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dongofthewolf · 3 years

Note

Omg I’m sorry for not realizing u had a list 😅 but I wasn’t wondering if u could do 41 with Abby and could u make it like rlly angsty but with some fluff or smut at the end

Everything Good in Life Seems to Lead Back to You

Abby Anderson X Reader

Prompt: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you

Warnings: blood and injury, canon typical violence, swearing, fluff, angst (I tried anon I tried), Owen slander once again (sorry not sorry)

Gender neutral pronoun for the reader (if you’d like your request to use specific pronouns please add to the ask)

Link to the prompt list here

A/N: it’s safe to say that I wrote this with the speed of a thousand blazing horses if that even makes any sense. I hope that you all enjoy this lovely word vomit (esp if you requested) it was a blast to write !!

btw the Virginia Woolf reference is from her letters to Vita Sackville and the Jane Austen one is from Pride and Prejudice. What can I say? I guess I’m just a hoe for old love, baby.

Abby spent a lot of time reading; so much so that she had created this false expectation of what love was supposed to feel like. Abby believed that love was supposed to be strong, and passionate, and bright—an everlasting devotion. Of course she shrugged it off at first, they were just books after all—pieces of fiction to fantasize and dream about. Love wasn’t something you could define in a book nor could it ever live up to the likes of Shakespeare or Virginia Woolf.

Abby had never been in love; she sometimes believes she came close to some iteration of it when she was with Owen, but looking back now she realized that what she felt wasn’t love. It was a desperate attempt to be wanted—to be needed, a manifestation of her desire for approval. And after her falling out with him, Abby had come to accept that she simply wasn’t made for love, and that if by some miracle she ever did fall, it definitely wouldn’t be like the books.

That was Abby’s initial perspective on love, but oh how times have changed. The moment you waltzed into her life, every sad, pathetic notion she had about love was thrown out the window in a matter of seconds. Never in her most outrageous dreams did Abby expect to fall this hard, especially since the two of you were practically best friends.

In fact, it had been very platonic at first; Abby was your superior and you often worked together on missions. She didn’t know what compelled her to talk to you but when she did, the two of you hit it off immediately. You started training together, then working out together, and eventually you were spending almost every minute together. The two of you could literally correctly predict every thought that went through each other's head, all except of course (in Abby’s case) for one. It even got to the point where you both somehow knew when the other couldn’t sleep, so much so that Abby had grown accustomed to opening her door to see you holding a glass of milk and a plate of cookies like a little kid on Christmas. She had spent so many sleepless nights alone only to realize that the one thing she was missing, was you and your adorable midnight snacks.

Abby never entertained the thought of professing her slightly less than platonic feelings for you, because she had become content with the idea that you’d simply never feel the same. However, while she had come to accept her unfortunate situation to be a permanent one, it still hurt her when she saw you flirt with other people. And she’d be lying if she said your absentminded touches didn’t still send her soaring. Sometimes she hated how naturally affectionate you were, it made it so hard for her to not love you.

The box that Abby had continually shoved herself into so she wouldn’t fuck up your friendship was almost starting to feel like home, and as uncomfortable as it was, she knew it was for the best. Almost nothing could compel Abby to leave this torturous, self-inflicted prison she was trapped in. Almost nothing.

—

The mission was supposed to be a simple one: get in, get the weapons, get out. A mission so simple, the both of you could’ve done it in your sleep. In fact, on a few occasions after a long night of drinking, you had practically done just that. You met up with the group of traders who you were well acquainted with, and the deal went down smoothly. Everything was going according to plan, which is why you and Abby were completely caught off guard when a group of rogue hunters suddenly began firing shots like it was a fucking carnival.

Turns out there was a new rival group in town, and someone had tipped them off. You and Abby luckily were able to find cover from their relentless fire, but not before you got a bullet straight through your left thigh. You didn’t even realize it at first, the adrenaline coursing through your veins still working to protect you from the devastating pain that was to come. When you did notice it, you had already lost copious amounts of blood. Then the dizziness began to set in, and soon after the pain. Abby hadn’t even realized you were injured till you slumped over on the ground next to her.

Looking down in horror, Abby lifted you into her arms. “Y/N? What’s wrong? Why are y-” Then Abby noticed the blood, and suddenly she was panicking. “Oh shit. Oh fuck, Y/N we have to get you out of here.”

“T-the package, we need the package. Can’t leave without it.” Your response was weak, desperate. You had to finish the mission, the WLF was in dire need of these supplies and you were not going to be the one to tell Isaac you failed.

“Fuck the package, we need to get you back to base.” Abby removed her belt, turnoqueting your leg with such surprising ease that you nearly didn’t notice the agonizing pain in your leg. Nearly.

You groaned when Abby hoisted you into her arms bridal style, careful not to move your leg too much before she booked it to the truck. When she plopped you down into the passenger's seat and began to speed away from the scene, you suddenly felt your eyes becoming heavier. You were so tired. You had lost so much blood already and your body felt like it was shutting down.

Abby was frantically racing towards the base, eyes fixed to the road until she heard you let out a small whine. “Abby, I‘m so tired. Need to sleep.”

Abby noticed you drifting off and she reached her arm out to shake your shoulder violently. “No. No sleeping, you gotta stay awake Y/N.”

Though Abby didn’t mention it, she was terrified. When she looked over at you, you were pale and cold to the touch, drifting off while your leg continued to bleed profusely despite her tourniquet. This could be it; you could die right now, and Abby would have lost the one person in this world she cared about most. She couldn’t let that happen, she wouldn’t.

You were equally as terrified as Abby; every natural instinct in your body was begging for you to sleep and you were becoming tired of trying to ignore it. The last thing you remembered was the look on the face of the girl you had fallen for, her eyes brimming with tears while she wore a desperate, horrified expression.

—

You laid unconscious for what felt like an eternity and Abby never left your side. She had abandoned her duties (with Isaac’s permission) and spent every second next to you, her head resting on the edge of your bed while she waited for you to wake up. The only thing that prompted Abby to step away was Manny, who had heard what happened and went to check on her.

Manny knew full and well that Abby was in love with you; in fact, almost all of Abby’s friends knew. Abby had confided in him during many torturous nights and he was a surprisingly good listener. He understood her circumstances and never pushed her to confess her feelings for you, even if it did annoy him how oblivious Abby was to the fact that you obviously felt the same way. “Abby, I heard what happened. Is everything okay?”

Abby was exhausted, she hadn’t slept at all since you made it back to the base and she couldn’t get the memory of your cold, pale body out of her head. “I almost lost them, Manny. Y/N could’ve died out there without ever knowing how I feel about them.” Tears threatened to fall but Abby did her best to keep her composure.

“It’s going to be okay, Abby. Y/N’s here and they’re alive, and that’s all that matters.” Manny’s hand was on Abby’s shoulder, trying his best to comfort her. “You should tell them how you feel though.”

“Huh?” Abby hadn’t expected that. Manny knew her situation well enough to know that telling you how she felt was a bad idea… It was a bad idea, right?

“It’s like you said, Y/N could’ve died without ever knowing how you feel about them. Wouldn’t it be better to have no regrets at all?” The words stopped Abby in her tracks. She never thought she’d actually agree with Manny.

“It’s just- I love Y/N so much, and I don’t want to lose them this way.” Abby was on the brink of tears, her voice turning into a desperate plea.

“I’m not going anywhere Abs.”

Abby froze, turning around slowly. You were gripping to the doorway for support, limping on one leg and looking extremely weathered.

“Y/N!” Abby immediately ran to put your arm around her shoulder while she carried you back to your bed, setting you down carefully. “You shouldn't be on your leg, you could make it worse.”

There was genuine concern on Abby’s face and in that moment you weren’t sure you could love her any more than you already did. She was so incredibly sweet and caring and no one had ever shown this much concern for your safety and well-being. You had heard her through the door and you couldn’t stop yourself from interrupting her. There was so much about Abby you absolutely adored and she had no idea. How could she not have known you were hopelessly in love with her? Was she truly that oblivious to your obvious flirting? All the subtle touches, the pathetic excuses to sleep in her bed, the fact you literally went out of your way to find rare coins so you could bring them back to her, it all just flew over her head. You couldn’t believe it.

Abby was still rambling about your leg, clearly trying to pretend like she didn’t just profess her love for you while you were standing right behind her. Instead of speaking, you wrapped your hands around her neck before leaning in, silencing her with a kiss so perfect you could’ve passed out right there. You could tell she was stunned at first, but soon enough she was kissing you back. Her fingers were running through your hair and when you pulled away she leaned her forehead against yours, not wanting to part from you.

“Did you mean it?” You pulled away to look Abby in the eyes, your hands still wrapped around her shoulders.

Abby had a dumbstruck look on her face. “Mean what?”

“When you said you loved me, did you mean it?” Your eyes searched her face for an answer while your heart was beating a million miles a minute.

Abby smiled, her eyebrows furrowed as she spoke. “Y/N, I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I’m so hopelessly in love with you that it’s almost pathetic. You have no idea how essential to me you have become—how many nights I’ve stayed awake because you weren’t there to hog all the blankets. Y/N, you have no idea how ardently I love you.”

You smirked “Abigail Anderson did you just quote Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen?” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, Abby could be such a nerd sometimes.

“I just confessed my ever-lasting love for you and that’s the first thing you say?” Abby was smiling widely now, relief flowing through her now that she no longer had to conceal her feelings for you.

“I love you too Abs, so fucking much. Also I do not hog the blankets, your comforter is simply too small.” Abby chuckled before she leaned in for another kiss, the worry suddenly disappearing the moment her lips touched yours.

Although Abby had never really known what she expected love to be, this is what she imagines it’d feel like, and you bet your ass it was better than the books. To tell the truth, it was better than any other conceivable thing on this entire planet. Nothing could beat the way Abby felt now that she had finally broken free from her excruciating self-inflicted prison.

Abby pulled away from the kiss, gazing at you lovingly. “Are you hungry?”

God damn Abby, it was like she knew exactly what you were thinking. You didn’t know how long you had been unconscious for, but you were ravenous. “Starving.”

And almost as if you were telepathically communicating, the both of you spoke at the exact same time.

“Cookies?”

“Cookies.”

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson imagine #the last of us imagine #abby anderson #abby tlou #tlou2 #the last of us 2 #fluff #angst #requests #perhaps cookies will be our always #yes I did use an AURORA song for my title #that song literally cured me okay #if you made it down this far just wanted to let u know that I’m big gay #okay bye

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hermitcraftheadcanons · 3 years

Text

Scattered AU Masterpost Part 1

This is a collection of all material associated with the Scattered AU (read about the premise here)!

Join the new Discord server here

AU material under the cut (because this is growing super fast already)

Due to post length limit (which is apparently a thing), find Part 2 of this AU here.

A few ideas to get us started:

- Tango and Zedaph spawned relatively close to each other, but they haven't found each other yet and each think they are alone. They keep just barely missing each other in their exploration of the area. Maybe, with the powers of Zed's perfect sense of direction and Tango's laser-sharp perception skills, they'll finally stop walking circles around each other...maybe.

- Xisuma spawned alone, deep underground in a massive, confusing cave system. He desperately wants to figure out what's going on and how to fix it, but a bad run-in with the Warden damaged his helmet, leaving him unable to use admin commands.

- Mumbo spawned the farthest out of anyone, right next to a woodland mansion. He quickly realized that hoping to stumble across another person this far out is a lost cause, so he's trying to create some form of communication using a combination of redstone and Evoker magic. The Evoker isn't very helpful, and it isn't going well.

- Joe and Vintagebeef were the only ones to successfully spawn at spawn. They aren't really sure what's going on, but they've decided to build a small village as a base of operations while they figure it out (and to signal signs of life to anyone who might successfully find their way back)

- Cleo spawned in a village, and is currently hiding out in a house while trying to convince the villagers to trust her. Let's just say they aren't thrilled to have a zombie in their midst (and the iron golem is even less pleased)

- Impulse had the misfortune to spawn in a guardian temple. Between the guardians and the constant threat of drowning, he's been in a death loop since the world started.

- False and Stress spawned right next to each other. They figured out pretty early that something was wrong with regen, and using their combined strengths, they made it to the Nether to get ingredients for healing potions. They are now on a mission to find the others and distribute the potions to whoever needs them.

- Ren actually managed to travel a good distance back to the world center, before getting pretty badly injured. With no regen, and knowing he'll have to start the journey all over if he dies and respawns, he's decided to pull together a small base and take shelter while he waits to be found.

- Scar spawned on an outer End island, with no idea how to get back to the Overworld. He keeps finding strange glitches in his surroundings, and he swears he can hear soft Vex laughter whenever he turns his back...

- Keralis spawned in the Nether, and he is absolutely terrified.

That's all I have for ideas so far. The location of the others (and what happens next) is up to you!

Contributions so far:

- Bdubs spawns in the void, but he just doesn’t die. Maybe it’s spawn protection, maybe it’s the glitches, but he just keeps falling and falling and falling further from the bedrock, unable to do anything to help himself as he descends further into the void

- @fluffy-papaya

- After wandering around aimlessly for days or maybe weeks, Tango finds an automatic farm for... well... he's not sure, exactly. But he does know who built it- it's got Zedaph's mark all over it. So he stays there, fixing broken Redstone, trying to figure out what it does. And when Zedaph returns to collect melons (so that's what this thing is for), he finds Tango waiting for him.

- @rayveewrites

- Etho spawns in a underwater cave, but there is air in it and for some reason a shipwreck so he can get some wood and tools. But he has to get out to contact anyone because the reception in caves don't happen to be the best, little does he know just outside the cave is the monument where Impulse is, they're so close yet so far from one another

- anonymous

- Maybe Etho ended up spawning at the very top of a mountain, he could see far from up there and has a general idea of where he is, but no idea how to get down as all around him is powderd snow hiding ravines, and cliffs. . . And a few goats that Etho has narowly avoided getting headbutted by. (Etho went to the mountain after escaping the cave)

- @ciaravixen

- Welsknight spawned in the Nether

- (paraphrased) Ren fell down a ravine in the mountains on his journey to the world center, and decided to make a small cabin base rather than try to carry on injured. Doc spawned in those same mountains, and may find him eventually.

- anonymous

- Grian spawns on the tallest peak of the highest mountain. Surrounded by thick fog and almost ever-falling snow, with crevasses and cliffs that drops thousands of blocks to the ground around every corner. No trees, no life, and barely enough air to breath. It's so cold. A thin red sweater isn't nearly enough to keep him warm.... he's likely caught in a death loop for quite awhile as he refreeze over, and over, and over again. And when he does manage to climb down, an ice pillager lies in wait...

- @therainofsweetmelody

- Scar’s End spawn is on a single island- he can see other islands around him, but they’re just out of jump reach- he tried, and fell and died, and respawned back onto his little island with the whispering voices around him a tad louder, and the islands just a bit farther away. He stops trying to jump to them eventually, out of fear they’ll vanish and he won’t have anything to focus on besides the whisper of ice cold hands and wings on his skin

- anonymous

- Oh! Maybe since Xisuma’s admin helmet is broken and he’s unable to run any world commands, that means mob hermits like Cleo, Doc, and Jevin aren’t quite the same. Maybe Cleo locked herself in that house for the villagers protection as much as her own. Maybe Doc eventually joins a lone creeper pack. Who knows! -💧

- anonymous

- Zed and Tango spawned in the same jungle biome, explaining the melon farm and why they could be literally three blocks from each other and still not be aware of each other’s existence. -🟣

- The first thing Scar does once he first spawns in (besides from almost having a panic attack) is take a jump into the void. This of course does nothing. He checks out the rest of the end islands around him, and finds a rather large end city just in render distance. There should be treasure or something that could help him survive, right? -🟣

- Keralis was lucky enough to spawn in a warped forest biome and next to a basalt delta, so he’s got wood and stone. It takes a bit, but he gets full gold armor and finds his way to a nether fortress. He figures with the broken regen that the other hermits will try to go for potions. Maybe he finds Stress and False, maybe not. -🟣

- I apologize if I'm sending too many asks, please feel free to say if so! I'm just already so invested in this idea, and absolutely love where it's all going! Shattered au brainrot go brrrrr - anyways; Cub spawns in a valley within the messa. To one side an abandoned village covers the cliff, and to the other, mines drill deep into the rock. A stream luckily runs through the valley, though it's slowly drying up. He can hear strange sounds in the mines, and feels something in the village watching

- @/therainofsweetmelody

- what if the hermits caught in death loops start gaining scars and marks from all their deaths? like impulse had permanent scars from the guardians and grian’s hands are permanently blue from freezing to death all the time

- anonymous

- X finds some axoloyls in a lush cave and falls in love. He gets some wood from said cave and gets some buckets so he can keep them -🟣

- Cleo gets stuck in a death loop with the iron golem, who is blind to her not attacking the villagers. One of the smarter villagers realizes she’s not fighting back, and calls the golem off. -🟣

- (paraphrased) After the iron golem is called off, Stress and False find Cleo badly hurt in the village house. They make sure she's comfortable and safe before going to the Nether to get potions, where they find a battered Keralis and carry him back. They turn the house into a little hospital while they brew potions and take care of Cleo and Keralis until they're strong enough to move on.

- anonymous

- Stress and False have set up a Nether Portal near a Nether Fortress, for easy escape to the relative safety of the Overworld. Keralis has never been more relieved in his life than when he found that portal.

- @/rayveewrites

- Doc spawned a thousand blocks away from ren, not knowing hos friend was there he happened to go in that direction. He managed to get materials, tools and food for himself before he sees rens little hut

- anonymous

- Jevin was one of the luckier hermits, when it came to where he spawned. He woke up in the shallow green waters of a floral cave, illuminated by glowing rocks and berries. He wasn't... quite alone. Although no other hermits could be seen, he quickly found a small family of axolotl living in the closed-off cave. They became his companions as he tried to assess his situation, and served as comfort when he realised his communicator was almost useless. Being slime, the environment was very welcoming

- @/therainofsweetmelody

- Xb spawns in the middle of a desert, with not even a village in sight. While he's used to being in distant lands with limited resources, he's very much not used to it on the Hermitcraft server with limited contact to the others. As the nights go by and the sands grow more hostile thanks to never-burning husks, he grows more and more lonely.

-@/basaltdragon

- At first, Doc is elated when he spawns on a mountain surrounded by goats. That is, until he discovers that none of his fellow hermits are there with him. After being headbutted down the mountain into the snowy tundra below and left on precariously low health, he hunkers down in a nearby igloo. But it's not exactly easy in a food-scarce biome when his only contacts are two villagers and the horde of strays that gather outside each night...

-@crows-in-space

- in one sense of the word, scar is safe. There's enough chorus fruit on the island to keep him alive, and despite his concerns the enderman don't even bat an eye at him. Theoretically, he could survive for longer than many of the others. But the whispers keep nagging at him, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. Sure, he could survive, but how long could he stay on this deathly quiet piece of land before someone would find him? He can see the faint outline of an End City on one of the fading islands, and every passing moment it haunts him. If he could just give in for a moment, let the powers of the vex harness his body for just a few seconds, maybe he could make it over and gather some gear- maybe even an elytra- and then he'd be set. But fear and logic talk him out of it. He's made deals with the vex before, and that quick trip across the islands could put him in a much more dangerous position than only being stranded...

- @/crows-in-space

- What if after scar gives up, he finds his vex mask lying on the floor with a tag saying ‘do it, it’ll help you get across’ (shade's note: Scar does it)

- anonymous

- For the Scattered AU: Scar gets an elytra, and after much internal struggling he decides to take a chance and leap into the darkness for hope of finding another island. During his terrifying glide he hears a distant scream from the void that is so familiar, but he can't quite place it, and he's in no hurry to risk flying any lower to check it out. - M

- @petrichormeraki

- Iskall and doc's robotic eye glitch out so they don't have any depth vision, so no mater where they spawn, they Are bound to die a few times from missinterprating how far away an Arrow or trident is, and how fast something is coming at them.

- @/ciaravixen

- I initially thought of this for Ren, but since there was already an idea for him, it could probably work for Iskall instead; He spawns in the middle of a scorching desert. Dunes of sand for as far as the eye can see, with barely a cactus or dead Bush in between. No water, no life - only the ever-present heat of the sweltering sun, and the large skeletons everywhere. He manages to find an abandoned temple after days of dragging himself through the sand, and spies a desert village on the horizon

- @/therainofsweetmelody

- Scattered AU! The way the "not killing Bdubs in his own spawn in the void" glitches work is similar to the forgiving void mod works where when you hit the bottom of the void you are teleported to the top instead of taking damage, but since Bdubs can't see anything in the void he doesn't know this (beyond a constant falling) feeling until he manages to "fall forward" enough to find some end islands, he finds scar this way but is so excited to see him he died from fall damage right in front of him

- @theclockworkowl

- (Scattered AU) Piggybacking off the death loop scars ask, when/if Bdubs is rescued from the void, he's in ROUGH shape. His external limbs are blackened and freezing with frostbite from the void (voidbite?), and his bones are permanently weakened from his form being subjected to the cold abyss for so long. Bdubs needs to relearn gravity after falling for so long, and doesn't use elytra anymore. The solid ground under his feet is something he'll never sacrifice for convenience ever again. - M

- @/petrichomeraki

- Wels spawned in a giant crimson forest in the nether. Towering mushroom trees, thick red vines, with piglins and hoglins he constantly has to run away from. But he finds something.... interesting as he's exploring. A house has been built into a wall, a mixture of nether and overworld blocks. Stepping inside, someone clearly lives there - someone who's not a piglin. Imagine his surprise (and relief) when a certain familair knight walks through the door. "Helsknight?"

-@/therainofsweetmelody

- xB wakes up in a dripstone cavern. It's damp and cold and the spikes are very tall, forming a sort of natural cage around him. At the very least, zombies and mobs can't get through, but the longer he stays there, the weirder the sounds get. There... wasn't a new mob for the dripstone caves, right? Right? (i'm trying VERY hard not to do new hermit OR crossover headcanons for scattered au. i swear) ~@betweenlands

- Scattered AU! Everyone Etho dies He spawns in a new place, first it was the underwater cave, then it was the top of a mountain, but it wasn't until he spawned inside an ocean monument and saw impulse trying to escape just as he was dying he realise the importance of the pattern, He was cycling though each of the other hermits spawn locations, which made all the wierd almost hermit made wierdnes make sense, the underwater one was his but the mountain was Grian's spawn spot,

- @/theclockworkowl

- Can the hermits see death messages? (They can) I'm imagining the potential angst of that, where normal world messages (achievements, commands, deaths) go through just fine but the others can't chat. The helplessness of watching their friends' names endlessly filling the chat and having no idea where they are, having no clue how to help, not even being able to offer comfort.

- @/basaltdragon

- Someone had mentioned xisuma also ending up in a floral cavern with axolotl, right? What if this was the same cave Jevin found himself stuck in? After days and days of clawing at stone, xisuma finally breaks into a cavern filled with faint light. After discovering the friendly acolotls, he notices a strange blue mass floating in the water.... and is almost startled to death when he sees the skull faintly showing through the slime, and the familiar wobbly voice coming from it. "Xisuma?"

- Doc and Grian (and later on, ren) spawned on the same mountain. Grian, of course, at the very top: stuck in the endless snowpeak, towering high above the clouds. Doc, meanwhile, ended up at the base, surrounded by snow and goats and giant taiga trees as far as the eye could see. Once Ren got stuck in the ravine, he often heard a familiar scream before a sickening splat every now and again, as the ravine lies almost completely below the highest peak. He's afraid to check his communicator.

- @/therainofsweetmelody

- grian’s practically given up since there’s not much for him to do. there’s no food and his hands are too frozen to mine. a little fox stays by his side at least. he’s about to freeze again and his health is low and he hears crumching footsteps approaching. he assumes its the iceologer coming for him but instead he hears “grian?” and he can make out blurry figures before he passes out and wakes up wrapped up in a blanket infromt of a fire. (whoevers managed to find and rescue him is up to you :D) (Shade's notes: the person who found him was Doc, and he took him back to Ren's cabin to warm up)

- anonymous

- Scar isn't the only one changed by the time he reaches spawn. Impulse drags himself up onto land finally, breathing heavily, and there's something different about him. Sharper teeth. The shadow he casts more inconsistent. Always faintly smells like saltwater. And his eyes glow faintly, a pale washed-out non-color like light at the bottom of the ocean. Something suggesting nonhuman geometry. Something sleeping that had to reawaken to escape. ~@betweenlands

- Eventually, Etho spawns in a jungle. By a complete stroke of luck, he sees the smoke of a campfire. Tango and Zedaph are happy to see someone- anyone- else. Especially when it turns out Etho somehow managed to get the coordinates of a certain Ocean Temple. Sure, it's far, but they can make it. After all, there's an 'I' in team ZIT, and they aren't leaving him behind.

- @/rayveewrites

- (summary of a couple different writing peices) After escaping the Guardian Temple, Impulse set out to find any other Hermit he could. He has gained some unnerving qualities and abilities that he doesn't really understand, but he's trying not to think about that right now. After defeating several mobs he should not have been able to defeat with his level of progress, he now possesses one Totem of Undying. He met up with Zedaph, Tango, and Etho on their way to find him. They are now hosting him at their campsite and are glad he is safe, but Etho is unnerved and suspicious of his more unsettling attributes.

- I had sent this idea right after the inbox closed, rip. But anyways - what if mumbo ended up befriending the evokers and pilligers in the woodland mansion? Of course, it wouldnt be like that at first- the constant death to the axes and swords and magic, the growls and yelling and cursed glares. But he always came back to work on the redstone and evoker magic in a desperate attempt to contact the others. Eventually, the evoker stops sending their vex, and the pilligers stop swinging their weapons

- @/therainofsweetmelody

- (Scattered AU) After Scar gives in to the Vex. Bdubs is barely conscious to begin with; dying to the void so many times really took it out of him in every way possible. But when he is awake, what he sees makes him scared. Scar with faded, cold eyes. Scar with transparent wings, gone in a blink. Scar being able to do things he shouldn't. Scar says it's to get them out of there, but every day he gets a little paler, a little colder, and Bdubs grows more worried. - M

- @/petrichomeraki

- Perhaps xb and Iskall are on opposite ends of the same desert? On one side, high sand dunes covering miles, with a single desert temple and isolated desert village hidden amongst the cliffs and hills. On the other, the deep flatt valley next to a Mesa mountain, flat nothingness stretching far past the horizon. It would still take quite a long time for them to find each other, but at least there's a change they could meet... and, perhaps, over that mountain, cub could be somewhere in the mesa

-@/therainofsweetmelody

- Iskall and Xb eventually find each other in the desert. Sunburned, dehydrated, and sand-blasted, they hug when they first meet despite not knowing each other well. And they try their best not to die, because what are the chances they'll ever find each other again? Two heads are better than one for finding their way to the rest of the hermits.

-@/basaltdragon

- Its probably a week or so of falling before bdubs managed to move enough to finally see the end islands just barely rendering in the distance. As someone had mentioned, perhaps he became so hopeful that he missed his mark, hitting the ground with a sickening splat just blocks beside scar. It took bdubs almost another week to get forward enough to see the islands again. This time, he landed right on scar... sending the vex back to his spawn several islands away, and leaving bdubs alone for days

-@/therainofsweetmelody

- While Bdubs and Scar are more than happy to have found each other again, their moments together are tense and filled with gaps of uncomfortable silence. There's an unspoken agreement hanging over them: Scar doesn't question Bdubs' frozen and frail state, and Bdubs pretends not to notice how Scar's skin has gotten pale and ghost-like, or how he glances behind him often, like he's being followed by a shadow only he can see. Though of course, Bdubs does notice. The whole server does. Grian wakes up in a cold sweat from a dream of Scar's ruthless attempts to destroy the mycelium resistance. Cub feels his own ties to the vex magic acting up once again, now worrying more than ever what Scar may have encountered in this broken world. Even Mumbo's evoker friend begins acting different, though Mumbo can't seem to determine whether it's out of excitement or fear...

-@/crows-in-space

- Scattered AU After the Wels meeting Hels Headcanon I imagine maybe Hels offers a deal to insure his safety on the Hermitcraft Server in exchange for Wels safety in the Nether. Wels very reluctantly agrees adding to the deal that Hels won’t hurt anyone. To bad he didn’t notice his Evil counterpart cross his fingers while shaking on it.

- anonymous

- Scattered AU: TFC spawns on the main end island, dragon and all. With out proper preparation he’s been stuck in a death loop since the world’s start. Sometimes, right before he dies, he wishes that the janky respon would de-age his body; he’s not the agile young man who could take down the dragon solo anymore.

- @liagrace-b

- Scattered!Grian can’t fly. His normal down-featherly wings look like every feather has been plucked off, leaving the very sensitive skin open to the elements. But the world’s code itself has altered the physics of the wings themselfs. Grian can feel how much heavier the wing structure sits on his back, meaning that they couldn’t let him glide even if fully feathered. Poor Grian hasn’t survived the freezing cold long enough to know if his feathers would grow back with enough time.

- anonymous

- EX somehow gets into the scattered mix. Spawning in the Deep Dark, the exiled admin is terrified, and will stop at nothing to find his brother. 🌙

- (Scattered AU) Scar and Bdubs, after months(?) of travel, make it to the Ender Dragon's island. Bdubs is scared for both of their lives; he is in no condition to fight, he can't even STAND, and he's so, so afraid to die and be condemned to falling forever in the void once again. Scar says nothing, only gently setting his friend down behind an obsidian pillar before his skin goes completely translucent, his eyes clouding white. (Paraphrased: Scar defeats the dragon, him and Bdubs meet up with TFC)

- @/petrichormeraki

- the plugins do not work, so singleplayer sleep is out. Beds do reset spawn point, so the Hermits who spawned in a place where they can get them would do well to make several and use them as checkpoints along their journey (and hope that they don't get broken, especially for those who had to escape death loops....)

- (my answer to some questions)

- Those trapped in death loops change, adapting until they aren't harmed anymore or till they escape. After all, what are players if not adaptable?

- @permafrost782

- Xisuma blames his broken helmet for being unable to admin, as some sort of comfort. But there is no comfort there. The truth is, not even Joe, Tango, Cub, or Hypno can access the chat, can even begin to run commands to fix what has gone wrong. If they could, they would have teleported everyone to 0,0 and reset the worldspawn. Those partnered with any of the admins feel a certain kind of hopelessness. Those without feel a different kind of hopeless.

- @/basaltdragon

- To add to the scattered AU: Though i had seen someone explain the void connecting to the end so Bdubs gets out of that fall, i had the thought of this; What if eventually the void loops around with the overworld's sky, so he's basically in a continuous loop if falling to his death and respawning in the void until he finally is lucky enough in his falls to get over water and live. After that he just has to stay alive otherwise he returns to the void..

-@aetosofvalla

- Somewhere, in the back of Scar’s vex-addled mind, there’s the worry of Jellie. Where is she? Is she with another hermit? Did she spawn in with another village again and will he have to find her again? -🟣

- (Scattered AU) Cub and Scar have been linked by the Vex ever since their deal. One day, Cub's iron armor burns against his skin all at once, and through the searing pain is a horrifying realization that Scar has given in. - M

-@/petrichormeraki

- After a while Cub gets the resources to build a nether portal, but then he finds his portal has connected with someone else's. He finds himself lost again, without access to the farms he's built or the resources he's gathered, but at least he knows a friend is close.

- anonymous

- The End duo come across another end city. There’s a boat at the far end. Scar flies up on delicate vex wings to get the spare elytra and other loot. They’ve been walking for far too long. He floats down (as if he had the slow-falling effect. There’s only health in the brewing stand. Bdubs’ worry for Scar increases) with an extra set of trousers, boots, an elytra, the potions and a pic. Scar offers the elytra to Bdubs. He refuses. It’ll take longer to walk, but he never wants to fall again🟣

- Mumbo gets caught up in redstone work and doesn't bother trying to find anyone else. So when another hermit finally finds him, he has to stop his evoker friend from attacking. Whether or not he's successful is another thing.

- Anonymous

- (Scattered AU) Consider. When Doc finds Grian on the mountain peak while exploring the terrain, a message sends through everyone's communicators. <Grian was blown up by a Creeper>. Doc doesn't get a death message that time, despite both of them suffering the consequences of a surprised Doc in a server where mob-oriented hermits are more volatile than they should be. Doc doesn't go looking for other hermits again after that, and Grian is shocked into numbness at the dawning realization that his monster friends might be so much worse off than he thought. - M

- @/petrichormeraki

A summary of where things stand so far

- scattered au pog!!! hypno is in a seemingly endless flowery field. it was nice at first, but there's no trees, no food, and hardly any water. the sun is so hot. flowers aren't filling. hypno thought he liked being alone.

