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zevexsii · 3 years

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naib subedar sfw + nsfw hcs (gn s/o)

cut for length and nsfw content !

sfw

another difficult person to enter a relationship with. naib has lost too much to feel comfortable getting close to someone he knows isn’t going to stay close- you’re in it for the long run.

in matches, you’re naib’s first priority (when you’ve been assigned to a team together, of course). the second naib notices you’ve been chaired, he’s headed your way as fast as he can. typically, he’d like you to stick together so he can keep a safe eye on you, but naib’s not too pressed if you two split of your own volition.

there’s an incredibly low chance of being injured during a match with naib. if you’re wounded at the end, it’ll be small scratches or a bruise here and there. regardless of how small or shallow any of your scratches may be, naib is cleaning and bandaging them up, scolding you for being so reckless the entire time.

he’s another big eater! devours anything you make and is more than happy to show you how to cook nepalese food. cook for him and let him curl up and rest his head on your shoulder afterward and he’ll be tempted to marry you on the spot

loud noises overwhelm naib extremely easily. crowds also make him edgy and anxious. when naib’s panicky, he gets annoyed and will probably snap at you- he would do best with a relatively calm s/o who’s able to keep their head in stressful situations.

if you’re looking for ways to calm him down, don’t go to overwhelming physical affection right off the bat. someone trying to wrap their arms around him will be seen as a threat to naib’s safety and would only trigger his ptsd even more. instead, grab one of his hands and try to help him regulate his breathing. remind him that he’s safe with you, that there’s nothing to worry about. when naib needs physical comfort, he’ll seek you out. this tactic goes for calming him down after nightmares, too.

the most comforting position for naib is allowing him to sit on your lap and bury his head in your chest- he’s caught between the urge to hide from everything and the urge to protect you. like this, he’s got a solid rock of refuge and it feels like he’s shielding you from any perceived danger.

undo his strict ponytail and massage naib’s scalp and he’ll be passed out in a heartbeat, snoring softly, his grip on your clothes tight as ever.

on naib’s bad days, he’s practically glued to your hip. he’s terrified something horrible’s going to happen to you- like the things that happened to his fellow soldiers or even worse, the things he’s done and (seen done) to other people during his time as a hired mercenary. it’s scary, who can blame him?

wouldn’t mind too much if his partner was into pda, but would feel uncomfortable reciprocating the vast majority of it. naib’s still trying to unlearn the “vulnerability is bad” mindset. he’s been surrounded by that idea his entire adult life, so give him time. this has been touched on before, but hand-holding makes naib soft!! whether you’re enjoying a mellow walk through the manor gardens or lingering in the lobby post-match, one of naib’s calloused hands will find a way to intertwine with yours.

making naib blush is difficult. very few things can force their way into the chinks in his stoic armor, but soft kisses pressed to his cheek are guaranteed to send an intense flush to his face

if you’re too shy or uncomfortable with pda, you can bet naib’s doing everything he can to fluster you in a safer setting. you’re doing dishes? surprise smooch! indulging in some much-needed downtime? smooch! if naib’s feeling cocky and the time is right, he’ll land his lips somewhere on your face right after you’ve finished a calibration during a match

not too huge on nicknames!! your name is satisfying to say, and naib doesn’t think anything he could call you would fit any better. if you hear him mumble a sleepy “sweetheart” in the middle of a cuddle session while he tries to pull you closer, no you didn’t

naib’s idea of a perfect day ends in a steamy shower or relaxing bath with his s/o. nothing spicy, just soft moments with his love. once y’all are dried and done, throw on your pajamas or one of naib’s shirts (if you’re small enough- mans is 5’6”) and crawl into bed. naib tends to curl in on himself (think fetal position) if you aren’t there- a lot of times he ends up unintentionally becoming the little spoon.

when naib wants to hold you close, his arms will snake around your waist and he’ll invite you to lay your head on his chest or burrow your face in his neck. when you wake up, it’ll most likely be to naib pestering you in the most loving way possible- ever the early riser, this one.

nsfw

naib can’t really be pinned down to any specific top or bottom role (no pun intended). during the beginning of your intimate relationship with him, naib leans towards taking a dominant role. it’s indescribably difficult for naib to relinquish control over a non-intimate situation, so you can imagine leaning back and letting go would be even harder.

gets incredibly handsy when he’s horny. won’t hesitate to seek you out, either. naib doesn’t see the point of masturbation if he has a partner, but he respects your boundaries if you’re not in the mood.

going back to the surprise kissing bit earlier, when naib wants to let you know he wants to fuck, he’ll pin you up against the closest surface or loop his arms lazily around your shoulders (if you’re short enough) and smash his lips into yours a little rougher than usual- nibbling on your bottom lip right before pulling away.

has a bit of a fixation on oral. favors receiving over giving slightly, but is still addicted to the way you taste. for masc readers, it’s literally impossible to gag him. to be entirely honest, you could facefuck him with very little resistance. naib wouldn’t hesitate to use you and he expects you to treat him the same way.

tug on the sheets ever so slightly while he’s sucking your cock and naib will drag your hand to the top of his head, reminding you to pull his hair.

for fem readers, he’ll slowly spread apart your sopping pussy and the corner of his mouth will lift up in a pleased smirk, his rough hands buried in the plush of your thighs. if you attempt to rut your hips against him, naib’ll put an end to that right quick, pinning your hips to the bed, his grip tight enough to leave bruises.

no matter what, naib’s covering every inch of your bottom half he can reach in hickeys and bruises, occasionally leaning back to admire his handiwork, leaving poor you all needy and aching, whimpering pitifully.

he’ll look up at you underneath his dark brown eyelashes when you cum, feeling up your sides and pulling your hips closer to his face. the whines his actions pull from your throat will never cease to satisfy him.

when naib has pleasured you to your mutual satisfaction, he’ll sit up and wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, intentionally smearing your fluids across his face, grinning hungrily as he stares down at you.

now, when you’re sucking naib off, things can get intense pretty damn fast. one moment you’re gently stroking his cock (decently sized too, a good 6-7 inches, average girth), and the next he’s got you by the hair, ramming his dick in your mouth. might accidentally cage you in with his thicc thighs- he’s lost in the feeling of your pretty lips around him, what can he say? gently tap him on the leg and he’ll loosen up a little bit.

groans loud. louder than he does when he’s actually having sex (at least when he’s topping). the noises he makes are nothing short of animalistic; low growls and heavy moans, straight from his chest. you might have to stop him and remind him to relax. there’s much more to come (no pun intended), and it wouldn’t to well to have naib tire himself out now. his breath will hitch in his chest when you suddenly pull back, but he’ll give you a shaky nod when you tell him to calm down.

really makes a show of undressing, unless he’s been super pent up lately or something happened to pull out jealous naib. naib isn’t as buff as one might expect; he’s more of the lean type, his strength concentrated in his shoulders and core muscles.

naib’s torso is littered with various scars, some deeper and more noticeable than others. he doesn’t like to admit it, but they’re definitely an insecurity of his. run your fingers over them, or press your lips to the most obvious one, and naib’s heart aches (in a good way, of course). it feels so tender, so soft, so warm to be accepted and wholly loved, regardless of any self-labeled flaws and mistakes. but, mr subedar needs more.

so he stuffs himself inside of you, letting out a breathy groan at the sudden contact and throwing his head back in delight. when he’s sure that movement wouldn’t cause you too much discomfort, he’ll begin to sloppily thrust himself back and forth, panting heavily. he’s breathing too hard to let out a coherent sentence, egged on by your moans as he angles himself as deeply inside of you as possible.

depending on how long foreplay lasted, naib can go anywhere from 2-4 rounds. he’s already quite sloppy and forceful, so you can imagine how he gets when he’s tired- sweat beads on his forehead and his chest heaves with every breath, each of his desperate thrusts deep enough to make you see stars.

naib views cumming inside of you as more intimate, but if you’re uncomfortable with that, he’ll pull out and empty himself onto your stomach. if you have a uterus, he’ll do his best to pull out anyways- considering your current setting, neither of you can really afford a pregnancy scare.

as mentioned above, naib is more of a top-leaning switch. he defaults to domming because it puts him in control, so you’d have to have a strong relationship with him already.

if you want naib to sub, you’d have to initiate sex. naib values people who are outright with their intentions, so hold true to that. settle yourself on his lap, arms linked lazily around his shoulders, and press a few soft kisses to the side of naib’s neck. this is the point where he’ll tense up and either gently tell you he isn’t in the mood, or tug you closer.

naib doesn’t mind where you take him, as long as it’s in a private space. probably has a thing for being fucked on furniture anyway. oral (for both parties) is fine in semi-public spaces- the risk gets naib off more than he’d like to admit- but penetration is reserved for you to witness, and you alone.

pay special attention to the sensitive spots on naib’s neck and he’ll turn into a whining mess under your touch. grind down on his lap as you gently undo his low ponytail- grab a fistful of his soft hair near the nape of his neck and watch him turn to mush.

in any situation (domming or subbing) naib’s particular to the missionary position. it gives him a perfect view of his s/o at all times.

prep him thoroughly if you want to fuck him in the ass or peg him. he has very limited experience with being penetrated, so no matter how many times naib roughly groans for you to “hurry up and fuck him already”, make sure he’s lubed up and ready to go.

gasps so loud?? when you push your cock or a strap-on inside of him, his entire body goes rigid for a second, and his eyes roll back in his head. it’s delightful. let him shift around for a moment- he’s still getting used to the hot, full feeling that’s overwhelming his senses. naib will grunt out when he’s ready for you to move.

naib tries to give you what he’d want from a partner; hard, sloppy thrusts with no particular rhythm that leave you aching for more. in barely any time at all, naib is squirming underneath you, choking out requests for “more” and “harder” between half-baked curses that die on his lips. when he cums for the last time, you can see all of the tension leave his shoulders and his final yelp of ecstasy fades into a content sigh.

as far as aftercare goes, naib prefers showering with you over taking a bath. it’s quicker and more convenient, and at this point, naib is puckered out. he just wants to crawl into bed with his s/o.

falls asleep real quick! it’s lights out as soon as naib’s head hits the pillow and he’s sure you’re in his arms or vice versa.

gosh i love myself one (1) mercenary

#damn i REALLY went ham on this one #anyways it's 3am #night yall #naib subedar #naib subedar x reader #idv #identity v #idv x reader #idv x reader headcanons #identity v x reader #identity v x reader headcanons #idv smut #identity v smut #mercenary x reader #idv mercenary #idv naib #identity v mercenary #identity v mercenary x reader

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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part 3 of Escape Your Destiny (Star Wars Wangxian AU) - on ao3 or tumblr part 1, part 2

He had been right to reject seclusion, Lan Wangji thought grimly. The sweet siren call of calm contemplation had nearly seduced him, the Dark Side seeking to eat away at him through other means now that anger and hatred had not done the work – he would have meditated himself into a stupor, becoming little more than a vacuum within the Force, a black hole of deathly intent.

More than that, though, he would have missed – this.

This disaster.

Wei Wuxian’s lips were pale from blood loss and hypothermia. Two of his limbs were at odd angles, probably broken, and Lan Wangji feared that there were more like them beneath the body that was bruised like a tender peach – he had been shielding as many people as he could, Lan Wangji knew, because he knew his Wei Ying too well to think that he might have done anything else.

Lan Wangji still didn’t know all the details, what exactly had been the disaster or why Wei Wuxian’s starfighter had crashed when he knew (with painful recollection) exactly how good a pilot Wei Wuxian was, but it hadn’t really mattered. Xue Yang had rushed into his chamber shouting excitedly - not exactly a rare event - saying something about an alarm and a disaster and a crash and can I have one of these gadgets? possibly two, maybe, I’m thinking two but haven’t really committed yet, it’s a big decision you know, and Lan Wangji’s blood had run cold when he realized what alarm he was referencing.

(A proper Jedi would never have tagged the object of his affections like an endangered bird or a criminal, injecting the tracking chip so deep into bone and muscle that standard scans wouldn’t pick it up and even in-depth scans might register it as a naturally occurring aberration. A proper Jedi would think of such intimate surveillance as cruelty, dehumanization, the caging of a free bird –

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have known what happened.

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have been able to rush over at once, wouldn’t have been in time to retrieve the body from the wreckage, finding it still warm and breathing but swiftly fading into the Force.

A proper Jedi would have been worthless.)

“That looks pretty bad, Master,” Xue Yang said, the comm crackling in his ear, and for once his tone was almost solemn. Perhaps the lessons on empathy were working, following the introduction of the rancor Xue Yang had named Chengmei with an expression so pained and vicious that Lan Wangji had refrained from asking. Perhaps it was that he’d grown so obsessed with his pair of bounty hunters and their foundling assistant, a little not-blind Bothan girl who liked to mouth off at him. Or perhaps it was just something as simple as knowing that if Wei Wuxian were lost, Lan Wangji would have no reason to –

No reason to anything at all.

“It is within the limits of what a bacta tank can heal,” Lan Wangji said, because it was, it would be, as long as he got him there in time.

Time that was swiftly running out.

Later, when Wei Wuxian was safe, Lan Wangji would return to that obscure little space station that had nearly caused his beloved’s death and he would find out what had happened properly. He would find out, and he would slaughter every one of them that caused it, torment them for days if he needed to in order to know who to blame – it didn’t matter if their contribution were accidental or deliberate, major or slight. He would offer up a sacrifice of their suffering to the Dark Side, as solemn as lighting a stick of incense at a temple –

When Wei Wuxian was safe.

Because he would be. He had to be.

Lan Wangji’s Wei Ying would not die so easily.

“Uh, Master? We don’t have a bacta tank.” Xue Yang was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know that many people around here that do. This is Outer Rim, remember? Not even the Hutts have one.”

“There is one in an outpost in the Quiberon sector,” Lan Wangji said. His attention was split between piloting their stolen ship as fast as he could and monitoring Wei Wuxian’s vital signs. He had transferred a certain amount of energy into him already, but the Dark Side was poisonous in overly large quantities, especially if one was not accustomed to it; a pure Jedi like Wei Wuxian couldn’t tolerate it, and Lan Wangji would not risk making him worse. “Inat Prime system. I’ve entered the coordinates. Set us up for a jump to lightspeed.”

“Inat Prime,” Xue Yang repeated, instead of doing as he was told. “Isn’t that – near Rothana?”

Lan Wangji said nothing.

“Rothana’s a manufacturing planet. Heavy engineering – warships. It used to belong to a subsidy of the Jin Engineering Corps, maybe still does, I don’t know, but either way manufacturing planets like that are where those sleemos keep their precious IP. And that means it’s going to be guarded and booby-trapped up your chubba. Who in their right mind would set up an outpost anywhere near there?”

