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patamon · 2 years

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Takari Week 2022: [Day 1 prompt: Focus & Reflection]

Focus and Reflection were official character songs released outside of the main series. Focus was Takeru’s feature song on the Best Partner CD, and Reflection was Hikari’s song on the Digimon Girl’s Festival CD. It’s been widely speculated that Focus is Takeru’s song for Hikari, and vice versa for Reflection. For the Day 1 prompt, I thought I would imagine a scenario where Takeru and Hikari’s songs on the Adventure 02 Kizuna Character CD were dedicated to one another the same way Focus/Reflection is suspected to be. Turns out, it wasn’t at all difficult to do!

For reference, here is Takeru’s Kizuna song (Step High Step) and here is Hikari’s Kizuna song (Tomorrow’s Blue), which are inspirations for my Takari Day 1 fic.

Title: Tomorrow’s Blue Character: Hikari Yagami & Takeru Takaishi Pairings: Takari (for @takariweek) Word Count: 4410 Rating: G Summary: Hikari and Takeru discuss the uncertainties of their impending future, and the mysteries that will be ushered in by tomorrow.

Cross-posted on AO3

Read below the cut 👇🏻

Tomorrow’s Blue

Before Hikari stretched an endless sea of green. The green of innocence, as Hikari recognized it as, illuminated by the soft yellow light of the waning moon. This was the land where stories began, and coincidentally, where stories also ended. A beginning and an ending tied together by the thin thread of fate, and Hikari was sure that somehow, she was interwoven into it, her fate embroidered into the intricacies of this land.

At the present moment, she occupied the interstices between a beginning and an end, directionless and clueless, staring into the daunting abyss of tomorrow. But tonight, tonight she will pretend to be eight again, learning to explore the land around her, listening to the secrets this universe had to tell her. Tonight, she will forget her troubles and silence the funeral march in her mind as it mourned the seconds that passed while she sat static on this field of green.

“Lost in thoughts again?”

Instinctively, a smile dappled on the curve of Hikari’s lips. She turned her head slightly, enough to find a tall but familiar silhouette hugging the edges of her vision. Barely two seconds later, a pair of blue eyes stared back at her, accompanied by a scintillating, albeit roguish, grin.

“More or less,” she responded with a nonchalant shrug as her companion took a seat next to her on the lush green field.

“Oof,” he sang out, his tone a mixture of surprise and amusement as his body ricocheted off the bouncy field.

Hikari couldn’t help but giggle, which earned her an exaggerated pout from her friend. The force of the bounce was a little stronger than anticipated. Not surprising, given the extra weight their adult body now carried, as opposed to their tinier frames back when they first set sight on this rolling fields of green.

“Thanks for coming to meet me here, Takeru,” she acknowledged softly, but not so soft that Takeru couldn’t hear.

Takeru flashed a grin, “I don’t mind, only because you now owe me lunch.”

Hikari stuck out her tongue in response. They lapsed into contemplative silence then, admiring the large building block monuments in the distance and the peculiar trees surrounding them bearing toys as fruits amongst its leaves. Hikari remembered once asking Takeru if he knew what the building blocks were made of, if they were hard and rocky like the mountains they resembled.

“No, it’s all just feathers,” Takeru had said matter-of-factly, to which Hikari had vehemently argued against, until Takeru conceded and admitted defeat.

Off in the distance, they heard a distinct crack, like delicate glass crumbling into fairy dust, a signal that another new life was born into the Digital World. Hikari closed her eyes and imagined a Nyaromon opening its innocent eyes for the first time. One day, it might grow into a regal Angewomon, or perhaps it was looking forward to flying into the digital sky as a majestic Nefertimon. It filled her to the brim with a strange sense of restlessness, knowing that the future potential was endless, yet uncertain. It was enough to make her shiver.

“You okay?”

Hikari turned towards the question and found herself staring once again into Takeru’s blue eyes, its depths endless. Her cheeks heated up, and she turned away quickly, hoping the night would be kind enough to hide her secrets.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, I just thought I saw you shiver, I was worried you might be cold”

In response, she feigned an eye roll, exaggerating the movement so it’s noticeable to Takeru. But inward, her stomach tightened. She felt sweat condensing on her palms, and quickly pressed them against the grass to wipe them away. Even now, on the cusp of adulthood, her favourite feeling remains the one that bloomed inside her from the time she was young, and nestled within her until this very moment. It was the feeling of knowing that Takeru cared, enough to watch over her and pick up a detail as subtle as a shiver

“I’m fine, Takeru,” she breathed out, “You know, you don’t have to worry about me all the time. I can take care of myself”

Takeru chuckled, “I know, I know. But…old habits die hard, you know?”

Hikari nodded in agreement, embracing this moment and basking in the familiarity and the warmth, the kindness that can only be found in Takeru’s voice. After all, she didn’t know how many more of these carefree moments they had left. The future was coming, tomorrow was uncertain, and dwelling on these thoughts now brought back to mind the two letters stuffed in her backpack, clipped between the pages of her blank new journal.

She shivered again, drawing Takeru’s immediate attention.

“Are you sure you’re not cold, Hikari?”

She looked away, back towards the checkered green fields and sighed.

“Takeru, have you ever thought about the future?”

Without looking, she could tell his blue eyes were lit in amusement at her sudden question. She wouldn’t be surprised if she could trace the distinct slope of his smile with her eyes closed.

“What do you mean?” he countered

“You know, the future, like what will happen, what we are going to do, who we are going see, where we’ll end up in the future”

“Hmm…let’s see…well tomorrow I am meeting up with Yamato for dinner, so I see a lot of spicy curry in my future”

She turned sharply in her seat and shoved him hard, just as Takeru burst into a rowdy guffaw. His long legs flailed out in a tangled heap as he fell sideways, his arms hugged his side as he continued roaring out his laugh.

“That’s not what I meant. Takeru, I’m serious.”

“What? You asked me if I ever thought about the future, and technically, tomorrow is the future”

Hikari stood up, arms grabbing her bag as she turned away, “Fine, if you don’t want to talk with me like a serious adult then we don’t have to be here. I’m going home”

“Wait, Hikari,” Takeru cried out in a frantic voice. His arms shot out and encircled her slender wrist, and with an easy jerk, he pulled her back down beside him. It was her body’s turn to ricochet off the bouncy green field, and although she donned on her most convincing scowl, inside, she felt satisfied that Takeru pulled her back. It was enough for her to believe that Takeru would always pull her back.

“Tomorrow is the future, Hikari. It means a new start, new adventures. Everything can change by the light of a new sunrise.”

She turned to him, to his dazzling blue eyes. Under the pale moonlight of the Digital World, it looked brilliantly bright, dancing a masterful choreography in Hikari’s eyes.

“A new start?” she repeated.

“Yes. Every time anyone mentions the future, they’re always referencing some…unattainable timeframe from now. They’re thinking about a year, or two, or five, maybe decades ahead. But I have always wondered, why can’t we talk about tomorrow? Tomorrow, I can start writing that book I always wanted to write. Tomorrow, Daisuke can submit an application to the culinary school he wants to go to in New York City. Tomorrow, Ken can finally stop dragging his feet and ask Miyako out on a real date. So many things can happen tomorrow, and thinking about tomorrow makes me feel like our goals are attainable. We don’t have to wait years to begin our future. It can all start tomorrow because tomorrow is ours.”

Hikari shuddered. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is deadline and confessions and uncertainty. Tomorrow is an adventure she still could not face. She tilted her face up towards the azure sky, watching as the stars above her twinkled against the darkened universe.

Tomorrow is blue, just like the night sky before them, mysterious and foreboding, snuffling out all traces of light.

“It’s almost like people are afraid,” Takeru continued, “They prefer to think of the future as this faraway place to delay the unknown for as long as they can. But it’s not like the future will wait for anyone. Things are changing, they keep changing, so why not face the changes and embrace the unknown of tomorrow? So tell me, Hikari, what do you want to do tomorrow?”

Then, it came. The tears gathered in her eyes. She bit her lips and rubbed at them, hoping Takeru would believe they were mere specks of dust, and not the daunting mysteries of uncertainty, of mediating between expectations and desires.

Behind closed eyes, she felt familiar touches lingering on her cheeks, and opened them to find Takeru wiping away residual tears with the pad of his thumb. She gulped and turned away, hugging her knees tighter to her chest.

“We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?” she whispered.

“Well…we’ve saved the world together a few times, but no big deal”

The tears gave way to an easy smile. In her mind were all the memories they shared together, all the fights, all the battles, all the times they ran together until they were breathless and fried. In her spirit were all the competing emotions threatening to spill, all the feelings she had no words for, no vehicles fit enough to carry them to Takeru. So instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and settled for another topic…

“You might be wondering why I asked you to come here tonight,” she began.

Takeru nodded, but kept silent, waiting for her to continue.

“I need your opinion on something, Takeru”

“Really? My opinion? But what about Miyako or Taichi?”

“Taichi cannot know…yet, not until I have my final decision, and I know what Miyako will say, and it won’t help me because I know it’ll only be what she would do if she were me. But…I want to talk to someone who knows me inside and out, because then they’ll help me figure out not only what I should do, but what I need to do…for myself”

His fingers twitched, the movement so delicate it was barely detectable. But she caught it all the same, no subtle details from Takeru could escape her attentive eyes.

“I received a letter last month…”

“Oh”

“Well…two letters”

“Oh…”

The second oh was heavy with confusion. An understandable reaction. Hikari reached for her bag, tucked neatly underneath one of the toy-bearing trees. With purposeful movements, she retrieved the brand new journal she brought last week, its pages still bare and crisp. Wedged between its pages were two letters, each with equally worn edges, a product of her pouring over the sentences night after night, memorizing each word and punctuation mark imprinted upon heavy stock paper.

“This was the first letter I received,” Hikari began, opening up the page, smoothing over the creases before running her fingers over the official emblem at the top.

Takeru quickly scanned the first sentence over Hikari’s shoulders, his eyes widening with understanding as he read.

“An acceptance letter!”

“Yes,” Hikari acknowledged with a nod, “To the early childhood education program at the women’s college in Shinjuku”

“It’s what you spoke about for awhile now”

She nodded again in response.

“And…the other letter?”

She produced the second piece of paper, still folded into perfect thirds and handed it to Takeru with shaking fingers. He accepted it from her, his touch on her fingers dappled a little longer than expected before he let go to devote his attention to the letter.

Hikari rubbed at the spot his touch had lingered on her skin, smoothing it slowly to distract herself from imagining Takeru reading the second letter, to will her imagination away from his eyes taking in the same words she’s read over millions and millions of times as she laid awake at night alone in her room.

The silence was deafening, lasting longer than she expected. Takeru was a fast reader, his eyes vacuuming up words at a rate that dismayed her. So this pause was worrisome, enough for her to cast quick glances at him. He had his eyes down, a divot between his brows as he rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. Finally, after what felt like an eternity and an hour, he looked up at her with the most complicated expression she’s ever seen.

“Hikari, I’m…I’m surprised, shocked…”

Without thinking, she leaned forward, her body drifting close enough to smell the faint smell of aftershave clinging to his body. For a brief second, her heart quickened. Takeru wears aftershave now. What a strange…yet enticing concept.

“...and impressed. You never told me you applied to Hokkaido University! And for veterinary medicine. This is…this is amazing, and…and you’ve been accepted!”

“I…I…I honestly never thought I would be accepted,” Hikari admitted in a meek voice, “I mean…I didn’t think my math and science grades were anywhere enough for the program. You have no idea how shocked I was when I received the acceptance letter”

Takeru sighed and shook his head slowly, pursing his lips as he carefully folded up the letter back into its equal segments.

“Hikari, you don’t give yourself enough credit. I wish…I wish you could see…”

His voice trailed off. Hikari watched him curiously as he combed his fingers through his golden hair, scattering specks of moonlight in all directions as he sighed again.

“But Hikari…if you didn’t think you would be accepted, then…why did you apply?”

Hikari offered a nonchalant shrug, but inside, her heart was hammering so hard, she thought her response would be drowned out by its beat.

“Isn’t that…isn’t that what we all have to do?” she managed to respond.

Takeru’s brow furrowed in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“Taichi did it. Miyako did it. They all moved away from home for university. That’s how you find yourself and become the adult you’re supposed to be, isn’t it?”

“But, Hikari, this is Hokkaido, and Hokkaido is…is….”

“Far,” Hikari offered.

For a brief moment, Hikari thought she saw the dull flicker of a grim frown on Takeru’s features, but it quickly evaporated away, making way for a cheerful smile. His cheerful smile.

“Yeah, it is…far, but is it what you want, Hikari? Because if it is what you want, I will support you, we will all support you.”

“Umm…I…” she bit her lips and looked away. It was the question she asked herself for weeks now, but she was no closer to an answer than when she first received the acceptance letters.

“Does anyone else know about this?”

“Miyako knows I applied to the school in Hokkaido, and has been asking me for updates every week since. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her”

“Why not?”

She sighed, “I just knew if I told her, she would want me to leave for Hokkaido. But…”

“But…?”

“But…”

She heaved a heavy sigh and tilted her head up at the sky once more, studying the dark blue preceding tomorrow’s unknown, hoping to find the words to her explanation there.

But in the end, she had to find her own words within herself.

“I applied to Hokkaido University the same night Miyako submitted her application to that exchange program in Spain. I thought…I thought maybe for once, I could do something like that, too. So...I guess you could say...I applied because I wanted to be like Miyako, to be wild and adventurous and unpredictable, to run with my hair caught in the wind and not have to worry about the tangles that come after.”

“Wow, that’s good,” Takeru remarked with a laugh, “I should remember this for my next writing assignment. But…tell me the truth, Hikari.”

He leaned close, then pressed one of the letters into her open palm. Hikari looked down and saw the logo of Hokkaido University plastered on the front, Takeru’s index finger inches away from its crest.

“It must come from somewhere right? There’s a part of you that must want this…to venture far away from home, to pursue this career path. It’s not just the need to be unpredictable like Miyako…”

“Well…” she began, before her breath hitched in her throat. By now, Takeru was so close, she could see her own reflection imprinted in his blue eyes. They were a mesmerizing shade. For years and years now, she struggled to find a word to describe the hue, no crayon or paint colour could capture the blue emblazoned on Takeru’s orbs.

Takeru blue. She decided that’s how she would name the colour. Takeru blue.

And surprisingly, she saw a small smile on her lips as she gazed into her reflection in Takeru’s eyes. It somehow put her at ease, to recognize her own kind of smile imprinted in the blue of Takeru’s orbs, to recognize her true self erected amidst the boundless land of Takeru blue.

Tomorrow’s blue.

It gave her the courage she needed to shatter the wall she hid behind, to offer up her truth.

“The truth is…I don’t know.”

Takeru looked taken aback. But before he could respond, Hikari spoke again.

“At the beginning, I thought it was what I wanted, but now, I’m not so sure anymore. I feel so…pathetic. I can’t figure out what I want to do and separate it from what I need to do. I wish I was more like Taichi, or Miyako…they’re so sure of themselves, they always know what to do.”

“Hikari…”

“It was my fault. I put myself in this situation, all on an impulse.”

The last word barely left Hikari’s lips, when suddenly, Takeru shot up beside her. She looked up at his form, a quizzical expression on her face before he bent and offered his hand.

“Come on,” he beckoned.

Without questioning, she accepted his hand, and together, they walked through the wide open space of Primary Village, carefully shifting their weight so as not to bounce too high on the springy floor as they walked.

“Where are you taking me?” she questioned.

But Takeru did not respond, he only led her deeper into the village until at long last, they stopped before a cliff. Hikari peered down at the edge, a rolling field of green before her, the brand new Digimon eggs resembled specks of dust from where she stood, and the brown of the earthen crib almost impossible to make out from her height. She gulped, inching away from the cliff ever so slightly while Takeru stepped forward.

“Jump with me?” he asked.

“What? Why?” she squeaked.

“No good reasons, but it’ll be fun”

Hikari blanched. She wanted to shake her head, but at the same time, she didn’t want Takeru to know she was afraid. So she etched forward with him, measuring the distance of the jump with wary eyes.

“But only if you want to, Hikari” came Takeru’s sturdy response.

But Hikari shook her head, placing a foot forward, shifting the weight onto her back leg as she prepared for the jump.

“I have to,” she asserted.

“Why?”

“Because…because I have to”

“Do you?”

“Yes, yes, I have to. You don’t understand, Takeru. I have to prove to everyone that I can do this…I have to prove to myself that I’m capable of being on my own, that I’m not…that I’m not some pathetic, scared, little girl that refuses to grow up”

“But Hikari, you’re not any of those things”

“Yes, yes I am,” without warning, the tears spilled. Her legs collapsed under her, and she found herself falling to the ground with her face buried in her palm. Her body bounced slightly on the springy floor as she struggled to stifle her sobs. She felt the weight shift on the floor beside her, then Takeru’s arms around her shoulders as she allowed her tears to fall unabated.

How long she cried, she did not know. She only knew Takeru’s warmth was with her the entire time, his hands holding her close as her tears soaked the whites of his school uniform.

“Miyako said once that she refused to stay in Tokyo because she didn’t want to be boring, that she wanted to spread her wings and fly away from her nest. She even talked about moving away from Japan. She said she wanted to make her own mistakes and learn from them, she said she can’t grow into the woman she’s supposed to be if she’s tethered to her family, so that’s why she’s leaving for Spain.”

“That’s…a little dramatic for a year abroad. But…I can’t say I’m surprised. It is Miyako after all.”

“Precisely. It is Miyako, we’re not surprised that Miyako is brave enough to do this. But I can’t help but feel like…that should be my journey, too. All my life, I’ve always wanted to stay close to home, to be near my mom and dad, to be close to comfort. But maybe that’s a sign of immaturity, Takeru. Maybe I have to push myself out of my comfort zone, like jumping off this cliff”

She attempted to stand, but didn’t get very far before Takeru pulled her down once again. Their bodies ricocheted together once it hit the bouncy floor.

“Hikari…wait, it’s not that I don’t think you can do this, on the contrary, I think you have everything within yourself to live on your own in Hokkaido and excel at this vet program, just like I know you can jump off this cliff and land on your feet without anyone’s help, but…but…”

“But what?”

“But…I don’t want you to do this because you feel like you have to do this.”

