#apparently the motion activated light is broken

[bwunnipaws]

the lights in the brewery have been on for like an hr 🕴🏻 not my job to find the light switch buuuut

#apparently the motion activated light is broken #so someone turned the light on and it just. hasnt been turned off #oops lol

[bikerfromthevoid]

Drabble: Corridor

V̴̧̧̛̛͍̜̥̺͎̙̰̖́̆̀̍͊̾̍̾̾̿̓̕͝y̷̨͚͎̰̪̥̪̻̮̱̺̍͆͐̎̆̾̓̀̃̃̂͐͘͘͜ņ̵̟̣̪̺̦̟̭̹̙̦̫̓̄͐͆̍̔̑̈̆́́̽͘n̶̨͍̼̘͔̞͠i̵̼̠̻̲͆̋̈́̏̾͌̕e̸̹̦̼͆́́̌̋̈́̾̍̇

The ren'dorei sat up, no sound in his home save for the staticky hum of the neon lights. He fell back in his bed, but his eyes didn't feel heavy at all, yet they burned, and his throat felt dry. Perhaps all his adventures and projects left him little time for meaningful rest and it was catching up to him...

He stood, pushing himself off the bed to fill a glass of water. It felt strangely quiet that night, even the smack of his bare feet against the stone floor echoed just that bit louder. He hovered over the sink, grabbing a nearby glass and holding it under the faucet, the handle squeaked as he turned it, but nothing came out. Vynnie's brows furrowed, leaning into the sink to look under the spout as if there would be a visible blockage; he smacked the side of the faucet, hoping to dislodge something, yet nothing. "Fucking great..." he sighed. He set the glass on the counter, too tired to deal with broken plumbing. As he stepped back towards his bed, he passed by the giant mirror in his room. His recent incident with that experiment left him wary of the mirror, wary that his ambitions might bring him closer to danger than even he would like. He studied himself in the mirror, looking at the developing bags under his eyes, the mess of hair that none who didn't make it to the morning after who had ever seen. His thoughts began to wander... to life, to work, to Revendreth, to Telogrus, to Kul Tiras, to Quel'thalas. His life had been filled with lots of danger. Thump, thump, thump- His head jerked to the bedroom door. People had knocked on his front door late; vagabonds, wanderers, the like, but none had ever broken in. Swiftly he grabbed his daggers and stood against the wall by the door, waiting for it to open. If the intruder would open the door, he'd take them out. There were whispers. They were soft, incomprehensible. As if someone was talking to themselves? Those lavender eyes caught sight of a shadow, filtering in underneath the door. As he tried to make out the figure, the whispers got louder. The shadow, itself, got bigger, stretching across the length of his room without the door even opening to let light in. Thump. Thump. Thump. The silhouette motioned as if knocking on the door. It began to materialize, features becoming apparent. A face, nose, lips, eyes. The shadow's eyes opened to reveal strained pupils staring right at Vynnie from across the room. Then, small slits of light opened all along the figure's body, staring right at him. His heart raced, sweat forming between his palm and the hilt of the blade he held in a white knuckle grip. He reached for the door handle. Part of him screamed to not open the door, yet he couldn't stop himself. He wasn't fully in control. A hand grabbed the knob, turning it to slowly open the door. It creaked open, letting in light from the hallway that washed away the silhouette stretched across the floor. With a sharp inhale, he pivoted around the edge of the door, holding his dagger at the ready for whatever waited him in the doorway. It was nothing. Literally nothing. No hallway, no light. Just pitch black. A doorway leading nowhere. Vynnie froze, unsure if he should take a step forward, or throw a match through the inky black. Then a hand gripped his shoulder...

L̷͎̰͍̩̤͔̹̯̮͓̀̔̄̓̍̈͝ë̸͈̯̲̫̗̳̲́̈́̓̉̎̈́͆͐̈́̓͋̓͝t̴̛͔̗̹̰̲̟̭́͊͂͗̆́̾͛̏̉͝ ̴̘̙̬͈̘͎̂͌̄̆͋͆̏̀̏̎̿̐̇͘ù̴̡͎̠͎̭̱̻̩̯̝̳̘̣͉̆͆͑̀͛̏͑͑͘͜s̴̡̖̻̭̜̰͍̼̼̦̣̔̀͌̊͗͛̒͒́́̑̉̈̈̃ ̷̨̨̱͖̹̬̗͚͔̝͚̱̰͋͑ͅì̸͇̼̭̠͚̞̱̭̓͑̃̅̾̏̚n̶͈̝͑?̸̡̡̰̟͇̹̻͙̽̒͋̽

The voice sounded like many all in one. The hand on his shoulder was ice cold, actively sucking the warmth from his body where it gripped. His hand still on the knob clenched before he suddenly slammed the door shut. He jolted from his sleep, panting heavily, throat dry. In a panic he looked around his bedroom. Everything was in order. He felt like a child in that moment, afraid to kick his feet over the bed in fear of what might grab them. Yet he did, stumbling out from the covers to the bedroom door and throw it open. Just the cold, darkness of his home. No sound save for the staticky hum of the neon lights and the metronomic pat of water from the faucet hitting the sink. He caught his breath and closed the door softly. Satisfied that it was just a horrible nightmare, he slumped back to bed, pressing on the faucet handle to ensure the dripping water stopped before falling face first into the bed. "Fucking hells..." he yawned. He was too tired to get hung up over a nightmare and lazily pulled the covers back over himself. He drifted back off to sleep and near silence fell over his house again. As the ren'dorei slept, a long shadow stretched over the room. One by one, many eyes opened. Dilated, strained, bloodshot, all looking in the direction of the sleeping void elf.

O̸͔͉̟̳̬̻͔̭͎̮͖͋̓̆̅̀͐̀͒̊̀̕͠ͅǹ̴̩̯͖̪̖̭̣̱̞̳̺̅̎̈́́͘͠ͅe̴͍͊́͑̒́̐͌̋̔̄͊͌̕͝͝ ̷̣̆͐̿ḑ̸̢̧͉͇̺͉͖͙̍͑̈́͗̂͗a̴̧̢̜̱̜̺̠͖̦͖̫͂͌͒̎̊̇͛̚y̴̹͛̉ ((Day 2 of my submission for @daily-writing-challenge using the theme Horror ))

#void elf #daily writing challenge #wow rp #eyes #eldritch

[publicdomainbooks]

CHAPTER 31

THE SEA MONSTER

Wednesday, August 19th. Fortunately the wind, which for the present blows with some violence, has allowed us to escape from the scene of the unparalleled and extraordinary struggle. Hans with his usual imperturbable calm remained at the helm. My uncle, who for a short time had been withdrawn from his absorbing reveries by the novel incidents of this sea fight, fell back again apparently into a brown study. His eyes were fixed impatiently on the widespread ocean.

Our voyage now became monotonous and uniform. Dull as it has become, I have no desire to have it broken by any repetition of the perils and adventures of yesterday.

Thursday, August 20th. The wind is now N. N. E., and blows very irregularly. It has changed to fitful gusts. The temperature is exceedingly high. We are now progressing at the average rate of about ten miles and a half per hour.

About twelve o'clock a distant sound as of thunder fell upon our ears. I make a note of the fact without even venturing a suggestion as to its cause. It was one continued roar as of a sea falling over mighty rocks.

"Far off in the distance," said the Professor dogmatically, "there is some rock or some island against which the sea lashed to fury by the wind, is breaking violently."

Hans, without saying a word, clambered to the top of the mast, but could make out nothing. The ocean was level in every direction as far as the eye could reach.

Three hours passed away without any sign to indicate what might be before us. The sound began to assume that of a mighty cataract.

I expressed my opinion on this point strongly to my uncle. He merely shook his head. I, however, am strongly impressed by a conviction that I am not wrong. Are we advancing towards some mighty waterfall which shall cast us into the abyss? Probably this mode of descending into the abyss may be agreeable to the Professor, because it would be something like the vertical descent he is so eager to make. I entertain a very different opinion.

Whatever be the truth, it is certain that not many leagues distant there must be some very extraordinary phenomenon, for as we advance the roar becomes something mighty and stupendous. Is it in the water, or in the air?

I cast hasty glances aloft at the suspended vapors, and I seek to penetrate their mighty depths. But the vault above is tranquil. The clouds, which are now elevated to the very summit, appear utterly still and motionless, and completely lost in the irradiation of electric light. It is necessary, therefore, to seek for the cause of this phenomenon elsewhere.

I examine the horizon, now perfectly calm, pure, and free from all haze. Its aspect still remains unchanged. But if this awful noise proceeds from a cataract—if, so to speak in plain English, this vast interior ocean is precipitated into a lower basin—if these tremendous roars are produced by the noise of falling waters, the current would increase in activity, and its increasing swiftness would give me some idea of the extent of the peril with which we are menaced. I consult the current. It simply does not exist: there is no such thing. An empty bottle cast into the water lies to leeward without motion.

About four o'clock Hans rises, clambers up the mast, and reaches the truck itself. From this elevated position his looks are cast around. They take in a vast circumference of the ocean. At last, his eyes remain fixed. His face expresses no astonishment, but his eyes slightly dilate.

"He has seen something at last," cried my uncle.

"I think so," I replied.

Hans came down, stood beside us, and pointed with his right hand to the south.

"Der nere," he said.

"There," replied my uncle.

And seizing his telescope, he looked at it with great attention for about a minute, which to me appeared an age. I knew not what to think or expect.

"Yes, yes," he cried in a tone of considerable surprise, "there it is."

"What?" I asked.

"A tremendous spurt of water rising out of the waves."

"Some other marine monster," I cried, already alarmed.

"Perhaps."

"Then let us steer more to the westward, for we know what we have to expect from antediluvian animals," was my eager reply.

"Go ahead," said my uncle.

I turned towards Hans. Hans was at the tiller steering with his usual imperturbable calm.

Nevertheless, if from the distance which separated us from this creature, a distance which must be estimated at not less than a dozen leagues, one could see the column of water spurting from the blow-hole of the great animal, his dimensions must be something preternatural. To fly is, therefore, the course to be suggested by ordinary prudence. But we have not come into that part of the world to be prudent. Such is my uncle's determination.

We, accordingly, continued to advance. The nearer we come, the loftier is the spouting water. What monster can fill himself with such huge volumes of water, and then unceasingly spout them out in such lofty jets?

At eight o'clock in the evening, reckoning as above ground, where there is day and night, we are not more than two leagues from the mighty beast. Its long, black, enormous, mountainous body, lies on the top of the water like an island. But then sailors have been said to have gone ashore on sleeping whales, mistaking them for land. Is it illusion, or is it fear? Its length cannot be less than a thousand fathoms. What, then, is this cetaceous monster of which no Cuvier ever thought?

It is quite motionless and presents the appearance of sleep. The sea seems unable to lift him upwards; it is rather the waves which break on his huge and gigantic frame. The waterspout, rising to a height of five hundred feet, breaks in spray with a dull, sullen roar.

We advance, like senseless lunatics, towards this mighty mass.

I honestly confess that I was abjectly afraid. I declared that I would go no farther. I threatened in my terror to cut the sheet of the sail. I attacked the Professor with considerable acrimony, calling him foolhardy, mad, I know not what. He made no answer.

Suddenly the imperturbable Hans once more pointed his finger to the menacing object:

"Holme!"

"An island!" cried my uncle.

"An island?" I replied, shrugging my shoulders at this poor attempt at deception.

"Of course it is," cried my uncle, bursting into a loud and joyous laugh.

"But the waterspout?"

"Geyser," said Hans.

"Yes, of course—a geyser," replied my uncle, still laughing, "a geyser like those common in Iceland. Jets like this are the great wonders of the country."

At first I would not allow that I had been so grossly deceived. What could be more ridiculous than to have taken an island for a marine monster? But kick as one may, one must yield to evidence, and I was finally convinced of my error. It was nothing, after all, but a natural phenomenon.

As we approached nearer and nearer, the dimensions of the liquid sheaf of waters became truly grand and stupendous. The island had, at a distance, presented the appearance of an enormous whale, whose head rose high above the waters. The geyser, a word the Icelanders pronounce geysir, and which signifies fury, rose majestically from its summit. Dull detonations are heard every now and then, and the enormous jet, taken as it were with sudden fury, shakes its plume of vapor, and bounds into the first layer of the clouds. It is alone. Neither spurts of vapor nor hot springs surround it, and the whole volcanic power of that region is concentrated in one sublime column. The rays of electric light mix with this dazzling sheaf, every drop as it falls assuming the prismatic colors of the rainbow.

"Let us go on shore," said the Professor, after some minutes of silence.

It is necessary, however, to take great precaution, in order to avoid the weight of falling waters, which would cause the raft to founder in an instant. Hans, however, steers admirably, and brings us to the other extremity of the island.

I was the first to leap on the rock. My uncle followed, while the eider-duck hunter remained still, like a man above any childish sources of astonishment. We were now walking on granite mixed with siliceous sandstone; the soil shivered under our feet like the sides of boilers in which over-heated steam is forcibly confined. It is burning. We soon came in sight of the little central basin from which rose the geyser. I plunged a thermometer into the water which ran bubbling from the centre, and it marked a heat of a hundred and sixty-three degrees!

This water, therefore, came from some place where the heat was intense. This was singularly in contradiction with the theories of Professor Hardwigg. I could not help telling him my opinion on the subject.

"Well," said he sharply, "and what does this prove against my doctrine?"

"Nothing," replied I dryly, seeing that I was running my head against a foregone conclusion.

Nevertheless, I am compelled to confess that until now we have been most remarkably fortunate, and that this voyage is being accomplished in most favorable conditions of temperature; but it appears evident, in fact, certain, that we shall sooner or later arrive at one of those regions where the central heat will reach its utmost limits, and will go far beyond all the possible gradations of thermometers.

Visions of the Hades of the ancients, believed to be in the centre of the earth, floated through my imagination.

We shall, however, see what we shall see. That is the Professor's favorite phrase now. Having christened the volcanic island by the name of his nephew, the leader of the expedition turned away and gave the signal for embarkation.

I stood still, however, for some minutes, gazing upon the magnificent geyser. I soon was able to perceive that the upward tendency of the water was irregular; now it diminished in intensity, and then, suddenly, it regained new vigor, which I attributed to the variation of the pressure of the accumulated vapors in its reservoir.

At last we took our departure, going carefully round the projecting, and rather dangerous, rocks of the southern side. Hans had taken advantage of this brief halt to repair the raft.

Before we took our final departure from the island, however, I made some observations to calculate the distance we had gone over, and I put them down in my journal. Since we left Port Gretchen, we had traveled two hundred and seventy leagues—more than eight hundred miles—on this great inland sea; we were, therefore, six hundred and twenty leagues from Iceland, and exactly under England.

#A Journey to the Centre of the Earth

[ruebensportraits1]

Drawing and Painting From Photos - It Can Be a Trap

In an earlier discussion on drawing the determine, I noted the uneasiness that human beings feel while viewing artwork achieved by using a person who has ignored the take a look at of Anatomical Drawing. People know whilst a person or animal has been rendered incorrectly, despite the fact that they couldn't say precisely why it appears incorrect.

This is why I urge you now not to apply such aids as projectors till you're very well familiar with the structure of the frame. Without that, you can so without difficulty fall into the trap of copying a deceptive image. To illustrate that point, look inside the sports activities segment of your newspaper any day and you'll see an picture of a honestly gifted racehorse passing the put up on one or extra apparently broken legs!

We accept that oil paintings from pictures without thinking about it, because we take delivery of that the Camera Does Not Lie. Because, deep down, we apprehend the horse can't be going for walks on damaged legs. Copy it onto your canvas although and all you'll hear from visitors is: 'But it simply does not look proper, one way or the other.' And regardless of how you protest that it's simply how the horse regarded inside the picture, you won't persuade them.

The explanation lies within the limitations of the digital camera lens. Briefly, it could record only the image supplied on the immediately the shutter closes, with all of the distortions of shade and shape caused by perspective, lighting fixtures and so forth. Our eye works the same manner, but at the back of it we've got the advantage of a mind, which can edit those distortions.

This is likewise your job as an artist, whilst operating from images. And you may soon discover that any artist who says s/he can paint kids, or animals in motion - as it should be and in a naturalistic manner - without the assist of snap shots, is self-deluded or virtually a liar. Any projector device can handiest re-produce the image the camera captured, along side its errors. So, don't be seduced with the aid of the ones aids till you have given your self a hazard to actually know how the frame works.

[bumblesimagines]

