" She exclaims, clapping and excited again. She's always excited. I'm not even sure if she's mine some days with how enthusiastic this little human can be.
"Hmm, I could," he agrees, but then dramatically he gazes around the kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time. "You know what though? I just cleaned it all up in here. So I guess I can't bake Mommy something. I guess I'll have to try other methods."
As if he planned it the entire time—which, without a doubt, he did—Peeta leans in gently and starts pressing kisses to my skin, right where my jaw meets my neck. I resist at first and so his lips move upwards, towards my forehead, towards my nose and then my chin.
"Okay," I relent, laughing in spite of myself, batting him away. "Okay, you're forgiven." I reward him with a smile as he moves his lips from peppering my face to my mouth itself. He only gives me a chaste kiss, since I'm holding his daughter, but it's enough to make my stomach flip like it did on the beach, when we were seventeen.
We were also in a death match, neither of us intending to live through the following day, but that fact somehow has separated itself in the almost twenty years since the war from the moment between me and Peeta, and for that I'm grateful. I'm grateful for my mind compartmentalizing itself, for the horrors witnessed and forever printed inside my head somehow shifting away from specific moments in the games, moments I can now look back on more fondly than when I was seventeen.
I look at Peeta again then, as he gives me a sweet smile and turns away to start sweeping the floor, to rid it of the thick layer of flour split while baking, and I'm suddenly intensely grateful for the last eighteen years. I'm suddenly intensely grateful for the almost two decades he's given me, that had been the best years of my life.
Of course, the little squirming creature in my arms have only made the years better, and I kiss her face gently, murmuring softly, "Let me braid your hair," against her little pink cheek.
She obediently sits in front of me and starts humming as I comb the knots from the long dark locks she inherited from me. "What're you singing?" I ask, smiling, already knowing what song she's trying to hum.
"Bloo sky," she replies simply, before going back to humming again to herself. I smirk softly, waiting for her to ask me to take over.
And, of course, with the predictability of a three-year-old, Indigo turns around abruptly after a long moment of silence with a frazzled look overtaking her big blue eyes. "Mommy?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Can you sing bloo sky? I can't 'member all the words."
My smirk turns to a full on smile now, as I begin to twist her now soft and silky hair into a braid. "Don't let your mind be troubled, dear. Don't you get lost in fear. For through all the storm clouds and darkest days, I promise I will be here."
Indigo beams at me, tipping her head back to watch me sing before her own little voice, lisp and wrong words and all—though, I have inexpressible pride that her melody is perfectly on pitch—joins in with me.
"And a blue sky will come shining through. And a blue sky just for me and you," I sing as she accidentally says too instead of through. "Through all the storm clouds and darkest days, there's a blue sky for just me and for you," we finish.
"And for Daddy," Indigo suddenly asserts, like she forgot him until now.
I laugh gently. "Yes, but that won't fit the rhyme."
"What's a rhyme?"
"Nevermind, Indigo." I can barely hold back a chuckle as I finish her braid, tying it with the band around my wrist. Since she grew hair long enough to get caught on things, I've always made a special point in carrying extra hair ties for her, everywhere we go.
"Sweetheart, am I expected to go grab our guests in my car? Because I don't have enough room so someone's going to have to hang onto the bumper-"
"Don't worry, Haymitch," I cut off, laughing again, at the image of him attempting to gather up our blended family and friends in what he refers to as a car. "And I didn't miss you saying our guests," I add, turning away from my child to give him a look.
"I helped the boy clean the kitchen, I get to take ownership over the guests as well."
"Grandpuh?" Indigo's little voice peeps. "I wanna go for a ride before Finn gets here."
"Finn?" Haymitch picks. "Every person you've ever met is coming over today and it's Finn Odair you're excited to see?"
But Indigo adores—and I mean, adores—Finn and he's always been so good with her, more patient than any typical teenager is expected to be, and his arrival is all she's really thinking about.
"Haymitch, stop giving my daughter crap and take her for a ride in town," Peeta calls from the kitchen, evidently by the clanging noise, putting away the last of the dishes. "Hurry up too, I don't want her out there when the crowd comes in."
We never allow Indigo out into town during the busy times a day. During the times when the crowds, even here in the once decimated Twelve, grow too large for either Peeta or my liking. Too many opportunities for a stranger to grab her, too many chances for her to get lost, too many things could go wrong. Too many dangers exist for a three-year-old, even in this world that is miles better than the one we used to know.
Peeta and I do our best to put the past behind us, but we both still have times when the memories of war and bloodshed and cruelty creep in, and it's on those days all I can imagine is the world shifting again, some sort of disorder or disarray ruining the peace that will always feel foreign to me. It's on those days all I can see is the games coming back, is someone taking Indigo from me, putting her through what no child should have to endure, her sweet, little innocence being ripped away violently. Someone taking me or Peeta from her, her pure heart being hardened, the blue eyes that sometimes I swear I could see my sister in turning ice cold.
It's on those days I shut and lock the doors, I refuse to open the blinds, I refuse to let my daughter out of my sight. It's those days I beg Peeta not to run to the bakery, to just stay with us, to just not go where I can't see either of them.
It's on those days I plan what I will do if the world does fall to its knees again, if my worst fears when even thinking of the abstract idea of having a child come to life. I never tell anyone of these thoughts, but on the days Peeta has a flashback or can't sleep, on the days when he feels like he’s still seventeen, locked inside Snow's mansion, a tortured shadow of the wonderful boy with the golden heart, on the days he paints horrific images he'll never let our daughter see, I know he makes his own plan too.
As always, Indigo breaks me out of my thoughts as they run dark, jumping up excitedly, ready to go for a ride in Haymitch's car. It's actually more resemblant of a cart, with just room for three people if you squeeze, and no doors in sight. But she loves it and it makes her happy and after everything else, I know I can trust Haymitch with my child.
I fix her little green overall dress, straightening her dandelion patterned shirt underneath. "Don't let Haymitch get your dirty," I instruct very clearly.
"Yes, Mommy."
"And don't mess up your hair."
"Yes, Mommy."
"And don't be too long."
"Yes, Mommy."
"And don't talk to strangers."
"Okay, can I go already?"
Both Haymitch and Peeta laugh at me and it takes all my restraint not to say something profane in front of Indigo.
As soon as they leave, I get to work, helping Peeta straighten up the house before our guests arrive.
As I'm finishing fluffing and re-arranging the pillows, two warm hands come into contact with my waist. "Excuse me, sir, I'm working right now."
Peeta's arms wrap entirely around me now, his lips on my neck. "Don't worry, I know the boss. She'll... understand."
"Will she?" I cock an eyebrow at him teasingly.
He nods confidently. "She rather enjoys activities such as these."
I'm about to coyly ask what activities he's implying when his lips trail up further, finding residence closer and closer to my mouth.
His lips have just contacted mine when I whisper breathlessly, unable to stop myself, "the second our daughter leaves, you just can't help yourself."
His kiss turns to a laugh. "She does tend to take up a lot of the bed space. We have to catch these opportunities for us when we can."
I chuckle in response, because it's true. As much as we both love our child—more than words could ever say—lately, her fear of sleeping in her room down the hall has meant we've gained a new, invasive bedmate.
"That we do," I agree, smirking now as I fiddle with his sky blue collar that matched his eyes. "I see had a wardrobe change."
"Mhmm. Thought I would look nice for Yuleday."
"Is there someone special you're expecting to see? Someone you want to dress up for?" I tease, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my lips to the center of his chest, right at my eye level.
"There is, actually," he affirms slyly. "Two people, in fact. Both women. One a little smaller than the other. Both have dark hair and loud voices—"
"Excuse you?"
"Both have me wrapped entirely around their fingers," he adds, full on smiling now.
"Good save," I retort, about to turn away when I feel his hands grip the underside of my thighs and hoist me up against him.
I pretzel myself around his body, unable to help the girlish noise of surprise that slips out as he holds me in his arms. "We only have maybe ten minutes until Indigo and Granpuh," he imitates his three-year-old, but his nose teasingly presses against mine and his voice is very suggestive, "come back. We should... make the most of it... before we have to entertain guests all day."
I return the glint his eyes, my desires in line with his. Our lips meet halfway in the minimal space still remaining between us, and we waste no time before our tongues begin to intertwine, twirl and gently twist.
I feel his hand sliding up my ratty, torn shirt, just barely crossing over my stomach to my ribs when a knock at the door suddenly catches us off-guard.
"Haymitch isn't usually back this fast," I say as Peeta—very reluctantly—sets me down.
But as soon as the words slip from my lips, a thousand thoughts race through my mind.
What if Haymitch had lost Indigo somehow, in the crowd that always grows large on Yuleday? What if someone took my baby? What if she's scared and can't find me and I don't even know it yet because I let an old drunk man take her out of my sight? What if she fell out of Haymitch's cart and smacked her head on the town's icy cobblestones? What if the car spun out and hit a tree and now one of our neighbors is coming to tell us the grave news?
I'm holding my breath, my heart suddenly beating a million miles a second, as my husband pulls open the door.
Behind the door is not Haymitch nor a random member of our community. It's Delly. Delly Cartwright-Bagley and her husband and three children in tow.
A half hour early.
I can't help the reaction that slips from my lips, the stress of my fears overpowering my filter. "Would it have killed you to show up on time?"
Peeta shoots me a look but I ignore him. Delly however is unfazed by my irritation. As is her husband, Kanon.
"Happy Yuleday, Katniss!" Delly beams and pushes her plate of frosted cookies into Peeta's hands to hug me tightly. "And we only showed up early because your husband invited us to," she adds, talking too loudly into my ear.
My eyes narrow at Peeta but he's clearly just as unhappy with himself, since now our plans have been interrupted.
"I said they could come early and help," Peeta defends slightly, just as Delly's husband notices the button I must have unknowingly undid.
"Mmm, well you two could go upstairs while we finish getting everything ready for the rest of the guests," Kanon teases, ruffling Peeta's conspicuously tousled hair as he leads the three young ones inside from the cold.
Delly pulls back from me then and leads her eldest, Evelyn Malia Bagley—but, much like with Indigofera, is known solely by Evie—to the kitchen, with a high level of familiarity.
The confidence inside my house is only natural at this point, considering the relationship with our family and Delly's has grown much closer than I ever could have anticipated.
Delly is Peeta's childhood best friend, and therefore after the war she was one of the biggest supporters and greatest confidants to him in his darkest hours. The times I couldn't do anything, because I was the source of his fear, of his anger or his pain.
Or rather, Snow made him believe I was.
Delly's presence in Peeta's life was far more helpful than any over the phone therapist could have ever been, and for that I am eternally grateful. However, I never expected her to be a close friend to me as well.
Begrudgingly on my part some days, but it was fact. If I ever needed anything, if I was having a hard time, if I ever wanted to talk with someone besides Peeta—which is rare but happens every so often—I'm still shocked to realize Delly Cartwright-Bagley is one of the first people I'll turn to. I’m still shocked to realize the girl who once had baby fat and yellow hair, who sat two rows ahead of me in school and chewed her bubblegum obnoxiously loud, is one of my closest companions.
She's surprisingly more understanding and wise underneath her overly perky personality and boisterously loud voice.
And, of course, the man she married also helps the equation. Kanon is a kind, tall man, a few years older than the rest of us. He's rather quiet but will poke a joke at someone he knows well enough. He's hardworking and loyal and intuitive.
He's the exact opposite of Delly, which sounds like it should be a recipe for disaster but in reality has proven to be a wonderful occurrence in everyone's life.
After all, we all let out a sigh of relief when she could quit working at the medicine factory.
For all of Delly's good qualities—and there are a great many—she's not exactly an ideal factory worker. Or manual laborer. Or cleaning personnel.
When Delly took over operating the counter at Kanon's Candy Store, which unlike the bakery, is more of a novelty than an essential, everything sort of fell into place.
"Aunt Katty!" I hear a small voice shriek, pushing her older brother out of the way to sprint into my arms.
I barely have time to catch little Kendall, Delly's youngest child before she’s flung herself onto me with a force only her mother could have matched.
"Hi, Sweetie," I all but coo, disgusting even myself a bit.
I hug her almost as tightly as she hugs me, and I intentionally ignore Peeta's smirk in my direction.
Okay, so I'm not the most subtle about having a favorite out of Delly's litter. But Kendall is only three months different in age than my Indigo, so I have the excuse of spending the most time with the little wild, rambuctious thing.
Although my child is by far the ringleader in their friendship. A fact I try not to think of too often, as I could easily imagine a multitude of things Indigofera could get into if I don't keep a close eye on her.
"Where's Indy?" Kendall asks as I cart her to the kitchen. She's the only one I let that nickname slide with.
"She went for a ride with Haymitch."
Speaking of my child only increases my anxiety for her whereabouts. I suddenly regret letting my old mentor take her at all, as my gut continues to constrict painfully, thinking of every scenario in which she could be taken away from me. Forever.
My only job, the only one I truly cannot live with the idea of failing, is keeping my daughter safe.
I failed once before to protect someone I loved more than my own life. Twice, I correct myself, looking at Peeta, who's now guiding five year old Rhys by hand to the kitchen.
I cannot fail Indigofera, like I failed both Prim and Peeta.
Delly senses the tension building inside of me as I come to stand beside her, Kendall still on my hip. "Haymitch would never let Indigo get hurt," she says without preamble. To her credit though, she says it quieter than her typical range of volume. "C'mon. It's his granddaughter."
The four of us laugh, the fact that a little person with giant blue eyes and a constant pair of messy braids is what entirely melted Haymitch Albernathy's heart still laughable three years later.
I let Kendall down and watch as she and her siblings begin to set the table dutifully, with more order and structure than I had at their age.
I feel the everlasting anxiety that's making a permanent home inside my gut suddenly release, like a knife being pulled out of a stab wound, as Indigo's voice fills the room.
"Mommy!" She yells, racing into the kitchen as fast as her little legs can carry her. "Look at what Gamma Sae gave me," she exclaims, holding up a stuffed bear for me to see.
I don't acknowledge the toy or her hair that's coming out of the braid I only just did, or even the grass stain on her dandelion patterned shirt. I just yank her up into my arms and squeeze her tight.
I should be ashamed of myself, that my three-year-old knows when I've worried or been in distress over her, but all I am is awed when she lays her little head on my shoulder and whispers softly, "I'm okay, Mommy. Granpuh wouldn't let anything hurt me."