“Isn’t that why we do anything in life? We saved the Digital World because we had to do it. We fought all those battles because it was our duty. Life is about obligation, Takeru”

“No, it doesn’t have to be about obligation if. It’s our future, Hikari. I’d like to think that we have some control over what we want out of our lives. We don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Tomorrow is ours to make of it as we wish, we can decide on what it can and should be for ourselves. This is your decision, Hikari. So ask yourself, if you could do whatever you’d like, without worrying about what others think, what would you do?”

“I…I don’t know”

“Hikari…” he wiped Hikari’s face gently, in the area right underneath her eyes. She remained still, revelling in the steadiness of his hands, at the warmth of his breath as he caught her tears.

“What if I make the wrong decision, Takeru?”

“No matter what you decide, Hikari, if it’s a decision you have made for yourself, then it will be the right decision. I know you can overcome whatever trouble comes your way. You’ve done it countless times before, and I know you can do it again.”

“But what if…what if it is the wrong decision? What if I stay in Tokyo and regret not taking the chance? On the other hand, what if I leave home and hate Hokkaido? ”

“Then you can change your path the next day,” Takeru responded with a soft laugh, “There’s always tomorrow to bring something different our way”

“Is it really that easy?”

“No, no it isn’t. But I know you can do it. You are capable of so much, Hikari. I’ve been in awe of you since we were eight, since we started running through these fields together. We’ve always fought together, stayed together, been together, and through it all, I’ve never been short of amazed at all that you can accomplish”

Hikari let slip a delicate smile. She gazed at him once again, at the blue of his eyes dancing in the moonlight, wishing to be as close to him as possible so she could see her smiles reflected in his stares again.

“Will you think less of me if I decide to stay in Tokyo and do the predictable thing?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Hikari. You don’t have to be anyone but yourself, so do what’s best for you.”

Then, underneath the light of his smile, everything clicked. And for the first time in a long time, she had the courage to accept the truth.

“I’m going to stay,” she decided.

“Really?”

“Yes, I want to stay. Teaching has been my dream forever, and I want to stay in Tokyo. My friends and family are here in Tokyo. I don’t have to leave far away at this moment just because Miyako is doing it. I want to be myself, so I’m going to do this to stay true to myself.”

Takeru beamed, the light hitting him at a spectacular angle, buzzing around Hikari at an excitable speed.

“Sometimes, accepting what’s right for us is the bravest thing we can do,” Takeru assured her.

“Even if it doesn’t seem so brave to others”

Takeru nodded in agreement, and with that flick of his head and the charm of his smiles, Hikari was possessed with an overwhelming urge to pull him close, as close as possible until she could smell and taste more than the aftershave lingering on his skin. But then, a gale of wind blasted through, lifting her hair and blouse, breaking her eye contact with him as the force knocked both of them forward a few millimetres.

They both laughed, and before either of them could recover, she had her hands around his wrists, and she was the one pulling them forward.

“Jump with me?” she asked.

His trademark smirk came back, the one that set her spirit wild and her heart ablaze. He pulled her close, until their arms were linked and their waist were pressed up against each other. The wind picked up again, pushing them forward as if the Digital World wanted this for the both of them.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he responded.

She took a deep breath before she jumped, but there was no fear, no apprehension as they leapt. After all, she could see her smile reflected in his blue eyes, and it was enough for her to understand that he would watch over her…no, that they would watch over each other as they took to the air with the world of possibility beneath their feet.

It was how she knew, that whatever tomorrow brings, everything was going to be fine.

#digimon #digimon adventure #hikari yagami #takeru takaishi #takariweek #takariweek2022 #breewrites #am posting this now because i might not have. time to do it tomorrow #takari

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decennia · 3 years

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THE MALFOYS

cody fern & jeremy irons as abraxas malfoy †

abbey lee kershaw as carmilla malfoy (née avery) †

harry lloyd & jason isaacs as lucius malfoy

sarah gadon & helen mccrory as narcissa malfoy (née black)

tom felton as draco malfoy

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denialcity · 2 years

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in the beginning

by @denialcity and @firecoloredwater; beta’d by @silverutahraptor

@uchihaweek2022 Day 4: Mythology/Folktale | Forbidden | Grief/Mourning

692 words, Madara pov, unconventional red eyes are blessed + Izuna-centric AU prequel

Tags: Uchiha Izuna & Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Clan & Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Madara's Mother, Uchiha Izuna, Uchiha Tajima, japanese mythology freeform, Religion, Worldbuilding, symbolic disownment, Symbolic death, burned alive, symbolic name change, Canon Typical Violence, Angst, non conventional blessed by the gods au, Culture, Languages and Linguistics

(Blessed Sacrifice au tag on tumblr) (read on Ao3)

(We have a posting schedule! This is complete now, but chapter 1 of the main fic will be posted on Friday, March 18th.)

===

The day after Uchiha Madara forsakes Senju Hashirama's friendship, his mother dies and it's his fault.

His first sharingan memory recalls with perfect clarity Senju Tobirama's face, his fox eyes and their pale red irises, dark in the shadow of his face guard but unmistakable. That was the day they realized Senju Tobirama is a Blessed Sacrifice, sacred to the Uchiha. It follows from the gods—Amaterasu and Tsukiyomi fell from the blessed eyes and left weakness behind so that the Uchiha might have strength. Out of respect for the origin of their strength, no Uchiha may raise a hand to a Sacrifice, second heir to the enemy or not.

No Uchiha.

This hallowed duty always falls to the head family. Mother volunteers, back when Madara doesn't even understand what she is volunteering for.

They dress her in funeral whites with a funeral shroud, and she smiles at him before she lies down in the coffin with the clan symbol painted on the lid. It is carried onto the unlit pyre amidst the low chant that Father leads and the soul-deep drum, beating in time with Madara's anxious heart. At times Father’s voice raises in a call and the clan calls back. Madara joins in softly, uncertain. His littlest (last) brother hides his face in the back of Madara's sleeve, mouthing the syllables because he does not know all the words.

The coffin reaches the pyre. The chanting ends. The cymbals clang. The drum answers. Clang! Thud. Clang! Thud.

Silence.

The eight coffin bearers breathe as one and light the pyre.

A bell chimes. The drum starts up again, gently, lighter, and the flames rise. Father takes up a different chant, light and steady and melodious. As the flames overtake the casket, the clan joins in to fill the harmony lines and the coffin lid comes off.

The person inside stands and walks through the fire, the paper uchiwa on her back burning as she goes. Mother dies as Uchiha Atsumi, and the person walking out of the Uchiha compound’s gates is Izumi the yomotsu-shikome, hell hag and hunter-guardian of the Blessed Sacrifice to keep him and the Uchiha both safe, and bring him home.

Madara is the clan heir so he and Father go to make the offerings of food to the new yomotsu-shikome-sama. Kaname is not allowed; he sulks and cries until Father says shinobi do not behave as such, and Kaname perks up at finally being allowed to go on missions, even if not battle on the front lines.

Yomotsu-shikome-sama does go to the front lines, where the Senju apparently saw fit to place Tobirama. Yomotsu-shikome-sama is a very capable shinobi, but war is sometimes a test of fortune rather than ability. She dies a second death within the year.

Madara and Father burn the body and gather her bones to be placed with the other yomotsu-shikome in the columbarium outside the clan compound. It is only the two of them, and there are no songs or chants of the Uchiha to send her to the pure lands.

The head family still has its hallowed duty. Now the head family is only Father, the clan head; Madara, the clan heir; and Kaname, not even aged ten summers.

It weighs on Father terribly.

"We could adopt your cousin Hikaku, and he could—" Father starts, but Kaname sulks, and Kaname cries, and Kaname insists.

Madara insists too, but for once his words hold less weight than Kaname’s do. He might as well have said nothing for all the difference it makes.

They hold another funeral with a much smaller coffin. This time Madara learns the words, learns the music, learns the phoenix katon-jutsu needed to walk through fire unscathed and spends every waking hour for three days teaching and testing and making sure Kaname knows it too, because none among the living are allowed to interfere with the sacred fire once it is lit.

Uchiha Kaname dies, and Izuna the yomotsu-shikome and hunter-guardian of the Sacrifice can never return until Senju Tobirama is with the Uchiha, or dead.

Madara is going to bring his brother home, no matter what it takes.

===

A/N: In this AU, yomotsu-shikome change their name to protect their identity as an Uchiha before the gods (amongst other reasons). The Japanese underworld is called Yomi 黄泉 (yellow spring/fountain). The mi from Yomi is the same as the izu in Izuna 泉奈. Izuna's previous Uchiha name was Kaname 火奈芽 (fire bud). So his name change preserved the 奈 (na) from his old name and combines it with 泉 (mi / izu / izumi).

Likewise his mother was Atsumi 暖美 (warm beauty), and her hell hag name was Izumi 泉美 (spring beauty), preserving the 美 (mi) from her old name and combining it with 泉 (mi / izu / izumi). 泉 can be read as izumi by itself but for Izuna's mother, Izumi was written as two characters 泉美 although it is still pronounced Izumi.

黄泉醜女 Yomotsu-shikome (hell hag) features in the myth of Izanami and Izanagi. Izanagi goes to the underworld to get Izanami back but looks at her when he's not supposed to and gets scared by her hellish appearance so he flees, pursued by yomotsu-shikome that Izanami sent after him. He throws down his comb and food to distract the yomotsu-shikome and escapes the underworld, sealing it with a boulder. He then washes his face and Amaterasu, Tsukiyomi, and Susanoo fall from his eyes and nose. These are all names of advanced sharingan jutsu.

===

(Blessed Sacrifice AU tag on tumblr) (read on Ao3)

Next fic: (to accept the will of heaven) (on Ao3)

#uchihaweek2022 #uchiha izuna #uchiha madara #senju tobirama #uchiha tajima #OCs #blessed sacrifice au #uchiha atsumi #made in denialcity #uchiha #/offers this with two hands/ please take it #mine

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hrtiu · 3 years

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Children of the Republic Chapter 4

After eight months, I’m finally updating this baby! I’m sorry for the delay—this fic is a bit more personal to me and has been a little difficult to write. I hope you all enjoy this update! There should be one more chapter after this. Also a big shoutout to @wildhoneyprose for beta’ing and helping me get it right!

Bly died before Rex and Ahsoka could make it for the wedding. Echo had commed Rex to let him know, and informed him that the brothers in the compound had decided to hold the funeral a few days before Blackout and Numa’s wedding.

“Isn’t it a little odd to have the wedding right after the funeral?” Ahsoka asked as she and Rex packed for the trip. “We could come back if they want to wait a bit.”

Rex shook his head as he placed a pair of neatly folded pants in his bag. “We’re a practical bunch—pretty familiar with mortality. I don’t think Bly would mind.”

Ahsoka twisted her lip up skeptically, though she knew Rex was probably right. The Jedi were supposed to be the ones reconciled to life and death and unfazed by loss, but the clones always seemed to have them beat in that sad competition.

They took their beat up old shuttle to Seelos, and Din and Dral met them there. Blackout and Numa walked them from the landing platform to the compound, their heavy solemnity at odds with the wedding planned for only two days later.

The memorial service started as soon as Rex and Ahsoka arrived, the clones seeing no reason to wait once all the guests were present. Din, Dral, Ahsoka, and Numa waited in the courtyard while Rex, Spark, Blackout, Thire, Silver, Echo, and Flak marched into Bly’s old room to collect him for his final mortal journey. Echo had fitted Bly’s med unit with a transparisteel seal, and the seven brothers carried the makeshift coffin out into the courtyard, their identical faces taught with the same pain, their identical golden eyes glassy with equally unshed tears.

Resting Bly’s med unit on their shoulders, the brothers walked to the long grave they’d prepared for the occasion and set Bly down beside it. They lined up alongside the coffin, facing Bly at parade rest. Flak’s leg shook with the weight of his age, and Thire could no longer hold his back straight, but they each gave everything they could to send the Marshal Commander off right. Ahsoka hadn’t known Bly very well, but she couldn’t hold the tears back. Through the transparisteel coffin it was too easy to see other faces, to hear other names. Jesse, Fives, Hardcase, Appo, Coric. Too many names.

While the rest of his brothers held their parade rest, Thire moved to the head of the procession and cleared his throat. “CC-5052, Clone Marshal Commander Bly. He fought honorably for the Republic. He did everything within his power to defend the defenseless and satisfy his conscience. He was an example to all of us of what a clone should be. He also endured and carried on in the face of tragedy and loss. He is our brother. He is our blood. Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la.”

“Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la,” the other clones repeated. Then they shot five rounds of blaster rifle shots into the air.

Keep Reading

#rexsoka #captain rex #ahsoka tano #fanfic #established relationship #motherhood #rexsoka renaissance

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we-are-inevitable · 3 years

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modern art // javid (ch. 1)

A/N: hi !! so some of you may remember an old songfic i did in march of last year, titled ‘modern art’ after the song “IDK You Yet” by Alexander 23. well, i’ve always thought that that one shot would work great as a stand alone fic, and here we are! i have ch. 1 edited and SO MUCH of it as changed- like, for example, the fic is a chapter fic now !! regardless, i hope you guys like this !!

WARNINGS: depression, anxiety, self-deprecation, past addiction, mentions of addiction, just general Bad Times- pls be mindful when reading !! it’s just very Not Happy rn ADDITIONAL INFO: all characters are in their mid-twenties in the fic. oh also this is probably important but it’s a soulmate au !!

Read On AO3!

tag list: @bound-for-santa-fe @wannabecowboypunk @shippingcannons @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @smallsies @deliciouspeachpirate @newsies-is-my-erster

Jack doesn't know what’s going on with himself, but he knows that he could really use his soulmate right about now.

They’ve communicated before. Never verbally, and never enough to reveal who they were. Perhaps they are both just... dealing with some unspoken fears, dealing with the worry of rejection sitting heavy in their chests. Perhaps they both like this mystery- the uncertainty that came with the notes scrawled across their bodies in a handwriting that isn’t their own.

Or perhaps they just aren’t ready to take the plunge. To grow up and face the harsh fact that, as soon as they meet, wherever and whenever that may be, a new chapter of their life will unfold. Consume them. Change anything and everything they’ve ever known or held dear.

They had been braver when they were children, that much was true. Jack remembers staying up late often, writing notes on his skin and watching in awe as the replies appeared. He remembers the giddy rush of trying to quickly wash off the ink on his wrist when they ran out of space to talk, and, oh, how they talked. There were school days when Jack would go to class exhausted, feeling like he’d been walking through quicksand for miles on end, but all of it had been worth it. The exhaustion he felt had been worth being able to talk to them until two, three, four in the morning. Sometimes he regretted it, of course, but only because it was harder for him to focus in class. Never because he was upset at them.

He could never be upset with them.

Even now, Jack remembers a lot about his soulmate. They liked music. They knew how to play the piano. They were into a few video games, even some that Jack had never played, and said that they always tried carrying a book with them wherever they went. Jack remembers that, as a younger kid, they liked Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, but also liked analyzing Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe and a bunch of other fancy authors that Jack had never even heard of. They were intimidatingly smart, and sometimes, would carefully correct Jack’s grammar whenever he misspelled a word or something- but they were never mean about it, they were just… there. A steady presence that he could count on.

Fifteen year old Jack dreamed of finding them one day. But now, twenty-five year old Jack is losing hope.

He can’t exactly help it. For starters, he and his soulmate haven’t communicated in… well, shit, it had to be nearly a year. Maybe nine months or so, but there’s no way to tell for sure, and even then, their conversations since reaching adulthood have been dull, for lack of a better word. A few positive comments here, a ‘have a good day’ there- it’s all so mundane, and neither of them can be blamed for it. They both have busy lives- or, well, Jack does, at least. His job as a graphic designer is hard enough on its own, but the added pressure of doing freelance work and commissions on the side has been eating away at him for weeks, coupled with debilitating self-doubt and lack of motivation for… anything.

Saying that he’s overwhelmed is the understatement of the century.

There is always another design, another client, another meeting, another deadline, another sleepless night as he stares at a blank canvas and prays for a spark of inspiration from whatever God is listening. Usually his inspiration comes from the world around him- his friends, city life, even the quiet confines of his apartment, but right now... Jack is stuck. He had holed himself up in his room days ago, trying and failing to get out of bed every morning when the time came to work- and thank God that the majority of his work could be done from home. His boss was understanding, too, to an extent.

Still, though, there’s a constant heavy weight on his chest that prevents him from moving most days, and he’s lucky if he even gets up long enough to shower or eat or do literally anything aside from lie in silence and count the cracks in his ceiling.

Nothing had happened to him recently to bring this on, from what he can tell. Jack has always been the happy-go-lucky leader, the man with a plan, the guy who always knew just what to say to motivate others into doing the best thing for themselves, but when that responsibility is reflected back onto himself, Jack feels helpless. There are words waiting to be said, sketches waiting to be drawn, designs waiting to be sent to clients… yet Jack lies there, motionless in his room for three days before he even has the energy, the willpower, to pull back his curtains and allow the sunlight to shine through. There is so much he wants to do, so much he needs to do, but he can't bring himself to do any of it.

In all twenty-five years of his life, through all of the things he’s been through, the ups and downs and foster homes and graduations and birthdays and funerals and therapists and rehab facilities and whatever the fuck else life decided to throw at him, Jack has never felt so worthless, so… lonely. His closest friends are all moving on with their lives. Many have already found their soulmate, have settled down and hidden their rowdy, rambunctious pasts behind skeletons in a closet. They’d all gotten their adventures done and over with in high school and college, and most are moving onto bigger and better things in life. They have careers. Families. Some have children, others have pets, a few have an insane amount of plants to care for.

All have seemingly left Jack behind in the dust.

No one told him when to flip the switch.

No one told him when he had aged out of adventure.

Now, they would never say it, but Jack knows. He knows. Saturday hangouts and trips to the bar had been replaced by Sunday church services and playdates for the kids. Rather than hearing yelling from his living room after his friends had all been teetering just on the edge between tipsy and fucked up, Jack hears the news, and documentaries, and podcasts, and the ghosts of a past life that he still seemed to be desperately clinging on to.

Katherine had been the one to tell him that he needed to grow up, though she didn’t put it in such a blunt manner. No, she’s just.... gently urging him to find a bigger apartment, or buy matching furniture from a place that is not a thrift store, or purchase dishes that weren’t of the plastic Walmart brand. She says it was because she wants to see him in a more professional, "adulty" lifestyle, but he knows it’s really because she can see that he’s a mess.

Deep down, Jack knows she’s right. She’s always right.

