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cherrynojutsu · 3 years

Text

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 4/?: Soothe

Sasuke arrives outside her building shortly before seven in the morning, an ubiquitous aubade sung by birds, polished and practiced for many years, lilting into his ears along the way. The village for the most part is still slowly awakening from its slumber; no merchants in the streets yet, and he only passes a few people here and there as light slowly seeps higher into the sky.

He carefully pushes open the glass door of the exterior portion of her complex, making sure to keep it quiet in case her neighbors are still asleep. As he goes up the stairs, he notices that all of the downstairs tenants’ lights are on, emanating from beneath the trio of entryways. Once he reaches the upper landing, he sees that Sakura’s light is on, too, though her other two neighbors' are not.

The doors of each unit are all painted different colors. Hers is sage green; he hadn’t been able to discern that previously, with the desaturation that night brings.

He's wondering if maybe he should knock to let her know he’s here, but then she emerges a few minutes early, beautiful and bright-eyed and full of life, pale yellow sunshine coating her from the large window with diamond patterning behind him.

She seems pretty awake already; she must be an early riser. She's carrying her tote bag again, and today she wears a dark skirt with a red top, along with a familiar pair of knee-high sandals. She's also wearing a smile, directed upwards at him.

"Good morning, Sasuke-kun," she acknowledges him softly, looking very happy to see him.

"...Morning." He keeps his voice low, because it is still a little hoarse. He tries to memorize her eyes again in the span of seconds before she turns to lock her door behind her.

It's 6:58 by the time they're out the glass door, her leading the way. They take the main road west a few blocks before turning to go north, this time. There are several more buildings that appear residential on her street. One of them has vines creeping up the sides, starting to bud after the warmer spring weather. He notes there is also a bakery on the corner, not open yet, but one that seems like the kind to also sell confections. He wonders if that factored into her apartment selection at all; he remembers she has a sweet tooth.

It is an easy silence they share on the walk there, bird calls lulling in as background noise again. There are more of them now, a more layered song than earlier, with a wider variety of voices filtering in and out.

Sakura leads them to a very small tea shop within five minutes of the hospital; it is quaint and simple, definitely not modern. It is also quite small, with only four or so small tables situated by windows, looking out towards the street. The entire establishment utilizes a spread of cinnamon-colored wood for its surfaces; floors, counters, and the shelving in the back, laden with neatly-labeled teas of several varieties in glass jars. He assumes the larger jars are store stock, with the smaller ones higher up on the shelves being available for purchase for use at home, if one decides they like a particular flavor enough.

He finds he likes the atmosphere. He figured he would. It's not a formal place, but rather one where you retrieve what you've ordered from the counter and can choose whether to stay or go. He supposes that makes sense; it’s closer to the busier part of the village. There appears to be a small area to the left of the counter where one can add cream, sugar, lemon, or honey, though he knows he won't. He vaguely remembers that she used to take lemon and sugar in her tea, and possibly cream, depending on the brew. Honey seems like something Sakura would like, too, now that he’s thinking about it.

He scans the menu briefly upon entering before deciding something hot with caffeine would probably be best. Sencha green tea is usually what he gravitates toward. He also enjoys black tea during cooler weather, and jasmine occasionally, though not often; it had been his mother’s favorite.

Once he orders, he says, "Hers, too," and glances back towards Sakura expectantly. She looks at him with a blush that rivals the color of her hair when she realizes he's offering to pay for hers.

"Oh! Um, lavender matcha. Hot, please."

His lips quirk upwards a little, because that is possibly the most Sakura thing she could have ordered.

It doesn’t take very long until it’s ready, as they’re not busy; they are the only ones there, thus far. He takes a sip while idling by the end of the counter as he watches her add honey and cream into hers, stirring carefully. It is one of the better blends of sencha he’s had, aside from a particular place nestled on the edge of the Land of Mountains, where he’s pretty sure the elderly woman who ran the place harvested the tea straight from her private garden. He had pilgrimaged there a total of five times on his journey, months scattered like the seasons in between.

It was an odd teahouse, more formal than this one and off the beaten path, not near any major landmarks, nor plotted on any map he’d seen before or after. The lady, who had wizened eyes of a crystal clear blue, slightly lighter in hue than Naruto’s, had served the brews in eclectic and sometimes chipped mugs and teacups, from which he had assumed after multiple visits must be a fairly vast collection. The china was different every time, but he had liked the tea itself so much he kept coming back, if he was anywhere near the area. Twice he had been the only customer there, the first two visits occurring during early morning hours, and there was something extremely cathartic about sitting at the table in the far corner, looking out the window as the sun rose higher in the sky until it no longer skimmed the horizon and the mountains in the distance.

The other three visits had occurred during the afternoon, so there had been at least one or two other people present, at those times. He had noticed that third time that other patrons were served out of much different teacups than he was; he had secretly suspected, after that, that the woman tried to match the stoneware from her collection to whatever she saw in her patrons.

There had been a father sitting with his daughter, who had looked to be around six or seven, on his third visit. The father’s teacup had been robust, solid with carved detail that appeared to have been created with something like a miniature chisel, and an earthenware glaze mix of green and russet, strangely looking similar to the color of seaweed. The daughter’s had been a smaller cup, dainty finery of opalescent sky blue, with a similar mother of pearl finish coating the inside. The girl had quickly drained her glass once she realized the inside was pretty, too; she had spent the rest of the time there in awe of its beauty, turning it in the light as her father watched with soft eyes, enjoying his own cup more slowly. Sasuke had thought it must have been an expensive teacup, not necessarily what you’d typically give a child that young, but the girl hadn’t chipped or broken it. Instead, she had been enamored by its beautiful finish, even more enthralled with the inside than she had been with the outside, and had handled it with great care.

He never saw the same cup twice, for him or any other customer there. He had hoped by the third and fourth time that this was a good sign, that it meant progress. Once he figured it out, he wished he’d examined the first two cups, near five months apart, with greater care; he had thought there might have been a lesson there he had missed. His first teacup, from what he remembered, had been rather plain: rounded, no handle, slightly hard to grip, a shiny black glaze with a burnt orange rim. The second time, he’d been served the sencha in another black piece of china, though this one must have been fired differently; there was no glaze at the very bottom of the outer portion of the vessel, bare toasted clay in an oatmeal color. Carved designs on the outer portion of the piece had nearly melted glaze off it, allowing for the viewer to see the true color of the clay body beneath, creating an effect of brushstrokes in the third dimension, rippling out of the darkness. That one had had a chip at the top, but it hadn’t compromised the structural integrity of the piece, and was easily avoided simply by sipping from the undamaged side.

The third cup had taken him off guard in its uniqueness, and is what had caused him to look to the girl and her father. He had analyzed theirs, and then his own cup closely for a long time that day, thinking. Still no handle, but it had been a bit more narrow, as well as taller, easier to grip. The glaze design was fascinating, a thick glossy black base coat overlaid with a strange dissolving mixture of sapphire and indigo. It had reminded him of a night sky in the middle of nowhere, tiny amounts of galaxy blues and violets barely visible to the naked eye in their sheer scope and complexity. The glaze itself also only covered around two thirds of the vessel, at an asymmetrical angle, with the remaining half left unglazed, as if it hadn’t dripped down to be fully covered yet because the artist had liked the way it looked as is.

When he went back for a fourth cup several months later, the lady had given him an entirely too knowing look, and served his tea in a somewhat misshapen mug, this time with a handle. The handle was awkward, too small, and slightly malformed; the mug’s overall shape seemed as though it may have been an artist’s first attempt, shoddily trimmed and uneven in many places. The glaze design itself was mesmerizing, though, something like a gradient this time, shifting from splattering black to sepia to a lighter color, akin to the inside of a water chestnut. It was almost as if the cup had been constructed by a beginner and then drenched in magisterial color by a master. The sencha had tasted just as good from that cup as it had from any of the others, despite the challenge of grasping it with any semblance of comfort.

The last cup had been only a few months ago: well-designed, with a near perfect handle, easy to hold. The foot and interior of the mug was a smoky gray, well-trimmed, but the exterior body of it was a white raku crackle, twisting patterns of scale-like ivory and black outlines, small dots sprinkled in between where the unevenness of the heat must have interfered in the firing process.

When he reached the very bottom of the vessel, having finished his tea, it had been gilded gold, metallic and astonishingly bright, catching the light of the sun coming through the farthest window, where he sat in the corner alone.

He had sat there staring at it for the better portion of an afternoon. It was a peculiar artistic choice.

This sencha is good, too, he thinks as he takes another sip, here with Sakura, also at a table in the farthest corner, looking out another window. Herbaceous, earthy, and light, and in a cup that matches hers. It feels cleansing on his sore throat, corrosion, not too hot but not lukewarm, either; a rather perfect medium between mellow and astringent. It is a nice way to greet the break of day.

“Thank you, Sasuke-kun," she murmurs, after they’ve been seated for a few seconds.

He nods; she’s still flushed as she says it. He can see it better now, in the bright light of the window. He takes another sip, and continues to enjoy looking at her.

“How is yours?” She asks.

“...I like it.” He considers his next words. “You didn’t add lemon.”

Her lips quirk upward, dimple appearing. “It doesn’t go the best with the lavender. They only have this kind on hand for the springtime.” She pauses, then adds, “I still put lemon in pretty much all my tea, otherwise.”

Sasuke inclines his head again, and she takes another sip.

They sit there for a while in a comfortable silence, watching more of the village wake up and people pass by from the window, on their way to work and other responsibilities. There are two small birds across the street, perched on the awning over an apartment building’s entrance. Finches, he deduces by their plumage and size. Perhaps they are looking for a mixture of materials with which to build a nest.

“It’s a good place to just sit and watch, in the morning,” Sakura mentions after a while, still looking out the window contentedly.

“...Is that your favorite thing about it?”

She meets his eyes, then, and smiles. “One of them.”

He looks at her expectantly, so she continues. “The tea itself is good. It’s close to the hospital, and I like... “ Her voice trails off, and she glances over at the station where she added cream and honey, lips still turned upwards. “I like that they don’t overfill the cup; it makes it easier to add what it needs.”

A ghost of a smile overtakes him. Practical, as always.

Sasuke finds himself contemplating what kind of teacup the elderly lady would give Sakura, if he took her there.

XXX

"You're a little on the skinny side for your height, now," Sakura notes as she writes down his information on the form he's given her, stepping off the scale; 163 pounds. "Not unhealthy, necessarily, but you should try to put on some weight."

They are at the hospital, in an exam room this time instead of her office. Her voice has shifted to something more professional, and Sasuke knows he is now with Sakura the clinician, though her affection is still an undercurrent in the way she's looking at him carefully with warm eyes. She’s already measured his height, and has his paperwork from his last physical to compare it to; apparently he’s grown another two inches since then.

He hopes he’s done growing, in that regard. It doesn’t seem likely that she’ll grow any taller; she’s twenty now, and they already have a considerable height difference. He doesn’t know how tall she is, exactly. He must hover over her by at least six or seven inches.

"Okay," He responds, because he trusts her judgment. Being away and mulling on his failures never gave him much of an appetite. Being back in Konoha hasn't much either, so far, but he can try. “How much?”

She looks somewhat surprised that he asked. “160 to 196 pounds is considered a normal range for six feet; I’d start with ten, and then evaluate from there.”

He nods. Her eyes linger on him, as if she’s contemplating saying something more. When she turns to set down her clipboard and grab the cuff typically used to measure blood pressure, he thinks she must have decided against it, whatever it was. He goes to sit in the patient’s chair, familiar with the routine at this point. He's gotten a physical near every year of his life that he’s spent in Konoha.

She sits on the wheeled chair that’s next to the desk, rolling it closer to him. He extends his right arm, and as she carefully adjusts the cuff, she tells him, tone casual, “You’ve got an inch on Naruto, now.”

There is a very stupid and juvenile part of him that takes immense satisfaction in this news, but she doesn’t look like she’s finished speaking yet. He waits for the rest.

She smiles apologetically. “He’s got about fifteen pounds on you, though. There’s some motivation for you.”

He pins her with a pointed stare, unimpressed but also a little amused. Motivation, indeed.

Her expression turns somewhat guilty, now. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I did his about a month ago; he came back from a mission with a cracked rib, and it needed to be updated.”

She starts increasing the pressure, and he suddenly becomes aware that she is closer to him than before, by the nature of the operation of the equipment. He had become aware of her physical proximity at roughly this point in the exam the last time, too.

He’s thankful it doesn’t seem to affect his blood pressure. “105 over 70; good,” she concludes, before reaching to remove the cuff from his arm. Her fingertips make brief contact with his skin, this time, and he has to fight an urge to shiver, even though they’re warm.

She picks up her pen to input this information in the appropriate slot, then sets it aside and puts away the cuff. When she turns back to him, she says, “Heart rate is next. Hold out your wrist, please.”

He holds out his right arm again, letting his elbow rest on the surface of the desk this time. Both of her hands come to grip his single one, lightly and carefully feeling for his pulse. He tries to hold very still, and to not think about how soft her hands are. He distracts himself by preoccupying his gaze with the clock on the wall behind her. It feels like a very long thirty seconds, though he knows by watching the hand tick that it’s actually not.

She doesn’t vocalize what the number is, just removes her hands finally and reaches for the pen to fill it in on the paper. He wonders if it was elevated.

“Heart and lungs next.” She reaches for the stethoscope, positioning it in her ears before leaning in to listen to his heart first, over his shirt. He looks to the ceiling.

It doesn’t take very long. “Sounds good. Lungs, next.” She gets up and comes around the chair slightly behind him. He shifts to pull the back portion of his shirt up to his shoulder; he remembers this from the last exam, too.

“It’ll be cold; I’m sorry,” she warns gently, before pressing the instrument to his back. She is nothing but professional as she asks him to take a few deep breaths. Routine, and very careful not to touch his skin with anything but the diaphragm of the stethoscope, cool metal.

It feels… different than the last exam. He had been a little on edge during this part, then, too, even though she was nothing but professional then, as well.

He is just… very aware that she is behind him, and that his shirt is pulled up, and she’s listening to him breathe and can see the skin of his back. And that he's kissed her.

The coolness slips away after a short amount of time. “Lung function sounds good.” He pulls his shirt back into place, feeling a faint sense of relief as he does so. She goes back to document her findings on the paperwork.

She then lays the stethoscope back in its appropriate place. Scanning the page, she asks, “Any issues with your hearing?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Sasuke responds. She dips her head in acknowledgement, filling in that box with what he assumes is non-applicable.

“Sense of smell?”

He recalls raspberries and antiseptic. “No.” She fills another box.

“Sinus or lymph node issues?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m assuming you’ve used the Sharingan and Rinnegan since last time, so I’ll look at your eyes towards the end.”

He nods, and she reaches for a light instrument to use to look at his throat, as well as one of the wooden sticks from a glass jar in the corner. “Throat next,” she says, flicking the light on.

He tries not to furrow his brow. He wasn't looking forward to this part.

He opens his mouth for the wood, reedlike and firm against his tongue, and then she’s shining the light in and frowning.

“Say ah, please.”

He complies, feeling quite undignified, though he knows it’s necessary and just part of her job. She removes the stick after a second, setting the flashlight instrument aside, and he closes his mouth.

"Teeth and gums look good, and your tonsils look fine, but your throat looks a little raw. Have you been sick recently?"

"Yes." It is technically the truth, though not in a viral sense.

She looks thoughtful as she’s making a note on her clipboard. “Within the past week?”

He nods. She must see him from the corner of her eye, because then she asks, while still writing, “Any other symptoms? Cough? Does it feel sore?”

“No.” He pauses, then clarifies. “No cough. A little sore. Not bad.”

Verdant eyes flick up to him for a long moment. He feels somewhat guilty; even if he knows the truth, she might be thinking right now that he’s been irresponsible, that he may have given her an illness via kissing.

She breaks eye contact eventually, and sets the pen down, standing to open the uppermost cupboard door in the exam room. His brow furrows, until she’s pulling down a small box that he sees has cough drops in them.

“We only have mixed berry; they’ll be kind of sweet, but it should help. Take a few for later, and put one in now, please.”

Sasuke blinks, and then takes a handful. He puts all but one in his pocket, and then unwraps the one left in his hand, putting it in his mouth, as she asked.

She arches to put the box back in the cupboard, and he forces himself to look elsewhere.

It does feel good on his throat, soothing. “...Thank you,” he says after a few more seconds, as she makes another note on his form.

“You’re welcome,” she replies. Then, back to clinical Sakura. “Any other issues? Abdominal, neurological?”

“No.”

She flips the page. “Infectious disease screening questions are next. Obviously you’ve traveled outside the village in the past 21 days, but have you been outside of Fire Country in that time?”

He thinks. “Rain, about thirteen days ago. Wind, 19 days ago.”

Sakura inclines her head, and writes in the information. He notices she keeps her eyes trained on the questionnaire now. “Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person with measles, mumps, or chickenpox in that time period?”

“No.” She checks the 'no' box.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person or source in that time period for any of the following: botulism, diphtheria, E. coli, encephalitis, hemorrhagic fever, hepatitis, influenza, listeriosis, malaria, meningitis, pneumonia, rabies, severe acute respiratory syndrome, smallpox, or yellow fever?”

“No.” He watches her check several 'no' boxes.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person in that time period who may have exposed you to any sexually transmitted infections?”

He’s glad she’s looking at the paper still, even if that answer is obvious. “No.” She checks several more 'no' boxes.

“And you didn’t have a fever earlier.” She checks another 'no' box. “And sore throat, but no shortness of breath at any point?”

“No.”

“Vomiting or diarrhea?”

“...Vomiting, yes,” he answers honestly. “No to the second.”

She nods, as if she knew that already from looking at his throat. She probably did. She’s good at what she does.

“Any kind of rash?”

“No.”

That’s the last question on the page, so she turns to the next one.

“Next is bloodwork. We’ll do a cholesterol screening, in regards to heart health, and then we’ll also do a general workup and run it for any infectious diseases. I don’t think we’ll find anything if it’s just the vomiting and resulting sore throat, but better safe than sorry.”

She then starts getting out the necessary supplies with which to get a blood sample. It doesn’t take very long; he holds out his right arm again, and Sakura finds the vein easily. “You’ll feel a pinch.” Within sixty seconds it’s over, and she’s pressing and holding the cotton to the dot of red before taping over it, a small pressure dressing.

“Leave that on for a few hours, please,” she advises, and he nods to indicate that he will. She makes quick work of labeling the blood sample, and sets it aside with the clipboard, he assumes for the end of the appointment.

She scribbles in a few more comments on the sheet, he assumes for whoever is running the tests. “Okay, just eyes and arm left. We’ll do eyes first. Any deterioration in vision that you’ve noticed?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll shine the light to check your pupils quick before I use chakra to look at them.” She grabs a different light tool, a penlight, and turns it on, before looking at him expectantly.

He blinks, curious what she’s waiting for, and then she asks softly, “Could you move your hair out of the way, please?”

Oh. He complies, and she shines the light in one eye, moving it slightly and monitoring the progress. She then does the same to his Rinnegan.

“Reactivity is good; no signs of defect.” She sets the penlight back where it belongs, then makes a note in his paperwork indicating that. Then she’s shifting her chair a tiny bit closer, so she can reach his eyes with her hands.

“Do you have a preference, which one I start with?” She asks. He shakes his head. “Okay; I’ll check the right eye first.” She reaches out with her left hand, pressing her thumb above his eye over his eyebrow, and her other four fingers lightly to his temple, just next to his eye socket.

Sasuke tries not to dwell on how close she is again as green chakra drizzles into his ocular system; he keeps his vision trained forward, as he knows he’s supposed to as she examines. There is a freckle on her right ear that he remembers focusing on, the last time; he does this time, too.

Around thirty seconds passes, before she informs him, “I’m going to funnel some chakra into the retina and optic nerve here; there’s some damage.”

He had suspected there might be, though his vision has not suffered; mostly there was just a bit of pain, sometimes. He hasn’t overworked it by any means, but he hasn’t completely abstained from using it since he’d last been healed by her, either. “Okay.”

The flow of her chakra works its way deeper, more of it now. This part has always relaxed him; her chakra really is quite calming, careful and gentle, threading its way behind his eye and wrapping around the nerve.

She works for about five minutes before the chakra starts to let up.

“...There. That should be a little better,” she says before lifting her hand from his right. “Look up, down, please.”

He complies.

“Left to right, now.” He does. “Good. Does it feel okay?”

He nods, meeting her eyes again finally. It feels stronger, no pain. He decides to verbalize that, even though he’s already nodded. “It’s better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him. “Good.” Then she’s detailing whatever she’s supposed to detail in the paperwork, before setting the pen down again.

“Left eye now.”

She repeats the process, frowning again. “There’s some damage here, too. I’ll fix it.”

