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fanficsforheartandsoul · 1 year

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You’re Somebody Else | Ghost x Fem!Reader | Part I

Note: This is not a new part - haha I’m currently in my exam phase sooo yeahh, but I decided to split the prologue into two parts because I personally believes it flows better.

This fic has religious undertones at least in this part, I hope I don’t make anyone uncomfortable with this. I grew up Christian (tho I’m an atheist now) and I thought a bit about how I would react if I was suddenly in a parallel universe where I and several other people are supposed to be dead.

Warnings: Death, Mentions of Gore, Angst, COD Typical Violence, Mentions of Original Characters, Mention of Religion and Hell, Inaccurate Depiction of Medical Stuff, Injuries and prolly Military, Transmigration (lol)

Summary: You watched him die and yet he’s somehow still alive. You’re certain that you’ve died too and yet you’re still kicking. Is this a message from the universe? A second chance to make things right? To confess? You want to believe it but you quickly realize that he’s not the same man you knew and loved. Yet your heart is fluttering when he touches you. Can you love this new version of him?

Word Count: 3,8k

Taglist: -

If you want to be tagged in my stories send me a pm with the fandom/character name! Or comment on the fic :)

Masterlist

Prologue, Part II, Part III, ...

When you open your eyes again the world is on fire and you’re looking at the ceiling of a helicopter.

Someone moves in your field of vision, but you can barely make out their features as the lights of the helicopter don’t seem to work. Your ears are ringing, and you can’t understand what the man is saying but based on his expression something bad is happening.

He’s a marine you realize belatedly when your eyes adjust to the dark environment and for a moment you wonder if you must continue to fight even after your death.

Is this hell?

You don’t actually believe in hell or heaven anymore but based on the fact that you woke up again this has to be some sort of afterlife.

The unknown soldier shakes you and yells something and the ringing finally stops, and you hear him call you by your callsign.

“Nomad! Fuck, can you hear me?! Jesus, for a second I thought you were a goner!”

You nod automatically and he grabs you by your plated vest, dragging you into an upright position.

“Your head is bleeding like crazy”, he curses and speaks into his mic to inform someone about your injury.

You haven’t even noticed it but when you touch your left temple you feel the edge of a helmet and your gloved fingers turn red. It doesn’t hurt.

While the marine speaks, he looks behind him and you follow his line of sight out of the helicopter. The heli apparently crashed.

Shots whizz past the window and the man ducks to avoid getting hit.

“I know you’re injured but AQ is reigning hellfire on us! I’ll take care of your wound in a second!”

The unknown marine faces you again and in his hand, he holds a M14 EBR. Automatically you know it’s yours.

“Keep holding on, Bravo Team will be here soon!”

You take the weapon with your right hand and the marine helps you on your feet.

“They’re shooting at us from the house!” He points in the general direction, “Keep your head low and don’t waste your bullets!”

“Okay”, you mumble. Okay you think.

You’re dead but you still have to fight. Makes sense.

Leaning against the wall you quickly scan the inside of the helicopter, then the immediate surroundings of it through one of the windows. The area is illuminated by small fires and corpses litter the dusty ground. Marines, all dead. Maybe this is hell.

It would make sense, all the lives you’ve taken on countless operations... Is this retribution?

The realization that you aren’t in the Caucasus Mountains anymore only trickles in slowly.

You turn to watch through the window beside you and spot the house which the marine mentioned in the distance, and you immediately make note of the smoke coming from the second floor.

“RPG!” someone yells and years of active combat situations make you instinctively drop low when you hear the familiar whoosh. The metal of the heli protests.

Shouts and gunfire echo in your ears and your world is turning but you stand up again, prepping yourself against the wall to have free line of sight towards the house.

Smoke is still coming from the second floor, and you watch through your scope for any movement. You see a shoulder and want to pull the trigger, but someone kills the hostile before you can react.

Bravo Team you think, does that mean I’m part of Alpha? You don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Your radio crackles.

“RPG is taken care of.”

You blink. That voice is familiar.

But before you can think about it more, the marine comes up to you again. You realize he’s a Captain.

“Sarge, we should wrap your head.”

Now? Now’s not a good fucking time.

“I know but you’re bleeding a lot. Don’t want to take you back home in a body bag.”

You didn’t realize you said those words out loud but the concern in his eyes ends up convincing you and you take off your helmet.

“Do it quick”, you mutter and sink below the window, pointing your gun at the entrance of the helicopter, while the strap of your helmet is cutting into your elbow and the night goggles on it dig into your thigh.

“Jesus, it looks really bad”, the captain mutters as he grabs some gauze from his med kit and wraps it around your head with quick and efficient movements. It gets soaked almost immediately.

You don’t really care though; you can’t feel the pain. In fact, you can’t really feel anything. Your body doesn’t feel like your own, you’re practically floating. Maybe it’s because you’re dead.

He finishes and you put your helmet back on.

“Tell me if you’re starting to feel light-headed, okay?”

You nod but don’t plan on actually doing it. Even bandaging your head feels useless.

You can’t exactly die twice, right?

If this is the afterlife it might be likely that he doesn’t know that yet. That he doesn’t know he’s dead, a corpse like you.

For a second you wonder what killed him. You look at the man. He really is a stranger.

You feel bad for not knowing his name but asking would be kind of strange as he addresses you in such a familiar way, so you don’t.

The area doesn’t provide enough light for you to check his name tag on his cammies either, so you just have to go on without knowing. But that’s okay. You probably have a lot of time to get to know him – if this is hell.

Your inner child is starting to whisper, and you have to repress your childhood memories about church, the priest in your hometown and your father’s bible.

You breathe in and out.

The smell that surrounds you reminds you of countless operations you’ve been part of. It reminds you of your team, your friends, him.

Something in your chest hurts.

Your radio crackles, you hear a familiar cockney accent and suddenly you see two bodies burning in the flames outside of the helicopter.

“Alpha 0-2, Bravo 0-7. Building two secure. We’re coming to you.”

The captain responds but you don’t hear his words, just see his lips moving, while you lean against the metal, your fingers gripping your rifle so hard that your knuckles turn white under your gloves.

There’s a ringing in your ears growing louder and louder.

A moment later a shadow towers over you and you look up reflexively, coming face to face with a masked soldier. Two eyes glance at you from behind a skull mask and all you can do is stare back.

His eyes quickly focus on the marine next to you, then he checks the windows, focused as always, a perfect soldier to the bone.

The captain readies his gun and the man next to him follows his lead, pointing his rifle at the tree line on the opposite side of the heli.

You don’t move.

He realizes. And he turns around, staring at you from behind that mask.

“Nomad, get your arse up and help, they’re coming”, he barks.

Slowly you blink. Something stirs in your head.

“Yessir”, you mutter, breathless, and rise to your feet.

You feel like a puppet master, pulling strings to move your body, all of you is slow and heavy, your muscles like lead. But you manage to stand and point your gun towards the tree line.

The next 15 minutes are a blur, a mix of shooting and reloading, killing, the feeling of your finger on the trigger so familiar, your body moves on its own like a well-oiled machine.

All the while your heart is screaming his name and your head replays the last few minutes in the Caucasus Mountains.

Tears well up in your eyes and you blink them away.

He’s dead you think. You both are. You fucking died. You watched him get killed. Helplessly.

The roaring in your head gets louder, accompanying the spray fire of Kilo 0-1 who mows down the troops of the enemy vehicles. And when the last enemy falls you remain there standing motionless, your grip tight on your rifle, while the others discuss their next movements.

Someone taps your shoulder and points at your head. You lower your night googles and your vision takes a moment to adjust.

A second later, Bravo Team begins to move, and you follow him and the others in a daze, one foot before the other.

Together you move a couple hundred meters, the name “Hassan” falls from several lips, but you have no clue who that man is.

Prey your head helpfully provides.

Before you can think about this sudden thought, you hear a whistle and the man left of you drops like a sack.

SniperGetDown rings in your ears and you dive low, your heartbeat suddenly going 200 per minute.

He’s right there.

A few meters beside you, you can practically feel him and his heart. In this moment, whether it was real or not, whether this was the afterlife or purgatory and you but just a corpse- in this very moment, his heart is beating, alive and strong.

Your finger is on the trigger before you know it, this time you’re ready- your target is right there, you spotted the laser of his rifle and your rifle is in position- this time your bullet will hit- and it does.

Before he can finish his sentence:

“...rest of you stay lo-“

“Sniper down”, you interrupt, your voice foreign to your ears, too weak, too raw.

“Nomad- what are-“

Another shot rings out and yet another soldier in your line falls.

You don’t waste a second, your finger is trigger happy, it’s too important to keep him save, to keep him breathing. If you have to watch him die again…

Someone joins you as you provide cover fire and together, you’re taking out the enemies on the balcony and the roof, bullets whizz past you, even some RPG rockets but you’re too focused on your task to be bothered by it.

A few seconds later Kilo 0-1 sends a spray of gun fire into the property and the building is shaken by explosions – yet it still remains standing, the most of it anyway.

Next thing you know, the soldiers around you are up and running to the building, someone grabs you by the back of your vest and hauls you on your feet, dragging you a bit before you begin to walk on your own.

The skull mask is watching you, the eyes behind it are dark and, in your head, you know exactly how badly he wants to beat your ass right now.

But he lets you go and returns his attention back to the mission.

Lock down the building and find this Hassan- whoever he is, dead or alive.

You follow him, reloading your rifle absent-mindedly while watching his back.

He somehow appears taller.

It’s different a voice in your head whispers, he is- you almost trip on the stairs and the soldier behind you saves you from your fall.

“Watch it, Nomad”, a Scottish voice says and another one rings in your head.

Soap get down!

You blink and grunt in response and the sergeant lets you go. He passes you and readies his rifle to make entry.

Every cell in your body screams to not let him do it but you suddenly feel drowsy and when you finally shake off the feeling, you’re inside the building on first deck, Bravo Team soldiers in front of you while the corpses of the enemy soldiers lay in the rubble around you.

Something’s wrong.

You gun down another hostile and when he and Soap push to the second floor, you follow them, still floating above the ground. But when you walk up the stairs your limbs feel heavy, and your breath is going to fast.

He halts at the door to the side, for a moment his eyes search for you, but in the next, he takes out the man who pushes out the room.

Two shots.

He lets the soldier drop to the ground and then enters the room; gun raised. Soap follows him and you walk up the rest of the stairs.

At the top you have to lean on the wall for a bit. A weight is pressing on your chest, and it hinders your lungs from getting enough air.

“You okay?” a Bravo Team soldier asks. You hum.

Yeah, you’re doing fine. If only the world would stop spinning for a goddamn second.

You blink. The night googles make you woozy, but you don’t take them off, knowing that your eyes would take too long to adjust to the darkness.

You stare out of the entry way to the balcony. You know that there are enemy soldiers left in the building, so you get your shit together.

As soon as you find Hassan it’ll be over. You can hang on a little longer. You’re a soldier, part of taskforce 141, an expert in your field. You went through a lot before, this is nothing. If this is supposed to be hell, it’s a fucking joke.

He walks out of the room and you stand tall again in case he checks on you like he usually would – he doesn’t.

He positions himself before you, letting Soap pass him to walk through the door frame. He guns down the hostile who peeks out of one of the entry ways on the balcony.

Then the Scot goes to the right room, and you move forward, ready to go straight down the balcony but he blocks your path with his hand.

“What do you think you’re doing, rookie?”

That word makes you freeze.

He hasn’t called you that in years and him doing it now, hurts you.

“Why-“ you begin, ready to argue why the fuck he’s acting this way, when Soap emerges from the door way where the enemy had peaked before and gunshots ring out.

“Shit- heads up lads, sneaky little gits are everywhere!”, the Scot curses and sends a spray of bullets down a small hole the wall. You grunt. He almost got shot in the leg. He has to be more careful.

“Move”, you squeeze out between your teeth, and the masked man turns to face you. He peers down at you, his eyes scrutinizing your form.

“You’re following my orders, sergeant. I’m not here to babysit you. So, stand down and don’t pull a move like that again. You’re injured, stay back and don’t hinder us.”

His tone is cold when he references your earlier action of saving his life. You stare at him, trying to find out if you heard correctly. The dark eyes behind the mask stare back with a hard gaze.

You open your mouth, a curse ready to be spilt – since when does he talk to you like that? – but before you can voice your thoughts he walks past you, gun raised, following Soap’s footsteps. You breathe out shakily.

Something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong.

The ringing in your ears returns but you ignore it when the soldier who asked you for your well-being before, waits for you to follow him. Determined you get moving, following the soldier, rifle raised in front of you.

The house is in horrible condition, the onslaught of Kilo 0-1’s gun fire and the explosions destroyed the ceiling, walls and the furniture and, in some corners, the remains of it burn.

The marine pushes up to the door on the left, while he kneels to cover Soap just in case. You bite your lip.

Usually, you would do the clearing with Soap, but this situation is different. There’s a power imbalance somehow and you don’t understand why.

So instead, you follow the soldier and stand behind him, your back against the wall, staring straight at him.

Was it the mask? It was different yes, but his voice and his demeanour- You know it’s him. It has to be him.

Soap passes by you and enters the room, firing his gun, just a millisecond later.

“Threat eliminated”, he announces and guns down the other hostile who peeks through the damaged window.

These words make him move and he walks up to the door frame as well. You remain standing at the wall while the marine makes space for him.

“Poke around, Soap.”

Closing your eyes, you grip your rifle tighter. You’re standing on your feet but the whole world is turning and it’s making you feel nauseous.

The ringing is more intense than ever, and you don’t hear why Bravo Team is moving again but you weakly push yourself off the wall and follow, not realizing that Soap is watching you with worried eyes.

You walk down the stairs, trying to calm your breathing that has turned ragged.

The soldier before you has already left the building when you arrive at the bottom of the stairs and you groan inwardly. Keep up, you shout inwardly.

You experienced worse before, the things you have gone through felt like hell, this in comparison is nothing.

So you push through to the warehouse, jogging to some crates in front of it, your rifle raised, ready for whatever is to come.

Your hands are shaking though, and it costs you immense willpower to keep the gun raised and somewhat steady.

You focus on your breathing and follow him and the others when they begin to move.

You enter the building and a second later- get blinded by the flood lights.

Shots ring out – you can’t see – and Soap shouts something that you can’t understand due to the explosion of a grenade close to you. Groping blindly, you move your night goggles and squint your eyes to adjust to the brightness, but you stumble forward, the sudden loss of your vision is affecting your balance.

It feels like years when you are finally able to make out shapes again, and you rush left behind a crate or whatever it is, holding your rifle up, finger now resting on the trigger.

Another few seconds pass and you’re still partially blinded, red dots dancing over your field of vision. You fall on your ass, leaning against the cold concrete wall to steady yourself.

You’re on a roller coaster, stuck on the looping, the world is turning endlessly. The sounds of fighting accompany your nausea inducing trip and your heartbeat underlines it like a war drum.

It dawns on you now that you really must be in hell – the instances before when you thought about it, you were joking, forming a wall out of sarcasm to protect you from the rising panic and bane of your catholic upbringing.

Your body hurts, your head, your heart – you do have a wound on the side of your head, you are bleeding real blood and the blood loss, and a possible concussion is affecting you.

You take your left hand off your rifle, letting it rest on your thighs, your right hand still holding it, keeping a finger close to the trigger, while you try to open the clasp of your helmet.

You’re shaking too much, and the vertigo makes you miss several times.

When you finally grasp the band, you can barely squeeze your fingers together to open the clasp. Pushing your mic out of the way, you lean forward and shove your helmet off your head.

The bandaged wound on your temple stings and you squeeze your eyes shut, a whimper escaping your mouth.

Why does it feel so real? Is this how you’re tortured? Hurting your body and showing you your loved ones alive and well?

They aren’t real a voice whispers in your head. It’s not them.

You grab your head with both hands. No, it’s not true. It can’t be.

Where’s Roach? You suddenly ask yourself. And Lynx?

Anna is was your best friend in the force, she meant so much to you- she should be here.

Your head hurts so much and the ringing in your ears is so loud that you don’t hear that the fighting has already ceased. Someone grabs your shoulder, the grip is strong but it doesn’t hurt.

“…me? ..omad? ost, Nomad is inju…”

Your head is so heavy.

Fingers apply pressure on your head injury and the touch sends a painful jolt through your body, making you open your eyes.

You blink, trying to stop the blurriness and when you do, you see him.

He stands far back in the shadow of a metal shelf, Soap is closer to you, just behind the marine who’s kneeling in front of you.

The white of his eyes in contrast with the dark makeup around it. The skull peers down at you, his gaze hard, distant, as if he’s looking at a stranger.

Instantly, you realize he’s not your Simon.

He’s a demon, crafted to torture you for eternity, reminding you that you were unable to save him.

Your eyes water.

He’sgonehe’sdeadIlosthim.

You keel forward, alarming the marine and Soap.

“…ey, hey! Stay …wake, don…out!”

Tears spill from your eyes, mixing with the half dried blood on your cheek.

“…’m sorry”, you whimper, gasping for air that isn’t entering your lungs.

You heave like a fish on dry land, You can’t breathe, your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen. You’re dying. Again. Only this time it’s so much worse.

“…anic attack…”, someone grunts, and hands grab you, clinging to you, making your body heavy.

They drag you through the ground into darkness and his name is on your lips when they take you.

Ghost stares at your limp body.

Something is different about you.

Years of combat experience which sharpened his senses and instinct tell him there is something off.

Your reaction before was strange and yes one might say it’s due to your injuries, but he just knows there’s more to it. Somehow, you appear foreign and yet familiar at the same time.

The way you carried yourself was different.

He might be wrong but for him it seemed as if you had lost the jump in your movements, the gait of a rookie.

Hours ago, you had fidgeted with your watch when General Shepherd explained your mission, glancing excitedly and perhaps a bit anxiously at the other task members. Soap had smiled at your demeanour.

Earlier it was different.

The way you handled your rifle, efficient movements, no unnecessary grasp there, no groping for ammunition, just fluid motion, smooth like clockwork. As if you’d done the same for a decade or so. But that’s not true.

And that’s what strange.

But what puzzles him even more was the fact that you called his name- his real name, not his call sign- when you passed out.

What the hell is going on?

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haruhar-u · 11 days

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I’m Tired Of Always Chasin’, Chasin’ After You

-1117 words

Xiyao modern au, hurt no comfort

AO3 upload

TWS: breakups, overall angst, cursing

A/N: they may be out of character as this is my first time writing for this fandom

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･**･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･

Lan Xichen was always slow to anger. He always had control over his temper. Whenever pissed, he always would remove himself from the situation; making sure to take a breath of fresh air. The only time he remembers actually losing it was at his brother’s husband but those two are happily married now and recently adopted a son. However, his boyfriend, Jin Guangyao, was close to pushing him over. He slept in his office instead of coming back to their shared apartment at night. The actions he took in his plot to climb the ranks at his company hurt everyone Jin Guangyao Yao was close to. His brother, father, mentor, and friends all cut ties with him. The only one who didn’t was Lan Xichen.

Xichen wanted to give his A-Yao a chance, really he really did. However, the trust that was the glue between the two was weakening to the point where it might as well have fully dissolved into nothing. Was there really nothing between the two left? Xichen didn’t want to believe that. Surely the blossoms of his love for A-Yao were still in full bloom and hadn't withered and expired yet.

He invited A-Yao out to their favourite cafe. It was where they had their first date and where A-Yao asked him out before that. It was a high tea place with exquisite china cups and teapots. On the platter placed in the middle of the table, there was an assortment of different cakes, macaroons, and other small baked goods.

Xichen was surprised that this date could even happen. A-Yao was so concerned with his job that they had to reschedule multiple times because he worked too late or took on another project, pushing their date further and further back. Sometimes he even forgot to show up, leaving Xichen at the place alone. They were only able to go out today because Xichen quite literally chased after him to remind him. Xichen had this thought that occasionally popped into his mind. What if A-Yao didn’t give a fuck about their relationship anymore. Xichen knew this was an intrusive thought and tried to push it away.

“What’s been keeping you busy?” Xichen asked him.

“I’ve received an anonymous letter detailing Qin Su.” A-Yao replied, cutting a piece of cake on his plate.

“A letter? About your assistant?”

“Former assistant, and no, not completely ” A-Yao corrected. Former? He fired her? A-Yao loved his assistant and would always sing praise about her over text, phone, and in person to Xichen. Why would he fire her?

“Not completely?” Xichen asks, confused.

Complete and utter silence from A-Yao.

“Please answer me.”

“They threatened me. They told me that all my secrets would be released unless I fired A-su.” He muttered, avoiding eye contact with Xichen. “They wanted her fired because they felt I only hired her because of nepotism.”

Xichen let out a sigh of disappointment. “A-Yao, what if they didn’t even have your secrets? Then, you just hurt your sister for nothing.”

“Babe, I had no choice! What if they did know? Then what would I have done if they were released?”

“Did you want to fire her?”