Little Loomis

Part 11

Request: Yes or No

~~~

“Luckily, nothing is broken or fractured. You’ll be feeling sore for the following week and you’ll most likely develop bruising. Some pain meds and ice packs should help with the pain. If the pain continues or worsens, you should come back to get it checked out. If you experience anything odd regarding your health that you believe may have to do with the fall, get it checked out just to be sure.” The doctor advised, tapping his clipboard with his pen. 

“Thank you, doc.” Sidney thanked him, picking up her purse and looping her arm around yours. You slid off the bed and stepped out of the room, turning to face Rebecca.

“Ooh, yeah, you don’t look so good.” Rebecca winced. Her sympathy was quickly replaced with excitement as she turned to look at Sidney with a wide smile. 

“Long story short, Randal wants to lock you in for three more books.” Rebecca raised a sheet of paper. “See the line in your contract? You can name your price! As soon as you’re both cleared for this investigation, we’re on the next plane to New York. I can book-”

“Did you read my book?” Sidney asked. Rebecca sheepishly smiled and shook her head.

“Thought I’d wait for the movie.”

“Book tour’s over.” Sidney sighed but before you could move, Rebecca tugged you both back into the room. You held back the urge to groan and complain, pressing your lips into a line and praying Rebecca would get it over with quickly.

“You’re a victim. For life. So, embrace it! Use it. I know you care about your readers. All those little sad readers who need a light at the end of their tunnel so they don’t jump off a bridge. And a lucky break like this? I’m talking a hundred percent increase in sales. A million more people get your message and you get a million more paychecks. Win-win.” 

“You really just spewed all that and didn’t even think about it, huh? We’ve got a Gale Weathers in the making.” Your words made the publicist perk up. “That was an insult.” 

“We won’t be needing you anymore.” Sidney stated, taking a step back and holding onto your arm as she walked down the hall. “You’re fired!”

“Fired?”

“Fired.” She called over her shoulder, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. You pulled her closer and kissed her temple, feeling the irritation rolling off her in waves. 

“Kate and Jill are waiting for us in the back. Dewey’s keeping all the attention at the front so we’ll have time to slip out and head back. Gale also mentioned she wants us to meet up with some of Jills friends who are part of some club? Apparently, they might be helpful in the investigation.” Sidney told you, looking through the texts on her phone. 

“Club? We’re-”

“Going back to the school? Yeah.”

↣ ↣ ↣

“Okay, Cinema Club, we are now in session. We’ll tell you a little bit about ourselves. We are a sectioned afterschool activity and let me just say to our guests, Sidney Prescott and (Y/N) Loomis, it’s an honor. Congrats on the engagement and sorry to hear about your back, (Y/N).”

“It’s called getting old.” You responded, hearing chuckles spread around the room before the students began clapping as you and Sidney stood up. Being back in the school brought back unwanted memories but seeing the more loner type students getting together was nice. You would’ve loved to be part of a club where you felt accepted.

“Uhm, you record your whole high school experience and post it on the net?” Sidney asked, motioning to the camera Robbie wore on his headset. Robbie nodded, leaning back against the desk.

“Everyone will be doing it one day, Sid.” 

“It’s kind of the one component the killer is missing.” Charlie shrugged lightly. Gale pushed herself off the counter and stepped forward.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you want to be the new new version. The killer should be filming the murders.” Charlie explained with a shrug. 

“It’s like the next step in a psycho elevation. I mean, you film them all in real time and before you get caught, you upload them into the net.”

“Making your art as immortal as you.” Charlie added to Robbie's’ words, turning to look at you and Sidney. Sidney shifted in her seat, glancing at you before clearing her throat.

“So, who do you think could be behind the murders?”

“Well, a Stab fanatic, clearly. Working on less than another part of the movie and more of a remake. Cause all there are now are remakes. There are still rules but the rules haven’t changed.” While Charlie went on his rant, Kirby caught your attention, raising her phone to show that Robbie was recording. You nudged Sidney and nodded towards Kirby. Sidney turned her attention onto Robbie, watching him walk around the room before he returned to his spot beside Charlie.

“In fact, the only way to survive a modern horror movie.. You pretty much have to be gay.” Charlie finished, glancing at Robbie when he moved away from him. 

“Then why are you so sure the killer is working by the rules of a remake?” Gale asked.

“Well, two kids killed in a house when their parents are away? And then the schools hot chick is ravaged beyond recognition.” 

“And then a party.” Sidney finished. Charlie nodded with a smile, glancing at Robbie who was up and walking around again. 

“Fingers crossed for some nudity for a change.” Robbie just kept digging himself a deeper grave. Despite the situation, his words got a few chuckles through the gathered students. Gale got closer to Charlie.

“Do you know any parties going on today?”

“Well, there’s Stabathon.” You scoffed softly and stood up, standing behind Sidney and wrapping your arm around her waist. 

“Stabathon is a movie marathon where we watch the movies back to back. We do it every year.” Charlies’ gaze flickered between you and the two women. 

“There’s a killer out there patterning his murders after the original movie.”

“Pretty rad, right?”

“You do realize someone’s bound to die at that party, right?” You raised your brows at the two teens. 

“Well, it’s Friday. We definitely won’t be the only party going on.”

“The killer is copying the first movie, they must be a Stab fanatic, and you’re hosting a Stab movie marathon. You get my point?” You looked at Robbie and watched him slink back, giving a small nod.

“Where’s this shit going to happen at?”

“It’s kind of.. an underground scene-” 

“Oh, Jesus.” Gale muttered, walking towards the door with you and Sidney following.

“If the killer is after us, he’ll end up giving us the location of the party. It’s always where the final act takes place.” You pointed out to the two. 

“That’s a given, but we shouldn’t wait around until more innocent kids drop dead.”

“At this point, it’s inevitable, Sidney.” Gale said, opening the front doors and leaving the schools. She went down the stairs and faced you. 

“You two need to focus on surviving. I already bought the dress I’m wearing to your wedding and I plan on using it for that. If there’s no wedding, buying the dress will go to waste.” Gale shrugged and turned around, heading towards her car. 

“Good to know she cares more about a dress than us.” You muttered. Sidney chuckled and she took out the car keys to Kates car, heading down the sidewalk. 

“If it’s a remake.. Who plays me?” 

“Well.. maybe that Charlie kid? Robbie is obviously like Randy.” Sidney pointed out, unlocking the car and getting in. You got in the passenger seat and sighed, looking out the window and watching the school fade from view. 

“If Billy and Stu hadn’t done what they did... You and I would’ve never gotten close.” You turned your head to look at Sidney. She furrowed her brows and shook her head. 

“That’s not true. I always thought we were friends, even when I was dating Billy. You were nicer and kinder. I felt safer around you. With Billy, there was always a feeling of dread.. That one day he might hurt me. I believe we were always meant to find each other, (Y/N). With Billy alive or dead, we would’ve gotten together at some point.” 

“You think so?”

“Of course.” You smiled and looked forward, listening to the soft tune of the radio playing. The drive to the Roberts Residence was peaceful and you entered the house hand in hand with Sidney. You showered before her and sat in the livingroom with a book in hand while Sidney showered. Kate left with the excuse of running errands while Jill stayed in her bedroom. You remained on the couch until night fell, finishing the book and getting up while Sidney entered through the back sliding doors.

“You okay, babe?” You asked after seeing the hard look on her face. She nodded and wrapped her arms around you, resting her head on your chest. 

“I’m just.. on edge.” She replied and leaned back, gently pressing her lips against yours before walking towards the kitchen. “Want some tea?”

“Yeah.” You set your book aside and followed her into the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a bad of grapes. You got out a small bowl and began picking off some grapes, plopping them into the bowl. You heard the sound of the windchimes and paused, turning around to look at Sidney. She looked back at you and reached for a knife, picking it up and slowly walking towards the door. She looked through the window and flinched when Kates’ face came into view, opening the door and letting her aunt in. 

“Just got back from the store.” Kate smiled, setting her bags on the counter. Sidney shut the door and set the knife down. 

“I’ll be right back.” Kate called, leaving through the doors once more. 

“Late night shopping?” You furrowed your brows. Sidney shrugged and began going through the grocery bags, pulling out everything her aunt had bought. You plopped a grape in your mouth and looked towards the house phone, approaching it and answering.

“This is the Roberts Residence, who’s calling?”

“You don’t typically pick up the phone, do you?” You tensed and reached forward to the bowl of fruits, picking out an orange and tossing it at Sidney. She turned around with furrowed brows, lips parting when she noticed your face.

“I have a question for you, Loomis. What good is it surviving all this drama when everyone around you is dead?” 

“Fuck you.”

“Turn on the tv to channel six.” You clenched your jaw and picked up the remote, turning it on and switching to channel six. Sidney turned and faced the tv as the reporter spoke about Gales’ attack. You turned the tv off while Ghostface laughed. Sidney reached forward and took the phone.

“Why are you doing this?” Sidney asked into the phone. Her expression morphed into one of realization and she tossed the phone aside, making a run for the stairs and calling for Jill. 

“Sid! Sid, what the hell is going on?” You called after her, following and standing by the bottom of the stairs. Sidney reappeared, practically gliding down the steps.

“Guys?” Kate called into the house. 

“Jill’s not in her room!” Sidney said, loud enough for Kate to hear. “Call her, please.” She pleaded, watching Kate pull out her phone and call Jill but with no response.

“The killer called and said he’s coming after me but he’s gonna hurt my family first.” Sidney explained, walking towards the door and opening it. You followed only to see the reflection of Ghostface in the windchimes. Sidney shut the door and turned around, ushering Kate towards the front door. Sidney swung it open but another Ghostface rushed towards the door, arm sticking through and preventing the door from shutting. Kate crouched down and pressed her foot against the bottom stair, pushing against the door. You stepped back and rammed your shoulder against the door, the killer quickly removing their arm after. Sidney locked the door and grabbed your hand but you spotted Kates’ wide eyed look and pulled on Sidneys hand. 

“Kate? We have to-” Before you could finish, Kate spat out blood and locked eyes with you. You pulled her forward and watched the knife peeking through the mail box hole disappear.

“Kate! Kate, please.” Sidney crouched down and cradled her aunts body, sniffling and gently resting her corpse against the floor. Sidney took her keys and stood up, taking in gulps of air. 

“Come on, we need to find Jill.” You reminded her, taking the keys and moving towards the backdoors. You stepped outside with Sidney and came face to face with Judy.

“I saw someone coming around the side of the house. Who’s blood is that?” Judy stared at the blood on your shirt. Sidney sniffled and glanced back into the house.

“It’s Kates.” Sidney responded. “We were attacked.”

“Where is she?” Judy asked, following you and Sidney inside. She approached Kates corpse and while she spoke into her radio, you and Sidney slipped out the back doors and got into Kates car, speeding off to her friends place. She pulled up at the large house and ran out to the front door right as Kirby and Jill opened it. 

“We need to go, Jill.” Sidney grabbed her arm and you turned around, coming face to face with Robbie. He collapsed into your arms, his blood smearing on your shirt and arms. You propped him up against the railing to the porch, looking up to see Ghostface. You stood up and pushed the girls back into the house, trying to close the door but he used all his weight against it. 

“Go, now!” You shouted at the girls and pushed Sidney up the stairs, missing one of the steps and feeling the back of your shirt get yanked. The force was enough to pull you back towards the stand holding a vase, the vase falling and shattering against your head. You groaned, seeing a blurry black figure continue up the stairs and after Sidney. You felt blood trickle down from your temple, head spinning. You placed your hands on the floor and pushed yourself up, the shards from the vase digging into the palms of your hands. 

“(Y/N)? Shit, are you okay?” You squinted and looked up at Kirby, stumbling to get up. She let you lean against her and took you towards the basement down, grabbing a rag and gently pressing it against your temple. You heard the distant sound of Sidneys voice and grunted, blinking until your vision finally focused. It did little to help with the raging headache. Sidney suddenly rounded the corner and let out a sigh of relief, arms wrapping around your neck. 

“Into the basement.” Kirby ushered you and Sidney. You held the rag to your temple and carefully went down the stairs, trying to avoid as much noise as possible. Kirby led you and Sidney to a separate room and shut the door behind her, glass doors leading to an outdoor area. Charlie came up to the window, hitting his hand against the door and pleading for Kirby to let him in. 

“Better safe than sorry, Kirby.” You said, leaning back against the wall and tossing the rag aside. Kirby and Charlie went back and forth before the killer came up behind him and slammed his head against the door, dragging him off and turning the outdoor lights off. When they flickered back on, Charlie was tied up on a chair and Kirby's phone was called. Sidney walked back towards you and opened the door, motioning for you to follow. You went up the basement stairs with her and leaned against the wall. 

“Go find Jill and get the hell out of here.” You told her.

“What?”

“I’ll holler if I see the killer and its your cue to get out.” You cradled her face and kissed her forehead before motioning for her to go up the stairs. Sidneys eyes filled with tears but she turned and went up the stairs, disappearing into the hallway. You stumbled back towards the basement and as you rounded the corner, a hand clamped over your mouth and the familiar sensation of being stabbed erupted through your body, the killer stabbing you another time. Your cries were muffled and you were shoved onto the floor with a thud. Tears blurred your vision and with each painful inhale, you accepted death and prayed Sidney made it out. But when you heard her footsteps come down the stairs and her muffled voice hit your ringing ears, you lost hope as your vision went black.

“Happy birthday, Sid.” You cooed, placing the small cake on the table. She giggled and leaned forward, tilting her head as you sat down. You ran your hand over Cherokees’ head, trying to ease your nerves.

“Can I blow them out?”

“Of course.” Sidney bit her bottom lip, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them and blowing out the candles. She reached forward and plucked the candles out, setting them aside and licking the frost off her finger. 

“You want your surprise now or later?” 

“Now.” Sidney smiled and nodded, leaning back in her chair. You licked your lips and nodded, pulling the box out from the chair beside you. You gently pulled the cake aside and set the box infront of her. Sidney opened the box and gasped softly at the maroon dress, hand raising to her lips before resting it over her chest.

“From the store-”

“I saw the way you were looking at it so.. I thought I’d buy it along with something else.” Sidney looked up at you with furrowed brows. You cleared your throat and slid the small box out of your pocket, nudging Cherokee aside and moving onto one knee. Sidneys’ eyes widened, tears welling up in them.

“Will you give me the honor of being your-”

“Yes.” Sidney laughed, pushing her chair back and getting on the floor, arms wrapping around you. 

“Yes, a million times yes!” She sniffled and leaned back, squealing and laughing when Cherokee pushed himself between you and lapped at her face. You smiled, gently pulling the retriever towards you and rubbing his chest before taking her hand and sliding the ring on.

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #x male!reader #scream movie #scream x you #scream x reader #scream #scream x male reader #scream x y/n #sidney prescott x reader #sidney prescott x male reader #sidney prescott x loomis reader #sidney prescott x you #sidney prescott #gale weathers #dewey riley #jill roberts

[ragingbookdragon]

All Secrets Come Out In Good Time

A Bruce Wayne x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 3.6K Warnings: Explicit Language, Angst

Author's Note: I wrote this a long ass time ago, but never posted it to Tumblr, so here's an actual new story! Enjoy! -Thorne

She wondered what life would’ve been like for her had she never signed her contract with Wayne Enterprises. Maybe living retired and off the savings of her modeling career, sipping margaritas at the local beach bar without a care in the world? She huffed as she poured another glass of wine thinking, probably not sitting on my couch with a broken heart. The feelings still lingered, churning slowly into bitterness that made her feel ashamed.

She knew how busy his life was, especially with his nightly activities. But somewhere deep down, she wanted him to give her the real reason behind their departure, instead of the “It’s not you, it’s me” bullshit line he’d given her. Still, the reality of it was thrown in her face, and here she was on her couch, drowning her sorrows in wine he’d bought her.

Her mind lingered on the memories of them, and with those memories, came the questions. Did he actually love her? Did he love her the way she loved him? Did any of the time they shared in those two years mean anything? It did to her—she loved him. Hell, she loved his children like they were her own too.

Something warm fell on her hand and she looked down, seeing a droplet of water resting on the back of it. She blinked and her vision blurred as more tears began to fall from her eyes. Her hands moved to her face, wiping furiously, but no matter how many times she did, they kept falling, and she found herself falling deeper into heartbreak.

***Two Years Earlier***

She stepped into the ballroom, taking note of the eyes that immediately found her; she paid them no mind as she made her way deeper into the crowds, occasionally greeting her fellow models and higher-ups. The crowd seemed to part for her as she passed, making her feel like royalty, and she flashed them the million-watt smile she had perfected so long ago.

A few moments later, a warm hand brushed her arm and she looked up, seeing her employer smiling at her; she gave him one in return. “It’s good to see you, (Y/N). You look gorgeous.”

She hummed, feeling her cheeks warm at the compliment he’d given her. “Thank you, Mister Wayne.” She ran a hand down the silk fabric of the shimmering, black gown. “The dress is the new one the company has been designing.”

He eyed her dress and quipped, “Then it’s good that we had you model it for us.” He leaned in, his smile turning flirtatious. “You look absolutely beautiful in it.”

(Y/N) looked away, a bashful smile crossing her lips. “Mister Wayne, you’re just flattering me.”

He hummed, a small chuckle passing from him. “Maybe…is it working?”

She glanced back at him and after a second, she nodded. “It is.”

“Wonderful.” He motioned to her. “May I escort you around? I didn’t see you come in with anyone.”

(Y/N) nodded, watching as his arm fit around her waist, and she felt his hand brush her hip. They walked around, greeting the other socialites, when a pair made their presence known in front of them.

“Mister Wayne! Sir! It’s good to see you at the party.”

(Y/N) could feel his hand tense ever-so-slightly, and she saw him flash a fake smile. “Well Henry, this is my party.” The man laughed, and his wife smiled at (Y/N); she could feel the loathing from her spot.

“You’re that new model that just signed with Mister Wayne, aren’t you, Miss…”

She bit the inside of her cheek and smiled as she nodded. “(Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N). And yes, I am.”

The woman eyed her before quipping humorlessly, “I didn’t know they let…older women model in the company.”

The insult practically smacked (Y/N) across the face and before she could stop it, she bit out, “And I didn’t know they let bitter old harpies with pathetic grudges into parties that were meant for companies that weren’t in bankruptcy.”

The woman’s jaw went slack at her response, and the man beside her stepped forward. “How dare you speak to my wife like that?! How dare you assume our company is in debt?!”

(Y/N) simply blinked as she stared at him. “Because it is, Mister Brighton.” She gathered her thoughts. “Your company has lost more in the past six months than it has since it’s decline in the early nineties. Your best bet would be to try and get Mister Wayne to make a deal that would save your company.”

She glowered at the older couple, her voice hardening as she declared, “Don’t let my age fool you. I might be older than many of the models Wayne Enterprises hires, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a brain. I’ll have you know I graduated valedictorian at my high school and my university. I’ve modeled all my life. Wayne Enterprises started a line for women in my age group and I was offered a job. Do I need to explain anything else to you? Or have your behaviors been apparent enough?”

The two of them stuttered out responses before they excused themselves, shuffling away as fast as they could. (Y/N) watched them as they left, then her eyes moved to the man still beside her.

Her eyes widened in shock as she realized he was still there. “Oh my. You—I—oh dear.” She blinked as she tried to apologize to him. “I am so sorry, Mister Wayne. I—I just got—”

“Carried away in the absolute decimation of someone who insulted you?” She paused at his words, taking in the sight of the grin working its way on his face. “I have to say, seeing you shove that back in their face was…pretty entertaining(Y/N).”

She huffed a laugh at his words, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Mister Wayne.”

He grinned, tightening his grip on her waist. “I find I’m just enough for what’s needed.”

“Uh huh,” she doubted with an arched brow.

He winked. “I am.”

“I’ll take your word for it then.” She replied jokingly.

***A Few Months Later***

“You know, I never actually expected you to fly us to the Swiss Alps.” She turned around from the large window, watching as he reclined on the couch.

“And why didn’t you expect me to?”

She shrugged as she walked around the couch, leaning over the back, and wrapping her arms around his neck; she rested her chin on his shoulder and turned her face to him. “Dunno…just kinda mentioned it offhandedly. I never thought you’d take me so seriously, Bruce.”

He smiled at her response, turning his head so they were face to face. “I take everythingseriously, (Y/N).”

She nodded. “That you do.” (Y/N) leaned forward, pressing her lips to his lightly, then she rested her forehead against his. They stared at one another until she whispered, “I love you.”

He blinked, obviously shocked at her open admittance, but he soon recovered, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek as he replied, “I love you too, (Y/N).” She smiled at him, then pressed her face into his neck; he chuckled at her. “Embarrassed?”

“Oh,shut up…it’s not every day you tell the man you love that you love him, and he does the same.”

There was a moment of silence, then she felt her body being tugged, and she realized he was pulling her over the side of the couch. She tumbled into his lap, and his arms wound around her waist, pulling her close. (Y/N) relaxed against him, then she felt his lips press light kisses into her neck. She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, and she felt his lips stop.

As they moved away, he asked, “Are you alright, (Y/N)?”

She turned and looked at him, feeling her heart flutter in her chest. “I’m just really glad that you and I are here…together.”

Bruce smiled down at her, cupping her cheek. “Me too.”

***A Year Later***

She opened the door, seeing him stand on the other side; she smiled at him and gestured him in. “You know, when I gave you the key, Bruce, I meant for you to use it.” She expected a laugh from him, but none came, and she tipped her head to the side. “Are you alright? You look tense.”

He nodded, taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack. “I’m fine…just thinking, (Y/N).”

“Is it anything you want to talk about?”

He paused, meeting her eyes, then they drifted to the table, and he saw the dinner she’d prepared for them. “After dinner.”

(Y/N) wanted to keep the conversation, but she decided against it, and nodded. “Alright then.” She wrapped an arm around his and led him into the kitchen. “Since you called on short notice, I assumed you had something important to tell me, so…” She motioned to the food. “I made your favorite.”

A small smile graced his lips and he looked at her. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

She nodded, grabbing the bottle of wine as she watched him sit. “Of course, Bruce. I love to spoil you.”

***

The dinner went smoothly, and they each told the other about their day, then moved the conversation into the living room. (Y/N) sat on the couch beside him, resting her wine glass on her thigh as she watched him.

She hummed at his silence. “Kinda quiet over there…are you sure everything’s alright?”

He looked at his hands, then let out a sigh, and (Y/N) held her breath, waiting for him to finally tell her the secret she’d known for the longest time. It had been by chance that she’d learned his secret identity, and everyone would say blame it on Dick, who saw her and immediately said, “Hey it’s mom!”. Quite the running joke between his kids, who had essentially bonded with her over the year and a half that Bruce and she had been dating. She made them promise not to tell Bruce about her knowing, her telling them “It’s not our secret to tell, it’s his. And I need to hear it from him when he’s ready.”.

(Y/N) thought back to that time, and reached out a hand, taking his gently as she murmured, “Whatever you need to tell me, I’m listening Bruce. And I won’t judge you.”

He sighed once more, pulling his hand away and reaching into his pocket; he pulled something out and held it out, saying, “I think I should give this back to you.”

(Y/N) eyes moved to the item in his hand, and she felt her breath leave her lungs at the sight of the silver key in between his fingers. “I…I don’t understand?”

He shut his mouth, putting the key on the coffee table beside them as he said, “It’s not anything you’ve done, (Y/N). I just think we need to see other people.”

She blinked, not understanding where it was coming from. “But I…I thought…” (Y/N) couldn’t form the words she needed to tell him, and he rose from the couch.

“I think I should go.”

She jumped up, following him. “You can’t just leave, Bruce! You can’t just leave it like this!”

He stopped as he grabbed his jacket, turning to her. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your sorry! I want your real reason!”

“I gave you—”

She cut him off, scoffing, “Oh, that’s a load of bullshit and we bothknow it!” (Y/N) stepped forward, winding her hands in his shirt. “We’ve been dating for almost two years. You can’t look at me and tell me that we need to see other people. There’s something going on.”

“Just talk to me. Talk to me, Bruce,” she pled with him.

His hands rose from his side and he gently took hers in his, removing them from his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked, too stunned to even say a word as he apologized once more and left her standing in the entrance of her apartment, alone and heartbroken.

***Present***

He pulled off the cowl and sank into the chair in front of the Batcomputer; a bottle of water appeared in his view and he took it, looking up at Alfred. “Thanks Alfred.”

The butler nodded, handing out the other bottles to everyone around them. A joke between them made them laugh, and he watched them, a small smile crossing his lips.

He watched Jason nudge Dick and nod to him. “Is hell freezing over, or is the old man actually smiling at us?” The others looked over and he watched eyebrows raise in slight surprise.

It irked him, and he quipped, “Just because I don’t smile often doesn’t mean I can’t smile.”

“Are you sure? Kinda looks like your face is cracking over there, B.”

Bruce rolled his eyes at Dick’s comment, and he stood up, stretching his arms over his head as he made his way to the lockers. They followed, and each began peeling off their suits and pulling on after clothes.

“You know what would be good right now?” They looked at Jason who was sitting on the bench. “(Y/N)’s apple pie and homemade sea salt vanilla ice-cream.”

They groaned at his words and Dick looked over at Bruce, who wore a clouded expression. “We never did get the real reason why you ended things with her.” He paused, looking at his brothers. “We liked her. Even Damian did.”

Damian nodded at this and turned to Bruce. “Why did you leave her, father? She was the only tolerable woman you’ve ever brought to the manor.”

Jason reached over and riffled his youngest brother’s hair. “That’s because she didn’t take any of your shit two-bit. She acted like a mom when it came to you.” Damian batted Jason’s hand away, glaring at him; Jason turned to Bruce. “Answer the question, old man. Why’d you run (Y/N) off?”

Bruce sighed, sitting down on the bench, knowing he wasn’t getting out of it; he motioned around him. “Look at what we do. I couldn’t tell her about this. She would’ve run for the hills had I told her.”

Dick raised an eyebrow at him. “So, your choice was to break up with her to keep her sane and safe?” Bruce nodded.

Tim stepped forward, his gaze shifting between the others before turning to back to his father. “Bruce, I don’t know if you know this…but (Y/N) already knows what we do.”

Bruce’s eyes went wide, and he looked up at Tim in shock. “What?”

Tim nodded, motioning to Dick. “Dick accidently called her ‘mom’ one night when we saw her, and she put two and two together.”

Bruce blinked at the revelation; he’d never in a million years assume that she’d learned their secret early. “She…never said anything…”

“That’s because she was waiting for you to tell her,” Jason remarked with a smart-ass glare.

“She…was?”

The others stared expectingly at him and Damian said, “She told us that it was your right to tell her and yours alone.” He paused, looking at him. “You should go to her and apologize.”

Bruce stared at them before nodding and rising from his seat. “I probably should.”

They grinned, following him out when a slightly unnerved Alfred came to them. “Master Bruce…you need to come at once.”

“What’s wrong?”

Alfred motioned up the stairs. “It’s Miss (Y/N). She’s here…and she’s…inebriated.”

Jason barked a laugh, but quickly shut his mouth at the feeling of Dick’s elbow in his side, and they watched Bruce run up the steps to her. They followed, of course, and stuck their heads out of the doorway to see the conversation because they were nosey as hell—though it’s not like they didn’t learn that from their father. Bruce walked over to her, holding out his hands to try and balance her as she wobbled.

She slapped his hands away from her, a glare in her eyes. “Don’t touch me. I can handle myself.” He frowned, lowering his hands and she pointed at him. “I don’t make habits of talking to my exes, but I need to have a conversation with you.” He nodded and she poked his chest. “I want the real reason you dumped me.”

(Y/N) paused, lowering her head as she breathed to herself, “Oh my god, I sound like a crazy ex-girlfriend.” Bruce snorted and she whipped her head up, glowering, “That wasn’t supposed to be funny to you, Mister Wayne.” He shut his mouth and she poked his chest again. “I’ve been waiting patiently for the past two years, waiting for you to tell me your secret, and the night that you tell me we need to talk, I think you’re going to, then you dump me and tell me we need to see other people.”

She grunted at him. “I know you’re Batman and whatever reason you dumped me was a crock of shit and I want the real one. Now.” (Y/N) glared at him until he sighed and nodded, taking her hand, and leading her into the study. On the way, she saw the boys and she waved at them. “Hi boys! I’m sorry I’m in a rare form right now.”

They simply grinned and waved back as they watched them enter the cave. Bruce led her down the steps, at one point having to carry her because she couldn’t take so many close steps.

When they arrived, she stared at it in shock. “I…knew you were him…but…” She twirled around, feeling his hands steadying her as she did. “But it’s so much realer in person.”

Bruce nodded, looking at the cave. “It is, isn’t it.”

(Y/N) turned to him, a heart wrenching look on her face. “Is this the real reason you left me?” He nodded silently and she asked, “Why?”

A moment of silence passed before he sighed and said, “The lives we live are dangerous, (Y/N)…and I…I just didn’t want you to get caught up in all of it.”

She stared at him before quipping, “Duly noted and while I appreciate the sentiment, that wasn’t your decision to make.” She took his hand. “A relationship is based on two people not just one.”

He nodded again and they lapsed into silence until he looked at her and questioned, “Did you really get drunk and come over here to get me to tell you that?”

(Y/N) cleared her throat before pulling back her hand and turning around. “Everyone needs a bit of liquid courage every now and then to face what’s weighing on them.” She glanced at him. “I don’t take half-ass answers from anyone. Not even you.” (Y/N) nodded at him and started making her way to the stairs when she felt him grab her hand again; she turned and looked at him, seeing a hopeful look on his face.

“Stay with me?” he asked.

She grunted at him. “We aren’t dating anymore, remember? You broke up with me like a textbook rich boyfriend does.”

Bruce stopped to her, wrapping an arm around her waist, and pulled her close. “What if I apologize for it?”

She went silent for a second, drawing circles in his chest with her finger, then she looked at him and murmured, “You’re going to have to give me a hell of a night in order to apologize for this. Maybe…behave and do everything I tell you?”

A smirk wound his lips and he flirted, “I think I can manage that.” (Y/N) hummed at him, and he raised a hand, cupping her cheek. “But I think right now, youshould get some sleep before we have it.”

“Hmm…darn shame, I was really looking forward to not walking for a week.” She paused and looked at him. “Does this mean we’re dating again?”

Bruce nodded. “If you’ll have me. I know it’s difficult to be around all of us.”

(Y/N) shrugged. “I don’t think anyone sane could really hold their own in your family.” She paused. “Remember the first time I came over? Damian made me play chess with him.” She waved her hands around. “I still don’t even know how to play chess!” Bruce laughed as he helped her up the stairs. “Bruce, I don’t know how to play chess.”

“I know, darling.”

“I beat him at it.”

“I know you did, darling. He’s still bitter about it.”

“He is?”

“Of course, he is. He’s a perfectionist.”

(Y/N) grinned as she nudged him. “So are you.”

Bruce stopped moving and gazed at her. “I’m sorry, (Y/N).”

She nodded at his apology. “Sorry for coming to your house wine-drunk and demanding a reason for our breakup.”

“Don’t worry…you’re not the first who’s done so.”

“Bruce Wayne!”

He laughed at her shock, and he leaned over, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I was joking, (Y/N).”

She grunted as he led her into the study. “You’d better be.” (Y/N) waved at the boys who were still in the room. “Hi boys! Bye boys!”

They wore amused grins and waved at her as they walked to his bedroom. Bruce helped her out of her clothes and into a t-shirt of his and they crawled into the bed, her curled up on his chest, his arms wound tightly around her.

“You’re warm,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“I missed it.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

There was a moment of silence then he murmured, “I love you, (Y/N).” He expected a reply, but when he received none, he looked down, seeing her asleep. Bruce huffed a quiet laugh before pressing a kiss to her temple and reaching over to turn out the lamp.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x reader imagines #bruce wayne x reader imagine #bruce wayne imagines #bruce wayne imagine #batman x reader #batman x reader imagines #batman x reader imagine #batman imagines #batman imagine #batfamily x reader #batfamily x reader imagines #batfamily x reader imagine #batfamily imagines #batfamily imagine #batfamily #bruce wayne #batman #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #tim drake #red robin #damian wayne #robin #alfred pennyworth #dc comics #dc #dc imagines

