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amphiptere-art · 2 months

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Meh. Let's get logical.

Let's talk about how everything worked out in the warehouse.

I just really kind of recognized that I haven't actually talked about this. Mostly cuz I was talking more about Dims story than the others. So we're going to talk about the other animatronics. How they were going in the pizza plex. How sun and moon we're doing. How fasco got the warehouse. And the basic headcanon of how everything functions in warehouse.

Now remember. This was before ruin. It was also before we had any sort of concrete idea on what was happening with the animatronics doing insane. So this is purely headcannon's base around that time frame.

Now. This takes place in one of the after fire stories. It doesn't really care which. All that matters is that in this scenario all the animatronics are unrecoverable. Whether that is because they ran off into the woods or were simply destroyed beyond recognition It doesn't matter. In this story Freddy does run away with Gregory? So this might be the 'official' Afton ending. But anyways. Onwards to the head cannon of how the virus works.

So this is a headcanon I still kind of keep. Which is that the virus is only triggered in security or safety protocols. Basically this thing has been running behind the scenes for a while. Triggered by Vanessa, If the animatronics were in security mode they would be aggressive. It's basically how I explained away how the animatronics only act funky at night. Because that's when their security modes are activated. During the day there in performance mode.

But the reason the daycare was closed early. Is because it also hurt any safety protocols. Basically accidents were now something the animatronics wouldn't exactly take care of right. And the daycare attendance being around kids who have little injuries all the time. That safety protocol that would have helped either prevent those injuries, or take care of them properly. Just weren't working.

Sun and Moon both had this. Moon with his security. Sun with his safety. Any safety or security protocols day performed were just outlandish. Moon was removed first cuz he's supposed to tend to children at nap time. Which is a safety protocol on it all in itself. Son got to stick around for a while longer but it soon became evident that he wasn't caring for the children correctly either. Climaxing with the daycare being closed.

Now we're not going to worry our pretty little heads over anything that happens in the Pizza Plex beyond that. This is the Warehouse AU for goodness sake. Which is where the next little part comes from.

Basically fasco gathered as much as they could. Which included the daycare attendants as they were stuck in the daycare. Then they were able to get their main star Freddy. As he came back with Gregory worried about his health living on the streets. Agreeing to work for them again as long as they rightfully said there animatronics were sentient. And they got Gregory a good home. One preferably that got a free pass to wherever Freddy worked.

So fasco started looking for a place. Y/N in this story has sort of a rich family. They themselves aren't rich tho. So their family started giving them stuff to help them 'build a company'. One of these things was a warehouse. Where else they never used anything but renting it out. Which works well is a gig. Bands, small companies, children who just wanted to rave. Almost everyone was wanting a really big building to just do whatever the hell they want to do. The price was steep, But the space was worth it. Plus it was the best form of a business Y/N made. I will note Y/N doesn't live in the warehouse. They live in a RV.

Fazco took an interest in the warehouse. To them the price wasn't too steep. But they really just wanted to own building. Chuck a new pizza plex in there. So they contacted about just buying the building. What they offered wasn't bad. It was big money. But YN stayed firm. This was a rental. They can't just buy their building. Not without them getting equity. Or at least some sort of control. Fasco continuously try to beg them otherwise. But YN was a stubborn person.

Eventually fazco buckled. They made a deal. Basically they would still pay the rent. But it was way lesser. YN got control of everything That happened in the warehouse. Money from the arcade machines, any other small payments for a certain rides or something. But it also included the maintenance. Animatronics included. Fazco though got every money for the passes and entry. Plus they would pay for staff. Including transforming the warehouse to an attraction. YN agreed. And they honestly we're getting a pretty good deal.

So fazco started to try and fill out their band. Bonnie was found in this universe. He was just damaged and Monty was a good enough replacement. Bonnie was just kind of left in storage. Foxy was also in that storage. Pre-built but never really implemented. Roxy took the fame way too fast. So they clean up these two animatronics they had in storage. And ship them off.

Freddy of course arrived. And fazco fixed up the daycare attendance and music Man. Music man was also found alongside the daycare attendant. His body is just so big you can't miss it. Plus he wasn't as bad the damaged. The area he was in was rather stable. So they both fixed them up. Unfortunately they didn't remove anything when they fixed them up. Virus was still inside both of them.

Now music Man didn't actually have the virus. Or at least not to the severity of the others. While I say that the security protocol was the virus. Music Man has his own security protocol. This bouncer program. It simply just wasn't in the mainframe with the other animatronics because it couldn't. He's ginormous. It wasn't a simple copy and paste. So he doesn't have the virus. Sun and Moon tho, very much do.

I actually have an order for one of the animatronics were woken up. Freddy did not need to wake up. They simply walked him in. Along with Gregory. Which was now YN's problem. They did not realize they signed up for that. The next one they woke up was foxy. Since he was the most spruced up, He was easy. Plus blank. So there were no issues with him. Then it was Bonnie. Who screamed his head off until Freddy was able to calm him down. Immediately latching to the bear. Then was the absolutely massive music man. Who couldn't be woken up in the same area. He woke up with no issues other than a small bit of confusion. He's relatively calm all the time.

Then became the daycare attendants. Oh boy that was fun. Sun of course awoke first. Confusion and panic hitting him. Gregory had of course spilled the beans about sun being mad. Well the Moon. So they had him restrained. Which only panicked them more. YN was looking through their code. Thankfully able to isolate the virus. Which is when they only finally released him. Sun was aggressive. But more scared. Luckily they were able to calm him down.

Unfortunately the daycare attendants had other problems. Released from the virus they were able to think about what they done. And it scared them. At first they thought it would affect anything. But after the first time a kid scraped their knee and Sun panic It was evident it wasn't going to work. This also combining with moon not moving to do his security. He was just too scared to do it.

Which is one Dim is introduced. It became evident that Sun and Moon couldn't do the security and safety protocols. They were just two scarred. So YN basically asked if they would be okay if they just used their old security. Which while they were hesitant. They agreed to. Allowing them to be added to handle their miscoming.

And that's where I'm going to end this before info. It helps explain why Dim exists. It explains how the virus works. Explains how fasco got the warehouse. And basically where the animatronics came from.

I might explain about everyone's placement in the warehouse along with a map. But this is basic info that I kind of hold in my head. Hopefully I shared enough of what I held in my head so there won't be any responses relying on information people don't know.

#Warehouse AU #lore #dca au #daycare attendant au #FNAF security breach AU #fnaf sb au

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sheocheese · 9 months

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Illustration featuring two of my OCs, Jiinabik (or just Jiin) and Rakk. Both goblins, both (ex) Pirates, and both stuck in servitude to an old dragon. The eyes in the background belong to said dragons, and yes they are about to scale. More ramblings about their/ their world and story below.

First off, some things to note about Dragons in their world: 1: They are big. Like ENORMOUS. 2. They are rare, to the point they are officially extinct. And 3: Each one is associated with two "aspects". The first is an element (fire, ice...) that they are born with, the other is a trait or more abstract concept that influences their goals and how their magic works. Jiin is a man who would (and, spoiler: Will) risk the entire world for his family and crew. Just when he found out that he suffers from a terminal illness that's slowly killing him, he stumbles over the spirit of Ral'Shokun, a dragon of Blood and Deception. The dragon offers him a dreal: Eternal life, in exchange for his Servitude. Jiin acceps, not aware that he has doomed himself to be slowly corrupted by Ral'Shokuns influence. Rakk, on the other hand, has never done anything for anyone else beside himself. In fact, he once was one of most feared and successful pirates on the Shifting Oceans- Until he mysteriously disappeared from the records of history. He too made a deal with a dragon: Naugbaerd the Nestkeeper, a dragon of Water and Home. Naugbaerd reigns over Izikk's Nest, a legendary free harbour island for Pirates. As the dragon's "Right Hand and Eye", Rakk is the one in charge of everything going on in The Nest- And of dealing with anyone who breaks the rules. The two run into each other more by accident than anything else, and start off on a really bad foot. But their snark-battles keep them from trying to kill one another for long enough to become friends and even somewhat date for a short while. They couldn't be more different in character and what they view as important in life, and yet they manage to bond over shared experiences and similar fates. And ironacally, the way their minds are being corrupted by their draconic masters shifts them towards more common ground: Where Jiin gets more merciless and stops caring about who or what gets caught in the crossfire of his plans, Rakk develops a sense of responsibility and even starts actually caring about those he governs and protects.

#artists on tumblr #fantasy art #digital art #OC #Original character #goblin #shark #dragon #seagull #tentacles #cw: blood #skull #my art #OC: Rakk #OC: Jiinabik

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publicdomainbooks · 2 years

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XIV. IN LONDON.

My younger brother was in London when the Martians fell at Woking. He was a medical student working for an imminent examination, and he heard nothing of the arrival until Saturday morning. The morning papers on Saturday contained, in addition to lengthy special articles on the planet Mars, on life in the planets, and so forth, a brief and vaguely worded telegram, all the more striking for its brevity.

The Martians, alarmed by the approach of a crowd, had killed a number of people with a quick-firing gun, so the story ran. The telegram concluded with the words: “Formidable as they seem to be, the Martians have not moved from the pit into which they have fallen, and, indeed, seem incapable of doing so. Probably this is due to the relative strength of the earth’s gravitational energy.” On that last text their leader-writer expanded very comfortingly.

Of course all the students in the crammer’s biology class, to which my brother went that day, were intensely interested, but there were no signs of any unusual excitement in the streets. The afternoon papers puffed scraps of news under big headlines. They had nothing to tell beyond the movements of troops about the common, and the burning of the pine woods between Woking and Weybridge, until eight. Then the St. James’s Gazette, in an extra-special edition, announced the bare fact of the interruption of telegraphic communication. This was thought to be due to the falling of burning pine trees across the line. Nothing more of the fighting was known that night, the night of my drive to Leatherhead and back.

My brother felt no anxiety about us, as he knew from the description in the papers that the cylinder was a good two miles from my house. He made up his mind to run down that night to me, in order, as he says, to see the Things before they were killed. He dispatched a telegram, which never reached me, about four o’clock, and spent the evening at a music hall.

In London, also, on Saturday night there was a thunderstorm, and my brother reached Waterloo in a cab. On the platform from which the midnight train usually starts he learned, after some waiting, that an accident prevented trains from reaching Woking that night. The nature of the accident he could not ascertain; indeed, the railway authorities did not clearly know at that time. There was very little excitement in the station, as the officials, failing to realise that anything further than a breakdown between Byfleet and Woking junction had occurred, were running the theatre trains which usually passed through Woking round by Virginia Water or Guildford. They were busy making the necessary arrangements to alter the route of the Southampton and Portsmouth Sunday League excursions. A nocturnal newspaper reporter, mistaking my brother for the traffic manager, to whom he bears a slight resemblance, waylaid and tried to interview him. Few people, excepting the railway officials, connected the breakdown with the Martians.

I have read, in another account of these events, that on Sunday morning “all London was electrified by the news from Woking.” As a matter of fact, there was nothing to justify that very extravagant phrase. Plenty of Londoners did not hear of the Martians until the panic of Monday morning. Those who did took some time to realise all that the hastily worded telegrams in the Sunday papers conveyed. The majority of people in London do not read Sunday papers.

The habit of personal security, moreover, is so deeply fixed in the Londoner’s mind, and startling intelligence so much a matter of course in the papers, that they could read without any personal tremors: “About seven o’clock last night the Martians came out of the cylinder, and, moving about under an armour of metallic shields, have completely wrecked Woking station with the adjacent houses, and massacred an entire battalion of the Cardigan Regiment. No details are known. Maxims have been absolutely useless against their armour; the field guns have been disabled by them. Flying hussars have been galloping into Chertsey. The Martians appear to be moving slowly towards Chertsey or Windsor. Great anxiety prevails in West Surrey, and earthworks are being thrown up to check the advance Londonward.” That was how the Sunday Sun put it, and a clever and remarkably prompt “handbook” article in the Referee compared the affair to a menagerie suddenly let loose in a village.

No one in London knew positively of the nature of the armoured Martians, and there was still a fixed idea that these monsters must be sluggish: “crawling,” “creeping painfully”—such expressions occurred in almost all the earlier reports. None of the telegrams could have been written by an eyewitness of their advance. The Sunday papers printed separate editions as further news came to hand, some even in default of it. But there was practically nothing more to tell people until late in the afternoon, when the authorities gave the press agencies the news in their possession. It was stated that the people of Walton and Weybridge, and all the district were pouring along the roads Londonward, and that was all.

My brother went to church at the Foundling Hospital in the morning, still in ignorance of what had happened on the previous night. There he heard allusions made to the invasion, and a special prayer for peace. Coming out, he bought a Referee. He became alarmed at the news in this, and went again to Waterloo station to find out if communication were restored. The omnibuses, carriages, cyclists, and innumerable people walking in their best clothes seemed scarcely affected by the strange intelligence that the newsvendors were disseminating. People were interested, or, if alarmed, alarmed only on account of the local residents. At the station he heard for the first time that the Windsor and Chertsey lines were now interrupted. The porters told him that several remarkable telegrams had been received in the morning from Byfleet and Chertsey stations, but that these had abruptly ceased. My brother could get very little precise detail out of them.

“There’s fighting going on about Weybridge” was the extent of their information.

The train service was now very much disorganised. Quite a number of people who had been expecting friends from places on the South-Western network were standing about the station. One grey-headed old gentleman came and abused the South-Western Company bitterly to my brother. “It wants showing up,” he said.

One or two trains came in from Richmond, Putney, and Kingston, containing people who had gone out for a day’s boating and found the locks closed and a feeling of panic in the air. A man in a blue and white blazer addressed my brother, full of strange tidings.

“There’s hosts of people driving into Kingston in traps and carts and things, with boxes of valuables and all that,” he said. “They come from Molesey and Weybridge and Walton, and they say there’s been guns heard at Chertsey, heavy firing, and that mounted soldiers have told them to get off at once because the Martians are coming. We heard guns firing at Hampton Court station, but we thought it was thunder. What the dickens does it all mean? The Martians can’t get out of their pit, can they?”

My brother could not tell him.

Afterwards he found that the vague feeling of alarm had spread to the clients of the underground railway, and that the Sunday excursionists began to return from all over the South-Western “lung”—Barnes, Wimbledon, Richmond Park, Kew, and so forth—at unnaturally early hours; but not a soul had anything more than vague hearsay to tell of. Everyone connected with the terminus seemed ill-tempered.

About five o’clock the gathering crowd in the station was immensely excited by the opening of the line of communication, which is almost invariably closed, between the South-Eastern and the South-Western stations, and the passage of carriage trucks bearing huge guns and carriages crammed with soldiers. These were the guns that were brought up from Woolwich and Chatham to cover Kingston. There was an exchange of pleasantries: “You’ll get eaten!” “We’re the beast-tamers!” and so forth. A little while after that a squad of police came into the station and began to clear the public off the platforms, and my brother went out into the street again.

The church bells were ringing for evensong, and a squad of Salvation Army lassies came singing down Waterloo Road. On the bridge a number of loafers were watching a curious brown scum that came drifting down the stream in patches. The sun was just setting, and the Clock Tower and the Houses of Parliament rose against one of the most peaceful skies it is possible to imagine, a sky of gold, barred with long transverse stripes of reddish-purple cloud. There was talk of a floating body. One of the men there, a reservist he said he was, told my brother he had seen the heliograph flickering in the west.

In Wellington Street my brother met a couple of sturdy roughs who had just been rushed out of Fleet Street with still-wet newspapers and staring placards. “Dreadful catastrophe!” they bawled one to the other down Wellington Street. “Fighting at Weybridge! Full description! Repulse of the Martians! London in Danger!” He had to give threepence for a copy of that paper.

Then it was, and then only, that he realised something of the full power and terror of these monsters. He learned that they were not merely a handful of small sluggish creatures, but that they were minds swaying vast mechanical bodies; and that they could move swiftly and smite with such power that even the mightiest guns could not stand against them.

They were described as “vast spiderlike machines, nearly a hundred feet high, capable of the speed of an express train, and able to shoot out a beam of intense heat.” Masked batteries, chiefly of field guns, had been planted in the country about Horsell Common, and especially between the Woking district and London. Five of the machines had been seen moving towards the Thames, and one, by a happy chance, had been destroyed. In the other cases the shells had missed, and the batteries had been at once annihilated by the Heat-Rays. Heavy losses of soldiers were mentioned, but the tone of the dispatch was optimistic.

The Martians had been repulsed; they were not invulnerable. They had retreated to their triangle of cylinders again, in the circle about Woking. Signallers with heliographs were pushing forward upon them from all sides. Guns were in rapid transit from Windsor, Portsmouth, Aldershot, Woolwich—even from the north; among others, long wire-guns of ninety-five tons from Woolwich. Altogether one hundred and sixteen were in position or being hastily placed, chiefly covering London. Never before in England had there been such a vast or rapid concentration of military material.

Any further cylinders that fell, it was hoped, could be destroyed at once by high explosives, which were being rapidly manufactured and distributed. No doubt, ran the report, the situation was of the strangest and gravest description, but the public was exhorted to avoid and discourage panic. No doubt the Martians were strange and terrible in the extreme, but at the outside there could not be more than twenty of them against our millions.

The authorities had reason to suppose, from the size of the cylinders, that at the outside there could not be more than five in each cylinder—fifteen altogether. And one at least was disposed of—perhaps more. The public would be fairly warned of the approach of danger, and elaborate measures were being taken for the protection of the people in the threatened southwestern suburbs. And so, with reiterated assurances of the safety of London and the ability of the authorities to cope with the difficulty, this quasi-proclamation closed.

This was printed in enormous type on paper so fresh that it was still wet, and there had been no time to add a word of comment. It was curious, my brother said, to see how ruthlessly the usual contents of the paper had been hacked and taken out to give this place.

All down Wellington Street people could be seen fluttering out the pink sheets and reading, and the Strand was suddenly noisy with the voices of an army of hawkers following these pioneers. Men came scrambling off buses to secure copies. Certainly this news excited people intensely, whatever their previous apathy. The shutters of a map shop in the Strand were being taken down, my brother said, and a man in his Sunday raiment, lemon-yellow gloves even, was visible inside the window hastily fastening maps of Surrey to the glass.

Going on along the Strand to Trafalgar Square, the paper in his hand, my brother saw some of the fugitives from West Surrey. There was a man with his wife and two boys and some articles of furniture in a cart such as greengrocers use. He was driving from the direction of Westminster Bridge; and close behind him came a hay waggon with five or six respectable-looking people in it, and some boxes and bundles. The faces of these people were haggard, and their entire appearance contrasted conspicuously with the Sabbath-best appearance of the people on the omnibuses. People in fashionable clothing peeped at them out of cabs. They stopped at the Square as if undecided which way to take, and finally turned eastward along the Strand. Some way behind these came a man in workday clothes, riding one of those old-fashioned tricycles with a small front wheel. He was dirty and white in the face.

My brother turned down towards Victoria, and met a number of such people. He had a vague idea that he might see something of me. He noticed an unusual number of police regulating the traffic. Some of the refugees were exchanging news with the people on the omnibuses. One was professing to have seen the Martians. “Boilers on stilts, I tell you, striding along like men.” Most of them were excited and animated by their strange experience.

Beyond Victoria the public-houses were doing a lively trade with these arrivals. At all the street corners groups of people were reading papers, talking excitedly, or staring at these unusual Sunday visitors. They seemed to increase as night drew on, until at last the roads, my brother said, were like Epsom High Street on a Derby Day. My brother addressed several of these fugitives and got unsatisfactory answers from most.

None of them could tell him any news of Woking except one man, who assured him that Woking had been entirely destroyed on the previous night.

“I come from Byfleet,” he said; “a man on a bicycle came through the place in the early morning, and ran from door to door warning us to come away. Then came soldiers. We went out to look, and there were clouds of smoke to the south—nothing but smoke, and not a soul coming that way. Then we heard the guns at Chertsey, and folks coming from Weybridge. So I’ve locked up my house and come on.”

At that time there was a strong feeling in the streets that the authorities were to blame for their incapacity to dispose of the invaders without all this inconvenience.

About eight o’clock a noise of heavy firing was distinctly audible all over the south of London. My brother could not hear it for the traffic in the main thoroughfares, but by striking through the quiet back streets to the river he was able to distinguish it quite plainly.

He walked from Westminster to his apartments near Regent’s Park, about two. He was now very anxious on my account, and disturbed at the evident magnitude of the trouble. His mind was inclined to run, even as mine had run on Saturday, on military details. He thought of all those silent, expectant guns, of the suddenly nomadic countryside; he tried to imagine “boilers on stilts” a hundred feet high.

There were one or two cartloads of refugees passing along Oxford Street, and several in the Marylebone Road, but so slowly was the news spreading that Regent Street and Portland Place were full of their usual Sunday-night promenaders, albeit they talked in groups, and along the edge of Regent’s Park there were as many silent couples “walking out” together under the scattered gas lamps as ever there had been. The night was warm and still, and a little oppressive; the sound of guns continued intermittently, and after midnight there seemed to be sheet lightning in the south.

