#please don't use canes with worn out tips
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I recently decided to buy a new cane to replace my old one. This was a pretty significant decision as I was very emotionally attached to the previous cane for a couple of reasons, but in the end I had to replace my cane for my own safety.
One of the reasons this was so difficult is that the first cane was purchased for me by a dear friend (@corypaws if you're curious), so that's one of the many layers of emotional attachment.
The second reason is that I'm autistic and prone to object personification. This means that I have a tendency to treat inanimate objects as if they were people.
My autism also makes me adverse to changes in routine. Since my cane is such an important part of how I get around in my day to day life, a new one has been a pretty big adjustment.
Ultimately though, it was necessary. I'm going to give you a comparison of the two canes to show you why. Here is a photo of my previous cane (image IDs at the end)
As you can tell, I spent a lot of time with this bad boy (who I named Rodney by the way). This cane has been with me through some very important moments of my life, including meeting my boyfriend, school events, and numerous doctor appointments. I also spent a great deal of time decorating it, even going as far as to handmake the beads. I went to the beach a few days before buying the new cane and unfortunately got sand inside him, causing him to make this awful scraping sound when I tried to adjust him. He was also making some very concerning clicking and creaking sounds. But that wasn't the big problem. Here is a side by side comparison of the tips. Old cane is on the left and new cane is on the right.
Notice the raised bullseye design on the new cane tip? The old one used to have a very similar design, but as you can see it is completely worn down from constant use. This makes the cane very unsafe to use, as the design is meant to help grip onto the floor. In fact, the final straw that made me get the new cane was the old one slipping out from under me in a McDonald's.
Here's my new cane.
It's pretty bare bones right now, but I'm going to completely sticker bomb it. Adding stickers will actually be easier since it's straighter. Another perk is that I'll get stopped by fewer security guards since this one is neither hollow nor metal. The downside is that it's not adjustable, and the handle shape is taking some getting used to.
Disability aids are an essential part of some people's day to day life. Many of us can't leave the house without them, so personifying them and developing emotional attachment to them should never be stigmatized.
[image ID 1:
a photo of OP's first cane. It is a yellow-gold color with a black handle. It is covered in stickers with very little of the original color showing. A black strap resembling a shoelace extends from the handle. The strap has beads on it in the colors of the transgender pride flag.
/End ID]
[Image ID's 2 and 3:
Two images featuring the bottoms of both OP'S canes.
The one on the left is almost entirely smooth with just a few flecks of dirt. The one on the left has a raised bullseye design, and is slightly smaller in diameter than the one on the left.
/End ID]
[image ID 4:
OP's new cane. The majority of the staff is painted black but the handle still has the wood color and texture, whittled into a curvey shape. There is a thin ring of silver colored metal where the handle connects to the rest of the cane.
/End ID]
#disability#cane user#disability aids#please don't use canes with worn out tips#it is genuinely dangerous#you could fall#and most of us aren't equipped to deal with that#i honestly used that cane for far longer than I should have#waiting for the bottom to wear out completely isn't a good idea#because again slipping hazard
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heyyyyy reminder for other cane users.
don't forget that cane tips need to be replaced.
i've been using my cane for almost two years on a near daily basis and i JUST switched out the tip and
[image IDs in alt text]
the new tip versus the old tip. i'm not sure how clear it is but, YEAH, there's like. half a millimeter of tread left on the old tip, if that
the replacement was LITERALLY 2 dollars. i bought two to justify the four dollar shipping but. TWO BUCKS.
i had noticed that i was having slipping issues on linoleum recently, but i did not realize how bad the issue had gotten until the new tips came so. PLEASE check your cane treads and if they're notably worn out PLEASE get yourself a new tip they're SO cheap and the grip i get on the new one is INSANE
please don't forget to replace your cane tips!
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I would pay ANY amount of money for you to come out of retirement and write us some professor sharp angst/wholesomeness. Maybe something where mc helps him when he gets pain in his leg or something? Pretty please!
I didn't realise I was in retirement. 😅 Though it is true that I work a lot and stopped taking commissions/requests. That said, I do love Sharp and haven't written a fic in a while, so I hope this meets your expectations. Thanks, anon!
The student-teacher relationship in this fic is strictly platonic.
"Are you alright, Professor?" you asked, startled by his muffled groan.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice rasping.