“No! Like I said, I didn't really have a choice. Maybe they were right, maybe it was nepotism.”

“How could you not have a choice. She was your assistant, a part of your branch at work. Besides, if you felt it was nepotism, why would you hire her in the first place?” Xichen scolded

“I-I was pressured into it by my father a few years ago.”

Xichen settled down. “I see.”

“I was just scared this person would just reveal the fact that I got my father and brother fired just last year..”

“You what?”

A-Yao looks him dead in the eye, pleadingly his voice shaking. “I-I felt I had to. But, babe, you don’t have to worry. You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

Xichen snaps at him, standing up and putting his hands down on the table, gaining attention from everyone else around. “You said you loved her. You say you love me, but how do I know that? How do I know you’re not just using me?! I just wish you’d thought things through before I you know, fell in love with you?” Fuck. Xichen can’t take that back. He does admit that he wanted to confront him about that. Not like that, though. He wanted to ask him about his worries, have A-Yao comfort him, and then tell him it’s okay and he won’t have to worry. Xichen fucked that up. That won’t ever happen. Especially considering Meng Yao’s reaction. His eyes widen, he mumbles something that looks somewhat like an apology, rummages through his wallet, leaves money to pay, and then he runs. Xichen felt he should chase after him and say he’s sorry, so he’s not the one who got away. But he can’t. He feels glued to his seat.

After a while and a very concerned waiter who went by the name Wen Ning from his name tag asking if he’s okay, Xichen decides he’ll go home, apologize to Meng Yao, and maybe they can move past this like nothing happened? He leaves money to pay for his portion of the bill and spends what feels like forever on public transit.

Once he unlocks the door, His apartment looks more desolate, as if something were missing. The grey colour palette looks more hostile. It reminded him of when he and A-Yao discussed painting the walls and agreed their landlord would have their heads. He walks into their bedroom when he finally notices it:All of A-Yao’s stuff is just gone, as if it were reduced to nothing by ashes. He found a note tied to a bouquet of hyacinths and rue...hyacinths and rue? Xichen wasn’t very well versed in flower language; that’s something he’d have to ask his brother-in-law about. He decided to read the note.

To my dearest Xichen,

I really cherished every moment we spent together. However, I realized I really treated you like shit. As if I didn’t give a fuck about you and as if I was only using you for protection against my father and for your status as a Lan. Towards the end of our relationship, I couldn’t give you what you deserved, and I didn’t communicate well enough with you. I want you to know I really give a fuck about you. I love you, and for that reason, I’m killing our relationship. Despite you telling me you’d die for me at one point, I feel you’re better off without me. I bid you well, my love.

With regret,

Jin Guangyao

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randoimago · 7 months

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Day 2 - Time Loop

Fandom: Fire Emblem

Character(s): Hubert

Type of Request: 31 Days of Oc-Trope-R

Warning(s): Mentions of blood, mentions a couple more brutal ways to die (not too descriptive, but still), major character death

Note(s): Requester asked for every loop to have Hubert as the enemy besides one! There are some angsty parts, but I did my best to give it a happy ending.

"No, no, NO!" You yelled as your fist hit the ground next to the fallen body of the man you knew. The one that was pierced with an arrow this time. You'd think you'd gotten used to this. That you'd grow numb, but you haven't.

You've seen this body mangled, broken, electrocuted, burned, and now shot with a damn arrow. You've seen so much blood sometimes and others, not a drop. The only constant had been the lifeless eyes.

And then you watch as everything begins fading out. Like it was glitching before going to a white space. And you wake up in your bed, back at the academy, not yet sorted into your house.

The outcome is the same. It's always the same. The man you grew to love through the first three loops, the man that you tried to save in so many ways, the rest of the routes, and the man that you always broke down next to as his dead body laid on the ground every single time.

You go through the motions, you try to be cheerful, but you're losing hope. Even looking at Hubert brings you pain as you want to talk to him but know that you won't be able to. Because every damn loop made you, his enemy. Like whatever damn time deity didn't care about your happiness.

You barely paid attention as you were walking to take your lunch plate of hardly touched food back to the kitchen staff. You barely noticed that you ran into someone. A sigh left you and you opened your mouth to apologize, only to meet the glare of the man that doesn't love you yet. And that glare makes you decide to do something that you haven't done every route that you dedicated to him.

You snapped at him. You had enough of slowly worming your way into his heart, saying and doing things that you know makes him fall in love with you. Why should you waste that time when he's just going to die? You were tired, you were exhausted, you told him to watch where he's going. Yes, it's your fault for running into him, but you didn't care. You were exhausted. You were ready for him to snap back or curse you or something. Instead, you got an amused chuckle and he walked away. That's fine with you, the less time with him, the better.

Except the universe laughed because now you ended up in the same house as Hubert. Your jaw dropped when you found out and you swore you felt the smirk from Hubert, who undoubtably had something to do with this. Maybe he was going to be the one to kill you this time.

And this time feels so much different than any other time. Yes, you've gotten to know Hubert before and fell in love in the other loops. But this time, you're his classmate. You sit in the same room as him every day. You hear the answers he gives during class. You hear how he truly feels and thinks in regard to the empire and Edelgard. While you had snapped at him in the beginning with the intention of pushing him away, you feel yourself growing even closer.

But then war approaches. And it's so different this time because Hubert approaches you. He asks you to join Edelgard's side and go against the academy. Against the other students that you had gotten to know in your previous loops. Against your close friends and people that you have learned the names of their families and even met in those loops. And you feel your heart breaking for a different reason.

Hubert living had always been the goal you wanted in the other hell-like loops you went through. But now that you seem to be on the path to that goal, you realize that there's even more sacrifice you have to make.

You had been with the Blue Lions many times before. You had befriended the stoic Dedue and helped Dimitri through a dark and dangerous time he was going through, you'd seen the suffering both had to endure and saved them.

You had also been with Claude and his Golden Deer. You had laughed and cried with all of those dorks and promised Hilda many times to attend the balls in her kingdom wearing the most ostentatious clothing possible.

And your heart truly breaks because can you really go against those friends and close allies of the past to be with the man you love? Hubert sees your hesitation and gives a nod. He turns to walk away, and, in that moment, you make your decision. You follow and take his hand. The smile he gives you is almost enough to make you not think about how the bodies of your friends will be the next to haunt you.

You never grew numb whenever you saw Hubert's death. It haunted and plagued your mind every time. Seeing the deaths of your friends, your once allies, that had hurt. Edelgard had at least convinced some of them to your side and that made things a bit better. But it still hurt to watch as some refused and fell, dying in the same ways that you saw with Hubert.

The war grew to a close and you waited. The final scene that you ended at every loop approached and your eyes fell to Hubert, as they often did. You both had already spoken at length, he had asked you to marry him when the war had finished. And now approached the hour of his death.

You fought by his side, making sure to protect him. This wasn't something new that happened, but now it felt like this really is the last chance you'll have. And when you saw the arrow at the last second, your breath left you and you heard a groan from behind and a thud.

You slay your opponent quickly before running to where Hubert's body lay, tears in your eyes as you knelt next to him. A wave of relief hit you when you saw his eyes open and a frustrated look on his face as he broke the arrow that impaled him.

"Damn archers," he muttered and looked to your tear-stained face. An amused smirk crossed his. "Did you really think I'd die from a single arrow?" An urge to smack him came across your mind, but instead you pressed your lips to his as the sounds of battle died in the background. You kissed Hubert as silence fell before cheers erupted as the war was won.

You kissed Hubert as the loop had broken and you stood across from him, a ring on your finger and your marriage finalized.

#randoimago 31 days of october #fe3h x reader #fe hubert x reader #fe3h hubert x reader #hubert x reader #fire emblem x reader

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bramble-scramble · 1 year

Text

Of Verses and Curses: Chapter Two

Hello again! It’s Friday and, as promised- that means IT’S TIME FOR MORE BUNNY CONTENT, PHANDROW NATION

Chapter One

Content warnings for this chapter: Mild Woodrow anguish, questionable poetry... what else is new? That’s it.

Author’s notes on headcanons: I used my name for Sweetlopek’s beaver, but feel free to substitute your own. And... Woodrow definitely needed a first name for this story, so I’ve gone with my favorite option, something a lot of us seem to have settled on after some mutual fandom discussion. It’s not invented from thin air either, as it comes from the German localization of the game!

Chapter Two - Best of Luck

Sweetlopek opened his cabinet and got out three plates. Woodrow had invited himself over for dinner, again.

It was not a rare occurrence; knowing his friend’s problems with cooking, the lumberjack was always happy to do it for him. In his bachelor days, he had been grateful for the company. And even now that his days and nights had become far less lonesome, he was happy to still see and take care of his companion since childhood.

Dryad, bless her, was compassionate enough to understand, and to bear with the interruptions when the warden showed up on the doorstep at various hours and in various states of bedragglement.

But today, it did not seem that desperation nor despair had driven him to their door. He had entered with almost a spring in his step, and when his cloud had tried to follow him inside, there was a teasing mirth in his voice as he cooed, “No, no! You know the rules,” giving it a playful poke with his umbrella until it grumbled with thunder and parked itself out of sight above the roof.

While Sweet started work on the food, Dryad and Woodrow had sat and made pleasant small-talk over the gentle sizzles and soft scraping of wooden spoons on cast-iron pans. Every now and then, from his spot at the stove, the woodsman would glance back at them and see his friend scratching Chipper, the beaver who usually camped out on the lumberjack's head. He was even tossing Chipper's gnawed-up wooden toys across the floor for him to fetch.

The forest spirit, who was already in some measure confused by other Rabbids, was extra baffled by Woodrow, who was a different sort altogether. Sweetlopek had told her that it wasn’t her fault; few people understood the poet, but mostly out of lack of trying, and it was good of her to make the effort. Today, however, she felt that all the progress she had made in comprehending him was being undone, and she was dealing with an entirely different entity. Far from his normal gloomy countenance, he seemed to boil over with delight.

Sweetlopek set the table - he and Dryad next to each other, and Woodrow across from them - and they all sat down together, passing around the heaping pots of vegetables and serving themselves. Dryad didn’t eat very much; in fact, she could entirely subsist on sunlight and rainwater, and berries and nuts… and dirt… but she was growing accustomed to her darling’s vegetarian cooking, and starting to become rather fond of it.

They had been eating for just a few minutes when the lumberjack looked across at his friend. “Alright, Woody,” he said, “spit it out.”

The warden lowered his fork and swallowed a mouthful of peas. “Hmm?”

“I don’t know what it is, but somethin’s gotcha… happy. So why don’cha share with the class, eh?”

Woodrow smiled, somehow looking both shy and proud. “Well… alright, then. You see… I received quite a momentous letter today, and have made all the arrangements. We shall be hosting a celebrity here on Palette Prime.”

“Oh?” said Sweetlopek, somewhat confused but trying to mimic his friend's clear excitement. Usually, neither of them were big fans of the showy visits of the rich and famous.

“Yes,” said the poet, barely containing himself. In a slow, awed voice, he said: “The Phantom is coming.”

The lumberjack stopped dead, his mouth full of corn, the cob he was gnawing still grasped before him in his big paws. After a moment, he swallowed his mouthful and put down his corncob. “What, like a ghost?” he asked.

“Is it that horrible Spark Hunter?” asked Dryad.

“No!!” said Woodrow in dismay, his face falling for the first time that night. “The… THE Phantom! Tom Phan! The Phantom of the Bwahpera!!”

The two lovers looked at him, then at each other, then back at him.

“Oh, come now!” the Warden groaned, putting a hand on his head. He didn’t blame the Dryad, a spirit of the wild, for not knowing… but Sweetlopek… so kind, so strong, so uncultured. “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t know of him!! The opera sensation?! Only one of the best singers in the galaxy - er, he was, anyway. A spectacular presence onstage and off! Foe to Mario, born in the Mushroom Kingdom, merged by the powers of Spawny, giving rise to-”

“OH!!” cried Sweetlopek in sudden recognition. “That guy Bea dated, right? They both blew their voices out, didn’t they?”

Woodrow sighed and shook his head. “Yes, they did,” he said sadly. “In fact, that’s the reason for his visit. He hopes that our fair planet and its natural splendor, its fresh arboreal air, may help restore what he has lost."

“Hmmm,” said the lumberjack, with narrowed eyes. “Welp. Would hate to burst his bubble, but I ain’t sure it works like that.”

Dryad shrugged. “Never doubt the power of the trees, love. Nature will surprise you, if you give it a chance.” She winked at the woodsman playfully. “You of all people should know.”

“Oh, you're right. I know,” he said, suddenly bearing a bashfun grin and giving her a pat on the hand.

“Anyway, the forest surprises even ME, all the time," said Dryad, turning to Woodrow, “and I know more about it than anyone! So if your friend is looking for a cure, perhaps-”

“Oh!! He’s not my friend,” exclaimed Woodrow, his cheeks turning so red it was visible through his fur. “Merely a… merely a… well, we know of each other, but have never met. But yes, perhaps… perhaps friends we shall become.” He added, more quietly, “I think I should like that very much.”

“Well, he sounds like an artistic type, so I’m sure you two will get along just wonderfully!” said Dryad with an encouraging smile, leaning forward with her paws on the table. “Best of luck!”

Sweetlopek nearly spat out his mouthful of pumpkin ale. He choked it down and gave his partner a glance; but she had not realized what she’d done. His eyes traveled nervously over to Woodrow, whose face had become even more elongated, darkened, frozen in horror.

Dryad began to realize that something was amiss, and looked back and forth between the two men. “...What?” she asked.

Sweetlopek leaned over to her. “You said the L-word,” he whispered in her ear, and she immediately looked as stricken as the others.

“OH!” burst from Woodrow, who had overheard- it was hard, after all, to whisper quiet enough for a creature with such large ears to not hear. “O, luck!!” he cried in an agony of disgust.

“So little a word for so great a power!

O villain that threatens me hour by hour!

O knave, O menace that waits at my side!

Dismantler of dreams and punisher of pride-” he slammed his hand on the table in passion, and a huge bolt of lightning and immediate peal of thunder rent the air outside.

“Woody-” began the lumberjack in concern as rain began to lash at the windows.

“O luck,” he continued,

“Thou writest my name in the cruelest of plots,

Thou weavest my fate into tangles and knots!

My most thoughtful plans reduced to insanity;

To plan for my joy, mere folly and vanity!”

The glass that held Dryad’s water cracked and then shattered. She flew off to get a towel while Woodrow took several deep, shuddering breaths, and slumped down in his chair as the rain and loud cracks of thunder continued. Without a word Sweetlopek got up, walked over to him, scooped him up, and took him over to the couch where he laid him down against a pillow. He was breathing hard, racked with a sort of dry sob, an attack of anguish. Sweet had seen it before, many a time. He stroked Woodrow's arm, gently, to ground him in reality and safety, while the wind howled and the rain clawed the windows.

After a few minutes, the poet's breathing calmed down and the thunder around them did as well, not stopping completely, but becoming softer and less frequent. “There now, Woody,” said the lumberjack as Dryad joined them, wringing her paws in worry. “Didja get it all out?”

“I think so,” he said weakly and softly. “But… but I spoke true. Oh, what a fool I’ve been!” He buried his face in his paws, pushing them up behind his glasses until the spectacles were pushed up and off, sliding down onto the couch next to him. “To think, I almost let him come here! Someone who needs good fortune, and good health! Someone… someone I admire. I almost let him come HERE, where I dwell!”

“Almost?!” said Dryad. “I thought you said he was coming?”

“I haven’t written back to him yet,” mumbled Woodrow from behind his hands, tears evident in his voice and visible, creeping and leaking out around the edges of his paws. “There’s still time to tell him not to come. We can’t accommodate him. We’re busy with the harvest. I can invent all manner of excuses…”

Dryad and Sweetlopek looked at each other in despair. He had been so happy earlier, and now…

“So, you’re worried you’ll cause something terrible to happen while he’s here?” Dryad asked.

Woodrow nodded, slowly revealing his reddened eyes and their ever-present look of fatigue and sorrow. “Yes,” he said. “Something could happen around him… something could happen TO him. He’s looking for healing right now. He needs the opposite of… whatever tribulations I shall bring to him. Oh! I should just tell him to go to Gusty Garden Galaxy,” he groaned, “he’s a musician… everyone likes that song they have there…”

“He should come,” said Sweetlopek firmly, giving his friend another pat on the shoulder. “You were so excited about it. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I mean, you've been workin' on containin' yer jinx, right? I’ve seen ya practicin’ in the woods. Yer tryin' to learn to control it, ain’tcha?”

“Yes,” he said, but with an air of defeat. “I keep hoping I can direct it, contain it… but… it’s difficult. I can’t, really. Mere wishful thinking.” He sighed.

Dryad looked at the two friends skeptically, confusion on her face. “Uh… forgive me if this is a silly question,” she said cautiously, “but, Woodrow… have you tried simply… not writing poems? It’s the poems that cause your ill fortune, right?”

“Honey,” said Sweetlopek, looking at her in wry amusement. “Ya might as well ask the trees in yer forest not to grow, or the leaves not to fall. Ya might as well-

“She’s right,” said Woodrow, his voice filled with sudden determination. He pushed himself into a sitting position.

“...What?” said the woodsman, his face snapping back to his old friend in astonishment. “Ya can’t just stop yerself, can ya? Poetry’s the air you breathe. Always been like that, since we were kids. You spit out those rhymes like Chipper spits out sawdust. An' no matter what’s happened, you’ve NEVER stopped! Never been able to, never wanted to.”

“Not until now,” he said, looking at the couple in placid resolution.

“Oh!” said Sweetlopek, more than a little upset. “Bringin' down the moon didn’t do it! The DOOMSTORM didn’t do it! Gettin' yerself nearly killed by a boat didn’t do it- Tristan Woodrow, I thought you were a goner, that day!" The heat in his voice continued to rise. "As long as I've known you, you idiot, I’ve worried my ears off abou'cha! My best friend! But I never wanted you to stop writing, because it’s who y’are. It’s yer nature. And NOW yer gonna stop, because of some… some singer?! Frankly, I don't believe you.”

“Shh, love…” said Dryad, patting her partner on his arm to quell his agitation. She then turned to the poet. “I’m sorry for suggesting it,” she said quickly. “Really, there’s no reason to stop writing your poems. I know how important they are to you, and-”

But the poet - or perhaps, erstwhile poet - was smiling again. He put on his glasses, adjusted them and then stood up, filled with renewed vigor. “Nay, nay!” he cried. “You, dear Dryad, have the wisdom of the forest indeed! There’s a solution to my woes after all, and how simple it is! From the moment the Phantom arrives, I shall go on hiatus from my work. In fact, perhaps this is just what I need to refresh my creative passions. Hmm?”

Sweetlopek was still crossing his burly arms and bearing a deep-set frown, but Dryad looked up at the warden with tentative support. “If that’s… REALLY what you want,” she said. “Then I- WE-” she added pointedly with a glance at her love, “support you.”

“It is!” said Woodrow, his earlier merry demeanor returning, with the rain outside starting to let up, and the watery rays of the sunset starting to once more streak through the windows. “Now, my apologies for the outburst. Let us finish our dinner before it gets cold, shall we?”

The three seated themselves again, and Sweetlopek raised an eyebrow at the warden as they began to eat. His anger dissipated quickly, as his old friend did seem excited and happy, and that was rare enough… so who was he to get in the way of that? He must truly be fond of this Phantom fellow… and said Phantom had better be worth the trouble.

[Next time: Phantom is actually in this story!! Wow!]

#mario + rabbids #mario plus rabbids #mario rpgs #fanfic #woodrow #ts woodrow #the phantom #rabbid dryad #sweetlopek #phandrow

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klbwriting · 2 years

Text

The Sparrow and The Rogue - Part 3

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Pairing: Ben Hargreeves/female!Reader

Warnings: none in this one

Summary: When Ben/One goes home he is told of a forming plan to take out the rogues and the umbrella siblings

Note: well, I’m back at least for this. Its been a long time but suddenly I’m inspired again to write my fanfics. Despite the updated info about season 3 I haven’t changed anything about this fic except that Vanya is now referred to as Victor out of respect for Elliot Page

Part 1

Part 2

One walked back to the Sparrow house, meeting up with Two along the way. They were surprisingly silent as they entered the house together. He stopped when he saw Four and Reginald waiting for them in the main hall. Two just rolled their eyes and stalked away, clearly aware of something that One wasn't privy too yet. Reginald had a look on his face that stopped One in his tracks.

"What's going on?" One asked. He seemed, morbidly proud.

"Four reported that you have taken care of one of those rogue Sparrows, number eight I believe," he said. One nodded, eyes flashing to see Four smiling happily. The deluded idiot. Only Four would be so easily tricked into telling Reginald everything, that's probably why they were sent in the first place. One took a breath, mentally preparing for the shitstorm he was going to create by lying right now.

"Yes sir, met her on the train tracks and took care of the body also" he said. Reginald nodded.