Xue Yang was descending into Huttese slang again, Lan Wangji noted to himself, keeping his calm only by sheer force of willpower even as the Dark Side screamed in his mind that now was the time for rage and pain and blood. Given his hatred of the entire species, Xue Yang only did that when he was especially anxious and didn’t want to admit it.

Later, when he didn’t have more pressing things on his mind, Lan Wangji would have to inquire of his apprentice – which he had previously believed was as transparent to him as a sheet of transparisteel – how he had learned about things like top-secret Jin Engineering manufacturing planets and IP and such things like that.

Later. Right now, he didn’t care.

“Prepare for jump,” he said again, the threat in his voice clear, and this time Xue Yang scrambled to obey, mumbling curses as he went. This was more typical of Xue Yang, but in this case it signified that he was concentrating, and that was all Lan Wangji cared about.

The rest of the trip passed as if in a daze, time counted in the beats of Wei Wuxian’s heart. Still strong, because Wei Wuxian was strong – this wouldn’t be the end of him. It wouldn’t.

Lan Wangji would make sure of that.

“We’re here,” Xue Yang said, breaking through Lan Wangji’s extreme focus on the rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s chest. “I’m going to guess that our destination is the third planet? If you can call those other ones planets, they’re barely more than asteroids…”

Lan Wangji hummed, affirming.

“So, you going to tell me what this place is? Some super-secret Sith hideout?”

“No.”

“Smuggler’s base? Bounty hunter lair? Mandalorian terrorist cell? Clone factory?”

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes. Xue Yang had been reading too many historical action comics again.

“No, but seriously, Master! I deserve to know what we’re getting into, don’t I? What is this place?”

Lan Wangji was tempted to say you deserve nothing but what I give you, you filthy-tongue swamp-rat, but that was the Dark Side speaking, not him, and not only because the Gusu Lan Jedi order in which he had been raised did not permit cursing. It was simply anathema to him - he was Sith, but not a Lord, and he had encouraged this self-same insolence because it was better than having Xue Yang cringe before him like a kicked dog.

No matter how irritating it might be at times like this.

“It’s Jedi,” he said shortly, and to his amusement that actually shut Xue Yang up for a solid minute.

“I’m sorry, Master, I think I temporarily went insane due to Dark Force poisoning,” Xue Yang finally said. “But did you say that we’re planning on popping over and ‘borrowing’ the bacta tank of a bunch of Jedi?”

“Mm.”

“Master. Master. Please tell me you remember that we’re Sith, right? Sort of the sworn enemy of the Jedi? Arrest-on-sight orders? Any of this ringing any bells here? No? In short, have you lost your mind?”

Lan Wangji took Wei Wuxian’s pulse again. It was getting increasingly thready; he frowned.

“Take us in,” he ordered, and Xue Yang made a whining sound not unlike an especially agitated cat, but he obeyed, finding the planetary base and flashing them with a urgent medical attention required signal and transmitting the passcode Lan Wangji recited to him.

The base opened its doors in silent invitation.

Xue Yang took them in, apparently resigned to his fate and determined to pointedly suffer and judge him without saying a word.

This determination cracked the second they passed through the gates.

“Master!” he shrieked. “Master, Master! That’s the Qinghe Nie emblem!”

“It is,” Lan Wangji agreed. Foreseeing Xue Yang’s next question, he added, “It is here because this is an outpost of the Qinghe Nie Jedi order.”

Xue Yang sounded a bit like a rusty door when he hyperventilated, and even more so when he started laughing hysterically. How had he ever survived being a Sith before, if this was how he reacted to stress?

“Great, right, yes,” he said, nearly howling. “Sure, why not? Let’s go knock on the door of some Jedi and ask them for a bacta tank like we’re borrowing a cup of sugar, sure, okay, we can do that. Jedi are chumps, they’re all about mercy and sympathy and bantha fodder like that; we can con ‘em - it’ll be tricky, but it can be done when you’re in a pinch. I’m fine with that, up for it, it’s cool, all cool. You know who we can’t con? Qinghe Nie, that’s who. ‘Suppress evil no matter the cost’ Qinghe karking Nie.”

Lan Wangji ignored him, scooping Wei Wuxian into his arms and heading out into the saber hall.

Three grim-faced Jedi dressed in the immediately identifiable colors of the Qinghe Nie were waiting there, hands on their lightsabers and droids lingering in the corridors, but they did not attack. Instead, they led Lan Wangji, a nervous Xue Yang dogging his heels, to the medical bay, never uttering a single word.

The medical droids took Wei Wuxian from his arms – Lan Wangji forced himself to recall the Lan sect mantras on restraint and allowed them to do so without ripping out their wires for daring to touch him – but it wasn’t until Wei Wuxian was firmly encased in the bacta tank, the oxygen-rich liquid flowing into his lungs to heal him, the colors on all the screens all showing positive signs, that he was finally able to release the breath it felt that he’d been holding since he first saw the broken starfighter that encased Wei Wuxian’s broken body.

This was fine.

“Wangji,” a low voice said from behind him, and Lan Wangji’s back stiffened.

This was not fine.

The Qinghe Nie were a strange order of Jedi – almost heretical, really, by any traditional measure. The orthodox Jedi order, for the most part, valued calm and serenity and selflessness, prioritizing the logic of the mind over the yearning of the heart, preaching detachment from worldly concerns and attachments…

Qinghe Nie, in contrast, valued righteousness, and cultivated rage.

Halfway to Sith, Lan Wangji’s uncle had once remarked after a glass of something stronger than tea. He’d regretted it later, of course, and tried to walk it back, smooth over his uncharacteristic rudeness, but Lan Wangji still remembered.

The adherents of Qinghe Nie were of the view that for every virtue there was a fault – that the Jedi’s emotional remove would at times render them passive, that self-control could too quickly shade into indifference. They argued that it was the duty of the virtuous to be enraged by evil, intolerant of it, and that only through that anger would they be motivated to act to eradicate it.

Their philosophy often led to their deaths, whether through reckless action or through the corruption of rage into madness, but even their harshest critics had to concede that they were devastatingly effective.

Lan Wangji had always thought that there was something heartbreakingly sincere about all the Jedi that took the harsh vows of Qinghe Nie, each one willingly trading away long lives for the sake of righteousness, for the ability to make a change in the world, each one unable to tolerate life if it meant they weren’t striving to make things better. Perhaps they did not match the Jiang for creativity or the Lan for elegance, perhaps their techniques were more brutish and less refined, their diplomacy little short of appalling, but no other Jedi order could match them for sheer power.

Very few people wanted to be between a Qinghe Nie Jedi and their target, and still less if they had allowed themselves to succumb to the beserker rage that sometimes took them on the battlefield – indeed, in a crisis that called for force of arms, most people who knew what they were about would rather have a single Qinghe Nie on their side than an entire battalion of war-droids from the Jin or Wen engineering corps.

Still, even that efficiency might not have been enough to convince the ancient sticklers of the Jedi Council to condone such a Sith-like view of the Force, but the Qinghe Nie also had an unsurpassed connection to the kyber crystals that were essential to the creation of lightsabers – the mines under their hands were far more numerous and more fruitful than any other order, and for all that they seemed to have dubious connections to the lightsabers they crafted and wielded, with their highly unusual one-sided edge, they were always open-handed and willing to let other Jedi pick freely from their stores.

With the ancestral weapon of the entire Jedi order at stake, even the Jedi Council unwillingly bowed its head to reality and compromised.

Not very happily. Especially since the fierce young head of the Qinghe Nie order – the great Chifeng-zun, Nie Mingjue – had been constantly causing trouble for them ever since he had been admitted to their deliberations.

More relevantly, though, was that Nie Mingjue was also a good friend of Lan Xichen, Lan Wangji’s elder brother by blood, and it had been the gift of his token, his passcode, never revoked, that they had used to enter through the gates.

(Look what happened to the Twin Jades you prized so much, my old clansmen, Uncle, Father, Grandfather. Look at me now. Begging for scraps from a Nie -)

Lan Wangji turned and saluted, bowing deeply and ignoring Xue Yang, who had progressed so far into hysterical laughter that he was now hiccupping.

Nie Mingjue caught his hands and raised him up, just the way he always had, and that grim face surveyed Lan Wangji from top to bottom, those searing eyes seeming to pierce into the depths of his corrupted soul.

“You look well,” he said, which surprised even Lan Wangji, who had thought himself beyond surprises. “That’s good.”

“What the fuck,” Xue Yang muttered. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck – you guys are with me here, right? This is kriffing insane…”

The Qinghe Nie Jedi ignored him.

“Chifeng-zun,” Lan Wangji said politely, and ignored the man’s raised eyebrow. He was not about to fall back into calling him da-ge the way he’d done back when he was in the Jedi crèche, no matter how tempting – everyone had called Nie Mingjue da-ge back then, too young to be afraid of his fierce and barely leashed energy. “Thank you for lending us temporary use of your base.”

There wasn’t really a polite way to say I wasn’t expecting to run into you here under the circumstances, but from the way Nie Mingjue snorted, Lan Wangji suspected he’d understood regardless.

“Checking up on the Jin,” he said, an explanation that Lan Wangji didn’t deserve to hear. “Treasonous svapers, the lot of them. Is this Wei Wuixan?”

Lan Wangji nodded. His heart was unexpectedly in his throat as Nie Mingjue studied the other Jedi through the glass of the bacta tank, though he wasn’t sure why.

He was Sith now, after all. Why would he care what Nie Mingjue thought?

It would have been easier if Nie Mingjue had been angry at him, full of rage the way he so often was. Easier if he’d turned his tongue as sharp as any lightsaber to scolding him, or turned his face away in coldness. Nie Mingjue notoriously despised the Sith, had probably meant to call the Jin Sithspawn instead of svapers earlier, had probably switched the word only in deference to Lan Wangji’s current occupation – which meant he knew, because of course he knew, there was no way Lan Xichen hadn’t told him even if his position on the Council hadn’t already entitled him to all such secrets.

He knew, and he still persisted in acting like – like –

“Cute enough,” Nie Mingjue commented, and Lan Wangji covered his suddenly burning face with both hands. “You have good taste.”

“Please stop,” Lan Wangji mumbled, mortified beyond all belief. Xue Yang was looking back and between the two of them with his jaw gaping wider than a Gungan’s.

Nie Mingjue snorted, amused. “I carried you around on my shoulders when you were knee high, Wangji. I think I’m entitled to torment you a bit about your crush.”

Xue Yang looked like he was going to forsake the ways of the Sith, convert to Qinghe Nie, and start logging prayers at the temple of Nie Mingjue, and Lan Wangji couldn’t even blame him.

“Don’t you have anything to say about –” Lan Wangji shut his mouth with a snap.

He didn’t actually want to hear Nie Mingjue exorcising him for his choices, no matter how little he regretted them.

Nie Mingjue was silent for a moment, contemplative. “No.”

Lan Wangji blinked, not understanding.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Nie Mingjue clarified with a shrug. “I can’t say I entirely understand why you chose what you did, but we all choose our own paths in the Force, Wangji. I have faith that even though your path leads you to the Dark Side now, it will eventually lead you back to us once more. If you keep your sense of righteousness about you and continue to stand up for what you believe is right as you always have – and avoid engaging in the wholesale slaughter of innocents the way so many Sith do – I will never be disappointed in you.”

…maybe Lan Wangji would allow the people in that spaceport to live.

But only because it would hurt Wei Wuxian to know that he had sacrificed so much for nothing, of course. It was pure selfishness, nothing more.

(The Dark Side hissed in his head, bitter-angry-vicious-hate-hate-hate, but Lan Wangji hadn’t been Hanguang-jun for nothing. He controlled himself, allowing for only the influences he chose to accept – it was his independence that had led him to the Dark Side, and his independence, he believed, that would allow him to forge his own path, as Nie Mingjue had said, even inside the ways of the Sith. His uncle would say that such thoughts were pure arrogance, pride before the fall, but, well. He’d already Fallen, hadn’t he?)

“Would you like to stay with him until his vital signs have recovered?” Nie Mingjue asked, and Lan Wangji nodded, grateful despite himself.

Grateful, too, that Nie Mingjue did not speak of Lan Wangji reconciling with the rest of his old order.

“I will not stay longer,” he added. “I know it must be a burden to you, opening your doors to one such as me –”

“Ridiculous,” Nie Mingjue scoffed. “This is a secret base, Wangji. If you don’t say anything about it, who’ll know? And before you ask, I’m going to tell Wei Wuxian that you saved his life whether you’re here for him waking up or not, so take that into account when selecting your leave time. And I’ll exaggerate.”

He would, too, Lan Wangji thought fondly. Nie Mingjue had always been big brother to all the Jedi younglings, no matter how grown up they eventually got, and he never let them forget it.

“I’ll consider it,” he allowed, and settled into a meditation pose at the side of the room.

“As for you,” Nie Mingjue said to Xue Yang, who straightened up so quickly that he might as well have attached a ruler to his spine. “I hear that you’re the one that’s been attacking Hutt palaces?”

Xue Yang glanced at Lan Wangji, who sighed.

“You shouldn’t encourage him, da-ge,” he murmured. “He gets into enough trouble as it is.”

“Comradery does more to defeat evil than any amount of solitary philosophizing,” Nie Mingjue proclaimed, certain as ever in his own righteousness. It would be unbearably irritating if it was anyone less sincerely bullheaded about it, earnest but full of flaws. “Anyway, it’d be good for some of our padawans to see a Sith in action without needing to go up against one right off the bat. You in?”

“…in? I don’t – there aren’t any Hutt palaces around here..?”

“They take their travelling palaces on the Quiberon Line,” one of the Qinghe Nie Jedi said, and Xue Yang’s eyes lit up at the promise of what he undoubtedly thought was an opportunity for wholesale slaughter. It wouldn’t be, of course, not when he was going to be fighting alongside the strict Qinghe Nie, but it would keep him busy for the time it took Wei Wuxian to stabilize and recover.

Maybe Lan Wangji would even stay long enough to speak with his Wei Ying before retreating to be his silent and unwanted protector again.

Maybe.

#mdzs #lan wangji #wei wuxian #xue yang #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #escape your destiny #star wars au

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dearest-kibble · 4 years

Text

How they meet their Darling (Yandere haikyuu!!)

Ushijima and Kageyama

Kageyama

Kageyama is a man who doesn’t pay attention. To anything really.

Anything but Volleyball, that is.

It’s not until you are sitting next to him in class that he even knows you exist.

You give him a simple poke, and he jerks up, looks at you, and goes to lean back down.