- Anonymous

- Mumbo doesn’t succumb to the magic of the mansion like perhaps Cub and Scar have, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t entirely unaffected- his skin becomes a little more washed out, instincts a little more violent- he certainly can’t go into villages anymore, otherwise the iron golem will smash him to bits

- @/fluffy-papaya

- With Scar using Vex magic, the Vex turn their attention to Cub, trying to tempt him at every turn. More then once he's found his mask in one of his chests, staring up at him, or awoken in a cold sweat from a dream full of vex. So far, he's resisted the temptation. Wether that lasts is another question entirely.

-@/bat-connoisseur

- Maybe eventualy hypno realises Even flowers would need water to grow, or that the bees must have a bee hive somewhere around here, and the bee hive is always connected to a tree(I think thats the case in Minecraft). So he tries to find where the buzzing comes from and follow the bees around.

- @/ciaravixen

- cleo bases a lot of her identity around being a zombie, right? she probably isnt too happy to be cured. she probably cries all the time it takes her to heal. it had to be done, but that doesnt mean she has to like it. and she doesnt, not one little bit.

- Anonymous

- that ask about Mumbo not bothering to look for anyone got me thinking.... Mumbo getting too caught up in his work with the evokers to look for the others. Mumbo making friends with the illagers. Mumbo knowing that it's completely reasonable that nobody has found him yet, but still getting the creeping feeling that no one is coming for him. Mumbo spending all his time with his new friends because, after all, they're here, and the hermits aren't... All this to say that, when the hermits eventually do find him, he might not be very inclined to leave...

- @/crows-in-space

- At one point, Mumbo's new friends are just...watching him try to do his stuff, observing. Mumbo's getting increasingly frustrated when ne of the evokers watching him breaks off and hands him something. At first he thinks its a totem of undying, its shaped like one, but its strange. Made out of iron, and its eyes are diamonds instead of emeralds. Then it starts to burn his hands and he passes out from the pain. When he wakes, its gone and he moves on, a bit more wary of his 'friends'. Maybe it was a mean joke, or some kinda of strange inhiation for the mansion maybe Except next time he's frustrated, he thows his hands up annoyed and fangs rise out of the ground around him and snap at the air. He cries out, confused, before looking at his hands which almost look like they've been painted with gray paints. it wont come off. He seems mentally the same but now he starts to experiment with his new found abilities. Maybe they can help with his redstone or even find others.

- Anonymous

- after trying a poisonous flower, hypno respawns back in the field. this time, he tries walking in a different direction. maybe this is the way out.

- Anonymous

- The flowers in Hypno’s area are just so perfect... blooming dandelions don’t lose their seeds when he brushes against them, petals that are crushed underfoot quickly regain their shape- and if his mind wasn’t so affected, he would’ve noticed the flower he picked was quickly replaced by another

- @/fluffy-papaya

- The Moobloom has one unique feature: The ability to leave behind flowers in its path... that is, the ability to alter the world around it simply by walking. These flower plains are not particularly large, maybe eight or so chunks across in each direction, but glitched world generation spawned in a herd of mooblooms, and all they've been doing is walking around causing little distortions, one on top of the other. From the inside, where Hypno is standing, the plains go on forever. The air is thick with buttercup pollen that's slowly dulling his sense of space and time. He has to pull it together, somehow. Force the world to recognise that he's walking forwards in a straight line. Or he'll be wandering in circles forever...

- @/draconic-dreams

- another hermit- maybe beef? sees the edge of a deep, fragrant field. on the horizon, not far away, is hypno, walking in circles. he calls but he cannot hear beef. something tells the man not to go into that field- at least, not without a flint and steel. (Shade note: Beef and Joe saved Hypno and are currently sheltering him (unconscious) in their spawn sanctuary)

- anonymous

- Maybe if they went through the exit portal and it glitched but good. They don't think about the fact it should send them back to their spawns, Scar feels something at the back of his mind that very much isn't him tell him to change his mind, stay in this place becuase they'll just be trapped if they try to leave, but Bdubs grabs his arm and jumps in before Scar can say anything. For a second, blessed silence, Scar's mind feels clear and normal. then they show up at world spawn and scare theother

- anonymous

(Shade note: people at the spawn haven now include Joe, Beef, Hypno, TFC, Scar, and Bdubs)

- Once Keralis and Cleo are healed up, the village gang starts going to 0,0 to try to meet up with others. On the way, they find a flower forest (potentially the same one Hypno’s in). They find some mooblooms and fall in love (this was def not done bc I want some fluff, nope not at all /s) -🟣

- Mumbo receives a set of robes from his evoker friend. He’s loathe to get rid of his suit, but at the same time... well, all the better to fit in, right? This is a glitch and fluke anyway, and he might as well blend in if the illagers ever turn on him. That’s it. That’s the only reason he tosses the suit jacket into the fireplace, don’t be silly. It has nothing to do with the feeling that he just doesn’t want to leave...

- anonymous

- I’m imagining Shattered Impulse looking like the Fishman from Shape of Water + the teeth of an Angler fish and the ability to unhinge his jaw. Poor guy probably gets mistaken for a glitched mob when someone finds him.

- @/fandomrecycling

- Yes hello it's me again. After the pollen spells breaks for Hypno (and whoever else might have tried to save him beforehand...), he notices he's a little different. he can't always control how he moves, he doesn't like eye contact, and he takes an even bigger interest in his, well, interests than before. Basically Tourettic Hypno go brrr (I am tourettic so feel free to ask me clarification!)

- @/fireflower-dusk

- I don't think Keralis has been mentioned except for being in the nether so I would like to contribute that he spawned in that soul sand and skeleton biome that has almost nothing in it.

- anonymous

- Mumbo, being hundreds of thousands of blocks out from spawn, is the last hermit to be found. Even after the glitch was fixed, Mumbo was so caught up in his research and new abilities that he no longer felt it mattered. He'd been apart from the hermits for well over a year now; and a long time ago he gave up hope that they'd come back for him. This was, of course, until he woke up one morning to a disturbance outside. When he goes to check the source of the racket, he's left frozen in place at the sight of Iskall on his mansion's doorstep. And at the end of it all, despite Mumbo telling himself that he was better alone, Iskall's hand on his shoulder, reassuring that "Yes, I'm here, yes, I'm real, and no, I'm not leaving, you spoon." Is enough for Mumbo to break, clinging to Iskall as if he'd disappear at any moment, murmuring "I'm sorry" over and over like a broken record. -🧸

- Maybe after Wels and Hels make their deal, and Wels gets some gold gear and a respawn anchor to click, Hels shows him how to create a portal to Hels the place to which from there, they think they can get into the overworld. The only catch being that to get in to Hels the place you need to focus all of you emotions onto pure hatred and anger, but the question is could Wels do it?

- Anonymous

- Hels taunts Wels about how no one came to get him, and plants ideas about how this was done on purpose, about how he's the only one to spawn in the nether for a reason. He tells him the hermits want him gone. And Wels of course becomes angry but he becomes angry at Hels for trying to tell him his friends didn't care about him. He's also angry at himself though, maybe for thinking he hasn't done enough to make his friends want to keep him around. He is never mad at the hermits though, never them

- TFC's concerned. Even if he thinks it's great he found Bdubs and Scar, the latter shouldn't be able to just kill the ender dragon alone. TFC doesn't know much about Scar but the man can barely fly usually, why did he turn into a vex, anyway? vexes don't exist in the end. TFC need to ask, at least to make sure he's ok, but everytime he tries he stops in his track once the cold, icy blue eyes stare back at him. devoid of the usual warmth his green ones have.

- Anonymous

- (Scatter AU) Saw someone mention the other ops on the server and had a thought: Tango is a programmer with a specialty in game programming. He’s probably sitting at the campfire thinking of every single way the game must have been corrupted to cause this many problems. If he could just get into the code, maybe he could fix some of these problems. I’ll bet he’s driving himself a little crazy thinking of everything that could be done to fix the world and not being able to do anything...

- Anonymous

- Cub was lucky, he thinks. Seeing the many death messages in chat, he's torn between gratitude that he's ended up with what almost looks like a normal spawn, and worry for his friends. After gathering enough resources to stay reasonably safe, he knows what he has to do next. So when he encounters Xb, he eventually suggests he takes some resources and a bed he's salvaged from the abandoned village and heads towards 0,0, hoping there'll be someone there. (1/3)But as for him... well, there's an obvious place to head as far as he can see, for someone with a safe enough spawn point and the ability to gather resources. A place where he knows for sure he'll find someone else, someone who needs help. After all, unless this world is even more messed up that it seems, there's only one place where a player would be killed by the Ender dragon, and he knows exactly how to get there. (2/3) (Shade note: Him and xB were not successful in finding the Hermit who the mystery portal belonged to. They must have died in the Nether and returned to their spawn point. XB resists the idea that they split up, but he sees the logic in it and agrees to start the long journey for 0,0.) (pt. 3 was eaten by the inbox)

- Anonymous

- Maybe one of the reasons Cleo doesn't like being a human as much is because she had chronic pain (particularly in her back) when she was alive, and when she gets cured after meeting up with False, Stress, and Keralis, her back pain comes back (along with all the other pains of being alive)

-@/justme123abz

- Whenever Etho spawns, wherever Etho spawns, he takes it upon himself to tell each and every Hermit he can find to head towards 0,0. He's not sure why, but he believes that if they get everyone together, they can figure out how to fix the broken world.If there aren't any Hermits in sight, he'll make a sign out of whatever's avalible before going searching. It's a complete pain to try and build anything coherent out of sand and cactus, but he has to try. He has to get everyone together. It's their best hope. It's their only hope.Even Evil X. Even Hels. Everyone. He doesn't care about past grievances. They need to get through this. And their only option is to do it together. (Shade note: He doesn't stay with Team ZIT for long. He probably dies trying to protect them from something, knowing that it will only result in him finding another Hermit anyway. Even though he himself isn't making any progress toward the origin, he counts it as a victory every time he can guide one of his friends just a little bit closer.)

- Doc Ren and Grian himself thought that him being found and safe would fix everything right? yea no he has horrible fevor, he struggles to retain warmth depsite 2 feet from a fire, he's tired and has a hard time stay awake becuase on the mt he slept alot, he barley eats cuz he cant hold too much down rn. He cant stand being alone or he'll start to panic, ands he's just trying to ignore the new fox fetures he has desperately when he's aware enough to do. Doc and Ren have a hard time ahead of them.

- Anonymous

- Mumbo was trying to make a machine with redstone and evoker magic to contact the hermits right?so what if he did build the machine ad at first his only way to get the magic was to go annoy the evoker hoping he would try to hit him and instead hit the machine to power it. Plan backfired so many times because of the vex killing him before. So when Mumbo becomes apprentice he wants to try power the machine himself but it breaks because he can't control how much magic he uses yet.time to study magic

-@/artsarasp

- Etho dies with the Zit and ends up back in it. Next he ends up in X's spawn, there's no one around but he finds the bloody tunnel X punched himself, and races down it to see in the distance Xisuma and Jevin in a cave.He calls out to them, only to get overwhelmed by zombies that just spawned, He manages to gurgle out 0,0 before he dies again. (He's now determined to be the messenger of meetings, even willing to die on purpose to find them all). After that? Ren's old spawn, now he has to track ren

- anonymous

- I guess hypno’s been... hypnotizd 👉😎👉

- We need more Jevin and xisuma interaction content, be it fluff or angst, how aware is jevin by the time Xisuma gets there? How many axolotls do they take with them on the way to the surface?

- @/ciaravixen

(Shade comment: We need more Jevin and xisuma interaction content, be it fluff or angst, how aware is jevin by the time Xisuma gets there? How many axolotls do they take with them on the way to the surface? )

- Mumbo having to learn how to use the magic, the evoker will probably also try to teach him how to summon the vex, even if Mumbo really wants to just focus on the magic and not the evocation.What if he's able to summon Scar since he gave his name to the vex? just by accident and Mumbo gets so startled by Scar's new appearance that he immediately interrupts the evocation and makes Scar dissappear. Scar reappears where he was before confused cause for a moment he saw Mumbo?did he allucinante??

- @/artsarasp

- Scattered AU! So what if what happened with EX and Hels happened with old hermits to? Like Biffa, Generikb, Jessassin etc etc. Everyone is concerned as it is but then they see a death message from one of them and realize it's even worse then they thought.

- Anonymous

- Once Wels and Helssknight are in Hels the have to sneak around a lot. Hels isn’t as popular there as he had previously boasted, that’s why he had tried to take over the over world. Cue heart to heart talk before a Hels version of another hermit cuts them off. (Can you pick the Hermit I’m kinda stuck here)

- Anonymous

- Iskall must have not even known the direction he was walking from his desert spawn, so its purely by luck he ended up finding the mansion mumbo resides in- his cybernetic eye is fixed almost instantly upon his arrival by mumbo and iskall feels his hope fades as he realises they’re /so/ far from the hermits. I also guess he must be worried about whats happening to his friend right before him, mumbo wouldnt willingly give into the vex and evoker magic right? 1/2 But he isn’t so sure anymore, the days at the mansion are quiet and uncomfortable as Iskall has to be wary of the illagers that walk the halls, mumbo assures him of his safety, but theres no light in his eyes - he doubts the illagers welcomed mumbo at first- The usual banter isn’t there at all, its dead silence as mumbo keeps on working and Iskall can see how paler his skin becomes and the blue scars that litter his body 2/2

- Anonymous

- Etho died and respawned at the true spawn once. Beef was elated to see him and was afraid if he let him go, he would disappear. He didn’t want to lose his friend again. In the end, he does, he was actually with Etho when he dies, and he never lets the feeling go.

- @/harley-the-pancake

- aww poor etho! At least he's okay with this new role as messenger. Now i can just imagen he ends up at Ren's spawn and manages to track the man, nearly dying but staying alive and- thats a house in the distance! He goes over and nearly runs into Doc, who invites him in surprised and they catch each other up, their spawns and Etho's situation. They're overjoyed to hear about the others and Ethos glad to see them realtivly okay. Grian's condition is worrying however, changed and still weak (1) They agree they need to start heading to 0,0 but Ren is nervous about leaving safety, Doc wants them safe, and with Grian still sick and weak from laying in snow for weeks it'll take a bit until he's stable enough to travel (he'll probs have to be carried anyways). Etho stays for a few days at their insistence for rest, he wants to keep going there is more hermits out there he hasn't found, they are insistent that he take time to recover. Then, he lets himself die. Off to the next hermit! (2)

- Anonymous

- This is for the very very beginning, but maybe before False meets up with Cleo, she spawns in a warm ocean biome. Coral structures fill the water around her, and tropical fish dart between them. It would be almost peaceful, were it not for the fact that False was encased in a cage of coral.It’s a gamble every time. She has to try and smash her way out of her colorful prison before the tide rolls in, slow and steady water rising up her body and over her head. The water makes her movements clumsy and arduous as she tries to free herself, racing against time to escape the awful tide. (Pt 2) OH SORRY I HAD AN IDEA (this is from the coral False anon)What if Stress and False both spawn in that biome and they have to try and help each other out before the tide comes in?? Added angst if one of the times one manages to escape but the other doesn’t

- Anonymous

- (scattered au) Every time that a hermit dies the universe and the world file starts to corrupt, the way that things are going if everything doesn't go back to normal soon, then the world will crumble on itself with the hermits inside.

- Anonymous

- Admins log, day: ⬛⬛⬛ I've finally managed to find my way to the drip stone caves, weirdly I think I may have a good connection down here, I'll try to contact the others, if they haven't forgotten about me yet. (Shade note: Far away in the woodland mansion, Mumbo rubs his eyes and marks down another failure on his latest contraption. How long will it be until he can generate a signal? He has no way of knowing that, for a single moment, it worked. He stopped checking his communicator a long time ago, so he doesn't see the single message until much later: <Xisuma> can anyone hear me?)

- At some point Etho cycles round to Doc's spawn. His friend is long gone but there are five creepers in formation watching him. Waiting for something.It takes a moment for him to recall the trick of unfocusing his ears just right, so that their hisses resolve into words. He hasn't had to do it for years, after all. He hasn't run into General Spaz since he left Chocolate Island.“It'ssss been a while, Esssssho” the General says. “Let'sssss make a wager”The General reaches out for a handshake... it seems the glitch finally gave him a pair of arms.(ancient Etho lore go brrrr)

- Anonymous

- Both the snow and the void are cold, and getting stuck in there means getting frostbite a lot is fairly likely, so Grian and Bdubs would be unlikely to get out with all their fingers...

- @/bat-connoisseur

- Based on a little piece of this ask where it was mentioned that Hypno passed out only three steps outside the flower biome, I start to wonder, how long was he wandering in circles without food? Why did he collapse so immediately? Was the biome itself perhaps sustaining him? Keeping him "healthy" (if you could call it that) and alive? COULD he have starved to death if he hadn't been pulled out? Or would he have just kept walking? And walking. And walking...

-@/asexualbert

- An idea focusing on evil xisuma. He ended up spawning on the nether roof, stuck with nothing but mushrooms and bedrock as far as the eye can see. No communication, no water, no way out. He can probably eat the mushrooms, at the very least.... but there may be some bad side effects from it. It's disheartening and lonely up there, dying from starvation over. And over. And over. At one point, etho may have spawned there as well... but of course, he wouldnt last long. Condemned to endless roof...

-@/therainofsweetmelody

- Okay, hear me out: after Hypno’s been out of his illusion for a while, he starts to get headaches. He doesn’t think anything of it, until he wakes up one day with small horns growing and flowers in his hair. In conclusion: Moobloom!Hypno

- @/harley-the-pancake

Art:

- An Impulse

- A Grian

- A Guardian Impulse

- A Void Bdubs by @/sweetest-honeybee

- This Hypno by @/irys-97

- an Iskall and a Grian

- a fox Grian

- A Guardian Impulse

- a suffering Xisuma

- Mumbo and Evoker doodles

Writing:

Up. He needs to go up. He spawned too deep in the world, and though he'd heard of underground spawns there was no way, no way in the world that being so deep under was normal. Every cave he crawled up either came to a dead end or opened into a massive, mob-filled cavern, and somehow he still hadn't found even half a mineshaft. He could spend hours upon hours painfully clawing his way through the stone, but he keeps convincing himself it'll be faster to find a cave that leads to the surface. The pounding heartbeat of a warden stills rings in his ears, an ever-present reminder of his terrible luck. If only he could get some wood. Just a few planks, some torches. Anything. It's almost as if the stone doesn't want him to leave.

- @basaltdragon

- Buried by @arts-and-drafts

- Cleo grits her teeth and pulls a leather cap low over her head and stays on the outskirts of the taiga village, where the less scrupulous people go. She can't stay here long, if an iron golem catches her she's going to end up social spawning a bunch of less sapient friends and wiping out the village. The air is cold and thin out here, close to the mountains. The strays leave her alone. She's not sure how to feel about that. ~@betweenlands

- "A poem, by Impulse" by @/rayveewrites

- Pulse by @/arts-and-drafts

- Unnamed Impulse fic by @bat-connoisseur

- Another Impulse fic by @/betweenlands

- Don't think about it by me (@shadeswift99 )

- A poetic fic by @irys-97

- this short anon piece

- If I lose myself by @/arts-and-drafts

- Mountainside by @/basaltdragon

- Sleepwalk by @/betweenlands

- This Grian fic by @silverechosandsmileymasks

- A Jevin fic by @/basaltdragon

- This Hypno piece by @/fireflower-dusk

- This Iskall anon

- Alternate Impulse fic by @/rayveewrites

- Short Grian fic by @rk9-mew2

- an alternate headcanon for Mumbo

- This Xisuma fic by @/bat-connoisseur

#hcraft #hermitcraftheadcanons #hermitcraft #hermitblr #mod shade #masterpost #scattered au #long post

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dreamsmp-au-ideas · 3 years

Text

Guess it’s good brother dream brain rot time now that we’ve pretty much canonized phoenix Tommy in it. I must now do my proper due diligence. Adding in my two cents and furthering the spread of my brand, phoenix Tommy.

When Tommy is a little tiny thing Phil does everything in his power to try and keep it quiet that Tommy isn’t a regular avian hybrid, but a phoenix. Things like phoenixes, dragons, or other mythical avians are extremely rare mutations that happen seemingly without any reason but will often reoccur within the same bloodline more often than not.

Phil is something mythical. Maybe a dragon, maybe a griffin, maybe even something a little less well known like the zhenniao, yatagarasu, or alicanto. Either way he’s something mythical, it runs in his blood. It ends up running in Tommy’s too. Phil is one of the few mythological avians who doesn’t hide his features because people are usually far too fearful of both him an Technoblade to do anything. Unfortunately, what people weren’t scared of was the idea of trying to kidnap a child.

There were attempts to steal away Wilbur when he was little. Before he started presenting and turned out to be just your regular avian. There were fewer attempts when it came to Tommy. There was unfortunately one attempt that ended up being successful, he was stolen from the cradle and subsequently lost in a skirmish when Techno and Phil caught up to the man who took Tommy.

Dream found baby Tommy floating along in the river, figured the kid was probably abandoned since he’d heard of orphaned children being floated down rivers and never seen again, and subsequently took Tommy in.

Everything was fine and okay for a couple years and Tommy was quickly accepted into the family. Unfortunately when Tommy turned five his traits started to come in and he nearly burned down the house. The family didn’t want to abandon Tommy but realizing he was a mythical avian was a problem to say the least. So Dream, having recently become an active admin, gathered up his things and left with Tommy. He didn’t blame his family for their worries but he wasn’t going to abandon his little brother either. Not when he’d found Tommy. Not when he’d been the one to practically raise Tommy.

Dream and Tommy were very distrustful of strangers still for obvious reasons and Tommy was pretty much stuck wearing the mask in order to protect himself, but Dream did what he could. Dream didn’t originally wear a mask actually, he decided they should match as a way to make Tommy feel bad for always having to wear the mask when he didn’t want to. He found private places that were safe where Tommy could practice flying and stretch his wings since Dream was super concerned early on about them atrophying and never being able to properly carry Tommy. Sure, it was too dangerous for Tommy to actively go flying often, but Dream didn’t want to accidentally ruin Tommy’s chances of ever being able to fly. The most important facet of their relationship is that he wanted to protect Tommy but never cage him.

When Dream first took control of the Dream SMP it was originally so he could make it a safe space for himself and Tommy, only allowing his few friends who knew about Tommy and what he was to join, like Sapnap and George who have a super good relationship with both Dream and Tommy in this au. Dream is still super jumpy and protective of Tommy and Tommy trusts people a lot less, but Tommy also acts as something of an ambassador in Dream’s interpersonal relationships, keeping Dream from becoming too jumpy and letting them decay. Similarly Dream taught Tommy to be a lot more cautious of strangers and this Tommy is a heck of a lot stronger having grown up with a pvp legend like Dream.

When other people started joining it was still a controlled enough environment that while cautious, Dream let Tommy “play” for lack of a better word. Three canon lives is a rule everywhere that everyone has to abide by, regardless of what admin you’re living under. The admin doesn’t get to decide what’s canon either, it’s something seemingly up to chance. Or maybe the gods. No one knows what makes being pushed off a cliff by your mortal enemy so different from falling off one by your own stupidity, but some people theorize it’s the intention of the action.

Obviously this isn’t a rule that applies to Tommy. They both know it, him and Dream. And here’s the thing. Some legends say that there are no draw backs to a phoenix dying. Others say that too many deaths too quickly will slowly harm the phoenix. Both of these are false. A phoenix needs deaths. Canon deaths. The same way that kids needs to be tossed in the air and spun around to help develop their brains as really little kids, a phoenix needs to die repeatedly for their brains and bodies to properly mature fully and in a healthy manner. It’s an actual necessity for them to die, in fact, too few canon deaths run the risk of a phoenix getting sick and dying permanently.

So when new people join the Dream SMP, Dream doesn’t hesitate letting Tommy side against him. It’s an unspoken rule between them. Good brother Dream goes pretty similar to canon up until Pogtopia actually. Dream doesn’t hesitate to take those two canon lives and Tommy intentionally misses during their duel. He ends up with way more canon deaths than just two, and he keeps secret what they are from the rest of the SMP, saying the two times Dream killed him were the canon two. Each time he dies his magic gets a little stronger, his feathers taking on an even glossier coat. He still gets pissed at Eret after the betrayal because everyone else doesn’t have unlimited canon lives, but Dream shushes and reassures him that if anyone does die permanently then he’ll help Tommy bring them back.

Phoenixes are creatures tied to the frayed and broken bridge that crosses life and death. Just like they can’t die and have dominance over flames, another power of the phoenixes is that they’re uniquely skilled when it comes to necromancy. Real necromancy. Not the human equivalent that brings back soulless husks with a tendency for destruction and malevolence. A phoenix is the only creature that can bring a soul back from the dead in tact. Tommy knows this by merit of instinct, and did it only once before for the sake of Dream. Regular people know this by merit of books like the one Schlatt tries to trade Dream.

So Dream and Tommy mostly put on an act while the war is happening but then act all buddy buddy and like actual brothers off the battle fields which confuses everyone (besides the already aware George and Sapnap) and mildly upsets Wilbur, but everyone just kinda gets used to it.

Until Pogtopia. Because we need some kind of conflict I’m giving Schlatt a very special role. Schlatt was a hybrid who got captured by poachers as a child and sold into the hybrid slave trade. He was one of the lucky few who turned the tables and managed to earn his freedom, ultimately turning towards being a poacher himself. Schlatt comes to L'manberg and becomes president with the intention of selling every hybrid in the country, in the Dream SMP as a whole, to his traders. The reason he chose the Dream SMP specifically? Well, wouldn’t you know it, he’s heard rumors that apparently there’s a phoenix hiding around somewhere. Not to mention the Dream SMP is absolutely loaded with hybrids because of Dream’s rather public policy about hybrid tolerance (he isn’t a hybrid, but he knows the affect being a hybrid has had on Sapnap and he still fears for Tommy so he tries to make somewhere that maybe one day Tommy can be open about what he is.)

Schlatt can’t immediately tell it’s Tommy who’s the phoenix because Tommy himself is an even rarer variation of phoenix called a soul flame phoenix, which is why his eyes and wings are a soul fire blue. Schlatt came in expecting crimson and our boy is out here with wings that look like the place where the sky meets the sea. Schlatt even dismisses Tommy initially and starts investigating some of the people who look human or avians with orange and yellow feathers. This is also why Phil can’t immediately recognize Tommy when he joins the SMP. While he can hide them with magic, Tommy usually has his wings on display since the Dream SMP is designed to be a safe space for hybrids. This Dream doesn’t have a ban on flying (he thought about it, maybe setting aside specific areas where winged hybrids could exercise, but it was quickly scrapped via Tommy repeatedly throwing himself off cliffs and then remembering he wasn’t supposed to be flying, immediately letting himself drop and die. Some of those ‘accidents’ were even canon and Dream just gave up on the rule.)

For this AU, I imagine that Dream would be a bit more in tune with people and empathetic so he’d probably call in Techno and Phil for help when he sees Wilbur starting to take a dive. Both out of worry for his own younger brother who’s sticking by Wilbur and consideration for the fact Wilbur himself took something of an older brother role. Sure he was a little jealous, but he understand well enough that everyone who meets Tommy either falls into one of two categories. They hate the kid and want him dead or they want to be his older sibling who’d burn down the world if he asked them to. George and Sapnap can both attest to the fact there are only two types of people in this world when it comes to Tommy and people usually start as the first before slowly becoming the second.

So Techno and Phil show up early which is really good because Schlatt finally reveals his true intentions and neither Techno nor Phil are very chill with them. I dunno how the reveal will go between them and Tommy yet. I don’t even know for Good Brother Dream if we’re having Techno be a family friend or older brother so hard to say.

Anyway, I think that’d probably be where the main plot kinda starts to kick off so I’ll stop there for now. If I go for too much longer I’ll just end up wanting to write it…

#dream smp #dream smp au #good brother dream au #philza #ph1lza #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #dream #dreamwastaken #sapnap #georgenotfound #jschlatt #technoblade #submission #snapdragon & firefly

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rebrandedbard · 3 years

Text

A Bard He Would A-Wooing Go (6858 words)

Gift for @valdomarx: some good old mutual pining morons. In which Jaskier courts Geralt and Geralt is oblivious. Ao3 link in title.

Jaskier wrote a song like counting; Counting the years, the steps, until one day he might count the seconds and centimeters of distance that seemed to stretch like oceans between them. Each of them were like marks on a calendar, an entry in a diary to mark the progress. At first, he hid his true intentions behind false names and romantic figures, crafting beautiful damsels for the recipients of his verses in the time when he was still uncertain, but when the depth of his love became apparent to himself, he decided the day had come to be more overt.

He sang of a beautiful man with hair kissed by moonlight, eyes of amber still hollowed with the liquid golden honey left to flow inside. This he played by the evening fire, casting shy glances at Geralt over the flames. “Do you like my new song?” he asked.

“You inflate my image enough already,” Geralt replied in his usual gruff manner. The idea was to make him a hero of monster-slaying, not the heroine of some romance. Jaskier’s verses were too pretty and flattering, bound to be laughed at by the public. Moonlight and honey—such descriptions were wasted on witchers.

Jaskier frowned and played the second verse a little louder, ignoring his response. “I would rather sing it below a balcony; perhaps the artistry of the setting would help better mold your opinion.” He took on a faraway, doe-eyed expression as he spoke, strumming the gentle melody. “I would weave a crown of clover and present it to you. Yes, I think that would suit you fine. You’d cut a majestic figure, lighted by the stars. I would pluck one from the heavens and offer it to you so that it might sit atop your head, the very jewel of the crown, so that all might better see how brightly you shine.”

“Your songs do enough as it is. No need to crown me,” Geralt scoffed. He was not some divine hero. He was a witcher working for pay, and it was crude work. “You romanticize everything too much.”

“Oh, what would you know of it? You haven’t got a romantic bone in your body.”

“First true thing you’ve said tonight.”

“The honey was more than true,” Jaskier huffed. He played the verse again, then stopped, something new glittering in his eye. It was an idea, Geralt recognized. He was far too familiar with that expression by now to mistake it, and he knew there would be a long, terrible enterprise awaiting him. Jaskier started to smile, and he took to his feet.

“Geralt of Rivia!” he proclaimed. “I’ve decided that this will not do. A simple song is not enough! Let it now be known that it is my intention, henceforth, to court you with all the trim, all the pomp, all the circumstance and bells and whistles! You must know the pleasures of romance in their many forms, and I will leave no stone unturned, no mountain unclimbed, until you have been thoroughly romanced!”

Geralt groaned and closed his eyes. He was not interested in a study of human courtship. He was especially uninterested in receiving such lessons from Jaskier of all people. Yet he knew there was no refusing once Jaskier set his mind to anything. Whether he wanted to or not, whatever protests he’d make, Jaskier would not be denied. The bastard would dig in his heels and get his way, and this—it was this game of his that would at last be the thing to kill Geralt. This farce would not be something Geralt’s heart would survive in one piece. He retired early, hoping the declaration would be forgotten in the morning if he gave no reaction. The slightest acknowledgement was all the encouragement Jaskier needed.

The next day, to his surprise, Jaskier was the first awake. He’d gone wandering in the woods before sunrise and returned with his arms laden with flowers. Geralt had awoken to the smell of the bouquet waved under his nose.

“Good morning, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said, grinning ear to ear. “Welcome to the first morning of the rest of your life! A humble offering, still wet with sweet morning dew.” He bobbed and placed the bouquet in Geralt’s hands with finesse before bounding over to relight the fire and begin their breakfast. To Geralt’s even greater surprise, there were five fish speared in the dirt beside it. Jaskier had gone fishing, it seemed. Flowers, fish—would there be a third gesture awaiting him so early in the morning? Or perhaps being first up was the gesture itself. Jaskier was not an early riser by any measure. Geralt might as well still be asleep as unbelievable as it was.

“So, you were serious about that courting thing,” Geralt said.

Jaskier waved his flints in the air dramatically. “Perfectly serious. Honestly, Geralt, you must have known this day would come.”

And Geralt had to admit, after several days spent with Jaskier giving lessons detailing the etiquette of the high courts, the more fashionable dances of the season, a history of the textile arts in which he explained how his doublets were made from the harvest of the fibers all the way through decorative pleating, and the proper forms of address for peers in no less than seven countries … yes, Geralt ought to have known that courting customs were next on the list of useless trivia Jaskier meant to impart.

At first, there was not much fuss and they were able to get on as usual. Geralt didn’t know what he expected in regards to a courtship from Jaskier, but what little thought he’d given the subject conjured images of endless smothering, Jaskier waxing poetic, arms waving dramatically, attaching himself at the hip of his hapless, adoring victim. But perhaps courtship was a one-a-day expression and that would be all until tomorrow.