He sat down quickly, wincing as he hit the chair. It was his leg, no doubt. You always saw him walking around without a cane, but you knew he had one. Thanks to your late night escapades searching for demiguise statues, you saw it leaning against a table in his room. The wood looked worn, as did the rubber on the tip, leading you to believe he used it profusely, just never around students or his peers.
"Sir?" you asked, cautiously moving closer.
"What do you want?" he barked, his teeth clenched.
You flinched, the question reminding you why you stayed after class. "Oh, I wanted to ask you about the erumpent potion. You said we'd be brewing it next week, but I'm having some trouble finding—"
"Another time," he said, sharply. "Tomorrow, perhaps. I don't have time for—"
He paused, gripping his thigh as he hunched forward. All colour seemed to drain from his face as he swallowed a visibly painful grunt. It was definitely his leg, and you felt sorry for him, but you didn't know how to broach the subject without upsetting him further. You simply watched as his brow furrowed, betraying the stoic demeanor he hoped to convey.
"I understand, Professor. Tomorrow, then."
It seemed like the best decision, leaving him to his own devices. After all, he'd been dealing with his condition for years and you weren't a doctor. There wasn't much, if anything, that you could do besides respect his privacy. You turned to leave, but as you did so, you heard him take a few short, laboured breaths.
"...Wait."
"Professor?"
His body was trembling, the nails on his free hand digging into his desk. "Bring me your wiggenweld potion. Please."
His demand was strict, but his eyes were desperate. You nodded, rushing to your station to retrieve the vial. When you handed it to him, his fingers shook as they pried the cork from the neck. Hastily, he downed the liquid with three loud gulps, then exhaled with a weary sough.
He didn't speak after that, he simply sat with his head down, fist clenched as he waited for the remedy to take effect. His mouth, though he tried to keep it closed, hung partially open as he fought for air, his chest heaving. You weren't sure how to react. Something told you he felt humiliated by your presence, but you couldn't help but worry.
"Professor?" you asked, gently. "Are you—?"
"I'm fine!"
His outburst was crass, hurtful. You didn't like it. His eyes were mixed with rage and agony and it scared you. He was always stern, but he still carried an air of kindness, despite his brooding looks; however, in that moment there wasn't a trace of the man who'd been so graciously helping you with your studies. You backed away, clasping your hands in discomfort.
"I'm sorry I bothered you, sir."
As you fled for the door, you heard him sigh, defeatedly. "Wait. I'm ... that was beneath me." You looked back, seeing him point to the chair beside his desk. "Please, sit."
You did, though with tense shoulders. You never took well to being yelled at, but Sharp did seem genuinely remorseful. As you joined him, his crude expression settled and he adjusted his tone. Once again his voice was deep but forbearing, unassuming. The way it usually sounded.
"I didn't mean to snap at you. You did as I asked and I am grateful." Relaxing, he brushed his hair out of his face. "As you know, I have no patience for those who refuse to acknowledge their own mistakes. I would be a hypocrite if I didn't include myself in that statement."
"Are you in pain?" you asked, glossing over his comment, but he didn't return your gaze.
"It will pass. I didn't expect such a powerful wave. Clearly the potion I took this morning was diluted."
"I didn't know it got that bad."
"It usually doesn't. Not during class, anyhow."
You thought back to his room. The empty bottles surrounding his chair—it all made sense. He didn't bring his cane to class because he was numbing his leg with potions. It couldn't be healthy, but you didn't dare question it. The man was so desperate for a cure, but even more desperate to keep face with his students.
"Sir, isn't the potions classroom the coldest in the castle? Doesn't that exacerbate your leg?"
"Clever," he huffed. "You know your biology." He seemed annoyed, yet paradoxically proud. "Yes, it can exacerbate it, but only in the winter."
You looked to the windows, tilting your head as flakes of snow hit the glass. Sarcasm. He was being intentionally facetious, which told you he was feeling better, or at least starting to.
"Are you alright now?" you asked, unsure of what else to say.
"I'll be fine." You could see the sweat shining on his forehead, his wrinkles folding in and out. He was still in pain. "This potion is weak, too."
"I'm so sorry. Did I make it wrong?"
"No, it's no fault of yours. A student's potion is never going to be stronger than a potioneer's. Besides, wiggenweld does very little regardless." He took another breath, carefully rubbing his thigh. "I wonder if you might do me another favour?"
"Of course, sir," you answered without hesitation.
"Never speak of this to anyone."