He just can’t help but feel cemented in place, dreaming of the past while dreading the new future ahead of him.

Jack never asked to feel so broken for no reason. All of the hope and optimism he had felt as a teenager was gone, lost in a sea of uncertain plans and shitty jobs and bill extensions and canvases dropped onto the floor with no rhyme or reason. And, yes, maybe Jack would look dramatic to someone who didn’t know his situation, but Jack knows what dramatic feels like. Dramatic feels like watching his best friend, Charlie, belt onstage in front of a backdrop that he helped create for the school play. Dramatic feels like laughing at the top of his lungs while walking through a random gas station at two in the morning, joined by Race and Al, all while higher than a kite. Dramatic feels like driving to the outskirts of the city with Katherine, climbing onto the roof of an old building and screaming about all of their stress, their anxiety, their insecurities, just to have some form of emotional release.

Dramatic doesn’t feel like sadness. It’s not supposed to.

Not for Jack.

He had been so… so happy, as a teenager. Proud and defiant and carefree. He was the kind of guy to skate and smoke weed in Central Park until midnight and take a math test at eight in the morning the next day. He was the kid who stood on a table in the cafeteria and came out as bisexual to everyone around him, just because of a dumbass bet that he didn’t even get paid for. He was the boy who wasn’t at all good in an academic sense, but who always knew how to talk himself out of trouble, who always came up with the most ridiculous- or most believable- lies to cover his ass when he needed it, who was always the class favorite, the teacher’s pet without meaning to be.

Jack had felt on top of the world back then, but now he’s struggling to even get off of the ground. The longer time goes on, the more lost Jack feels inside his own life. He feels like something was missing, something big. Something bigger than himself.

When his mother was alive, which now felt like lifetimes ago, she would often echo this old wives’ tale about how it’s best to find your soulmate while you’re younger, just to save them- and yourself- the pain of being alone for a long time. Jack had always kind of believed her; logically, he knew it was true, but he had always told himself that it wouldn’t happen to him. That he would be fine alone, though it wouldn’t be ideal, and that he would have plenty of time for soulmates after he got out and made a name for himself.

He’s starting to think, though, that maybe she was right. Maybe Jack had waited too long to make a move, to make contact again, because now, he just feels nauseous even thinking about it.

Don’t get him wrong, he knows the negative effects of self deprecation and not taking his own mental health seriously, he’s been to rehab before, blah, blah, blah, but, fuck, how could he put his soulmate through something like this? This fucked up state of mind he has now. Jack can’t even imagine talking to Katherine about this, and Katherine had been his best friend for over a decade. He can’t just meet his soulmate now- it’s been too long, he’s too messed up, they won’t like him, they’ll hate him for not trying hard enough, and Jack will just end up alone again, wasting away in his bedroom because no one fucking cares. No one cares. He has nobody.

That’s not true. He has Medda, his mom, his savior, his impulse control, but the thought of telling her that everything is acting up again makes him want to scream. He has Tony, but Tony has Al, and Tony and Al have a kid- a sweet little five year old girl who calls Jack ‘Uncle Jackie’ and takes no shit from anyone. He has Katherine, but Katherine has her soulmate- this dude named Darcy, who Jack doesn’t have much of an opinion on because they just met, like, a month ago, and Jack hasn’t exactly been emotionally ready for a hangout session between the three of them. He also has Charlie, and Charlie has certainly seen him in worse times- like when Jack was kind of hooked on pills for the entirety their freshman year of college- but Charlie has grad school to worry about and Charlie would hate him if he bothered him with this.

Still, there are other people who would listen, probably. He could easily talk to Elmer, or Romeo, or Specs, or Jojo or Finch or Sean or a fucking therapist but that’s just it, isn’t it? If he talks, he burdens, and Jack Francisco Kelly would rather run himself into the ground than be a burden anyone.

So, he makes a vow.

He makes eye contact with his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s gripping onto the sink, holding on for dear life, as he stares into his own sunken eyes. He takes in his appearance. Damp, messy hair, falling down to cover his forehead. Pale skin, which isn’t normal at all. Dark circles have taken their place around his eyes, and his smile- one of his favorite things about himself- is… nonexistent.

Distantly, Jack registers himself dumping a full bottle of ibuprofen into the sink. And then, he does the same thing with the bottle of melatonin from his medicine cabinet. The valium follows. He lets the water run for a long time. It's not that he doesn't trust himself- he'd done so, so good in rehab, and he doesn't even feel urges that often anymore- but it's better safe than sorry, especially since he's like... this.

This is not the Jack Kelly he’s used to anymore. This is not the Jack Kelly he wants to be.

But this Jack Kelly is the one who vows not to reach out. The one who vows to only answer when his soulmate is ready, and maybe not even then.

He doesn’t have to wait long, though.

Not when a heart appears on the back of his hand the next morning.

It’s there when Jack wakes up, and, honestly, it almost brings Jack to tears- but not necessarily for happy reasons. Sure, Jack wants to be happy. Who wouldn’t be happy after seeing something like this? A lopsided heart drawn in red ink, right on the back of his left hand- it was the definition of a symbol, of a romantic gesture, and Jack wants so badly to write back, to strike up conversation, to draw a goddamn heart, but… he can’t.

He can’t, and that’s horrible of him, and he knows it.

Right now, though… Jack can’t even work up the courage, the energy, to call his mom.

His soulmate, whoever they are, is going to have to wait.

#if u wanna be added to my tag list just let me know !!#newsies #jack kelly #david jacobs #davey jacobs #javid #javey #newsies broadway #newsies musical #newsies fic #newsies fanfiction #newsies fanfic #livesies #toursies #jac writes #jac txt.

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belovedrival · 3 years

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Sorry this is all a blargh kind of post but this is how I feel right now:

My grandpa died last Thursday. To support my dad, I went to my parent’s house on Friday and stayed until today. I’m glad I went (my aunt and uncle were there too) but when I got home I felt completely overwhelmed.

Mister’s school had a baby shower for us on Friday, which was very loving and generous, but the nursery, which was very clean and organized, looks like a wreck again. And there’s more things that need washing. More things to do.

I’m tired of people telling me (whether in jest or being serious) that my house will never be clean again - oh, and I’ll never get enough sleep for at least a decade. It’s not helpful. Or funny. Seriously, either shut up or give constructive advice.

Every room - and I mean EVERY room in the house - needs organization/cleaning/something done. It makes me even more tired to think about it. I put away clean clothes a little while ago - that helped to feel like SOMETHING is being done.

There’s been a mix-up, on my end, over who’s parents will be here when after Wiggles is born. I thought my in-laws would be here a bit early, but nope - now it sounds like they’re waiting on my parents. Which is okay on the one hand, because my parents are a couple hours away, but on the other it’s not okay because my brother and sister-in-law are also expecting a baby very soon, and my mom told me this morning that she has plane tickets to go to their house on March 21st. So now I’m like...okay, I thought THAT part of organizing help for the first couple weeks was done, but it’s not. Add that to the list.

Grandpa’s funeral is next Saturday in Missouri, where there’s basically no Coronavirus restrictions unless the family calls for it, and my dad’s side of the family is not on the whole, people who call for it. And of course every second cousin within driving distance has been invited to come - to the funeral, the meal afterwards, and the grave side military ceremony. Mister’s been asked to be a pallbearer and this is my last living grandparent, so my inclination is to go because I know I would regret not going to my Grandpa’s funeral in a month, in a year, in ten years. People might feel differently but this is an event where it only happens once. There’s no way to do it later. I have zero input over the plans because they were all made by Friday afternoon and I didn’t find out about them until Friday evening. I’m not scared of getting Coronavirus but what I *am* scared of is Mister getting it, or testing positive, I go into labor, and then I’m forced to give birth without the one person allowed to be with me. We could mask, but I have to be realistic: there won’t be social distancing and we can’t keep our masks on while eating (obviously).

And I hate even thinking of all this, because I feel like I should be remembering Grandpa, and instead I’m feeling resentful that two of the last weekends before my due date have been completely devoid of doing anything substantial at home, and the list of things to do keeps getting longer, and people keep saying very sweet things like how good I look, while inside I feel like an ungrateful bitch because I’d prefer a cleaning crew or house elves to organize my house over their compliments, so I don’t keel over from stress.

One of my coworkers is off later this week. I can’t take time off to do stuff at home. I feel like this is my last realistic week to get anything done work-wise.

Did I mention I’m pretty sure I felt real contractions - not Braxton Hicks - over the last couple days?Nothing consistent but...let’s add to my stress, la la la la la...

Tomorrow is my pre-registration at the hospital, and I’ve got another appointment with my doctor, and another NST. I’ve got two NSTs a week scheduled for the duration, on Mondays and Thursdays. This coming Friday I have another ultrasound. Fingers crossed Wiggles is still head down.

And now Mister is on the phone because another student tested positive. At least this time he’s not as worried because 1) this student, unlike the last positive case, wasn’t crawling all over him (literally) yesterday and 2) he and the entire staff got their first shots yesterday. For what it’s worth.

Argh. I hate feeling tugged in two. But Wiggles, and us, come first. I’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow and explain the situation, and ask if/what’s the wise thing to do.

I want, desperately, to be there when Grandpa is laid to rest. Fuck Coronavirus, fuck how much everyone’s been divided over the response to it this past year. I’ve never been an absolutist about it - I do not think it’s reasonable to expect those with little to no risk to quarantine for months on end; nowhere in history were healthy people expected to behave as though they were sick. Neither do I think it’s right to just go on with things as though it’s 2019; I wish it was, but it’s not. If we pull the trigger and say we’re not going I can just hear what my sister will say. My brother and sister-in-law aren’t coming; they say they want to avoid a situation like they had with my nephew G, when they barely made it to the hospital before he was born. Driving eight hours one way isn’t something to put my SIL’s mind at ease. I get that. And, of course, there’s Coronavirus. My sister is half convinced that R simply doesn’t want to travel to Missouri (though my brother’s family plans on going to the beach later this summer, pandemic or no pandemic) - and she (my sister) might be right.

Thank God that my mother said before I left them today (with my father standing right there, nodding) that whatever we chose, they would support us. This still sucks.

Things will get done, somehow. Wiggles might decide to make his/her appearance this week and the whole conundrum is solved for us (though I’m going to hit 37 weeks this week and I’d rather cook for another week).

Oh, I can’t even getting too much into the guilt I feel over not writing/updating my fics. It makes me depressed thinking that I won’t get any time for that for the foreseeable future. I understand having a child trumps personal things, but I can’t help but mourn a little for my former life. I am not my mother - someone who poured her life into being “mom” and seemingly had very little/no other personal interests until we were out of the house. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be a mother; but there’s more than that one side of me. Does that make sense?

(My mom is a wonderful mom, by the way. She also is an excellent amateur photographer who I think could sell her pictures if she wanted to.)

Gotta end this rant/blargh somehow. I hope you all have a more peaceful evening.

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bboiseux · 4 years

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Eight Kisses, Between Breaths (Vexleth)

In the seventy years since Vecna, Keyleth and Vex have each found purpose and comfort in their new lives as leaders and parents. When Percy finally passes into the Raven Queen's realm, Keyleth and Vex are brought together again for the first time in decades. As they grapple with the weight of a long life, they find themselves inevitably drawn to the other, rekindling feelings they had long since forgotten. But is it love or simply the reassurance of finding someone who will be there when everyone else is gone?

A Vexleth fic about clutching to the things you love and learning when to let them go.

If you enjoy this fic, please consider reblogging!

Read a preview below or head on over to AO3!

Keyleth arrived in her usual way, with an unnatural cracking and rending of tree bark. She stepped out of the Sun Tree, head held high, even higher with the crown of antlers, and, with a gesture, the wound in the tree healed without any sign of passage. She was expected and an honor guard, resplendent and glittering in Whitestone blue and white and purple, marched her through the streets.

In Zephrah, this would have been a celebration, complete with air acrobatics and lively stories of the departed’s life. In Emon, it would have been a state day of mourning, but also an opportunity for a parade and holiday. Families would have clung to each other on this rare day together and the more mercenary would have filled every spare space with memorial wares for sale, like carrion birds around a freshly killed calf.

But this was Whitestone. In seventy years, the buildings had grown tall and the streets had grown wide. Where once there had been rutted cart tracks there were now carefully maintained cobblestones. The smell of manure from the fields, once dominant, was now overwhelmed with the sharp sting of coal from the furnaces of the local workshops. But this was still Whitestone. So the buildings were adorned with black blunting, every window was covered, every shop sign obscured, and each door had a black bow wrapped around the door handle. As she moved through the streets, Keyleth caught a glimpse of a few people—a women in a green dress peering from behind a black-curtained window, a child clutched back to his mother’s skirts as he tried to rush out to the guards—but mostly the streets were deserted. This was a state funeral and everyone in Whitestone was in full mourning. The streets were empty, but the temple of Pelor was a restless mass of people.

As the honor guard approached, Keyleth saw Vex’ahlia immediately. Merely a small figure at this distance, her poise shouted above the dull hum of the crowd. Where Keyleth held her head up to fight the natural urge to crawl away, to find momentum against the gaze of others, Vex’ahlia’s entire body rose up, a bulwark against any cruel words or judging glance. On the temple floor, leading a line of De Rolos, surrounded by the entire population of Whitestone, she was still perfectly Vex’ahlia, never to be anyone else.

Read more at the AO3 link above!

#critical role #vexleth #vex'ahlia #keyleth #critfic #bb writes #eight kisses between breaths

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bitterlikesweets · 4 years

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I’ve been trying to write for the past hour, but I’ve been having massive writer’s block for all of my fics, so here’s a random fanfic I found in my Google Docs that I started(and then deleted) in 2016.

~~~

The day the Ackerman family moved into their new home was a day of new things for Levi. A new house, a new school, a new town, and new neighbors. And a new camera too. It was the older kind that printed out the picture as soon as you took it. It was something his parents bought him to make him feel better about leaving behind the town he never really liked and the friends he never really had.

But he didn't say a word about that, taking the camera without telling his parents that he didn't need some object to make him feel better because he didn't feel bad. Free stuff was free stuff, and Levi wasn't about to complain.

When his new neighbors arrived at his door with a platter full of cookies and asked to come in, he didn't complain. He sat in silence and ate the food they brought while the adults in the room chatted.

The Yeager family seemed nice enough. The father was a doctor, and his wife was a stay at home mom.

And then there was their son. The happy go lucky child who shoved the cookies in his mouth and spilled crumbs all over the recently vacuumed carpet. The boy would occasionally pipe up during the conversation, but he would mostly keep to himself and glance at Levi once in awhile.

What was his name again? Oh, right. Eren.

How could he remember that? Levi frowned and fiddled with his camera. He could probably remember his face, but he'd have trouble pairing it with the name.

E for Eren. The boy’s blue-green eyes were nice. E for eyes. Eren with nice eyes. He could remember that.

“How old is Levi?” the woman asked, drawing the boy’s attention. Carly? Carla? Something like that. Levi would just stick with Mrs. Yeager. It was easier.

“He's turning nine this December,” his mother replied, patting his shoulder.

“Oh really? Eren is turning eight in March! It's nice that their ages are so close.”

Eren’s eyes were trained on Levi’s face, and Levi lifted up the camera. He peered through the lens at Eren’s face. The boy looked curious and excited, though it appeared he was still trying to see the parts of Levi’s face that weren't hidden by the camera. Levi pressed the button on the top of the camera and took a picture. The flash made Eren cover his face, and Levi set the camera on his lap, listening to the whirring of the machinery within the camera. A small square of glossy paper came out of the opening in the bottom of the camera, and Levi grabbed it.

“It's black,” Levi said.

“Shake it and the picture will appear,” his father said. Eren’s parents smiled as Levi shook the print. His eyes widened when the picture cleared, and soon Eren was scrambling off the sofa and towards Levi to see it.

He stood in front of Levi, trying to get a glimpse of the picture. Levi held it closer to himself, and the other boy rocked from the balls of his feet to his heels over and over again, eyes shining in silent question.

The adults turned back to their own conversation again, and Levi gave Eren the print. He grinned as he looked down at himself.

“Cool,” Eren said. Levi looked at him a little while longer then snapped another picture. Levi let it set for a moment then switched that picture with the one Eren held in his hand. Levi tucked his picture in his pocket and set the camera aside.

“I can keep it?” Eren asked. Levi nodded.

“Can I take a picture of you?” he asked, and Levi shook his head. The boy pouted.

“Why not?” Levi just crossed his arms and looked away. He met Mrs. Yeager’s eye and she smiled at him. He picked up the camera a snapped a shot of her too.

“Levi! Don't take pictures without asking,” his mom said. He shrugged. Mrs. Yeager laughed it off.

“It's alright. It's good that he likes it.”

Levi slid off his seat and stood beside Eren. He frowned. They were the same height.

“Hey, Levi.”

“What?”

“What's that?” Eren asked, pointing at someone behind him. Levi looked back and Eren grabbed the camera, snapping a picture of the black-haired boy just as he turned around to tell Eren that he didn't see anything. Eren slipped the print that came out into his pocket and grinned.

Levi glared at him and took the camera back.

Forget remembering his name. B for brat. B for brown hair. He could definitely remember that.

Levi began walking up the stairs, but Eren was following him.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“My room.”

“Can I come?”

Levi stared at him and considered it.

“...Sure.”

“Cool!” Eren raced up the stairs ahead of him, and Levi followed behind him slowly. Eren stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs then turned back and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Hey, Levi!”

“What?”

“You wanna be friends?” Eren held out his hand, and after a moment, Levi grasped his hand tightly.

“Yeah.”

Eren smiled brightly, and Levi wanted to take a picture of him again.

But he didn't. Not at that moment anyway. He would later on, again and again.

~~~

Within two years, Eren became one of Levi’s best friends. He had no other choice but to spend time with him because their parents became friends and spent time at each other's houses often. When Eren’s parents wanted to go on a date, he'd be sent to Levi’s house. When Levi needed a ride to school, he'd go with Eren. Their two families had gotten quite close within the time they spent together.

His life had gotten past the phase of change and he'd settled into a daily pattern that he deemed acceptable. He’d made a couple of new friends and became even more attached to his Polaroid camera. He’d even gotten Eren used to how often he took pictures of him. Things were calm. Things were normal. He liked it that way.

Then the accident happened, and his fragile peace was disrupted.

A drunk driver they said. They did the best the could. The funeral would happen soon. It would be okay.