He was wrong in multiple ways. Jaskier did not leap upon him with some obnoxious peacocking gesture, but he took it upon himself to pack camp after breakfast. Geralt watched him shuffle about, humming quietly. Jaskier had insisted Geralt stay out of the matter and sent him off to ready Roach. Camp packed, Jaskier tied their things to her saddle, and Geralt notice that he’d been careful to arrange the bags just as he himself might, the weight evenly distributed, potion bag furthest in front in easy reach, the rest in the order in which they’d need unpacking come evening. It was observant to say the least. Such a little thing, really, but Geralt was impressed.

“Ready?” Jaskier asked, offering Geralt his hand.

Geralt looked curiously at it, not sure what it was meant for. Jaskier was looking at him expectantly, and for an absurd moment, Geralt thought he wanted a tip like the men who kept Roach tended to in stables in town. At a loss, he shook Jaskier’s hand and turned to hook his foot in the stirrup. He startled when Jaskier took his hand again and helped him up over the side.

It was ridiculous. Geralt needed no help mounting. Yet … something about the action stuck with Geralt. It had been brief, but the way Jaskier had looked up at him as he held his hand, he looked almost as if he’d been about to kiss it.

Geralt wished he would.

After a while of travelling in companionable silence, Geralt inched his head to the side. He looked at Jaskier from the corner of his eye and asked, “What are your plans for this?” wondering just how well Jaskier had thought this silly game through.

“The courtship? Oh, flowers, sweets, dancing—the usual,” Jaskier replied with a careless wave of his hand. He played so casual, and yet Geralt saw the mischievous quirk of his lips. There was more. Jaskier was a great lover of surprises, both in giving and receiving.

Jaskier fiddled with one of his lute strings, running his nail up and down its length shyly. “I’m surprised you’ve accepted it without quarrel,” he said. “Thrilled, really. Not to imply that I’m blind to your reservations; I know how you must feel about the idea of formal courtship: a lot of fluff and unnecessary nonsense. But this is how I express my love, and it means a great deal to me that you would allow me to share the experience with you.”

“It’s not such a great burden,” Geralt replied, offering a light shrug.

Jaskier laughed. “No, indeed, I shouldn’t think so! It’s a gift—the greatest gift of all.”

Geralt snorted and argued that a new set of armour would be a much greater gift.

“Ever the pragmatist,” Jaskier sighed, smacking Geralt’s boot with a smile.

When they stopped for lunch, Jaskier offered his hand once more to help Geralt dismount. After eating, Geralt put his gloves quietly away in one of the bags, muttering to himself that is was a warm day, as if Jaskier might notice and wonder. And though the air had a leftover chill of early spring, when the time came to ride off again, his hand felt hot in Jaskier’s. Geralt soon forgot his gloves entirely, had misplaced them quite carelessly among his bags or on the road. But Jaskier never commented on their absence.

In addition to the attentions Jaskier lavished upon Geralt, Roach benefitted from a surge in care. Jaskier brushed her coat nearly every other day, and it was shinier than ever before. He braided wildflowers in her mane, styled each morning length by length. Afterwards, he would brush Geralt’s hair, braiding it to match. It was the most preposterous thing, and yet Geralt could not help feeling a silly sort of happiness. Jaskier had been feeling much bolder since the first day, and had even allowed himself to put flowers in Geralt’s braids. Geralt would wake to find them on his bedroll in the morning—Jaskier wasn’t as sneaky as he liked to imagine.

It was new, Jaskier brushing Geralt’s hair this way. He might comb Geralt’s hair after a bath or wrestle a brush through it when it had begun to resemble a feral rat’s nest, but now it was more regularly maintained. There was no excuse of necessity. Geralt could close his eyes and enjoy the moment, Jaskier’s gentle hands at work, sometimes simply scratching his scalp, the brush abandoned for minutes at a time. It was such a tender gesture, Geralt at times forgot that it was nothing more than a demonstration.

But oh, Jaskier went to such lengths so teach! He had Roach re-shoed in the city with fine new horseshoes, claiming that the shoes would clip and clop and ring out the song of his heart on every cobblestone, and that the gait of her stride itself would be a reminder of his devotion. And truly, as they walked her to the stables afterwards, Geralt heard their cheerful mocking with each step, “It’s all a game! It’s all a game!” He was glad to give her the day off to rest, and to avoid the clippity-clop of her bright new shoes.

Geralt tried to be objective. When they spent the evening at a tavern, listening to a local bard perform, he did not allow his thoughts to linger on the hand resting over his on the bench. Nor did he read into things when Jaskier asked him to dance. Dancing—the usual. It was one of the most basic aspects of courtship.

When they spun in and out of the formation on the dance floor, when Jaskier entwined their fingers, when Jaskier pulled them close together, Geralt tried in vain to blame his dizziness on the spinning steps. When someone tried to cut in for a quick romp with Jaskier, only for Jaskier to snatch Geralt’s waist again in rejection of the advance, Geralt did not let his thoughts linger on how pretty the young woman had been and how well Jaskier might look dancing with her, nor the thrill he’d felt in that instance of being so firmly chosen against such an enticing offer.

Though there were contracts to be fulfilled, Jaskier found ways to steal Geralt away for an hour or two here and there and between. He’d dragged Geralt along to see a play: something very modern and poetic. They paid for standing admission, the cheapest and, according to Jaskier, the very best way to appreciate the art up close. They talked throughout, joking with the other patrons and laughing at the worst bits in near-vicious mockery. Evidently, that was the only way to enjoy anything so poorly critiqued, and a step above throwing rotten fruit. He bought them a little parcel of candied nuts, and now and then they flicked a nut at the very worst actor for having every other line fed to him from offstage. They came away laughing with not a single guess as to what the play itself had been about.

The next week they were on the road again, and things were quieter. The city provided so many forms of entertainment, but Geralt liked it best when it was only the two of them, nestled in the calm of nature. Jaskier was lively, and the environment affected his mood. Out in the woods, his gestures were sweeter, smaller, and sentimental. Geralt enjoyed this gentler aspect of Jaskier’s courtship, for his method changed between the city and the road.

Away from the excitement and bustle, Jaskier expressed himself more subtly. As if by magic, ingredients for Geralt’s potion stock would be replenished after one of Jaskier’s morning walks. He did not make grand declarations or even show any signs of wishing to be acknowledged for the little things he did. He simply did them, waiting to catch Geralt’s smile.

“Here,” Jaskier said, tossing a coiled bit of leather at Geralt. It was a braided strap of cord, burnt black over the fire. “In your favorite gloomy color,” he teased. “Your old tie is a twist from falling apart; I thought you might like a new one to tie back your hair.”

Geralt smiled, and he was sure he’d begun to build muscle in his cheeks from how often that had happened now. He admired the tie, running his thumb over the pattern. Cautiously, he edged closer to Jaskier and handed it back to him. He turned around, offering Jaskier his back and whispered, “Would you fix it for me?”

At once, Jaskier’s hands were in his hair, swapping out the old tie for the new. When Geralt turned back around, Jaskier had the old tie fasted to his wrist, looking down at it with a gentle smile. His eyes flickered back up to Geralt, and that same shy expression softened his features from that day when he’d presented his new song. A new shine glinted in his eyes, a fresh spark that danced in the firelight. Geralt’s words of thanks died on his tongue at the sight of it. His eyes roamed Jaskier’s face, taking in the warmth of his gaze.

So loving. So deceptively close to genuine. What a fantastic actor Jaskier would make, Geralt thought. He even smelled happy. Like … vanilla. He leaned closer, breathing it in. By now he’d forgotten the smile in Jaskier’s eyes, forgot how long he’d ceased to study it. Now he’d been distracted by the smile on his lips, taking in their color, the shape of them. He wanted a better look. If he touched them, perhaps he’d learn what made them turn up the way they did—might know how much of their warmth was owed to the fire, how much was owed to Jaskier. He thought they’d come nearer now, and he could just make out the small lines in them. The scent of vanilla was stronger, sweeter, and he felt the touch of Jaskier’s hand brush his cheek.

Jaskier’s hands rose, curling back around his neck as he leaned forward. Geralt blinked rapidly, tilting his head a fraction to the side. His slow heart fluttered to life in his chest. Often he’d imagined what it might be like to be in this very moment. Once, he’d even had the pleasure of dreaming it, but living it was more unbelievable. That Jaskier might kiss him was unfathomable, yet he was here, his hands reaching out, his lips parting, the nearness of him overwhelming and gloriously true. Geralt had nearly closed his eyes when he felt a slight tug on his hair.

“There,” Jaskier said with satisfaction, pulling away. “It was a bit crooked.”

His hair. Jaskier had leaned forward to … to fix his hair.

Jaskier was up now, walking toward their bags. The wind of the motion sent a chill through Geralt and he slumped forward, feeling suddenly cold. He’d been on the flat of a mountain once, standing at the edge of a cliff, all the wide world below him. Looking down, he’d felt as if the world might swallow him up. The sky above was so clear, devoid of even clouds, and he felt he might fall into it if only to relieve the endless void. That was how Jaskier’s absence felt. The wind which had commanded the mountainside was but a puff of air compared to the waft of air left in Jaskier’s wake. Geralt turned like a dying flower turns toward the sun, longing after him.

The bedroll was made smooth beneath Jaskier’s attentive hands as he went about preparing to retire. Geralt sighed and watched, trying to remind himself again that he was reading too much between lines that were unwritten: lines like bars in a cell. His infatuation was unfounded, and this scheme of Jaskier’s to educate Geralt in the ways of courting was only fuel to the fire. What a pointless endeavour. When would Geralt ever use this knowledge? To aid Jaskier as he pursued his fancy of the month? To himself win the heart of some stranger?

Jaskier bowed playfully and motioned to the bedroll. “Your chariot awaits to carry you off into Slumberland, sweet prince of the night,” he announced. He held a blanket in his hands, his boots and doublet set by his pack. With a flourish he rose and waited for Geralt expectantly.

Geralt obediently removed his boots and crawled onto the bedding. Best to sleep and let the moment be forgotten by morning, start over with another day. He turned on his back, waited for Jaskier to cover him with the blanket, to finish his joke and set up his own roll to sleep. Instead, he found Jaskier flopped at his side, his arm flung over his chest, and the blanket wrapped around the two of them snugly.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. His breath puffed against Geralt’s neck as Jaskier cuddled closer, hooking an ankle over Geralt’s leg. He settled comfortably on Geralt’s shoulder and closed his eyes, the most contented smile on his face. Geralt could hear his heartbeat slow down, even and rhythmic, lulling.

After some time, Geralt thought he’d gone to sleep. He cautiously shifted, rolling on his side to face him. Jaskier had long eyelashes, he discovered. This close, Geralt could see a number of faint freckles on his cheeks, the subtle wrinkles about his eyes. He rarely allowed himself to look when they were together at night, but lately that had become a temptation hard to resist. He looked now while he might steal a private minute or two without fear. There was one little hair poking out from Jaskier’s nose and Geralt chuckled to know how bothered Jaskier would be when he noticed it eventually. He reached a tentative hand out, resting it on the loose fabric of Jaskier’s chemise where it lay on the roll, too cowardly to reach out and touch Jaskier in spite of the arm Jaskier had around him. That alone was enough. That already was daring.

Geralt slowly closed his eyes, trying to lock away the memory of the moment. He opened them again for one last look as the fire died down. Jaskier seemed to shine in the afterglow and Geralt closed his eyes again so that he might trap the afterimage in the dark. Then, Jaskier shifted and there was a warmth pressed to Geralt’s forehead. A kiss goodnight.

Was Jaskier awake, or was he in a dream? Geralt’s fingers curled in a fist around the hem of Jaskier’s shirt, desperately wondering. The question plagued him as he felt himself slip away. He shuddered, the inches between them a frozen tundra, all his doubts denying him the feel of Jaskier’s warm embrace even as it wrapped tighter around him. His last thought before being claimed by sleep was a silent wish. He wished that tomorrow the game would end. And more secretly, he wished it would be replaced with something real.

The courting continued more enthusiastically than before. Jaskier broke from the conservative spending habits Geralt had instilled in him over the years. He did not skip about buying frou-frou delights for himself or wasteful fashions. No. When he loosened his purse strings, it was to buy an extra plate for Geralt at dinner. It was to stock the spices Geralt liked best and the preserves he would never indulge in on his own. Geralt did his best to object, but relented upon Jaskier’s insistence that, “It’s a part of the courtship! You cannot deny me this privilege!” And because Jaskier would not be denied, he even found a twisted paper package of caramels hidden away in his bag among the empty potion bottles.

Jaskier continued to cuddle up with Geralt even as spring gave way to the heat of summer. Geralt thought that the game would surely be over by now, but there was no end in sight. Jaskier kept finding more and more ways to surprise Geralt, and it seemed his knowledge of courtship was far more lengthy than Geralt might have ever anticipated. That such an affair could hold Jaskier’s attention for so long was incomprehensible, and with nothing in return. Geralt could understand continuing their study if Jaskier were courting someone in earnest all the while, or having one of his romps for a weekend when they were travelling, but Jaskier had not so much as looked at anyone since … Geralt could not remember the last time Jaskier had flirted with anyone. That made it so much easier to believe. And that made it so much harder to withstand.

Months passed. Jaskier’s courtship fluctuated. He was mainly reserved in his affections and things were not much changed from before they’d begun. There may have been more lingering touches, but those had always been there, since the day they’d met. Likely it was only that Geralt was more aware of them, looking for any sign, grasping at straws for a hint of truth, denying it whenever he found one in an act of self-preservation.

Occasionally the grander gestures would return, and Jaskier counted these as special days. He justified their indulgence by using the situation as evidence; usually these occasions fell on holidays or anniversaries of which Geralt had been unaware, and if they should happen upon a festival or event unaware, Jaskier would sweep Geralt along for an improvised day of fun.

“As with any courtship, one ought to take any opportunities to enjoy oneself as one may find,” Jaskier said, always happy to remind Geralt that the courtship was ongoing, no matter how many months had passed, as if he could not tire of such proclamations. “And what could be more memorable than a day together where all the world is colorful, all the people laughing? It’s so much more fun when everyone is having fun! You can pretend that all the world is right and perfect for one day: no monsters to fight, no prejudices to contend with, and no disdainful destiny pulling at strings. Just a day chasing whatever shining thing catches your eye, unplanned, unbridled joy!”

And truly those were days where it felt like anything might happen. Jaskier shined so brightly, dragging Geralt from booth to booth. They played horseshoes, tried their hand at throwing hatches and other games and tests of skill. One favorite event they’d come upon was a sort of artist’s exhibition in Oxenfurt. Jaskier had been invited to give a lecture on his composition process and he’d insisted on Geralt coming along. After his lecture, which Geralt had listened to attentively from the back of the room, they’d gone through the university and explored the other lectures and demonstrations.

There were great works on display: tapestries and steam-powered inventions, fastidiously cultivated plants with clippings and pressed blooms for sale; a perfumer gave samples of scented paper and described how the brewing was done, and a much better kind of brewing was explained by an artisan ale brewer who offered them small mugs of her product while they listened. Jaskier attended a workshop on embroidery. Fascinated by the practice after so many years of wearing finely embroidered clothes, he wished to learn a bit of handiwork himself. Meanwhile, Geralt was especially interested to watch the smelter, blacksmith, and silversmith at work, privately comparing their methods of crafting swords with those he’d studied in the keep. It was by far one of the more memorable days of the season.

Jaskier bought Geralt a small scrap of decoratively twisted iron from the blacksmith to keep as a reminder. It wasn’t useful for much apart from keeping away faeries, but he bought a strip of cord from the lecturing tanner and fashioned a charm for him, tying it to the sheath of his silver sword. Once more, Geralt chided him for wasting money on useless things, but he found himself smiling at the charm whenever he sat to sharpen his swords. Later on, Geralt had nearly lost it on a hunt and had lingered later after the kill, searching the rocky terrain until he found it.

By fall, Geralt had nearly forgotten Jaskier was courting him at all. It had become their new normal. He let himself indulge in Jaskier’s attention, taking a page from his book. Once in a while Jaskier would make some comment about their courtship to someone in a tavern when asked why he would be travelling with a witcher, and Geralt would remember and the heavy feeling would settle over him again, but the days were too busy and bright, so he soon forgot again. It was difficult to be sad long with Jaskier’s arm looped in his.

When they weren’t travelling, that is to say, when they spent a day or two in town on a contract, Jaskier had taken to spending time alone. He would spend a few hours in their room, or he’d be somewhere in town, a bag always at his side. He practiced his embroidery, following the sample patch he’d stitched at the exhibition. Sometimes he displayed his work proudly when Geralt passed, and other times he was quick to hide it in his bag. Once, Geralt overheard news in a pub that Jaskier had been present at a quilting bee, then the gossiping party fell to whispers when they saw the witcher approach. This was during the time when Jaskier was more frequently away, acting secretive and sneaking about.

The reason behind these mysterious disappearances was shortly unveiled by the end of the month when Jaskier presented Geralt with a new winter cloak. He held it proudly stretched in his hands. It was a dark blue wool. The hood and collar were embroidered with white and yellow flowers, framed by a curling green ivy. There were two metal clasps sewn on either side, and a close look revealed them to be buttercups.

“I made it myself,” Jaskier said, glowing with pride. “Well, all but the clasps. But I did design them—think of it as the signature on a great painting!” Before Geralt could take a breath to compliment his work, Jaskier swung the cloak around Geralt’s shoulders, adjusting it handsomely. “Good, it’s not too narrow. I was a little worried, but I thought if it fit me it ought to fit you fine. Had to make sure it was wide enough in the shoulder, so I measured your armour for a good estimate. Do you like it?”

Geralt blinked. “It’s for me?” he asked.

“Of course it is. Why else would I have been so secretive? I wanted to surprise you!”

Jaskier turned away, kneeling down to pull something from beneath their bed. There was only one—had only been one for a long time now. When Jaskier emerged, he had a large box in his hands. “And now to complete the ensemble,” he said cheerfully. He shoved the box in Geralt’s hands looking up at him in anticipation.

Struggling to process the enormity of the gift, Geralt opened the box mechanically. Inside was a pair of new black leather boots with heavy tread. Upon further inspection, he discovered they were lined with rabbit fur inside the cuff.

“There. Now you’ll be ready for the journey home this winter,” Jaskier declared. Then, just a twitch, there was something reserved in his expression—something that suggested gloom. He smiled through it and straightened Geralt’s hood, making it symmetrical. His hands remained a moment, poised on Geralt’s shoulders. He seemed hesitant. There he stood, looking up at Geralt, and he appeared to be holding his breath, waiting for something.

“Thank you,” Geralt said at last. He shook his head. “No, I … it’s more than that.” It was too much; he didn’t know how to express his gratitude.

Jaskier’s hands fell and he looked at the shining clasps, avoiding Geralt’s eyes. “Yes, well. You’re welcome to it,” he said.

“I’m not sure how I ought to thank you,” Geralt continued. It occurred to him that he could ask. That was the purpose of all of this: to educate him on courtship. Every good pupil asked questions. So he did ask. “How does one usually show their appreciation after receiving a courting gift? Should I reciprocate?”

Whatever cloud passed over Jaskier’s features faded and was replaced by a small smile. “Custom dictates that you should complement the handicraft and dress yourself immediately that I might admire you bedecked in my gifts,” he answered. “Go on then! On with the boots! And if you’re feeling especially gratified, you may accompany me to dinner and allow me to show you off in all your glory.”

Geralt snorted. “Long-winded way to say you’re hungry and broke.”

“Put on the boots, you ass; I’m paying for dinner.”

As soon as Geralt had his new boots on—and oh, how comfortable they were!—Jaskier twirled his finger in the air, made him turn and model. Geralt rolled his eyes but turned around graciously. Jaskier beamed and showered him with praise. He slipped on his own cloak, for it was a cold evening, and they left the little inn, headed toward the delicious smell of the pub and their dinner, following the welcoming glow of its windows down the cobbled street.

“Wait!” Jaskier cried, leaping in front of Geralt. He spread his arms wide and Geralt nearly crashed against his back. Geralt looked over his shoulder to see what danger caused Jaskier to halt in the middle of the road, only for Jaskier to sweep the warm cloak from his shoulders and drape it across a rather nasty, muddy puddle before them.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. It was a new cloak—Jaskier had bought it only a fortnight past. He’d carefully selected a cool green, saying it would remind him of spring when the winter made the world grey, and Geralt had seen him embroidering the collar of it in the evenings before bed. Jaskier had doted on it, and Geralt had never known Jaskier to wear a cloak. Ever. He was never on the road when the weather was cold enough to warrant one, always holing up in Oxenfurt or carving himself out a space in some court for the season. He’d taken such pride in the cloak, adding his own personal touches to it, making it quite his. He talked about it constantly, boasting that it would keep him thoroughly safe when the winter chill set in, that he might climb the most icy, terrible mountain and feel as though he were snuggled up by the fireside.

That was the straw to break his back at last.

“What are you doing? That will never wash out,” Geralt scolded.

Jaskier bowed dramatically and rose with a charming shrug. “What burden is a bit of mud, my dear? I’ll not have your new boots so soon sullied on their first venture. If I allowed that, what kind of suitor would I be?” He chuckled and pressed a chaste, teasing kiss to Geralt’s cheek.

Geralt flinched away, heart leaping into his throat. “You’ve taken this too far!” he cried.

“Geralt, I assure you, the fabric is perfectly sensible and there’ll be no stain. I specifically chose it for wearing on the road.” He looked at Geralt, picking at the end of the cloak still draped in his hands. He kept his tone teasing and light, but there was a nervous edge to it he tried to hide behind a laugh. “Come now,” he said, “don’t let my gesture go in vain; I was trying so very hard to be suave.”

“No. It’s not just the cloak,” Geralt hissed. “This whole charade! I—!” Geralt fisted his hands in the thick fabric of his cloak. He turned his head away, grit his teeth. “I’m calling it off, Jaskier. I can’t tolerate one more day of this game.”

“What game?” Jaskier asked. The false cheer left him. Honest worry furrowed his brow as he lifted the wet cloak once more from the puddle, clutching it as a child might cling to a blanket.

“This courtship. It has to stop.”

Jaskier turned pale. He trembled, though no breeze swept through the air. When he spoke, his voice trembled in kind, and he looked at Geralt with anxious eyes. “If this is about the winter,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry for being pushy. You’re not ready—I can wait. But we can move slower if that’s the issue, and I can give you your space until spring, just like every year.” His hands twisted in the cloak and he held it closer to his chest. “But I thought you wanted … you agreed to the courtship. And we were headed east together. It’s coming on winter, so I thought … And you’re not one for words …” he trailed. “I don’t understand what’s changed. Just this morning we—”

“This morning, you didn’t kiss me!” Geralt snapped. “I can hold your hand, I can dance with you and listen to your pet names, I can accept your gifts and gestures in an effort to understand your customs. I know you want to teach me about courtship. It’s important to you—or entertaining. But I can’t abide being kissed! Not as part of some lesson.”

Geralt’s eyes felt hot and there was a strange hollow in the pit of his stomach. “Not if it doesn’t mean anything,” he concluded. He couldn’t look Jaskier in the eye for fear of the understanding he’d find there. What pity or disgust would he see when the realization hit? What horrible expression would he find twisting Jaskier’s expression when he finally understood that his best friend, an emotionless, beastly, taciturn witcher, was in love with him?

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered.

There it was. Geralt’s head hung low. He silently braced himself. This was the part where Jaskier would let him down gently. Or he might make an awkward joke and pretend he didn’t understand, brushing it all aside and moving on as always. Geralt wasn’t sure which would be worse. He wished Jaskier would simply leave and he wouldn’t have to suffer either one.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. Geralt heard the splash as Jaskier dropped his cloak once more to the ground. And suddenly there were warm hands cradling his face. “My darling,” Jaskier said, “let me be perfectly clear. No, no, don’t look away—you’ve got to look at me and listen very carefully to what I say. This isn’t a game. I’m not playing at romance with you. I’m not trying to teach you anything either. No games, no jokes, no tricks.”

Jaskier pulled Geralt closer, forced him to meet his eyes. Geralt looked at last and saw nothing but raw sincerity staring back. “This is real,” Jaskier said. “All of it. Since that day I stood and swore to court you and win your heart. Every action and effort I made was in earnest.”

Geralt felt the grounding touch of Jaskier’s thumb stroking his cheek. His heart remained in his throat, still uncertain, but it beat with a fragile hope. “What does it mean then?” he asked.

Jaskier sighed, resting their foreheads together. “It means I love you,” he answered.

Geralt closed his eyes. He felt such a fool. Slowly, he brought his hands up to cover Jaskier’s, pressing them more firmly against his skin. The touch felt new. It had a weight to it now, and he felt lighter than ever before, needed their anchor to keep from drifting away.

Jaskier loved him.

“How does a happy courtship end?” Geralt asked, though he did not wish for it to end so soon, now that he’d learned it was real. He was inclined to start over again and do it properly, no shadows or clouds to hang over them.

Jaskier let out a last nervous breath and smiled. “With marriage,” he said. “Eventually. But I think that may be a bit too soon for us.”

“Then before that.”

“Generally, the first stage ends with a kiss. I think that’s about right for where we are.”

“And … will you kiss me?” Geralt asked, opening his eyes again. He looked into Jaskier’s deep blue irises, and for once he could examine them as much as he liked, he realized. So he stared, taking in every brown freckle, every fleck of gold however small, looking as he never allowed himself to before. With satisfaction, he watched Jaskier’s pupils widen. He was sure he looked much the same.

Jaskier chuckled, pulling Geralt’s hands down and cradling them in his own. “Me?” he asked playfully. “Oh no, my dear; I did the wooing. The stage ends when you take the reciprocating action and encourage me to continue. Therefore it is you who must kiss me. If you like.”

“And if I do?”

“Then by all means,” Jaskier prompted. “Kiss me!”

Geralt tilted his head to the side, no more hesitation, and pressed their lips together in a gentle embrace. Just one short, reverent kiss: the fruition of his longing. It was not studied—was even a bit skewed from lack of practice. But it was freeing. He leaned back again as they parted, and he felt Jaskier leaning forward after him. Geralt smiled, his heart fluttering with a joy he never thought he’d know. This felt right. Felt wonderful. And now the tension was gone and he had nothing left to fear with Jaskier’s hands so tightly clasping his.

“So. What comes in the next stage of courtship?”

“Another kiss, certainly,” Jaskier said, stepping forward in an attempt to close the distance.

Geralt stepped back, a cheeky smile rising to his lips. “I’m fresh out,” he teased.

“Goodness me!” Jaskier gasped theatrically, and he was grinning right back. “Thankfully, I have one spare! Many, in fact, if you’d like them.”

“I would.”

“But, ah! I’m not so cheap as that!” Jaskier cried in retribution. If Geralt would refuse him another kiss, Jaskier would make him earn the next. “I must be wooed first, Geralt of Rivia. It’s your turn, I did say, and I’ll have you know I expect a great deal after all the work I put in. Rides on Roach, dinners cooked for me, breakfasts, embarrassingly poor poetry; then there’s the matter of you holding my hand when I ask, sweeping me off my feet and carrying me to bed in the evening, fresh flowers, foot massages, the—”

Geralt stepped forward again and silenced Jaskier’s rambling with another kiss, smiling through it too hard to make good on the act. He laughed, tucking his face against Jaskier’s jaw as he tried to compose himself long enough to see it through, then he was kissing Jaskier’s jaw and cheek, his eyes, everything within reach as the giddy feeling rose from his chest, laughing all the while as though he would never stop.

Jaskier laughed and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “Yes, and as many of those as you can afford,” he chuckled. “You were holding out on me, you old tight-purse.”

Geralt pulled away enough to look Jaskier in the eye. “If I promise to woo you later, would you please just shut up and kiss me now?” he asked.

Jaskier huffed and regarded Geralt with sarcastic affection. “Someone has got to teach you about romance,” he said.

#witcher #the witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #my fic #a bard he would a-wooing go fic #gift fic #gotta love some mutual dumbassery

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calif0rnia-lovers · 3 years

Text

four letters.

a/n: 1/10 of stories I was initially hesitant to post. not glorifying adultery, just an idea i got from this song.

part: 1/3

pairing: miguel galindo x elena

warnings: themes of adultery. not really smut in this part, it's literally a paragraph?

summary: they met when Miguel's family would visit during the summer. each summer vacation was a mixture of stolen glances and moments. time has passed, and summers are no longer theirs. every time he leaves Mexico, he leaves her with a promise. one day he'll be hers--and only hers. years in and Elena must decide if what she feels for Miguel is love, or something else.

words: 1.9k

Diamonds.

Universally, they represent love. A promise of commitment. A priceless gift you give the woman who has your heart. A gift with the power to project the facade of happiness. A gift with the power to distract even the most intelligent woman from her man’s past mistakes.

And for that reason, diamonds are Miguel’s favorite gift to give.

Each call to his jeweler inspires a substantial chunk of change and a customized gift. The said gift is invariably dressed in a black velvet box, sealed with a golden ribbon. Delivered to an office in Sinaloa on the same day, always two months apart.

Always accompanied with a neatly penned note. A date, time, and location. Short and to the point, signed M.

It arrives two days before him. The need to reschedule, or the mention of a conflict in scheduling, never allowed.

Each delivery carries the same false promise.

One day, my love.

This time, his promise comes in emerald green.

Pressed and shaped into glimmering flowers to accent the black dress she wears. Although the dress itself is a beautiful work of art, fitting as though it was designed just for her, no one is focused on Elena’s dress.

Their focus is on the dollar sign hanging from her neck. It’s impossible to miss. Only so many people, in Sinaloa, could afford such a beautiful piece. With her long dark locks pinned, to rest at the top of her head, Miguel’s necklace is on full display. Paired with her beauty, it is distracting. So distracting, no one notices the matching hairpins.

"You look beautiful as always."

Her heart flutters. A soft smile brightens Elena's face as a familiar warmth trickles down her spine.

A soft kiss ghosts the curve of her shoulder, Miguel's smile coming to rest against her cheek.

“I see my gift suits you well.” His touch lingers against the curve of her neck, pausing to trace the petal of an emerald flower. The smile on his lips is one of admiration, his playful eyes briefly lifting to meet hers. “It seems you’ve attracted the attention of the entire restaurant.”

“Don’t sound too surprised, Mr. Galindo.” Elena’s eyes roll, the grin on her lips causing his to grow. “You’re acting as if this is something new. People always stare at me.”

“Trust me, I know. It's not something I particularly enjoy."

“Too bad,” Elena smiles, lifting her glass of wine to her lips. “I like it when people stare at me, and you are late. You’re lucky I didn’t leave with someone else.”

“Nicholas…” Miguel reads from the baby pink card.

The question in his tone is barely audible, bogged down by something Elena has never heard--at least not from Miguel. It is hard for her to pinpoint. But as she pushes her heels aside, she’s almost certain it is jealousy.

She rounds the corner to find Miguel standing in the center of her kitchen. He has stripped himself of his jacket the white fabric draped carelessly across the back of a nearby stool. His back remains to her as she crosses the room. He does not turn to acknowledge her, even after she drops her purse to the countertop before him.

His focus is no longer on the message.

Ellie. Congratulations on the promotion. We should celebrate. Until then--enjoy your favorites. x Nicholas.

His attention has shifted to the vase of lilies and peonies. A mixture of pinks, white, and corals. A fresh take from the white roses Miguel typically sends.

"These are your favorites?" His thumb gently rubs the petal of a lily. His brow arches as he glances in her direction. "How come you never said anything?"

Elena's eyes lift from the hairpins resting in her palm. Shaking her curls loose, she lets off a tiny shrug.

"The roses are always very beautiful, Miguel." Standing on her toes, she places a kiss against his cheek. "I really appreciate them. You know that."

The words of reassurance are not enough to divert his attention. The soft kiss she leaves against his cheek earns her a glance.

“I didn’t realize you were...seeing anyone.”

“You mean, aside from the man who only comes to see me when his schedule allows?” The slight roll of her eyes tightens Miguel’s jaw. “Because that would be ridiculous.”

She ignores his expression, reaching around him to retrieve the card. She returns it to its original resting place.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Miguel states this as if it is a fact. “Not when you spent the last hour talking about us over dinner--.”

She can’t stop it. The laugh she releases silences Miguel. It is not a sound typically directed at him. It is a sound that makes his skin crawl, eats at him deep inside. Sparks the need to prove himself. It's a feeling he's hated his entire life.

“I’m sorry,” Elena clears her throat, the smile remaining on her lips as he focuses his scowl in the direction of the lilies. “It’s just. I thought we didn’t do that.”

Miguel chooses not to respond. Instead, he focuses on undoing his cuffs. He knows she’s right.

They don’t do that--share personal details about their lives. Or probe for them. In fact, at this point, they’re typically already undressed--the idea of talking about their lives the last thing on their minds.

Elena watches Miguel’s gaze return to the bouquet. They study the flowers before passing over the darkened living room. Searching for other intrusions, signs of another man, that were not here during his last appearance.

“Come on, Mikey,” she sings softly. The warmth of her palms brings his gaze to hers. “Did you come all the way here just to ruin my weekend?”