“Aren’t you the setter for the volleyball team?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I just heard he didn’t pay attention, guess they were right.” You laugh to yourself, roll your eyes and go back to looking at your notes as the teacher drones on.

Kageyama puts his head back in his arms.

That was weird.

And the next day, when he’s strategizing for practice in his notebook.

“So what's the rest of the team like?”

“Annoying, why?”

“Just trying to start a conversation.” You sigh, and turn back to your own notebook.

“Ask me when I’m not thinking about volleyball.”

“Ok.” The conversation ends until Kageyama can stop thinking about volleyball.

You’ll find him when he does.

You don’t find him.

Maybe it’s because, contrary to popular belief, Kageyama is in fact, surprisingly, not more emotional or expressive than a brick wall.

But he’s stopped thinking about volleyball. For a few moments in class. While he’s looking at a tree, or when he sleeps.

Dreams that once were about setting the perfect spike, turn to you sitting in the bleachers, watching him set that damned spike.

That tree he’s looking at? You’re sitting under it, telling him that his form is almost perfect.

And in class?

He almost wants you to ask about how to set. How even you, could become a better volleyball player.

It gets bad. To the point where you and volleyball are synonymous. He can’t have one without thinking about the other.

He has a problem with you.

Or more, that he doesn’t understand why you aren’t at his games or aren’t under that tree talking about his posture.

And maybe? It’s a little bit a problem with why you’re always on his mind.

He doesn’t get why he feels warmth sitting near you.

You aren’t the rush he feels when he’s playing a match.

Yet his heart still beats faster.

He’ll ask you about it. He catches you after school, but he won’t be late for practice, you’ll come with him.

He finds you by that tree.

“Why do I feel warm when I’m near you?”

“Cause I’m really hot?” It’s a deadpan answer for a deadpan question. “I don’t know, why do you feel warm when I’m near you?”

“You should watch my games.” Your eyes widen and blink twice.

“What?”

“You wanted to know what the team was like right?”

“Sure, I guess,”

“Then come on.”

You sit in on a practice three v three.

It’s pretty intense, Hinata is playing against him, he’s setting some shots to be hit by Tanaka, Noya is rolling his thunder, all in all? A close game.

But Kageyama always comes out on top.

If it wasn’t for his pride, then maybe it was to impress you.

The you, who was now talking to a very excited Nishinoya.

The short Libero had apparently caught your eye with his flashy-as-all-hell style of playing.

But what was the point of you being here if you weren’t going to watch him?

In all his dreams and thoughts, you were watching him.

His chest aches when you don’t pay attention to him.

Kageyama just doesn’t feel complete.

He hears his knuckles crack before he feels it.

“Hey. Come with me.” He glares down at Nishinoya who just smirks right back at him.

You have the audacity to laugh.

“Yeah yeah, I’m coming,” you send a smile to Noya as you try to keep pace with Kageyama’s long legs. “We’ll continue our conversation later, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Nishinoya barely even gets through the word befor Kageyama slams the door to the gym.

No one is around, it’s just the two of you.

Kageyama’s ache goes away and his shoulders realesed tension that wouldn’t be good if they played another match.

“What were you doing in there?!” He’s aware he’s loud, but when isn’t he? This is normal. The only abnormal thing here is you and the way his heart beats around you.

“I was talking to Noya, got a problem with that?”

What didn’t he have a problem with? You were on a nickname basis with Nishinoya, you didn’t look at him at all during the game. And he still didn’t know why he felt so warm around you.

“Why didn’t you look at me?”

“I didn’t know I had to look at his majesty, the king.”

Well shit. It feels to natural for Kageyama to do this, like he’s setting for Hinata and they pull of their quick attack.

He punches you. A little above your gut. He watches as you stumble back and clutch your chest. The way you breath to get air makes him feel a little colder inside. That’s not right.

“What. The. Fuck!” You take a breath after yelling at the top of your lungs. “Kageyama, what the fuck, why’d you hit me?” You take a few more breaths and another step back.

Why are you yelling at him again? Because he tried to let you know that you should look at him? Not Nishinoya?

Looking at him would improve his game. Telling him he was almost perfect would improve his game. Yelling, looking at others and cussing? Oh the cussing would not improve his game. He’s fairly certain that is someone were to cuss loudly as part of a chant, they’d be kicked out of the gym.

And he can’t have that now. You have to watch him.

For the whole game.

“Talk to me asshole! I might be willing to let it slide i-” his arm moves on it’s own, fingers wrap harshly around skin.

You’re relatively light as it so turns out.

“Don’t cuss, it’ll be a shit ton to deal with in games.” Your hands pull at his wrist desperately.

Your eyes are pleading with him and he feels a jolt up his spine as he watches you struggle, mouth open, nostrils flaring.

“And don’t look at anyone else. Got it?” You take a few more gasps. He’s not being to harsh is he? He’s being firm, and that’s good when your talking to people. You nod furiously in response to his demands.

He releases you from his grasp and you immediately drop onto the sidewalk, one of your hands goes to rub at your neck while the other is splayed on the ground. You take shallow breaths as Kageyama just watches.

Eventually you sit up, and the hand on the ground cups the part of your stomach he hit.

“When-” You take a deeper breath the time, exhaling through your mouth. You’re looking at the sky. “When is your next game?”

“February 18th. I’d like you to be there.” He tries to offer a smile, the kind his Sister told him weren’t creepy.

“Ok,” you nod quickly. For a small second, Kageyama’s eyes meet yours.

He feels warmer than he normally did with you, and he can hear his heartbeat.

“Please uhhh,” He can feel the blush on his cheeks. “Call me Ka-Kageyama.”

“Kageyama?” Your eyes aren’t so wide as you look at his shoes.

He nods and leaves for the rest of practice, you don’t follow, but that’s alright. You’ll find him.

You do find him.

And the next day when he doesn’t see a bruise around your neck, he feels a little bad.

You would’ve looked cute with a dark purple handprint on your neck.

Ushijima

You should’ve gone to Shiratorizawa.

Really, you should’ve.

Being an assistant manager to Kurasuno was just going to drive you insane. When he first saw you, you were in the thick of some team discussion.

They were taking a break in between the sets, and Kurasuno was still bickering over how they were to play the game.

You were trying to act as a voice of reason, talking over the others in a calm manner and asking your team to “please take turns speaking”

In true Crow-like fashion, they continue to caw loudly until their coach yells for their attention.

He thinks you’re cute, how you thank the coach with your embarrassed, red cheeks.

But he has a game to finish and win. And then he can see how cute you are when you comfort Kurasuno.

Shiratorizawa wins easy, between Ushijima and the orange haired kid? Ushijima would clearly come out on top.

Ushijima watches as you look with such empathy in your eyes.

You look like you’re about to hug each of the Team. And then, you do.

He’s right, you really are cuter after he beats the crows.

It’s fucking adorable how you furrow your brow and bite your lip as you comfort someone who’s crying.

He wishes he could hear the tender shush you give the person, and though he hasn’t heard your voice he can picture you so clearly with a child in your arms and singing lullabies. He’s standing in the doorway and you smile up at him.

He smiles back.

And your hugging the Kurasuno boys like he’d want to hold you, so tender and delicate when you catch his smile.

You give an affirmative nod and smile before you hug a teammate.

It almost like he’s being pushed forwards to walk over towards you.

You manage to pat the next boy on his shaved head before you give a little wave, say some words and walk over to Ushijima.

You meet in the middle of the gym.

“I figured I should talk to you away from the team, I’m sure they’d have a-a reaction, to your being there.” You shoot a worried glance behind you towards the boys who have a similar expression on their faces.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

The two of you stand in silence, both of your teams are trying to ignore you.

“So-” You begin to speak before Ushijima rests a large hand on your shoulder.

“You’re cute.” He doesn’t give compliments he doesn’t mean. You are the cutest damn thing he’s ever seen.

“I-oh! Thank you!”

Your teams are a mixed bag of staring at the two of you, and the ceiling.

“Was that all?” You speak up first, and aren’t unkind with your intonation.

“Yes,” Ushijima looks down at you, and once again, gives a small smile.

“My team is eager to play against you next time, good luck,” You have a smile brighter than the sun. “Shiratorizawa is gonna need it!” A laugh that carries lighter than the wind too.

Ushijima just nods again and has to tear his eyes away from your lips.

The team is completely silent before he returns.

Goshiki is starry eyed as Ushijima stands there listening to Tendou’s ramblings and the rest of the team just watches that shit go down.

Soon after, the Kurasuno team starts packing up to leave.

“I’ll run back.”

“Is it because you want to talk to that person?” Semi sounds exhausted.

“More or less.”

Ushijima tunes the white noise from his team yes out for a second, before he hears a sharp “Dissmissed!” From Coach Washijo.

He immediately turns around to try and look for you.

The only people left in the gym are Kurasuno’s setter and the kid with Orange hair. You’ve gone somewhere else.

“Where’s your assistant manager?”

“Oh they’re talking to someone!” Orange hair. “They told you we’d beat you next time, and we will!”

“You won’t.” And Ushijima walks out of the doors of Kurasuno’s gym.

He sets a light jog, maybe once he’d find you he’d ask you on a date?

Or maybe, he’s ask you to be his partner. Regardless, he should sure you get home safely.

He finds you with little difficulty, you’re barely off campus and smiling at your phone as you wait to cross an intersection.

“Hey.”

You jump at the sudden intrusion of his voice, and take out an earbud he didn’t notice you had in.

“Oh, hi!” You flash him your third smile of the day. He can feel his heart swell in his chest. “Are you running home?”

“Yes.”

“Have a nice run!” And the intersection clears for you to put your earbud back in, and continue on your route home.

He takes a breath, waits a second and jogs at a slower pace behind you.

“So, why are you going this way, isn’t Shiratorizawa the other direction?”

“Yes.” You look at him with wide eyes. “I get more exersize this way.”

“Oh! I get it, like when Asahi goes on his runs and decides to take detours through trees!”

“Who’s Asahi?”

“He’s our Ace, the tall guy with the bun.”

“Huh.”

“Enjoy your run, you’re gonna need it for the next time you play against us!” Your wind chime laughter echoes in his ears as you wave him a goodbye.

You’re taking a left.

Ushijima takes a left.

You either hear his footsteps or see his shadow, because you turn around.

Your lips aren’t being bitten, your brow isn’t furrowed but you look like you did during the match.

You look worried.

“Listen, I know you probably didn’t pick up on it and you seem really nice, but I’m not really looking for a relationship right now. Please, stop following me.”

“Ok.” It isn’t a setback. Ushijima will be with you eventually. It must’ve been those rowdy crows. They’re incompetent and altogether too used to roughhousing. Of course you wouldn’t want a relationship when those were the kind of people you were around, it made all volleyball players seem immature.

Ushijima is not immature.

“O-oh!” You smile again, almost like you took off a mask you had been wearing. “Normally that goes a lot less smoothly. Thanks for understanding!”

“Can I walk you back to your home?”

“As friends right?”

“As friends.” The words taste bitter on his tongue but it’s a necessary step. Like getting manure before you plant your crops.

“Thank you again for understanding!”

It’s an easy enough walk, about two blocks away.

Too quickly are you at the door to your home.

Too soon do you thank Ushijima for understanding your situation and close the door behind you.

Too slowly does Ushijima notice the man walking towards your door.

Tall with a bun.

Kurasuno’s Ace.

Whatever his name was.

“Hello.”

“Oh uh, hey!” He sounds a little meek.

“I walked them home.”

“Uhh thanks man,” The Ace scratches his neck as he walks by Ushijima. “Have a nice day I guess,” The man emits an awkward laugh, and knocks quickly on your door.

It opens, and your eyes are the sun and moon to him.

You hug the man in front of you, quickly drawing him inside the house with what Ushijima thought was an “I missed you,”

Oh.

You lied.

Well, Ushijima could live with that, but maybe when he married you, you wouldn’t be allowed to leave the house.

If you lied to him now, at the beginning of your relationship, how comfortable would you be lying to him when married?

And Kurasuno’s Ace.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t beaten him before.

It would be just like last time.

Kurasuno wouldn’t win.

A/N Ok, I've been absent for about two days, sorry about that I hope this is a good tide over till I get my first batch of requests done! I don’t have a time period for when they’re done, but I hope soon! Thank you for reading and have a nice day!

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lovecinnatwist · 3 years

Note

So I know you wrote a star sapphire Dick au, but I raise you a star sapphire Jason au—he always seems to love everyone around him a lot more than they seem to love him and he just wants to be loved so badly poor baby

Hello Anon! I loveeee this idea! You didnt specify a pairing so I've made it gen. Let me know if you have a pairing in mind. I've left it open for ideas.

All are welcome to slide into my DMs with ideas for star sapphire!Jason.

Lanterns Lead Home

The first moment of consciousness Jason Todd has after being beaten to- not death apparently- is warmth.

The fuzzy feeling of being held by what must be twenty different pairs of hands pulls him back as he wakes. Every broken sob and desperate scream that wants to rattle free of his chest melts away into nothing. The air itself seems to vibrate with something sweet that he can’t put a name too. Every draw of breath fills him with kindness until he can recall the feeling-

love.

Tender touches chase away the bruises and scars until he can’t remember if they were ever there. Soft and caring caresses cup his cheeks and soft lips kiss away his tears. It’s too much and something that he’s been without for so long. For a moment he thinks of Catherine. Who she had been before the drugs. The thought of her breaks something in his chest. He cries and what seems like dozens of voices echo out validations. They sing back welcoming calls to release and let go.

So Jason does but he’s still floating. Still in the warm embrace of what he realizes must be his sisters. They must be because they call him that over and over and over again. A cup of something sugary comes to his lips and he gulps it down greedily. It coats his insides sweeping through him like a scolding saccharine syrup.

Consciousness starts to slip again but insistent slaps to the face jolt him awake.

‘ Not yet. ‘

He knows what the words are but his ears don’t actually hear them. The woman over him has blue skin and gorgeous eyes that see into everything he is. He wants to turn away from it but she holds him steady. There is another cup. She makes him drink and this time Jason feels like he’s suffocating.

He swallows more cups until he feels like he's at his limit. Then the hands are moving him and the rocking motion makes him feel sick. He passes from one hand to another until someone is bringing him to his knees in front of a huge glittering basin.

“ Purge Ja’s Purge and be reborn. “

He feels dizzy and sick. Like he’s still rocking. He clenches onto the cool surface ahead of him. He tries to collect himself but memories start surfacing like bile in his throat. He remembers everything in startling detail. It all flashes before him until he flies forward and purges.

He shakes and shudders through it. The loud cheers after every heave grounds him in support. Many hands hold him to stop him from falling in but no one stops him from emptying everything that he is into the quickling filling basin.