This time, it takes longer; not quite ten minutes, but fairly close. He tries to focus on the wall behind her.

He had asked her once, when she was healing him following the war, if it used a lot of chakra. She had said not necessarily, but it depended on the level of damage. She also told him that it was moreso a delicate process, requiring careful manipulation, so he has tried not to talk during any healing sessions since.

When her hand finally pulls away, he’s gotten so used to the contact that it feels like a loss.

“Look up, down, please,” she requests again. Then left to right.

“Function looks good. How does it feel?”

“Better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him gently, just Sakura again for a second, before turning back to the form to finish the optical section.

Then, she turns the page. “Arm is last. Could you please roll up your sleeve to your shoulder?” He grabs his empty left sleeve with his right arm and starts shifting it upwards, rolling it so that it stays put once it’s to the top.

She touches the end of what’s left of the limb with careful fingers, soft but steady on marred skin and scar tissue. “I’ll look with chakra in a second, but any redness that you’ve noticed?”

“No.” He shifts his gaze forward, because her fingertips really are softer than he remembers.

“Any areas that occasionally feel warmer than is typical?”

He shakes his head.

“Swelling of any kind?”

“No.”

“Have you been stretching it as instructed?”

He meets her eyes, then. “Yes.” He wants her to know he listens to her recommendations.

Soft jade, and she’s smiling again. She moves her hands away momentarily, and grabs the clipboard with the papers, checking several boxes as he has indicated. He looks back forward.

“Any phantom limb pain?”

“Sometimes.”

“Residual limb pain?”

“...Sometimes.”

Her gaze flicks upward. “If you had to rate it on a scale, one being hardly anything and ten being the worst?”

“...Usually two or three.” He pauses, and she waits. “...Sometimes four or five.”

“How often, for the worst of it?”

He thinks. “Maybe twice or three times a month.” It’s a bit more often than that, but not by a lot.

She notes it on the paper; that must be a normal range. “Alright. I’ll check with chakra, now.” Her fingers come back to his stump, touching more firmly now. Green chakra starts to thread its way in.

Sakura frowns, after a second. “Nerve endings are a little inflamed. I’ll fix it.” The flow of her chakra increases, and he feels almost instant relief; he supposes it still hurt, faintly. Maybe he just got used to it. “Has it hurt in the last day or so?”

“...Late last night.”

She nods, as if that makes sense. “It won’t take too long. Maybe five minutes.”

He inclines his head just barely, not wanting to move while she’s working.

“You should let me know if it hurts again,” she suggests quietly, after a moment. “It doesn’t take much to fix.”

“...Okay.”

There is a comfortable silence for a few minutes as she works. He feels the chakra start to dilute a little towards the end of it.

“I’m going to stop my chakra and manually massage the tissue, now. It should help prolong the effect.”

He feels her chakra dissipate. She has done this to him before, throughout the rehabilitation process following the war; it was more important then, she’d said, to develop tolerance to touch and pressure of the residual limb. It had hurt, the first few times, but later in the healing process, he had secretly enjoyed it; it made it hurt much less, and the process itself felt… nice.

He had privately wondered what it would feel like on his back.

It elicits the same response now, too, kneading fingertips gradually increasing pressure to access deeper tissue, helping to work away pain that has lived there for a while.

"You wear your hair differently now," she comments after an incredibly nice period of time, still pressing tenderly in little circles, though the pressure is starting to taper off now, since they’re getting towards the end of five minutes; that was roughly the time she would do back then. Since there’s no chakra anymore, it must require less of her concentration.

He realizes he hasn’t shifted his hair back into place yet, then. He takes a moment, then responds quietly, furtively, "Most people dislike looking at the Rinnegan."

She doesn’t respond right away; just finishes massaging the end of his stump, then removes her hands to pick up her pen.

"Not me," she murmurs softly as she makes her final notations.

His heart flips in his chest, and he feels his face grow warm. He's glad she's focusing on the forms, so she can't see the effect her words have had.

The lozenge has dissolved fully, and his throat isn't as sore.

XXX

Sasuke goes to the Hokage’s office, after, to see if the dobe is there. He has some time to kill before lunch, and he wants to take him up on his offer to spar at some point, given that his eyes are freshly healed. Now that he knows Sakura’s schedule for the next few days, he can fill the rest of his time with whatever else. He’ll see her tomorrow at four, at the hospital, and then at Ichiraku’s on Saturday, and then for a bit after, too; they still need to confirm an actual time for that with Naruto and Kakashi. He assumes Sunday and Monday must be her days off. If they’re not, she works too much. He’s going to ask her tomorrow, he thinks.

Oddly, he finds only Kakashi in his office.

“Ah, Sasuke. Good morning,” he greets as he walks through the doors.

“...Morning.”

The copy ninja sizes him up with a single eye for a long moment, as if considering what to ask him. Sasuke braces himself.

"You got your physical done."

Sakura had said after the bloodwork was complete, she’d drop off the paperwork for him. "...I did."

"It went well, I assume."

"...It did."

"Wonderful," he says quietly, sounding pensive.

There is a very long pause.

“And the date, with Sakura this morning, before that? That went well, also?”

Sasuke deliberates. There is no teasing lilt to his old sensei's voice this time, just genuine curiosity, so he answers honestly, even though his neck warms and he doesn’t quite appreciate being spied on. “...It did.”

Kakashi gives him one of the widest and most genuine smiles he has ever seen him wear, beneath the mask.

“Wonderful,” the copy ninja says again, this time teeming clearly with pride and meaning.

“...Yeah.” Sasuke agrees, looking anywhere but at him.

Kakashi shuffles a few papers around his desk, and starts talking again, as if Sasuke has not just admitted to something he’s sure their sensei had suspicions about for the better portion of eight years. “Well, Naruto’s not here; I’m assuming that’s who you were looking for. Hinata’s leaving for a mission later today, around one, so I gave him the day off. I kind of assumed he’d use the opportunity to seek you out for a spar in the afternoon, after she leaves. He was going on about it yesterday, along with a Team Seven dinner on Saturday night; sounds like that will be at six.”

Sasuke just blinks, gears turning still; the scroll from yesterday is still on the desk, so he's not sure why he'd grant Naruto another day off so easily.

Kakashi further clarifies, smile shifting into something more sly. “I wouldn’t go over there before a little after one, if I were you.”

His first thought is oh, and he feels rather stupid. His next thought is gross. His old sensei is grinning, as if his reaction amuses him; he must have made some kind of face that belayed his internal thought process.

“Ah, love requited and besotten newlyweds. What a time." Sasuke's neck burns again, because he realizes after a second that the ‘love requited' portion of that is referring to Sakura and himself. Kakashi's moving on, though. "Anyway, now that I’ve given you too much information…” His voice trails off, and he looks at the intricate scroll tucked away at the table beside his desk, where Naruto usually sits. “If you’re not busy and want something to do until lunch, you could take a look at this scroll for me, since Naruto won’t be getting to it today.” He appears to be thinking, then adds. “For all his progress, he can still be less than perceptive, in certain instances. Your assistance could be invaluable, since I’m occupied with other tasks at the moment.”

Sasuke ponders for a bit; he has already read a good portion of the way through his books, and it’ll be a few hours before he needs to eat. It's not lost on him that this involves a level of trust in him on Kakashi's part, as whatever is in the scroll is likely not public knowledge.

He decides it can’t hurt, though he hopes he doesn’t get asked any more questions about Sakura. He makes his way to take Naruto’s seat, opening up the scroll.

He stares at it long and hard, rolling it out on the table to examine it more closely. Kakashi wordlessly grabs the stapler on his desk and sets it on the top end of the parchment, to hold it in place as he further unravels it. It appears to be a cipher, and quite a complicated one.

“...You think Naruto’s going to be able to crack this?” Sasuke questions incredulously, glancing towards his old sensei with his brows furrowed in doubt. His eyes catch as he does so on the framed photograph sitting on his desk; from this angle, the side instead of the front, he can now see that it’s their original Team Seven photo. He hasn't seen it in a long time.

Kakashi chuckles, not looking up from his paperwork. “Not at all, which is why I was helping him with it yesterday. It’s good practice for him, though, and at the very least, it does keep him busy when I don't have anything else for him to do.”

XXX

Sasuke ambles back to his apartment around noon. He made some progress on the cipher, enough that Kakashi said Naruto might actually be able to take it from there. It feels good to be of use.

It also feels good to have something to give the idiot shit over, when he goes to visit him later.

He empties the cough drops from his pocket into one of the cups he bought yesterday, and pops another one into his mouth before he starts getting out ingredients to cook. It feels good on his throat, menthol pleasantly numbing despite the slightly sweet taste. He pours a hefty amount of rice into a pot to start boiling, and then begins slicing carrots and scallions and mushrooms for takikomi gohan. It takes a while to slice with one arm, as holding the vegetables in place with one hand is a challenge, but he manages by summoning a clone. Once he’s done, he slips them in a pan with some salt and dashi stock. He also adds frozen peas before covering it with the lid to simmer.

Once that’s going, he washes his hand, then folds the comforter he had washed and left out to dry this morning, ultimately storing it in the closet. He stirs the vegetable mixture occasionally, after, reading more of his book while he waits for the rice to finish. The one about kenjutsu is more interesting than he thought it would be. He might finish it by the time he sees Sakura tomorrow.

He really hopes he can walk her home again; he hadn’t gotten a chance to kiss her today. She might not want him to, if she thinks he's sick, but somehow he suspects she likely understood it wasn't actual illness. She's good at what she does, and smart.

It’s a simple but savory lunch, a larger portion than he’s accustomed to. He eats all of it, albeit slowly, as he reads.

Uncannily, an abrupt and earsplitting knocking erupts on his door as he puts the last bite in his mouth to chew.

“TEME! Open up!” More incessant knocking. “I’m fucking bored, and Kakashi-sensei gave me the day off! Let’s spar!”

Sasuke rolls his eyes and closes his book before standing to rinse his dish, setting it in the sink to wash later, along with the pot and pan already rinsed and stacked there.

“Alright, dobe. You don’t need to bust down my door.”

He grabs another cough drop and removes the tape and cotton from his arm before he goes. It’s a little tender, but the blood has clotted by now.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like gold #fanfiction #this timely update brought to you by my pure unadulterated spite for studio pierrot

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bluenet13 · 3 years

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What's Really Keeping You Awake?

Written for @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: 9-1-1: Lone Star

Characters: T.K. Strand, Carlos Reyes, Nancy Gillian, firefam (mentioned).

Prompt: Arm in a Sling

Summary: When T.K. gets hurt at work he tries to hide the injury from Carlos. But he should have known his boyfriend is always one step ahead.

Links: ff.net - AO3

T.K's fingers tapped impatiently against his thigh as he waited for his call to get picked up.

"Hi, babe, everything okay?" Came Carlos' eventual greeting.

"Hi, yeah, everything's alright. Just wanted to let you know that I won't be going home tonight after shift. Going with Owen instead," T.K. said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Why?" Carlos asked suspiciously. "Is he okay?"

"Nothing special, no issues with his recovery. Dad's just been feeling it since mom left and then we moved in together," T.K. explained.

"Isn't that why Mateo moved in?" Carlos wondered, "I mean, the guy needed a place to live, I get it. But we both know Captain Strand wasn't the obvious choice."

"Yeah," T.K. said, not able to argue that fact. "But Mateo is staying with Paul for the weekend so I just want to keep my dad company."

"Hmm." Carlos audibly sighed. "Are you sure nothing happened?"

"Yes, of course," T.K. said, forcing his voice to stay calm and collected.

"Are you in the hospital?" Carlos blurted out.

"What? No!" T.K's responded, letting out a nervous exhale.

"Tyler," Carlos said in his best threatening tone.

"I promise, I'm not in the hospital," T.K. assured, pursing his lips.

"Are you in an ambulance?" Carlos asked next, wanting to cover all bases.

"I work in an ambulance," T.K. said simply.

"You know what I meant," Carlos grumbled.

"Stop worrying, Carlos. Everything's okay. Just trying to be a good son," T.K half-lied, chuckling to himself as he silently wondered what it said about him that in this situation Carlos' first thought was that he was trying to hide an injury, unlike most others who would have thought he was having an affair.

"Okay, I will see you this weekend then?" Carlos relented, but his tone letting on that he wasn't happy.

"Yeah, I will call you tonight. Love you, baby," T.K. promised, then ended the call, again, just a little too quickly.

Putting his phone back in his pocket, T.K. sighed and turned back to Nancy. "Sorry, you can keep going."

"Carlos is going to kill you when he finds out," Nancy offered helpfully, "but lucky for you, I don't think anything is broken so you won't have to go to the hospital. At least, you weren't lying about that."

"Yeah, lucky me." T.K. rolled his eyes, doing his best to suppress a grunt as Nancy prodded the area around his shoulder.

"But, on second thought... I have to pop it back in, maybe you want to go to the hospital for that?" Nancy questioned, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"You are enjoying this, aren't you?" T.K. asked with a groan.

"Maybe, a little. Not the injury, tho. I'm sorry the patient knocked you off the ladder," Nancy said sincerely, "but I'll enjoy hearing of Carlos' reaction when he finds out," she added with a grin.

"Well, too bad he won't find out," T.K. challenged, "or I'll tell Tommy that you broke her favorite coffee mug. You know, the super cute, purple one her girls got her for mother's day?" His familiar smug smirk now plastered on T.K's face.

Nancy grunted but said nothing, knowing she was beat. "Ready?" She asked instead, knowing there was no way T.K. was voluntarily going to a hospital for a dislocated shoulder.

Suddenly reminded why he was sitting at the back of their ambulance, T.K. instantly lost his smile and blanched a little. Because no matter how many injuries someone has had, popping in a dislocated anything always hurt like a bitch, especially when you couldn't take any painkillers. But still, he nodded, closing his fist around his shirt and bracing for the pain.

"I'll be quick," Nancy whispered and without warning moved her hands to either side of T.K's shoulder and yanked.

"Son of a…" T.K's yelped, his words cut short by a loud pop as his joint set back into place.

"Sorry, Strand," Nancy said, a guilty smile replacing her previous grin. "I know you won't take anything strong, but can I give you some Ibuprofen?"

T.K. just shook his head, his mouth set in a straight line as he tried to breathe through the pain.

"You're going to be sore," Nancy pushed, gazing down at T.K. with a knowing look as she maneuvered his shoulder into a sling.

"I've OTC painkillers at home, I promise I'll take some if the pain gets too bad," T.K. lied, grunting as the movement jostled his injured joint.

"You mean at Owen's house, right?" Nancy asked (not so) innocently.

"You can really be mean sometimes." T.K. pouted, trying to bite down a grin.

"You just make it too easy. But really, I know you won't take anything, so at least ice your shoulder when you get home and remember to sleep on your other side," Nancy directed, wishing she could offer her partner some relief from the pain but knowing that with T.K's history that simply wasn't an option.

"I'll be okay, Nance. Thank you for taking care of it, I'll be careful," T.K promised, then rolled his neck as he got accustomed to the feel of the sling around his arm.

"And no nighttime activities for you," Nancy said softly, looking at T.K. with a knowing smile, "but on second thought, I don't think that will be a problem now." Her grin turning into full-blown laughter.

"You only say that cause you're jealous," T.K. said, sticking his tongue out. Then jumped out of the ambulance, smiling to himself as Nancy made a face and tossed a roll of gauze at him.

As Nancy finished organizing everything in the back, T.K. sat down on the ambo's bumper and sighed, wishing he could go home to cuddle with Carlos instead of to an empty apartment. But he was tired of the trouble magnet jokes and Carlos saying he was taking years off his life, and this was too simple an injury to worry his boyfriend over. So, he would just have to suck it up.

A few minutes passed with the partners just chatting about everything and nothing as they waited for Tommy to get back after dropping their patient at the hospital.

"You okay, Strand?" Was Tommy's first question as soon as she returned to the ER's parking lot.

"I am, Nancy checked it out and we're ready to go," T.K. said and raised to his feet, trying very hard not to cry out when the movement jerked his shoulder.

"Are you sure you don't need to be looked at?" Tommy was still staring at T.K with a worried expression, even when the question was directed to his partner.

"He will be okay," Nancy explained, "nothing got broken and the joint should heal nicely after a few days of rest. Plus, T.K. is not a liar and he absolutely wasn't at the hospital today," she couldn't help add, the corner of her lip tucking upward.

"Do I even want to know?" Tommy asked no one in particular, shooting a curious look to her two, young coworkers.

"Probably not. Let's go," Nancy said with a chuckle, getting into the back of the ambulance and sitting on the bench. "You can sit at the front, Strand. Just don't go getting used to it," she added as a way of response to T.K's raised eyebrows and silent question.

"Thanks, partner," T.K acknowledged, happy with the sort of truce that he had reached with his new partner, and even more with the way that agreement was slowly evolving into a real friendship.

The ride back to the firehouse was spent in comfortable silence, all three paramedics lost in between their thoughts and the low music coming from the speakers. Tommy did her best to avoid any cracks in the pavement but still shot sympathetic glances T.K's way every time he grunted or winced.

Reaching the firehouse, T.K's ignored everyone's concerned stares and just walked quickly to the locker room. Knowing with the sling taking off his shirt would be a pain, he decided to just leave on his uniform and wait until he was home. He would want to shower and better to go through the hassle just one time.

After promising all his teammates that yes, he was okay, and yes, he would call if he needed help, and no, he didn't need a ride (especially when he was planning to go to Owen's and not Carlos'), T.K. was finally able to escape all the mother henning and quietly get into his Uber.

Going up the stairs and inside Owen's apartment was more difficult that it should have been, with T.K. dropping the keys as he tried to open the door with his non-dominant hand and as he continued to fumble with the strap of his duffel bag, which kept rolling down his shoulder. The ordeal left him winded, and with a very big desire to just face plant on the couch and sleep for the next many hours. But he had worked more than half a shift before he got hurt so he was in desperate need of a shower.

So, T.K. just dropped his keys, wallet and phone on the kitchen counter and walked to the guest room, his face losing all color as soon as his eyes landed on the figure sitting on the bed.

"Hi baby," Carlos said cheerfully, even as his eyes narrowed and his lips turned upward into an innocent smile.

Letting his bag fall to the floor with a thud, T.K. had the sudden urge to turn around and run, instead he tried to give Carlos his best apologetic grin as he looked straight into his boyfriend's eyes.

"Want a chance to explain before I start asking questions?" Carlos said, making T.K. wonder if that's how he started interrogations with the people he arrested.

"What are you doing here?" T.K. asked, ignoring Carlos' question and trying very hard not to squirm under his boyfriend's gaze.

"I asked first," Carlos said matter-of-factly.

"Long, boring story I'm sure you don't want to hear," T.K. mumbled, hoping against hope that Carlos would just let it go for now. Then he tip-toed towards Carlos and tried to wrap his arms around his boyfriend, but Carlos just jumped out of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Whoa there, cowboy. Slow your roll cause you're not getting out of this so easily," Carlos quipped, a scowl now adorning his features too.

"What do you want me to say, Carlos? I got hurt at work." T.K. awkwardly raised his injured arm, trying to emphasize his point, before he dropped both shoulders dejectedly, and turned his eyes to stare at the ground.

"I think that part is obvious," Carlos simply stated, "but I'm more interested in the part where you thought it was a good idea to lie to me and hide the injury."

"I didn't lie, everything I said was technically true," T.K. tried, letting out a nervous chuckle.

"In this case, omitting the truth is the same as lying."

"I'm sorry, Carlos. I just didn't want to frighten you again. I mean, come on, we haven't even been really dating a full year and I've already been shot, kidnapped and knocked unconscious with a concussion. I know you all joke that I'm a trouble magnet, but I also know you worry. And you have enough worries at work to also lose sleep over me," T.K. rambled as he paced around the room, "besides, I don't want you realizing that I'm just too much for you," he finished barely above a whisper, sad eyes moving to Carlos' again.

Carlos remained silent for a few minutes after that, seemingly mulling over T.K's words, before his arms uncrossed and he moved towards his boyfriend, engulfing him in a quick hug before he stepped out of his space again.

"First, I'm a cop, babe, do you really think a dislocated shoulder will really scare me? You know I've seen it all, and yes, it's worse when things happen to you, but I know it's the nature of both our jobs."

"I'm sorry," T.K. whispered, cutting Carlos off and taking a tentative step forward.

"Wait, let me finish," Carlos said, raising his hands to stall T.K's movements. "I won't get mad if you get injured, but I don't like you lying to me. Or emitting truths," he amended before T.K. tried to find another loophole, because sometimes his boyfriend really took to his mother. "You once said we made a pretty good team. And you were right, and we have only gotten better with time."

"In more ways that one…" T.K. said smugly, his eyes going to Carlos' lips, and then further down.