The corner of his lips turns up. His gaze drops, following the path of Elena’s touch. It drifts down the chest of his shirt pausing to undo the buttons.

“Because I thought you came because you missed me. Isn't that what you said on the phone?” Her lips press against the curve of his jaw, her smile growing as his lips instinctively move to meet hers. She giggles, turning to grind back against him. “So, show me how much you missed me.”

His response is immediate, his hands pressing into the curves of her hips. The weight of his chest pressing her body forward and towards the closest stable surface. With her heels abandoned, her weight shifts to her toes. She stumbles forward in a clumsy attempt at maintaining her balance. She gasps as the chill of the marble countertop presses against the heat of her cheek. A perfect contrast to the hot and heavy hands pushing up the skirt of her dress. Their first exchange is always the same. Quick and messy. Both focused solely on satisfying the need that has built up in their time apart. The note is fresh in his mind and fuels his movements. Bruise his fingers into her hips, leaves her breathless as he sets a pace that nearly splits her open.

Elena can feel the warmth of her cheeks slowly creeping throughout her body as she concentrates on the task at hand.

"What?"

Instead of lifting her gaze, to meet the ones watching her every move, she tries for a second time to tug down the zipper of her dress.

Miguel doesn't speak. Instead, he motions for her to turn around.

The silence, which falls over the darkened kitchen, is a part of the routine. One that lasts long enough for their pulses to taper off. For their highs to drift away, opening their minds to reality.

Elena focuses on the glow of moonlight on the marble before her.

She breaks the silence, her words soft as she tries to press out any sign of hopefulness in her voice. Sounding eager about any aspect of their arrangement has never turned out good.

"Are you leaving tonight?"

The room is quiet, Miguel's fingers pausing for the briefest of seconds. He shifts forward, ducking down to allow his lips to press a soft kiss between her shoulder blades.

"Not tonight." A soft smile finds his lips as she glances over her shoulder at him. "It's your birthday tomorrow. I wouldn't miss it."

She can't suppress the smile that spreads across her face as his lips press against her cheek. His eyes drop to the watch on his wrist as she turns to face him.

“Looks like we got two hours before it's officially Saturday," he chuckles as her arms wrap around his neck.

"Is it too early to start with my birthday demands?"

His response is a soft kiss, his hand drifting to the nape of her neck. It's a kiss that melts her body into his, knotting his fingers in the softness of her hair. By the time he’s pulled away, her pulse is unsteady. His lips brush against her forehead, his touch lingering against her skin before he takes a step back.

"I'll start the bath." He grins, his eyes drifting towards the wine across the room. “Get a bottle or two, and join me.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

Her eyes close as his lips press against her forehead. They remain closed as she listens to his footsteps track through the quiet house. They soon fade out as he reaches the top of the steps, and Elena allows her eyes to open.

Her breath catches, her teeth tugging at her lip as her fingers gently brush against her neck. She finds herself standing before the mirror at the base of her steps. Her eyes pass over her reflection, lingering on her disheveled curls, the flush of her cheeks, her swollen lips, the hazy green glow from the moonlit flowers against her skin.

Her fingers comb through her hair, gathering the locks and pushing them over her shoulder. Unlatching the clasp, she carefully places the necklace on the countertop. She leaves it alongside the emerald hairpins. The breath she takes is deep. Her lungs hold the air until they begin to burn. With the weight of her necklace gone her shoulders fall, feeling weightless, as she exhales.

The excitement of his admission bubbles in her stomach, her hands clasping together as she forces herself to take a second breath. This time, as she excels, the excitement slowly deflates.

Getting your hopes up is foolish, Ellie.

Elena turns and crosses the dark kitchen in search of wine.

She retrieves two wine glasses from the cabinet. She pauses, elbows resting against the countertop, as she studies the bottles of wine on display against the cream backsplash. Her fingers stop short of her bottle of choice as a faint jingle fills the quiet room.

Abandoning the task at hand, Elena naturally retrieves her purse. The rose gold iPhone she finds inside is silent, screen pitch black. The ringing is louder now. Her head turns, her brow furrowing, as she looks towards the white jacket draped across the back of the stool to her right.

There is a brief moment of hesitation. A voice of warning--telling her "leave it"--in the back of Elena's mind as she reaches for the jacket.

A silence falls over the room--a blessing in disguise. It is her out. The reminder for Elena to adhere to the promise she made herself the moment she met Miguel Galindo.

Never snoop--never bite off more than you can chew.

What is the saying about curiosity?

With the touch of her finger, the screen illuminates. It reveals a missed call from Emily Galindo. It is not the name that gives Elena pause, but the photo behind the notification. A photo Elena has never seen or anticipated. A photo that breaks the fantasy Elena has spent the evening willingly participating in.

The fantasy typically lasts a few more hours. The one where they both pretend Miguel doesn’t have another life he has built outside of her. A life Miguel's never provided insight into. A life Elena has never asked--nor searched--for details on.

Maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have been blindsided by what all his life across the border entails.

The round brown eyes staring back at her own are innocent. Accompanied by a head of dark curls and soft cheeks. The blue top the infant wears matches Miguel’s jacket.

Miguel wears a smile--a distinct smile. The smile wore by every proud father.

One day, my love. I just need time.

The soft plea echos through her mind. It is the same he has whispered each departure when she has asked him to stay--even if just for an hour longer.

Time.

It’s all he’s ever needed. And all she has given.

The arrival of a message paints Elena’s kitchen in a blue glow--breaking her haze of confusion surrounding this new revelation.

Hope you made it safely. Call me when you’re settled. Love you.

Elena's stomach tightens as she rereads the message.

She jumps, her body scrambling to catch the phone as it nearly slips through her fingers. Miguel’s voice drifts down the stairs.

“Need help picking the wine?”

“No--it’s okay. I'm coming.” Elena shakes her head, returning the phone to its original place. She replaces the phone with two wine glasses, mindlessly grabbing the closest bottle.

mayans tags:

@appropriate-writers-name @rosieposie0624 @jjwriter23 @briskywalker @princesspeachypeach @cind-in-real-life @rocketqueen @brownsugarcoffy @chibsytelford @maybeisthemoon @jatriciaaa @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @chellybear98 @silverstarsandsuns @henrycavill19 @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @mayansxlover @holl2712 @pedropcl

@inyourbackpocketisbutterflies @cocotheclown @cant-decide-at-this-moment @helli4nthus @megapeacelovemusic-blog @est1887 @demonquartz @bucky-iss-bae @thesandbeneathmytoes @sesamepancakes @shawty-fenty @peoniarose @starrynite7114 @agoldin @tomhardydallasstarsgirl @wiccanmetallicrose

#got a covid vaccine yesterday and woke up feeling like i was hit by a truck #super groggy atm #let me know what you think of this so far?#miguel galindo #miguel galindo imagine #mayans mc imagine

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votederpycausemufins · 3 years

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me: you first started writing this story 12 days ago, take a break also me: CHAPTER 16 BAYBEEEEE

@petrichormeraki

Grian realized waiting was easy. No one was running around or trying to hurt him. People were trying to give him seeds and played music! And the voices liked how nice people were being too. But at the same time, the Watcher couldn’t help but worry. Why wasn’t Tommy back? Maybe he should go through himself. But it was a small portal. An enderman could barely fit, and to a watcher, those mobs were rather short.

What if you just got smaller? But he looks so dope like this! maybe he’s like a… i forget the animal but if he can get his head through he can get the rest through. Why’s he trying to go through anyway?; he’s basically a giant monster who’ll be attacked if he goes through. But he’s powerful. He’ll be fine!

Grian had move voices talking, and one seemed very convincing about going through the portal. Yes, it was a perfect idea. He just needed to squish himself through the frame. A number of Hermits tried to stop him as he started to move. He shook a wing as a lead caught on it. Another tried to catch him, but he moved out of the way and it managed to tie Mumbo up. Oh! He could bring Mumbo as well. Two heads would be better than one. He gave a chirpy laugh as Mumbo seemed to scream as he went through the portal. Grian followed behind, though he struggled squeezing everything through. There was a flash of white light, and then nothing.

Dream could feel the Watcher enter the world. He made sure that Tommy had no easy escape from his current prison before the former admin left the room. He walked in the direction of the portal. Everyone was here and his new piece of leverage had arrived. All that needed to happen now was destroying the portal and having the powers of admin returned to him.

Mumbo’s face hit grass as he ended up on the other side of the portal, tied up in the rope of a lead. He started to look up and had to squint at the bright sky. Had he blacked out and the storm had passed? But looking around, the only familiar thing in his vision was the infinity portal and Mumbo realized he had gone through it.

There was a squawk as Grian came through the portal. Mumbo tried to get up and reach his friend, but the fact that he was tied up had slipped his mind and he ended up just essentially wriggling around. Grian leaned down to look at him and Mumbo met the Watcher’s eyes with a gasp. Mumbo remembered when Grian was using his watcher powers, he could see how the eyes almost never looked at the same place, always focused on watching everything. The two main eyes may have just looked purple, but Mumbo could always see the symbol of the Watchers that seemed to have imprinted itself within the pupils.

But right now, all the eyes looked down at Mumbo. They all looked glossy and somewhat unfocused. Instead of their purple color they had a reddish-magenta hue and the symbol of the Watchers was absent. “G-Grian? Are you okay?”

I mean, obviously he’s not. Yessss, stare into his eyes! If Grian’s a bird, does that make Mumbo some kind of-

Mumbo immediately started to try and get out of the robes that tied him up. No. No this couldn’t be happening. He had told them no. They said they wouldn’t try again. Grian had made it very clear that Mumbo was under his claim as a Watcher. He shouldn’t be hearing voices.

After a bit more struggling, Mumbo was free. He was able to stand up and brush himself off, then start to put Grian towards the portal. “Alright Grian, back in the portal.” Grian just moved out of the way and chirped at Mumbo. “Don’t be such a spoon of a bird! In the portal!” He tried again with no luck. He was about to try again when he noticed someone approaching. Mumbo had no clue who they could be or what they might do. He had heard some of the horror stories Tommy had told, so Mumbo decided his best option was to hide.

Using Grian as a wall between him and whoever was arriving, the redstoner stayed quiet, trying to listen. He could hear them approaching, walking on the grass, and then they stopped. Mumbo nearly peeked out from behind Grian, but then they spoke. “No clue why the Watchers put up with you. You’re clearly out of your element Grian. But that being said, you’re useful. And now you’re in a world with people more like you than any of those Hermits. No reason to leave.”

Mumbo’s heart dropped as he heard what sounded like a beacon powering down and then the magic of a portal shattering. As if living in an unknown world wasn’t bad enough, now there was no escape.

And we’re stuck here. Mumbo’s a genius, he can fix it. He’s only a genius at redstone, it’s hopeless. Maybe he-

Mumbo forced himself to stop listening. Grian had started to move and he needed to follow to stay hidden. Until they reached the nearby forest, there was no other place to hide. Mumbo slowly kept in step with Grian, creeping his way until they finally reached a tree. He used that as cover instead and to finally see what was going on.

The redstoner recognised the man donned in lime green that stood next to Grian. He was the one to show up in Hermitcraft and come after Tommy. One that many of the horror stories had been about. And for whatever reason, Grian was following behind him. Mumbo wanted to shout, to reason with Grian, but his fear for his own life kept him hidden and quiet.

Mumbo watched as the two left, and then he felt safe enough to move. Grian had made Tubbo the admin, right? And he had made… someone else one too. But he couldn't remember their name, and Tubbo’s communicator still likely wasn’t working. Nonetheless, he tried, only to get an expected error message. Who else could he contact?

Tommy! Ranboo. Fundy might work? Tommy might be with Philza so either of them. Wilbur or Techno? Quackity! Sam. Why would you ever try Quackity? Because you can, lol.

Mumbo didn’t know all the names, but Tommy and Philza seemed the most reasonable. Mumbo sent each of them a private message, summing up what was going on and trying to give a warning. There was no error message, but also no reply, so the redstoner could only hope they saw the messages. And then he started moving, hoping to find something to help him, like a place to stay or materials.

Dream toyed with Grian’s addled mind. If only he knew how easy it was to capacitate the dream slayer. He could hardly believe that this was what he had been terrified of for so long. He could enjoy this for a while, but right now, he needed to do what he planned to from the start. He had summoned Tubbo and Ranboo, knowing they would have their guards down. As far as they were concerned, Dream couldn’t do anything and they could do anything as admin. Oh how wrong them were.

Dream walked to another room and sat at the table, leaning back in his chair as he waited. It only took a few minutes before Ranboo and Tubbo appeared in the room. Tubbo seemed a bit disoriented from the teleport, but Ranboo as an enderman took it well. “Tubbo, Ranboo, how good to see you.”

“You should be in the vault Dream.”

“You two have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

“Grian made me the admin.” Tubbo spoke up, sounding confident. Dream smiled at it, he had no ideal anything he tried would be futile. Anything either of them did.

“Well, he doesn’t have to keep it that way.” Dream stood up, walking to the doors. Tubbo and Ranboo looked ready to attack, but then he opened the door.

“Grian?” Tubbo sounded hurt and worried for the Watcher. The essentially mindless beast gave a trilling coo which left the admin pair unsettled.

“Now, you have something that belongs to me.” Dream spoke. He filtered his own thoughts into the mind of the Watcher and then he could see the watcher magic flow around Tubbo and Ranboo. Dream felt energized as the admin powers were given back to him and he saw the pair grow exhausted from the energy being drawn from them. Now everything was just how it should be.

Mumbo kept chopping at trees with his netherite axe, gathering resources. He Put down an ender chest and was glad to see all the usual contents were there. He used some of the diamonds he had to craft a chestplate, thinking that would be a bit more useful. One shulker box was cleaned out of items Mumbo wasn’t completely sure he would need and instead house more essentials.

As he cut down another tree, there was a wave of energy leaving Mumbo looking around. There was nothing obvious that it could have been. It still left him on edge, and he put his supplies away, switching to his sword.

Creeping through the forest, Mumbo was prepared to attack. Even if he wasn’t the best fighter, or really a fighter at all, at least he might have an element of surprise. Above him, the sun was starting to set, helping him even more as his black suit and hair blended into the shadows. Mumbo was starting to wish he had gone to False’s sparring sessions more, but there always seemed to be one redstone project or another he thought was more important.

Light caught Mumbo’s eye and ahead he saw a fire. For a moment he thought it would be a lava lake, but there were blocks all over the place, some of sorts that couldn’t generate naturally. That could be someone’s home. Or possibly even former home. If it were the first, then Mumbo hoped it would be someone to ally with, if it were the latter, the land being abandoned could do well as a shelter.

Mumbo continued forward until finally he reached a place that seemed to be a crater. There had been some sort of explosion, destroying the place. While it made Mumbo sad to see what was likely a very nice build destroyed, it also gave him hope that it would be safe now. That was until he heard someone speaking.

“Stupid stupid stupid. Now I’m stuck here and have to rebuild and-”

Mumbo knew that voice. “Tommy!” He ran towards the blond.

“What the fuck?” He heard Tommy say before he slid down into the crater and stood next to the boy.

“Tommy, that Dream guy, he got Grian and-” Mumbo started to explain before freezing.

“Grian?” Tommy asked, staring at Mumbo with magenta eyes.

“T-Tommy?” Mumbo drew his sword. Was this some copy? A trap? What?

“Yeah, what the fuck do you want?”

“I… What’s going on? Who are you really?”

“Oi, I’m gonna ask the fucking questions.” Tommy crossed his arms. “Who are you and what are you doing in Logstedshire?”

#hermit!tommy #hermit!tommy au #tommyinnit #mumbo jumbo #grian #grian xelqua #watcher!grian #avian!grian #dreamwastaken #still not a fan of how dream's persona eminates someone... problematic #tubbo #ranboo

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god-fucking-dammit-mizutani · 3 years

Text

Just This Once - Chapter 3

Word count: ~3900 | Chapter Title: Saturday Afternoon Part: 3/? Chapter Summary: Taichi's day, somehow, gets worse.

Read on Ao3

If it were possible, Taichi would have the sun put on trial for false advertisement.

All morning it had been gliding along the short waves, glinting right back into his eyes and goading him into a swim. By noon Taichi had been sold, trading in his clothes for a pair of swim trunks, ready to escape the all encompassing humidity that had risen along with the sun. Heat had even sunk into the wooden planks along the dock, nipping at Taichi’s heels as he took a running dive straight—

Into ice water.

From his vantage point still up on the dock, Kousuke barks out a laugh just as Taichi breaches the surface, shaking water from his hair. He doesn’t remember there being a breeze before he’d taken the clandestine leap, but it cuts past his cheeks now, burning from the new found cold and—less admittedly—embarrassment.

“A little warning would have been nice,” Taichi grouses. His glare is undermined by the chattering of his teeth.

Kousuke sways at the end of the dock, the edges of his lips tilting upward. “This is your warning to move,” he gives to Taichi before walking several paces back. Taichi barely has any time to flounder out of the way before Kousuke takes off sprinting towards the edge of the dock, tucking his legs up into a cannonball mid-jump. Water splashes up all around him from the impact and right into Taichi’s eyes. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Kousuke planned it.

Taichi isn't completely ruling it out, though.

“Not what I meant.”

Kousuke grins. “Bet you can’t make a bigger splash.”

“You’re on.”

Taichi calls mercy just a little after the sun has begun to dip towards the cabin behind them, taking the temperature down along with it. Under the water feels more like a bath now that his body has adjusted, and Taichi thinks that’s reason enough to never, ever leave it again.

Well, other than his splendid swan dive transforming into a surprise belly flop. He’s certain Kousuke must still be cackling over it somewhere down below the surface and Taichi isn’t above hoping he swallows just enough lake water to be unpleasant.

On the shore, Taichi catches Keiko waving at him where she’s since pulled up a beach chair. A novel lays abandoned in the sand beside her. Taichi does his best to return the wave while staying afloat.

Up on the deck Kae and Masami have come out to keep Grandma company. Over their heads the umbrella in the center of the table has been opened. Koushirou, he realizes, must have snuck back inside at some point during their diving contest. Taichi tries not to feel disappointed about it. Koushirou’s already been privy to most of his Worst Moments and Greatest Disasters over the tenure of their friendship. It’s not exactly a list he’s particularly eager to build on any further. So, really, it’s a good thing.

Taichi scrunches his face as he counts every head again. If he counts himself and Kousuke then— “Isn’t there someone missing?”

Kousuke breaches the surface a few feet on, gasping from holding his breath for so long.

“Where’s your, uhm—” Taichi starts as soon as Kousuke swims in his general direction. He hesitates, trying to recall something he might have missed. Koushirou hadn’t been particularly forthcoming with the pronouns, and Taichi isn’t quite sure if that was calculative or not. He settles on, “Partner?”

Kousuke’s face falls immediately, his expression souring. Taichi’s surprised that he can even tell. He lets out a long huff, dropping his head just low enough beneath the surface that Taichi has to ask him to repeat. “Something came up with work,” Kousuke grumbles a little more clearly.

Taichi snorts. He makes it sound like a choice, rather than a responsibility. Oh, youth.

“Aren’t you in high school?”

“We are,” Kousuke says, averting his eyes from Taichi towards the shore. “Just— family stuff.”

“I see.” He doesn’t. Not really. But one thing Taichi’s learned over the years is when to let a subject go. Or, well, he’s trying. Sora would probably say that’s what really matters. “Sounds, uh, tough.”

“Yeah.” For a second they just tread water in silence before Kousuke adds, “I guess you of all people probably get it.” He swishes his mouth about into a wry, half-smile, eyes still locked in the general direction of the cabin. “But at least he meets you halfway.”

Taichi got lost somewhere. “Who?”

But he doesn’t get his answer as Kousuke dives back under the surface, kicking some of the water back in Taichi’s general direction on his way. He’s pretty sure that it’s extra probably on purpose this time. Little shit. Taichi just barely shields his face with his forearm in time.

“Don’t go past the buoys!” Keiko calls out as Kousuke emerges just on the other side of them, tsk ing as he lifts the rope up and over his head until he's technically back on the right side. Taichi turns back to see Keiko sinking contentedly into her chair.

She isn’t the only one on the beach anymore, Taichi notices. His stomach still stings where it had made contact with the water barely half an hour ago, but there’s a pleasant fluttering as well as he spots the little tuft of red hair poking over the top of a laptop. Koushirou has made camp at the single picnic bench, just between the lawn and the lip of the beach. He hasn’t noticed Taichi, at least not since he’s noticed, and he really, really hates that his first instinct is to get out and sit with him.

Instead Taichi sucks in a long breath and plunges back under the surface. Underneath is murky; any bit of sunlight penetrating through is just enough to illuminate specks of sand and dust skittering all around. Some of it glitters. Maybe if Taichi were in a better place, he might think it was pretty. Or poetic. Or something.

His chest just feels tight.

"Working?"

Koushirou starts at the sound of his voice, eyes slowly peeling off the laptop screen to look over at Taichi instead.

Taichi keeps to a respectful distance, toweling off his hair to aid the sun in drying it faster.

"No," Koushirou answers after a minute. His gaze darts back towards the screen, as if double checking himself. "Just emailing."

Taichi feels half of his mouth pull back. "What? Like for fun?"

Koushirou hums, his attention back on the letter now.

He can probably guess the recipient but Taichi still asks, "Who?"

"My American friend," is exactly who he expected.

"Right." Taichi wiggles his toes in the grass. It feels oddly like plastic, grating against the sand still clinging to his feet. He doesn't find it very pleasant. "What's he on now? Like his fifth doctorate?"

"Be nice."

"So, his sixth?"

Koushirou snorts. "Still only the three."

"Only the three," Taichi parrots. It sounds like they should be talking about how many pets he's got around the house, or parking tickets under his belt. Not advanced degrees.

Feeling sufficiently dry, Taichi slides onto the bench beside Koushirou. Without looking at him the other wonders, "Did you enjoy your swim?"

"Yeah. Most of it." His stomach stings at the reminder of his final dive into the lake. He doesn't elaborate even as Koushirou furrows his brows at the screen. Taichi watches him for a moment. "Tell him I said hi."

Koushirou's fingers hesitate on the keys. "Will do."

Taichi doesn't push it. He has no idea if Koushirou's ever mentioned him to his long distance penpal, even in all of the years Taichi's known of him. He must have. Maybe. In vague passing at the very least. They're best friends after all. Nearly inseparable at times. There must have been one instance of, "Listen to this dumb thing my friend did."

He folds the towel around his arms and uses it to cushion his chin as he leans over the tabletop. Sunlight dips between the miniscule waves born from the several boats treading their way back home in the distance. Even with Kousuke still splashing around, it all looks very peaceful. Taichi wishes his mood could match the atmosphere.

Taichi buries his head into the fabric, swallowing back a groan. It’s not that he thinks Koushriou would snub him— not on purpose, anyway. Mostly, Taichi just lacks confidence. Sure, he’s maybe helped save the world half a dozen times, but he doesn’t think Koushirou would find that very impressive since he’d been there, too, with a front row seat to most of Taichi’s tribulations.

He rolls his head over to stare up at Koushirou, still focused on his virtual conversation. Under the attention of the sun, his hair looks all the more vibrant and Taichi wonders what he’s done to keep someone like Koushirou around for so long.

"Don’t drip on the carpet!"

Taichi turns at the sound of Keiko's voice from the other end of the small beach.

"Yeah, yeah," Kousuke calls back to his mom, trudging up the lawn toward the cabin. He catches Taichi's gaze just as he’s about to pass by their table, his lips pulling back into a grin. "Need an ice pack?"

"Are you feeling sick?" Koushirou asks softly. Taichi frowns.

"No?"

Kousuke shrugs. "Just figured you might still be hurting from that glorious belly flop."

Color drains from his face as Kousuke rushes up the steps and right into the cabin, the screen door snapping shut on his heels. On the porch Kae startles at the unexpected sound.

Taichi makes a face. He's probably dripping all over the carpet.

"Does your stomach hurt?" Taichi turns to catch Koushirou's concerned stare. What color he had lost just a moment ago returns to his cheeks vigorously.

Instead of answering, Taichi lets out a short laugh. "Kids these days, huh?"

Koushirou wrinkles his brows. "You aren't particularly advanced in age."

“I’m getting up there,” Taichi hums. He leans forward again onto the pillow he fashioned from his towel. Overhead the sun bares down on his neck, heavy and hot. As the thought comes to him, Taichi presses his grin into the fabric. “But on the bright side maybe I’ll finally have a chance with Grandma.”

Koushirou chokes. On air, Taichi presumes. "Are you insinuating my grandmother is your type?"

"Oh, I think I more than just insinuated it." Taichi turns his grin up at him then, long and toothy and Koushirou can’t seem to tame his own.

"I'll inform you if she expresses the desire to remarry."

"Yeah, do that."

Taichi can faintly hear Masami's firm and distinctive voice somewhere over his shoulder. Loons cry and birds chirp somewhere out along the distance, and beside him the ever faithful click click clacking of Koushirou’s fingers against his keyboard fills in the quiet. It's almost like a lullaby. On their own accord, Taichi’s eyes droop close.

"You're probably the only people in the whole world who still email for fun," he murmurs.

He feels as much as he hears Koushirou halt. Taichi can easily imagine the perplexed frown hanging on his lips. "That's wholly untrue."

"I don't know," Taichi lilts. A soft breeze passes over them, fluttering through his bangs.

"We've sent emails before."

"Yeah," Taichi snorts, "like ages ago. You might actually be the last person I ever wrote an email to. Outside of a professor." Koushirou hums distantly. When he doesn’t say anything further Taichi wonders, "What are you doing?"

"Looking for an email."

"A non-work email?” Koushirou makes another distracted sound, letting Taichi know he’s heard him but isn’t quite listening anymore. “It has to be for fun,” Taichi adds anyway. “And if you go back to 2010 that’s cheating.”

“Mimi,” is the absolute last name Taichi expects to hear.

He blinks his eyes open and squints suspiciously at his best friend. "When did you start telling such blatant lies, Izumi."

"It's not a lie," Koushirou huffs, looking back down at him. He presses a finger to the screen Taichi can't even see with the most absolute confidence. "It's right here."

Taichi already believes him, but he still asks, "From this century?"

"Yes."

Taichi pops up to get his own look at the email. Koushirou scoots over minutely to accommodate him closer, but Taichi still needs to rest a hand on his shoulder to get a more comfortable look as he leans over, using his free hand to rub at his eyes. When they finally adjust to the brightness of the screen, Taichi scans the message, mouthing along as he reads all the colorful fonts. There’s an unhealthy array of emojis breaking up every other word that makes his head hurt.

"A chain letter," he scoffs. "She sent you a chain letter."

"Yes," Koushirou agrees, “which she sent for fun." He scrolls back up to the top and taps the section where the sent date is displayed. "Less than a year ago."

"Well," Taichi smacks his lips. “Now that you opened you gotta send it on to ten people or else you’re cursed.” He can’t contain the jocular grin pulling up his lips as he adds, “Hope you got ten email buddies.”

"I'll manage," Koushirou tells him. His wry smile when he rounds it on Taichi is so very, very cute. And so very, very close. Like too close. Koushirou’s eyes look bright where they catch the sun and for a very long moment Taichi honestly can’t remember what it’s like to breathe.

An elbow to the side of his stomach cures Taichi of that rather swiftly, aided only by a sharp dig into his shoulder. When he snaps, "Hey!" it’s more out of surprise than actual affront.

Koushirou has managed a small distance between them while still seated on the bench, his jaw slack and eyes larger than Taichi’s ever known them.

Taichi stares back. Both his side and shoulder ache and he can’t seem to make up his mind on which is worth nursing first, so he just leaves the hand that had been perched on Koushirou’s shoulder hanging in the air. Slowly Taichi offers an habitual, “I’m sorry?” even though he’s not entirely sure he did anything wrong this time.

"You boys alright?" Keiko calls out to them from across the beach. Taichi doesn't know what to say. Even if he did, he's not sure he can get his mouth to work any more than it already has. A first.

"I—" Koushirou starts. His eyes dart from Taichi, to somewhere over his shoulder, then back again. Finally he manages a rather composed sounding, "Yes," but Taichi knows this time it’s a lie. He also knows it's not meant for him.

Keiko doesn't ask any further. At least not that Taichi hears. Blood rushes about between his ears and all he can do is stare as Koushirou frantically snaps his laptop closed and shoves it into a bag on the table.

"I'm sorry," Koushirou offers to him, head down. "You were just—" he zips up the bag and throws it over his shoulder, mouth pressed into a thin line. He finally decides on, "Cold."

Another lie, Taichi thinks. He certainly doesn’t feel cold anymore. Not on the outside. Still he mutters, “Sorry.”

Koushirou sends him a wobbly smile. "Don't be. It's not— you're fine."

And then he’s gone.

Taichi controls his gaze onto the table top. The paint is so weathered it’s barely even there anymore, just scratches of green still clinging to the ashened wood. He stays there for a while, just waiting for his head to stop spinning.

"Everything alright?" Keiko asks him, lifting her sunglasses up high enough to look directly at Taichi as he hobbles down towards the shore with his towel tucked under his arm a short while later. She motions for him to come closer and Taichi meets her halfway.

"Uh, yeah," he lies.

Taichi snaps his towel outwards and quickly lowers it down to the sand. The farther corners fold up and crinkle, inviting little grains to decorate the end of the fabric. He frowns but only bothers to pull the edges down flat. What's more dirt?

"It was just—" Taichi looks over to her when he finishes smoothing out the towel, almost like she might have an answer. Keiko just stares at him, still waiting for one herself. Under the shade of her giant beach umbrella, her blue eyes look only brighter. Taichi plops down onto the center of his towel. He doesn't really know what to say when he still isn't really sure what happened. He looks out to the far end of the lake. "Got him wet," he settles on. "Near his computer. You know."

Keiko clicks her tongue. "Oh, yes. I know."

Satisfied, she reaches over the arm of her chair and plucks up the novel she had left abandoned most of the afternoon. Her glasses slide easily back over her eyes and Taichi wonders if she can read anything like that. He flops onto his back and flings one of his arms over his eyes to keep the sun out of them. He should really start remembering to keep his own sunglasses on hand. He can’t remember if he even packed a pair. Maybe they're in his glove compartment. He’ll have to check later. And then probably get the keys from Koushirou, so he can finally lock his car.

If he musters up the courage to talk to him again at all this week, of course.

Taichi smacks both of his hands over his eyes, frustrated. He hates not knowing what he did wrong. Worse, he hates not knowing what it is with Koushirou. It feels unnatural. All his mind supplies is that he was touching his shoulder and Taichi’s almost absolutely certain he’s done that more than a few thousand times— so why?

Shame feels a lot heavier than fatigue. Taichi tries to let his muscles relax with a few long breaths in and out of his mouth, the way he’d learned sitting in on Hikari practicing yoga in the living room a few times. It just barely loosens the anxiety clamoring about in his chest, but the familiar touch of the sun sinks into his skin and it almost feels like enough. He tries not to think about it anymore.

It doesn't work.

But somewhere along the line, Taichi falls asleep. He only knows it when he wakes up to the distinctive sound of metal digging into the sand, and Grandma's soft voice melting in with the waves as they lap at the shore. At some point he comes to again, this time upon hearing his own name as Masami wonders if they should wake him. Taichi thinks to tell him then that he is awake, but his arm is heavy over his eyes and the sun is finally playing nice, so with very little effort at all Taichi falls right back into his late afternoon doze. He thinks Kousuke yells something from the deck, his only sign the slamming of the screen door again, and Keiko calling something back to him, but it fades somewhere into a blurry dream he doesn't quite remember.

When he does finally feel himself actually waking up with no chance of drifting back under, there is only silence on the beach. He flings his arms over and drops it over the sand just outside of the towel. Even though the sun's glare has significantly lessened, Taichi still feels the light burning his now sensitive eyes. He squints where he had last seen Keiko and sure enough the only sign any one had ever been there is the same beach chair, now joined with a matching pair, and a tightly closed umbrella still harpooned into the ground. There's no novel or sunglasses left behind.

A second towel he doesn't remember owning slips down into his lap as Taichi crunches into a sitting position.

"Grandma wanted to make certain you didn’t burn," a familiar voice informs him. Taichi looks up the other way just as Koushirou plods through the sand and plops down a short distance from his towel. He reaches through the space between them, proffering up a water bottle. Condensation drips off the plastic and leaves dark stains along the sand. "I brought you water."

Taichi has to lean a little bit over in order to grab the other end. He wastes no time in uncapping it and gulping down as much as possible while still managing to—just barely—breathe. Under his fingers the plastic crumples and pop. When he drops it onto the towel, it's entirely misshapen and practically empty. Taichi remembers to say in between a gasp of air, "Thanks."

Koushirou's eyes are on the farshore and Taichi wonders if the distance between them might be on purpose. He frowns. Hopefully it isn't anything permanent. He focuses his own eyesight onto the curl of red hair by Koushirou's ear. In the distance he can still make out the hue of orange catching on the clouds that dip below the treelines.