"I need to speak with you in my office," he said, leading One up the stairs. Once in his office he motioned for One to sit down. Reginald stood behind his desk, always having to be the bigger man in the room with his children. One had noticed this years ago, him and Eight used to laugh about it before she left with Lila. Laugh at how he would stand behind his desk instead of sit, and how he would fold his arms and look down at them past his nose, making him look much like the Sparrow he had named this team for. He pushed down the urge to laugh when Reginald did this exact thing, he smiled a little and Reginald seemed pleased, probably thinking he was happy about killing Eight. This sobered up his attitude immediately.

"What do you need from me sir?" One asked, back to being serious again.

"Now that you have proven you are willing to do what it takes to end that ridiculous rogues group we are going to start upping our duties. We have stopped one apocalypse it is time to stop another and while we are at it we will set a trap for Lila and her...associates. They always come after us, screwing up what we do to help this world, but this time we will be waiting for them" he explained. One listened quietly, thinking about how this would affect Eight, Nine, Six, all the others who had left.

"What is the plan?" One asked, leaning forward to make sure he looked interested. Reginald held up a hand.

"I will inform all of you of the plan in a few days, once I have figured out the best strategy for us to destroy the rogues and the umbrella academy."

One was dismissed and headed to his room, claiming to be too tired for dinner. He was allowed to be excused, presumably being rewarded for murdering Eight. He closed the door and pulled his phone from his pocket, cursing when he saw it was dead. He slid under his bed and plugged in the device, climbing back on his bed to wait for it to charge. He would have to call Eight that night to talk about the tricky position they were all in.

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

Eight got back to the old subway tunnel, trying to sneak into dinner relatively unnoticed, but as soon as she sat down Lila turned to face her. The others all were on edge, with Yina, formally Ten, just getting up and taking her plate out of the room. The Umbrella siblings were unaware of what was to come, enjoying their food in silence.

"Where have you been Eight?" Lila asked, causing any conversation to quiet. Her face was unreadable as Eight looked around the room. Everyone looked away except for the newcomers who were staring with interest.

"I was being killed," she said simply, taking a bite of her pizza. Klaus looked surprised.

"Can everyone see her?" he asked. Luther rolled his eyes while Diego just sat back and sighed, clearly tired of everything.

"I heard a rumor that everyone but Lila and Eight left the room," Allison said. Eight was impressed by this power, watching everyone but Lila get up and walk out as if completely under some kind of trance. She nodded her appreciation as Allison left last, closing the door behind them. She knew that everyone was probably listening through the door but she felt a little better not having an audience.

"You went to see One didn't you?" Lila asked, clearly disappointed. Eight nodded.

"I did, we were hanging out while he was supposed to be doing patrols," she answered, avoiding eye contact.

"Did hanging out involve exchanging body fluid?" Lila pressed, making Eight involuntarily blush. She internally groaned. No one else would be able to get her to react like this but she really did see Lila as a mother and moms somehow knew a secret to get the answers they wanted. "I see, you know he's using you right? Soon enough he's going to be asking where we're hiding. And you'll tell him like an idiot and then they will all be here killing us one by one. You are not a teenager anymore, this shit is just plain stupid now."

"One isn't like that, he has never asked me anything about this place, ever. I mean, not like we having been dancing around this for like ten years now," Eight replied. "I would never betray you and the others, especially now that we have those other people with us now. I am not an idiot mom." Lila looked at Eight for a second before letting out a laugh.

"You haven't called me mom in years" she said. Eight rolled her eyes, not seeing what was so funny about this interrogation. "The Sparrows are tricky, remember when we all thought Three actually left them? They came to our warehouse, poked around in our heads to find out what we knew and what we were hiding, and both Eleven and your precious One almost died in the fight that ensued. What was worse we had to start from square one, we were lucky to recover so quickly. Don't be an idiot like I was, don't let one of them get to you."

"I am not you Lila. I won't let anyone compromise me, I learn from the best how not to be an dumbass," she said, getting up from the table. She marched to the door, opening it and watching as Diego, Klaus, and Luther all fell through it. She stepped over them, eyeing Five, who seemed like the only one who wasn't interested in what was going on. He was one to watch out for, he knew more than he was letting on. She would have to ask Allison about his power and figure out what his scheme was. For now she just went back to her room, laying down and checking her phone. Nothing. Fuck. She heard Allison come in and turned around, sitting up to face her.

"How was your date with Ben?" she asked quietly, making sure the door was shut. Eight threw a look at the door anyway, not really wanting anyone to be listening on this conversation. Allison smiled. "Don't worry, I rumored everyone to leave us alone tonight. That's my power, I can tell people what to do." Eight nodded, impressed.

"Might as well show you my power," she said. She reached a hand out and made the music box open and start playing. "I just have to think of something and it happens, but only to inanimate objects, I can't control people or anything like that." Allison nodded, watching the music box for a minute. "Anyway, seeing One was nice, he got to kill me which is fun."

"Does that happen a lot?" Allison asked. Eight shook her head.

"No, this is only the second time its happened. The first time was when we were just out of our teens, One had me cornered, could have brought out his squid friend but instead he just leaned close to me, making sure he was pressed against me, and said, play dead, so I did," she explained. "A few weeks later, when I emerged again One took a beating like I'd never seen before, bruises everywhere, and the rest of the Sparrows were bragging about which ones they made."

"Fuck, that's worse than anything we had done to us," Allison whispered. "Dad just, yelled at us, sent us to our rooms, made us do more drills." Eight gave her a look. "Ok, we did mess with each other on his orders, but not physically, I mean, I never kicked the shit out of Diego no matter how much I wanted to." Eight chuckled and laid down again, still facing Allison. She was going to continue talking when her phone rang. Strange, One never called her, only texted.

"One?" she asked, clearly concerned. She could hear wind and traffic through the phone. "Where are you?"

"I'm hanging out my window so no one hears me," he said, trying to keep his voice down even with the background noise. "Dad is planning to trap you all, I'm not sure how, but he thinks since I actually killed you this time that means I'm ready to, I don't know, slaughter the rest of the rogues too. And those umbrella guys are pissing him off more than usual, he wants us to trap you all and kill you."

"When, where, how?" Eight asked, starting to pace as Allison watched worried.

"I don't know, dad isn't telling me anything yet, says he needs to get the right strategy. I will update you when I can, you have to lay low for awhile though, I don't..." One stopped talking, not sure how to say that he didn't want the shit kicked out of him again. He figured this time Reginald would just let the others kill him.

"Alright, I will, let me know when everything calms down," she said. She hung up and collapsed again.

"That didn't sound great," Allison said. She shook her head.

"No, since you're here, and dad thinks One, I mean Ben, I mean, One? Whatever, thinks he actually killed me, he's planning to trap the rogues you guys in something, take you all out at once," she explained. "He's not sure of the details yet but until he gets them I'm needing to lay low, which will piss Lila off immensely when I tell her."

"Maybe we could use this to our advantage, if Ben tells us about the trap then we can set our own trap," Allison offered. Eight sighed and nodded, not sure how good that sounded considering that One would be in the crosshairs of the rogues and the Sparrows if that happened. She rolled over and tried to sleep, wondering how to tell Lila about all this in the morning.

#The Umbrella Academy #ben hargreeves #ben hargreeves x reader #ben hargreeves series #ben hargreeves fanfic #Umbrella Academy #umbrella academy fanfic

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windsource · 3 years

Text

Are You Happy? (Save Them Some Pie)

HAPPY 42ND BIRTHDAY, DEAN!! this is my gift to him for being my comfort person that i would hug on sight if given the chance 💗 love you dude, may you indulge in copious amounts of pie. ~ 1.5k words.

also dedicated to marlo ( @heller-jensen ), jace ( @thiscastielhasflown ) and dee ( @castee-yel ) thanks for bein real ones <3

[READ ON AO3]

The day had already started out weird enough.

Dean had woken up drenched in sweat, mind racing with the last lingering thoughts of a nightmare. A vamp nest that he and Sam had been hunting, Dean dying in the most ludicrous way possible, and driving Baby down a long road for an indiscriminate amount of time in a supposed heaven that his father (his father) also co-habited. Needless to say, the dream had come out of nowhere, but it was easy enough to forget once the smell of bacon made its way into his room.

Breakfast was hardy and quick, with enough coffee to fuel him for the rest of the day as he skimmed the internet for a possible case. He had the itch, but apparently, looking around at the three sleepy faces around him at the table, no one else did.

He packed up anyway, preparing for what would likely be an easy salt-n-burn; he’d be gone for only a few hours, tops. On his way out, Cas stops him before he can scale the stairs, arm gripping his shoulder tightly. There’s a memory, briefly—the same hand, the same shoulder. Blood.

Dean looks down at it. Back at Cas.

“…Yeah?”

After a moment, Cas lets go. He steps back half an inch as if he had forgotten himself. “Just…be careful.”

Dean nods, moving to leave again, taking the awkwardness as both a Cas thing and a morning thing and content to leave it at that.

“And,” Cas says. Dean turns back.

“Come home.”

Dean picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Dean, hey! It’s, uh. It’s me. Krissy?”

Dean feels himself begin to smile, mindful of the road ahead of him. He balances his phone on his thigh while he drives.

“Hey, kid! Long time no call. How are you? Everything okay?”

The case had been as easy as Dean had suspected, but he had that familiar muscle ache and heaviness to his eyes that solo cases usually gave him.

Besides that, he was getting a little confused about all of the calls he’d been getting today. Before Krissy, it had been Garth, and before that, Claire and Jody and…

“Uh, yeah, dude, everything’s good. Um. How are you? How’s Sam and that angel of yours?”

Dean swallows to keep from choking, or potentially crashing the car.

“They’re good. Yeah…good.” Alive, he wants to say, back from the dead, probably in the DeanCave watching Scooby Doo without him. “Sorry, Krissy, ah,” he steps off the break to make a left, “I’m actually on my way home right now. Was there something I could help you with?”

There’s a pause, and Dean chances a glance at his phone to see if the call had dropped off. It hadn’t.

“Krissy?”

“I,” she huffs in what sounds like a laugh, “Nothing, Dean. You get home safe, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

“And hey,” Krissy says, before he can say his goodbyes, “Uh, make sure you save some pie for everybody else.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow a bit, but he laughs. “I will. Take care of yourself.”

“Bye, Dean.”

“Ba-bye.”

Dean’s still mulling over the pie comment when he nearly falls down the stairs, squinting into the darkness of the Bunker.

“What the hell?” he asks, voice hoarse around the high note. “Guys?”

When there’s no immediate answer, Dean’s instincts kick in. He pulls out his gun and gently drops his bag, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust so he can try for the stairs.

Before he can, though, the lights kick back on. His gaze locks onto the scene below, and Dean slowly lowers his gun.

“Happy birthday!” Jack says, the sound of a party horn whining shortly after. Beside him, Cas pulls the string of a party popper, and he jerks as bits of confetti fall around him and into his hair.

Skeptically, Dean starts descending down the stairs.

“You…this…” he manages.

“It’s your birthday, dumbass,” Sam says, swooping forward to slap a party hat on Dean’s head as soon as he’s made the landing. He smiles.

“Oh…kay.” Around them, the Bunker looks pretty normal. The only difference is the array of pies on one of the library tables, next to what looks like home made rice krispie treats, and a couple of birthday-themed plates and napkins. That, and the confetti from Cas’ party popper that litters the floor. “Are you sure?”

Cas frowns at Sam. “Sam was certain. I can’t imagine he’d get the day wrong, but he has had quite severe brain trauma over the years. Perhaps…” Cas reaches out to Sam’s head, probably intent on searching his brain for said trauma, or for the date of Dean’s actual birthday. Sam swats his hand away.

“Hey, no. My trauma is fine. Dean,” Sam redirects his attention to him, “It’s today. Did you really forget?”

Dean shrugs, trying to piece the day together from the beginning. Shitty dream, good breakfast, the three of them weirdly insisting on staying at the Bunker…the calls. Save some pie for everybody else.

He laughs. “So that’s what she meant.”

“That’s what who meant?” Jack asks. He’s wearing a party hat, too, with ridiculous stripes of blue and pink and purple patterned onto it. It matches the one currently strapped to Dean’s own. He shakes his head.

“You’re telling me all of you knew? This whole time? And…and…” He looks around again, pointing vaguely at the table and the confetti. “You put this all together for me?”

Sam shoves his arm playfully. “Course we did. Now quit pouting and come eat some pie.”

Sam is fast asleep, sprawled out on the couch hours later with one of his hands brushing the floor. Dean thinks he spots drool on the pillow underneath him.

Cas has been quiet next to Dean, at least since Jack had disappeared into the kitchen an hour ago and hadn’t come back, thoughtfully tracing the lip of his beer bottle with his finger.

“Something on your mind?” Dean asks, because he wants to know.

Cas continues unbothered. Scooby Doo reruns play in the background. Dean almost repeats the question, but Cas eventually lifts his gaze to stare at him.

“Are you happy?”

Dean presses his mouth shut. Licks his lips. He takes just as long to answer.

“You know what,” he smiles. “I think I am.”

Cas smiles back at him, soft and genuine. The skin around his eyes crinkling tells more than the gentle upturn of his mouth.

Dean swallows, nervously putting his beer down and turning it a few times until his fingers are wet with the condensation.

“What, uh. What about you?” He swallows again. “You happy?”

What he really wants to ask, though, is if they were good. If, after recent events, they were still the same. If Cas was still fine with “just being.”

He’s quiet again. Dean thinks he deserves that, and tries to pay attention to the TV, but the voice in his head is too loud. Cas has to tap his knee to get his attention again.

“Hm?”

“I was saying,” he moves his hand back, “that I’m sorry I didn’t get you a gift.”

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

Cas looks confused, like he’s about to repeat what he just said. Dean stops him short with a wave of his hand.

“Dude, you just got back from the dead, alright? That’s—that’s gift enough to last me a lifetime. Don’t worry about a gift.”

Cas frowns, and Dean rolls his eyes. It’s another few moments of tense silence, until Dean breaks it, his heart pounding in his chest.

“But, uh,” he says, “I might have a gift for you.”

“Dean, we don’t share a birthday. It’s not customary to gift me something, especially when I haven’t given you—“

“Cas,” he groans, officially putting his beer aside and facing him. Cas’ features are lit up with the colors of the TV. Dean reaches a hand up to pluck confetti from his hair, a green piece that he’d been eyeing all night. Hesitating, he lets his hand fall to Cas’ face, smoothing over his cheek and jaw. The TV paints his cheekbone purple. Dean brushes his thumb over it. “Just...shut up and let me do this.”

Cas tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed in that way of his, and Dean thinks he looks perfect. When he dips forward and presses their lips together, it’s perfect, perfect, perfect. He’s warm, his face is burning, eyes almost watering when he pulls away.

Dean lets his forehead rest on Cas’, heartbeat still crazy. He closes his eyes. “We can have it, Cas. This. We can have this.”

Cas takes Dean’s face in his hands, lifts it a little to bring them face to face again, so that he’s looking into Dean’s eyes.

“I’d like that, Dean,” he says, and his eyes are wet, too. Happy, Dean thinks.

“Your gift to me?” Dean manages, smile wobbly. He’s teasing, trying to bring down the weight of this without getting rid of all of it. He likes this type of adrenaline rush, different from any hunt he’s been on. Better.

Cas smiles. “I think technically it was you that gifted me, but, yes. My gift to you, if you’ll take it.”

“Gladly,” Dean says.

Cas hums back, brushing his fingers through the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. “Happy birthday, Dean.” He leaves a kiss on his forehead.

Happy.

Dean thinks, for the first time, as he pulls more confetti from Cas’ hair, that it actually is.

—

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80s4life · 3 years

Text

The Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing

Word Count: 4,438

Status: Not Requested

Fandom: Back To The Future 1985

Relationship: Biff Tannen x Female Reader

Summary: As time is altered for a total of 2 weeks (I extended it slightly), you and Marty struggle to get his parents under control, having problem after the next. But, when an unexpected solution occurs, you find yourself willingly okay with it, soon finding the exact reason as to why.

Warnings: language, fluff, Biff being a dick, slight angst, cute Biff

Masterlist Back To The Future Masterlist

Prompts: (from this list @youneedsomeprompts)

Y/C/S= Your Choice of Sport/ Your Chosen Sport (you don’t have to honestly play one, just choose one you like or one that comes to mind)

{gif and prompts are not mine, gif credits go to @backtothefuturemovies and credits were given above for prompts!}

No one ever said time travel was fun. No one ever said the job was easy. And no one sure as hell told you the consequences that come with it. Well, at least not before you, and your best friend, Marty McFly, had gone dead-on through a barn, sacred a neighboring family of ‘alien invasion,’ run into younger McFly parents, and altered time just enough to fuck you over for a few days.

I mean, who would’ve guessed right? Your mom just so happens to be romantically interested in you, their child. Well, that was at least in Marty’s case. For you, you had just managed to run into the biggest dickhead of the century, Biff Tannen. Or so you thought?

Making your way out of bed, you automatically go to where Marty was sleeping in the garage, waking him along with Doc up. The go-to plan for the day was to go undercover as usual students in the 50′s, secretly following Marty’s parents around, finding out where they lie in this part of time, and try to find ways into manipulating them together once more in time for Marty and you to get back home. Easy enough, right?

Groaning, Marty goes to slap your hands away weakly, mumbling something along the lines of ‘Just a few more minutes.’ You giggle slapping his hands back in an attempt to wake him up cheerily. Mornings weren’t really your forte either, so any upbeat wake-up is better than a pissy, tired, horrible morning.

Doc, on the other hand, was happy to return the affection, getting out of bed to give a quick hug and kiss to the forehead. Then he makes his way over to the bed, going to tickle Marty’s feet as you go to tickle his sides. Finally, in a fit of laughter, Marty gets up and goes straight for the bathroom. You were going to argue him, having to use the bathroom first, but decide to just leave it be, heading for the makeshift kitchen instead.

You smile fondly as Doc and Marty play around a while later, wrestling about, cracking jokes. It was only just a few hours ago that you and Marty had witnessed the untimely death of the currently very lively man in the house. Witnessing the blood loss, the machine gun in action, and the bullets that whizzed pass with only one malicious intent: to kill. But he’s here now; he’s safe and sound, having many years until that date will arrive.

With the freshly cooked smell of eggs, toast, and pancakes, the boys straighten up, Doc clearing his throat in an attempt to organize himself, and Marty leaving his shirt ruffled as he follows the smell of deliciousness. You giggle as both men of different ages act exactly the same, piling their plates high and digging in, giving thanks through mouthfuls.

///LATER///

After breakfast had finished, you and Marty made your way to the school, not wanting to be late, and, quite frankly, not wanting to miss a second in the disaster we’re in, wanting to fix it as soon as possible. Upon entering, the building erupts in laughter, tears, screaming, perfume, cologne, aftershave, and lots and lots of both testosterone and estrogen. Fucking high school, you smile.

Going to “your locker” right besides “Marty’s,” you both place the books and supplies that are unneeded inside it and take only the things you need for the first two classes, somehow having those together. As Marty catches glimpse of his father, George McFly, he winks at you, moving to catch up to him. Rolling your eyes playfully, you turn back towards your locker, just barely missing a group of young men some ways down the hallway, locking eyes with a particularly taller man, towering almost everyone in the halls.

You pay no mind, however, being blindsided by three girls your age. Instantly, you recognize the one right in front as Lorraine, Marty’s mother. Smiling nervously, your cheeks tint only a little, being unprepared to see her so quickly, not yet having a plan made up on how you could help tackle the situation with Marty.

“Hiya! I’ve never seen you before, are you new here? I’m Lorraine Baines, and you are?” she asks cheerfully, her books clasped tightly to her chest.

Taking an obnoxiously long time staring dumbfounded, you finally realize you haven’t spoken, quickly recovering with newfound purpose and confidence, “Ah, yes! I am new here! Sorry, I’m just trying to get used to this place a tiny bit. I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Well that’s quite alright, you can come with us!” she says once more in a cheery tone, taking you by the arm and lacing her arm around yours, locked elbows. You smiled, knowing exactly where Marty’s cheerful and people-person nature had come from. Walking down the halls, she had asked for my schedule, checking classes to see what we had together, “English, History, and Agriculture- Hey! You should try out for cheer leading!”

Shaking your head lightly, “Nah, I’m more of a Y/C/S myself to be frank.”

“But...We don’t have that sport here? There are no girls sports at all actually...” Lorraine says confused. You go to cover it up, choosing to say it was a sport you play for fun at home, in the backyard. However, a beefy arm separates you momentarily from her, as the owner of the harm moves to pin her to the lockers.

You were going to walk away, figuring it was some sort of make-out session in the works, but upon looking at her before going, you notice that the man was absurdly unwanted.

“Get your meathooks off me Biff!” she screams at the man, his huge form towering her much smaller one. Not taking the message, the pair continue to squabble, neither of them being successful in winning. The warning bell sounds over the halls and classrooms, alarming kids to get their asses moving, but it seems whoever this dick is, he feels he is greater than the school, and god forbid, knowledge.