He trembles and they replace that one for another. He can’t believe there’s more to give but everytime he feels peace a vile memory twists up and sends him face first into the bucket. By the time he’s thoroughly wrung out and empty- gentle hands pull him up. He doesn’t fight as he’s taken by many hands to a cool pool that bubbles against his skin. It fizzes and sizzles but doesn’t burn as his body is submerged. His eye lashes flutter.

He gets a vague glimpse of blue skin and pinks and then someone tells him to hold his breath.

He does and goes under. Everything goes black.

Most Pink Lanterns don’t need to go through the rebirth. At least that is what Ja’s has heard from the others. The ring finds them before anything bad can happen. Usually during high emotions of love or joy something Ja’s has felt little of. Or well maybe that isn’t quite right.

He does love, he loves everything. He loves hard, fast, passionate and ferociously but sometimes it feels like there isn’t any left for him. Sure he’s had people care for him, but to choose him first? To love him first…. Wilis loved money, then Catherine loved the drugs, then there's Bruce who loved the Crusade and Alfred… well Alfred could never love him more than Bruce.

It had been that that drove him to Ethiopia in the first place.

He remembers everything in startling clarity now. His birth, his life, his death and of course both rebirths. It’s hard to forget the feeling of splitters digging into your fingertips and the taste of mud as you dig yourself out of your own grave. Who knows how long he had been wandering Gotham in a fuzzy haze? No one found him, no one had been looking for him. At least that's what he thought until he saw a pink glow.

The star sapphire. His star sapphire to be precise.

Lost in the memory he gently touches the gem. It’s a wonderment, meeting the sisters of the lanterns corps and of course… getting permission to be- well who he's always known himself to be, Ja’s as they call him.

It had been freeing to be allowed to be nurturing. To be allowed to be tender and to care. Despite the changes that he’s gone through he feels more like himself than ever before. Like his body suddenly fits and he is grateful for the Zamarons for allowing him the ceremony. They honor his pronouns, as they all honor and celebrate femininity as its essence and not as sex or gender. Ja's has learned nothing if not the suffering of smothering his divine feminine in his last life.

Now he is free.

( He tells himself that's why he hasn’t gone home to Gotham. Not because the existence of the third Robin Bruce has replaced him with. )

He does a good job at ignoring his old life and memories for the most part too. The few indulges he allows are watching digital transmissions of different versions of pride and prejudice with his sisters. Even in space nothing seems to beat human literature, something that Ja's gets to share with the others. He learns how to love deeper. Not only himself but more importantly everyone and everything. Mostly in the emotional sense… while the others- well Ja's isn’t quite ready for the sexual sense yet.

Like many of the Pink Lantern Corps he has yet to meet his soul mate.

The thought flutters low in his stomach. While he could easily show someone their love in his ring, the power didn’t work for star sapphires themselves. They simply had to wait for the pull and circumstance when they would feel the electricity in the air. Other members in the corps said that the feeling is indescribable. Like swallowing lightning or crashing into a planet with nothing to cushion the fall.

Though unfortunately, most of his sisters felt that with every good looking creature they came across.

Ja's takes a drink, lounging about in the Green Lanterns station. They’re taking a short interlude before heading back home. One that the others are taking full advantage of. It’s kind of embarrassing how the revealing costume and reputation of his corps makes others stare. He hears the whispers and feels the eyes on him just as clearly.

It’s stupid because he isn’t even the best looking of them all. In a universe full of aliens most lanterns find humans rather dull. He hears the giggles as the others flirt. That’s all it is sometimes, flirting. While other times- Ja's turns the blind eye to Nadia’s wink as she disappears with a lantern down the corridor. He doesn’t flush long familiar with their games. Still a little part of him feels empty.

If only he could give as freely as they did.

The chair next to him creeks making him sigh. Great, another lantern trying their luck. Couldn’t they tell he just wants to finish his drink in peace? He turns around to give the person a piece of his mind, anger already hot on his tongue.

That is until playful green eyes fall on his. Ja's immediately tries to escape but Ryner grabs his wrist.

“ Well if it isn’t my favourite Star Sapphire. “

Ja's knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to pull the other off without causing a scene. He gives one more futile tug while Kyle just raises an unimpressed eyebrow. He groans just as the lantern orders himself his own drink.

“ What do you want Ryner? “

The green lantern only lets go when he’s sure Ja's won’t run. Which is funny considering the fact that he's always running. Whether it be from bad guys, suitors or most times his sisters. It’s something that comes from growing up on the streets. The only place he’s ever felt safe had been… warm memories of the manor and Bruce's smile tug at his heart.

“ What makes you think I want something Ja’s? “

The very clear inflection of his voice Ja's wants to say. The other human has always made himself a pest whenever their corps comes to visit. It’s probably because they are both humans and around the same age. Not that they’ve really spoken about how they both ended up here.

He doesn’t answer Ryner and takes a sip of his drink instead. The playful smile on the green lantern holds no matter how long Ja's ignores him.

“ So I'm going down to Terra thought maybe you’d like to come? Apparently Batman could use some extra hands. “

At the mention of Batman Ja's interest piques. It’s rare to hear about anyone from his former life. Of course he does look through mission logs from time to time. It’s public access in the lantern corps library after all- but otherwise it's uncommon for Bruce to ask for help. The last thingJas's saw was Batman, Nightwing and Robin rescuing Hal from a villain he didn’t recognize.

Ryner is either ignorant to his inner conflict or ignores it.

“ It’ll be fun. You know Bats never lets us in his city. Could be nice? We could get a burger afterwards. Maybe catch a movie. “

It sounds like a date. Ja's would think it’s one too if he hadn’t told Ryner exactly how he feels about those things. He’s a nice guy, not bad looking from what he can see… but still he needs- well he wants the spark.

He meets the boyish smile with a frown but it does nothing to make it go away. He shouldn’t. He’s done pretty well ignoring both earth and the bats. Still the big huge heart in him wants. He wants to see Bruce again and help him.

A tiny part of him wants to go home and pretend like his dad still loves him even though he’s gone and gotten a new kid. One who’s probably in Ja’s room with all new clothes that are fitting of a good son. A loved son.

Ryner bumps shoulders with him pulling him out of his head. His ring had begun to flicker a bit from the emotional distress. The other human places a hand over it to block the light and Jason let’s him. It’s a distraction.

“ C’mon Ja’s Earth isn’t like you remember it. Let me show you a good time? “

That stupid hopeful smile and the shy way Ryner really looks at him hurts. He’s weak to things like this. People actually caring about him. He’s practically starving for it. He swallows down his protest. After all it would probably be nice to see his family again. They probably wouldn’t even recognize him. He could go and help and then maybe take up Ryner on his offer for a burger.

Something light. Something Casual.

“ Fine.. That sounds ok- I’ll go. “

Ja's wishes he could ignore the stupid happiness radiating off of the other lantern.

“ Swear to God Ja’s this is going to be so much fun- You aren’t gonna regret it. There’s this one place that serves burgers like the size of your head and the art on the wall is just so hilarious- “

Ja's rolls his eyes as he finishes the last of his drink.

“ Shut up Ryner and don’t make me regret this. “

The green lantern mims zipping his mouth shut and Ja's laughs.

Turns out he’s actually right as well.

Jas's hasn’t been to Earth in years and it really shows. The place looks different. Even Gotham in all its dirt and grime feels foriegn to him. He joins the other lanterns in their job of catching and sending the aliens back to a prison at the corps. It’s fun with the little quips the Green Lanterns seem to toss back and forth between one another. Jason isn’t used to it but it’s a vibrant kind of energy that leaves a smile on his face even while he’s fighting.

With the group supers the battle is over quickly. Quick enough and Ja's finds himself disappointed. He doesn’t know why but ever since they’ve been back in Gotham he has been positively vibrating. It’s new and exciting and maybe it’s because he caught a few glimpses of familiar capes and blue.

When they all land on the roof for briefing Ja's feels like he’s about to burst from the excitement.

This time when Ryner bumps into his shoulder it isn’t quite as annoying and he bumps back. It’s playful and light which seems to be the mood with them all. That is until Batman comes down with his dark dramatics.Jas's goes stone still at the sight of him. A blue and Black shadow follows behind before the bright colors of Robin pop up the edge of the building.

It’s- strange to him. Like being on the wrong side of a mirror. He takes in what he can see of Bruce’s face from under the mask. The worn lines seem just too deep to be on the man he thought of as his father. Even Dick’s posture feels different and the new Robin… Well Ja's wishes he could say he feels anger but if anything he just feels- strange. There’s also something else. It’s slow and thrumming in his mind like he’s running on outdated software. His entire body itches all over and all he wants is to get closer. He needs to be closer. Close enough to touch, feel and just make sure they're real. That they are who he remembers and not just a figment of his imagination-

Ryner nudges him and Ja's hisses under his breath.

“ We gotta go. Didn’t you hear the man? “

Ja's had not heard him. The soothing quality of Bruce’s voice always made it hard to focus. The dark timber of it has always been more relaxing than menacing in his opinion. Just- being so close to them but not with them feels so strange. He knows he has to go over there. It’s been years and he probably doesn’t even fit in space left. There's anxiety at the thought, to go home he'd be willing to cut away any parts of him that he needed to. He swallows. It’s a sad and small mindset, something that he’s supposed to be better than by now.

“ Heard him say what? “

Someone clears their throat and now there’s all eyes on them. Apparently they weren’t being as quiet as they thought.

“ That your help has been appreciated but you are not welcome in my city. “

Hearing it and knowing it are two different things. While Ja's always knew how Bruce felt about metas and supers, actually being told to leave is equal parts hilarious and frustrating. The itch that has been nagging him turns into an entire rash. He takes two steps forward but Ryners hand stops him from closing the distance. He shrugs off the touch, it doesn’t feel right.

“ Yea? And who decides who comes into Gotham. Last I checked I have a birth certificate sayin i’m Gothamite and that means I can come to this cesspool whenever I want. “

He spits the words in the accent to prove a point. He’s giving away too much- too much information. He knows how Bruce obsesses over identities. It's not like the corps where everyone knew everything. A few people look around and Jas's suddenly feels even smaller. Ryner pulls him back and he can’t get himself to move. He just stares at Bruce hoping- wishing that the man will know it’s him. That he’ll close the distance and hug him and hold him. That he’ll smell like home like he always did when Jason could fit on his lap.

Because as many sisters as he has now he only has one living father, brother and grandfather. He only has them and Jason wants so badly to be told that he could have them again. Space has never felt like much of a home. As much as the others made efforts they’re versions of love and his are different. He clung to the idea of meeting a soul mate and being full but now that he’s actually in front of Bruce he just wants to be here. With his dad.

The shush on the roof is eerie. Ryner pulls harder and this time Ja's stumbles back.

“ Ja’s lets go. “

The hardness of his voice spurs him into action. Bruce doesn’t move. He doesn’t move an inch and it hurts so badly he thinks he might die. When the lanterns take off he hesitates for just a moment. His eyes find Dick’s hoping for…. He doesn’t know what. When their eyes meet his heart pounds and his blood rushes in his ears. The blankness he gets back makes him flinch.

His eyes flicker to the Robins and the innocent wide eye stare is just- too much. He feels like a spectacle. His eyes flutter around and soon he realizes just how out of place he is. Not like he ever fit to begin with.

Shame rolls over him. He staggered back a few steps. No one moves and his throat goes dry. He turns and flies after Ryner in mortification.

#star sapphire jason au #ficlets #lanterns lead home #gen fic

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nastybuckybarnes · 4 years

Text

Bad Dream - 9

Pairing: Dark!Steve X Reader

Summary: A year after wiping your memory and keeping you for himself, Steve Rogers is happy. Happier than he’s ever been. With you and your daughter, life couldn’t be any better. The only problem? You’re starting to remember things.

Warnings: Angst, Language (?)

Word Count: 1.5K

A/n: A short filler chapter that has some important info... get ready cause its gonna get real intense real quick! TAGS WILL BE ADDED WHEN I GET HOME FROM WORK!!

!!!THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!!!

MADNESS MASTERLIST ~ BAD DREAM MASTERLIST

~*~

He watches the way you hold Sarah close to your chest, the tender way you cradle her head and rock her back and forth, comforting yourself just as much as you’re comforting her.

He feels bad.

He actually feels guilty. He knows the way he treated you was wrong, that taking you the way he took you and hurting you the way he hurt you were both awful.

“Look at me,” he orders, his voice harder than he intended. You slowly open your eyes, holding the sleeping baby to your chest.

“I know you’re scared,” he begins, crouching down in front of you. “But you need to eat, okay? I know you’d rather die than do anything I say, but please eat.” He pushes the untouched plate of toast towards you, backing away after.

“Why?” You ask, eyes focused on his. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to elaborate.

“Why me? Why did you take me? You could’ve had any woman falling at your feet, so why kidnap me? Why not ask me on a date or something? Why go straight to taking me against my will?” He sighs and looks down at his hands.

“You were... helpless. You were vulnerable and I didn’t want to go through the anxiety of possible rejection. You’re weak, you can’t fend for yourself and you needed me to help you. I chose you because... you’re pretty and you’re smart and I know that you’d be the perfect little wife for me, after you were trained, of course.” You shake your head in disgust.

“I’m not your property. I’m a person.” He sighs and sits down in front of you, his eyes on Sarah, a strange softness to them.

“I think about the way we were. How excited you used to be to see me. You used to look forward to it. You’d have dinner on the stove and the house would be clean. I miss that. And... we could be that again… we don’t have to be this. I know it’ll take time, and I know you don’t trust me… but I can be good to you. You’ve just gotta listen,” he whispers, two fingers dragging gently over your tear-stained cheeks.

You tug away, looking down as fear fills you. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” He sighs and stands, looking at your broken form. “There’s an easy way and there’s a hard way. Do you want to give it a shot? I know I’ve been too rough... too harsh. And I’ll control my temper. I just... I need you. You’re my outlet. The only constant in my life.”

“And what about what I need? I need therapy. I need my family. I need to see a doctor,” you start rattling off items and Steve listens. He actually listens to what you're saying as you start hyperventilating.

“I need hobbies, I need my job, my friends. I need a life. I need... I need a doctor... I need a doctor” you repeat that last part, head spinning.

You weakly hold Sarah to your left shoulder while turning your head to the right and coughing, blood dribbling down your chin.

He crouches down in front of you as you slump back against the wall, eyes rolling back into your head.

“(Y/n)?” He slips Sarah out of your limp arms, holding the baby tightly.

“Nat! Buck!” The two assassins come running down the stairs, the redhead pushing forward and looking you over. From the bags under your eyes to the dullness of your skin. She presses two fingers to your neck, frowning at how weak your pulse is.