Taichi wishes he knew what Koushirou was thinking. Sometimes, he thinks he knows his best friend better than Taichi knows himself. Times like now, he isn't quite as sure. Maybe he knows nothing. Taichi clutches his arm around his stomach as it churns with a now all too familiar sense of queasiness.

"Oh," Koushirou begins, turning to tell him, "Mom says dinner will be ready soon." Immediately his eyes flicker down towards Taichi’s midsection before swiftly averting back towards the lake. Taichi can't tell if it's the shadow of the sun setting, or if his ears have flushed red. "Do you need," he stumbles for a moment and finally manages in a small voice, "an ice pack?"

Taichi thinks about it for a second, lowering his own gaze down to his arm. Any pain in his shoulder has since subsided with his nap. His stomach still hurts, but he suspects most of the pain is from nerves rather than the multiple wallops it’s sustained over the course of the afternoon. Taichi doesn’t think they make ice packs that can help with a bruised ego so he finally declines.

Koushirou hums. Taichi watches his fingers dig into the beach at his side. "At least stay hydrated tonight."

"Okay, mom," Taichi snorts. After a lifetime of soccer and spontaneous adventures, he absolutely does not need the reminder. But he reaches for the abandoned water bottle anyway and finishes what little he had left in a single gulp. Sand has somehow crawled it's way up the edges when Taichi hadn't been watching and it leaves his hands feeling grainy.

It's almost enough of a salve when Koushirou turns back to him with a soft smile, the sort he's always offered Taichi before. It eases something inside his chest. Maybe, he thinks, they'll be just fine, actually. Taichi returns the smile.

"We should go in," Koushirou presses, softly.

"Yeah, yeah. Right." Any bit of relief he had found drains out of his system completely. Taichi feels grimy, caked in lake water and sand. Sitting at the center of attention around a table of half-strangers while feeling his worst both inside and out sounds like a recipe for an absolutely terrible time. "Do you think I have time to hop in the shower first?"

"Only if you're expeditious." Koushirou's lips curl up further as he tacks on, "Grandpa."

Taichi kicks sand into his lap.

#taishirou #taishiro #otp: the only exception #sorry this took so long and is. Well. This.#But the next chapter is..... fluffier. I promise.#long post #sparkle garbage #digimon adventure #digimon is a fun series

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panda-noosh · 4 years

Text

the missing part {George Weasley x Reader}

Words: 10.5k

Summary: The trio becomes a pair.

Genre: angst

Warnings: mentions of death - grief - this is also a platonic fic so if you’re looking for some good good romance, you might not wanna waste your time with this one.

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - THIS IS A SAD ONE BOYOS

----

You receive the news shortly after everything happens.

The change to the wizarding world is a physical one. Wizards all over the globe can feel the difference, even though they weren't at the scene, even though news has yet to break of the details describing what really happened that evening in Hogwarts. People are cheering and screaming victory in the streets, because everyone just knows. Everyone is breathing normally again. Everyone is safe.

It's excitement that claws at you first and foremost, because you're stuck in that head space where nothing feels wrong. Voldemort is dead – you know it, the world knows it, everyone is okay. You celebrate with a glass of wine, too absorbed in this massive victory to think of the sacrifices that must have happened to make it happen. For tonight, all you want is a chance to bask in a freedom you have not felt nor experienced in many, many years.

But the euphoria can't last forever. One problem has been taken care of, and now there is room for more to trickle in.

You receive the letter the next day. You wake up from a wine-induced sleep to the sound of the owls beak tapping against your window; you retrieve the letter with a hopeful mind and trembling fingers, because it has been so long since you've received a letter that isn't a warning of the Ministry getting closer to your home, or a newspaper reporting news you do not want to hear, news so false and manufactured it made you start buying The Quibbler just for a real taste of what was happening in the outside world.

You open the letter at your kitchen table, and this is something you will always, always remember, a moment that will forever be locked in your brain due to the trauma – genuine trauma – it swept upon you. Over a glass of milk and a bowl of cereal, you read the words Fred is dead, scribbled in the handwriting of Molly Weasley.

You read it over and over again, just to make sure your mind is not playing tricks on you – you would be less surprised if you suddenly found out your months of isolation had made you gone insane, because it seems most impossible that Fred Weasley is no longer alive, no longer with you, no longer laughing and smiling and brightening up a room with his twin brother at his side.

Through your heartbreak, this thought leads you to the even more heartbreaking thought of the twin that is still doing all those things – George. How his world must have shifted, how he must be feeling. You remember sitting beside him back at Hogwarts, listening to him and Fred speak at the exact same time – back then it felt so weird, and you'd cringe and tell them to stop; now, however, you can barely stomach the idea of not hearing their synchronised sentences.

You write back, asking Molly if there's anything you can do, sending your condolences without making it obvious you are completely and utterly crushed. She replies shortly, saying she wants you there for the funeral, George wants you there for the funeral, Fred would want you there for the funeral.

And you don't want to go. Call it selfish,cowardly, but you don't want to. Standing beside his casket, surrounded by his family and friends, will make it real. When you're huddled in your home, away from it all, it's easy enough to pretend Fred is sat at The Burrow, celebrating the same victory as the rest of the wizarding world, the victory he played a part in.

Nonetheless, you arrive at The Burrow the very next day.

Molly opens the door before you've knocked, having clearly heard the faint pop of you Apparating in her front garden. A gnome runs right for your knees, but Molly shoves it away with her foot before dragging you into a bear-like hug; you can see she's been crying furiously, her eyes swollen, her face having aged a number of years in the space of a day. Her hug, though, is just as you've always remembered it, arms tight around your neck, body swaying slightly from side to side as she whispers unintelligible things in your ear.

She pulls away and holds you at arms length; you can't imagine what she must be seeing. That young wizard she used to babysit is gone now, replaced by someone harder, someone more refined and experienced. She's not the only one who has aged a great number of years in such a short space of time.

“How are you?” is the first thing you can manage to say.

And already the tears are flooding her eyes again, like the question has triggered some memory she cannot fight off. Her lower lip trembles, and she humours you with a small nod before she wraps her beefy arm around your shoulders and guides you into the warmth of a home that should not be able to hold so many people but does so anyway.

There they are – the Weasleys, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, all stood in the kitchen. They're chatting, but the conversation is hushed and it ends as soon as you make an appearance. Harry is the first to stand, offering you his hand for a handshake he is too young for; you roll your eyes and tug him into a hug. He grunts against you, but you don't even care – it has been two years since you laid eyes on the Boy Who Lived, and a handshake will simply not cut it.

“You made it,” Hermione says, approaching you once Harry has stumbled off. She wraps her arms gently around your waist. “How was the trip?”

“Easy enough,” you reply, lips pressed into her hair.

“Where have you been all this time?” Bill asks.

Still holding Hermione close, afraid of letting go lest she takes your composure with her, you say, “I've been hiding. Just a flat in Hogsmeade; a pure-blood owns it. He let a bunch of us Muggle-borns stay with him until it all died down.” You glance at Harry. “You feeling alright?”

He nods. “Just. . . Still tired, I guess.”

You can understand that; though you know the newspapers will never do the scene justice, you were able to gather the basic jidst of the events that took place in Hogwarts only a few days prior – the deaths, the injuries, the horrors so many young kids have seen and will now never be able to erase from their memories.

“Well,” Molly exhales shakily. “I'll get the kettle on. Y/N, you must be starving. How does a bit of stew sound?”

You nod, giving Molly a grateful smile before your mind zones back in on where you are, what you're here for. Instinctively you search the room for any sign of your best friend – the one that's left – and it's not exactly a surprise when you see he is not there. The rest of the Weasleys are – even Percy, who sits in the corner with his legs folded over one another, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a cup of coffee in his hands. He looks up at the feel of your eyes burning into him, surprising you by nodding towards the back door.

You raise your brows, but follow him out nonetheless. Percy and you never truly got on – he was Fred and George's bossy older brother, and that was always what you left it as. Whenever he decided to abandon the Weasley name for the sake of his precious minister, you lost what little respect you had for him.

Now, however, it's difficult to keep that attitude up; the other Weasleys all look exhausted, but Percy looks a little ill, stumbling over the final step the two of you descend. You grab his elbow before he can fall, and he shakes you off in his attempts to pretend he hadn't nearly fallen face first onto the concrete.

He turns to look at you when you're a decent enough distance from the house. “I wasn't sure if you were going to be here.”

“Of course I was going to be here,” you reply, startled by the croak in his voice, as if he hasn't spoken to anyone in weeks. “He was my best friend, Perce.”

“I know. I know he was, but – just – with everything that happened. Mum wasn't even going to send you an owl. She was just going to let you enjoy the celebrations with everyone else. It was Dad who had to step in and tell her you had a right to know.”

Your stomach flips. “Well I'm glad she told me. I'm – I'm glad I can be here.”

Percy nods, looking off into the distance. “Has anyone told you what happened?”

“No. I'm not going to make you relive it if-”

“I was there when it happened. I watched the curse hit him.” His voice breaks, and that drives it home for you; Percy Weasley, usually so composed and professional, is struggling to form a sentence right now. He can't even bring himself to look in your direction.

You step forward and touch his elbow, as if that will cure anything, take away his pain. His eyes close at the feel of your fingers.

“I'm so sorry,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he replies shakily. “I got the bastard who did it, though.”

You force a smile. “Good.”

“And you know what the most fucked up part of it is?” He opens his eyes and looks at you. “My first thought wasn't even Oh God, my brothers dead. It was Oh God, George is going to be heartbroken.”

Your lower lip trembles before you can stop it, before his words have even properly processed; it's heartbreaking to hear something like that, a blow to the gut you were not prepared for.

Percy laughs, cold and dead. “Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes, I can. Where is George?”

“In his room. He didn't want to see you yet.”

It doesn't even hurt your feelings. You completely understand, considering you're not entirely ready to see him just yet, either.

You glance over at the front door; everyone is beginning to gather round the kitchen table. Arthur pops his head in the window and beckons for you and Percy to hurry up; you give him a thumbs up before whirling back to Percy and grabbing his hand. He starts, eyes widening, but you hurry on before he can say anything.

“What happened to him, Perce? What happened to Fred?”

Percy pauses. “He was dead before he even hit the floor, Y/N. There was nothing anyone could have done.”

You inhale shakily; you cannot cry, not right now, not whenever dinner is being served and his family has pulled themselves together. Percy pulls you into a tight hug when he sees the struggle for peace on your face; you asked for that detail to see if it would help, to see if stripping the mystery from the equation would help you heal a bit quicker, but it doesn't. Now all you can imagine as you walk back into The Burrow, tucked under Percy's arm, is that curse blasting Fred's chest cavity apart, his forever smile fading away for good.

---

The next morning arrives, and you are still yet to see George.

Molly apologises a grand number of times for his absence, but you brush it off every single time – you understand. He's healing. He's suffering, trying to process this just as much as you are. Seeing you after so long apart will only bring back fresh memories, and you don't want to be the reason behind his breakdown.

So you keep your distance, helping Molly and Ginny with breakfast before heading out into the garden to help Ron and Charlie clean up bits of shrapnel that had been left behind from Bill and Fleur's wedding, shrapnel they weren't able to clean up with everything going on.

Charlie keeps the conversation up, forever the chatterbox. Ron humours his older brother with little bits of laughter sprinkled in here and there, but it's obvious he wants nothing more than to just sit in silence for a little while.

As the morning rolls into the afternoon and jobs become scarce, you find yourself walking around the garden on your own. Once upon a time, this used to be the playground for you, Fred and George – three best friends who had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, an entire summer on their hands. Your parents never outwardly disowned you after you received your letter to Hogwarts, but they were always weary of you afterwards, as if expecting you to snap at any given moment. Their fear gave you an excuse to spend the two months of summer holidays at the Weasley's house, where you, Fred and George would play Quidditch for hours on end, hiding from Molly when you could just tell she wanted you to do a job for her.

The memories come back to you in waves, and it hurts, but you force yourself through it, because you'd much rather remember the good times spent with Fred than sit and concentrate on the fact there will no longer be any more of those good times.

You arrive at the tiny square of grass you used to use as a make-shift Quidditch pitch; George would haul the bins over and enchant them to float high enough in the air that you could trick yourselves into believing they really were Quidditch goal posts. You would always be Seeker, because you were good at that, and Fred and George would play against each other with the Quaffle, yelling insults that had Molly emerging from the house, threateningly waving a wooden spoon in their direction. You could never hear what she was saying from so high up, but maybe that was for the best.

You place your hand on the fence, gazing out at the square, so unused and untouched. A gnome scatters across the centre of it and dives into a hole on the other side; you don't even try and grab it.

The sound of footsteps makes you freeze; after months of being in hiding, any noise you cannot immediately identify has you on edge, though this is something you're trying desperately to combat; Voldemort is dead now – he doesn't have to control your life any more.

“Mum told me you were walking about on your own, you little loner.”

George's voice is like a song. Your favourite song. A song you haven't heard in years, but one you love no less than when you heard it every single day.

You glance at him over your shoulder; he's still in his pyjamas, red hair stuck on end, lips chapped and cheeks sunken. His skin looks pale – paler than it usually does – but he's still smiling when his eyes meet yours. You know it's not real, but you appreciate his attempts nonetheless.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I was just getting a bit of fresh air.”

“Nothing fresh about the air around here.”

“It's better than being inside.”

George shrugs. “I didn't get the memo.”

You hollow out your cheeks, turning back to the field. “Harry told me about your ear.”

“Oh, did he? Did he happen to find it lying about somewhere, 'cause if so, I'd love to have it back.”

“He said you lost it. It got blown off or something.”

George hums. You can see his knuckles tightening on the fence, and you silently wonder if you've perhaps said too much; maybe he doesn't want to talk about that time.

“It was Snape,” George says at last. “Knocked me out cold, so I don't remember too much. Not like I really need to – I've got all the evidence I need of it happening right here.” He turns his head, showing off the hole where his ear used to be. It looks clean, unbandaged, not very painful if his jokes and snide grin are anything to go off.

Nonetheless, your heart skips at the sight of it; yet another moment where George needed your help and you weren't there to offer it.

“Bloody hell, Georgie,” you whisper. “How many girls did you manage to bag with an injury like that?”

George scoffs. “Not many, I'm afraid. Bit of a waste, I think.”

“Definitely.”

It's quiet for a moment. The wind whistles, and the birds chirp, and there's a gnome cursing beneath the dirt, but all you can focus on is the heavy presence of George standing beside you.

Maybe it's not even George's presence you're focusing on. Maybe it's Fred's, because you know he's there. He's always there, making sure you and George don't step out of line or embarrass him, because now it's the job of his two closest confidants to carry on his legacy – Fred Weasley would want to keep an eye on that.

“How are you feeling, Georgie?” you whisper, the silence suddenly too much when you think of Fred standing within it. It would never be silent if he was really here. Never. “How are you really feeling?”

George takes a moment to answer. You glance over to see him nibbling his bottom lip, brown eyes trained on a spot in the garden where yet another gnome has just emerged and is scarping across the field to freedom. “I don't know.” He looks at you. He's taller now, so he has to look down. “What about you?”

You shrug. “I've – I've definitely been better.”

“Yeah.”

“Percy hugged me.”

“He hasn't been taking it well.”

“I can't really blame him, poor git.”

George chuckles; it's not a noise George usually makes, but you don't question it, knowing he isn't really himself right now.

“The funeral's tomorrow,” he says after yet another pause. “I don't know how any of us are going to do it with dignity.”

“Dignity isn't important at a funeral.”

“You know full well Fred would take the mick out of us all if we showed up to his funeral sobbing our eyes out.”

Your lips twitch, the first signs of a true smile you have worn in weeks. “I suppose so. But he's going to have to get over it, isn't he?”

George chuckles. “You tell him, Y/N. You tell him.”

You and George hang around the makeshift Quidditch pitch for only a few more minutes before you start back towards The Burrow; although neither of you want to acknowledge it, you have to get ready for the funeral tomorrow. Things have to be put in place for the small number of visitors who are due to arrive tomorrow morning – Fred, McGonagall, Oliver Wood, some other members of the old Quidditch team. Over the hill, you can see Molly already stressing out over everything that has to be put in place, and your heart aches for her.

“She never slows down, your Mum,” you say before you can stop yourself.

George hums, a fragile attempt at agreement. “Keeping busy helps take her mind off things, I think. It's when she stops that it all crashes down on her.”

“Will she be okay tomorrow?”

“No.”

You're glad he isn't lying. At this moment in time, you can almost pretend it was all a dream; opening the letter, reading the news, having to come to terms with it all. None of it will truly be real until you've looked down and seen Fred's body for yourself, and maybe that's why you're dreading it so much. It's not the idea of seeing him – god, what you wouldn't give to see his smiling face one last time. It's the idea of no longer having that excuse. Once you've laid eyes on his body, any denial you have of his death will just be pitied.

You and George head into the house and go your separate ways. You head into the bedroom you're sharing with Ginny and Hermione whilst George goes back to his own room; you don't think Molly bunked him up with anyone, considering the circumstances, and the thought of him sitting in Fred and George's room on his own makes your heart ache. You have half a mind to turn and go after him, but your plans are foiled when Ginny emerges from the bedroom and smiles warmly at you, despite the puffiness around her eyes.

“Hey,” you say. “You alright?”

“I was just coming to find you,” she replies. “Can we talk?”

Anxiety prickles at your skin, but you nod and follow her into the bedroom anyway. Hermione is nowhere to be seen, though her funeral clothes have already been folded and stacked upon her camp bed, along with a packet of tissues and her wand.

Ginny takes a seat on the end of her bed. You stand by the door, nervously biting your lip as you realise this is the first time you and Ginny have been alone since everything happened. You haven't had a proper chance to sit down with the youngest Weasley and ask her how she is truly feeling.

Keeping her eyes on her freckled hands, she says, “Were you talking to George?”

You tilt your head. “Y-yes. He came down to the Quidditch pitch – oh, uh – the fields, sorry, just to talk.”

Ginny sighs, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes. She's clearly exhausted, no longer even trying to hide it. You have the urge to reach out and hug her, just as you would have done when she was younger, but Ginny has been through so much in the two years since you last seen her; she might not appreciate a hug any more, so you keep your distance.

“And has he gone back to his room now?” she asks.

“I think so. I think he's getting ready for. . . you know. . . tomorrow.”

“He's not handling this well, Y/N.” She drops her hands into her lap, shaking her head grimly. “I know none of us are, but I've never seen George acting like this. The only person he's properly spoken to in three days is you.”

Your heart lurches. “He's grieving, Ginny.”

“We all are! We've all had to grieve before this, too.” She hollows out her cheeks, and it's only then do you spot the tears making their way to the surface of her eyes. “The Weasleys grieve together – that's how we've always done it. We're a family.”

Something inside of you snaps. You dart forward, sitting down beside her and tugging her into your chest. It is there, wrapped tightly in your arms, that she finally lets go, sobbing into your collarbone with a ferocity you've never seen from her – not once. Not even when she used to take a tantrum every time one of her brothers got to go to Hogwarts and she didn't, not even when her cat passed away, not even when she was possessed by Lord Voldemort himself.

She clings onto your jacket, trying to speak but being unable to do so past the sobs. You grip her tighter, stroking your hands through her red hair that hasn't been brushed in days. There are things to say, procedures to take when this kind of thing happens, but nothing you have been taught to say comes to the surface; she's heartbroken, utterly heartbroken, and you know why. Just because you're not sobbing doesn't mean you don't feel the same way.

“Make sure George is okay,” she chokes out. “Please make sure I don't lose him, too.”

You close your eyes, tears slipping from your eyes. “I will, mate. I'll – I'll try my best.”

---

Everyone is here.

You greet them all, because that's what is expected of you. They give you hugs and kisses on the cheek, because that's what is expected of them. Nobody wants to acknowledge the fact that nobody truly wants to be here; to the untrained eye, this gathering of black-clad wizards could very well be some kind of high school reunion.

But it's not.

A high school reunion would hold the air of memories, people rekindling, saying hello after a long time apart. This event holds the air of denial, sadness, saying goodbye to someone taken too soon.

All morning you are busy taking over the jobs of Mr and Mrs Weasley; both of them are too shaky to function, though Molly tries her damned hardest to get out of her chair and do something. She ends up tipping a cup of coffee over poor Harry, and so you and the Weasley kids take over. This means you have barely any time to find George.

He's not around. Ron told you he's still hiding in his room, not wanting to show his face until the very last minute.

“You should go and talk to him,” says Ron, voice wobbling with the effort to keep the tears at bay. “He won't let anyone else in. Mum's tried, Dad's tried, I've given it a go.”

You flick your wand, sending a chair across the grass where it lines up with the rest of them. “What makes you think I'll be any different?”

“He likes talking to you. He only came out of his and Fred's-” Ron's eyes slip closed. He takes a deep breath before starting again. “He only came out of his room yesterday because he heard you arrived.”

You bite your lip, flicking a glance back towards the house; his curtains are still shut. He might still be asleep and nobody would even know.

You sigh, handing Ron the stack of napkins you were given. “I'll go see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

You nod and duck into the house, giving Oliver Wood a watery smile which he returns as best he can, hands trembling around a glass of pumpkin juice. You march upstairs before anyone else can see you, heading directly for the room at the end of the hallway.

The glittering sign is still nailed to the door: Fred and George's Room. KEEP OUT!

You wonder how long it will take for George to take that down – if he ever will.

You knock softly and take a step back, folding your hands in front of you. For just a second, there is no answer, not even a call of Who's there? And you force yourself to step forward and knock again, a bit harder this time, lest he didn't hear you.

Again, there is no response.

Heart hammering, you do the last thing you can think of – you tap three times, pause, and then tap again. It's the secret knock the twins used to do on your door when they wanted you to come out with them past curfew, how you would know they were up to no good.

There is a moments hesitation, and then, “Y/N?”

You press your forehead against the door, relief flooding you. “Yes. It's me. Are you okay? Can I come in?”

You pull away from the door just as it opens and George pokes his head out; his hair is still a mess, but he's wearing something other than pyjamas at least. His outfit consists of a white shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers, a black blazer hanging over one shoulder. Fred would be laughing if he could see him now.

George gives you a tiny smile before moving out the way, offering you access. You hesitate, and George notices.

“I know,” he mumbles. “You don't have to if you're not ready.”

But he's been forced to sleep in this room since everything happened. He's had to endure that pain, so you will too. You brace yourself before stepping in, trying desperately to ignore the flip of your stomach, the sudden fight or flight response that is attacking your system at the sight of it all.

The room has barely changed since the last time you stayed here nearly three summers ago. Two beds pressed against either wall, one perfectly made, the other slept in. Posters hang upon the walls of different Quidditch teams you remember they used to be mad over, and thrown in the midst of them all is a new poster you have never seen before – a poster dedicated to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

“Mum made his bed the day we got back.” George's voice is fragile. You glance at him; he's still stood by the door, hands pushed into his pockets as he watches you wade around the room. “Fred never made his bed when he woke up, so she always used to do it for him.”

You nod, remembering those summer mornings when all you could hear was Molly telling Fred off for – yet again – not making his bed.

“Old habits die hard, huh?” you reply, and George hums his agreement. “Ron sent me up here to make sure you were ready.”

George scoffs. His bed springs protest when he leaps onto his mattress. “You can go back down there and tell Ron to have a little patience. I'm fragile today.”

“You are a little late, Georgie. Worryingly late; I thought you'd gone back to sleep.”

George rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. You stand over his bed, arms folded over your chest. “I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have my brothers funeral to attend today.”

You bite your lip. “You know, George...” And this is it. The sentence has started, and George's eyes have snapped to meet your own, waiting for you to finish whatever you have to say. “We're all grieving. A lot. A whole lot. But locking yourself away like this isn't going to help anything. It's not going to make anything easier. Not for you or anybody downstairs right now.”

George stares at you, waiting for the punchline.

“I'm serious.”

He lifts his eyes back to the ceiling, wearing a frown you have not seen him wear in the many years you have known him. Your heart picks up, panic spiking at the idea of upsetting him; he's not going to listen to you, that much is clear. He hasn't listened to anybody else when being told the same thing, so why should you be any different?

“Look, okay,” you hasten to add, “we'll go down there together, alright? You and me. You don't have to do this on your own.”

“I don't want to go at all. I don't want to see him like that.”

You sit down on the corner of his bed and grab his hand, pulling it onto your knee. The tears slip from the corners of his eyes, which he squeezes closed in an instant.

“I know,” you mumble. “I don't, either. Nobody does. But once we've got this funeral out of the way, you're free to mourn however you want. It's over then; Fred will be peaceful, and we can . . . we can move on. We can try and move on. That's what he'd want us to do.”

George's shoulders jerk, a silent sob. Tears of your own flood your eyes. You grab his shoulders and pull him up, pulling him into a hug that reminds you so much of last night, the exact same scene but a different Weasley sibling. You just want to comfort them all; you want to round up each and every one of them and pull them into this embrace, let them know it will all be okay and you will not leave them to suffer on their own, not like last time. You will be there for all of them through everything if they'll let you.

George's arms wrap around your middle. He rests his head on your shoulder, stifling his sobs as best he can; he's better at it than Ginny, who all but wailed into your collarbone yesterday evening. George doesn't want to be seen like this, but it's clear he can't hold back any more.

“It's okay,” you whisper. “It'll be fine. We'll go downstairs together.”

He nods, pulling away slowly. He bites his lip, glances at your shoulder and says, “I got tears on your shirt.”

You shake your head, brushing his hair out of his face with trembling hands. “Don't worry about it. Fred would say it adds flare.”

“He would,” George chokes out. “He really would.”

And so, the two of you stand and head towards the door, hand-in-hand. George hesitates before shutting his bedroom door behind him, and you pretend not to see the way he gently runs his fingers over Fred's name engraved in the metal sign.

You walk downstairs slowly. Heads start turning when you appear in the doorway of the kitchen, George all-but cowering behind you, his hand still in your own. You run your thumb along his knuckles, giving his awaiting family members a smile despite their eyes all being trained on George.

Molly is the first one to run forward. A cry escapes her lips, and you have only seconds to jump out of the way before she barrels through the doorway and into George's arms; George grunts, stumbling before he catches his balance and hugs his mother back with just as much enthusiasm as she is showing. You slowly remove yourself from the scene, letting the rest of the Weasley family file in to mimic their mothers actions.

“So you did it,” Harry says when you find yourself standing at the back of the room with him. “You got him to come downstairs.”

“He just needed some coaxing,” you reply, wiping your eyes. “Is Fred here?”

“Kingsley's just brought his body back.” Harry nods out the window, but you don't follow his gesture because you know exactly what is going to be there; the back garden, chairs all lined up, Fred's casket set up at last. You can only imagine that is the reason the Weasley family is stood inside – they don't want to be around it any longer than they have to be.

But they cannot hold off forever. Arthur and Molly head out first, Arthur with his arm around Percy's shoulders, Molly holding Ginny's hand. Together, the Weasleys take their seats at the very front of the garden, each sobbing quietly into handkerchiefs and sleeves and partners' shoulders. You, Harry and Hermione take the seats directly behind them whilst everyone else files in behind you.

And you see him up there, eyes closed, hair styled, suit perfectly pressed. His hands have been folded on his chest, and his wand has been tucked into his fingers. Standing beside his casket is a picture of him and George – because there is not a picture in existence where the two of them are on their own, not one – and Fred is pulling a funny face whilst George looks off into the distance, oblivious to the photo being taken.

It hurts. It hurts worse than you ever imagined it would, but you can't bring yourself to cry – not whenever his body is right there in front of you. Fred used to chastise you every time he saw you cry, swat you over the shoulder, make some wise-crack comment along the lines of, “What do you have to cry about? You have me!”

You always did have him. You always will have him, as long as you keep his memory alive.

Kingsley says a few words, kind words that speak of Fred's bravery and his knowledge and how he did not die in vain. They sound so official coming from him now that he's the temporary Minister of Magic, but you know for a fact Fred would have appreciated it, scripted or not. Oliver Wood says some things, and Molly and Arthur try their hardest to get some words out about their son, but it doesn't go to plan and they end up just sitting down, passing the baton onto Percy who makes a big, emotional speech about how he and Fred didn't always get along, and how he's glad they managed to find peace with each other during those last few hours of complete turmoil within the Hogwarts castle.

George doesn't make a speech. Neither do you.

The funeral ends with the burning of the body. Kingsley waves his wand and the white curtains fall from nowhere, closing around the casket, and soon, the only thing you can see is the smoke billowing from the top of them. The air suddenly erupts with the smell of black current – one of Fred's favourite scents – and people are standing, giving each other hugs, crying.

You and George stay seated, him directly in front of you. You don't tap his shoulder, don't move, don't say anything at all – you just watch his shoulders rise and fall as he tries desperately to keep his breathing slow and steady. He's staring at his brothers casket like he can't quite believe it's there, and you don't blame him, because you're feeling the same way.

How can a ten minute ceremony be enough to celebrate the life of someone like Fred Weasley? How can a few words passed between people who knew him be enough to remember the wonders he discovered, the joy and laughter he brought upon so, so many lives? It doesn't seem possible. It's ludicrous, completely unfair, and suddenly the sadness you have felt since hearing the news is morphing into anger, and you have the urge to just scream, to just let your lungs rip in half with the fury that rushes through you at a million miles per hour.

But in real life, you're rooted to your seat, fingers curling against the back of George's chair, staring at the smoke rising high, high, higher into the air, disappearing amongst the clouds – Fred's final resting place.

George stands up.

It's so abrupt. It takes you a second to even comprehend what he is doing as his chair tips back against your knees, only failing to fall due to you still being seated behind it. Your head snaps up, mouth opening to call him back, but you don't get a chance to say anything before Angelina Johnson is grabbing you and pulling you to your feet, into an embrace you were not prepared for in the slightest.

“Oh, Y/N, I knew you'd be here! I knew you'd make it! Fred would have been so happy to see you and George back together again!” You laugh awkwardly, watching George march up to The Burrow over her shoulder.

----

George doesn't make an appearance for the rest of the day.

The guests Disapparate, giving the Weasleys some much needed time and space after the exhausting day they have just performed. You, Harry and Hermione head up to bed for the same reason, crowding in Harry and Ron's room for a few hours before you and Hermione excuse yourselves for the night.

Hermione is asleep in minutes, and you can't really blame her. Not only has that girl gone to hell and back these past few days, she's also had to deal with the additional baggage of death. She has fought absolute monsters, seen things no person of her age should ever see, had to think quicker than anyone just to stay alive – and now that it's over, she's been given the additional task of mourning people she loves.

You, however, struggle to close your eyes without the thoughts flooding your mind, making you restless. You keep remembering his body, the tip of his nose peaking out from the casket, the smoke that billowed, the smell of black current that was surely conjured to hide the smell of Fred's burning flesh; god, you want to throw up. You feel ill, and angry, and you want to punch something so, so desperately.

Back in your school days, George taught you how to use Quidditch as a way to get your anger out; he and Fred had been the best Beaters the Gryffindor had ever seen, and they claim it was solely because they got themselves riled up before a game. They would make themselves so angry that the idea of volleying a heavy ball at someone was all that could calm them down again.

That's what you need right now; a good game of Quidditch, a Bludger to just annihilate someone. But you have none of that; all you have right now is your pillow, which you shove your fist into multiple times over now with no results. Your stomach still feels tight, and tears are still threatening to reach the surface, and you're beginning to lose hope that you'll ever feel calm and collected ever again.

The clock has struck four am when you finally give up trying to sleep. You slip your feet into a pair of carpet slippers – courtesy of Hermione – and head downstairs, pulling a dressing gown on as you do so. The kitchen is barren, the sun just starting to peak over the green hills surrounding the cosy cottage. From the window you can see a garden gnome furiously kick a wicket chair before howling in pain and bouncing back into the floor to go and huff on its own.

You head outside. The fresh air feels nice on your skin – cold, but it's enough to bring you back to reality a little bit. You walk across the garden, and before you know why, you're sitting down in the very same chair you sat in whilst watching people talk about your dead best friend, like you want to relive that moment all over again.

But this time you're on your own. It's just you and the chairs, and the odd garden gnome that sprints across the grass, sees you and then sprints in the other direction. You fold your legs over one another, stare at the space Fred's casket once stood, and then you start speaking.

“Miss you, buddy.” It starts as a whisper, hoarse and fragile. “Thank you, for everything. Fighting for the sake of the world – you're braver than me. I couldn't have done it. I was – I was hiding away in my flat, pretending nothing was happening, convincing myself you two weren't stupid enough to get yourself into any danger.” You close your eyes, tilting your head back, talking directly to him now. “Nothing feels right any more, Fred. The world isn't meant to be without a Fred Weasley. George isn't meant to be without a Fred Weasley. God, I'm not meant to be without a Fred Weasley.”