Carlos let out an outward moan, even if he would argue it was more like an annoyed groan, as his lips parted on their own volition and he ended up having to bite down on his lower lip as he tried not to give into T.K's charm.

"Yeah," Carlos easily agreed, his deep voice sounding even huskier. "But don't go trying to distract me, you're not out of the doghouse yet. So as I was saying, I don't care about a dislocated shoulder, but…"

"Wait, how do you know about the shoulder?" T.K asked, "and how are you even here?"

"Will you stop interrupting me?" Carlos said, sounding mildly exasperated, "I called Mateo. I knew you were hiding something, and I know Marjan, Paul and Judd would have been more difficult to deal with. Mateo might be a damn good firefighter but that boy can't lie to save his life. He told me what happened, then I called Captain Stra- Owen, and turns out he thought I was working a shift tonight so that's why you were coming here."

"What have we talked about interrogating my team, Officer Reyes?" T.K. wondered out loud, wishing his boyfriend wasn't so good at his job.

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you gave me another choice," Carlos challenged, eyebrows raised. "But again, as I was saying, we're a team T.K. and I can take anything you, or life, throw our way. You might be high maintenance but you'll never be too much for me," he added, a teasing smile now gracing his lips, easing the harshness that had taken over his features.

"I'm high maintenance? I'm not the one that only eats homemade tortillas, can't get veggies that are not from the farmer's market and forces me to get up at dinner and get the salt because God forbids you handle it to me and doom our relationship forever," T.K. mumbled under his breath, the twinkle in his eye showing that his words carried no heat.

"It's not my fault that Latinos have many superstitions. Or that I need to do so much stress cooking because my stubborn and daredevil boyfriend keeps getting in trouble. Which brings me to my last point, I do lose sleep over you, T.K," Carlos began, stepping towards him and moving his hands under his shirt. "But not because I worry about you. I do, always will. But when I go to sleep, with your body next to mine, I tend to have other things in mind." Pushing, T.K. all the way back until he fell onto the bed, Carlos let his lips hover just above T.K's for a moment before he leaned forward, crashing his already parted lips into T.K's waiting ones.

The moment quickly became more heated as they deepened the once sweet kiss, both their hands now exploring every reachable part of their boyfriend's body. That is, until Carlos let too much of his weight fall onto T.K, making the man gasp and groan as his shoulder took the brunt of it.

"Too bad you're injured and I can't show you the type of things I think about," Carlos croaked, pressing a kiss just on the edge of T.K's lips, before he pushed his body away from the bed, and out of his boyfriend's reach.

"Oh come on, babe. You can tease like that and just leave me hanging," T.K. breathed out, trying to grab Carlos's shirt, but his fingers only brushing a bit of exposed skin along his hip.

"Don't pout, babe. It's not a good look on you. Plus you'll get wrinkles and I happen to love your smooth skin," Carlos said, trying to ignore the electricity coursing through his body starting from the spot T.K's fingers had touched.

Not missing the way Carlos' body just quivered, T.K looked at his boyfriend with his perfected shit-eating grin, his eyes practically undressing the other man, just as his boyfriend silently did the same.

"Lucky for you, I have other ideas to show you how being with you could never be too much. In fact, every moment we spend together is just never enough," Carlos said sweetly, like usual being the first to give in. Extending his arm to his boyfriend, Carlos pointed to the bathroom with his chin as his free hand was already removing T.K's belt and unbuttoning his pants.

"I like the sound of that," T.K. rasped out, barely able to form words. He then took Carlos' hand, letting his boyfriend pull him towards him, as his free arm reciprocated, briskly and awkwardly loosening Carlos' sweatpants, and pulling at the hem of his shirt.

"Good. The hot water will be good for your shoulder. Plus, you're still in uniform, I can only assume you didn't shower at the station. It's only natural that we do that before I get you into bed," Carlos explained simply, "so you can rest your shoulder, that is," he added, but his darkened eyes showed that right now taking care of T.K's injury was the last thing on his mind.

Brain short-circuiting, T.K. only nodded as he let Carlos remove the sling on his arm and the rest of the clothing that still got in between their desires, before he let his boyfriend lead him into the bathroom.

Later on there would be time for T.K. to continue apologizing and explain more about how he got hurt, for Carlos to take care of his shoulder and comfort his boyfriend, and for both of them to further promise that they were it for each other, that they were both in it for the long run and there was never a need to hide things because they would always be a team. But for now, all thoughts of T.K's injury and small lie were out of their minds, and Carlos and T.K. just relished the presence of the other, the feel of their bodies pressed together, as they let the steam of the shower dissolve their insecurities and fears, and just got lost in each other.

"Wait, what if my dad comes home?"

"Too bad you will have a lot of explaining to do. There's a reason I asked you to move in with me," Carlos said, finally getting his chance to be the smug one.

And whatever was said next was lost to the outside world, as the door to the bathroom slammed shut, and only T.K's groan and Carlos' laughter could be heard over the splash of the shower.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fanfiction #tk strand #carlos reyes #tarlos #bad things happen bingo #idiots in love #tarlos fanfic

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coke-and-candy · 4 years

Text

A Little Competition Never Hurt Anyone: Part 2

Here is the long awaited part 2! Now available on FF.net and AO3! Links below. Tags @echpr, @realsquidinc, @teresarosiadeviluke2112, @geminikessa, @astridflies, @driftingmoonlitpetals, @bee-wrecker, @iglowinggemma28, @drarryismylife101, @mikantsume, @diamondheart31, @iggy-of-fans, @runadaemon, @northernbluetongue, @kristycocopop, @czgamz, @mysticsoulgirl, @silvergold-swirl, @queenmj10, @asstheticmangos, @thesunstormsolo, @writingishfanonsideblog, @if-you-give-a-chat-a-cookie, @seraphichana, @bnha-fanfic-recs, @katieykat513, @whatarubberchicken, @princess-of-fangirls, @marichat00, @mmwolf1605, @urbanpineapplefarmer, @indecisive-mess-named-me, @adalouise1987, @winterfury-10, @celestialtitania, @vixen-uchiha, @certainmuffinbagelcalzone, @satans-favorite-homo, @jardimazul, @chronois, @marinette-is-a-badass, @the-no-one-in-the-corner, @jessigurl-design, @kittycatwowmeow, @himevampirechan, @livelifeauthorstyle, @hufflejournals, @melhuney, @xxvanilla-thundaxx, @thewondersoflebanon, @enduskgragon, @rumbelle18, @natasha-barton

FF.net (link)

Part 1 (link)

Edit: Now on AO3 (link)!

Part 2

The Stakes

Today was the day!

Today was possibly the most important day of her whole LIFE!

Her chance to get that much closer to achieving her dream of being hard-hitting investigative reporter.

The first round of preliminary presentations and interviews—her one shot of making an impression on the judges—and Alya Césaire was determined to nail it.

She had worked up until the deadline in order to get her entry as perfect as possible. It hadn’t been easy to get the necessary information from Lila without tipping anyone off about the competition—but! in the end, she did. It was one of the reasons why Alya was already such a good reporter at such a young age. She knew how and when to ask the right questions. Even if it meant telling a few teeny tiny little fibs to keep everyone in the dark. A little poke and prod here and there, a little white lie about wanting to do little exposés on the Ladyblog about everyday Ladybugs and Chat Noirs… and boom! Lila had been more than happy to send her all the links to news articles and organization pages that mentioned her… Which were a lot—Lila really was amazing! And the deeper Alya got invested in her contest entry the more it that just solidified in Alya’s mind that she was doing the right thing.

Sure, she still felt a little guilty having to sometimes skip out of hanging out with Marinette in order to hangout with Lila to conduct her secret interviews. But it was ok! The ends would more than justify the means.

Besides… a few little lies never hurt anyone anyways…

Countless hours had gone into writing, researching, re-writing, editing, more editing, and practicing her presentation and interview answers (ok she was not quite sure what the judges would be asking but it never hurt to have some responses ready to go on the fly). All leading up to this moment!

Standing in front of the Le Monde Parisian headquarters, dressed in her best power outfit, presentation in hand, and her parents right there beside her to cheer her on.

Her mother and father both had taken time off in order to be there for her and Nora had even volunteered to watch the twins so that their parents wouldn’t have to worry and all of their attention could be on Alya today.

They walked into the bright, sleek, and modern lobby of the new building and towards the receptionist desk. The lobby was busy that morning, there were other couples there as well, most likely the parents of the other contestants that had gotten that fateful phone call and scheduled to present today.

They made their way over to the receptionist’s desk.

“Excuse me,” Alya said, doing her best to sound professional. “I’m here for my presentation for La CompétitionOlmpe de Gouges.”

“Name?” The receptionist asked.

“Alya Césaire.”

The receptionist typed away at her computer. “Ah! Here we are.” She looked up and directed the family towards the grand staircase on the other side of the lobby. “Go up the stairs to the second floor and then down the first hallway on your right, there you will see a set of black doors, room 202.” Alya nodded, simple enough instructions. “From there only the contestants are allowed in. Parents and all other family members will have to wait here in the lobby.”

“Thank-you,” Alya smiled politely, her parents also giving a polite nod of appreciation to the woman before following behind their second eldest daughter.

As Alya made her way to her destination, her journalistic eye could not help but take in her surroundings and the various other adults that filtered through the lobby, all in many different types of dress as well, ranging from khakis to exquisitely tailored suits to exotic styles from all over the world. Marinette had often spoken about how fashion gave an insight into different professional environments and the type of people who worked there. Alya was starting to understand what her friend had meant.

But thinking about the different clothing she was seeing reminded her of Marinette—which also reminded her about the last time they had spoken…

It would be an understatement to say that they had not parted on the best of terms.

They had gotten into an argument over the fact that the baker’s daughter was stubbornly refusing to hangout anywhere near Lila and how the only way they could all hangout together was if they straight up lied to her.

Which was what Alya had resorted to in order to have all the girls hanging together as a big group for once. Instead of always having to choose between hanging out with Marinette or hanging out with Lila.

The Ladyblogger wasn’t proud of her methods—but what else was she supposed to do?! She was desperate! All she wanted was for all of her friends to get along and have a great day together; hanging out, enjoying all that Paris had to offer for those lucky enough to live within her borders, and making happy memories together to be cherished…

Why couldn’t Marinette understand that?! Why did the pig-tailed girl have to be so, so... pig-headed!

The resulting argument between the two lycée students had gotten pretty heated and some pretty hurtful things probably would have been said had it not been for an Akuma attacking near where they had agreed to meet up.

But the damage had still been done.

That had been well over a week ago and Marinette was not speaking to ANY of them. She wouldn’t pick up her phone, refused to answer their texts, and even went so far as to asking her parents not to let any of them see her at home. Not even Adrien could get through to her! Every time he had tried approaching her, the designer would ignore him or actively avoid him anyway she could… even if it meant climbing out of a second story window. It was clearly having an effect on the whole class. It felt as if there was a dark cloud in the classroom, as if all the good things in the world have suddenly been cut off. Poor Lila was taking it the hardest and all the girls were doing their best to reassure her that it was not her fault and to cheer her up as best as they could.

It was clear to everyone that Marinette’s attitude was the one in the wrong, but the girl STILL would not see reason and Alya could not understand why!

Why was Marinette acting thing way?!

Why couldn’t she stop being so petty and jealous about Lila and give her a chance?!

Why was she being so stubborn and unreasonable?!

That’s why this day was so important on a more personable level. It would finally be the cold hard, evidence backed, and internationally backed panel of journalistic judges proof that would finally, FINALLY! Get through Marinette’s jealousy and delusions and at last show her that she had been wrong about Lila all along.

Maybe then, things could finally go back to normal and there would not be such a chill in the air during class…

Before Alya could sink further into the negative memories of the past week, her parents pulled her out of her thoughts and back to the present.

They had followed the receptionist’s instructions and were now standing in front of a pair of sleek black double-doors with simple polished steel handles, with the number 202 engraved on a spotless steel plaque next to them.

This was it.

“Good luck ti panther mwen an!” Her father enveloped her in a warm hug. His face beaming with pride as he handed his second oldest off to his wife so that she could have a turn in hugging their daughter.

“We are so proud of you!” Marlena Césaire gave her daughter a once over to make sure she was presentable for the umpteenth time, her smile beaming with pride. “Now you go in there and knock ‘em dead.”

“I will manman.”

“And remember to look them straight in the eye. Show no fear!”

“Of course papa.”

“We’ll be waiting in the lobby ok.”

With one final bone-crushing hug, Alya walked through the doors and as they closed behind her she took a moment to get a quick scan and layout of the room. It was a smaller waiting area with a few comfy looking black leather couches and there were already three other students, who looked to be about her age, sitting on them. Even though they were her competition, Alya still wanted to introduce herself. Who knows? Maybe one of them could be a valuable future colleague.

She immediately recognized one of them and instantly gravitated towards them with a wide smile.

“Mireille! Hey!”

The other girl looked up from the folder her hands, looking a bit surprised to hear her name and then broke out into a friendly grin as well when she saw who had called out her name. “Hi Alya! I didn’t know you were entering this competition as well.”

Alya nodded as she took a seat next to the junior weathergirl. “Yeah, I kind of wanted this to be a surprise since I’m doing my presentation on someone I’m really close to.”

“Really? Who is it?”

“Someone who fit the prompt for the competition to a T.” Alya couldn’t keep the pride in her tone for her friend seeping through as she began to list off her reasoning. “They’re naturally kind and giving person that has already achieved so much, despite being our age. Someone who knows what it means to carry on despite obstacles and never stops thinking about others. Someone who is sure to be one of the Greats of the future without a doubt.”

Hearing the conviction in Alya’s small speech Mireille couldn’t help but be impressed at the other girl’s confidence. But then again, Mireille thought she had a pretty good idea about just whom the auburn haired girl was talking about, but decided to go along.

“Wow, and does this someone know that you entered a presentation about them…?”

“Nope!” Alya popped the p at the end for emphasis. She gave the other girl a mischievous grin and leaned in to stage whisper for added dramatics. “It’s all going to be a surprise.”

Mireille let out a little giggle at her schoolmate’s theatrics. Alya always did have a lot of spunk to her.

“Anyways, how long have you been waiting? What time is your appointment suppose to be at?” Alya wondered, adjusting herself a little sit a little bit more professionally.

“Oh! I already gave my presentation; I’m just waiting for a text from my dad letting me know he’s here to pick me up.” Mireille replied, holding up her phone.

“Really?!” Alya immediately fell into her default Ladyblogger mode. “How’d you think you did, what were the judges like, what did—“

Before Alya had a chance to finish her rapid-fire questions, or for the now slightly frazzled Mireille to get a chance to respond, a young, well dressed man in his twenties came into the room with a tablet and interrupted her.

“Alya Césaire?”

“Yes!” Alya replied.

He held the door at the opposite side of the room open for her. “Please come on in and begin setting up what ever you will need. The judges will be with you shortly.”

Alya quickly stood and clutched her notes and the USB drive her work was on tightly to her chest, her heart pounding with excitement and nervous energy. “Well this is it. I’ll see you later at school ‘kay. Wish me luck!” She smiled at Mireille as she left the couch to follow the man to the judging area.

“Good luck, Alya!” Mireille waved cheerfully which Alya returned before the door was closed behind her.

Shortly after, the short-haired lycée student got a notification letter her know her father was now waiting for her at the front. As, Mireille made her way down the stairs to the main lobby; she couldn’t help but think how great it was that Alya was choosing to do this report about her friend. But honestly, it did seem like a very good choice.

There really was only one person that Mireille could think of that fell into the category that the other reporter hopeful had described. It was sure to really impress the judges that Alya actually knew and was close to someone like that, and her presentation on them would no doubt be amazing.

After all…

Marinette Dupain-Cheng really was a miraculous person.

_______________________________________________________________________

And there it is!

If I didn’t tag you, I’m sorry about that, send me a message and I will be sure to tag you for the next update.

I realized when I started brainstorming the next segment of this story that the connection from the first part to the climax was… lacking… and it was driving me CRAZY! I could not for the life of me figure out why the climax was not coming to me at all, I know what was going to happen and how but none of it felt right. That’s when I realized that the crescendo to that moment of truth that everyone is waiting for was not there. Therefore this story went from a two-shot story to a 3-4 part story.

So now we have the proper set up. Alya has submitted her work and is about to face the judges. Gee! I wonder what will happen...?

Let me know what you all think. Also this story is now on FF.net, so if you guys want go ahead and check out this story there so you can leave your reviews and comments. Till next time!

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mithrilwren · 3 years

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Fanfic ask game for procrastinating on writing, which as of this week is actually accurate, since I’m finally writing again! (or, more specifically, editing what I wrote two months ago so I can get back to writing.)

Tagged by @essektheylyss! Thank you, this is exactly the kind of activity my brain needed tonight.

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

72! I was hovering at 69 for quite a while, sad to break the streak haha

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

~550K, which is somehow both more and less than what I expected

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Many, lmao. According to my Ao3 (omitting any blanket tags) I’ve got 22 there, plus at least two more over on ff.net from back in the day, and probably a couple more just on Tumblr. Most of them I’ve only written one fic for, though. I think the only fandoms where I’ve written more than one are Critical Role (35), Supernatural (15), Haikyuu!! (3), The Exorcist (2), Dimension 20 (2), and Yu-Gi-Oh! (2)

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

Pick a Number, Any Number

Surprisingly, my number one is NOT a Critical Role fic, nor is it even one of my longer multi-chapters! It’s actually a one-shot I wrote for Haikyuu!! back in the day that took off far beyond what I expected. I wrote it for DaiSuga week, which was a ship I (to be completely honest) wasn’t even terribly invested in, but I had a fun idea and people seemed to like it! (It’s also much fluffier than what I usually write, which might be part of its broader appeal ;))

A Winter’s Ball

Unsurprisingly, the next four are all CR ;). This one was a M9 x VM crossover that I primarily wrote between the hours of 3-8am over the course of two insomnia-wracked nights and honestly, I think it shows in its uncharacteristically unstructured format (compared to my typical style, which tends to favour shorter scenes with very intentionally-placed breaks between, as opposed to scenes that flow into each other without pause). That’s not to say I think it’s a bad thing! The story, which follows Beau as she drifts through a party in Whitestone and observes the interactions between the various guests, actually flows better without that kind of interruption. This was also my first Beaujester piece. I started writing it right before Beau’s confession aired, and published it the week after, which definitely pushed me to make what had been only subtextual in the first half of my draft into the emotional lynchpin of the story.

Only the Nightingale Sings

I’m really glad this one still ranks as high as it does, because this story is absolutely my pride and joy. At one time (though I’m not sure that’s true anymore) it was the longest gen fic in the fandom, which is pretty cool! Plot-heavy, twist-heavy, angst-heavy, with seven points of view to follow and multiple interwoven storylines, it was a beast of a thing to write, and took almost exactly a year to finish, but the long process was oh-so worth it. Literally nothing makes me happier today than seeing a new comment or kudos on this story.

Closer Still

One of my earliest shadowgast fics, this one asks the question “how can you make the ‘stuck in an elevator trope’ fantasy?” The answer is, as always, demiplanes. This fic, perhaps more than any of my other shadowgast fics, is interesting to revisit, because it was written before the ep 97 reveal, but literally everything Essek does in it would suggest otherwise. It reads like I already knew he was a spy working with Trent, and yet I was firmly in the “Essek is NOT the spy” camp at the time. Gotta chalk that up to Matt telegraphing his growing guilt into the preceding episodes - even if I couldn’t see it, it was clearly there.

your dust from mine

My other novel-length CR multichapter, this fic brought me so much joy in the otherwise bleak summer of 2020. Most of my best memories of those four months come from working on this story. A Fjorclay adaption of The Goose Girl (my favourite fairytale) this story is about healing, growth, and figuring out what happiness means to you. While I know most people don’t read stories for this pairing anymore, for obvious reasons, I still cherish your dust from mine for how much of my heart I poured into it, and I look back on it with a huge amount of fondness.

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do my absolute best to respond to every comment someone leaves on a story of mine, even if it occasionally takes a month or two. Replying to comments is one of my favourite parts of the fic-writing process - it gives me a chance to revisit peoples’ kind words and (often, incredibly insightful) observations, and I hope it also shows how appreciative I am of each and every one.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Though I write a lot of angst, I honestly tend more towards bittersweet endings than straight-up sadness. The only one I can really think of is What You Own - mind the tags if you follow the link, this is definitely one of the gnarlier things I’ve written for CR - whose ending is, admittedly, bleak. But this story so far removed from canon that I don’t think it’s the kind of angsty ending that lingers with you, as much as it packs a punch and then lets you go on your way.

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I tend to enjoy thinking about crossovers moreso than actually writing them. I’ve brainstormed a few, but none have ever made it much farther than the first page.