But Eren’s eyes were still and lifeless for weeks on end. Eyes that normal shined and were full of life became dull.

His mother was dead after all. That was to be expected.

Levi didn't know how to act at a funeral. He stayed quiet and stayed by himself and tried to pretend that it all was some sick dream. But it wasn't.

Levi felt bad for not being able to help Eren. To make up for it, he made him a small photo album full of pictures of Eren’s mother and gave it to him that day at the funeral.

Eren had only looked at one before he started crying.

That day, Levi did his best to comfort him. He hugged and told him that it would be okay. Levi promised to take care of him in the place of his mother.

He didn't realize just how much that promise meant to Eren.

Levi’s family offered all the help they could. They were going to bring Eren to and from school while he and Levi were both still in elementary until his father found out a way to take care of his work and his child without his wife by his side.

After a while, things got better. The light came back to Eren’s eyes. Levi was glad. He missed seeing that sparkle. The flow of things returned to the way they were, though it would forever be a little altered. Levi took pictures every chance he got, wanting to capture every memory he experienced. Just in case.

And those eyes. Those nice, bright eyes were the stars of his collection. Those were the eyes he liked to look back on. The blue-green eyes that belonged to the first friend he made after he moved.

E for eyes. E for Eren.

He'd always remember that.

#ereri #ereri riren #riren #riren fanfic #aot fanfiction #modern au #this site really tried to autocorrect Ackerman to mackerel I'm dead #this is only the first chapter but idk if I should continue it #fanfiction

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nnegan13 · 5 years

Note

can you write a fic about Ele telling Edo the backstory of her tattoos like while cuddling in bed?

hi! thank you for the absolute softest prompt ever. literally was melting the entire time I was writing it.

on ao3

rest is under the cut! again, I would advise not to read on mobile bc the formatting gets fucked up but like, its ur funeral lmao

—

MONDAY 30 MARCH23:14 ELEONORA’S BEDROOM, SAVA’S APARTMENT

Eleonora ignores the pathetic whine that comes from her naked, stupid boyfriend on the other side of the bed as she swings her legs off the mattress, his large hand slipping over the bend of her hip but finding no purchase as she turns on her bedside lamp and stands up. She looks over at him, eyebrows raised. Edoardo pouts and she stoops down to pick up his discarded T-shirt so he doesn’t see her smile.

He’s been too pleased with himself tonight. Not that she minds, or anything, but it’s still fun to tease him.

Another whine escapes him. “Where are you going?”

Pulling the shirt on over her head, she stops at her dresser to slip on a clean pair of underwear and shoots him a little smirk over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. A low grumble and an obnoxious amount rustling reaches her ears; he must’ve burrowed into the blankets. The image makes her smile.

Despite the tightly shut windows, a late March chill fills the apartment and goosebumps erupt across her skin. Maybe she should’ve put on pants.

After she pads down the hall and finishes in the bathroom, she makes her way to the kitchen to pick over the remnants of their dinner from a few hours ago; the rumbling in her stomach is too loud to ignore.

Edoardo appears in the doorway of the dining room, clad in a pair of sweatpants, as she exits the kitchen, hall-full bowl of pasta in hand and half a mind to go check on her plants outside. It’s starting to warm up, even just a degree or two, and she wants to see how soon she can move the less winter-friendly plants back out into the sun.

He must be able to what she’s thinking in the distracted way she chews and darts her eyes around the dining room because he catches her around the waist before she can make it back to her room and climb out to the veranda. The knowing look on his face makes her chest warm. Even doing long-distance, he knows her almost as well as she knows herself. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Mm,” she hums in lieu of a better answer. It’s nonsensical to check, she knows—she was the one who told him so when the idea first popped into her head the night his flight got in—but it takes up an itchy amount of space in the back of her brain.

“You can always check in the morning.”

“Or,” she muses, turning her gaze from the hallway to Edoardo’s mildly exasperated face and offering him a forkful of her food, schooling her own expression into one of mock innocence, “I could check now.”

Before he can voice more protests, she shoves the fork into his opening mouth and takes off toward her room, giggling as he swipes at her arm. She can picture him standing there in the maw of the hallway: fork protruding from his mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and hands opening and closing like they want to grab at something soft—her waist, no doubt, and the thought makes her smile even in her late night induced single-mindedness.

Once she makes it into her room, she abandons the bowl of pasta on her desk and climbs through her window onto the veranda, ignoring how the chill outside is much worse than in the apartment—she really should’ve put on pants—and dutifully wandering the deck to check her various pots and plants. Inside, she hears Edoardo shut her bedroom door and collapse onto the mattress.

After poking and prodding her plants long enough that the cold has seeped through her muscles down to her bones, she scurries back inside, shutting the window firmly behind herself and plopping her cold body directly on top of Edoardo amidst his squirming and quiet, humorous complaining. Even as he mutters how obscenely cold and cruel she is for doing this, he wraps his arms around her huddled form.

She scoots around his chest until she hears his heartbeat firm and steady underneath her ear. Body heat radiating into her, he kisses the top of her head and tightens his hold as a happy sigh escapes her.

When he speaks, she thinks she might be dreaming. Especially because he’s got her arm pulled away from her ball of a body and is inspecting her wrist like it’s entirely new to him. He’s so gentle, though, that Eleonora doesn’t even notice he’s manhandled her—to put it frankly—until he says, “Who’s Lulu?”

Blinking, she tilts her head up to look at him. “What?”

“Your tattoo.” He lets her pull her arm back to her person, and she stares at the black words inked onto the inside of her wrist like she’s never seen them before. The late hour combined with his intoxicating body heat makes her brain slower than normal. “Who’s Lulu?”

“A little cousin of mine,” she says after a long moment, slithering off him to pull the blankets over both of them. Once they’re covered, she lays back on his chest. He’s propped himself up on a pillow, now, and she rests her chin on her folded hands atop his chest. The steady rise and fall of his breathing lulls her back to the brink of sleep and she resists with her best effort. It’s difficult, but she manages.

They’re having a conversation; she can’t exactly fall asleep on him.

Edoardo reaches down until he finds the hem of his shirt she has on and slips his hand underneath, starts tracing his nails on her skin. She closes her eyes as they roll, mild pleasure flickering through her.

Eventually, Eleonora forces her eyes open again and finds him watching her. Lulu is a heavy subject, one she isn’t sure is appropriate for the light fun that she’s had a hand in supplying for Edoardo’s spring break, but talking to one another, telling each other things when it feels right, has always been something they’ve tried to do.

The words slip out with an ease that’s grown over the past year, with Filippo, with Eva and the girls, and with Edoardo, most of all. “She passed away when I was younger, probably eight or nine. All my older cousins got a tattoo of her name and Filo took me when I was old enough.”

“Were you guys close?” His voice rumbles in his chest, vibrating into her person; it’s a true effort to stay awake.

“I mean, she was just a toddler,” she murmurs. On his face, his expression morphs from one of sleepy interest to sleepy concern and his hand flattens against her back, thumb rubbing slow against her skin. There’s not much to comfort her about; it happened a long time ago, but she appreciates it all the same. “Had a heart defect and got really sick. I don’t really remember much about it, but we would go see her all the time before it all happened.”

For a moment, they stare at one another, her words hanging in the air between them. She rises and falls with his chest, his thumb continues to sweep against her skin, and a microscopic part of her heart breaks again. Then she shifts off her hands and presses her mouth to his chest, her shoulders relaxing as she moves.

When she pulls back, he cups her cheek with his other hand and draws her face to his, kissing her twice, gentle motions more for reassurance and affection than anything else. Her chest warms, and she settles back into her previous position.

“What about the others?”

“The other what?”

“Tattoos.”

“Mm.” Edoardo studies her with those deep brown eyes of his, fingers tracing aimless patterns once more, and Eleonora try to decide where to start. “What do you want to know?”

Shrugging, he pulls her off his chest and helps her tuck into his side. Once she settles, her head pressed into the crook of his shoulder, his arm curled around her, and his hand under her shirt resting against her stomach just above her hip, he takes her forearm and exposes the inside to the soft lamplight illuminating the room. “You don’t grow any sunflowers.”

When he traces a fingernail along the edge of the sunflower inked on her skin, she shivers. “What an observant person you are.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, peeking up at him and grinning when he rolls his eyes a little.

“Why’d you get a tattoo of one if you don’t grow them?”

As she contemplates for a moment, pursing her lips, he goes back to studying her tattoo, tracing the lines and maneuvering her arm around to see better. She’s not embarrassed, but still thinks it’s true: “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”

“I don’t think anything you do is stupid.”

“Mm.” Watching him makes her smile. “Okay, sure.”

“Remember, I’m not the one who thinks the other is stupid in this relationship.”

She props herself up on her elbow to properly glare at him. He grins, self-assured, back at her. “Hey.”

Squeezing her waist, he says, “C’mon, tell me.”

“Fine.” She purses her lips and thinks about sixteen-year-old Eleonora’s reasoning behind the multitude of tattoos she got amidst her change in schools. They’re still things she wholeheartedly believes, but sixteen-year-olds aren’t the most eloquent people on the planet, so everything is choppy and awkward in her head. “Don’t laugh.”

A sweet smile cracks onto his face. He looks excited at the prospect of learning about her tattoos and it makes her grin. “I promise.”

“Have you ever heard of heliotropism?” He shakes his head. “Certain flowers do it. They track the movement of the sun during the day because the light reactions help with pollination, or internal temperature, or is part of their circadian motion.”

“And sunflowers do heliotropism?”

“No, actually.”

“How misleading.”

Eleonora gives him a pointed look that he grins at before continuing. “Sunflower buds will do it when they’re developing, but once the flower is fully mature it stays facing east.”

“And there’s a metaphor, somewhere.”

Automatically, she says, “No,” even though he’s right.

It’s Edoardo’s turn to give a pointed look, eyebrows raising and mouth twitching, and she relents. “Fine, there’s a metaphor, but I didn’t know the specifics of heliotropism when I got my tattoo like I do now, so it doesn’t really work all that much anymore.”

She sinks back down into him, his arm curving around her shoulder again as she situates herself against his side. “I always focused on what other people thought of me at my old school: what my friends thought of me, what my ex thought of me, if I was pretty enough or skinny enough or small enough. And my grades slipped, I stopped eating, I stopped hanging out with people, it was just—it was bad.

“It got worse when everything happened with my ex. I wound up in the hospital for a little while.” It hits her that she’s saying these things out loud; she’s saying these things to an actual person—to Edoardo—not just to herself. For a moment, her pulse spikes and her stomach turns and her muscles tighten, like they want her to ball up on herself, but he smooths his thumb across her hip and kisses her hairline and she remembers that he’s already seen her lows, he already knows a good chunk of the hurt she’s been though—he was there, after all—and she takes a deep breath. Looks at him. Tries not to blush or smile or do something stupid when the only thing she can read on his face is deep-rooted concern. “I transferred a couple weeks after that.”

Edoardo says nothing, still, which she appreciates.

“I started gardening when I got out of the hospital,” Eleonora says, a wistful smile forming on her face as she thinks of her crude attempts at keeping her mother’s deck plants alive. “And Filo wanted me to put a giant pot of sunflowers in the corner of the deck because he thought everything was too green. I told him we couldn’t put them in the corner because they have to track the sun to survive and out of nowhere he said that I was like them, that I cared about people’s opinions so much that it would kill me. Then we were yelling and I was crying and he was telling me I needed to focus on something else or I would die.”

She snorts. “He’s so dramatic.”

Edoardo’s hand flexes against her waist and she looks up at him. He’s not frowning, looks rather contemplative, actually, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t know if I’d call it that. You did end up in the hospital.”

Pressure builds up behind her eyes as he speaks. It’s weird, hearing another person say she was in the hospital, especially when he’s so close to her—it makes it all feel very, very real again. The need to snark back, keep herself from crying, turn this serious moment into something they can laugh at instead, wells up inside her, but she pushes it aside. She wants to be honest with Edoardo, and not just with her words.

“Okay,” her voice is thick and she doesn’t actually start crying, but he presses his lips to her forehead just the same. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Not a maybe,” he mumbles against her skin.

The hand that was holding her arm up for his inspection of her tattoo slips down her wrist and grasps hers, squeezing softly. She takes another deep breath.

“Filo gets all his tattoos to remind himself of things. He thought we could do the same—that I could do the same—so he took me to the parlor he got his done at,” she says. “I was still crying and Filo didn’t know what to do, so he just apologized to the artist once we got inside. And he had decided in the car that I would get a sunflower and what it would remind me of and then I got it.”

“Filo decided on the metaphor, then?”

“Yeah. Well—we did, together.” This is the part that’s corny and cheesy and all too fitting of a sixteen-year-old even if the sentiment holds true. She sighs and looks at Edoardo. The brush of his thumb against her hip helps with the nervous flips of her stomach. “The sunflower focuses on the sun to survive, and I should focus on myself to survive.”

For a moment, he says nothing, just studying her face with the corners of his lips gradually turning up and it’s only this that lets her know that he heard her, that her voice didn’t fade into the darkness engulfing everything outside her bedroom.

He curls their bodies together, pulling her up into him with the arm tucked around her back and his neck bending and body curving until his lips press into her forehead and the space between them shrinks into a tiny width she could close in a minuscule movement. Their legs tangle together under the blankets. Once he’s situated his other arm across her waist, he draws his mouth a hairsbreadth away from her skin and mumbles, “So you’re the sun and the sunflower in this situation?”

“Yes,” she says, closing her eyes, and adds after a beat, “Asshole.”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and out of his mouth against her forehead and the warm, sleepy feeling descends upon her again. The light’s still on, her brain reminds her, but Edoardo exudes heat and his skin is soft, and she loves laying here and talking with him, even if that talking will soon dwindle into sleep, and so she can’t be bothered to turn the lamp off.

“I don’t think it’s stupid, Ele,” he murmurs as she fits her head under his chin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t think it’s stupid, either, but it’s nice that he agrees.

—

TUESDAY 31 MARCH 14:22 LIVING ROOM, EDOARDO’S HOUSE

“What about the spider?” For such a dangerous question, his tone is entirely blasé.

Eleonora pauses mid-stride and scans the floor and walls around her. Not a spider in sight. Scrunching her eyebrows, she looks back at Edoardo’s wiry frame sprawled out on the couch, his deep brown eyes following her as she returns from the kitchen. A lazy grin tugs at his mouth. If she wasn’t preoccupied with other matters (read: spiders) she might’ve smiled, entertained a few ideas that popped into her mind as he laid there, committed to one and climbed on top of him, but she is preoccupied. “There’s a spider?”

When it comes to spiders, she doesn’t have an opinion one way or the other, but a confused half-smile spreads on his face, he props himself up on an elbow, and he says, “Yeah, the one on your arm,” with a tone and matching expression that would be cute if he was saying anything else, and she thinks she might have a heart attack.

“On my arm?”

Immediately, her heart rate spikes and adrenaline floods her system and she flails her arms around, starts batting at herself to get the alleged spider off her person. If she makes a few inhuman sounds during her brief panic, that’s her problem, not anyone else’s.

There’s a spider on her arm—on her fucking arm—for fuck’s sake.

“Is it off? Is it off? Get it off!”

Edoardo’s half-grin turns into an amused grimace and suddenly he’s there across the room to where she’s backed up in her panic, grabbing her thrashing wrists and saying, “Ele, Ele—”

“Don’t fucking—”

“The tattoo! I meant your tattoo.”

Mouth open, chest heaving, eye widening, she stares at him long enough that his grimace turns back into a little grin. Is he fucking kidding right now? Then his expression turns sheepish as she glares and he shrugs. “We fell asleep before we finished talking last night.”

A beat passes, then—“You’re so stupid!”

Once she’s ripped a hand from his grip, she shoves against his chest. There’s not enough heat behind her words for them to stick or force behind her hand for it to hurt, and he looks adorable when he tilts his head like that. Against her will, the corners of her mouth turn up even as she keeps glaring and Edoardo loops his free arm around her waist and draws her into his side. All the while, she keeps shoving against him, tries to force down the part of her that finds the whole thing funny, too. He’s being dumb, she reminds herself, and she’s irritated, but she recognizes the look on his face, the angle of his brow and the twitch of his lips; if there’s one thing she’s a sucker for it’s—“No, no! You don’t get to kiss your way out of this!”

Already, he’s peppering her face with his mouth, little sweet kisses on her forehead, along her brow-line, down her temple, even as she wriggles in his hold.

He uses them to punctuate his words: “I don’t—” one on her cheekbone, “—know what—” two on either side of her nose, “—you’re talking—” one by the corner of her eye that forces a smile to her lips, another on her other cheekbone, “—about.”

He’s made it to the edge of her face, now, and starts pressing tiny kisses from the top of her ear to the corner of her jaw. When she tries to pull away, he laughs a little and holds her tighter, even as she walks her hips, her legs, away from his body. He follows her, kissing diligently at her skin and using the hand still clasped in his to navigate her body back toward him, and she tries to keep her expression neutral, her tone neutral. Tries. “Fucking—liar.”

“Mm—” Eleonora frowns, but the kisses—slower, now, open-mouthed and edging toward fervent—down her cheek and to her jaw have her lips twitching upwards. His mouth is intoxicating, she decides as her skin heats and her feet stumble. He hasn’t even made his way to her lips, yet, given her a proper kiss that would warrant her mind i wandering, her resolve wavering, her efforts to escape lessening. Damn him. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She musters a little heat now. He’s so nonchalant, and she’s—worked up in more ways than one. “You’re so—”

“Funny?” More heavy kisses along her jawline, he releases her other wrist and uses his second arm to pull her back into his chest. “Handsome? Wonderful?”

“Annoying!” It’s an effort to get that same heat she just had into her words, but she’s successful, even against his mind-numbing, blood boiling barrage. Her skin tingles wherever he touches her—his hands on her waist, their legs brushing against one another, and his damn mouth on her neck—every touch zinging up her spine to her brain; she’s so, so warm, and he’s everywhere.

“Ah, yes, this is exactly what I wanted from my spring break.” The kisses along her jaw and under her chin paired with the brief tease of his teeth against her pulse point undermine his statement, as does the humor in his tone and the smile she feels against her skin. That’s what gets her, she thinks, his fucking smile. “To have my girlfriend call me annoying.”

He’s enjoying this and knows, even if she tries to say otherwise, that she is, too.