“She needs to see a doctor, Steve. Now.” Bucky’s already on the phone while Steve rocks Sarah in his arms.

“How long has it been since she ate last? She feels cold.” Steve tries to think about how long you’ve been down here and the food that you’ve barely been eating but that seems to be answer enough for Nat.

“She needs to eat. She's gonna need to be hooked up to an IV. She needs water, sunlight. She needs to be out of this fucking basement. You want to get on her good side? Treat her like a human, not a fucking animal.” Natasha takes Sarah out of Steve’s hands, humming softly to the baby while jerking her head towards your limp figure.

Steve crouches down and scoops you up in his arms, bringing you up the stairs and out of the cage-like basement.

“James, go run a bath for her. Not too hot. And get a glass of water with a straw. Have it room temperature.” Steve holds your body in his arms, a frown on his face as he realizes what he’s caused.

“Will she... is she gonna be okay?” Natasha scoffs at him. “Oh, you care now?” He shoots her a glare and she sighs, looking down at your emotionless face.

“I don’t know. When she gets a good amount of rest and eats again, maybe. But that’s only physically.” Steve nods, lips pressed together in a thin line.

Bucky comes back a few moments later, wiping his wet hands on his jeans then nodding at the blond.

Steve brings you to the master bathroom and struggles to hold you up and undress you.

“Hold her steady,” Nat says, shifting Sarah into her left arm and helping Steve undress you. He lowers you into the warm water gentle, stepping back when Natasha elbows him in the ribs.

“Leave. Put Sarah down for a nap, or something.” Steve listens, having far too much to ponder, and Natasha pulls the vanity stool beside the bathtub, settling on it and gently brushing your hair away from your face.

“What have we done to you,” she whispers softly.

She washes your body carefully, her heart aching at all the scars and bruises littering your body, no doubt from Steve.

When you’re clean, she gets Steve to help dress you then has him bring you to the master bedroom. He lies you down on the bed and sits beside you, a frown on his face.

~*~

“She’s malnourished. She just needs to be eating regularly and staying off her feet. She seems to be extremely stressed as well,” the doctor says softly, not wanting to wake you. Steve nods, smoothing your hair away from your face.

“I’ll make sure she relaxes. Thank you, Doctor.” The doctor nods and is quick to excuse himself from the room.

You slowly flutter your eyelids open, wincing against the harsh light then sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of Steve sitting beside you, his blue eyes trained on your face.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers softly, eyes never leaving yours. You take a few deep breaths then look around, confused.

“Where am I?” You ask softly. “Where you belong. In our bed.” You shake your head then wince when it throbs.

“Listen, I’m going to try and be better to you, nicer to you. I know it’ll take time, but I can treat you the way you deserve, I swear.” You stare into his eyes, calculating his intentions. He seems genuine. There's none of that hard anger that used to live in his eyes, instead, there’s only regret and sadness.

You say nothing, only look down at your hands. You don’t have a choice, you know that. You need to do this or else he’ll be angry with you again.

You nod once, keeping your eyes cast downwards, and he huffs a breath of relief. “I... I don’t even know where to start,” he confesses awkwardly, scratching the nape of his neck.

You open your mouth to speak then snap it shut again, not wanting to anger him.

“No, speak. Say what’s on your mind.” You keep your eyes down at your hands and hesitantly speak. “W-where’s Sarah? Can I... Can I see her? Please?” He nods, standing up quickly.

“She’s with Natasha. She was fussy a little while ago and she’s probably getting hungry.” He walks to the doorway and you find yourself slightly flabbergasted at his new demeanour.

You’re inspecting the IV in your arm, memories of a past life, a worse life, filling your head.

He comes back to you, your daughter bouncing happily in his hands. She looks over at you with a smile and reaches for you, clinging to you tightly when Steve sets her on your chest.

She looks up at you with those big innocent eyes and you can’t help but smile at her.

“I know I’ve... done some terrible things to you. But I want to start over. I want to be good to you, have you trust me again. But I know that it’ll take time.” You don’t look at him. You hardly even listen to him, not wanting to give him the light of day.

“I swear that I’ll never hurt Sarah. Ever. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I won’t hurt you the way that I have in the past. This is the start of something new for us. And I think we can really have a shot at being happy. Don't you?”

You still say nothing, not wanting to allow this man to know what you’re thinking. You can’t trust him. There’s nothing he could ever say or do that will make you trust him again.

#Steve Rogers #steve x reader #x reader #dark #darkfic #dark!steve #dark!fic #dark!steve rogers #dark!marvel #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky x reader #dark!steve x reader #steve x reader dark fic #Steve x reader dark au #steve rogers x reader #Steve rogers x reader dark au #Steve rogers x reader Dark!fic #Steve rogers x reader dark fic

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hotpinkhoshi · 4 years

Text

the pact (6)

pairing: jinyoung x reader

genre: romance, smut, a lil angst

warnings: a lot of fluff. i cried, you might cry. cursing as always, some mentions of cheesy romantic films?!?

word count: 6.2k

summary: you desperately need to get over your decade-long crush on lim jaebeom, and your close friend jinyoung needs to get over his ex—so the two of you make an arrangement: just sex, no feelings. what could go wrong?

a/n: oh wow, so this is the last part, huh? it has been quite a journey. i’m going to gush a little right now, because this has been such an incredible experience to post this story for you guys. i’ve interacted with so many amazing people, both readers and fellow writers, and i absolutely have this story to thank for that. i’ve grown so attached to these characters, i know that this won’t be the last time i write about them. not even close. so don’t worry, it’s not goodbye.

as for what’s next, there will be an epilogue that i’m praying i can post this week. if not this week, definitely next week. after that, i’m planning on focusing on some drabbles that i have sitting in my inbox (yeah, remember those?! i didn’t forget about them!). and i’ve got an idea i’m really excited about, it’s still in early stages but i feel similarly about it as i did when i first came up with the pact. if you notice some tags on my posts of a certain member... you might get a little hint. but that is all i’ll say on THAT.

okay, my loves, please enjoy this last part. as always, let me know how you feel about it all! i’m proud of this, i really am.

↳ index here

Somehow, a few minutes had turned into a few hours, and a few hours turned into staying the night.

You knew you should’ve left—you should have fessed up and gone home, but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Not when you woke up to the smell of sizzling bacon and eggs, in an empty bed. You rubbed your eyes groggily as you sat up straight, letting your vision adjust to the bright light.

You shivered, noticing you were still naked. After you pulled yourself from the warm comfort of Jinyoung’s bed, you dressed yourself in his shirt and the joggers he’d given you before padding out to see what Jinyoung was up to.

The sight that greeted you in the kitchen was one you wanted to burn into your memory. He stood at the stove, in just a plain white tee and a pair of plaid pajama pants, stirring scrambled eggs with a spatula.

He must’ve had a bluetooth speaker set up somewhere, because he was currently humming along to a soft, piano heavy John Legend song, one sock covered foot tapping to the beat.

You were so distracted by the sight you ran into the kitchen island, stubbing your toe on the stool. “Ow,” you whined, reaching down to rub your foot.

Jinyoung turned towards you, eyebrows raised. “Good morning. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” you replied, standing up straight again. “What are you making?”

“Eggs, bacon, and some waffles.”

It smelled incredible. You hadn’t had waffles in years, probably not since the dining hall in college. You walked over to the stove, curiously peering at the spread he’d made.

“It smells really good,” you remarked, reaching for a piece of bacon off the serving plate.

Jinyoung waved your hand away. “Nuh uh, go sit down. It’ll be done in a minute.”

With a pout, you made like you were going to listen to him, but managed to swipe a tiny piece from the plate before scurrying off. Jinyoung swatted at your backside and you yelped, shoving the piece of bacon in your mouth.

“Ah, you little-!”

You giggled as you slid into the stool at the breakfast bar, crossing your legs and watching him innocently. “I was taste testing.”

Jinyoung shot you his trademark displeased side-eye before turning back to tend to the breakfast. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good. You?”

You’d slept better than good. Jinyoung was like a living, breathing furnace and he’d spooned you all night, keeping your body nice and warm. You felt completely refreshed, having not even woken up once during the night.

“Good,” Jinyoung responded. “Do you have anywhere to be today, or do you wanna stick around for a bit?”

You needed to leave, but he’d made breakfast and it would have been rude to take off before eating… but after that, you needed to go. You’d stretched this out far too long.

“I… have some errands I need to run, so I should head out after breakfast.”

Jinyoung simply nodded and turned the volume down on his speaker, though you could still hear the romantic crooning over the sizzling of the bacon. Just the smell was enough to awaken the hunger in your stomach, considering you’d barely eaten any of the takeout Jinyoung had ordered last night. You’d been overcome by a different kind of hunger.

Both of you had been insatiable. After you rested for an hour, it was like you were re-energized, exploring each other’s bodies like the first time until you were too sore and tired to move. You were grateful for the peaceful sleep that had followed.

Even now, just sitting on the stool, you could feel the ache in your thighs and soreness in your arms from one particularly creative position Jinyoung had gotten you in. You blushed to yourself, remembering how loud he’d had you begging.

“What?” Jinyoung asked, setting a plate of steaming food in front of you. “Your cheeks are all pink.”

“None of your business,” you teased back, snapping out of your private flashback. You squealed when Jinyoung pinched your side, laying a wet kiss on your cheek.

“So ungrateful towards the one that just made you a full breakfast,” he said, shaking his head at you and clicking his tongue.

His hair was messy, falling over his eyes in the front and one little piece standing up in the back. Other than that, he looked as refreshed as you felt.

“Oh, sorry. Thank you, kind sir, for the food. I cannot ever repay you for this act of kindness.” You bowed your head and clasped your hands in front of you, stifling a giggle.

“You know what,” Jinyoung started, giving you another pinch. “You got a lot of attitude for a girl that, just last night, was begging me to pull her hair and slap her a-“

You lunged to cover your hand over his mouth, your face flushing a deeper shade of red with wide eyes. “Jinyoung!”

The mischievous smile on his lips was evident even underneath your hand, eyes practically twinkling as he stared down at you. He was right, that did happen, but in the daylight, you felt embarrassed.

“Don’t be bashful,” he teased once you let your hand fall away, locking you in with his arms on either side of your body, pressing his hands into the counter. “It was sexy.”

The intense gaze he was giving you was enough to revive that need inside of you once more, only laying dormant for as long as you’d been asleep. You shouldn’t, it’d only make it harder, and yet…

Your hands reached for his waist and you pulled him closer, legs parting for him to stand between. “Kiss me.”

Jinyoung was always such a good listener. He closed the distance between you, lips melting into yours as they had a million times by now. And still, you found yourself never wanting to pull away, only wanting more and more.

It didn’t take much for the kiss to turn more heated, both of you clearly forgetting about the plates of food on the counter, more concerned with your hands wandering each other’s bodies. It was a craving that you weren’t quite ready to kick.

Jinyoung began peppering kisses along the line of your jaw until he’d reached your neck, the skin already tender and covered in marks from last night. Neither of you worried about leaving bruises, hickies, or scratches. It was like you’d both wanted to mark your territory.

There was already a slickness pooling between your legs, and it had taken no time at all, he had barely even touched you. It was so easy for him—it made you want to stay in all day, let him hold you and in return, worship every inch of him.

But you couldn’t.

Like a blast of cold water, you realized with a start that it was now or never. If you didn’t end it now, you’d continue putting off the one thing that you needed to do. This was it.

“Jinyoung,” you whispered, voice coming out weaker than you’d intended.

“Hm?” he murmured against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine.

“We need to-” Your words were cut off by a gasp from his teeth nipping at your collarbone. “We need to stop.”

“Why?” he asked, smirking against your skin. “We can always heat up the food later. I have an appetite for something else now.”

Your teeth dug into your lower lip. You already felt the tears welling up behind your eyes and your heart painfully pounding in your chest.

“No,” you replied. “We need to stop. This. All of this.”

It was like it took a moment for it to register, for your words to get through. He pulled away, slowly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Wh-” he shook his head in confusion. “Why?”

You gulped, taking in a deep, shaky breath. “I just think it’s the right time. You’re over Yeri, right?”

“Yes,” he answered, with no hesitation. “But-”

“Okay,” you responded, lips pressing together with a nod. “Then… mission accomplished, right?”

Jinyoung shook his head once more with a humorless laugh. “I don’t get it. We have fun together. I thought this was working for both of us, we were getting what we wanted?”

When he said it, it made sense. You did have fun, and you were getting all of your needs met and then some. But you couldn’t keep it up, you couldn’t let your feelings grow until they’d be impossible to ignore.

“I just-” you whispered, searching for the right words, the ones that could get him to agree without him seeing right through you. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Jinyoung stepped back until no part of his body was touching yours. You felt cold already. His tongue ran along his lip as he stared at you, searching your face for an answer you prayed he wouldn’t discover.

“Can you at least tell me why?”

You wanted to. You really did. There was a big part of you that wanted to tell him the truth, how you fantasized about this all being real, not just for fun. Something that could last. You wanted to wake up next to him in the morning and fall asleep in his embrace every night. But it was one-sided, which meant it could never happen.

“I broke one of the rules,” you managed, voice cracking.

Jinyoung’s entire body tensed in front of you, and you watched as a cold brick wall went up behind his eyes. That openness, the trust you’d built. Suddenly, you felt like it’d been severed in half. “Which rule.”

You swallowed, wringing your hands tight enough that you could feel your nails pressing crescents into your palms. “It doesn’t matter. I think we should stop. Okay?”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Of course it fucking matters. If you-” he stopped himself, exhaling slowly, and you noticed his fists clenching at his sides.

“Please don’t make me say it, Jinyoung. Just trust me, I didn’t mean to. I… it all happened so fast. I should have said something earlier, before last night. I’m sorry.”

A realization seemed to dawn on him, his eyes darkening. He took another step back. “Fine.”

Maybe he knew. Maybe he could tell by your tone that you’d fallen in love with him, and after all, it had been a dealbreaker. You both went into this specifically because there would be no feelings involved, and you’d gone and fucked it up.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. Your heart felt like it was cracking into a thousand pieces.

“Don’t.” Jinyoung’s jaw looked like it was wired shut, and there was a fire in his eyes you’d never seen before. “I thought—you know, I don’t know what I thought. Fuck me for thinking we’d be on the same page here.”

“Jinyoung, I tried. I did. I wanted this to work. But it just happened. I saw Jaebeom… and I…” You wiped at a stray tear on your cheek. You wanted to explain it to him, that you didn’t realize until you saw Jaebeom, but the words were hard to find.