He read and re-read the paper, fearing the worst had happened to me. He was restless, and after supper prowled out again aimlessly. He returned and tried in vain to divert his attention to his examination notes. He went to bed a little after midnight, and was awakened from lurid dreams in the small hours of Monday by the sound of door knockers, feet running in the street, distant drumming, and a clamour of bells. Red reflections danced on the ceiling. For a moment he lay astonished, wondering whether day had come or the world gone mad. Then he jumped out of bed and ran to the window.

His room was an attic and as he thrust his head out, up and down the street there were a dozen echoes to the noise of his window sash, and heads in every kind of night disarray appeared. Enquiries were being shouted. “They are coming!” bawled a policeman, hammering at the door; “the Martians are coming!” and hurried to the next door.

The sound of drumming and trumpeting came from the Albany Street Barracks, and every church within earshot was hard at work killing sleep with a vehement disorderly tocsin. There was a noise of doors opening, and window after window in the houses opposite flashed from darkness into yellow illumination.

Up the street came galloping a closed carriage, bursting abruptly into noise at the corner, rising to a clattering climax under the window, and dying away slowly in the distance. Close on the rear of this came a couple of cabs, the forerunners of a long procession of flying vehicles, going for the most part to Chalk Farm station, where the North-Western special trains were loading up, instead of coming down the gradient into Euston.

For a long time my brother stared out of the window in blank astonishment, watching the policemen hammering at door after door, and delivering their incomprehensible message. Then the door behind him opened, and the man who lodged across the landing came in, dressed only in shirt, trousers, and slippers, his braces loose about his waist, his hair disordered from his pillow.

“What the devil is it?” he asked. “A fire? What a devil of a row!”

They both craned their heads out of the window, straining to hear what the policemen were shouting. People were coming out of the side streets, and standing in groups at the corners talking.

“What the devil is it all about?” said my brother’s fellow lodger.

My brother answered him vaguely and began to dress, running with each garment to the window in order to miss nothing of the growing excitement. And presently men selling unnaturally early newspapers came bawling into the street:

“London in danger of suffocation! The Kingston and Richmond defences forced! Fearful massacres in the Thames Valley!”

And all about him—in the rooms below, in the houses on each side and across the road, and behind in the Park Terraces and in the hundred other streets of that part of Marylebone, and the Westbourne Park district and St. Pancras, and westward and northward in Kilburn and St. John’s Wood and Hampstead, and eastward in Shoreditch and Highbury and Haggerston and Hoxton, and, indeed, through all the vastness of London from Ealing to East Ham—people were rubbing their eyes, and opening windows to stare out and ask aimless questions, dressing hastily as the first breath of the coming storm of Fear blew through the streets. It was the dawn of the great panic. London, which had gone to bed on Sunday night oblivious and inert, was awakened, in the small hours of Monday morning, to a vivid sense of danger.

Unable from his window to learn what was happening, my brother went down and out into the street, just as the sky between the parapets of the houses grew pink with the early dawn. The flying people on foot and in vehicles grew more numerous every moment. “Black Smoke!” he heard people crying, and again “Black Smoke!” The contagion of such a unanimous fear was inevitable. As my brother hesitated on the door-step, he saw another newsvendor approaching, and got a paper forthwith. The man was running away with the rest, and selling his papers for a shilling each as he ran—a grotesque mingling of profit and panic.

And from this paper my brother read that catastrophic dispatch of the Commander-in-Chief:

“The Martians are able to discharge enormous clouds of a black and poisonous vapour by means of rockets. They have smothered our batteries, destroyed Richmond, Kingston, and Wimbledon, and are advancing slowly towards London, destroying everything on the way. It is impossible to stop them. There is no safety from the Black Smoke but in instant flight.”

That was all, but it was enough. The whole population of the great six-million city was stirring, slipping, running; presently it would be pouring en masse northward.

“Black Smoke!” the voices cried. “Fire!”

The bells of the neighbouring church made a jangling tumult, a cart carelessly driven smashed, amid shrieks and curses, against the water trough up the street. Sickly yellow lights went to and fro in the houses, and some of the passing cabs flaunted unextinguished lamps. And overhead the dawn was growing brighter, clear and steady and calm.

He heard footsteps running to and fro in the rooms, and up and down stairs behind him. His landlady came to the door, loosely wrapped in dressing gown and shawl; her husband followed, ejaculating.

As my brother began to realise the import of all these things, he turned hastily to his own room, put all his available money—some ten pounds altogether—into his pockets, and went out again into the streets.

#war of the worlds #WWChapter

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sky-berrie · 3 years

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How do you think the batboys (+ possibly Bruce) would react to a male SO having an inappropriate emotional response. Specifically laughing as a reaction to pain/extreme emotions. Not being able to control it and seeming hysterical. - ⛓

Hi there!

Thanks so much for the ask! I hope you enjoy this 😊

-Sky

Bruce

When you and Bruce first start appearing in public as an official couple, Bruce’s public relations (PR) manager will probably voice their concerns about your relationship. His PR manager might feel that you are not good for his public image. “If Y/N has a fit of laughter at the gala, you’ll be the laughingstock,” argues the PR manager. Bruce will fire them on the spot. It’ll probably blow up into a big scandal in the tabloids.

If you happen to read the stories, it probably plants a seed of doubt in your mind. You might start to feel like you don’t deserve to be with Bruce. However, don’t bother trying to be noble and break up with him to preserve his public image. He won’t let you go unless you truly don’t want to be with him.

Bruce doesn’t like it when you use self-deprecating humor. If you say something like, “Your PR manager isn’t going to be happy with me. You’ll probably have to give them a raise for all the damage control they’re going to have to do,” Bruce will immediately shut that down. He refuses to let you talk about yourself as if you’re a burden, even if you are half-joking. He reminds you that, “laughing isn’t something you can control and that’s okay.”

If you’re nervous about attending an event, Bruce helps you prepare by scoping out the building and figuring out where to stand and mingle so that you always have a quick escape if you start to feel overwhelmed or need to take a break.

If people are gossiping about you, Bruce will confront them. He doesn’t use threats. He’s composed and professional when he insinuates that they’re insolent ignoramuses for being judgmental. That usually leaves them feeling embarrassed and Bruce is satisfied with that.

Dick

Dick is a former entertainer so he enjoys making people smile and laugh. He doesn’t see your uncontrollable laughter as a negative trait. If you need some cheering up, Dick will tell you how much he adores your laugh and how lucky he is to hear it. Of course, he understands how uncontrollable laughter might cause you distress, so during those times, he will likely hold you and tell you that everything is going to be okay.

Dick won’t force you to go out in public if you’re anxious about having an uncontrollable reaction in a social setting, but he will strongly encourage you to try. He doesn’t want you to miss out on life and he also just really loves your company. Some days are good and you challenge yourself to get out in public while other days are harder and you don’t feel up to doing anything outside. Dick will let you know that it’s okay to take the day off. If you’re skipping an event (e.g., graduation, a concert, a party), Dick will do his best to bring the event to you. He’ll decorate your home appropriately for the festivity and make sure you have a great time.

If an episode of laughter occurs in public, Dick will find you a safe and comfortable place to calm down. If people are sincerely concerned for you, Dick will politely explain if you are comfortable with him telling people. If people are being obnoxious to you, Dick will tell them to mind their own business. If you are getting harassed, Dick will pull out his badge and become Officer Grayson. He’ll give the douchebags a warning and will make arrests if necessary.

Jason

When Jason witnesses your laughing fit for the first time, he’s genuinely worried about you. He doesn’t know what to do and feels useless. He’s not sure if you want physical contact or space so he just hovers around, waiting for a hint. If you want comfort, he will hold you in his arms and rub soothing circles on your back. If you want alone time, Jason will busy himself by making you your favorite snack so you have something to eat when you’re feeling better.

Jason absolutely hates when you feel ashamed of your emotional reactions. If you put yourself down and say, “I laugh like the f*cking Joker! I’m as screwed up and damaged as him!” he will immediately tell you otherwise. “You are nothing like the Joker. You’re kind and compassionate and selfless. Living with inappropriate affect doesn’t change any of that. And I don’t want to hear you say you’re damaged ever again. There’s nothing wrong with you. Got it?” he says sternly.

If someone else dares to compare you to the Joker, Jason will go berserk. Even if he doesn’t intend to seriously hurt the person, he will by accident because his strength multiplies by tenfold when he’s beyond furious. Sometimes Red Hood’s foes will mock you because it never fails to get a rise out of Jason. Anyone who knows Jason’s story knows that the depraved clown is still a major sore spot for him. Having been mercilessly beaten and murdered by the supervillain and being forever haunted by his maniacal laughter, Jason’s hatred for the Joker is probably justified. Jason refuses to let others disrespect you like that.

Tim

If you are distressed by your inappropriate emotional reactions, Tim will do everything he can to help you manage them. He will suggest therapy and doctor’s appointments and will offer to take you there. He will even ask to attend a meeting with you so he can learn how to best support you. If your therapist recommends using an emotion chart to practice labelling your emotions, Tim will constantly remind to use it throughout the day. He’ll even print out the chart and hang it on the fridge so you have the option to share your feelings with him if you are comfortable. If your doctor prescribes medication, Tim will make sure you take it properly (e.g., at the right time, with/without food).

If you are feeling down about yourself, Tim will use logic to try to convince you that you shouldn’t be ashamed because it’s not something you can control. “Would you tell a person with allergies to be ashamed of themselves? No, that would be ridiculous because they have no control over it.”

Tim, like the rest of his family, is treated like a celebrity in Gotham. Naturally, the public is interested in his dating life which means you are also a target of the paparazzi. If you are worried about experiencing a laughing attack in public and having it captured on camera, Tim will get you “anti-paparazzi” clothing. It’s made out of a reflective material which causes the flash from the camera to reflect back and completely ruin the photo. It’s common for celebrities to wear an anti-paparazzi jacket, but Tim will get you all sorts of custom-made clothing pieces so that you can still be stylish. For example, if you are attending a gala, he will have some fancy clothes designed for you.

Damian

If kids at school are cruel to you, Damian will stick by your side and act like a personal bodyguard. He’s witty and often has a snappy comeback for the taunts and teases that you endure. You might be hysterically laughing and a passerby shouts at you, “You sound like a donkey!” and Damian will retort, “Your native language, I presume?” He won’t engage in physical fights unless it’s necessary for your safety. For example, he will intervene if someone is shoving you around or stuffing you in a locker, but only using enough force to stop their harassment.

Damian is overprotective which can make things worse for you. He’s always fighting your battles and that’s just one more reason for bullies to pick on you. They prey on you when you’re alone, “Hey chuckles, you going to man/woman up and fight me like a big boy/girl today? Or should I wait for your nanny to show up?” If you mention this to Damian, his first impulse is to confront the bully about their behavior. You have to remind him that would only prove the bully right. Damian will grumble something about injustice but will leave the situation be as per your request. He makes an effort to respect your independence and let you stick up for yourself, but he often slips up because it’s his instinct to protect you.

If you must leave class because of an episode of uncontrollable laughter, Damian will accompany you. The teacher might tell him to sit back down because he doesn’t have a hall pass, but he doesn’t care. He will walk out of the room without a second thought. He’ll stay with you and help you calm down in any way that he can. He’ll also offer to work on the homework with you so that you don’t fall behind.

#batfam headcanons #batfam x y/n #batfam x reader #batboys headcanons #batboys x reader #batboys x y/n #bruce wayne headcanon #dick grayson headcanon #jason todd headcanon #tim drake headcanon #batfamily headcanons #batfamily x y/n #batfamily x reader #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #time drake #Damian Wayne #robinchicklets

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loopy777 · 2 years

Note

How do you headcanon Zuko and Azula’s relationship post war is? Is she redeemed in the future?

I like to keep this one open, as I would be very sad if whatever I headcanon gets contradicted by official stuff. Azula is the one element of the story that I think could break either way, but I do have some thoughts on how each could go.

If Azula is "redeemed" (and I admit I don't like that word, as it means too many different things to too many different people), I see it as her recognizing the evils she has done, trying to live a better life, and making reparations to those she hurt as much as she is able. What that doesn't mandate is a continuing relationship with Zuko, Mai, or Ty Lee. Nor does it even hint at a friendship with anyone in the gAang. The process would also involve her recognizing the horrible influences in her life that led to her taking an evil path, including both her father and the militant Fire Nation culture. All that comes together in my head for an Azula who chooses to start a new life in the former colonies, almost certainly with a completely new identity. And because I love the elements in both Westerns and Samurai stories, I see her continually trying to live a life without violence, but circumstances keep forcing her to use her fighting and Firebending capability to protect others. I'm not sure if I want to go full 'Lone Wolf & Cub' with the idea (or "Mando & Baby Yoda" for the kids in the audience), but I think it might be a viable alternative to having a traditional family for making her work through her issues with Ursa's mothering.

So that's my headcanon for redeemed!Azula. A quiet woman who rolls into a remote town that doesn't get much news, where people value community and the simple pleasures. She makes friendships but doesn't share much about herself. There's some speculation that she has a Past, but her classy way of speaking and intelligence make people think she's a noble fleeing an arrange marriage. Then one day a gang of bandits come along who threaten the village and their entire harvest, and that quiet woman calmly walks out to end the threat and afterward no one can look at her the same way again. So she decides to move on, perhaps with the local orphan in tow.

Then there's if Azula remains a villain. While I wouldn't mind a tragic, heartbreaking death with her refusing every chance to save herself, I like the idea of her settling into a comfortable criminality. I see her becoming the Professor Moriarty of the former colonies- she takes a position at a university as a cover and proceeds to become the leading 'criminal genius consultant' in the land, advising every major criminal organization and trading favors to facilitate the rise of her allies and create tremendous gains for herself. I like to think that Sokka tries to take her down, in his position on the council of Republic City, but he soon finds that she counters his efforts in the most unexpected way possible: by making herself a better alternative than letting all those criminals run rampant without control or coordination, and she even comes to an Arrangement with him that she passes on information on mutual threats. She also makes sure that her efforts regularly impede the work of Zuko and Aang, but not to such a degree that they'll tear the United Republic apart trying to find and stop her. She knows how to make herself a maximized annoyance but not quite a threat- not that it keeps the gAang from worry about whether she might decide to become a threat, someday.

So that's an unrepentant Azula to me. She's the charming toast of the professorial social scene, regularly publishing papers on sociology that no one quite understands. Late at night, she regularly accepts callers in dark robes who describe a problem to her and come away with a dangerously effective suggestion. Or perhaps they whisper a name to along with an outrageous price, and then six months later a judge dies in a freak accident and Azula's suite has a new famous painting in it that she couldn't possible afford on a professor's salary. Meanwhile, Republic City's crime prime continues to grow, no matter what anyone does to try to contain it.

#azula

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legends-live-in-memories · 3 years

Text

Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century

AYO! Day 2 of MGI Trope Tussle! Team Enemies-to-Lovers for the win. I bring you another oneshot. but this time i used 3 prompts like a dumbass.

Fics Masterlist

Daminette Oneshot 4.3K words (no warnings except slight cursing)

Summary:

“Marinette is invited to the Super-Rockin' Wedding of the Century and she needs a date. Alya is both her best and worst wingman.”

Day 2 of MGI Trope Tussle, I used 3 prompts to make this thing: 1. "You don't have to like me, you just need to pretend you do." 2. "I like your costume. You look very cute." "Are you making fun of me?" 3. 'Write about a very unusual wedding proposal.' this is the culmination of all my efforts.

without further ado:

It was the biggest news on the internet. Global sensation, international rockstar, Jagged Stone, was officially engaged to childhood friend turned manager, Penny Rolling. Memes and fan theories stormed every corner of the web. Trending topics including #rockstar_wedding and #RollingStone permeated every social media platform. Guest lists were speculated, dress designers were tagged in every post that even mentioned the words ‘wedding’ or ‘bride’. It was total mayhem but none felt it worse than up-and-coming Parisian designer, M. D. Cheng, privately known as Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

The young adult was up to her neck in design templates, and was drowning in half-baked ideas and sketches. While the internet has only heard about the proposal for a solid two weeks at this point, Marinette was in the know for six months. Jagged Stone had contacted her in advance because he needed her help with the proposal itself.

And what a proposal it was.

Jagged had outlined his idea in simple terms but it was still so mind-boggling that Marinette needed him to draw some visual aids to completely convey his idea. Initially it sounded simple enough but the more the man spoke, the more Marinette felt her brain fry at the mental picture. It first involved recreating a scene from Penny’s favourite movie. Which sounded rather romantic, if you ignored the fact that her favourite movie was Bride of Chucky. Then it involved Jagged dressed as the Tinman from Wizard of Oz. Oh, and the proposal had to happen on Halloween because that was the anniversary of their first date apparently, and based on everything else this plan entailed it might as well have been. Marinette’s role in all of this was to simply re-make the white wedding dress Chucky’s bride, Tiffany, wore because Penny already had the leather jacket to match. Of course she did. She didn’t even want to know how Jagged acquired the Tinman suit. Not her barrel of monkeys.

While many thought Jagged was the eccentric one of the pair, due to his loud personality and being an actual rockstar, the more Marinette worked for the two of them over the years, the more she learned how absolutely wrong they all were. It turned out it was Penny’s idea for Jagged to dye his hair purple, and she was the one to ask him out on Halloween all those faithful years ago. Her calm and collected demeanor was an impressive cover for the absolute weirdo she actually was. And Jagged had planned a proposal that was undoubtedly perfect for her. Regardless of how abso-fucking-lutely bizarre it was.

To each their own and let’s move on.

The set-up for the proposal started with Jagged, dressed as the Tinman, playing the part of Chucky, who begins the body-switching chant from the movie. Everything from that point on was resting on Penny’s love for the movie. Without hesitating, Penny, dressed as Tiffany, and playing her part, knew the lines by heart and immediately began reenacting the scene with Jagged. Her lines involved telling ‘Chucky’ to kiss her while she reaches for a knife that’s supposed to be in his pocket. Instead, as Jagged was still dressed as the Tinman, Penny pulled out a slip of paper. On said paper, the words ‘All the Tinman wanted was a heart’ were written in Jagged’s almost illegible chicken scratch. When Penny was distracted with the piece of paper, Jagged had gotten down on one knee and pulled out the engagement ring. The actual words of his proposal were never actually said because, upon seeing the ring, Penny flung herself into the man, clipping her chin into his metal-plated shoulder, but she wasn’t complaining.

So that was how the proposal went.

Wedding planning started almost immediately since the newly engaged had already picked a theme. And this is where Marinette began to regret every life choice she has made since she was thirteen; starting with opening the mysterious box she found on her desk and ending with agreeing to being the main designer for the Rockin’ Wedding of the Century. One thing that wasn’t well-known but not a secret about Jagged was that he was a superhero fan. He grew up enjoying the fictional ones in his childhood comic books and he adored the real ones he witnessed in his adult life. His song that he dedicated to the teenage Ladybug was only one part of his… appreciation. His hero-worship went so far as to beieve that a hero-themed wedding was appropriate. Or he didn’t, but also didn’t care about adhering to societal propriety and went with that theme anyways. So the Rockin’ Wedding of the Century was now the Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century. And twenty-three year old Marinette was incharge of the entire wedding party’s outfits.

Perfect.

As a small mercy from some god, both the bride and groom to-be had a rather short list of people in their parties. Marinette was also able to design appropriate hero-themed outfits for all of them and scheduled them for fittings in the coming weeks. That, surprisingly, was the easy part as there were plenty of heroes to draw inspiration from. However, that wasn’t the cause of her current crisis right now.

No. Marinette was up to her neck in unnecessary designs and ideas because she’s been avoiding one particular contingency in her acceptance of the wedding invitation.

She needed a date.

She needed a date because she had promised Penny that she wasn’t overworking herself and to prove it, she would bring a date to the wedding. Rather than call any of the people who expressed interest in her at some point in time, she designated herself to wallow in her situation and distract herself with designs. In the midst of her one person pity party, her phone rang under the sea of ripped out pages. She scoured for the device and hastily answered before she could accidently send the caller to voicemail.

“Hello?” She didn’t check the caller ID and was delighted at the sound of her best friend answering her.

“Marinette! How’s it going over there?” Alya’s voice was mixed in with the busy street life of Metropolis. She had moved there immediately after high school, snatching an internship with the Daily Planet and attending the local community college. She and Marinette don’t call often due to time differences, but when they do it’s like they’ve never parted. She always looked forward to her calls.

“It’s going great, Als,” if she ignored her current dilemma, then yeah, everything was perfect. “But you wouldn’t happen to have an available bachelor willing to be my date to the ‘Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century’ in your back pocket, would you?”

Alya’s answering laugh was both comforting and teasing and Marinette felt herself missing her even more. What she said next, however, took Marinette by surprise.

“Actually I do.”

“Pardon?”

“Well,” she took a pause to build suspense. “I know a guy who knows a guy. But it’s nothing shady, I swear.”

“That’s not comforting.” Oh god. What has she unintentionally signed herself up for?