[cryinginthebackseat]

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part iii

part i  part ii  AO3

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 6.572

Warnings: here’s where the smut tag comes into play, boy with a copious amount of power play and yeah, it’s messy af

Author’s note: after three months, a couple of brainstorming in the bathtub, delays, revisions and self-doubt, chapter 3 is finally done. i hope you'll enjoy it. also, i don't think i have to warn you what will go down in this chapter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Fast forward to twenty-four hours since he discovers that Bell is fucking someone, Lazar drops about half a dozen of dusty manilas on his desk. Adler’s eyes sweep over them. He recognizes Bell’s handwriting etched across the memo attached to one of the folders right away.

He picks it up. It’s becoming second nature to him lately; drawing himself to her, an ineradicable magnetic force pulling his end of the pole.

A muscle on his jaw twitches.

For a moment, Adler despises her. He allows himself to really despise her. She’s started something in his head- a war; an intangible, unmanageable riot and if he lets her, she’ll rearrange him until he’s insane.

And he can’t let that happen. He’s the one holding the leash here, not vice versa.

“This is what we have on Dragovich’s activities in Yamantau,” Lazar informs him, pulling him back down to earth.

Adler stands, keeping his face easy, neutral. “Is this everything?”

“So far, yeah. Bell says she’ll let us know if she digs up something more from the archives though.”

Bell- the Bell in question- can be heard sighing, like she turns the corner and finds herself at a cul-de-sac; hunching over her desk, reading, her fingers keep buttoning and unbuttoning the top of her shirt, madly distracting (him).

She remains in her seat, for pretty much the remainder of the day. Eyes glued to the pages before her, factory-like dedication. She hardly looks up when Sims borrows her pen or when Park stands over her, sipping her coffee, inquiring about her progress behind a plume of smoke.

The only- truly time Bell ever lifts her head from her work is when Mason approaches her desk. She gazes up at him, notes forgotten, a kittenish smile etched across her face, come-hither eyes that could have time hung in motion, or held at ransom, perhaps. Mason’s own smile is full-blown, too wide, too genial, as he stalks closer and closer to her table, her whirlpool.

Adler does a double-take, like his eyeballs only functioning for the first time. He might as well be hallucinating it because no... this can’t be right, can it?

But then Mason is touching her hand, a blink-and-you-miss-it movement that was not lost on Adler and oh, she’s looking at him hopefully now.

The knots in Adler's stomach are vertiginous. Realization rings in his head like a gunshot, nearly leaving him in a daze. There’s no denying it. Not when the exchange unfurls before his eyes like a broken, warped film reel and there’s nothing to stop him from seeing it.

The thought of her and him haunts the rest of his waking hours, until there’s absolutely no telling how far he’s fallen into his own pit. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ( Alex Mason fucked her that night.

Mason was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as Mason rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room.

Alex Mason fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ She haphazardly reaches for the mug and takes a hearty gulp of its content. It’s not hers.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Bell says, mortified and places the mug down noisily on the desk. “I’m sorry, I thought it was mine.”

The rim of his mug is now stained with her lipstick. Adler bites down on a careful retort.

He thinks he knows now. Why he lets it happen, why he thinks of her in metaphors, why she gives him that vertigo. The answer is at the tip of his tongue- he can almost taste it, like spoiled milk or rancid gardenia. But it’s much easier to ignore it until the words grow diminuendo and disappear, that he thinks he imagined it all along.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You can’t obsess without turning around and getting lost in the middle.

Or losing a part of yourself in the process.

The idea of obsession, to obsess, perhaps is a far riskier thing for a person to have than playing the knife game, blindfolded with absolutely no telling where to start.

Yet we all do it, despite knowing the very dark flipside it possesses.

Perhaps it’s the very nature of humans, tucked deep within the pigeonhole of our minds, suffused by the very promise of bogus achievements that usually leads most of us insane, thinking that obsession is essential to living. But without it, artists are corporate slaves, slack-jawed know-it-alls moving stiffly in the middle of the hullabaloo that is our world; Paris would be just as unrecognizable today without Napoleon’s artistic legacy.

Obsession is good.

Obsession is dangerous.

The very dichotomy should have us all warded off of it.

Yet, again, we all do it. Again, and again, and again until it taints our veins. And it’s always far too late until you realize, that yes, now all you see is her, the air has been poisoned by her perfume, that her name is now forevermore engraved in your skin, like an overgild tattoo.

That you end up in downtown Berlin, out of sight, out of mind.

He finds them there, in a shoebox-sized cafe. Ill-lit, low-ceiling, coffee-stained floor that shows the wear of three decades worth of boots, pantoffels and high heels and Adler is sitting in his car, nursing a beer with but one all-consuming, perplexing thought:

Bell and Mason.

Someone told him they arrived together, about an hour ago. The cafe has become their usual haunts, his source said, ever since they’ve returned from Ukraine and Adler just can’t wrap his head around this- them. In his head, they’re wholly different entities. Two proper nouns separated by a conjunction, or a comma if mentioned in a list.

They’re the kind of opposites that he thought don’t attract, yet here they are.

Perhaps it's inevitable, both are products of brainwashing. Maybe they sensed one another, speaking in code, like detecting an RF signal from a nuclear bunker.

Then the doors to the cafe swing open. They step outside, cheeks flushed, his arm wrapped around her waist, her lips glueing on the slope of his neck. Shaded eyes watch them from the opposite street, his disgust obvious.

Now, Adler wonders how this all began. Someone must have made the first move.

He wonders if it was her. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You wanted to see me?"

Adler looks up from his desk and nods. "Lock the door behind you."

And Alex Mason, the root of all this trouble, obeys. Looking somewhat uncertain under the scrutiny of the harsh lights, and shuts the blinds. Unlike Woods, he takes a seat at the chair Adler sets up before the desk.

"What is it?" Mason asks, after a long, almost unending silence. His curiosity seeps through the room.

There is very little control when the first domino falls. Oftentimes, once it starts, it’s like crossing the Rubico n and the next thing you know, you are lying flat on the ground in some theater, 23 fresh stab wounds decorating your body and the beat of your pulse seems dim and distant, everything feels cold except your blood; warm, bright and thick like gasoline, crawling into every space until it goes into your throat and strangles you, kills you. Fini, kaput.

But then again, he's not Caesar and this isn't Rome.

Adler pushes the first tile.

"How long has this been going on?" he asks without fanfare, tight and composed as ever. Never mind the way his eyes ignite like cold blue fire behind his glasses.

"How long has what been going on?"

“You and Bell." And Mason blinks at him in surprise. Bingo. "I saw the two of you leaving for her hotel from a cafe in Downtown Berlin last night. So don't bother skirting your way around this.” Adler leans forward across his desk. He’s a man on a mission- there’s no stopping him now.

“Now, let me rephrase the question, how long have you been fucking her?"

"Hold on, hold on, you were stalking us?" Mason asks, waspish.

Adler winces inwardly. "I was keeping an eye out for my asset.”

“Asset?” Mason hisses, like Adler just blasphemed. “Jesus Christ, Russ, is that all she ever is to you? An asset? She’s your protégé, for god’s sake- a person! What is wrong with you?"

"Plenty. Or apparently, so I've been told.”

"I don't find you amusing.”

“I'm hardly ever,” Adler parries. Mason remains silent, yet the tilt of his lips translate exactly what words can't. "And you haven't answered my question."

“Bullshit. I don’t owe you anything."

"Listen, Al-"

"No, you listen to me. You may be calling the shots around here, but this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Whatever- or whoever - we're doing in our spare time is none of your business, do you understand? So you can just drop it," Mason seethes, bitter, and, much to Adler’s surprise, rises to leave. “We’re done here.”

"That's where you're wrong."

Mason has only managed to put a few paces between them before he turns around, once again stepping inside this metaphorical boxing ring.

"What?"

"This has everything to do with me," Adler says coolly. "You said it yourself, I'm the one who calls the shots here. Meaning, anything that could potentially fuck up my operation is my concern and I have the right to intervene should it needed. This, being a case in point."

Mason looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the hell does fucking her have to do with this whole operation?”

“Everything.” He says it like quiet resignation. It’s time to acknowledge the truth, he thinks, to that unusual idea that has been swirling in the deep recesses of his mind, that everyone’s weakness is varied.

Achilles had his heel, and Adler has her.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, Al. You don't even know her."

Mason gives him a level stare. "And you do?"

Adler is so hard-pressed to say 'I made her' but even he wouldn't stoop that low.

"That is beside the point,” Adler tells him instead as he turns to his vice- one of them, at least- and lights it.

“There is literally no point to this conversation.”

“The point is, stay the hell away from Bell. I'm saying this for your own good."

"My own good or yours?"

Adler does not flinch, but his hand does ball into a fist under the table, how the fingers curl and then flex.

"Don't be ridiculous. I gain nothing from this except assurance." It's a lie, it's the truth. There's no in between. He doesn’t know which is which anymore. "You, on the other hand, I'm sure the old ball and chain wouldn't be near as thrilled about hearing this if word ever gets out."

Mason is quiet for a beat.

"Is that a threat?"

"Only once I pulled the pin," Adler replies, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

But the thing with Mason, he'll come to realize later, is how much, like with Bell, weaving through his mind is like trying to grasp for purchase in the dark as he, once again, does the unpredicted and smile- a venomous grin warps his face, like he’s mocking him, challenging him to move his piece on the board and make this mistake.

Adler stares back, surprised despite himself.

He shocks him further by saying, "Go ahead, then. Pull the pin, throw the grenade, tell her. See if she cares."

Adler’s eyes narrow at his askance. He then drags his attention to Mason’s left hand, and something grave and familiar rises in his chest.

The absence of the metal band around his ring finger tells him why.

“You know where to reach her. If anything, I’m sure she’d trust your words better than anyone else’s. So please, do it.” And Mason’s so goddamn sanctimonious about it. He’s clearly expecting this particular reaction out of Adler. It only leaves Adler angrier.

Another long pause stretches, heavy and unkind.

"Fine. Maybe she won't mind, but I'm sure the Agency wouldn’t be as tolerant.” Adler takes one last drag of his cigarette. He has that ‘Having nothing, nothing can he lose’ look on his face that makes Mason frowns. “Not when you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.”

"What?”

"Bell. She’s not who you think she is, Al. Tell me, who do you think is the sorry bastard we saved in Trabzon?”

Mason blinks. His face is blank with shock, then he shakes his head. And he keeps shaking it, almost manic. If he laughs, which one would come first, he wonders, the gun or his fist pummeling the side of his face?

“You’re lying.”

“And why would I lie to you about this?”

"No, no, no, Woods- he told me the guy’s dead,” Mason says, his words are shaky.

“He’s not. And he wasn’t a he."

A crease forms between Mason's eyebrows, the starting of another frown.

“Hold on, if she’s helping us get Perseus then why is she the enemy?”

"Because she doesn't know that."

"Doesn't know what?"

"That she's the enemy."

Mason holds his gaze for a moment, his expression tense, like a slingshot.

And that cold elastic band finally snaps.

“What did you do to her?” He’s openly glaring at him now, mouth tight, an icy fury that is no longer dormant and for the first time since Adler has known him, he finds the man dangerous.

Adler takes a steadying breath. “We did what had to be done.”

"You sick son of a bitch. You brainwa- You-” Mason clamps his mouth shut, trembling hands finding his head. “Shit. How could you?"

Adler ignores his colorful outburst.

“She resisted every form of interrogations we threw at her, Al. We had no choice but to implement MK-Ultra as a last resort. We needed what’s in her head.” Mason is silent in reply. Adler continues, “Look, it’s nasty business, I know, but some of us have to cross a line just to make sure that line's still there in the morning. And as much as I hate agreeing with Hudson, he’s right. We need to preserve our way of life.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to play God,” his voice is resentful and crisp. “Do you have any idea what you are doing? You could jeopardize everything, and for what? You’ve seen what this- this experiment did to me, this won’t end the way you think!”

“Lightning never strikes the same place twice.”

"You’re really willing to gamble on that?”

Adler scowls. “I don’t gamble, Mason. I calculate. And if by some chance I was given a second chance, I’d do it all over again. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mason doesn’t say anything at first, his loaded gun stare never falters. Then, “The flag may be different, but the methods are the same.”

"What was that?”

“Someone warned me, a long time ago, about how people like you will use people like me or Bell as pawns in your own game. You’d do whatever it takes to get what you want- and my, how you get results, don’t you? But you’re actually no different than the rest of the assholes you're fighting against,” Mason tells him, like he’s spitting out acid in Adler’s face.

“Bell may be the enemy- heck, she could be the architect behind all the chaos Perseus has done, but what you’re doing to her is vile and unethical. There are many ways to make her spill the beans, yet you chose the most immoral method there is out there. I sincerely hope you rot in hell for this."

Before Adler could formulate a response to his tirade, Mason stands to his feet.

“You want me to stay away from her? Fine. Consider this as my formal resignation. After Yamatau, I’m done. I’m out of the team. And if you know what’s good for you, you stay the fuck away from me because I don't ever want to see your face again, do you hear me?” he snarls. “If you think Woods is dangerous, Adler, just remember I nearly could have killed my own president."

Then Mason turns on his heel and walks out of the room, once and for all. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The fist is very much expected, and so does the pain that follows.

"You're out of your fucking depth, shithead," Woods spits, venom lacing his words.

Adler doesn't even bother to retaliate.

He doesn’t see the point. He didn’t think it would get this far. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage grows quiet and stodgy with now Mason and Woods are out of the picture. Everyone settles back into their own normal rhythm, the same routine before both men set their feet here almost a week ago.

Hudson doesn’t take the news of their departure kindly, naturally. He stands in Adler’s office, pacing, fuming. Adler ignores him, trying to nurse the skull-splitting migraine he's having at his desk instead. The nasty black eye hidden underneath his glasses. A secret locked, the key thrown away.

His headache, thankfully, has subsided when Sims takes a seat on the other side of the desk, hours later after Hudson left.

"I'm not trying to cause an alarm here, but you'd better watch your back."

Adler's brows furrow but doesn’t look up from the papers before him. "And why's that?"

"'Cause I think you just pissed off the wrong beast," Sims tells him. Adler pauses, then lifts his head to look at his cohort. There's genuine worry flashing over his face.

“Are you talking about Bell?”

“Who else?”

If she's a beast, then what am I? What he wants to ask, but there's a knock at the door and he swallows the words down his throat.

"Come in," Adler says, pretending to be reading again.

The door opens and Bell, fucking Bell, enters his office. It's like watching a tiger pass by your hiding spot in near dark. Neither he nor Sims breathes a word.

Bell's gaze immediately swings to him, like a cosmic pull. She's watching him as she wanders over to the desk and the weight of her stare burns him like Greek fire.

He pushes the documents close, all the while returning her stare. He is never the one who backs out of a challenge, and at this point, he knows that she probably knows that. Maybe that’s why she initiated it in the first place.

"Bell, what is it?" Adler asks firmly, in possession of his full power in this place.

Bell produces three diskettes from her pocket. Something odd definitely shining in her eyes.

"These have been lying on Lazar's desk for hours, but he's busy, so I thought I'd deliver them to you myself," Bell says. And he's trying to work out on her angle but she is unreadable. As always.

Adler nods, frustrated and indignant. "You can leave them here. Thank you."

It is only once the woman leaves that the two agents share a dark, significant look. That was too close.

And it goes without saying, something needs to be done about this. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

March 7th. A's insistence on raising the dosage is illogical. Recent behavioural analysis indicates depression. Will monitor for the next few days. Considering lowering the dosage instead. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The elevator reeks of smoke, cheap Soviet air freshener and something far more poisonous than the devil’s spider, silky hands.

It embodies the woman standing next to him right now- this special animal, emotionless, a constant mystery wrapped with a warning sign.

Adler is tempted to shut his eyes.

Or get out of here. He doesn’t dwell well in this atmosphere, this limited space shared with her alone. He probably should have listened to Hudson about taking Bell for this mission, but she’s the only one he trusts who won’t fuck this up. Not to mention her spotless Russian has proven to help them blend in with the crowd seamlessly.

He needs her, whether he would admit it aloud or not.

But she puts his head in such a spin.

She’s been near-mute since they departed from Germany. She barely acknowledges his questions and orders, barely looks at him. She’s been treating him as if he’s another shadow on the wall.

He rubs the side of his jaw. Something does need to be done about this.

“Are you going to stay quiet forever?” Adler asks. He’s bad at this, but he can’t stand her silence for much longer. Not to mention, they’re at the Lubysnka- the fucking lion's den. If she wants to wallow over Mason’s absence or sinks into whatever melancholic feeling she’s in, she can do it later.

Bell hums, her mouth curls up like serpentine. Adler sketches a confused frown.  And she says, “I don’t know. Should I?”

And then, sudden and swift, Bell undoes the cuffs of her uniform. Beady eyes never leave his.

The sight catches him off guard. Somewhere in his mind, he curses something like ‘you’re a beast’ and ‘what the hell are you?’ at her, all in negative connotations. The effects she inflicts on him is maddening.

“What are you doing?” Adler doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.

Bell shrugs and gestures to the duffle bag at their feet. “Gearing up.”

Oh. Embarrassment wells up in him. Fucking hell, this woman will be the death of him.

Her fingers quickly move on to the buttons, still indifferent, nearly tearing them from the seams. The first glimpse of her skin and Adler can’t help but give in, openly stares at her in a way he has never imagined before. Her clavicles like daggers glinting in the lamplight.

Curiosity is a dangerous and heavy load.

He should have closed his eyes.

“Enjoying the show?” Her voice pulls him back from his musings. Her eyes still zero in on him, cutting him to pieces.

Her cleavage comes into view.

The lines on Adler’s face grow taut.

“What do you want, Bell?” He asks, intending for a bark but it ends somewhere like a plea.

“I want many things. As of right now, I want Alex’s cock inside me.” And Adler nearly chokes on his own breath. Bell, eagle-eyed as ever, caught the movement. “But it seems someone insists on being in control of everything, isn’t he?” she snaps.

Adler’s back goes rigid. Trepidation bubbles up in his chest.

Of course, she knows.

“It's not about control.” Adler turns around. He doesn’t quite know what he’s avoiding at this point, her flesh or the truth. “It’s about what’s right.”

He hears her uniform touches her floor as she laughs, mirthless, like broken chandeliers. “I didn’t know whose cock I’m riding is any concern of yours.”

“It is when he’s a member of the team,” he seethes. “What you’re doing with Alex will only lead to complications. And I can’t have tha-”

“Because this is all about you, isn’t it? It’s about upholding your precious reputation in the Agency, controlling the narrative the way you want it no matter how many characters you kill off in the process. It’s always about what you want.” Bell interrupts, not missing a beat. “You selfish motherfucker.”

"This has nothing to do with my reputation in the CIA."

She scoffs. "Spare me the crap, Adler."

Adler turns to fully face her again and holds his arms open, the way someone is facing the firing squad. “Fine. Fine, yes, I’m a selfish motherfucker. I did it because I thought it could ruin the operation. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now, what are you going to do about it?”

She says nothing at first. He silently catalogues her movements as she steps towards him now, half-naked and furious. He feels pinned.

Then, “What do you want me to do about it?”

His mouth dries at the implication. She is temptation, benediction, the coarse ice block before the carver.

How terrible it is to lose control, even just once.

A knowing, vicious smirk flashes over her face. Adler feels like he’s just shown his hand.

“You are one selfish bastard and a coward to boot, aren’t you?” Bell sneers before he has a chance to respond. “At least, Alex was brave enough to make the first move, but you…” her gaze raking up and down his figure coldly, a jeweller presented with second-grade imitations. Wind her up and this honey bee stings.

“You’ll always be the man who hides behind his shades,” she says, dry as dust, and steps back and snatches her clothes from the bag.

This is, without a single doubt, the longest elevator ride he’s ever experienced in his life. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler arrived back in Berlin breathing a little harder. Worry wrapped around his neck like a noose, placed by Bell herself; the judge, jury and executioner.

The knot tightens every time his mind refers to her.

The agency trained him, specifically, to keep calm under pressure. He didn’t coin the title “America’s Monster” from his colleagues for nothing. They don’t fear him because he’s hot-headed or thinks in large-scale violence— guns blazing, napalm-induced flames over the hill in the morning, bloodied knuckles and fractured jaw, blood-soaked soles tarnishing the white marble floor. Someone can point a fucking shotgun to his face and he’ll barely flinch. Only monsters remain impassive to direct threats of violence.

But there’s something about Bell that elicits this visceral, primal reaction out of him. Something strange and new; lightning about to be uncapped from its chains.

It chokes him, frightens him to the core.

How gauche is it, don’t you think, that his own mind is conspiring against him?

Now, in the garage, where it dawns on Adler that she’s probably the only person who can make him walk around the city, feeling like a fool, he decides he’s had enough. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’ll drive you back.”

Adler apprehends Bell outside the garage. He kind of assumed she’d have a pistol aimed at his head right now, but she spins around, hands shoved deep inside her pockets and clayey mouth curls in distaste.

“Get in the car, Bell,” Adler says tightly, almost adding please.

But he would not beg.

The brunette remains rooted in her place. For a moment, a calculating look crossed her face. Always, always that sharp mind of hers turning and he wonders where it would take her this time.

“Try asking nicely,” she demands.

Adler’s eyes flash. She really is testing him. But fine, he'll play her game.

“Bell, would you kindly get in the car?” He is all but snarls, teeth gritting. Bell hardly wavers- he wishes she would waver for a change.

She does what he asked of her, finally, the shadow of a smirk on her face mocking him. Adler follows suit, teeth still clenched together, and starts the car and drives away.

It's sort of like a deja-vu, he supposes; him and her in this very same car, except that stupid krautrock music is absent this time. Neither says anything for the first twenty minutes. Everything feels heavily still.

Until he realizes she’s probably waiting for his move.

This might gloriously blow up in his face, yes, he knows this. Especially remembering the last time he was alone in a tight space with her, it had cost him his pride.

And his mind.

But he’s been here before, in the eye of the storm. He was at his calmest here. He has his cards prepared now.

Adler inhales deeply.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he utters resolutely. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to. “I was out of line, I admit it. Your affair with Mason should be no concern of mine but I really am just trying to look out for you.”

It’s weak, he knows. The words feel more like an anchor than an actual apology in his tongue anyway, but Adler didn’t expect that Bell would give him nothing. Not even an acknowledging hum, a scathing retort, a scoff. Nothing.

A twinge of irritation brews in his stomach. Why does she insist on playing games?

The car comes to a stop. They’ve arrived. Adler wrests his hands from the steering wheel to say something harsh to her, but Bell is already stepping out of the car.

She stands on the sidewalk; an enigma in royal red, and her lethal, all-seeing eyes gravitate to him in the night.

There is a long paralyzing beat where they just stare at each other- which seems to be a running theme between them lately. Adler is fuming, as he is confused.

It feels like hours, centuries, eons, but, like all magic, the spell is broken. Courtesy of a stranger hailing a cab behind his car.

Bell turns and walks inside the building. She doesn’t bother sparing him the final glance or extend her appreciation for the ride back and Adler thinks to himself, this universe, god fucking damnit, nothing makes sense here.

But it is also in moments like this that the world spins, when he notices a singular, significant detail that makes his stomach roll, nearly throwing him off balance:

Bell left the passenger door open.

And he’s insane- he has to be, right? He’s looking too much into this. It doesn’t mean anything. His mind conjures an image, like a graphic guideline or something, step one: get out of the car, two: make your way around and close the passenger door, and third: zoom out of the neighborhood while your sanity is still intact, all in that order. Easy to comprehend, to follow.

Adler only does the first two steps. He’s ass-backwards doesn’t even bother to digest the third step.

He enters the hotel instead and takes in the surroundings. The lobby is pointedly bare, but warm and smoky. The concierge is reading behind the counter- a young, wiry boy with shocking bleached hair- with headphones on. It’s late, he probably doesn’t expect anyone to check in at this hour.

A movement by the staircase catches his interest. He sees Bell climbing up the steps slowly, leisurely. Adler makes his way there.

Halfway reaching her floor, Adler has the inkling that she knows that he’s following her. Also, because the next she does is glancing back at him over her shoulder. He waits for her to push him down the stairs or wrap those delicate hands around his neck. She does neither. She doesn’t want him gone.

Yet, his mind betrays him. Only because she doesn’t know what other atrocities he’s committed to her.

She stops by her door, opens it and goes in first. Adler, without waiting for a formal fucking invitation, slips in behind her.

Her room is much smaller than his. The TV is still on- a German dubbed of All the President’s Men is playing- a stack of books and meds lying haphazardly on the desk table.

The door clicks shut behind him. Bell wanders over to the table and turns off the TV. Her back to him.

She doesn’t bother turning the light switch on. The green neon of the hotel sign outside illuminates the room, bathes her in it, making her look even stranger and faraway.

He doesn’t take off his sunglasses.

“What do you want, Bell?” Adler is all but snarling. His anger comes in a bottle with a twist-off cap. “I’m fucking sick of playing your games. I apologized, I admitted I was wrong- I fucked up, but what more could you want?”

Jesus, and now he’s losing his temper over a brainwashed Russian who rarely talks. How did it come to this?

She tugs off her gloves. Once again, barely acknowledging him. Apparently, if ignoring him is an art form, she is the fucking Monet.

Until:

“Take them off.”

Adler blinks hard behind his glasses. Like he’s just stepped into a whole different earth.

His mouth moves.

“What?”

“Your sunglasses. Take them off.”

He stares at her back. Trying really, really hard to make sure he’s not hallucinating this, but then Bell turns around, a finger tapping against her arm, waiting.

Realization hits him like an uppercut in the face and nearly leaves him in a daze. He’s walked into a trap. That much is clear as day. She wants him to suffer as she does. An eye for an eye.

Adler holds no modicum of control in her domain, not unless she gives the reins. Once again, she plays the judge, jury and executioner at her own court.

But, like before, he’ll play her game.

There, the glasses are off. His eyes, bare, blue like fractured ice, meeting hers. In the dark, he feels her eyes shift to assess his bruise.  

His heart booms against his ribs.

"Kneel,” she says glibly.

He obeys, again. His legs and hands don’t shake, but his mind is much less governable than his limbs. No, the CIA didn’t prepare a manual for situations like this and he doesn’t trust his instincts to help him dance his way around this.

Nor does he want to.

The thought fucks him up to a degree.

Adler should have known that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees, no, no. That would have been too easy, anyway. Although history has dictated and taught him that women are never to be underestimated, Adler hasn’t expected that one woman would be able to do the deed and succeed.

But then again, when that woman is Bell, he supposes anything is possible.

When Bell approaches him, he’s unable to take his gaze from her. Her eyes spangle with determination, an avenging soul in the neon lights. Her fingers work on the sash of her coat. The line of her mouth is flat and inscrutable. The air crackles with electricity and a promise of the unsayable, the unattainable.

She stands over him now, gloveless and coatless. She’s powerful like this and he can only crane his head up at her, ceding his fate in her hands, against his better judgement. She catches that.

Suddenly, something unpleasant breaks on her face, like when one’s smelling something foul or pungent.

Bell reaches down and grips his jaw painfully in one hand, her nails digging into his skin, and tilts his head sideways. Strange that his stomach leaps at that.

“Say you’re sorry,” she spits furiously. “And say it like you fucking mean it.”

He feels, suddenly, triumphant and chuckles darkly. Eight fucking long weeks and the beast finally shows her claws.

“Try asking nicely,” Adler parrots her words from before, not a beat missed. Two can play that game, he thinks. "Or are you above niceness, Bell?”

Her grip tightens.

"You’re one to talk,” Bell says. Then, rubs the pad of her thumb over his scarred cheek and it feels like forgiveness, or the beginning of it, at least.

His confusion spikes.

Her nose skims down his jawline.

A better, sensible man would apologize. He'd squander it until his tongue burns acid, he'd beg for her forgiveness like a man asking for repentance before his god.

“Why did you do it, Russell?” Bell whispers against his skin now, baleful and raspy. Her chest rising and falling too rapidly.

But he’s a sick bastard, a selfish motherfucker, a heartless monster. All he does is hurt the people around him. He doesn’t get to take from her, not after what he's done.

Still, Adler catches her wrist. Relishing the way her wrist bone grinds under his hold. He pulls his face back to look at her.

“You know why.”  

Her eyes flick dangerously to his lips.

Desperation really can make the most vulgar things tolerable.

“Then prove it.”

So he does. As his hand reaches up to her neck, past the delicious column of her throat and with a precise swift, Adler grabs a fistful of her hair, the feminine gasp escaping her mouth is like a jolt to his groin, and kisses her.

Bell responds in kind. That little beast. She grasps his collar and drags him up to his feet, impatient with want. She laps at him, bites and sucks. His free hand snakes around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

She pulls away, catching her breath, and his teeth skim down her jaw, her neck. He bites her there in retaliation, on the delicious junction of her neck and shoulder, into the fabric of her shirt, making his intentions clear. Bell chokes in surprise and scrapes her nails over his scalp.

It hurts. But with pain, along comes pleasure and it’s good. It’s so good, Adler melts with a shaky breath.

His gloves come off first. Next, she pulls him free off his jacket, his sweater and snakes a hand between his legs, stroking him. He bites off a strangled ‘fuck’ into her throat. He’s worked up real fast already. Adler manages to make a short work of her shirt, unclasping her bra before he’s all but pushes her onto the bed.

Adler settles above her, capturing her lips in another feverish, hot-blooded kiss. He tugs her zipper down and slips his hand inside her pants. Her cunt’s everything he’s come to expect: wet, warm and oh-so wrong. She sucks in a breath. Her hips move against his hand. His blood sings. She throws her head back against the pillow, while his finds her earlobe.

“Has this proven my point, Bell?” he asks. His answer starts on a moan and ends with a breathless ‘yes’.

He doesn’t let her come that easily. No, he wants to drag this out for as long as he can until it drives her mad. So, Adler peels the rest of her clothes away, pulls her shoulder and turns her onto her stomach. He pins her down, hard. She gasps loudly against the white pillowcase, her hand fists into the sheets.

Adler slots himself behind her. His hand tracing along her spine, followed by his mouth, just how he fantasized once upon a time. His other hand quickly undoes the snap of his pants. Everything has been poisoned by her and her only; she is in his tongue, his veins, his mind, his lungs. She takes the centrefold of his mind and it's ridiculous.

He presses himself against her ass. His mouth falls open. Her body trembles. She’s all sin and racing hearts and sweaty flesh. She’s perfect. His now free hand slides up to the nape of Bell’s neck, reaching her throat, pressing down. She makes this high-pitched, demanding noise as she moves her hips back against him, leaving him wanting, helpless at the thought of having her right here, right now, in the warm neon glow of her hotel room.

“Please,” Bell begs. He groans in response and he gives it to her. Fuck, he’d give her anything if she begs just exactly like that.

When Adler is finally inside her, he thinks his world drops dead. He sets a merciless pace. He is not a gentle man and there is nothing gentle in the supple arch of her back, a rose bent backwards in the wind, as he pants along her neck before he pulls out, twists her onto her back again and pushes deeper into her until she comes apart underneath him (he’s made sure she begs for it- please, Russell. Oh god, Russell)