There is an awkward pause in the room for a moment, only noticeable to the adults. I don't know if it's because they understand my anxiety—Peeta, at least, typically does—or if it's because they think I'm insane, but no one speaks until Indigo shuffles herself downwards and immediately tackles Kendall, excitedly showing her the stuffed animal Greasy Sae gave her.
Delly, as per usual, breaks the silence. "You know, if you two ever want to finish the... activity you were engaged in when we showed up, I will gladly take care of Indigo for an afternoon."
I roll my eyes, long past the point where Delly could make me blush with her innuendos. "I'll keep that in mind."
Peeta is chuckling as he finishes drying off a now clean cooking bowl. "You're a more appealing babysitter than Haymitch," he says, his eyes falling on the older man, who's standing with the kids now, not-so-subtly keeping closer to Indigo, as he isn't too fond of most children in general.
"You sure we wouldn't be ruining your fun?" I tease now, looking at Kanon, who's arranging the cookies they brought onto a different plate.
"Katniss, we have three kids," Delly all but deadpans. A rarity for her. "All under eight years old. One more won't make a difference."
Kanon speaks up then as me and Peeta snicker. "We also learned to be faster," he adds slyly, looking directly at me. "The joy of having a few kids. Makes you a better multi-tasker."
"I so miss when you used to be quiet," I say in a monotone as the doorbell, that no one uses, unexpectedly rings.
"Peeta, how many people did you invite early?" I snap.
He holds up his hands defensively. "No one else, I swear."
"Sure."
But when I open the door, revealing my mother, Annie and Finn, I know he's got to be telling the truth. He wouldn't have invited my mother early for anything. The tension that existed years ago is all but gone—especially since Indigo's birth, the event that drew us closer than we had been since I was a child—but still, Peeta remains cautious. When it comes to my mother, he leaves her visitation completely up to me.
Her husband, Rod Marin, doesn't attend our celebration however. I don't know if it's the chilly reception he may or may not receive from me, or if it's the fact that my mom doesn't want to bring Rod's daughters with them, but either way, she has attended our home alone for the last five years and, as selfish as that may be, I prefer it this way.
Still, I greet her warmly. "Hi, Mom," I say as she hugs me tightly.
"Sorry we're a little early, honey," she professes as she steps into the house that was once her home too.
"That's fine," I assure, even though I'm not dressed or ready yet.
Annie is next and she instantly throws her arms around my neck. "I missed you," she murmurs in the sweet, gentle way she's always had since I met her in District Thirteen.
"We missed you too," Peeta calls from around the corner as he comes into our eyesight, holding a very excited Indigo in his arms.
"Finn!" She screams as she all but launches herself away from Peeta and into the eighteen year old's arms.
"Hi!" He exclaims as he catches her and swings her upwards, returning the overzealous squeeze she's giving his neck. "How's my best girl?"
"She's gweat!" Indigo beams and my heart melts a little, watching her with the boy who looks so much like his father. The boy who's always been such a joy in life. The boy who saved his mother eighteen years ago, who has been nothing but respectful and kind and funny to me and Peeta, who has shown incredible maturity at such a young age.
Then again, at his age I had already been through two games and a war. Peeta had already been hijacked and fought his way back. I'd already lost my little sister. Me and Peeta had our toasting at only a year older, at nineteen. Maybe eighteen isn't a young as it seems to me now, looking at youthful Finn, who I watched learn to walk and talk and swim and tie a knot.
Or maybe I was just as young when all that tragedy occurred. Maybe I just felt older because of the circumstances in which I was born, because of the world in which we lived.
I shake my head slightly, trying to shake the bad thoughts away.
"Indy, guess what?" Finn prompts enthusiastically—but not without shooting me a teasing glance, knowing my distain for her nickname.
"What?"
"I brought something."
"What?"
Both Peeta's and my curiosity has been peaked now, just as much as our child's. Annie's hesitant glance, that looks both hopeful and apprehensive, only fuels my confusion more.
"Well, there's a new tradition in some of the other districts that I think you'd find fun," he explains, but his eyes flicker to me and I raise an eyebrow, wondering what he could be suggesting. "You see you cut down a tree—or sometimes people in One or Two buy a plastic tree—and then you bring it home and decorate it."
Indigo claps her hands together, too excited and too precious for me to disappoint her. "I want to do it!" She yells, with an exuberance only a three-year-old could possess. "Kenny, we're gonna decorate a tee!"
I hear a variant of what being exclaimed in the other room, where my mother, Haymitch and the Bagley's still are.
"Where do we buy decorations?" My child asks, abruptly serious, the details of this tradition becoming clearer in her little mind.
"Indy," Finn quickly tries to corral. "I brought decorations with me, but we need a tree and..." He hesitates, looking at me now.
"And?" She prompts, confused.
"We have to ask your momma if it's alright to get one. Since it's her house we'll be doing this in." He winks at me, then turns his eyes pleading, half mocking me.
Indigo doesn't have to even feign the look, she naturally inherited that sweet, wide eyed, begging glint. Either from Prim or Peeta—probably both—and I'm powerless against it.
"Fine," I relent dramatically. Indigo rewards me by jumping from Finn's arms to mine and kicking her little chubby legs excitedly. "But not until after dinner," I condition.
"We should probably go get the tree now though?" Peeta suddenly speaks up, looking at the clock on the wall. "Before it gets dark?"
I shoot him a glare over Indigo's head. "It won't get dark for hours. And why do you seem not surprised by this?"
Peeta shrugs too innocently and when Annie giggles and nudges his shoulder, I realize they had been conspiring behind my back.
"Daddy is definitely the bad influence around here, Indigofera," I declare, as my husband walks closer to us, leans down and kisses my hair.
"We love you," he says teasingly, against my crown. "Even if you are a stick in the mud sometimes."
Before I can respond, likely with a snappy comment, our daughter pops her head off my shoulder. "Daddy, I want to pick out the tee."
Of course she does. That girl has been in charge of us since the day she was born.
"Okay, Bean. Ask your mother if it's alright," he tells her, but it's just a formality at this point, as to not ruffle me further. She's his kid too, he can take her to get a tree if he wants.
"Mommy, can I-"
"Yes," I say exasperatedly, giving Peeta a look as I hand him Indigo.
"Don't worry, Sweetheart," he whispers, leaning down and touching his nose to mine. "I'll take care of our girl."
"I know," I sigh, because I do know that. I've never not trusted him with our child. Even if I prefer to keep them both here with me. Even if I'd have preferred to keep her inside of me, where I knew I could protect her always.
I can't keep the smile off my face though when he pecks my lips unexpectedly and then my nose. "We won't be long."
"Better not be," I call as he grabs their coats and carries my little girl out the door, following behind Finn and Kanon and the Bagley kids. "Or else I'm eating without you."
"Same here," Delly calls from the kitchen, though they probably can't hear her.
"Go change," Annie suggests, touching my messy braid gently. "I'll go help Delly and your mom."
I shoot her a grateful smile and make my way upstairs. In the years since the war both Annie and Johanna have remained, shockingly—maybe only to me—constants in mine and Peeta's lives. They both returned to their home districts, but through visits and telegraphs and phone calls, even just for Jo to call me an idiot, they both became a part of a new blended family I didn't even know was being created.
Though I am grateful now for it. Beyond words. As neither me nor Peeta can offer Indigo any sort of extended family, her having Johanna, Delly, Annie and their families somehow fills the space left empty from the loss the war gave us.
As if on cue, just as I'm thinking of her, I hear a loud rapt on the bathroom door and know Johanna has arrived.
"Come in," I yell as I pull on a dark green—which for some reason is an acceptable color on Yuleday—sweater and push a brush through my hair viciously. I'm just moving on to rebraiding it simply when Jo enters.
"Hello, Brainless," her voice rings out as she steps into the bathroom.
"I'm shocked you knocked."
"I didn't wanna see you indecently."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"Probably won't be the last."
We both let out a laugh and—pretending to be at least a little begrudgingly about it—embrace for a moment.
"Missed your stupidity these last couple of months," she murmurs as she pulls back.
"My stupidity? You once almost shot an arrow at Haymitch."
"You thought that was an accident?"
I can't help but snort as I turn back to the mirror and finish up my braid. "How's Christopher?" I ask, my tone a little more serious.
But she just shrugs, her gaze focusing now on Indigo's tiny comb. The one with the diamonds that Effie sent and Peeta insisted we keep.
Christopher is the man Jo, almost against her will, fell for almost two years ago. She refuses to commit to him entirely, especially since he has a son not much older than Indigo and that prospect alone terrifies her, but when Peeta visited her last year he told me that Christopher and his son, David, without a doubt live in that house with her.
"I can't believe you keep stuff from Effie Trinket?" Jo segues gracelessly. "Especially for a three-year-old."
"Blame Indigo's father. Both for her love of fancy things and his compliance in letting her have them."
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, because you make sure she only gets the bare necessities."
"Okay, who's side are you on?"
"The one who makes the dinner around here."
"I hunt it."
"He stuffs it and bakes it."
"This feels personal. Is this because I didn't save you any pumpkin cake or sweet nut bread from Harvest Dinner?"
"Now that you mention it-"
Johanna is abruptly cut off by the sound of a yelp. Only, instead of the sound being a distress call or a bone chilling cry, it's one of excitement.
"Johanna Mason, get down here!" Annie yells, way too excited to be beckoning Jo of all people.
She rolls her eyes—a little too good-naturedly to be as annoyed as she'd like for me to believe—before exiting the bathroom and heading down to greet Annie at the bottom of the staircase.
I chuckle to myself, marveling at their odd friendship, before brushing my teeth and washing my face and heading down to join them as well.
I almost run headfirst into my husband as I walk by the front door. "That was quick," I note breathlessly as Peeta catches me by the waist, burying his now chilly face into my neck. Probably more for warmth than romance.
"Hmm, Indy-Indigo," he corrects himself humorously. "She is very decisive. Saw the tree she wanted and looked at no second options."
I wrap my arms around his neck and peer over his shoulder. "And where is the little decisive thing now?"
"Having a snowball fight with Finn and Kendall in the snow. You'll be happy to know your daughter is winning."
I roll my eyes. "Of course she is. Well, I guess we better start the fire to warm her up when she's done."
"Hypothermia would be a bummer on Yuleday," he agrees cheekily.
"For us more than her."
"Pretty much."
Inside the living room, Kanon and Haymitch—but mostly Kanon—are finishing setting up a newly trimmed tree, right by the back door.
"Sweetheart, it's your dream," Haymitch taunts. "Having part of the woods in your house."
"Did he knock a few back on the way to grab a tree?" I ask Peeta quietly, as he wraps his arms around my waist from behind.
"Probably. I was busy watching the four little ones, I didn't have time to monitor an old man too."
"Should have put Finn on Haymitch watch."
"You know, I can hear you," our old mentor barks as Kanon finishes putting up the tree.
"Indigo!" I hear my mother exclaim, as the front door opens again.
I spin around in time to see a little person, shorter than all the other kids, practically dance her way into the house. "Gamma!"
"Hey," I halt her, pulling away from Peeta. "Let's not track snow into the house, baby."
Delly and Annie both help dust off the other three while I pull Indigo's scarf, boots, hat, gloves and coat off and toss them all aside carelessly. Much to Peeta's dismay, as he sees the snow fly all over the entryway.
"Let's not track snow into the house, baby," he imitates.
"Shut up."
As soon as she's free from the white frozen slush, she launches herself towards my mother. "Hi!"
"Hi, sweet girl! How'd you like playing in the snow?"
"It was fweezing. But I beat Finn and Kenny at our snowball fight so it was worth it." She smiles up at my mother proudly and for a moment, Indigo looks exactly like Peeta and I am amazed at that fact somehow. Considering, at first glance, she's all me besides the eyes.
Except sometimes she looks at me and I see my sister at her age, so deeply ingrained in her eyes, in her mannerisms, in her voice, that I'm taken back to being child again myself.
"You're a little messy," my mother also notes, pushing back the hair that has fallen from her braid.
"Well I like to play so, things happen." Her little shrug is one of the most endearing things about her.
"Your mother also loved to get messy."
I furrow my brows. "I was always very clean, Mom."
"Oh I doubt that," Peeta disagrees and has the audacity to laugh, standing right beside me now. "You aren't even very clean now."
I turn to him, pressing my face close to his, trying to look threatening as I push my nose against his. "I will get you."
"Oh, please do," he eggs on, his smile turning into a grin.
"I have a bow, I could literally-"
"Is dinner almost ready yet?" Rhys, Delly's only son, complains.
Chuckling slightly, I pull my face away from a still smirking Peeta. Thankfully, no one else noticed our exchange, aside from my mother, who's too polite to do more than smile.
"Yeah, Rhys, dinner's all ready," Peeta says, putting his hand on the back of the little boy's head and guiding him to the table.
Dinner is only slightly chaotic. Four kids under eight-years-old, a teenager who can match Haymitch's humor effortlessly, Jo and Peeta and I swinging insults back and forth like compliments and then Annie, who's quiet and blissful spirit can't be tempered for anything in this world on holidays, and my mother, who feigns oblivious to the chaos surrounding her, all adds up to an interesting affair. Add in the stupid stray cat my daughter adores meowing at the back door and it's practically a circus.
But it's a circus I have found myself loving, more and more, since Indigo joined us. Since I somehow made the most beautiful and intelligent and spirited human being, somehow the dreary outlook I used to hold on this new post-war holiday has turned to excitement.
Maybe it's the fact that eighteen years have passed since the war that stole my sister from me. Or maybe it's that I'm looking forward to who's here now, who's experiencing this holiday with me, who I get to share this day with and witness their enthusiasm.
My daughter.
I never thought, in a million years, I'd have a child of my own. I never thought once that she'd come to exist, that I'd feel safe enough or strong enough or brave enough, to bear bringing something to delicate, something so wonderful and precious and breakable, into this world.
But she has lit up my life in ways I didn't even imagine possible. I thought I was happy, blissfully happy most days, with Peeta. And I was. But that was before I saw what life was like with Indigo and now I can't even picture how miserable and downcast this day would be without her.
As the sky begins to darken outside and Peeta stands up to light candles along the windowsills while Kanon adds logs to the fireplace, my child suddenly starts squirming in her seat. "Can I decorate the tree now?" She asks as I wipe her face with a cloth napkin.
"In a minute, Bean."
"I want to now!" She whines as I scrub the leftover food that didn't make her mouth off her cheek.
"Indigofera," Peeta says in a warning tone.
"I wanna decorate the tree right now," she says in a slightly quieter voice.