At Jaebeom’s name, Jinyoung narrowed his eyes and balled his hands into fists.

“Why are you crying?” He asked harshly. “You wanted this, and we promised we’d be honest, right? So when did it happen?” There was something new in his tone, something you’d never heard from him before. Deeper than anger. Hurt.

You sniffled. “When you were in New York.”

Until he’d left you, you didn’t realize how deep your feelings for him ran. The distance had brought you clarity, however terrifying it had been to accept your fate. You simply couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

After an unbearably long silence, Jinyoung turned and walked over to the sink, leaning his palms onto the counter. “You should have told me last night. Before.”

Your lip quivered as you brushed more tears away. Of course you should have told him sooner, you should have told him the minute you figured out that you felt more for him than friendship. But you’d been weak and scared.

“I’m-”

“Please, don’t apologize again. Just…” he turned back around, words coming out slow as if he was carefully choosing each one. “It’s probably a good idea for you to leave before I say something I’ll regret.”

This was a new side of Jinyoung for you to witness. Cold, angry, and bitter. You should have known better, to keep your heart out of it, but it was too late now. You didn’t fully understand why he was so hurt, but he had every right to deal with your confession however he pleased.

Another apology was on the tip of your tongue but you swallowed it back, simply nodding before you began gathering the few things you’d brought with you. Jinyoung watched you in silence, his eyes burning holes into the back of your head as you slipped your shoes back on.

Luckily, you made it all the way to your car before you doubled over, finally releasing a strangled sob. Why did it feel like a thousand knives slicing at your skin, all at once?

You loved him. God, did you love him. Even now, with your heart in pieces, you couldn’t let that feeling go. You shut yourself into the safety of the driver’s seat, grateful for your tinted windows as you cried your heart out, forehead pressed into the steering wheel.