(He didn’t have to. Russell Adler is never the kind of man to fall for his dark side, but Christ knows he is only one man)

#russell adler #russell adler x bell #adler x bell #cod cold war #cod bell #cod #call of duty #call of duty black ops #call of duty cold war #alex mason #frank woods #helen park #lawrence sims #jason hudson #lazar azoulay

[dracosaurusrex]

Kintsugi: Imperfectly Perfect (Draco x Reader)

“Kintsugi is the Japanese art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold — built on the idea that in embracing flaws and imperfections, you can create an even stronger, more beautiful piece of art.”

- Tiffany Ayuda

Summary:In which Y/N teaches a broken Draco Malfoy how to mend himself and embrace the scars that haunt him.

Wordcount: 10.3k

Genre: Angst/Fluff; Postwar AU

Warnings: Descriptions of depression; self-degredation; sexual themes but no smut

A/N: Hi! This is my first time writing a postwar AU. I was always afraid of doing so out of fear that I would mistakenly portray Draco, but I guess this can be a rite of passage in a way aha. With that being said, here’s my attempt! I hope you like it :D Feedback is very much appreciated!!

The sound of an alarm clock breaks the peace that had manifested within the darkness of the room. One eye creaks open, followed by the other, and a body raises itself to greet the day. 

The boy lifts his sheets gently, allowing the cold air to engulf his skin, to wake him, to pull him into the reality of yet another morning. 

The pads of his feet are the next to awaken as he hoists himself out of bed, meeting the frigid floor beneath him. He plods across the expanse of space, only to take notice of his reflection in the mirror.

Draco Malfoy, once boisterous, prideful, loud, and arrogant, had been reduced to a shell. One that lived by drifting through the motions of each passing day. It showed through the dark circles apparent under his eyes, the frown that resided on his lips, and his overall gaunt appearance. The thrill that was once characteristic of his youth had spilled through his cracks, leaving him empty and seemingly unrepairable; and no other perspective of his experience could convince him otherwise. 

The second wizarding war took too much from him so early on. It started with his father, the man he had ardently looked up to, who he desired so much to please. Lucius’s arrest put the young boy on the forefront of the Death Eaters’ activities, placing an unbearable weight on his shoulders. From that point on, it wasn’t long until the mischievous smile left him, only to be replaced with panicked eyes, increased stress levels, and absolutely no peace of mind. The boy had his entire life on a tightrope, constantly pulling strings to survive.

The result of such was the immense realization of guilt pooling from the sights of Hogwarts in shambles, the lifeless bodies of those he was once acquainted with, and the shame of literally walking away from it all. 

Nightmares were also frequent visitors. Besides those that embodied remnants of the war, Draco was almost always confronted by the tauntings of his wrongs: the way he poorly treated others, his stuck-up sense of superiority, the foul slur that he once used so freely--they all haunted him with no end, and all he wanted to do was take everything back. The boy has so often degraded his character since then, describing himself with words such as ‘worthless’, ‘loathsome’, ‘putrid’--the list goes on. He carried his beating heart as though it was dead weight, wanting so desperately to discard the regret that compounded on itself through the years. He was broken, and had no hope of being fixed. 

It was also needless to say that the family dynamic had changed for the Malfoy’s; especially since they often stayed within the confines of the property. Narcissa had been diligent in eradicating the place of all things that harbored any signs of Voldemort’s occupation--opening curtains, tending to her garden, changing up the plans for the interior design. Lucius, on the other hand, often occupied himself in his study, simply abiding by the plans for change that his wife had made. He still invested in his social connections, actively making donations to charities and hospitals that had been established as a result of the war. The act helped shed some light on their image, however any interaction that was to be made with the world outside was done through Draco as representative of the family name.

Fortunately, he managed to keep his mind silent in the mornings. As he walked through the vast hallways he would take note of the way light had poured into the manor, admiring the charm that it brought to its nooks and crannies. The quaint atmosphere that was characteristic of these corridors were peaceful, and managed to calm his thoughts albeit temporarily. 

As soon as he entered the dining room, Narcissa beckoned him to sit with her and his father. 

“Draco, darling, come have some breakfast.” Without much response, he obeys, taking the spot across from her. She placed his favorites on a platter, and observed him as he nibbled on the food in front of him. After several minutes of silence, she pulled an ivory-colored envelope from the pocket of her robe and slid it to him. With food still mounted on his utensils, the boy glanced at the gold details that embellished its corners.

“We’ve been invited to an art gala hosted by the Ministry. The details are inside.” She said.

“I’ll be sure to be in attendance, mother.” He confirmed before resuming his breakfast. The woman casted a worried look at him before turning to Lucius. Things could never go back to the way they once were.

--

The art gala was held on a Saturday evening, and Draco found himself standing in front of a finely decorated building. An air of aristocracy and luxury loomed within the environment--it was an energy that he had been surrounded by all his life. Large columns aligned its front. A red carpet stemming from the entrance had been rolled out, sweeping along a flight of stairs. Familiar faces of esteemed socialites were seen making their way up the steps. Banners had been hung, indicating the gala and a live auction as highlights of the day’s events. 

His only job was to engage in civilized conversation, connect with other high-standing figures, and expand the family network. Simply put, he was there to look pretty.

The feeling of dread overcame him at the thought of immersing himself in socialization. With a begrudging sigh, he straightened his back, briefly smoothened out his suit, and adjusted his cufflinks before trudging up the stairs. Eyes tracked his every step. Despite his emotional wellbeing, the boy still managed to clean up well, creating a facade to those around him. He didn’t bask in the glory, though. He knew he was handsome, he knew he was wealthy, but looks and money were no longer sufficient enough to help him tend to the emptiness he felt on the inside.

The gala itself didn’t begin until 6:00 PM, which was in an hour. Therefore, in hopes to kill time, Draco aimlessly walked through the art displayed for the auction to be held later that night. He carefully observed the numerous crafts with great scrutiny. Paintings were created with much detail--many of them embodying styles from the varying art periods. Sculptures paying great detail to the human body littered the main floor. Hand-crafted furniture were set on display as well, showcasing elaborate ornaments and designs. Mother would like these. He thought. He continued plodding across the exhibit, typically stopping for a mere minute for every submission before walking away. 

It was when he took sight of a humble set of ceramics that he actually stopped to stare. The collection consisted of bowls and pots ranging from small to medium sizes. However, what caught his attention were the traces of gold that coursed through their shapes. They took the form of cracks, which looked too beautiful, too flawless to be such--he couldn’t comprehend them ever being broken at all.

“Do you like them?” A light voice startles him from his thoughts. Standing next to him is a bright-eyed girl whose face he vaguely remembers.

“Y/N Y/L/N? What are you doing here?” He dismisses her question and looks at her with disbelief laced through his voice. The girl was in Ravenclaw when they were still in Hogwarts. Due to the difference in houses and friend groups, there was rarely any interaction between them. Nevertheless, he’s heard countless praises for her artistic talent even as a student, therefore reserved a tinge of respect for her reputation.

“Draco Malfoy! It’s been such a long time!” She beams at him. A breathy laugh escapes him as a polite smile settles on his lips.

“Definitely has been. Were you eyeing this set as well?” He glanced back at the ceramics, contemplating on bidding for them in the auction. The sight of them evoked a warm, admirable energy within him, as though they called for his presence.

“Heavens, no. I actually made them.” Y/N took notice of the way he glanced at them, and shyly rubbed the back of her neck. The boy turned to her with eyes widened in awe of her brilliance—the smile of politeness immediately transitioning to one of sincerity.

“You made these? They’re beautiful!” The comment brought heat to her cheeks. 

“Draco, please. You flatter me so.” 

“I’ll be taking these home without a doubt.” He reassures her. In the moment that he says so, he immediately takes notice of her appearance. Her hair was slicked into a low bun. Her makeup gave her a pleasant dewy look. Gold accessories accentuates her deep emerald evening gown, which only emphasizes her curves as it flows down her body. He couldn’t recall her ever being attractive when they were students—she had always been clad in blue. But, tonight proved that green was definitely her color.

“You look lovely, by the way.” He complimented as his eyes glossed over her. She bit her lip in response to the butterflies that formed in her stomach.

“You always had a way with words didn’t you, Malfoy?” The melodic laugh that she produced, in turn, caused his heart to skip a beat.

“I admit I was a prat, but I’m not joking around this time.” The girl let out another giggle before placing her hand on his shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze. 

“I think you look rather dashing yourself. Unfortunately, though, I have to get going. I’ll see you around?” 

“It would be my pleasure.” Draco watches Y/N’s figure as she walks away. Before she goes any further, she looks over her shoulder and says, “Good luck with the auction!” 

With a small wave and smile, the boy is left in a lighter state.

The gala came and went with Draco thoroughly exhausted from the copious amounts of socialization. Questions regarding connections to his father were asked, business cards were exchanged, and flattery and compliment was a common occurrence amongst these interactions. Nevertheless, the boy’s energy especially drained from the intensity of the auction that occurred towards the end of the night. All the art pieces were valuable and beautiful, however it was only then that he realized that he wasn’t the only one drawn to Y/N’s work. Competition for the highest bid was at an all-time high as number paddles were desperately raised for every price announced. His heart clambered in his chest as the thought of keeping the ceramics seemingly slipped from his grasp. 

“Highest bid for 80,000 galleons! Do we have any takers?” The auctioneer announces. Draco waits for a second to see that no one has raised their paddles. Within the next, he lifts his own confidently. 

“We have a bidder for 80,000 galleons! Do we have any more bidders? No?” At this point, adrenaline coursed through his veins, beads of sweat had formed and fell, and the grip on his paddle tightened, leaving marks on his hand.

The auctioneer proceeds to announce the final countdown, “Final bid for 80,000 galleons! 1, 2, 3, sold to Draco Malfoy!” Relief overcame him while congratulatory praises were given by those nearby. He catches Y/N’s gaze from afar, and throws her a wink, signifying the resolution for the chaotic night.

--

As attendees began to file out of the building, the boy waited in the hall to collect his reward, filling out the form that confirmed the amount he had to pay. With his attention drawn to the slip, he fails to notice Y/N’s presence beside him. She looks over his shoulder, eyes widening at the amount before looking away to suppress the smile that threatens to form on her lips. She never really gave much monetary value to her art before; each one was produced as a product of passion and love. However, the expression that it first brought to Draco’s face, in addition to the amount of effort he put in to attain them, reassures that her work will be well taken care of. She momentarily stares at his broad shoulders before gaining the courage to speak.

“Congratulations!” She says, startling him once again. He takes a second to collect his breath before looking up at her.

“Do you plan on giving me a heart attack, Y/L/N, or is it in your nature to be overly enthusiastic?” The shameless smirk she has on her face, prompts him to release a chuckle. He stands up straight as soon as he signs the piece of paper, engaging his line of vision with hers.

“The way you respond is not my fault, Malfoy.” She answers, playfully shoving her index finger towards his shoulder. He grabs her wrist, and the warmth from his hands, accompanied by the flirtatious gleam in his eyes, prompts her to cast the same expression. She shoots him a coy smile before he releases her from his grasp.

“Would you like to accompany me to the front?” He asks.

“That’d be lovely.” The pair approaches the stage where the volunteers greet them both. They present his items upon confirmation, and proceed to wrap each bowl individually. He lifts one of the unwrapped pieces to his eyes, examining the gold details.

“How’d you manage to pull this off?” He asks, impressed by her craftsmanship.

“It’s a technique called ‘kintsugi’. I learned it while living in Japan for a while after the war,” She says, reaching her hand out for it. He gives it to her.

“You know, these pieces were never supposed to be auctioned off in this gala,” She explains as she delicately traces the lines, “They were so damaged. You can even consider them to be broken beyond repair,” Draco observes as she lifts it to her eye level.

“But obviously, when pieced back together—with all their cracks emphasized by the gold—they have much more value and beauty,” Y/N gives it back to Draco, and he takes it gingerly.

“However, It took a long time for it to come out that way. When you examine the piece before its repair, the first thought in mind would be to discard it. After all, why would anyone bother mending a broken bowl?” She meets his eyes once again.

“These cracks would typically be considered flaws, but at the end of the process the piece is still whole—I’m still whole. They mean a lot to me, and helped me heal from the war and all.” Her line of sight drifts towards the end of her statement, yet the boy catches himself appalled by the passion in her voice. He didn’t expect her to speak so openly, yet the words that flowed from her mouth touch him in a way he can’t comprehend. For once he feels a glimmer of hope budding within. For once, inspiration meets him, and he doesn’t want to lose that feeling she effortlessly provided. 

“I’ll make sure to take great care of them.” He says with much sincerity.

He places the piece back onto the table, and turns back to Y/N to see a sweet smile on her lips.

“I have faith you will.” A knowing look is shared between them--one that makes both hearts flutter in longing to see each other again.

“Do you think we can keep in contact? If it’s alright with you that is. I’d like to become more familiar with this art technique.”

“The Slytherin prince wants to keep in contact with me? Consider me wooed.” Draco rolls his eyes and chuckles at the old title. Before he could respond, she speaks again with more seriousness, “I don’t usually accept visitors in my studio, but I’ll make an exception for you. You can come by sometime, if you’d like.” 

A genuine smile appears on his lips for the second time that night. Out of all the individuals he exchanged contacts with, she by far had been his favorite. He ensured to send her an owl to confirm their meeting, hoping to do so some time next week. 

As they part, she turns back one more time, and calls out to him, “Draco,” The sound of his name perks his head upward

“You should smile more. It’s a lovely sight.” Before he could see her face erupt in a blush, she apparates away. With his new belongings in hand and an obvious grin, he too returns to the manor, feeling elated for the first time in a long while.

--

It was nine o’clock by the time Draco apparated home. Narcissa immediately took notice of his change in aura much to her relief.

“How was the gala, dear?” She asks.

“Quite pleasant this time around, if I’m being honest. I won these at an auction.” Draco stated as he props the box on top of a table. His mother approaches him, attention drawn to the objects when he reveals the contents inside.

She gasps, “Oh my stars, they’re beautiful.”

She picks one up delicately. The expression she had on her face was very much identical to the one he sported when he came across them the first time.

“I knew you’d like them. The artist was a fellow classmate of mine at Hogwarts.”

“Oh? Who is it? I would like to see more from this artist.”

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N. Quite brilliant she is.” Mother’s instinct told Narcissa that this girl had her son taken aback. She saw it through the pleasant expression that graced his facial features, which contrasted greatly to the gloomy air that usually accompanied him. Furthermore, there was a decadent tone in his voice, a sparkle in his eyes, and a slight smile present when her name rolled off his tongue. She decided to probe a little bit more.

“House?”

“Ravenclaw.” He responds.

“Very fitting. The craftsmanship in her work is amazing,” The woman’s eyes marveled at the gold.

“How is she?” She asks. The question catches the boy off guard.

“Pardon?”

“How is she doing? Has she been okay since the war?”

“We didn’t touch upon it too much. Although, she mentioned that creating these has helped her heal.” 

“You mean to say that these were broken at one point?” 

“Precisely. She mended them.” At this point, Narcissa was quite taken by the girl as well. 

“You should invite her over one of these days. I’d love to have a cup of tea with her.” Draco quirked a brow at her.

“You’re not going to ask about her blood status?” 

“I would’ve known she was a pureblood from her last name, but times are changing aren’t they not?” Narcissa flashes a tightlipped smile towards her son, to which he responds with a nod of understanding.

“I’ll be going up then. You can keep that one mother. You seem to take a liking to it.” Draco turns on his heel at the end of his statement, carrying the box of ceramic goods under his arm. He wouldn’t acknowledge that times are changing. However, tonight has been the only instance he had felt his life shifting  —from the way he reunited with Y/N, to the way his mother spoke. It was a step forward to redemption, and he felt a little more willing to see where it would go.

The boy sat on his bed, deep in thought. With moonlight shining upon him, he delicately traced the golden lines that streaked the small bowl in his hands. Then with much hesitation, he rolled up his left sleeve and began tracing the blaring curves of the mark that stained his porcelain skin. Its presence resembled shackles that have been chained to his ankles, and the weight of the memories caused him to grimace. However the budding warmth that had seeped within him soothed the negative sensations. Heart palpitations of regret transformed into those of hope. Furthermore, recollection of the girl’s words rang through his mind. It led him to wonder if piecing himself into something better would ever be a viable reality—a dream so tempting to pursue that he brought himself to his desk to start a letter addressed to her.

--

Y/N awoke to a tapping noise on her window. With heavy-lidded eyes, she peeks through her curtains only to be met by an eagle owl. Its wide orbs stared directly at her, and attached to its beak was an envelope. She recalled the conversation she had with a certain platinum-haired boy from the night before, and immediately jolted upward, pushing the window open to let the animal in.

“Do you belong to Draco, love?” It perches itself on her shoulder, and drops the envelope into her hands. A wax seal presents itself with an ‘M’, confirming her inquiry. She opens it with much carefulness, and pulls out the letter inside.

Y/L/N,

How does this Thursday sound? 5:00?

DM

The girl chuckled at how straight-to-the-point he was, while her mind flitted back to their school days. She had always felt neutral about him. In contrast to popular belief, she didn’t think he was quite bad. Despite the harshness behind his actions, his eyes always maintained an undertone of fear. Upon the revelation that the boy was indeed a death eater, the title itself wasn’t what stirred her. Rather, it was the incomprehensible experience that she could merely picture him going through. She was there when he crossed sides. She was no stranger to the distraught look on his face--fear had overtaken him even in that moment. He might’ve been flawed, but it wasn’t without reason.

A cry from the owl broke her out of thought. “Impatient are we?” It blinked in response. Not wanting to keep the bird waiting any longer, she pulls out a piece of parchment and begins to write a response to the letter. 

Y/N inserted the parchment into an envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the owl only after she gave it a treat. As she watched it take flight from her window sill, she contemplated more on the boy. ‘Kintsugi’ the art of broken pieces and precious scars. As thoughts of him lingered, she began to wonder if how he fared ever since the war had drawn to its close. Before she knew it, she carried along with her work, totally occupied with the image of him in mind.

--

Draco’s heart beat like a drum when he skimmed through the contents of Y/N’s response. The feeling of nervous excitement erupted within his stomach up until the moment he stood on her doorstep. Besides the instances in which he’d gone out for his parents, it had been a long while since he stepped foot outside for himself. He took sight of the sheet of clouds that blanketed the sky, the small plants that were scattered on her porch, and the movement of the curtain as wind blew through her open window. 

Mere seconds of waiting were filled with more self-doubt as he tugged on his left sleeve, clenching his forearm soon after. Not much could be guaranteed from this meeting. For all he knew, this might’ve been a one a time thing. However, such thoughts were casted aside once he was greeted with Y/N’s glowing smile.

“Draco! It’s so nice to see you!” She stepped aside to let him in, “Please come in.”

The boy greets her, and looks around her small space. He indulges in the glimpse of her expressive decor--somehow they represented the life that she had built and created for herself over time. 

“Darling, your jaw is going to fall off,” she chuckled, “Come, the studio is in the back.” The girl gestures at him to follow her, and is met with a small building stationed behind the main house. The image of shelves fills his view upon entering. On them were stacks of cracked ceramic—some in large pieces, others in small. Towards the far corner of the room was a pottery wheel, and opposite from it was a small gas kiln. In the middle was a table space with various tools, brushes, lacquer, and gold. The room was as neat as it could be, much to Draco’s surprise.

“This is me.” Y/N turns around with her arms spread out. She then proceeds to pull a stool out for the boy and urges him to sit. He does so, and she stands in close proximity to him, leaning on the table for support.

“I was actually working on a piece before you came.” The girl points to her current project—a vase whose cracks have already been bound.

“What’s the process like?” He asks

“It’s much longer than you think. I learned how to do it the traditional way in Japan, and I haven’t deviated from it ever since.” The boy quirks a brow.

“You mean to say that there are faster methods?”

“There are, however it’s the process I appreciate the most I suppose. Mending takes time after all.” Y/N, who had been looking down at her feet, glances up at him to see his brows furrowed inwardly. 

“Don’t you get impatient?” She nods in reminiscence.

“I used to in the past, but all things worth anything take time, right?” They stare at each other for a moment. Draco, who has longed for the feeling of redemption, looked into the pure intent within her eyes. The silence prompts her to slip a small smile at him. 

“How about you, Draco Malfoy? How have you been?” There it was: The question that he could never answer (not truthfully anyway). Despite being in the center of all his thoughts, he hadn’t developed the courage to face them properly. He was stuck in a routine of living that provided a false sense of security. However, the present brought him to the realization that he had never been secure--not with himself.

“Not as good as what people see at face value.” He said simply.

“I never would’ve thought. Although, I suppose it just shows that we can never truly judge others, huh?”

“Yes, definitely.” He allowed his view on her to linger before speaking again.

“I actually wanted to see the way you worked.” It was her turn to quirk a brow at him.

“And why’s that?”

“To see the mending process.” Y/N remained silent as she analyzed the longing look in his eyes. His silvery orbs conveyed volumes of a history that was left unspoken. 

He continued, “I want to believe that broken things can be mended.” The determination in his eyes reminded her of why she began learning kintsugi in the first place. Behind the determination was hope that longed to be born to fruition. 

“I have one condition,” she said. His eyebrows arched in response.

“You can watch me, but you have to do some mending yourself.” She stepped away at the end of her statement and reached for something on her shelves. When she came back, she grabbed the boy’s hand, and placed a small bowl in his palm. It was a simple piece--still intact--taking on a warm, grey sheen. He looked at her with confusion, only to be met with seriousness. 

“Kintsugi begins when something breaks, and it focuses more on the beauty of the process rather than the outcome. That being said, it requires a lot of patience and acceptance.”

“I’m not an artist, Y/N. It won’t be perfect.” The girl takes hold of his other hand, and cups it within hers firmly. 

“It doesn’t have to be, Draco. The process belongs to you. You just have to trust yourself.” She said earnestly with her grip on him tightening. The warmth from her hands emanated through his skin and into his chest. She stood so close now, her head tilted upward to meet the uncertainty on his face. It made him feel vulnerable, but he stared back into her eyes with much resolve. It was an answer as it is.

Y/N gave him a reassuring smile and stepped away from him.

“I want you to drop that bowl. You don’t have to smash it, just let it fall.” Draco shifted his glance and looked at the bowl hesitantly. After a couple of seconds, he releases his hold, and allows the piece to slip from his fingers. His eyes were trained on it as it fell through the air, meeting its fate with a shattering sound. The bowl that was once intact was now in pieces on the floor, eliciting a familiar ache within him. It had split into five--a large one, one medium, and three more that were much smaller that comprised the object's rim.

As he bent down to pick up the pieces, a new wave of ambition overcame him. Each chip was picked up with much mindfulness, with responsibility, with purpose. When he stood up again, he began to perceive them as a reflection of himself, and gently placed them on the workbench.

Y/N, who witnessed the entire scene, smiled when Draco turned to face her. Her lips were pulled up gently, sweetly, and it evoked rosy feelings inside him. The boy eyed her as she went back to the shelf.

“How do you feel?” She asked. Her back was turned to him as she reached for another bowl. 

“Light.” She smiled at the sound of his response. She returned with a teal-colored bowl in hand. Following his previous actions, she dropped it, allowing the sounds of shatters to fill their ears once more.

“What are you doing?” He asks. 

“You think I’m going to make you do this alone?” The girl bends down as she gingerly picks up the chips of ceramic from the floor. She proceeds to clear out the table, leaving only the utensils to be used to start the process. 

“The materials I use are already here, but we’ll be working only with the lacquer for today.” The two set off to organize their pieces, hearts becoming more aware of one another as time passes on. After everything got sorted out, she demonstrated layering a coat of lacquer to the edges. Draco examined the way the smile instantly left her face, only to be replaced with a focused expression. Her eyebrows lowered, lips in a firm line, sights fixed on the ceramic. He also noticed how languid her fingers were in handling each piece with care. 

The solemnity of the sight is broken as she parts her lips to speak again, “Did you know that the lacquer is toxic?” He shakes his head when she spares him a glance momentarily before setting her gaze back onto the chips. “It’s toxic when wet, therefore much care needs to be taken when you lay it on the edges.” She then takes the smaller pieces and proceeds to add lacquer on them as well.

“However,” She continues, “as it dries, it hardens and mends the bowl perfectly.” She attaches the pieces together, and lifts the bowl carefully to show him. The boy stares at her flawless handiwork--the cracks reveal themselves as mere lines, seemingly invisible to the naked eye. 

“Strange, right? A substance that was once toxic is used to mend. When it dries it restores the product to perfection, and loses its toxicity.” Draco simply nods. It was a hard concept for the boy to grasp, but her words tickled a corner of his heart. How could something so bad be used to restore something that was once whole into perfection? He gazes at his own project while Y/N sets hers down carefully.

She passes the materials to him, observing as he gingerly takes the brush in hand. He dips it into the pool of lacquer, raising a glob of it up from the bottle.

“You don’t need too much, just enough so that the brush is covered completely.” She reached out to grab his hand, to demonstrate what she had meant. After realizing their closeness, however, she turned a shade of pink and stepped back. Draco tried his best to hold back his smile, but failed miserably.

“I’m s-sorry.” She stammered. He chuckled at her. 

“Nonsense, I’m all for this form of instruction.” He said teasingly, eliciting a laugh from her.

“Don’t mind me, just concentrate.” She ordered. Silence loomed, but smiles remained on their faces. Draco continued his work, emulating the way she coated her edges. He gripped each chip firmly while his eyes trailed the movement of the brush. Each second spent felt like darkness was being extracted from within, leaving him light and solemn. With much caution, he then pressed them together, and watched as the product adopted its once flawless form. With an approving look, Y/N explained the proceeding steps, immediately noticing the relaxed expression that had settled on his features. Deciding to take a break, the two embark to the main house to relax.

“Since we have to wait a while, is there anything you want to do? To eat?” She asked as they entered the room. The question, however, was left unanswered due to the sighting of a familiar looking uniform. Hung on her wall was a Ravenclaw robe.  

“You still have it?” He asked, pointing to the article of clothing with his chin. She chuckled and pulled it off it’s hanger.

“Yeah. I found it a couple days ago, and thought I’d try it for old times sake.” She slipped it over her shoulders, pulling the boy through a series of flashbacks from his time in Hogwarts. He recalled passing her by the hallways, getting small glimpses of her sketches, even seeing her vibrant personality shine with her friends.

“You know, I always thought you looked better in green.” He said approaching her.

“You think so?” He nodded.

“It’s a shame that we never really talked much. I think we would’ve been good friends.” She said in response.

“You think so?” 

“Well besides the bullying, yes. I don’t think you’re as bad as people portray you to be.” 

“You give me too much credit, Y/L/N.”

“Maybe you deserve a little more credit than you were granted.” This sparked more warmth within the boy. As she ordered food for delivery, Draco took a seat at her table, his gaze locked on her with the robe still propped on her body. His thoughts drifted as he imagined what might’ve happened if he did befriend the girl. How different would he be if he had her for company? How close would he have allowed their friendship to become? His mind began to wander and he ruminated on the what-could-have-beens, most especially the effect that his receiving of the dark mark would have had on her. His fingers flitted to his arm and rubbed the portion of fabric that covered his mark.

Y/N sat across from the boy, immediately noticing his dazed look.

“What’s on your mind?” She inquires. The boy broke off from his thoughts and refocused his attention to her.

“Just thinking about the past.”

“What of it?” She asked. He looked at her with slight reservation in his eyes.

“How different things would be if we were friends.” Her thoughts lingered on the possibilities for a while before she abandoned them completely. Only one realization came into mind:

“Well, we’re friends now. Perhaps everything that happened in the past was needed for us to meet like this.” She slid off her robe and propped it back on the hanger. 

She continued, “Whatever it is, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now belongs to us.” 

In that moment, a switch flipped in Draco’s mind, and he knew those words would stick to him for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t a chance at redemption that he yearned for--the conversation he had with her made him realize that the chance had always been presented to him--rather it was company. Genuine company. The one that opened their arms for comfort, the one that offered understanding when he couldn’t offer some to himself, the one that provided reassurance that everything was going to be okay. 

She didn’t need to elaborate. Her words conveyed her intent clearly, her eyes blazed with firmness, confidence, and faith in him. The boy closed himself off for way too long out of the fear that he’d be rejected once again. The anxieties that had resulted from the foul glances, derogatory statements, and prematurely formed accusations towards his family locked him away to the only source of comfort that was available to him--himself. How was it possible that he made it through on his own all this time? He barely held on to a thread, and as he crumbled further, so did his grip. And when the grip was no more, he fell into the hollowed body that he was. He allowed his darkness to swallow him, to control him as he mindlessly drifted with each passing day. 

Until now.

Right now, in the stillness of the room, in the comfort of her dining table, in the presence of her worn out Ravenclaw robe, the thread had reconstructed itself. It presented itself as the small smile that softly graced her lips, the scent of clay that lingered on her hands, and his bowl that sat solemnly streaked with cracks in the workshop behind the main house. 

“I suppose you’re right.” The boy showed a smile of relief, which prompted the girl to reach out for his hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Here’s to our friendship!”

--

There were very few things that Draco cherished in his life: his family and his solitude. As weeks flew by with Y/N’s company, however, he found that his heart was beginning to create space for her as well. It began subtly with the way he silently observed her actions. She catered to each of her pieces with the same amount of dedication--every detail incorporated with mindfulness, with care, and intention. She exerted a similar effort when it came to guiding him. Every step in the process was taught with much patience. Her soft hands would graze his own in attempts to correct his form, to stabilize his shakiness, and to relieve him of the tension that came with his perfectionistic tendencies.

-flashback-

The sound of Draco’s uneven breaths made themselves aware in Y/N’s presence. She had left him alone to tend to his project and herself to her own. Muscle memory led her to scrape off the excess traces of lacquer from the cracks, while the boy fixed his concentration on sanding the surface of his bowl smooth. Scratching noises filled the air, and only became more amplified as minutes ticked onward. It was unfamiliar to the girl--the action itself shouldn’t have required much energy. With a brow arched upward, and her gaze directed towards him, the sight of furrowed brows and tense lines fill her view, eliciting a chuckle from her.

“You’re going to break the bowl at that rate, Draco.” The boy unclenched his jaw and gave Y/N an exasperated look, increasing the volume of her laughter.

“I told you I won’t be perfect.” 

“What is it that you’re having trouble with?” Y/N asked, as she made her way to his side of the table.