The tears start trickling, running quickly down your cheeks and disappearing within the corners of your mouth.

“I'll make sure he's okay, Freddie,” you whisper. “George, I mean. We'll keep each other sane, I promise. You can watch over us and – and make sure w-we keep each other in ch-check. I won't let him out of my sight ever again.”

“Y/N?”

Your head snaps up, eyes opening. Standing in the pink light of the slowly rising sun is George Weasley, wand in hand, still dressed in the very same clothes he was wearing earlier. His tie has been pulled loose from its knot and is now cascading messily down his middle, a few of his buttons undone, his hair back to being a disgruntled mess.

You stand up. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“You sound like Filch.” He tilts his head to the side, just enough to let you see the bags under his eyes. “What are you doing?”

You awkwardly kick at the ground. “Nothing.”

“Mhm.” George walks over, examining each of the chairs as he does so. “You were talking to him, weren't you?”

You don't reply; he knows. You don't feel a need to confirm it for him, not when he probably heard every single thing you said.

“I can't do it,” he continues. “It feels weird not having him say the exact same thing as me. My voice isn't meant to be on its own.”

“Yeah,” you croak out. “I noticed that, too.”

“I'll get past it,” he mumbles. “I just. . . I just wanted everyone to leave today, you know? I didn't want all these people in my house, staring at my brothers dead body, crying over him like that. This was supposed to be a family event.”

A tinge of guilt stamps an imprint into your heart. “Right. Should Harry, Hermione and I have left?”

George purses his lips. “You guys are family – it's everyone else I was a bit iffy with.”

And maybe it's the anger from earlier that boils over now. Maybe it's the reminder that George left – halfway through his brothers funeral, he got up and left his family, his grieving family, to deal with everything. You know he's upset, heartbroken, downright traumatised, but so is everyone else. Nobody is taking this lightly. Nobody was here today just for the sake of it.

You curl your hands into fists. “George, you're being really selfish right now.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“How can you sit there and say you wish those people who came today had just stayed home? Do you think they wanted to be in this situation any more than you did? God, You-Know-Who was killed a few days ago – people want to be out celebrating their freedom, not going to the funeral of one of their friends. None of this is easy on anyone, so it's really bloody ungrateful of you to say they should have just stayed home, because I'm almost positive that's what most of them wanted to be doing in the first place!”

George's eyes cloud over. “Fred wouldn't have wanted the Ministry taking over his funeral.”

“Kingsley knew Fred just as well as I did!”

“No he didn't! You and Fred were best friends – Kingsley was part of the Order. That's how he knew Fred – through business! That isn't a bloody friendship!”

“So, what? Kingsley should have just moved on, walked away whenever he looked down and saw Fred's body that day in the castle, huh? Because god forbid somebody grieve if they don't know someone for more than seven years!”

George throws his hands in the air, face beaming red. “You're putting words in my mouth now, you are. You know that's not what I meant-”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should learn how to word things better, because at the minute you're sounding like an absolute arse!”

George opens his mouth to respond, but you're crying. You're crying, and you can't stop it, and you don't want him to see you like this. You dart off before he can get the words out, cracking your shoulder against his before picking up your pace to a run, darting back towards the house. Behind you, George calls your name, but you don't listen. You shove past Charlie, who stands in the kitchen door with a mug of coffee, and head directly to your room, not wanting to talk to anyone.

---

Charlie comes to visit you a few hours later.

It's eight o'clock now; Hermione has risen, said good morning and headed off to help Mrs Weasley make breakfast. You stayed huddled under the covers, using the excuse of exhaustion as a way to get her to leave without worrying too much; as soon as she was gone, you had pulled yourself from your bed and headed to the window, where you have been for a while now, dreading the moment you will have to go downstairs and face George again.

Charlie knocks softly on your door before letting himself in. He's wearing a pair of grey sweatpants this morning along with an oversized jacket. His skin has been paler since he came home from Romania, since his little brother died, since it felt as if his world was falling apart. This morning, he looks a bit better, as if the relief of having finally set Fred free was a weight from his shoulders.

“Morning,” he says. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. You?”

He closes the door and walks to your side, placing his head against the wall as he, too, takes to gazing out the window. “I'm good. Better than I was yesterday. Worse than I'll probably be tomorrow.”

“What a Charlie way to answer that question.”

He smiles before nudging your arm. “You gonna talk to me about what happened this morning?”

You purse your lips and look away. Charlie gazes at you, waiting for you to say something, anything, but you don't really know what he wants to hear – that you're sorry? That you were tired and heartbroken and it just kind of happened all at once, a jumbled mess you couldn't quite keep track of?

That's not what it was at all. It was the truth spilling from your lips, though you will admit you now wish you could have executed it with a little bit more sympathy. George, the man who has been your best friend for so many years, didn't deserve that kind of treatment – not after everything. Not when there's still so much more to come.

Charlie sighs, folding his muscled arms across his chest. “You know George loves you, right?”

“And I love him.”

Charlie pauses, contemplative. “I just – I don't know what you two were arguing about, but I think it would be a real shame for George to lose two loved ones, which is what is going to happen if you don't talk to each other. Do you want to cut ties with him?”

Your head snaps up. “No! No, of course not. Look, Charlie, the argument wasn't even that serious. We just-”

“If it wasn't that serious, then why did George punch a whole in the dry wall when I tried to ask him what happened?”

You pause, mouth running dry. Charlie raises a brow, leaning against the wall. Your voice is quiet when you say, “He did what?”

“He punched a hole in the wall. Tried to punch me, too.” He sighs. “Obviously, a scrawny little git like him compared to me didn't get very far, but it was the intent that shocked me; George hasn't got a violent bone in his body. Not a properly violent one, anyway – a few dangerous pranks here and there, but he would never want to genuinely fight someone. I think this whole thing is getting to him – and bad. The only time he's been calm is when you've been in his bloody eyeline.”

“He tried punching you?”

Charlie waves a dismissive hand. “That isn't the part of that speech I wanted you to pick up on.”

You close your eyes, pressing your head against the window. “I lost my temper, started an argument with him for no reason. I should have realised he's not in the right head space – he isn't talking right, Charlie. He isn't himself.”

“Well, no, I wouldn't say he is.” Charlie leans forward. “But right now, the only person getting through to him is you. How I see it, you're the only person who's going to drag him through this before he hurts himself or somebody else.”

“That's a lot of pressure, Charlie.”

“Has it been difficult talking to him since you got here?”

“No.”

“Then you're fine. Just keep doing what you're doing.” Charlie stands up straight, brushing his hands down his jacket as he does so. “Mum said breakfast is gonna be ready in a few minutes if you're feeling hungry. If not, don't tell her that or she'll be up here in two seconds flat with the thermometer out; she did it to Ron a few days ago, gave him a right telling off when it turned out he just wanted to stay in bed for a bit longer.”

You nod, giving him a warm, grateful smile as he walks out of the room.

You give his words thorough thought; though your brain is no less exhausted, and your heart no less broken, you can see where you went wrong now better than you would have been able to at four this morning; Charlie has helped you realise that perhaps everyone needs to be a bit patient with each other right now, needs to learn how to put themselves in other people's shoes.

You get changed and head downstairs. Sure enough, breakfast is already being served, and everyone besides George is already sitting round the table. You take a seat next to Hermione and tuck in, trying to regain some energy sapped due to your lack of sleep.

Once breakfast is finished, you head straight to George's room. Charlie gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up when he turns away from the washing up basin and sees you heading upstairs; you give him a smile, though a nervous one.

You have to do this now. You have to talk to him, tell him you're sorry, explain yourself a bit better than you did earlier, and if you don't do it now, you're going to back out and you won't ever do it. And so, you reach his door and do the secret knock that granted you access yesterday, and you wait.

There's a shuffling on the other side, followed shortly by George's soft voice calling, “What?”

“Hey, mate. Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?” You wince at how formal you sound – this is George you're speaking to, your best mate, the person you've grown up with. “Please?”

“You're just gonna tell me off again, aren't you?”

“No, George, don't be daft. Open the bloody door, or-”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up.” The door opens, revealing the exhausted looking George. He isn't smiling, but instead keeps his eyes narrowed when he looks at you. “Do you wanna come in, too?”

“Yes.”

“You don't ask for much, do you?” He rolls his eyes and steps out of the way, granting you access to the room that still sends eerie chills racing along your arms, because Fred is no longer occupying it, too.

You push these thoughts from your brain and enter, immediately spinning around with your arms folded. “Our argument was stupid.”

George falters, one hand still secure round the doorknob. “Come again?”

“Everything I said to you was stupid, and said in a fit of blind rage. I didn't mean it. Not really.”

“Right...”

“So, yeah.” You nod, glance around the room once before saying, “That's all I wanted to say.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes. I'll see you at lunch if you fancy coming down for a bit of food. If not, I'll – uh – see you when I-” You try to step around him, but he's quicker, blocking the door. You bite your lip. “George-”

“Nothing you said earlier was wrong, you know.”

You lift your eyes, and the tension in the room suddenly becomes a physical thing. He's staring down at you, that exhausted look in his eyes that he's worn for weeks pushed to the forefront. His lips are still chapped, and his knuckles are white around the handle of the door. You want to push his hair out of his face, but you're scared he'll push you away or cringe from your touch if you even try.

“I was being a selfish little git when I walked off, and I should have been – should have been thankful to have so many people come out to send Fred off. He would have liked that, I think, having a crowd around him.”

You laugh softly. “He always did enjoy the attention; you both did.”

“Oi.” He nudges your shoulder. “You were part of our group, you know. You liked the attention just as much as we did.”

And he isn't wrong. So many pranks, so many years of getting into trouble, so many years filled with laughter. When it felt like the world was falling apart, when your parents stopped talking to you, stopped asking you to come home for Christmas, stopped sending you owls – it was Fred and George who reminded you that you didn't need anyone. You were perfect on your own.

“I agree that our argument was stupid,” he says softly. “But you were right.”

“I shouldn't have made you feel bad-”

“You could never make me feel bad. Not with a voice like that.”

You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder. He laughs, stumbling back into the door. You realise with a jolt that this is the first time you've heard him laugh since you arrived at The Burrow, and it seems as if George is realising this too. His smile fades uncertainly, as if he's not allowed to let himself laugh, not allowed to let himself smile when Fred isn't around to join in.

You tilt your head to the side. “Well that's a step in the right direction.”

He closes his eyes. “I haven't had the chance to tell you how happy I am that you're here.”

“Of course I'm here. I would never miss-”

“No, I know.” He opens his eyes and shrugs. “I'm glad you're here to – like – mourn Fred and all that, but I'm glad you're here for me. Most people would have given up on me by now. Nobody would have bothered putting me in my place.”

You shudder, can hardly help it when you're hearing him speak like this; it's so weird, so not what you're used to, but it hits a nerve nonetheless. You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around him, to pull him in for a hug that means more than just It's going to be okay.

“I'm a complete state when you are here, but I wouldn't even function if you weren't,” he continues, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Everyone's told you that already, though, haven't they?”

You bite your lip to suppress the giggle. “I've heard I've been a good helping hand.”

George rolls his eyes. “Don't let it go to your head. No one likes an arrogant bastard.”

Your grin breaks to the surface before you can stop it. It feels weird upon your face after spending so long believing you would never smile again, and yet with George stood in front of you, it couldn't make more sense. You're brought back to your Hogwarts days, when this very smile would never leave your face, was a permanent fixture to your expression. And it doesn't feel like you're back there – it will never feel like that again, not with Fred missing – but it's a start. It's the first step back into the normal world.

Looking up at George's smile now makes you feel like you're walking back into it, slowly, with George by your side.

----

“So what's the point of all this then?” you ask, struggling to fight your way through the crowd of screaming school kids.

George moves with such grace, not even pausing when a group of kids nearly bowl him over in their struggle to reach the Pigmy Puff pens on the other side of the shop. He's grinning from ear to ear as he walks, his fancy, dragon skin blazer billowing out around him.

“This, my dear Y/N, is what Fred and I have built from the ground up – and we're about to take it to the next level.”

You raise a brow at his back. “Oh?”

“Oh, indeed!” He hurries up a flight of winding stairs and stops at the top. He spins and smiles at you, pulling a sheet of paper from his blazer pocket with that dramatic flair you love so much. “Have a read of this and tell me how proud you are of me, right now. Quickly!”

You roll your eyes, snatching the parchment and unrolling it. At the very top are the words Dear Mr and Mr Weasley, followed by the announcement that Weasley's Wizard Wheezes will be opening a shop in multiple areas around England and Northern Ireland.

Your eyes widen, snapping back up to George who is staring at you fixedly, waiting for your reaction. You don't even have words. All you can do is stare at him, jaw open, hands beginning to tremble.

George glances at your shaking hands and laughs, rushing down the steps towards you. He snatches the parchment back and bundles you in his arms, laughing brightly into your hair.

“Don't show too much excitement, Y/N, we're in public!”

“George Weasley, you brilliant old git!” You wrap your arms around his waist, burying your head in his chest, and together, the two of you laugh – you just laugh, unable to fully process that this tiny little business Fred and George have always dreamed about will finally be taking off, dotting itself around the globe for wizards everywhere to enjoy.

You pull away from the celebration and yank the parchment back, giving it yet another read. “Mr and Mr Weasley – you and Fred?”

“Of course,” George confirms. “I sent the request letter in using both of our names – it didn't feel right just signing it with my name and my name only. Fred would kill me if I did that.”

“Aye, it's better not to take the risk. I'm still convinced he's punishing me for ordering that BBQ base pizza the other night.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

You reread the contract over and over again, grin getting wider every single time. It gets to the point where George groans and has to pry it from your hands, getting tired of watching you read the same sentence over and over again.

You look at him and shake your head. “It's so cool that I'm able to say my best friend is a businessman. A real life businessman.”

George cocks a brow. “You're gonna use me to make yourself look good, are you?”

“You still owe me for that time I got you out of detention with Umbridge – it's the least you can do.”

George laughs, bundling you in his arms again. “Just remember to mention Fred when you're giving us the good reviews – he'd appreciate it.”

And you know, somewhere out there, Fred is nodding, saying, “You've done a brilliant job, Georgie.”

278 notes · View notes

thenotsofantasticlifestory · 4 years

Text

Baby Madness

Killer x reader, Kid Pirates, Pregnant!reader

Warning: Cursing and confused Kid

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: This started as a silly drabble oml

++++++++++

Killer wrapped himself around you, even with the swell of stomach his long arms circled all the way around. These moments were rare, sitting quietly in bed and just basking in each other’s presence and warmth. A slight twinge of pain shot through making you flinch and Killer quickly jerked his head up.

“You okay?” he asked. Being so close to your due date he’d been even jumpier than usual. Every twitch you gave had him dashing to your side ready to go.

“It’s fine, I’ve still got another week,” you said, rubbing his arms affectionately. “I’ve read that false alarm contractions are pretty common as you get closer.”

You could feel Killer’s whole body loosen as he settled against the pillow, setting his chin back onto your shoulder. He still looked a bit nervous as he said, “If you say so, but if you feel anything else you tell me immediately okay?”

You turn and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, “I promise Noodle. Besides, we’ll be at the next island in a day or two. We’ll find the doctor there and everything will be fine.”

He nodded against your shoulder, arms tightening just enough to give a slight pressure without squeezing the baby, “Okay, everything will be fine,” he repeats, almost more to himself than to you. He’d been very precise with the navigator that when your labor started, you’d all be settled on an island with a doctor and not giving birth on the ship. The Victoria Punk was a majestic boat that had survived several battles but it was certainly not the hygienic, safe environment in which to bring a newborn infant.

“It’ll be fine,” he murmured again.

+++++

“You have the stopwatch with you right?” Killer asked as he readjusted the helmet on his head. It’s morning now and he knows there’s plenty of duties he needs to get done, more so if he wants to get ahead of schedule enough to dedicate all his time to you at the next island.

“Yep, really Killer I’m telling you fake contractions are very normal,” you said. Killer had been tenacious in his studies as soon as he found out you were pregnant, bringing back piles of books and reading them through with you, sometimes making notes and underlining important topics in the pages. It was really very sweet but it had also quickly become overbearing. You knew he was just worried though, if anything you’d swear he was the one having a baby, not you.

“Okay but if you feel it again, time it, and if it’s five to seven minutes-“

“I’ll come and find you immediately,” you finish for him. “Killer don’t worry so much, we’ve got it all planned out.” You reached up to place a peck against his mask, his hands going to your stomach subconsciously. “Go be first mate, get stuff done. Me and the little munchkin will be here resting up.”

Killer sighed as his shoulders slumped in defeat, “Yes babe.” He’s worried true, but right now his heart feels full, the woman he loves carrying his child, things he thought he’d never have in his life and he’s thankful for them every day.

+++++

You were settled in comfortably, reading one of the dozens of baby books that littered the nightstand. There had been a couple more ‘contractions’ and it was a little odd to be having this many so early. Checking all the chapters on early labor hadn’t made you feel much better, but your pregnancy had always been on calendar. You were practically a text book example, hitting each new checkpoint exactly when the books had said, so labor would still be a week away at least.

The rumble that came from your belly pulled you from your thoughts, it had been a few hours already since Killer started working. Maneuvering awkwardly to your feet, you padded from the cabin down the hallway toward the kitchen. When you had reached your door, a sharp pain split through your abdomen. That definitely wasn’t hunger, were fake contractions supposed to be that strong? You shoved the worries aside, chalking it up to the hungry baby inside you.

Heat and Kid were doing dishes in the kitchen, well, Heat mostly as Kid halfheartedly dried them. You were considering what to get for a snack before another contraction hit, this one strong enough to stop you in your tracks.

Oh, something was definitely wrong.

You clutched the side of the door frame as another splitting pain shot through your abdomen. Heat turned to look in concern, your groan drawing his attention. Sweat was beading on your brow and before you can catch your breath a sudden pressure dropped onto your lower back. Warmth spread and the sound of splashing reached your ears as your eyes widened in horror.

“Oh fuck…” Heat murmured.

Kid turned now too, only to make a face of disgust seeing the water spilling from your body, “Oh my god, did you just piss all over the floor? That’s fucking disgusting!”

You take a steadying breath before spitting back, “My water just broke you asshat!”

“Oh,” is all he manages, face dawning into comprehension as Heat rushed to your side. He throws down a dish towel on the spill and helps you into a chair.

“I’ll get Killer” he says as he rushes out.

Kid looked completely at a loss now, dishes abandoned as a very pregnant woman was still slightly dripping on the chair, and visibly trembling in pain.

“Uh- “he started, “Um, what should I- do you need anything like-“

“Kid” you cut him off mercifully, “just come here and hold my hand.”

“Yup,” he practically jumped to your side, careful to avoid the now damp towel on the floor and grabbed your hand with his human one.

“Just this?” he asked.

“Yes, just that.”

You settled down slightly, starting into the breathing techniques you and Killer had practiced countless times. In and out, in and out, long slow breaths. Kid fidgeted next to you, unsure how to help, and found himself talking again in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere.

“So uh, how long do I need to do this? You just like,” he made a vague motion with his metal hand, “pop it out right?”

“Kid.”

“Yeah huh?”

“Just, just shut the fuck up and let me breathe.”

Kid was saved from snapping back by Killer who nearly slammed into the doorframe to catch himself. He’s panting hard, even through the mask, with Heat right on his tail.

“Is it happening!?” he demands.

Kid turned to his friend, more than happy to pass off this responsibility, “I think so? I mean one second she’s fine, the next sh-shit ow!” the audible crack of finger bones breaking startles him as you squeeze his hand through a particularly intense contraction. Kid’s cursing nearly drowned out your own pained moan before he slammed the metal hand against the table.

“Fuck let go! I’ve only got one good hand left!” he screamed. As the pain passed you release his hand, which he yanks to himself, shooting a glare at you. Killer replaced him in a second, shoving Kid to the side much to his annoyance.

“How long between contractions?” he asked, voice frantic but obviously excited.

A few more calming breaths, you hadn’t really timed yourself this time but it seemed like the was a decent gap, “Not sure…I think, eight minutes? Maybe?”

He’s already whipped out his own stopwatch, “Okay, just let me know and I’ll time it, how are you feeling? Is it bad yet?”

You can’t help but chuckle in relief, Killer really was prepared for anything, “It’s bearable, we’ve still got some time-“

“Are we going to ignore that you crushed all my fingers just now?” Kid demanded.

Killer’s mask whipped around, ready to reprimand him, but you place a hand to his shoulder, wordlessly backing him down. You turned to Kid and locked eyes with him.

“Listen to me very carefully,” you said, and Kid flinched at the seriousness of your voice.

“I don’t think you understand what is happening right now,” you said, “What I’m about to do is essentially the equivalent of shitting a watermelon and even before that happens, even before I shit a goddamn watermelon Kid, I get to sit here and feel my insides rip themselves open slowly for at least six hours. And it’s just six hours if I’m lucky. So do you really wanna bitch about your bruised fingers right now? Right now?”

Kid opened his mouth but couldn’t find anything to say before closing it again with a stupefied look on his face. After about a minute of absorbing this horrifying knowledge he just nods his head.

“Okay, fair.”

With Kid metaphorically on board, Killer returned his attention to you.

“So it’s really happening now?” he asked.

“Her water broke,” Heat added.

“Are you seriou-NNfgh!” Killer flinched as you squeezed his hand, another contraction, but he starts the stopwatch, keeping a diligent eye on the timeface despite the pain shooting up his arm. Behind him Kid snorted, seeing Killer now on the receiving end of your iron grip.

“How long till we reach the island?” Killer choked out.

“We’ve still got at least nine or ten hours, we weren’t expecting to hit port until tonight,” Heat said.

The tension in your grip fades as the contraction passes and Killer slumps.

“No, no that’s not gonna work,” you said, “we need to get there sooner.”

“Well, I mean- “Heat stumbled, “let me check with the navigator.”

He leaves, and Killer takes your hand in both of his now, stroking gently, “Babe, maybe we should get a space here ready too, just in case?”

His voice was gentle and coaxing, but he’s unsurprised when you reject the idea, “Absolutely not. I love you but we will not have our baby in the same place where Kid left a rotting body for three days just to prove a point to Heat.” You pointed to the very clear outline stained permanently into the floorboards.

“Oh yeah,” Kid snickered, “I won that fucking bet too.”

Killer sighed, scratching at the head of his helmet in frustration, “Okay well, shit, okay,” He rises and starts to pace, “I guess we just have to wait? Can you make it that long?”

“Yeah, It’ll be fine, we’ll be there before you even know i-augh!” the pain cuts you off as Killer clicked the stopwatch.

“Ten and a half minutes,” he said, “Gives us some time but it’s not a lot.” You nodded, attempting to get to your feet before plopping back into the chair, sending both Kid and Killer with hands out to catch you if necessary.

You waved them off, “Kid, go grab some of those baby books, they might have information how to slow this down.”

He grumbles but rises, striding from the room.

You call to him, “They’re in the top nightstand drawer!”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” he calls back.

+++++++

You sat for a while, Killer stroking your back and holding your hand as you continued into the breathing techniques. The time between contractions, while still at least ten minutes apart according to Killer, felt far too short before a fresh wave of pain rolled over you.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stayed before Heat returned, looking slightly relieved and holding something behind his back.

“Well?” Killer asked.

“The wind’s in our favor so we dropped every sail we have, as long as it stays that way, we can probably make it there an hour or two earlier than expected.”

Killer groaned, but you squeezed his hand in encouragement.

“It helps but it’s still a ways away,” he said.

“We don’t have a choice,” you said, “I can make it until then.”

“By the way,” Heat shifted awkwardly, pulling out what was behind his back, “wasn’t sure when to give this but a couple of us wanted to make a baby blanket.”

It was thickly stitched with patches of various color and design, but it was soft, and you tear up, “This is so sweet! Where do you guys find the fabric?”

He scratched at his head, “Some civilians of the last island ‘donated’ them to us.”

“‘Donated’?”

“Well, from their clothes. That they were wearing.”

Killer inspected a corner of a patch, “Is that blood?”

“Yeah don’t worry, that’ll wash out.”

You held the blanket to your chest, “It’s perfect, thank you Heat.”

Heat flushed, mumbling something inaudible, clearly not used to the attention. Killer turned to him.

“Hey did you see Kid?”

Heat straightened back up, “No I thought he was here with you two?”

Killer scratched at his helmet, “The hell, he was just supposed to grab the books.” He turned to you, “just wait here, I’m going to see what he’s doing.”

+++++++

He managed to find Kid, sitting cross legged on the floor with his nose buried in a book. All of the baby books were scattered around him, lying half open or tossed haphazardly. Kid’s head snapped up, hearing Killer enter, and his face looked absolutely haunted.

“Dude, have you read this shit?” Kid asked.

“Yes, several times. Kid what are you doing? You were supposed to bring the books back.”

Kid placed the book down, eyes still wide and he looks as though he’s aged ten years, “I mean, holy shit?” he said, “I-… I’ve seen some pretty nasty stuff but that is just-it’s…” He shuddered, unable to voice the trauma of what he’d just read.

Killer sighed, nudging Kid with his foot as he gathered up an armful of books, “Just come on already.”

“I mean what the fuck? People do that? Why can’t they just, I don’t know, lay an egg or some shit?”

“You know that’s literally how you were born.”

“Still,” Kid said, “it’s fucking gross.”

They returned to the kitchen where you and Heat were engrossed in conversation over the blanket. He was pointing to a square of blue cloth.

“That one actually came from some rich dude at the last port, so it’s probably good material.”

“What about this one?” you gestured to a pink square with an elegant pattern.

“Oh yeah, that guy was a dick.”

Kid wordlessly rushed forward, clasping your shoulders in his hands and staring down at you now with the sympathy of a fellow soldier holding a dying friend.

“You’ll be okay, we’ll get that thing out of you,” his voice was more serious than you’d heard it before.

“I- Thanks?”

Kid nodded in resolution, giving your shoulders a soft squeeze before he let go. Killer had dumped the books on the table and was flipping through them.

“Shit,” Killer said, “there’s a lot of ways to speed up labor but not to slow it down,” he gave the last book an agitated slam shut.

Kid looked around the kitchen, visibly searching for ideas, “How about we get her drunk?”

Two smacks, one from Heat one from Killer, followed immediately upside Kid’s head. He cursed loudly and rubbed at the sore spot.

“Fine! Fuck! I’m just trying to help here! What about food?”

Killer smacked upside his head again, more on instinct than anything, before he paused, “…Actually that’s not a bad idea.”

“Fuck you!” Kid screamed.

You groaned, food sounded like the least appealing thing as your stomach swirled and you said as much.

“I think at this point,” Heat said, “we just have to stay distracted long enough to get to shore…”

With the sun still high in the sky, the idea of waiting that long was impossible, but Heat was right, there wasn’t another option.

+++++++

By the time the sky was just beginning to darken, those hours had felt like the longest in your life. Contractions were now four minutes apart and Killer had become increasingly frantic with no sight of the island in sight.

They had managed to kill an hour with Kid reading through his hit list, featuring occasional explanations on why a particular person was going to die exceptionally slowly, until Killer had decided discussing murder methods probably wasn’t great for you or the baby.

As your contractions grew in pain and shortened in rest time, the kitchen was echoing loud groans of pain every few minutes. Kid kept a wide berth from you, protecting the few human fingers he had left, as Killer took the brunt of your crushing grip. During a particularly rough minute, Killer, needing some way to alleviate his own pain, gripped Kid’s shoulder, effectively creating a train of pain. Wire had appeared in the doorway, alerted by the screaming of you and Kid, but seeing what was actually happening, turned around and left before he could be pulled in.

After what felt like a lifetime the merciful cry of “Land!” was heard, and you could’ve cried with relief.

+++++++

The Victoria Punk nearly crashed into port in its haste as the dead of night was broken abruptly by lanterns lighting and men shouting from the ship. The town was clearly prosperous, you could see it in the pristine white walled houses that lined the cobblestone walkways. A place like this would normally be a prime target to loot and burn, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

Kid leaped from deck to shore before the gangplank had been pulled, followed by Killer carrying you bridal style.

“Watch the ship! We’ll be back!” Kid called to whomever was within earshot on board.

As the two men sprinted down the street, spurred on by your increasing groans of discomfort, both come to the realization that neither knows where the other is going. The houses are nearly identical and mostly likely residential, with tall trees and manicured gardens blocking sight of the roads ahead. Kid swerved to the nearest house, banging against the front door hard enough to splinter it, “Wake up! Where’s the doctor? We got a delivery!”

When the door looked ready to crack in two, its opened by a very disgruntled and sleepy middle-aged man, who took one look before screaming.

“Eu-Eu-Eutass Kid!”

The door slammed shut, followed by several clicks of locks.

Kid turned with a satisfied smirk, “Look at that,” he jerked a thumb at the door, chest puffed in pride, “I’ve got some reputation here.”

“Kid!” you and Killer demanded in unison.

“Right, yup, shitting a watermelon.”

At the next house, Killer pulled back Kid before he approached the door, “Let me this time.” He set you gingerly to the ground, making sure you were steady on your feet before knocking more politely. After a minute or two, a bedraggled looking young man opened the door. His eyes shot open as he processed the men and woman before him and motions to shut the door, but Killer is quicker, planting a foot in the entrance to hold it open.

“Listen,” he grabbed the man by his silk robe before he can run, “my girl is about to have my baby, we just need to know where the doctor in this town is.”

“Y-You can’t t-tell me what to do, pirates!” he’d admit, this guy had some guts, but Killer was in no mood. He was about to unleash a scythe to help make him talk before your voice caught his ears.

“Look here buddy!” clearly you were in no mood either, “I am crowning as we speak, so either you tell us where to find a doctor, or I hike up my dress, squat down, and have the baby right here on your goddamn lawn!”

If it were even possible, the man’s eyes widened more, a hand to his mouth in horror. Lights from neighboring houses were beginning to flicker on to see what the commotion was.

“O-Oh- “the man muttered, “Oh no- no no no! Do not do that!”

“I’m gonna do it so help me!” you screamed.

“She’ll do it,” Killer reiterated.

“Where’s your fucking doctor!?” Kid bellowed from the sidewalk.

A loud groan of agony ripped from you, and seeing you reach down to gather up your skirt, the man finally snapped to action.

“Okay! Okay, just, don’t do that!” he grabbed your hands away from your clothes, but released them immediately seeing the deadly glare Kid had sent. Hands raised in submission, he continued, “the doctor’s not far, just go down the road here and-“

A large solid metal hand clasped his shoulder and cuts him off. The grip is anything but friendly as Kid’s lips stretched into a manic grin.

“Oh no, you’re gonna take us there buddy.”

Even in the lamplight, the man’s skin has dropped three shades paler, “I-I…”

Once Killer stands behind him, trapped between these two wanted pirates, he knows he doesn’t have a choice.

+++++++

When they reached the doctor’s house, said physician, a wrinkled little old man of at least sixty, saw the pained look on your face and the straining swell of stomach and immediately pulled you in without question. With a strength surprising to his age, the doctor had pushed back Kid and Killer, keeping them in the adjacent room while he phoned to a nurse and got you settled. Your unlucky escort had managed to slip away in the chaos, most likely returning to the safety of his home.

Kid and Killer now sat awkwardly in the small quaint waiting room, the nurse having already arrived and sounds of increasing discomfort echoing from through the door. Killer had his helmed head in his hands, knee bouncing erratically as Kid tried to find something to say to help his friend. Another cry ripped from the doctor’s room, making them both flinch. Kid fiddled with the metallic end of this prosthetic fingers as a thought dawned on him for the first time.

“Killer…you’re gonna be a dad.”

Killer barely muffled the snort that left him as he picked his head up, “Did you just now realize that?”

“No! I just- “he struggled around for the right words, “…it’s all gonna be different now, won’t it?”

“Probably.”

Kid’s eyes returned back to his hands; brow furrowed. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the carnal noises that came muffled through the other room. Killer looked toward his closest friend, head still bowed in thought, and agreed in his head. It would be different now, as soon as he walked through that door and met this new child that would become the center of his life, things never would be the same. Even their day to day sailing that seemed so simple would change. And he realized now that Kid was thinking the same thing.

“Kid.”

He grunted in response.

“It’ll be different but, in a good way.” Killer said, “just think of it like…getting a new crew member.”

Kid barked in laughter, “A useless crewmember.” Killer shot him a look, “Sorry,” Kid continued, “you know what I mean.”

Killer sighed and rested his head against the wall behind him.

“At least they won’t be alone,” Kid said.

Killer turned to him, though Kid kept his face down, but he knew what he meant. He remembered how hard it had been growing up alone and on his own, and how things had gotten just a bit easier after meeting Kid. Remembered how hard it was even with the two of them, just to get by and put food in their stomachs, to not get mugged or killed, and even if something happened there would be no one to mourn that loss except the other. But this child, they wouldn’t have to know that suffering, the pain of trying to sleep in the freezing night while your body cried out for food and warmth. They would never be alone or abandoned like them. Kid met his stare now; his eyes were deep in some long-forgotten memory.