“Mm,” she hums, the hand that should shove against his chest slipping up to grip his shoulder as he continues to tease his mouth along her skin. At her waist, his hands flex, thumbs kneading into her skin, rolling into the tension in her muscles. It’s an effort not to let a moan escape her. Eye closing and mouth stuttering a little, she gasps. “Glad I, um—lived up to your—ah, your expectations.”

He steps them backwards toward the couch, his hands continuing to flex and squeeze against her waist and a chuckle rumbling in his chest when—despite her best efforts—an embarrassing noise falls from her lips. Teeth grazing her collarbone, he sucks hard enough against the same spot that she’s sure there will be a bruise. She clutches his shoulders as her knees grow weaker and weaker; damn him and his stupid, maddening mouth. It pops off her skin with a wet noise and when he pulls back, she opens her eyes.

Where the fuck does he think he’s going?

The tiniest of smirks spreads on his lips and her chest heaves against his; he laughs as she manages a soft glare. “Oh, you surpassed every one of them.”

“I’m so glad.” Voice weak but pointed, it doesn’t take much effort for him to walk them the rest of the way to the couch he previously occupied, mouth returned to nibbling on her neck, sliding one large, warm hand up to cup the bottom of her shoulder blade and the other down just low enough that she starts to get ideas. She isn’t sure how, but he draws her closer and closer, even though they’re as close together as she thinks they possible can be, and her jaw shudders up and down as he licks a stripe up the side of her neck. She’s embarrassed to feel lightheaded at the whole thing—she hasn’t even kissed him once—but then his mouth makes its way back up to the corner of her jaw and he pulls her earlobe through his teeth and her eyes roll. She shudders, pulling the fabric of his sweater between the fingers of one hand and gripping harder to his shoulder with the other. “Leave a—a good review for me on, uh, girlfriend Yelp.”

“Girlfriend Yelp?” Incredulity colors his tone like a heady flush colors her face. If she had planned to use her witticism to distract him long enough for her to escape—like she probably should have—or started her own opened-mouth, tongue-included, mind-blowing kissing barrage against him in revenge, she’d be sorely disappointed. Even in his disbelief he doesn’t let up, lips, tongue, and teeth making their way across her jaw, under her chin, and to the other side of her face. Blood pumping, knees shaking, hands balling into weak fists against his chest, Eleonora can’t help the noise that slips out of her mouth as he starts the whole process over on this new, untouched, unattended side of her neck.

Skin hot and tingling, with enough ease that he can guide them toward the couch, he drives her oversensitivity up the wall.

That’d be nice, she thinks as he does something truly wicked that makes her knees buckle, to be pressed against a wall. Or to press him against a wall. Her hands slide off his shoulders and fist in his sweater, feeling the hard plane of his chest through the fabric, with half a mind to do just that, but it’s almost like he can tell what’s circling in her thoughts.

He sucks this other earlobe into his mouth and laughs—fucking laughs—when she groans.

When the back of his legs hit the couch and their momentum stops, her entire body seems to sag against his and, try as she might to move her hands to pull his face to hers so he could fucking kiss her or something crazy like that, she can’t; he overwhelms her entire nervous system. He sucks on her pulse point again and she thinks she might start convulsing. She remembers, now, that he’s making fun of her for being nonsensical thanks to his stupid, mind fogging neck kisses, and pants, “Trying to be funny—or, or something.”

“Mm?” That hum sounds entirely too pleased.

“Yeah—yeah.” The hands at her waist slip just a little further down her body and she gets her own hands to move as well, but all they seem capable of doing is gripping his shoulders and sliding into his hair, pulling it between her fingers. At this, his own little moan vibrates from his chest out of his mouth and into her skin. It feels so good—too good—but it gets him to detach his lips from her neck and she gets a moment of clarity.

She’s supposed to be yelling at him for being a little asshole right now.

Just as she realizes, his arms band a little tighter around her, he pulls her up onto her toes, and presses his lips back into her skin, muttering, “Well, I hope I get an equally good review on boyfriend Yelp.”

Her moment of clarity disappears and goosebumps burst along her skin, up the back of her neck, and all over her scalp. She tries not to shiver too hard, one hand fisting in his hair again and the other squeezing his shoulder.

And finally, blissfully, maddeningly, Edoardo shifts his mouth from her neck onto her lips and she whimpers, tension leaking from her body. Their progression to sit on the couch pauses for several long seconds. These kisses are slow, sensual, mouths sliding hot against each other, his tongue sweeping across her bottom lip. When she tugs on his hair, his mouth opens in a slight gasp before she licks into his mouth with a laugh.

After enough time passes that she can’t tell whose breath is whose anymore, Edoardo pulls his mouth from hers, pressing their foreheads together and eliciting a whine from deep in Eleonora’s diaphragm. Laughing, he braces his hands at her waist and sinks into the couch, pressing singular kisses to her lips as she bends to follow him.

Once he settles, she lowers herself onto the cushions, first one knee and then the other on either side of his hips, and slides her mouth over his again; her hands cup his cheeks and he tilts his face up to her. As she takes her time kissing him into as much senselessness as he had done to her, he palms the back of her thighs, heat warming her skin as he trails them up her ass to the top of her shorts. His fingers slip into the waistband and her shirt comes untucked. She shivers, his hands slipping under the fabric, nails tracing over her skin as his hands move up and up, from the small of her back around to her ribs, up her sides. She sinks into his lap, her shirt rucking up and exposing her heated skin to the cool air of his living room. A gasp slips from her lips into his—

Edoardo draws back, chest heaving, and her mind registers the smug, excited smile spreading on that mouth that she should be kissing but isn’t anymore. What the fuck is he—

One of his hands drops lower on her waist, thumb pressing against her skin over and over as if to say hey, don’t worry, we’ll be getting back to this in a moment. The other pulls her shirt further up her side until his fingers run along the waistband of her bra and the skin underneath. He ducks his head out of the gentle hold she has on him, and for a hopeful moment she thinks he has other ideas, but his mouth doesn’t latch onto her ribs. No, he just stares at her skin, fingers ghosting a hair below the waistband. Eleonora frowns. “Edo.”

“Hm?”

She leans back, taking a hold of her shirt so she can see whatever he’s looking at, and glares as their eyes meet. It’s the fucking fast forward symbol tattooed on her ribs right in front of his face. “Really?”

He leans back into the couch as she drops her shirt. It pools over his wrist, his hand still cupping her ribs underneath her bra, and she folds her arms over her chest. “We never finished talking about them.”

“And so you asked about the spider.” A nod. “And scared the shit out of me.”

A smirk slides onto his face. He intertwines his hands together at the small of her back and pulls her closer to him. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” She raises an eyebrow, her earlier annoyance flaring up and down as she studies his damn face, contemplates the fact that he used a known weakness of hers—fucking kissing, it’s so distracting—to get her to talk about her tattoos again. It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. “Don’t lie.”

“Okay.” Another tug closer. She braces her hands against his chest to keep her balance and the corners of his mouth twitch up.

“Okay.” She sits back in his lap but it does little to put more space between them, even though that’s what she needs to keep from giving in again. “And you had the perfect opportunity to ask me about them again, but you kissed me instead.”

“You brought kissing up first.”

“Mm, don’t turn this on me.” She pokes his chest. “You are the only one at fault.”

He nods, his hands slipping from one another. One presses flat against her back and the other opens and closes into a loose fist against her skin, light scratching. He’s doing it again, trying to distract her from her mild annoyance, and he knows it’s working, like she knows how to get him worked up, too—skin heated, mind dizzy, too aroused for public decency but not so much as to be cruel—even when she’s not in the mood for anything more. He’s playing her at her own game. The problem is: it’s working.

She tries not to smile. The game, she knows he enjoys it even if the outcome is mildly infuriating for him; she just can’t believe that it’s the same now that the tables are turned: even if she’s annoyed, there’s a thrill underlying it all.

“Okay, I take all the blame,” he says, grinning. “What does this one mean?”

He’s going to love this: “Nothing.”

“Nothing.” His grin slips from his face. She presses her lips together to keep from laughing. “You’re serious.”

She nods. “As serious as I’ve ever been.”

A pout replaces his grin, and he shakes his head. “I can’t believe—”

“Hey!” She shoves at his chest. “Not every tattoo has to have a super deep meaning.”

“Mm, okay, why’d you get it then?”

“I think rib tattoos look really cool.”

“Ele—” she doesn’t let him get much farther, cupping his face and surging forward, foregoing her internal debate about the morality of their game in favor of using it to distract him once more. She slides her mouth over his and laughs at the surprised sound he makes. His hands flatten against her back, pulling her torso flush against his, and her hair falls like a curtain around their faces. After a moment full of his mouth and his tongue and his breath mingling with hers, she slips a hand into his curls and tugs just hard enough.

Plus, she thinks as his mouth opens underneath hers and he bites her bottom lip, they both like the game. Her tattoos can wait.

—

FRIDAY APRIL 3 16:33 DOCKS, FIUMICINO

“Okay,” he starts, drawing her attention from the glint of the sun off the waves to his face where he lays with his head in her lap. He’s got his eyebrows raised. “Just to preface: I’m not asking about an actual spider this time.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eleonora says, looking away, but smiles when he laughs something sharp and bright. When she pointedly keeps her gaze locked on a passing boat in the distance, he tugs on her shirt until she relents. “What?”

“Hey.” Edoardo’s voice is soft and sweet, now, sensitive to her annoyance but still amused, if only a little, by her reaction. Earnestness shades his eyes. “Will you tell me why you got the spider tattoo?”

For a moment, she watches him, studies his eyes, the way the sunlight glints off their glossy surface and turns his irises into a backlit brown, like coffee or cola. His hand encircles the wrist she rests on his sternum and one corner of his mouth pulls up. The smile that blooms when she nods is bright like the sun. Her chest warms.

“It was Filo’s idea again.”

His laugh echoes off the water. “Really?”

“Mm.”

“Do you have any tattoos that weren’t his idea?”

“The fast forward,” she says, pinching his chest and raising her eyebrows when a playful wince scrunches up his face. “And you seemed pretty interested in that one the other day.”

“Well, what piques my interest piques my interest.”

“Piques? Is Cornell expanding your vocabulary, or something?” Her other hand drifts into his hair, winds a curl or two around her index finger. His smile makes her chest warm further. “I thought you were there for business: finance and accounting and math.”

“I’m interdisciplinary.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

He snorts a little, and covers his eyes with the back of his wrist. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Okay.” She presses her lips together and draws her hand from his hair so she can lean back on it. From the moment the topic of tattoos came up, Eleonora knew they’d be delving into rough terrain, so to speak. A lot of things have happened to her and the tattoos have been—therapeutic, if nothing else. They’ve covered heavy stuff, stuff she’s been scared to talk about with most people before, but he’s still here with her, still sleeping in her bed, still laying with his head in her lap, still waiting to hear every word that comes out of her mouth.

What’s a little more weight, then?

“Nymphomaniac wasn’t the only thing I was called at my old school,” she says, voice dropping to a whisper. “It was mostly your typical slut-shaming rhetoric, but everyone’s favorite seemed to be ‘man-eater.’”

His voice hints at derision, low and rough, and his jaw clenches as he mutters, “What a title.”

“I know, right?”

A beat passes. They listen to the waves lapping at the docks and crashing against the sea, the wind whistling at a low pitch, each other’s breathing. Edoardo’s hand doesn’t tighten or loosen against her wrist, but rather his hand shifts to cover millimeters more of her skin, to offer his presence. Tension she wasn’t aware of drains from her shoulders.

“And the most famous man-eater is the black widow. Filo said I should get a tattoo of one, reclaim the term. Give an actual reason to be called it, besides rumors that weren’t true.” She shrugs, even though Edoardo’s hand still covers his eyes. “So I did.”

Several moments pass and she turns her face up to the sun, closing her eyes. That warmth in her chest doesn’t disappear as she talks about her tattoo, rather spreads as the sun falls on her skin, and soon her entire body is pleasantly warm. Filippo was clever when he came up with the idea, she thinks, her lips twitching up, and it’s fun to tell someone else about it.

Edoardo hums and she looks back down at him. He’s pulled his arm off his face and watches her with a contemplative expression, like he’s trying to decide how to feel: angry on her behalf, or amused by Filippo like she is, or maybe even indifferent. It happened then and now it doesn’t anymore. Not much to do. She doesn’t figure out what he chooses, he speaks too soon: “Can I see it?”

Shrugging off her jacket, she braces herself against the early April chill and rucks up the sleeve covering her tattoo before twisting her arm and showing it to him. His hands are gentle when they grasp her arm, one steadying her wrist and the other beneath her elbow. Unlike the air around them, his hand is warm and helps maintain the contented feeling grown in her chest, spread down her limbs, along her bones. She smiles while he studies it closely, his head lifting slightly from her lap to peer closer.

Once he’s done, he lays back in her lap, the fingers at her wrist slipping down to hold her hand. The other settles on his stomach and she relaxes her arm so their clasped hands rests against his sternum above his heart. “Mm, I like it.”

Eleonora smiles. “I’m glad.”

He closes his eyes against the sun again and for a few minutes, they sit there quiet in the bright afternoon light. In her lap, his head grows heavy enough she thinks he might’ve fallen asleep, though he hints at a smile when she starts playing with his hair. They’ve stilled enough she can feel his heartbeat beneath where their hands lay. A few beats pass. “All this talk of tattoos is making me think of getting one.”

“Yeah?” He’d look good with tattoos, she thinks. They’d look nice against his skin, against his body. She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. “What would you get?”

“Well, since you think rib tattoos are super cool—” of course he’d mention that, the asshole, “—obviously I’d want to get one of those.”

“Mm, yeah?” She brushes a few curls off his forehead, and a mingle of dread and anticipation fills her stomach. He’s going to say something stupid, she knows, and amusing in that infuriating way of his. “Of what?”

“A big ass drawing of your face.”

“Asshole,” she says, stifling her laughter.

He grins. “I was thinking I could get Nico to do it.”

“He is the only one who could get my face—or anyone’s face—to look good as a tattoo, you’re right.” It really isn’t meant to be anything self-deprecating, but Edoardo takes each and every opportunity to tell her she’s beautiful that he gets. Even something silly, like this.

A squeeze to her hand, accompanied by an earnest smile, raised eyebrows. She scrunches her face even as he says, “You’d look magnificent as a tattoo.”

“Oh, compliment me further, please.”

“Ele,” he chuckles a little like he can’t help it, even as he tugs on her hand. “I’m serious. Even if I wouldn’t get it tattooed, I’d love to commission Nico to draw you.”

“Like one of his French girls?” She doesn’t look at him, she can’t look at him.

“Ele.”

She looks at him. Her breath hitches. A blush rises to her cheeks. Even after a year, Edoardo does and says things that make her heart beat faster. Says them all with the most serious expression, the most genuine tone, that it’s impossible not to believe him, and it makes her chest smart. The fucking charmer. “Don’t say things like that if you’re not serious about it, you’ll get my hopes up.”

In an instant, he sits up, ferventness smoothing his expression until a small smile remains and the middle of his brow lifts. The skin around his eyes crinkles as that smile grows. “Yours is a face people would put in museums, Ele.”

“Stop.”

“No.” He leans toward her and presses the lightest of kisses to her mouth and draws back so she can see his face once more. “You’re beautiful.”

“Stop.”

“You know how you feel when you look at a garden or at a flower or a bush you think is really nice?” he asks, ignoring her protests, shifting his legs underneath himself to turn more fully toward her. He props up a bent knee and wraps his arm around it, scooting himself closer. “That’s how I feel when I look at you.”

Her lips part as her focus flickers back and forth between his irises. Not a speck of dishonesty mars his face and the warmth in her chest spikes, her pulse races. “Edo—”

A finger comes up and presses to her lips, replaced quickly by his thumb. It ghosts over her skin and goosebumps erupt down the back of her neck and along her shoulders. “No, don’t say anything, you’ll ruin it.”

Eleonora raises her eyebrows, face scrunching up. He’s right, after all. Accepting compliments is not her strong suit, even after a full year of him giving her a multitude of opportunities to practice.

“You are beautiful, and wonderful, and smart.” He cups the back of her head. “Let me tell you that, okay?”

After a moment of hesitation, she nods, and he proceeds to do so for several long minutes that make her squirm and smile and blush and makes her heart ache. She blushes so much as he lavishes her with an endless string of impassioned compliments that she’s far warmer than she was just the other day when the same mouth—now spouting adoration in a tone that can only be interpreted as honest—riled her up so much she thought she might burst from it. At the end, he gives her sweet kisses that can’t be strung into anything longer because they’re both smiling too hard; her out of the absolute fluster he’s caused and him from the reaction he’s drawn, she’s sure.

A final kiss, then he sits back and beams at her.

She purses her lips and shakes her head, squeezing his hand before changing the subject. “Okay, beyond the one of my face, what tattoo would you get?”

Edoardo smirks at her pointed look, but his expression sobers as he thinks. After a second or two of consideration, he shrugs. “Probably something to remind me of my mom.”

A soft smile slides onto her lips. Her voice is quiet. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His own smile broadens as he thinks further. “She loved the sea, being in the water. Maybe I could get a wave, or a boat. Or a surfboard, she loved surfing.”

“That sounds really nice.” She brushes the stray curl always falling into his eyes away from his face and he kisses her palm when she draws her hand back. As she speaks, his gaze never leaves her face. “I think she’d really like that.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, and her smile turns sheepish as she thinks of what she wants to say next. He spent several long minutes singing her praises, its the least she can do to say what she’s thinking: “I didn’t know her, but I know you. And something tells me that’s close enough.”

The smile she’s rewarded with makes that warmth in her chest flare. He is as bright as the sun, talking about his mother, and radiates light. It’s contagious, she grins wide.

“You’re too nice to me, sometimes.”

Of their own accord, her eyebrows raise. “Says mister ‘compliment my girlfriend for ten minutes straight.’”

“Those are well deserved.”

“So is this.” She hopes he reads her honesty, understands how much she means it. As he studies her, his eyes flicker over her face, lighting on each of her features before returning to her eyes. He shakes his head, but smiles, and she squeezes his hand again. “She’d like anything you do.”

And again, the staring. Just as she can’t take her compliments, neither can he, even after her attempts to match him the whole year.

She whispers, “Let me tell you that, okay?”

It’s his turn to part his lips and look hopelessly at her and nod after a pause. Eleonora smiles.