“You know my coworker, Jon? The guy who does the photography for all my field work?” Alya had met Jon as soon as she had started her internship. Both of his parents were top journalists at the Daily Planet so he volunteered to act as tour guide for all the new interns. He and Alya, from the exasperated stories Marinette has heard from Nino, got along like a house on fire. If he was involved, Marinette was starting to doubt even further that this was going to end well for her.

“Yes, I know Jon. How is he by the way?”

“He’s fine, but I remember him telling me how he tried to set up his best friend on several dates over the years and how they all ended poorly. He’s as approachable as a brick wall; not just a prick but the whole damn cactus. Or so Jon says.” How does that sound like someone Marinette wanted to bring along with her to the wedding? “But he’s totally your type so I could ask Jon to wrap him up in bubblewrap and send him your way whenever you want.”

“How,” and Marinette said this with a lot of feeling, “is he my type exactly?”

“Green eyes with daddy issues.”

“ALYA!” Marinette was absolutely floored at her bluntness. She wasn’t even sorry about shouting into the receiver.

“Am I wrong? You have a type and he fits that type. Jon mentioned how this guy and his dad hit several roadblocks when they first met. And I’ve seen pictures of him so ‘green eyes’ checks too.”

“That is not my type of guy.” She can’t believe this was how this conversation was going.

“Adrien.”

“I didn’t even know who his father was at the time, Alya.”

“Felix.”

“His dad is dead! That doesn’t count as ‘daddy issues.’” She can feel her cheeks flaming as the call went on. Any hotter and she was going to set her sketchbooks on fire. “Besides, I dated Luka so he doesn’t fit the criteria.”

“He’s an outlier and that’s only because his eyes are blue.” Okay, fine she had a type. “And besides, you don’t even have to date the guy. You only need him to accompany you to the wedding and you both go your separate ways after. No harm, no foul.”

Right. That was true. No strings attached. She could do that.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but,” she held her breath and let it out loudly, ignoring Alya’s chuckle at her dramatics.” Give Jon my number to give this guy. And send his number to me.”

“Wahoo! Look at you, girl,” Alya was hooting and hollering over the speaker and Marinette found herself going along with the theatrics. “Okay, I will. But I gotta go, my cab is here. Bye!”

“Bye! Stay safe. Oh before you go, what’s Jon’s friend’s name anyways?”

“Uh, Damian, I think.” The call ended before Marinette could respond, but it was okay she mused. Tossing her phone onto her couch, she flopped down onto her floor and stared at her ceiling contemplatively.

What could go wrong?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Alya had described this Damian guy as ‘not just a prick but the whole damn cactus,’ she was right. Marinette had been texting back and forth with Damian for a month, and the guy was making this idea seem less and less worth it by the day. Whenever Marinette tried to learn more about the guy, he would ghost her for days on end before replying with a half-assed response at best. She knew nothing about him other than that his first name was Damian and that he was from Gotham. She had no idea how the ball of life that was Jon was even friends with someone like Damian. She asked as much to Alya in their most recent call.

“How did they even meet?” She was pacing the floor plan of her apartment, ready to tear her hair out. “Did Damian bully him in school or something?”

“Apparently their dads knew each other and introduced them,” Alya sounded half awake, stifling a yawn; probably because Marinette had called her at 1 am, Metropolis’s time. “Their brothers being friends also forced them to get along.”

“And that’s another thing!” Marinette had paused in her pacing and was now staring intently at a potted plant in the corner of her living room. Any more rage in her glare and the plant would have wilted and died. “He doesn’t tell me anything about him. I don’t need to know all his personal information, but if he’s going to be flying out to Paris on my behalf, I think I at least deserve to know his last name.”

“Hey, M,” another yawn echoed through the speaker, “I love you, truly, but maybe this could wait for holier day time hours?”

“I guess,” a vindictive part of Marinette felt like this was payback for all those inopportune calls when Marinette was busy with clients. “Sorry for interrupting your sleep.”

“It’s no big deal. But have you tried talking to him about it? If he’s ghosting your texts, try calling him. If he ignores you then too then maybe you should try finding another person to be your plus one.”

“The wedding is in two weeks, Alya!” Marinette partially regrets waiting so long to vent her frustration about the situation but she had tried to tough it out. “I would have much preferred if you were my plus one. You sure there’s no way to convince your parents to skip out on the family trip?”

“Sorry, M. Once the news about the proposal hit the internet, I tried everything. I even tried to use work, saying that I could cover the ceremony for the newspaper. My folks won’t budge though. My dad’s aunt is important to him and he wants us all at the funeral.”

“Right, right, I forgot about that.” Now she felt like an ass. “Send you dad my condolences when you see him again.”

“Will do. Good morning, Marinette. And don’t worry too much about the guy. Everything will turn up great. I can feel it.”

“Thanks, Alya. Good night, get some sleep.”

The line went dead and Marinette let out a rather weary exhale. She had no idea how this was going to work. She pulled up her contacts and searched for what she had Damian saved as.

‘Douche’ flashed on her screen and she hit the call button without remorse. She didn’t care that it was also currently 1 am in Gotham. He didn’t deserve that much consideration from her.

“What?” His voice was gravely and deep. And also really pissed if his clipped tone was anything to go by.

“Damian? Hi, this is Marinette, the girl you’re accompanying to the wedding in two weeks?” Her voice was pitched as if she was dealing with an irritating customer. Fake and polite.

“I know who you are. Why are you calling me at this unreasonable hour?” Fair, but Marinette was still aggravated at him so she wouldn’t concede.

“I’m calling because we need to talk.” She heard him scoff over the line and she felt her blood boil even hotter. She took several calming breaths to reign her temper in. “Don’t hang up.”

“Look,” She didn’t give him a chance to refuse and kept talking, getting everything off her chest. “This wedding is important to me and I promised the bride I would bring a date. After that you can delete my number and we never have to speak to each other ever. You don’t have to like me, you just need to pretend you do.”

“Whatever,” he sounded less annoyed from when he first answered the phone. “I will act as cordial as the situation requires, and nothing more. I also have my attire secured for the wedding and accommodations in Paris already prepared. I will see you at the wedding.”

“Than—” The sound of the call ending interrupted her and her frustration was back tenfold. With a cry in anguish she flung her phone onto her couch and stomped into her kitchen to channel her rage into baking.

Three loaves of bread and a dozen eclairs later, Marinette felt calm enough to finish the final touches on her outfit for the wedding.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the day of the Super-Rockin’ Wedding of the Century. The Rolling-Stone’s, as they were asking to be called, had kept the ceremony small. Relatively. Only two hundred invited guests, few of which were asked to bring a plus one. Marinette was over the moon at the array of outfits people were sporting. Some chose full-on cosplay while others, like herself, went for more subtle nods to the heroes. In honour of a previous Ladybug, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, Marinette based her outfit off of Wonder Woman’s uniform, Hippolyta’s daughter. A navy blue sequined halter top bodice that flows into a blood red A-line skirt. She paired it with a thick silver belt, silver gladiator heels rather than boots and broad silver arm cuffs. It was simple but effective. Besides, all attention should be on the bride and groom today.

A tap on her shoulder caught her attention and she turned only to come face first with red with black spots. Ladybug. Someone chose her as inspiration. How flattering. Looking up to see who was wearing the Ladybug-themed suit jacket, she stared at a pair of deep forest green eyes and a sneer to ruin that ridiculously handsome face. She recognized him from the photo Alya had sent some time ago. Damian.

“Hi, Damian,” at least one of them had to be civil and Marinette knew it was going to be her. But the idea that of all the heroes for him to choose from he chose her sent her into poorly stifled fits of giggling. Images of him going ‘Lucky Charm’ and ‘Miraculous Ladybug’ were almost too much to bear.

“I don’t know what’s so amusing about my choice of attire,” his face was starting to flush in similar shades to his jacket and that made Marinette laugh harder. “Ladybug is a well respected heroine and I thought it appropriate to pay homage while in her home city.”

“No. No no. There is nothing wrong with it. I like your costume, you look very cute.”

“Are you making fun of me?” His irritation was rather cathartic for the still giggling woman.

“No, I just didn’t think you would have put that much thought into your outfit for today. You always gave me the impression that you were ready to back out at any time.”

“I made a commitment and I had all intentions to see it through the end.”

“Could have fooled me.” And her snark was back. Now was not the time to pick a fight with the guy, he did fly all the way to Paris on her behalf after all.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” and Marinette wanted to know how he managed to sound so condescending with that statement. “How did you even get an invitation to this wedding anyways? You’re not a celebrity and you don’t look like family either.”

“Actually,” she said it with more force than what was probably necessary but his slightly accusatory tone was just so irritating. “I am the lead designer for the wedding party,” her chest was swimming with confidence at the chance to talk about her job. “I’ve worked with the bride and groom for years; M. D. Cheng, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette will deny to her grave the rush of satisfaction at the absolute gobsmacked look on Damian’s face. A real fish out of water. Mouth open wide ready to catch flies. She wished she could capture this moment forever.

The moment was over too soon because Damian was regaining his composure and slipping into his default stoic expression. He cleared his throat and fixed a look at Marinette. It was rather intense.

“I believe I owe you an apology then.” He looked put-out at admitting something so menial. “I believed you were nothing more than a socialite chain climber.”

“A what?”

“When Jon reached out to me saying that a friend of one of his coworkers needed a date for an event, and when that event turned out to be the wedding of someone of such popularity, I figured you were only trying to increase your own social status by showing up with me on your arm.”

“And you said ‘yes’ anyways?” Marinette was confused but pieces of the mystery that is Damian were starting to fit in place. But something else stuck out as odd to her. “Also, how would you being my date increase my social status anyhow?”

He scoffs before answering. Bitch.

“What? It wouldn’t be the first time one of Jon’s set-ups ended that way. Besides, we’ve had an agreement that I can’t turn down an offer until meeting the person face to face.” Weird deal but some friendships are just like, Marinette supposes. “And being seen with me is enough to make anyone more popular.”

“...And you are?”

“Damian… Wayne…” He spoke as if he was talking to a small child. As if it should be obvious who he was like he was some celeb— Oh shit.

A name had flashed into her mind. On the finalised guest list, Marinette had only seen it once in passing, there was a name that belonged to someone Jagged was rather excited to see. He said the friend was an old college buddy. She remembered that much. She had completely forgotten that ‘a billionaire playboy’ was also attached to the name. Damian was the son of Bruce Wayne. Suddenly everything in the past few months made perfect sense. The cold shoulder, the ghosting, and his prickly disposition. He was overly guarded because he had justified reasons to be. Now she felt like an ass.

“Oh.” Real intelligent, Marinette.

“Oh? What, you didn’t know?” He sounded incredulous at the notion and he had every right to be. Marinette could only shake her head. Words were failing her now, her brain trying to rewrite the memories of every interaction the two ever had.

She was saved from further mortification by a call for everyone to find their seats. The wedding was about to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ceremony was beautiful. Penny’s dress was a silver grey, tied back with a golden belt. Instead of a long train, Marinette had attached a black cape that shimmered in the right lighting. Penny wore a tiara with two peaks to imitate the ‘bat-ears.’ A Batman-themed wedding dress was not something she ever saw herself making, but she was proud at how beautiful and confident Penny looked in it. Jagged was adorn in a royal blue suit with bold red lapels. He also had a matching red cape. His hair was styled in the familiar sleek way Superman wears it. The two made quite the pair.

The reception was a lively affair. Jagged had dedicated several songs to his new wife and they dazzled the crowd on the dance floor. Marinette didn’t pay much attention to the speeches beyond a quick glance at Damian when his own father stepped up to the podium. He had buried his head in his hands, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. A courtesy pat on the back was all Marinette gave to him.

The two hadn’t really spoken much since the revelation that they had completely misjudged each other. The awkward tension was almost palpable. As Marinette was gathering the courage to speak to him, to try and officially clear the air, she was being dragged by one of the bridesmaids onto the dancefloor. It was time for the bride to throw the bouquet. All the unmarried women were being corralled into a tight cluster and Marinette got swept up in the tide.

Marinette wasn’t focusing on the actual game, trying her hardest not to get trampled, when she saw something move in her periphery. Years of being Ladybug had left her with finely honed instincts so she could not be blamed when she immediately jumped and caught the incoming object. The bouquet. She had caught the bouquet. Oh that was just her luck. Deafening squeals of delight brought her out of her own head and she was suddenly being embraced in Penny’s arms. She returned the hug, sharing in her delight, before breaking away to sit down.

“Nice catch.” His voice had surprised her, she hadn’t expected him to speak to her for the rest of the night.

“Uh, thank you. Just lucky, I guess.” Damian didn’t get the chance to respond because he was being dragged by his own father to join all the bachelors in catching the garter. Marinette was equally uninterested in this spectacle and had let her mind wander to other things.

A loud uproar caught her attention again and her eyes zeroed in on Damian holding the tossed garter. He made his way back over to her, dropping himself into his seat gracelessly. The two sat in silence, contemplating the implications of them both catching the garter and bouquet. The games were done purely for tradition’s sake, with total disregard of what it was supposed to symbolise. Still. One’s mind couldn’t help but wander. Minutes ticked passed and Marinette was beginning to wonder if someone was going to talk about the elephant in the room.

“So,” Damian’s voice was slightly strained, like he wasn’t used to being this flustered. It was kind of endearing. Wait what?

“So.”

“While marriage seems far out of reach for right now,” Oh god. He was going to talk about it. “How does dinner sound, next Friday?”

“Wait,” he wanted to spend more time with her? After their disastrous first impressions? “Really?”

“Really. I believe we started off on the wrong foot,” he let out a soft chuckle, almost self-deprecating. “Which isn’t really new for me, but it’s not everyday I meet someone who doesn’t recognise me at first glance. I think you’re someone who I would like to get to know better. If that is something you are also interested in.”

“Yeah,” Marinette knows all about wanting to get acquainted with someone who she’s had a bad first impression of. Just look at her past relationships. Wow, she really does have a type. Damning thoughts for later. “Friday works for me. Seven pm?”

“Perfect. I’ll text you the details then.”

“Wonderful, I can’t wait.”

The rest of the evening was spent in companionable silence with small bouts of conversation in between. They shared a couple dances on the floor and parted ways at the end of the night with budding anticipation for Friday.

As Marinette was preparing for bed that night in the comfort of her apartment, she sent a text to Alya that her friend would see later in the day.

You were right, I do have a type :(

#maribat #daminette #maridami #mgi trope tussle #mgi- server event #enemies to lovers #speedrun #i #like a dumbass challenged myself to use three prompts and i delivered #i hope #i hope yall enjoy #tumblr do me a solid #dont hide my posts #please #im begging #ml x dc #mlb x dc #tumblr please stop hiding my posts #no beta this is tussle

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causeiwanttoandican · 3 years

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Harry, Meghan and me: my truth as a royal reporter

I've covered elections and extremism, but nothing compares to the vitriol I've received since I started writing about the Sussexes

By Camilla Tominey, Associate Editor27 March 2021 • 6:00am

It is probably worth mentioning from the outset that I never, ever, planned to become a royal reporter. I mean, who does? It’s one of those ridiculous jobs most people fall into completely by accident.

I certainly wasn’t coveting the position when I first found out how bonkers the beat could be after covering Charles and Camilla’s wedding in 2005. Desperate for ‘a line’ on what went on at the reception, journalists were reduced to flagging down passing cars in Windsor High Street and interrogating the likes of Stephen Fry about whether they’d had the salmon or the chicken.

Watergate, this wasn’t.

Yet when my former editor called me into his office shortly afterwards and offered me the royal job ‘because you’re called Camilla and you dress nicely’, who was I to refuse?

Having planned to get married myself that summer, and start a family soon afterwards, I looked to the likes of Jennie Bond and Penny Junor and figured it would be a good patch for a working mother as well as being one I could grow old with. Unlike show business, when celebrities are ‘in’ one minute and ‘out’ the next, the royals would stay the same, making it easier to build – and keep – contacts.

So if you’d told me that 16 years later, I would find myself at the centre of a media storm over a royal interview with Oprah Winfrey, I’d have probably laughed in your face. First of all, only royals like Fergie do interviews with Oprah. And since when did journalists become the story?

Yet as I have experienced since the arrival of Meghan Markle on the royal scene in 2016 – a move that roughly coincided with Twitter doubling its 140-character limitation to 280 – royal reporters like me now find themselves in the line of fire like never before.

We are used to the likes of Kate Adie coming under attack in the Middle East, but now it is the correspondents who write up events like Trooping the Colour and the Royal Windsor Horse Show having to take cover from the keyboard warriors supposedly defending the Duke and Duchess of Sussex’s ‘truth’.

Accusations of racism have long been levelled against anyone who has dared to write less than undiluted praise of Harry and Meghan. But even I have been taken aback by the vitriol on social media in the wake of the couple’s televised two-hour talk-a-thon, in which they branded both the Royal family and the British press racist while complaining about their ‘almost unsurvivable’ multimillionaire lives at the hands of the evil monarchy. And all while the rest of the UK were losing their loved ones and livelihoods in a global pandemic.

Having covered Brexit, general elections and stories about Islamic extremism, I’ve grown used to being sprayed with viral vomit on a fairly regular basis, but when you’ve got complete strangers trolling your best friend’s Instagram feed by association? That’s Britney Spears levels of toxic.

Having a hind thicker than a rhino’s, it wasn’t the repeated references to my being ‘a total c—’ that particularly bothered me, nor even the suggestion that I should have my three children put up for adoption. At one point someone even said it would be a good idea for me to drink myself to death like my mother, about whose chronic alcoholism I have written extensively.

No, what really got me was the appalling spelling and grammar. I mean, if you’re going to hurl insults, at least have the decency to get my name right.

Yet in order to understand just how it has come to pass that so-called #SussexSquaders think nothing of branding all royal correspondents ‘white supremacists’ regardless of who they write for, or sending hate mail to our email addresses, offices – and in some cases, even our homes – it’s worth briefly going to back to when I first broke the story that Prince Harry was dating an American actor in the Sunday Express on 31 October 2016. Headlined: ‘Royal world exclusive: Harry’s secret romance with TV star’, the splash revealed how the popular prince was ‘secretly dating a stunning US actress, model and human rights campaigner’.

Despite my now apparently being on a par with the Ku Klux Klan for failing to acknowledge Meghan as the next messiah, it was actually not until the fifteenth paragraph of that original article that the ‘confident and intelligent’ Northwestern University graduate was described as ‘the daughter of an African-American mother and a father of Dutch and Irish descent’.

Call me superficial, but I was genuinely far more interested in the fact that Harry ‘I-come-with-baggage’ Wales was dating a former ‘briefcase girl’ from the US version of Deal or No Deal than the colour of her skin. A ginger prince punching well above his weight? This was the stuff of tabloid dreams. Little did I know then that covering the trials and tribulations of these two lovebirds would turn into such a nightmare.

The online hostility began bubbling up about eight days after that first story, when Harry’s then communications secretary Jason Knauf issued an ‘unprecedented’ statement accusing the media of ‘crossing a line’.

‘His girlfriend, Meghan Markle, has been subject to a wave of abuse and harassment’, it read, referencing a ‘smear on the front page of a national newspaper; the racial undertones of comment pieces; and the outright sexism and racism of social media trolls and web article comments’. Meghan’s mother, Doria Ragland, had apparently been besieged by photographers, while bribes had been offered to Meghan’s ex-boyfriend along with ‘the bombardment of nearly every friend, coworker, and loved one in her life’.

Suffice to say, I did feel a bit guilty. Although I hadn’t written anything remotely racist or sexist, I had started the ball rolling for headlines like the MailOnline’s ‘(Almost) straight outta Compton’ (referencing a song by hip-hop group NWA about gang violence and Meghan’s upbringing in the nearby LA district of Crenshaw), along with her ‘exotic’ DNA (which I subsequently called out, including on This Morning in the wake of ‘Megxit’ in January last year).

Omid Scobie, co-author of Finding Freedom, a highly favourable account of the Sussexes’ departure from the Royal family, written with their cooperation last summer, would later insist that the couple knew the story of their relationship was coming out and were well prepared for it.

I can tell you categorically that they weren’t, since I did not even put a call into Kensington Palace before we went to press for fear of it being leaked. (I did later discuss this with Harry, when I covered his trip to the Caribbean in November 2016, and to be fair he was pretty philosophical, agreeing it would have come out sooner or later. But that was before the former Army Captain decided to well and truly shoot the messenger, latterly telling journalists covering the newly-weds’ tax-payer-funded October 2018 tour of Australia and the south Pacific: ‘Thanks for coming, even though you weren’t invited.’)

The royal press pack is the group of dedicated writers who cover all the official engagements and tours on a rota system, in exchange for not bothering the royals as they go about their private business. It was a shame this ragtag bunch, of which I am an associate member, was never personally introduced to Meghan when the couple got engaged in November 2017.

I still have fond memories of a then Kate Middleton, upon her engagement to Prince William in November 2010, showing me her huge sapphire and diamond ring following a press conference at St James’s Palace with the words, ‘It was William’s mother’s so it is very special.’