“Hey, you do realize your not making a damn bit a difference, right? She’s not interested! And, quite frankly, it seems as if no one does! Now, if you don’t mind, could you please be kind enough to unhand her as some of us treasure a piece of mind and how to take a hint?” you finish, quite ticked off as the last bell warns, cursing under your breath as you already know your in for detention on the first day.

It finally seems that he’d caught a grip, thankfully, letting go of Lorraine’s arm and she quickly scurries out of his proximity, taking your hand to lead you to the class you both needed to be in. As you go to walk in, you are stopped by the teacher, scolding both you and Lorraine. Looking at her regrettably, she smiles defeated. So you decide to do what’s right, take the fall.

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t know where to go as I was trying to find where all of my classes were before I ended up lost every time classes switch. I caught up to Lorraine here at some point, and as she was hurrying to this class, she was kind enough to show me where I needed to be,” you finish, sighing guiltily.

“Well, as you’ve taken acknowledgment to your mistake, then you’d be just as happy with detention. After school, on Friday, as the first week is extremely busy. As for you, Miss Baines, thank you for your help. You are off the hook for now,” the older gentleman finishes, nodding to each of you personally before turning around and beginning just one of the classes you’d have today. This is going to be fun!

///LATER///

Finally, after grueling hours of just a few of your classes, lunchtime had came round, giving you a slight break. Catching sight of Lorraine, you smile and wave, going in the direction of Marty, or Calvin Klein, as you’d heard Lorraine go on and on about. You’d known it was him the second she’d said it, the brand not yet known to man yet; or at least in this timeline, it wasn’t.

As time had went on, it was only natural for the peace to be broken, as a newly familiar face was starting to appear more and more, Biff Tannen, as you’d known his name by now. But, instead of heading towards Lorraine, he makes his way over to the table you were residing with George and Marty, sitting himself right beside you.

At first, you were trying to ignore him, knowing his presence was there, but keeping your eyes trained on either Marty or George, eyes dancing between the two. Biff, being the everlasting child he was, tried to catch you attention, trying stupid ass things after the other: kicking your shins, pulling your ears of hair, flicking your head, and even trying to tug on the 50′s style dress you’d been forced to wear to play your part.

Only when he goes to tug your hair once more is when you finally snap, turning a furious glare to the hulking figure beside you, shoving his shoulder in a feeble attempt to create distance. He giggles at this, his body not moving an inch at all. “You can’t be serious right now! You don’t know when to quit it, do you?!” you scream, fed up with his shit.

“Well, if you’d give me the human decency of turning your head when I’m trying to talk to you, then I wouldn’t have to pester you, now would I?” he asks in a teasing tone, no doubt taunting you, but all you do is stare him down, getting lost in a staring contest, daring him to say something again. “Alls I wanted to say was that we have detention together. Just thought I’d let you know since you got me in all that trouble this morning.”

“Why you-!” And with that, he gets up with a shit-eating grin plastered to his face, prancing out of view and back to the table he and his gang usually sit. Watching the whole interaction, George smirks at Marty, the pair giving an unspoken mutual agreement to whatever they had both caught on to, bursting into fits of laughter moments later.

“You have a longer tolerance than I do, I-I-I’ll tell you that much,” George says, his usual slight stutter back in place, Marty laughing once more. As George joins in again, you couldn’t fight it either, giving into the childish antics.

///LATER///

To say your week had gotten any better than the first day was a lie. It hadn’t gotten any better, and your meetings with Biff at lunch had only gotten all the more common and all the more infuriating. He’d made it his duty to agitate you in any ways possible, even resulting in whispering something nagging in your ear when you weren’t paying attention, usually doing something in your locker.

Either way, he was on the countdown to Friday, it being constantly on his mind, mentally counting down the days, hours, minutes, and even seconds until the two of you were locked in a room alone.

Unfortunately, that day had seemed to come way faster than you’d like, Friday rolling around quite quickly. School had finished, and you were making your way to the front office, awaiting a tiring 2 hours with only yourself and Biff as company for the time being. You hadn’t known where the room was, and instead of spending time looking for it, you gave up and looked for the office instead, the nice front desk lady leading you where you needed to go.

Upon entering the room, there was Biff in his prime, casually spread across his chair, legs crossed atop his desk nearest the windows. Sighing, you ignore him, deciding to sit on the opposite side of him, the front desk lady giving you a sympathetic smile before she closes the door behind her. You look at the wall, head turned away from him like the plague.

You knew it’d only last so long until he’d speak, the time coming way faster than you pleased. Given it was Friday, you couldn’t even do homework or even study in order to block him out as he started to blabber, running his mouth over stupid shit once more. Inhaling through your nose, and exhaling through your mouth slowly, you straighten in your seat, hands clutching the desk so tight, your fists turned white.

“Biff, Sweetheart, Baby, Doll Face, Hun. Please. PLEASE. Shut up for five god damn seconds. I know you truly have nothing to say, so why do you insist on speaking so much?” you finally say, hands prying off the desk to turn in his direction exasperated.

“Well, if you’d just talk to me, Shortcake, I wouldn’t have much to say at random,” he answers, copying your actions and posture. With this change in childish demeanor, you give in, laughing at him in an unexpected rush, running your hands through your hair tiredly.

Although you hadn’t seen it, he’d smiled in satisfaction upon seeing you laugh, the glitter in your eyes much more captivating than it ever was when he looked at Lorraine. He hadn’t barely pestered her since you’d barreled into his life. It was weird, but he welcomed it with open arms. And for the first time, he learned what it was like to have an actual, clammy-handed, closed throat, warm, cheek-tinted, teenage crush. A crush that left his heartbeat loud and fast, breathing ragged and uneven, and his behavior out of character and out of his control. Lorraine was way under whatever level he’d placed you on, holding you up on a pedestal like you were the sun or sky.

Of course, you hadn’t taken notice to his antics, just thinking he was annoying. Just Biff being his notorious self. But, as you finally calm your breathing down, the giggles fading, you decide to give him a chance, knowing that sitting in silence is just going bore you. Smiling warmly, you say, “So what do you want to talk about then?”

///LATER///

Grabbing your bag, you get out of your seat, giggling at a story Biff had told you. He follows your lead as well, getting his own as he lets out a bark of laughter at a certain part. You guys looked like idiots as you shoved each other down the halls, making your way out of the school as your detention had came to a close. Sighing as the warm sun radiated on your skin with the light, spring breeze, you stretch out any kinks the classroom chairs and desks had left. Biff watched you intently, your small body easily swallowed by his shadow beside you.

The sun was setting and it was getting late, although you weren’t concerned. The boys knew you wouldn’t be home ‘til late due to the detention you had initially despised. Now, you and Biff were side by side, walking peacefully to his car in the school’s parking lot. For once, he was quiet, great company to have. It was something else for sure, but you enjoyed it. As you came up towards Doc’s place, you’d realized that Biff had drove you home like a gentleman, too lost in the conversation to notice earlier on.

Sheepishly, you itch the back of your neck, realizing your mistake and feeling guilty for making him walk all this way to now have to walk all the way home. “Ah- Sorry...I didn’t realize I’d dragged you all the way out here. Now you have to drive all the way back.”

“It’s no problem, really. I liked it. It’s nice to talk to someone other than the guys every now and then. And to have A female speak to me instead of screaming,” he answers, now being the one who is a bit shy.

“You do know that you bring that on yourself right?” you say teasingly, now leaning your head on your hands, propped up on the passenger side door. “Not every girl would want to kick you in the groin if you showed a little more respect, “ you finish off with a smile.

“Yeah...Yeah I know. I’ll try harder, I swear.”

“That’s all I ask,” you say with a wink, drumming your hands on the door as you take a step back, waving as you start walking down Doc’s driveway.

“Hey!” Biff calls from the car, stopping you in your tracks to turn around, facing him with a smile. “Uhm- Well- The Enchantment Under the Sea Dance is coming up next week...Would you mind being my date?” he asks, stuttering as he feels his cheeks heat up, nervous as hell.

“I’d love to!” you answer, turning back around to walk into the house. Biff does a little fist bump as he puts the car back in gear, excited for what is to come.

///

Marty was a little less than amused with this newfound knowledge once entering the door and going over the events of the day. It was only when Doc had suggested that the date with Biff would keep him away from Lorraine, giving George the freeway to attract her long enough for their True Love’s Kiss. Then, and only then, did Marty give the okay, shaking his head, but liking the fact that it’ll give George some time, being the nerd that you know and love.

///Enchantment Under the Sea Dance///

Checking yourself over in the mirror for the final time, you let out a nervous yet satisfied sigh, feeling like an absolute princess. You never minded dresses too much, although you couldn’t deny the fact that normal pair of shorts, jeans, or even leggings were your first choice. All that mattered was that you liked the dress you were wearing, it fit you; it was your favorite color, length, and strap(less) type to hold everything in.

Walking out, you grab the pair of heels to match, knowing that you couldn’t get away with sneakers in this generation, painfully grimacing at the reminder. Finally standing, you recount when you had gotten the dress just a few days ago, having gone with Lorraine and the her two friends, Babs and Betty. They were very endearing and supportive the whole time, you not having to worry about being “to picky” as they were just the same. You ended up loving the dress given that you’d taken the time without pressure.

As you walked into the main room of the garage, you heard a low whistle of Marty, Doc slapping him on the back of the head for it. Giggling, you curtsy and spin in the dress. Doc, the gentleman he always was, compliments you, “You look amazing, my dear. Let’s hope this boy deserves it, hmm?”

As an answer, you hug him tightly, knowing that, by the end of the night, he will be nothing but a dead man at home, in a lonely, dark parking lot. Your eyes tear up just at the mere thought of it, clutching him tighter. Marty seems to be on the same wavelength, going to interrupt the moment with great urgency, trying to pass him a piece of paper.

“Marty, if this has anything that involves my future, do not. And I repeat, DO NOT try to hand it to me. Whatever happens, happens young man. That’s how the world works,” he says in a warning tone. You wanted to disagree, but you knew the truth that was laced beneath it, as if it was a punishment. You whimper instead, pulling him in tighter; Marty looking down in defeat, soon switching to anger. In the midst of it, he storms out of the garage, getting in the car to go pick up who you’d hope was Lorraine for the dance.

“Just let him go...” you start, sadness evident, “He’s just not very happy with the outcome of what the future has in store for you. Quite frankly, neither am I.”

“I’m sure whatever the outcome is, that I wanted to go with it, dear. I assure you, I’m fine,” Doc answers in a consoling tone, wiping the tears that had slipped from your eyes. You knew it was just a mask, no one wants death, but you knew he needed to go no matter how much you hated it. So you nod, not having to say much more as a honk sounds from outside.

“That’s Biff...”

“Have a great time! Make sure the McFlys kiss!” Doc screams, following out of the garage, scolding Biff from behind you.

“Yes sir!” you scream back, saluting him as you take a seat in the passenger.

///

“You look beautiful Y/N,” Biff says after a while, finally working up the courage to speak.

“Thank you Biff. And you look handsome yourself,” you giggle, the car pulling into the lot.

He shuts the engine, grabbing his keys from the ignition and closing the door, making his way around to you as you let yourself out to straighten yourself out. He takes your hand as he leads you to the entrance of the dance, you sighing in relief as you catch a glimpse of Marty pulling up in a car with Lorraine. Finally, you relax, grasping on Biff a little lighter and with more meaning now as you have the night to yourselves. He smiles down at you as you wrap your arm within his, something Lorraine does with you quite often.

With the party in full blast, you let loose with the music, dancing and joking around with Biff. At some point, however, he says he needs a drink and will be right back. Although, he doesn’t seem to actually come back. You’d thought you’d seen him spiking the punch just as few moments ago.

Just as you were going to in the direction of the hallways to the rest of the school, you notice Match, one of Biff’s friends, storming out of the gym through an exit. Taking your bets, you follow behind him, soon being greeted by a huge commotion of screams, all of them from familiar people. Biff was in a car with Lorraine, her dress pulled and taken off in parts. He was no doubt about to do something stupid, the fact pissing you off, saddening you in some ways as well.

The others that were screaming were also George and Marty, the pair trying to get Biff to stop before he regrets it. He doesn’t listen, unfortunately, until your voice booms over the rest, “Biff!”

His head snaps instantly in your direction, the situation dawning on him the instant he looks at your face. You hadn’t meant to portray your emotions so clearly, but your face had shown such distraught and hurt. He lied. He had gotten over Lorraine, yet the moment she was alone, he runs right back to her.

With his momentary change of focus, George finally steps in, “You get your filthy hands off of her!” finishing with a blow to the jaw that knocks Biff off balance.

Marty looks to you sadly, but tries to smile in cheers as George and Lorraine leave together, motioning that he was going to follow them just in case. You nod, looking down now as your play with your fingers. You didn’t know what to do now as the only reason you were really here was for Biff. You weren’t needed for Lorraine and George, you knew Marty had it.

You decide to make your way home then, as there was nothing else you could do. Dances were just drags anyway, nothing worth while. “Your just going to leave? Just like that?” asks a deep voice, his body having gotten back off the pavement and stood by the car he was pinned against.

Without turning, you answer his question with another, “Why not? There’s nothing left here for me is there?”

“And why wouldn’t there be?” Biff asks once more, no doubt ticking you off at his usual teasing tone.

“Well, let’s see. You. You asked me to the dance as your plus one. I came here as your date. We have a good time, we dance, we talk, and then you come up with an ‘Oh I need a drink’ charade, not returning. Then, I come to find my date in the parking lot, about to get his licks in on a woman he was apparently over with! So tell me, what is left here for men here, Biff?” you finish, tears pooling your eyes over the time, although you don’t let the fall, keeping them there.

He looks guilty, you can see it, but you don’t care. Your not in the wrong this time. But, as your blood starts to cool down, you do notice the look in his eyes, the change in his demeanor, and the utter remorse that has overcome him. He has his head down, fists clenched at his sides, body stock still. He doesn’t know what to do, all he knows is that he’d fucked up.

“Or was this your fabulous way of telling me that you love me?” you finally ask, eyes moving to look up at him in a teasing manner.

He hadn’t expected you to speak, head snapping up to meet your gaze in confusion. Being as you’d looked at him with a glint in your eyes, he finally lets everything click together; you’d forgiven him. His face heats up in bashfulness however, as your words resonated within him as well, hand going to itch the back of his neck again.

You giggle, walking up to him now, hands going to his collar. Pulling him down, he gazes at you in amazement, his own hands falling to rest on your waist. Then, you crash your lips to his, pulling him ever closer. It takes him a moment to get the hang of it, soon pulling you closer to himself as well. Lifting you slightly, he sets you on the hood of his car, the height difference a definite stretch for him. But he wouldn’t have it any other way, you were perfect. Just the same as he was perfect for you.

#biff tannen x reader #bttf #back to the future #biff tannen imagine #bttf imagine #back to the future imagine #thomas f. wilson #crispin glover #george mcfly #christopher lloyd #dr. emmett brown #doc brown #doc #michael j. fox #marty mcfly #lea thompson #lorraine baines

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mystic-sky · 3 years

Note

This is just a request, but do you think you can write something short about gojo meeting his s/o who is a poc and how he’d react to her curly hair 🥺👉🏾👈🏾 the fandom is still pretty new so there’s not a lot of poc drabbles out there if any at all.

Here you go bby, I hope you enjoy 💕✨

Summary: An AU where you’re a sorcerest whose stationed in Japan due to the National Sorcerer Exchange Program I just made up lol. Even though it’s your first encounter Satoru is a big flirt, as usual✨💘

Word count: 1.7k

It was annoying, being one of the few special grade sorcerers based in Tokyo. Satoru Gojo often wished he could duplicate himself at least three or four times, just to reduce some of the workload stress he had. The older he got, the more he wished he wasn’t the strongest- and that’s a pretty surprising statement on his end.

He felt he couldn’t catch a break. Between special grade work, his students and now looking after Yuji Itadori, who hysterically swallowed a special grade object, he had a lot on his plate.

It was hardly a burden for him. He only wished he could be in multiple places at once. This way, he could make sure the higher ups wouldn’t mess with his students, who meant so much to him.

In sight of the increased special grade activity in Japan and several other countries, the first ever Sorcerer Exchange program was implemented by higher ups across the world. It would ensure that special and first grade sorcerers were evenly spread out and or placed in regions that needed special attention. Satoru wasn’t particularly fond of anything the higher ups did, but this idea wasn’t so bad.

“A government funded, international sorcerer exchange program,” Yaga informs Satoru, who sits across from him, idly drinking his tea.

“And how does this work exactly?” Satoru raises a brow at Yaga before dropping cubes of sugar into his cup, stirring loudly.

“For 6 month spans, high level sorcerers who applied to the exchange will be stationed in different countries to regulate curse activity.”

“Sounds like it pays more. Nanamin might like that.”

“It does, depending on your skill level.” Yaga sits back in his seat. “We’ve already received a few sorcerers from America, Africa, China, Russia-”

“All special grade?” Satoru interjects.

“Currently the exchange program only allows special and first grade sorcerers. Considering the high levels of cursed energy around the world this year, it would be best if we avoided any casualties by placing inexperienced sorcerers in the wrong places.”

“That reminds me. You’re prohibited from participating, considering we’re a red area. Until cursed activity improves here you won’t be allowed to participate.”

“Aww c’mon, you guys suck.” Satoru cocks his head back, sighing loudly.

He already traveled a lot for special grade missions but never for more than a few days. Now there was a whole six-month program and he wasn’t allowed to participate in it? Then again, he couldn’t leave Yuji here with the possibility of the higher ups trying to hurt him again. He promised himself he would protect all of his students.

“There are several meetings I must attend tomorrow and I’d like for you to be there. Don’t be late.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Is that all you wanted to talk about?” Satoru is already up and gripping the handle on the office door.

“I’ve also decided to assign a co-teacher to your first years, for your shorter stationed trips every now and then. She’s an extremely talented special grade from the exchange program. So you needn’t worry of a repeat of the detention center incident with Yuji.”

He had already swung the door open, towering above your body in the door frame. Your nose is barely touching his jacket, and hand almost touching his chest as you were attempting to knock. You take a step back, a bit startled.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I tried to knock,” you say, looking up at the blindfolded man in front of you. “I’m looking for Masamichi Yaga?”

Satoru is startled by your flawless Japanese, considering you’re clearly not of Japanese descent. He took note of your tan skin and big, curly hair that was pinned back in certain spots to display your face.

What a cutie.

“No, I’m Satoru Gojo. Principal Yaga’s the one sitting behind me.” He’s not entirely surprised by your appearance, considering he’s traveled all over the world to fight curses. “And you are?”

You almost think he’s flirting, considering how smooth the question was. Also, you’re now recognizing who he is, cheeks reddening a bit.

“I’m (Full Name). You’re the special grade I’m going to be subbing with for the first years! I’ve heard great things!” You politely bow a bit.

“I know.” His grin large and cocky as he steps out the way, allowing you to walk in. “No need to be so formal though.”

You’re slightly put off by his attitude, but principal Yaga interjects quickly.

“(Last Name), come in. I’ve been awaiting your arrival. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Yaga is on his feet now, bowing towards you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I’m excited to work with you all.” You say as he motions you to sit and have some tea.

Satoru has found a reason to stay in the room, plopping down beside you and taking up his tea he had previously abandoned.

“Thanks for sending Ichiji to the airport to help with my belongings. I brought so much stuff, I hope it wasn’t too much for him.” You brain flashes back to Ichiji struggling to hold all of your luggage outside the baggage claim.

“Pffft, feel free to call on him whenever you want. That’s what he’s here for.” Satoru assures you, flashing you a toothy grin. You get the feeling that he probably made Ichiji’s job a living hell.

“I must say, Ms. (Last Name), your Japanese is remarkable. How did you become so fluent?” Yaga asks, filling your cup.

“I’m flattered. I taught myself what I could before attending (insert random ass college name in Japan) University. I’ve always admired Japanese culture so I studied it pretty hard. I can also speak (Native language, if you have one) and (two other languages of your choosing).”

“Wow, your Japanese is better than most locals.” Satoru chuckled. “And you’re pretty too. Lucky me.”

You shifted in place on the sofa. The most powerful sorcerer known to man was sitting beside you and he was complimenting you.

“Thank you,” you say loosely, picking up your teacup.

“Ahem,” Yaga interrupts, earning a tiny snort from Satoru.

“He hates it when I flirt.” Satoru whispers as he leans over towards you. Your face feels a bit hot, and you decide it’s from the steam of the tea in your face and not the handsome man leaning a bit too close to you. You set the cup down after the lightest sip.

“I hate to get down to business so soon Ms. (Last Name), but I’d like for you to get settled in as soon as possible. I’ve mapped out a few assignments for you this week. This is your first.” He slides the first report across the table.