“Some of the excess just won’t budge from its place.” Draco huffed in frustration. She removed the bowl from his grasp, and examined the object. On the other hand, he takes the liberty to step closer to her, his face peering over her shoulder. The heat emanating from his body distracted her, which she responded to by immediately returning her attention to the remnants that resided on its cracks.

“It helps to focus on one spot at a time,” She grabs the crumpled piece of sandpaper laying on the side, and connects its surface to the porcelain. He watches as she uses minimal yet focused motions to scrub at the excess. Slowly but surely the residue clears out, revealing a clean, crisp line. “See?” She turns her head to the side only to be met with his in such close proximity. His breath softly brushes against her skin. His silvery orbs dive deep into her y/e/c ones. The pulses of their heartbeats ring through their ears, and the concentration shifts from the demonstration to one another. 

It’s the apparent flush staining his skin that has her pulling away. 

“Why don’t you try?” She nervously asks. Y/N hands the bowl to the boy, and observes as he attempts to emulate her actions. With motions still stiff and choppy, she finally takes his hand into hers.

“Relax, Draco. You need to be patient with it.” With slender fingers wrapped around the back of his palm, she guides his grip with focused and particular motions. The repetition engrains itself into his muscle memory, and he quickly gets the hang of it. He exhibits relief with every remnant removed. In return, she releases her grip and looks at him with a satisfied expression.

“Thank you.” He says, and he means it. With perfection constantly being expected of him, the feeling of humility that comes with being a beginner is foreign. He had always been pushed into the limelight--the weight of his family name designates the image of flawlessness, elegance, and poise in all that he did. No room for mistakes. He was required of only the best. So, when he looks at her and gazes at his hands, a genuine smile spreads on his lips. 

The expectation for perfection may have taunted his past, but the realization of his commitment in giving his best brought out a clear sense of victory despite the imperfect process that had been associated with it.

--

Some days are tougher than others. The nightmares make it difficult to get through the night regardless of how infrequent they became. It always resulted in him waking up, broken into a cold sweat. Goosebumps peppered his skin, the hair behind his neck stood straight, and he would gasp for air. With regret once again overcoming him, a weight forms in his throat--it’s impossible to go to sleep now. Moreover, the fear for the lack of a peaceful slumber keeps him wide awake until sunrise, and there is only one word that shouts at him in the back of his mind.

“Mudblood.”

“Mudblood.”

“You filthy mudblood!”

The sayings are coupled with the memory of his back pressed onto the cold, wet, bathroom floor. He could recall the stinging sensations that pricked his body, the sight of blood seeping through the white fabric of his uniform, and the energy that was draining from his spirit. It was the lowest he has ever been--mere moments away from what could’ve been his end. Maybe that’s what should’ve happened. There was no one for him to turn to--the warmth of his mother’s arms was so far away, the act of shedding tears was sacrificed to protect his family, and the fact that he was already repulsive in the eyes of others caused his hope to plummet. There wasn’t anyone who he could call his true friend--one he could confide in to relieve the burdens he had faced.

But there was Y/N. The erratic heartbeats that rang against his chest subside when he remembered the firmness within her voice as she cheered for their friendship. The sparkle and reassurance that was displayed within her eyes tickled his heart in a way that he hadn’t experienced before. The soft touch of her hands reminded him that he wasn’t alone. The patience in her voice reminded him that despite all of his shortcomings, there was always hope for change. 

It was then that he’d pluck himself out of bed, and take hold of the ceramic piece that laid prettily on his desk. With deep breaths, he ran his fingers through its golden streaks, allowing the chilled sensation to calm him down. His eyelids would flutter close, and he’d envision her soft smiles, her chipper personality, and the passion that was expressed through her eyes whenever she worked. He’d recall the worn-out Ravenclaw robe hanging on the wall of her dining room, and remember that she was there. She believed in him. She had given him a chance. With his mind set to ease and the morning sun illuminating through the fabric of his curtains, Draco picked up his own broken pieces, and binded himself with the faith she had as the lacquer to keep him together. 

Narcissa and Lucius had noticed subtle changes in the boy. A peaceful light had returned to his silvery eyes, the frown that graced his lips began to fade with time, and the tension that he held in his joints loosened. He treaded the halls with his back upright, his vision trained straight ahead--each step filled with more purpose than the last. They didn’t make it known to him, but the sight brought them much joy.

--

It was a cloudy day when Draco returned to Y/N’s workshop. This time around, however, there’s much more uncertainty and nervousness within him as he stands in the midst of her working. 

Earlier that morning, Narcissa mentioned hosting a ball within the manor (something that hasn’t been done in forever). Invitations were sent out already, the RSVP list continues to grow, and the property itself has been decorated to exhibit its new grandeur. Of course, he agreed to it--slightly concerned about how they’d be perceived--but he was more thrown off by his mother’s only request:

“Please bring Y/N with you, Draco. I’d like to commission her for a piece.” In his mind that translated into, “I want to meet the girl you’ve been constantly visiting.” He knew his mother wasn’t against her. He was more worried about how Y/N, herself, would respond.

The familiarity of her focused expression surfaces, and it attracts him much more than it has before. Her hands are nimble, and she moves fluently. Her hair was tied into a low and messy bun with loose strands framing her face. Her appearance now was much different than their first meeting at the gala, yet his mind went back to that night--picturing her beauty in her deep emerald green dress. With his feelings for her more clarified, he feels his heart beat at the thought of her touch, moreover the thought of his touch on her. Would she even return his feelings? 

“Draco, are you alright? You’ve been staring this way for a while now.” He takes the opportunity to test the waters.

“I needed to ask you something actually.” He goes around and pulls a stool to sit on, meeting the level of her gaze.

“And that is?”

“My mother asked for you,” He said, fumbling with his fingers, “My family is hosting a ball, and she wants you to come--she wants to meet you.” He notices the way her eyes widen at the sound of his announcement. 

“I’m sorry. Come again?” Draco released a soft chuckle before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a decorated envelope with her name printed on the front.

“This is yours.” She takes it from his grasp gingerly and brushes her fingers on the fine embellishments. Realization hits her when she skims across the familiar letters of her name.

“I’ve imagined many things in my life, but they certainly don’t come close to this. Wow, imagine being invited to a Malfoy ball.” Her words flowed out with awe, softening his heart. He reaches out, and tucks one of the loose strands behind her ear. The action forces her to look into his eyes.

“She’s taken quite a liking to your work.” His smile brings out one of her own.

“I’m honored.” She starts to beam, “I should go dress shopping soon.” Her eyes remain transfixed on the information given on the actual invite itself.

“I think you’d look beautiful in anything you decide to wear.” It was meant to be a thought--meant to stay in his head--but it came out, and now the girl felt her face get hot. She covered it with her hands, while the boy just looked up at the ceiling to avoid her gaze.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” He says.

“It’s fine.” 

“If it’s fine then why are your hands still covering your face?”

“Why are you still looking up?” Draco, lowers his chin and pulls her wrists away.

“I’m not anymore.” When the words leave his lips, and his eyes meet hers, he becomes aware of the amount of peace that he attained since meeting her again. In some way, the silence that fills them is overtaken by the messages that their gazes send to one another, both containing gratitude and affection. 

“So will you come with me?” He asks.

“Definitely.”

--

 Y/N paced back and forth while many aristocrats stepped into the manor with much poise in their step. She didn’t mind formal events when it came to art, however, this case felt entirely foreign to her realm of comfort. She wasn’t from a wealthy family nor was she pureblooded either. Surely the end of the war had initiated a shift in change, but the significance of blood status still persisted in some even after. Nevertheless, she made herself present. With much resolve and a false sense of confidence, she stepped into the entrance of the building.

The foyer was bustling with chatter--many attendees stood with glasses of champagne in hand. Still in an awkward stature, the girl takes a look around. The ceilings were decorated with crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains were pulled to the side, exposing massive windows. Arches, columns, even the walls were covered with ornamental carvings. Every single aspect portrayed luxury. Whenever Draco visited the girl, she discarded his association to wealth and solely focused on him as a person. Because of this, the realization that the boy actually had some coin in his pockets hit her like bricks. 

Draco, who had kept his eyes locked on the girl, chuckled to himself. She stuck out from the crowd with her eyes widened in awe. Not to mention her attire. Her hair was kept straight down with golden clips holding it tucked behind her ear. Furthermore, she was dressed in a champagne mermaid gown speckled with beads and embroidery, which flourished outwards and into a sheer fabric decorated with similar details. Her neckline plunged into the middle of her abdomen, yet her shoulders remained covered with long sleeves that wrapped themselves fittingly around her wrists. She truly had the tastes of an artist.

He quietly made his way to her as she continued to gawk at the room. “Your jaw is going to drop, darling.” He whispered in her ear. The feeling of large hands planting themselves on her waist caused her to let out a small yelp, pulling her out of her daze. She let out a breath of relief when she turned to see Draco’s face. 

“You scared me.”

“You were gawking at the walls.” Y/N rolled her eyes, and briefly skimmed him from head to toe. Heart skipping at the way his suit had admiringly framed his shape well. She giggled at the sight of the snake brooch that embellished the collar of his jacket.

“Always a Slytherin, aren’t you Malfoy?” As she brushed her fingers along the details of its design, Draco reached for her hand, and held it by her fingers. She could only stare as he lifted it higher to press his lips on it. Butterflies were felt everywhere.

“And a charmer.” She added. They shared a quick laugh before being interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Standing before them was Narcissa, who beamed at the sight of her son with the girl beside him.

“You must be Y/N Y/L/N. I admire your work, dear.” The older woman stuck her hand out, which the girl shook firmly.

“Thank you so much. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Please, call me Narcissa.” The delight in her voice emitted a welcoming energy, loosening the nerves that Y/N felt early on.

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Narcissa.” 

“It was no problem at all, dear. I’d actually like to speak to you regarding a commission later on tonight. Would that be alright with you?”

“Of course! I’m honored you’d even considered me.”

“Very well, I’ll leave you two alone now. I hope you enjoy yourselves.” Sweet smiles and gazes were exchanged between the two women. After casting a knowing look to her son, she departs from the pair, disappearing into the crowd. 

“Draco, I’ll have you know that I can’t dance to save my life.” He snickered at her confession, already letting the comfort between them settle in.

“It’s alright. Let’s walk instead.” With arms hooked, Draco begins leading her away from the bustling room and into a secluded hall. Mounted on the walls were paintings of his predecessors. He introduced each patriarchal figure to her, starting with Septimus. Her vision plastered itself to their features, mentally discerning the traits that Draco inherited. After a while of walking and conversation, they finally got to a family portrait. Depicted on it was a younger-looking Lucius and Narcissa, and seated on his mother’s lap was a young Draco himself. Y/N unhooked her arm from his, and approached the painting. She concentrated on the little boy. He had bright eyes, a toothy grin, and flowing platinum locks. His hand gripped firmly on Narcissa’s, and his small legs dangled over her dress. He was the only one smiling in the painting, and it warmed your heart knowing that the artist decided to keep that detail in.

“What’s going on in that mind of yours?” He asks, stepping close. He hesitantly snaked his arm around her waist, hoping that she didn’t mind. She looked up to him and smiled, stepping even closer to him. 

“You were so small.” Draco scowled slightly. However, his heart skipped a beat when he saw the way she looked at the portrait with adoration, allowing his foul expression to fade.

“Well that was painted when I was seven, so it’s no wonder I was small.” His sarcastic remark caused her to roll her eyes again, softly slapping the hand that was planted on her. He glanced at her and squeezed her side tighter, pulling Y/N even closer to his body--his warmth increasing the amount of butterflies that rose in her stomach.

“When I walked in earlier, it completely slipped my mind that this was your house. That you grew up here.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, genuinely interested in her response.

“Everytime you came over, I only saw you as Draco. Not as Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and heir to the Malfoy family name.” 

“Please elaborate.” He commands, his heart now racing.

“You’re more than the expectations held for you. You came with commitment to learn about a process that you were genuinely interested in. You grew with your mistakes and your frustrations. That experience was you, and you alone.” She couldn’t help but reveal that admiration she had for him through her voice. 

“I thought it was amazing.” She whispered, hoping that he wouldn’t hear her. He did, however. In turn, he grabbed her hand and led her further down the hallway and into his room. Y/N stood there confused at his sudden action. Her eyes then begin to widen at the sight of him removing his suit jacket with her mind drifting to rather dirty thoughts. 

“Draco, what are you-” 

“I didn’t think it was possible.” Y/N furrowed her brows.

“What do you mean?” Draco looked into her eyes, before shifting his gaze to his left sleeve. Her line of sight follows him as he unbuttons his cuff, and rolls the fabric up, revealing his dark mark. She gasps.

“I didn’t think it was possible to mend myself.” It didn’t take him to say much for her to finally understand that he didn’t intend to do anything dirty. It was the opposite of that. He was making himself vulnerable to her.

“But you showed me how.” He said, completing his statement. Tears brimmed her eyes upon the realization of the reality he had to live. The blaring mark that took away his innocence screamed against his pale skin. It screamed of the pain, of loneliness, and the many many long sleeved shirts he must’ve worn to keep it hidden away. 

“If there’s anyone amazing, it’s you, Y/N.” The tears that had built up fell as she furiously shook her head.

“No, Draco. It’s you. It’s all you.” She took his arm delicately into her hands and pressed her lips on his dark mark. Draco felt his eyes well up in tears, while her own spilled onto his skin. Every kiss that she peppered seemed to paint over his scars, his cracks with gold. The feeling of emptiness dissipated in her presence, only surrounding him with warmth that he had yearned to keep.

“I’m thankful for you.” He whispers. Y/N couldn’t hold herself back at that point anymore. She released his arm from her grip, and held his cheeks within her fingertips, wiping the moisture that managed to fall from his silvery orbs. She, then, slowly lifts herself using her tiptoes, and scans his face for a moment before pressing a sweet, short kiss on his lips. It was gentle, much like her. It was patient, much like her. It was filled with faith, hope, and concern--things that she hadn’t been able to express to him in words, yet was felt through her kiss. Draco closed his eyes at the sensation. When she parted from him, he cupped her face with his hands, and drew her close once more. A sigh escaped her as she felt all the emotions he managed to keep in. Each press conveyed a level of appreciation that the boy had never thought he was capable of showing. 

In that moment a memory of a shrill shout fills her mind, and she stops so suddenly.

“Weren’t you struck with sectumsempra?” She asks with her brows furrowed towards him. His lack of response confirms her curiosity. 

“May I?” Her fingers trail to the top of his shirt as she makes her request. Knowing what it is she wants to see, he nods, prompting her to carefully undo the buttons. Her hands tremble as she makes her way down, revealing the scars that resided on his body. She pushes the fabric over his shoulders, and begins tracing each one--much similar to the way he has done with the golden cracks on her bowl. She slowly lowers herself and starts placing kisses where he has been struck. With her hands gently fastened to his sides, her lips linger in one area before transferring to another. He finds comfort in them--it was as if each sensation reassured that he was loved. As she travels upward, she plants a kiss on his jaw, and a final one on his own. With it she expresses a message dedicated only to him: I believe in you.

They separate and bask in the moment by holding each other’s gaze. After a while, Draco wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into a tight embrace. He nuzzles his nose on the crook of her neck and kisses it, while she runs her hands up and down his bare sides. His left hand then finds its way to her jaw, tilting her face upwards. He proceeds to nip the expanse of her neck, making her head fall back to grant him more access. The hand that was wrapped around her waist travels downwards to her hip, grips it, and presses her body against his. 

“Draco,” she moans.

“Hm?” She doesn’t respond. She finds herself completely intoxicated by his lips as he moves from her neck, her sternum, and to her exposed abdomen. Instead, she laced her fingers into his hair and pushed him closer to her skin. 

The pair was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door. 

“Young master! Are you in there?” It was a houself. Draco presses a finger to his lips, signalling to remain quiet.

“I don’t think he’s there, we should check elsewhere.” Light footsteps were heard fading into the distance, eliciting a light laugh between the two. Y/N looks into his eyes once more, and kisses him one last time.

“Should we go?” He responds with a small ‘yes’ and kisses her forehead. As he buttons his shirt, the girl plods across his room, fascinated with its luxuriousness as she takes in the details. One of them causes her to gasp, however. She walks with her throat choking up at sight of the familiar bowl that was placed on his desk. It was hers. She lifts it gently, recalling their first conversation at the gala. The golden scars remind her heavily of the boy behind her. As she traces them, warm hands rub against her sides before snaking around her waist once more. 

“Does this mean you’re my girlfriend now?” Y/N laughs at his question.

“I suppose it does.” She says as she weaves her fingers into his. The boy takes a moment to stare at the bowl ahead.

“When you said that Kintsugi helped you heal, I wasn’t quite sure to believe you or not. But, going through the process was more than enough to make me understand why.”

“You truly are amazing Draco Malfoy. I won’t let anyone tell me you aren’t.”

“Even if my past is completely flawed?”

“Your past made you into who you are right now. What we have is ‘now’, and ‘now’,” she sets the bowl down and faces him, while her hand caresses his cheek. “...‘now’ belongs to us. Now you are amazingly, wonderfully, imperfectly perfect.”

Epilogue:

The sound of Y/N’s words rung in his mind as Draco found himself standing in the middle of her workspace. With a firm grasp on the brush handle, he dips the bristles into the gold liquid, allowing the excess to drip back.

He takes a deep breath, and allows the solemnity of the room to fill him. Many thoughts overtake him in the moment, but only one makes itself prominent to him, resilience. After going through the binding process himself, he pridefully lays down the gold over the cracks on his bowl--each one portraying the imperfections of his past.

A/N: Hi! If you made it this far, I want to thank you so much for reading! There’s a bit of inaccuracy in the last bit, but besides that I hope I brought much light to the technique in general. I hope you enjoyed!! Feedback is very much appreciated :D

Tagging:

@beiahadid @hahee154hq @mushi98 @stretchyice @dracosathenaeum @dreaming-about-fanfictions @saby06143 @rottenhexrt @littlethie @amithatemo

Link to the taglist is on my masterlist :D

#Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco x reader #draco x y/n #draco x you #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy imagines #draco lucius malfoy #tw depression #tw self degredation

[mrsdeanwinchester19]

The Dinner-Sequel to The Interview

Pairing: Steve x reader

Word Count: 3k

Summary: Sequel to The Interview.  Steve takes his wife to meet his team after her interview

Warnings: None

“Steve, do you think this dress is ok?” I ask, coming out of our walk-in closet wearing my lace, off the shoulder red dress.  Steve is taking me to dinner with the team tonight, so I want to make a good first impression.  Most people would think I’ve met the team before, but Steve kept our relationship a secret in the beginning and then the team broke up because of the Accords and we got married when we were on the run, so we really couldn’t invite any of the team members.

We had our wedding in Norway, one of the few countries that hadn’t signed the Accords.  They claimed they didn’t sign because if a non-government owned unit made from people from different countries called the Alsos Unit hadn’t helped them in World War II, the Germans would have succeeded in creating an Atomic bomb in their country.  In Norway, there was one team member, Thor, who was visiting Earth; he vouched for us.

After our wedding, we went to Wakanda on our honeymoon and visited Bucky. We had been having dinner with Bucky, T’Challa, and Shuri when we told him we got married.  He was upset that he couldn’t be there, but he understood when he found out the wedding happened when he was asleep.  When he said Steve could make it up to him by naming his first son James; Steve started choking on his Umqombothi drink.  I know Steve wants kids, but he wasn’t willing to have them while being on the run. Now that we’re not hiding, we’re actively trying for a baby.  I wonder if tonight he’ll break the news that he has a wife AND is trying to get said wife pregnant.

As I walk out of the closet, I bend down to adjust the ankle strap on my right heel.  I stand back up, smooth my dress, and look up at Steve.  He’s staring at me with a dopey smile on his face, love evident in his eyes.  “The dress itself is fine, you make it look perfect.”

“Ugh, Steve, quit it with the cheesy lines,” I protest while blushing.  Men used to say these things to their wives and girlfriends back in their time, it’s why Steve and Bucky can be prince charming when they want to be. Bucky more often than Steve now that he’s more like his old self, or so Steve says.

“I’m just being honest,” he defends, shrugging his shoulders.  He comes over to me and wraps his arms around my waist.  “You nervous?”

“What do you think?” I ask rhetorically.   I haven’t been this nervous since I first met Steve. In 2014, during a career conference once for journalists, the resort we were at was seized by terrorists.  One of my coworkers and I were the only ones from The New York Sun attending, despite the fact that it was in New York. I suppose they only wanted to go if the convention was out of town so they could get out of work and go on vacation. We were held in the resort’s Grand Hall for hours until the Avengers were able to save us.  There was a pretty big fight between Steve, Thor, Iron Man, Hawkeye, Black Widow, and the terrorists but luckily no one died.  I had been hurt in the kerfuffle, a broken finger, but after Steve wrapped my finger in a brace, he allowed me to interview him.  During the on-camera interview with him, Thor was teasing him in the background, doing silly faces and the “blah blah blah” hand motion.

Steve had asked for my name and number to “keep in touch and see if my finger heals correctly”.  When I gave it to him, he wrote it down in an old-fashioned address book. I hadn’t expected him to call me ever, but he did, asking for a date.  At first, he was weary of me being a journalist, in case things ended badly and I wrote a bad article about him.  However, a year later, he was thankful I was a journalist because I had access to all archived articles about the Winter Soldier.  After that happened, I knew he trusted me wholeheartedly and I felt the same. When the Accords started happening, I had access to the signing, to interview government people about it, and relayed that information to Steve about who he could trust.  That was how I found out about Norway not signing.

“They’ll love you,” he says.  “Bucky loves you, Tony will probably love you because he’ll think the interview prank you pulled on me was hilarious.  Nat and Wanda will be happy another girl is around.  Thor likes you, even Loki took a liking to you; he would love the interview prank. Clint will like you, Bruce will like you; no one has a reason to dislike you.

I turn around and take a good look at him. Royal blue dress shirt and black pants. His hair is up and I want nothing more than to run my fingers through it. He keeps me pressed to his body closely and I rub my hands along his chest. “If we didn’t have to go to dinner with your friends, I would be all over you right now.”

“Sorry, last night’s sex is just gonna have to hold you.” I give a little laugh.  “I’m just messing with you, I’ll be all over you tonight,” he growls, pulling my face up to his and kissing me deeply.  His kisses always leave me breathless, whether they’re passionate like this or small, chaste kisses when he’s leaving for work in the morning.  This however, is a whole new level and it’s making my heart go crazy.

Steve picks up the basket on the kitchen counter and we walk out the door. When we get to the car, he opens the door for me, ever the gentleman, before climbing in himself.  As he drives there, I fiddle with the hem of my dress.  I’m so worried I’ll talk too much or too little, or I’ll offend someone or embarrass Steve. What if I mention something about him that they don’t know?  Like that he bawled like a baby at Where the Red Fern Grows and Homeward Bound. Tony would probably love that but I don’t want to make Steve feel bad, I was crying too.

My biggest worry is what they’ll think of me after the interview.  Will they think it was funny or will they look at me as unprofessional for not telling them I had a conflict of interest with the Avengers?  I think Tony will like me, and maybe Nat, but I have no idea about the others.   I don’t think Bucky would come around as much as he does if he really didn’t like spending time with both Steve and me. Besides, sometimes when Steve is on a mission and he isn’t, he comes and keeps me company with old movies and our little two person book club we started.  His first choice of book was The Hobbit, which he told me he had read it when it first came out in 1937.  He was happy but not surprised to find out there were movies based on them.

When we drive up to the compound, Steve has a difficult time getting me through security.  They recognized my face and apparently Tony told them not to let me back. “Don’t alert Tony about her,” Steve said as he explained the situation to the guard.  He looked skeptical but agreed.

Steve led me upstairs, but not to the dining room where the team was waiting. He led me to his room.  “Well, well, well, Mr. Rogers, I thought we had to meet your friends in a little bit. Though I know you could probably get it done in ten minutes.”

“Ha ha ha, very funny,” he sarcastically replies.  “I just needed to grab…this,” he says, pulling his wallet out of his nightstand.  “Forgot it here yesterday.”

I simply hum in response to his explanation because I’m too busy looking around his room.  I’ve only seen it over FaceTime and in pictures.  It’s very different from our room at home. Our house, which we had just moved to from our apartment in preparation for a family, has a farmhouse theme.  Our master bedroom has a cream colored walls and one shiplap wall which our bed’s decorative headboard sits against, while our king sized bed is covered in a thick white comforter.  There’s a gray bench at the end of our bed and a blue and white rug.  There are nightstands on each side of the bed where we keep our small before bed items and our white, shared dresser is on the other side of the room, next to the door for our walk-in closet.  We have an attached bath with a clawfoot tub and a shower stall.  Our room lets in lots of natural light, which Steve loves because he likes to let the morning sun warm his back on his days off.

This room has a completely different feel to it. It’s much darker than our room at home. The walls are gray and his comforter is dark blue.  He has a black dresser across from his bed with a TV mounted to the wall above it. A plain bathroom with just a few essentials like shaving cream, a toothbrush, toothpaste, etc sit on the counter.  While our walls at home aren’t covered in pictures, we have more than the two he has here.  One is a picture of him and Bucky laughing and the other is of his parents before his father went to war; the war he never came back from.  Both pictures he has copies of hanging up at home. There’s a somewhat large window on the wall, but it’s covered with a blackout curtain.

I did most of the decorating at home, while this decorating was all him.   “Steve?” He looks at me.  “Do you not like our room at home?”

He furrows his eyebrows.  “No.  I love our place.  Why would you think that? Also, that’s very random to be bringing up now.”

“Well it’s just…this room is so different from ours at home.  I just didn’t know if you liked the darker colors better.  I want you to be comfortable in our room at home.  We can change it if you want it to look more like this one.”

He gives a little laugh and turns to face me.  “I didn’t decorate this room, Tony’s person did and he gave me this room because it’s the “most masculine”.  I prefer our room because it’s bright and spacious.  The fact that you decorated it is special to me because it’s like a present you gave to me.  Plus, I don’t have the best eye for interior design since everything I grew up with was either floral or had doilies.  But to be honest, this one feels a bit like a dungeon.  I just don’t bother to change it because I just sleep at home.  And I didn’t change it before I met you because even then I just used it to sleep, if I slept at all,” he looks into the distance, remembering all the nights he spent up in the gym, trying to beat the memories out of his mind.  He changes the subject, “Ok, so when we go down there I’m gonna have you wait around the corner and then you can come out when I tell you.”

He leads me downstairs and has me wait in a hallway. He walks around the corner and I hear Tony say, “Alright Capsicle, what’s the surprise you have for us?”

“Everybody just sit down and I’ll get to it in a minute,” he replies.  The sound of chairs scraping the floor is heard and Tony grumbles something about how he had been planning to have lasagna with Pepper tonight.  After a few seconds of silence, Steve comes back around the corner, grabs my hand, and leads me out. I nearly trip over my heels when we start moving and the pit in my stomach only grows.

At the sight of me, Tony and Natasha stand up startled. “What is she doing here?” Tony angrily asks.

“I thought you banned her,” Natasha adds on.

They all begin chattering, asking Steve why I’m here until Bucky calmly says, “Hey Y/N.”

Sam looks at Bucky confused, “You know her?”  Bucky nods his head and Sam looks at Steve, confused and a little hurt.  “Steve?”

“Everybody,” Steve starts, setting his hand on my lower back.  “This is Y/N, my wife.”

“WIFE?!” they all shout at different times.  Steve and I get bombarded with about a million questions at once.  When did we meet, why weren’t they invited to the wedding, when the wedding was, why I interviewed Steve the way I did, etc.

A loud thud on the balcony draws everyone’s attention. Thor is standing there in his armor and cape, holding his hammer.  “Sorry I’m late for team dinner,” he begins but stops when he sees me.  “Lady Y/N, I haven’t seen you since the wedding.  How has being married to the Captain been?”

“Oh you know, being married to a man-child is a struggle, but he’s hot enough for me to keep him around,” I joke.

“Thor, you know her too?” Tony asks.

“Yes I do.  Loki does too but I decided not to bring him tonight.  I think it would have been a bad idea.”

“Alright, Tony, sit down and I’ll explain everything,” Steve says.  Tony hesitantly sits down and everyone else follows.  Steve explained everything from why we met to why we couldn’t invite them to the wedding.

As he’s finishing telling the story and answering questions from the team, Tony’s bots bring in the pasta and Steve gets up and grabs something from the basket we brought.  He opens a bottle of wine and begins filling glasses.  When he gets to mine, I put my hand over my cup.  “Not tonight,” I say.

“But it’s your favorite,” he says.

“I can’t,” I say, not wanting to get in to it.

“C’mon, I won’t let you drink too much,” he says jovially.

“No, Steve…I can’t,” I say forcefully, looking up to make eye contact, hoping he understands without giving anything away.

He understands, but unfortunately his mouth works faster than his brain.  He looks down at my stomach and an excited smile spreads on his face.  “Are you…?”

I look around the table, seeing the Avengers all looking at us expectedly.  I look back at Steve and sheepishly nod.  He gasps and nearly drops the bottle, but luckily he realizes that when I reach out to catch it.

“A babe,” Thor says happily.  “Mazel tov.”

“They’re not Jewish,” Bucky says to Thor.  “Can’t wait to meet little James or Jamie.”  I give Bucky a look to let him know it’s not happening.  “Ok, Bucky works too.”

Tony puts his head in his hands looking like he’s about to pass out.  “Oh my god, we find out Steve is married to a woman I banned from the compound, and now that he’s going to be a father.”

I look at Steve to see him with tears in his eyes. Thankfully, Natasha saves us. “I’d like to propose a toast,” she says, standing up and holding her glass out.  “To Steve and Y/N, I hope you have a long, happy marriage and a healthy baby girl that you name Natasha.”

“That was the other thing we had planned to tell you tonight.  We’ve been trying for a baby.  I guess we were successful.”  Steve finishes pouring the drinks while everybody suggests baby names.  After a while, the conversation drifts to other things.  I enjoy listening to them, though they’re constantly quipping (mostly Tony).

Bucky, who’s sitting next to me, whispers to Steve, who’s on my other side, “Are we going to church this Sunday?”  The three of us go to church most Sundays. Steve and Bucky both grew up going to church, and it gives them some hope in a dark world.

Tony, who wasn’t involved in the conversation, cuts in. “Barnes, you could live at church and you still won’t go upstairs when you die.”

Bucky’s metal hand clenches so hard around his fork I’d be surprised if it isn’t bent.  He looks at Tony and gives him a very fake, overly sweet smile.  “Tony, I love how mean you are to me because it makes me feel less guilty about what I did to your parents.”

Tony stands up, slamming his hands on the table and Bucky mirrors him.  It looks like they’re about to attack but Steve intervenes.  “Tony, Bucky!  Tony, that was uncalled for and Bucky, that was unnecessary.  We know how you actually feel about your past and we’ve watched you try to change.”  Both men slowly sit back down.  “We have a guest.”  Bucky relaxes first, then Tony does.

“Y/N,” Tony addresses me.  “I need to apologize for my rudeness towards Bucky on my first night officially meeting you.  I was hoping not to fight with him tonight.”