Your shoulders bucked. Taking his focus from his leg, his eyes met yours. He was serious, but it wasn't a threat. It was a sign of trust. It didn't have to be, but it was—an ask, not a demand. Eager to prove yourself worthy of that trust, you nodded.
"Of course, sir. I won't."
"Then you have my gratitude."
"But, sir—?" Your throat tightened, knowing you were about to push your luck. "Perhaps you should start using a cane. At least until spring, when it gets a little warmer?"
The silence cut into your soul. His black eyes stared you down, but you couldn't figure out what he was thinking. He didn't look angry or insulted, but he didn't look indulgent either. He was impossible to read sometimes.
"No need."
You didn't push it. "Okay."
"Thank you for your help, but I'm fine now."
"That's good." Things were getting awkward, mostly because you weren't sure if you believed him. "Can you walk?"
"What was it you wanted to ask me?" he injected. "About your potion?"
"Oh, well..." He was willing to talk, so you supposed he really was on the mend. "The erumpent potion. I went to J. Pippin's to buy some powdered erumpent horn, but he was sold out."
"You should've ordered it earlier, at the beginning of the school year. I sent all the students a syllabus and Pippin replenishes his supplies every September for that very purpose."
"I'm sorry, Professor. I did order it, but ... the dragon."
Sharp held his tongue, choosing his next words wisely. He could be cold, but he wasn't heartless, and he knew revisiting that day disturbed you. In fact, out of all the professors at Hogwarts, he was perhaps the most attentive and tender in that context, likely because he knew what it was like to watch someone die.
"Go on," he said, softly.
Your fingers curled. "Professor Fig and I never managed to find one of my clothing bags, which is fine, but I didn't remember until just a few days ago that I packed some ingredients in there. I completely forgot because I put most of them in my satchel, but they couldn't all fit. I'm afraid one of those ingredients was the powdered horn."
"I see." He let out a shaky sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have some in storage. You can use that, but just this once."
"Thank you, sir."
"And don't tell the other students. The last thing I need is some sentiment floating around that they can slack off and ask me to foot the bill."
"Understood, sir."
"Good. Now, if that answers your question, you should be on your way. Class is over, after all."
"Will you be alright?"
"Yes." There was a hint of frustration in his remark. "You, on the other hand, are going to be late for your next class."
You looked at the clock and were shocked to discover the afternoon break was almost over. It didn't feel like you'd been chatting for very long, but the realisation that you'd have to sprint halfway across the castle to make it to your next class caused you to jump out of your seat. Before leaving, you thanked Sharp one last time, but as you crossed the threshold and rushed around the corner, you slowed. Something wasn't right. You didn't know how you knew, but you couldn't shake the feeling. After a few long strides, you came to a grinding halt, your hand resting against the wall.
As you waited for something you weren't sure was going to happen, it happened. From the classroom, you heard a piercing yelp that made your whole body stiffen, then a thud. Horrified, you ran back and found Sharp curled up on the floor, his jaw clenched and eyes squinted shut. While trying to steady himself with one hand, the other pushed against his hip, the pain excruciating.
"Professor!"
You ran to his side and crouched to his level, but he let out a violent hiss when you touched his arm. It wasn't because he was rejecting you, though, but because any physical contact, no matter where it was, only served to amplify his pain. Every muscle, every nerve screamed in agony.
"D-don't touch me," he begged through gritted teeth.
You obliged, only removing your cape and draping it over his legs; an act of which he didn't protest. As you hoped, the warmth offered some alleviation, but not much. For a while, you both stayed there, his leg twitching as he sucked in air through his nostrils, his moans distressing. You had never seen a grown man writhe in such obvious torture. It was almost too much for you to bear, but you knew it was infinitely worse for him.
"I ... I think I should get the nurse."
He reached out, suddenly, and clutched your wrist. As he held on, you could feel his body shudder and contract. His cheeks were white as sheets and his hair stuck to the sweat soaking his brow. It looked like he'd been hit with the cruciatus curse, but he still managed to cough up an audible "no".
"Oh please, Professor! Please!"
He shook his head, barely. He couldn't speak anymore. He could hardly move, except for the involuntary spasms. You couldn't believe you fell for his reassurances, for his helpful teacher act. He'd been suffering the entire time, but it was too late for him to apparate somewhere safe. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't answer you, and that scared you. You weighed your options, considered spells, considered trying to carry him, but all of those were foolish notions. He was twice your size, and shifting him even an inch caused him to wail.