I replied that she might want to consider buying ‘one of those expanding accordion style file holders’ to organise all her wedding paperwork. (Reader, I had given birth to my second child less than four months earlier and was still lactating.)

Not meeting Meghan did not stop royal commentators like me writing reams about her being ‘a breath of fresh air’ and telling practically every TV show I appeared on that she was the ‘best thing to have happened to the Royal Family in years’.

As the world followed the joyous news of the Windsors’ resident strip billiards star having finally found ‘the one’, the couple enjoyed overwhelmingly positive press culminating in their fairy-tale wedding in May 2018, which we headlined ‘So in love’ above a picture of the bride and groom kissing. I tweeted the wedding front page, along with the original story breaking the news of their relationship with the words, ‘Job done’. Yet, as Meghan would later point out in a glossy Santa Barbara garden, that was by far the end of the story.

According to the Duchess’s testimony before a global audience of millions, the seeds for their royal departure were actually sown by an article I wrote in November 2018 suggesting she made Kate cry during a bridesmaid’s dress fitting for Princess Charlotte.

Claiming the ‘reverse happened’, the former Suits star railed, ‘A few days before the wedding she was upset about something, pertaining to, yes, the issue was correct, about flower-girl dresses, and it made me cry, and it really hurt my feelings.’

She then went on to criticise the palace for failing to correct the story – suggesting that royal aides had hung her out to dry to protect the Duchess of Cambridge.

All of which left me in a bit of a sticky situation. As I told Phillip Schofield on This Morning the following day, ‘I don’t write things I don’t believe to be true and that haven’t been really well sourced.’

Having seemingly been completely bowled over by Meghan’s version of events, Schofe then went for the jugular: ‘I have to say, though, that’s all addressed in that interview, isn’t it, because she [Meghan] couldn’t understand why nobody stood up for her?’

Yet someone had stood up for her, on that very same This Morning sofa: me.

As I told Phil and Holly on 14 January 2019, as more reports of ‘Duchess Difficult’ started to emerge, ‘I think she [Meghan] is doing really well, she looks amazing, she speaks well. She has played a blinder.’

So you’ll forgive me if I can’t quite understand why Meghan didn’t feel the need to correct this supposedly glaring error once she had her own dedicated head of communications from March 2019 – or indeed when she ‘collaborated’ with Scobie, who concluded in his bestselling hagiography that ‘no one cried’?

Moreover, how did the Duchess know a postnatal Kate wasn’t ‘left in tears’? And if she doesn’t know, what hope has the average troll observing events through the prism of their own deep-rooted insecurities?

It appears the actual truth ceases to matter once sides have been taken in the unedifying Team Meghan versus Team Kate battle that has divided the internet.

Make no mistake, there are abject morons at both extremes spewing the sort of bile that, ironically, makes most of the media coverage of Harry and Meghan look like a 1970s edition of Jackie magazine.

It perhaps didn’t help my case that the day before the interview was aired in the US, I had written a lengthy piece carefully weighing up the evidence behind allegations of ‘outrageous bullying’ that had been levelled against Meghan during what proved to be a miserable 20 months in the Royal family for all concerned.

The messages – to my Twitter feed, my email, my website and official Facebook page – ranged from the threatening, to the typical tropes about media ‘scum’ and the downright bizarre. Some accused me of being in cahoots with Carole Middleton, with whom I have never interacted, unless you count a last-minute Party Pieces purchase in a desperate moment of poor parental planning.

Another frequent barb was questioning why the press wasn’t writing about that ‘pedo’ [sic] Prince Andrew instead – seemingly oblivious to the fact that no one would know about the Duke of York’s links to Jeffrey Epstein if it wasn’t for the acres of coverage devoted to the story by us royal hacks over recent years.

It didn’t matter that I had repeatedly torn the Queen’s second, and, some say, favourite son to pieces for everything from his propensity to take his golf clubs on foreign tours to that disastrous Newsnight interview.

Contrary to the ‘invisible contract’ Harry claims the palace has with the press, royal coverage works roughly like this: good royal deeds = good publicity. Bad royal deeds = bad publicity. We effectively act as a critical friend, working on behalf of a public that rightly expects the royals to take the work – but not themselves – seriously.

So when a royal couple preaches about climate change before taking four private jets in 11 days, it is par for the course for a royal scribe to point out the inconsistency of that message. None of it is ever personal, as evidenced by the fact that practically every member of the monarchy has come in for flak over the years.

If Oprah wasn’t willing to point out the discrepancies in Harry and Meghan’s testimony, surely it is beholden on royal reporters to question how the Duchess had managed to undertake four foreign holidays in the six months after her wedding, in addition to official tours to Italy, Canada, and Amsterdam, as well as embarking on a lengthy honeymoon, if she had ‘turned over’ her passport?

While no one would wish to undermine the extent of her mental health problems, could it really be true that she only left the house twice in four months when she managed to cram in 73 days’ worth of engagements, according to the Court Circular, in the 17 months between her wedding and the couple’s departure to Canada?

And what of the ‘racist’ headlines flashed up during the interview purporting to be from the British press, when more than a third were actually taken from independent blogs and the foreign media? The UK media abides by the Independent Press Standards Organisation’s Code of Conduct ‘to avoid prejudicial or pejorative reference to an individual’s race’, as well as by rigorous defamation laws. And rightly so – the British press doesn’t always get it right. But social media is the Wild West by comparison, publishing vile slurs on a daily basis with impunity.

Some therefore find it strange that such a litigious couple would claim to have been ‘silenced’ when they have made so many complaints, including resorting to legal action, over stories they claim not to have even read. There is something similarly contradictory about a couple accusing the tabloids of lacking self-reflection while refusing to take any blame at all – for anything.

In any normal world, informed writing on such matters would be classed as fair comment, but not, seemingly, on Twitter where those completely lacking any objectivity whatsoever are only too willing to virtue signal and manoeuvre.

As the trolling reached fever pitch in the aftermath of the interview, veteran royal reporter Robert Jobson of the Evening Standard called me. ‘Don’t respond to these freaks,’ he advised. ‘It’s getting nasty out there. Watch your back!’

Yet despite my general sense of bewilderment at the menacing Megbots, I can’t say it didn’t appal me to discover a close friend had received online abuse, purely by dint of being my mate. After discussing the lengths the troll must have gone to to track her down, she asked me, ‘Do you ever worry someone might do something awful to you?’ Er, not until now, no.

Of course it’s upsetting, even for a cynical old-timer like me. Worse still are people who actually know me casting aspersions on my profession on social media. Often these are the same charlatans who would think nothing of sidling up to me for the latest gossip on the Royal family, while publicly pretending that reading any such coverage is completely beneath them.

Most pernicious of all though – not least after Piers Morgan’s departure from Good Morning Britain following a complaint to ITV and Ofcom from the Duchess – is the corrosive effect this whole hullabaloo is having on freedom of speech. When you’ve got a former actor effectively editing a British breakfast show from an £11 million Montecito mansion, what next?

I cannot help but think we are in danger of setting race relations back 30 years if people are seriously suggesting that any criticism of Meghan is racially motivated. It’s the hypocrisy that gets me. When Priti Patel was accused of bullying, the very same people who willingly hung the Home Secretary out to dry are now the ones defending Meghan against such claims, saying they have been levelled at her simply because she is ‘a strong woman of colour’.

Of course journalists should take responsibility for everything they report and be held to account for it – but Harry and Meghan do not have a monopoly on the truth simply because the close friend and neighbour who interviewed them in return for £7 million from CBS took what they said as gospel.

If she isn’t willing to probe the disparity between Meghan saying someone questioned the colour of Archie’s skin when she was pregnant, and Harry suggesting it happened before they were even married, then someone must. There’s a name for such scrutiny. It’s called journalism.

The public reserves the right to make up its own mind – with the help of the watchful eye of a free and fair press. But that press can never be free or fair if journalists do not feel they can report without fear or favour. I’m lucky that a lot of the criticism I face is more than balanced out by hugely supportive members of the public and online community who either agree – or respect the right to disagree. Along with the hate mail, I have had many thoughtful and eloquent missives, including those that good naturedly challenge what I have written in the paper or said on TV, which have genuinely given me pause for thought.

I am more than happy to enter into constructive discourse with these correspondents, who are frankly sometimes the only people who keep me on Twitter. I mean, let’s face it, I wouldn’t be anywhere near the bloody thing if this wasn’t my day job.

With the National Union of Journalists this month declaring that harassment and abuse had ‘become normalised’ within the industry, never have members of Britain’s press needed more courage. As Winston Churchill famously said, ‘You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.’

Who would have thought that the preservation of the fundamental freedoms that we hold so dear should partially rest on the shoulders of those who follow around a 94-year-old woman and her family for a living?

If I’d known then what I know now, would I still have written the bridesmaid’s dress story?

Yes – doubtlessly reflecting sisterly sobs all round. But after two decades in this business, I am clear-eyed enough to know this for certain: whatever I had written, it would still have ended in tears.

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candychronicles · 3 years

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bodyguard // s. todoroki

A/N: my take on the rockstar/band/performer au for bnharem! i’m not a big fan of au’s normally but this one was a lot of fun to write! todoroki is definitely ooc in this one but i took a lot of liberties with his character in order to better fit the au storyline.

CHARACTER PAIRING: Todoroki Shouto x F!Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,091

WARNINGS: mentions of blood, gore, fighting, death, oral sex (f!receiving)

SYNOPSIS: you were in it for the money, he was an unhinged popstar. how could you two ever possibly get along?

want to read more rocking stories? click HERE !

the days at work were tiring, the nights even longer, but the pay was good and it was always satisfying to make a grown man cry as you knocked him to his knees and manhandled him away from your client.

Todoroki Shouto, one of the elite, the famed, the rich, and absolutely fucking annoying. sure, he was hot (anyone with an eye could see that) but he was just like everyone else in his industry: a cocky bastard. you didn’t mind his lifestyle too much except when it interfered with his job, like having to pry off whiny people who clung to him like their life depended on it, and for some, it probably did.

his biggest claim to fame was being in a now wildly famous band, namely the main singer. he was charming with a sultry voice and a personality that oozed confidence but he wasn’t always that way. in fact, he was originally a shy, anxiety ridden teen when he first joined, not sure how to use his voice or deal with people coming up to him in the streets. the life he lived was sheltered before that, training under his dad to take over the family business, but when sweet, innocent Todoroki confessed that he much rather be artsy and sing at the age of sixteen, things quickly changed for him. his father, Todoroki Enji, tried to convince him otherwise, told him that he didn’t know how the real world worked and that he would never be successful, but Shouto wouldn’t budge and eventually Enji caved in, or so it seemed.

Enji immediately enrolled Shouto in lessons, instructing him to shape up or ship out. if he couldn’t become successful in the industry, he would take over his father’s business instead, but that didn’t happen. Shouto excelled in lessons, blowing his instructors away with his timbre and control. he was a natural, and frankly, good enough to be a star. they weren’t so concerned with his stoic yet endearing personality. they had broken enough pop stars, molded them to be perfect model citizens, so what was one more?

the plan backfired immensely. as Shouto’s talent grew, Enji seeked out the biggest in the game, convincing them to give his son a chance at stardom. while reluctant, the board agreed, not wanting to piss off one of the most powerful men in Japan but were thoroughly surprised at the fact that his kid didn’t suck at all. in fact, he was actually good, really, really good.

they signed him immediately, whisking him away into the life of fame and fortune at the young age of seventeen. his range, the slight rasp to his tone and the ability to reach into somebody's soul and pluck the very feelings they try to hide so deeply from it’s depths pushed him towards the life of a rockstar. the freedom he had never been able to experience living at home pushed him over the edge and spiraled him out of control.

Todoroki drank, smoked, and fucked his way through cities big and small, getting himself into a lot of trouble along the way. the behavior went on for years, only getting worse as time went on. nobody seemed to be able to get control over the boy with the pretty hair and wild scar. after almost killing several women and one of his bandmates in a drunk driving accident, his team, label, and most importantly his father had enough.

the conversation between the two did not go well. Shouto was now an adult, legally free and clear from his father’s power. he had his own money, enough to live comfortably for awhile, even if he dropped the band, and all of the repressed rage, longing and anger that was pent up from his childhood. he was not stopping his lifestyle for anyone. that was, until you came along.

you were always a scrapper, getting yourself in trouble more times than you could count. it was just in your nature to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves and you spent many days on the playground beating up the bullies who picked on the sweet girl braiding flowers into her hair, or the boy who liked to play with baby dolls instead of trucks.

as you got older, your fights got fewer and farther in between, at least when it came to the public.

when you turned sixteen and kicked some kid who was trying to look up your skirt so hard in the chin that he saw stars, you were approached by a few men who slid you a card and told you if you wanted to make money fighting, come meet them.

you were a dumb kid and instead of running in the opposite direction and telling the police, you showed up at the seemingly dingy door behind the alley of a fairly run down ramen restaurant. knocking on the door and rocking back on your heels, you waited to see what would happen. it took a few seconds before a panel slid open, allowing you to see nothing but someone’s eyes peering at you in the mid-afternoon sun. hesitantly, you raised the business card in your hand, showing it to the person and jumping in surprise as the panel slammed shut and the door creaked open, inviting you in.

you nodded your head politely at who you realized was a rather bulky, burly man, before a woman dressed in a silky black dress plucked the card delicately from your hand and led you through the hallway. when she opened the door, you were taken aback by the scene.

people of all shapes and sizes stood cheering as two rather muscular men fought in an arena across the room. spit and blood flew across the floor as the two pummeled each other over and over again before one tapped out, the other man raising his fist in the air in victory. you stood, gaze fixed on the scene in front of you, blood racing at the thought of you being in the ring.

“addicting, isn’t it?” the woman whispered in your ear, a knowing smile on her face before she gently took you by the sleeve and guided you away from the screams and shouts into a private room that was much quieter.

you sat down in front of a man who was rather tall and thin, graying hair across his head and a clean shaven face.

“so, i heard you’re a good fighter. how good do you think you are?”

“uh-” you stuttered, not sure how to respond, “i think i can kick someone’s ass if i have a reason to.”

“is money a good enough reason for you?”

“money is a nice reward, yeah, yeah it is,” you confirmed, not pondering the question over for a second.

“good, you start on Saturday. come in comfy clothes that you won’t mind getting sweaty and dirty in. you’re my new ace, a secret weapon. give it six months time and you’ll be defeating guys like that out there in seconds.”

and defeat you did. over and over again, men, women, anyone who thought they were better than you were defeated by your own fists. you worked hard and then some, through literal sweat, blood and tears, to reach the status of champion of the underworld by the age of eighteen.

you were a wild card, unpredictable in your stature. you didn’t have hulking muscles and a sturdy frame, but what you did have was speed, the element of surprise, and the ability to calculate in a split second, all of which allowed you to defeat your enemies time and time again. this relative victory didn’t come without your share of sacrifices: hiding the bruises, blackened eyes and bloody lips from your family as you trained relentlessly, having to figure out a way to manage the steady flow of income that started coming your way as you fought in your first official matches, defeat after defeat as you trained, chipping a tooth and having it promptly filled in like nothing happened, having to learn how to disarm and fire a gun, work with knives and most importantly, losing a bit of your empathy along the way.

it came as no surprise when people who were much more powerful and much, much richer started taking an interest in you, placing large bets upon your head at some of the higher staked matches, a feat you worked your way up to after many years. you never failed to disappoint, knowing that these fights were the ones that mattered the most, the ones that brought you, and your boss, the biggest pools of money.

it was at one of these fights on a dreary, rainy night that you met Todoroki Enji, a hulking man that failed to intimidate you. you were used to people his size and bigger thinking he could take advantage of someone like you and it only made you chuckle thinking of how easy it would be to have him on his knees in seconds.

“i’ve made a proposal to your boss that he couldn’t refuse. he said he couldn’t and wouldn’t force you to do anything, but since you’re quite motivated by money, i think you’ll be intrigued by my offer,” he started, sitting down next to you in one of the VIP booths, sliding his business card on the table with a sly smile.

you were interested and entertained him, listening to him ramble about his shitty kid and his bad behavior. amused, you sipped on your drink as you absorbed his rants and whines about the negative reputation his kid was creating for himself, how he abused his freedom and power to the fullest extent and how his life was spiraling out of control.

“what does this have to do with me, exactly?” you finally questioned, setting your drink down and turning to face him, eyes met squarely with his own.

“i’d like to hire you to be his personal bodyguard.”

“sounds like he needs a babysitter, not a bodyguard,” you retorted, getting ready to stand up and move away from this blathering idiot.

when he spit out a number so outrageous, however, you sat back down, now thoroughly intrigued by the situation at hand. satisfied that he had your full attention, he went into details, laying down a fairly thin stack of papers in front of you as you listened to every detail.

“so let me get this straight. i’m to be his personal bodyguard, keep his shitty behavior a little more under control, whip him up into shape sort of situation. that’s it? and i’ll get paid that much for being a glorified babysitter?”

“you will have to protect him, of course. there are some crazy fans out there that climb windows, seduce themselves into his bed, stalk him, chase him down, but i don’t think it’s anything that, with your expertise, you can’t handle.”

you continued to ponder the situation before gesturing him to continue with his story. he rambled for another moment or two before picking up the papers and going over them with you: standard non-disclosure agreements, a detailed list of your job description and a contract agreement that he was subleasing you through your boss.

after a few minutes of reading the contracts over and discussing them with your boss, you agreed to the scenario, locking yourself into what would be a rather entertaining six months.

the first time you met Todoroki, he instantly tried to hit on you, but when his hand lowered down to grab your ass, you had him on his knees with his left hand behind his back before he could even blink. after that encounter, your conversations were curt. he knew what you were here for and he wasn’t about to let you get his way.

what he wasn’t expecting was for you to be so relaxed about the whole situation. he still drank, still partied, fucked almost whatever girl or guy he wanted, but anytime things got too out of hand, you stepped in, firm but gentle, guiding the crying groupies out of his bedroom after their time was over, driving him every time he got too drunk, cutting him off from any supplies when he was getting out of hand and most importantly, keeping him safe during his travels.

he never realized how much danger he was always in until you mitigated the problems with ease. he just assumed that being assaulted on the daily was something that came with being in the public until you broke some robbers finger when they tried to swipe the wallet out of his own back pocket. after that, he almost clung to you like a koala on a tree anytime he was out in public. you provided stability in a time where he was drowning in his own worries.

that didn’t mean he was ever nice to you though. in reality, he was actually sometimes meaner to you, the simple fact that some girl could be stronger than him set him off, always feeling on edge around you. you weren’t necessarily quiet, offering up any and all small bits and pieces about yourself that he ever wanted to know, but he never really knew you: not your last name, where you were from, if you had any siblings, parents, where you went to school, what your job was, who you were on the inside. it bugged him like crazy to know what your favorite color was and that you liked cheese on your ramen but not anything important, anything he wanted to know.

you liked to keep it that way, however, and would stay as friendly yet aloof as possible. this was a job to you, a job that would set you up easy for awhile and gave you a break from fighting for the most part. you wouldn’t admit to yourself that you liked the man more than you would’ve expected. you felt the way he clung to you as fans swarmed him, the way he always looked to you in reassurance as you walked the streets at night, hearing his sobs in the shower, sobs that were so broken and confused. it showed to you a side of him that was vulnerable, that showed emotion.

he broke down towards the end of your stay, realizing a little too late how much easier it was for you to do your job when he was cooperative and nice. in fact, he began to be more open about enjoying your company and spending time with you. it made it harder for you to continue with your job knowing you were falling for the pretty rich boy, for the man you were hired to protect, for the man who looked at you like you could do no wrong but vehemently would deny it. you began enjoying the little moments with him, the stolen glances, the laughing. you didn’t know what changed in him but you were glad he was someone you could get along with. underneath that crazy exterior, he was just a guy who wanted a friend.

your six months came up relatively quickly. it sucked that your cushy job living in five star hotels, eating decadent meals and working out in state of the art facilities would be over soon but you felt yourself getting lazy, weak and losing your rather sharp edge. it was time to get back into the grind and despite your heart panging at the fact that you would leave the pretty boy with the angry and sad heart behind, you were ready to go.

your last night of work consisted of the final show in Tokyo. tens of thousands of guests were set to attend what would be the bands biggest concert ever. you were calm, cool and collected as always, but the singer, not so much.

he spent the day pacing back and forth, warming up his vocals, hydrating himself, stretching and generally doing his best to calm his nerves.

in a rare act of affection, you reached out to grab your hand with his own, looking him dead in the eye and telling him that this night would be one he would remember forever; and you were right, just not for the way either of you thought.

the show went amazing, the crowd loud and receptive, the choreography flawless, the singing perfect. Todoroki ran off stage with the biggest smile he had ever seen and in his own rare display of affection, twirled you around with ease, adrenaline still pumping through his system.

you congratulated him on the great show and waited patiently for him to remove all the makeup and his costume. he emerged a little while later, hair flat against his head, wet from the shower, sweatpants and an inconspicuous gray hoodie donning his body. you bid a pleasant farewell to his bandmates before escorting him back to the car. he had requested that you drive him back to the hotel and spend one final night in the comfortable hotel beds before you headed back to your hometown.

when you arrived, however, things felt quiet, a little too quiet, and the hair stood up on the back of your neck.