“There have been several reports of abnormal cursed energy in Shinjuku City. It’s likely a special grade. I’d like for you to get to the bottom of it. It shouldn’t be a problem, considering your level of expertise. I’ve forwarded the documents to you as well.” The glint in his glasses makes you chuckle a bit. You flip through the report briefly.

“I skimmed this one on the flight. Whatever it is,” you begin, taking out your phone, “seems to be luring children. This corresponds with the rise in missing childrens’ cases I read about in Shinjuku.”

You place the article on your phone down on the table for principal Yaga to read. You liked to do your own research on locals news to see if curses had any sort of correspondence with a certain area’s events.

“You think a curse is kidnapping children?” Satoru suggests.

“It’s just a hunch. It’s nothing I haven’t encountered before.” You bite the nail on your thumb, realizing the inevitable.

“Unfortunately, if I’m correct, those children most likely aren’t alive.”

You stand up, firmly.

“I trust you’ll take care of it then,” Yaga hands your device towards you.

“Most definitely,” you look at your watch. “And I’ll be done before dinner.”

You offer the principal a smile before you slip on your trench coat, eager to take on your first mission.

“By all means, it can wait until the morning after you’ve rested.” Yaga persists.

“Nope! Not when children are potentially involved. I can’t risk it.” You straighten your clothes, and bow once more. “I’ll report back soon.”

“(Name) doesn’t let jet lag stop her from doing her job. What an admirable woman.” Satoru cooed.

“Well, Gojo-san, it was a pleasure meeting you.” You begin to wave but Satoru is on his feet, and right behind you, making you stumble back again.

“Oh no, I’m coming with you.” He grins. “I’ve gotta see what the most powerful special grade sorceress is capable of in person.”

While you had heard of your own nickname before, you hated when people called you that. You tried your best to be humble about it. There’s always new ways to improve your cursed technique, even if you don’t know how yet.

“So you do know who I am,” you shifted your stance, hands on your hips.

“I’ve heard a few things,” he says slyly. “But I’d like to see them first hand.”

“Hmph, alright then. I suppose you can show me around Shinjuku. It’s been a while since I’ve been there.” You flip your hair, making your way towards the door.

“And it’s your lucky day, I feel like showing off.” You say, peaking over your shoulder.

“Great, it’s a date.”

You stop dead in your tracks, just two steps out of Yaga’s office.

“What?”

“Even after four years of university in Japan? I said, it’s a date.”

The door shuts behind him, and his grin is even more smug.

The audacity.

“You’re not going on a date with me unless you ask me properly.” You roll your eyes, swaying down the steps. So this was Satoru Gojo.

“C’mon sweetheart, we’d be iconic as hell— the strongest man and the strongest woman? We’d be unstoppable.”

“I don’t even know what you look like underneath that thing.” You say, motioning towards his blindfold.

Oh , but you lied. You’d seen his Instagram.

He was a selfie fanatic. That and a cake fiend.

“Wanna see right now? Will it change your mind?” His voice low and steady behind you.

“I’ve got a curse to excorcise.” You roll your eyes, speeding up ahead of him. It didn’t help much considering his legs were so long.

“You know you wanna,” he bends down, voice deep in your ear.

“I’m not listening~

You’re far ahead of him now, attempting to hide the heat on your face and hearing deep chuckles echo behind you.

“Ah, this is going to be the best six months ever!” He laughs heartily.

A small smile crept on your lips.

Maybe it would be.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x POC reader #jjk gojo #poc fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo sensei #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo saturo #jjk fluff #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu sorcerer #gojo x satoro x reader

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guardianofrivendell · 3 years

Text

Stranger Danger

Modern!Kíli x reader

Requested: Yes! @roosliefje asked "Can you maybe write a modern Kíli story, with you being friends but there might be something more?”

Warnings: nothing much, miscommunication maybe and oh yeah... an unwanted guest! I feel like this trope has been used a lot but who cares :)

A/N: Oh my God, @roosliefje I am SO SORRY! You requested this months ago and I seriously thought I posted it, I had this written for you and everything. It was when I was editing my masterlist that a little voice in my head asked where the ‘unwanted guest’ fic was... So here you go! I didn’t check it - might do that later - and it’s probably not as well written as my current work (oh look at me being modest) because I wrote this in september (I like to think I grew a lot as a writer since then)

Kíli sighed while wiping the sweat of his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

He really needed to clean his apartment more often, so he wouldn’t have this much work when he finally did it. He groaned, realizing he sounded just like his brother. And no, that wasn’t a good thing.

Of course, he hadn’t done this just because he felt like cleaning. No, Kíli wasn’t that responsible. If he did something, it was because he had a good reason. And that reason happened to be you, the friend he might have had a little crush on. A tiny little, barely existing one.

You had made countless remarks about the state of his apartment and how messy he was. But what can he say? Kíli just wasn’t the domestic type. He could live perfectly fine and content between piles of laundry and dirty dishes. Why wash a shirt or clean a plate when you still had other shirts and plates left to use?

But since you were that type of person that had everything in its place and cleaned almost every day, he was willing to do a little more effort. Maybe that way you would visit him more often...

He tossed his dirty shirt into the laundry basket - See? He could do this! - and walked to his bathroom to take a well-deserved shower.

When he turned on the water, he heard his phone ping. Realizing he had left it on the dinner table, he shrugged his shoulders and stepped into the shower. It probably was his brother Fíli. It could wait until after his shower.

When he walked into the living room ten minutes later, rubbing his wet hair with a towel and wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, he heard his phone ping again.

He unlocked the screen and saw 4 messages and one missed call from you, the tone of every message growing more desperate.

9:23 pm – Kee, are you home?

9:24 pm – Could you come over?

9:27 pm – PLEASE COME OVER

9:30 pm – You have 1 missed call from Y/N

9:32 pm – HELP!

He immediately dialed your number.

Please be okay, please be okay, he thought while hearing the familiar beeping. He cursed heavily when it turned on voicemail.

He dialed your number again and sprinted to his bedroom to get dressed. He put his phone on speaker and tossed it on his bed, so he could dig through his drawers in search of a clean shirt.

To his relief, you answered this time. Great, he thought, at least you weren’t dead. But what he heard, didn’t put his mind at ease. On the contrary…

“Kíli?”

“Y/N? Oh thank God, are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asked while pulling his shirt over his head.

“Shhh! Stop yelling, he might hear you,” you whispered.

He? He grabbed his phone and held it to his ear.

“Is there someone with you? Is it your ex?” he whispered, the color slowly draining from his face at the thought of you being alone with your aggressive ex.

“He came out of nowhere! I thought I knocked him out with my frying pan but a couple of minutes later he was gone. He’s somewhere here, but I don’t know where. I’m scared, Kee!”

Your voice broke in the last sentence and so did Kíli.

“I’m on my way,” he said, determined to end whoever had the guts to break into your apartment and scare you to death.

Sure, it would’ve been smart if he had alerted the police or even his brother Fíli instead, but that thought didn’t even cross Kíli’s mind.

Kíli halted mid-step when it hit him. You called him.

You were in danger and the first one you called was him. His chest swelled at the thought. You called him for help and he was going to be your knight in shining armor.

He ran through the streets and reached your building in record time. Taking the stairs two at a time he bolted to the second floor.

He stood in front of your door, panting like crazy. From inside the apartment he could hear shouting and the clattering of kitchenware being thrown around. He took the plate with the house number and turned it sideways, so he could take the spare key out of the hole in the wall. He’d made fun of you when you had shown him your hiding spot, but now he praised whoever was in charge up there that you had.

When he entered the apartment, he closed the door and quickly scanned the hallway and living room. You were in your kitchen, he could hear your yelling.

“Take this!”

The sound of a plate being thrown to the ground echoed through the apartment.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”

A chair fell over, and Kíli could hear you whimpering in fear. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon. Grabbing a small bronze statue, he silently walked towards the open kitchen door.

“Get away from her!” he yelled, raising the statue above his head, ready to throw it at whoever was threatening you.

He widened his eyes at the sight before him.

Several chairs were toppled over, there were shards scattered over the floor together with some various kitchen items you’d clearly used as ammo. And then there was you, crouched down on your kitchen table.

But to his surprise you were alone.

“Kíli? Oh thank God you’re here,” you sighed in relief.

He lowered the statue, slowly walking towards the table.

“Where did he go?” he asked you, still clutching the statue. You pointed towards your stove.

“There!”

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Come again?”

At that moment, a huge wolf spider crawled from underneath the stove and made his way to the kitchen door.

You screamed. “Kill it! KILL IT!”

When Kíli realized you were talking about a spider all along, he roared with laughter.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Kíli! Please just kill the damn thi-aaaaaah!”

You screamed again when the wolf spider decided to go in the direction of the kitchen table. Kíli took a glass out of the cupboard and used it to catch the spider. He went to the living room and took a magazine, shoved it under the glass and took the spider outside to set it free.

When he returned to the kitchen, he took your hand and helped you get off the table, his signature grin still plastered on his face.

“It’s gone now, you’re safe,” he smirked.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ve seen it yourself, he was huge!”

“First of all, it’s an ‘it’, not a ‘he’-”

“You don’t know that,” you interrupted him.

“Let me finish,” he continued, picking up the chairs and he pushed at your shoulders to make you sit down. “Secondly, don’t you ever scare me like that again okay?”

“Scare you? I thought I was the one being scared?”

“I thought your ex or some other criminal had broken into your home. You really made it sound like that, Y/N…” Kíli rubbed his face with his hands. “God, I was so worried.”

“You were worried about me?” you repeated, eyes wide.

“Of course I was, you’re my friend aren’t you?” Kíli noticed your cheeks flush. You looked adorable.

“Yeah… friends. Of course!” you murmured softly.

“Friends come to each other’s rescue,” he smiled, flexing his muscles.

“Ah yes, my knight in shining armor… but without the armor.” You rolled your eyes. “So, since you came all the way here and acted all heroic, I need to thank you with… pizza?”

“Only if we’re watching a movie. My choice!”

“Deal!” You got up from your chair and ordered two pizzas.

When you sat together on the couch half an hour later, with your pizza between you, you leaned towards Kíli and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.

Kíli immediately went red, his hand brushing over the spot where you kissed him.

“What was that for?”

Not that he complained, but he didn’t want to read too much into it.

“Saving me,” you answered, eyes locked on the tv screen.

“Anytime Y/N…” He rubbed his cheek softly, the place where you kissed him still tingling. “Anytime…”

Kíli taglist: @elles-writing

Permanent taglist: @roosliefje @kata1803 @entishramblings @artsywaterlily @sleepy-daydream-in-a-rose @marvelschriss @kumqu4t @myrin1234 @dark-angel-is-back @the-fandoms-georgie @lathalea @xxbyimm @sokkasdarling @katethewriter

#kili x reader #kili #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit fanfiction #kili imagine #kili oneshot #kili the dwarf #modern!kili #aidan turner

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the-fusionist · 4 years

Text

Enough Was Enough [Oneshot]

A/N: Hey, I’m back! Tysm @ravennm84 for sending in the story request!!! I loved writing it so much :D

Warning: Violence at school and mentions of blood and frostbite and burns in somewhat graphic detail. Don’t read if it will bother you. There's also bullying and some cursing. Thanks!

Here we go:

Tom and Sabine Dupain-Cheng loved their daughter Marinette. She lit up the room when she entered and quite literally brought joy to everyone. Not to mention that she was always so positive, and they were very proud of how accomplished she was in fashion. They couldn’t have asked for a better daughter. She always worked so hard and didn’t let anything stop her.

So when Marinette started coming home, looking wearier and wearier, they weren’t too concerned. It was common for Marinette to overwork herself sometimes, and she usually felt better after a day or two. It wasn’t really unusual, so they let her be, thinking she would feel better soon.

But Marinette didn’t get better, and instead only got worse. Her appearance was gravitating towards a gaunt skeleton. A blank look grew on her face, and the sparkle in her eyes dulled. For two weeks, their daughter wasted away before their eyes. For two weeks, Tom and Sabine asked their daughter what was wrong. They were desperately worried, and constantly asked her if she was okay and let her know that they were here for her when she was ready to talk. However, everytime they said anything, Marinette waved them off and told them that she was alright.

They didn’t believe her. Marinette was their daughter and they knew her better than anyone. Something was definitely wrong, even if Marinette told them otherwise. They were a bit hurt that Marinette didn’t feel like she could tell them, but they knew she would tell them when she was ready. So they patiently waited, even though worry consumed them.

That brought them to today, when Marinette rushed out the door with a quick goodbye as she was late for school. Sabine jumped up to stop Marinette, as she left her phone on the counter, but their daughter was already gone. Sabine sighed. Marinette would just have to go without it. As she turned to leave the room, the phone let out several beeps.

She was curious, but ultimately decided to ignore them and instead silence the phone. However, as Sabine Cheng neared the phone, it let out several more beeps. She only caught a glimpse at the messages, and curiosity overcame her. She turned on Marinette’s phone and her eyes slowly widened in horror and disgust as she scrolled through hundreds of texts. The messages gradually grew nastier and more malevolent as she read through them.

The most recent messages struck a chord in her.

“You’re such a worthless bitch.”

“You should just die, it's not like anyone would miss you.”

“You’re nothing but a slut, nobody even likes you.”

“Even Adrien wishes you were dead. You’re such a piece of shit, Marinette.”

“Go kill yourself.”

Sabine read the sender's names, and her heart sank as she recognized them. The kids who she had known for over a year. The kids she had invited into her bakery on more than one occasion and had provided free pastries for. Marinette’s classmates.

She sat down, trying to process everything. It only made sense now, this was the reason her daughter had been feeling so awful and hadn’t told anybody. Her old friends had turned on her, and she was all alone. Her daughter had been betrayed by those who were closest to her. Sabine felt a tear run down her face before anger bubbled inside of her like boiling water.

“Tom. You need to see this,” Sabine’s voice cracked.

Tom Dupain walked into the room, a bit concerned upon hearing the unsteadiness of his wife’s voice. Without saying anything, Sabine handed him Marinette’s phone. As he read the texts, he slowly came to the same conclusions as his wife. Anger and sadness overcame him, and he took deep breaths to calm down. Getting akumatized wouldn’t help anyone right now. But he did have an idea of what he could do to help his daughter.

🐞 - 👑 - 🐞

“What the hell do you mean it’s her fault?!”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Cheng, but your daughter is the role model of the class. If she has disappointed them, there’s nothing we can do. The class looks up to their president, and it's only logical that her classmates would turn on her if she isn’t acting as they would expect. Until your daughter begins to demonstrate the behavior they want from her, the persecution will continue. It's your daughter's fault that she is getting this treatment, and until she fixes herself for her class, nothing can be done,” M. Damocles stated in a bored, unconcerned voice as he flipped through various papers and files on his messy desk.

Mme. Bustier simply nodded enthusiastically in agreement as she stood beside the Mr. Damocles, a bubbly smile on her face.

Tom stoically watched the exchange, before he abruptly sat up and gently pulled his wife out of the room with him. Gentle was anything he was feeling inside though. Beneath his cool exterior red, hot fury was just waiting to be unleashed. Enough was enough.

Sabine walked with her husband out of the school, scowling the entire way. Harsh, icy rage yanked at her heartstrings as she held her daughter’s phone with a stony, iron grip. Enough was enough.

If someone on the street had looked over at the two parents walking hand in hand, they would’ve seen the telltale purple glow on their faces.

🐞 - 👑 - 🐞

Two adults stood together inside of a classroom. The walls were charred and the room was filled with overturned, blackened desks and smashed glass. Smoke filled the room, and faint whimpering could be heard. Flames licked at a scorched desk, and a name plate with the words ‘Mms. Bustier’ was partially melted.

Jagged ice stalagmites and stalactites were present in the room. Some went right through desks and walls, others remained untouched except for a few red spots on them. If you looked closer towards the back of the room, you could see the forms of a few teenagers on the ground. They were crying as they reached out with shaky, frostbitten hands that were blackened and blistered.

Their daughter wasn’t here though. Neither was the Agreste boy, since he had sent a message to Marinette to tell her he believed her and wanted to help her. A few others were spared, as they didn’t do any harm to Marinette and offered her help. The rest of the school remained untouched in tranquility, unaware of the chaos and havoc that had just occurred in Mme. Bustier’s classroom.

They stood quietly in the devastated classroom before walking out towards the office of one M. Damocles. They weren’t finished yet.

TAG LIST: @rebecarojas07 @theatreandcomicfreak @maribatlife @18-fandoms-unite-08 @mochegato

#story requests #miraculous marinette #miraculous fandom #miraculous les aventures de ladybug et chat noir #miraculous ladybug #miraculous #miraculous au #miraculous lb #miraculous fanfic #ml marinette #marinette dupain cheng #tom dupain #sabine cheng #class salt #ml salt #welp here we are #idk what to tag here

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dangerouscommiesubversive · 3 years

Text

i'd rather spoil all my friends with my riches

Fandom: Kaizoku Sentai Gokaiger

Characters: Luka Millfy, Ahim de Famille, Don "Doc" Dogoier, Joe Gibken, Ikari Gai, Captain Marvelous

Song: "7 rings," Ariana Grande (playlist here)

Ahim comes to breakfast wearing amber drops dangling from her ears. There’s a pendant, too, glowing against her skin in an exact match to the honey that she’s drizzling onto her waffle. The other four at the table watch it gleam for a moment, mesmerized, before Gai gathers himself enough to say, “That’s a really pretty necklace, Ahim, you don’t normally wear yellow stones. It looks good on you.”

She smiles warmly at him. “Thank you, Gai. Luka gave the set to me as a gift, wasn’t that sweet of her?”

Marvelous blinks. “Luka never gives me jewelry. She hoards the stuff like an Arcturan Mega-Dragon.”

“Well, perhaps she just hasn’t found the right piece for you yet.” Still smiling, she reaches up and carefully adjusts the little hoop in her ear. “Give it time.”

“She gave me earrings.” Gai fidgets with one of his own hoops. “Nothing in her colors, though, that’s interesting.”

Midway through breakfast Luka emerges from Ahim’s cabin, yawning, and piles her plate high with waffles. The others shift a bit to make room, and she sits down next to Ahim and immediately leans over and kisses her behind the ear. “Those look nice on you.”

Ahim blushes and wiggles a bit, looking faintly pleased, which is the closest she generally gets to an open expression of vanity. “Thank you, Luka dear, I like them very much.”

---

One week later, Doc’s folding clothes in the laundry room and looks up in surprise to see Luka leaning in the doorway. “Hi, Luka, did you need something?”

She takes a step forward.

Startled, he takes a step back.

She takes another step forward.

He steps back and runs into the washing machine. It’s not a large room. “Can. Can I help you with something?”

She squints at him for a moment and then says, “Hold still,” and reaches for the collar of his shirt.

He braces himself for something, anything, whatever it is she’s planning to do, and then looks down in confusion as she unclips the chain from the collar of his shirt and tucks it into his breast pocket. Puzzled, he opens his mouth to speak, but she puts a finger on his lips and then reaches into her own jacket, pulling out…another chain, which she attaches to his shirt in the place of the one he usually wears. The pins at the ends are set with cabochons of tiger’s-eye, gleaming golden and brown. They look very nice against the print, actually. “I, uh. This is really nice, thank you. What’s the. Um. Is there an occasion?”

Luka shrugs. “I had it. Thought it’d look good on you.”

“Well, I—I really like it, thank you.”

She nods firmly. “I like it on you too.” Another moment of inspection, and then she leans forward to kiss him on the corner of his mouth before turning and leaving as abruptly as she came.

Blushing, Doc starts raising a hand to the spot she kissed but doesn’t quite get that far, distracted by the desire to rub his thumb over the smooth surface of one of the tiger’s-eyes. “What was that for…?”

---

Three days after that, Joe leans on the crow’s nest railing next to Luka and says, pleasantly, “Counting stars?”

“You know it.” She glances at him. “Here, gimme your hand.”

He blinks and holds out a hand. “Ok?”

“Hm.” She takes his hand in both of his and frowns down at it. “Damn, you’ve got big fingers.”

One eyebrow goes up. “So you’ve said before.”

Luka flushes red. “Shut up.” Another moment of inspection, and then she reaches into her back pocket, pulls out a ring, and slides it onto his pinky, where it fits very nicely.

Joe holds up his hand in the dimming light to inspect it—a wide gold band, with three glittering yellow diamonds set into it. His other eyebrow goes up. “This is beautiful, thank you. So, I saw Doc’s new lapel chain. Are you just feeling generous lately, or is this more of a possessiveness thing?”

She elbows him gently before settling back into her spot on the railing to look at the stars again. “It’s a me thing. Take that however you like.”

---

Four days later, “Hey, Gai, you want another ear piercing?”

Gai says, “Sure, please,” before he’s even looked up from the book he’s reading. “Wait. Why?”

Luka holds up a broad gold hoop with a gleaming topaz embedded in it. “I think this’d look good on you. Up here.” She reaches out and taps the upper edge of his right ear, gently. “Very piratical.”