“You call that a fight?  You should hear these two,” I say, gesturing to Steve and Bucky on either side of me.  “These guys can bicker with each other like an old married couple for hours about the smallest things.  Last week they had a 45 minute argument on how many times you can reuse a towel before it needs to be washed.”

“Wash it right away,” Steve mutters.

“Steve, we used to use towels so many times before we washed them in the 40s,” Bucky argues.

“Yeah but that was because if we needed to wash things, Mom had to heat up water and then hang-dry it on the balcony.  It’s easy to wash things now days.”

“Anyways,” Tony says, stopping their argument.  “I guess the interview you gave Cap makes sense now…somewhat.”

“Well I was pissed at him that day, so I think he deserved it.”

Tony smiles at Steve.  “You need to bring her around more often.”

Taglist: @imanuglywombat @infernal-fire @dottirose @carpediemm-18​

#Steve Rogers #steve x reader #captain america #captain america x reader #Avengers #the interview #the dinner #tony stark #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes #sam wilson #thor

[wthtorke]

Can I get a human saving crucified predator and they escape together on the ship and live happily ever after?

You wouldn't die here. You refused to. Stuck with a group that would leave you behind as bait if the chance was there, no. You refused to.

As your group was chased yet again, everyone darting towards a general direction in hopes not to get murdered by the aliens, you took your chance. Running in the opposite direction, towards their camp, praying they were too busy with the others.

There was one of them in the camp. No, he was like them, but not one of them. You could tell the difference.

He was strapped to a pillar, arms painfully strained back as they held all his weight, breathing barely there. He looked sickly, skin too pale, muscles twitching, and face tiredly. You knew he wouldn't hurt you, not if you freed him.

Even then, being an alien, you couldn't help but feel for him. He looked ashamed, still enough fire in him to roar and snap at your group when you had approached, tusks flaring and tresses whipping in a way that told he wasn't dead, not only that but he was still dangerous.

Ignoring every instinct you had about this, you carefully made your way around the camp, spotting him in that same pillar, head jerking up when he heard your footsteps, growling as his tusks twitched. Warning.

You take a shaky breath and an even shakier step towards him, holding both of your hands up to show you meant no harm. -"Come on man, I mean-, well yeah, man? I think you're a dude, sorry if you're a lady," you said nervously approaching, "It must hurt a lot h-huh?" You stuttered as a particular louder growl made you jump a little bit, "B-Bet I could help" You gulped, staring at the fallen blade close to the pillar, "But let's agree on something first, y-yeah?", his growling took up at the mention of a bargain, spikey brows furrowing together in anger. -"I know, it sucks but we need each other, right? You're too...um...handsome to die here and I'm...well, I'm too fucking young," You said, picking up the blade, pointing it away from him.

-"I'm gonna take you out and we um, we flee I guess, yes? Fuck, I hope you can understand me, I didn't pay attention at school so if you speak Spanish I'm so sorry but I suck," You cleared your throat, "So, you, me, and ship?" You said, pointing at him, yourself, and then making a flying away motion with your free hand, "Forever, far away, yeah?" You continued, hand going further and further away, his eyes following your hand briefly before his gaze burned back into you.

You nodded, lifting the blade, watching for his reaction. When he didn't growl or flinch, you landed a hit against the shackles, the alien falling stiff onto the ground, limbs numb and painfully set to stone from being like that for days. 

You gasped as in a blink he was up again, grabbing you by your shirt and bringing your face close to his, tusks flaring as he growled, analyzing your face closely, the bottom tusks scraping against your throat ever so slightly, making you shiver, eyes widening as you tried not to move. 

He must have found whatever he was looking for as he let you go. Not shoving you back or pushing you down but simply releasing you, walking away to retrieve his cracked mask from the ground. Snapping it in place, you jerked back as his whole armor shone bright with electricity before the lights vanished completely. "Whoa ma-," You didn't get to finish your sentence as he grabbed you again, just in time for distant screaming to reach your ears.

The group. The aliens.

Your legs barely touched the ground as he all but hauled you with him, running towards an open clearing. Only to have you cursing as he pressed a few buttons into his wrist gauntlet, the ship's cloaking device turning off much to your relief and worry at the same time.

Losing no time, Crucified opened the gate, grabbing your arm and running in, sealing it closed behind him. Rushing to the main panel, Crucified set to work on getting the ship ready to go, not that he knew where to. Just away from death was good for now. He growled and pointed at one of the three oversized thrones that were set by the panels. “You got it, chief! No need to ask twice!” You sat down, pulling on the straps around your form, adjusting them to secure your smaller body, trying not to think which of the three space Michael Myers sat there before.

Thoughts were cut short when a victorious roar left Crucified’s mask, the ship quickly acting on its commands, lifting off the ground, your heart hammering against your ribcage as hard as the ship shook with power as it took off. Your smile lasted for three seconds until the panels went blood red and sirens started blaring, Crucified roaring in anger as he pressed many buttons at once, fingers moving fast and with purpose as a blue blast of energy hit the front window, making you scream in surprise and cling to your chair. They were trying to take the ship down.

Panicked screaming died in your throat as you panted looking at Crucified, ‘hurry’ and ‘do something!’ wouldn’t help now, and if you did survive, you surely did not want to be stuck with an angry alien for a whoever knows how long ride in space. You did scream again, however, as another blast whacked against the glass, a light blue shield lifting seconds after. 

Crucified growled as he kept fighting for control of the ship, accessing the main server of the ship, putting up his defenses to make it recognize Berserker’s trials to blow up the ship as a threat and not just a command from the ship’s owner. 

While still having to pilot the ship away from the reserve.

Crucified forced the stiffness away from his fingers as he finally won the battle for control, activating the space rift control, which lit up another two buttons before the other two chairs. Crucified roared at you, tresses whipping as he pressed the button in front of him while holding the shield up manually with his other hand.

Eyes widening, you slammed both hands onto the panels from the chair you were on, the button in front of you and the one almost too far off to reach turning green along with Crucified’s, a beam blasting from the ship and out into the sky, opening up a rift that led to an obscure somewhere in the galaxy. Crucified let go of the button, speeding the ship towards the rift as yet another canon blast hit the back of the ship. You closed your eyes as the ship neared the rift. All the sirens and noises suddenly ceasing seconds later. 

Panting hard, you only opened your eyes as you heard Crucified dropped down on the chair at your side, head snapping to look at him, whose chest was rising and falling just as fast as yours. You looked around, noticing that you were not in the reserve anymore. That instead of jungle and death, you were now surrounded by stars and -possible- death. The panel still looked red but in a soft glow, as if things were fine now.

You looked back at Crucified to find him looking back at you. Realization caught up as you started chuckling in relief, hand coming up to your forehead to wipe off the sweat of dread and panic. Chuckling evolved to a soft laugh soon enough, “You’re fucking genius, partner,” You said as he huffed, straightening up to mess with the panel again. 

-“I don’t know about you but-, I have no idea what to do now” You laughed nervously, Crucified stilling his movements as he considered this. He shook his head slightly.

He also didn’t.

-“Humans suck,” You started, Crucified huffed. “Your kind also sucks, apparently,” Crucified....couldn’t deny that. “What I see is that you don’t suck and I, well...I try not to suck, so-, what do you say we just-, watch each other’s backs for now, yeah? Just-, y’know, as friends? Partners?” You said, hopefully.

Crucified slowly turned to face you, the passive expression of the broken mask not giving you any hints of his actual expression, even if you could see a bit of his left eye through the hole in it.

-“Partners.” 

You sighed in relief, smiling brightly, “Partners! We’re gonna be best mates, you’ll see!”

After a year of living together on the ship, not only watching each other’s backs as it was first agreed but taking care of each other, a bond was fully formed. And a year after that, your prediction proved to be right, only that it was a different kind of ‘mates’ that you and Crucified would come to be.

Not that any of you complained, living your best life as best mates could. Together forever.

#yautja #yautja x reader #Yautjas #predator #predators #The Predator #Alien #Aliens #yautja/human #human/yautja #Headcanon #request #reader #gender neutral reader #male reader #female reader

[sailtoafarawayland]

The Daughter You Have (Not That Girl)

Summary: “Take me home,” she whispered against him, and when she pushed onto her toes and hungrily met his lips with her own, pressing every bit of the things she wasn't ready to say yet into him, he knew that she wasn't just talking about a place.

Rated: T 

(This is an edit of my very first story published over on FF way back in 2015, but new to AO3. I've corrected some grammar and fixed a few errors, but have kept it true to what my intentions were at the time. It follows "There's No Place Like Home", but continues as if neither the urn nor Marian returned to Storybrooke)

- AO3 - 

Chapter 1/1

It was a little thing, nothing more than a gentle touch on his wrist, that opened Emma's eyes fully to something she had a feeling her subconscious had been protecting her from up until that point. David and Mary Margaret were disappointed with her. The signs had been there from the beginning – they were so obvious now that she was looking back – but it had been the family dinner at Granny's that had made their feelings perfectly clear.

Things had changed for Emma after she and Hook traveled through Zelena's time portal – a lot had changed, and when they'd finally gotten back, she knew what it was to return home. This was the town where her family was, where her heart was. The entire adventure had also opened her to other possibilities, things she had been eager and uninhibited in exploring since their return.

So when her mother called to let her know they were all meeting at Granny's for dinner, it hadn't occurred to her to do anything other than show up with the person she'd been spending her evening with. After all, they'd intended to eat at some point, so even though the family dinner would shorten other activities they'd had planned, Emma knew they'd make up for the distraction later.

The scene when she and Hook entered the diner was something that tugged at her heart. Every year when she was a child, she'd wished for the same thing on her birthday – to not be alone, to have a family. To have one now and really know that they weren't going to give her up, it was something she'd never thought she could have. So it was understandable, as caught up in the emotion of it all as she was, that she didn't notice the slight fall to Mary Margaret's face when they stepped inside, or the almost imperceptible tightening of David's mouth.

Placing a light kiss on Henry's forehead as he smiled up at her, she took the empty chair alongside him, the familiar heat of Killian beside her as he pulled out the chair at her right side, the comforting weight of his hook resting easily on her leg beneath the table.

She'd smiled at him, his own bright grin contagious beneath his flushed cheeks.  

The two tables pushed together were crowded, Regina, Robin, and Roland being a natural extension of the weird, extended family they'd all fallen into, but everything felt perfect to Emma in that moment.

She was happy.

That's why it was so jarring when it happened.

They'd gone through the tedious chore of ordering food, Roland unable to decide between chicken fingers and pizza, and the conversation was light and easy. Laughing at a quiet comment Henry had made, she'd turned to share it will Killian, knowing he would enjoy the quick-witted remark. Henry had been enjoying spending quite a bit of time with the both of them lately, and clearly the pirate's verbosity had worn off on him. She'd leaned into him, the action intimate and familiar, her arm crossing his body to gently squeeze his hand as she whispered in his ear.

It was a small gesture of affection, an easy expression of her happiness, and if she hadn't happened to look across the table at the exact moment she did, she wouldn't have seen it, but she had, and she did.

Mary Margaret's quickly stifled sigh, the slight flare of David's nostrils.

In that moment, Emma didn't need to ask them if they disapproved of her relationship with Killian, to test their words and weigh them as truth or lie – she read it on their faces as easily as if they had sent her a text.

“I don't feel great,” Emma cut in, interrupting the flow of conversation as she stood abruptly, the legs of her chair stuttering against the floor. “Sorry, kid, but I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Henry shrugged, already turning his attention to the dessert menu he'd been eyeing up. “Feel better, Mom.”

She squeezed his shoulder once, a tight smile on her face, and turned toward the door, needing to get out of the diner that was suddenly too small to hold the frustration and anger coursing beneath her skin.

Killian rose with a bit more grace than she'd been able to muster, his words charming and polite despite the concern she could read beneath them.

Emma didn't go far, simply taking the few steps she needed to get away from the glare of the diner's lights before waiting for Killian to join her, immediate relief folding over her as she was enveloped by the scent of leather and salt – the mark of the sea far too ingrained in everything he wore to ever fade. The heat from her breath clung to his jacket as she pressed herself into his embrace, needing the closeness.

“Talk to me, Swan. Are you unwell?”

She didn't want to talk.

She didn't want to do anything other than run away from the fact that her parents were far from happy about her happiness. She just wanted to wrap herself in his body, finding peace in the friction between them that always brought her to completion so perfectly. She wanted to feel the slide of his fingers, rough and calloused, over her skin, the hard chill of his hook at her back.

She was happy, and they didn't want that for her.

If she didn't soothe the wound that realization left on her heart, she wasn't sure what she would storm back in there and say in front of everyone.

“Take me home,” she whispered against him, and when she pushed onto her toes and hungrily met his lips with her own, pressing every bit of the things she wasn't ready to say yet into him, he knew that she wasn't just talking about a place.

* ~ * ~ *

As Emma lie in his arms that night, listening to the slow creaks and moaning pipes that ran behind the walls of Granny's, her thoughts traveled back through the days and weeks since their return from the Enchanted Forest. She tried to remember how her parent's had been from that first moment until now.

There had been relief etched on their faces as Emma recounted their adventure, and gratefulness when they thanked Killian for not letting her go alone and keeping her safe. They had been friendly even, for once acting as if he belonged in Storybrooke, as if he had a place there and was more than an unwanted outsider looking through the window – but apparently their good will had an expiration, and that was as soon as they realized that they weren't the only reason she'd stayed instead of running back to New York.

All that time as her relationship with Killian progressed, she hadn't noticed their disappointment in the fact that it was growing and deepening rather than fading, a one time thing – because that was what she had seen on their faces in the diner, and it had shattered her.

She burrowed closer to Killian as he held her, his face serene and relaxed in sleep. She was thankful for that, knowing that some nights his old demons haunted him more deeply than others. It warmed her heart to know that those nights were becoming farther and fewer between. She didn't want to leave him when the sun came up, would miss the strength of his arms around her, the confidence that came so easily when he was at her side, but she knew she had to talk to her parents.

She knew what she had seen, but she had to hear it from them.

* ~ * ~ *

David's face moved quickly between his easy, morning smile to surprise as the door opened, then more slowly to the grim look of resolve. For a second, Emma couldn't figure out why she'd surprised him, and then she realized it was because she'd knocked. The realization left a small ache in her chest, the significance not lost on either of them. Though she'd been spending most nights at Granny's, up until last night, this had still felt like home.

“Who is it, David?”

She heard Mary Margaret's voice chime from the other side of the loft, the soft tapping of her shoes drawing closer.

“It's Emma,” he muttered, opening the door fully and waving her inside, his movements stilted.

Mary Margaret was smiling when she finally popped into view, but Emma could see the anxiety flickering in her eyes as she stepped through the door and closed it behind her, facing the both of them with more than a hint of discomfort in her stance.

“Henry didn't stop in, did he?”

He'd been staying most nights with Regina and Robin, enjoying spending time with Roland, but sometimes he would still swing by the loft in the mornings to meet her before they went to Granny's together for hot cocoa.

“He did, but we mentioned you weren't here and he said he'd wait for you at Granny's,” her mother said. “Did you want to head over – ”

“No,” Emma rushed, cutting her off and interrupting the motion Mary Margaret was making toward the door, her hand falling back to her side. “I need to talk with the both of you, about last night.”

“Emma, if this is about Hook – ”

“It's not...well, not directly. It's about me.”

Emma watched them uncomfortably, suddenly unsure of how to begin now that she was actually standing in front of them, David with his questioning eyes, and Mary Margaret with her hands twisted together in front of her waist. She was supposed to be able to do this. She'd broken a curse, fought a dragon, stood up to Cora, and fought to bring down Zelena. She was the Savior, she was supposed to be able to do everything, including confront her parents.

A longing to have her pirate standing beside her hit, his hand resting gently on her shoulder for support, but even though she knew she needed to do this alone, the brief flash of him in her mind was enough to spur her on.

He was worth fighting for.

“I saw the way you looked at us last night,” she began, the hurt obvious in her voice, no matter how steady she tried to make it. “When I touched his hand, I looked across at you, and you guys couldn't stand to see it.”

“Emma, you have to understand, we appreciate everything Hook did to help you get back home to us. We see that he's changed, please don't think we're blind to that,” Mary Margaret sighed, her eyebrows knit with concern.

“But you still don't think he's worthy of your respect, your trust...that he's worthy of me?”

“We do respect him, Emma, we really do,” David interjected, scratching the top of his head as he met Mary Margaret's eye, “but you have to understand, we never wanted someone like him for you.”

“Someone like him?” Her voice crept up in volume, ringing with disbelief.

“You deserve better.”

“Better than someone who has come to my rescue time and time again? Better than someone who gave up his actual home for a chance – no, less than a chance even – that he might be able to save me, to save all of you? Someone better than that?”

“You're forgetting all of the other things he's done, Emma – his past. We wanted something different for you, someone like your father, Not a – ”

“Not a pirate,” David snapped, unable to keep the vitriol from his tone.

“How dare you!” There was a venomous edge to her voice now, low and quiet. “How dare you think you have any right to an opinion on this. Are you kidding me? You dropped into a magic tree – and I get it, I understand that you had to, and that it broke your hearts, but now you need to understand something...”

She paused, taking a breath as she tried to loosen the tight fists she'd balled her hands into “All of those hopes and dreams you guys had for me, the things you envisioned shaping me into the woman you wanted me to be, they didn't go through the wardrobe. It was just me, all by myself. Whatever plans you've made for my future, they're for a person who doesn't exist. They're for the daughter you wanted, not the one you've got.”

“But the daughter you've got,” she continued, “she's pretty damn happy as she is. I didn't grow up in some fairy tale. I grew up in the real world. I was abandoned, betrayed, disappointed and left behind my entire life. I've got more bruises, and scars, and flaws than most people, but because of Killian, I've learned to accept them and move on, because all of them together put me right where I am today. You might not like the rough, gritty parts of him, his past, the hook, but I do. I love every part of him, and I will not sit here and let you treat this like I'm settling, because he is everything I need, and everything I want.”

She found herself nearly breathless after her rant, fists shaking at her sides as she stared at her parents wide-eyed in front of her. She had hoped the weight on her chest would lighten once she put everything she felt out into the open, but instead she was faced with a lingering tightness that wouldn't budge, suddenly aware that they may have considered all of those things and still disapproved.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret sighed, locking eyes with David before reaching forward and taking her daughter's clenched fists in her hands. “You may have grown up here, but you were born in the Enchanted Forest, a princess and the product of true love. If you're destined to have a True Love of your own, then surely it's not someone – ”

Emma didn't give her a chance to finish her sentence, tearing her hands free and throwing the door open, the heavy wood bouncing off the wall as she stormed out without a backward glance. The resounding thump of the door falling back into place and closing behind her somehow trickled through the roar of anger thumping in her ears and she paused, pressing her forehead and hands against the cool wall down the hallway.

“You alright there, love?”

The rage she'd been feeling slipped away from her at the sound of his voice, her legs suddenly shaking and less steady than they should have been for someone who was stone cold sober. Thankfully, he was at her side the minute she turned from the wall that had been lending her a little support, his arms catching her as they sunk to the floor together, his leather jacket splayed across the rug as he knelt, arms circling around her as she tucked her head into his chest and closed her eyes.

Her heart ached in a way she hadn't expected to feel again, in the same way it had when the cop told her to turn around and she'd realized someone she'd counted on had let her down.

It ached until he whispered against her hair, soothing noises and assurances that everything would be well, the timbre of his voice bringing her peace.

“What are you doing here?” Emma whispered, wondering how he'd known to look for her at her parent's loft, and suddenly very glad they hadn't decided to follow her into the hallway. She had no idea how she'd react seeing them again so soon after what Mary Margaret had just been about to say. She needed time, and they probably did as well.

“I will admit I was adrift when I woke without you this morning, Swan,” he confided, placing another soft kiss to her hair, “but I thought perhaps you'd been craving some of that chocolate concoction you like, so I went to Granny's, wondering if that's where you'd run off to.”

“It's called hot chocolate. Did you see Henry there?”

“Aye, the lad was showing me something in a book about the stars that Belle had given him. He thought perhaps you'd gone to see if he was at the loft.”

Emma sat up quickly, leaning out of Killian's lap so she could search the stairwell below, her chest tightening painfully at the thought of Henry overhearing what had gone on with her parents.

“He's not here, Swan. I had a feeling there was something that needed addressing between you and your parents after last night.”

“How did you know?”

“I'm a pirate, love. We've a keen sense for danger – a word that would fairly describe your temperament a moment ago.”

“Where is he?”

“Ah, I sent him over to our room to retrieve the sextant I'd told him about the other day. I thought it would be useful for him to see how it works for the paper he's writing.”

“That's good,” she murmured, settling back into his lap. “I wouldn't him have wanted him to hear me that upset with his grandparents.”

“Aye, angry is what you were a moment ago, but how do you feel now, Swan?”

“Blood spectacular,” she laughed, snuffing her nose that she hadn't realized was now stuffy, her eyes burning slightly at the tears she wouldn't shed.

She felt the absence of Killian's arm around her as he reached up and scratched behind his ear, a nervous habit she thought was pretty cute.

“Well, in that case, what do you say to a change of scenery, a leisurely stroll, perhaps?”

“Your legs are numb, aren't they?”

“Aye.”

* ~ * ~ *

Days had passed since Emma confronted her parents, and still she hadn't asked him the question he'd been dreading. He had expected it right away, and she'd surprised him by not seeming the concerned in the least that may have overheard her conversation. His Swan, still managing to surprise him even after how much they'd learned of one another. Perhaps now that they'd grown closer than he had ever hoped was possible, she had no words left to hide from him.

They spent those days enjoying the company of one another and the continued absence of any threats to the town. Walks with Henry to the dock were frequent. The lad had developed a true curiosity about everything to do with the sea, and though he no longer had the Jolly with which to entertain the boy, he never regretted it – though Emma often gripped his hand more tightly whenever they passed by the spot where she had once anchored so long ago.

She'd asked him only once if he regretted it, and he'd been able to look her in the eye and speak honestly.

Never, not for a second, Emma.

Hours spent twisted among his sheets were also frequent, his fingers never tiring of their play across her body, but his Swan was quite perceptive, and he knew she felt the subtle change in his demeanor that had plagued him ever since that morning at her parent's loft.

When it had lingered for more than a week – his breath hitching in his throat as he watched her fall asleep, thinking she was too far gone to notice, she finally asked him.

“Killian, will you please tell me?”

A part of him wanted to sweep her into his arms, fingers threading through her hair as he grinned, disarming her with some witty banter about how the only thing bothering him was her state of dress, mainly that the shirt she'd donned was too much, but the smile wouldn't come to his lips, and he had no desire in his heart to lie to her.

“Your mother, Emma...what she said. Surely it's the truth.”

She stiffened against him and pulled away, the immediate distance she's placed between them striking his chest with both fear and pain, though it was the reflection of both in her eyes that injured him most. His words had hurt her, but neither could he lie. She would know, and it would pain her just the same.

“What do you mean?”

“She told you no untruths, love. You were born a princess in the Enchanted Forest, the daughter of heroes and a Savior in your own right – someone destined to have a true happy ending.”

“What I was supposed to be doesn't mean anything, you and I both know that, Killian.”

“But what if she's right?” he nearly whispered, dread thick on his tongue as his sea-blue eyes bored into her own. “What if it means everything? What if there is true love waiting for you, a man destined for you – a man who never killed because he could, nor lived solely for vengeance until it blackened his heart?”

“I believe that, Killian – ”

Her words were a frigid wave of his deepest fears washing over him, the doubts he was voicing suddenly far more substantial than when they'd haunted his dreams.

“ – a part of it, that is,” she continued, sliding closer in his bed and running her fingers through his inky, dark locks. “I believe I have a true love. The only difference, you idiot, is that I know I've already found him, so don't do this to me. Don't doubt me now when you never have before. After all the chasing, just because I finally stopped running doesn't mean it's your turn.”

The tips of her fingers stroked through his hair, returning softly along his jaw and cupping his face. He reached out for her then, twirling a strand of her golden hair around his finger, his heart leaping as he took in every curve and peak of her face as she smiled. He wanted to have her faith, to believe as she did that he could be her everything – because was certainly everything to him.

Slipping easily onto his lap, the sheets pooling around their waists, she rested her forehead against his, moving to wind her fingers in his own, her other hand firmly grasping his stump, loving every part of him. His heart ached with how much he loved her in return.

“What do you say, Killian. Can you take that leap of faith with me, that no matter what, from here on out it will always be us?”

And because she asked and he trusted her implicitly, believed her in the very core of his being, he could. His lips crashed against hers, rocking them both back onto the bed as they shared each breath, passion and love and a feeling of rightness brightening each move they made. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to vanish any breath of space between them. Possessiveness and need slowly rolled into the slow rise of tenderness and longing, their bodies moving and melding seamlessly as they poured their commitment into each shuddering breath. When they finally broke apart, their heated bodies resting atop the sheets, he knew in his heart how true her words had been, because he could never leave this miraculous woman who'd brightened his life, who'd chosen to be his. He loved her too greatly, too deeply, and every day till his very last he would choose her.

“It will always be you,” he whispered against her neck, clinging to her as if she was the only thing keeping him afloat in an endless sea, and perhaps she was. “Always, Emma.”

Tagging: @justanother-unluckysoul @kmom0f4 @the-darkdragonfly @teamhook @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @alifeofdreams @superchocovian @donteattheappleshook @hollyethecurious @caught-in-the-filter @snowbellewells 

#Captain Swan #cs fanfic #CS fic #emma and hook #sailtoafarawayland #The Daughter You Have

[atsuumus]

risks

pairing - ushijima wakatoshi x reader

synopsis - 

word count - 1.05k

a/n - i’m sorry this is so late !! i was a little busy ,, i hope you enjoy anon ! thank you for requesting :< it really made my day. feel free to tell me if this wasn’t what you wanted or if there’s something you’d like changed ! 

at this point, you’re pretty certain that the entirety of shiratorizawa academy knows of the glaringly obvious crush you have on resident volleyball ace, ushijima wakatoshi. you’re kind of used to the vaguely pitying gazes your peers throw you in the hallways, knowing of your very public, very obvious, very fruitless attempts at showing him your affections.

you have tried everything. you’ve gone through multiple websites and magazine articles with titles like ‘ show him you like him ! ’ and ‘ 10 ways to confess !! ( without confessing ) ’, tried every technique they’ve offered you, asked friends, family, and sometimes even utter strangers for tips and ideas, but nothing has worked. the bento you left on his table, everything inside shaped like hearts, was accepted with a thank you, eaten, and then never talked about again. the love letters you left on his table replied to with post-it notes that had something along the lines of ‘ thank you for your kind words ’ written along the bottom. every single compliment you pay him in person has failed to fluster him - no matter what you say, he responds with a sincere ‘ thank you ’ and sometimes pays you a compliment back, but you know that he views everything you do and say platonically.

tendou has patted your back apologetically so many times that you think your uniform blouse now bears a permanent mark in the shape of his hand.

the worst part is that you know that he genuinely doesn’t see that you have a crush on him. he’s a very blunt, honest person - one of the reasons why you like him so much - and would probably reject you straight to your face if he knew. it’s a blessing and a curse. a blessing, because it means that you might still have a chance, but a curse, because you have done everything in your power to show him that you are interested in him in a romantic way, yet he still hasn’t picked up on it.

well. . . almost everything.

straight-up confessing to him is the one thing you haven’t tried. it is your last resort, the riskiest choice and the one that requires the most courage. a confession would either free you from the never-ending hell that is trying to subtly hint at the unbelievably oblivious ushijima, but it could also hand him the ability to shatter your heart into a million tiny pieces with just a few words. however, it is quickly becoming more and more apparent that it is also the only way the stoic male will ever get the hint, so you suppose that you’ll just have to bite the bullet and do it.

this is how you find yourself standing in front of the doors to the gym, waiting patiently for the object of your affections to come out. your own club activities ended not too long ago, and you figured the volleyball club would be packing up soon. you were right - you can see tendou picking up the balls around the court, a ball of bright red bobbing up and down next to a very familiar silhouette. it’s almost as if he senses you peeking in through the window, because the boy turns around and spots you, shooting you a discreet grin like he knows what you’re here to do. 

other than them, though, the gym seems strangely empty.

tendou disappears into the storage room with an armful of blue and yellow volleyballs, and you take a deep breath. this is it. you have two pints of ben and jerry’s stored away in your fridge just in case. you’re ready. you can do this.

you open the door to the gym, pink already dusting your cheeks as you gather all the courage in your body. the first call of his name is soft, timid, barely more than a whisper, and he obviously doesn’t hear it. you bite your lip before trying again.

“ ushijima ! “

this time, he hears you. he turns, a question in his eyes, and you beckon to him shyly, motioning for him to come outside.

you think you have never felt more fear than when he complies, looking more than a little confused. your heart slams against your ribcage when he steps outside before sliding the door shut and turning to face you expectantly, waiting for you to say whatever it is you had presumably called him outside to say.

“ i. . . um. . . ” now that you’re really about to do it, you realise you don’t quite know what to say. should you just keep it short and simple ? or maybe you should do that whole speech you practiced in the mirror. all the articles run through your mind all at once, and then it occurs to you that it really isn’t too late to run away. you need to calm down.

you take another deep breath, holding it before letting it go, releasing all the tension in your frame as you do so. eight letters, three words. even if you get your heart broken here, it’s okay. you have two pints of ben and jerry’s ready for you at home.

so you look him in the eye with a determination you never knew you had, and you stop fidgeting with the sleeves of your blazer. it’s getting late, and the sky’s already dark - the days never last very long in the winter, and the cold paints your pink cheeks red. ushijima’s expression shifts, though you can’t quite identify it.

“ i like you, ” you begin, and while your voice wavers a little and your cheeks are warm, you continue. “ romantically. i have a crush on you. you don’t have to say anything, but i just wanted you to know. ”

there’s a moment of silence. you’re just about to run away, taking his lack of reaction as a rejection, but then he smiles. under the light of the moon and what leaks through the windows of the gym, his eyes press into crescents and his lips curve upwards. it reassures you, somehow, makes you relax again, catching onto the hidden meaning behind the smile. 