"Ah ... aughh!"
His cries pushed you over the edge. Even if it made him hate you, even if you lost his trust forever, you didn't care. You apologised, then raced to the hospital wing with more speed than you thought you were capable of. When you returned with help, Sharp was still on the floor, and in an even worse way than when you left him. Something was very wrong, which the nurse divulged immediately. Ignoring his objections, she gave you a nod of approval, letting you know you made the right decision, then disapparated, taking your ailing professor in tow.
Nearly two weeks later, you received a summons to visit Sharp in the faculty hall. He'd only recently returned to Hogwarts and he was set to resume teaching in a few days, but you weren't sure how to take the news. You were certain he'd be furious with you. After all, he ended up in St Mungo's and his absence had become a famed rumour amongst the students. No doubt he intended to berate you, but you accepted it. Standing outside his room, you mustered your courage and knocked.
"Come in, and keep the door open."
You did as he asked, finding him sat in his armchair not too far from the entrance. As you hobbled in, he gestured to a chair he'd placed across from him, and you took it, but without meeting his gaze. For some reason, you felt embarrassed, if not slightly fearful. Once situated, you didn't say anything, instead choosing to grip your pants out of nervousness.
"Look at me," he said, sending a shiver up your spine.
Hesitating, you lifted your head, your eyes heavy. He looked exhausted. He looked like he'd been through hell. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual, almost bruised, and his stubble was unusually outgrown. An attempt had been made to brush his hair, but it still sprung out in certain areas, emphasising his lack of energy. Realising this, a suffocating sense of guilt consumed you. You wondered if his time in St Mungo's had been a negative experience, and if so you blamed yourself. Taking a quivering breath, you looked away, ashamed.
"Sir, I'm so sor—"
"Forgive me."
You gasped, quietly. "What?"
"That day, after class, I'm well aware you must have been terrified. You wanted to help me, but I made that difficult." Your eyes were wide as saucers as you listened. "Mrs. Weasley informed me you've been withdrawn in your other classes. Is it too presumptuous of me to assume that's because of me?"
You flinched, hanging on every word he uttered. "N-no, sir! I mean, maybe a little. I have a lot on my mind, but I did worry you might ... you might hate me now."
He chuckled, putting your worries at ease. "It takes a lot for me to genuinely hate a student." He sat back, exhaling as he rubbed his thigh, which was clearly sore but in much better condition. "No, I don't hate you. I was upset at the time, but that's my problem. A student should never have to see their teacher in such a sorry state."
"I didn't mind. It's not your fault you can't—!" You cut yourself off. No matter what you said, it wouldn't change his mind. His pride was already wounded and pity was the last thing he needed. "I'm sorry, sir. You don't deserve this."
He shrugged. "I actually owe you more than an apology."
You raised an eyebrow, confused. "Sir?"
"My injury," he wheezed. "That day, it was different. The pain was ... well, it was trying to tell me something, but I was being stubborn and now I've paid the price."
You looked at his leg, his hand resting just above his knee. "It's gotten worse."
"It would have, had you not fetched the nurse when you did. Evidently, the muscles beneath my scars started to deteriorate. My first few days in St Mungo's were spent merely trying to keep them stable." He cleared his throat, his voice strained. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I-I think so," you stuttered. "You've been too hard on your leg."
"Yes, and if not for your actions that day, I might've lost it entirely." You blinked as he stood ever so slowly, his hand firmly gripping the cane he'd hidden beside his chair. "I've never been particularly good at showing my gratitude, but you have it nonetheless."
"I ... you're welcome, sir." You could tell it was hard for him, that he was self-conscious about the whole situation, but he was trying his best to be cordial. "I'm glad you're okay. You are okay, right?"
"I'm fine." He groaned, caught off guard by your sincerity. "That said, never second guess yourself, not even if an irascible old fool like me gives you grief. You did well."
As he faced the wall, almost shyly, you smiled. "That's a beautiful cane, sir."
"Yes, well, I shall see you in class. I expect you've been keeping up with your studies?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then I look forward to seeing what you've learned." Sensing his insistence, you stood and headed for the door. "One more thing." Meeting you at the archway, his limp countered by the cane, he handed you a small sack. "Professor Hecat told me she moved the syllabus around while she was covering for me. The erumpent potion has been rescheduled to next week, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. You'll be needing those supplies, then." Curious, you loosened the pullstring, but he stopped you. "Open it on your own time, please. I assure you, there's plenty to sift through."