“Shouto, you need to get into the driver’s seat right now, turn on the car and lock it. do not let me in until i tell you to. do not get out of the car, okay?”

he began to question you but before he had a chance to argue, you were pushing him out of the way as a knife sliced towards him, figures cloaked in black emerging from the shadows.

one, two, three, four.

you counted out the four assailants as you shoved Shouto against the car, prompting him to unlock and scramble in through the back seat. only when you heard the click of the lock did you breathe a sigh of relief and begin your attack.

the first man with the knife was tall and lanky, using his height to his advantage, trying to overwhelm you, but with a quick kick to the back of his kneecaps, he went tumbling onto his knees. now shorter than you, you were able to control him by grabbing onto the top of his head and slamming it into the ground, effectively knocking him out.

one, two, three.

the next man thought his muscles would save the day, but his size lacked any true speed, and you were able to land fingers to his eyes, a punch square to his nose. a quick chokehold and he was knocked out against the concrete as well.

one, two.

they both came at once, knives flailing in the air as they sliced your way. one managed to gouge out a chunk of flesh in your arm but you paid no mind, too focused on the task at hand as you grabbed the knife with your hand and used the other arm to knock into their elbow, making them loosen their grip enough to let go of the blade that you then embedded into their shoulder. the other assailant took your distraction to swing the knife your way and as you were trying to dodge the serrated edge, used their other fist to swing up into your chin. you felt your teeth chatter against each other, blood mixing with saliva as you bit your tongue. spitting, you slammed your hand down against their wrist, grabbing the knife with your hand and yanking, not caring that it sliced into your palm as you flipped the weapon around to shove it into their abdomen.

with both men distracted, you slammed your fist against the car door, telling Shouto to quickly unlock it so you could get in. when you heard the telltale click, you instantly dove into the backseat, yelling at him to lock it and drive as fast as he could back to the hotel. he did as he was told with an eerie calmness to him, backing out and around the attackers that were attempting to survey the damage that had been dealt to them.

once you had made the relatively quick trip back to the hotel, you hurriedly jumped out of the car, telling Shouto to carry his own bags so you could be on alert if anything were to happen, scanning each and every corner for a possible other attack. thankfully, everything was safe as you made your way into his hotel room.

you dropped him off quietly, not even attempting to walk into his room, but only fifteen minutes had passed before he was knocking on your door, a first aid kit he had gotten from the front desk securely tucked under his arm.

you let him in without a word, locking the door behind you and turning to face him. before you had a chance to ask what he was doing there, he had dragged you into your rather grandiose bathroom, sitting you on the steps leading up to the jacuzzi tub and pulling out the contents of the kit onto the floor.

he began by assessing the damage to your wounds, cleaning and disinfecting them before wrapping both your hand and arm rather efficiently.

“i had to wrap a lot of my own wounds as well as my siblings. dear old dad let the temper get the best of him sometimes and it wasn’t always so pretty,” he explained, teeth clenching together in an attempt to remain calm.

“thanks for this. i’m sure they’ll heal just fine,” you replied, not wanting to put him in a situation where he had to talk about his troubling past.

“you could’ve died protecting me today, you know?”

“that’s my job Todoroki. i was hired to protect you, i protected you, and i’m fine, thank you very much. this is not my first fight and it definitely won’t be my last.”

he sighed, rubbing his temples as he sat down on the marble floor in front of you, holding your wounded hand in his own, tracing the fabric that surrounded your palm.

“i recognized one of the cars in the parking lot. it was a company car, one of my dad’s cars to be precise. i know they can seem relatively inconspicuous but i memorized every car my dad ever had, big or small. it was definitely his car.”

you mulled over his words for a moment before sighing yourself, slumping against the stairs as your head rested against the rim of the tub.

“your dad sent those men, huh? that’s why you were so eerily calm driving away. you knew you weren’t really in any danger, that those men were secretly there to kill me,” you finally concluded, anger boiling deep within the pit of your stomach.

“yeah, i think they were. i don’t think dad is too fond of the fact that you and i got close. i-i like you a lot more than i let on, i’ve told him so. i thought that would make him happy, knowing i have someone in my life that i could rely on and trust, but he didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t control you after these six months were up, think he wanted to teach me a lesson.”

“wouldn’t be the first time i’ve had a hit out on my head. this one, however, is probably going to be a lot tricker to deal with.”

Shouto sunk deeper into himself, body shaking with rage as he saw the fight flash in his head over and over again.

“i’m going to protect you. if you want to, that is. i’ll sign you on as my own bodyguard, however much money you want. i’ll be by your side always, make sure that nobody tries to kill you, tries to hurt you like that again.”

“i can fend for myself Todoroki.”

“it’s Shouto. and why won’t you let anyone else take care of you? listen, i know i’ve been kind of an ass but i thought we were at least friends, and yet i know nothing about you. i know your favorite color, your favorite animal, that you like sunsets and the rain and snuggling under comfy sheets at the end of the day, that your eyes sparkle when you get a chance to fight but secretly crave peace and comfort, but i don’t know who you are. your name, your story, why you’re really here.”

you heaved as you sat back up, staring him straight in the eye to find no malice, no anger, only confusion, empathy and maybe even a bit of longing. so you told him, you told him everything: who you were, what you were, where you grew up, about your childhood dog and all the scraps you had as a kid, how two strange men in suits approached you and groomed you to fight at the age of sixteen, how it was the only thing you knew how to do, the only thing you were good at, how you scared yourself sometimes because you enjoyed the pain that came with the fights. he sat there watching, eyes wide and unblinking as he absorbed every word you said, every bit of pain and anxiety, of longing for someone to love and understand you, of not having to fight all the time, of wanting to be vulnerable for once.

“let me take care of you,” he declared, standing up and outstretching his hand towards you, helping you up from the cool tile, hand coming to rest behind your head once you had steadied yourself.

he leaned forward, unsure and hesitant, before placing his lips against your own, soft and gentle, tasting of mint chapstick and coffee. you were unsure of yourself, awkward, full of aches and pains, wanting so badly to let go but never wanting to get hurt.

“it’s okay, you’re safe with me. let me take care of you, please.”

that was all it took for you to open up, looping your arms around his neck as he led you back to the bedroom, careful to not run you into anything. your knees hit the back of the bed and you reflexively tensed up, like a deer in headlights.

he shushed you, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, heeding the bandage and wound underneath. you laid back after that, body attempting to relax as his hands ran themselves soothingly over your body, across your breasts, the flesh of your stomach, your thighs, the corded muscles in your calves, slipping your shoes off, your socks, kissing every inch of your body along the way, making sure you were comfortable. you shimmied out of your pants, your tight shirt, bra, underwear, finally bare for him to see, scars, bruises, all the imperfections of your life.

“so, so beautiful,” he murmured, taking his time to kiss every single blemish and scar that you had, wanting you to feel his dedication.

after what felt like hours of soft kisses, his thumb came to rest on your clit, rubbing in quick and precise circles, fingers gently parting your folds to press into your body, back arching at the feeling of him already.

“it’s all about you tonight, okay? just relax, let me show you how much i appreciate you.”

and appreciate you he did. he dropped to his knees, nose nuzzling into your pubic bone as he kitten licked your clit once, twice, three times, testing your reaction. you whined and squirmed at the feeling, already overwhelmed by his fingers lazily dragging in and out of you. you wanted, needed more, but Todoroki wouldn’t hear any of that. you deserved to be treated right, treated gently tonight, to allow your worries to melt away, if only for a few moments.

his fingers began picking up pace, pistoning in and out of you, his fingers curling in all the right spots, fists clenched into the downy comforter as you attempted to ground yourself from the overwhelming situation. his tongue worked against your clit, changing speed and pressure, trying to find what was the right combination to set you off, watching your every move intently as you squirmed around on the bed. before he even got a chance to get into a routine, you were already cumming over his fingers, creamy liquid coating the digits.

he hummed in contentment, pulling his fingers out to lick up the syrup, you watching with your pupils blown wide.

you went to sit up, body aching from the adrenaline of the fight, but he pushed you back down into the plush bed, tutting as he settled his head against your thigh, kissing, sucking and biting along the plump flesh, leaving little marks only he would know about.

his tongue began lapping at your clit again, this time harsher, more in tune with what your body wanted. you clenched your legs around his head, fisting his hair with your good hand as you tried to ground yourself yet again to reality. his velvety tongue felt like heaven against your body, coaxing moans and sighs out of your mouth. you felt your second orgasm hit you like a freight truck, tingles running up your spine. you tried to push his head away but he only held your body down, a frighteningly feral look on his face as he continued to lap against your clit, unrelenting in his pursuit to pull orgasm after orgasm from you.

after, two, three, four more highs, you couldn’t tell where one began and one ended, he was finally satisfied, pulling his face away, chin glistening in the dim light. your eyes were teary and red, overwhelmed by everything he had put you through. you had never been more satisfied in your life, and by the look on Shouto’s face, he knew it too.

your eyelids began to droop and your body relaxed into the mattress as you came back down into reality. Shouto shuffled around the room before settling you into your bed, tucking the sheets around your body and propping your head against your pillow.

he was enamored by your, by your story, how you opened up so willingly to him after tonight. nothing would get in between you two now. he was just starting to truly know you, know the real you, and nothing was going to stop him from wooing you until you were his, not even his father., and if her life was ever threatened again by him, well, Shouto would just have to kill Todoroki Enji.

#todoroki x reader #shoto todoroki #shouto todoroki #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha #bnha #bnharem collab

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azucanela · 4 years

Note

being zuko’s s/o would include hcs?

BEING ZUKO’S S/O [GENDER NEUTRAL!READER]

BEING KORRA’S S/O | BEING SOKKA’S S/O

SUMMARY: being zuko’s s/o from the confession to the weddin’ [say this but make it rhyme the way those singers do ya know]

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

WARNINGS: kissing, very mildly implied nsfw, soft zuko, a dragon

A/N: these are gonna be extensive bc there is no scenario but if you want whole fics there are like 6342 zuko fics coming since everyone is a zuko simp. also wow this is really long um i hope its what you wanted!

GETTING INTO THE RELATIONSHIP

you guys have probably known each other a long time, because homebody does not fall for just anyone, so if you become the object of his affections, you better feel HONORED. hehe honored

i feel like it takes him a lot of time to actually accept his feelings for you are beyond platonic. the main reason he falls for you is probably your consistency in his life since thats something he tends to lack. like his mom? gone. his dad? kicked him out of the only place he ever knew. his life is filled with major changes so if you guys have known each other since childhood then consistency is key

once he realizes he likes you he kinda panics because what if you don’t accept him? what if you leave? even worse, what if you leave because he likes you? so now he’s panicking, and naturally, as one does, Zuko avoids his problems. You, being the problem. And his emotions, but he is in denial so

definitely talks to his uncle about the two of you A LOT, especially when he is first figuring out his feelings and trying to figure out what to do about them

his uncle is an elite wingman, constantly tries to get the two of you to be alone in the same space or get information out of you in regards to you

when it comes to confessing i can see a few situations

situation one is that zuko confesses completely by accident, freaks out, disappears, avoids you even more, like homie is a mess. after you get fatally injured, or maybe when he thinks you are asleep, or he just kinda blurts it out in conversation when you guys are doing something domestic. regardless, it is entirely by accident, and now zuko is freaking the heck out.

“i really like this tea.”

“i really like you.”

“excuse me-”

“i goTTA GO FEED MY DRAGOn Y/N!”

“you don’t have a dragon!”

so that’s how zuko gets his dragon from LOK, storytime over

you kinda have to find him and get a word in before he runs off because he is really scared of rejection, he doesn’t want you to leave and assumes that if the situation is never addressed then you can’t leave woohoo problem solved.

his uncle yells at him lol

when you corner him you gotta confess super fast and handle his anxieties because he is super worried about you hating him now even though it is the opposite.

“please don’t leave me.”

“i’m not gonna leave my boyfriend.”

“your- your what?”

“we are dating now. i like you, you like me, so we are dating.”

situation two is equally chaotic, but far less dancing around the feelings since you confess! congrats! you have more balls than me! im so proud! good job bb!

when you confess, its probably late at night, a comfortable silence between the two of you, or maybe he’s ranting about something, like how dumb the concept of tea is idk. regardless this is DOMESTIC, so it’s soft and cute and you are just like you know what screw it this nerd is so easily flustered by me maybe he likes me back! look at us cuddling like a couple! might as well make it official!

zuko.exe error, not working

you broke him good job.

he externally panics and internally congratulates himself while panicking. he is very shocked you feel that way for him because he is an oblivious boy.

“honestly, i don’t understand why my uncle likes those flavored water leaves so much-”

“i don’t understand why i’m in love with you.”

“WHAT.”

if y’all were cuddling on a bed or smth he THROWS YOU OFF BY ACCIDENT SKJDHJFHKHWJKF oopsie, he just gets up so quickly that you kinda go tumbling.

homie literally asks you why so naturally you gotta start listing all of these reasons why because hes like perfect and beautiful and yeah we all love him a lot :D marry me zuko <3

you gotta give him a hot minute to process all the information you just gave him, he is in shock for a short while, kinda just sitting there confused. once it gets through his thick skull that you like him he’s gonna thank you 💀

then he’ll ask you how you wanna handle this and boom you have a boyfriend now good job!

DURING THE RELATIONSHIP

dating during a war is hard so when y’all first start dating, probably towards the end of the war when he finally joins the Gaang, its gonna be really chaotic and you guys are still gonna be sorting through everything, like what kinda couple do you wanna be? neither of you know

kisses are rare during this time, especially since zuko is a generally private person who doesn’t really do PDA much, especially since he wants to avoid teasing and judgement from others. he’s a real people pleaser at the end of the day, he literally spent three years of his life looking for someone the world thought just disappeared permanently because he wanted his dad’s validation.

when you two do kiss, it tends to be a night in your shared tent, even then Zuko is weary of Toph’s seismic senses.

his kisses tend to be soft and sensual, he really just wants to take his time and enjoy it. however, bb does have a temper so you can expect some spice on occasion when he gets frustrated.

this comes later on in the relationship, once the war is resolved, but that just brings about new problems! like having to deal with the new fire lord who is always busy as your boyfriend!

especially at the beginning, when he’s newly crowned and everything is busy and new and he’s struggling with being organized, he rarely has time for you. however, you are likely his right hand, main advisor, general, whatever your area of expertise is he will find you a position in the castle, unless you tell him you want to stay out of politics. though, deep down, he wants to give you a position so he can spend time with you

once things calm down and he’s got being fire lord in the bag, he starts blocking in time during his day to actually take you out on dates and stuff

at one point just disappears for the whole day with you and everyone thinks he’s been kidnapped until they realize you aren’t around either

that’s not very responsible of you guys smh you have a nation to run

is soft with you, though zuko’s temper definitely lessened when he became Fire Lord, but it no doubt shows itself sometimes, but never with you

well need your assurance sometimes because he gets insecure

like why is the beautiful amazing intelligent woman dating me i do not understand what the heck why have you not left me yet

knock some sense into him

also gets worried that he is a horrible ruler and wants you to tell him that he in fact does his job very well

did you forget you helped end a war zuko?

kiss. his. scar. give him love, its one of few physical parts of himself that he is insecure about and if you kiss him there he might start crying because wow intimacy didn’t know what that was

speaking of intimacy, he is a touch starved boy so when you start giving him love do not stop, never deprive him of cuddles he gets grumpy

lol play volleyball with him

very domestic??? like his parents highkey did not like eachother so now he just wants to hold your hand, lay with you in the morning, wake up to your pretty face, and just cuddle with you while you read aloud

overall you two are a power couple and zuko simps for you 25/8 you rule as a team and he values you and your opinion VERY much, tries to take you out as often as he can despite his VERY demanding job, and expresses his love to the best of his ability

MARRIAGE N STUFF

zuko took the throne YOUNG he was like 16, so he is not proposing until y’all are at least adults, but i imagine that he is probably gonna wanna date you for like at least three years before proposing

he wants to make sure you are there to stay even if you’ve been around since childhood

there are two ways he is gonna propose here

situation one is where he kinda just does it,,, randomly? like out of nowhere he realizes that w o w he wants to marry you, he wants to spend the rest of his life with you and dedicate everything to you because you are HIS forever person

so he’s kinda just laying with you in the morning, nice soft kisses here and there, will not let you leave the bed and you are definitely complaining, especially if you have a position in the palace and need to get to work

regardless its a soft moment, there’s light filtering in through the window in your shared room, and its shining on your face, and yeah you are lowkey a mess because its the morning but you are just,, so,, beautiful??

and you start telling him about your plans for the, playing with his hair and stuff, and he’s listening to his heartbeat when he breaks from your hold and looks up at you and is just like

“marry me.”

“we also need to feed your dragon- wait what”

you are kinda just in shock for a moment, so you sit up and look at him, mouth gaping open like

“are you serious?”

he suddenly realizes he doesn’t have a ring and it is 7AM in the morning and it is not the best time for this

“...yes”

now you are laughing, falling back onto the pillows, and maybe there’s a tear in your eye as you nod rapidly, “okay, yes.”

now you are thinking of the fake story you are gonna tell people when they asked how he proposed because you are NOT saying it was in bed at 7AM while you were looking like a whole mess

“yes? yes as in yes you will marry me? are you serious?”

such an idiot, but he’s cute its okay

you kiss him and its passionate and adorable, and he kisses back but he quickly breaks apart and is like “you’re sure? because i don’t have a ring-”

“how have you successfully run a country.”

“good thing you are gonna join me on the throne i suppose.”

“oh my god you’re right-”

“you aren’t reconsidering are you?”

“NO.”

have fun being the fire god woo

now y’all go back to making out and traumatize whatever advisor comes to check on you because they’re like where are the people who rule this country???

situation two is where he has been carrying around the ring for MONTHS but is looking for the perfect time to propose because you are perfect so this must be perfect

he couldn’t sleep and in the middle of the night he was like WELP I WANNA GET ENGAGED and kinda just decided he was gonna marry you

since you were asleep he couldn’t ask you right then and these

confides in the gaang and everyone is super excited

now he’s been walking around with this ring for months and what is he supposed to do now oh god

the gaang is like stop procrastinating bro, just ASK HER, and hes like NO IT NEEDS TO BE PERFECT

they help him set up the palace courtyard and make it all nice, there are lanterns, and candles, and a path of rose petals, and this time around he does have a ring so yes its great

he’s like hey let’s go for a walk! and you’re like okay??? lol

so you two are walking around the palace, holding hands, when he leads you to the courtyard and you are just like DAMN this is romantic AND pretty

“i think we are interrupting Zuko let’s leave”

“what do you mean interrupting-”

“well someone clearly put in a lot of effort!”

“that someone is me!”

its not that he isn’t romantic its just that he’s never done something like this so now you’re confused

“did i forget our anniversary?”

“no.”

NOW you understand, looking around, you turn back to him to find that he’s on one knee, you two are in front of the pond with the turtleducks and wow it must be raining why is there water on your face? haha...

he tells you he loves you and that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, and how he hopes he never loses you because you are just so vital to his life and his being and everything he’s done to make this world a better place has been for you and damn zuko you wonder if he got possessed

obviously you agree

and obviously something goes wrong

when he stands you tackle him with a hug and you two fall into the pond

oops

the wedding[disclaimer: i have never been to a wedding so i do not know what happens in weddings, feel free to educate me pls] is either REALLY intimate and private, or really big and stuff, since you gotta go through that whole coronation process now and like public weddings n stuff

no matter what his uncle is the one who walks you down the aisle.

change my mind.

you cant.

the intimate one is almost similar to eloping, probably happens in the court yard where he proposed, and you are wearing a AMAZING outfit, whether its a tux, an amazing dress, a jumpsuit, you gonna look FIRE

hehe fire

anyways it’ll probably be the people who fought with him in the war, the gaang, the white lotus, kyoshi warriors, maybe a few others,

its a really nice ceremony, and the courtyard is decorated so beautifully, though Zuko considered putting a fence around the pond considering what happened when he proposed lol

if its a more public wedding, then its going to feel like the entire Fire Nation came to watch y’all get married, much more flashy, there’s a band performance, a banquet, y’all gotta use the ballroom so that everyone can dance

kinda nerve wracking ngl

regardless, after you two get married nothing really changes because you always acted like an old married couple, and even as the other ruler of the fire nation, you always had an important job in the palace so its kinda just the same but more official

its a vibe

moral of the story is zuko is a simp for you and your marriage is mutual simping, that is all

A/N: i kinda went off ngl, also im about to hit 200 followers and i feel as though i should do something special so i am taking suggestions pls

taglists[lmk if you wanna be added or removed :D]

zuko: @shawni-h @lil-lex1 @boxofteenageideas @izzieserra @eridanuswave @bigbuckyenergy @outerxorbit

permanent: @chewymoustachio

#zuko x reader #prince zuko x reader #zuko headcannon #zuko headcannons #zuko x reader headcannons #zuko x you #zuko x y/n #prince zuko x you #prince zuko x y/n #zuko atla #atla #avatar the last airbender #lok #legend of korra #atla zuko x reader

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

Hello! I love your writing! I'm gonna send five prompts, I hope at least one of them inspires you and you have fun with them. Prompt #1: Wang Lingjiao (Wen Chao's mistress) interacting with Meng Yao in Nightless City, can be a ship but not necessarily (I... guess you could count shipping it as infidelity towards Wen Chao??? so def don't write ship if it makes you uncomfortable). Preferably WLJ pov, with her making numerous not always accurate assumptions about Meng Yao's role at Wen Ruohan's court, maybe sort of assuming he is to WRH what she is to WC and therefore approaching him with something like ~camaraderie (whether MY plays along or laughs her off I will leave to you)

ao3

Friends were a luxury that Wang Lingjiao had never been well-off enough to have, not when her tenuous position might be lost at any minute by a pair of seductive eyes or a new (not better) pair of tits, but it wasn’t like she was totally without any fellow feeling.