you think you’ll take more risks in the future.

#ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima imagines #haikyuu!! #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagines #yu writes #eagle boys #requested

[kiapet2]

where the two ends meet

The newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman knows two things:

First, that his brother is dead.

And second, that it is his fault.

But when Roman journeys into the witch’s forest on a quest of penitence, he discovers that there is more to the story than he could have known. What he finds there may be his salvation— or his ruin.

Takes place after @whenisitenoughtrees‘s fic thrice for another day. Can also be read on its own.

Pairings: Platonic Creativitwins, Background Intrulogical

Word Count: 4,029

Warnings: death mention, grief/mourning, blood and injury, abusive parents

AO3 Link

Nearly a month after his family buries an empty coffin, the newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman slips out from his castle room and walks alone into the forest.

Unlike past evenings, Roman does not turn into the stretch of woods closest to the castle. At this point, he could likely name every rock and tree and still not find what he’s looking for. Instead, he walks in a straight line, heading deeper and deeper into the woods.

There is said to be a witch at the center of this forest, one who preys on the surrounding villages and whom no man should approach lest he meet his end. Roman had once thought to adventure into the woods to slay such a foul creature, but his intention tonight is far different. He has need of help only a wielder of magic can provide.

And if the venture is to end in his death, so be it.

...

Roman hasn’t been walking for long when he becomes aware of someone following him. The feeling comes and goes— a tingling on the back of his neck, like he’s being watched— but as Roman scans the woods around him, he cannot detect any signs of unusual activity.

The third time he feels the presence, Roman comes to a sudden halt and places a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Show yourself, whoever you are!” he calls, then scans the trees around him for any sign of a response.

“Why have you entered my woods?” an irritated voice says from somewhere behind him.

Roman whirls around and draws his sword in a single, fluid motion.

The person standing behind him raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Roman takes the man in: dark hair, a sharp-featured tan face, and piercing dark blue eyes that seem to peer straight to Roman’s core through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the man’s simple clothing, Roman knows with a deep certainty that this is the witch.

Ignoring all his instincts, Roman sheaves his sword and holds out his empty hands in a gesture of peace.

“I have been searching for you,” he says. “I have a request to make of you, and am prepared to reward you well.”

“I don’t make a habit of dealing with royalty,” the witch says coldly.

Roman’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes, I know who you are, Prince Roman of Thaylar,” the witch says, “and I am surprised you would dare come here, considering your family history. You are either very brave, or very foolish.”

“Both,” Roman says, “but I mean you no harm. If you would hear me out—”

Dark blue energy forms in the witch’s hand. “I have nothing to hear from you, witch-killer. I would advise that you vacate my premises, before I am forced to take action.”

Roman swallows and takes an involuntary step back. Perhaps he should listen to the witch’s warning, abandon this fruitless quest and return to his bed.

It’s not worth it, his father had said after they found Remus’ trail leading to the forest. He couldn’t have gotten far anyways.

Roman straightens his spine and lifts his chin. He owes this to his brother— owes him so much more than this, but it’s the only thing left that Roman can do.

“I only wish to find my brother’s body,” Roman says, “So that I might bury him. Aid me in this and I will ask of you nothing more.”

The witch seems to search Roman’s face for something, his expression unreadable. Then he nods once, sharply.

“That, I can answer easily enough.”

Without another word, the witch turns on his heel and heads off into the forest. Roman hurries to catch up, biting back the urge to question where they are going. The walk lasts far longer than it feels like it should, and Roman suspects the witch is leading him around in circles so he will not be able to tell how to get into his lair. Or how to get out, some part of his mind whispers. He shoves it aside.

Finally, they reach a small clearing with a wooden cottage that looks surprisingly simple and well-kept for a witch’s lair. The witch leads Roman around the back of the house to an herb garden, stopping at a small pile of stones. For a moment Roman wonders what spell the witch intends to cast here; then the shape of the stones registers fully.

A cairn.

“I found him a little ways out from here,” the witch says. “His ribs had broken and pierced his lungs, and he’d been bleeding internally. It was a miracle he managed to make it even that far.”

Roman lowers himself to his knees and hesitantly places a hand on the upturned earth, trying to comprehend that under it is all that remains of his brother. Even now, it feels like all of this is a terrible dream, and one day he’ll wake up and Remus will be alive and driving him crazy again.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the witch says stiffly.

Roman’s chest feels tight, and he swallows past something lodged in his throat.

“He would like being buried here, by the garden,” he chokes out. “He always went on about how everyone becomes food for worms and fungus eventually. If you were to grow your strangest plants over his grave, it would have made him very happy.”

It feels wrong, to speak of his brother in the past tense.

“Might I ask what happened?”

Roman squeezes his eyes shut, holding back the tears that burn at their corners. He doesn’t deserve to cry, not over this.

“I gave him up as a witch,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and the words seem to grate and tear at his throat. “He trusted me with his life, and I betrayed him.”

The silence behind Roman is telling.

“Thank you,” Roman rasps, “For putting him to rest.”

He stays there, kneeling in the dirt, long after the witch has returned inside.

...

Remus cries out as he tumbles into the tower room’s wall, jarring harshly against the rough stone.

“Father,” Remus cries, “Father, wait—”

“You are no son of mine!” Father snarls, lifting Remus by the front of his shirt. “Foul demon!”

Roman’s mind screams at him to do something, to run forward and grab Remus or yell at his father to stop but instead he just stands there, frozen in horror, as in one great motion his father shoves Remus through the tower’s window and dangles him out over open air.

Time seems to slow as Father screams curse after curse in Remus’ face, as Remus clutches at the hands holding him above a dizzying drop. Remus’ gaze slides over to meet Roman’s, and for one terrible moment Roman sees in his eyes pure devastation. The agony of betrayal.

And then Father releases his hold, and Remus is gone.

Roman wakes up screaming.

He rolls over onto his side and curls up in a ball, taking harsh, gasping breaths. It takes a moment for him to register that he’s not standing in the castle tower staring in horror at the empty space where his brother used to be— the space that was right there in front of him as if Roman could have reached out and touched him but he was already gone and it was too late—

Breathe.

Roman closes his eyes and listens. In place of the screams that still ring in his head, he hears only the sound of wind swishing through trees. He reaches a hand out and feels loose dirt beneath him. He’s lying on the ground, outside. Roman opens his eyes and sees a dark sky full of stars.

Perhaps Remus is among those stars now. Would he like that? He’d probably think it was boring, to be honest. The thought brings a slight smile to Roman’s face.

Roman sits up, focusing on his breathing. It takes another moment for him to recognize where he is: the witch’s clearing, right by Remus’s... by the grave. It is dark except for the light of the moon— full, a poor omen. Roman had meant to be home by this time as the forest becomes vastly more dangerous at night, but apparently his many nights of lost sleep have finally caught up to him. There’s no use to it now; he’ll just have to wait for the light of dawn to find his way home.

Father will not be happy when Roman returns after dawn has already broken.

Roman has been much less concerned with keeping his father happy, as of late.

No, what bothers him most is why he’s been allowed to stay here at all. Considering the witch’s initial hostility to him, Roman figured admitting to turning in his own brother for using magic would result in being thrown out at best and murdered in his sleep at worst. And yet here he is, sitting in the witch’s clearing un-murdered.

Roman reaches out and touches Remus’s cairn with reverent fingers. He can’t bring himself to regret falling asleep here, dangerous though it may have been. It feels right to have slept beside his brother one last time.

“Well isn’t this sweet! Roro, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Roman freezes. He knows that voice. But— but that’s impossible—

Roman scrambles to his feet and turns, heart in his throat.

Remus stands before him, illuminated by the light of the moon. He’s clad in the clothes he died in— Roman would know, he sees them in his dreams every night— and there’s a stain of something brown on his shoulder and neckline that Roman doesn’t particularly want to identify.

Roman gapes. “Re, what— how—”

Remus’ smile is bright, but his eyes are cold. “I think you know, Roman.”

Roman feels the blood drain from his face.

They’ve all heard the legends: spirits of magic-users who roam the earth, invested with their magical power and seeking vengeance on those who wronged them. Roman’s father once taught him the proper ways to... dispose of... witches to prevent such a phenomenon from happening. It was Roman’s least favorite lesson by far.

“There it is!” Remus cheers as the comprehension dawns on Roman’s face.

Roman falls to his knees, trembling.

“Remus,” he breathes, “Remus, I—”

He breaks off, lost for words. Roman has thought about what he would say to Remus if he had the chance dozens of times, dreamed up countless scenarios where he prostrated himself and begged for forgiveness or explained himself in a way Remus would understand. Now that he’s actually here, those dreams seem childish and futile in the face of everything that’s happened.

“So funny story,” Remus says, “I’ve thought it over and someone must have told the king about me, right? But I never practiced where anyone could see, and there’s only one person I ever shared my secret with. The person I always shared everything with. Got any idea who that could be, brother?”

Roman’s stomach feels like lead, and he can’t bring himself to look Remus in the eye.

Remus laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.”

His face twists in sudden fury and he shoots forward, getting in Roman’s face and forcing him to flinch back.

“Do you know how it feels, Roman? To have every bone in your body shattered, shards of your own ribs stabbing your insides until you drown in your own blood? Do you know how it feels to lie helpless and dying on the forest floor, knowing your corpse will stay there forgotten, with you replaced without a second thought? How it feels to be betrayed by your own twin, the one person in the world you’d thought you could trust?”

“Stop!” Roman cries, clutching at his head.

“Aw, is baby Roman too sensitive for all that?” Remus croons mockingly, pacing around him. “Do we need to protect his innocent little ears from the icky details of his brother’s brutal murder?”

Tears gather in Roman’s eyes, and he struggles to keep them from falling.

“Remus, I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Then what did you want? Why did you do it, Ro? Did you want my throne that much? Or did you just hate witches more than you loved—”

“No!” Roman protests. “No, Remus, I could never hate you!”

“Then why?” Remus says, and the raw pain that fills his voice is so much worse than the anger. “Why did you tell him?”

Roman’s throat is tight and his eyes burn, but he forces the words out anyways. Remus deserves to know.

“Y-you kept hurting yourself. You’d come in bleeding and half-dead from experimenting with your magic and you wouldn’t see a doctor and, and I thought that one day you were going to kill yourself and it would be my fault for not stopping you. I thought if I— if I told Father, h-he would make you stop—”

Remus laughs bitterly. “You thought old daddy dearest, who has scores of magic users killed every year, would what— let me off with a warning?”

Roman flinches. “You’re his son! I didn’t— he was understanding before when I—”

“He was understanding of you,” Remus says. “You are his son. I’m sure he was thrilled at the chance to get rid of me.”

“I’m sorry.” The words force their way out in a whimper, and Roman’s stomach twists at their inadequacy.

“You’re sorry,” Remus says flatly.

Roman’s response catches in his throat, and instead he just bows his head, refusing to defend himself further. Nothing can make up for what he’s done.

Remus laughs suddenly, loud and manic. He snaps his fingers and mutters under his breath, and Roman is lifted into the air, a gentle pressure holding his arms against his sides with far more control than Remus ever had in life.

Remus gives him a vicious grin. “And what if I said ‘sorry’ wasn’t enough? What if I said I was going to have my vengeance, right here and right now?”

Roman’s tears finally overflow, and with them the pain that has been building ever since Remus went out that window.

“Do it,” he sobs. “Kill me.”

“What?” Remus says, sounding startled.

Roman bawls, not the pretty tears of the heroes in his books, but in wracking sobs that tear at his throat and send streams of tears and snot running down his face.

“Please, just kill me. I killed you. I killed you, and I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I killed you.” He cuts off with another sob. “Do whatever you want with me, please, I deserve it. I deserve it.”

The force holding Roman releases and he drops heavily to the ground. He curls up, chest heaving, and waits for the first blow to fall.

But the touch that falls on his arm isn’t painful; it’s soft and warm. It pulls him up and holds him tightly against a chest that is solid, breathing, beating.

Alive.

“I’m not going to kill you, Roman,” Remus says, his voice strangely choked, and Roman can feel it reverberating through his chest. “You’re my brother.”

Roman’s heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. Remus, he’s... he... how did he—

The world spins, and Roman sees a brief flash of Remus’ worried face before everything goes dark.

...

“Roman! Roman, please!” Remus screams. He clutches at Roman’s hands where they grip his shirt, his face a mask of terror as his legs dangle over nothingness.

Roman fights desperately, screaming from deep within his mind, but his body doesn’t move.

“Why, Roman? I’m your brother!” Remus whimpers, tears gathering in his eyes.

Roman hammers at the boundaries of his mind but is helpless to stop it as his hands steadily, inexorably loosen.

Remus screams again as he slips through Roman’s fingers and falls into the darkness.

“Roman!”

“Roman! Roman, wake up!”

Roman jolts awake, his heart pounding as he gasps for breath.

“Ro? Hey, can you hear me?”

Roman blinks blearily and a face fades into focus above him. Worried red eyes, that ghastly mustache, a white streak in his hair...

“Re?” he croaks.

Remus grins. “There we are!”

“Remus,” Roman breathes. He reaches out with one shaking hand to cup Remus’s face and feels warm flesh beneath his fingers. “Are you really here? Or— or am I dead?”

Remus gives him a lopsided smile. “Takes more than getting thrown out of a tower and smashing my bones to smithereens to kill me!”

Roman surges upwards, wrapping his arms around his brother and burying his face in his shoulder.

“Hey, come on,” Remus says as Roman begins to shake, his tears wetting Remus’ shirt. “You’re going to dry yourself up if you keep crying this much. Just shrivel up like a human raisin until you end up a dried-out mummy and someone finds you like a thousand years later and wonders what the hell happened.”

The thought is so gross and ridiculous and Remus that Roman finds himself laughing through his tears.

“Gods above, I missed you.”

Composing himself, Roman pulls back and looks Remus over. He’s wearing simple, weathered clothing, his hair is an absolute mess and there are dark bags under his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing Roman has ever seen.

“How?” Roman says, his voice cracking with emotion. “I thought you were— that I’d— How are you even here right now?”

“I healed a bit and then dragged myself here,” Remus says. “Logan did the rest.”

Remus looks back over his shoulder with a surprisingly soft smile, and for the first time since waking Roman tears his gaze away from his brother’s face to look at where they are. Roman is sitting on a cot in a simple wooden room, bare except for a small table and worn bookshelves lining one wall. The witch’s house, Roman assumes. The witch himself is standing stiffly a little ways behind Remus, his face transitioning from warm concern to dark displeasure as it moves from Remus to Roman.

“You lied to me,” Roman says. “You knew he was alive all along”.

“Technically, I never spoke a falsehood,” the witch— Logan— says coolly. “I did find Remus with the injuries I described. I merely was able to heal them, if barely.”

“We had to be careful,” Remus says. “I didn’t know, if...”

If Roman felt any real remorse for what he’d done. If he would turn Remus in again, once he found him.

Roman rises from the cot, causing Logan to dart forward in alarm. But Roman just lowers himself to one knee, bowing his head and placing a hand over his heart.

“I swear to you on my life, I never meant to harm you in any way,” Roman says. “I have regretted what I've done every day, every moment, since we parted.”

“Yeah, I got that from the whole bursting-into-tears-and-telling-me-to-kill-you thing,” Remus says. “Which was dramatic even for you, by the way.”

“People will often show their true selves during states of heightened emotion,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses. “The ruse was a logical course of action to discern your intentions.”

“And also fun!” Remus says. “You should have seen your face, Ro, it was so white! I make a pretty scary ghost.”

“You were terrifying,” Roman says honestly, which makes Remus beam.

Still on one knee, Roman turns to address Logan. “And thank you, my good witch, for saving his life. I am forever in your debt.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Logan says sharply. That and his icy glare make it quite clear that he is not as forgiving as Remus. Roman winces internally; this whole debacle is not the best first impression to make to a sibling’s lover.

And that’s what Logan is, or at least what Remus wants him to be— it’s written all over his brother’s face. Before... before, Roman would have teased Remus about it, and then Remus would probably have made some sort of lewd comment that would make Roman sputter and shove at him. They’re not quite at that point now, he thinks. Not yet.

Roman inclines his head to the witch. “You have my gratitude all the same.”

“Look at us, all making up and being friends!” Remus cheers, but Roman knows him well enough to see the lingering discomfort in the slant of his shoulders and curve of his smile. Remus isn’t as okay as he’s pretending to be.

Roman rises and clasps Remus’ hand in his own.

“Remus, I have done you a grave disservice. While I cannot take back the pain I have caused you, I can offer you back the crown. If you wish it, I will give you my blade and the clothes off my back so that you may return to the castle in my stead and reclaim your birthright under my name.”

Remus stares at him for a moment, then throws back his head and cackles. Something deep in Roman’s chest loosens at the sound; he hadn’t realized how much he missed Remus’ laugh.

“Like hell am I going back to that burning trash heap!” Remus says. “Look, getting thrown out a window sucked major ass, but finding this—” he gestures to the house around him— “is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Behind Remus, Logan’s face turns bright red. Well that answers that, then.

Remus takes Roman’s other hand, meeting his eyes. “If you really want to make this up to me, go back. Become king. And change things.”

Roman bows his head once more. “I do not deserve this second chance, brother,” he whispers.

His hands tighten on Remus’s and he meets his twin’s gaze again, determined. “But I will do as you ask. I swear it, with every inch of my being: I will make things right.”

Remus shouldn’t trust Roman with something this important, not after Roman made it so clear what his word is worth. And yet, Remus nods as if satisfied and steps back.

“It is past sunrise,” Logan says. “I will not have you drawing search parties into this forest when the castle discovers you are gone.”

“I’d best be off then,” Roman says, knowing a dismissal when he hears one.

“I’ll walk you back!” Remus says.

“Absolutely not,” Logan snaps. “I will not allow you to walk that sort of distance while you are still on the mend.”

“It’s been a month!”

“And you were bedridden for weeks!”

“Logan can show me out,” Roman says firmly. “The last thing I want is you hurting yourself more over me.”

Remus’ eyes go watery. “But we just found each other again.”

Roman pulls him into another hug. “I will return, as long as you will have me.”

Remus nods into Roman’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him. They stay like that for a few moments more before they reluctantly part.

“Right, then,” Roman says. “Goodbye, for now.”

“Goodbye,” Remus says, unusually subdued.

Logan shows Roman to the door, and together they begin to walk across the clearing to the trees.

“You should know,” Logan says, “that if you break his trust again or hurt him in any way, all the guards in the castle will not be enough to stop me from killing you.”

Roman laughs heartily at that.

“I knew I liked you, Specs!” he says, slapping Logan on the back. “I’m glad Remus has someone like you looking out for him.”

Logan blinks. “Right, then. Good.”

“Wait!”

Roman looks back to see Remus standing in the house’s doorway. He looks... concerned?

“I know it’s going to take some time to be okay with what happened,” Remus says, “For both of us. But you weren’t the person who threw me off that tower. The king was. Just... remember that, okay? Remember that and come back.”

Roman nods mutedly, and the door closes.

“Right,” he says, clearing a mysterious obstruction from his throat, “let’s go then.”

With that, Roman turns and walks into the woods, headed back to the castle. Back to the duty he promised Remus he would fulfill.

And this promise, Roman intends to keep.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #roman sanders #logan sanders #remus sanders #creativitwins #intrulogical #ts roman #ts logan #ts remus #my writing #whenisitenoughtrees #thrice for another day

[burnedbyshoto]

that final phone call

— Miruko is one tough rabbit, but eventually even the toughest of people need a helping hand. — 

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pairing: usagiyama rumi (miruko) x fem!reader

warnings: angst, cursing, blood

word count: 5,836

a/n: this is for the bnharem angst april collaboration!!! here for the best girl miruko. I would die for her and yuh, im so tired its 5:40 am and I just finished this LMAOOO and its scheduled for 9am posting. lets hope for the best, enjoy bbs. angst masterlist here.

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Riiing.

“Pick up…”

Riiing.

“Don’t ignore this…”

Riiingggg.

“P-Please pick up,” Rumi mumbled into the phone, her head spinning, her breathing weak and faint. “Pick up the phone, y/n…”

Riiing.

“Please…”

Riiing.

Rii—

“H-Hello?” your tired voice answered, and just like that, warmth flooded Rumi’s chest. She had to resist the urge from cringing; there was no reason to cringe, she berated herself, accept your feelings Rumi. “If this a prank call, I swear—”

“Y/n,” Rumi finally whispered, the energy that always existed within her fading quickly.

She didn’t need to be in the same room with you; she already knew what you were doing. How your back stiffened at the sound of her voice and how your stomach clenched, remembering what had happened two months ago.

“Why are you calling?” you said so emotionlessly that it was a sucker punch to Rumi’s stomach. A sharp reminder of what she did to you, of what had happened because she was weak. 

A ragged breath escaped Rumi’s lips while she closed her eyes, her head laying against the cold concrete, listening to the lull of the line.

“I needed to hear your voice…”

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One and a half years ago.

Usagiyama Rumi, better known as the Number Five Pro Hero Miruko was — to put it lightly — a powerhouse.

Known for her almost brash entrances, sturdy legs, and quick temper, it made sense as to why she wasn’t known as the Bunny Hero. She wasn’t soft enough to be a bunny, nor was she meek or gentle. No, Rumi was a hurricane of energy. She was fast, vibrant, and deadly. She was unmatched in her field of expertise, and she had no problem demanding people know that about her. She dived into her work, no matter how big or how small she handled everything with her fullest capability.

She was obsessed with her job because she always had something to prove.

But even a workaholic such as herself needed a break — or at least time outside of her uniform.

It was nearing midnight, and Rumi was strolling the dark streets of Hiroshima, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets. At the same time, she observed the neighborhoods she protected. It was a Saturday night, meaning that street life was quite busy. After working for two months straight without a single day off, her office staff had forced a two-day vacation on her. Still, it didn’t stop her from scouting these blocks for any sign of criminal activity. 

But she stilled when she heard loud arguing many alleys ahead, and with an excited smirk, Rumi took off.

It took her approximately thirty seconds to travel an entire block and into an alleyway where a large and burly man was arguing with a small woman. Rumi stilled, her eyebrow quirking in her confusion, what was going on?

“You have to let me in!” you insist again, your nose scrunching in your annoyance, your chest puffing out, and your eyes blazing. “I have reason to believe that there is a drug-pushing gang in this very club!”

Rumi shifted closer to you, and this now apparent bouncer who was looking less than impressed with you. A drug-pushing gang? She had been trying to find intel on that gang but had been coming up dry, she wanted to know more, to find out more. It seemed that it was her lucky day that she wasn’t relaxing at home because it seemed that you had information she could use. It was ballsy of you to show up at a hideout with such demands… she liked that. Rumi’s eyes looked over at you, and her smirk turned into a grin.

You wore a charcoal grey pantsuit, a white shirt underneath the opened blazer with the first two buttons undone. Her eyes noticed the scruffed up short heels you wore, and the way that your hair was in a chaotic bun. How amusing.

“Oh yeah, little miss nosey? And who the hell do you think you are exactly?” he sneered, taking an intimidating step forward.

The bouncer was easily twice your height, and Rumi watched you, expecting you to take a submissive step back, but was surprised to see you hold your ground.

“The investigative journalist for The Daily Hiro!” you inform back, your eyes daring him without a single bit of nervousness in their blaze. 

The bouncer opened his mouth, obviously ready to kick your poor journalist ass when another voice from the alleyway spoke up.

“She is not an investigative journalist,” the voice clipped, evidently very annoyed with your words. “She’s an intern. She makes coffee runs and edits my works, ignore her.”

Rumi’s eyes shifted on an angry reporter she knew by name. Hirano Naoko. A ruthless reporter that she often found herself at odds with because he didn’t agree with her... enthusiastic approach to being a hero.

A pained yelp escaped your lips when he grabbed your bicep and pulled you to him.

To an average person, there would be no way to hear the conversation between the reporter and the intern. Still, Rumi was not an ordinary person, after all.

“I thought I told you to take witness’s statements,” he hissed pulling you away into the darkness. “Not stir up fucking trouble! Drop the fucking gang shit before you get wrapped up in things you don’t want to get caught in.”

“But you don’t understand Hirano-sama, I saw—”

“I could give two shits about what you saw! That doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want! This isn’t some fucking cop show, grow the fuck up. You’re an intern, not a reporter!”

Rumi figured she had enough.

“Hold on!” she yelled, her voice bouncing off the walls of the alleyway, and all three heads snapped her way. Her arms folded across her chest while she tilted her head. There was nothing like the way all three eyes widening when they recognized the famed Rabbit Hero standing before them with a feral grin and civilian clothes. “I want to see if this intern is right, open the door, bouncer.”

The bouncer was like a mountain to the Rabbit.

Tall, muscular, and frightening in this dim and yellow light.

“M-Miruko!” he stammered, his fingers searching for something, and Rumi lowered her stance. Was he trying to inform them that she was here? “What a pleasure seeing you here!”

Then she heard it, the familiar noise of shuffling plastic. He was trying to alert someone.

In an instant, she was before him, her heel slamming onto his chin and sending him flying, knocked out cold.

“This is why we wear heels,” she snickered, watching the mountain of a man crumble to his face. How weak, pathetic. Her attention turned to you, the intern who looked both ready to pass out from this scare and vibrating with excitement. “Intern, you promise those villains are in there?!”

Your eyes flutter, and Rumi takes you all in. Strands of hair fall over your eyes, your painted lips pulled into a large ‘o’ from your shock, but there was that confidence in your eyes that made her lick her lips in anticipation.

“On my life.”

Rumi snickered, now that was an answer she wanted to hear.

And as a one-woman show goes, she flung open the door and, in under twenty minutes, single-handedly brought down the most extensive drug unit within Hiroshima. She had defeated them all, leaving her with significant cuts on her cheeks and arms, a fat lip, a broken heel, and bruises on her toes. But damn did she feel alive.

Rumi watched with a broad grin when the twenty-three men were put into police cars, their injuries far worse than her own. How amazing was that! Months of worrying disappearing on a leisurely night stroll! She couldn’t have done it without… her mouth frowned.

She did it with help?

Her eyes flew over to you, an intern, talking to the cops with a whole file that seemed to come from nowhere with incriminating evidence against this group. Rumi shoved off the medics that were applying more useless bandages on her and walked over to you.

“Oi, intern!” she called, and both you and the police officer turned around. Thankfully, the police officer was either done interviewing you or smart enough to leave once Rumi approached with her trademark grin. “You did good work out there.”

“Miruko-san, oh, um, thank you!” you smiled in return, bowing in greeting when she stopped in front of you. “Congratulations on closing that case!”

“How did you crack them? I’ve been working on finding them slip up for months now, but you figured it out?” Rumi asked, her arms folding and head tilting. “What did you see that I missed?”

Rumi could hear your heart stop and watched the way your eyes widened significantly. “O-Oh, well, I don’t know… I guess I have a knack of being at the right place at the right time?” you laughed, rubbing the back of your head. “To be honest, it was probably more important to me than it was to you… so I able to crack it before you?”

“What makes you say that?” Rumi asks, unsure if she should be offended or not. “Are you trying to say that I’m not working hard enough?!”

“Oh my god, no!” you panic, your hands out in a motion of retreat, your head shaking quickly. Rumi wanted to open her mouth and grill you for answers, but there was something about you that made her hesitate, that made her still. You shrug your shoulders, your hands clasping together. “My future career was riding on this case. The company thinks I’m a nutjob, so if I could prove my ‘conspiracy theories’ were right, I could finally be appointed a job as a journalist!”

Rumi hummed, taking a step closer to you, enjoying the way that your heart sped up when she did so, her head tilting in her amusement, “Well, you did what you had to do, congrats.”

“T-Thank you!” you brighten at the praise, and Rumi does everything she can to not throw an arm around you.

“Usagiyama Rumi,” she introduced herself to you, her hand extended.

You stared at her hand as if she was some goddess instead of a person. But that fire that had interested her well before that erupted back in your eyes. You extended your hand, grasping hers firmly.

“Y/l/n y/n,” you grin, and it’s at this very moment that Rumi solidifies that she indeed likes you.

You were a quiet fire, unlike her own raging one, but she was no idiot. You were something that would burn the entire world down because no one would see you coming, and she liked it.

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Six months later.

“RUMI!” your voice shrieks from the kitchen. “HAVE YOU SEEN MY LAPTOP?!”

Rumi was soaking in a bath right now, her eyes closed while absorbing the warm water. Two weeks of straight and intense battles had left her body a bit beat up, but hey, she was currently in her girlfriend’s apartment presently being taught how to relax. 

Yes, shocking, her girlfriend’s apartment.

It took a solid week for Rumi to realize that she had feelings for her, something that took a while for her to sort out because she thought she was mentally ill for a second. Nevertheless, her good friend Hawks laughed in her face about how she was not dying but instead just having romantic feelings for you. After that, it took two seconds for her to confess and three minutes for you to say yes. 

It was very new for both of you, but Rumi was very pleased with where everything was going at the moment. Dating certainly wasn’t something on her radar for years now, but for some reason, that fire that burned through your soul was enough to pique her interest.

“Check under the bed!” she called back, listening to your feet shuffling against the wooden floor to get to the bedroom.

“Aha, I found it!”

Rumi cracked open a single eye to watch you waddle into the bathroom with the laptop in your hands and a wide grin on your face.

“So, I’m a junior journalist now, nothing too big or fancy, but… I think I have something outstanding in the making!” you excitedly inform her, throwing open the laptop while sinking to the floor next to the tub. 

“I thought you said bath time was a no-work zone,” Rumi teases her lips perking and her red eyes drilling into your own. 

An embarrassed look flashed across your face, but as you always did, you stood your ground and challenged her.

“I can give my information to a hero who wants it then!” you huff, moving to close the electronic device. “Like you care about my rule, anyways!”

“What a brat!” Rumi barks with laughter, her shoulders rolling in the warm and murky water. Her eyes watched the way her long white hair gently flowed in the water, something you had pointed out looked like moonbeams one night. It had been stupidly stupid, and she would forever remember the way you curled in a ball at your embarrassment. “Tell me!”

Snickering, you nodded, your fingers moving quickly against your keyboard while you searched for the document.

“I have information on the soon to be most dangerous crime group out there,” you inform her, your voice taking on a serious note when you look up at her. “Name it, they’ve done it, and worse yet, they’re a cultish family.”

Rumi felt a chill run down her spine at that information. That wasn’t a title you gave out quickly, nor with such confidence. Together the two of you had taken down four villain groups, and some of them had been nasty fuckers. 

“What’s their name?”

“They go by the name Shinseina,” you inform her, your knees pulling up to your chest, the laptop balanced on your knees to show Rumi your document. “I got one tip about two months ago, and that’s all I’ve managed to find on them.”

Rumi stared at the document.

‘Organization Name: Shinseina

Symbol: A Black Sun

Number of Members: ???

Warnings: ???

Leaders: ???

Location of Base: HQ thought to be in Hiroshima, the possibility of there being more is very high

Crimes: Quirk canceling drugs, quirk enhancing drugs, murder, gang affiliation, rape, robbery, theft, illegal quirk usage, money laundering, and 12 more.

Number of Heroes Killed: 16+.’

Two months of hard work, and that was all you had managed.

Rumi didn’t even need to use her quirk to hear your hammering heart, this was obviously upsetting you.