"Okay," I murmur, smiling slightly as I drop my hand from her face and let her go. "Go decorate, Sweetie."
With my consent, she practically flies out of her chair and—nearly knocking Evie over—pushes her way to the bag of ornaments Finn brought from Four.
"She didn't get a nap today," I explain to Johanna and my mother, who watched the almost tantrum unfold.
"You were the same," my mother replies and then chuckles. I toss her a look, before I spot Finn lifting Indigo up to place a trident high upon the tree.
My eyes aren't perfect but from where I'm sitting I can make out the name Finnick Odair gracefully carved underneath and my gaze falls on Annie.
She offers me a knowing smile and shrugs. "He wanted to handmake the ornaments himself. Meaningful ones you can't just buy. I wasn't going to discourage him."
I nod, a feeling of pride for some strange reason flooding me. I didn't raise Finn. The indefinite length of my sentence to Twelve was never revisited and, in truth, I had little reason to care enough to fight it. But it did mean I wasn't able to make it to Four, to see my mom or Annie and Finn at my own whim.
But Annie has always made a point to come here, every so often since the war ended. She's written letters and called and sent photos, consistently, for so many years that I've lost track. They were both here the day after I had Indigo. They've never missed any of our birthdays. And I've watched that boy, with his father's tan skin, bronze hair and sea green eyes grow into a man who'd make Finnick proud.
And it's nearly impossible for me not to feel so sort of pride in him as well. If for nothing else, the way he treats my daughter. Always patient, always kind, always ready to play.
"Where'd he get this idea?" I ask, if for no other reason, just to change the subject before I get visibly sentimental. "To decorate a tree, I mean."
Annie's expression shifts and changes slightly. "Coral McGonigill."
Johanna's ears almost noticeably perk up. "Is she is his new flavor of the month?"
"Well, she's lasted for several months," Annie corrects, but doesn't seem too enthusiastic of this girl.
"Do you like her?" I ask, my brow furrowing. I don't even want to imagine my child dating. The idea of her spending time alone, with anyone I don't personally know already drives me nearly to the brink of insanity, but to add in teenage impulses and hormones? My skin is crawling at the thought and I feel a wave of nausea come over me suddenly.
Before Annie can answer though, Haymitch is cutting into the conversation.
"Look at you guys," I hear him guffaw over my shoulder. "Gossiping like old ladies."
Jo throws her fork in his direction, barely missing her target. His left eye and cheek. "Hey, hey, hey," Haymitch bellows now. "Not in front of the children."
"I agree with Haymitch," Delly calls from behind the tree, where she's helping Kendall hang up a pink squirrel ornament.
"Of course you do," Johanna mumbles, loud enough only I can hear, and I have to repress a laugh.
All levity though slips away from my features as I watch Finn hand my child a new ornament. I feel Annie's eyes on me, apprehensive and a little fearful.
The ornament is an angel. It has blonde hair and blue eyes and my sister's exact nose and mouth. She's wearing a skirt and blouse, both pure white, to perfectly match the halo floating above her head. But the skirt is untucked in the back, giving her a duck tail, and it's this fact that registers in my brain. It's this fact that makes me realize that the ornament is Prim, even before I read the name sprawled across the bottom.
Peeta's staring at me now too, but it's my mother that grasps my hand. Our eyes barely meet for a second but we both understand what the other one is thinking.
She should be here. She should be helping decorate the tree. She should be playing with my daughter, who she'd surely love.
But she isn't. Because someone I trusted may or may not have built bombs that killed her. Because a vindictive woman thought that killing her and dozens of other children was the only way to win. Because I was too stupid for too long and didn't see what the real plan was, even as it sat right under my nose.
But she can be here now. If there's anything I learned from Indigo, it's that someone can exist, even in a small part, inside another person. It's that life doesn't have to end at death, as long as someone is around to remember them.
"That's a beautiful ornament, Finn," I say, as evenly and as kindly as I can.
He takes my other hand, his eyes sweet and gentle. "I made it for you. I thought..."
I nod, even though he doesn't finish his sentence. "I know. Thank you."
My mom keeps hold of my palm underneath the table for minutes after everyone else has moved, and even with the issues that still lie between us, I give her fingers a squeeze. Because she's the only one who really understands my grief.
I watch on as the kids decorate the entire tree, top to bottom, with shaped ornaments, ranging from plants to flower to boats to berries to pastries. And a loaf of bread, which Peeta finds particularly funny.
At the end though, all that's left is a large star, clearly meant to sit at the top of the tree. "What is this?" Evie asks Delly, turning it over in her hand.
"That goes on top of the tree," Annie explains, gesturing to the point of the pine near the ceiling.
"How do we get up there?" Rhys asks, stealing the star from his sister, his little eyes confused. "Daddy isn't even that tall."
"Someone's gotta lift us up to the top," Kendall states, munching on something I hope came from her dinner plate and not the floor.
"My daddy can lift me up there!" Indigo suddenly exclaims and reaches her grabby little hands for the star.
Rhys, however, jerks it out of reach automatically. "Why do you get to do it?"
"It's her house," Delly chides her son sternly.
"And she's the youngest, Rhys," Evie says, in a tone that clearly imitates her mother. "Give her the star."
He does so reluctantly and I'm glad that moment passed by quickly, before I had the chance to tell Rhys—as much as I care for him, and I do, deeply—that he better give my kid her star.
I don't even care that this isn't my tradition to start with. My house, my rules. My kid puts the star on the tree, end of story.
"Daddy!" Indigo squeals as Peeta scoops her up in his waiting arms. "Lift me," she commands, holding the large tree-topper with both hands.
Kanon and Haymitch start directing her, as her little eyes can't see to the top, even with Peeta lifting her as high as humanly possible. But when she gets it into place, she grows so excited that her limbs start flailing.
"Look, Daddy! I did that!" She says once he has her on his hip again, pointing to the star she just placed.
"I saw," he enthuses, brushing back the long, dark hair that's almost entirely out of her braid. "You did good!"
And if I thought my heart was melting before, with Finn and Indigo, it explodes when Indigo puts her tiny hands on Peeta's face and turns him towards her. "I love you, Daddy."
His eyes are awed and grateful, as this was all he wanted for years. For years upon years, he remained patient and understanding when I said I wasn't able to give him a child. When I explained all my reasons to why I didn't want a family. He always was respectful of my wishes and of my feelings.
But I saw it in his bright blue eyes, the ones he passed down to our daughter. He wanted a child so badly. He wanted this, this love that Indigo so easily has to offer, that we effortlessly shower her in.
It took me fifteen years to realize that perhaps I wanted it too. Perhaps my fear was overshadowing me from what I truly wanted. Perhaps it was better to have a child and do everything to keep her safe, to fret and worry in addition to love and adore her, rather than to never know that kind of love at all.
"I love you too, Indigo Sky," he murmurs back softly, before she leans in and kisses him.
I feel my mom squeeze my hand again and I know it's not out of sorrow this time, but out of joy. Joy that her child was able to have a family full of so much love. A family so similar to the one she had decades ago.
I squeeze her hand back, feeling horrific now for how angry I was with her for so long. I don't know who I'd be or what I'd do if someone took Peeta or Indigo from me.
"I think Mommy needs to admire the tree," Peeta says, eyeing me conspicuously.
I stand up, looking at the decorations admiringly. Of course, this tree was mainly decorated by young children, so the majority of ornaments gravitate towards the bottom or are clumped into one place, but still, I tell Indigo how pretty it looks and how good of a job she did.
My eye still catches on the Primrose Everdeen angel, hanging right in the center of the tree, and I have to force myself to refrain from tracing the face on it. The details are even more impressive up close and I wonder if Finn has become an artist or if his girlfriend is the talented one.
Just as I'm about to say something, anything really, to take my mind off my deceased sister, a meaty smell fills the air and my stomach lurches without warning.
I propel myself towards the kitchen sink and lose majority of what I just consumed at dinner.
Behind me, I hear a small commotion. Peeta telling Indigo to go to Finn, Delly and Kanon keeping their kids back, Annie and Johanna saying something to Haymitch.
My mom's hand comes in contact with my cheek, feeling my face and pushing the hair that fell from my braid back behind my shoulder. "What happened?"
As I'm about to answer, Peeta comes up to stand on my other side, one hand subtly turning on the water to flush out the sink, while the other rubs my back soothingly.
"I don't know," I croak, as puking always makes my throat raw. "I just smelled something like meat-"
"Told you it was Haymitch's fault," Jo cuts in, clearly speaking to Annie.
"I only asked if this bird was still good," the old, paunchy man defends himself, holding up some game I shot a while back.
"Well, if it makes Katniss throw up just by smelling it, I'd say no," Finn says.
"You don't have a fever," my mother notes, but her eyes are still confused. Though, I will say, not as worried as I thought they might be and for that I'm glad. The last thing I wish to do is ruin everyone's holiday, especially when I've only just started to enjoy this festivity in the last few years.
"I'm fine," I insist, pulling away from both my mother and my husband and wiping my mouth on a cloth quickly. "Seriously, I'm fine."
"Okay, but still sit down," I hear Delly say and I roll my eyes but do so anyways. Because I'm genuinely tired, not because anyone told me to.
"I'm fine, Indigo," I promise when I spot my daughter's scared eyes, still being held in Finn's arms. "I'm just tired."
Peeta follows me to the couch and, even though I wish to refuse out of embarrassment, when he offers me a fizzy water and starts subtly massaging my back, I can't help but lean my head into his chest gratefully.
I still fight the urge to fall asleep right there though. I still conjure up as much willpower as I can to stay alert, to watch Indigo and Kendall play with their stuffed toys, to listen to Finn and Haymitch shoot smart remarks back and forth, to listen to Annie and Jo catch up or my mother and Delly share stories of their vastly different lives.
By the end of the night though, when it's way past all of our bedtimes, as people start to filter out, planning on catching the late night train or taking a shortcut to their houses here in Twelve, my eyelids begin to involuntarily droop.
"You can sleep," Peeta whispers against my forehead. "I'll take care of everything else."
I want to turn down his offer, to say I can help clean up and put Indigo to bed. But when the last of our guests dissipate and Indigo, exhausted herself, climbs into my lap and curls up against me, I lose the battle and doze off right there on the couch.
Hours must pass, because when my eyes crack open again, the flames in the fireplace have been put out, the entire kitchen and living room are clean, and my child is missing.
Of course, those are the first words out of my mouth. "Where's Indigo?"
"I tucked her in. She's in her own bed tonight," Peeta promises, pulling my arm up to wrap around his neck. "I told you I'd take care of everything."
"You didn't have to..." I mumble sleepily as he lifts me up against him.
"Shhh, just go to sleep," he whispers, his lips pressing against my neck then collarbone. "Just rest, Katniss."
When I wake up again, the sun has already risen in the sky. Thankfully though, my child hasn't yet.
Peeta is alert already, propped up on his elbow, when I open my eyes. "Hey," I rasp, my voice not working yet.
"Hey, beautiful," he greets softly and I roll my eyes at the compliment. I do appreciate hearing it though, despite the years we've been together and how some things can lose effect over time. Peeta's little comments and gestures still haven't. They still mean more to me than I'd ever admit.
Now that I'm fully awake, I feel a small bit of embarrassment creeping back in. "Sorry about last night."
His blonde brows twist with confusion. "You mean getting sick? I don't think that's anything for you to be sorry about, Katniss."
"It was just strange," I note, more to myself than to him. "I just smelled the meat Haymitch found and for some reason, my gag reflex couldn't handle it."
The look that crosses his eyes is sly and reserved and I must still be a little foggy from exhaustion, because it's a rare time where I don't understand what he must be thinking.
He changes the subject abruptly anyway. "Did you have a good time yesterday?" He asks kindly.
"Yes," I reply, maybe a little begrudgingly. Considering for years I complained that I hated this newfound holiday, it is both a joy and a joke to Peeta that I look forward to this day now.
"Good," he replies and kisses my forehead, then my mouth warmly. "I like it when my wife is happy."
"Your wife is always happy when she's with you."
He moves back a little to smirk. "Me too."
I can't help teasing him though. "You're always happy when you're with you too?"
"Yes, Katniss, that's exactly what I meant."
I lean up then and kiss him again, this time with more passion. It's a real testament to our marriage that he can still conjure up butterflies in my lower stomach, after almost two decades since we had our first kiss-our first real kiss-in that cave.
"Thank you," I whisper softly as we break apart.
His eyes flicker lightly with confusion. "For what, Sweetheart?"
"For everything. For Indigo and the life we have. For the last eighteen years," I profess, genuinely. Words have always been difficult for me, and they still don't flow at the slightest slip of my tongue, but it's easier now. It's easier with Peeta, just the two of us, and the strong foundation in which our relationship and life is built upon.
Words for him, however, have always come as easy as breathing. "You have made my life so wonderful," he murmurs and tenderly kisses my lips one more time. "Thank you."
Weeks later, the source of my mysterious illness, my nausea and exhaustion, is discovered when we find out I'm pregnant again.
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Between the Stars [Pt.6]
Pairings: Past!Steve x Reader, Bucky x Reader
Series warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Grief. Overall sadness. Depression. It’s pretty angsty if I’m being honest. Things mellow out as the series goes on. TW: Military/Spouse death
A/N: Good news! We are finally getting out of the terrible sadness! As a reminder, we are back to reader POV for this chapter. This chapter has a slight flashback from the last night and picks up right where the chapter ends. Thanks to my beautiful beta @moonbeambucky for looking this chapter over for me. If you like it write me a book report, sing me a song or come scream at me.
***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****
When Natasha showed up this morning with iced coffee and a box of doughnuts, you were relieved and a little excited -- not just because she got the chocolate fudge one you like. Natasha had yet to stop by since arriving home, and it was nice to see with your own eyes that she truly was alive and back home for good. There was always this unease until you could see a returning soldier in person; really see that they were home safe and sound, so seeing your old friend did settle a tiny part of the restlessness in your heart. And outside of the random visits from Wanda before Bucky came home, you haven’t seen much of your friends and family. It all felt forced when you did manage a visit with them and after a few weeks of exhausting lunches and house calls, you simply stopped answering your door and left your phone on silent. It took too much energy to pretend, and you didn't have that much to spare nowadays.
After caffeine and baked goods, Bucky mentioned he had a few things he needed to take care of, stopping by his mom’s and an errand or two with Sam. Despite having Natasha there, you didn't want Bucky to go. He's rarely left your side since he came home, and there was a sense of peace knowing he was only a shout away. It was nice not to be completely alone, but Bucky couldn’t be there forever, and you knew that. He would eventually get a place of his own, figure out what he was doing with his life and move on.