You thanked him again, heading out as he led you. Once in the hall, he muttered a "good day", then politely closed the door. Needless to say, the exchange went better than you imagined; you squeezed the sack as you processed it. Sharp was, much to your surprise, far more reasonable than you gave him credit for, and you felt horrible for having expected otherwise.
As you headed off, you unrolled the edges of the sack, itching to see what was inside, and when its contents came into view, you froze. Powdered erumpent horn, to be sure, but a variety of other ingredients also caught your eye. Abraxan hair, aconite, alihosty, billywig slime, lovage, maw, hellebore, rue. Some of the ingredients were rare and expensive. The generosity of it spoke volumes, louder than words. There was enough in there to last you until next term, and perhaps longer.
"There you are!" a voice shouted as you exited to the main hall. It was Poppy, running towards you with a glowing smile. "I've been looking everywhere for you! What're you doing all the way over—?" She looked down the corridor you'd just left. "Oh, that's right. I forgot you had a meeting with Professor Sharp." She frowned. "How'd that go? Did he chew you out?"
You couldn't help but laugh as you tightened the sack and swung it over your shoulder. "Come on, Poppy. He's not so bad."
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I do have a request: Can you do a Kanej shot where Kaz picks Inej bridal-style? Please, please!
I have not read anything like this for the two (the usual hand- holding is kinda too obvious by now) and ik how picking up bridal-style is a bit too much contact for them but let's assume they get better with touching and contact over the years- and 'Kaz picking Inej bridal-style' will be peak fluff if you don't decide otherwise!
Please Write this! :) (it had be totally fine if you don't want to)
hmmmm okay, interesting... i mean, arguably he holds her bridal style in soc after she's stabbed by oomen but i'm assuming you mean something fluffier lol
this is a bit of a challenge (creatively) cause inej being inej doesn't really need anyone carrying her, like, ever and, to boot, a disabled boy who uses a cane is not the best candidate for the job. buuuut i did have one little idea that i thought could be cute so, here you go!
let me know what you think!
~
inej can't stop looking at them.
its a very rare thing for her to own something pretty just for the sake of it, something meant to be kept in a box and only worn on special occasions.
the soft leather and supple soles mean the pumps are amazingly comfortable despite the two-inch heal. they're dyed the colour of ripe plums, a deep purple, which nina insisted suits inej's colouring perfectly.
and, even better, they’re perfect for tonight.
in the midst of kaz and her busy schedules, including her tendency to run off on the wraith every few months, they’ve made a habit of going to the van eck's for dinner whenever she's shoreside.
for tonight's dinner, inej is wearing her favourite cream blouse tucked into charcoal pants that taper at the ankle and, of course, her new shoes. the whole ensemble makes her feel very dolled up. though in her childhood, walking the high wire, and not to mention her time at the menagerie, the outfits she wore were many times more extravagant.
it's not like her friends expect finery. kaz certainly doesn't. but inej doesn't regret the choice when, in the darkness of his rooms, he lets his eyes slide over her and tugs on her belt loops gently.
"i like the shoes," he says lowly, settling his hands on the flare of her hips.
"is that all?"
his gaze drops to where she left the top buttons of her shirt undone, revealing the slope of her chest. humming, he slips one hand under her collar and cups her neck.
"i think so—can't think of anything else." with a thumb he tips her chin up to him. the disparity in their heights is not so great with the extra couple of inches so he need only bend down a little to brush his lips to hers. "you look beautiful," he says against her mouth before pulling away.
"hush, kaz, you'll make me blush," inej says it lightly but her tone is belied by the way her breath quickens as he smiles.
"that's the goal, my darling inej."
"we're going to be late."
"let them wait. it's only jesper and wylan."
laughing, she pulls out of his grip. "you know how wylan gets. i will not have it said that i caused him distress, come on!"
in the end, they arrive just in time.
dinner is a simple affair but delicious all the same. and besides, inej thinks, the company is worth all the lobster and caviar and bizarre delicacies in the world.
all night, inej watches her friends laugh and flirt and tease, unapologetically joyful in each others company and it makes her heart ache to think how far they've come from their years spent living at the mercy of desperation and pain.
of all the things jesper and wylan serve with dinner, inej likes the champagne best. it fizzes and skitters over her tongue, a delicate dance that makes her head feel light and fuzzy in the best possible way.
