#austin writes

[kitchenscene]

how dare you enable me and my au after i specifically asked you to enable me and my au

[kingrenly]

andrierretasha soulmate reincarnation au

Every time he sees them, Pierre’s heart stops.

It’s hard not to look. Until he finds them, he’s terrified he’s one of the ones who doesn’t remember--until he realizes that in order to be looking, he must be the one who remembers. And so he keeps his eyes open, looks around corners and in every place imaginable, waiting for the shock, the burn that comes from seeing them, no matter who they are.

This time they are in Russia, in the age of war and imperial might, and when Pierre starts looking, he is friendless and alone. When his half-sisters tease and he hears the mockery from those he does not know, he bites his tongue and keeps his head down, remembering the two from his past, begging the forces of nature, of God, to send them his way.

All he can do is wait, and rely on the memories.

He meets Andrei first, at a gathering for some count or prince--perhaps even the tsar himself, it doesn’t matter, and Pierre doesn’t remember. He only remembers sitting alone, drinking a glass of wine, wishing he was anywhere else.

And then someone calls out: Prince Nikolai Andreich Bolkonsky, his son Prince Andrei Nikolaevich, and his daughter Princess Marya Nikolaevna.

Pierre sees an older man, prideful and haughty, and his daughter, slight, with a kind face, but he does not pay any attention to them. He is on fire the second he sees the dark-haired prince, standing tall in the entrance of the ballroom. He does not smile; his gaze is observant and almost cold as he looks around. He looks over Pierre and does not recognize him. It hurts, a twinge, but it fills Pierre with the same hope he gets in most lifetimes--the knowledge that the man he loves is here, is alive, is with him in this lifetime.

Later that night someone introduces them, someone Pierre knows he owes his life to, and he looks up into the handsome face, and sees everything. He sees the French princeling who held his hand as they walked through Burgundy; he sees the English merchant, waving and smiling from the docks of his ship, who always smelled like linens and lavender; he sees the vandal king they would now call barbarian, who always looked over a battlefield with such calculation, who always sat next to Pierre by the fire. And in this life, Pierre bows his head and says, “Prince Andrei Nikolaevich. I--I am honored.”

The man, his love, Andrei, he is Andrei now, smiles for the first time all night and mirrors Pierre’s gesture. “Pyotr Kirilovich. I have met your father several times, and I am glad to meet you as well.”

“Pierre,” Pierre blurts out, and feels himself blush. “Please, call me Pierre.”

Andrei smiles, and Pierre could cry, knowing that he has at least one chance in this life for happiness.

Meeting Natasha is different, but then again, she always is.

She is still half a child, but Pierre knows her at once, as always. Her dark eyes are the eyes of the queen, the one who always laughed and gifted him pounds of jewels every week; the artists, who sat on the balcony for hours just painting, who was always just content with having him sit there; the performer who twirled and leapt across the stage, who always took his breath away with her voice.

But she is thirteen, and more concerned with her brother and cousin than him, and he knows that she does not recognize him. He knows that she does not care about his dead father, his new wealth, all the reasons that have brought him to her home. Logic, facts, reason make no difference when the old count Ilya Andreich smiles, looking at her, and says, “My daughter, Natalya.”

Natalya. The name is beautiful in Pierre’s mind, and he remembers everyone she has been, and he pictures who she will be in a few years. I have found both of them, both of them in just a few years. I am the luckiest man on earth.

She dances like she did a generation before, but she still has the bravery of a child as Pierre sees her spinning and laughing in her own home, her cousin behind her, trying to keep up. Her eyes are bright when she runs up to him for the first time, half out of breath, and says excitedly, “Mama told me to ask you to dance.”

Pierre could not help but smile, though he said, “I’m afraid I’ll confuse the figures, but if you’d like to be my teacher…”

Her smile is radiant, and from the moment the music starts it is evident that she loves the dance. Pierre is hardly dancing; he watches her as she laughs and spins, and his heart is completely full.

Andrei. Natalya. Two more names to remember. The names are like magic, like music, and Pierre sings them to himself for the rest of the night. Andrei. Natalya. Andrei. Natalya.