Just like everyone else was doing, everyone but you.
Sooner or later, Bucky would no longer live in the bedroom down the hall, he would get a new job, and new life, and you would still be stuck, unable to move past the life you lost. So, you let him leave without a hint of hesitation on your part. Natasha seemed to sense something was off because the moment Bucky left, she asked how you were handling everything and, more importantly, how were you handling everything with Bucky. You didn't love her spying on a regular day, but you especially didn’t like it today. What was that supposed to mean anyway? Why would she even bring Bucky into the equation? You didn't ask because you honestly didn't want to hear her answer.
You had enough to deal with.
Natasha caught onto your annoyance fairly quickly and changed the subject, leaving both questions unanswered. She could figure out the answer for herself if she looked hard enough. While the dark circles under your eyes had faded thanks to your nights with Bucky, you saw how empty your eyes looked -- she could solve that mystery without help. You felt bad at first. Natasha was only trying to help, but everyone was “only trying to help,” and no one actually helped. No one but Bucky. He was the only one that made you feel… well, he made you more than the nothing that’s consumed you for months on end. You were less numb when he was around, things felt less empty, and your chest no longer felt as hollow. You felt more like yourself, or whatever new version of yourself you were now. Without Steve, you could never be yourself again, but Bucky made you feel like this version you were forced into wouldn't be so bad.
The ice between you and Natasha thawed the more she talked, and you relaxed some. Your laughs were still forced, and the exhaustion a performance like that brought on began to weigh you down after a few hours. You were grateful when she said she had to go and pick up dinner for Clint -- Pizza and cinnamon twists from the place in town. At the time, you wondered if you could talk Bucky into picking you up some instead of cooking. But now that he was home standing in front of you with what was supposedly your piano perched behind him, all you wanted to do was shove those cinnamon sticks down his throat till he chokes.
“Hey there, Trouble. Sorry, I’m late. I had to make a stop.”
You should have known he wasn’t going to simply drop it, it didn’t matter that it had been months since you sold the damn thing. It’s not in Bucky to let things go. He had to fix things. Bucky stood there, waiting for you were sure was your reaction and when your eyes darkened, he appeared to expect it.
“How fucking dare you,” you seethed.
Bucky took a deep breath and braced himself as you crossed the room, barreling towards him with a look he’s only seen once before in his life -- the night he told you he was joining the Army alongside Steve.
“Who the hell do you think you are? I didn’t ask you to get the damn thing back! I don't want it!”
“Y/n, I know you think you have to feel that way--”
"I’m going to stop you right there, James. You don't get to tell me what I feel now or what I should feel six months from now.”
Bucky took a deep breath, and after a second, he corrected himself.
“I didn’t mean it like that, and I know you know that. I only meant-- All you’ve wanted to do since I met you was play, your dad bought her for you. I’ve spent more nights than I could ever keep track of, listening to you play on the damn thing. This isn’t about Steve. She’s got more than memories of Steve attached to her. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself to be a good wife to Steve.”
You wanted to scoff at the suggestion, but maybe you were punishing yourself. Even if you were it didn’t matter. You didn’t want it in your house. You didn’t need a reminder of all the ways you failed Steve, your marriage, and yourself. You didn’t need to be reminded how off-track your life has become and how sixteen-year-old you would be devastated to see the person you’ve turned into in Steve's absence.
“I don’t want to play anymore, and I don’t want any of the Goddamn memories.”
“Bullshit.”
You narrowed your eyes, but Bucky stood his ground and stared back at you, no hint that he was going to back down. Bucky’s always been different from Steve. Steve would have apologized, told you he could get it out of the house if that was what you really wanted. He may have even followed through with that if only to hide it somewhere until you came around, but Bucky wasn't going to do that. Yes, he was gentle, softer with you than with anyone else, but in moments like this, things were different. He wasn’t afraid to push back a little, to challenge you if he had to.
“You’re a stubborn ass, you know that?” you snapped back.
“I’m a stubborn ass?” Bucky challenged, brows raised, and a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Have you looked in a mirror, sweetheart?”
You weren’t in the mood for some cute verbal sparring match. You were exhausted, and you ached all over. All you had wanted from the moment you woke up this morning was a quiet night with Bucky, maybe watch some trashy movie that allowed you to forget for a few hours and possibly allow you to get some sleep, but none of that was likely now.
“Get the damn thing out of my house, and you can go stay with Sam. I don’t care. Just get out and leave me alone.”
You turned to head back upstairs, but your anger quickly resurfaced with each step towards the stairs, you swiftly swung back around catching your second wind and stomped towards him and Bucky was still standing there as if he expected you to do exactly what you were doing. You wanted to hate him for knowing you that well.
“You know, you have no right, Bucky. I am grieving in my own way, and I don’t… I gave it away, okay?! I don’t want it, and you’re an a-asshole for bringing it b-back and forcing me to relive it a-all.”
Bucky stepped forward when your voice trembled but kept an arm’s distance between you. He could reach out and touch you if he thought that was what you wanted, but he wouldn’t until he was sure it was okay to do so.
“You about done? Get it all out?” He asked, much softer this time around.
That soft heart of his always found its way back at just the right time.
“Yes,” you spat back, it didn’t come out angry as you hoped. You sounded tired.
You were just so tired of everything.
Bucky slowly reached out and took your hand, pulling you towards the dreaded instrument in question. You let him drag you towards the bench and didn’t fight him when he gave you a playful nudge towards the keys. You rolled your eyes but let your free hand land on the keys, one following the other as the notes consumed the stale air of your living room, you never admit to his face, but you already felt a little better. Bucky let go of your hand, and you stepped closer to make sure it was, in fact, yours -- not that you thought Bucky would ever lie to you or try to trick you like that.
He cared about you far too much to hurt you like that.
Bucky broke the tautness between you with an easy smile and filled you in on some of his trip. “You'll be happy to know the little girl I bought it back from said my hair looked dumb.”
You snorted.
“It does look dumb.”
Bucky grinned at your playfulness. That’s been showing up more and more as of late, and he was more than willing to encourage it.
”Now, you’re just being mean, Trouble. It takes a long time to grow it out. What am I supposed to do, huh?”
You looked up from the white and black keys, grinning as your fingers played on their own accord. No real thought to the rhythm, but it was clear it was one they have memorized.
“Fine,” you conceded with feigned exasperation.”"You look handsome. Happy?”
“Handsome, huh?” Bucky mused, that self-satisfied grin on his face as he toyed with your words in his head, and you couldn’t help but get annoyed. As if he didn't know.
“Oh, shut up. You know you're good looking.”
Bucky laughed suddenly, surprised by your words, and it made you smile. You’ve always liked that laugh, the one he gives when he’s caught off guard; his eyes light up with that spark, his nose scrunches up, and his smile is so big you’re sure his cheeks hurt.
“I ain’t denying it. Just didn’t think you thought so.”
Your fingers faltered, and A sharp was hit by mistake, piercing your ears and Buckys from the grimace he made. It’s been a long time since you thought of Bucky in that way, not that he hasn’t always been attractive, and he’s only become more beautiful as he aged, but standing in front of him now made you feel shy and uncertain for some reason. How had he not known you’ve always found him beautiful? This wasn’t something you should be thinking, let alone saying out loud. You shouldn’t see Bucky that way or anyone for that matter.
It was unfair to your marriage and to Steve.
Bucky shook his head as if he was annoyed with himself because he was thinking the same things you were, and he lifted his dusty black boot towards the bottom of the piano to change the subject or maybe to clear the uncomfortable tightness that returned to the room and forget their moment of disloyalty.
“Come on.”
You followed Bucky without protest; both of you slipped under the piano lying shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the unpainted wood on the bottom where your initials rested next to J.B.B. You ran your fingers over the slightly faded marker and smiled.
“That was a long time ago.”
Bucky hummed in agreement. “Another lifetime.”
“When you wrote that…” You dropped your arm onto your stomach and turned your head to meet Bucky's eyes. “Did you know this is where we would end up?”
“No,” Bucky opened his mouth again but quickly snapped it shut. He obviously wanted to say something, but some part of him, his head or his heart you weren’t sure, were telling him not to.
“No, Trouble. I didn’t know we would end up here. I thought-- I knew you would always be in my life, but I didn't think we would ever be here.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder and held your hand out, which he took right away. Your fingers laced together, and he brought your hands up to rest on his chest. Quiet settled over you, and you laid there, staring at the aging Sharpie markings. Things were so different then. If you could go back and ask the girl who scribbled her initials next to Bucky’s if she knew where she was going to end up in the next few decades, she would have told you with absolute certainty, laying right here next to Bucky.
She was ignorant and so naive, and maybe a part of you still was because for just a few moments it felt like everything would be okay, it would all be okay as long as you stayed here under your piano, holding Bucky's hand.
“Play for me?” Bucky asked, breaking the silence with a gentle whisper.
That wasn’t a strange request, and it’s one you’ve heard fall from his lips a hundred times before. When you were young and foolish, Bucky used to ask you to play for him all the time, and usually, you were happy to oblige. This wasn’t about that, though. There was a question in his voice that said he wanted to know this was okay, that what he did was okay and that you were okay because if you weren’t and you really hated having it back, he would get rid of it.
“What do you want to hear?”
You didn’t mind having the piano back, and it was only right that Bucky was the one that brought it home to you.
“How about the song you liked to play from that movie. Shit, what was it? Swallow. Eh, no. Shallow?”
“I hate love songs.”
Bucky smiled.
“No, you don't.”
You smiled despite yourself and whispered, “I want to.”
Bucky placed a kiss to your forehead and whispered against your skin, “No, you don’t.”
It was unfair how well Bucky knew you. He knew nearly everything about you. He knew you hated to be told when you were wrong when you knew you were absolutely right. Bucky knew when you were lying and when you were throwing up your walls to hide the more delicate side of your heart, only a few have seen. You pretend to be tough by saying things like that, so no one could see how gentle you really were under it all. It was infuriating and comforting to have someone who knew you inside and out, but it often made it hard to keep the broken parts hidden.
“I’ll play for you, but I just wanna lay here a little bit longer, okay?”
He knew most of your secrets; you only wished he would trust you with some of his.
“Okay, Y/n, We can stay here as long as you want,” Bucky promised.
“And then order a pizza?”
Bucky chuckled and gave the hand he was still holding a soft squeeze.
“If that's what you want, Trouble.”
You grinned but didn’t say a word, simply closed your eyes and let your head fall into the crook of his arm. Things were less scary when Bucky was around, so it was okay to let your guard fall for a short while. He would brave the dark with you if he had to, help you figure out what your new normal was and what parts of your past were okay to keep.
It made you feel as if maybe one day in the near future, everything would be okay again. At the very least, there would be pizza and Bucky, and that was enough.
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hey, once in twitter we talk about how much we love Castle, so i was thinking if you could write a rowaelin scene based on caskett ♥️
OI GIO!!!!!! Ok so I had so much fun writing this. I decided to start from the very beginning so everyone (even those who didn’t watch it) know what’s going on. If you never watched Castle, you MUST!!! Also, fyi, the warnings are NOT about Ro or Aelin, they are absolutely fine in here. No sad shit, I promise
Warnings: mentions of graphic death
Gone death
--
Aelin winked at the red headed man in front of her, a grin plastered on her lips.
She handed him back the book, waving off his thank you as he scrunched away to enjoy the rest of the party. She looked around, half paying attention to the hundreds of people who had come to the release of her latest book.
Since Aelin was a seven, she had had a deep fascination with mystery and horror. Thankfully, she was also a fucking amazing writer, which allowed her to transform that fascination into her job. Now, twenty six years later, Aelin was the bestseller author of several stand alone as well as a series of eight books, all of them following the same two main characters while they investigated a series of gruesome murders. She had loved the series, had started writing them at fifteen and published the first one at twenty five. She thought she could write about Sam and Lyria forever.
Until she realized she couldn’t.
Aelin felt a hand gripping her elbow, and had to hold in her sigh as she turned around to stare at her ex husband.
One of Aelin’s biggest regrets in life was marrying so early. Chaol had been her college boyfriend, and they got married few months after they started dating. Looking back now, Aelin could see how stupid she had been, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. They got a divorce less than a year later, and Aelin would have been happy in never looking at him again. Unfortunately, he worked with her publishing team, and if she added that to their past together, she could almost understand why Chaol always felt so entitled to know and control everything in her life.
It was fucking distressing and annoying.
“If it’s not my money sucking ex husband. What did I do this time?”
He had a fake smile on his lips, looking at her as if he didn’t dislike her. “You killed your golden goose, Galathynius. You fucking killed your main characters.”
Aelin shrugged, taking a sip of her white wine. “It was time.” She started walking away, and had to hide her scowl when she realized Chaol was following her.
Some people couldn’t get the fucking hint, could they?
“Why would you do that? Sam and Lyria were making you filthy rich, and everyone loved them.”
“They got boring, that’s why.” Aelin stopped in her tracks, turning back to Chaol. She crossed her arms, raising her chin. “Writing The Guild used to be fun, used to be exciting. Writing Sam used to be interesting, but since the seventh book it has just been work. I don’t write for money, Chaol. I write because I love it. When I stopped loving it, I decided it was time to move on from them.”
“Wow, and God forbid you ever have to actually work like an adult, right?”
“It. Was. Time. Besides, Sam and Lyria are not the golden goose, I am.”
She said the words loud and clear, ignoring the frown on his face. Aelin always knew that Chaol saw her writing more as a job than as a passion, and it pissed her off endlessly. She turned around again, walking to the bar where her cousin and son were sitting. Her heels clinked against the marble floor, and the sound was almost loud enough to hide the fact that Chaol was following her. Again.
She sighed loudly as he began speaking. “You could have made them retire, could have made them get married and leave the force. Hell, you could have made them join the goddamn circus. But no, Aelin Galathynius must be dramatic and put two bullets on her main characters’ heads.” When she ignored him, he just kept talking. “What the hell are you going to do now, Aelin? You permanently ended The Guild with your stupidity, and we both know you don’t have any other ideas.”
At that, Aelin spun on her heels, clenching her fists to stop herself from physically attacking Chaol. The photographers would love seeing her getting into a brawl, and most of the rest of the party would probably find it immensely entertaining. Lysandra, however, wouldn’t find it so amusing. Her PR and best friend loved some mischief, but she also worked hard enough to make sure Aelin’s public image was a good one, so Aelin wouldn’t mess that up by fighting her ex.