“No,” Killer said, “they won’t. Never.”

Kid nodded, a silent promise.

The moment broke when the door cracked open, the doctor’s wrinkled face peeking through, “Which of you is the father again?”

Killer sprang to his feet.

“Come with me, you’ve got someone to meet,” the doctor said and returned into the room.

Killer moved forward but sent one look back at his friend before he walked through the door. Anyone else wouldn’t see the slightest tremor in his arms, but Kid wasn’t anyone.

“Go on,” he gave Killer a lop-sided grin, “go meet your new brat and be gross with Y/N.”

Even through the mask, Killer’s grin could be felt, “Thanks.”

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casper-writes-stuff · 4 years

Text

I Think I’m In Love

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921265

Summary: Virgil falls for Roman, and the realization hits him pretty hard. But... It's not a scary realization, like he thought it would be.

In which I'm five days late for Virgil's birthday, but here's his birthday fic that got way out of hand. I went into this expecting like no plot and Virgil simply thinking about how gay he is for Roman and then Roman refused to be ignored and it just kind of went from there. I've dedicated this to Max ( @max-is-tired) cause honestly? They've helped me get out of my writing funk lately and also they've been super excited for me to finish it since I sprung the idea for the fic on them in the first place lmao.

It wasn’t exactly a soft realization, when Virgil had it. It wasn’t like Patton telling him he loved him so much, and that he wouldn’t know what to do without his friendship. It wasn’t like Logan handing him a book on something Virgil was really interested in, wanting to discuss it with him and Virgil figuring out that was Logan telling him that he loved him like a brother. Nothing with Remus was soft, but realizing Virgil cared about him, too, wasn’t nearly as jarring as this.

Honestly, realizing how much he loved each of his friends never hit Virgil quite as hard as it did when he realized he was in love with one Roman Grimm. It was like a bag of bricks dropped from a few feet straight onto his chest.

Virgil had come up with a particularly creative insult and it had left Roman keeled over, wheezing so hard all that was escaping his mouth was high pitched noises, not a breath of air between them. He’d crossed his arms in triumph, feeling like he’d won that days bickering.

It took him all of ten seconds before he realized his expression wasn’t the smirk he’d been going for, but an overly sappy, love-filled smile at Roman’s laughter. And that’s when the bricks dropped and all air rushed out of his lungs, his eyes widening as he watched Roman gather himself.

He… didn’t run. Didn’t even consider it before Roman had recovered, made a comment that prompted Virgil into a response that sent him cackling again. While the conversation continues, Virgil thinks.

He thinks about his last venture into the dating world, and how it ended in such a massive disaster that he did his best to jade himself to feeling like that again, because what’s the point of butterflies when they’re only going to rip through your heart on their way out?

But… being around Roman doesn’t give him butterflies. Strangely enough, Virgil feels like he’s the one with wings, when he’s with the flamboyant actor. Being with Roman makes Virgil feel like he could do anything he wanted to, so long as he had him by his side. Doesn’t matter that they’d be bickering and insulting each other the entire journey. If anything, that’d make Virgil feel more confident that he can actually pull it off, whatever it was he decided to do that day.

And honestly, now that he’s thinking about it, Virgil gets kind of reckless when he and Roman are in the same vicinity. Dee has even pointed out to him before a venture into an abandoned amusement park to go ghost hunting that Roman had an easier time convincing Virgil to do something stupid and kind of dangerous than Patton did trying to get him to sleep.

Virgil had, naturally, told him to shove that stick in his ass down his own throat. He may be spending a little too much time with Roman’s brother, if he was being honest with himself. Dee had only scoffed, rolling his eyes before letting Virgil leave the house to meet up with an eccentric blond.

That venture into the old, rusty amusement park was one of the best nights of Virgil’s life, if he didn’t count being almost crushed to death under an unsteady beam in one of the haunted houses. He and Roman had so much fun getting scared shitless by every creak and groan of the old rides. The funhouse mirrors had sent Virgil into laughing fits when every single one somehow only showed Roman as his normal self while he himself got the different appearances.

Thinking back on it, there was definitely a ghost fucking with them that entire adventure, but Virgil was having too much fun exchanging witty insults with Roman to really care. He’d had fun, and really wasn’t that something? Cause Virgil… Virgil didn’t have fun. He mildly enjoyed things while anxiety tickled the back of his mind, making him overthink every single action that was a result of him not thinking enough. The anxiety faded, the longer he knew the people he hung out with regularly, but it never really went away long enough for him to forget it was there until something that needed it happened.

Virgil was about to start thinking about how Roman managed to get him out from under the old rotting wood of a support beam before the haunted house got worse when Roman himself interrupted his thinking.

“Virgil. Vee. V-Man. Very Unimportant. Walking Existential Crisis. Vladimir--”

“Roman if you finish equating to me to the president of Russia, your face will no longer be as pretty as you think it is,” Virgil interrupted, his eyes finally focusing back on Roman’s expression. Which was filled with a confused concern.

Oh shit, did he space out?

“Well sorry, you stopped responding to me for a minute there, and your face went from all “Roman is a dumbass” smirk to some kind of mushy, gooey grin.”

Virgil scrunched up his nose in disgust at the comparison.

“Ew. Don’t ever call me mushy or gooey again, and I’ll let you live.”

Roman snorted, rolling his eyes at Virgil’s false disgust of all things soft.

Which, rude. Virgil had a reputation, he couldn’t just let himself be called mushy. What would his pretend fans think!

“I’d like to see you try and kill me, Very Short. You can’t even reach my shoulders without my assistance, you think you can aim for my heart from all the way down there?”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed while Roman’s grin widened, turning into a challenge.

There was exactly two beats of silence before Roman bolted for the door, Virgil chasing after him.

Virgil stops thinking about his feelings after that, stops thinking beyond strategy to capture Roman and somehow give him the biggest noogie of his life for daring to bring up Virgil’s height.

And it just kind of… continues. Virgil feels comfortable around Roman in a way he hadn’t before, despite Virgil never thinking he was ever uncomfortable around him prior to his revelation. Maybe it’s because he’s aware of the feelings now, and he recognizes his actions for what they are; pure, genuine affection and romantic attraction.

Over the next few weeks, Virgil can’t help but test the waters a little bit. He starts flirting back when Roman sends him some stupid pick up line he thinks is funny. Several times they’ve gone for hours, trying out-flirt each other and many times Virgil has won because Roman can’t let go of the overly ridiculous lines that focus on sex and Virgil is actually flirting so Roman eventually gets too flustered to continue.

Along with the flirting he gets… a lot more touchy. It’s not exactly subtle, nor is it obvious the touching is another result of his discovery, considering it’s really just Virgil letting himself rise to a lot of the bait Roman lays out for a playful fight. Patton definitely notices though, and the conversation that leads to is awkward at best, mortifying at worse.

And no, he doesn’t really feel like recounting that event in his memories.

It’s two days before his birthday when his brother and Roman’s brother trap him in Dee’s room with them to confront him.

“You know, you could’ve just asked to talk to me in private instead of hooking your arms around mine to drag me in here,” Virgil comments after flopping on his back on the carpeted floor beneath him. Dee and Remus had both taken advantage of their heights, and Virgil hadn’t really been able to keep his feet under him so when they let him go he’d fallen on his ass and who was he to pass up the opportunity to lay down?

“Yes, but that wasn’t nearly as much fun as dragging you in here like we were going to torture you for information!”

Virgil huffs a breath of air, trying to get his bangs out of his eyes enough so he could give Remus a curious look.

“Okay, and why are you torturing me for information?”

Dee cuts in, then. “Because you’re so open with us, Virgil.”

Virgil narrows his eyes in a glare at his older brother.

“You’re point, Monty the Python?”

Dee rolls his eyes at the nickname, crossing his arms.

“Our point, V-Section, is that you’re acting weird around my brother and he may not have noticed but we have,” Remus butts in with an irritated huff.

Virgil blinks, staring at his brother’s best friend for a solid thirty seconds before he speaks up.

“Was that… Did you just call me a C-Section but with the first letter of my name?” he asks, utterly bewildered. Usually Remus was a lot gorier or NSFW with his nicknames for others, and he didn’t usually relate their name back to it like Roman did.

“Did you really just totally ignore everything Remus said after that?” Dee asked, exasperated with the thing Virgil chose to focus on rather than the important part.

Virgil shrugged, shifting his feet so his knees were in the air and bringing his hands to rest on his stomach.

“I mean, yeah? It’s not like I’m really trying to keep my actions a secret, guys. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t say anything sooner? It’s been, what, two months since I actually started flirting with him?”

Dee blinks in surprise at Virgil’s admission.

“...That’s it? You’re not going to fight us on this?” he asks, skeptical of how easy Virgil was taking this. He was quite literally taking it lying down.

“Yeah? Why would I fight you on this?” Virgil asked, raising his torso up on his elbows to better stare at them in confusion.

Genuine confusion.

Jesus Christ.

“Probably because when you dated Chris and he criticized literally everything you did and liked you broke down after he dumped you and told everyone you wouldn’t let yourself interact with romance again?” Remus said, confused by Virgil’s confusion.

“Ah. That. Well, it’s whatever. In the past, literally years ago at this point. Why should I let it bother me now?”

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Was Dee’s immediate response, panic that was almost genuine ringing clear through his words.

Sighing, Virgil flopped back onto the ground, ignoring the slight burning on his elbows from sliding them against the carpet. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, arms spread wide and knees knocking together as he thought (he’d been doing so much thinking lately).

“I know, not exactly something you’d expect me to say, as someone with generalized and social anxiety disorders. But… I don’t like Roman, the way I liked Chris. With Chris, things were fast but they felt kind of forced after a while. I mean yeah, it was fun making fun of people with him, but he didn’t exactly stop at other people, or even me. He criticized himself, and I felt a kinship in that, I guess. I felt like he’d relate to me on my worse nights. I dated him more because I thought he’d understand the feelings because he went through them too.”

Remus and Dee looked at each other as Virgil trailed off, obviously lost in thought. They let the silence go for a minute before Remus got impatient.

“Okay, then how is my brother different than Crucifixion?” he asked, impulsively grabbing one of Dee’s hands to play with his fingers see how long he could squeeze them together before he pulled his hand away.

Virgil still didn’t look at them, instead choosing to smile softly at the ceiling and wow, if that wasn’t a strange look to see on his brother.

“With Roman it’s like… it’s like coming home after a long day of bullshit. It’s a huge relief, I get to unwind from my stress by focusing on something else that I enjoy exponentially more than talking to other people. Instead of overly stressing about how someone reacted to this action, or what to say next to avoid pissing people off, I get to focus on just being in the moment and enjoying myself. It just… feels like home, loving him.”

“Well, slap my ass and call my Lucifer, cause hell must have just frozen over,” Remus says, making Virgil freeze as what he just said sinks in.

“Well. Guess that answers that question, then,” Dee comments, finally pulling his hand away when Remus scrunches his hand in a way that shoots pain through the back of it, making Remus grin at him.

Virgil makes a noise, but Dee can’t really identify what it is, now that Virgil has covered his face with his hands. Granted, that really does nothing to obscure the way his neck and ears have turned red, and if Dee guessed, his face was probably just as bad.

“Remus, I think we should let Virgil stew in his words by himself now.”

Remus perks at that. “Oh! Can we go to the creek? I think I saw a dead squirrel there yesterday and I wanna see how much it’s decomposed.”

Dee sighed, but nodded, turning away from his brother as his best friend bounded out of the room in excitement.

Virgil let out a groan as he listened to Dee and Remus leave, noting the lack of the door clicking shut. Guess it was left open then, probably to urge Virgil out of Dee’s room faster.

Well… he may as well accept that he just admitted Out Loud to his brother and friend that he was in love with Roman. Not like it was information he didn’t already know, he just… hadn’t really anticipated telling them it was something beyond a stupid crush.

With a heavy sigh, Virgil uncovered his face and made quick work of getting himself off the floor so he could actually go chill out in his room like he’d been planning to do before he was ambushed outside of the bathroom.

Honestly, Virgil really shouldn’t have expected Dee and Remus leaving him alone after his admission would mean they would just leave him alone about the topic altogether. Especially now that it was his birthday, and Roman was coming over in five minutes and Remus was giving him a wide unsettling grin.

Usually, that wouldn’t mean anything. Except it was paired with Dee’s self-satisfied smirk as he swung his keys around his finger to entertain himself while he waited.

Virgil glared at the two of them from his spot on the kitchen counter (he’s gay and has anxiety, you couldn’t pay him to sit properly on a chair. Or in a chair regardless).

“What are you two up to? I swear to God, if it’s a surprise party, I will skin you both,” Virgil hisses.

Remus goes to respond, fully prepared to get into a competition with Virgil on who can come up with more creative threats, but Roman bursts in at that exact second, and Virgil slinks off the counter to go meet him at the door, shooting Dee another harsh glare over his shoulder.

“I’m here, Charlotte’s Web!”

Virgil couldn’t help the small smile that formed at the classic nickname, shaking his head as he stopped in the doorway leading in and out of the kitchen.

“Hey, Caesar Salad,” Virgil greeted, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket and forcing his smile into a more lopsided smirk as Roman looked up at him.

Roman paused for a second, staring at Virgil like he’d just seen something he hadn’t before, making Virgil quirk a brow in question. Instead of an explanation, Roman just cleared his throat and finished maneuvering a large brown paper bag through the gap between his leg and the doorframe.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked, stepping forward to help Roman out by grabbing the thing he wasn’t struggling with--his jacket.

Roman glared at Virgil, who only smirked in response before huffing as he managed to get the bag through without ripping it.

“You’re birthday present if you must know, Gerard Gay.”

Roman was rewarded with a snort as Virgil turned back into the kitchen, gesturing for Roman to follow with a wave of his hand.

Entering the kitchen, Roman let out a long groan.

“Remus, what are you and Rumplesnakeskin doing here?”

“I live here, Roman,” Dee responded before Remus could, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, but you’re never here when I’m here, and if you are, you always make a quick getaway. You’re up to something, Jafaar, and I don’t like it.”

Virgil couldn’t help but agree with Roman, going back to glaring at the two as he hopped back up on the counter to get comfortable.

“Plus, you both have been giving me your evil plotting smiles all morning.”

Roman shuttered. “Oh yeah, something’s definitely up. Spit it out Dr. Gloom and William Snakespere. What foul deeds are you planning today?”

Remus snorts at that, pulling a recorder out of his pocket. One of those old handheld ones you see in movies when the main character needs proof of something that was said. Something he must have gotten from Logan.

Something he probably had two days ago.

Virgil froze, eyes zeroing in on the recorder. The next thing he knew, he was launching himself off the counter in Remus’ direction, reaching for the device in hopes of either grabbing it or making Remus drop it so it’d break on the ground.

Neither of those things happened, considering Remus seemed to anticipate Virgil’s reaction as he gave a gleeful squeal, leaping onto the table and holding the recorder high above his head, out of Virgil’s reach.

Virgil had no qualms getting on the table, but before he could, Dee stopped him.

“Virgil, that table can only handle so much weight, do you really want to incur both of our moms’ wrath by breaking the table when we’re only visiting?”

Roman watched as Virgil was clearly panicking at the fact that Remus had a recorder in his hand, gaze switching between Remus and Dee and Virgil as he tried to figure out what was going on.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, other than the fact you guys have recorded something Virgil clearly doesn’t want me to hear, but I’d honestly really rather you didn’t force him into sharing something he’s not ready to share yet,” Roman said, crossing his arms after dropping the bag on the floor.

Remus let out a loud whine at that. “C’mon, Roman! I thought you’d be curious to know what we’ve found out.”

Roman shrugged at that, looking to Virgil, who was currently staring at him with wide eyes. He met the look with a small smile.

“Yeah, of course I’m curious. You guys know I hate being left out of the loop, but Virgil doesn’t want me to know right now. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll never want me to know. And even if it does, I’ll respect that. My curiosity is not an excuse to betray his trust like that.”

“I love you.”

Roman blinked in shock at the words that suddenly left Virgil’s mouth, and if the surprise on Virgil’s face was anything to go by, Virgil hadn’t expected to say them either.

Silence filled the kitchen for a few minutes before Remus let out a resigned sigh.

“Well that just took all the fun out of this. Dee let’s go to the park so I can scare some kids.”

Dee shook his head at his best friend as he hopped off the table.

“We’re not scaring children again, Rem. The last time we nearly got kicked out of the park for good, and I know that one is your favorite for corpse hunting.”

Dee’s words trailed off until the door closed behind the two friends as Roman and Virgil continued to stare at each other.

“...I love you too.”

Virgil’s face immediately lit on fire, and he let out an embarrassed sound, but didn’t move from his spot leaning against the table, knee halfway on top of it from when Dee had stopped him.

Roman couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head.

“Was that what Remus wanted me to hear?” he asked, shifting to sit on a counter (a habit he gained from Virgil, though he was more prone to sitting in actual chairs, he sat on whatever surface was closest to him).

Virgil finally shifted his leg off the table, clearing his throat as he collapsed onto the floor, legs spread out before him while he leaned back on his hands.

“...Yeah. Yeah it was. Though the recording probably had a lot more embarrassing stuff on it, I doubt they only recorded the last bit of that conversation.”

Roman nodded, tapping his fingers against the hard surface of the counter.

“To be completely honest, I had my suspicions when you started flirting back? But I didn’t really want to say anything in case you stopped, or I was wrong.”

Virgil groaned, letting his head fall back so he could stare at the ceiling.

“Yeah, that started like a week after I figured it out. Remember when you called me mushy and gooey and I threatened your weak life form?”

Roman snorted. “Yeah, I remember. And excuse you, you’re the one with a weak life form Virgil.”

Virgil squinted at Roman then. “Roman. You’re allergic to cats. And chili peppers.”

“You’re lactose intolerant!” Roman protested, earning a smirk.

“Yeah? Do you see me avoiding dairy, Roman? I have chugged an entire gallon of milk, Princey. You really think something as stupid as milk inolerance is going to stop me?”

The bickering continued, them not really acknowledging their feelings beyond the initial declarations of love.

Which was fine with Virgil. They didn’t need to label anything just yet, and it’s not like Virgil was really into physical affection beyond cuddling anyway, so nothing really would change between them, label or not.

And if they held hands more often, or teased each other with pet names they didn’t dare do before, then that was really nobody’s business, was it?

#jo writes #sanders sides #ts virgil #ts roman #ts deceit #ts remus #prinxiety #remus typical creativity #friendly bullying #and by that i mean virgil and roman make fun of each other a whole lot #empty death threats #short jokes #there's definitely a ghost in this #and the ghost is definitely joan #but like it's so brief

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hermitcraftheadcanons · 4 years

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Zombie Apocalypse AU Masterpost 2 Electric Boogaloo

Previous Post: https://hermitcraftheadcanons.tumblr.com/post/618314308275863552/zombie-apocalypse-au-masterpost

-Bdubs is slowly going feral because he has the virus, it just doesn't show itself physically.

-Cub was tempted to purposefully get the virus to try and help find a cure, (they probably don't have lab rats given the circumstances,) by Scar talked him out of it.

-The timeline of events with DocM is that he started in the NHO group, they ended up dispersing (Etho turned and then left to ensure the safety of his friends, Beef ended up going separate due to Doc and Bdubs' constant fighting and Bdubs stormed off after an argument.) He ends up getting taken in by TFC, (he's the first to arrive,) and eventually captures Rendog.

-Stressmonster and Iskall originally lived in a cabin in the mountains. After Iskall got swept away in a snow storm and Joe and Cleo stopped by, Stress had no idea there was a Zombie outbreak.

-Hypnotizd and XB ended up trespassing in Jevin's property and Jevin shot Hypno. XB pleaded to Jevin that they weren't zombies and to not hurt them further and Jevin begrudgingly went, 'okay, fine. You aren't taking my food though.'

-Impulse's weapon of choice was a shovel.

-Grian can't fly in this AU. Let's be real, if he could, it would be pretty OP.

-Keralis most definetly gave a larger share of his rations to Xisuma while he was sick.

-TangoTek entirely blames himself for Impulse leaving and Zedaph getting bit. He feels especially conflicted because he wants to leave because he's convinced they both hate him and blame him but he can't because 'what if they go looking for him?' 'What if someone worse comes from that?'

-The location of Etho's bite is right on the front of the neck. He actually passed out from blood loss initially and he very nearly died. (Luckily for him the zombie didn't pull away, ripping out anything important (like a windpipe of an oesophagus,) giving Doc time to carefully unhinge the zombie's jaw and save Etho.) Nobody was quite sure how Etho was even alive with a big chunk out of his neck until he started displaying some strange behaviour.

-False is usually the one who stays up late to stand guard and protect her group.

-Mumbo accidentally caught Hypno in one of his traps at one point but let him go.

-Hay here’s a dumb idea, The reason ren is immune to the zombie virus is because he has like an anti-zombie virus in his body it behaves just like a normal zombie virus but it doesn’t turn you into a zombie, so how the hermits turn the zombie hermits human again is by making ren bite them.

-I have an angst ending and a no-angst ending so first here's the not-angst one: Doc and Ren team up with Cub and Scar to make a cure (so Ren doesn't have to bite everyone personally). They travel around finding every bitten survivor and salvageable zombie they can, using the weapons and resources from the NHO for protection. They find ways of producing and distributing enough cure for everyone, and during that process all of the Hermits decide to stay friends and in touch afterward.

-For the Zombie AU, if Scar doesn't already have like a different role in this au, he could've possibly been the first human infected because *someone's* pet cat ate a weird looking mouse and bit their owner.

-This is very angsty and gory, so fair warning: How fast does the virus spread through the body from the bite? If slow, you can cut the bitten part off before it spreads out through the body. To doc having a robot arm, what if he got bit and out of fear, they amputated his arm to stop the spread. I know y'all probably don't wanna go with body horror, but that's something to consider in this AU.

-Lowkey I feel zombie Etho doesnt do justice to his epic PVP skillz, but!! I do see Etho to be something SIMILAR to it! Idk if you've ever played Telltale's The Walking Dead game, but Etho could a zombie whisperer, a human who wears zombie skin and lives amongst the zombies for protection. So when Etho got bit, they THOUGHt he turned but actually just decided, hey I live here now and just vibin.

-You know how ren being a werewolf is popular in the fandom(from what I've seen) maybe that's why is immune to being a zombie and getting bitten by him if your infected cures it because the zombie infection and werewolf infection cancel eachother out.

-A more jokey Zombie!Au thing: The first episode of Llamas with hats but it's Zombie!Etho and Beef.

-I feel like if Wels could get to some of his friends he would try his hardest to protect them and if he ever managed to get bit it would be to save someone else.

-There is just always so much angst potential in any scenario or AU where it involves the possibility of Wels sacrificing himself in some way to protect his friends from something poor bb 😔

-Would infected hermits be able to like recognize people after the infection zombified them or whatever it is? Because if so oh my god imagine the angst.

(All those above in red are from our community's lovely anons!)

-About the anti-zombie Ren bite thing: Doc has the idea suddenly in the middle of an argument so the conversation goes a little like this:

Ren: "So what I'm trying to say, my dude, is that would never work because -"

Doc: "Ren. Bite me."

Ren: "Oh yeah, real mature way to end a disagreement there -"

Doc: *facepalming* "No, Ren, I mean actually.... Just do it, I'll explain later."

-Angst ending: They could never produce enough cure to stem the tide of undeath. They all choose to band together and take shelter underground, hoping to wait it out. They use X's tunnel, but that many people that close together smells irresistible to a horde. The zombies flood after them into the tunnel. X says he'll buy them some time, even though he is terrified. He collapses the tunnel on himself and the zombies so the others can escape. His last thought: At least I get to die as myself.

-Thinking about Etho's bite location (you said it was on his neck): Most bites are on the shoulder or leg (bit from behind while running away) or on the arm (bit while raised to defend). To be bitten on the neck he would have to have his arms and shoulders lowered. Etho, being a good fighter, would have only done this if it was absolutely necessary. Conclusion: he was bitten with his arms stretched out to protect someone behind him, and he knew the consequence that his choice would have.

-(@shadeswiftdraws.)

-The NHO are all strangely dressed (Etho is kakashi, Doc is green, Bdubs has a bandana,) because they were all at a cosplay convention. (-@tomcatacaphe.)

-When Etho left The nHo, he brings a Journal with him. Every Night he'll write a Journal entry. He'll write just about anything, there even some random lyrics and some pretty flowers he pick up along his travels. But as the Journal goes on, the words slowly became wobbly. Inconsistent. until finally, Unreadable chicken skrach. His final (at least readable) entry is: "-I hoPE yoU GUyZ ArE DoInG bETThEr ThAn I Am" As some point in time, Etho lost his Journal and Joe hills found it.

-Speaking of Joe Hill, he made it his personal mission to collect every literature and entertament media he can possibly carry on him. From Dnd Book, poetry, Documentary DVD's, to random journal He think would be usefull. Stress is happy to help Joe but Cleo is a little annoyed because it's will only slow them down, but Joe Argued that "If there's no knowledge left, then what will the future be? Just staying alive and surviving?" Cleo begrudgingly agrees.

-I can totally see Joe and Cleo Rocking an actual Sword and Dnd Cosplay (Joe got is a gift while Cleo Commissions her's after seeing Joe whip out his sword one time in a one shot DnD session) they keep the swords, but they ditch the Costume pretty early on tho.

-Mumbo's next Job Interview would be schedule at Concorp. But then the Zombie apocalypse happened on his way there.

(-@tearosepedall.)

-I don’t want this au to end but here’s my take: most of them get to the bunker where they don’t develop a cure, but do create a vaccine. Occasionally they will venture out to hand out the vaccine to survivors. Still, they all decide to stay into stay together. But because they were unable to develop a cure, even though they really try, there are some how have been lost such as etho, zed, and mumbo. Still the rest of them morn and try their best to survive without modern society. (-@lookitsspacekween.)

https://hermitcraftheadcanons.tumblr.com/post/618587883366957056/tw-very-brief-mention-of-vomit-general-warnings (-@carpe-shovelem.)

-Funny/happy ending to the Zombie AU: The hermits set up a zombie funneling system where the ones that didn't die from infection get bit by Ren to get turned back and they return the dead and give them proper burials. (-@my-cat-is-a-bastard.)

-I just remembered the thought post with Tuartis sleeping through things, Bdubs sleeping through the apocalypse, but now we've got Wels on the sleep team too! Wonder if he'd have slept through the apocalypse as well... (-@853dragons.)

TW: Mentions of dead animals:

I've got one last bit for the zombie au, it ties into my parasite one: With the rumors that the outbreak started in the Convex cancer research facility, and Scar feeling guilt because he Should Have Been Able To Stop This... It really was their fault. As a company. It wasn't intentional, of course, but Convex created the parasite. It was during research into a cure for certain conditions that are notoriously risky/impossible to perform surgery on, like brain tumors or lukemia-type cancer. The hope was to utilize the parasites as something that could harmlessly go in, eat or destroy all the cancerous cells, then die off, leaving a perfectly healthy human. The research project was abandoned after a several years, when every single attempt ended with either dead or, in later years, extremely sickly rats. Although the final round seemed promising, the rats weren't showing obvious signs of a decline in health after two weeks, Convex was convinced to just give it up and that the utilization of parasitic worms was asking for more trouble than it was worth. Plus, PETA was getting dangerous with their choices in protest against the tests, which was the main reason it was called off. Cub and the board of directors didn't want to risk bodily harm to their researchers, and it truly was getting so beyond ridiculous that a few bodyguards weren't enough protection.

Some researchers took some of the test rats home as pets, including our Patient Zero, because they really were quite cute. Patient Zero got bit by his rat, and nobody really thought anything of it for a couple weeks until his behavior took a bad turn. He was picking fights and throwing verbal abuse, and no amount of warnings and write-ups were giving any hint of stopping him. It all finally resulted in him viciously biting fellow labworkers, which sent two of them and himself to the ER. Upon arrival he had to be restrained and isolated lest he bite more people. He was fired from the company, his bodyguards pulled, but Scar had been friends and continued to visit him regularly, wondering where the change had come from, and saddened by his old friend's obvious decline in health. Nurses told him he was refusing to eat or drink, and too violent to reason with nor release to anywhere but the police or psychiatric hospital. Soon, there were more reports of uncharacteristicly aggressive actions from PZ's victims. And from there.... Well, it's your choice where the story goes, but it didn't take long for Scar to put the puzzle together.

-(@basaltdragon.)

More to be added!

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

A Healing Touch/New Experiences

15x17 coda, Post-Finale, Dean/Cas, Adam, Serafina, Sam, Jack, 2/2 chapters, 4.7k

Chapter 1: A Healing Touch (ao3 link)

Maybe if Cas hadn't abandoned him, he wouldn't have agreed to Adam's offer. But with free will finally theirs, Cas made his choice, and Dean his. Now he has to live with the consequences - even if they are awkward. He won't die from it, certainly.

It's only a massage.

But what Dean doesn't know, is that it's more than a massage. It's healing.

Dean’s grip tensed on the towel, pulling its fabric closer against his waist. Terrycloth rubbing his crotch like sandpaper, making him even more aware of his current state of undress than he already was.

Damn Adam, for talking him into this. The placid cadence of the First Man wreaked havoc with Dean’s judgement. Lulled him into a false sense of security. Now that his armor’s been cast off, Dean realizes how terrible an idea this really is. Briefly, Dean considers turning tail and jumping back into his outfit. Pretend this never happened. Play dumb. But then Adam emerges, parting the beaded curtains and motioning him towards a table set up in the middle of the room. Dean trudges along, window of opportunity slammed on his fingers.

“Relax Dean,” Adam croons, lighting one of the many candles that surrounds the room. Interspersed with crystals, totems, and an incense stick that suspiciously smells like a VW van at a concert. “This is going to be a transcendent experience.”

“If you say so…” He sits, kicking his feet. Hunched over, spine protesting from the angle. Ignores twinging pain with practiced ease.

Doesn’t matter how well he masks it in the other man’s presence; Adam arches a brow at Dean and orders him to lay down. “You’ll feel better that way.”

He stills, clutching at the towel with both hands. Frozen with an unnamed emotion Dean swears isn’t fear. Staring with wide eyes at Adam while the other man waits. Finally, he breaks the silence, “Can’t you just… do my shoulders?”

“I will,” Adam promises, drifting closer, “Along with your sides… your back… anywhere I believe you might need.” He brushes featherlight fingers across his chin, a scant distance from actually touching it. Lips stretched in a lazy smile. “If it’ll make you more comfortable, though, I’ll look away while you get settled.”

Dean clears his throat, gaze darting away. “You will?”

“While I don’t agree with your shame,” he says, pulling back, “I understand it. How it works. So, when you’re ready to start, let me know.” Adam spins on his heel, grabbing for tinctures and potions on a nearby counter. Mixes them. Feigns busyness while Dean readies himself.

He slides off the table, glancing from Adam to the exit. Wonders if he can sprint fast enough, snatch his clothes, and jump into his Baby. Put Santa Fe in his rearview, even if it meant leaving Cas. Finding a new path home would serve him right, abandoning Dean immediately for Serafina. Former and current angel leaving for lunch, catching up after millennia apart. Dean stuck with Adam. Biding time, making awkward small talk; listening as he rambled on about differing memories patchworked together while he played hopscotch through his timeline. So bored and confused he didn’t realize what Adam offered until he locked the bathroom door behind Dean, instructions rattling around in his head. Towel in his arms instead of around his waist.

“Dean,” Adam chimes in, laughing, “I’m almost done.”

Thinking, not acting, wasted too much time. No other options left Dean unfastened his towel. Held it while he climbed onto the table, carefully lying down. Adjusting his junk so his weight wouldn’t crush it. Then, face pressed into the appropriate hole, Dean fixed the towel. End hanging off the edges, censored his freckled ass from view. “Okay,” he says, croaking the next few words out. “I’m all set.”

“Perfect.”

Dean nearly asks when Adam will start. As soon as the question forms in his throat, he swallows it. Adam’s wet, warm touch sliding over his back. Spreads a slick substance that makes his skin goosepimple when the air meets it. Elicits a sudden, breathy response from Dean. “Sorry,” Adam apologizes, continuing his ministrations, “probably should’ve warned you?”

“Would’ve been nice…”

“Well, we can’t go back, now can we?” He kneads Dean’s shoulders, loosening a tight muscle with his thumb. “Let me do all the work…” Adam speaks aloud, calling on a nearby smart device. Tells it to play a certain playlist, whining strums pouring from his speakers. Dean rolls his eyes. The added hippie music only pours salt in the wound. “You’ve got a lot of knots, Dean.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dean says, “the stuff I do? My body’s been through the wringer.”

“You should take better care of your body, Dean. We only get the one.”

