Summary: Strong as she is, even Moana cannot forget the time her best friend looked her in the eyes and told her that she was not enough.
There are gonna be two parts to this: one from Maui’s point of view, and another from Moana’s. Just, y’know, for extra feels.
A quick headcanon that I’ve shoved into this fic: Mini-Moana’s linked to Moana, as a literal representation of her. Which comes in super handy when Moana’s having a nightmare, because Mini-Moana can just poke Maui until he wakes up like “hey, Moana’s having a Bad Time™, might wanna help her”
Also, cookies to anyone who gets the fandom reference in the title.
When Maui jolts awake, there are clouds blanketing the sky. Readjusting to the lack of light is a process of several minutes, of rubbing eyes and yawning and wondering what, exactly, woke him at such a late hour. There is no one around him, not in his fale, so Maui’s laying back down to go to sleep when his shoulder itches. Tentatively, too. Like the movement is unsure.
“What is it,” Maui slurs, shifting himself more comfortably on the ground. If it’s another kite malfunction he’s going right back to snoring.
Then the itch happens again, but this time not on his shoulder. Right over his heart.
It takes a couple seconds for Maui’s sleep-addled brain to process the movement, but when he does, he springs to his feet. There’s only one reason his little tattoos would be waking him so late at night. “Moana?” he asks the air in general.
On his chest, Mini-Moana nods, rubs her arms uncomfortably. Maui pauses only to grab his hook - it’s gotta be a nightmare, going by Mini-Moana’s expression, but he can never be too prepared - and pushes out from his fale. He kinda stumbles a bit as he goes, weariness still clogging his reflexes.
Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
There is a reason why Hinata became manager of the basketball team. [High
really was a one-shot. I’ve been writing it the whole day at around 8pm and
barely finished it now. I hope you guys like it? There might be some errors,
considering I did not do a full out spelling check on it.
It had been three years already since Hinata became
the manager of the Basketball Team. It was a little hectic at first,
considering many of the players did not believe she was strong or loud enough
to hold them all in place. But the young Hyuuga managed and proved them all
Though she had a voice of a mouse; Hinata never
quivered or shied away when she had to huddle the boys together. She had never
missed practiced before nor had she ever stopped making new gameplays. She was
always there when it was game day and she was always the first one to cheer for
them. The indigo beauty was more than what the team could have asked for.
People had talked about her before, asking and wondering
why such a quiet, timid girl became the basketball manager. Some even stepped
up to ask her why but she would just merely brush them off stating that it was
because she liked the sport.
Truth was Hinata had a reason why she became the
manager and why she chose to be one despite how shy she was.
You are a sentence with no punctuation.
A kelidescope of colours that I don’t remember learning in elementary school.
Your voice is the sound I’ve been looking for my entire life.
Your smile is the only sunrise worth setting my alarm clock early enough to see.
If I could I’d shapeshift into the first thing you think of in the morning just so I could be reminded of what it’s like to wake up next to you.
I love you in a language that I don’t fully understand,
In words I haven’t found enough courage to forklift out of my chest.
I hear that karma I’d vengeful and also a light sleeper,
So I’ve chosen to love you like this.
So, I’ll call your phone and hang up before it actually rings.
I’ll write you letters that you will never read.
And when I see you in public,
I’ll stick my hand into a bagful of things I haven’t done since you left me and pull out a smile.
I’ll say something like “hello… It’s nice to see you”
And then I’ll keep walking.