“Who says that?”
Chaol snorted. “The nine week delay to publish the eighth book should be indication enough.”
“Can’t rush talent.” Aelin said, a nasty smile on her lips.
“I won’t say you’re not talented, Aelin, but you are out of ideas. You weren’t bored, you had a writer’s block and freaked out.” Chaol said, oblivious to Aelin’s rising temper. He looked at her, giving an infuriating shrug. “You have a month to hand me the new idea. A full and useable idea. The first manuscript, preferably. You’re famous, write any shit and people will eat it up.”
“Fuck off.” Aelin said through clenched teeth.
Chaol merely smiled as he walked away. “A month, Aelin.”
Aelin wanted to go after him and smack his face against one of the piles of books in the room. Fortunately for him, Aelin was stopped by several people who wanted her autograph in the newest and last book of The Guild. It probably took her an hour to get through everyone— talking and giving every single person her full attention— until she finally managed to make her way to the bar.
She spotted Aedion’s head first, his broad figure standing up against the bar and talking to a pitch-black haired boy, Nino, sitting down near him.
“Who does homework at a party?” She heard Aedion asking.
“I have a test next week.”
“So do I. It’s called dealing with your mom while she contemplates hitting her head against a wall to force an idea to come out.”
Nino laughed, looking at his uncle. “She’ll come up with something, she always does.”
Aelin smiled at her son, his words warming her. She had had Nino extremely young— had only been seventeen at the time— and he became her friend along with being her son. She approached her cousin from behind, listening to him ask for a glass of champagne.
“Make that two, please.” Aelin said and Aedion’s eyes immediately snapped to her as she approached the boy sitting down and passed an arm through his shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hey, mom.”
Aedion grinned, raising his glass and gesturing around. “Built yourself an empire, Aeae.”
Aelin smiled in return, winking at her cousin. “Always said I would. But tell me, Aedion…”
“Uh-oh.” The boy Aelin was half hugging said, a humorous smirk on his face. “Someone’s in trouble.”
“Cut it, genius.” Aedion snapped, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “What’s up, Ae?”
“Did you tell Chaol I was having trouble writing?” Aelin smiled sweetly, even though she wanted to strangle her cousin right now. The look on his face was enough to give her the answer.
“I told him nothing of the sort.” Aedion replied quickly, defending himself. Aelin only raised an eyebrow at him. “Ok, I— I might have let slip that for the past nine weeks you have been walking around the apartment with either a cup of coffee or a bottle of wine while you curse the Gods for lack of creativity.”
“I am going to kill you.” Aelin said, a smile still plastered on her face as she noticed some cameras pointed at her. It was always like this whenever she went out with Nino.
“Ae, that’s ok. You’re an artist, that sort of thing is expected.”
“I can’t believe it, Aedion! The deal for you to live with us was plain and simple.”
“No meddling on her work.” Nino reminded Aedion, the boy looking immensely pleased at his uncle’s doom. “And no Chaol.”
“You know how things are with Chaol. No. Talking. About. My. Work.“ Aelin said, temper rising once more.
“What is there to talk about anyways?”
“Uncle!” Nino said exasperatedly.
“Whatever there is or isn’t to talk about,” Aelin was saying, jaw clenched. “I would appreciate if you didn’t share it with my ex husband.”
“Oh, I think I hear Lysandra calling me.” Aedion interrupted, absolutely ignoring Aelin. She narrowed her eyes, knowing damn well that Lysandra would never be calling Aedion judging by the brunette’s deep dislike of her best friend’s cousin. Aelin tried to stop him, but he just started walking away faster, shouting that they could talk at home.
It was just a fancy way of saying they wouldn’t discuss at all.
She turned around, looking at Nino. He had a smirk on his face as he looked down his physics book, a pen on his left hand.
“You should have stopped me.” Aelin grumbled.
“Letting uncle Aed move in?” Nino asked, looking up at his mom. “Nah, I think it’s sweet. Besides, I like him.”
Aelin only grumbled more, taking the two glasses the barista had put in front of her. She smiled in thanks, holding one of the glasses and placing the other in front of Nino. He smiled humorously, raising an eyebrow. “You know I’m only sixteen, right?”
“You’re an old soul.”
“Well me and my old soul can wait until I’m twenty-one.”
Aelin smiled at her son, all anger and tightness leaving her body. Nino had always been her steadying rock, since he was a baby his presence had always been enough to calm her down. Differently from her, however, Nino was extremely serious and responsible, always following the rules, studying and making sure everything was right.
Most times Aelin found it immensely funny to see how different from her he had turned out.
“When I was your age—“ She was saying, a grin on her face. She immediately stopped, frowning. “Can’t tell you that story. Too inappropriate for your innocent ears.”
Nino snickered, pushing the champagne glass away.
“Don’t laugh, boy, this is exactly my point. Don’t you want to have wild, law-breaking, inappropriate stories that you can’t tell your kids one day?” She rested her elbows at the counter, a smile on her lips.
“You’ve lived enough of those for both of us now, mom.”
Aelin snorted, taking a sip of her champagne. “You’re studying physics at a party. At your age I would have been drinking.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You were pregnant.” Nino said slowly, a winning smirk at his face.
“Damn it.” Aelin muttered, earning a laugh from Nino. Despite her crazy stories, Nino knew very well how responsible she had been during her pregnancy with him. Nino, since before birth, had been the one thing capable of making her act like a serious adult. “You want to know why I killed Sam and Lyria?”
Nino raised his brows at the change in the topic, but nodded just the same.
“Because life should be an adventure, sweetheart. It should be full of unexpected turns and plot twists. It should be full of funny stories, embarrassing stories, inappropriate stories.” Her smile became soft, and she grabbed one of his hands. “I had to kill them because it wasn’t an adventure anymore, it wasn’t surprising. I knew exactly where they would always go, what they would always do. If my own characters weren’t surprising me, how could I hope they would surprise anyone else?”
“Mom…”
“I’m not telling you to be like I was when I was younger, it’s definitely not your type. I just want to make sure that you know you can make mistakes every now and then. That I don’t expect you to be like me, but I also don’t expect you to be perfect.”
He matched her soft smile, squeezing her hand slightly. “I know, mom.”
“Good.” She straightened, taking her champagne glass and looking around. “You know what else is boring? These parties. After having sixteen of these, the seventeenth seems rather dull.”
Nino rolled his eyes. “Yeah, people praising you seems awfully boring, mom.”
Aelin grinned, resting her hips against the counter as she turned fully to him. “It’s always the same thing. ‘Oh my god, I’m such a big fan’, or maybe the ‘Where’d you get your ideas?’.
“Let’s not forget the fully adult men asking you to sign their chest.” Nino’s face crumbled in disgust.
Aelin laughed out loud, drinking from her glass. “I don’t mind that one very much.”
“Well, I do, if you’re interested in knowing.”
She snorted, putting the now empty glass down. “I don’t know, Nino. I just wanted for someone to surprise me once. I want something new to give me inspiration, to be my new muse. For the past eight years I have been hearing the same thing over and over again. I just want someone to catch me by surprise, to say something so shocking I won’t have a reaction, so surprising that I will—“
“Ms. Galathynius.” She was interrupted by a brisk tap on her shoulder. Nino raised his eyebrows at the person standing behind her, trying to get her attention in such impolite manner.
She forced a polite smile on her face, taking a pen from her bra. She turned around, raising the pen. “Where do I sign?”
A broad shouldered man was now standing in front of her, and even in heels Aelin had to tip her head back to stare at him. His arms her hanging by his side, his clothes extremely casual for him to be part of the party. His white button down and leather jacket hugged his arms and torso, and if his face wasn’t so enthralling, Aelin would probably have had a hard time not staring at the rest of him.
His features looked somewhat tense. His hair— probably blond, but looked so light that it could only be described as silver— a mess, almost as if he had ran his hands too many times through it. There was a crease between his eyebrows, and his pine green eyes were stuck on her face with such intensity that Aelin felt her face heating.
“Detective Whitethorn, OPD.” He said, voice grave and words rolling out of his tongue with a lovely Scottish accent. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight.”
Aelin registered his words, but didn’t have any reaction. She just stared at the man, her eyes looking quickly at the Orynth Police Department badge he was holding.
Nino laughed quietly, reaching over his mom to take the pen out of her hand. “Well, this is new.”
Only then she turned slightly to her son, a scowl at her face. “No shit, Sherlock.”
—-----
Aelin had always written about this, but she never thought that she would herself be like one of the characters from her story.
Honestly, she wasn’t nervous at all, just curious.
Hundreds of people had seen her all afternoon and night at the party, and she knew that she hadn’t killed anybody, so fear was off the table. Now, why the police thought she had any knowledge about the crime at all was what made her so damn curious.
Upon arriving at the precinct, detective Whitethorn had left her at the care of two identical men. Both had the exact same face, but where one seemed to radiate light, the other one seemed to suck it. As they took her to wait in the interrogation room, she thought that they would make great main characters.
“Whitethorn will be back shortly, ma’am.” The serious twin said, walking out of the room as she sat down. The other twin, however, lingered.
He was staring at her, his head cocked to the side just like a wolf seizing his prey. Aelin stared right back, raising one eyebrow at him. Despite knowing she hadn’t killed anybody, something inside of her was tensing at his staring. Did they think that her involvement with the murder was more serious than she had initially thought?
“You killed your main characters.” He said, and the air rushed out of Aelin’s lungs. She scowled, suddenly pissed that he had made her so tense and it was actually just about a goddamn book.
“Yep. Bullet right through the head.” She made a finger gun and put it against her forehead. “Disappointed?”
He shrugged, resting against the threshold. “It was brilliant, but I adored Sam and Lyria. After eight years following the series, seeing your favorite characters being killed makes you want to kill the author.”
Aelin smiled when he winked at her. “Pardon. If it makes you feel better, I have already been scolded by my ex husband. Said it would have been better if I had just made Sam and Lyria join the circus.”
“Sam would have been a shit clown.”
Aelin nodded. “You’re right. Should have told that to my ex.”
The detective laughed, but was immediately interrupted when Whitethorn’s voice sounded from behind him. “Fenrys.”
“Sorry, Rowan.” Fenrys grimaced exaggeratedly, and Aelin grinned. “See you later, blondie.”
Aelin just nodded, her eyes immediately on Whitethorn when his figure approached the door.
“Ms. Galathynius.”
“Detective Whitethorn.” She eyed the manila folders he was holding. Some papers and photos were sticking out, but Aelin couldn’t really tell what they were.
He sat in front of her after closing the door, opening one of the folders. His eyebrows rose as he read, and he eyed Aelin quickly before sighing and putting the open folder at the table. “You have quite the history with the law for a best selling author, Ms. Galathynius. Public disturbance, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest…”
Aelin shrugged, a small smile on her lips. “Living all your adventures through paper seem a little too nerdish for me.”
Detective Whitethorn rested his forearms on the table, inclining himself forward. Aelin did the same, and his eyes narrowed at her.
“You stole a police horse once.”
“Borrowed.” Her smile widened. Detective Whitethorn, on the other hand, didn’t seem to find it funny in the slightest.
“And you were,” he looked down at the folder before looking at her again. “Nude.”
Aelin shrugged once more. “It was springtime.”
“And every time the charges were dropped.” He drew back, resting against his chair. “Care to explain?”
“The mayor enjoys reading The Guild.” Aelin sighed dramatically, propping on her elbows and resting her face against her hand. “You know how people love to bond over mutual interests. And he loves my son, there’s that too. But that’s besides the point.”
“Oh, is it?” For the first time, the detective seemed entertained.
“Yes. I don’t think you’re here to talk about my college prank of a decade ago, detective.” She half smiled. “So why don’t you make your murder questions so I can go home and convince my son to stop studying so his eyes won’t fall out?”
“Ms. Galathynius.” He said, smirking at her. Aelin didn’t think it was a good smirk, though. “I fully believe that the cocky, irreverent, hot girl slash genius act makes people eat out of the palm of your hand in your glamorous world, but I work for a living, so why don’t you cut the bullshit because in my world, you can be only two things.”
“You think I’m hot, detective?”
Whitethorn’s smirk didn’t waver. “You can be the person who makes my life easier and goes home quickly, or the person who makes my life harder and stays handcuffed here until you decide to be the first option.”
“I could make so many inappropriate jokes right now, you have no idea.” Aelin said, and she could swear his smirk turned more playful. She smirked back, crossing her arms. “I supposed I shouldn’t want to be the one making your life harder.”
He didn’t answer, just let go of the manila folder containing her information and opened the other one. He took out the picture of a brunette woman. Dark hair, brown skin and big black eyes, the girl couldn’t be older than twenty five.
Aelin grabbed the picture, analyzing it. “Hum, pretty.”
“And dead.”
“Gods, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
He didn’t reply, just took another picture out. This time it was a man, probably at the same age, but instead of bright and soft features the girl possessed, his skin was pale and blue eyes glassy.
“Recognize them?”
Aelin shook her head. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She sighed, letting go of the pictures. “I’ve been to dozens of signings, events and parties, detective Whitethorn. I can’t possibly recall every face.”
“Not what I meant. Do you recognize their features?” He asked, tapping the pictures.
Aelin looked back down once more, looking at those faces until something hit her fully. “Sam and Lyria. They look like my characters Sam and Lyria.”
Detective Whitethorn seemed satisfied with her answer, because he took other two pictures and placed in front of her. One of them showed the girl, her body dressed in a series of white cloths, wild flowers surrounding her whole body. Where her eyes should be, two big daisies laid, and looking more carefully, Aelin could also see daisies stuffed in her mouth and nostrils.
The other picture showed the boy, his body laying inside a casket, instead of white cloths hugging his body, his were blood red. The floor around the casket showed a series of markings drawn in white chalk.
“Holy fuck.” She breathed.
Detective Whitethorn was eyeing her carefully. “Her name was Mandy, his was Felix. He was found dead two weeks ago, but we only made the connection after we found her today. The deaths look exactly like the ones described in chapter six and twenty two of your book Gone Death.”
“A fan?” Aelin asked, a humorous smile on her lips.
“Yes, a really deranged fan.”
“Oh, you don’t seem deranged.”
He looked up from the pictures, frowning. “I’m sorry?”