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

A few times! Not often, thankfully. Only one time in particular really sticks out to me, mostly for how it rocked my confidence in a way that I don’t think any comment could now, since I’ve had a few more years to build up faith in my own writing.

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Very, very occasionally.

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not!

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Oh man, back in the Glee days... yeah. Yeah, I have. Nothing that ever got published, though ;)

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

Not sure I have one! Ships come and go with the seasons, and sometimes they’re best left in the era you found them.

14) What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

The Shadowgast figure skating AU. It’s never going to happen, but I wish it had.

15) What are your writing strengths?

I would say probably structure, in terms of constructing narrative arcs and through-lines. I’m organized with my writing in a way that I am in few other areas of my life, haha. I’d also say my sense of place - I think I’m pretty good at constructing living, breathing settings and exploring how my characters interact affect/are affected by them.

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

I have a tendency to be wordy (which you might surmise from the length of this post, lol) and repeat myself, usually by going over emotional beats that don’t need the extra reinforcement. On the other hand, I tend to underexplain certain elements (particularly, important plot details in fic, and character motivation in original writing), which can lead to confusion.

A couple years ago I would have said dialogue, but I’ve put a lot of practice into it and I honestly think I’ve improved a lot, which is pretty cool!

17) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I’ve never done it myself, and it’s not generally my favourite thing to read (like @essektheylyss said, it makes me hyper-aware that I’m reading words on a page, especially if I have to follow a footnote somewhere). That said, I’ve definitely also seen it used effectively, so I think it’s more down to whether it suits the particular story!

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Yu-Gi-Oh!

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

As mentioned above, Only the Nightingale Sings.

#tag meme #this took me about an hour and i dont regret a minute of it #personal

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fandom-star · 3 years

Text

Writer’s Tag

@its-all-ineffable tagged me to do this, but it’s a long one so I’m doing it in a different post! Thank you very much! I love doing these so much!

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How many works do you have on AO3?

164 (possibly 165 by the weekend if I post the Witcher one I finished the other day)

What's your total AO3 word count?

181468

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

It’s Okay (Merlin: Merthur) - 569 Kudos Pulchra (Night At The Museum: Jedtavius) [NSFW] - 286 Kudos A Father’s Wisdom (Merlin: Merthur: Uther-centric) - 270 Kudos Crush (MCU Spider-Man: PeterNed) - 262 Kudos Comfort Blankets For Sleepy Gods (MCU Loki Series: Lokius) - 245

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Sometimes. I try to if I’m not in a non-social mood. Mostly, if I start off on my page before reading any fic and see that I have something in my inbox and it turns out to be a comment on my fic, then I’m more likely to reply to it. Idk why it works like that. Otherwise, it’s kinda touch and go whether or not I’ll reply to something, you’ve got a 50/50 chance, but I always read and appreciate every one that I get.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

*Looks at my abundance of angst fics* There’s... a surprising amount of angst without happy endings in my repertoire. Um. I’ll give you three that I vividly remember. (All of these are Star Trek and Spones) Written In The Stars - This is one of my really early works, and was gonna have a sequel that made it have a less angsty ending, but I could never get into the rhythm of writing it. I won’t spoil it, but this is probably the only fic I’ve written where Sarek is a straight-up dick. Battlefield - As the title suggests, there’s war with no real context. And major character death. It’s sad. I genuinely made people cry with this. I am both proud and apologetic of that. Unreal - This is probably one of my more complex concepts, and I’m really proud of it. Features ooc Spock with contextual reasons I won’t spoil, defensive/protective McCoy and major character death of a sort.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending

This is kind of difficult, bc while I have excessively written angsty endings (see: above answer) I do usually write happy endings, and I can’t remember all 160 fic endings left over, and even then it’s difficult to rank them by happiest. I like Nutcase {Murdoch Mysteries: Watts-centric) a lot, oh and also Blame It On Me (Star Trek Pricard: Hughnor) which is angst with a happy ending (and has amazing art accompanying it). There are many others with happy endings, but like I said I have no idea how to rank them by “happiest”.

Do you write crossovers? If so, What is the craziest one you’ve ever written?

I don’t really, but I have written one as a request that I really really enjoyed. A Good Day is ThorBruce and is set in the DS9 era of Star Trek, in which Thor is a captain and Bruce is his chief science officer. It’s really adorable and features sleepy, over-worked Bruce and a very characteristically happy Thor.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No, I don’t think so, unless you count unsolicited advice I felt I couldn’t turn down on ff.net when I was struggling to write Uhura. I’m kind of surprised I haven’t tbh (not that I’m complaining) since I do write for some very popular fandoms and ships (although, conversely, also some very niche fandoms and ships).

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I write it but have only ever posted it thee, four times if you count the exploratory one I posted under a pseudonym that wasn’t really that smutty. I’m hoping to get the confidence up to post some of what I’ve written tho, bc I do really like hat I’ve managed to do with some of it.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not as far as I’m aware.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, I have! A lovely person found my fic 1967, which is probably one of my favourite Spones fics I’ve written, based around the UK’s decriminalisation (well, partial) of homosexuality, and traslated it into Hungarian here. I’ve not been able to check it out, due to not knowing a thing in the language (tho I could probably ask my friend to) but the translator seemed really lovely, so I trust them to have done a good job.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not something I posted, but before I even started posting fanfic, me and my best friend really randomly started writing a Star Trek TNG x Star Wars crossover whenever they were at my house. We gave up on it after about a year and never wrote much for it, but it was... it was something.

What’s your all-time favourite ship?

This changes all the time with my hyperfixations! One that will always be in my heart is obviously Spones, my og ship and within my special interest. Currently I’m obsessed with The Witcher so I’ve got Geraskier on the mind but who knows when that might change!

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

In terms of fanfic I don’t really have any that I don’t think I’ll ever finish. I have an original script that I started writing months ago but only got about three scenes into and haven’t touched since bc I don’t actually have a plot for it.

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue; Is situations one? That sounds like a good and fancy way of saying AUs; Finding synonyms should be one, that’s like half my search history

What are your writing weaknesses?

Description; Despite my talent of finding synonyms I feel like I do repeat words a lot; Planning and outlining, I just don’t do it - it works for me tho.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I’m pretty sure the only times I’ve really done it is for Jedtavius (having Oct speak in Latin occasionally) and I might have done it once or twice with Spock speaking Vulcan, both times it’s mostly terms of endearment or Oct wanting to be romantic. Idk, I don’t really care about reading dialogue in other languages as long as there’s a translation somewhere in the work or I can easily pick it up or search it. Just do whatever, it’s your writing. As long as you do it well and it makes contextual sense, I don’t really care.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Unposted: Star Trek: The Next Gen Posted: Sherlock (I actually recently reread my first ever posted fic, it’s a long haul (just over 45k), but if anyone ever wants to see a work where my writing visibly improves lemme know and I’ll email the pdf to you)

What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

Why would you do this to me??? I love most of my fics!!! I’m just gonna link a few here cause I’ve been doing this for an hour now and it would definitely take me an hour to choose just one! The Relationship Series - modern AU, autistic Spock (written by a self-projecting autistic writer), there’s angst spattered about but is especially prominent in part 6, I just really love this series Promises You Can’t Keep - Loki spoilers, I love this bc it’s based on “what if my finale theory was right instead of being debunked three minutes into the episode”, definitely angst with a hopeful ending I love all of my Charite At War fics, but I’m gonna link my 20 years post-canon fic Grow Old With Me and my modern AU You Give Me Your Light - both have some heavy topics (post-canon is set in 1960s East Germany, modern AU topics are tagged) but I adore both with my entire heart You’ll Never Burn - Merlin/Merthur, again kinda heavy (not as heavy as the Charite ones in my opinion) but short and everything is tagged I love all of my Babylon 5 fics but Secret Rendezvous will always have a special place in my heart. It’s very sweet and essentially follows Vir and Lennier trying to navigate coming out about their relationship to their ambassadors I also recommend all the of the fics I’ve already linked in the post ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Now for the hard part - tagging!

@esperata @tallysgreatestfan @iwritesometimes @marlinspirkhall and any other writer mutuals I’ve likely forgotten but I’ve already spent WAY too long writing this post asfdhdskjdgha So I apologise, but if you wanna do it, absolutely go for it, this was so much fun and really made me realise how much I’ve achieved in 4.5 years.

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little-ligi · 3 years

Text

Febuwhump - No. 13

No.13 - Hiding Injury Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1951 @febuwhump

Elyan gasped as the bandit’s blade plunged into his side. He staggered backwards, just managing to get his own sword up and slash across the man’s chest. As the bandit fell backwards, his sword tugged and pulled painfully out of Elyan’s side, making him fall to his knees, his hand clamping to his side.

He glanced around the clearing, there were only a few bandits left now; the others had nearly finished them off. He let himself sag down, sure in the knowledge the others could handle the last few attackers.

Until there was a scream, followed by Leon shouting. Elyan scrambled to his feet, hefting his sword and stumbled towards the king. Arthur was on the ground, unconscious, a horrible amount of blood across his neck. Leon was standing over him, fiercely fighting the bandit who’d wounded Arthur, who appeared to have more fighting skill than his fellows and was fending the knight off. Merlin appeared out of the tree line and dashed towards the king, sliding to his knees.

Continue reading on Ao3, FF.net or below! 👇

Percival and Gwaine were the other sides of the clearing, fighting their own opponents, but Lancelot was running to help Leon. Lancelot swung his sword up, yelling a battle cry as he leapt at the bandit. The man turned, meeting Lancelot’s sword and Leon managed to strike him across his back, followed by a violent thrust that finished the man off.

Leon knelt at Arthur’s side as soon as the threat was gone and Lancelot hurried around the clearing, checking no more bandits were about to surprise them from the trees. Elyan made it to Arthur’s side, watching anxiously as Merlin’s hands hovered over Arthur’s neck.

“Help me get his gorget off,” Merlin asked, already unbuckling the armour. Leon’s hands immediately flew to help and soon Arthur’s gorget and chainmail coif were off and Elyan saw the deep cut on the top of his shoulder. It had gone in just past the edge of his gorget and bitten right down to his collarbone. Half an inch to the side and the armour would have saved him. Fortunately, it did appear to have missed the vein in his neck though.

Merlin pressed a wad of bandages to the wound, directing Leon to hold it as he pulled his small physician’s bag off his shoulder and began rooting through it.

“I’ll need to stitch it,” he said abruptly, his eyebrows pulled low in a frown. He pulled a cloth from his bag, spreading it on the ground and placing a spool of silk thread, a small leather wallet, and a jar of honey on it.

“No more in sight,” Lancelot reported to Leon as he and Percival joined the group, Lancelot sheathing his sword. Leon nodded, running a weary hand through his hair.

“Is he alright?” Gwaine puffed, running up to them, his own opponent defeated and a small cut across his cheek.

“He will be,” Merlin said, taking a needle from the wallet and threading it. “Is everyone else alright?” He gave a cursory glance around at the knights, but his attention was still focussed on Arthur.

Elyan pressed his hand a little tighter against his side. He wasn’t going to say anything. He couldn’t let Merlin’s focus waver from the king. Tending to Arthur’s injuries was by far more important that his own.

“Leon, pour a little water here,” Merlin instructed. “Percival, can you come and hold him in case he wakes.”

Percival knelt the opposite side of Arthur to Merlin and Leon, his large hands moving to Arthur’s chest, holding him steady. Leon grabbed his waterskin, unstoppering it and pouring where Merlin pointed.

Elyan had to sit down, his legs were getting a little shaky. He crossed his arms over his stomach, casually keeping the pressure on the wound in his side without being too obvious about it. He schooled his face to try not to show any pain when Lancelot looked at him. Lancelot gave him a grim smile, his eyes narrowing slightly as they swept over Elyan but he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t noticed.

Then Lancelot spotted the cut on Gwaine’s cheek. He pulled the short knight to the ground and sat beside him, using a small scrap of bandage from Merlin’s bag to clean the cut.

Elyan relaxed a little now that Lancelot’s attention was diverted. Gwaine was trying to push him off, claiming he was fine, but Lancelot dug one hand into Gwaine’s shoulder to hold him still.

Pain throbbed in his side, but Elyan fought to keep his face straight, biting the inside of his cheek so the groan didn’t slip out. He watched Merlin to take his mind off the pain. And to remind himself why it was so important Merlin not be distracted. The servant was ever so carefully sewing up the wound in Arthur’s shoulder.

When Merlin was only halfway through sewing, Arthur began to groan and flinch, waking up slowly and groggily.

“Damn it, not yet,” Merlin muttered. “Keep him still, Percival.” He looked over his shoulder, seeing Lancelot still busy with Gwaine and instead nodded at Elyan. “Elyan, hold his legs.”

“Of course.” Elyan gulped back a wave of pain and crawled over to Arthur, leaning his weight down onto the king’s legs just as he started to move.

Arthur came to with a strangled cry, his arms trying to move against Percival’s restraints. Leon grabbed the arm on his injured side as well, bracing it against his knees.

“What –” Arthur managed before gritting his teeth and letting out a groaned yell.

“Stay still,” Merlin ordered him, working quickly to keep stitching.

Arthur ignored Merlin’s order and struggled against Percival and Elyan’s hands. White hot agony shot through Elyan’s side as Arthur unknowingly kicked his knee into the wound. He grunted and black dots danced before his eyes, but he kept his grip, forcing Arthur’s leg back down flat to the ground.

“It’s alright, Arthur, let Merlin stitch it,” Leon spoke steadily, just a hint of pleading panic behind his voice. “You’ll be alright, just stay still.”

Please just stay still, Elyan thought, grinding his teeth.

His stomach was roiling now, as the pain blazed its way across his torso, tightening his chest until he could only gasp for breath. He just had to hold on. He forced the pain to the back of his mind, fixing his eyes Merlin’s needle for something to focus on. It dipped in and out of Arthur’s skin, reminding him of sitting beside Gwen as she sewed clothes for him and their father all those years ago.

He thought about his sister, she would be terrified when they got back to Camelot. Seeing her husband so badly injured. She wouldn’t need her worry added to by seeing her brother wounded too. Perhaps he could hide it from her as well. If he could just hold out until they got back to Camelot, he could go and see Merlin on his own and swear him to secrecy. Gaius would be busy with the king, but he was sure Merlin would be able to help him.

“Ow!”

Elyan jumped as Gwaine shouted behind him. He instinctively whipped around to look. The movement pulled at his side, flaring up the pain and bringing it to the forefront of his mind again.

“Sorry,” Lancelot muttered, his hand coming up to the side of Gwaine’s head, burying into his hair to hold it out of the way and keep Gwaine still at the same time.

“Is he alright, Lancelot?” Leon called, not lifting his gaze from Arthur.

“I’m fine!” Gwaine protested at the same time as Lancelot said, “It’s deep, but clean. It should heal well.”

“I’ll have a look when I’m finished, Gwaine,” Merlin said distractedly.

“No, focus on Arthur. I’m fine,” Gwaine whined.

Elyan’s resolve grew even stronger. Merlin didn’t need two distractions. At least his wound was still hidden. As long as no one noticed the loose links of chainmail that had been ripped apart by the bandit’s sword, he could keep it secret.

“There.” Merlin tied the end of his thread and cut it, dropping the needle back down to the cloth at his side. “Leon, water.” Leon dutifully cleaned the wound again, Arthur groaning as he did so, writhing slightly, his heels grinding down into the soil beneath him.

Elyan’s side was bumped again with Arthur’s movement, and he fought to stop himself screaming. His side felt wet, and every brush of his shirt against the wound stung. His eyes were prickling, threatening to start watering.

“Ok, you can let him go,” Merlin told Percival and Elyan, laying his hand on Arthur’s chest once Percival moved his own.

Elyan sagged back away from Arthur and staggered to his feet, stumbling back to lean on a tree. Luckily everyone else’s attention was still on Arthur and nobody noticed the way he winced as he moved.

“Arthur?” The king peeled his eyes open to look at Merlin. “Try not to move yet. I just need to look at Gwaine, and then we’re going back to Camelot.”

“I –” Arthur gritted his teeth as he tried to shift a little more upright. “I give the orders around here, Merlin,” he rasped.

Merlin chuckled, patting his chest again. “Of course you do, Sire.” He looked up to find Gwaine.

Lancelot was already pulling him over to Merlin, one hand still cradling his cut cheek with a scrap of bloody bandage. Gwaine reached a hand down to Arthur, who lifted his uninjured arm and grasped forearms with Gwaine.

“You alright?” Arthur asked.

“It’s nothing, Lancelot is just panicking that my gorgeous face might be spoilt,” he joked, sending a smirk to Lancelot who rolled his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve been better,” Arthur said with a huffed out breath of laughter.

Gwaine grinned, his eyes roaming across Arthur’s body, widening when he saw his legs.

“Shit, your leg.” He pointed at Arthur’s breeches that were soaked through with blood over his shin.

Elyan’s stomach flipped. The blood was exactly where he’d had been lying on Arthur to hold him. He glanced down at his side; the chainmail over the wound was covered with blood too. It was his blood on Arthur’s breeches.

His head felt woozy, as if seeing the amount of blood had reminded his body that he was injured. He swayed, trying to catch his balance on the tree, taking deep steadying breaths to get himself under control as pain washed over him in waves.

Merlin was already yanking Arthur’s boot off and rolling his breeches up to his knee to look at his leg. He sat back on his heels and frowned when he found no wounds. He carefully lifted Arthur’s leg, turning it and bending his knee.

“Nothing… it’s not your blood…” Merlin said, bemused.

“Elyan!” Lancelot shouted. It sounded like he was a very long way away.

Suddenly strong arms wrapped around Elyan’s chest, gently lowering him to the ground as he collapsed. Lancelot’s face swam into focus over him, scowling worriedly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Lancelot demanded, yanking at Elyan’s belt. Merlin came into focus beside Lancelot, helping him lift the chainmail up Elyan’s chest to see the wound.

“Arthur’s more important than me,” Elyan said simply.

“Don’t let him hear you say that, Elyan,” Merlin said seriously. “He’ll be furious.”

“The Round Table makes us all equal,” Lancelot added. “Arthur would hate to think you were suffering just because he’s king and you’re only a knight.”

Merlin called Percival over to help Lancelot hold him as he started threading a new needle. Elyan let himself slip into blissful unconsciousness safe in the knowledge he was surrounded by friends.

#febuwhump2021 #febuwhumpday13 #hiding injury #bbc merlin #fanfiction #elyan whump #arthur whump #gwaine whump #blood tw #physician merlin #caring lancelot #brotherhood of knights #ligi writes

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youngjusticeslut · 3 years

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Water (Chapter 2)

Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power Characters: Catra, Adora, Glimmer, Bow, Mermista, Melog Ships: Catradora Rating: G+ Word Count: 2,500 Links: AO3, FF.net Summary: Catra faces off against Mermista in the Fright Zone, putting the spotlight on old fears and new memories.

Even if Mermista wasn’t chipped, her anger would have been more than justified.

After all, Catra played a rather big part in destroying her kingdom— possibly forever. So really, what are a few water blasts in comparison to that?

Still, it’s unpleasant. Despite however just it is, every droplet makes her fur stand straight, her nerves going into total overdrive with stiff panic. She wants nothing more than to run. Water always makes her want to run.

Catra takes refuge behind a stack of crates, doing her best to catch her breath and get out of Mermista’s view. Melog is right behind her, and presses their tail to her thigh, making them disappear from view. She’s gotta admit, even though their connection is, admittedly, weird, Melog is incredibly useful. She rests a hand on their head in a gesture of thanks, her heart fluttering when Melog curls their head upward into her palm.

She doesn’t have long. Mermista will find her in a matter of seconds, and the barrage of water will begin again. Catra doesn’t need much time to recover, but a few seconds would be nice so she can think of a plan to get out of this predicament.

Should she try speaking to her? She shoots that down a second after she’s thought it. Speaking with Scorpia had gotten Catra nothing but a rather painful wake up call. No, she needs a better plan. Given that Mermista’s powers are rather inconvenient, she needs something quick, something fast that’ll get her out of here.

Catra peeks behind the crates and tries to find an escape route. Invisibility wouldn’t fool Mermista for long, but if she can just—

A blast of water hits the crate, exploding it to pieces. The force of the explosion combined with the water sends both Catra and Melog reeling, sputtering for breath. Mermista smirks, holding her hands up.

“Didn’t take you for much of a hider.”

Yeah, well, clearly she doesn’t know her that well.

Catra ignores Mermista and manages to push herself to her feet. She has about ten different words she’d like to say to her, some inappropriate, but she bites her tongue. Taunting her won’t help. It’ll only waste any energy she has, and right now she needs it to get away. Lucky for her, she barely has to consider the thought for more than a second. Before she can blink, Melog is by her side, and without having to say anything she climbs atop of them and directs them towards the door.