when the dessert is brought out, inej nudges her foot against kaz's under the table, tapping the toe of his polished shoe with the toe of hers. other than a subtle quirk of his eyebrow he doesn't acknowledge the contact.
there's a challenge if ever she saw one.
with one leg crossed over the other, she manages to slide her foot up the side of his calf, which garners her a twitch at the corner of his mouth. resting her foot against his good knee gets him to drop his hand under the table and reach for her ankle.
she's tipsy, drunk almost, but the feeling of his warm hand wrapped around her ankle has all her already disarranged thoughts dissembling entirely.
the warmth of his palm seeps into her skin and his thumb tracks back and forth in a slow movement inej knows is unconscious.
it gives her a moment to watch her man, to take in the way his throat works as he swallows a sip of champagne, his long fingers wrapped around his fork, the candlelight playing in his coffee-black eyes.
she finds herself quite entranced by him, endlessly counting the parts of him she loves and misses when she’s away.
some obnoxious, slurring voice in her head is telling her to list them aloud, to the group, now. the voice is sure he wouldn’t mind. inej knows better.
though she cannot be held accountable for her actions in such a state of inebriation, she resists, content to be distracted by the feel of his hand on her ankle.
by the time they’re standing on the threshold of the van eck mansion again, her promising wylan she'll be back before she ships out and kaz enduring jesper teasing him about something she'll have to get details about later, inej is swaying slightly with the background buzz of one too many drinks.
keeping one hand on his cane, kaz offers inej his arm. when she grins up at him and takes his proffered arm, his answering smile means he's very nearly laughing at her.
"don't!" she pouts.
"what?" he's all innocence.
"don't laugh at me!"
of course, kaz laughs anyway.
the way home seems long to inej. an interminable, meandering amble through the city.
beneath an iridescent spray of stars, ketterdam’s colourful facades feel wholly different. their light and music dance in the inky canals, giving life to another world beneath the waves.
arm in arm, kaz matches his pace to inej’s—almost clumsy as it is. and although the air is warm she can’t help but lean into him, the firm line of his body a precious support.
too soon, they’re back in the barrel, facing the slat. but there, in front of their door, is a large puddle, one might even go so far as to call it a minor flood.
kaz, being the sober one of the two, notices it first. when inej goes on blithely, apparently unaware, he catches her by the hand.
“awww, you wanna hold my hand?” inej coos, nose wrinkling in delight.
“no—i mean, yes, of course—but look.” kaz points at the puddle with his cane, not hiding his amusement. blinking slowly, inej looks at the slat and at the puddle and at kaz. “your new shoes,” he adds, helpfully.
“my new shoes!” inej brings a hand to her mouth, gasping. “they can’t get wet. i—i’ll have to take my usual route.”
it takes kaz a second to catch up as inej heads toward the back of the building, with the clear intention of scaling the outside.
“inej, i’m not going to let you climb a building right now.”
“oh please, you can’t stop me.”
he takes her hand again and all inej can do is blink down at the contact. “what if i asked very nicely?”
“hmmm…” leaning into him slightly, her ascent forgotten, inej says, “alright, go on.”
“please,” he whispers, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. “we’ll find some other way in, one that doesn’t give me heart palpitations.”
inej frowns at the front door, stymied in a way she normally never is. “but how? kaz, i can’t ruin my new shoes!”
one moment, she's pouting up at kaz, trying to make some kind of order out of the syrup of her thoughts, and the next, she’s in his arms.
without hesitation, kaz has scooped her up—one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. what he’s done with his cane, inej can’t tell and she’s too lightheaded to try and figure it out.
“kaz!” a giggle escapes her and inej presses her face into his chest, trying to slow the beating of her heart. “put me down! you shouldn’t carry me!”
“why not? you’re light as a feather.”
then, kaz walks through the puddle (his own nice shoes be damned) and knocks on the door.
inej doesn’t see the look on pim’s face, she’s too busy studying the underside of kaz’s chin, indulging in the feel of his body against her, the feel of his hands on her back and legs.
“she’s fine,” kaz answers an unasked question as pim beckons them inside.
“actually, i’m quite drunk,” inej adds, primly.
the smile kaz gifts her is slow and unerringly fond. “yes, you are.”
~
a/n: well, there we are. can’t believe i managed to sneak in a little footsie (saw this @anonniemousefics' post recently and just had to).