“Well done,” she said to the boy with Nie braids in his hair like he thought it’d make him something he wasn’t.

He blinked, surprised, and fixed her with the same pleasant, competent, I’m-here-for-your-pleasure smile that she’d seen him use on everyone else. “Lady Wang, whatever do you mean?”

Wang Lingjiao rolled her eyes. Sure, he wasn’t doing anything more stunning than getting himself some off-hours food from the kitchens, same as her, but there was no way he didn’t know what she meant.

He knew. Oh, he knew.

“For selling something else,” she clarified, and saw the darkness creep into that bright and clear gaze he was always pretending with, hiding behind; he couldn’t deny that he knew exactly what she was saying now. Personally, she’d rather be on her back in Wen Chao’s bed than helping out in the Fire Palace, but it was the principle of the thing. “And drop the ‘lady’ shit while we’re in the Nightless City. There’s no point in pissing off Lady Ma.”

His face didn’t give away any obvious tells, like eyebrows shooting up or eyes going wide, but she could feel that he was surprised. “You – care about that?”

Ma Liyuan was Wen Chao’s wife, officially, and Wang Lingjiao’s official job was as her maid, except of course she didn’t do any maid stuff because she was too busy fucking Wen Chao. Still, she would have thought that this Meng Yao character would know better.

“Born in a brothel, were you?” she guessed, and his face closed up. “Don’t be so squeamish. She told me to do it, of course. If she can’t keep him, better that she control him through me than let someone from the outside sink their claws into him. Doesn’t mean she wants it rubbed in her face or anything, though.”

It wasn’t an uncommon story, and he nodded slowly as she went to pick out some food – she could get better fare when she ate with Wen Chao, of course, but he liked the illusion of her being dainty and pristine, as if you could get tits like hers without having a decent meal on the regular, and so she supplemented in private.

“Someone told me you were from Yingchuan,” he said from behind her. “Yingchuan Wang sect.”

“I am,” she said, tearing at the flesh of an apple with her teeth. “What, the intonation didn’t give me away?”

“It’s not that,” he said. “I thought – Yingchuan Wang is a cultivation sect.”

Gentry, he meant.

“Sure is,” Wang Lingjiao said, and her lips twisted in derision. “What, did you think it was all fun and games after you get brought across the threshold? Did your mother fill your head with dreams of your legitimate father sweeping in and buying your freedom and hers, setting her up in a nice little courtyard and you in disciple robes, then seeing your merit and giving you the respect you deserve?”

He was quiet. Brothel girls, she thought to herself. Always the same old tune.

“My mother was a whore, too, only she did get brought in as a concubine,” she said. “Nice and official, past the threshold and everything. The official wives hated her, of course: shorted her on firewood in the winter and water in the summer, always gave her the worst pieces of cloth to make clothing and no allowance to buy anything else, gave us incense that’d give you itches and food that gave you the runs.”

“That happens everywhere,” he said.

“She got that nice little courtyard,” Wang Lingjiao said. “It even had a nice little gateway to the outside world – not for her to go out, mind you, that wouldn’t be proper for an official concubine. But it worked perfectly well for men to come in, with all the earnings flowing to the family coffers.”

She laughed at the expression on his face.

“It’s one pimp or another,” she told him. “Men always want something from you, always, don’t you know that? And when they think you’re already dirty, they don’t think too hard about what they’re asking. I was born inside the door to a proper legitimate father, never spent a day of my life in a brothel, and they still sold me out just the same as any madam – no, worse. The stuff these righteous bastards ask for is always ten times worse.”

“Worse?” he echoed.

“Isn’t it?” she asked him. “Even a whore that’s lost her charm still doesn’t have to do much more than lie on her back and spread her legs, but look at you – look at me. Running around catering to their every need, doing every nasty deed that they don’t want to do because that’s all we’re good for in their eyes.”

He grimaced.

“I’m in charge of getting new women for A-Chao’s bed, when he’s in the mood for variety,” Wang Lingjiao said. “And for getting rid of any accidents that might happen later, my own or others’. The Wen clan doesn’t believe in them, if you understand me; if he wants kids, he’ll get them through Lady Ma or nobody. And if a woman turns him down, it’s my job to punish her, or else he’ll start saying I don’t care enough, that I’m looking elsewhere…”

She laughed and took a bite of some pork.

“I’d do it anyway, of course,” she said, chewing. “All those little bitches that think they’re better than me, it’s a pleasure to knock them down to size. And surprise, surprise, once they don’t have their looks, suddenly they’re more than happy to come around begging at A-Chao’s door to see what they can get, since now the righteous ones don’t want them anymore…Peel off all that shiny exterior and it’s all the same underneath.”

Meng Yao didn’t like what she was saying, she could tell. Not that she cared.

“Find yourself a fool,” she advised him. “A-Chao’s not bad to me, all things considered. I’ve been by his side for a few years now and his tastes are pretty run-of-the-mill, not like his brother or his father; a bit of ego stroking - ooh, you’re so strong, so capable, I’ve never seen anyone as big as you, that sort of thing - and he likes coming on my tits. Sect Leader Wen, though? He’s too clever. You won’t be able to keep his interest for long, not even with those ingenious little torture machines you keep inventing for him, and then he’ll have you doing the real scut work.”

“I appreciate your consideration,” he said stiffly. Didn’t like his work being compared to someone like her, did he?

Men.

“I hear things about the brothels in Lanling,” she offered, just to needle him. “Not just perfume and flowers and a bit of witty conversation, not for men with all the money in the world; they like getting a little extra. If you’d gotten taken in the way you wanted, I’d bet that’s the job you’d get: you’d be seeing those women every day, bringing the women in smiling and taking them out crying – or worse. Some jobs you aren’t meant to come back from, after all; my best friend growing up ended up that way. You couldn’t even recognize the body as human below the neck.”

He was too well-trained to glare, but Wang Lingjiao could tell he wanted to. Someone like him, who signed up to do torture work, probably wouldn’t mind the bodies, she reflected, and shook her head.

“What’s Qinghe like, anyway?” she asked, nodding at his braids, actually curious. “Secretive sorts, and the one or two times my people acted as hosts to their inner sect disciples, they always turned down any offers for late night company.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said.

“Stop having a stick up your ass. I’m not saying you provided services yourself, and even if you did I’m hardly one to judge. I just want to know. You were close with that big man of theirs, their sect leader, weren’t you? Sect Leader Wen sure talks about it enough.”

Talked about it the way Wen Chao talked about Wang Lingjiao getting close to a woman he was pursuing, sometimes. There was really no accounting for taste – Sect Leader Wen could have any woman he wanted and often did, her and Lady Ma included, and even sometimes at the same time; yet what he really wanted, apparently, was to hear Meng Yao talk about Sect Leader Nie’s personal habits.

Probably he wanted the joy in breaking him or something. Wang Lingjiao didn’t make it her business to try to guess, though she supposed Meng Yao did.

“No way someone as sharp as you didn’t pick up some clues about what he likes,” she continued. “Come on, what is it? He like beating his whores or something?”

“He didn’t frequent whores,” Meng Yao said. “And he didn’t take lovers.”

He smiled, faintly, probably at her expression of disbelief.

“He liked slaughtering Wen-dogs,” he added. “Rather a lot. See that you don’t end up on the wrong side of his saber. He didn’t make allowances for women.”

Wang Lingjiao tossed her hair – there was no need to bring in blood and war into their perfectly nice conversation! – and huffed. “Oh, I get you. The marrying type, then?” she sneered. “The ones that’ll give you their heart and forgive you for everything, then end up wearing green hats for cuckolds when it turns out the one they like isn’t near as virtuous as them? What a fool!”

“I thought you said I should find myself a fool,” Meng Yao said mildly.

“You still have to be able to keep him,” she mocked. “If you could get someone like Sect Leader Nie on the hook, why would you be busting your ass here?”

That shut him up.

“Well, your loss is Sect Leader Wen’s gain, I guess,” she said, and put aside her plate without washing it. The kitchen staff could clean up for her. “Ugh, I can’t wait for this war to be over already. I miss the discussion conferences! Even though I had to stay back with the servants, at least you got to see some new people…that last one, with the archery, that was a fun one.”

She grinned. “All the sect leaders came here to sit at Sect Leader Wen’s feet, your father included. He asked all three of his housekeeping maids to serve him in bed, you know. All at once. Brave man, at his age…come to think of it, you might want to check the nursery. See if you have some siblings there. Who knows? Maybe they’ll grow up to be competition.”

Meng Yao said nothing.

Wang Lingjiao laughed again.

“Have fun in the Fire Palace, Meng Yao,” she said, sashaying away. “Try not to end up on the wrong side of it.”

See? It was almost like being friends.

#mdzs #meng yao #jin guangyao #wang lingjiao #referenced WLJ/WC #discussions of NMJ/JGY #discussions of WRH/NMJ #my fic #my fics #a little extra #tauremornalome

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sage-nebula · 3 years

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I’ve been thinking about what I would have liked a sequel to InuYasha to be like, since the official sequel has been such a disappointment (to say the least), so I figured I’d go ahead and post my thoughts.

To start with, we’re keeping Moroha, and she would be the actual main character. She’s the daughter of the previous two main protagonists, her personality steals the show on the regular anyway, and the fact that she’s part demon while also having sacred priestess powers makes her far more interesting than simply doing half-demons 2.0. I’m not sorry.

So, the story. I imagine that hundreds and hundreds of years back, like well before Inuyasha was ever sealed to the Tree of Ages and all that drama with Kikyou and Naraku happened, there was a prophecy made by some kind of deity (or deity-like) figure. The prophecy was something like, when a demon had a child with a powerful priestess, that child would then end the warring period between demons and mortals—and would, in fact, put an end to demons altogether. In other words, the child of the demon and shrine maiden would lead to the modern era, where mortals still roam freely but demons are (typically) nowhere to be seen. Not many knew about this prophecy, but very powerful and high-ranking demons did (e.g. Kirinmaru, possibly Inuyasha and Sesshoumaru’s father), and because they didn’t want demons to disappear from the earth for very obvious reasons (even though the prophecy wasn’t clear on how that would happen), they made it a point to try to stop the birth of such a child from ever happening—or, if it did happen, they made it a point to kill said child as an infant before they could ever grow.

Hundreds of years passed. For a time there was great concern over whether Kikyou would bear the child that would bring about the prophecy, given that she was a powerful priestess (the most powerful priestess) who had several half-demons interested in her. Fears waned a little when Inuyasha decided to become human like Kikyou, forsaking his demon half and therefore rendering the two of them unable to bring the prophecy to pass (and there was some argumentation over whether a half-demon could bring the prophecy to pass anyway, but the danger was too great to risk it in the minds of those who knew), but then all of that drama went down before he could, and Kikyou died before she could have a child with anyone, so it became a moot point.

Regardless, those hundreds of years passed, Kikyou was reborn as Kagome, Kagome and Inuyasha fell in love, and they ended up giving birth to a child, Moroha, who inherited both demonic powers from her father and sacred powers from her mother. And while it’s not as if someone was watching Inuyasha and Kagome on CCTV to stalk their every action, other parts of the prophecy (such as the full moon and sun both being present in the sky at the moment of the birth, which happened just as day broke, or stars falling the night of conception) lined up and made it clear that the prophecied birth had come to pass. Of course, neither Inuyasha nor Kagome knew of the prophecy, nor did anyone else in the village . . . but Kirinmaru, as mentioned before, did.

So Kirinmaru shows up some time after Moroha’s birth, when she’s still a baby, with the intent on killing her and probably her parents as well, for good measure, so they can’t have another one. He’s not alone; I’m unsure of whether Sesshoumaru would be with him or not in this version (because I feel Sesshoumaru would have complicated feelings on the issue; he doesn’t want demons to disappear but also he’s doubtful Inuyasha’s child could make that happen), but Kirinmaru would at least have his top four lackeys and possibly many other demons with him. Enough so that everyone in the village would be at significant risk. Of course Kagome and Inuyasha aren’t going down without a fight, but also a battleground is no place for a baby, so Kagome takes Moroha through the well (which we’ll say was working at this point in time) in order to have her family watch her. This serves two purposes: It gives Moroha a loving family to take care of her, with Kagome herself ensuring that happens, AND it allows us to show Kagome’s family after giving a frick about her potentially dying, which Yashahime failed to show with their non-reaction to her potentially having a child.

Of course, Kagome’s family doesn’t want her to return to the feudal era if there’s some huge battle going down, but Kagome promises that she will survive, and she will come back to get Moroha. She promises. So her family agrees to babysit Moroha, and Kagome returns to the feudal era . . . only to not come back. As a result, Moroha is raised by Souta and his family, and cherished by her grandma and great-grandpa, even though there is also an ever-present sorrow and grief because they believe Kagome must have died in the battle she spoke of. And Moroha does feel the love from her family, but also recognizes that they also see her dead mother whenever they look at her, so there’s that, too.

With that said, Kagome isn’t dead! She returns to the feudal era and things are indeed going badly (in a flashback we get plenty of “INUYASHAAAA” “KAGOMEEEEE” for old time’s sake), but I don’t want to kill either her or Inuyasha off. So instead, we’ll bring the Rainbow Pearls back into it. Like in the actual sequel, Inuyasha and Kagome end up sealed in one of the Rainbow Pearls. But the reason here is because Kirinmaru finds out that Kagome sent Moroha away to a place where he can no longer reach her, and he’s furious about it. But he also feels that, when she grows up, she will seek out her parents. So he figures, he’ll take her parents, seal them in a state where they can’t escape him, and then use them as bait. He’ll lure Moroha to him and kill her then. It’s a perfect plan. (And while I would want to seal Inuyasha and Kagome into the Tree of Ages since that’s their tree, at the same time, Kirinmaru can’t exactly take a whole ass tree with him. I mean, he could, but it’d kill it and probably end the sealing power. So.)

Years pass, Moroha grows. She can pretty much pass for a human girl aside from her fangs and her super senses / abilities, so she doesn’t feel like too much of an outcast in the human world. She's a little older than in Yashahime, maybe around 16, and as such was able to do at least a year or two of high school and has a few years experience in archery and kendo clubs as a result. But though she doesn’t feel like an outcast, Moroha has always been plagued by the feeling that there’s more to her story than she and her family know. She feels like there’s something missing, like the assumption that her mother died just isn’t right. This draws her back to the Bone-Eaters Well time and time again, and the final time (the one we see) Souta follows her there. They talk about Moroha’s feelings and her desire to know, and Souta tells her he think that she can make the trip—and that she should, if she can’t rest. He gives her Inuyasha’s robe of the fire rat (which I forgot to mention Moroha was swaddled in when Kagome took her through), as well as her bow and quiver from archery, and some other provisions. Then Moroha jumps through and returns to the feudal era.

So the main plot, or at least the one that Moroha is aware of at first, would be Moroha trying to figure out what happened to her parents, where they are, et cetera (and people like Miroku, Sango, and Shippou bursting out crying when they see that Inuyasha and Kagome’s daughter did survive and is all grown up and looks so much like her parents). Then in the background of that is the prophecy and whether Moroha actually will carry it out or not. My thought is that she would, but it’s not that she kills all demons, because that’s pretty grim. Rather, it’s that the Rainbow Pearls would ultimately be used to seal or suppress demonic powers, with the implication that demons or people with demonic powers are very much still actually in the modern era, but they’re just sleeping, and could come back at any time. And perhaps this would be done at the end of her life rather than at the end of the series, I don’t know. But basically it would be written to explain the discrepancy of why there were demons and magic in the feudal era, but no longer in the modern era. It would make Kagome going back to the feudal era, meeting Inuyasha and building a family with him, something that actually needed to happen for her era to exist as it did at all. (So, a stable time loop, sort of.)

As for Sesshoumaru having daughters, I honestly really don’t think it’s necessary, but if he did they should be side characters (as in they can be part of the main group, but their story shouldn’t be the primary focus), and Kagura should be their mother. Since Kagura died, if we do still want them to be half-demons, then perhaps it could be that Sesshoumaru traveled to the modern era himself somehow to look for Moroha after Kagome sent her there (I don’t think the well would work for him, but this is a show about magic, he could find a way). He didn’t find Moroha, but he found Kagura’s modern reincarnation, a human woman who looked startlingly like her. He followed her around to figure out what was up with her, she thought he was a creep (albeit a very pretty creep), he eventually decides to leave her because she’s her own person and not Kagura, she follows him because she wants to know where he’s going, she ends up going back to the feudal era with him on accident, they travel together for a while, fall in love, have babies, etc. So I guess in that sense the mother of Sesshoumaru’s daughters wouldn’t actually be Kagura, just like Kagome is not Kikyou, but regardless, she’d be as close to Kagura as he could actually get and that’s better than the alternative that the fifteenth episode of Yashahime suggested, so I’d take it. (Granted I would have taken just about anything over that, but still.) With this scenario, Towa and Setsuna (if we kept those names) would be younger than Moroha, and would have been raised together in the feudal era. If they end up traveling with Moroha, perhaps it’s because Sesshoumaru sent them to do it by suggestion. The twins think they’re just ~bonding~ with their cousin, or at least helping her survive in an era she’s not familiar with, but also their father is using them to spy on her to see if there’s any chance she could bring about the prophecy.

So yeah, that’s what I got. If I’d been asked to come up with a sequel to Inuyasha, that’s what I would have written. Of course there are more details that would need to be ironed out, but nonetheless, we’d have a clear goal from the jump, the correct character would be the main character, and there wouldn’t be any child grooming or pedophilia. Win-win-win, honestly. We could have had it all.

#inuyasha #anti sessrin #inuyasha sequel au #moroha #moroha deserved better #so much better #anti yashahime

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seriouslyhooked · 3 years

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The Bast Bad Idea (Part 2)

Three-part CS AU where Emma and Killian are doctors working at the same hospital (world without pandemic). They’ve yet to meet, but Emma has definitely seen the sexy Dr. Jones in her travels at Mist Haven Medical. It’s generally a bad idea to get involved with a colleague, but a little fantasizing never hurt… right? Inspired by the song ‘Bad Idea’ by Ariana Grande and a TV couple who set the bar for true love stories.

Part One Here. Story available on FF Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hello everyone! First and foremost, I want to start with a huge thank you to all of you who have reached out about this story. The response was so far beyond what I was expecting, but I am thrilled to know that all of you enjoy a CS Doctor AU as much as I do. As someone who grew up watching Grey’s Anatomy, it’s essentially engrained in my DNA to love a medical romance, and this story is one I have wanted to write for a long time. I’ve had more than a month away from writing thanks to my busy schedule, but finally my muse came to play and add a bit of fluff to this sweet short story. Chapter two picks up with a critical question – what was Dr. Jones going to propose to Dr. Swan…? Without further ado, here is our answer. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…”

His eyes strayed down to her lips, and Emma wet them absentmindedly. She heard a low growl, and realized it was coming from Killian. She shifted in her seat, turned on in a way she had never been before. Instinctively she moved closer, sensing the sinfully sweet current between them, like lightning just before it cracked across a summer sky. The instant attraction was breathtaking. It felt almost out of time and space.

“We could…” she continued, nudging him along and hoping he would elaborate. She wanted so badly for him to say aloud what she herself was wishing for.

Yet where Emma expected words, she was instead met with action, tantalizing and surprising, but inspiring something in her she never expected. Before she knew it, Emma was in Killian’s arms, aching for this moment, kissing him and knowing she was positively senseless. All that existed was this kiss, this touch. It was electrifying and invigorating, a blaze rushing through her blood stream that emboldened a part of her she’d always held back. Desire. That was what this was, and it was luscious and intoxicating.

Following his lead, Emma broke away from the kiss only to gasp for air as he crowded her body against the wall. The hardness of the cement blocks behind her, coupled with the heat and definition of Dr. Killian Jones was too much to handle. She arched into him, striving for contact, and reveling in the feel of his skin on hers. The only problem was these damn clothes between them. Never in her life had she been irritated at this doctor’s coat she’d worked so hard to earn. For years she studied and poured everything she was into medicine, all for the authority this coat portrayed, but she practically purred when Killian stripped hers off and tossed it to the ground. Pushing his off of his body in return made her mind race. The muscles of his chest and arms were driving her to distraction. Then they flexed, and she swallowed harshly, earning a deep, decadent chuckle from this man who drove her crazy.