A quiet few minutes pass in which they kiss and kiss and kiss until she’s out of breath, the wind whistling in her ears and cooling her skin, but not her heart. The sun shines bright, still, but it’s nothing compared to the light on Edoardo’s face as they draw apart. They settle into a cuddled clump once more, waves still lapping at the dock like he hadn’t upended her world for the thousandth time. She tucks into his side, one of his legs propped up behind her back and the other slid under her bent knees, his arm draped across her shoulders so he can play with her hair.

Every muscle in her body relaxes when he tugs her closer and she smiles, turning her face into his chest. His sweater is soft against her cheek. “You could get Nico to draw the tattoo for your mom.”

“You think?”

“Of course.” A yawn escaped her. “You’ll want to have it drawn up before you go to the parlor. What reminds you of her the most?”

“The ocean. When I play the guitar. Being with my nonna.”

“Hm, okay, what we need to do is talk to Filo, of course, he’s the resident tattoo expert, as you probably know.”

Edoardo’s laugh rings clear out over the ocean. Eleonora grins.

#asks #skam italia #incantava #incantava fic #eleonora sava #edoardo incanti #this prompt literally killed me it was so soft #I'm dying #thank you for sending it in #and really pls read it on ao3 it always looks so much nicer there

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comradesklaine · 4 years

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more!

★★★ Here I Am, Honey by luckie_dee When Blaine Anderson visits Kellerman's Mountain Home with his family in the summer of 1963, he isn't expecting anything more than days in the sun and games of croquet, but when he and his cousin Rachel meet the staff dance instructors, his plans get thrown for a loop. Blaine's family vacation might just end up being the time of his life. A Klaine Dirty Dancing AU.

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One’s Impossible, Two is Dreary by Lokei Kurt’s voice in his ear is warm and evens out all of the jagged edges on Blaine’s insides. “I’m back early from Callbacks and wanted to make sure to respond to you before it got too late. Care to explain this text?”

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#klaine

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oldshrewsburyian · 5 years

Note

I love your Garcy/Timeless fics! Should you feel so inclined I have a prompt: Garcy + polyglot (one of my favorite things about Flynn, ahem).

Thank you! I loved your prompt! It took me a while because it got long. There is hurt/comfort and gratuitous historical atmosphere and these two are very solicitous of each other.

To the Time Team’s genuine surprise, and Rufus’ feigned indignation, Flynn’s languages turn out to be his most consistently valuable asset. (The missions requiring a singleminded and virtuosic violence have become more rare since Emma’s takeover of Rittenhouse.) To Lucy, who swotted dutifully for her Ph.D. reading exams, the most remarkable thing is the ease with which he seems to navigate them. She had, of course, realized at some level that he spoke the kind of Spanish that could get him an audience with Santa Ana, the kind of German that allowed him to navigate Nazi Germany with the language as the least of his worries. But she still finds it impressive to watch him work; she still finds it almost mesmerizing to listen.

***

Italian (New York City, 1928)

“This looks like the set of ‘The Godfather,’” says Rufus, eyeing the game of bocce in the public park across the street.

“I think this was the set of ‘The Godfather,’” returns Wyatt, squinting up at the awning of the DiLuca funeral parlor.

“This is not the time,” hisses Lucy. “Fiorello La Guardia is anti-racist and anti-corruption, and if Rittenhouse arranges a fatal accident, all his mayoral policies are finished before they’ve begun. The ma — er, the families — are the least of our worries. They keep order in these streets because no one else will. And we need to find La Guardia now.”

“Right,” says Wyatt. “The out-of-work-laborers bit. I’ll ask at the bakeries, Rufus’ll take the vegetable-sellers. We’ll keep our ears open. It’ll be all right, Luce.”

She is far from sure, but she manages a smile. These are her people, and she trusts them, and that has to be enough. As Rufus and Wyatt turn aside on 188th St., she and Flynn stay together. Since Chinatown, Agent Christopher’s official policy has been to treat Lucy as a potential target. So Lucy has grown used to Flynn’s hand at her elbow, his presence like a bulwark. (In a frigid eighteenth-century winter somewhere near the Canadian border, she had tried to suggest to the team that what Agent Christopher didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Wyatt had simply said “No,” just as Rufus threatened to tell on her. Flynn had said nothing at all; Lucy cannot forget the look on his face.)

What takes her by surprise in history, over and over again, is how much she loves it. The thrill and the terror of being on hand at pivotal moments in time… even those she has become halfway accustomed to. But places like this neighborhood — the warm sunlight on the bricks of the Catholic church to their left, the Sicilian pizza-seller with a face like a walnut, the seamstress on her stoop, the graceful scrollwork on the fire escapes of ordinary apartment buildings — these leave her with a lump in her throat and an ache under her ribs.

A lean man in a smock is setting out dried codfish at the corner grocer’s, where a Star of David is set into the tiled threshold. He watches them with curious eyes; Flynn greets him with a tilt of the head and a courteous Buongiorno, establishing their bonafides. They walk as far as the market. Lucy admires the artichokes, assesses the access routes, and reproaches herself for not expecting a language barrier in the Bronx. Two brothers argue amiably over their vegetable stand, a young couple flirts by the butcher’s, and nowhere does Lucy see anything suspicious.

Flynn presses a bunch of flowers into her hand, and she blinks up at him. The florist thanks Flynn — that much she can make out — and she does not think it is only for his purchase. The man’s son, a boy of about eight, follows them with dark eyes as they walk away.

“I told him,” murmurs Flynn, when they are out of earshot, “to send his son home. Let’s find the others.”

Lucy has to stop herself from glancing over her shoulder. “But I didn’t see anything!” She may not have the language, but she is a historian, and all the evidence is here. “No one — no one avoided anyone else, no one lingered too long at the delicatessen…”

“And with the woman selling dried goods no one lingered at all.”

“That could be because she’s a Protestant or because she’s taken the wrong lover or…”

“She was greeted respectfully and perfunctorily,” cuts in Flynn quietly, “and there was a gun in her mending bag.”

Lucy takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her yellow roses. She can’t help the familiar, twisting guilt that settles in her gut; she can’t help feeling that she ought to apologize for lashing out in anger against her own powerlessness. But with him, she thinks, she doesn’t need to. He knows that anger well enough.

***

French (Marengo, 1800)

Lucy’s French is passable. She knows this, and she also knows it to be just passable, passable with the right backstory or the right degree of incuriousness on the part of whoever is speaking to her at the time. Fortunately, with Napoleon’s forces sweeping down over the Alps and through the Piedmont, odd regional accents are ten-a-penny. The diction of the friendly locals offering information about the Roman forces is likely to be the least of the sentries’ concerns. So Lucy does the persuading, alight with the conviction that Melas must be defeated, earnest in explaining why it is vital that she and her husband speak to the Consul himself. (She had never thought she’d be grateful for the necessity to pander to the military history nuts in her survey courses; but oh, she is now.) Though the guard cocks an eyebrow at her halting attempts to describe topography, he calls over his superior officer — and they’re in.

“Essaie de ne pas paraître trop soulagée,” murmurs Flynn, and she straightens her shoulders, walks taller at his side.

The most astonishing thing about the camp of the French army is its size: the reality of cooking fires and canvas tents, latrines and laundresses, on the scale necessary to accommodate this many soldiers. There is more mud than Lucy had expected. There are more knots of men just sitting around, polishing bayonets or playing cards. There is far more singing, and Lucy itches to get her hands on pencil and paper, to transcribe the bawdy invented verses and the wistful folksongs, ephemeral and vibrant and achingly human.

“Let’s drink to Fanchon! I marched out to seek for glory, and I found it in her arms! Drink to Fanchon…”

“How sad the girls of Paris must be, pining for their soldiers…”

“Will a Gascon ever forget what he owes you?”

“The saints of France are a noble lot, but they ain’t got what our Bonaparte’s got…”

Together they wait. The June night is warm, and the army is at ease with itself, but Lucy can feel her heart racing. The Austrian army is waiting for the First Consul of France. The European Coalition is waiting to see what happens. And she is waiting for an audience with Napoleon. An aide approaches them.

“Je vous saurais gré de me suivre.”

It turns out that Napoleon Bonaparte — republican hero and future emperor, upstart Corsican and French hero, social reformer and ruthless conqueror — is not, in fact, shorter than Lucy. In a purely technical sense, she discovers, she can look him in the eye. But this is an academic point; he is an overwhelming personality. Lucy’s mouth goes dry. She can still smell the tomatoes and garlic from the first consul’s dinner (not yet poulet Marengo, but soon.)

Watching Flynn cover the ground with febrile steps, watching him supply information to one of the modern world’s most gifted commanders, it comes to Lucy suddenly that she loves this man. She loves this haggard, earnest, patient man, who has been so much more than a soldier, and who has had so little chance to be anything else.

Napoleon — Napoleon! — rearranges the maps on his desk. He demands that Flynn show him something; this much French Lucy understands without difficulty. And with steady hands, fluent gestures, Flynn does.

It won’t be the victory they know, whatever happens. They will return to the present not with Napoleon snatching victory from the astonished Melas after being taken by surprise himself, but with an outcome hopefully similar. Lucy’s head aches when she tries to think about the possible ramifications of Rittenhouse throwing their weight into the European balance of power at the dawn of the nineteenth century. But somewhere between instinct and professional opinion lies her deep conviction that she and Flynn cannot do other than they are doing. In the oily light of cheap candles, Lucy watches Napoleon Bonaparte’s face, grave in attention like that of any scholar listening to a fellow-specialist. She cannot help but feel that the strange, pyrotechnic attempts of this man to craft a new kind of empire must be preferable to an Austrian stranglehold on power, or to bloody in-fighting among the powers of Europe.

“…comment?” says the consul, and Lucy shakes herself slightly. The tension in the air warns her that it was a question unlike those that came before.

“Il y a quelques ans,” replies Flynn, “j’ai fait la connaissance d’un de leurs capitaines. Nous avons lutté farouchement contre les mêmes ennemis, selon ce que je croyais. Il m’a trahi. Il a tué l’un de mes amis. Je connais à présent ce qu'il est capable de faire. Contre un tel adversaire, nous mettons notre confiance en Votre Excellence.”

Lucy could swear that Napoleon’s mouth twitches briefly — in faint amusement at such formality from a man who had been communicating in professional jargon moments before, or in human sympathy, she cannot be sure. He nods briefly. “Je vous suis bien reconnaissant.”

It is their dismissal. Lucy suppresses the desire to pull Flynn out of the tent, away from the possibility of interrogation, towards the anonymous June darkness where she can kiss unfamiliar syllables from his lips.

***

Only at night do his languages become confused. Lucy’s body remembers the timeline when her mother was an invalid, and she wakes easily. So it is not a hard thing, to get a hand on his chest — his heartbeat racing under her palm — and call him to her out of dreams. Sometimes he rouses with a start; sometimes he wakes still muttering, until he sees her, and his vision clears. He covers her hand with his, and silence is all they need.

After Cologne in 1941, he speaks less during the day, and at night not at all. Lucy used her choir-and-exam German to charm an administrator, and Wyatt used his military German to converse with the guards, and between them, they had been able to get the plans that Rittenhouse had tried to place in the hands of the Nazis. And Flynn used his German to get himself apprehended, and then to say nothing at all. The team had reasoned that dealing with one threat would make the Gestapo less suspicious of another; the event had vindicated them, and Wyatt had gotten them out. But Lucy lies awake at night, listening to the breathing of a man who no longer talks in his sleep.

She does not always wake him. And she knows they cannot fight each other’s battles (she tells herself that the knowledge should not feel like a defeat.) But she does sometimes: if he breathes as though he had been running; or if he makes a noise choked off before it can become a keening. When he wakes, he never says anything but her name.

“Lucy?” Sometimes he says it as though it is a reality he cannot quite believe in.

“Lucy.” Sometimes he breathes it as though it is the only word he can remember, his shibboleth and his claim to sanctuary.

“Yes.” Sometimes she thinks that her heart will break with loving him. “Ich bin’s, it’s me, I’m here, je suis là, ja sam tu.” She whispers reassurance in all the languages she knows, and with the silence of her mouth against his.

#prairiepirate #asks and answers #garcy ff #timeless ff #lucy preston #garcia flynn

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artificialqueens · 7 years

Text

More Than You Know, Ch 1 (Trixya) - Joanne Elizabeth

Summary: “When has it ever worked out well for the LA lesbian to lie to her conservative mother in the midwest about a fake woman?” Trixie and her girlfriend are invited back to Wisconsin for her sister’s wedding… Except Trixie doesn’t actually have a girlfriend. She does, however, have a best friend who will do anything for her.

AN: I started this fic in the middle and have been adding in random scenes as motivation strikes. It’s finally big enough to start sharing!

“Oh, and Trixie?” Maggie, Trixie’s sister stopped her as Trixie was trying to end the phone call, “Mom told me about your girlfriend. She’s more than welcome to come. Seriously, I know you, and I know you’re worried about it, but I’d really like if she came. All the other bridesmaids will bring their partners, and no one will blink an eye at her.”

“Oh! Uh, I mean, she’s probably, um, busy?” Trixie stuttered, heart in her throat. Maggie knew about the girlfriend too? How many people had her mother told? This was getting out of hand.

“Trix, please,” Maggie whined, “I want you to feel comfortable around me and Ryan. Part of that is bringing your girlfriend to the wedding. It would mean a lot to me, and everyone else, to see you happy. You deserve to be happy.”

“I’ll ask her,” Trixie sighed, “But seriously, I’m in the parking lot. I gotta go.”

“Okay, I’m taking that as a yes and adding her to the seating chart!” Maggie made kissy noises into the phone before hanging up.

“Fuck.” Trixie let her head fall to the steering wheel.

“I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m screwed,” Trixie chanted while washing her hands in the sink next to Kim, her best work friend.

“What’s wrong?”

“My sister wants me to bring my girlfriend to her wedding,” Trixie groaned. She slipped the black apron around her waist, rummaging through the pockets to make sure her tools were there.

“What girlfriend? What? Have you been hiding something from me?” Kim stepped towards her, her big ballooning skirt pushing into Trixie’s space.

“I haven’t been hiding anything from you,” Trixie began, taking a deep breath, “But I may have lied to my mother about having a girlfriend and apparently now my whole family thinks I’m in a serious relationship.” Kim’s jaw dropped, but her lips twisted into a smile.

“What kind of romcom juice have you been sipping?” Kim laughed, “When has it ever worked out well for the LA lesbian to lie to her conservative mother in the midwest about a fake woman?”

“Okay, I definitely haven’t seen that movie.” Trixie shoved her aside and walked towards the main floor of the shop.

“So what are you going to do? Craiglist a date? Tell them she died?” Kim was still trailing after her, despite having passed her station.

“I don’t know, Kim!” Trixie barely restrained herself from snapping, “Can we just work for a second while I think about this?” Kim’s narrow eyes went even more narrow.

“You are not getting off the hook with this. I’ll see you at lunch.” She turned and marched back to her station. Trixie sighed and snapped the lights on at her station before checking the ipad on the stand for her first appointment. She didn’t have anyone for another half hour, so she snuck her phone from the pocket of her apron and pulled up her messages

Trixie: Mother, I’m pushing my friends away againnn.

Katya: I’m still here, Barbara. What’s going on?

Trixie: I snapped at Kim because she kept asking me questions. Also, this might be the worst day of my life. So, if I finally bite the bullet, make sure Kim does my makeup for the funeral. You’re not allowed to pick out my dress but please help yourself to my wardrobe after I’m gone. Lord knows you need it.

Katya: What’s wrong mama? I’m booked all day, but we can go to ice cream tonight if you want.

Trixie: It’s literally the world’s longest story. Ice cream does sound good though. Eight?

Katya: See you then. And remember, Jesus doesn’t exist and his love for you wouldn’t brighten your day anyway. But I do and I love you.

Trixie: xoxo

Trixie smiled surreptitiously at her phone before pocketing it. Katya never failed to make her laugh. Which was probably one of the reasons she found herself in this predicament. She groaned and threw her body into the chair, waiting for her client.

Lunch snuck up on Trixie, and before she realized, Kim was hovering beside her station with expectant eyes.

“Chipotle?” Trixie suggested, with the grim resignation that she wasn’t going to get out of this conversation. Kim nodded and extended her elbow. Together, they breezed through the doors of their shop, across the shopping center lot, and ordered their food, swapping stories about their clients from the morning.

“Okay, enough distraction, Mattel,” Kim said, mouth full of food.

“Fine,” Trixie groaned, “So I let my mother think that I had a girlfriend, because she was really worried about me being lonely and dying surrounded by cats. But I didn’t start the lie! It just sort of snowballed from assumptions she’d made, and by the time I realized what she was assuming, I couldn’t, like, correct her because she was really happy for me. And she’s never been supportive of my relationships or sexuality and I couldn’t help it! So fine, I’ve let it go on for too long and now my whole family must think I’m dating someone and I am expected to bring her to the wedding in a few weeks, and I’m going to die of embarrassment either way.”

Kim’s burrito was frozen halfway to her mouth. Trixie slurped loudly on her drink, waiting on a reaction. Kim merely laid down her burrito, daintily wiped her hands on a napkin, and extended one across the table to grasp at Trixie’s.

“Your mom will not think you are going to die alone if you tell her you dumped this girl. Or that, like, she can’t get off work.”

“That’s the problem, she knows she’d get off work.” Trixie saw Kim do a double-take as she blurted that out.

“What do you mean? Did you make up a job too?” Kim went back for her burrito, laughing slightly.

“No, she’s,” Trixie paused, “Fuck, Kim. She thinks my girlfriend is Katya.” Trixie was so distraught that she couldn’t even muster a laugh as Kim dropped her burrito onto the table.

“What? Trixie, what?” Kim stared at her incredulously.

“I didn’t tell her we were dating!” Trixie practically shouted, “I didn’t even realize she thought that until a few months ago! She just like, saw pictures of us and heard me talking about her and just assumed!” Kim burst into hysterical giggles. Trixie reached across the table to slap her on the arm.

“Ow, stop.” Kim’s giggles died down. “So, what now?”

“I guess I either ask Katya to go with me, or say we broke up. Even though the only reason my mom thought we were together was social media, so it probably wouldn’t even work.” Trixie picked through her burrito bowl, spearing the black beans on her fork.

“Trixie, why don’t you just tell them she can’t come?” Kim said slowly, as if trying to speak to a child. Trixie shrugged and continued to poke at her food.