“Oh, definitely. You don’t usually pick out gold pieces for me, though. Something you wanna talk about?”

She scowls. “Why do people keep asking me that?”

Gai shrugs. “Well, you’ve been…I mean, not touchy-feely or anything, but. You don’t normally do so many presents.”

More scowling. “Shut up, I can be affectionate when I want to be. Now come sit down over here so I can get this on you.”

He puts his book aside and comes over to the table, grinning. “I love you too, Luka.”

She sticks out her tongue at him. “Just sit down.”

---

The next day, after lunch, Marvelous says, “Hey, Luka, come spar with me.”

She blinks. “I was about to say the same thing to you, you better not be getting psychic powers or something.”

He winks, and she makes a face at him, and they head down to the practice room, stopping along the way to grab their swords.

The problem with sparring with Marvelous is, he’s bigger than Luka, and more than that, he’s heavier than she is. She’s quick, though, to make up for being smaller and lighter, and so for a few minutes it’s a decently even match, ranging all over the practice room floor. It’s tempting to transform and throw even more into it, and she can tell that he’s considering it as much as she is, but they both hold off. There’s something special about a real face-to-face fight.

Then, though, she decides to change it up. Marvelous charges her, and she tosses her sword off to the side and dodges, leaping onto his back and sending him crashing to the floor. As he swears and tries to flip them over, she grabs his right arm and twists it around behind his back, firmly but not with such force that she might do damage. Her knees on his back also hold his arm in place, and as his cursing gets even more sulfurous, she reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out the thing she’s been hiding all day, and claps it around his wrist.

Marvelous goes dead still. “Did you handcuff me?”

“No, dumbass, take a look.” She lets go of him and gets off his back.

Grumbling, he rolls over and sits up, rubbing his shoulder. “That hurt, by the way, who’ve you been practicing wrestling with—ok, wow,did you have this made?”

The bangle is wide and heavy and gleams gold, sitting comfortably above his weighted wrist-band. As she watches, he holds his wrist up to inspect it more closely, running his fingers along the row of sapphires set into it—white with a silver impurity, pink, green, yellow, blue, and at the end a ruby the glowing, rich red of blood. When he looks up at her, shocked, she just shrugged. “I have a lot of loose stones lying around, I have to do something with them.”

He grins, very slowly. “Someday I’m going to get you to admit that you’re a romantic.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You wish.”

#luka millfy #ahim de famille #don dogoier #joe gibken #ikari gai #captain marvelous #fanfiction #30 day shuffle challenge

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dadolorian · 3 years

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Kiss of life

A/N: I had a little idea of Dins first kiss being from CPR and i ran with it. Baby is not in danger , gender neutral reader (but i tend to expand this story and reader will be referred to as female in future chapters) , no use on Y/N. Two lines were inspired by @dindjarinsleftvambrace comment on my original post about this. Yo, this is NOT medically accurate.

Title: Kiss of life Fandom: The Mandalorian. Ship: Din Djarin x GN!reader Warning: Canon typical violence, near death experience, first kiss. Soft!Din Angsty with a happy ending. Medical inaccuracies. Summary: Din is shot with a tranquilizer that leaves his body complete parallelized. He relies on reader to keep him alive until the drug wears off and later realizes he had just had his first kiss. Word count: - Almost 4K

Being left alone on the crest, with the baby was usually a nerve wracking time, wondering when, or if your companion, the Mandalorian, would return. With only the little green bean and basic odd jobs to distract yourself with, you often felt yourself drifting towards those unsavory thoughts, fears of what would happen to the two of you should he not return. And not just that, how would you cope without him around anymore? In such a short time you had grown so ... attached to the stoic warrior. You convinced yourself it was a fleeting crush, that it would pass in time, but each time you watched that shield of his chip away as he interacted with the little green bean your heart just melted. Said little green bean seemed to be able to sense your fears, the Mandalorian, Mando, had told you early into your time together that he had these...abilities. So when you fretted about your fate, pacing around the ship like a mad person, the little guy picked up on your distress, fretting and fussing as much as you did, you made a habit to distract yourself from those thoughts as much as possible.

However, on this particular expedition of his, Mando arrived back surprisingly early. You were attempting to patch up one of his extra flight suits, he had received a rather nasty gash in his arm on his previous venture, resulting in the sizable hole in the fabric, you had offered to fix it just as something to busy yourself with when he left. Sitting on the floor, needle in hand, you laughed softly as the child attempted to snuggle up into the material for a cuddle when you heard muffled blaster fire creep closer and closer to the crest. You were on your feet, blaster in hand before you had even fully registered the noise. Mando had insisted on teaching you how to shoot, you acted on pure instinct, however that did not stop your arm from trembling, having never actually needed his training so far. With one foot you gently ushered the child behind you who was now just as fully alert as you were, clinging to your boot anxiously. The blaster fire was now alarmingly close, right outside the hull, you prayed it was nothing to do with Mando, that it was two people completely unrelated to your small, weird little family that you had come to adore, that their fight would pass you by. Your fears were confirmed when the cargo bay door started to open, lowering the ramp and exposing you and the child to whatever danger awaited. The familiar Mandalorian, your Mandalorian, came into view, you could barely make out his shape against the dark sky outside, but immediately you could tell something was off. He was usually so strong and in control, man handling quarries into the ship with little effort, they often put up a fight, if they were alive, sure, but never had you seen Mando be chased inside by a quarry. He staggered in, his body heaving with effort just to stay upright as he haphazardly fired back at the quarry who returned fire but only managed to hit the durable Beskar, bouncing the blaster beam around the hull for a second or two, making you jump. You could barely see the commotion, just their rough silhouettes against the faint moonlight ,the poor lighting of the ship and outside night sky leaving the blaster fire as your only source of light to really see by. You had not even fully taken in the scene before you shot, somehow able to stop the trembling of your arm and fire just as Mando had taught you, with no hesitation. It was a clean shot, right into the quarries chest, he hadn’t even had the time to notice you were in the ship before he was dead, you watched as he collapsed onto the ramp the same time Mando collapsed onto the floor of the hull. You rushed forward, kicking the quarry off the ramp and closing the door, not wanting anyone sneaking up on you as you rushed back to Mando, checking him for injuries, but unable to find any. “M-Mando what's wrong?” you asked, voice trembling as you tried to assess just what caused him to collapse.

“T-tranq dart,” he rasped, struggling for breath.

A tranq dart could be dealt with at least. “Oh, okay, we… we can deal with that,” you said, calming your nervous breaths. “N-no,” he said, clawing at his chest plate, fighting to remove it. “Dif-different kind of tranq. Shu-shuts down everything.” He struggled for breath, wet and heavy as if he was drowning. “Lungs...Heart, can’t keep them go-going on my own...Need a...a life sup-support unit.” You felt your face drain as you processed that information. “O-okay, well where is it?” you asked, trying hard not to let the rising panic overtake you. “Don’t-don’t have one,” he gasped harshly, the drug already starting to shut his systems down. “W-what do I do then?” your voice trembled and hand shook as you struggled to think of a place to put them. “N-nothing sweet one,” he rasped, gloved hand moving to cup your cheek shakily, thumb stroking soft patterns against your skin, an affectionate gesture he had never done before. “Ju-just get the kid somewhere safe...That’s all I ask.” You shook your head in defiance, tears welling in your eyes. “No, don’t be stupid Mando, there must be something i can do?” He shook his own head weakly, arm collapsing by his side. “C-CPR?” you suggested feebly, desperate for something to try. His helmet shook again, “Not without removing my helmet...And it could take...hours...for it to leave my system. Keeping me going that long...impossible” His helmet began to list lazily to the side and once again you found yourself moving before you had even registered what was happening. You finished off removing his chest plate and grabbed a scrap of material you had been using to repair his other suit, you placed the kid into his shared bunk with Mando and locked him in, not wanting him to become too distressed by Mando’s state, he cooed at you worriedly as you sealed the door shut, you were quick but by the time you returned to Mando’s side his gasps for air were weak wheezes. “I’m not going to let your creed get you killed Mando,” you said with shaky determination in your voice as you tied the scrap around your eyes, blinding yourself. Feeling around you found the edge of his helmet and pulled it off carefully, you felt him weakly grab your wrist and try to stop you. “I’m not going to break your creed Mando...But i’m not letting you die either” you said, shaking his grip off of you and placing the helmet down by his side. “I know how to do this.” You tilted his head back to clear his airway, interlocked your fingers and began thirty compression's on his chest, followed by pinching his nose, placing your lips on his and giving him two, strong breaths. You were supposed to watch his chest rise and fall with each breath, but with your current lack of visibility you had to go on blind faith that it was working. Another thirty compression's, another two breaths, another thirty compression's, another two breaths. Again, and again, and again, over and over. You lost count at how many, and how much time had passed, Minutes? Hours? There was no way to tell, and with how Mando described the drug working, you had no idea if it even was working. For all you knew Mando’s life had drained from him shortly after you started. It was a thought you did not want to entertain. The hull was eerily silent apart from your continuous counting, counting out each individual compression repeatedly. You weren’t sure at what point you had to give up, when do you call it quits? What if he’s alive thanks to your efforts and has to watch as you give up on him, unable to move and tell you it’s working? Trapped inside a body he has no control over. The idea of letting him down like that, imagining the fear he would feel if you just stopped kept you going. Even as your arms began to burn and your head began to swim. The effort it took to keep going exhausted you. You couldn’t loose him, you couldn’t. You didn’t want to be alone in the universe again. You couldn't stop the tears that escaped your blindfold, they rolled down your face and dripped onto Mando as you repeated another thirty compression's. Nor could you stop the choked sob that wracked your body. You clumsily wiped your face on your shoulder, not wanting Mando to experience a snotty, tear soaked mess when you moved for the next kiss of life. “Come on Mando” you pleaded, as you moved between compression's and breaths, pleading to him , the maker, anyone that this far fetched idea would work. “Don’t do this to me, Please” A soft coo beside you distracted you for just a moment. “K-kid?” you asked the dark space around you, cursing for a moment as you lost count of your compression's but continued without falter. He cooed again, you could hear the fear in his little voice. “I-it’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” you reassured him but you didn’t sound all too convincing. You felt the little one brush up beside you. “N-no kid, it’s best if you go away,” you said, pausing to give Mando another two breaths. “You shouldn’t have to watch this.” Another thirty compression's. Soft grunting beside you alerted you to the fact the kid was doing something, you weren’t sure what, but out of respect for Mando you refused to take off the blindfold to check. Whatever he was doing was not stopping you from your task. He moved beside you again, gently collapsing to the floor, you would have been more concerned if you didn’t hear the soft snores that followed. You shook your head, thankful that the little one would not be a distraction now that he had freed himself.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths.

Thirty compressions- A hand grabbed your wrist, startling you. “M-Mando,” you sighed, letting out a shaky breath and relief flooding your body. You put your ear close to his mouth to listen, and could hear his weak breaths, your fingers found his neck underneath his cowl and found a weak pulse. Weak, but alive. “Thank the Maker,” you sobbed, collapsing back onto the ground, the pain of what felt like hours of compression's creeping throughout your body. Dizzy, sore, dry lips, Maker you just wanted to sleep now. You heaved a few breaths, with the breathing you had been doing for Mando, it felt like your own lungs were starved of oxygen. But you weren’t done yet, sure, he had a pulse, and could breathe on his own, but he was still struggling. You got up on two shaky legs, taking the blindfold off once your back was turned to him, you made your way over to the med kit, rummaging around tiredly until you found what you were after, the oxygen mask. You donned the blindfold again and made your way back over to him carefully, testing your footsteps with extra caution as to make sure not to step on a napping green child. You slipped the mask on him as best you could blinded and lay down on the hull floor, listening carefully to Mando’s weak, uneven breaths.

The next thing you knew the silent hull was shaking slightly. You sat up, confused as your tired mind took in your surroundings. Your blindfold was gone, and you were in Mando’s bunk, a thin blanket thrown over you and a sleeping child nestled in his hammock above you. The shaking of the ship and hum of the engines told you you were in flight. Groggy, you shuffled out of the small bunk, maker, you barely fit in that thing how the hell did Mando? You looked around the hull, noting that Mando and his helmet were nowhere to be seen, the medkit was packed away, and even your abandoned sewing project had been packed away neatly. Just how long were you asleep if he had recovered enough to do all that and move you? You climbed the ladder to the cockpit, making sure to knock on the door, just in case Mando was sans helmet, a little courtesy you did each time the door was closed as to respect his creed. The door opened and there he sat, in the pilot’s chair as if everything was normal. “Thank the maker that worked,” you groaned tiredly, moving to collapse in one of the free seats. As tired as you still were, after what happened you didn’t want to leave him alone just yet. Not for his sake, for yours. His head barely turned to acknowledge you entering. He was distracting himself, you noted, keeping himself busy. Your short time together you had already begun to notice a few things about him, even though you knew little to nothing about flying, you could tell when he was fiddling with controls in order to look busy, he tended to do that when he was avoiding something, or when something was bothering him. You watched for a while, waiting for him to say something, there was tension in the air but it wasn’t coming from you. It poured off of him in waves. Patiently you waited, but with each passing second the tension grew, and Mando became more agitated . It was a ridiculous amount of time of him pretending to do stuff before you broke the silence. “Are you upset that I didn't listen to you?” you asked, unable to think of any other reason your Mandalorian was so tense. He paused for a moment. “I’m not upset at you,” he said. “Then why are you so on edge? “Im not,” he snapped, but there was little bite to his words. “Mando, I know you well enough by now.” He continued to play with console buttons. You could practically feel his mind turning as he tried to explain himself, to think of the words he wanted to say. “Are you upset I didn't give you your warrior's death?” you guessed. “Maker no,” he sighed. “I’m not upset at you. In fact...I’m grateful, to you and the kid, I'd be dead without you two and you would’ve been stranded.” What did the kid do? You thought to yourself watching him for a moment flip a few more useless switches. “Then tell me what’s bothering you. Please Mando,” you pleaded softly, encouraging him to open up to you. He was usually so closed off, to you and the kid, but recently you had begun to notice little steps, mainly with the kid, but a few small things with you too. He’d peel away that stoic outer shell for just a moment, and you could see the soft, gentle man underneath for the smallest of glimpses. They were rare, those moments, but you anticipated each one excitedly, noting as they increased in frequency. Occasionally he would slip up and call you “sweet one’, instead of using your name, he never acknowledged the nickname, and you feared if you brought it up the endearment would stop. You often found a hand would travel to the small of your back as you walked beside him on supply runs, or how he began to speak to you more, rather than the short one or two word answers you would get when you first joined his crew. Those little things showed your growing bond. That you were no longer just crew mates, you were becoming fast friends. But, as close as you were becoming, you wouldn’t push him to talk if he wasn’t ready to. You sighed, as he continued to feign tasks, standing up to give him space. “I’ve never been kissed before,” his voice halted you. You turned in the door frame to look at him dumbly. “Like...Never never?” you asked lamely, a little shocked. It made sense, you supposed. He couldn’t take his helmet off around other people, but you weren’t blind. There were plenty of other people besides you who wanted the Beskar-clad warrior and you struggled to believe he lacked for willing partners. But life and creed got in the way you guessed, keeping him from forming enough of a connection with someone he could trust enough to take his helmet off for. “Never,” he confirmed, still fiddling with switches. He was still bothered. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” you said softly, wanting to comfort him, he froze. “I’m sure one day you’ll trust someone enough to give your first kiss to.” He cocked his head slightly, pondering what you said. “W-wait..So that doesn’t count as my first kiss?” he asked. You scoffed a little, leaning against the door frame and stuffed your hands into your pockets. “Well, I guess it is called the kiss of life,” you shrugged. “So if you want that to be your first kiss,” you huffed a little amused. “But your first kiss should be something a little more...consensual. You didn’t exactly get much of a choice in the matter. Something you actually participate in and want to do.” He pondered your words again. “And if I want to do it again? And...participate this time?” he asked hesitantly, turning his head slightly to peek out the edge of his visor. Your face heated up at the implication, of actually kissing him. “T-then...all you have to do is ask Mando,” you said trying to keep your voice even and play it cool. He stared at you from the corner of his visor for a moment, you tried not to squirm as he held your gaze. He stood up and hesitantly closed the gap between the two of you, stopping within an arms reach of you. “C-can I...No, can you kiss me properly this time?” he asked. “J-just me?” you asked, confused. He nodded slowly, gazing down at you, gently stroking your hair. “Show me what a real kiss is like...Please?” he asked. “W-well, since you asked me so nicely,” you huffed again, trying to sound confident but cringing at the way your voice cracked. He pulled out the scrap of fabric you had used earlier, cocking his head for silent permission to tie it on. You nodded, trying to hide your growing smile as the world became dark around you. You heard him shuffle around, the metallic clank of his helmet being placed down and heard his voice unmodulated. You loved hearing it without a filter, it was a rare treat. “I-is it normal to be nervous?” he asked anxiously, without the modulator it was much easier to hear the emotion in his voice. You could hear his nerves. “Yes, and don’t worry, I'm nervous too,” you smiled. “But..you’ve done this before right?” he asked. “Yeah, but sharing a first kiss with someone is always as nerve wracking as it is exciting,” you say, carefully reaching up to find his face in the dark. It never occurred to you to map out his face while giving him CPR, you respected him too much to take advantage of the situation, and him like that. But now that he had willingly taken his helmet off around you, and wanted to share a real kiss with you, you were willing to be a little selfish and explore his face a little now. His lips, which you had spent hours previously mashing your own against, you finally took note of and realized how soft they were, his bottom lip had a nice curve to it you tried to imagine in your head, the nose you had pinched, you realized was quite prominent, he probably had a very handsome profile, especially with the strong brow you felt. Facial hair, which you had felt during CPR but never took considerable note of was patchy around his jaw, leading to a thin stache above his lip, you pictured the features as best you could in your head, trying to decide if he was dark haired or not. You imagined he did, a rich black or brown. Speaking of hair, your hand traveled to the back of his neck, gently grasping at soft curls. He gasped slightly and you giggled, pondering if the poor man probably suffered with some bad helmet hair at times. With another gentle tug of his hair you pulled him down to your level, brushing your nose against his. You could hear his breath hitch and you smiled wide. “You trust me, right Mando?” you asked in a whisper. You felt him nod before he realized you couldn’t see him. “Y-yes,” he whispered back, swallowing nervously. “Yeah? Good,” you said before bridging the small gap between your lips, devouring his lips with your own. His lips were just as soft as you had felt with your fingers. He whimpered slightly, hands coming to rest on your hips, gripping the material of your pants tightly and hesitantly pulling you closer to him. It was awkward, he was so uncertain that your noses and foreheads kept bumping together but neither of you cared enough to break the kiss, his breath huffed against your cheek and lips as he tried to figure out how to control his breathing. You lead and he followed, resting your free hand on his shoulder to anchor yourself as you cautiously deepened the kiss, letting your tongue trace over his lips, testing to see if he liked it. He moaned and you smiled into the kiss, getting drunk off of his little reactions as you gently coaxed his tongue to dance against yours. He whimpered and moaned with each pass of your tongue or gentle pull of his hair. You were happy to continue the clumsy kiss for as long as he would allow, but he broke away from you first, panting softly. “That was...wow,” he huffed, you could hear the smile in his voice, causing you to smile wider. “I hope that did your first kiss justice,” you teased playfully, feeling a surge of confidence for having made the feared Mandalorian a panting, whimpering mess from just a kiss. Your heart warmed at his soft chuckle. “B-better than I imagined it would be,” he admitted. You laughed softly. “Well, for a first time kisser you’re not too bad,” you teased again. “Not too bad?” he asked, amusement and challenge in his voice. “What does that mean?” “Room for improvement,” you shrugged, goading him. “You just need a little more practice.” “Is that an offer?” “Only if you want it to be.” You hummed happily as he grabbed your hips again, pulling you towards him and devouring your lips with his own. You were happy to practice with him anytime.

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#din djarin #mando #the Mandalorian #Mandalorian #x reader #Din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x reader #star wars #fanfic #my fic

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corpsentry · 3 years

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fandom: botw rating: t  pairing: zelda/link  notes: post-canon, getting together, mild descriptions of injury. cooking. dancing. crying. and so on. “Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, only she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago. And yet every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says. “I think you’re stupid.”

All roads lead to hateno.