To her credit, the water really sent her into a frazzled, desperate state. Otherwise, she really shouldn’t have expected it to be that easy.

Mermista blocks the door with a wave powerful enough that it knocks Catra off Melog and sends them both flying in different directions. Catra’s soaked to the bone. Her ears are ringing from the force of the impact. She can just barely make out Melog’s mewling.

The water burns her lungs. It’s bringing back memories that she wants to stay forgotten.

It’s so tempting to stay there on the floor, to let the dark thoughts consume her and lose herself in the memories of the past. Catra hates the feeling of being soaked. Her fur, damp to the touch, plastered against her skin. Her tail, too heavy to move properly. The last time she’d felt like this—

Melog is by her side again. Catra’s vision is still blurry, plagued with black spots, but she can tell. She feels their equally damp skin, pressed against hers protectively. She presses a hand to Melog’s skin, letting them help her clear her head. Slowly, the dark memories ebb away from the forefront of her mind. She stops sputtering for air. The pain becomes a little more bearable.

Once everything is clear, Catra opens her eyes to see a pair of feet standing before her. Waiting. She glances upwards, hating this little predicament. She’s in the perfect spot, vulnerable to another attack, and Mermista knows it. To her credit, the controlled girl just grins.

Then, the grin falls. Her body shudders, and suddenly her eyes tinge a very familiar shade of green.

“We meet again, Little Sister.”

Melog growls, immediately shifting into their more primal form. Catra clenches onto them, trying to keep her jaw from clenching. He’s here. Horde Prime knows she’s here. And if he knows that she’s here… Her heart starts racing. The pain in her ribs suddenly makes itself known two-fold, and every breath she takes feels far more labored.

Adora.

She can't let him get to Adora.

Catra starts to move, but Mermista is quick to stop her. She steps on her chest, holding her firmly with her boot. It takes everything inside Catra not to scream from the pain. Thankfully, repressing is one of the few things she’s good at.

“How you have fallen,” Mermista sighs in a voice that doesn’t belong to her. The voice is shThe same voice that’s seared in Catra’s brain, unwilling to be forgotten.

“Let go of her,” Catra finds herself saying. The absurdity of her words doesn’t escape her notice. If the tables were turned, she’s sure that Mermista would have thrown her to the side. Catra wouldn’t even blame her. She’d probably respect her for it.

But no, now she’s here, defending a princess she doesn’t even like, for the sake of— what, being a better person? Man, sometimes being a good guy is seriously inconvenient.

Mermista cocks her head to the side, Prime’s expression never leaving her. “I will not keep her long,” she states, her voice clouded with Prime’s oozing tone. “This fight is of no significance to me. Your fighting is futile.” The princess raises her hands, and two waves of water appear, spiraling menacingly beside her. Catra scoots back on reflex, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

As much as she hates to admit it, he has a point. Catra can hold her ground with most of the princesses, but Mermista? Her powers give her a significantly upper hand.

Okay, so she needs a new plan. Escape is going to be nearly impossible to achieve on her own, not unless she feels like getting drowned by a tsunami. She definitely wants to avoid giving Mermista any more leverage than she already has. Melog won’t be much help here, the water seems to affect them almost as much as it does her.

Catra holds back a sigh; she’s going to have to call for help. If Mermista and Scorpia are here, there might be more controlled Etherians here than she initially thought. That means that the rest of the rebellion will have their hands full.

Great. She’s going to have to ask Sparkles for help.

“I don’t know,” Catra says, her eyes quickly darting to the side. The nearest control room is just a short dash away. If she can distract Prime long enough to loosen his guard, she might be able to lock herself inside and call for help. It’s not her greatest plan, but right now she isn’t left with much of a better option. “I’d say my chances of winning this fight are pretty high. Especially when you chose to occupy the weakest princess.”

Mermista’s eyes flash for the faintest glimmer of a moment. Catra smirks. Maybe she doesn’t need to distract Prime.

“Like seriously, water powers? How lame.” A blast of water shoots by her ear, and Catra acts quick, dodging the blast.. “Seriously, I’m not even trying. If you wanted a real shot of winning, you should have taken over Scorpia. Now those are some powers.”

The green hue of Mermista’s eyes fades, and the girl groans before shooting Catra a nasty scowl. “You are so annoying!”

Bingo.

Catra takes her chance and climbs atop of Melog, and both of them race for the control room. She only has a few seconds, so she needs to be fast. Not even a moment later, she hears a rush of water and knows that Prime has taken control of Mermista again.

They reach the control room, and Catra acts on pure instinct, slamming the door closed behind them and smashing keys on the control pad to lock it shut. The lock clicks just as Mermista arrives, and Catra can hardly think as she grabs the communication tablet and pounds in Glimmer’s coordinates.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Catra hisses as the line tries to connect. Silence. Of course, Sparkles remains ever unreliable. She begins entering the coordinates again, and then it dawns on her that it’s far too quiet. Mermista should have been pounding the door by now.

Before she can really mull over the thought, water begins streaming in from the cracks in the wall. Catra shrieks, immediately clambering on top of the equipment, her heart beating so loudly she can hear it in her ears. Melog follows after her, trying to stay dry but clearly panicking.

“Foolish Little Sister. You think you are so very clever, but you continue to place your trust in your rash decisions,” Mermista simpers in Horde Prime’s voice. Catra trembles as the water starts to fill the room, covering the floor. She tries thinking of an escape route, some way out of here, but there isn’t one.

A smooth chuckle comes from the other side of the door, loud enough to be heard over the rushing of water. “You could have flourished under me. But no matter. You will be eradicated soon enough.”

Catra can barely hear anything at this point. Everything seems as if it’s happening in slow motion. The water fills the room, and no matter how much higher she climbs, it will be futile. Even if she calls Glimmer, there’s no way she’ll get here in time. Still, she has to try.

She finishes punching in the coordinates, clenching the tablet for dear life as her hands tremble from fear. Moments later, Bow and Glimmer’s faces appear on the screen.

“Whoa! Are you okay?”

“Get us out of here, now!” Catra yells, her stomach wrenching as Melog starts mewling for help beside her. Hang on. They just need to hang on. Hopefully Glimmer and Bow will be able to get them out of this.

“What’s going on?”

A beam falls under the pressure. By the way the water is rising, they only have a minute or two before the whole room will be filled. “This whole thing was a trap.” Catra should have realized it sooner. She’s good at strategizing, she excels at getting inside the enemy’s head. Why hasn't she seen this coming? The water splashes her feet and she shrieks. “Why did I get the water princess?”

The water rises higher, covering her feet, then her ankles, leaving her nowhere to go, nowhere else to climb. She tries anyway and stumbles, dropping the tablet in the process. Shit. Now her coordinates are gone. It’ll take a minute for Glimmer to find her.

A massive wave of water looms overhead through the window, and Catra swallows. She may not have a minute. Melog continues to cry, and Catra reaches out for them, wrapping her arms around their neck in an attempt of comfort. “It’s okay,” she tries, though her voice trembles. “Glimmer will come.”

Another beam falls. The control panels fizzle out. One goes off by Melog, zapping them with a quick shock. The alien cat slips into the water, dragging Catra down with them.

The moment her body hits the water, Catra gasps for air. She remembers the pool. The pain. How her life had been sucked out from under her and placed firmly in Prime’s control. Everything she’d fought so hard to keep from thinking about comes to the forefront, and she splashes around the water, trying to get out.

There’s a crackle. Catra looks up just in time to see water crashing down from the ceiling, the impact of which forces her underwater. She tries to swim, but her body feels sluggish. It’s like she’s moving through tar.

As she chokes beneath the surface for air, the memories return, clear as day. Her body tingles with the shock from the green pool. She feels the back of her neck burn, and the cold steel of scissors sliding through her hair. Catra grasps at the short strands, shivering in pain, convulsing for air. The more she strains for air, the more water she swallows, burying her deeper and deeper still into the blackness.

Though cruel, perhaps drowning with her memories is the most righteous form of justice she’ll receive. Catra really thought she’d have more time. There’s so much she left unsaid. So much she wanted to see, and do, with—

Something grabs her arm. Melog, probably. They don't deserve to go like this. She hopes that alien cats don’t need to breathe to survive. If Glimmer ever gets here, maybe she’ll be able to save them.

A familiar wave of nausea rolls over her, and a moment later she’s out of the control room and on a dry pavement. Almost immediately, Catra starts coughing out water and struggles to breathe. Every inch of her is shaking, and the only thing on her mind is breathing. Someone keeps calling her name, but she can barely register it. The water is gone. Unfortunately, her memories aren’t. No matter how hard she tries to pull herself out of the depth, she finds herself stuck in the blackness.

“Catra.” Glimmer’s voice. A squeeze on her shoulder.

Instinctively, Catra jerks back with a hiss. Glimmer backs off. She frowns, her face creasing apologetically. “I’m sorry. It took me a while to find you. My connection to you isn’t as strong as…” she trails off, biting her lip.

“Where’s Melog?” Catra rasps,trying to will her vision to return to normal. She’s still shaking. If she wasn’t clenching her teeth, they’d be chattering.

“They’re fine. They need some time to recover.” Glimmer hesitantly takes a step forward. “You okay?”

She isn’t. As much as she wants to brush it off, Catra knows that Glimmer has already seen too much. It’s been made clear that her problems, and her fears, aren’t going anywhere. She pushes some wet hair away from her face and shakes her head. “No,” she admits, slowly peeling herself off the floor and sitting upright. “But I will be.”

To her credit, Glimmer only smiles. It’s in that sappy, mushy kind of way that makes Catra want to punch her, but she can live with it. “Okay.”

Later, when Perfuma offers her help, Catra makes a mental note to take her up on it. One day, when she feels brave enough to finally confront her issues, it’ll probably come in useful.

#spop #she ra #catra #adora #catradora #mermista #ariel's writing #spop fic #she ra fanfiction

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suinotsuki · 1 year

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Domestic AU: Unexpected

A/N: I just decided to post my fanfics also here on Tumblr. But, all of these are cross-posted to my AO3 account too along with the other SenHaku Week 2021 fanfics of mine! I'll be posting the other ones here every day until I'm caught up with my AO3 account! This is also the last one among the SenHaku Week 2021 fics that I posted on AO3. I hope you guys enjoyed it!

Fanfic Links: AO3 | FF.net

Other Links: Dr. Stone Masterlist

A Domestic AU with a bit of Vampire AU where Senku comes home to see Kohaku having problems. SenHaku Week 2021 Day 7: Hormones

It would be an understatement to say Senku was happy.

He was ecstatic.

His day was going well so far. There was less traffic going to work today. Their science project was successful, and they finished it before the expected date. He even got an email saying his astronaut candidate application was accepted!

The scientist was definitely in a good mood. All he had to do to complete his day was go home to his girlfriend and have a toast with her. It sounded like he was possessed, but a fine day like this was so rare in his life of 3,715 years.

As he entered the shared apartment, he was expecting to be greeted by Kohaku. There was no sign of her, however. She would usually come running and smiling at him. It was like a daily routine since she always comes home earlier than him. No matter how late it was, she was there without fail.

"Kohaku?" Senku called out.

There was only silence.

The scientist hastily took off his shoes and headed straight to their bedroom. When he opened the door, he caught the faint scent of blood. He frowned once he realized what was going on.

Kohaku was all bundled up on the bed. She wasn't sleeping, but her eyes were closed. She looked so uncomfortable that Senku's previous happiness immediately turned into worry. As he took a seat beside her, the mattress shifted beneath them. She opened her eyes and turned to him.

She weakly smiled at him. "Senku."

"Lioness, I'm home." He helped her sit up then kissed her on the forehead with tenderness. "Can you manage?"

"Ha! I'm not totally-"

Senku watched her curl up in pain as he inserted a finger in his ears. "Uhuh. Sure. It's normal for cramps to be that bad. Have you taken painkillers?"

"I wanted to tough it out."

"I don't think you're ten billion percent successful so far."

"Watch me! I'll be moving like it's nothing!" She groaned. "Just give me five minutes."

"How about I get you cranberry juice and cook while you rest up? " He suggested. Without even waiting for an answer, he patted her back and headed to the kitchen.

He could feel Kohaku keeping an eye on him from the bedroom. Senku knew she wasn't used to him showing emotions. It was so rare for that to happen. He always talked about how emotions were illogical, but he did have his moments.

After living for 3,715 years, he's been through so much as an immortal. There were points in his life he put his emotions in the backseat for logic. It allowed him to excel in the field of science more than he expected.

Kohaku was an unexpected part of his life.

She developed a crush on him, and he shot her down quickly. They remained as friends, but things still changed. He slowly grew to like her. At first, he blamed it on his hormones. He would have stuck to that.

But, he couldn't ignore the fact that vampires react strongly to the blood of their soulmates.

"Weird." He could hear Kohaku whisper before the sheets rustled in the bedroom. Senku chuckled.

Things really do change.

#dr stone #dr stone fanfiction #dr stone fanfic #kohaku #senku ishigami #senku #senhaku #senhaku week 2021 #vampire au #domestic au #vampire senku #senku living for 3715 years #human kohaku

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the-hidden-writer · 4 years

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An Odd Family Tree

A series of snippets from the lives of the FitzSimmons family, set post 7x13. Also, the series of events that leads up to the birth of their grandson.

Available to read on AO3 and FF.net.

Comments make my day!

Chapter 3: First Date

“How about this one?” Jemma asked, tossing a silky blue dress on top of the woman on the bed. “Oooh, or this one!” A red one was added to the pile.

“Mum, stop it!” Alya moaned, sitting up. “I don’t want to wear a dress this time. And if I did, I’m perfectly capable of choosing one myself.”

Jemma stopped shuffling through Alya’s wardrobe in order to glare at her daughter. “I am your mother and while you live in this house I have permission to dress you up sometimes!” She resumed her searching. “Besides, I can’t fit into any of these lovely dresses then I want my daughter to make the most of them.”

Alya laughed sadly. “I can hardly fit into them either-”

“Shush!” Jemma interrupted. “You’re beautiful, and these all fit you just fine. If you say anything negative again, I’ll tell Uncle Daniel.”

With a groan, Alya flopped backwards onto the pillow. Uncle Dan was the best back when she was little because he never let anyone tell her off, even if she deserved it- and she knew she deserved it. He was super old fashioned, but that unique charm soon made him her favourite uncle. Sadly, his protectiveness also meant that she would get a two-hour lecture about self-love whenever something self-deprecating slipped out in their conversations.

“You know,” she began, “I’ve been on loads of other dates and you didn’t make a big deal out of them. You and Dad act really weird whenever I talk about Owen. It’s kinda freaky.”

“What?” said Jemma. “Pshht, no!”

“Mum, you’re a terrible liar.”

“Tell me about it.” Fitz said, walking into the room with a worn polaroid camera. “This used to be my mum’s,” he explained, “and I thought we could take some pictures before you left, since it’s a big day and all.”

“Dad, not you too!” whined Alya. “Seriously, what’s the deal with you guys today?”

“Nothing.” They said simultaneously.

“...when you sync up it means it’s definitely not nothing.”

With a sigh, Jemma walked towards Fitz and slipped her arm around his waist. “We just think that Owen is a really good match for you, that’s all.”

“Really?” Asked Alya. “Because I get the impression that Dad hates him.”

Jemma shot Fitz a questioning look. Fitz just shrugged.

“What? He’s a sappy moron that keeps on flirting with my daughter. I’m allowed to hate him. And you’re forgetting that I was the one that-”

His sentence was cut off by a loud hiss as his wife elbowed him in the side.

“Leave your father alone,” his wife smiled through gritted teeth, ignoring his wince, “that’s just his way of showing love.”

Fitz grumbled something inaudible.

“Well, I’m going to wear something I picked out the other week.” Announced Alya, hopping off the bed. “And before you ask- no Mum, I don’t need your help. I can handle it. And no, Dad, you don’t need to take a picture with that ancient camera, I’ll take a selfie before I go. As much as I’d like it too, knowing my luck with love it’s probably not going to last with Owen anyway.”

As she left the room, Fitz turned to look at Jemma, his eyes wide with fear.

“No, no she has a point.” He said. “What if it doesn’t work out with Owen? What if we’ve gone too far?”

“I thought you hated that sappy moron?” Jemma teased, but Fitz could tell that she was equally worried.

She linked arms with him. “We can worry about that once our daughter comes back from this date.”

“She’s too young.” Fitz said without hesitation.

“She’s twenty-nine, dear.”

“No she’s not. She’s twenty-three.”

“She’s twenty-nine.” Jemma repeated quietly. They’d had this conversation every time Alya went on a date. “I used to feel so guilty for encouraging her work so much because she missed out on chances of love. But now that she’s met Shaw… I don’t know, I feel like it’s fate.”

Fitz’s jaw slowly dropped. He hadn’t been listening. He was still trying to process how old their daughter was. “Oh god… time flies.”

Jemma smiled at him sadly and began to rub his arm in a soothing gesture.

“I know dear, I know.”

Though Alya always looked like a beautiful princess in their eyes, once she’d dressed (in her own choice of outfit) and presented herself in front of her parents, she rendered them speechless.

She wore a full-sleeved white blouse that was tucked into a long patterned maroon skirt. She wore slender silver earrings that curled around tiny crystals, and the only makeup on her face was a hint of lipstick. She’d never been that interested in makeup, so the tiny effort told so much to her parents. Her usually slightly scruffy brown hair was curled and fell down to just below her shoulders.

“Wh- y-you-” Every single word Fitz tried to say got caught in his throat, so Jemma stepped in.

“You look stunning!” She exclaimed, hurrying over to her daughter’s side to fuss over her in a way that her old SHIELD teammates described as ‘like a mom straight out of the movies’.

Fitz snapped out of trace. “There is no way I’m letting you leave without taking a picture with my camera.”

Alya sighed cheekily, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Fine. Just this once, Dad.”

He rushed over to kiss her hand. “Of course, princess.”

“Dad, stop it!” She giggled, and both of her parents smiled at her warmly.

The doorbell rang not long after, and Alya’s flustered expression quickly turned into one of nervousness. “I haven’t been on a date in so long.” She muttered to herself. “What if I screw this up? Can I bail out yet?”

“You’ll be fine.” Jemma assured.

“Yeah, you will.” Fitz agreed. “As long as you make sure he keeps his grubby hands to himself and make sure that he actually pays for his food and that he doesn’t take advantage of your-”

“Okay, bye Dad!” Alya said as she rushed out of the door before her father could complete his sentence. Through the door, they could hear two voices squealing in excitement.

Jemma glared at her husband, and Fitz unmuted himself.

“...I was going to say her genius brain.”

They both broke out into laughter.

Their princess might be nearing her thirties, but she was still their little monkey at heart and they had no doubt in their minds that she always would be.

#agents of shield #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#aos spoilers #fitzsimmons #jemma simmons #leo fitz #alya fitzsimmons #owen shaw #daniel sousa #fanfic #an odd family tree

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bluenet13 · 3 years

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I'll Be There for You

The morning after the fire, an exhausted and bruised TK and Carlos find their family and friends have already taken steps to help them recover from their devastating loss.

Links: ff.net - AO3

Rousing slowly from a deep sleep, Carlos sighed in content as he instantly felt TK's arms wrapped protectively around his body. Burrowing further into the embrace, he ran his fingers over his boyfriend's arm as he enjoyed the moment of silence. If the alarm wasn't currently going off, then it must mean they had a day off, and Carlos smiled to himself already thinking of the best ways to spend their free time. Maybe they could go to the farmer's market, or take a walk at Zilker Park, or they could just stay at home and spend the whole day tangled together on the couch. All good possibilities, and even better when they all included TK close to him.

But then various sounds caught Carlos' attention, rhythmic beeping, voices he didn't recognize, doors slamming shut; all noises that didn't fit into their bedroom. And with his sense of hearing also came smell. Taking it all in, Carlos' frowned when he didn't easily recognize TK's distinct body wash that always clung to their sheets, but the smell of smoke mixed with antiseptic, neither of which belonged in their home. Opening his eyes, Carlos' frown deepened as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. And suddenly a trapped door seemed to have opened below him and Carlos was falling. The memories of the days before overtaking him with such force that his breathing caught in his throat. Gasping for breath, Carlos' eyes went wide as he was assaulted by a coughing fit. All the memories and pain from the last two days returning to the forefront of his mind, and an empty feeling setting deep in his stomach as realization hit him all at once; he had fought with TK, then their home had gone up in flames.

"Carlos?" TK's asked, voice slurred and still laced with sleep and tiredness. "Are you okay?"

At any other moment Carlos would have felt guilty for waking up his boyfriend but right now he was panicking too much to really care. He tried to answer but only air escaped his parted lips, so instead he shook his head, desperate to let the other man know that he wasn't okay.