“Do you want her to go?” Kim gasped, “Oh my god you want her to go!”

“Shut up!” Trixie’s face was screwed into a scowl, “Not like that. I just… I want my mom to be happy.” Kim leaned forward to hear the last part, because Trixie was muttering.

“So ask her,” Kim shrugged, “She’d probably rob a bank for you - a trip to Wisconsin can’t be that bad.”

“But that’s so weird! Come be my fake girlfriend and hold my hand in front of my homophobic family even though we are very platonically not dating.”

“Mmm, would we say very platonically though?” Kim teased. Trixie huffed and stood to throw her trash away.

“C’mon, I have a two o’clock, so I need to get back.”

Trixie waited at their table of the ice cream shop’s patio that they had gleefully discovered was exactly the same distance from both of their apartments. She had considered ordering Katya’s usual, but knew the girl would more than likely be late. Trixie played around on her phone while she waited, uploading an outfit picture she had taken this morning to Instagram and decidedly ignoring her sister’s text of “Is your gf veg too? Making a final count for dinner :)”

“Hello you gorgeous, angelic, polite and well-adjusted woman,” Katya called, still on the corner of the block. Trixie giggled and tucked her phone into the pocket of her shorts. Katya had on a black scuba skirt and a slinky white collared shirt. Trixie guessed that she had come straight from the art gallery.

“Bad day?” Trixie guessed, as Katya immediately slumped into her arms.

“Why can’t people just be nice?” Katya mumbled into Trixie’s shoulder. “You smell different.” She pulled back to look at her. Trixie watched as the blue eyes darted around her face and hair, which she’d pulled into a side ponytail to get it off her neck on the summer evening.

“New clothes smell,” Trixie grinned, spinning to model her shirt. It was just a simple pale pink crew neck, but the fabric was so soft that Trixie had to get it when she saw it.

“C’mon, I need the processed sugar before we mutually rant about how everyone on this planet sucks except for the two of us,” Katya stated, interlacing her fingers with Trixie’s and pulling her inside.

Trixie insisted on paying for Katya’s (one scoop of birthday cake in a waffle cone coated in chocolate and sprinkles because “It’s always someone’s birthday, Trixie”) and her own (a strawberry milkshake that, no, she didn’t just get because it was pink, thankyouverymuch) orders. They took them to the patio where the sun was still hanging on in the horizon, staining the sky bright orange and light pink.

“You first,” Katya said, cheersing Trixie’s cup to her cone.

“No, I want to hear about your day. My stuff can come after,” Trixie insisted, leaning forward on her elbow to fully immerse herself in the art of Katya’s storytelling.

“It’s nothing really, I’m trying to leave all that stuff at the door, because it doesn’t matter, y’know? Like the only thing that matters when I’m there is my art, but I worry that my people skills at the desk will affect how people perceive my art, so then I sit there anxious all day, and ruin every interaction I have with people, and it is a cycle. But I’m leaving it at the door.” Katya shook her blonde hair wildly, as if freeing the thoughts from the tangles.

Trixie made a sound of compassion, lips tight around her straw. Katya laughed, throwing her head back.

“Whatever, mama. Seriously, I’m a lot happier now that I’m away from that place.” Katya lightly kicked her foot against Trixie’s shin. “So what’s got you so bad that you’re willing away your closet to me?” Trixie sighed, setting her cup down. She had decided with Kim that she would ask Katya, but now that it was time, she couldn’t calm her racing heart down to get the words out.

“Well, my mom might think that I have a girlfriend, even though I clearly don’t,” Trixie said slowly, eyes glued to the table.

“Uh huh,” Katya encouraged.

“And with Maggie’s wedding, they want me to bring her,” Trixie continued. Katya nodded sagely. “But, uh, she doesn’t…”

“Exist?” Katya finished.

“Exactly.” Trixie looked up cautiously at Katya. She was chasing drips of ice cream around the cone, lapping like a dog, but she was listening intently.

“And um,” Trixie ripped up a napkin in her lap, “I know it’s dumb, but I want to make my mom think I’m happy out here, so I told-”

“Do you want me to come? I could easily get off work,” Katya interrupted, leaning forward, “It’ll be fun! I could meet your family! We could milk cows and pick corn from the thingie and eat it and wear overalls with no shoes!”

“Oh my god,” Trixie laughed, “I’m not that country, thank you very much.”

“Seriously, if it means that much to you,” Katya was suddenly serious, grabbing Trixie’s hand, “I’d go with you.”

“Uh,” Trixie wasn’t sure how to continue, “You would?”

“Of course! Trix, you’re my best friend. I’d do anything for you.” Katya’s thumb was still stroking Trixie’s hand.

“Uh, okay,” Trixie clapped her hands together, successfully dislodging Katya’s from her own, “Well, I’d really appreciate it. It’s not for like, another month.”

“Do you need me to do anything? Change anything on facebook?” Katya asked.

“No, that’d just confuse our friends, please don’t,” Trixie rushed. “I don’t think you need to do anything, except for like, come on that weekend.”

“Deal. I’m buying overalls.” Trixie groaned.

“Trixie, I’m having a crisis. A clothing crisis,” Katya’s voice rang through the speaker. They’d successfully avoided talk of the wedding until just yesterday when Katya had a meltdown at the idea of meeting Trixie’s family.

“Katya, I don’t know what to tell you.” Trixie juggled her phone between the red bull can and her purse strap, digging for her keys. “All of the pictures you sent me were fine. There’s not really time to go shopping. Just bring clothes and wear them.”

“I want to make a good first impression!”

“You know you’re not really my girlfriend and this does not affect our relationship, right?” Trixie dropped her bag on her kitchen table and listened to the other line - silence.

“But they don’t know that!” Katya finally replied. Trixie shot the rest of her red bull back.

“You want me to come over, don’t you?” Her eyes flitted around the apartment to be sure she’d completed her own to do list before she went to help Katya with hers. Bags packed, plants slightly over watered, dishes done, trash taken out - she was good.

“Please mama,” Katya whimpered. Trixie sighed and grabbed her purse off the table again.

“Order pizza, I’ll pick it up on the way.”

At Katya’s, there were clothes strewn everywhere. Her suitcase was lying open on the coffee table, and Lana Del Rey was playing loudly from the bedroom. Trixie pushed aside a brightly colored dress on the kitchen table to put the pizza down.

“You’re aware our flight leaves in like twelve hours, right?” Trixie called.

“Crisis!” Katya responded. Trixie laughed and brought a piece of pizza into Katya’s room.

“You don’t have to change anything. Just maybe leave the eyeball necklace behind, and I don’t care what you bring,” Trixie assured.

“You haven’t seen me in nice clothes! What if you hate it? What if your sister doesn’t let me in at the church?” Katya was spiralling, which wasn’t new to Trixie. Trixie held the pizza out to Katya, who began frantically chewing on a bite.

“First of all, it’s not in a church, so we won’t have to worry about you catching fire. Secondly, I’ve seen you in some fucked up outfits, but it’s not that hard to put together a few good ones. I’m here to help, but I need to either focus on your clothes or the crazy, I can’t do both.” Katya nodded silently and took a seat on the floor.

Trixie began rooting through the piles Katya had made on her bed.

“Like, realistically, you’re a lesbian artist and yoga instructor, they’re expecting eccentric. It’s fine.” I’m a Barbie girl in a Barbie world echoed in from the kitchen “Christ, would you go get that?”

Katya came back in holding the now silent phone gingerly on her palm. “Your mother called.”

“Why didn’t you answer it?” Katya cut her a panicked look. “Oh my god, you’re meeting her tomorrow.” Trixie snatched the phone and hit redial, going back to her task of folding a dress neatly.

“Hi mom, sorry, Katya was too nervous to answer the phone for me,” Trixie teased, her tongue poking through her teeth slightly. Katya mouthed “what the fuck” at her.

“Hey, I’m going to forward you the email about the hotel, but I wanted to update you,” Trixie’s mom said over the phone, “Maggie is going to pick you up instead. I’ll be busy at the house.“

“Okay, cool,” Trixie shrugged, “I’ll send her the flight info then.” She held up a strappy red dress to Katya, who immediately shook her head no.

“Why not?” Trixie whispered, over her mother’s story about a dress fitting.

“It’s too slutty!” Katya whispered back.

“I like it when you’re slutty!” Trixie insisted, a bit too loudly.

“Well, Trix, sounds like you’re busy with Katya,” her mother laughed. Katya slapped her hand to her forehead in a way that made Trixie laugh even harder than she was at her mom.

“Yeah, I came over to help her pack,” Trixie explained. Katya snatched the red dress and threw it into the depths of her closet.

“Don’t stay up too late! Robert is planning on barbecuing tomorrow night for a little welcome home party.”

“No worries, I’ll probably head home in half an hour,” Trixie assured, tucking the phone between her shoulder so that she could hold up a skirt and shirt combo to Katya, who nodded.

“Oh, I would have thought you’d be staying there,” Trixie’s mom trailed off. Trixie’s eyebrows raised in alarm. Was her mother insinuating that she’d approve of her sleeping with Katya?

“Nope,” Trixie said awkwardly. Then, pulling the phone away from her mouth, “Where’s that tuxedo looking thing? I like it.”

“Butch realness,” Katya teased, turning towards her closet.

“Alright, well I will see you tomorrow night!” Trixie’s mom chirped, “I’m looking forward to it. I can’t remember the last time we talked this often.”

“Probably when I lived there,” Trixie spat before thinking, “Sorry, I’m looking forward to it too. I gotta go help Katya though. Love you.”

“I love you too, Trixie.” She sighed and tossed the phone on the bed.

“You okay?” Katya asked, offering the shirt she’d asked for.

“Does it make me a bad person if I don’t actually like most of my family?” Trixie gritted her teeth.

“No, that makes you a normal lesbian,” Katya giggled.

"Like, I love my mom, and everyone else I guess. I’m just not used to interacting with them?” Katya made a sympathetic noise and pulled Trixie in for a hug.

“Whatever, it’s fine, go find some shoes to go with that navy dress,” Trixie pushed her off, going back to business, ignoring the way her skin tingled where Katya had touched her.

Within 45 minutes, Katya was fully packed, the pizza was gone, and Trixie was yawning.

“Listen, you have to be at my apartment by 9:30 tomorrow,” Trixie reminded her as Katya lightly pushed her to the door.

“I know, mom,” Katya sighed, “I won’t be late.”

“And I mean it, don’t bring weed in your suitcase. They totally have dogs for that.”

“Okay mom, bye.”

“Bye girlfriend,” Trixie teased, kissing her hand with a smack.

#trixya #joanne elizabeth #lesbian au #more than you know #fake relationship #rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova

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tenshinokorin · 7 years

Note

Hello! Thanks again for writing and sharing Running Down a Dream. Hrm. Fic prompt... How about the Chocobros and fighting games? Or... One More Year-era inevitable beach/onsen episode with Luna?

You’re very welcome! ^_^ So! Have I mentioned that one of my IRL chocobros has a dazzling talent for recreating characters as Soul Calibur custom fighters (usually genderswapped, because more options)? And that she’s done these four? And they are /dead sexy/? Anyway. That’s who they’re playing.

“Square button,” Prompto said, leaning over until he was nearly horizontal on the sofa, as though that would have any effect on the game controller in Noct’s hand. “Squarebuttonsquarebuttonsquarebuttonc'monc'monc'mon Noct you gotta do your finisher–”

“I’m trying he keeps blocking me Prompto shut up you are not helping–”

Gladio made a noise of smug triumph as his character smashed her surfboard-sized sword into Noct’s, resulting in a K.O. that was nothing short of humiliating. Noct slumped over his controller in defeat, and Prompto flopped back on the sofa, annoyed.

“Square button,” he said. Noct kicked him.

“Are we getting into fights over Crazy Fenrir again?” Ignis called out, from the kitchen. “Am I going to have to come and paint a stripe down the middle of the couch?”

“No, because obviously, this is Ehergeiz Dis-Infinity Ex.12,” Prompto said, groping around for the open chip bag he’d lost back at the beginning of the bout.

Ignis paused, ladle still in hand. “Oh well of course,” he sighed, with something that could not be called an eyeroll, not on a man so self-controlled. “That just explains everything.“

“It’s a fighter, not a racer,” Gladio said, tapping through the keypad for his initials. Down at the bottom of the high scores list was one very chagrined NLC.

“I know what it is, Gladio,” Ignis sighed. “What I don’t know is why it makes you shout so much I have to assure the guard downstairs there’s not an assassination in progress.”

“It’s an assassination all right,” Noct said, staring forlornly at the screen. “Assassinating my record.”

“You should try it, Iggy,” Prompto said, draping himself over the back of the couch. “Bet you’d be good at it!”

“No, thank you.” Ignis rapped the ladle on the edge of the pot in something like a warning.

“Scared of lookin’ bad,” Gladio said, with a snort.

Ignis stared at the back of Gladio’s head, eyes narrowed.

“Uh-oh,” Noct breathed.

“Fine,” Ignis said, stalking over to the couch and holding out his hand to Noct. “Your highness, if you please."

"Okay, but I’m not responsible for what happens.” Noct gave up his seat for Ignis, and Gladio reset to the selection screen.

“Okay. So X is attack, and O is block, while–”

“I’m familiar with the basics, thank you,” Ignis said. Prompto looked a little worried about where he found himself, smushed on the sofa between them with nothing but a half-eaten bag of crab-flavored chips to use as defense in case things got ugly. Noct, very wisely, had retreated to the far side of the room.

“Your funeral,” Gladio said, and picked his usual fighter.

And Ignis smiled a dangerous little smile.

The first fight was less than fifteen seconds.

“My bad,” Gladio said, with suppressed surprise. “Not used to going up against a circle-blade type.”

Ignis was perfectly gracious. “But of course. Rematch?”

“Sure.”

Noct yawned. Prompto crammed a good fistful of chips into his mouth.

The next match was even more brutal. And the next. Ignis sportingly switched character types to the one Noct normally used. It was a complete massacre. Gladio tried everything, from calculated strategy to button-mashing, until his hands were slippery on the controller and Prompto had run out of potato chips.

“Damnit,” Gladio gasped, as Ignis handed him his ass, neatly gift-wrapped, with a tasteful accompanying note of condolences, for the last time. “The hell you learn how to play like that, Iggy?”

Ignis shrugged, passing the controller back to Noct. “How else do you think you teach an eight-year old boy combat strategy when he has a broken back? Now if you’ll excuse me, my stew needs attending to.”

Gladio stared after him, and then at Noct, in disbelief. “You ever beat him?” He asked, in an awed whisper.

“Once,” Noct said, as he sat back down. “He got up and unplugged the console before the auto-save could record it.”

Prompto boggled. “But that’s–”

“Cheating,” Ignis said, from the kitchen. “Yes.” He sniffed his stew broth, added a pinch of tarragon. “A king of Lucis must learn to always think one step ahead of his opponent. Even a nasty one.”

“What’d you do?” Gladio asked Noct.

“Stood up and yelled at him,” Noct said, with a fond smile. “And then marched over to the tv and plugged the game back in.”

There was a pause as everyone realized what this meant. Prompto looked at Noct, and then at Ignis, for confirmation. “But, wasn’t he–"

"First time on his own two feet since the accident,” Ignis said, and toasted his prince. “Perhaps, one of the proudest moments of my life, and well worth besmirching my otherwise flawless record of fair play. And now, if you’ll turn that off, dinner’s ready.”

#final fantasy xv #ask prompt #tnk fic #chocobros #FATALITY

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imagines-for-the-hamilfans-soul · 7 years

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We Could Be Heroes||Hamilcast -Prologue

Look at me, finally posting something for this fic!!! I actually have the first chapter done and I’ve started the second one, but chapter one is under heavy editing, so it won’t be up for another few days. But until then, enjoy this!

Shoutout to the mastermind behind all this, @ham4fan-fiction

And all the people that have asked to be tagged: @daveeddiggsit @imagineham @maybe-mikala @always-blame-jefferson @musicalmiranda okay you didn’t ask but you’re in the story so I’m tagging you anyway and the same goes for @secretschuylersister

And tagging my forever fave @fangiri because you will forever be tagged in anything I write.

Warnings: brief mentions of torture-ish??? Some pretty sad backstories and terrible government. I think that’s it, but come yell at me if I forgot to warn about anything.

Word count:2488 (*pats myself on the back because that’s not too shabby*)

Daveed could remember a lot of things.

He could remember when Jo had been born. The memory was faint, but if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough he could just see the tiny pink bundle, the large chocolate eyes blinking sleepily up at him. He could still remember the feel of her skin, as soft as a piece of velvet when she had still been new to the world. He had been twelve when she had been born, and he had been convinced he could never love another being so passionately as he loved his baby sister.

He could remember watching her grow up. Life wasn’t easy for their family-nothing was easy for meta humans-but overall they had a good childhood. Daveed could remember watching Jo carefully every day as he waited for her mutation to show itself. Their mutations were what made the meta humans different. It had all started generations ago, when a drug had been introduced that had the potential to cure all terminal illnesses. Everyone had been hopeful, ready to see cancer and the like put to an end, but this didn’t happen. The group of people tested on were instead mutated in ways no one had seen in real life before. There had been no fix to the mutations, so that first generation simply continued life with their new abilities.

The mutant gene was part of their DNA now, but you could never tell if the gene would show itself or not, not until the child got a little older. Daveed had feared that Jo wouldn’t show any mutation, and she’d be taken from them, to a family of regulars, the ones who didn’t show any mutant abilities. Regulars lived separately from meta humans, and any child, even if they had been born to meta parents, who turned out to be a regular was to be raised by regular parents. Daveed couldn’t stand the thought of losing his baby sister like that, so he’d watched her every day, hoping for something, anything, to show up. He could still remember the immense relief that had washed over him the day he walked in and found the then four-year old tracing intricate ice patterns on the wall.

Looking back, Daveed supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by her ability to manipulate ice. It was a strange combination of both their parents’ mutations; their mother’s ability to manipulate water and their father’s control over all aspects of the weather. Naturally Jo would have a weather mutation. Daveed’s own mutation wasn’t weather-related, but it still was a reflection of their father’s strength.

He could remember showing off his superhuman strength for the enjoyment of little Jo. He was a hero in her eyes, like Captain America or Superman in all the comics she loved. The adoring look she’d give him when he would show off had made his heart swell with pride. He could remember their father showing off his mutations for their entertainment too, creating tiny tornadoes and thunderstorms in the palm of his hand, much to their delight. Daveed could remember their father clearly, with his dark, kind eyes and gentle smile. He had been a giant, still taller than his son when Daveed was a young adult.