Sighing, she pulled her wrinkled hand out of the tub to motion for you to place the laptop away, her eyes holding yours when you do as commanded. “Come here, loser.”

“That’s rude,” you grumble, but still, you slide to the edge of the tub and watch Rumi.

Rumi sits up in the tub, her lips pressing against yours in a sweet embrace.

Your eyes flutter close at the feeling of her soft and smooth lips against yours. The slight coldness of her skin from just sitting in this water, sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine. Rumi chuckled, and the next thing you knew, she was dragging you in.

Rumi relished in the way your pitched screams echoed off the walls, your denial of being brought into the water was useless. Eventually, she pulled your fully clothed body into the lukewarm water with her, and your cries of disapproval faded into beautiful laughter.

Your cheeks burned while Rumi’s fur stood up in triumphant victory.

“I told ya, squirt, I don’t lose.”

You slammed your head against her collarbone, moaning loudly in your defeat, “I hate you!!!”

“Sure, you do!”

Rumi could only dodge out of your way when you went in for a weak attack. It was okay though, she thought, teasing you again for your weak punch. She would always protect you.

Her eyes rapidly blinked when those thoughts fully sank into her mind.

Excuse me?

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Six months later.

“An obstacle course?” you repeated, your eyes looking at the bouncy house that was apparently a place for a date. While you pursed your lips, Rumi looked back at her friends who seemed excited. “I’m sorry, but in what world do you expect me — a journalist — to be able to keep up with you Heroes?

Rumi once again turned back to look at Hawks and his intern, who both seem ready to compete. So she turned back around to face you and nodded in egotistical confidence. Your mouth dropped when she finished nodding.

“The only time I exercise is when I chase after people who run away from me!” You cry, obviously not at all prepared to compete against people who practically worked out for living!

“Don’t worry, they won’t use their quirks, and this is a team obstacle course!” Rumi laughs, her arms flexing to show you that there was nothing to worry about. She would make sure you both won even if that meant she would have to carry you to the finish line. “I won’t let you get hurt,”

She knew you wouldn’t like the idea of it; after all, you hated losing. But you were not one to back away from a challenge, and Rumi loved that about you.

“Fine,” you huff, turning towards the obstacle course.

With a loud hoot, Rumi bounced after you, an arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders.

“This’ll be fun.”

The objective of the course was to get across some pretty insane things together. There was a maze, obstacles to climb over, crawl over, powerfully slam through, all leading up to a freakishly tall wall to go down a slide, which was the finish line. Rumi was brimming with excitement, if she had to launch you across the course, she would. No way in hell was she going to let Hawks of all people beat her.

Shoes came off, and Rumi bounced on her toes at the entrance. She was shoulder to shoulder with both you and Hawks, and her eyes were on the finish line. She was going to win with you, that was the truth.

The employee working the festival stand sighed, staring at the four of you and getting an okay from his coworker.

“You both need to be at the final obstacle at the very end, but only one person needs to cross the finish line to be the winner,” he explained, and his hand raised for a countdown. “Ready?”

Rumi turned toward you, her hand reaching out and grabbing yours and placing a reassuring kiss on the back of your hand.

“Set.”

“Stop being so gay, Rumi, how embarrassing,” Hawks teased to her right.

“Suck my lesbian ass, pigeon.”

“Go.”

Rumi took off instantly, tugging you along with her, and before she knew it, the two of you were on the course. It was actually going better than she was expecting, you weren’t as incapable as you thought. You were able to keep up with a bit of struggle, but Hawks had smacked into a wall earlier, so she wasn’t concerned.

Obstacle after obstacle, the two of you conquered until you reached the wall.

Rumi looked back and noticed that Hawks and his intern were still stuck on the second to last course. That maze had been pretty bullshit.

“I’ll climb first!” Rumi explained, and you agreed with a pant.

Rumi turned back to the wall and began climbing the poorly reinforced steps that were there. It was obviously constructed to be able to withstand a child’s footing and not anyone over the age of seven. So as it was already stupidly tall, it was a struggle to climb.

Rumi was almost to the top when she looked down at you. You were a few steps down, your face twisted in your attempt to concentrate, your arms wobbling under the strain of trying to support yourself. Her attention snapped over to Hawks, who seemed to be scaling the wall, and her eyes widened. 

She needed to win.

She scampered up a few more steps before a cry came out.

“R-Rumi!”

Her focus slammed back to you and the way that your fingers slipped from the grasp, and in slow motion, you tumbled. It was without a doubt that this fall wouldn’t have hurt you, not a chance in hell would you have been injured, but Rumi’s instincts took over, and before she knew it, her arms were wrapped around you.

The trampoline bottom crashed onto her back, and you slammed onto her stomach.

Rumi had caught you.

She groaned at the discomfort caused by this action but lay still her hands stroking your cheek. Your eyes were wide, staring up at your girlfriend in complete shock. 

“Are you okay?” Rumi asks in a rare moment of softness. “You weren’t hurt, right?”

“Why did you jump after me?!” you yell that amusement she loved so much burning brightly in your gaze. “I wouldn’t have been hurt, you dork!”

“I promised I wouldn’t let you get hurt,” Rumi insists, rubbing her nose against yours. 

Once again, she can hear your hammering heart, and it relaxes her.

“But you let Hawks win!”

Rumi blinks at the realization, and suddenly the wheels in her head are turning rapidly.

“Would you ladies mind moving? The champions are ready to visit other stands unless you don’t wanna hang with us anymore!” Hawks calls out to both Rumi and you.

Rumi watches silently when you push off her, pressing a grateful kiss to her lips before responding back to the Pro Hero. 

“Oh, Hawks! Has Rumi told you about the new detail about the Shinseina case I’m working on?” you called off, skipping to catch up with her friend that she had allowed to win.

Rumi gave up a victory for you… she threw it away to save you from nothing… she thought that there were things about you that she loved. It didn’t sit well in her chest, and she watched with a twitching nose when you exited the course with that captivating bright smile. 

She couldn’t be in love… no, there was no way!

Love made you weak! Love made you insignificant! Love was a demonstration that you weren’t strong enough on your own, and to Rumi — no, to Miruko — that wasn’t okay.

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Four months later.

Rumi at the edge of your bed, her head down, ears wilted, nose twitching, and face clouded.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

“Bunny?” your tired voice called out in the silence of the night.

The noise surprised Rumi. It had so quiet until then, and it had completely caught her off guard. Her! The Pro Hero with some of the best ears around! Who could hear the quietest things meters away!

“Are you okay?”

Rumi wasn’t okay.

“I pulled a kick today,” she whispered to you, her hands shifting into fists on her lap. She shook with rage, her body trembling like a leaf.

“Is that a… a bad thing?” you yawn, shifting on the bed and finding her body, relaxing at the heat she gives off.

“Yes.” Rumi snaps, her body stiffening against your touch. “Yes, it’s obviously a bad thing.”

“Why?”

Why?

Rumi’s eyes concentrate on her bruised thighs, her frown increasing. How could she tell you the truth? How could she say that you were her weakness?

For years she had been a headstrong hero, someone who didn’t think but reacted. She lived her life to the fullest every day, and she gave it her all every chance she got. It applied to her social life and her work life, especially her work life. She wasn’t one to laze about; she would die on the job if she had to, and her opponents always knew that, but lately, things had changed. 

She found herself praying to some god about making sure she lived through these battles so she could go home to you. She prayed that someone else would find the Shinseina and bring them down so she wouldn’t be taken down. Being weak wasn’t a problem; after all, she was motherfucking Miruko, so she was used to building on her weaknesses, but this was different. No matter what she did, she couldn’t love you any less. Fuck, did she love you.

She loved the way your eyes narrowed whenever you interviewed people. She loved how you were quickly gaining traction in the media for being the best investigative journalist ever. She was so in love with you, and that’s where the problem was. Her love for you was so pure, so genuine, she wanted to give you the fairy tale ending. She tried to think before she acted, and villains were starting to notice.

Villains were threatening to hurt you, and Rumi was trapped.

“We need to break up.”

You weren’t expecting that, not in the slightest.

“W-What?”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore,” Rumi lies, and she feels you move away from her body, and it takes everything in her to not cry.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice steely smooth.

“You were access to the information I wanted. My office team is ass, and you were always getting your hands dirty with cases I needed to solve. But it seems that you’re nowhere near close to figuring out the last group I care about,” Rumi wills herself to say, her ears moving back up to show that she wasn’t lying. “I pretended for a year to be in love with you, but I can’t anymore.”

“Y-You’re not a great liar,” you state, challenging her false words.

Rumi loved it when you challenged her, but there was no time for that. So with a tight chest and flaring red eyes, she snapped around towards you, lips pulled into a snarl.

“Do you think I’m lying, y/l/n? I stuck around because you made me stronger, but now? You’re no better than the dirt on my shoes. Pathetic, useless, and a disgrace. I don’t need you anymore, so I’m cutting this off because I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Standing up, Rumi storms over to the door, ready to leave.

She wishes she could say that it ended there, but it didn’t. Not even close to being done.

You spat acid at her, and she returned it at the same toxicity. Over and over again, the two of you verbally battled. False emotions taking the better of you both until you were in her face, tears streaming down your face, fingers shaking in her face.

“You are a fucking coward, Usagiyama,” you sneer, the effect only dramatized by your red eyes and deep eye bags. “Get over your stupid fucking commitment issues, being apart of a team i-is not weak! I’m here to make you stronger, not for you to want to be a one-man squad again! You’ll die alone that way!”

“I know being apart of a team isn’t weak,” Rumi states, her heart long frozen over. “I just don’t want to be apart of yours anymore.”

A humorless laugh escapes your mouth, and you shake your head, “Don’t show your face here again, if I see you, I’ll call the cops.”

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“— and Miruko, you’ll enter first. You’ll be alone for about five minutes if that’s okay.”

Rumi looked up, her mind freed from her daydream about what was happening.

It was two months since she had broken up with you, and things had only taken a turn for the worse. She threw herself into work. Overusing her quirk in ways that over-injured villains who were petty thieves, or underusing it in ways that she kept landing herself in the hospital. To put it simply, the rabbit hero was a mess. 

“Yeah, got it,” she nodded.

Things with the Shinseina ended up being brought to the light finally by you. You had noticed a slight clue in your office that had been undetected and ended up having you thrown into the Witness Protection Program due to the severity of the secret. But still, you provided an updated and completed information:

‘Organization Name: Shinseina

Symbol: A Black Sun

Number of Members: 237 thugs and lower cult members, 57 leaders and mid cult members, 12 senior members of the cult, 1 leader.

Warnings: All have dangerous quirks that can be used for assassination.

Leaders: Hirano Naoko

Location of Base: HQ - Hiroshima. Other sites detailed in the secondary report.

Crimes: Quirk canceling drugs, quirk enhancing drugs, murder, gang affiliation, rape, robbery, theft, illegal quirk usage, money laundering, and 12 more.

Number of Heroes Killed: 84’

“Hey, you get one call on this, we don’t want them finding anything on us in case we fail,” the leader spoke to her. Miruko breathed in deeply, accepting the cellphone that was given to her.

“Got it, thank you,” she muttered, and with that, they headed out.

Five minutes, that’s all it was.

Five minutes for Miruko, the Rabbit Hero, was nothing. Especially when she was zipping through room to room, taking out cult member after cult member. Everything was a blur, and she could only see her streaming hair following her like moonbeams in her wake.

Moonbeams…

Rumi thought of you, your face when you were happy when you were sad, and that night you broke up. Her lip trembled when her foot connected with someone’s chin sending them flying. Panting harshly, she stood in a room full of unconscious cult members. She had three minutes before backup would storm through the door, but which door to—

“SHIT!”

She just felt the impact. An intense tingle, similar to a severe electric shock coursing through her body. Rumi realized then that thousands upon thousands of circuits have just been broken, and it was burning her up. The heat was nothing she could have ever imagined, festering strongly in her bleeding wound. But there was still no pain when her foot connected with the man’s throat, instantly knocking him out. 

He had snuck up on her, his quirk concealing him even from her rabbit ears.

Rumi whimpered when she fell to the ground, blood pouring from her wound despite her best efforts. He had managed to land seven blows on her, and the world was darkening quickly.

Three more minutes until they came, but she could call them now…

When Rumi collapsed on the floor, her vision swam when she pulled out the phone, a warm and sticky puddle forming underneath her, staining everything that was white about her. Rumi’s fingers punching in the number she wanted to call.

Riiing.

“Pick up…”

Riiing.

“Don’t ignore this…”

Riiingggg.

“P-Please pick up,” Rumi mumbled into the phone, her head spinning, her breathing weak and faint. “Pick up the phone, y/n…”

Riiing.

“Please…”

Riiing.

Rii—

“H-Hello?” your tired voice answered, and just like that, warmth flooded Rumi’s chest. She had to resist the urge from cringing; there was no reason to cringe, she berated herself, accept your feelings Rumi. “If this a prank call, I swear—”

“Y/n,” Rumi finally whispered, the energy that always existed within her fading quickly.

She didn’t need to be in the same room with you; she already knew what you were doing. How your back stiffened at the sound of her voice and how your stomach clenched, remembering what had happened two months ago.

“Why are you calling?” you said so emotionlessly that it was a sucker punch to Rumi’s stomach. A sharp reminder of what she did to you, of what had happened because she was weak. 

A ragged breath escaped Rumi’s lips while she closed her eyes, her head laying against the cold concrete, listening to the lull of the line.

“I needed to hear your voice…” 

“Do you even know what time it is?” you almost growl, and that fighting spirit sends a warm feeling in Rumi’s chest. “What in the fuck do you need?”

“It’s two a.m., I know that, but I need you right now,” Rumi staggers into the mic, your spirit bleeding through the call. 

The line goes silent for a bit, and Rumi’s eyes feel heavier with every passing second. She wants to tell you she loves you, please give her the chance to say it.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t go back to you anymore,” you curtly respond. “You made sure of that.”

How ironic, Rumi thought, because now she would never go back to you anymore… never…

“I know,” she hoarsely responds back, her mouth trembling and tears slowly pouring from her eyes. It hurt so much, how horrible it was to go out because of stab wounds. Of all ways to go out, she never expected it to be like this, nor did she expect it to be done with regret in her actions. Because fuck, she regretted how she ended it with you. She regretted letting you go. She thought of your face and how you looked the first time she admitted she loved you, of how dorky you were for your first anniversary. How your eyes glowed whenever you corned the people you were investigating with something that seemed straight from a story. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry, y/n…”

“Are… are you okay, Usagiyama?”

“I love you…” she whispered before the phone fell from her fingers, crashing onto the bloodied floor.

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You stared at the phone, confused. 

Frowning you placed it down, the call had ended, but why was she calling you?

How this stupid bunny pissed you off sometimes. Turning your phone back on, you went to recent calls and recalled the number she had reached you on.

Riiing.

Riiing.

Riiing.

“Sorry, but the number you’ve tried to call is no longer available, please try again. Thank you!”

Beep.

You frowned a pit forming in your stomach, but you put your phone away, and for some reason, you couldn’t fall back asleep that night. 

It was eight in the morning when your phone blew up, and with a heavy hand, you grabbed your phone and looked at the billowing messages. And at the headliner, your stomach dropped to your toes, and bile climbed to your mouth.

‘RABBIT HERO: MIRUKO KILLED IN ACTION DURING Shinseina RAID!: It’s being reported that she was stabbed several times while alone, and while she was given a phone for backup, she used it on a call they cant trace.’

You couldn’t read it anymore, your heart hammering erratically while a blood-curdling scream escaped your mouth.

She was gone, she had called you last night to say goodbye, and you didn’t give her the time of day. She was gone, and you would never get the chance to convince her that having a life partner wasn’t weak.

Usagiyama Rumi was gone, and no amount of hoping, praying, or crying was going to bring her back to you or to redo that final phone call.

#miruko x reader #mirko x reader #usagiyama rumi x reader #bnha #bnha x reader

[evcryopeneye]

@achromaticstars continued from x 

It was a simple accident that easily could have been avoided if it wasn't for the reckless driver that had made an appearance. One that had caused the bus ride to become filled with panic from the passengers and the public that surrounded them. Voices that Ye Xiu were unable to hear as he was laying on that light colored floor when help finally arrived. Help that was going to take him to the hospital.

The same hospital where Feng Wu was already working a shift, he had actually been on his way to visit her. Mostly for the sake of lunch knowing that she was going to need something to eat, he thought that she would have enjoyed something that wasn't hospital food. It was the reason why a cooked meal was sitting in the metal canister that Ye Xiu was planning on giving her. One that she unfortunately be unable to eat since the gamer was one of the injured that would be arriving at that familiar hospital.

Blood stained the side of his face disappearing below the collar of the jacket that he decided to wear today, one that apparently was a favorite of Feng Wu's though. Closed eyes showed that Ye Xiu was clearly unconscious before he was handed over to the hands of the waiting nurses and doctors who had gotten word of the accident. More injured most likely were going to make an appearance, it was unknown how bad it truly was back at the scene.

It was unknown about the extent of the injuries that Ye Xiu had if there were anymore hidden underneath his clothes. The head wound obviously was the most concerning though. They tended to bleed a lot as well.

Days slowly passed as there was a heaviness that lingered over Ye Xiu's head while the surroundings were one that he wasn't familiar with. This wasn't his bed. The smells were different as well, it smelled like antiseptic. He was slowly starting to come aware though, an awareness that hasn't been there from the moment that he arrived at the hospital. But the one thing he did know was that there was a somewhat painful throbbing lingering on the left side of his head, it wasn't pleasant.

Eyes slowly flickered open glancing around the room for just a moment when he realized that something warm was clinging to his hand. Familiar fingers rested against his hand, fingers that might be possibly moving? Ye Xiu really couldn't tell, but he knew who that warmth and touch belonged to. It would be difficult for him to forget, it was her. It was...

A hoarse voice did escape his lips while giving that hand a small squeeze

"Feng Wu..."

There was, no words for the moment of panic that happened when you realised that you knew the patient. The emergency room was a busy place, mostly full of urgent but genuinely non-life threatening things. People seek reassurance more than anything else, and Feng Wu would gladly give it. She would much rather have a headache or a broken arm than someone having a heart attack. The funny thing about working in the ER, anything could happen, at any time, but the fact that Feng Wu had gone to work that morning not expecting her partner to come through the door, was a given.

Yet, it still happened.

The moment Feng Wu realised who it was, the world had stopped. As if time itself had screeched to a halt, a car crash in slow motion, distorted sounds and everything. She had no clue what to do. All training went out of the window.

She was thankful her coworkers were there to take over for her, a flurry of activity rushed through her as the day collapsed. Time lost all meaning. It was nothing more than something to be passed. To be prayed through. What could she do other than pace the hallways? Try to finish up what paperwork she had left. Charting took ten times longer than normal because she couldn’t focus. Though, it wasn’t like she was going home. Not with him here. She became like the small army of other relatives within these walls. Caring for their loved ones. Waiting for news. WAiting for something to happen that was good news rather than the bad news that had landed them here in the first place.

Sleep had finally claimed her not that long ago, his hand still wrapped around hers. After forty odd hours awake, her body had finally given out. Collapsed onto heap that she couldn’t control anymore. Claimed piece by piece as she sank into a dreamless darkness.

His voice was raspy, enough to tell her that she wasn’t imagining it. Eye’s snapped open. Her focus lasered on him as her brain put two and two together. “You’re awake!” Oh thank god. Instantly, she sat up, a hand reaching to brush hair from his face. “You gave everyone one hell of a scare. Do you remember anything?”

#&&char: Feng Wu #achromaticstars

[winchesterxxi]

Come Back (Obi Wan x Reader) | PART 1/2

PART 2 ⇒

Rating: G ( General Audiences )

Type: Angst

Summary: Reader is a Jedi who was wrongfully expelled from the order for experimenting with the dark side, deciding to go under the radar until she felt safe, but refusing to leave until she confesses her feelings for Master Kenobi.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: None 

A/N: It’s a 2-part instead of a one-shot because I’m a brat and I like to work on character development after said character has gone through a life changing moment

MASTERPOST | REQUEST HERE | KO-FI

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“You’re going to get yourself in trouble for that.”

You and Obi-Wan Kenobi were pacing through the long halls of the Jedi Order’s Headquarters heading for a High Council Meeting. You met a few years ago while he was still a knight and you still a padawan, but your abilities soon became recognized as you quickly advanced in your training, being appointed as Jedi Master at the same time as him.

You often think back to the sleepless nights, years ago, when he would drag you out of your quarters to go practice the use of the force or to simply refine your lightsaber skills. Your orange blade striking against his blue one, clashes rippling through the training room until you were both a sweaty mess. The morning after he’d normally had some sort of mission to go on and you training classes to complete, which made all the more rewarding the nights you’d spend in each other’s company.

That’s what kindled a spark in you for your Jedi friend. His stupid jokes during the most inopportune moments or how his assuring grips on your shoulders after a long training session. Or how whenever he’d come back from a mission he’d run around the building for you, just to let you know how it went.

“Obi, all I’m saying is that if we want to defeat the enemy, we must learn their ways. Learn them, study them, come up with ways to defeat them.”

You stop him in his tracks by grabbing his bicep, forcing him to look at you. And you into his piercing blue eyes, who had since long gained more tiny wrinkles around them whenever he smiled, who right now were begging you to speak quieter.

You’d always notice the small changes every now and then: how his hair was longer than it used to be just a few months ago or how he each and every day gets better at guiding Anakin through the Jedi life. You’d both grown from little padawan friends to…well, Jedi Master friends. It could never be more than that and you knew it. There was a code to follow, and knowing Obi-Wan well enough, you knew he’d stand by that code until his last breath.

Of course, using that as an excuse to look over the fact that you think that there is no way for the ginger to ever look at you in that light. Even so, you couldn’t help but feel jealous of Anakin and Padmé having seemingly broken the Code and gotten married, and everyone just being completely fine with it. You would kill for the chance of something even resembling that.

“That is not the Jedi Way, Y/N.” he cautions you.

“I know. We don’t defeat, we protect. I get that.” You answer him, making sure that the passersby are not eavesdropping on your little exchange. “All I’m saying is that if we can get our hands on a-“

“I don’t want to hear it.” He turns his back at you, walking away and preventing you from saying something you might regret but you are quick to catch up to him, grabbing him by the arm once again.

He huffs in exasperation to the air above, before looking down back at you.

“Obi –“

“No. I don’t want to hear about the Sith, and Maker forbid, I don’t want you even thinking of going near a single one of them.” His brows are furrowed and despite you being at the same rank, it suddenly feels that you are back to your padawan days, being scolded by your Master for using the Force the wrong way or doing a wrong move with your sabre.

“Now,” he straightens his back and his face softens, motioning his head towards the end of the hall and gently touching your lower back, unknowingly to him sending warmth through your body “let’s go before we’re late.”

Entering the Jedi Council Chamber, you looked around to check that all the remaining 10 members of the Council were in the room, engaged in some sort of chatter that flowed across the air.

Finding two seats across from the entrance, Obi discreetly points in their direction asking for your opinion and you smile up at him, walking to said seats before settling down and before long, everyone did the same, the buzz dying down.

You eyed the Grand Masters chairs confirming the presence of Masters Yoda and Mace Windu in the meeting. But it was then that your eyes skimmed across the other faces, your heart tightening at the realization that they were all, some more visibly than others, looking at you.

Obi-Wan seemed to notice the same as he searched your face for some kind of explanation, eyebrows furrowed only for the same look to be mirrored by your face as you shrugged, seemingly clueless as a heavy silence fell over the room.

“Master Y/N Y/L/N, will you please step into the middle of the room.” Master Mace Windu requests you.

Cautiously, you press your body forward, standing up and doing as instructed, the heaviness of all the eyes in the room weighing on you. Intimidated, your eyes refuse to find any other place that isn’t but the ground, depriving you of seeing the worried look in Obi Wan’s face.

“Many forms treason can take.” Master Yoda speaks in his slow and trembling voice, but at the sounds of the word treason, you are triggered to look up and meet his eyes, a confused and terrified look on your face.

“I’m sorry I don’t…” Yoda lifts one of his hands beckoning you to let him continue and you bite your trembling bottom lip.

“But without a doubt thoughts and personal hidden quests, the most dangerous are.” Your chest starts to tighten and you ball up your hands in fists. There is a long pause as you expect him to keep talking, but instead, it’s Mace Windu who continues the discourse.

“Master Y/N Y/L/N since you were a padawan, you’ve always had something inside of you. Something that refrained you from being a pure Jedi. Yet we dismissed that, focusing instead on how good of an asset you could be to the Order. But I guess that something has been calling your name to the dark side as of lately.”

“What is going on?” Obi-Wan demands, seating forward in his seat, hands ready to push him up to a standing position.

“Quiet, Master Kenobi.” Mace Windu reprimands, sending him a glare, before turning to you and continuing. “Did you, or did you not fly a ship into a Sith hiding temple, spending a full galactic night exploring it?”

Your lips parted and your breathing stopped for a moment. In his seat, Obi Wan’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach and his grip around his seat tightened.

For moments, you don’t answer, head low as you look to your side, meeting Obi’s incredulous stare that once clashes with your own is averted and he is now completely avoiding looking your way. Your eyes start to water and a single tear falls to the floor beneath you.

“Did you, or did you not, Master Y/N Y/L/N?” Mace Windu’s voice is imperative, and you do your best to face him.

“Yes.” Is the only word you manage to get out before the buzz from before restarts and every other council member starts to gossip around and behind you. During those short seconds, you once again look over at Obi-Wan who is still avoiding looking at you, eyeing the ground instead, his face hard and stoic.

Using the force, you reach out to him

“Obi.” He doesn’t look at you but you can see a slight shift in his posture, signalling you that your message is reaching him. “Obi! OBI PLEAS-“ before you can pass any more words between the two, his hand ceasing the connection so that you only hear a sharp buzz.

“Quiet!” Mace Windu’s voice snaps you out of the connection as the gossip dies down, once again.

You were scared – trembling lips and tears rolling down your face, you were scared of whatever was to come as you knew the consequences you were risking when you flew that ship. You were sure you’d be able to come and go undetected as you’d use the Force to stay out of the Flying Tower’s radar but apparently you were wrong.

“I wasn’t going to join the Siths. I was doing it to know what their plans were. You have to believe me!”

“Any form of voluntary contact with the Dark Side the Code breaches.” Master Yoda assesses.

“No, no, no.” You pleaded through teary eyes, taking a sharp breath in “There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force. That is the Code!”

“Master Y/N Y/L/N you actively seek to reach for those. By entering a Sith temple you were corrupted by ignorance, chaos, death.” Mace Windu points out to you. “We have no choice but to expel you from the Order and consequentially refrain you from ever coming in contact with the Jedi people, being deported from Coruscant and this side of the galaxy, for eternity.”

“No!” You fall to your knees in the middle of the Council “I swear on my life that I only did it to help us!”

“Useless at this point excuses are.” Master Yoda declares, signalling with his head for a group of Jedi Guards to walk over to you.

“They are not excuses, I – ahh!”  You quickly stand up walking over to the Council Heads but before you could reach them, Mace Windu uses the Force to buckle your knees down to the ground again.

“Take her.” The group of Guards circles your wrist with stun cuffs pulling them up so that you stand. One of them reaches for your belt, taking out your lightsaber and disposing of it to the ground. They force you to walk, grabbing you by both arms, as tears run down your cheeks.

As you exit the room the council members turn to each other to comment on what just happened, but Obi-Wan, finally peering over to where you had been, stands up from his seat and slowly walks over to your fallen lightsaber.

Crouching down, his fingers wrap around the hilt of it, picking it up and looking at the exit of the room. Without another word, he stands up placing your sabre on the opposite side of his own, against his waist and sprints out of the room hoping to catch up to the guards that are taking you away.

“Master Obi-Wan!” Mace Windu call behind him, from his seat.

“Let him.” Yoda assures him, bowing his head down.

After running down what felt like hundreds of floors, Obi-Wan finally located you as the guards were dragging you to the galactic pods – those whose only function was to fly to the inserted coordinates, destined for people condemned to spend the rest of their eternity as far from the Order as possible, the round vehicles completely empty on the inside except for the chair destined for the convict.

Once you were sat, though still putting up a fight and the pod’s curved glass had closed down, Obi signalled for the Guards to give him a minute.

From the slight distance, you could see him walking towards you, stiff and stoic, a look you’d never seen on his face, but something inside of you was holding on to the hope that he’d come to help you.

Placing your hands against the glass you seat forward calling his name, a smile of relief grazing your features, as he finally steps close enough to the dividing glass.

“Obi - ”

But he cuts you before you could say anything else.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His question was sharp and severe, your body wincing at his words.

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Like what you got yourself into?” His words cold and distant, eyes avoiding your own at any cost.

“I was trying to protect you!” you plead, palms pressed against the glass, hoping that thanks to some miracle you could reach out and touch him.

“For Maker’s sake, Y/N why the hell would I need you to protect me.” His eyes finally met yours as he rested his weight, on one hand, pressing against the top of the pod, and for a moment you swear your heart stopped beating. His bottom lip was trembling, unnoticeable to anyone who was not as physically close to him as you were right now, his eyebrows furrowed and hooded eyes down at the other edges in visible pain and disappointment.

Your chest tightened at the sight and you resolved to say what you wanted to. Maybe it’d change his mind, maybe he’d help you. But if you were about to say goodbye to him for the remnant of your galactic life, you knew that you would not be able to live with yourself if you didn’t say the following words.

“I love you, Obi.” Your voice cracks at the beginning but the rest of the words drip out of your lips as if you’d always been saying them.

Obi Wan’s jaw tightens and he straightens himself, head turning to face away from you. Hurt by his reaction, you press harder against the glass, screaming and trying to get him to look back at you, or at least get a different reaction out of him.

“DID YOU HEAR ME? I SAID THAT I LOVE YOU!” you bang against the glass, both hands forward, trapped by the cuffs wishing to break the glass hitting it with all your strength, but you soon found it to be of no use as not a single crack made an appearance on the seethrough material and your arms fell down to your lap in exhaustion.

Your head, bowed down, let a few salty tears flow down the peak of your nose and into the palms of your hands and lap.

“Obi – ” you try on last time.

“It’s General Kenobi.”

Your head snaps up at him and at how cold his words were, how the simple correction of his name symbolized the severing of any personal relationship you’d ever had. Pleading and shocked eyes look at him one last time before he pats the top of the pod.

You feel it lift off the platform and float away, gradually speeding up, Obi’s figure getting smaller and smaller in your vision as your body flew farther away from the grounds of Coruscant, his last words ringing in your ears, as you are sure they would for the rest of your life.

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#Come Back #obi wan x reader #obi wan x sith!reader #obi wan kenobi x reader #angst #star wars #ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x reader #winchesterxxi