“Detective Whitethorn, I am a best selling author and yet I can count on my fingers the amount of people who even know that Gone Death exists.” She smiled when he rolled his eyes. “It’s ok, I always thought it was a terribly underrated book. Only hardcore groupies ever read that one, though.”
He cleared his throat. “Do you enjoy constantly praising yourself, ma’am?”
“Oh, you have no idea, sir.”
He snorted, crossing his arms. “Does any of these groupies ever write you fan mail?” She just stared at him blankly. “Disturbing ones.”
Aelin shuddered, and this time it wasn’t for show. “Oh, try being a murder mystery writer. Every fan mail I receive is disturbing. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“It’s because sometimes, in cases like this, we find that—“
“The killer attempts to contact the image of his obsession, yes.” Aelin completed his sentence, earning a questioning look back.
She looked back at him, and curiosity beyond this case sparkled inside of her. She could feel an idea brewing, and the more he talked, the more interesting he got.
“I write murders for a living. I’m well versed in psychopathic methodologies and the process of murder. Another occupational hazard, I guess.” She inclined herself forward. “And has anyone ever said you have pretty eyes?”
He stared at her, mouth open as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. He finally rolled his eyes, pulling the pictures back to him. “And so I assume you won’t have any problems with us going over you mail, Ms. Galathynius.”
“Be my guest. I have thrown some out, however.” When he looked at her, she just shrugged. “My son lives in that house, detective. And as much as I’m not a strict mom in the slightest, there are things I will not allow my son to be near. Middle aged man sending naked pictures and blood vials is one example.”
He nodded, getting up. Aelin looked up at him, jerking her chin in the direction of the manila folders.
“Can I get a copy of that?”
“A copy?” He asked dumbfounded.
“Yeah. I have poker night with other best selling authors and you have no idea how jealous this would make them.”
He hesitated for a moment before slowly asking. “Jealous?”
“In my world, detective, having a copycat is like wining the fucking Nobel.” She said, half surprised at the complete incredulity on his face. “So?”
He threw the folders at the table, placing his hands down and bringing his face inches away from hers. “People are dying, Ms. Galathynius.”
“I’m not asking for the bodies.”
He rolled his eyes, drawing back. He took the folders from the table, walking to the door. “I think we’re done here.”
Aelin stared at his back, seeing him leave the room. Once he was out of sight, she took her phone out, looking through her contacts until she found the one.
“Good night, Rolfe.” She greeted the current mayor of Orynth. “You have a direct say in the OPD business, don’t you? Because as you know, The Guild just ended but…”
Aelin looked at the door once more, and even though he wasn’t there, she smiled.
“…but I think I just found my new inspiration for a new series.”
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For the writing prompts, could you do BatCat for 13?
She came and went. That was her whole thing, that was the basis for everything. That was just how she was, just how they were. It was just Selina being Selina.
He couldn’t fucking stand it. And yet he understood it. He knew her, knew why she needed to feel like she could always leave. It was so he couldn’t leave her. Which broke his heart into about a million pieces.
Bruce tugged at the eyes of his cowl. He was going to have to ask Alfred about putting some padding or something to stop it from digging into his brow. His old one hadn't done this. Just because Lucius didn’t think the previous model was perfect didn’t mean it hadn't worked. Well, kind of worked. It’s not like a small concussion was that big a deal, he was only twenty one.
He didn’t have much to do tonight. Crime had gone down slightly in the last few weeks and he suspected that the general opinion of Gotham’s underworld was that if they waited him out, The Batman would go away. They had held off on anything major, leaving him with just a few low level thugs. All low level except her.
As much as he probably shouldn’t, Bruce admired Selina. Much of the initial awe at someone his age who could and did do things for themselves has worn off years ago but now as Batman. . .
He had gone halfway around the world, getting training from Cain, discipline from centuries old tests of indurence, and a God knows how many dollar suit, designed by one of the most brilliant men he knew. And Selina, true to form had side stepped the work, ignored or stole the resources she’d need and ended up being better then he was anyway. She was really good at this. Selina, or Catwoman had gone for simplicity and style over anything else. She wasn’t going out looking for a fight like he was. Her goal was to be in and out before she ever had to bare her claws. That didn’t mean she backed away from a fight when he showed up.
Bruce had tried reasoning with her at first. Tried to talk her out of this.
‘Just give me the necklace, Cat. You can walk, I won’t try to stop you,’
She hadn’t even answered, he just heard the crack of her whip and felt it wrap around his ankle. That had been when she pulled. Hard.
His head had smacked against the floor (hence the concussion from his first mask) and his vision separated before the two Selina’s morphed back into one and he jumped to his feet. She was laughing, and flipping backwards into slow backbends, dodging the lasers as they moved.
Cat got up gracefully at the entrance to the museums gem display, standing under the skylight she had cut a hole in, her dark tan skin glowing in the moonlight.
‘Shit’
“Let me help you Selina,” he had called out, feeling awkward and second guessing the cape. Was the batsuit, or whatever they were calling it too much? It felt like too much. Especially when she looked like that.
“Bat,” she called out, climbing up to the ceiling, “I appreciate the offer,” from where he was standing it looked like she was smiling. Why was she smiling, this was a robbery? This was a robbery, why wasn’t he stopping her?
“But I don’t need your help,”
That was the last time he had let her go (and he had let her go, no matter what Alfred had said as he held the ice pack to his head). It’s not like he was going to hurt her for real. Fighting with her didn’t bring the same frustrations of feeling more like a kid playing dress up then a white knight or whatever he was supposed to be. Fighting with Selina was . . . a game, kind of, he wasn’t sure exactly. It was confusing, she was confusing and he felt sixteen again every time, because she was infuriating.
And he loved every second of it.
Which is why he noticed when it had been weeks since he had seen her. On a rooftop, at a gala, in a bank, a jewelry store. He didn’t give a damn where, but if he went one more night without her trying to steal something-
That sounded bad. Bruce didn’t want her to break the law. But he wanted her to sneak into the manor late at night, wanted her to perch on the arm of his chair and ask about any scratches like they hadn’t come from her. He could act the part of the playboy but it was still Selina he wanted there in the morning.
Bruce sighed and checked the time. It was almost four am. She wasn’t going to show up. He should probably loose the cape.
It was too early when Alfred woke him up, afternoon sunlight pouring through the the windows as the drapes were pulled back by his very clearly sadistic butler who turned on the shower, told him to stop sulking and go shave, turned an abrupt 180 and left the room muttering something about teenagers. Bruce would have shouted back a reminder that he was an adult but the fact that he currently had burrowed into his covers to avoid the daylight seemed to hurt his point.
The rest of the day was filled with Alfred trying to fit all the calories he missed by sleeping through breakfast into one meal (he could live with protein powder but it didn’t belong in orange juice) and being quizzed on board members and their wives. Because on top of everything a bunch of people he didn’t care about were coming to his house.
If Carter Hearst didn’t stop talking about his newest secretary like she was a piece of meat he was going to stab a steak knife into his own thigh. Or the shriveled old man making his way through a bottle and a half of scotch. Both would work. Bruce was trying to silently communicate to Lucius a message to save who ever this woman was and have her work for literally anyone else, when he saw her.
Barely a second and it was only a glimpse of the side of her face before she disappeared back into the crowd but everything in him knew it was Selina. He didn’t even realize he was craning his neck till Lucius’s foot connected with his ankle disapprovingly. Right, yeah, people.
“You’ll all have to excuse me,” he said, grinning broadly trying to really turn on the charm, do anything to get him out of the table. She was not slipping through his fingers like this, not when he hadn’t seen her for months.
“I see an executive I really do have to talk to. You all know how it is, I’m sure.”
“Which executive?” Lucius asked, feigning interest as the old man tried to keep the laughter off his face. Bruce glared and desperately tried to think of a name off the Wayne Enterprises directory.
“David Clemonte,”
Lucius took a sip of his drink and rubbed his beard thoughtfully “I could’ve sworn I remember Daniel telling me he wouldn’t be able to attend tonight,”
Was there a way of him faking a medical emergency that would require him to get to Selina? No, right?
“Ahh no, he was referring to the benefit in July. My mistake,”
Bruce was able to manage a forced chuckle before he all but sprinted away. She was out one one of the balconies that opened from the ballroom. He ran a hand through his hair and walked out to join her.
“Cat,”
Selina turned and everything in his stomach tightened. She had her hair pulled up to one side with a clip and earrings made of tiny gold strands brushed her shoulders. Her dress was black with straps crossing back and forth over her back and two slits in the skirt up her thighs.
“Hi,” she said in a way that made it very clear he had been caught staring. “Nice party, don’t really know anyone but I guess that’s what happens when you gatecrash,”
“I don’t either, not really,” he pointed out, taking a sip of her champagne, which if he was being honest, he preferred a thousand times over to the dark amber whiskey he had drank with the board. “These things are boring when you’re gone,”
Selina looked uncomfortable but laughed it off, and it sounded fake and hollow “Yeah well, I am kind of your only friend,”
“That’s not why I missed you,”
She turned away from him, staring out at the garden “I’m sorry,”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he didn’t know why she was. It’s not like they were . . . she didn’t owe him anything.
They were silent for a moment before she turned to him, took her glass out of his hand and tipped her head back, finishing it off with so little class it made him smile.
“Do you ever feel a kind of deja vu? Ever since,” Selina’s eyes flicked upwards to the roof and she smirked, “you know. Like we’re starting again but we both know we’ve done this before,”
“Groundhog’s Day,”
Her brow furrowed “I’ve never seen that movie,”
Bruce rolled his eyes “Okay, this and Star Wars, really?”
“Why would I watch boring movies? I’m pretty.” she teased and everything seemed to fall back into place. “Besides not all of us grew up with movie theaters in our house.”
“I know that,” he said sheepishly.
Selina snorted, that weird little snicker she did every time she had him beat, but she was smiling.
“What do you know?”
“I missed you,”
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(Working on my wips??? never heard of it. Hears an entirely different au then the other one I posted, which I will write more of. At some point. For now, Boruto brain rot has gotten to me, so here’s a weird au where Hinata had the two kids and then died and then Naruto took the kids and left the village under mysterious circumstances. Have fun, try to follow it as best as you can. You don’t need to watch Boruto to know what’s going on here. Just know that Naruto left the village with his kids in tow and they have no idea that they’re from Konoha. Oh and just like everything else this will probably be sns at some point because I am weak. Tell me if you like this one)
TW and CW for: potential parental death, implied past parental death, cursing, death, blood, children navigating traumatizing situations, probably medically inaccurate but its a fanfiction about gay ninjas so sue me, tell me if I miss anything this one isn’t too bad.
His father is dying and Boruto can't think.
He should do something, say something. Come up with a funny, stupid one liner or whatever. But he can't. He can't do fucking anything at all. Sometimes his brain feels like it's made of jelly, sloshing around uselessly in his head when he desperately needed to use it. The rain was coming down in torrents, a downpour that they hadn't expected. The giant trees stretch out above them and form a canopy as they stand at the forest floor, but the canopy isn't enough to stop the rain from reaching them. Boruto’s clothes are soaked through; sticking to his body. Thankfully the storm was warm, a summer downpour rather than an icy tsunami. But he didn't notice the rain, and he probably wouldn’t have given a damn anyway. His father was laying in the grass, the wound on his chest staining the green with crimson. Boruto desperately tried to use every healing technique he could remember, funneling chakra into his hands in a desperate attempt to close the wound. He was sixteen years old, his father had trained him in almost every technique he knew (mostly for defense), but truthfully, Naruto had never been good at healing jutsu either. So, Boruto’s skill was lacking in this area, and it was going to get his father killed. He couldn't weasel his way out of this one like he usually did, and that was becoming abundantly clear. His father had gotten nervous, Boruto was aware of that when they went there. They needed to draw close to Konohagakure to get across the Land of Fire and back home to Wave Country before winter set in, and that had immediately set Naruto on edge for some reason. Boruto didn't bother questioning it, he knew he wouldn't get any answers. Everything had been going fine, they were making good time, but then they got ambushed by bandits, and everything had happened so fast. It was all Boruto's fault, really. If he hadn't kept his father up so late the night before, he would have realized something was wrong earlier and managed to fend them off easily. Typically any opponent was no match for Boruto’s father, but none of them had been paying attention and the ambush was almost perfectly timed. Naruto scared them off and nearly got himself killed in the process, and now Boruto was here, stuck in time. He dimly felt a tug on his sleeve and vaguely registered Himawari talking to him.
“Is he gonna die?” she whispered. Boruto didn't even think about the question.
“No,” he answered immediately, letting the chakra fade from his fingertips and opting to just stop the bleeding manually instead, pressing on the wound. He was running out of time, there was so much blood and he could hardly get it to slow down and what would he do if- he felt the presence of ninja before he saw them, and that fully snapped him back to reality. Boruto forgot about his father for a second and whirled towards the other side of the clearing, shoving Himawari behind him. He had to protect her, that was the prerogative. He threw kunai blindly in that direction, three of them. The shinobi dodged the blades easily and then began advancing.
His eyes settled on the squad of shinobi standing in the grass as they assessed him. He grabbed another kunai from his pocket and flipped it into his hand, angling it outwards. Boruto narrowed his eyes. Ninja were never good news, rogue or otherwise. These didn't seem rogue, and that was probably for the best. Still, loyal shinobi could be just as dangerous. Could be even more so, and he had Himawari to think about. The clouds in his head seemed to clear. There was a woman heading the group, with platinum blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes were light blue, a different color from theirs, and she seemed… welcoming, almost. Still, she had the scrutinizing gaze of a shinobi. Boruto watched her movements, careful.
“Don't come any closer,” he growled, trying to sound as threatening as he could manage, well aware of what he looked like. The hand holding his kunai was shaking. Who was he kidding? He’d gotten injured before while his father was fighting, he couldn't protect himself in this condition, let alone Naruto and his little sister as well. Still, he had to try. “Hear me? I said- I said stay away.” He gripped the kunai tighter, waiting for them to strike, make a move, do something. His father didn't trust ninja, they were to be avoided at all costs, even if he never seemed to have any necessarily malicious feelings towards them. Still, they were never to be trifled with under an circumstance. Never let them see what I taught you, he’d tell them, the few times where Naruto was serious. Ninjutsu are considered very dangerous, especially by shinobi. If they see you using ninjutsu it could get us in serious trouble. I mean it, Boruto. God, he wished Kurama was here right now, but by the looks of it, the demon was doing everything it could just to keep Naruto alive. Fine, they could do it on their own. Of course they could. The leading woman put her hands in the air and started edging towards him slowly. Her smile looked warm. He still didn't trust it. He gritted his teeth. What was she playing at?