Despite the man’s size and strength, he was as gentle as a lamb, never meaning to hurt a single soul. Daveed knew his father had never been a threat to anyone. He had been polite to everyone he ever met. He never even used his powers against another human being, except one time, when it had been more than justified.

The meta humans in their bloc were being taken in for testing that day, and was Jo’s first time going. The tests were nightmares, all these different, grueling tests to test the extent of their abilities. The tests were supposedly run by regulars in order to “better understand the genetics of the meta human”, but everyone knew better than that. The tests were used to weaken them, to keep them in their place.

Daveed had been close enough to the weather mutants to keep an eye on her, watching as they tested her abilities, the strength of her ice, how quickly it could form and how quickly she could create it. At some point they’d started testing her tolerance for heat, and Daveed had felt his stomach lurch. Jo couldn’t feel the cold because it practically ran through her veins, but she was incredibly sensitive to heat. He could almost see the way the heat sucked the energy out of her. He could remember the overwhelming want to step in, but fear had held him back; there was no telling what the guards would do to him if he got involved. Lucky for him, someone else had made the decision to step in.

His father had rushed to his daughter’s defense, arguing with the guards in a way Daveed had never seen anyone do before. The argument came to a climax when their father had used a storm gust to knock the man back.

Daveed could remember getting home earlier than usual that night. Jo had been beyond exhausted an in serious need of water. They had stayed inside for a few days, too scared to venture out and run into any guards. But it would seem they wouldn’t have to go outside to deal with any guards. The guards came to them.

He could still remember that night, almost as if he’d lived it the night before. An eight year-old Jo had been staring intently at their father’s hand as he created a water spout in his palm. His mother had been in the kitchen, humming a soft song that washed over him soothingly. The knock on the door had startled them all, sharp and full of danger. Their mother had gone to answer, and three guards had marched in. Their father immediately had turned to Daveed,

“Take care of them,” he’d whispered. “No matter the cost, protect our girls.” He’d kissed Daveed’s forehead, then Jo’s before the guards started pushing him out. They had told the family that their father was being taken for some special testing for a new drug to “cure the meta human disease”. Daveed knew better.

He had been twenty when they killed his father. Daveed had quickly stepped up to the plate, working to care for his eight year-old sister and his brokenhearted mother. And while Jo had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, his mother had wilted into a hollow shell of her former self, destroyed by her husband’s murder. She had fallen ill four years later, and Daveed knew it was because of her broken heart.

Daveed could remember sitting beside her one night, giving her some medications. Jo had been in the other room, creating little figurines with her ice. Their mother had been so tired, but there had been a genuine smile on her face, the first real smile in four years, the one that always made Daveed feel better no matter what happened when he had been a child. Her hand had been trembling as she reached for her oldest child’s hand. Her dimming dark eyes had remained focused on her youngest, who had been oblivious to the fact she was being watched.

“She’s an artist, like her father,” she’d murmured. Daveed had nodded his head. Everything about his sister made him think of their father; her looks, her personality, everything. He could still see the faraway look that had settled in her eyes as she’d watched Jo. But even more so, he could remember her words she’d spoken to him that night, bouncing around his head still.

“She’s powerful like him, too… She has his strength. They know it too.” her grip on his hand had tightened. “They will try to get to her, to stop her. You have to protect her, Daveed. They took your father, they’re taking your mother...don’t let them take your sister too. And when they try...fight. Fight them with everything you have. Fight for her, you hear me?” Daveed had nodded again.

“I promise, I will,” he’d whispered. She had relaxed after that, laying back and closing her eyes.

She had been dead the next day.

Daveed could remember having to tell a twelve year-old Jo that their mother was dead. He remembered the pain in her eyes, the strange silence she had answered his words with. He remembered the way she’d locked herself away from him for days after the death. Perhaps most of all he could remember coming home from the funeral fully expecting Jo to disappear back into hiding, only to end up on the floor of their living room, holding her tight as she’d finally sobbed her little heart out.

From there, things had gotten better, in some ways. Daveed could remember watching her grow up, all the New Years’ celebrations and birthdays and Christmases they had celebrated together. He could remember all the soft smiles and musical laughter they’d shared, the amused faces and annoyed glares siblings often shot at each other. But more than those things, he could remember raising her, being her shoulder to cry on, being the one to take care of her head full of dark curls, he could remember letting her braid his curly corkscrews, painting her nails and even letting her paint his, all to make her smile. And he remembered how after they would do those things, she would plant a sweet kiss on his cheek and say, “I love you, you’re the best. Thanks for putting up with me.”

But while these parts of their lives seemed damn near perfect, some other things just seemed to plummet downhill. Like the government’s treatment of the meta humans. Restrictions throughout the districts were getting worse. Paychecks shrunk while brutality at the hands of the guards grew. The tests were getting worse. And then the “restrictors” started showing up. The meta humans with particularly strong mutations had to wear them in public to suppress their abilities. Jo had been fourteen when hers had shown up, and Daveed knew that had been his initial push into the revolution.

They were a dark grey, almost black pair of gloves that compressed her hands in order to discourage the formation of ice. Daveed had been there when the guards had put them on her for the first time and he’d known from the grimace on her face that it hurt her. They were thick and too tight for her hands, and she often complained that it cut off circulation to her hands. She never complained about the hairline fractures she’d gotten the first few months of wearing those gloves, but he’d known about them nonetheless. Daveed had complained to the guards, but they had said it was necessary to help her control her powers. And maybe she did need help with her powers. Jo’s ice had begun to act up on its own that year, showing up on its own and leaving a trail of frost in the wake of her touches. She tried to control it, but ice was just showing up, whether she meant for it to happen or not.

And in the eyes of the government, that made her a threat.

Daveed knew the government had their eye on Jo. He saw the way the guards patrolling the streets would look at her whenever they went out. He saw how her tests got progressively harder, forcing her to use more and more energy and leaving her more and more exhausted. He saw that the government was hurting her. And that was why he decided to keep his promise to his mother.

He was going to fight. He was going to join the revolution.

Daveed had heard about the revolution from his closest friend, Lin. Lin and Daveed had met as awkward teenagers struggling through the tests, and the two had bonded quickly. Lin and his little sister, Cheyenne, had been born to regular parents, but had been taken from them after showing mutations. They had been forced to live on their own for years.

Lin’s reasons for revolting were similar to his friend’s. Had had raised Cheyenne since she was five. She was his world. He had made it his sole purpose to make her happy in life. It wasn’t too hard, considering he had the ability to manipulate people’s emotions. He wasn’t a strong guy, but what he lacked in physical strength, he made up for with emotional strength. Lin always seemed to be in total control of his feelings at all times. But even he had a breaking point. And it had come in the form of a restrictor-a government-issued muzzle.

While Lin’s abilities were subtle, Cheyenne’s was powerful, and admittedly dangerous. It was hard to ignore at times. He had discovered it when she was three, when he’d tried to creep up and scare her one day. She’d screamed, of course, a natural reaction to fear. But the shaking of the kitchen and the ringing in his ears were anything but natural. The guards called it a hypersonic scream, and they said it was a danger. So the muzzle had been brought into their lives. It was more a torture device than anything else, with the ability to deliver an electrical shock if she got too loud. She only had to wear it in public, but it still angered Lin. That alone was enough to to upset him, but added with the vigorous tests she was put through to test her vocal abilities, Lin knew he simply couldn’t stand by and watch this happen anymore.

The revolution was dangerous, and both men knew it. Lin had seen several people in his bloc killed for having alleged ties to the revolution. Daveed had heard rumors that the real reason his father had been killed was because he had been a leader in the former revolution. All meetings were held in secret, and the revolutionaries could trust virtually no one. It was a dangerous, secretive lifestyle. But as far as the two were concerned, it was necessary, especially now.

There was a small ring of revolutionaries Lin and Daveed were particularly close to. Lin liked to call them “the Union”-Daveed thought that was the stupidest nickname he had ever heard. But they were a union. They were a family, more like. Bri, Stephanie, Mikala, and Charley, Renee and Jasmine and Philippa, they were like sisters to the boys. Anthony, Okieriete, Jonathan, Leslie, Christopher, they were the brothers neither boy had. The government had taken so much from them all, but in the process they had given them something as well- a larger family than they could have ever hoped for, a group bonded together, as close as could be. A group about to go through the most difficult times of their entire lives.

#we could be heroes #lin manuel miranda #daveed diggs #anthony ramos #okieriete onaodowan #leslie odom jr #jonathan groff #chris jackson #philippa soo #renee elise goldsberry #jasmine cephas jones #daveeddiggsit #imagineham #secretschuylersister #musicalmiranda #maybe-mikala #always-blame-jefferson #fangiri #mutant au

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allthereclists · 7 years

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Otayuri

Birthday Boy by Ren 1,106

Otabek lets slip that he never celebrates his birthdays. Yuri decides to fix that.

what hoodies are made of by pissedofsandwich 1,235

Let it be known that Yuri Plisetsky is killed by his first friend, and possibly, if given more time—and if he could just admit it deep down in his heart that yes, he has a crush on Otabek the size of St. Petersburg—his first boyfriend, during the exhibition gala of Trophee de France.

Oh, what’s the murder weapon, you ask?

The goddamn hoodie.

Or: Otabek dresses sexy for his EX Gala and Yuri loses his shit.

Worth The Wait by Ren 1,277

"I turned eighteen in March," Yuri says.

melt me down by ohhotlamb 2,196

“Do you remember? In Barcelona? It’s been at least three years by now.”

“Of course I do,” Yuri mumbles. “That was when we first started talking.”

Methods of Falling by stutter 2,610

"When Victor was his age - younger, even, Yuri thinks, shame blooming in his chest - he’d made the whole world fall in love with him already. The long hair, the soft smile, the way he moved like he had a secret in his skin and he couldn't wait to share it with you. Yuri’s watched the tapes over and over. He could skate any of Victor’s early routines in his sleep. But he can't - the thing Victor could do so easily, the casual, guileless charisma he threw like a shadow - Yuri can't manage it on a single person, not even some moody Kazakh with a dumb haircut whose eyes are too far apart anyway - "

(In Park Guell, Yuri takes a hard fall. Otabek picks him up.)

The Death of Golden Locks by IzzyBee92 4,505

Yurio shows up with short hair and Otabek tries to figure out what the hell happened. But Yurio doesn't seem to want to discuss it.

The Naming of Cats by unheroics 6,075

The photo gets almost drowned out in a sea of others, more flashy. It’s easy to miss, tagged only as #practice. Otabek doesn’t remember following Yuri Plisetsky on Instagram. Maybe his sister did it for him.

(Otabek, Yuri, and a relationship that develops in the margins of their careers.)

Baptism by InsominiacArrest 9,648

Yuuri Plisetsky has been waiting to lose his virginity to his boyfriend (and also take his boyfriends virginity) and on his 18th birthday, he gets his wish.

follow up: Otabek and Yuri have been apart for a couple months and finally get to reunite.

Anything But Obvious by Tessa on Ice (tessacrowley) 15,016

Yuri Plisetsky would rather die than ever be obvious.

let us be the unexpected by peachys 16,394

Yuri is used to overworking himself but Otabek helps him see everything he's been missing out on.

Extended Free Skate by Opalsong 20,420

Otabek won silver at Worlds. Yuri was going win gold at fucking domming.

(Fuck his brain and its fucking innuendos.)

Something Old and Something New by heartsdesire456 30k

When Otabek's home rink is damaged in a fire, he and his coach get permission to train in Russia from Yakov. Yuuri and Victor offer their spare room to Otabek for the duration of his stay, and in doing so, Yuuri is given a front row look at Yurio coming to understand his feelings for his best friend, as well as the subsequent panic that ensues after he discovers his feelings aren't so 'friendly' after all.

in flesh and bone by csoru 32,077

After recovering from an injury that cut his previous season short, Yuri makes a comeback with a new coach, a new country of residence, and a relationship upgrade. Still: perfection takes effort.

Panic! In the Hotel by sweatpantz 1,318

Yuri has a minor panic attack after something that happens between him and Otabek. He comes to his gay dads for advice and then he and Otabek talk it out <3

Spontaneous Combustion by kanekki 3,589

When Otabek and Yuri present at the exact same time, chaos ensues.

concerto for piano, in a minor key not yet decided by 777335 5,260

magical realism au, where yuri is a tsar of ice (which, for the purpose of this fic, is almost a demigod, of sorts) and otabek is a very sad and musical young man who has moved to St. Petersburg to deal with the death of a friend.

it starts like:

Otabek moves to the outskirts of St. Petersburg and becomes friends with Yuri slowly and then suddenly, like ice sliding across a plate. How he meets Yuri goes like this: (a memory that retains the present tense, because it feels very much like a thing that is still happening to him, not a thing that is over)

by the nape of my neck by aphhun 5,499

Everyone has a counter that ticks down the hours until you first meet your Destined; your soul mate. Yuri Plisetsky has been actively ignoring his timer for the last eight years. That is, until it's dwindled down to zero behind his back, and he has no idea how or when he met his Destined in the bustle of St Petersburg

Fire Red by Qitana 7,813

The static reaches its peak before someone says, “Hello Mr Yuri Plisetsky.”

He’s different from the first person, of this Yuri is certain. He jolts slightly when the man pronounces his full name, and he finds an absurd amount of comfort in his voice. It’s soft and warm, with a stoniness that could rival Yakov’s and Lilia’s, and his accent makes it endearing as hell. A small flame slowly starts to burn inside of Yuri for reasons he can’t possibly fathom. It’s just a man’s voice, and a stranger’s to boot, but he feels significantly better already.

When Saving Fairies by Eshli 8,064

Otabek is a knight to the Kingdom of Kazakhstan. He winds up saving a fairy from a tough spot, taking love advice from a total idiot, and losing his virginity in an unsuspecting way. Such is the life of the Hero of Kazakhstan.

Someone to Protect by DragonofFernweh

Yuri's heat happens to take him by surprise the day before a competition, even though those stupid suppressants were supposed to take care of that. He'll head to the medical wing to take care of the problem, but what if he runs into someone else? He dreads anyone finding out about his being an Omega. Still, he's just fifteen, no one would be affected by his heat. He was just a kid.

It turns out, they hurt kids everywhere. It also turns out that Katsuki Yuuri is really fucking terrifying when he wants to be.

the birth of comets takes place on the tip of your lashes by apollothyme 15,622

His second visit to an ophthalmologist occurs five months later.

Just like during his first consultation, he doesn’t understand any of the medical jargon coming from the doctor’s mouth. Only now, after he’s done explaining everything in complicated, convulsed words, the man turns to Yuri with a smile on his face and explains everything once more, this time using terms Yuri can understand.

Yuri listens. He bites down on his bottom lip and he does not cry.

My Life is Over, I Might As Well Jump by accidental-mormon (crazyhomoinspace) 20,109

Yuri Plisetsky was not expecting to go into his first heat surrounded by competitive figure skaters in a classy hotel before an international competition. He was not expecting to sleep with his roommate.. and they weren't expecting to have to deal with the consequences.

First Door On The Right by TeaLovingTooru 21,218

When Yuri turns eighteen, his brother Viktor, informs him that he has to find an Alpha suitor. Yuri is angry as he doesn't understand why he would have to get married, causing him to run into town. After a chance encounter, Yuri makes an unexpected acquaintance with a local.

Neon Pink Motorcycle by goldheart 74,720

There are certain moments in Yuri Plisetsky’s life that he likes to forget happened at all. The time they were chased from the apartment, the landlord angrily spitting and waving threateningly at them when his mother couldn’t produce enough money for rent. Babushka’s funeral. The first time he fell in competition.

He cannot forget that, under the black band he wears around his wrist like a shield, his soulmark may as well be nonexistent.

Unsteady by otayuri_oh_nice 139,679

Otabek was going to kill JJ. He was going to take the next flight to Canada, hunt him down and kick his ass. Leo: I tried to stop him but he went and did it anyway, I’m sorry! (link)

- Or: JJ uploads one of Otabek's remixes of Yuri's songs to YouTube and Otabek freaks out.

- Or: what happens when you take episode 1, replace figure skaters with musicians and exchange Victuuri for Otayuri. Aka another strange AU no one asked for.

on finding your way; by crossroadswrite

When Otabek has to leave back to the dormitories, he turns to Yuri, looking slightly nervous and asks, “So, are we friends or what?”

Yuri stares at him. “Beka, I let you pet my cat.”

Prequel: on growing; by crossroadswrite

Yuri Plisetsky glares at him with all the righteousness five year olds possess, and says in heavily accented and clumsy English. “Be more gooder, stupid!”

And then he storms out in a sweep of blond hair and blue and red lights from his Sketchers.

(Or: in which everything is the same but Yuri Plisetsky is Victor's bratty five-year-old child.)

https://otayuri-ficrec.tumblr.com/tagged/yoi-fic-rec

wip

Eat Your Heart Out, Adonis by blackmountainbones

The year is 2021. The Beijing Winter Olympics are just around the corner, and Yuri Plisetsky is forced to take a break from skating in order to recover from an ankle injury. His friend Otabek comes to Russia to keep him company during his time off the ice.

soldier boy, tripping over himself to win my praise by thissupposedcrime

Yuri cannot crater down the path Victor blazed, happily forsaking Russia and his career for an international love affair. Neither will Kazakhstan's favorite son.

Or Yuri and Otabek from 2016-2026 and the competitions, weddings, and longing that define them.

Not your usual love story by arcsinx

Baranovskaya's new face, Yuri Plisetsky (22), who shot in Venice for Vogue's last issue, was seen accompanied by Otabek Altin (25) as they left a coffee shop in St Petersburg yesterday. The DJ and voted 2017's hottest musician, Altin was in the city to compose for Victor Nikiforov's (30) new movie production. The couple met at the Paris Fashion Week after-party(image) and have been appointed to be secretly dating ever since. An intimate friend claims Altin to be completely besotted with the Russian beauty, having even gifted him a $35,000 diamond collar necklace!

For more photos of Plisetsky's front cover shoot for Vogue, click here For more articles on Altin's new collabs with popstars, click here.

Let the Record Drop by BoxWineConfessions

A collection of PWP oneshots loosley based around the idea of DJ-Otabek.

#rec: otayuri

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