"Carlos?" TK asked again, carefully disentangling his body from Carlos' and turning around, his own eyes now going wide as he took in his boyfriend's look. "Carlos, babe, breathe. Everything is okay, we're okay." Paramedic mode instantly took over as TK grabbed Carlos' hand and placed it over his heart, hoping the beat would ground him. "Try to match my breathing. Please." Taking in deliberate slow breaths, TK locked eyes with Carlos, his other hand moving to his wrist to take in his pulse, even when there was a perfectly capable machine located to their right who could have told him that information. But TK needed the physical reassurance more than anything.

"That's good, Carlos. Just breath, slow and easy," TK continued to instruct as Carlos' breaths finally began to even out. And at that moment he could only be grateful that neither of them was currently hooked up to a heart monitor or the entirety of the hospital would have been descending on their room right about now. "Here, just breath." Grabbing the oxygen mask that he had been wearing the night before, TK set it over Carlos' mouth before moving his hand further up to Carlos' messy curls, and running his fingers through them, the motion usually able to put his boyfriend at ease.

"Sorry," Carlos mumbled as soon as he was able to take in a normal breath again, his cheeks looking slightly pink and his eyes cast downward.

Nodding, TK leaned forward and kissed Carlos' forehead, giving him a few extra seconds to compose himself.

"What happened?" TK asked eventually.

"I sort of had a panic attack?" Carlos offered not-so-helpfully.

Fighting the instinct to roll his eyes, TK just nodded again. "I figured as much, but why? For how long had it been going on before I woke up?"

"I, uhm, I…" Carlos struggled to find words, his lips parting a few times but only little, nervous exhales coming out.

"Take your time, I'm right here." TK continued to run his fingers through Carlos' hair, his other hand still holding Carlos' over his chest.

"I just woke up, and thought it was a day off. You know, the alarm wasn't on, so it only made sense. But then I remembered everything, the fight, the fire. And -"

"And it all became too much," TK finished for him, "it's alright, babe. But you're okay, we're okay."

"Are we?" Carlos asked softly.

"We are. We're still together and that's all that matters right now, we can worry about the rest later," TK said, not an ounce of doubt in his tone or mind. "Let me call for a nurse so someone can check you out."

"I don't need a nurse, I'm okay," Carlos interjected, his eyes still looking a bit disoriented but his breathing finally back to normal.

"Okay," TK easily agreed, "but we still need a nurse if we want to get out of here." Both TK and Carlos knew they didn't really need to spend the night at the hospital, the oxygen mask sure helped, but there was a reason they weren't hooked to many machines. Their injuries had been mild and they could have gone home after the doctor gave them a clean bill of health. But they had no home to go to, and everyone at the hospital knew that, and knew them, so someone must have decided to take pity on the pair and insisted they spend the night. But there were real patients that needed the room, and TK and Carlos didn't want to inconvenience anyone more than absolutely necessary.

"Yeah," Carlos said softly, briefly remembering his previous thought of spending the night at home tangled in the couch with TK, and he chuckled sadly. They didn't have a couch or home to go to.

TK noticed, but decided to let him be for now, and instead turned around to press the call bottom for a nurse. And soon enough someone was checking them over one final time before bringing in discharge papers and letting them leave, but not before what seemed like every single medical professional in that floor, stopped by their room to wish them their best and apologize for what had happened to them. Not that it was anyone's fault, but most people here knew the officer and firefighter turned paramedic, and were fond of the pair and not-so-secretly rooted for their relationship. It didn't surprise them -it was the sort of thing that came with the territory, both their jobs sending them to the hospital often, to drop or interrogate a patient, or with injuries of their own- but it did warm their hearts.

Walking into the waiting room, Carlos and TK were greeted by Owen, Gabriel and Andrea standing by the nurse's station, no doubt waiting for them.

"My boys." Andrea was the first to speak, only taking one look at the battered pair before she closed the distance and engulfed them both in a hug. "I'm so happy to see you both okay."

"Gracias, mami," Carlos whispered, closing his eyes and letting his mother's comforting presence and touch wash over him.

"How are you two doing?" Andrea asked when they broke the embrace, her eyes soft and pained as she took in their tired faces and slumped shoulders.

"We're alright," Carlos said, his voice timid and doubtful, even as he tried to make himself sound stronger.

"No, you're not, Carlitos. But you will be. And we're all here to help you both." Andrea spoke with the certainty, care and understanding that only a mother could provide, and both Carlos and TK found themselves standing a little straighter upon hearing her words. A little hope blossoming in their chests.

"Thanks, Andrea," TK answered this time, smiling to the woman he hoped was his future mother-in-law.

"Anytime, TK, anytime," Andrea said softly, moving her hand to cup TK's cheek and holding it there for a moment.

During the brief conversation, Owen and Gabriel had continued to stand next to the nurse's station, both looking uncharacteristically quiet and evidently trying to make themselves small. They had accompanied TK and Carlos to the hospital the previous night, Andrea staying in the ranch since Gabriel had driven there straight from work, but the silence between the four had been too charged so they had left early, promising to be back the following morning.

"TK," Owen eventually said, taking a couple of tentative steps forward, his eyes on TK but still looking at Andrea out of the corner of his eye.

"Dad."

"How are you feeling, son?" Owen asked, releasing a nervous breath.

"I'm okay," TK mumbled, still not sure how he felt about his father at the moment. Owen and Billy might have rescued them, but they wouldn't have been in that position if it hadn't been for Owen, Billy, and Gabriel keeping them in the dark, and taking too long to understand Raymond's threat. Painful detail which they had learned the night before when they asked Judd how they had gotten to the condo so quickly.

"Ready to go home?" Owen wondered.

"I -" TK hesitated, turning sideways to look at Carlos, and finding a blank look on his face. And TK wasn't sure if it was due to his earlier panic attack or because he was also having conflicting emotions seeing Owen and Gabriel again.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Owen added quickly, deflating a little but his tone was even and calm.

"You should come with us to the ranch," Andrea offered, "I can prepare some soup for you, or anything else that your heart desires."

"Or to any of your friends' houses. You know they all offered," Gabriel pointed out, speaking for the first time, then wincing as soon as Andrea glared at him. "I'm just reminding them, vieja. No need to shoot daggers out of those beautiful eyes."

"Don't try to flirt with me right now, Gabriel Reyes," Andrea hissed. "You know that's never a good thing when you have made me this angry."

"What's going on?" Carlos asked, joining the conversation again after noticing how both fathers flinched at her words.

"Oh, your father knows, Carlitos. Nothing for you or TK to worry about. I already had a nice, long talk with Gabriel and Owen about what happened in this case, and they both know this isn't over." Andrea's tone was sweet, but her eyes were a storm of emotion, and all the thunder and lighting in it would be directed to the Ranger and Fire Captain in due time. "But, it's your choice boys. You can stay wherever you prefer," she added, well knowing Carlos and TK would be staying together in whatever place they picked, no way they were going their separate ways to each of their parent's houses.

At a sort of standstill, Carlos and TK turned to each other, easily communicating with their eyes as they both nodded silently. "We will stay at your place, dad," TK said softly, hating to be in this situation in the first place, having only moved into his new home less than three weeks ago.

"For now we just want to be closer to the city. We want to start looking for a new place soon, and I assume they're also going to want our statements," Carlos explained quickly, not liking the sad look that overtook his mother's eyes.

"There's time for that, mijo. Just focus on getting better now," Gabriel said, still hanging back and clearly avoiding his wife's gaze. Then he shook his head, and swallowed a few times, seemingly bracing himself. "I'm sorry for what happened Carlos. You too, TK. We're not proud of what we did, we just hope you can forgive us. Next time, if there's a next time, we will include you guys and not let you in the dark."

"Thank you, sir," Carlos said, his tone clipped, not really believing his father's words, and thinking that there would definitely be a next time because Owen and Gabriel seemed to have become a team of their own. "As for the statements, we'd rather just be done with it and put what happened between us as much as we can, so it's better to stay close. But we will head to the ranch this weekend," he added, looking directly at his mom as he finished.

Andrea perked up at that, her eyes regaining their spark. "That's great to hear, Carlitos. Anything special you want me to prepare for you?"

Carlos took a few minutes to mentally run over all of his mother's recipes, a small smile gracing his lips when he finally settled on one. "Chilaquiles? TK tried them at a restaurant a few weeks ago, and really liked them, but I keep telling him that yours are the best."

For a moment Andrea looked horrified that Carlos took TK to eat one of her signature dishes at a restaurant instead of asking her to make them, but remembering what they just went through, she decided to cut her son some slack. "Chilaquiles, it is," she said with a smile that was so much like Carlos' that it almost made TK's heart burst.

"Pero bajo en picante, por favor," Carlos whispered, trying to casually point at TK who just glared at him.

Andrea chuckled, but nodded. "Don't worry, boys. I know our white boy isn't yet used to the Reyes' level of heat."

"Thank you," TK said shily, trying not to look as embarrassed as he felt, especially because he was more than used to that level, just not necessarily in the kitchen.

"No need, my sweet boy," Andrea said, patting TK's cheek again, before turning to her son, who had a big smile on his face because this level of love and interaction between his parents and his boyfriend was a dream come true. "Now, go. You had a long night and need to rest. Nos vemos el Viernes, mi corazón."

"Te amo, mami, gracias," Carlos moved forward and hugged his mother one last time, taking a moment to share a look with his dad who was still standing behind the group. He loved his father, and he knew he would forgive him eventually, soon actually, but his deception still hurt. Especially when it had caused a fight with his boyfriend and then almost cost them their lives. So he deserved some time to process his feelings.

When mother and son parted, Carlos moved to TK and held his hand, fingers instantly being intertwined, before they followed Owen towards the parking lot.

"Owen, you will take care of the boys, right?" Andrea asked with a pointed look, as she got into her husband's truck.

"I will, promise." Owen swallowed roughly, shifting uncomfortably under Andrea's unforgiving stare. Then turned to look at his friend, already sitting in the driver's seat, and shot him a sympathetic look. Gabriel would have it much worse than him as he was going home with the enraged mother. But he knew they would both be in the doghouse for the foreseeable future. And if he was honest with himself, Owen knew they deserved nothing less for being stupid enough to put a case over their sons.

-x-x-x-

Reaching Owen's house, Carlos and TK got out of the car and sadly walked to the front door. Both of them finding it hard to believe that the clothes they wore, and whatever they had left on their lockers at work, were their only material possessions at the moment.

"I already prepared TK's old room," Owen started as he moved to open the door, "but if there's anything missing or anything you want, please let me know."

"That's Mateo's room now, dad," TK said quickly, not wanting to take his friend's room for the second time in three nights.

"Nonsense, TK. That will always be your room," Owen pointed out, "besides, you know how many guest rooms we have. And Mateo was happy to move to one of those and finally have a place to make his own."

"He could have made the other one his own, dad, this is only tempo-" TK's words cut short as soon as the front door opened and his eyes landed on the many bags and boxes occupying his dad's living room. "What's all this?"

"This is all for you, boys," Owen said with a big smile on his face, his arms wide open as he pointed to the room.

"This is too much, Captain Strand, you didn't have to. We can't accept this," Carlos rambled, eyes wide as he took in the sight in front of him.

"I didn't, Officer Reyes. Everyone did," Owen explained proudly, his heart bursting with love because the team that he had put took together not even two years ago had really become a family, always ready to help each other. And whether that was after a shooting, concussion, falling off a bridge, or a house fire, didn't matter; they were just always there for each other. "And call me Owen."

"What do you mean everyone, dad?" TK asked, his expression a lot like Carlos', eyes full of surprise and joy even when some treacherous tears pricked at the corners.

"I mean everyone, TK. That box over there is from Judd and Grace," Owen began, pointing to a different box or bag as his explanation continued. "Paul brought those two bags with Marjan. Those three are from your parents, Carlos. And that big one is from your precinct, Mitchell and your sergeant dropped it off. Nancy and Tommy brought that box on the table, and Mateo bought some groceries he's sure you both like. Those are already on the fridge or kitchen counter."

Carlos and TK looked at each other, both at a complete loss for words. Tears not flowed freely down their faces as they leaned towards each other for a chaste kiss.

"And I got you this," Owen added, grabbing a plain cardboard box with a bow and giving it to TK, "for now. I ordered other things, but they're on the way and should be delivered sometime later this week."

Grabbing the box, TK had a heartbreaking sense of déjà vu as he remembered moving into Carlos' condo a few weeks ago and his dad handing him a similar box. Déjà vu quickly became reality when he opened the box to find another box inside, one for a new blender still in its original packaging.

"It's not Marlon," Owen began, taking a step closer to his son and putting his hand on his shoulder, "but you can name this one together. And I just wanted this to be the first kitchen appliance for your new home." Owen's voice broke at the end, and he had to blink his eyes a few times.

Setting the box on the ground, TK turned to his dad and threw himself into his arms, much like he had done that day back in NY when he OD. His shoulders then started shaking as all the emotions from the last days came pouring out of him. "When we got to the condo I thought we had lost you both, there was just so much fire and smoke already," Owen began softly, his eyes darkening as he remembered the brief moment when it felt like his heart had stopped beating as he came face to face with the inferno that had become his son's home. "I never wanted any of my decisions to trickle down to you, but it happened, TK, and I hate that I can't do anything about it now. My actions cost you and Carlos your home, and I'm just so very sorry." Opening one of his arms, Owen turned to the officer who was standing rooted in place looking at them, his own eyes clouded with tears. "Come here, Carlos."

Not needing to be asked twice, Carlos moved forward and hugged Owen too, his other arm going over TK's back. Not at home, but finally at a place where he felt safe and comforted, so he allowed his tears to fall once again.

When the three men finally broke the embrace, Owen turned to look at the man he hoped was his future son-in-law. "I also need to apologize to you, Carlos. That was your home before you ever opened it to my TK, and I'm sorry my actions took that away from you."

"It's okay, Owen," Carlos said, letting out a little chuckle as Owen smiled widely, and extending his arm to TK and pulling him towards his body, before kissing his temple. "The most important part that made that condo a home is still here with me, so I'm sure we can make another place our home. It will be hard, but we have help," he continued, pointing to all the things their friends had gotten for them. "And, I think my mom already laid into you and my dad because of what happened, so we should cut you guys some slack." Breathing slowly in and out, Carlos made a point to remember those words on Friday night so he could forgive his father too.

"She sure did, Andrea Reyes is a very scary woman, especially when her baby boy is involved," Owen said, laughing as Carlos' cheeks gained some color, "But you're very lucky to have such a strong and loving mother in your corner. You both are. At one point I wondered who was TK's parent because of how fiercely she spoke about you." TK let out a little, nervous chuckle after hearing those words, and his face turned a nice shade of red, but he said nothing.

Silence quickly overtook the room after Owen suggested the boys take a look at the items left for them, TK quickly squealing excitedly as he opened a box to find at least 7 hoodies, all in different colors, and all in his exact size, and various printed button downs with different patterns ranging from Hawaiian to colorful stripes, and dots, which must have been picked out by Marjan or Nancy. And Carlos quickly joined in TK's delight as soon as he looked into a bag from Paul to find a variety of polos and t-shirts, all in various shades of blue, dark green, grey and a couple black ones, along with some sleeveless gym shirts and some shorts. Finally, moving together to a box marked 'From Judd' in black Sharpie, they both frowned taking in its weight. Opening it, TK dropped his hands to his sides, and Carlos' eyes went a shade darker, as they took in the two fire extinguishers stashed inside.

"That one came with a note," Owen called from behind, handing them a small piece of paper.

'One for the kitchen, and one for the bedroom. We're glad you're both okay. PS: Offer still stands to come stay with us if your parents start driving you crazy. Just give me a call or shoot a text. Or even just show up at the door.'

"He must have heard us," TK whispered, choosing to focus on that inconsequential fact than over the enormity of that and this moment.

"Yeah," Carlos said, voice equally low. "I'm still sorry that -"

"Stop," TK interrupted before Carlos could get another word in. "No more apologies, we both already did, and now it's time to move forward." They had talked about it the previous night and both apologized, even when TK knew he was the only one that really needed to be forgiven.

Carlos nodded, grasping TK's hand and pulling him towards the boxes from his parents and coworkers. "Wow." Was his only response as soon as they began opening them, finding a new video game console along with games and an additional controller, various books, some of which were Carlos' favorites, along with new towels, and a couple of sheets for the bed.

"Everyone left receipts too," Owen pointed out, handing them a stash of paper. "Just in case there's something you'd rather exchange."

Taking in the receipts, TK shared a thought that had just occurred to him. "Dad, it's not even noon, and the fire happened last night. When did everyone have time to drop all this?"

"Oh, I'm not exactly sure, but I think the first knock on the door was at 7:30."

"Wow," TK exclaimed now, echoing his boyfriend's comment from a moment ago. "They didn't have to," TK added more to himself than anyone else.

"They didn't" Owen agreed, "but of course they would, you two are family to everyone that came to drop something. And you would have done the same for any and all of them."

"We would," TK and Carlos said in unison, sharing a smile, and then a more passionate kiss as they turned to look at each other.

"And that's my cue to leave." Owen chuckled to himself, already halfway to the kitchen. "I will be here making lunch, you boys just take it easy and relax. But don't be surprised if there's a knock or two on the door, I know a lot of people want to make sure you're both really okay."

Carlos and TK spent the next few hours opening all the boxes and bags, finding more clothes and other personal items, among other things, but true to Owen's words, they were interrupted every half hour or so by someone knocking on the door wanting to see how they were doing. At the end of the day, Carlos and TK not only had a lot of new items under their possession, but a fridge and kitchen counter full of dishes their friends had brought so they didn't have to waste time cooking and instead focused on their hunt for a new home.

"This one seems nice, the complex has a pool and gym," Carlos said later that night, when they had retreated to their room after eating dinner with Owen and Mateo. "What are you doing?" He turned around to show his phone's screen to TK with his newest Zillow discovery and snickered when he saw TK standing in front of the mirror

"Just trying on some of the new outfits," TK replied with the first sincere smile Carlos had seen in the last days, "need to pick something nice to wear to dinner with your parents on Friday." TK and Carlos had spent most of the afternoon thanking people in person or over the phone for their kindness, but now more than ever TK felt infinitely grateful for the gesture and the distraction and hope it had provided. It seemed that when the world was determined to show them how dark it could get, their friends were there to shine their light upon them.

"I like this one," Carlos said, holding a blue and white button down to TK, before turning back to his phone and continuing to browse the app after bookmarking his latest find.

TK nodded and grabbed the shirt, picking an outfit for Carlos to try and throwing it to him with no words but a little smirk on his face.

Not being able to deny his boyfriend anything, Carlos set his phone on the bedside table, and joined TK in front of the mirror. Taking off his shirt so he could try the one TK had selected for him.

TK's eyes darkened as he took in his boyfriend's body and he had to bite his bottom lip to stop it from quivering. "On second thought, I like you better that way," he whispered, taking back the shirt and throwing it onto a chair. Moving his hands to Carlos' hips, he began to run his fingers over every inch of exposed skin. Their lips colliding a second later.

"I can go to the ranch naked, I don't think my mother would approve," Carlos breathed against TK's lips when they parted for breath.

"We can continue playing dress-up tomorrow, but you can be naked for me tonight," TK croaked, his hand on Carlos' wrist as he pulled him towards the bed. "We need to finish what got interrupted yesterday."

"Your dad and Mateo are here," Carlos hissed, but still followed.

"They can just wear headphones," TK said with a smug grin, "besides, they insisted we stay here. What did they think would happen after surviving that fire yesterday? I doubt they thought we would go for a run or the gym to release all this pent-up energy and emotions."

Carlos and TK had survived the fire the night before and today their parents and friends' actions had warmed their hearts, but now it was time to create some heat of their own.

#911 lone star fanfiction #911 lone star #tarlos #tk strand #carlos reyes #owen strand #reyes family #126 crew #coda 2x12 #The Big Heat

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calenheniel · 4 years

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Queen of the Ashes, a frozen fanfic | Part IX

Frozen | Alternate Universe | Hans x Elsa | Romance, Drama | T+

They meet as children, each with a secret. Plagued by tragedy, their paths cross again many years later, and their secrets are unraveled.

Follow updates: #QueenoftheAshesFrozen

Read below, or find links to AO3/FF.Net/Wattpad on my Tumblr.

Author’s Note: The longest chapter to date, as I had to accomplish with Hans's backstory in one installment what I did with Elsa's in several. It is an intentional choice on my part not to refer to characters, for the most part, by their first names; in part, to give the overall story a more fairy tale-like atmosphere, but also to demonstrate the anonymity Hans assigns to his own brothers and father, as their cruelty is so all-encompassing as to be indiscriminate. As we Frozen fans often glibly ask of Hans, "who hurt you?" Well, here's my take on the answer to that question.

»»————-　❈　————-««

IX.