#kaz brekker#inej ghafa#kaz x inej#bridal style#soc#fluff#my writing#requests#just2bubbly#drunk!inej#has that ever been done#who knows#now it has
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Voltron legendary defender, Shance, "Hey Beautiful. Oh $hit, wrong beautiful!" (You don't have to censor the swear if you're comfortable using it)
THIS IS SO LATE, but your prompt inspired an au where the galra never pick up the kerberos team and now shiro has to deal with being back home, not being as over adam as he thought he was, sick again for the first time in a while, and with the WHOLE WORLD now aware of his disease because sanda is a dick! And also most definitely some adorable shance. (or at least, i consider it adorable. there will be duck videos!!!) a thousand pardons for the tardiness, i kept waiting until i finished the whole fic but i’m hella slow and i just keep ADDING THINGS instead
anyway, this is JUST the scene with your prompt in it lol
psa: i focused mostly on ms rather than polio when researching for shiro’s disease, but 1) i need to do a lot more research and 2) i have no personal authority or experience over this topic (tho i do have some experience with chronic illness), so while i am trying to be respectful and realistic about what shiro in this circumstance might be dealing with, please remember that i know nothing about anything, thank you
“Hey, Captain!” called a grinning engineer, coveralls down about her waist. “Good to see you up and about!”
Ah.
Shiro let his shades fall down, slapping against the sides of his nose with gentle pressure. He angled a grin and a wave, and said, “Hey yourself,” and was content to shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket and amble on over toward a big beauty all by herself on the far side.
He had been hoping not to be recognized.
More than that, he had been hoping not to be recognized in direct correlation to his disease. It wasn’t as though it weren’t a part of him, obviously -- he had to deal with it, he had to adjust the world around him to factor it in. It was there, always. But there had been a reason he’d kept it so under wraps. Shiro preferred when it was only ever acknowledged as an afterthought -- he wanted people to see him, not some version of him distorted by sickness.
At least the ‘ships were still beautiful and the summer breeze nice. He made it through the rest of the ‘yard without incident, taking a slow, curving path toward what looked to be a Corona Class vessel. Bulky, heavily shielded, made to withstand longer bouts of radiation than most of the fighters. Her cargo bay was a massive belly on the back half of her fuselage; she had to be hell on turns. And she was just as beautiful close up as she’d been at a distance. Even with his sunglasses on half of the ‘ship was a glare of sun on metal too bright to see through. It didn’t bother him; he knew a good freighter when he saw one.
Shiro came to an unsteady, grateful stop in the shadow of her nose, trying to ignore the way the world had slowly started spinning lopsided on its axis on the way over. He really should have brought his cane, but also: fuck his cane.
“Hello gorgeous,” he called up to the cockpit, nearly as bulbous as her cargo bay.
To his surprise, a voice called back: “You flatterer!”
Startled, Shiro took a step backward and nearly lost his footing, muscles not quite responding how they ought. Damn. He hadn’t realized there was anyone here. The ‘ship had been quiet the whole way over, and -- oh.
That was a torso and head rearing up from the cockpit, the top of which was apparently popped.
Shiro hadn’t been able to tell with the sun shining through the quartz glass at this angle. Ohhh shit, Shiro thought, embarrassed, as the person leaned down over the side of it and laughingly said, “I could say the same to you, Captain! I did not expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t mean you,” Shiro muttered, but he had a feeling his voice had carried with the wind because the shadowy blob nearly twenty feet overhead snickered a little. So Shiro said, louder, “I was talking to the ‘ship. I can’t even see you.”
“Just a minute and I can fix that!” the voice said, cheerily enough.
Shiro squinted through his shades, still embarrassed, and watched as the figure disappeared back into the ‘ship. The cockpits on freighter class vessels were only released for maintenance or in the case of critical emergencies out in the black. That high up in the air it wasn’t feasible to get in and out of in anything less than zero-G. A moment later and the cargo door dropped open with a creaking groan beneath the ‘ship’s high-mounted tail.
Shiro considered turning around and wandering off the way he’d come. But --
He had left the apartment because he couldn’t stand to be there, trapped. He had never felt trapped inside a spacecraft, though, even one that was grounded. And what was one person versus a whole Garrison full of them, which he’d have to traverse again if he wanted to leave. He’d been stopped only once on the way out here, yes, but there was no telling how many might stop him a second time.
And besides. He was pretty certain he wasn’t going to be able to make the walk without issue, if the numbness spreading through his shoulder, now, was any indication.