“Hi there. My name’s Ino. What's your name?” she asked calmly. He didn't answer.
“It looks like something bad happened. You have someone injured behind you, it looks like they need help. If you let me I can heal them. What’s your name, kid?” Boruto hesitated. It was too good to be true. This was a trap, it had to be. She had two people behind her, two men. Someone with black hair pulled into a stark ponytail and a frown. The other looked a bit more kind, he had brown hair and welcoming eyes. He still didn't trust them, he couldn't trust this-
“Please!” Himawari shouted. Boruto blinked and before he could do anything about it, Himawari had ducked past him and was running towards the woman.
“Himawari! Get, get back here!” he shouted desperately, mind racing. They were going to kill her, what was she thinking? Himawari was usually more cautious, smart about these things despite her age. But the shinobi seemed surprised, not angry or poised to hurt her. She ran to the woman and tugged on her sleeve. Boruto froze.
“He’s- he’s hurt and Boruto can't help and there's blood- I, I mean i've seen blood before but this- he’s- he’s going to die, please-” the woman crouched down and smiled again, clasping Himawari’s hands gently with hers.
“Don't worry, I'm a medical ninja. I can help your father, okay?” She glanced at Boruto as if asking permission, and he found himself stepping aside, silently urging Himawari to come back to him. He moved out of the way and she ran into his arms. He should have been thinking about her more. She was clearly terrified, and he had been too psyched out to think about it. He scooped her up easily, suddenly more at ease now that he could confirm she would be safe. Boruto watched the medical ninja like a hawk as she moved over to his father, letting the other two approach as well. When the woman got a good look at him she gasped. “By the sages! What the fuck?” she demanded, sounding more juvenile all of a sudden.
“What? What is it?” the plump man asked, trying to get a better look.
“It's… it's Naruto.” Boruto stiffened, holding Himawari closer to him.
“How do you people know my dad’s name?” he demanded. He felt lightheaded, and the indignant shouts of ‘what?’ from the other ninja weren't helping. The woman ignored him for a moment, checking Naruto’s wounds. It didn't take her long to stop the bleeding and close the wound, and she stood right after and turned her attention back to Boruto.
“Listen kid, it's… it's a long story. He’s going to be alright but he needs further treatment at the hospital. We can help him if we take him back to the village.” Boruto hesitated again, but concluded he didn't have a choice. He was outnumbered and if he didn’t accept the help, whatever the ulterior motives were, Naruto would die. So Boruto nodded mutely.
“F-Fine. But you better answer me when we get back to… wherever you're taking me. And- and she stays with me,” he said, nodding at Himawari. The woman smiled shakily, clearly rattled by some realization about Boruto’s father. The larger man picked him up and carried him easily. So Boruto watched, hopeless, as they took his father away, and followed close behind, arm still wrapped around Himawari. He would lecture her about rash actions later, now wasn't the time. The man with long black hair was studying him, and he didn't like it. Boruto glared. “What?” he snapped. The man raised an eyebrow.
“I'm Shikamaru Nara,” he said. “What about you?” Boruto looked away.
“I… B-Boruto… Namikaze,” he said with finality. Boruto Uzumaki, he wanted to say. Descendant of Uzushiogakure, grand daughter of Kushina Uzumaki. But he didn't trust these people to share his real name, instead going with the one their father used occasionally. Shikamaru snorted.
“Original name,” he muttered. Boruto only frowned. “Well, alright. Your sister, it looks like she has Byakugan. Does she?” Boruto blinked.
“Byaku- Byaku… what?”
“Hm. Nevermind. C’mon, while your father’s in the hospital, i'll take you to see the Hokage.”
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Chapter Two: Not In Shingashina Anymore
grand masterlist | previous chapter | more levi | join the taglist: inbox | >>NEXT CHAPTER<<
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Your injury costs you a spot in the top ten.
🗨 @a-dream-is-reality
a/n: I guess SOME MINOR Reiner x Reader IN THIS ONE CHAPTER but no it’s a levi series and yes he’ll show up but yall GOTTA BE PATIENT
Dear Annaka,
The two phrases looked foreign to your tired eyes. You dropped the ink pen you were using to the table, and the tip bled ink over the wood.
The little clatter it made caught the attention of Ymir. She narrowed her dark eyes your way, sending a stare that you could practically feel mounting your shoulders. You set your elbow on the breakfast table, and rested your head in your hand, leaning her way so you could ask, “Can I do something for you?”
“I can feel your negative energy,” Ymir says as she uses her hands to make a waving motion. “You’re going to kill us all with it.”
Krista Lenz’s fork fell with a clink against her breakfast plate as she looked to Ymir with shock in her big eyes. “That’s not something to joke about,” Krista says in a low voice.
You watched the little encounter between the girls with some curiosity. Ymir always shocks you when it comes to Krista Lenz. She acts completely out of the ordinary.
Ymir rolled her gaze back to you while Krista asked, “Are you feeling alright today, Y/n?”
You wished she wouldn’t say your name like that. You wished she wouldn’t even talk to you.
With a warm face, you looked at your plate and chased the scrambled eggs around with a tarnished fork. “Mhmm” you mumbled.
Ymir stretches her long, muscular arms over her head. “She’s probably just nervous she’s going to fail today,” she tells Krista casually. “I mean, she will, so she has no reason to be nervous about it.”
“Stop that!’ Krista chastised. She sends you a sympathetic glance.
Admittedly, you are worried you’ll fail.
The hours are ticking down the mid-day, during when you and your other peers will complete a final round of agility testing.
“Y/n’s one of the best,” the pale girl beamed. She pushed forward the little bowl of fruits. “Why don’t you have the rest?”
“But I wanted the rest,” Ymir said as she reached her fork into the little bowl, preparing to stab a sliced apple chunk. Krista caught Ymir by the wrist a second too early. “You don’t need any because you aren’t nervous,” Krista chastised.
“Because I know I’ll do great,” Ymir flaunts as she smirked at the blonde. “But you already know that.”
“Of course I know that,” Krista muttered, her face becoming red as she looked back down at the book she’d brought to the breakfast table.
Your mornings are often like this. Your only friend among the 104th is Krista. But Krista and Ymir are a package deal.
Is Ymir your friend? You don’t know. She can act like one, sometimes, but you feel like that’s only for Krista’s sake. Everyone knows that no matter how big and bad Ymir acts, she would never want to do anything to make Krista angry.
It’s why Ymir has fallen so tame, now, quietly eating her morning meal while you were left to ponder the rest of your letter.
You didn’t know what to say. Annacka, your old guardian, already knows that your graduation is coming soon, by just a matter of days. You crumpled the parchment up in your hands. The letter wouldn’t reach her in time, anyways. By the time she’d read it, you’ll have already graduated.
The morning tiredness doesn’t settle around the mess hall like it usually does. No doubt everyone is on edge and anxious for graduation.
Your little table of three is like an island in the middle of the hall. Across the way you could see Sasha and Connie flirting the way they usually did, by pretending to be annoyed with one another.
Sometimes Sasha talks to you.
Connie never does.
Well, actually, scratch that. Sometimes you talk to Sasha, but you never talk to Connie.
Majority of the in-training cadets here are much younger than you are. You’ve just turned twenty two years of age. It’s a wonder you were even accepted into training being as old as you were. Sixteen, just going on seventeen. The age gap certainly wedged you away from the others. While you watched your peers form their own cliques, you had spent your days training and your nights crying in bed.
While you’re past that bit, you still wouldn’t consider yourself apart of anyone’s friend group. Except Krista.
Krista, though, is friends with everybody. She’s that sort of person, and you have a suspicion that she wouldn’t have rested if you’d declined her initial offers to hang out with her.
When the line up bell rings, the room fills with the sounds of shifting chairs and tables. Everyone clamored out the door, running to get dressed in uniform and be ready for roll call. Krista calmly used her ribbon book marker to save her page and she left the book on the table. “I’m kind of excited,” Krista said with a serene smile playing on her mouth.
“You always are,” you note.
“Not always,” Krista disagrees. She flitted away with her resonated voice still ringing in your ears.
You unfolded the parchment in your hands as the last two girls left the mess hall. The words ‘Dear Annaka ' became smudged, and the paper was wrinkled.
Why write to her at all? You think.
The thought has crossed your mind more than once.
You’re just a reminder of all she’d once had. She’d lost everyone. Every girl she raised at the orphan home was dead--all, besides you, and the little girl, Freda, who had been clutching to Annaka that entire day. That terrible, terrible day.
The thought of Freda’s little face made you feel nauseated. She was hardly three years old on that day, and now she will be turning eight this year. You wonder if Freda remembers you. She’d been practically your sister at the home. And Annaka was practically your mother.
It’s that very reason you always dismiss your thoughts of banishing yourself from Annaka’s life. She was, and is, for all intents and purposes, your mother.
The only remnant of family you will ever have.
While jogging out of the hall, and straight to your bunk, you struggled to pull your thick hair out of your face.
“Running late, L/n?” Ymir cackled as she passed you on the way out of the girls’ bunker. She had her brown hair up and her gear on, clearly prepared for her agility tests.
“Get shoved,” you snapped as you brushed past her.
Tearing out of your pajamas, and hurrying into your gear, you tried to focus on everything you’d learnt up to this day.
You’re good.
You’re one of the good ones in this class of cadets. You know you are.
You’ve worked hard and you’ve practiced during free time. If anyone deserves this, it’s you.
You know you can do it.
You just barely make it to the role call in time. Sadies eyed you up and down, shook his head just slightly, then marked you present.
While you stood in line, listening to the instructions for the day, you felt the dull twinges of pain in your lower back. You hoped being in the crowd of cadets would obscure the view of you massaging your back with an angry fist.
Before you knew it, the crowd of cadets was moving in all different directions. Your heart pounded as you went to grab your assigned maneuvering gear set. Before any testing, every piece of gear would have to be inspected to ensure the lack of damage and any possible harm to the user.
While you waited in line for yours to be checked out, you gazed across the large field, where an obstacle course was set up. Part of it trailed into the little forest on the edge of the training campus. Of course that’s where the majority of the agility obstacles are placed. You’ve been through that forest eight times; two agility tests per year. And now, the ninth; the final one. You’d have to do your best. The course would be different and there could be traps set to simulate an actual threat. You shivered at the thought of being in close proximity to an actual titan for a second time in your life.
You recalled just how disgusting they smelled. The exaggerated warmth of their skin combined with the fresh flesh on their breath made you want to vomit. And their calloused skin that has been who knows where-
“L/n!”
Your name is suddenly shouted. “For the third time,” a soldier griped. “Y/n L/n, step up with your assigned gear.”
You scurried forth to display all parts of your gear. You were embarrassed, practically red in the face, especially after hearing someone snicker in the line and mumble your name. What could they be saying?
Your back twinged with pain again as your gear inspection was documented in a large folder. “Head to the obstacle field for testing, L/n,” the soldier said firmly, not even looking you in the eye as he scribbled something on the file.
You mumbled a ‘thank you’ as you gathered up your heavy gear and moved along to the side. You snapped every piece into place just right. The weight of the gear does most of its damage to your hips and legs, which takes the brunt of the pressure. It awkwardly bounced against your thighs as you stepped through the wild grass and wheat. The singing of the cicadas rang in your ears as you neared the entrance of the obstacle course, where Keith Sadies was waiting for the next cadet-in-training.
You approached him with a strong salute.
“You’re late,” he says. So he noticed.
“Forgive me, sir,” you murmured softly, half forgetting you were always meant to be loud and projected. If Sadies noticed he didn’t say anything. “You’re familiar with the procedures, L/n,” he proceeds. He mounted his tall horse and gestured a long arm towards the mouth of the forest. “I will be following behind. You’ll receive your score of ‘pass’, ‘fail,’ or ‘exceed,’ promptly. You are to wait at the end of the course to revive scoring. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” you said firmly, making sure to raise the volume of your voice. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, all the way up to your chest. Your boots crunched the vegetation beneath your feet as you trotted to the mouth of the forest.
Sadies’ horse made a soft noise, as if agreeing to his rider, when Sadies said “Forward” and clicked his teeth.
Sadies trotted behind you and you walked through the small opening of underbrush.
You looked around the canopy of the thick trees for a few seconds, taking the view in and making the calculations. Here, there, here, there, you think, mentally tallying every place you’d have to swing back and forth all just to get past the heavy, low hanging branches that stood in the way of the titan models. You detached and reattached your blades to their handles out of a nervous habit. As though reattaching them the same way for the second time would give you good luck.
“Today, L/n,” Sadies says with a gruff voice. His horse whinnied in agreement, shuffling some dirt around with his hoof as if he were trying to convince you to get moving. You took a deep, deep breath. The greenery of the forest passed through your lungs cooly, almost irritating your breath. You could feel something in the very center of your body keeping you anchored to the forest’s path of dirt and spare leaves. Something just between both of your eyes, that extended all the way down past your feet, like you were a puppet on the stage that is called Earth.
With a deep breath for good luck, and another detachment and reattachment of your blades, you took off into a sprint and leapt upwards. The gear sent you flying through the air, the wind roaring in your ears. You used each tree as leverage, stepping over the thick branches only to gain more momentum in every jump you made.
The first titan model was already barreling in, half hidden by a leaning tree. Below you Sadies galloped on his horse, following your path and watching with great intensity.
Your blade passed through the solid rubber nape of the model’s neck with some sloppiness. As you looked back, you could see the slice falling to the ground below, but it was rigid and diagonal, as if you’d struggled to really pull the blade through.
You swore, chewing the inside of your cheek as you looked straight ahead once more.
Your hair came loose from it’s up~do, blowing straight behind you.
The little twigs and leaves left scratches on your cheeks as you bobbed and weaved through the air like a real soldier. The first titan was behind you, figuratively and literally.
If you wanted to do really well, you’d have to do better than some lousy slices.
The second titan was shorter than the first. You braced yourself for the steep decline through the air as you pulled both arms back. You released them forward with a snap coming from your elbows.
You looked past your shoulder. A loud laugh of relief escaped you as you saw the debris that toppled from the titan’s model. At least a foot and a half of nape had been cut out of the rubber wedge and it made a loud thud as it collapsed against the forest carpet.