“Yeah, we do…” Dean sighs, shifting. Too aware of Adam’s touch. Counting the differences between his expectations and the reality. They’re softer than what he expected a man’s hands should feel like. And gentler. These motions were more tender than Dean was used to, especially from a stranger. Part of him wants this over with, while a stronger, quieter part begs for more. He shifts, squirming. “Hey, what’s this you’re rubbing me with?”

“Oh, the oil?” Adam laughs, pinching his sides, “I had it specially delivered from some small town I last visited years ago, in Morocco. When it was all the rage, kids fleeing for the East in search of enlightenment. This herbalist was teaching in the streets…”

Dean tunes Adam out like he did the music, drowning his voice in the waves of his mind. Lets it sink deep below while Dean splashes around shallower waters. Like how this trip was planned.

After Chuck, after the Empty – after their last cosmic showdown, the Winchesters faced a new challenge. An ordinary day. It’s been years since Dean could wake without worrying he forgot something. Walk and not look over his shoulder, at where he imagined someone with vengeance in their eyes and death in his future. Greet his family and not doubt that he will see them later.

It’s everything Dean wanted. Except he couldn’t handle it.

Sitting at the breakfast table, his family discussing pointless, trivial affairs, Dean broke. Maybe because of Sam’s bright smile while talking about a road trip he planned with Eileen, or Jack’s list of shows he wanted to watch. Maybe it was when he caught Cas’s gaze, his foot nudging at Dean’s, with a well of emotions Dean hadn’t deserved. Similar to that horrid night, although less sadness darkening his expression. Less blood staining his hands. Dean flashed between those two images and stood, hitting his knee on the table. Left with a meager and suspicious excuse.

Somehow, an endless cycle of near-death experiences made things simpler. Being trapped in a never-ending story meant exactly that. They would live forever. Exist in the unknown, remain unchanged.

Now that freedom is truly his, what will he do? How will he end? Will he become someone he doesn’t like? Will people he thought would stay forever slip out of his grasp? Does he go first and leave so many people behind?

He couldn’t sleep those next few nights. Cas caught on after his third bout with insomnia, bags heavy under his eyes. Looked across the canyon from his side of the bed, arms curled tight around himself. Chained there. “What’s wrong, Dean?” His fingers twitched in aborted need. Another easy piece that proved more difficult to fit into place. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Dean stared at Cas. Saw the streaks of grey that tickled his hairline, and little crusts around his eyes from sleep. Reminders of how fast things can change, and what little they have left in the tank. If Cas were an angel, he thought, they’d have more time. Can stay alive through his grace, healing even the littlest signs of age. Like Serafina did with Adam.

It slipped out like a leak, and then poured free. Inch given; mile taken. Frantically repeating how he met the First Man who loved an angel, and they lived normal lives in Santa Fe, and they seemed weird but in love, and –

“Okay,” Cas said, “we’ll go visit them.”

“Dean,” Adam whispers. Dean creaks an eye open from below the surface. “Where were you just now?”

His heart lurches. “Can’t really go anywhere, now can I?”

“Only in the physical sense,” he tells Dean, “your body can be here, but you can also be a million miles away.” Adam kneads harder on his back, forcing a grunt through Dean’s clenched teeth as he poked a sore muscle. “What’s more important that you’ve allowed your mind to wander far from the present?” He stops massaging, bending. Meets Dean’s squinted gaze. “Would you rather not be here?”

“What did I ever do to give that impression?”

Adam doesn’t flinch from Dean’s bite, smirking at him. Followed by an airy laugh that sounds nicer than it should. “Y’know, my hands can only do so much,” he continues, standing. Clawing at Dean with blunt nails, repetitively raking patterns like he were a rock garden. “Massages are a give and take. I can only leech away what you’re willing to part with. And there’s a mountain of stress buried here you’re still holding onto.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean growls. Closing his eyes hard enough white, hot stars burst from behind his lids. “Maybe you’re a shitty masseuse?”

“Nah, I’ve been doing this since Alexander the Great was in toga diapers. Can’t be that.”

“Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re any good.”

“That’s true.” Adam pinches Dean’s lower back, at the dip right where his ass curves from beneath the towel. Electricity jolts along his nerves, up his spine, and makes Dean bite his lip. “Then let’s say my intuition is sounding the alarm you’re blocked.”

Dean snorts, “Then give me some Pepto and we’ll call it a day.” Another pinch. This time his knee jerks, foot jumping into the air. “Can you quit it?”

“When you start taking this seriously.”

“Sorry,” he says, each syllable drenched in sarcasm. “I didn’t think your types took anything seriously.”

Adam places his hand on Dean’s neck. Touch shocks him enough he lifts his head, finding the other’s stern expression. “If not for me,” he says, “then Castiel.”

He still feels Adam on his neck, and the second hand hangs at his side, shiny. Yet there must be a third. Because how else can Dean explain the pain in his side as anything other than a stab wound. Knife stuck there, cruelly twisted, cutting his insides further. Dean subtly nods, going slack. Adam guides his head back to its resting spot. Resumes petting him with much more severity. Each stroke like a match scraping against a striking surface, sparking but never lighting.

“Do you feel my hands, Dean?”

“Am I supposed to feel anything else?” Dean grouses, “Because if this is you coming onto me…”

Adam squeezes Dean’s ass over the towel, Dean yelping. “Why I’ll admit you’re a beauty, my heart is spoken for. As is yours.”

Dean waits as the coiled heat in his stomach unravels, breathing raggedly all the while. “Yeah,” he says, “I can feel your hands.”

“Good,” Adam says, “and how do my hands on your body feel?”

“Um… good? I guess? Like any other massage.”

“You’ve gotten other massages before?”

“When I could, I guess.”

“And your masseuses,” Adam asks, coating more of the oil along his shoulders, “were any of them men.”

No. “Why does that matter?”

“I’m just asking,” Adam says, “guessing, actually, if your hesitation during this process has something to do with my gender expression.” He rubs at his biceps, fondling them. “So I’ll ask again – have you ever been massaged by a man.”

He’s fought with countless men. Punches and kicks and elbows at throats acceptable foreplay. Love bites that stung far too long, bled too much. Shook hands with many hunters while crossing America during his early years where he was figuring himself out. Their intimidating grip thrilling Dean more than they should while near his father. John’s idea of what makes a man still living in his mind, a shadow that won’t disappear no matter how many curtains he draws or lights he turns on. Persistent.

Sometimes Cas’s hand lingered, back when their relationship was new. Finding its footing despite Chuck’s story. He blamed it on his angel’s inexperience with humanity. But the more he stayed on Earth, the longer they lasted. More significant. A game of chicken, each daring the other to drop first.

That’s the most intimate he’s ever been with another man.

It’s been too long since he and Cas touched like that. Circling, never committing. Losing before the game starts.

“I…” Adam’s touch feels different, headier. Matchhead catching, flame bursting atop it. He sighs, “I’ve never been massaged by a man.”

Adam hums, “You’ve never had the opportunity?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve had lots of opportunities,” Dean tells him, “I just… never took them.” He shrugs as best he can. Sighing when Adam brushes one of his love handles, scratching it. Warm delight making Dean’s toes curl. “It wasn’t something a guy like me was supposed to do.”

“Supposed to,” Adam parrots, “someone else was making these decisions for you?”

Bristling, Dean shifts as if to raise his head again. Adam shoves at Dean, keeping him there. Adds an ounce of pressure that should stoke his anger. However, Dean responds with no retaliation. Stills, and when Adam removes his hand, continues talking. “I made these decisions,” Dean tells Adam, “I… there were a lot of expectations, being me. People I couldn’t disappoint. If they knew I went to get… massages, by men… things might not have been the same.”

“Even if it hurt denying this part of yourself?” he asks, “Suffocating it because other people had opinions on how you should live your life?”

Dean scowls despite how dedicated Adam works at kneading the skin above his tailbone. “You wouldn’t understand, okay. Being the first person gives you leeway, make your own rules. I was born into a certain role – there was an image I had to fit. If I wanted to survive and I… and it got easy, over time. I wasn’t hurting anyone –“

“You were hurting yourself.”

“I’m used to it.”

Adam reacts violently, nicking Dean’s hip hard enough he expects blood. But his thumb soothes the spot, caresses it far more lovingly than Dean thinks is appropriate. He doesn’t voice his concerns. Busy thinking about the sudden callouses he feels on Adam’s thumb.

“That’s a dangerous point of view to have, Dean,” Adam warns, drawing him from the off-ramp. “How can you speak so carelessly about yourself like that?”

“I… I – uh…” Dean had a response. A common one he trotted out whenever a question like this appeared. Now, he finds the stable empty. He has nothing. “I…”

“You’ve been given a wonderful gift, Dean. The gift called life. Gone are the oppressive forces steering your judgement. Controlling how you grow.” Adam’s voice rises, passion seeping into his skin. Mixing with the oils, providing a euphoric numbness. “Now is when you should slash through those bindings and grow into the person you were always meant to be!”

“What if I…”

“Hmm?” Adam stops massaging him. The music ended at some point, leaving only silence. “What if you what?”

Dean slowly rises from the face hole, Adam not fighting him this time. Leans on his elbows, staring at the floor. At the small droplet that splattered there. “What if I don’t like that person?” he mutters, “What if I look in the mirror one morning and I don’t… don’t recognize that it’s my reflection. What if I become someone so wholly different now that I… now that I can grow, and change, that I lose parts of myself. Lose my family, because they don’t like who I’ve become?”

Adam’s hand rests on his shoulder, fingers curling over a spot that doesn’t belong to him. When other people touched it, his skin crawled. Itched like fire ants crawled and bit. It’s the opposite feeling, with Adam’s hand. As if Dean’s soul breached through the shadows and filled him with so much light, he could overpower the sun. But only one other person has ever made him feel like that…

“If your family truly loves you, Dean,” Adam says, stepping into view. Guides Dean’s gaze from his feet towards his face using both hands. Smiling, “Then they love your most core, basic parts of yourself. And those, I know, will stick with you as you journey into a new era of self-exploration. Just as they will. You shouldn’t be afraid of change. It is the most powerful force in existence. Change cannot be stopped, cannot be controlled… how we choose to respond to it, however, is where humanity finds its freedom.” He lets go, drifting backwards into Serafina’s waiting arms.

There’s still a hand on his shoulder.

Dean turns. Instead of a thin, linen shirt, there’s a starched white button-down. Blue tie where he expected a scarf and chunky necklace. Dark hair with touches of gray, and blue eyes rimmed red with tears. “Cas…”

“Dean…” he says, squeezing his shoulder, “I love you. I… I won’t ever leave you.”

“How can you promise that, Cas?” he asks, “How do you know that? We’ve… what if Chuck was the only thing keeping us together? What do we do now that he’s gone?”

“We live Dean… day by day.” Cas kneels, pressing a thumb against his chin. “You’re right, I can’t be certain about the future. None of us can, not anymore. But, before Chuck, all I saw was bleakness. Now that he’s gone… after every hardship we’ve been through, the clouds have parted. It finally looks bright. And we could have a thousand more days or one more day, but in this moment Dean I want to experience everything with you.” He kisses him, breathing that promise into his body. Words mingling with his heart and soul. “My first, and most important act of rebellion was loving you. In these few years we’ve known each other I’ve lived more than I ever have. I’ve grown, not because of Chuck or despite of Chuck… but on my own terms. And you’re still here, with me.”

“Cas I…” Dean knocks their foreheads together, “You’re someone I never expected entering my life… and if you left, I don’t know if I can go back to living without you. Every time you were taken from me I… part of me died. A part that never came back, even though you did. When the Empty took you, I thought that was it. If I lost you one more time… I fought so hard for this – to live by my terms that I… I don’t want to lose it. Lose you.”

“Then don’t act like you already have,” Cas tells him. “Let me in. Let Sam and Jack… we’re all figuring this out together. Shoulder your burdens with us and we will do the same to you. That way we can enjoy our time together. And when one of us goes, the other will always have the memories of what we’ve won to remind us how the fight – how life was worth it.”

Dean nods, dropping another kiss against Cas’s lips. Rises with Cas, uncaring that the towel fell. He already felt more exposed from this simple massage. Modesty seemed a… a moot point. Cas slips between Dean’s legs, wrapping him in a hug. Dean returns it.

Then he looks at their voyeurs, watching from the sidelines. “Was this what you had planned all along?”

“Before you came here,” Adam says, “I had a vision.”

“…Right.”

“And in that vision,” Serafina adds, swaying with Adam. Fingers threaded through his curls, petting him, while his oil-covered hands stained her patchwork skirt. “He saw you two sticking around for a few more days.”

Dean arches a brow, huffing, “We do?”

“Oh yes,” she says, “you’ve only just begun to heal, the both of you. It’s a process – like growth – that never really ends.” Serafina’s gaze darts from him to Cas, and back again. “Plus, if you stay, we can introduce you to some new things. Offer some wisdom from our many lifetimes on Earth that may prove… beneficial.”

Dean and Cas share a silent conversation. He grins from that, knowing he can tilt his head or flutter his lashes and be understood completely. “Okay,” Dean answers, “it’s not like there’s anything else we need to be doing.”

“Perfect!” She claps, “Oh I’ll – I’ll go put some tea on, and Adam can show you to our meditation room. We can spend the rest of the evening just sharing, maybe even fall asleep under the stars. In all of America, Adam and I’ve found they don’t shine quite like they do here.”

Dean leans his head on Cas’s shoulder, listening as Serafina rambles about possible plans. Adam interjecting with his own ideas every now and then. Watching them, a strange feeling flutters inside his chest.

He isn’t sure what to expect from hanging out at their commune or drinking their Kool-Aid. But, for the first time since they’ve closed the book on Chuck’s story… he’s excited.

(chapter 2)

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #spn15 post finale #15x17 coda #15x17 unity #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #adam the first man #serafina

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chessdaze · 4 years

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YEAR TWO OF BEING LATE TO KH OC WEEK!!! but I had the energy today and my internet is out so I can’t work (using my phone’s hotspot rn with my laptop) - might as well be productive. Plus I’ve loved all the stuff @khoc-week has been reblogging from artists and writers alike so I really just wanted to participate even though I said earlier I wasn’t going to this year.

Day 1 (August 2nd): Introductions – Whether you are returning or this is your first time, introduce us to the OC(s) you’ll be focusing on for the week! Show us a picture or a one shot that explains who they are. What do they like? Dislike? Give us the run down!

Last year I talked about Atlas, one of my (many) KHX OCs, this year I’m going to talk about Sid! One of my OCs from one of my original worlds. Him and Atlas are loosely (very loosely) connected, so I thought it would be a good idea.

His real name is Siegfried Jasper Gate - but he insists everyone call him Sid and will not be happy if you say his real name. He started out as my attempt to give KH their own ‘Cid’ character. Yes we have the Cid in Radiant Garden and I love that old man but I wanted one more connected to the overall KH plot. And then it spiraled out of control and I ended up making an entirely new wold so there’s that.

The left design is considered a ‘before’ look and the right ones are his current look. He was exiled from the main hub city of his world (both called Cindergate) with his two best friends (because trios), and end up living in the wild with his friends and a handful of other people who were also exiled from the city. He has a bit of an attitude problem, overall distrusting of strangers and can even be a bit of an ass - but he means well. He pushes himself to his limits to make sure those under his care are safe and sound - he gives up his own resources to those younger than him so they can be a little stronger and healthier, even if he becomes weaker. He’ll complain about anything except about the people around him, because they mean too much to him.

Under the cut is what I’ve written about his world and then a short biography that I’ve had written up for ages. Have fun.

the world trapped in a desert

The Basics

Cindergate is a city that has seemingly seen disasters, parts of the city are being rebuilt and other parts completely abandoned and falling apart. It’s cut off from the vast desert around it by a large, also crumbling, gate. The city has a mix of technology, though seems to shun anything too ‘high tech’.

The city has a population of tough individuals who know how to survive in harsh conditions. Most of the population in this world are human, with occasional animals who can also survive the harsh sun and heat. These people are ruled over by one family - who govern and help make and enforce laws. Because of this the head of the family is often referred to as ‘sheriff’. The family keeps laws strict in the town. There is one law in particular that the sheriff is always eager to punish those for breaking-

The Keyblade Wielder Ban

The people of Cindergate are aware of the keyblade, heartless, the worlds, etc - however they consider Keyblade wielders evil, no matter who they are or what their motivations may be. They believe that the wielders are dragging darkness into the world and are the reason so many heartless live in the desert that surrounds the city. The city has to constantly beat the heartless back, and are the reason why a good portion of the city has been abandoned or is always needing to be rebuilt.

It has been the tradition of the world for a while that if a wielder is found, they are to be branded as a traitor to the city - both metaphorically and literally. After a trial to determine if someone is a wielder or not - they are branded with a mark in the shape of a keyhole. Then they are dragged through the city and out to the gates that surround it. The wielders are then exiled, pushed out to the near lifeless desert. The people of the city will often attack them with weapons or throw objects at them to make sure they don’t try to run back into the city. They consider the wielders ‘sacrifices’ to the heartless to keep them at bay.

At times the heartless in the desert will get the better of the wielders with no training. Those who manage to survive their first day and night have the chance to come across a safehaven made by wielders in the reaches of the desert and on the edges of a canyon.

Landscape.

The city is the mix of a steampunk and wild west setting. There are some technology around the city but it’s big, clunky, and steam or coal powered. The part of the city that has been abandoned has a chance of heartless sneaking in, and so there are people here who patrol at night on occasion but besides that at times kids sneak into the area to play - but it’s strictly forbidden to do so and they will be punished if they do.

The desert surrounding the city is vast and nearly lifeless. Aside from the heartless, there are few plants and animals that live there.

Past the nearly lifeless desert is an area of plateaus and canyons. Within this area those who have been exiled from the city attempt to make a living. They find items that the people of cindergate ‘sacrifice’ to the heartless, (pieces of machinery, cloth, food, etc) and try to repurpose it for their own needs. There’s a bit more life in this area, but not much in terms of subsistence.

The Survivors

The wielders and those who were exiled with them (family members who hid them, other accomplices, and even people who were falsely convicted of being a wielder) have been managing to survive so far, though it’s a constant struggle. They’ve made houses out of spare pieces of wood, tarp, scrap metal, and hide themselves in as much shade as they possibly can.

Some practice with their keyblades in order to get a handle on their abilities and fight off heartless that come near the safe haven. Others completely shun the fact that they can use a keyblade and refuse to wield it. Those who are not wielders try to contribute by making food or volunteering for other odd jobs. There are also wielders dedicated to finding a way off world.

AND NOW THAT THAT’S OUT OF THE WAY -

Sid’s about:

Born to the ruling family of Cindergate, Sid had everything handed to him on a silver platter. And he hated it. He couldn’t wrap his head around the strict rules of the town or the terrible court system. Any time he would try to speak up on this though was met with punishment from his parents. So he decided to bide his time, becoming their perfect ‘puppet’ so that he could become the leader one day and change things for the better.

While still considered a bit of a rebel, his parents at least ‘admired his change of heart’ and let him walk around Cindergate freely. While growing up he made two friends - a girl name Mari and a boy named Helio. The three of them were practically inseparable, they were some of the only ones that didn’t care who Sid was related to. He could be himself around them, and so he vowed to keep them safe most out of everyone in the town.

Mari revealed to the boys one day that she was a keyblade wielder - which was a terrible discovery. Keyblade Wielders were banned from Cindergate and it she was found to be a wielder she would be arrested, branded, and exiled to the harsh desert that surrounded the town. The desert that was filled with heartless. At the same time Helio revealed himself to be a wielder as well - having been one of the longest out of all of them, since he was a child. He knew better than anyone what would happen to wielders who got caught as his mother had been cast out when he was a child. Sid promised that he wouldn’t let them get caught and that he would lift the ban, they just needed to keep their keyblades hidden until he became the leader of the town.

This was easier said than done, especially since Sid would come to be a wielder as well. An old friend of his family invited Sid to his deathbed. This old man revealed how close Sid’s father and him used to be, and how they had a dream to make Cindergate a thriving place. But Sid’s father had done nothing more than oppress the people and make the ban more strict than it needed to be. So the old man had a solution - to pass on the power of the keyblade to Sid. He had kept it hidden all of his life, hoping that one day Sid’s father would change his mind on the ban - but he never did. In his last moments he forced Sid to take the power of the keyblade from him, saying it was Sid’s responsibility now, before passing.

Sid was terrified and furious with the power he had been given. Yes, he had been wanting to make CinderGate a better place for wielders and non wielders alike but - he didn’t want it to be like this. Still, he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He told his friends of his new found gift and worked to become even more like the 'perfect’ leader his parents wanted him to be, just so he could take over quicker and get the stupid ban taken down.

Not long after this, Helio and Mari were caught for being keyblade wielders. Sid stood up to his parents to try and get them to see reason. When they still wouldn’t listen he revealed himself as a wielder in front of the whole town - saying if they were going to throw out his friends they would have to throw out him as well.

And they did, but not before branding him as a traitor - literally. They burned the keyhole shaped brand onto the side of his face before exiling him,Helio, and Mari out of the town. The three ran until they couldn’t anymore, fought off heartless, then collapsed with laughter - surprised but grateful they were still alive.

A while longer of traveling lead them to a survivor camp. Other people like them who had been exiled from Cindergate. It wasn’t much, but it became home for the three wielders. Sid took it upon himself to improve the day to day lives of the survivors by building various machines and other contraptions to make life easier for them.But still, it wasn’t enough. Thanks to his parents hoard of keyblade wielder knowledge (because how else were they supposed to fight off such a 'threat’ without an entire library full of knowledge?), he knew of other worlds and he knew that the keyblade could get them there. He just wasn’t sure how to unlock the power. None of the survivors were masters by any means, some of them didn’t even have a keyblade - and were friends or family of wielders exiled or falsely accused and wanted nothing to do with the keyblade.

Sid, taking another burden onto his shoulders, did the only thing he could think he could accomplish - he made himself and his two friends keyblade armor. He hoped that with the armor they could brave the passages in between worlds and find a way to get all the survivors to a new home.

Images of where sid’s scar is, he uses the braids to cover it up as best he can.

#khoc week #khocweek2020 #kingdom hearts oc #original character #kingdom hearts original character #kingdom hearts original world #kh original world #my art #Siegfried Jasper Gate

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writerbyaccident · 5 years

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A Hero for You (Yandere SpinnerxReader)

Trigger Warning: sexual harassment, groping

There was a common misconception that Spinner hated heroes. The police, the general public, even other members of the league thought that he did. But it just wasn’t true. What Spinner hated were the fakes, the people who claimed to be heroes, who the masses worshipped as such, but who in reality were as far as from real heroes as you could get. Those frauds had no idea what it meant to be a real hero, and what’s more, they didn’t even care. Spinner cared though, sometimes it felt like he almost cared too much. And though he recognized that he wasn’t a hero exactly, not in the strictest sense, he considered the things he did necessary for the revival of true heroics. Working with the League of Villains was something of a gray area, for while Spinner knew that not many of his fellow members took Stain’s teachings to heart, there was no denying the effect the League had overall. And so Spinner stayed with the league, but because he believed in heroics, not because he believed he was a hero.

But when he was with you, Spinner felt like the hero he had always dreamed of being. With you there were no gray areas, no moral ambiguity, no worries or doubts about what he was doing. When it came to you, both Spinner’s intentions and his actions were utterly pure. How could they be anything else? He loved you so much, so completely, and that told him everything he needed to know. Each and every thing Spinner did for you, no matter how small they might seem to someone else, he did with one thing in mind. For even though he might not have been a true hero, he would still do everything he could to be your hero.

It was hard at times, trying to be a hero for you. Not because he wasn’t willing to give the effort, or because he ever got tired of helping you, but because of the constraints being a member of the League of Villains placed on him. He didn’t want to get you in any sort of trouble, after all. If the police or any of those “heroes” noticed him hanging around you, who knew what might happen. It would be bad enough if the police started hounding you, but if those so-called heroes got involved…No, Spinner thought to himself, he wouldn’t let that happen. So rather than risk your safety, he kept his distance, acting more as a guardian angel, an unseen force who did what he could to keep you safe. Although, he had to admit that at times, the temptation to move closer to you was nearly impossible to ignore.

On nights like this, the temptation was stronger than ever, too strong for him to measure. Being forced to watch you on a night like this was torture for Spinner, a night where everyone else could stare openly, could whisper in your ear, could even touch you if they wished. He wanted so desperately to do all of those things, but if he was to be your hero, he knew that he couldn’t. Still, that knowledge seemed dim and distant as he watched you from a shadowed corner of the club, as he watched you dance with your friends. Each movement you made, however slight, only served to further enrapture him. His eyes worked tirelessly to devour every inch of you that he could, knowing there was no risk for him to do so now. Your legs, highlighted beautifully by the skirt you wore, beckoned his gaze, moved it ever further upward. Your skin practically glowed under the lights, and even at this distance Spinner swore he could see the way your eyes burn with a brilliance that belonged solely to you.

And yet, watching you like this, watching you with a closer eye than he had ever dared before, was almost worse. Spinner consumed every inch of you that he could, but there was only so much he could do, only so much satisfaction he could glean, by simply observing. There was an ever-growing part of him that demanded more, that insisted he be more than a shadowy guardian at the edge of your life. After all, that part of him argued, considering the vultures you were currently surrounded by, considering the prey you were currently positioned as, wouldn’t that simply be another act of heroism? Didn’t you need him to move closer, to touch you, to shelter you, as no one else could?

But still, even though his skin itched with the urge to approach you, if only to brush briefly against you, Spinner was able to keep himself from doing so. Instead he forced himself to continue watching you, needing to ensure both that no harm came to you and that he took of you what he could. He took in the way your head fell back in tipsy laughter, the way your mouth curled upwards in a giddy smile, and it was almost enough. But before long, Spinner spotted your friends moving away from you, walking back towards the bar and leaving you behind. He knew that in all probability your friends were just grabbing more drinks, that they would be back beside you at the first opportunity, but Spinner couldn’t help the paranoia and frustration that bit at him. What the hell were your friends thinking, abandoning you like that? Couldn’t at least one of them have stayed with you? Sure, you didn’t seem full-blown drunk at the moment, but you had still clearly been drinking. Someone might try to take advantage of your inebriated state, and none of your so-called friends had stuck around to try to protect you! Narrowing his eyes at the retreating backs of your companions, Spinner clenched his fists. While he was still there to keep you safe—a duty he was happy to take responsibility for—your friends hardly knew that. Spinner didn’t even want to consider the things that might have happened to you before he became your hero, the danger you must have constantly been in. For if your friends left you behind so easily, it was clear to him that he was the only one in your life who cared about you enough—who loved you enough—to keep you safe.

It was with this truth in mind that Spinner left the corner where he stood to move ever so slightly closer to you. After all, he reasoned to himself, what was the point of watching over you if he was too far away to help you when you needed him. And you did need him, that much he knew. Any possible doubt he might have ever had regarding that fact vanished as soon as he saw who was quickly approaching you.

The face of the man stalking towards you was one Spinner recognized from several news clips and articles. It was Hercules, a relatively new pro hero whose popularity was beginning to grow. From what Spinner had seen of him so far, Hercules was simply another fake, only caring about the money and fame he could obtain as a hero. So when the fraud wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing your body against his, Spinner moved forward without thinking. It was instinct really, to rush towards you when confronted with such a sight. How dare that pathetic excuse for a hero even look at you, let alone touch you! Couldn’t that idiot see just how far above him you were? Didn’t he know that he wasn’t anywhere close to worthy enough to have you? Doing his best to push his way through the crowded dance floor, Spinner watched in anger as the fraud bent down towards your ear.

“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone here?” Hercules asked with a smirk.

“I’m not alone,” you answered back stiffly, “my friends are just at the bar.”

“Well that seems pretty alone to me. How about I keep you company then?”

“No thank you,” you said, doing your best to squirm your way out of his arms. But such a thing was far easier said than done, for not only were you still tipsy, but Hercules had a quirk of enhanced strength, one he used to keep you in his grip. Spinner was forced to watch as you attempted to get away from the creep, still working on pushing past the swarms of people separating you from him.

“Aw, come on,” Hercules growled in what he seemed to think was a charming manner. And maybe it was for most people, the people who fell all over every up-and-coming hero they saw. But you, Spinner was glad to see from the disgusted scowl on your face, weren’t so easily won over. “Dontcha want a big, strong hero to watch over you in a place like this?”

“Sure. Do you see any?” you spat at him. Hercules’s grip on you tightened at that comment, while Spinner’s heart warmed when he heard it. That warmth quickly turned ice cold, however, when he saw the fake’s hand start inching its way up your thigh. Spinner saw the way you looked around desperately for your friends, for anyone who might help you. No one did though, either too wrapped up in their own petty worlds or straight up ignoring you. And so, Spinner forcibly pushed the last few club goers out of his way, no longer caring what attention he might draw, and rushed to where you were trapped. Any worry about what might happen if this so-called hero recognized him was nothing compared to his need to make sure you were safe.

“Let. Go.” Spinner snarled at him.

“Oh yeah? Why should I?” Now that he was closer, Spinner could better see the repulsive arrogance festering in the supposed hero’s eyes, only brought out further by the drinks clearly still in his system. Spinner sneered at the image, disgusted by what this man thought he could do, what he thought he could do to you. His only thanks was that Hercules seemed to be too drunk to realize who the man confronting him even was, probably helped by the dim lighting and the hoodie Spinner wore. But Spinner quickly moved his attention to you, refusing to let Hercules distract him from the only person in the room who mattered. You were still trying wrest yourself out of Hercules’ grasp, but his grip only tightened with each moment, until the force was bruising. Spinner could see the pain and fear growing in your eyes, and his heart threatened to shatter at the sight.

“Because if you don’t,” Spinner answered darkly, “I’ll make you.” At Spinner’s threat, the false hero simply scoffed and rolled his eyes, his lip curling as he took in Spinner’s scaled skin.

“Go right ahead,” Hercules taunted him. “I’m not afraid of some fucking lizard. Go and get your own bitch.” The next thing Hercules felt was a fist crashing across his face. With your harasser distracted and his grip loosened, you quickly elbowed him in the stomach and finally freed yourself. Seeing that you were free, Spinner swiftly moved you behind him, not wanting any more harm to come to you. When he heard that bastard talk about you in that way, all of his remaining restraint had snapped. He loved you more than anything in the world, and so he refused to allow anyone to treat you that way. You were worth a thousand times more than any so-called hero, and worth hundreds more than any of the sheep in this club. Even now, after he punched Hercules in the face, his blood roared for more, demanded that he slaughter that scum where he stood for what he had dared to do to you. But when he saw Hercules move threateningly towards you, Spinner knew he couldn’t risk it. You were his sole concern.

Instead, he placed his hands on your shoulders and pushed you gently towards the exit, making sure to stay between you and the creep. Soon enough the two of you had slipped put of a side door, making it outside of the club. Now standing at the edge of an alleyway, you took a moment to catch your breath.

“Are you alright?” Spinner asked softly.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I’m okay. What about you though? How’s your hand?” As you asked your question, you reached out and took his hand in yours, holding it softly. Even when you felt his scales against your skin, you didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause. Bringing his hand up to your face, you inspected it closely to see if the skin was bruised or broken. It wasn’t, thankfully, and you graced Spinner with a small smile. Now, Spinner had seen you smile countless times. But tonight was the first time he had ever seen you smile at him. In fact, it was the first time you had ever even looked him, the first time you even knew that he existed. He watched over you for so long now, and he had never expected any sort of thanks for it. He had never even hoped for so much as a glance from you, so when you smiled at him, when you touched him, that alone made everything he had done for you more than worth it.

“It’s fine,” he told you. All he needed to feel better was for you stay close to him. Now that he finally had you next to him, finally saw your smile directed towards him, finally felt his skin against yours, he couldn’t believe he had ever lived without it. His love for you, which he had tried so desperately to keep at a distance, was now close enough and immediate enough to choke him, and he relished every second of it. Spinner doubted he could ever let go of it now that he had it. And anyway, why should he have to? The whole reason he bothered to keep his distance beforehand was to try to keep you out of trouble, try to keep you from getting hurt. But apparently his sacrifice had been pointless if tonight was any indication.

All Spinner had ever wanted was to be a hero for you. He had thought that meant acting as a distant guardian, keeping himself away from you. But that hadn’t been good enough, and he felt foolish for ever even thinking that it might have been. It was clear to him now that if he actually wanted to keep you safe, actually wanted to protect you, he couldn’t stay away. You needed him, needed him to be your hero. That’s what Spinner told himself as he pushed you into the darkened alleyway and clamped his hand around your nose and mouth. That’s what Spinner told himself as you twisted in his grip and tried to elbow him off of you. But soon enough you began to fade into unconsciousness, and Spinner brought you into his arms. Brushing his lips tenderly against your forehead, he carried you off, now determined to be a real hero for you.

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