Fuck, this was awful. What was the best option here? Suddenly he felt tired all over again, weary and worn down, hating how something once so simple had become so complex. He’d just wanted to see the damn spaceships. Fuck this relapse, and fuck himself for not putting on the damned pump when his doctor had told him to.
“Hey, Captain!” the voice called once more, peering out at him, crouched absurdly halfway down the lowered ramp. “Do you want to check my girl out or not?”
The grin smudging against the corners of his mouth in response to that casual, boasting question was all the reason Shiro needed to feel better about staying right here, at least. Hands in his pockets, Shiro carefully ambled on over to the back half of the ‘ship, working hard to keep it natural looking. “Corona Class, right? I recognize the body type, but I didn’t realize there were any still in active use. There were only, hm… three? Before I left for Kerberos.”
“Yup. Helen’s the last one standing. And she’s been refitted, too, so she’s super sexy. I bet you’ve never seen anything like her.”
Snorting, Shiro finally came around aft and put a cautious foot up on the heavy metal of the cargo door, converted into a ramp here where it had thumped into the ground. “I bet I haven’t,” Shiro agreed peaceably enough. He always enjoyed it when pilots were a little in love with their ‘ships. Somehow it made him trust them more.
“Come on, come on, get up here! I never thought I’d get to show off for Captain Shirogane, I’m about to pee myself in excitement here, come on.”
“Whoa,” said Shiro, brows skyrocketing and finding a hand thrust down to help him up the ramp. The sight made something tighten inside his chest, and it was on the tip of his tongue to protest that he didn’t need any help, thank you, he knew his way around a fucking freighter. But then he followed that hand up to the man it apparently belonged to and recognized him.
“Oh,” said Shiro, startled. “You’re -- Ensign Maine, right? From the uh. The press conference?”
The ensign had risen from his crouch and come to stand sideways, staring back into the belly of the ‘ship. His hand was wiggling in impatience, and considering his past experience with this particular ensign, Shiro had the sudden, strong impression that it hadn’t been held out in deference to Shiro’s potential delicacy, and instead simply because he was eager to get Shiro in and started on the tour and this was the compromise to coming down, grabbing Shiro by his jacket, and hauling him bodily up the ramp.
Huh.
Shiro was about to go ahead and take that hand, because he could probably use the help even if he didn’t want it, and this kind of offer was far more palatable than his first assumption. But at the question, the ensign squawked, swinging around to face him. Standing farther up the incline as he was, it put him taller than Shiro, and his eyes were dark and wide, mouth gaping open in ridiculous, dramatic affront. “Maine,” he said, indignant. “That -- totally not my name, oh my god. Have you thought -- ? Agh! And all this time I’ve been so excited that I actually talked to you and you didn’t even know my name, what --”
Shiro reached up and snagged the ensign’s hand in his, tugging hard, just to get him to shut up. And also maybe because he wanted to. Just a little. Smirking, Shiro said, “I still remember you. Sorry I got the name wrong. What is it?”
He would have looked for himself, but for whatever reason this ensign seemed determined to make it impossible to see the damned name sewn onto his clothes. He was in orange again today, but this time it was a dirty coverall, the upper portion shrugged off to revealed toned biceps and forearms and what appeared to be a firm chest beneath a too-tight white undershirt. Happily, it was still just bright enough on the ramp that Shiro hadn’t had to take off his sunglasses, so the guy wouldn’t be able to tell where Shiro’s gaze was lingering. He let himself appreciate the way the ensign’s bicep bulged like a softball as he took Shiro’s weight, standing firm.
Nice.
“McClain,” said the man, now grinning down at him. It was a very white grin, big and bright in a lean, handsome face, and Shiro finally reached up to twitch his sunglasses atop his head, because Ensign McClain was officially pretty enough for eye-candy and -- yep, those eyes were blue, dark and a little wicked with that glint in them.
“Nice to meet you, Ensign McClain,” Shiro said.
McClain waggled his brows and drew Shiro a little closer, up half a step onto the ramp. “The pleasure, Captain,” he teased, “is all mine. Trust me on that one.”
#a thousand apologies for a great many things#up to and including the length of that author's note lmao#thank you for your prompt!!#shance#shance au#i honestly love this story#but it's moving VERY SLOWLY#i hope this isn't too awful out of context???#vld#shiro#lance#it's been TOO LONG since i posted up some shance#my fic#cynoftheend
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