“See something you like, Swan?”

God that cockiness. They’d never had any kind of real conversation before now, but the way he smiled spoke volumes. His air and his persona were dripping in assuredness. Emma used to think that she hated so much confidence, but when it came to Killian, she craved it something fierce. It was somewhat infuriating, the way his eyes shone with mischief and conceit, but it was also hotter than anything she’d ever known. Still, part of her would rather die than admit that aloud. She had her pride, no matter how wrapped up in this moment she may be.

“It’s hard to say,” she replied, her voice sounding out with a shredded silkiness that she’d never heard before. “I haven’t seen much of anything yet.”

“My apologies, love. Allow me to rectify the situation.”

Emma watched as this ridiculously attractive man purposefully teased her. With deft fingers he reached for the base of his scrub top, inching the material higher up his body. The trail of dark hair he revealed was evocative, but it held no candle the shape and tone of those abs underneath. Sweet Jesus, were those real? Emma bit back a groan at the sight, her lip pressed tight between her teeth. It took everything in her to keep her hands from reaching for him. She lay them flat on the wall behind her at her sides instead, but they balled into fists unconsciously as Killian eventually tossed the shirt away.

His black hair was mussed now, both from removing the scrubs with that always-present swagger, and from her fingers having run through it during their never-ending kisses. His eyes were dark navy blue, but still they shone with hunger and delight. His grin was a mix of charming and predatory, but instead of inciting a fight or flight response, Emma only wanted to surrender. This was a man who knew he was in complete control. He had hooked her, totally and beyond any shadow of doubt, and all she wanted was for him to have his way with her.

The curses he whispered while helping her shed her own scrubs were like prayers on high, a sweet song to her ears that only added to his allure. Killian’s eyes never strayed from her, but his reactions were so open and transparent. He hid nothing, allowing her a glimpse to the world inside, and it caused the power between them to shift. If Emma was being hunted, then she was also hunting in return, and Killian seemed ready to be caught.

“Emma, I -,”

His voice faded out, and she struggled to hear him. Instead, there was a blaring alarm. Was this a fire drill? Why had the light in the room gone hazy? Still, Emma heard herself whisper his name.

“Killian?”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The screech of the sharp, incessant chiming by her ears wrenched Emma’s eyes open, and immediately she groaned in disappointment. All of that – every exquisite moment – was a dream. Ugh, of course it was! Because this was her life now: fantasizing about a hot trauma surgeon ceaselessly and wishing that her memories of him were more than mere imagination.

“Damn it,” she muttered aloud, covering her eyes with her hand in frustration. With her vision blocked, Emma was more aware of the feeling that her body was wrapped up in her sheets. She’d obviously been tossing and turning through the night, restless in ways she rarely was before seeing Doctor Jones. These freaking dreams just felt so real, and they’d only gotten worse since officially meeting him.

That was three days ago now, but things had been chaotic in the meantime. The level four trauma that came in when they’d been formally introduced totally swamped the ER. Emma was called down for consult on multiple patients, needing to give life and death assessments and treatment plans for half a dozen people. While down there, Emma had the chance to see David and Killian in action. She was struck, even in the grips of adrenaline, by their cohesion and capability. They were cool and collected, battling odds that were dire to say the least, but they prevailed. Emma had worked for years to hone her craft, to heighten her skills, and to meet the moments of medicine that her work provided. But the energy in the ER had shifted, and she felt her own abilities elevated by the camaraderie and collectiveness of everyone in the hospital.

That shared experience only lasted a short while, for after initial inspections and emergency consults, Emma was quickly rerouted to the surgical wing. For 16 hours straight she worked to save the lives of four people, and through something that felt like magic, or maybe divine intervention, she was successful each and every time. That good fortune held, not only for her, but for all of her colleagues as well. The hospital had managed something next to impossible – they had saved every victim of the horrible accident, but the work had been backbreaking. When she’d finally scrubbed out of her last procedure, Emma admitted defeat, heading home and sleeping for twelve straight hours.

Her next shift was markedly slower, and Emma had the chance to see the progress of her post-op patients, and to connect with the others in her unit. It was critically important that the doctors, nurses, admins, tech teams, and other staff were all feeling strong and secure. Patients needed everyone working as a collective whole, and Emma took it upon herself to monitor that. It was unusual for a Doctor, especially one who wasn’t overseeing daily operations, but it mattered to Emma. Saving lives took so much more than her medical degree and steady hands. She needed each and every person in the cardiac wing to be successful, and she valued every one of them for what they brought to the team.

Unfortunately, while Emma’s day was slower and steadier, there was also a favorite element now lacking. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she’d willingly joined Ruby on the daily trip to the coffee cart. Actually, she’d been the one to page Ruby this time, earning more than a bit of teasing from her best friend, but Killian and David never showed. Only later, when Emma was at the tail end of her workday and helping with a consult in the ER, did she learn why.

“He was here for sixty-eight straight hours,” David said bluntly, after having confirmed his diagnosis for a patient presenting with a blood circulation issue.

“I’m sorry?” Emma asked, confused for a moment at David’s turn of topic.

“Killian,” David said, prompting Emma’s face to heat. Here she was, hoping it wasn’t totally obvious that she was looking for a man she hardly knew beyond imaginings, but David had seen through her in a matter of moments.

“Oh, um – that’s, well that’s… crazy. Sixty-eight hours?” That beat even her record, and she’d been called a workaholic on more than one occasion.

“Mhmm. We were on the end of a twelve-hour shift when the call came in and he stayed, until every last patient in the trauma department was seen and attended to. I left for eight hours and was dead to the world the entire time. Still felt laggy when coming back. Meanwhile, he caught maybe four hours sleep total interspersed between rounds, crashing in on call rooms. You’d never know though. He was totally unfazed. Brilliant as ever. It was like being back in the field again.”

“Seriously?” Emma asked, amazed at that. She was no stranger to long shifts, but to work that hard for that long was a herculean feat. Somehow, though, she wasn’t surprised to hear Killian had pulled it off.

“Yup. I had to force him to go back to his hotel. Actually, Regina had to. I tried, but until the Chief said something, he wouldn’t budge. She had to spew all sorts of protocol and legal jargon at him to get him to go. Even then, I could tell he was debating whether to stay or not.”

“He has a real connection with his patients,” Emma commented, vocalizing a fact she’d ascertained by watching him in action. Killian cared deeply, and while his main job may be all about stemming the flow of crisis, and bouncing around from one case to the next just to keep people holding on, he kept track of all those he helped, and invested in each patient no matter what.

“Maybe. I think it had more to do with the fact that it was only eight am and you wouldn’t be at the coffee stand yet.”

Before Emma could respond, David was paged for something else. He’d left her with a polite goodbye, but also a knowing smile. Another time, Emma might have tried to fake that she wasn’t interested or deny that there was something between her and Killian, but instead she was too busy fixating on what she’d just heard. Emma carried David’s assessment around with her for the rest of the day, well after leaving the hospital and heading home. She spent the night wondering if what David said was true. Was Killian as interested in her as she was in him?

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…”

“We could what?” she whispered, getting out of her car, heading inside to her next shift. “What was he going to ask me?”

“Did you say something, Emma?”

Emma jumped at the unexpected question, senses on high alert as she stood before the elevator in the parking garage. When she found Mary Margaret only a few feet from her, and clearly the orator of the previous question, Emma relaxed slightly. She tried her best not to show her embarrassment, but it was difficult. Now she was talking to herself? Jeez, she was truly losing it at this point.

“Oh, uh, nothing. How are you today?” she asked her friend. Mary Margaret smiled widely. Her excitement was palpable, filling up the elevator car as the two of them stepped inside.

“I’m great! Just eager to get to work.”

“Any interesting cases on the schedule?”

“Oh, uh, sure, there’s a few, I guess. Well really most of my day is going to be in consult with the Chief’s office.”

“Wait a second, you have to spend a prolonged period of time with the Evil Queen and you are smiling? Who are you and what have you done with Mary Margaret?” Her friend now looked flustered, clearly trying to grasp at an explanation and then it dawned on Emma. “This is about David isn’t it?”

“David?” Mary Margaret asked, her pitch higher than it had been just moments ago. Emma laughed at her friend’s terrible play acting. Trying to pretend that this wasn’t about David Nolan was a lost cause. Eventually Mary Margaret realized that, and she sighed, releasing the tension in her shoulders as she exhaled. “Okay, yes, I am seeing Dr. Nolan today.”

“Let me guess, he’s also going to be at the admin meetings.”

“They’re about coordinating long term therapies better with our emergency protocols and treatments. So yes, the head of the ER is likely to make an appearance.”

“I see,” Emma said, biting back a smirk so as not to make Mary Margaret too uncomfortable. In the end though her curiosity won out, and she had to ask. “So, any movement there?”

“Movement?”

“Has he asked you out yet?”

“Not exactly.” Emma waited for her friend to explain herself. Mary Margaret held off for a few seconds before blurting out the truth. “I actually asked him.”

“Really?” Emma was shocked. Not because she thought any less of Mary Margaret. In fact, quite the opposite. She was proud of Mary Margaret for going for what she wanted. She just had never ever seen Mary Margaret step outside of a comfort zone like that, and certainly not with a hospital colleague. “Good for you. And he obviously said yes.”

“Why is it obvious?” Emma rolled her eyes, but in a teasing way.

“Come on, you know you two were making heart eyes at each other the other day. There was a definite spark. We all saw it.”

“I’m honestly surprised you noticed since you had your own, what did you just call them? ‘Heart eyes’? Well, you definitely had heart eyes for a certain trauma surgeon.”

Now it was Emma’s turn to blush, and what perfect timing, because the elevator doors had just opened to the lobby. They exited the quiet of the elevator to a hustle and bustle found only at a top tier hospital. It felt like a swarm of people, buzzing every which way, on their own individual paths.

“David and I going to dinner tomorrow,” Mary Margaret said quietly, looking around and finding no eavesdropping colleagues. When the coast was clear, she smiled, looking back at Emma with excitement all over her face. “That’s all I know though. I may have asked him out, but he made it very clear he had plans for how our first date was going to be.”

“I have a good feeling about this guy,” Emma said, referring to David. She had known Mary Margaret for a long time, and she knew how much her friend wished for a real and solid love in her life. Few people desired and deserved that kind of connection like Mary Margaret, and for Emma, there was a real satisfaction in seeing her friend’s instant connection with a stand-up man. Based on past experience, there weren’t too many of those to go around.

“Which one?” Mary Margaret asked. Emma stammered something non-committal out, causing her friend to laugh once more. “And that right there is all the answer I need. See you later, Emma. Oh, and when you see Killian again, just go for it. Believe me, it’s so much better than waiting and wondering.”

With that, Mary Margaret headed towards the wing of the hospital where the Chief and her admins worked. At the same time, Emma turned her attention to the cardiac unit. She had a ways to go to get there, but while still in the main entrance of the hospital she was stopped short by a gruff, and somewhat uncertain voice.

“Excuse me, Doctor Swan?”

“Yes?” Emma replied, looking to the young man who approached her. Taking in his features, she realized she knew him peripherally. He was one of the new interns cycling through the hospital this year, but he hadn’t worked in the cardio wing or in a surgical capacity. Taking in his lanyard, which bore his ID card over plain clothes, she saw he was an ER intern. Interesting. “Can I help you?”

“This is for you.” The young man offered her a paper box. Emma accepted, thoroughly confused before the intern elaborated. “Curtesy of Doctor Jones.”

“Oh,” Emma said, suddenly incredibly interested. Unable to resist, she opened the box. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but what she found made her smile widely. “These are flowers. Paper flowers.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m not entirely sure of the significance, but Doctor Jones told me there is a note inside as well. He wanted me to be sure to mention that.”

Emma was more than excited to read what this astonishing man would write to her, but something the intern said reminded her of the awkwardness of this situation. Had Killian used his authority over the interns to have this delivered? It wasn’t a crazy assumption. Many of the residents and attendings here saw interns as the low rungs on the ladder. They were meant to be learning and training, but often they were sent on coffee runs and foolish errands. Emma never believed in that though. She found it unkind and unnecessary.

“To be honest, it was hard to convince Doctor Jones to let me bring these,” the intern said, perplexing Emma further while eerily reading her mind. “I had to offer about a half dozen times. My shift was ending, you see, and I’ve been looking for a way to thank Doctor Jones since he got here. You know he created extra hours in the ER skills lab? He’s working with first years too. We get very little access usually, because the third years are prepping for exams and stuff, but he convinced Doctor Nolan to extend the hours. He’s even hosting classes himself. Cool right?”

“Very cool,” Emma said with a nod, and another smile. She breathed out a sigh of relief, genuinely happy to realize this man she’d been thinking of was good to others. It also made accepting this thoughtful gift so much easier.

From there, Caleb said goodbye, heading out for whatever interns did with down time these days. Oh, who was she kidding? Sleeping. That’s what she’d done, and no doubt that was what all interns still wanted most of all. Emma though, felt more awake now than she had in a long while. She found a quiet corner in one of the corridors leading to the cardio unit and took a seat, opening the box away from prying eyes.

Inside the box there were six different types of what looked like origami flowers. They were beautiful and delicate, and she wondered where he could have bought them. Only when she opened the note did she realize the truth.

Emma,

As you know, I’ve been away for quite a while, out in the field in a completely different world. In the desert there’s not really that much to do, except survive and keep as many of your people as well as you can. The downtime is long and hot and quiet. I picked up these tricks from a fellow soldier. It kept my hands at the ready and my mind clear, and there’s an honest beauty in them that reminds me of you.

Truth be told, there’s a flower for each time I’ve tried to catch you at the coffee cart since our meeting. Clearly my missions have been unsuccessful, so this calls for a change in tactics…

Emma smiled at the thoughtfulness and felt the pull of butterflies low in her chest. He thought she was beautiful, and he said it without fear. Had a man ever said so much? Had it ever mattered? Certainly not like it did now. Reading on, Emma laughed at the lightheartedness of the note and the bit of cheeky humor that accompanied it. His easygoing candor and transparency enchanted her, drawing her in even more than she already was. Then she memorized the time and place he suggested that they meet at the bottom of the page, knowing nothing and no one was going to keep her from this meeting.

Only after reading through his handwritten thoughts three or four times did she realize an added layer of perfection: these flowers weren’t just handmade and crafted with intention. They were also safe for her to take with her to her ward of the hospital. Being in and out of the ICU and cardiac units, Emma couldn’t bring real flowers into her offices without putting some patients at risk, but she could have these. From within the box she selected a bright yellow blossom, beautiful and intricate and folded to perfection. Wordlessly she tucked it away in her pocket. The others were deposited for safe keeping in her office as soon as she arrived back in the East Wing, and displayed on her windowsill, brightening the space.

The hours between the start of her shift and the time she was meant to meet Killian passed by slowly. Her rounds usually distracted her, but not today. While she still gave all due attention to her patients, Emma had that sense in the back of her mind that this afternoon would bring so much more to the forefront. The promise of seeing him again kept her heart pattering faster than it should be, and by the time the clock was minutes from their meeting, she was positively bursting with anticipation.

“Okay, usually I would give you a hard time and pretend to tag along, but even I can’t mess with a smile like that.” Ruby’s words snapped Emma’s focus back to the hallway where she was standing, pretending to read a chart. As she looked to her friend, however, she would never be able to recall what was on the screen in front of her. Ruby grinned when their eyes met. “He gave you the flowers, didn’t he?”

“You knew?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded.

“Yup. Ran into him at the cart a couple of times. He was really starting to piss off the kiosk guy with all his loitering. Had to give him a hundred dollars just to shut him up.”

“He didn’t!”

“No, I wouldn’t let him. I told Boris to shut it unless he wanted a hospital wide nurses strike. Guy knows better than to cross me. He just acts tough for clout.” Emma laughed, knowing her friend truly ran this place in most ways. But then the apprehension of the moment caught up to her again, and Emma’s brow furrowed in worry. “Oh no you don’t. No doubting this, Ems. I’ve vetted this guy. Run all the background, checked all the sources. He’s a good one, a one in a million, needle in a haystack, diamond in the rough kind of man. And, to top it all off, he’s crazy about you.”

“You think?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded.

“I know, but that’s all I’m saying. Let Killian speak for himself, okay? And, even though it’s hard, try and trust this.”

“I think I already do,” Emma whispered. “Trust him, I mean. But that’s crazy, right?”

“Love tends to be that way.”

“Ruby.”

“Emma,” her friend parroted, taking her hand and squeezing gently. “Just go for it. Go for it and see for yourself.”

With a nod, and the validation that she needed to hear from a trusted friend, Emma headed off. It felt natural and expected to make her way towards the center of the hospital once more. This time though, she passed the coffee cart, with only a fleeting glance. Killian wasn’t meeting her there today. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure where they were meeting. She followed the directions he’d given her, up a few more flights of stairs and through the wing with pediatric patients and newborns. She had been here many times before, for consults and comfort. It was a draw here in the hospital – the cuteness of babies just starting their journeys in the new world. Emma looked at them today, noticing the vibrancy inside the nursery, but didn’t linger. Instead, she followed the last of the route that Killian had given her and ended up somewhere she’d never been before. A place that must have just finished being renovated.

“Wow,” Emma whispered, walking into the sunlight on the open terrace.

With the glass surroundings and the plant life everywhere, this place was beautiful. There were pergolas and hanging vines, topiaries and flowering plants, daffodils and tulips, all breathing in the spring. It felt like a park, floating in the air, with the sounds of the city barely audible below. Emma could imagine the kids and the families who would come here someday. She hoped it would be a space for them to find some peace and happiness while staying in this unfamiliar and often stressful place. Hospitals were rarely any fun for patients, necessary as they may be, but this space was beautiful enough to distract from that.

“You made it, love.” The deep rumble of that familiar voice sent a shiver through Emma’s whole body. She cast a glance over her shoulder, finding Killian, leaning against the stone façade of the building behind them. In his hands were two coffees, and as he moved towards her, he offered her one with a boyish smile. “This is for you. Didn’t want you missing a routine caffeine fix for my sake.”

“Thank you,” Emma said automatically, feeling his fingers brush across hers, sending a zing of awareness through her. Her eyes flashed up to his, and she knew he felt it too. Suddenly she had no want or need for this coffee. She cleared her throat slightly before continuing on. “Where exactly are we? And how, might I ask, does the new guy know about it before I do?”

“It’s the Hubbard Family Wellness Gardens, gifted by one of the hospital’s most loyal benefactors” he said, full of knowledge. Emma was shocked that he actually knew what this place would be but then he smiled, gesturing to the plaque bearing that information. She bit back a laugh. “And as for how I found it, that’s easy. I never leave well enough alone, and I’m curious by nature. I’ve been nearly everywhere in the hospital now, but this place seemed the best for what comes next.”

“What comes next?” Emma asked, her voice hitching up as she repeated the words.

“Aye,” Killian murmured, his tone dipping sensually low. She swallowed harshly as he entered into her space, and he tracked the motion. She felt the heat of his closeness, and caught his scent in the air, clean, and male, and with a hint of spice.

“I’m afraid I didn’t think this through,” he said, close enough to kiss her. God, how she wished he would kiss her. Emma vocalized her first thought.

“Really? I did. Like a lot.”

His smirk told her she’d said that aloud even though she never meant to, but before she could react, he took hold of her cup once more.

“I meant these,” he gestured to the coffee in her hand. Oh, right. “May I, love?”

Emma nodded, and shakily let go of the cup she forgot she was holding. With deft hands, Killian placed their drinks back on a table beside them with far more poise than she could muster at the moment. When that was done, he stepped towards her again, looking at her with a glint in his blue eyes that made her heart skip. His hands came to her body, one to her hip, the other to cup her cheek. The rightness washed over her, and so did the realization that none of her dreams could actually prepare her for real intimacy with Killian Jones.

“Last time we spoke I intended to ask you something. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from wanting this so badly. Without thinking, she wet her lips, and he caught the action, letting out a groan that mixed pain with passion and pleasure. Then he cursed, a totally British ‘bloody hell’ falling past his lips before dipping his mouth to hers and giving them both a taste of temptation.

The kiss was… beyond incredible, but Emma was so deep in it she had no ability to comprehend anything at all. She was consumed with the moment, arching against Killian, feeling the silky strands of his dark hair and the scruff of his beard. His kiss was assured and passionate, dominant and indulgent all at once. She succumbed to the sensations, and let the rightness surge within her, not caring at all that they were outside or at work or that they’d just met. Instinct took over, and her gut, which Emma had always trusted, was telling her that this man was even more than she imagined, and someone she should choose to let in.