“I ate the frog.” Is the first thing he says to her in a hundred years, because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and his head isn’t working properly because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and he doesn’t remember what he had been planning on saying before he walked into the castle and killed two versions of evil incarnate in a room with a domed ceiling and a field with a domed sky, but he’s pretty sure. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t this. “I’m sorry,” Zelda says. “You what?” “I, uh.” He takes a step back, and then a step forward. Hyrule castle looms like a corpse behind her, hulking and majestic and dead. It distracts him, though not as much as Zelda herself, pale as winter and glowing behind a halo of sun. “There was a frog you wanted me to eat.” A hundred years ago. “You said it would be for an experiment.” A hundred years ago you told me to eat a frog and that’s all that I remember. That’s what’s kept me going all this time. When things got hard, when the weight of the curse you had given me grew too great, I cooked a frog in a pot over a fire. She stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re more talkative than I remember.” He panics. “Should I stop talking?” “Oh no! No, just— how do I put it—” This probably isn’t what she had in mind for their reunion. He feels the sudden need to apologize. He should have tried harder to hold onto himself while he was sleeping off the blood on his back and the world retreated into a corner to lick at its wounds, but it was hard. He didn’t know what he was doing. He doesn’t remember, actually. He doesn’t remember going to sleep, and he doesn’t remember what he dreamed of. That’s two question marks in one head, and only one answer to go around. There were two shadows on the wall, though they belonged to the same boy. Zelda twists her hands together, almost as if in prayer. Her white dress billows heavily in the wind, covered in wounds from another century. “I’m sorry,” she says to his feet. “Please keep talking.” He nods, though she isn’t looking. After a moment, they make their way across the trampled, dead-looking field to his horse, who’s had half of her mane seared off and looks like she desperately wants a carrot. He hauls himself onto the saddle, then holds out a hand to Zelda, who stares at it like he’s just offered her the rest of his lifespan. Then she takes it, letting him pull her up behind him, and her hand is so warm, and the sky is so blue, and everything is so strange, he almost lets go. Of the girl. Of the reins. Of his grip on reality, this new, unexplored reality, the carcass of the castle slowly growing smaller in the distance. When he walked into the sanctum with a plan to kill Ganon he had been thinking about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how stables are a metaphor for family. Now all he can think of is angels. She asks him where they’re going a little while later, and it’s only then that he realizes he doesn’t know. It’s a cool, starless night. No moon, no blood. His horse snickers at a boar by the side of the road, and Zelda tightens her grip on his waist. God, what have they been doing for the last hundred years? “Home,” he answers. “We’re going home.”

 The house in Hateno is a small and modest affair. This is probably the only reason Bolson and his construction company were willing to sell it to him at an equally modest price, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he hung a framed photograph of him and his dead friends. He’s fine with it, though. The only thing that really matters to him is the photograph, though there are now two living people in it instead of one and a half, and if Bolson had not graciously included a bedframe and mattress in his modest homemaker’s package, then Link would have slept on the floor. He says as much to Zelda, who blinks at him sleepily and throws a pillow at his face. “Please don’t do that,” he says. “Sleep in your own bed,” she replies. He peels the pillow off the floor and pats the dust away before replacing it carefully on the bed. “I promised your father I would take care of you.” And Daruk. And Mipha. And Urbosa, who would kill me if she found out I let the princess sleep on the carpet. Like a dog, she would probably say, her voice low, her eyes slanted. How could you treat her like a stray dog? This is the princess we’re talking about. She deserves better. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Zelda gets there first. “My father is dead,” she says, her voice unexpectedly raw. She seems surprised at herself despite her best efforts, and clears her throat in an attempt to hide it. He finds himself overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hug her or blast a hole through the roof with his sword, but can’t decide on one, and ends up wringing his hands together behind his back while Zelda sits on the side of the modest bed in the modest house in Hateno, and presses the folds of her dress into a clump. There should be more he can do for her. What is it? If only Urbosa were here to tell him what it means when Zelda takes your hand like a promise, when Zelda pinches the side of your waist, when Zelda announces that her father is dead, has been dead for a hundred years, died a long time ago. But Urbosa is dead too. The old world is gone, though its survivors have finally emerged from the twilit field. What now? Zelda rubs her eyes. He picks at a cuticle and holds his breath. Despite her best protests, she agrees to the bed-floor arrangement. Zelda will sleep on the bed, because he didn’t think that far when he walked into the castle and defeated evil incarnate, and she doesn’t seem to care. Meanwhile, he will sleep on the floor. Which floor? The first floor, he decides, but when he tries to go downstairs he almost throws up. His heart’s uneasy, of course, but he had underestimated the side-effects of meeting an angel. Over the past few months, he had gotten used to getting mauled by things to the point where it had become part of his daily routine: get up, have a minor crisis about the fact that everyone you know is dead, have a minor crisis about the beautiful voice in your head, get mauled by a bear. Get mauled by a bokoblin who stole your spear. Get mauled by Mount Lanayru, which has a thing for spitting giant snowballs at him when he’s trying to talk to the Koroks in the region, pleading with them through chattering teeth to stop giving him more tiny golden shits and start letting him talk about his feelings. Zelda is not daily routine. Zelda was the girl in the dream, then a face in a photograph, and now Zelda is sleeping in the house in Hateno with her hands pressed up to her cheek, breathing softly. He’s overcome with emotion, though if you asked him to tell it to you, he wouldn’t know how. And as for the matter of her hands, were they always this lovely? Impa didn’t tell him what to do after he saved the girl, though he knows she’ll want to hear about it from him and not the Sheikah warriors she has spread out throughout the kingdom, keeping an eye on their dying gods. Impa wanted him to look forward, which meant knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. She didn’t tell him what he could or couldn’t do in the presence of the sun, and he, having spent his whole life sitting in a dark room, didn’t think to ask. In retrospect, he should have. In retrospect, he should have asked Bolson to build two beds. But the thought didn’t occur to him, just as it didn’t occur to him that his heart might not be the dead thing the world told him it was, and so he never did.

 “I had a dream.” He flips the eggs. “About what?” “About a world where I made it in time.” Zelda peers over his shoulder. “Are they done yet?” “Almost, if you could please—” “—Ah, excuse me—” She dances out of the way of the big cast-iron pan, which he holds in one hand while he reaches for the plates with the other. In her haste to create space she walks into the counter and winces, bending over to touch the side of her foot. “Oh. I stubbed my toe.” She sighs. After breakfast he goes to look for Uma. He finds her sitting under the same old tree beside the bridge, cradling a cup of tea and humming along with the cicadas. Uma is the only person in Hateno who remembers the Calamity as a name with a face, and not a dream. She also had a daughter once, whom she lost in the years after the Calamity, when the rice fields had not yet begun to flourish, and the winters were long and cruel. He asks her quietly about the weather, which she tells him is her favorite kind. Spring’s never felt quite so lovely, she informs him, as she pries open an old dresser and leans forward to peer inside. He holds her cup of tea with both hands, the mellow sweetness of chrysanthemum tickling his nose and making him sneeze. After a moment, she returns with a set of clothes in the signature Hateno blend of oranges, blues, and warm, earthy browns. She places them carefully on his head and then retrieves her tea before he has the chance to drop the cup. “I hope your friend is taking well to Hateno,” she says warmly. I hope I have a friend, he thinks with his heart stuck halfway up his throat. He’s barely keeping himself together, in pretty much every sense of the word, but he thanks her all the same, and means it.

 He did, in fact, eat a frog. Several times. Once on the Great Plateau, after the spirit of the old king had left him to fend for himself with a pickaxe and half an apple, and again while he was in the Hebra mountain range, because it was too cold out to hunt and one had hopped into his pack while he wasn’t looking and died there. Then there was another time, at one of the stables up north, where he met a traveling salesman who offered him a stamina-boosting trick for ten rupees. The first time he obediently closed his eyes, and could only describe the texture in his mouth as ‘soft, with hints of viscosity’. He returned several weeks later, ran away on his horse immediately after making payment, and was mildly alarmed to discover that he had not in fact been presented with a breadstick, but rather a leg. A very long leg. With joints. And skin. And a big, webbed foot. Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water. It had been raining for several days by this point, which itself wasn’t a problem as he had come to quite like the sound of rain bashing on the outside of his tent with bloody fists, but this rain was relentless. Like a ghost which tries to kill you and fails, and, in a fit of bitter resentment, resolves to throw rocks at your window each night for the rest of your life, the water got into his boots and it got into his eyes and then it got into his pack, which spoiled all of his carefully-preserved meat and caused the stopper in his bottle of milk to rot. Under the present circumstances, all the game had either gone off to find shelter or been washed away by the floodwaters. There was nothing for him to hunt, and nothing for him to eat. His stomach growled faithlessly. While stumbling along some beach or another, he bumped into Kass, who told him about some treasure further out at sea. He looked blandly in the direction that the parrot pointed out for him, and found his eyes drawn to the island that lay beyond it. “I’m going to go there,” he said. “I hope you find good treasure,” said Kass. “Yeah,” he said. So he hauled himself onto a raft (he was too shy to ask the people in Lurelin for help, and too proud to talk about his circumstances) at the crack of dawn and began to blast a Korok leaf at the sail. And then he got tired. He sat down. He leaned over the edge of the raft. His reflection in the water was gray, because the sky was gray, and the sky was gray because it was raining. He had begun to shiver again, but he had spent most of the week shivering anyway and so didn’t pay it any attention. His hair was matted to his forehead, and there were bags under his eyes. One of his piercings was smarting; it must have gotten infected. “What if I just stopped trying,” he suggested to the sea, which ignored him. What was the point of it all, anyway? All of his friends were dead and the girl in the photograph was stuck in a castle in the sky. He didn’t remember a single thing about the first seventeen years of his life. Only the things that happened in the last three months, only the things that were deemed important, and even those he remembered in fragments. Like what if he had a sister. What if his father had been kind to him, or doting, or an alcoholic. What if he had been in love with someone, and what if he had had a heart, and what if he had cared. It was hard to discern the world’s sympathies for him when he spent most of his time alone. Sometimes, at night, he drew a face on the rock-wall and gave it a name. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I feel more dead than alive, even though I’m the only one still breathing.” But the sea continued to ignore him. The wind continued to ignore him. The rain continued to ignore him, pelting at his wet shoulders with wet hands and wet teeth, clawing at the skin on the back of his neck, telling him to go to sleep and stay there. Eventually the raft drifted of its own accord to the shore of the island he had spied in the distance, and then some thousand-year-old mummy stripped him of all his belongings anyway, so it no longer mattered that he had nothing in his pack or his head or his heart, as long as he was able to replace it with something new.

 A few weeks later she’s standing in the kitchen and staring at the vegetables in the pot, humming to herself, while Link rearranges the condiments on the table. She’s swaying from side to side, holding up the ladle like a sword. She seems happy. He leans back in his chair until he can just about see the top of her head. “What song is that?” he asks, casual as a house on fire. A pause. Something clatters to the floor. Picture two figures in a forest full of thorns and teeth. Picture the knight carving a path through the trees, the princess stumbling behind him, his clammy hand tight around her wrist, their feet bruised and dirty. It’s raining, of course, because it’s always raining in the dream. They’re being chased by mechanical monsters with knives for eyes. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into a pond and drown there, but instead she walks into a tree. The bark scrapes the length of her forearm like a kiss, tearing at her skin and pouring blood down the back of her hand. Something clatters to the floor. Something breaks. Picture the old dream, the one he knows like a memory, the reason he’s less afraid of bears than people. He whirls the chair around to the sight of Zelda’s hand in the fire, her posture rigid, her face hidden by a curtain of hair. “I’m sorry,” she says, crestfallen. “It’s just—” He’s on his feet and halfway across the room before she can finish her sentence, pulling her away from the counter, reaching for the faucet with his other hand. “—It’s the first time you’ve asked me a question since you found me,” she says quietly. The skin on the back of her hand is bright red. If Urbosa were here, she would tie his arms and legs to four horses and then ask them to run in four different directions, and he would die in such a memorable way, it would eclipse even the deaths of all his old dead friends, who were trapped in machines with voices for a hundred years while their bodies turned into dust. If Urbosa were here then he likely wouldn’t be, would be in the next room, his ear pressed to the door, his heart pressed to the roof of his mouth. It’s a good thing, then, that she isn’t.

 It’s spring, so the water from the faucet is cold enough to cut yourself on. The water from the faucet is cold, so it should sting on skin as red as this, but Zelda doesn’t say anything as he holds her hand under the stream of water, his thumbs resting on the curve of her wrist, his eyes searching her blank expression for. A sign? A reason? Why the ladle on the floor; why the hand in the fire? “It’s fine,” she finally says, brushing her hair behind her ear with her unhurt hand. “No,” he says before he can stop himself, bristling a little, feeling slightly outrageous. “It’s not.” Zelda looks somber for a moment. Then she hiccups a laugh. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” Yeah, I remember when you [the path that leads to Hateno is wet and winding] and I [your hand on the back of my head was cold and dying], he wants to say. But he would be lying if he did, because he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything except the sixteen stories she left him, sixteen shards of a seventeen-year-old life. If she’s referring to something funny, then he’s missed an opportunity to make her laugh. If she’s referring to something important, then it’s no wonder he can’t seem to bridge the gap between the frog and the girl, no wonder his head hurts like someone stabbed it with a pitchfork and forgot to take it out, no wonder Hyrule still feels so far away, even as he milks the chickens and he chases the cows and he collects the eggs from the bears. He turns this thought over in his head as he goes for the medicine cabinet, which he had not asked for and Bolson had installed as a courtesy. Despite his best efforts, the blood on his back never quite washed away. She’s gone by the time he closes the cabinet, and he begins to feel that telltale sickness in his stomach, the sudden urge to throw up. He walks briskly out of the house in Hateno, salve and bandages tied to his wrist, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. The moon is a crescent tonight. Hateno rises and falls with each breath, pressing flowers into the palm of his hand. He folds each one unevenly in half. Zelda’s halfway up the ladder when he finds her. He waits for her to get onto the roof before he starts heading up, and is surprised all the same when he reaches the top of the ladder, and finds her face inches away from his. “I didn’t know you had a ladder,” she says pleasantly. “Why did you follow me up here?” She smells like Goron spice and sun. He is three seconds away from plummeting to his death. This is nothing he is used to, and a part of him thinks that if he knows what’s good for him then he will never get used to any of it. Not the silent, dead castle, not the long black shadow of the future, not the girl. She leans back after a moment. He breathes out. Half an inch of space will not keep either of them safe. Zelda watches him retie his ponytail expectantly. “So?” The ladder is from the Great Plateau. He found it at the back of the Temple of Time days after the old king asked him to climb to the top of the ruined structure and revealed to him that he was, yeah, the old king, and that all of his friends were dead, and that he would have to get the girl out of the castle before she could even think to save him, and by association, the rest of the world. At that point he was still naive enough to think defeating Ganon would take a stick and an apple and a really fast horse. He had also not yet learned of the myriad ways in which he had failed everyone he had ever cared for, and so spent his days wandering from place to place, pointing at bugs in the leaves and laughing. The ladder pissed him off. Who put it there? Why didn’t the old king tell him about its existence? What was the point of leaving a ladder behind the statue of Hylia when you could’ve put it in front, so stupid soulless people like him could use it to reach the end of the story faster? He returned to it much later, after he had purchased the house in Hateno, and yanked the whole thing down. Hacking it into four sections with a pickaxe he stole from a bokoblin (it had probably belonged to him first anyway), he piled all of them on his horse and then walked through Hyrule field, past Fort Hateno, all the way back to Bolson, who stared at him like he’d just asked him to kill a man. What do you mean you want me to fix this ladder, he asked. I mean I want you to fix this ladder, he replied. So Bolson did. Zelda laughs so hard she almost falls off the roof. She gets right up to the edge of it, leaning over the side with her face in her hands while he scrambles to keep her from toppling over. She only let him wrap up her arm because he was talking, because according to Zelda he never did much talking, but maybe he’s said too much. He’s embarrassed. Defeated, he lies down. There’s a star, just above the crown of trees at the other end of the village. He reaches out idly, trying to pinch it between his thumb and forefinger, but his fingers brush against skin instead of sky. Zelda, half-goddess, half-miracle, turns her face into the palm of his hand for the briefest of moments, like a butterfly alighting on the surface of a pond. The cicadas sing ballads. His breath stops in his lungs and dies there. “I like the ladder.” “Oh.” “Please keep it.” “Oh.” “You know,” she says, still leaning over him, close enough that if he gave her hand a tug, she might fall right out of heaven. Her head is tilted, her hair falling into her eyes, splaying across the tiles on the roof like a satiny strip of sun. “What?” he asks hoarsely. She smiles at him like a secret. “I—”

 He used to be in love with her. As each piece of his sixteen-part past was returned to him and the last day of his life emerged slowly into the light, it dawned on him like a horse falling out of the sky that he had been very lucky to be her knight, that he would have willingly given his life for her, and that he did. Only his final, heroic act of sacrifice failed to accomplish anything meaningful in spite of his best efforts. He had died with her hand cradling the back of his head, his tunic wet with blood and tears, believing that the ending could be salvaged still. Maybe this is what it takes to reach happiness, he thought dizzily. Maybe you have to be pushed to the end of the line, before you can start walking back towards the center. But when he opened his eyes, it was to a world which had not moved an inch from the precipice. His back was covered in scars, water streaming down his skin like blood, and his head was so light, he worried for a moment that if he stood up too fast it would float right off of his shoulders. The only thing that remained was old skin, the thin aftertaste of fear, and a bone-deep anxiety that wouldn’t come off no matter how many times he threw himself into the river. The only thing that remained was a voice in his head, calling his name through the dream, reminding him that there was still something that could be salvaged from the fire. He used to be in love with her, though it took him a while to admit it, because being in love with her meant admitting that he had failed not only on a prophetic level, but on a personal level that cut to the wound at the center of his chest. It was a matter of survival in those first few months. Him, or a kingdom. His selfish and worthless pride, or the world. Naturally, he chose the world.

 “Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you chase after fairies and you dig up shrines and you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, and you take her back to your house, and you fry eggs for her. But she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago, because she spent a hundred years in a dream. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago, because you forgot everything you could possibly forget, and then you got mauled by a bear. And yet when you look at her, every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says very seriously. “I think you’re stupid.” Beedle retrieves a string of petrified armored beetles from one of the pockets on his back, and holds it abruptly in his face. “You can fall in love with someone twice, you know.” Link wrinkles his nose. “How do you know?” Beedle sticks the lower half of a beetle in his mouth. “I’m five hundred years old.” He bites down. “I know things.” Chews thoughtfully. “I’ve eaten things, too. Things you’ve never even dreamed of. “Point is, Link, you’re being stupid. Get it together. The world’s not ending anymore.” “Oh,” says Link. He watches Beedle eat the rest of the beetles. There are five in total. He doesn’t have to chew very hard, which is weird. He turns Beedle’s words over in his head. Beedle has a point. The world isn’t ending anymore. The world isn’t hanging on by a thread, waiting for the boy in the story to haul it back up the side of the cliff. They hauled it back up, him and Zelda and their old dead friends. They hauled it out of the well. And now look at the flowers.

 Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water, but here’s the other half of the story. He had recently been into the castle again, up to the princess’ room, where he found, among other things, a moblin, a bow, and a single Silent Princess, growing at the end of the hallway. He also found a diary, which he really shouldn’t have read. He shouldn’t have read the diary. It’s common courtesy. It’s the mark of human decency, respect of personal privacy, respect for the dead, et cetera. But he did. So he hauled himself up to that tower in the sky, and he mistimed several guardian laser parries before finally getting one right and yelling in triumph and getting a beam to his ass for his efforts, and then he cried, standing over that tattered old book while a cold wind blew in through the man-sized hole in the wall. He had spent so long working towards the abstract idea of salvation, he had forgotten that salvation was also, inextricably, a person. A girl with the hands of Hylia, praying in a castle in the sky, stuck in a hundred year cycle from hell. She had thrown away everything so he would float back out of the water with his face to the sky, and he couldn’t even remember how to shoot a bear without getting his face clawed off. What had he ever done to deserve this? What had he done for her? The answer was he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything. The conversation they had about skin-deep secrets, the day it was raining and she told him about the hypothetical nature of failure, the morning of her seventeenth birthday, as she slid the gold cuffs onto her wrists and strode grimly out of the castle, her shadow clinging to the wall like it could keep her from leaving if it did. Did he even say happy birthday? Did anyone bring her candles? Did she make a wish, and if so, for what? He felt suddenly angry, and disappointed, and lonely. The fireplace was full of rubble and the table was covered in dust. The bed frame had collapsed, probably at the very beginning of this whole mess, and the mattress was sunken in like a face with no flesh, the sheets torn, the gold trim reduced to tatters. This place used to be a sanctuary. Now it wanted him dead. He wiped his eyes furiously, though there was no one there to point at him and laugh. He wiped his eyes with the back of his clumsy, scarred hand, pulled the diary shut, and walked back out, into heaven’s line of fire.

 He takes her to the Kochi dye shop on her request, but Sayge gives them a name and an address and herds them out of his store, and so they find themselves in Tarrey Town again, exchanging nods with the people he tricked into leaving their old lives behind while Zelda describes her old outfit to Rhondson, who takes notes on her husband’s arm in erasable ink. Several days later, a new set of clothes arrives in Hateno by donkey. He helps her do her hair, by which he means he holds a mirror behind her back and she does her hair, occasionally instructing him to tilt it several degrees in one direction or another, but it’s the most useful he’s felt in weeks, and when she’s pulled on her gloves and done up the buckles on her boots, she stands up and does a little twirl. It’s a perfect replica. She’s glowing. Rhondson is god. “I feel like I could defeat Ganon,” Zelda tells him. I already did that, he thinks. He nods. “You probably could.”