Maybe you’d be able to move on someday, just as you had with Jaebeom. But for now, you’d let yourself feel the emptiness.

~~~~

You sniffled, grabbing another tissue and blowing your nose.

“How do you look at the girl you love, and tell yourself it’s time to walk away?”

Your lips mouthed the words along with Channing Tatum, at the very same moment that Bambam snorted, chewing his popcorn noisily.

“Come on, man, this movie is bullshit.”

“Bam. Shut the hell up,” Sana retorted, jabbing her elbow into his side from her spot on the couch.

“Ow,” he complained, rubbing his side, but he shot you an apologetic look regardless.

It was movie night, and you’d been given the privilege of picking the film to watch, which you were sure was completely out of pity. Usually, it was put up to a vote, but for the first time ever, Sana declared that it was up to you to pick. Yugyeom and Bambam whined about it, but let it go fairly easy.

It’d been more than a month since that morning with Jinyoung, and you hadn’t seen him since. You didn’t feel it was your place to reach out to him, knowing he probably needed time, but you’d been surprised after the first few days of silence.

Then it hit you. You’d lost him, for good, all because you couldn’t control yourself. The one person you’d grown to trust wholeheartedly through it all, even beyond Sana. You let Jinyoung see every part of you, and you had nothing to show for it now besides a broken heart.

You’d cried more that first week than you had in years. Your lowest point was Friday, when Sana came home to you laying on the couch, watching Bridget Jones’ Diary and eating marshmallows straight from the bag.

Things got better from that point, but you still felt as if you were walking through life on autopilot. Wake up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, sleep, repeat. You hadn’t realized how big of a part Jinyoung played in your daily life until he was gone. It all faded from technicolor to black and white.

“I’m just saying… she wouldn’t be crying if she’d let us watch John Wick like I suggested,” Bambam offered up weakly.

You took a deep breath, straightening your back and wiping your cheeks. “I’m fine. It’s just hormones. I have my period,” you said, knowing this would get him off your back.

“No you don’t,” Yugyeom said. “Your period was last week.”

“How do you know that?” you asked, gaping at him.

Yugyeom shrugged. “I figured out your menstrual cycle. For my own good. You always make me carry in the incoming orders when you have cramps.”

Damn, maybe you needed to stop using your period as an excuse.

You blinked at him and everyone laughed. Everyone except Jackson, at least, who continued to sulk in the corner of the other couch. He’d been keeping his distance from you, though he still came over occasionally. There was a certain icy exterior about him in your presence. His loyalty to Jinyoung trumped his loyalty with you, which was understandable.

You focused back on the movie, desperately trying to keep your thoughts away from Jinyoung. It had been the biggest hurdle you’d faced these last weeks, and one you’d failed to cross every single time.

You didn’t care about the sex. It had been incredible, but you would have lived without it if you could just have him back in your life. Even just as your best friend. The one you texted when you saw something funny, the one you leaned on when you were feeling sad or anxious, the one whose laugh was the single best sound you’d ever heard.

If only you knew how he was doing. Did he hate you? Your mind had jumped to that conclusion thousands of times by now. You knew him, you knew if he’d decided he was done with you, that was it. The same as he’d done years ago when he chose to get over you.

Jackson excused himself to the kitchen for a drink and you quickly followed, claiming you wanted to refill your popcorn. He was crouched in front of the fridge, arm extended painfully to reach the last can of cider in the back corner.

“Jack?” you asked, fingers tapping nervously against the side of the popcorn bowl. You kept your voice down, knowing your friends in the living room would be able to hear you easily, and there was no way they weren’t attempting to eavesdrop already.

He glanced up, acknowledging your presence, then returned his focus to the task at hand.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Finally, his fingers wrapped around the can and he stood up after retrieving it, turning around to face you. “I guess.”

You’d never seen him like this. Jackson was one of the most loyal human beings you’d ever known, but you didn’t realize how awful it would feel when it worked against you.

“How is he? Is he okay?” You swallowed, wringing your hands together. You had a million other questions, but you’d start there.

Jackson traced the lip of his cider can with his fingertip, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. “He’s fine. You’re not his favorite person right now, if you want me to be honest.”

Of course you weren’t. That message had certainly been received.

“I know. I just-” you cut yourself off with a deep breath, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I guess I thought it would be okay after a few days, and we could go back to normal.”

Jackson looked at you like you were crazy. “Seriously? You thought it’d go back to normal? Come on, Y/N.”

Your stomach turned with guilt yet again. “I miss him. And I… I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. It was an accident.”

“What, you tripped and Jaebeom’s dick caught your fall?” he asked, eyebrows raised. There was no way your friends hadn’t heard him. You heard rustling, and it sounded like someone paused the movie.

“Wait… what?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t—he told you I slept with Jaebeom?”

“Yeah. You told him you did. Didn’t you?”

“No!” You shook your head, gripping your bowl so tightly it felt like it would break. “Why would he think that?”

Jackson shrugged. “He said you slept with Jaebeom while he was in New York, that you admitted it when he came back.”

“What the hell is going on in here?” Sana interrupted, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “Y/N did not sleep with Jaebeom. Did that asshole say she did?”

“No, Y/N said she did.”

“I didn’t!” You set the popcorn bowl down before you could drop it, rubbing your temples once your hands were free. “He thinks I slept with Jaebeom? That’s why he hasn’t talked to me?”

The world seemed to spin around you and your heart pounded deep in your chest, all of the information falling together as you remembered back to that morning.

I broke one of the rules… I saw Jaebeom… It just happened…

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Jackson and Sana asked at the same time.

“I didn’t sleep with anyone else! I’m in love with him!”

Both of your friends stared at you, jaws practically on the kitchen floor. Bambam and Yugyeom appeared in the doorway behind Sana, ears perked up like curious cats.

“Who are you in love with?” Yugyeom asked, looking between you and Jackson, pointing to the latter. “Him?”

“Oh my god,” you repeated, pinching the bridge of your nose. “He thinks I slept with Jaebeom. What the fuck?”

“You’re in love with him?!” Jackson asked, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “But he—Y/N, you need to tell him. Right now.”

“Tell who?” Bambam asked.

“Jinyoung!” You and Jackson answered in unison.

“You’re in love with Jinyoung?” Yugyeom asked, but you were already pushing past him to get to the living room.

You needed to talk to him, explain it all. The thought of sleeping with someone else… it made you physically sick. Jinyoung was the only one you’d wanted for a long time. Longer than you even realized.

“Hold on a second,” Sana called, stopping you. You turned back around to face your friends. “I thought you said he didn’t feel the same way?”

“I didn’t think he did. Does he?” You asked, directing your question to Jackson.

He chewed his lip. “It’s not really my place to say…”

“Jackson.” You took a deep breath. “If I go over there and pour my heart out, am I going to make a complete fool out of myself?”

Jackson took a moment to mull it over, then shook his head. “No. I think you should go over there, right now.”

------

You didn’t even change out of your comfy clothes before heading over to Jinyoung’s. It didn’t matter how you looked right now, you just knew you needed to get to him. Your heart was racing at a million miles a minute, hoping and praying that you weren’t too late.

What if you were? What if he was out on a date now, or had someone over? If that was the case, you didn’t think you could come back from that. Just the thought was enough to break you, but you had to try.

Pure adrenaline propelled you to his apartment door, but once you were there you froze. What were you going to say? Should you just come right out with it?

I know you hate me, but there’s been a misunderstanding—I’m actually in love with you.

You found yourself whispering the words to yourself over and over as you stared at his door. It was easy to say out loud now, but you knew it would be more of a challenge to say it to his face.

“I’m in love with you. That’s all you have to say. Come on, it’s not that hard. God, stop being such a wimp,” you told yourself, running your fingers through your hair until you felt like it was going to start falling out.

“Sorry to interrupt, but-”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the deep voice next to you, spinning around to come face to face with Jinyoung. He was in his usual dark grey suit and black tie, grasping his briefcase in one hand.

“Jesus,” you gasped, hand clutching your chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

His expression gave nothing away. For all you knew, he still hated you. Although it was a relief that he had been at work, not out sticking his tongue down some other girl’s throat.

“Sorry. Uh,” Jinyoung reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Do you mind? I need to get in there,” he said, nodding towards the door.

You apologized and moved out of his way, watching as he pulled out his key and unlocked the door. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Jinyoung kept the door open for you to follow him inside.

That was a good sign, right?

After letting the door shut behind you, you didn’t know where to go, so you just stood close to the door and shoved your hands in the pocket of your hoodie, if only because you had no idea what else to do with them.

“How long were you standing there?” you asked, silently praying he hadn’t already heard you confessing to the door.

“Not long,” Jinyoung replied, setting his briefcase down at the kitchen island and shedding his suit jacket.

Typical. He didn’t give anything away, and he still hadn’t even made eye contact with you. He definitely hated you.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, finally. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been this nervous.

Jinyoung turned to face you, hands resting in his pockets. You hadn’t seen him in over a month, and the sight of him in his dress shirt and tie… was overwhelming, to say the least. You gulped, averting your eyes to the floor.

“Okay…”

“I didn’t sleep with Jaebeom. I didn’t sleep with anyone else,” you started. First and foremost, you needed him to know that. It killed you knowing he’d spent the whole month thinking you’d given your body to somebody else when you couldn’t even stand the thought. “That wasn’t the rule that I broke.”

It took you a moment to be able to look up at Jinyoung. He was biting the skin of his lip, almost like he was nervous too. He took a single step forward, though it still felt like there was an ocean between the two of you.

“Okay. Which rule did you break, then?”

One deep breath in, one long breath out. You could do this. But you needed to feel him, to ground yourself to earth before you risked it all.

You took a few hesitant steps towards him, one foot in front of the other until you were close enough to smell his cologne.

“I didn’t mean to. And if you don’t feel the same way, it’s totally okay, I just… can’t lose you. This last month has been hell without you. So, the truth is...”

You reached out, wrapping your fingers around Jinyoung’s wrist until he slipped his hand out of his pocket. Finally, his fingers intertwined with yours and you felt it. Safety. Security. Home.

“I’m in love with you,” you finally confessed.

“I know,” he responded.

“What?” you asked, stuttering. “H-how did you know?”

“I heard you telling my door,” he answered, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

You sighed, ducking your head in embarrassment. “Oh god.”

Jinyoung tugged your hand and pulled you closer. “It was kind of adorable. But I wanted to hear you say it, you know, to me.”

Tilting your head up, you looked him in the eyes and shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Do you…?” you trailed off, your heart pounding in your ears.

“Hmm,” Jinyoung hummed, lifting his free hand to rest against your cheek. “Do I what?”

Your head tipped forward to rest against him and you whined, “Come on. You know what I’m trying to say.”

Jinyoung chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest against your forehead. “Okay, okay. Let me see your face.”

With a sigh, you pulled back to look up at him. He was staring down at you, complete adoration in those brown eyes. You swallowed, fingers squeezing his hand to anchor yourself.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time, angel. I tried to deny it, but I couldn’t do it.” He spoke softly, and even though he didn’t say much, you felt every ounce of his feelings for you spill out at once. “You’re it for me.”

You blinked and a tear fell. For the first time, you didn’t try to hide it or wipe it away. “I’m sorry that I took so long to catch up.”

It was odd to think that all of these years, you’d been chasing after Jaebeom when Jinyoung had been right under your nose. This person that understood you on the deepest level possible, and could make you smile more than anyone you’d ever met. He was everything you lacked, and vice versa. You couldn’t believe it had taken this long for you to see it.

“There’s no rush. You’ve been in my life all this time, and that was enough for me.” Jinyoung caught one of your tears under his thumb, swiping it away. “I thought I’d gotten over it. I threw myself into work, into Yeri, but she saw right through me. Then you suggested this… arrangement, and I couldn’t say no. It all came flooding back that first night.”

You still remembered it like it was yesterday. The way he’d held you, made you feel beautiful and wanted, like nobody else ever had. That was the first time it’d felt different with him, the first time you saw him as more than a friend. Now here you were, more in love with him than you thought possible.

“I was scared. That’s why I didn’t tell you sooner,” you admitted, bringing your joined hands up to your lips so you could kiss his knuckles. “But now that I’m here, I’ve never felt more secure. It’s worth the risk.”

“I promise,” Jinyoung began, brushing his fingertips along the line of your jaw, “that I will never hurt you. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll love you for who you are, through all of your good and bad days, your chaotic cooking, all of your teasing and testing of my limits.”

You let out a half laugh, half sob. “Jinyoung, you’re it for me too. I can just… I feel it, you know? Here.” Your free hand came up to rest on your own heart. “This is yours.”

“I’m never going to take it for granted.”

You’d never seen him so soft, so vulnerable. There were tears in his eyes, too. It was almost like the last decade had been leading to this moment, right here. Even though he was fully dressed in his fancy work clothes and you were wearing a ten year old hoodie and ratty joggers, this was where you were meant to be.

“Can you kiss me now, please? It’s been too long.”

Jinyoung laughed, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I think I can do that.”

By the time he leaned down, lips only inches from yours, you finally felt like the world had righted itself.

You tipped your head up the rest of the way until your lips melted into his. Letting go of Jinyoung’s hands, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. There were tears falling down both of your cheeks, but it was the best kiss you’d ever had.

With Jinyoung’s arms around your waist, he brought you flush against his body, kissing you until you both had to come up for air. Jinyoung pressed his forehead against yours, noses brushing together as you caught your breath.

“I want to do this right,” he said, quietly, gripping your waist. “Start over, almost. I want to take you out on a real date, one that doesn’t end with sex. I just…” Jinyoung shrugged, pulling away just enough to kiss your forehead. “I want to show you what you’ve deserved all this time.”

Your cheeks felt hot, just thinking of going out on a date with Jinyoung. As if you were a teenager again, being asked out for the first time. This was how it was supposed to feel, you realized.

“I love you,” you told him and slid your hand into his hair. You had missed the way his strands felt between your fingers. “I don’t want to stop saying it.”

“God, you’re so god damn cute.” Jinyoung kissed your nose and you giggled, leaning down to bury your face in his neck.

“Shut up,” you whined and squeezed him close in a hug, feeling him laugh into your hair. “Can we cuddle and watch a documentary?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, bending down to tuck his arms under your knees. You gasped as he lifted you up easily, wrapping your legs around his waist so he could carry you over to the living room to set you on the couch.

“Ugh, you’re such a show off,” you said as you snuggled into him, nudging his side.

Jinyoung poked your side with the remote in retaliation, grinning enough that his dimples popped and his eye whiskers made an appearance. It made butterflies flutter in your stomach, a feeling you now welcomed rather than buried down.

“Here, pick something,” he said as he handed you the remote and wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

After ten minutes of scrolling and debating on what exactly to spend your night watching, you finally decided on a two hour documentary about Edgar Allen Poe. You easily leaned into Jinyoung’s side, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

Your eyes drifted shut after twenty minutes, so comfortable in Jinyoung’s arms that your body fell into a light sleep. You vaguely registered a blanket being draped over your lap, though Jinyoung’s warmth never left you. You just snuggled deeper into him, nuzzling your face into his chest.

An incessant buzzing awoke you from your impromptu nap, feeling something vibrate against your thigh. You whined, lower lip jutting out as you opened your eyes. Jinyoung kissed your temple as he pulled his phone from his pocket, eyebrows knitted in confusion as he stared down at the screen.

“It’s Sana. I honestly didn’t even know she had my number.”

“Answer it. Make it stop,” you pouted, rubbing your sleepy eyes.

“Hello?” Jinyoung asked after bringing the phone up to his ear.

Jinyoung was silent for a while, and you could just barely register the sound of Sana’s voice on the other end, but not loud enough for you to make out what exactly she was saying.

“Yes, she’s here. Yeah… No, I know… Jesus Christ, Sana… Listen, you have nothing to worry about, okay? Yeah… Okay, bye.”

Jinyoung cleared his throat as he hung up the phone, setting it down on the empty cushion next to him. “Well,” he began, slipping his arm back around your shoulders, “it’s safe to say, you have a very loyal friend in Sana.”

You raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes. She just explained, in very graphic detail, how exactly she would, uh, remove my manhood if I ever hurt you. So.” He pressed his lips together, eyes staring into space as if he’d been scarred for life.

You fought back a smile. “Oh, wow. I mean, you’d better listen. I’d be very sad if anything happened to your-”

“Please don’t say manhood,” he finished for you, releasing a deep sigh.

Giggling, you patted his thigh. “Alright, I won’t say it. But the fact still stands.”

Jinyoung chuckled and shook his head. “I won’t, though. You know that, right? I can’t even imagine it.”

“I don’t need you to promise that, Jinyoung. Life…” you shrugged your shoulders, turning your body so that you could truly face him, look him in the eyes. “Things happen. Maybe one day, you’ll have a bad day at work and snap at me when I tease you a little too hard. Or maybe I’ll snap at you. We’re gonna fight, Jinyoung. And it’ll hurt. But this,” you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “This feels right. This is what I care about.”

The corner of Jinyoung’s lips lifted as he looked down at your hands, then back up at you. “How about a new pact?” he asked, twisting your hands until only your pinkies linked together.

“Okay.” You curled your finger around his.

“Let’s make a deal. We’ll love each other, listen to each other, be honest, and just… choose each other. Every day.”

The deep, sincere tone of Jinyoung’s voice was enough for your eyes to well up once more, though you fought it back down.

“Deal,” you said, leaning forward to kiss the back of your own thumb, the universal ‘pinky promise’ gesture. Jinyoung did the same, then pulled you closer by your hand to press his lips into yours. You smiled into the kiss, melting against him once more.

You didn’t know what would happen in the future; you couldn’t make predictions or promise that it would always be perfect, but you knew that finally, through all of the ups and downs and the wrong turns, you had found your home. It was here, with Jinyoung.

#thepactfic #jinyoung fic #writing #got7 #park jinyoung #got7 fanfic #got7 fic #park jinyoung fanfic #jinyoung fanfic #jinyoung fluff #jinyoung angst #jinyoung smut #got7 fluff #got7 angst #got7 smut #jinyoung imagine #got7 imagine

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ficsnroses · 4 years

Text

Shower - John Wick x Reader

[not my gif]

❧ Prompts : First time showering together & washing their hair/body in the shower. Requested by two lovely anons 🖤

☒ Word Count : 1.8K

☒ Warnings : Fluff, slight angst.

☒ Summary : When John comes home hurt and bruised, you help him in the shower, as a more intimate conversation about this insecurities ensues.

❧ A/N : I realize now, as I format this that I really could have made this all fun and less heavy...sorry I guess I was a little emo when I wrote this haha

“John? Baby?” You whisper, a slight gasp secreted at the bruises and cuts that litter his face. Lips parted, he lifts his weary head up towards you eventually, standing deadbeat in the bulky front door of your shared home. His bones tingle with dread, feared on subjecting you to this form of him-

this cold, stoic, damaged form that proves; he bleeds.

John bleeds deep, he hurts deep.

Bloodied fingers holding the wall for support, he sighs wearily, a forced smile upheld smile in great efforts to keep your emotions at bay; prevent you from hurting for him. He’s the love of your life, you his; and he knows this will kill you.

It is killing you.

The lines to his forehead tense, before relaxing; a breathy exhale in exchange for words. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” His deep voice rasps, the blood cursive in your veins immediately chills to the sound of his agony. With a barrel limp in his move, you watch him trudge before you with widened eyes, heart shattering to pieces at the man who stands in front of you. “I’m okay.” He reiterates, gaze intent on the wooden staircase that leads to your bedroom. Your lips twitch, worry currenting through each inch of your being, yet you brave a temperate confidence for him, an assertion that you’d take none of his façade.

“Jonathan, you’re hurt. You’re bleeding and there’s bruises-” He cuts you off with his voice, deep and gruff as he comforts in attempts to ease your fear. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.” His thumb grazes your cheek with a gentle smile offered your way. “You get some sleep, okay?”

Stunned, you shoot him a speechless look, baffled with a shake to your head in borderline aggravation. “Absolutely not.” You argue, grabbing hold of his bicep. “John,” You start, voice firm and opaque. Beneath the durable exterior that fails to let warmth in, John bleeds. And none know that better than you.

“I know you try to keep this…away from me.” His expression falls downcast, ashamed at the conversation his ears perceive. He never wanted you to be part of this; didn’t want you to live the sin his soul drenched in each and every gruesome day. “But you need to let me help you. Let me take care of you. Please.” You plead, grasping his skin tighter now, before your figure caves, and despite fledged attempts to not, a few absconding tears burn at your cheeks. Gentle cries leaving your lips, you find yourself, arms moving to him, gracious hand soft with a mild, caring cup to his bearded cheek. A few bold cuts litter his skin, a damaged, frail canvas of your mountain of a man stood in front of you; vulnerable.