Pulling back from the kiss, Emma and Killian stayed close, and Emma took stock of all the places they were touching. His hold on her was firm but caring, like she was precious, and he wouldn’t let her slip away. In his eyes she saw so much emotion, and again she was struck by his transparency and trust. He wasn’t shying away from her or the moment. He was in the depths of desire with her, and their kiss, that perfect, sexy as all hell kiss, had left him tongue tied. The quiet wasn’t awkward, but assuring, and Emma felt secure here, safe even, while also being filled with more unknown wonder than she’d ever been before. Like someone at the start of a glorious adventure, she took a next step born of passion and hope.

“I’m off at six tonight… so, you want to pick me up at seven thirty?” she asked, referencing a date he hadn’t actually asked her out on. She feigned ignorance even though she could read him like a book. “Unless you were going to ask me something else…”

His hold on her tightened, and he shook his head immediately. She was right. He wanted a date – and she saw no reason to wait when she wanted one just as badly. She grinned at him, loving how the tables had turned. This time he swallowed harshly, and she was oh so tempted to kiss him again and see if he’d stay shy or rise to her challenge.

“It’s a date, Swan,” he said dazedly.

Emma hummed out her agreement, going in for one last fleeting kiss. But where she meant to only tease, he took the reins again, kissing her senseless and leaving her breathless when they finally broke apart. Only when her pager beeped with an incoming call did they end their inevitable interlude, and as they did, Emma felt a pang of longing, wishing this moment could last so much longer than this.

“Tonight, love,” he whispered, running his thumb against her lips. “Far away as it may seem, I promise the wait will be worth it.”

“Good,” she replied, nipping his thumb ever so softly, and bringing the fire back in his eyes, before taking a step back. And with that, and just enough presence of mind to grab her coffee, Emma headed off, back through the hospital to the work that awaited her, knowing she could and would get through anything today for the promise of tonight.

Post-Note: Ah!! Finally!! I got the words on the page!! I did the thing!! I wrote the story!! And honestly, it’s such a relief. It felt, at some points, like I may never get this chapter written, but finally today it came. I know many of you were waiting, and I cherished every comment and review and message along the way. I hope all of you who wrote me, and those who read along with chapter one, all enjoy this installation. I write these stories for me and to brighten my world ever so slightly, but also in the hopes that they’ll spark joy for others too. In a time like this, a little joy goes an awful long way. Anyway, thank you all for reading, sending you the best, and hope you’ll join me next time for the final chapter of this CS AU! xE

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jaysevhls · 4 years

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Here, With You | Kelly Severide

Summary: You're a firefighter at Firehouse 51. You are a member of Truck 81. At the call you got injured with Kelly, your fiance.

Pairing: Kelly Severide x Reader.

Warnings: Injures, accident.

Author's note: It's pretty long one?? Requests are open.

Firehouse 51. The most loving, caring and knowing firehouse in Chicago you can say. Working here was the best part of your life, including your relationship with lieutenant Kelly. Those years you have been working there were just amazing as you can tell.

Day started as usual, no calls, most of the squad and truck, hanging out in the break room. The atmosphere was clear, fortunately there were no dramas that day.

You made your walk through the kitches, it was your day at cooking, which you loved. Everyone in 51 knew your hobby and passion, that's why Herrmann decided to give you a part time job at Molly's. There was something about this place, the whole idea, people CPD, CFD and Med were there almost every night, trying their favorite drinks, your food and just spending time with colleagues, closest friends and loves.

That's where you and Kelly made a step in your friendship. You met 7 years ago, when you started working at 51 as paramedic. It was only a temporary, since you knew that your dream job is being a firefighter. Your childhood was mostly based on making a fake fire, smoke, because you loved when you could help your mom or any member from your family when it was a fire in the house, not real of course. And the day came. After 1 year being in Ambo 61 with your best friend, Gabby, it was your time to shine. You joined the academy with her, which only made things better for you and your friendship. You graduated and since then, you're an official member of Truck 81. You loved your job.

Kelly was always around you. Since he and Gabby lost Leslie, he felt like he need to make a promise. He promised himself that no matter what, he will always protect you. Since he first saw you, the look in your eyes wes telling him that you need someone by your side. And that's when it all started. At the beginning it was simple. He cared about you a lot, he always asked you after a call if everything is alright, if you need anything, which made you feel loved. You missed that feeling.

One night at Molly's things went too far you can say. It was a day before your birthday, so you wanted to have fun. A lot of fun. You invited all your colleagues and of course Kelly. For couple of days at this time he was so nervous, acting weird around you, so you thought he need some relax and fun. It was a good time occasion.

"Hey, you want another?" Herrmann asked you. To be honest, it was a very difficult job to make you drunk, so you ordered next one. And next. And couple more.

"I think you had enough Y/N" Kelly took the beer from your hand, laughing at your actions.

"No, no, no Kelly. Definitely no. You need to have more, you need to have fun, pleaseeee! It's like the first time in year when we actually can drink more, because there's no work tomorrow" you took it back and drink almost half of it.

"Ok. But you're not getting drunk here alone. Let's go to my place, I have your favorite wine and beer." as he finished, you were already in his arms. His hand on your waist, making your way through the exit. You really wanted to go there by your own, but it was too much.

"See, I could go alone Kelly. You don't need to check on me when we're not in work." you smirked.

"That's the point my love. I'll care about you till the end of world and one day after." you look at him confused. Did he just called you his love? Or was it just your imagination witch damage after too many beers.

"And who had too much alcohol tonight Kelly?" he didn't respond.

The ride was wild you can say. He decided to take a longer way, because he wanted you to feel a little bit better, to wipe that alcohol out of your system. You sang your favorite songs, which made him laugh. He loved your voice, even drunk.

That night was memorable. He kissed you out of the blow, but you enjoyed it. You wanted that for so long. The priority was to remember about that night, even half of it and you did it. Couple of more nights like this, dates, drinks at Molly's.

And there you are. Engaged to your best friend. Your soulmate, a better half.

"Y/N? Can we speak in private?" he asked. You just finished cooking when you saw Kelly, walking to you with something in his hand.

"What have I done this time?" you laughed, joining him in his office.

"Why didn't you tell me about the meeting with my father? Are you out of your mind?" so that was the problem. You looked at him and sighed.

"I didn't mean to- I wanted to tell you, but it was already too late. He asked me to meet him few days ago and I thought that will be the best opportunity to invite him to our wedding. It's your dad Kelly"

"And why now he is trying to reach me by the mails, calls and even letters? I told you that I'll speak to him in right time!" that conversation went definitely too far you felt.

"Enough Kelly! I just wanted to do something good, to invite your damn father to see his son at the end of the aisle, because it's a one time thing and you're making me feel guilty about this? You know I didn't mean to hurt you, but you-"

"Truck 81, Engine 51, Squad 3, Ambo 61, Battalion 25 the old-" you didn't need to listen the rest. You went out of his office and made your way to the Truck.

After few minutes, all of the members of 51 were on the scene. It was a big fire at the old factory.

"Y/L/N, Borrelli, with me" Casey yelled. You masked up before you went in. You know that it was to difficult to handle that fire with only one firehouse, so when you heard Boden voice, calling for backup, you sighed in relief. Now, the only thing you needed to focus at, was to get as many people as you can and walk them out of this place.

You took 2 womens with you, it wasn't that bad you thought. When you came back, the smoke was dark and you couldn't see anything. You made few steps in the right.

"Fire department, call out!" you yelled. Casey was right behind you, saying that he's going to the left. Before, you heard few screams, that's why you decided to go back in there and find those people. They still could be alive.

"H-help!" you heard. You made your way to a women, who was trapped. She had a really bad head injury. You knew it was her final call.

"Hey, you're gonna be okay. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere!" you told her and kneeled in front of her. You took her hand and she looked at you. Then she closed her eyes.

Checking her pulse, you felt a sharp pain at your shoulder. You hit yourself when you were standing up.

Your vision get blurred more than it already was. You took your mask off to see if there's anyone else, or Casey, to reach his help. It was your biggest mistake. Unfortunately, your mask fell out of your hands and broke.

"Mayday, Mayday! I need some help in block C! My mask is destroyed, I'm out of my oxygen." you coughed.

Kelly was already outside, looking out for you. When he heard your voice, his heart just broke.

"Chief, I'll go!" he yelled. He didn't even wait for a response, he just stormed out to that building.

He was looking out for you for almost 3 minutes, which was a long way, when you are dealing with fire, smoke and no oxygen. When he found you, he thought it was too late. You were laying, coughing, in pretty bad shape.

"Hey! Y/N! Come on, we need to get out of here!"

"I- I can't Kelly, I- My leg, is trapped." he looked down at your body, searching for an injuries. You were right, your leg was trapped and he knew that he'll need more help.

"Breath baby, just keep breathing, everything is going to be alright" he kneeled at your side and gave you his mask.

"What a funny story" you coughed. "I just said those words to a woman and she died" you cried. The pain was awful, you felt this sharp pain at your shoulder, your chest was getting heavier and the leg wasn't helping. The only thing what was keeping you alive was the water, streaming on your side.

"You're not dying, you hear me? Don't you dare die on me" he was trying to pull you out, but when he realised that he can't do it, he immediately called for backup.

"What is that?" you asked. Something was making noises and you couldn't focus on what is causing it.

"Oh god no. No, no, no! My oxygen is out, shit!" he yelled. "Chief, where is the backup, my oxygen is out, we don't have much time!"

"Kelly, hey, look at me." you whispered. He was so scared, like never.

"We're gonna be fine, just please breath" he cried. You took his hand and kissed it. He lied down, to get closer to water. Now, you were face to face.

"I love you Kelly. They were right about "Till the death do us apart", they were so right"

"Shut up Y/N, we didn't even get a chance to say those words yet." he nervously laughed. "You're gonna be fine and you'll say it to me in the church, in this beautiful white dress, you hear me? They're coming and they'll find us."

You were out of you breath, laying there unconscious, Kelly was holding your hand with eyes closed.

"Y/N? Hey, Y/N?" he immediately stood up and check out your pulse. There was no pulse. "No, no, no, c'mon Y/N, you can't leave me!" he was yelling.

"Y/L/N! Severide! Call out!" it was Casey. They found you.

"In here, we need get her out of here, she's not breathing" Casey took you by your legs and Severide by hands. They were almost running with you in their arms. Brett and Dawson were ready to take you from them.

"Start compressions." Gabby said. He felt like his whole world was falling apart. Casey was holding him by his arm, to make sure he won't fall. "Okay, we got the pulse, we're going to Med. Severide?" Brett asked.

"Yeah, I'm going with you." he wiped off his face from tears. You needed to be alright.

•

It's been almost 5 hours since they brought you to Med. Whole 51 was sitting in waiting room with Kelly to help him get through this time and to get news about you.

"Any family member of Y/N Y/L/N?" the nurse asked.

"I'm her fiance" he answered.

"Doctor Will Halstead is waiting for you" he followed her into break room. He was so scared to hear news about you.

"Hey, Kelly. I'm so sorry about what happened, are you okay?" he hugged him.

"Hey, yeah. I'm good. They give ne oxygen, took my blood for some tests, everything is good, my lungs are clear. How's Y/N, please tell me she's okay?"

"She's stable. She had a surgery for her open break in the leg, but everything is okay now. We're giving her oxygen and for now, we're keeping her in coma."

"But- but she wasn't breathing for couple of minutes, is there any chance that it caused something?"

"It's hard to say Kelly. We need to wait till she wakes up" he gave him a weak smile. "You can go and see her, I'll tell your team about her condition."

There you were. Laying in bed, unconscious, but alive. You were so strong, Kelly knew that. You showed him this so many times, but today it was something different. He almost lost you and it almost killed him.

"I'm so sorry Y/N. This shouldn't have happened to you. I love you baby and I'll always be by your side." he cried in his hands.

"I know you will" this whispered make his heart stop.

"You're awake, baby. I love you so much, this argument shouldn't have happened, it's all my fault"

"Shhh, can you? Can you just lay here with me? he stood up and layed by her side. Just the two of them, reunited. Full of love.

#kelly severide x reader #kelly severide imagine #kelly severide imagines #kelly severide #chicago fire #chicago fire imagines #chicago fire imagine #one chicago

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gwaciechang · 3 years

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I Don't Wanna Go Home (1/15?)

So, this is probably going to be my most ambitious project ever. I'm going to do a fusion of the video gave Subnautica Below Zero, with the characters from Cloverfield Paradox. You don't have to have played Below Zero first, although it would certainly help. Also, as someone who has played the game, I tried my best to explain everything, which is why the first few chapters are going to be really slow, and why everyone talks so much. I also made a change to the canon of the first Subnautica: instead of Riley curing Kharaa, it was the precursors.

So, a few more things before we start this chapter. I hate "y/n l/n" stuff, so I just call the pov character Ling Tam. I don't think anybody actually uses that name in the story, but that might change, and in any case, you're free to replace her name with any name you like. Also, reader is in a relationship with Mundy at the start of the story, although that, obviously, won't last because it's endgame reader/Schmidt. Okay, that's everything, enjoy, and let me know if you want to be tagged.

@hope-to-hell @vicanth @feralrunaway @october505 @potentialproblem01

"Hey, Monk, you told me to come get you if that weird signal showed up ag-" you stop when you see the vehicle technician on the radio.

"When are you going to send me some more art? There's still a patch of bare wall here that could use some color and a touch of genius!" Monk says, probably to his kids, as he waves you away. You close the door as silently as you can, and not a second too soon, because Mundy opens the habitat door and stomps his way inside with a box. Behind him, you can see the prawn suit, with several other boxes still tied to its massive arms. There's an inquisitive face popping out of the water that you decide not to tell him about. Why shouldn't the creatures have a little fun?

"Another day, another slight by the winged furies," Mundy grumbles.

"Another interference alert?" you ask, trying to lay the sympathy on thick before you inevitably burst into laughter.

"As usual," the xenobiologist sighs theatrically. "Also as usual, I went out to see what the problem was. And, of course, it was-"

"Frozen stalagmites of feathered bird excrement," the two of you say together.

"I fear the career impact of saying this officially-"

"If you can even call what you have a career," you interrupt, getting yourself a faceful of dirty towel.

Besides throwing the thing you're really hoping he hadn't just used to wipe up bird shit in your face, your boyfriend continues as if you'd never spoken. "I could swear they're targeting me personally. The week I was out with a flu, I came back to find the tower spotless. Monk laughed at me when I asked him how he'd cleaned it. Silly me!"

"As if Monk would ever clean anything," you agree. "What are you going to do?"

"There's nothing left for me to try but quitting. But I know that's what the birds want me to do," he shakes his fist at the sky as he walks back outside to retrieve the final box.

You turn back to the screen and wonder about the signal again. It's been appearing on and off for days, ever since you got the radio tower up and running, and what would a repeat call be besides a distress signal?

"Ah jeez, these sea monkeys are going to get me in trouble," the box in Mundy's hands is scratched through in places. "This is the third shipment that those buggers have gotten their weird little hands into! Now we're running low on flares and I'm going to have to search nearby nests for stolen cargo," he sighs as he drops a mangled box on the top of his cluttered workstation. It makes a bang that would have disturbed Monk, if he weren't on the radio, or Schmidt, if he were a normal person who came back from work at normal hours. As it is, there's just you to look at him, a welcome break from potential distress signals and what they might mean.

"Just put some of your drawings on the tower, they'll be too scared to go near it!"

"Ha ha," Mundy says sarcastically, before going outside to park the prawn-

"Oh, for fuck's sake! It’s fucking gone!"

You and Monk, still on the radio, step outside, but sure enough, the prawn suit has disappeared without a trace, as far as you can tell.

"I'm still trying, quietly--I don't want any more trouble--to figure out where I went wrong. I was sure Tam had picked up a distress signal!" Monk bends down to peer at the tracks. "I was right on top of it. And then it just," he gets to the edge of the glacier, stands up, and shakes his head, "it just stopped. What if one of the precursors is still down there? And how could a hivemind alien race so advanced that they singlehandedly ended a galaxy wide pandemic leave someone behind? I'll probably be home before I ever get to find out, and it will fall to some future researcher to come and find out, I guess, I hope," he waves the two of you back into the habitat and closes the door. "But that means I'll get to be with you little rascals." His voice fades and disappears.

"So, game tonight?" you ask, hoping to erase the distress off Mundy’s face.

"That'd be nice," he says with a weak smile, just before Jensen slams her door open.

"Mundy, inside!" barks the overseer of operations.

Mundy sighs and drags his feet as he walks into Jensen's office. No sooner has she closed the door with a snap than you and Monk have your heads pressed against the door.

"Mundy, I'm not blaming you, but what do you mean, 'it's gone?' Where did it go? You had trouble retrieving the drop pod and decided to jettison the prawn suit?"

"I didn't jettison the prawn suit! I left it outside to put the supply drop away, went back for it, and it was just gone! Someone must have stolen it."

"Who? Who else do you think is on this planet besides the five of us?"

"It could be a creature ate it. I didn't lose it, that's for sure. I'm careful with my vehicles!"

You can practically hear Jensen’s eyeroll as she continues, "I'm sure you are, but you have to admit, there have been a lot of 'accidents' involving our very expensive vehicles."

"You want to follow me on a few runs tomorrow? See what it's like? Conditions are way harsher than anything I ever imagined. You can't really understand it from inside your office!"

Monk winces, and you know there's a matching pained expression on your face. Talking back to Jensen is a terrible idea, but Mundy's sealed his fate, and now all that's left is to wait for the other shoe to drop.

"That won't be necessary," Jensen says with syrupy calm. "Thank you for your time. I'll write it up as an accident."

"Thank you, ma'am," Mundy's voice is shaky. Jensen doesn't respond, so the vehicle technician’s deliberately loud footsteps approach the door, prompting you and the precursor researcher you're spying with to run like your asses are on fire back to your stations.

"I think it'd be best if Researcher Tam takes over your duties with the leviathan tomorrow," Jensen says, loudly enough for you to hear, even through the door.

Now it's your turn to wince. Mundy gives you a small smile as he walks past, and then Jensen's in your line of sight, hands on her hips.

"I believe I told you to go somewhere."

"Yes, ma'am," you drop everything to put your thermal suit on, and pour a final cup of sweet, sweet dirty bean water in your thermos. There's no cappuccino machine allowed in the cave, lest it somehow thaw out the entire frozen leviathan Mundy, and now you, are studying. Or maybe it was just Schmidt being anal about his robots, you wouldn't put it past the guy whose lips are basically permanently attached to Jensen's ass.

On the bright side, they're also attached to a guy who knows what he's doing, and is thorough in explaining what Mundy does when he's here. Still, it's barely five minutes in when the silence gets to you.

"I love and hate exploring these tunnels," you start to babble, not expecting Schmidt to respond. "Yeah, they're marvels to the power of the ice worms. I mean, the amount of ice they are able to cut through in seconds, it would take us at least a couple days. Their tunneling mechanism is ruthlessly efficient. Alterra could only dream of having this sort of mining capability, and yeah, the ice worms uncover mineral rich pockets as they tunnel. But going beneath the surface is so risky, I mean, we've lost so many already, and I don't understand why we have to stay in this particular area of the glacier. I can't wait to get off this hellhole, or ice hole? Whatever."

You can hardly believe it, but you hear a clear snort coming from Schmidt’s workstation. You fill your flasks with a wide smile on your face, which doesn’t fade even when you make your way back across the tunnel to see his with its usual pinched, sour expression.

"Hey, do you want some coffee?" you wave the thermos at him. "It might help you get the taste of Alterra boot leather out of your mouth," you say in a singsong voice.

"How much sugar and cream is in that?" Schmidt wrinkles his nose. "No thank you."

You decide to let that roll off your back and chuckle a little. "I guess my proclivities toward having coffee with my sugar is well known, huh? Just like how I should know better than to invite you to game night with me and the other researchers, again?"

Is snow blindness affecting your vision, or did Schmidt just smile?

"You should know better," he says in a soft voice, and then he takes out another set of small, sterile flasks, and hands them to you. "Get some samples from the skull, too, use the elevator."

"Thanks!" you grab the flasks, only to drop them the second you put your hand on the elevator lift button, because that's a fucking rotten peeper hanging off the edge.

Schmidt snaps his gloves off and cleans it up, which is nice of him, even if the things he says while he does it aren’t very nice. "Mundy," he practically spits, "always leaving food around. At least the nutrient blocks and the filtered water don't spoil."

"Well, the man likes to munch on things," you try to lighten the mood. "Are you telling me you don’t leave snacks around your workstation?" Schmidt opens his mouth, but you interrupt. "Don't tell me, you have a timer telling you when to go to the fabricator to make food and eat?"

He closes his mouth and turns a little red.

Holy shit, you were right? That's the saddest thing you've ever heard. "Okay, you know what, you are definitely playing Alien Intruders with us tonight, because I'm going to cook. Real food, too, none of that fabricated stuff."

"Oh, I am?" Schmidt raises an eyebrow.

"Yep! And I'm going to make my favorite dish, just for you, you'll love it! Roasted Chinese potato with shredded marblemelon and salt."

That was definitely a snort, maybe even a laugh, and it carries you through the rest of the day.

#ernst schmidt x reader

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