The boy was five years old when the king presented him with his first pair of gloves.

They were white and soft, made of the finest kid skin, and he stared at them in bemusement.

Are these for me?

Yes, the man said. You’re to wear them on your hands at all times, from now on.

He looked up at the king with a frown. All the time? Why?

The older man’s gaze narrowed. You know why. Now put them on.

The boy crossed his arms, the gloves tucked against his biceps. No. I don’t want to.

The king pulled his arms out until they were straight in front of him, seized the gloves from his grasp, and in two swift movements he forced one, and then the other, onto his small hands.

The boy wriggled under the older man’s grasp, flames shooting up and licking against the gloves and at the king’s skin.

The man let go of him with a grunt, pulling his hands towards his sides, and watched as the boy’s gloves slowly disintegrated within the fire that enveloped them.

Insolent child, he rumbled. I will have another pair made, and you will wear them.

I won’t, the boy exclaimed, shaking off the ash from his fingers. You can’t make me!

The king scowled and snapped the back of his hand across the boy’s face hard enough to make him lose balance and fall to the cold stone floor below.

The boy glared up at him with watering eyes, pressing one hand to the injured cheek and raising the other towards the king.

The older man grabbed the outstretched hand, his expression dark and hard even as the boy’s fire encompassed his grasp.

You will never raise this hand to me again. Do you understand?

The boy’s lower lip trembled as his fire sputtered out, smoke rising from the burnt edges of the king’s gloves, saying nothing.

The king released his wrist, putting out the remaining embers. Good. Now get up, and go back to your lessons.

The boy rose with effort, his arms straight by his sides, and bowed.

Yes, Father.

»» —— ««

The boy received another pair of gloves a week later, but did not raise a fuss when instructed to put them on, feeling his father’s eyes boring into his small, shrinking figure.

He wore them dutifully every day after that, though they often made his hands sweat and slick from over-long use. He dared not allow the king to see him without them, for the risk of injury and humiliation was too great, hanging over him like a thundercloud.

His brothers, seeing the king’s animosity towards their youngest brother from an early, copied it in the hopes of winning their regent’s favor. After several entreaties to his father to make them stop were met with little more than a retort of sort it out with them yourself, the boy stopped asking, and retreated to the refuge of his bedroom.

There, he took to experimenting with his magic in-between lessons and meals, training his flames with his bare hands into the shapes of fantastical beasts and far-off places that he had read about in his picture books.

Eventually, however, many of his brothers intruded on this space, each with a new taunt or trick to play on the “Unlucky Thirteenth” prince. Whether it was placing a snake in his bed, horse manure in his boots, or dusting the insides of his gloves with chili powder, they performed each stunt with wicked glee.

Hardly sleeping through the night and instinctively checking every inch of his room each morning to try and discover whatever fresh horrors they might have planted for him, the boy’s erstwhile hobby of fire sculpting fell to the wayside. In his newfound vigilance, he wore his gloves so often, and for so long, that their fine and durable needlework began to fray.

Even as he grew more adept at neutralizing their threats, so did his brothers’ attempts grow in outlandish cruelty—and it was during one such attempt that his burgeoning ability to control his magic faltered.

Just after his seventh birthday, the boy returned to his room after supper to find a scarecrow stolen from the kitchen gardens laid out upon his bed, its straw stuffing strewn all over and tucked inside of his sheets.

Buried in its torn shirt were several daggers, and across its nondescript, yellow face was written “HANS” in animal’s blood, a fact he discerned from the heavy smell of iron which permeated the air.

In his terror, the boy dragged the scarecrow to the bedroom of his oldest brother by its neck, fighting back sobs. The oldest prince was one of his only brothers who never seemed to be involved in the others’ schemes, preferring to stay by the king’s side and focus on preparing for his eventual role as future monarch.

When the boy banged on his door, the prince answered with a scowl.

What do you want? I’m in the middle of my studies.

The effigy fell from the boy’s hand as he dragged it into the room. I think Magnus or Alfred did this, he said through sniffles, clenching his fists at his sides. I just want it to stop, Frederik.

The prince bent over the scarecrow and plucked a dagger from its body, eyeing it with interest, and then looked back at the boy as he slid it into his belt.

Are you really crying, Hans? Over a prank?

The boy shook his head, and his tears fell more freely. But they painted my name on its face with blood, and—

So what?

The boy was struck dumb by the cold indifference in his brother’s reply, his mouth agape.

The prince’s scowl deepened. You’ll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.

The boy’s jaw tightened, flames licking at his fingertips and burning up the gloves on his hands. This isn’t fair, he hissed through his tears, and in the next moment threw a ball of fire at the scarecrow.

His brother fell back against the door with a shocked exclamation, a mixture of fear and disgust swirling in his eyes as he watched the straw man burn. Sweat poured down his face as he turned his stare back on the boy, his mouth twisting.

What are you, devil!

The shout was loud enough to attract attention from a servant outside, who knocked on the door.

Is everything all right, Your Highness—

Get my father, quickly!

The boy’s face paled at the mention of the king, and the flames in his hand were extinguished as quickly as they had come. His effigy continued to burn on the floor.

The smoke produced by the fire caused the oldest prince to cough and flee the room, leaving the boy alone to stare helplessly at his handiwork as the fire swelled, erasing his name on the face of the scarecrow and eating into the antique Persian rug below it.

By the time his father arrived with several servants in tow, each with scarves tied around their faces and bearing two buckets of water, the fire had consumed over a third of the rug and had begun to crawl up a bedpost. With their intervention, they were able to save the bed from being turned to cinders, and the boy was rushed out by a guard into a private meeting room adjoining the east wing of the library, far from the site of the bedlam.

He waited for what seemed a year in the small room, lit by a single candelabra the guard had left for him, before his father reappeared.

The king wore a thunderous glower. I’ve spent the last hour lying for you, to make sure everything looked like an accident, he began as soon as the doors were closed behind him, staring down his long nose at the boy’s recoiling figure. Unfortunately, however, Frederik saw what you did, and now he knows what you are. And so do Antoni and Harald.

The boy’s skin turned pallid at the mention of his two other oldest brothers. How do they know? I didn’t show them it.

I told them, the king replied. I can’t trust Frederik alone to bear the knowledge of this. Between the three of them, there is a better chance it will be properly contained.

The boy quivered. But—but they’ll tell the others—

They won’t, the king interrupted, crossing his arms. They’ve sworn an oath of secrecy to me, for which they will forfeit their lives if they dare break it. No word of this curse can ever be spoken.

The older man’s eyes tightened.

Tell me the reason why, boy.

The boy swallowed the lump in his throat. The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he recited, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

Yes, the king affirmed, and suddenly seized the right arm of the boy, grasping it as he rolled up the sleeve of the white shirt. And you would do well to remember that.

He withdrew a dagger from his belt a moment later – a dagger, the boy realized, not unlike the ones stuck into the scarecrow – and sliced a long, precise cut into the boy’s skin from his elbow down the length of his forearm, drawing blood.

The boy shrieked and tried to jerk his arm away, his skin and the air around him growing hotter, but his father held him in place.

Every time you disobey me, I will mark your skin so that you will never forget it.

He wiped the blade on his pant leg before sliding it back into its leather scabbard, ignoring the pained whimpers of the boy as he released him.

The king glanced at the boy’s bare hands, still dusted with ash, and glared at him. The next time I have gloves fashioned for you, they will be the last pair you’ll have until you’re grown. Do you understand?

The boy clutched his arm to his chest, where the blood stained his shirt red.

He bowed his head. Yes, Father.

The king uncrossed his arms. Good. Now go back to your room. The others will become suspicious if you’re gone for too long.

The boy’s lower lip curled and trembled. But my arm—

A servant will come and take care of it later, he snapped. Now go, before I lose my patience.

The boy kept his eyes trained on the floor, and bowed.

Yes, Father.

»» —— ««

In the aftermath of the fire, the king grew stricter with the princes, their schedules consisting only of schoolwork and daily exercise.

They were watched closely by their tutors, with corporal punishment for misbehavior enforced regularly enough that the brothers, one by one, came completely under the heel of their father.

The younger and middle princes, unused to such harsh penalties, blamed their youngest brother for these new measures. Though their father had been clear and adamant in his insistence that the fire was the fault of a clumsy servant – the same that had alerted the king to its existence – and the servant had been whipped for his mistake, the sharp and dark looks which the oldest three princes cast at the youngest alerted the others that all was not as it seemed.

A few of them also spotted the bandages under the boy’s shirtsleeve, and noticed his difficulty in keeping up with them in their fencing matches or other sports. This confirmed their suspicions that he had done something worthy of punishment.

Nevertheless, the heightened scrutiny of the princes’ behavior made it harder for them to do much more than jeer at the boy, or slip notes under his door and into his pockets wherein vulgar obscenities were written that disparaged his appearance and character.

Even with this relative quiet, freed from the more terrifying provocations that had plagued his formative years, the boy’s existence grew gray and dull—for of all his brothers, he knew that his father kept the closest eye on him, and was waiting for the boy to slip up again.

The king assigned an especially strict and cold nursemaid to watch over the boy, and she paid little mind to his grunts and whines when she would dress him, pulling his sleeve roughly over his wounded arm, or when he would cry out when given baths in ice-cold water.

Understanding that his pleas would lead nowhere, and seeing that they had equally little impact on the old woman, the boy withdrew into himself. He spoke only when spoken to, read voraciously, and the vicious remarks of his brothers became no more than passing whispers on the wind.

It was unexpected, then, when the king announced that the boy and his brothers would accompany him on a diplomatic visit to Arendelle, their neighbor to the north.

For many of the younger princes, including the boy, it would be their first voyage outside of the kingdom, and so they spoke about the opportunity with excitement; the older ones, meanwhile, greeted the news with apathy, knowing from experience how little time they would have to themselves outside of official meetings and events.

The boy, dreading the prospect of being quarantined with his brothers onboard a ship, steeled himself for months in advance. He paid close attention during lessons to the history of Arendelle, and memorized the names of everyone in the royal family going back several generations. Expecting that he might be isolated and kept apart from his brothers and Arendelle’s royalty so that he would not cause an incident, he prepared a small pile of books to take with him so that he might still have some semblance of his regular life.

They departed on his eighth birthday for the northern kingdom, with several servants accompanying them (including the old nursemaid, much to the boy’s displeasure), and the quarters were close enough that the other princes could not do much more than play the occasional prank on the boy without a tutor or servant spotting their misdeeds and reporting them to the king.

Aside from a dramatic bout of seasickness which plagued the younger princes during their first day on the ocean, the voyage was quieter than the boy anticipated. Once he had adjusted to the swaying of the ship, he found a measure of peace resting outside in the cool breeze, salty air, and warm sun, and was disappointed to leave it when they arrived after only a few short days at their destination.

Upon landing, he was kept apart from his brothers, and his nursemaid assigned to monitor his every move. For all the renown of the fjords, lakes, and mountains of Arendelle, he saw only dusty outlines of them from his bedroom window.

After a few days of being mostly confined to his quarters, he found himself wishing that they had never made the journey at all.

Midway through the first week of their visit, he was, without warning, shunted off to entertain the young daughters of the King and Queen of Arendelle. The girls’ wide-eyed looks and endless questions irritated the boy, unused to the attention or expectation to converse, and he refused their invitations to play as he read his books or pretended to sleep.

It was not until the end of that week that the boy discovered the great secret of the older princess by accident, witnessing as she conjured snow and ice from her fingertips, molding the elements into the shapes of animals and castles and snowmen.

At first, this amazed him, and he watched the spectacle in disbelief. This astonishment, however, quickly turned into envy, as he saw the girl’s freedom and joy as she played with her sister—and then to anger as he fled the room at the thought that he was unable to do the same.

The reappearance of the older princess that evening, along with her tearful pleas for the boy to keep her magic a secret, caught him by surprise. Recognizing the same fear in her that he held in his own heart, he acquiesced to her request, and stared at his door long after she had left.

In the days that followed, he became kinder to the princesses, and even joined in some of their games. It was a bond unlike anything he had known before, and though he still deemed some of their conversations and activities too juvenile to engage in (he drew the line at playing dress-up), their time together allowed him to relax and speak more than he had with anyone else in years.

His relaxedness in their company even led him to tell a tale of a boy who could make fire, modeling the story after his own life insofar as he could without revealing his secret.

But in the telling and subsequent pressing by the princesses for further details, he became reticent and cold, sensing that he had said too much. For all the comfort he knew it would bring to the older girl to know that he understood her troubles, the trained eyes and ears of his nursemaid and the scar on his arm kept him silent.

By the time he and his family were scheduled to depart for home, the boy’s heart was heavy with regret. He had kept himself apart from the young princesses in the days prior to his voyage, though his refusals to see them had resulted in several icy baths and hard slaps to his face. He expected that they would never want to see him again with how he had behaved, and after being told as much by his nursemaid.

Just as before, however, the older princess shocked him in her parting request and gesture, leaving him with a delicate ice sculpture of his own. When the object melted in his hands before he could admire its craftsmanship, he cried, feeling its loss more keenly than any other hurt he had weathered in recent memory.

Upon their return to the Isles, the boy’s brothers – finally free from the constraints of propriety expected of them as guests in a neighboring kingdom – once again made him the target of their antics and schemes, finding ways of getting around the tutors to plant nails on his mattress or needles in his hairbrush.

The maltreatment, while nothing new to the boy, startled him after going so long without it. He tolerated it without complaint for the first month following their return, but as their tricks escalated, he found it harder to control his instinctive reactions to them.

Burning small holes in his gloves with increasing frequency, he spent many sleepless nights learning to patch them up with sewing books he had discreetly borrowed from the library. His handiwork was rough, but decent enough to go unnoticed.

The nights spent in this fashion allowed him time to think on his visit to Arendelle, and to recall in vivid detail the way he felt when he saw the older princess’s ice magic—as well as her pleading to know more about his own, by way of the boy in the story he had told her.

The innocent curiosity and genuine sympathy she expressed for this character and his plight touched him long after they had parted ways, and he began to wonder why he was not allowed to feel the same way about himself as she did.

One evening, after falling victim to a particularly inventive prank involving his favorite dessert (in which his brothers had paid off kitchen staff to serve him eclairs filled with grasshoppers instead of cream), he had burnt his gloves badly enough that he stayed up well past his usual bedtime to repair them.

He worked by the light of one candle on the floor, his eyes straining against the growing darkness to perform the careful stitching required for the operation. He could not risk lighting more than one, should a servant passing by his room see any light under the door and report it to his father; but as the hours passed, it became more and more difficult to focus on his task, and his eyes drooped as the flame died.

The boy was awakened the next morning by a rough shake by his nursemaid, and then a hard slap on his shoulder as the king hoisted him up off the floor to stand, dismissing the older woman from the room.

The king shook the boy’s patchwork gloves in his face. Did you think no one would notice, boy? he asked, and threw them onto the floor. To think you would sink so low as to perform a woman’s work.

The boy recoiled. I just thought—

What? That you could avoid punishment? the king interrupted, and scoffed. He grabbed the boy’s chin and pulled it upward, examining the large bags under his eyes, and let go of him just as suddenly.

You know the penalty for using those accursed powers of yours. Take off your shirt.

The boy’s lip trembled as he stood in place, remembering the girl with blue eyes and snow-kissed skin.

But I’m not the only one—

He stopped mid-sentence as the desperate, crying figure of the princess appeared as clear as daylight to him in the room.

You have to keep it a secret, she seemed to whisper to him again.

The king watched his son object with a half-formed thought, and then pause as if frozen in place, with a frown. Get on with it, boy, he growled, jolting the boy from his reverie.

The youngest prince bowed his head, and began to unbutton his shirt. When it was halfway open, the king turned him around and pulled it down until it hung loosely around his biceps, exposing his entire upper back.

Expecting the cut to be sudden and precise like the last one, his shoulders raised in anticipation, the blades tense and shaking. Instead, nothing happened for a time, and only the sound of the boy’s sharp, terrified breaths were audible in the otherwise silent room.

I wanted you dead from the moment you were born, the king said at length, his voice low and menacing. For killing my Therese, my evening star. When I learned of your curse, I wished for it even more.

He paused to unsheathe his dagger from his belt. Were it not for the love she bore you, I swear I would have done it.

He pressed the point of the dagger into the bottom of the boy’s left shoulder blade. And for my weakness, you yet live, and cause our family great shame. And this you must remember, as I must remember it, and bear this curse as punishment for our sins.

The cut was longer and deeper and slower than the first, running from that shoulder blade down to the small of his back, the king yanking down the shirt as he went.

The boy bit back his cries of pain all the while, swallowing his sobs, waiting until he heard the dagger slide back into its sheath before he dared to pull his shirt back up over his back. Fresh blood seeped through the cloth.

His mouth was dry, but he turned to face the king, repeating the words he knew the man wanted to hear before he would finally leave the room.

The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he said, bowing, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

The older man stepped back a few paces, and grunted. Leave the gloves to the servants to repair, he replied. If I catch you doing it again, I trust you understand the consequences.

The boy’s head remained bowed.

Yes, Father.

The king stayed a moment longer, and the boy kept his back bent and stiff, though the gesture caused him great pain. When the older man left, the nursemaid was sent back in to wash and dress the boy’s wound, which pulsed and ached under the woman’s callous ministrations.

As he struggled to stay conscious, the loss of blood draining him of his remaining strength, the visage of the princess reappeared to him at the other end of the room.

Her face was wan and melancholy.

Please, she said, her voice a distant echo. Please don’t tell anyone.

His eyes drifted shut, and he nodded.

I won’t, Elsa.

»» —— ««

The memory of the snow princess remained fresh in the boy’s mind as the months and years drew on, the cut across his back fading to a pink line.

Though he continued to suffer injuries of a similar scale at the hands of his brothers (including an especially brutal attack that left an long, dark scar across his chest), he once again became inured to their monstrous whims, turning ever more resolutely to his private studies.

These consisted of long nights spent reading books on mythology, legends, and fairy tales that he had managed to sneak out of the library at odd times of day, examining them for clues or insights into his condition. Having recorded in his spare time the routes taken by the guards on their regular rounds, and knowing the exact times when the nursemaid would check in on him, he taught himself how to navigate the palace without being seen.

In spite of the king’s declaration during their last confrontation, and the general threat of being found out at any moment by his older brothers, the boy now knew that another child existed with powers like his—another child whose parents and sister were all alive and well and happy, and therefore did not seem to be “cursed” with her magic as punishment for past crimes committed.

With such knowledge, he felt his fear about the possible consequences of his actions dissipate, and he delved deeper and deeper into the far recesses of the library’s archives, finding older texts with references to shamanistic rituals and practices long since forgotten. Others were written in ancient runes whose meanings he could not discern, and dared not ask his tutors to decipher for him.

The texts hinted at the source of his powers, and, presumably, the girl’s: that they were elemental, of nature, and exceedingly rare. Though some tales and myths presupposed that they were the result of a witch’s curse, or borne of the sins of the child’s parents, others theorized that they were gifts from God, or passed down from ancient civilizations of trolls, elves, and wights who had intermarried with humans.

Even without a definitive judgement from the books, the boy grew emboldened by their notions and by their colorful, if faded, illustrations of this elemental magic. He tried to replicate the shapes and designs he saw in them with his own powers, and after many haphazard attempts resulting in some of his furniture, carpeting, and drapes being singed, he gradually developed an impressive degree of control over his abilities.

In the company of others, the boy showed an equal level of control over his temperament, asking for nothing and never complaining about the injuries he suffered at his brothers’ hands. Without any fight from him, they began to lose interest in their persecutions, and moved on to other, more mature fancies, such as playing cards and pursuing young ladies at court.

(In the latter activity, however, they continued to actively discourage potential partners of the opposite sex who might otherwise take a shine to him, whispering that the “Unlucky Thirteenth” would surely make a poor husband, and an even worse lover.)

By the time the youngest prince turned fourteen, even the king had come to begrudgingly acknowledge his son’s careful and studious behavior, rewarding him with a tan foal for his birthday.

It was not a unique or grand gift, as all of the princes had been given horses long before then, and at a much greater price to the king than the one accorded to his youngest son. Even knowing this, the boy recognized it as the first thing that he could truly call his own outside of clothes and books, and he raised the foal by hand, naming it “Sitron” after the sole lemon tree in the kitchen garden which had survived the harsh winter.

Ignoring the jeers and slurs thrown at him by his brothers, he visited the creature daily, combing down its mane, training it for riding, and checking its food and water to ensure that it was free of pests and parasites.

He whispered to the horse as if to an old friend, confessing to it his troubles, hopes, and dreams. In imagining that the creature could understand him and shared his burden, he found that the harassment of his brothers affected him less than before, and he directed most of his spare energy and time to looking after his newfound charge.