Looking forward, while urging yourself not to get cocky (you’ve just started!), you angled your hips so you could meet the curve of the path that wound to your right side. The sudden increase of tree height made you swear as you realized you’d have to elevate yourself even higher to get to the next obstacle. You swung towards the thickest tree branch and landed with both feet in square balance. You ejected your gear upwards, forwards, and you released the little trigger, feeling weightless as you were soaring up, up towards the burning su-
A shriek escaped your mouth as a roaring pain slithered down your back.
You squeezed the handles of your gear and the weightlessness was lost as you tumbled towards the ground. You fell onto your stomach. Every bit of oxygen was stolen from your lungs and you felt like a popped balloon laying pathetically torn and small.
The pounding steps of Keith Sadies’ horse trotted to a stop. He and his horse loomed over you. The little bit of sunshine that shone through the tree heads just barely made a halo around his bald head.
“Do you forfeit?” he asked plainly.
Your chin trembled. You forced yourself up to your feet, the pain in your back so blinding that it formed a quarry of tears in your eyes. “Never,” you said sharply, making sure to keep any sounds of pain out of your voice. You readjusted your blades and aimed your gear at the tallest tree. You zoomed upwards towards where you’d aimed. You took a moment to hide behind the thickness of the tree, clutching the pain in your back and trying not to cry out from pain.
You stuck your fist in your mouth, sinking your teeth down as you wheezed.
Now isn’t the time.
Now, of all times, is not the time. You refuse to let it be.
You took three, deep, kickstarting breaths, mentally hyping yourself up to the task of continuing your course and getting the best score anyone could get.
You went full throttle off the tree branch. You zigzagged through the air as you struggled to keep your balance. You naturally want to lead towards the left to ease the pain in your back, but anytime you did so, you’d start to rotate horizontally, becoming perfectly parallel with the ground.
It was enough motivation to not want to be body slammed into the ground from miles and miles above.
Skidding around the corner, and cutting a foot through another rubber nape, you had the inside of your cheek practically torn up. Like a chew toy for a dog, or roadkill in a fox’s mouth.
The movements of the maneuvering gear relied on core balance. Every angle had to be fluid, precise, and most importantly, equal. You could not shift weight side to side, or else you really would fall head first to the ground.
It felt like an eternity was passing as you maneuvered through the obstacles. At the final titan, which towered way above you, you exerted every ounce of strength you had left. A loud cry tore at your throat as you hurtled towards the last model and sliced straight through the nape.
You declined to the forest floor and landed onto your knees, which trembled and created divots in the dirt. Wheezing like a goddamn whistle, you sat over yourself, one hand clutching the spot of pain on your back.
The galloping of Sadies’ horse rumbled to a stop behind you. “Get yourself a drink of water,” he said tersely. “Your scores will be available before lunch.”
You couldn’t even argue, or demand to get your score sooner like the others. You managed a salute to your superior before you limped your way out of the forest. At the exit, you pulled over onto the side of a fallen tree. It was hollow inside, eaten clean through by termites, and it served no use to you as you laid straight on your back. The rough terrain wasn’t comfortable, but at least by laying there you could relax whatever muscle you’d strained.
It took a minute for you to completely unwind. When you did, you fell into a fit of unrestrainable sobs. That stupid fucking day would never fucking leave you alone, would it?
That stupid, ass fucking day.
It was still destroying you. If only it hadn’t happened.
If only you’d been careless and selfish. It was all because you ran to help that man; you know, the man? The one with the orange tunic and the greyish beard? You know him. Of course you do.
He was the one whose leg was trapped in some debris, which he couldn’t free himself from. You’d abandoned Annaka, and the perfect hiding place she’d found for you and little Freda.
You’d ran to the man (a total stranger, by the way) and dug through the rubble of stone and wood so he could run free.
He did run free in the end. But he’d left you behind in the process. As soon as his measly foot shook free from the rubble, he took off into a wild sprint, not daring himself to look back at the fifteen year old girl who saved his life or the titan that loomed over them like Death with a scythe and robe.
The titan had taken a step. He’d taken one singular step and it brought the rest of that building down upon you. You were buried beneath it all, breathing in the saw dust and blood fumes while your back bent at an unnatural angle.
The doctors said you were lucky to be able to walk after all the time you’d spent underneath the building's remnants. It was a wonder you’d survived at all. It had taken hours to be found. Your screaming and crying did nothing, warned no one. It was hours of listening to the stampede of titans around your home and the death of the villagers who’d been your neighbors.
“L/n?”
You quirked your eyes away from the clouds you’d been stalking. Above you was that boy-that young man, rather.
He was tall. Blond. He had a strangely muscular face, but it was softened by the effects of his eyes.
“You know me?” you asked dumbly.
He chortled. “You kicked my ass the first year of basic training, remember?”
You did. “Reiner,” you said his name, testing the waters a bit. “You...you finished your exam?”
“Well, yeah. How long have you been laying here?”
“I don’t know,” you said dumbly.
“Why are you laying in the dirt?” he proceeded.
“I hurt myself.”
“You’re going to get ant bites,” he said cautiously.
“I probably have tons already,” you replied.
He stared down at your for another couple of seconds. While the cicadas sang, Reiner knelt down, scooping his arm beneath your neck and boosting you to your feet. “So Sadies finally drove you to the breaking point, eh?” Reiner asks as you stand against his side.
“It was my own fault,” you tell him. If only you’d been smarter.
“Bet you did great, though,” he proceeded to point out as your boots crunched over the grass in unison.
You looked up at the blond’s chiseled face, puzzled he would say such a thing. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re one of the best,” Reiner explained. “Can’t believe you don’t know that.”
“I try to be,” you tell him in a strained sigh. You leaned more of your weight against him. The gear on your hips clanked against his own as you trotted down the field, back towards the main grounds.
“It pays off. I’d bet my arm that you’ll be in the military police sipping wine off of buttercups this time next year.”
You tried not to grin. “Guess you’ll be losing an arm, then,” you muttered.
Reiner grinned. “Who needs arms, anyway?”
You passed.
You stared at the report all throughout lunch, dinner, and now during bath hour.
The other girls soaked in the sauna, chatting away and celebrating their last days at basic.
You just mulled over your score as you sat in the corner, steaming (literally) with disappointment.
Reiner was wrong.
You weren’t one of the best.
You didn’t exceed.
Marked Failures: Sustained grave injury. Lost control of gear more than once. Sloppy direction via maneuvering gear.
A pass was a pass.
At least you could graduate.
But you’d really been hoping for an exceed.
It wasn’t a surprise to learn just who exceeded. It was obvious.
Reiner was wrong, but maybe that’s alright. You didn’t particularly want to join the police force to begin with.
But, still--you’d been working towards one goal for five years. You were within arm’s reach before you lost your footing and fell, tumbling further and further from the top ten spots.
You knocked your head back against the walls of the sauna. You dropped the parchment results to the tiled floor. Water seeped through the ink and ate through the results like the termites in the fallen log.
Oh.
If only that day hadn’t been so.
If only.
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but i’m into it (driving me crazy)-nate/dan/blair
summary: two boyfriend’s and their very pregnant girlfriend
gossip girl. 1k. part of a series. please comment on ao3!!
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Of all the times in their lives that Nate thought he would end up waking next to Blair Waldorf, it had never been with Dan Humphrey on the other side. This is his new normal now, a bed large enough for the three of them having been installed a week ago, despite the fact that they still more often than not end up on the couch.
“You two are comfy,” Blair complains. “Being able to lean while I cuddle is so much easier.”
Whichever one of them she’s trapped into being her pillow for the night usually sighs, puts the other on Milo duty, and soon Blair is snoring loudly. Blair with a full night of sleep is much easier than a cranky third term pregnant Blair who had none as they find out.
“You know how much money we spent on that bed, right?” Dan asked them to blank expressions, Nate understanding only a little more than Blair what it means to not have a trust fund. “Not to mention it took forever to even get into this place--,”
“That’s because we need a new place .” Blair chided, nagging them consistently now that she was in nesting mode. “I don’t even care what zip code anymore, Humphrey, but as much as I will always hold nostalgia for this three bedroom hovel, we need more room.”
“We don’t need more room, all we need is to downsize your closet.” Dan fought back illogically, still stubborn. Nate wondered if at this point he was only fighting her to fight, because even he agreed.
“Dan. Come on. Don’t you think at least one of us needs an office?”
Blair waved a hand at Nate. “There. A logical compromise. We get a new place, you get your own office. Dorota can stop complaining about fighting with you anytime she needs to clear books from desks and tables.”
“I don’t have time to write anything anyway.” Dan mumbled, but he gives in later that night when Blair throws out every take out menu in the loft and replaces them with housing listings.
The place is much more modest, than Nate had thought Blair would ever settle for (Despite being everything they needed). Dan had spent the day with a real estate agent showing them houses and by the late afternoon and walking the city, weeks-from-labor Blair breaks down on the staged couch of the last five-bedroom home and tells the real estate agent, “We’ll take it”, before promptly falling asleep.
“Dan,” Nate says, chuckling at the sight of her. His boyfriend pauses his conversation with the agent to turn to him. Nate can’t help but shake his head with a finger to his lips, walking over to whisper in his ear. “Blair is going to murder you when she realizes what you did.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dan whispers, a smirk coming loose from the corners of his lips. “It’s not my fault the real estate agent showed us six houses out of our budget until this one.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure it was the agent who circled this one in red pen at home when I threw the paper in the trash before she could see it.” Nate replies.
Dan is caught and he knows it, but he asks Nate, “Wait, you knew. Does that mean you like it?”
“Yeah, I like it.” Nate nods, smiling. “She’s still going to kill you.”
“Well at least with this place you can afford a nice funeral for me.” Dan jokes back, and Nate laughs, shaking his head. Sometimes the three of them worked together in ways Nate could never expect.
--------------------------
“God I’m so hungry,” Blair complains in the middle of the first football game of the season. Usually Nate sucks it up and does a food run but he’s trying to watch tv and if he misses this potential goal-- but she turns off the television in the middle of a pass and he thinks he might murder her. “Please, Nate, save me. Pick me up some of that Indian food we used to get.”
“Blair, that's halfway across town now.” Nate argued. Of course Dan had to choose now to be at some stupid writing conference.
“It’s not my fault we moved!” She tried, but when Nate glared a little rudely at her-- still not dumb enough to try and take the remote back-- she caved. “Okay, maybe a little my fault, but--,”
“I will give you my phone to order food on my card, just turn the game back on, please .”
So she does and he gets to shout at the tail end of the goal being made only for her to throw his phone back at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. At first he thinks it might be some dirty pic from Dan that she wasn’t expecting, but when he looks up at her there are tears in her eyes and his stomach drops as he rushes to check his phone-- only to see a text from Dan asking Is she driving you crazy yet?
“Come on, Blair, it’s just a joke,” Nate tries to tell her, hoping that her pregnant brain will hear him even as she hops off the couch in an unglorified hop. “You know we both love you.”
“No, Dan loves charity cases,” she says, beginning to cry and stepping back when he gets up and tries to step forward to hug her. “You just put up with me for him.”
“That is not true.” Nate replied, thinking he might see the root problem. “...Well, Dan is way too giving sometimes, but him falling for you was not something he would have wanted to do if he wasn’t head over heels for you.”
Blair rolled her eyes, not arguing, her bottom lip still full in pouting.
“Are you really upset about Dan, or is it me?”
Chocolate brown doe eyes turn directly back down and to him as she tears up even further, barely able to croak out, “You never loved me, why would you now?”
“I loved you back then and I love you now,” Nate said, wishing she would just let him hold her. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. You fell in love with plenty of people after me and I’ve never thought that meant you couldn’t love me now if you wanted to.”
“If I wanted to?” She asked with a scoff. “Like I had a choice.”
“Do you not want Dan and I--,”
“Oh no, Nate, that’s not what I meant at all.” Blair said in a rush, looking flustered and squinting her eyes like she tended to when she wanted least to admit something. When she opens her eyes, she looks both sweet and forlorn as she admits, “I meant I’ve always loved you. A tiny bit of me never stopped. How could I? You’re you.”
“A tiny bit of me never stopped either.” He admits, kissing her on the forehead, but she pulls him in for a kiss on the lips and he gives her a slow kiss in response. Smiling, he asked, “Does this have anything to do with finding my old sweater and your sewn heart from unpacking?”
Blair gasps in offense. “Dan told you about that?”
“He might have said you snapped his head off when he told you the heart should be kept somewhere less easy to lose in the washer. And then added you broke down in tears over snapping at him.” She gives an angry humph, clearly planning an ‘angry’ call later, but for now she finally lets him pull her closely into him, head fitting perfectly under his shoulder like when they were teens. “He figured you would bottle it up until it came out of nowhere, but I was right. It didn’t take that long.”
“I am driving you two crazy, huh?” she asks, sighing into his chest.
“Hey, at least now you have the excuse of creating life.” He jokes, and she laughs a little as she pulls back.
Blair smiles a little, looking up at him. “I don’t mean to be a handful anymore. Usually.”
“I know.” Nate smiles back. “It’s worth it either way.”
“Well then, that being said, you could have gotten me my Indian food by now.”
“ Blair.”
------------------
No one in their right mind would want to be on the other side of an angry sixteen year old Constance school Blair Waldorf, but Blair twenty hours into labor was another thing entirely. No makeup, sweat rolling down her forehead and turning her dark hair into ringlets, and the angry screams at anyone and everyone in sight.
“Humphrey, this is your fault!” She went for Dan yet again, who was sitting down beside her bed opposite Nate and icing his broken hand. Unlike Nate, he had thought it wise to hold her hand before the epidural. Nate, who had helped her through vomiting and period cramps when they were growing up, had been way too wary of the pressure force she could cause now.
“How dare you let me keep this baby!”
Rolling his eyes at this point, as out of his mind tired as Nate is as well, Dan stays silent. Dan and Nate had stopped asking for answers to her warped logic around hour four. Nate goes to say something, but then her angry eyes lock on him. “And you helped him.”
“I had nothing to do with this!” Nate argued helplessly. “You were already into your second term when you told me.”
“ Yes , but you looked cute with Milo.” She accused, and Dan gave a tired snicker despite the fact it turned her attention to him. “It’s not funny! Do you know how much this hurts? ”
Dan waves his iced hand. “I’d say about one hundred times whatever pain this is?”
“One thousand times.” Blair spat back, less angry this time, in a lull of the contraction-- but then it’s hitting again and she’s yelling, “I swear to God if either of you ever get me pregnant again I will castrate you!”
It’s a very, very long twenty-eight hours, but in the end they have Audrey Ella Waldorf.
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