 “So, are you going to do something?” Beedle retrieves a string of soft-shell crabs from his pack. “Do I have to?” Beedle waggles his finger at him disapprovingly. “The question is, do you want to?”

 He has a dream where she falls from Shatterback Point. He runs as fast as he can down the side of the mountain, cutting his palms on coral and bruising his knees on the wet rocky path, but when he gets to the bottom, no one’s there. You were too late, Muzu tells him, stroking his beard somberly. You tried to reach her, but you let go, and then you were too late. The water in the lake is bright as blood. The sky crackles silently above Muzu’s vacant eyes. A voice emerges from the lake. You let me die, the voice says. I saved the world for you, and you let me die. He wakes up sweating. He curls up on his side, bracing for the cold, hard floor against his cheek, but Zelda’s slipped one of her pillows under his head while he was sleeping. She’s murmuring in her sleep, something about fruit halves and grams of sugar, her hand dangling over the side of the bed clenching and unclenching itself earnestly, kneading imaginary dough, cutting imaginary apples. “Zelda?” Too soft. He won’t call again. He refuses to. In a moment of weakness, he reaches for the side of the bed, but stops just shy of her hand. Beedle’s bright, angular nose appears before him, carrying with it the wisdom of his ancestors. What do you want to do, Link, Beedle’s Nose asks him. What do you want? I want to pull her out of the burning house, he thinks. Is that too much to ask for? Moonlight trickles down her throat and vanishes under the collar of her tunic. His chest implodes and his heart bursts into a thousand tiny pieces, as he wonders how it is that planets were made before people. Beedle’s Nose is indifferent. What burning house, it asks. Where’s the smoke coming from? Look around you, Link. There’s smoke, and fire, and windows with broken glass. But who’s still inside?

 Uma’s hundred-and-ninth birthday arrives on the coattails of fall. On her insistence, they keep the decorations sparse and the cake disarmingly large. Streamers are put up and butterflies corralled into glass menageries. A traveling band with a bit of a reputation further west is invited. There are three musicians with ocarinas and one with a cowbell, and all of them are wearing pink overalls and big yellow sun hats which hurt to look at for too long, unless you work for a construction company, in which case you want to look at them forever. After Bolson has finished taking down all of their contact information on his forearm (they prefer to be called for via messenger pigeon, but if you don’t have one then a snail is fine as well), Zelda drifts across the grass to stand in his place. She’s wearing a white dress, borrowed from Uma, who said it would complement her eyes. Uma was right. The dress is made from a thin, glittery fabric that billows around her ankles and makes her look like she’s floating. Like a fairy in a forest clearing. Like a cat perched at the top of a clocktower. Their conversation lasts for several minutes. She says something, and the others laugh. The guy with the cowbell pretends to look embarrassed. Everyone else at the party is dancing, including Uma, who is holding hands with a small child in a green frog-suit and swaying like a palm tree in the wind. While Zelda keeps the ocarina ensemble preoccupied, one of the adults in the village has gone and retrieved a guitar. He begins to play a warm, meandering tune that reminds Link, distantly, of grassy fields and white skies. “Are you not going to dance?” He looks down. Nebb tugs at the edge of his tunic with one hand, pulling him in the direction of the crowd. He squats down. “I don’t have anyone to dance with.” “You can dance with me. Duh.” “I don’t know how to dance.” Nebb looks at him like he’s stupid. “Then learn.” “What if I don’t want to?” “What if you meet someone who does, and you like them too much to say no?” He squints suspiciously at Nebb. Nebb’s atrocious bowl cut hasn’t grown any less atrocious with time, though it does have the effect of making him look far less menacing than he would be if he were bald or sporting a mohawk. The boy knows too much for someone so small. This cannot do. If this goes on, he will reveal a secret to the gods, and then they will kill him for his hubris. “Shhh,” Link says to him, holding a finger up to his lips. He digs around in his pockets until he finds a piece of honey candy, wrapped in a palm leaf and tied together with twine. “Take this, and go dance with someone else.” Nebb gives him the Stare of Judgment, but takes the candy. “You’re terrible, Link.” He sticks out his tongue. “Bye.” Then it’s back to demolishing the cake, which he’s still not convinced Uma didn’t order expressly so that he would have something to do with himself during the course of the evening, as the dancing progresses from cheerful to insane and a small group of guests begins to construct a spaceship out of empty wine glasses. No one else has gone for thirds, though a handful have gone for seconds. There’s a big fondant chicken perched on the highest layer. He sucks on his fork thoughtfully. He wants it. Last week they went up north, in search of forgiveness. Despite their best efforts and the gift of crabs and crocuses they brought along, their reception in Zora’s domain was cold and gray. It reminded him of the way they had received him when he first stepped out of the rain and into the blue glow of the domain’s hallways, armed with only the knowledge that he had been sent to prevent a tragedy that had already happened. He didn’t yet know that Mipha was dead. He thought he could still save her. They called him failure and fool and living reminder of Hyrule’s downfall, laughing at him in a language called mourning. He had thought they had forgiven the Hylians and their king for letting their Champion die, especially after he walked out of Vah Ruta with a black eye and a bloody nose to show for it, especially now that the evil had been defeated. Apparently the knight by himself was tolerable. The knight and the princess, together, made things too raw. Too immediate. “Mipha’s dead,” they said. It was a Tuesday. “I’m sorry,” Zelda replied. Tomorrow they’re headed for Goron City. He closes his eyes and wills away the taste of sweet cream and berries, tries to picture the winding path up Death Mountain, the grooves hammered into the ground, the rubies in their metal caskets. Flame-resistant armor is a given, so it’s a good thing he bought two sets on accident last winter. He wants to trap a few fire lizards in a bottle and bring them back for a friend. As for what he will say to Zelda before he hands her off to the city’s protectors, their hands half an inch apart but not touching, never touching, there isn’t much. Goron City will be better, he thinks. He licks the cream off his fork. It’s sweet. “What are you thinking?” He opens his eyes. Zelda looks at his plate, then the cake, then his plate again. She points at the chicken. He shrugs. “I was thinking that I hope Uma lives forever.” Someone has invited the dog onto the dance floor. He isn’t trying very hard to keep to the beat of the guitarist, who has been joined by two of the ocarina players with brown hair and blue eyes, but he doesn’t have to. Spinning very fast in a circle is actually the smartest dance move of them all. There’s no beginning, so there’s no end. Zelda plucks a berry from his plate. “It’s not very fun, to be honest,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “Living for that long.” He watches the dog chase its own tail and she watches him watch the dog, though neither is aware this is happening. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I was asleep.” The dog is easily the best dancer in the crowd. He experiences neither shame nor hubris, and is thus freed from the stresses and seasonal anxieties of being known by others who might fear him or like him. He also runs very fast. Zelda punches his shoulder weakly, her hand lingering, her eyes soft. “That’s a terrible joke, Link.” He pinches the inside of his wrist. “I’m trying my best.” “So am I.” After a beat, the dog who has been invited to the party to spin in tight circles on the dance floor and be a nuisance to the other guests goes careening into the rotisserie chicken. In a wondrous, gravity-defying moment, the chicken sails not away from the dog, but towards him, flying in a swooping arc over his head at a height of several hundred feet above the ground. The plate clatters to the floor before the chicken can find its bearings and, awoken by its war cry, people scramble into action, evacuating themselves to the other side of the buffet table or under the veranda with their legs between their tails, until Uma is standing alone on the grass, still swaying to a song only she can hear, still smiling. The chicken reaches the highest point in the sky, pauses for a heartbeat, then pitches downwards. She catches it. The crowd goes wild. And then Zelda is tugging on his sleeve, like Negg, but not like Negg, because Zelda walked out of the mouth of the monster, because Zelda left her hand in the fire, because Zelda looked at the miserable, vulnerable world that he had yelled at until his voice was hoarse and dying and even the pigeons were something fiercer than him, that he had tended to with clumsy, scarred hands in spite of all the dead things on the ground, and decided to stay. “God,” she says, her eyes bright. “Link, look. In the sky.”

 Picture two figures in a forest full of night. Picture the princess carving a path through the trees, the knight stumbling after her, her hand tight around his wrist, their feet fast and flying. The sky is clear, of course, because someone pulled the mourning veil off its head and threw it in the river. They’re chasing after a column of light, poured by the hand of Hylia from the heavens. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into bed and lie there, half an inch apart, watching each other in the dark with waiting on their tongues, but instead he trips on a branch and goes down, face-first, into the dirt. She doesn’t realize he’s let go until he lets go, but when she turns around he’s already pushed himself off the ground. Hands and knees and boots digging into the grass. The woods outside of Hateno are still teething. The princess gives him her hand, and he stares at it for a moment like she’s just offered him the rest of her lifespan, and then takes it. He’s fine; of course he is. It would take much more than this to kill him. It would take another hundred year cycle of pain. She points at the column of light. It’s still there. Still glowing. So they keep going, picking their way through the undergrowth, climbing over branches and pushing boulders out of harm’s way, doing what ghost children like them do best, which is pointing at something in the distance, and then chasing it. Chasing hope. Following it back to the center. And when they reach the place where the sky has spat out the blood in its mouth, the knight gets punched in the face with nostalgia. He caught a falling star once, when he was all alone and the world was grim and unknowable. Then he gave it to a fairy, in exchange for less blood on his tunic, in exchange for stronger teeth. He approached heaven from afar once, a solitary figure burning darkly against the pale yellow water, but there was no way for him to go home when all was said and done, so he pinched the inside of his wrist and kept walking.

 The thing is you can’t go from swinging a sword around and dreaming about dead people to waking up and frying eggs and searching for ways to heal the cracked earth beneath your feet. Not that fast. Not that goddamn fast. You can’t just flip a switch and not be scared anymore, not wake up sweating anymore, not wake up wanting to hold her hand. Fear is a country and you’ve lived in it all your life. There’s a reason kingdoms keep such a close eye on their borders. You’re either in, or you’re out. Make up your mind. Pick up your sword. Save yourself.

 The star fragment is stuck in a tree. Zelda wants to climb it and he wants her to stop; naturally, she wins. She hauls herself up the trunk while he circles the bottom like a hawk with an anxiety problem, waiting to catch the star, or the girl, or both. But neither comes pitching out of the sky. The dream stays just out of sight. “So that’s what star fragments look like,” she says later, her voice muffled by the sound of crickets. She turns it over in her hands, running her fingers along each point and indent. “They’re warm.” Smells it curiously, then wrinkles her nose. “No smell.” Tries to break off one especially thin-looking point with little success. “Sturdy.” She spends ten minutes staring at the star. He spends ten minutes staring at her. She gets bored, puts the fragment on the ground, and looks up. He looks away. “The party’s probably over now, huh.” He nods to his left. A sigh, very small, very lovely. Like a firefly under a bridge. “I didn’t get the chance to dance with anyone.” Beedle’s Nose is staring at him from a gap in the trees like the red eye of the devil. It’s singing a nursery rhyme he doesn’t remember learning. What do you want/what do you want/what do you want. Link! Link! Open your eyes! He has to break every bone in his body just to turn his head three inches to the right, but for the first time in this life, this new life, this second chance at everything, he gets it right. Zelda’s knees are drawn to her chest, her head pillowed on her arms, her gaze heavy on his face. He sucks in a breath. “Do you still want to?”

 Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory, but generally requires one party to be exceptionally good at keeping count while the other has to be in possession of at least a rudimentary grasp of the steps. This is, of course, assuming that there are redeemable qualities to both parties. For example, if one is the knight from the fairy tale who has spent his whole life swinging sharp objects at people, and the other is the princess from the fairytale who has spent her whole life praying sharp objects find their way to the right people, then there may not in fact be anything redeemable between them. Her counting is off, his hands are clammy. Her voice is wavering, his feet are too slow. It’s disaster after disaster after disaster, first the champions in their divine beasts, then the castle, then the king on the Great Plateau, a knife through the heart, et cetera. Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory unless you’ve spent the last three months of your life chasing angry moose down mountains, so it’s a good thing no one’s here to laugh at them. It’s a good thing they’re alone, surrounded by starlight, half an hour by foot from Hateno, village of lights and wonder. Spring has come and gone without them. The night is young and the air is cool and the forest is sweetly indifferent to his tendency to crash into inanimate objects. This would be embarrassing if he left himself think about it, but more importantly it’s unfair, how neither of them knows what they’re doing but Zelda can smile her way out of a clumsy turn, how he has to keep his hand on her waist but hers is doing an elaborate dance on his shoulder, how every time she leans in and her hair parts down her back, a sliver of neck peeks out and steals the lungs right out of his chest. He is going to die trying to keep his hands to himself or they are going to fall off the edge of the forest and into a ravine with no bottom. There is no option to walk away. “You’re a terrible dancer,” she says, smiling up at him from under her lashes. He chews on his lip. “I’m sorry.” “That’s fine.” He twirls her and her dress floats up past her ankles like a cloud of tiny stars. “I like you anyway.” He walks into a tree. Decides that’s not enough. Slaps himself generously across the face, hard enough to leave a mark. Decides that’s not enough. Kneels on the grass, letting go of her hand, to look for a stick that might help him end things faster. “Link?” It is too much and too little all at once, and therefore unbearable. He is going to fall off the edge of the forest right now. He tries to stand up just as she begins to bend down, reaching for his shoulder. They fall off the edge of the forest together. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh no. They’ve fallen off the edge of the universe together. Her face is in the crook of his neck and her hair is stuck to his clothes. His skin is on fire and his butt is sore and he’s dying. Hylia, can you hear him? There’s a name for the place children go after they leave this world. He’d like to know what it’s called now. “Hey,” comes the small, muffled voice. Her arms are on either side of his waist, and they’re trembling. “Can you say something?” He looks up. Always up, always forward, towards knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. Always past the blurry face in the dream, to the nightmare that follows after. Someone will tell you when to breathe. Someone will tell you when to swing your sword. Someone will tell you when it’s all right to stop being scared of everything, and start looking for angels. Like right now. Like right-right-now. Your heartbeat fluttering in your throat. Your throat an ocean of knives. Eight weeks and three days after he walks into the castle and defeats two incarnations of evil, first in a room with a domed ceiling, then in a field with a domed sky, he steps out of the burning house, and finds himself face to face with the sun. He presses his cheek against her hair. “Do you want me to?” “Yes,” she sighs. “Yes, I do.”

 He tells her about the way the world looks from atop the back of a bear and the gray of the ocean from a raft and the conversation he had with her dead father about how cooked apples taste sweeter. He tells her about the first time he shot an arrow at a bomb barrel and the second time he shield-surfed down a hill and how Urbosa made him promise to take care of her, even in death, even after it. He tells her about being so lonely it hurt to breathe and being so bad at breathing he passed out in a river, and being so hurt he had to be saved by a stranger on the road, tied to the back of their donkey like a piece of merchandise and carried to the nearest stable to be burnt back to life. He tells her how no one believed he was the boy in the story, even when he pulled out the sword, even when he showed them the blood on his back. He tells her about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how a sword is a metaphor for forgiveness. He tells her how a hundred years ago she told him to eat a frog, and he never forgot about it. Not once, not ever. Walking through the Breach of Demise, looking for Koroks in Fort Hateno, praying for her heart at the Spring of Wisdom, he never stopped thinking about the damn frog, and by extension, the girl. The first thing she says is why didn’t you tell me all of this earlier? The second thing she says is why the hell didn’t I ask? She presses a hand to his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and glaring at him. The third thing she says is that she really wants to see a stalhorse, and the fourth thing he says is he’ll take her there one day, and the fifth thing she does is cry. Big, heaving sobs. Arms tight around his shoulders, tears smearing the front of his shirt, while he pretends he isn’t half as insane, gives up, and resolves to hide his face in her hair forever. And it’s dramatic as hell, it’s an ancient tapestry on a wall in Kakariko, but hasn’t it always been that way? Haven’t they been through enough shit to justify the heartfelt reunion, the face full of tears? If the conversation they had in the field outside the castle was a blueprint for what it looks like to meet someone you wanted a hundred years ago, then this is the aftermath of that war. Do you remember me? Of course I do. Do you love me? Of course I do. Ask me a question, any question. Crack my chest open. “To make things very, very clear,” Zelda says, wiping her eyes furiously. She’s pushed him flat onto his back and the light’s not hitting her face so he can’t make out her expression, but he can imagine the pinched brow, the bitten lip. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were conveniently there, like, I don’t know, an armchair when you’re tired, or a glass of water when you’re thirsty.” Her hands on his chest are very beautiful, even in the moon-lit dark. “I didn’t take one look at the prophecy and think to myself, well, if I’m going to tie my happiness to someone then it might as well be him.” Now he’s the one who’s embarrassed. He brings a hand up to cover his face but she tugs it away. Takes a deep breath. Counts to ten, probably, maybe fifteen, maybe a hundred. “I fell in love with you,” she says, softly, each word falling from her lips like a star, each star plucked from the highest point in the heavens. “I don’t even know why I fell in love with you.” She fists her hands loosely in his shirt. “It just happens, you know? One day you look at the boy with the stupid pretty hair, and you think to yourself, oh no.” His head is spinning so fast he feels like the dog at the party. Maybe he is the dog. Maybe he finished eating the cake and shoved the fondant chicken in his mouth and then he passed out, and had to be carried back to his house, and had to be laid gently on the unmade covers. He gathers his thoughts. “I’m not a very good person,” he says quietly. “But if you would have me, I would gladly give you my life.” “You’ve already done that once, Link,” Zelda says, laughing with the sun in her mouth. “Do something else.” What do you want, Link? Open your eyes. Save yourself. “Okay, then. Can I kiss you?”

 His name is Link, and he died once when he was seventeen. It was pretty traumatizing. He got slashed several times across the back with some very sharp weapons, and then he got mauled by a forest full of screaming metal, and then he collapsed, right in front of the person he was supposed to protect, who ended up protecting his dead body by the skin of her teeth. Because he died. Somewhere between the laser on his chest and her hand pressed against the seal of the sky, his body made one last stand against the stark inequalities of the world, and he died. The only reason he knew his name was Link when he woke up was because it was the first word she said to him. “Link,” she said. “Wake up.” He concluded through logical reasoning that “he” must be “Link” and that “Link” had to “wake up”. So he did. He went traipsing around Hyrule with a ladle and a pot lid, seeking out places from a photograph and trying to find ways to bring every four-legged animal in the land to a stable, but he never really felt like “Link”. He felt like a corpse that had received a very shiny, very thick coat of paint. Half-here, half-there. Half-me, half-something-else. What else? A bird, maybe. A horse. One day Link got bored and decided that he was going to defeat all the forces of evil. He fought his way into the castle, where the guardians shot lasers at his earrings, and he fought his way past the lynels, who hissed fire and called him rude words, and he fought his way into the sanctum, where he met the asshole who had put him through all this shit in the first place. And he kicked his ass. And he kicked his other ass. And the asshole died. His name was Ganon. Ganon dying brought Zelda back to life, because the law of equivalent exchange governs half of the children in this world, while the devil gets the rest. The devil got to him: his life will always carry the weight of hundreds of thousands, he will always feel like lead for the first three seconds after he wakes up. But it didn’t get to Zelda. Zelda got the other bargain, the one where your dead father dies but you get your knight back. One or the other, left or right. In the end, you always have to choose. And he’s still pretty traumatized. And dying at the age of seventeen with a sword still stuck in your hand is pretty traumatizing. And the Zora are still mourning and the Gorons are still eating rocks and the Gerudo still think he’s just a really short girl, which he can live with, which he doesn’t particularly mind, but the trauma has a place on the shelf now. And the shelf is in his house. And the house is a modest one, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he’s hung a framed photograph of his friends. But some things are different, even if the foundations stay the same. No more rafts on gray seas. No more sleeping on the floor. No more standing in the burning building, and wondering why the shadows aren’t moving. No more shrines full of dead monks. No more monsters full of dead bodies. No more waiting for someone to tell you when to breathe, when to stop, when to get mauled by a bear. Pick up your sword, boy. Now put it down. Now pick it up. Now put it down. You’re going to be doing this until the day that you die. Are you all right with that? Are you all right with your god? [Thank you for helping my sister.][They say the leviathans died thousands of years ago.][Get me a horse. A big, strong horse. Any horse.][BROTHER. THE ROCKS ARE READY.][Find me someone whose name ends with ‘-son’.][I’ll sell you rushrooms for diamonds. Fifty-five for one.][Have you heard of the story of the bird on the mountain?][Do you already have someone special in your heart?][They say if two people visit this pond, they’ll be together forever.][Do you believe in miracles?][Do you believe in magic?][Do you believe in me?] [I believed I would see you again.]

It’s a cruel, unforgiving world. People die and don’t come back. But you did. Now get up. Someone’s waiting for you.

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