The king lectured the boy on smelling of manure, but otherwise allowed him to care for the creature in the manner he wished, pronouncing it a better use of his time than burning gloves and carpets.

The boy, in turn, grew less interested in his former studies of shamans and strange cultures, and no longer saw visions of the snow princess from his childhood. With little room in his schedule between his regular coursework, riding lessons, and chores in the stables, he hardly practiced his magic.

Nonetheless, he continued to wear his gloves out of habit, sometimes forgetting that they were not a part of his skin.

»» —— ««

As he grew into a young man, his thoughts increasingly turned to what careers the king might allow him to have, given his specific circumstances.

The memory of the open sea on the voyage to Arendelle, and of the liberation he felt out upon it, thus directed his efforts towards following in the footsteps of his royal predecessors by entering naval service.

Knowing that the king would be skeptical or even averse to the idea, the young man became warier than ever in keeping his public appearance respectable and controlled. No untoward word left his lips, nor did he utter a single sentence that was not deliberately weighed and chosen for maximum personal advantage.

When, by his seventeenth birthday, his father had not yet approached him about his future, the prince took the liberty of requesting a private audience with him.

The king, having become less severe with age, still cut an imposing figure in person. He eyed the young man with suspicion, but also undisguised interest, as he waved for him to approach the throne.

Yes, boy? What is it?

The young man bowed. I’d like to follow in my brothers’ footsteps, and yours, Father, he said. If you would have me, I would be honored to serve in your Navy.

And leave your beloved pet here, to be tended by the stable boys? the king mocked, chuckling. When his jab did not produce a reaction, his smirk dropped, and he sighed. I suppose you’ve comported yourself decently enough these last few years, though there is still the matter of your curse to consider.

The old man paused. However, it would look strange for a Prince of the Southern Isles to forego naval service, and I have no appetite for coming up with excuses for why you should miss yours.

The young man, expecting the king to arrive at this conclusion, could not help but smile a little when he did.

The king frowned. Do not look so pleased—I have not agreed to anything. But I will think on it.

The young man bowed again. Thank you, Father. I am grateful for your consideration.

The king grumbled something incomprehensible in reply, and waved for him to leave.

The young man complied and returned to the stables, greeting his grown horse with a triumphant smile.

It’s happening, Sitron, he whispered, resting his forehead against his friend’s. Soon.

»» —— ««

His orders to begin his naval education were delivered to him by the king’s page two weeks later, the ink still fresh on the page. It noted that should the prince pass the rigorous entrance examination, he would then gain admission to the academy, and upon graduation given his official commission.

It was a process he knew well from watching his older brothers go through it, and had prepared for in advance. He elected to undergo the examination only a month later, and though he had hoped to take it amongst his peers, the king forbade it, insisting that he be alone and monitored by a single tutor.

To his family’s surprise, the young man passed the test with flying colors, and was promptly admitted to the academy. The dean noted him for being at the top of the entering class, and even the king was forced to acknowledge this accomplishment during the welcoming ceremony.

He continued to excel in his initial two months of basic training, earning the hard-won respect of his peers as they learned everything from drills and loading firearms, to studying navigation and maritime law. It was the first time the young man could recall being in a group to whom he felt he could truly belong, and he dedicated his every effort to integrating himself with them while remaining a stellar student.

Slowly, however, his peers began to withdraw from him, and even mocked him from a distance. Eventually, they did so openly, undermining him through tactics such as sabotaging his weapons so that they would not fire during drills, or sending notes to the instructors signed with his name, causing him to endure additional, harsh exercise on top of their regular routines.

It was not difficult for the young man to guess at the source of the change. Two of his brothers and most active childhood tormentors, Alfred and Magnus, were upperclassmen in the academy and had disliked his entrance from the start. This disapproval was matched only by the eleventh and twelfth princes’ envy of his spectacular exam score and quick ascent to popularity within the freshman class.

The sixth prince, Stefan, served as a “special advisor” to the academy’s leadership, a role which amounted to little more than having the power to “strongly” recommend the sons of his political friends and benefactors for admission. He happened to be quite close to Alfred and Magnus, and had worked the levers of power on many occasions to grant them special privileges unavailable even to other cadets of high renown. Like his brothers, he had never been shy in demonstrating his antipathy towards the youngest prince, though he could not go against the king in denying him admission.

The young man’s suppositions were verified by one or two sympathetic classmates, who told him in confidence of the slurs and rumors they had heard about him from his older brothers.

These included stories ranging from the absurd – such as the one in which the youngest prince was actually born with mental deficiencies, and so had cheated his way to the top of the entrance exams with his tutors’ help – to the vile, wherein they claimed it was common knowledge within the palace that he had sexual relations with his horse.

While he was doubtful as to what extent everyone believed these cruel inventions, he realized that the powerful positions his brothers occupied inside the academy meant that his peers would sooner submit to the older princes’ wills, than to defy them by defending the youngest prince’s honor and integrity. As they were all sons of the cloying, obsequious noble families he had grown up observing at court, he knew that his low status within the royal family would not, nor could not, assist them in meeting their lofty ambitions.

Recognizing the source of his misery did not make it any easier to bear, and as the months dragged on and the sabotages and pranks escalated, the young man came to the conclusion that he would find no greater peace or freedom on the sea than he did on land.

Privately, he had decided to see the course through to the end, though he often longed for the solitude of his old life. Most of all he missed his horse, and whenever the students were given their holiday and seasonal leave, the palace stables were the first place to which he returned.

In the company of the affectionate, happy creature, well-tended to by trusted stable hands during his long absences, the young man was able to forget his worries at the academy for a time.

His second and third years proved more fulfilling as he pursued the master-line and became a full cadet. His classes fell in line with his own interests in history, economics, and strategic warfare, and he specialized in naval law, thinking he might be able to excel in such a field after graduation.

Remembering the grievances suffered during his first year, however, the young man took care to publicly perform at merely an average level in all his endeavors. He did not score too high or work too fast to draw unwanted, jealous attention, nor did he do too little and draw scorn.

The effort of disguising his true intellect and ability, while shielding him to some degree from continued harm, weighed on the young man in a way that his brothers’ schemes did and could not. He resented the smug looks his fellow cadets would shoot him when they saw how low the prince’s test scores had fallen from his initial entrance exam, and the triumphant smirks they would wear when they tied rope knots faster than him.

Moreover, his instructors at the academy – many of whom had once praised him as a natural and thoughtful leader for his peers – openly expressed their disappointment in his sudden descent.

Sometimes, when he was out at sea on an exercise, he would allow himself a stray thought, or two, or three, about how he could incinerate everything and wipe those smirks and disappointed looks off their faces, once and for all; but upon seeing the gloves on his hands, these violent fantasies would die as quickly as they had come.

The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he would hear his father say, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.

»» —— ««

Pacified by the sight of the youngest prince isolated and with lower marks on his assignments, his older brothers gradually stopped spreading some of the fouler rumors they had started about him. They graduated one or two years ahead of him, and as each prince exited the academy, so did the burden on their young brother lift a little bit.

Wary of their influence and reach with the other cadets still enrolled, he continued to keep his work unremarkable.

By the time of his own graduation three years after entering the academy, the king who had once given him grudging respect for his high exam score now regarded him with a knowing frown etched into his aged, grey features. The old man, along with several of his brothers, attended the ceremony for tradition’s sake, sitting in their prescribed seats of honor along the sides of the stage.

The young man was unsurprised at seeing his father’s unhappy look, and yet it sparked an old, dormant anger within him. His hands crackled with hot energy – it was the first time in years, he realized, that he had allowed himself to feel his powers even to that extent – but when his name was announced to come forward and receive his commission from the dean, he forced it down.

The heat pulsed back up through his hands, wrists, and veins, causing him to swallow with discomfort as he collected the rolled-up document and saluted the dean and his instructors. His face shook from the effort of presenting himself with decorum, his gloved fingers curling and flexing around the paper as he moved to join his fellow, newly-minted officers off-stage.

He was almost taken aback at how smooth the ceremony proceedings were, with no pranks or jokes attempted at his expense; then, catching the eye of the king in front of him, he remembered that none of his peers – nor even his brothers – would dare to pull such maneuvers with their monarch present.

When he returned to his bedroom in the palace later that evening, the relief he had felt at the end of the ceremony was extinguished as he unfurled his commission.

His hands shook as he read it.

Next to the king’s royal seal, the words “WELCOME HOME” were hastily scrawled in tall, bold red letters—an addition made by one of his brothers at the last moment, he presumed. The young man lifted the page closer to his nose, sniffing it, and then recoiled as he dropped it, the paper landing on his desk.

It had been written in blood.

»» —— ««

The note was an intentional harbinger, as the young man soon learned, of fouler things to come.

It began with his first assignment following graduation to the Mercator, one of the oldest frigates in the Navy, a small, battered ship dating back to the end of the eighteenth century. It had been scheduled to be retired many times over, but the king had insisted on costly repairs to extend its service life.

The youngest prince’s appointment to it was a clear shot across the bow at his capabilities, with the king pronouncing that his middling finishing scores at the academy made him unfit to man any of the newer, more technologically advanced ships in the fleet.

And besides, the old man had said, the Mercator was my first ship—a fine one in her time. You should be honored to serve on her.

The young man did not protest, for part of him was glad just to be away from home. There, the king and his brothers, not to mention the council and courtiers, had easy access to him at all times in order to make his life a living hell.

Unfortunately, he fared little better with life at sea, as his position within the royal family – and his low scores at the academy – were communicated to the captain of his ship before he had even step foot upon it.

He was given tasks unworthy of his station and schooling, from scrubbing decks to repairing cables to rigging sails. He had trained, while in school, to concentrate in naval law; his current reality, being far from that, left him wanting for any work requiring intellectual rigor.

Unlike his brothers, he knew he did not have the luxury of cutting his minimum service time short to pursue a different career, nor was he even sure he would be able to after undertaking such a specialized education.

He thus languished in his first few months of service, begrudgingly performing his duties as assigned and taking advantage of the port calls in Europe to finally experience the opportunities that had been denied to him at home. Among these were visits to brothels and gambling halls and other institutions of disrepute; he frequented these places alone, having been ostracized early on by the captain and, therefore, all of his mates onboard the ship.

Word of his foreign exploits inevitably found their way to the palace whenever the ship returned home, confirming and enhancing the existing stories that circulated the Isles about the thirteenth prince. He received a lecture from the king each time, the old man chiding him through rattling coughs about the need to be discreet – especially with your curse, he would add – and an accompanying threat to have his commission revoked.

The young man would promise to behave better each time in turn, though he knew that his father’s threats were idle at best.

By contrast, his brothers used the rumors to their full advantage, denying him invitations to family events ranging from births to christenings to marriages and refusing him visitations with his nieces and nephews.

His oldest brothers – still, he hoped, the only ones who knew about his powers – were the unofficial ringleaders of this charge. The others (not including those whom had gone missing, were taken ill, or had chosen to become ascetics and abandon palace life) proved easy to recruit for this cause, as they were already poisoned against their brother from years of prejudice.

He thus spent most of his time at home exiled to the stables with his horse, just as he had been during his years at the academy, taking it for long rides through the towns and forests around the Isles.

As these rides became well-known, his absences from family gatherings were framed by his brothers as him declining to attend, his jaunts cementing his status as an irresponsible layabout.

With each fresh insult and snub, the young man became more and more driven to succeed in spite of his family’s determination to see him fail. He refused to play into their low expectations as he had while in school, no longer deterred by taunts or threats of expulsion.

By the summer of his first year in the service, he had become so dedicated to his work that even his mates and captain began to show him reluctant respect. He was assigned less of the grunt jobs on the ship, and even began to supervise some of the crew, though he was careful to be far more polite and tactful in giving feedback than other officers.

Soon, murmurs spread throughout the fleet of the “Unlucky Thirteenth’s” surprising prowess as a leader, with comparisons being drawn between him and some of his older brothers who were revered admirals still in the service.

When months passed without any sign of professional advancement, the men wondered at why the youngest prince had not been publicly recognized by the king, nor by any of his brothers, for his laudable work. His continued assignment to the Mercator when he had shown himself capable of handling a more difficult assignment was equally puzzling to them.

The young man, not expecting recognition no matter the caliber of his work, was unvexed by his fellow servicemen’s quiet complaints on his behalf. It was enough for him that they should express them at all, for he knew that these grievances would eventually reach the ears of his family—and when they did, that they would reignite his brothers’ ire and resentment towards him.

The thought of this would make him chuckle, and he waited impatiently for the day to arrive when he could see their irritated faces for himself.

»» —— ««

He was not granted his next full block of leave until the week of Christmas.

The king traditionally held multiple holiday fetes and hosted foreign dignitaries for the holiday, and by the time the young man returned home, these events were already in full swing.

He passed by the great hall to catch a glimpse of that year’s guests of honor – princes and princesses and ambassadors from Spain and England and the Ottoman Empire, plus some duke from a country he had never heard of – but otherwise kept himself out of sight as he dropped off his belongings in his bedroom, and then headed out to the stables.

He smiled in anticipation of seeing his old friend’s face, their latest separation being longer than usual. He thought of all the events to catch him up on, and carried a bag of carrots he had bought at port that afternoon to offer in exchange for the creature’s sympathetic ear.

Upon arrival, however, he was alarmed to find that his horse did not occupy his usual stall, nor any of the other stalls allotted to the royal family. He jogged to the ones given to visitors, thinking that perhaps his friend had been placed there by accident, and was startled a second time at the creature’s absence.

His eyes darting to and fro in the dark, he dropped the bag of carrots and grabbed a passing stable hand by the shoulders, making the boy almost drop his lantern in surprise.

Boy, have you seen my horse? Sitron?

The boy blinked. Sitron? You mean—

Yes, the young man interrupted. The horse of Prince Hans, the Unlucky Thirteenth, my horse. Where is he? He frowned as he scanned the boy’s face. I know all the stable hands, but I don’t recognize you.

Espen, Your Highness, the boy replied, bowing clumsily as he took a step back. I was hired just recently, you see. I mean no offense, sir.

None taken, the young man said, his tone cautious. Well, Espen, perhaps you haven’t been informed yet, but Sitron is my horse. Tan color, amber eyes, with a salt and pepper mane. I’m quite fond of him, and he’s usually in that stall over there, but I don’t see him there tonight. Do you know where he might be?

The boy swallowed. I, uh, yes, sir, Master Georg mentioned him. The thing is, sir, he’s been missing for a few days, and—

Missing? the young man asked, his frown deepening. What do you mean?

Well, um, Master Georg thinks he’s run off, sir, and—

Impossible, he interjected again, scoffing. Sitron is too well-trained to do such a thing. Where is Master Georg? I must speak with him about this.

The boy fidgeted, his hand shaking on the lantern handle. He’s, uh, been given leave to spend the holiday with his family, Your Highness.

The young man’s eyes grew slatted with skepticism. But he’s always worked during Christmas, he mused out loud. Who gave him permission to—

He paused, shaking his head. Never mind. You wouldn’t know. He sighed, waving the boy away. Go on, now, and tend to your duties.

The boy took a few steps back, almost tripping over his own feet, and rushed off to assist late-arriving guests with parking and settling their horses.

The young man, meanwhile, scoured the area for any sign of his friend – an old horseshoe, a half-chewed carrot, or even a stray hair – but found nothing except well-worn hoof tracks inside of the stall and along the entryway. The disappearance was so thorough as to make him believe that the boy might have spoken the truth, and something had spooked his old friend so badly as to make him run away.

Knowing his friend’s calm and easygoing temperament, he wondered at what could have triggered such an extreme response; but the more he wondered, the more he worried. He searched the palace grounds for hours with only dim lantern light to guide his path, refraining from using anything stronger lest he scare off his horse.

His eyes were tired and near to closing by the time the palace steward found him and begged him to go inside upon threat of physical injury from the king. Though the young man was loathe to comply with the request, he had no desire to see the steward beaten for his perceived transgressions.

Relenting in his search for the evening, he followed the older man back into the palace, his head hanging low.

»» —— ««

He combed the palace grounds and surrounding towns and forests ceaselessly in the days that followed, though he took care only to do so in the evenings when he would not be found out by his father.

The old man had castigated him for disappearing on the night of the ball in a wretched, weak voice, telling him I won’t have you looking for that damn beast, boy over and over again until he had finally lost the strength to carry on.

The oldest prince was at his side always, assisting the king to his chambers or whispering news into his ear; he often shot his youngest brother looks so cold that they would make the ice princess tremble, staring warily at the youngest prince’s gloved hands.

The looks and warnings mattered little to the young man, who passed each day of forced meetings and celebrations with guests with the same false geniality from the edges of rooms and halls. Though he knew what they thought or assumed about him, he would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him as anything less than princely.

As time passed with no sign of his friend, however, his hope of finding him dimmed, and it became difficult to hide his disappointment in public.

What’s the matter, Hans? his brothers would ask, smirking. Rejected by the local whorehouses again? You know they don’t have any fillies for you in there.

He had been suspicious of them and the king since his first night back, when the stable boy had told him of his horse’s disappearance and of the stable master’s absence. However, with no appetite for a futile fight or argument with his family, he had kept quiet, seeking clues out on his own that might pin the horse’s vanishing on them.

This effort was made more complicated by the fact that the vast majority of the palace servants were fiercely loyal to his father and oldest brothers, and thus were of no help to him in identifying suspects. Their loyalty, having been purchased and maintained with adequate coin for years, was buttressed by the stories spread by his old nursemaid of the youngest prince’s burnt carpets, gloves, and “unnatural” attachment to his pet horse.

By the evening of the king’s grand Christmas Eve dinner, the young man was visibly sullen as he took his seat at the end of the long table in the banquet hall alongside his brothers, wives, their older children, and several guests of honor.

Of the latter group, one was seated directly opposite from him – an older man with scant gray hair atop his head but a full, bushy moustache atop his lips – and when the man recognized the prince, he bristled, frowning.

I could have at least been seated across from Prince Alfred, he grumbled loud enough for the prince to hear, adjusting his round glasses on his nose. The indignity of it all…

His voice trailed off to a mumble, which the young man ignored as he stared at his plate. Servants brought out one dish after the other to fill it: pickled cabbage, boiled potatoes, roasted duck and pork, and roasted potatoes with gravy. He picked at each in turn with an equal lack of enthusiasm, eating only as much as he could get away with without raising suspicion, and drinking his wine in moderation.

Once the main courses were swept away, he stared at the corridor from whence the servants carried the food, expecting dessert and glogg to follow.

Instead, the chef himself appeared with all of the dinner staff in tow, each carrying a covered bowl.

Your Majesty, he said with pride as he approached the king, I have created a special dish for you and your guests this evening.

The old man looked up. Oh? What is it, Birger?

The chef smiled as the servants placed the bowls down on the table, and took the covers off.

A rush of steam was released and the guests gave a collective gasp. A venison stew, Your Majesty. I know it is rather nontraditional, but your sons thoughtfully suggested its addition to the menu given your love of venison.

The king nodded, half-smiling at his oldest sons seated next to him at the head of the table. Yes, thoughtful indeed. Though I am already near to bursting, I cannot resist.

Very good, Your Majesty, the chef replied, and bowed as he departed. Velbekomme!

The appearance of the stew caused a spate of chatter to break out among the family and guests, who eagerly dug into the dish and lavished it, as well as the princes for coming up with the idea, with effusive praise.

The young man looked at the steaming bowl with apprehension. The chef never changed the menu for Christmas Eve dinners, always following the roasted duck with glogg and Ris a l’Amande, among other cookies and marzipan.

He glanced up at the other end of the table, and was surprised to find several of his brothers eyeing him in return. Some stared with amusement, chuckling under their breath or whispering to each other; others looked smug, their simpers small but obvious.

His lip twitched with a frown at observing this, and he looked back down at his bowl, his gaze becoming intense and focused.

Master Georg thinks he’s run off, sir.

The words of the stable boy echoed in his mind as a gamy smell emanated from the stew, and the young man’s eyes widened.

I won’t have you looking for that damn beast, boy.

He fought the urge to double over and gag all at once, though he did grip the edges of the table suddenly, his face pale and his hands shaking.

Why aren’t you eating, Hans? the king boomed from his seat, causing a hush to fall over the table. You must, lest you insult your father and brothers by refusing.

The young man’s head shot up, his eyes meeting his father’s, and his mouth open and shut slowly.

His oldest brother, at the king’s right side as always, had a rare, wide smile on his face.

You’ll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.

He forced his hand to grab the spoon, dipping it into the bowl, and turned his gaze to meet his brothers’.

Yes, Father, he said, and brought it to his lips, swallowing the stew effortlessly. At his brothers’ surprised expressions, he smiled.

Inside of his gloves, his hands were burning.

#QueenoftheAshesFrozen #helsa #frozen #frozen fanfiction

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