Pierre allows himself to be happy, truly happy, for perhaps the first time in this lifetime.

[kitchenscene]

tagged by @deareddie for the last lines tag

Two worlds blended together in his head. Gunfire in California. Buck in a warzone. He’s covered in blood, he’s bleeding. He’s not in uniform. He shouldn’t be bleeding.

“Stay with me, Eddie.”

Nothing makes sense.

tagging @herobuck and @herodiaz

[kitchenscene]

last line tag! tagged by @madamewriterofwrongs and @herodiaz

He carries an old photo of Chris in his wallet and a yellow sticky note from Buck in the back of his phone case, scratchy, all caps writing — “Had to leave early, didn’t want to wake you up. There’s coffee on the counter for you. See you tonight.” — with a heart scribbled at the bottom.

[kitchenscene]

last line tag, tagged by @reyescarlos (written for a prompt fill that has gotten way out of hand)

Buck called it home without hesitation, and Eddie begged for a red light, wanting nothing more than to take his face in his hands and say, “You. You’re my home.”

tagging @dearbuck @homobuck @herodiaz @evanbucxley @renecdote

[kitchenscene]

soft, touch, sky, fingers, quiet???

soft:

“But you can feel it?” he asks. Eddie nods. His grip only tightens on his wrist. Buck offers a soft smile, full of relief, before tapping his cheek.

touch:

“I’m here, okay? I’m here, you’re here, you’re— you’re safe and you’re here.” The touch becomes a little stronger, thumb sliding against his cheekbone.

sky:

Even on the darkest nights, he was convinced he’d look up only to be faced with an empty sky and disappointment, so instead he looked forward, looked down, looked anywhere but up.

fingers and quiet:

There’s recognition in his face, a memory of his cloak from the hallway. Eddie holds one finger to his lips and urges him to stay quiet.

send me a word and if it's in my wip i'll reply with the sentence

[kitchenscene]

wip wednesday (i know it's thursday. who cares.)

work on or post something from your WIP. this is your weekly reminder to get something down on paper. it's also a chance to share your progress with your followers and give them a sneak peak of what's to come

tagged by @herodiaz and @evanbucxley

Eddie looks ahead again. The truck is now empty. At some point they stopped driving and at some point Buck left the door open for him, waiting for him to follow, but he was too damn focused on his own hands.

He lets the headset hang from the ceiling but still, he does not look up. He steps out of the truck and he avoids looking up. The headset is gone but still, the words are muffled.

It’s been ten weeks. The words are still muffled.

“Eds, just stay with me. We’re so close.”

Car crash. They’re standing in the middle of an intersection and there’s a car crash. Eddie looks ahead and there’s two cars, both dented, both scratched, both crushed by the weight of the other. He watches Bobby direct the team, watches Hen and Chimney rush to the furthest car, watches Buck tap his arm and jog back to the truck. He does not look up.

“Jaws?” Buck asks him, hands out, waiting for Eddie to hand them off. Jaws of life, somewhere nearby. An axe leaves his hand, but Buck doesn’t move.

“Uh, this is a saw?” he hands the tool back to Eddie. Not an axe, not the jaws. A saw. He saw the tool in Buck’s hand. Where did the axe come from? The weight felt too heavy to be the jaws, anyways.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, handing over the right tool this time. Surely, there was still an axe in his hands. Once again, he looks down. Just to check, double check, triple check, there was never an axe. Buck scrunches his eyebrows, tilts his head, but there’s no time for questions. Not now; there’s a car crash. Eventually, there will be questions.

tagging @homobuck @thisissirius @zeethebooknerd @tylerhunklin

[kitchenscene]

abuela teaching eddie about the meanings of different flowers so he can pick out meaningful flowers for buck

eddie: artfully crafting a bouquet, very conscious of the different flower meanings, writing a declaration of love with each flower, it's pure poetry

buck: hey eddie :))) i saw these and thought they were pretty :)) but not as pretty as you <3 i love you so much babe :))