In this moment, the fear creeps in. The fear of losing the only thing that truly mattered to you; him.

“Hey, hey,” John cooes, a quiet wince when his arms move to hold you. “Sweetheart, I’ll be fine.” He assures, kissing the top of your full locks. “We were going into the city tomorrow, right?” He attempts to ease the conversation into a different direction; something more normal, diverting focus from the dire scars that pepper his face. “Maybe you’ll wear that sundress I love.” He chuckles a masked wince, taking hold of your hand to plant a small kiss to your palm. “It’s going to be beautiful out tomorrow.” He sighs, desperately trying to ease your tense limbs.

Comprehending John was now taking care of you, rather than you him, you move, an ache of rhythmic pulse to your temple slowly pounding in beating pleats. Compelled, you wipe away your tears in a swift motion, a firm hold offered to his bicep. “John, not now.” You exhale, taking hold of his hand as you lead him to the washroom. “We need to get you cleaned up.” Hesitant, yet yearning for your touch, he shakes his head in disagreement, unsure of how to reject. He didn’t want you tending to his scares; it wasn’t your job.

Your job was solely to love him, and to be loved in return.

Not to carry his demons.

“Y/N, I-” He starts, yet your hand moves to his chest. “John, please.” You beg, looking down. “Please just trust me. That’s how this works.” You speak, emphatic when you gesture between your proximate bodies. “You trust me, right?” You whisper, cupping his cheek.

He nods, eyes worn out and expression ridged at your murmur of plead. ‘I do trust you. More than anything.” He mumbles in defeat, unable to hold your piercing gaze. He’s humiliated, ashamed of who he is.

What he is.

Voice thick with pain for your lover, you hold your hand to his cheek as he stares at you, blinking hurt. “Take your clothes off, baby. We need to clean your bruises.” Whispering, you feel your heart ache. His figure doesn’t move, still in the moment as he drinks you in, the way you’ve set aside everything to tend to him now, in this moment. Where his welfare is what triumphs over all, and the world around seems to cease a pause, on hold for him.

You gently remove his suit jacket as he watches, fingers delicately undoing his tie thereafter. John still is unable to move. He doesn’t say anything, and apart from the roaring rain outside that pelt upon the roof, the air around falls silent. A haze of your connection all that’s left to drown out around. Careful of his bruises, you undo his buttons, peeling his shirt off his torso. Wounded and battered, you catch sight of his stomach, a few meagre cuts slashed into his chest, deep purple bruises to his ribs. It takes everything in your being to not kiss each of them. Honey them, painted seamlessly in love.

Undoing his belt buckle, it falls to the floor in a loud clink, your hands peeling down his slacks and boxers, leaving him nude and exposed for you. Discolorations and welts shower his skin, and you feel more tears scorch in your orbs. “You trust me, right?” You blink, kissing his cheek briefly with his face held in your hands, biting back your tears.

“I do.” He replies, smoky voice confident. Allowing a gentle squeeze to his hand, you move away, stripping yourself of all of the clothes that shield your body, left nude and exposed in front of him. John and you had made love before, many times, seen each other naked as well. But you had yet to share a shower together; hadn’t been intimate in this exclusive, savouringly fresh way yet.

As you hold his hand, guiding him to the steamy shower spray, his throaty ring quietly chuckles, eliciting a small sigh of restlessness. “I always thought of showering together, but not like this.” Shooting him a curious look, he continues. “Always thought it would be as I made love to you. Not while you…” Ceasing to finish his sentence, the thoughts of you cleaning his wounds burns his mind again, defeated eyes disheartened once more.

“Hey.” You assure, a reassuring kiss to his lips. “It’ll happen for us. When you get better.” You smile tenderly, closing the shower door as the stream cascades down your bodies. You start off by lathering some mild body wash to his chest as he gazes down at you, watching the way the water blurs his vision. Expressions crease as water drips down his nose and mouth, dew drops pooling around his full lips that taut in a straight line. Gentle and discreet, you allow the water to wash away his rouge blood, deep and maroon tinted water pooled at your feet. Washing the life away from him. The spray is warm, comforting, soothing to his tensed and aching muscles, the smell of your eucalyptus wash a refreshing change.

“You’re okay, baby? Does it burn?” You inquire, pressing mindless kisses to his rosy lips as you please; whenever his eyes fall slightly downcast, whenever you feel his degradation blistering his thoughts. The water droplet taste revitalising between your joint lips, your hands smoothing over his biceps and arms, over his back, feeling him close.

“I’m okay.” He replies, quiet, intently watching you. “Thank you.” He sighs, connecting your foreheads in gratified affection. “I’m sorry you have to do this.” Lathering his chocolate mane with shampoo, you massage his scalp, making sure to gently wash away all the dirt that lingers, making sure to be gentle, careful of the penetrating headache that probably drags at his temples.

Washed away under the stream, he whispers words of affection, love, admiration for you. Words that no one would ever dream leave the Boogyman’s lips, yet for you, stood so real. So true.

And to the sound of those words, you kiss his lips again, before gently drifting down lingering kisses, tender and soft placed to his neck, his collarbone, a few more stippled lightly to his chest. You kiss each bruise, each shading trace of deep mauve to his skin, littering the pain with something sweeter, something so lovely.

Gently, John wraps his arms around you tighter, the steady stream of warm water seeping down your attached bodies, and his lips begin to explore your skin as well. Muffled, yet heard in the reservation of you, his words bliss your ears in a beautiful melody so pure, something so uniquely John;

your John, not the John that roamed the depths of the dark world of sin, clawing his chains in weary attempts to escape the grim.

Your John, knew none of that. Your John is loving, caring, and feels so deeply. He feels deeper, harder, brimmed with warm love-deeper than he bleeds. Deeper than the wounds that spatter his thick skin.

“I love you, so much Y/N” He whispers against your skin, kissing just above your cleavage, tender pecks murmured to the silky dip of your neck, your wrists, each inch of your arms. With his arms around you durable, he gentle cups your face in both his hands, your back cornered against the cold tile wall. “So much, Y/N.” His head shakes. “I don’t deserve what you are to me.” He chokes, and if there weren’t droplets of water already stippling his features, you’d swore his eyes had filled with aqua laced tears. “Thank you.” He whispers, your naked bodies pressed together, so inclined, a different type of intimacy than you’d experience before. This was deeper than making love, deeper than anything prior.

This was real, this was his barriers, his walls crumbling down around him, allowing you in for the first time ever. Allowing you to see each inch of him, each depth of his entirety that he had shielded away before.

With your voice quiet and subtle, you cup his cheek, a gentle kiss pressed to his lips. “You deserve, baby. And you’re all I ever wanted.”

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

#john wick x reader #keanu reeves x reader #john wick imagine #john wick x you #keanu reeves fanfiction

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hayleysstark · 3 years

Note

I always wondered what would have happened if Merlin hadn't ducked the chair in the tavern brawl (S3 ep 4-Gwaine). A sort of delayed response like in more severe concussions. Maybe a coma or some of the other serious side effects. I'm excited to read your work.

Thank you

okay okay i would like to preface this by saying i have been fortunate enough that i’ve never experienced a delayed concussion, and all that comes with it, so this is probably not 100% medically accurate, but consider, Merlin has magic and if we can believe in magic, we can believe this is how delayed concussions work. okay?? okay. thank you.

"What happened to your head?" Arthur asks, on the way back to Camelot, with Gwaine—passed out cold, probably still drunk, and absolutely dead to the entire world with the knife lodged firmly in his thigh—slung over his saddle. "Looks like you took a bad blow back there."

"I didn't," Merlin waves him off. It would be a lie to say the impact didn't rattle him a bit, but he's sure he'll be all right when he's had some sleep—his magic usually heals his everyday bumps and bruises in the night, and there's no reason to think it would let him down now. "I'm fine. I got lucky, he only just clipped me."

Or, well, he supposes the man only just clipped him, because he has to suppose that, because supposing is all he can really do about it, because—if he's being completely and wholly honest with himself here—he doesn't know for sure. He doesn't know what the chair did. He doesn't even know what the man with the chair did. All he knows is the moment right before—a real big muscly fellow, as Gwen would call him, with long, scraggly blond hair hanging limp and greasy around his filthy, sneering face, clutching a truly enormous wooden chair in his massive, meaty hands, and his mean, dark eyes narrowed, and locked firmly on Merlin—but that's it, that's all, that's where it cuts out, that's where it fades to black, in that tiny handful of seconds between one heartbeat and the next.

He didn't pass out.

And he knows he didn't pass out.

But he opened his eyes, and he was on the floor, with the chair some ten feet away, tipped over on its side, one of the thick legs snapped off in a shower of sharp splinters, and that's all he knows, that's all he remembers.

"Well, it is bad form to hit a girl, you know," Arthur tosses a quick, smug glance back over his shoulder, but the minute his eyes fall on Merlin, his face does a funny little spasm, and the smirk slides off his lips like water. "Merlin, you're bleeding."

Merlin hastily rubs away the wet, warm, bright red trail streaking down his temple with the edge of his jacket sleeve, until the blood smears into a dull brown stain on the thin cloth. "I'm fine. He just scraped me when he—" I suppose he just scraped me, but if he says it like that, Arthur will ask, and he's sure it'll come back to him, he's sure he'll remember, there's no need to fuss about it right now, "—head wounds bleed a lot," he says, instead, a little too quickly. "It's normal. Gaius told me."

"Gaius said that?" Arthur's wrinkled brow smooths back out. "Oh, that's all right, then." He pokes lightly at Gwaine's limp frame, sprawled slackly out in the saddle in front of him, and adds, "Reckon he'll have his hands full with this bloke, anyway."

"Yeah," Merlin nods, "I reckon he will."

As it turns out, Gaius does have his hands full with Gwaine, and Merlin feels fine, so he just doesn't bother to bring it up with the old man at all.

When he finally scrubs off the last of the dried, sticky blood still clinging to the side of his head in dark streaks, he sees the scrape runs far deeper than he thought—less of a scrape, and more of a cut, but it's fine, it's nothing, it will probably be scabbed over and well on its way to healing up in the morning—one of the many benefits of magic—so he rinses the red stains out of the clean white rags he used, and he goes to bed, and he thinks no more about it.

From the minute Merlin opens his eyes, he knows something's wrong.

The world feels wrong—uneven and off-center, like the earth's off its axis, and when he stands up, he feels almost lopsided, like a little girl's doll, too limp and loose to hold himself up, but that's nothing to the way the chamber spins and spins and spins around him, like a child's top. The cut hasn't scabbed over, and he's got what has to be the worst headache he's ever had in his entire life, with a dark, furious bruise on his brow, purple and swollen and painful.

But he hasn't got the time to wait around here for Gaius and tell him about it—he's got far too much to do today to bite his nails over a headache of all things—and anyway, his magic has never let him down before, so he's sure he'll be fine in an hour or so, it's probably just taking a bit longer because, well, a chair clipped him 'round the head, it's not so simple as a bad fall or a brutal spar with Arthur.

He doesn't bother with breakfast—he feels a bit sick, honestly—but he does take a plate up for Gwaine and check the man's leg while he's at it (one less thing for Gaius to worry about when he gets back) before he heads down to Arthur's chambers.

"You're bruised," Arthur says, the minute Merlin walks in the door, like he thinks maybe Merlin hasn't got a mirror, or a pair of eyes in his head.

"You take a hit like that to the face and see how you look," Merlin fires back, and that's the end of that.

Merlin thinks, maybe, it was a mistake to not talk to Gaius.

Merlin thinks, maybe, it was a mistake to come in to work at all today.

The everyday noise of the castle is just such a nightmare—the quiet chatter of the busy servants going about their work, the boisterous prattle of the bored guards stuck at their stations, the click and thud of high heels and heavy boots on cold marble floors and hard stone stairs, the soft clinks of the dishes down in the kitchens, it all makes his head pound like a drum, until it feels like his brain might burst with it—but the courtyard is nothing short of murder.

The sun stabs into his skull like a knife, even when he shuts his eyes and turns his head, but it's the sound that really does him in. The snorts and whines of the horses fresh from a hard ride, the clank and clang of swords and shields, the groan and grunt of the water pump as a thin, nervous maid fills up her bucket, the shouts and hollers of the knights and squires out on the training grounds.

It's all so loud, and it's all so much, and he can hardly think past the sharp shocks of pain up and down his brow, and maybe he should just tell Arthur—he knows Arthur will be fair about it, he knows Arthur is a good man, he knows Arthur will give him a few hours off to see Gaius, he knows it, but the melee is only a few days off, and Arthur needs a servant to see to him while it's going on, and it'll all go a lot smoother for him if he's got his servant, who already knows everything, his schedule and his preferences and his quirks, seeing to him until it's over.

Where Arthur strolls down the wide stone steps to say hello to Sir Oswald, Merlin stumbles—his legs feel funny, shaky and weak, and he's sure he'll trip over and fall flat on his face any moment now (and won't Arthur love that) but he makes it all the way to the ground without a single nosedive.

"—my servant, Merlin," Arthur claps a hand on Merlin's shoulder—

—and he has to bite his bottom lip to hold in a gasp, because it jostles his neck, sore and tender from where his head snapped back when the chair hit him and that—

—that—

—that can't be right, can it?

No, no, that simply can't be right, because the chair only clipped him, remember, because he was all right on the ride back to Camelot—a little dazed and a little dizzy, sure, but who wouldn't be after a blow like that?—and he was all right that night, too, nothing but the slight sting when he cleaned the cut, when the edges of the broken skin stretched with the scrub of the cloth over it. No, no, he's all right, he's fine, it didn't hit him in the face, it did not hit him full in the face, because his head would hurt a lot more if it had.

It clipped the side of his head a bit hard, that's all.

"—loves hard work," Arthur says, with another painful clap on Merlin's shoulder, and he bites back a wince this time, "so, anything you need, just give him a call."

"Believe me," Sir Oswald says seriously, "I will."

Sir Oswald is as bad as his word.

Merlin's ears ring louder than the biggest bells in the Camelot cathedral, and it feels he's got a blunt sword stuck in his skull, and he's shaking all over, dripping with sweat and shuddering with cold, and little white stars pop and pop and pop before his tired eyes, but he stays on his feet, and he finally shoulders the door open.

He hauls the heavy trunk inside.

"What took you so long?" Sir Oswald, leaning elegantly back in his chair, his dirty boots up on the table, pops a blueberry in his mouth.

"What?" Merlin rasps, because it takes him a second to really hear it, takes a second for the words to make sense to him. Everything is taking a second to make sense to him today. "It—it weighs a ton," he points out, rather fairly, in his opinion.

Sir Oswald stares coldly back at him.

"The stairs," he adds quickly, because he knows what it means when a knight looks at him like that, he knows it means if he doesn't come up with a damn good excuse, he'll be in the stocks—or in the dungeons, or tied to a whipping post—faster than he can blink. "It's seven flights." He's so exhausted, it might as well have been a thousand.

"That's very kind of you," Sir Ethan smiles at him, almost kind, so he musters up a small, tired grin of his own before he pushes himself back up on his feet—the room spins and spins and spins, like Gaius' chambers, around him, and he thinks he might really be sick, here on Sir Oswald's pristine floor—

"—but you can't leave it there."

Merlin turns—the room spins and spins and spins like Gaius' chambers, like a child's top, and his stomach churns and his head hurts. "I-I can't?" he says, uncertainly, mostly to make sure he's heard right, because everything sounds different with the funny ringing in his ears, because everything is taking a second to make sense to him lately, because the world is wrong, because the world is uneven and off-center, because the earth is off its axis.

"It's in the way," Sir Oswald jerks his chin at the trunk—which is, admittedly, very much in the way.

"Okay," Merlin nods, but it hurts, and he has to stop. "Where do you want it?"

For the first time all day, Merlin doesn't feel sick, so when he gets home, he downs an entire bowl of soup, and he thinks, maybe, he should wait for Gaius to get back, so he can tell him about his head, about how awful he feels, but he hasn't even rinsed his bowl before the door swings open, and Gwen peers inside.

"Merlin," she says, seriously, "I think you need to come with me."

Merlin follows Gwen all the way down to the tavern, where he finds Gwaine in a stupor, with a tab longer than his own leg, and a red-faced, furious barkeep.

He drags a very drunk Gwaine back home and gets him settled safely in bed where he can't hurt himself (or drink anymore) before he goes back downstairs, to a dark and empty room, and vomits up that bowl of soup.

"S-Sorry," Merlin rasps out, the next morning, as he comes into Arthur's bedchamber and puts his breakfast down—even the light little thud of the plate on the desktop makes his head ache, and he doesn't think he'll ever remember what it's like to not be dizzy ever again. "I-I know I'm late."

"Not at all," Arthur says easily.

"Um," Merlin says, blankly. Is he not late? He certainly feels late. But Arthur's not looking at him like he's late, so that must mean— "Good." He takes a small step back—his skull screams at the sudden move, but his skull screams about everything lately—and turns away to make Arthur's bed.

"You're not sick?" Arthur says, all of a sudden, out of the blue. "Unsteady? About to burst into song?"

Merlin thinks this must be one of Arthur's jokes (like how he says shut up, Merlin at least a hundred times a day, but God knows he'll get all huffy and pouty and moody if Merlin ever actually does shut up) so he doesn't say, yes, my head hurts so badly I can barely think straight anymore, and I think that chair might have hit me harder than I realized. He only pulls the blankets up higher and tucks in the edges and says, "No, why?"

Arthur snatches up a sheet of parchment off his desk, shakes it out with a soft rustle, and reads off, so loudly it makes Merlin's skull scream again, "Fourteen quarts of mead—"

Oh. Merlin's stomach drops. Oh, so that's what this is about.

"—three flagons of wine," Arthur drones on, relentless, "five quarts of cider—"

Merlin comes 'round the bed, head ducked down so the light won't hit his eyes. "I—I can explain," he says, weakly.

"—four dozen pickled eggs," Arthur never looks up from the paper in his hands, but he raises his voice even more, and Merlin has to wait until the pain—so sharp he sees the white stars again—dulls down enough to let him talk.

"That was Gwaine," he says finally, and a little shakily. "He went to the tavern, and he couldn't pay for it."

"So you said I would," Arthur says, in a huffy sort of tone that leaves no doubt as to his opinion on this decision.

"You know, if I hadn't," Merlin says, quickly, but he can already tell Arthur is well past listening, "th-that innkeeper, he would have strung us both up."

"I fail to see the downside," Arthur says harshly—which feels, just now, tremendously unfair, so Merlin fires back with the first thing he can think of.

"You said he should be given anything he needs."

"Four dozen pickled eggs?" Arthur wails, incredulously.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and swallows back a wince. "I'm sorry," he says and, before he can stop himself, before he can really think about it, before he can tell himself to shut up, to have some sense, to stop making absurd and impulsive promises he knows he can't possibly keep, he adds, "I'll pay for it."

Arthur sits up in his chair and flings the paper back down on the desk with another soft rustle. "You most certainly will."

Well, on the bright side, Merlin has to admit, it could be far worse than a few hundred pairs of filthy boots.

Gwaine disagrees. "Arthur is a thoroughbred little braggart."

Merlin has to swallow back a laugh—if only his head didn't hurt so much, he's sure he wouldn't mind the work at all, now he's got Gwaine here to crack his usual jokes. "Why?"

Gwaine peers down at the boot in his lap like he thinks the tough, cracked leather will tell him what he's supposed to do with it. Hasn't he ever cleaned his own boots? "For making us do this."

Merlin shrugs—it's easy work, even if it is, admittedly, a touch tedious, certainly repetitive, and hopelessly mundane, and it's a far lighter load than he expected in the face of Arthur's fury this morning. "I think it's fair."

Gwaine throws him an incredulous look and jabs a finger at the endless line of grimy boots stretched out ahead of them. "For the entire army?"

Merlin clicks his tongue. "If you admitted your father was a knight, you wouldn't have to."

Gwaine tosses his head to get his shaggy hair out of his eyes. "Maybe," he concedes with a little huff, "but I'm not making the same mistakes that he did." He runs the brush lightly over the boot—oh, so he does know how to do it, and thank God, Merlin thought he really might have to teach the poor man—and a bit of dried mud crumbles off and floats down to the wood floor below.

Merlin turns back to his own work without a word—he's not going to push it—and the quiet swish of the soft brush on the dirty leather is a faint but familiar music to his ears.

"How's your head?" Gwaine asks, finally, with a quick glance over at Merlin. "Looks pretty bad to me."

"It's fine," Merlin says, and he's not sure what shuts him up, what holds him back, what makes him say it's fine when he's almost certain he's never felt less fine in his life, but there's simply nothing else for it—he has to be here for Arthur until the melee is over, so there's no point in whining or moaning about it when he's got no choice but to grit his teeth and get on with it, anyway. "I'm fine."

Merlin isn't sure what makes him pull back the red silken cloth on the table—he's only here to take the dinner plates back to the kitchens—but he pulls back the cloth, and the glint of the swords beneath fascinates him, in a way swords have never fascinated him before. The cold gleam of steel is murder on his throbbing head, but it's like he can't look away, and before he knows it, he's picked them up, the hilts cool and heavy in his hands, and he stares and he stares and he stares.

He's not sure what's wrong with him. It feels like his mind is moving too slowly, all of a sudden, like a hand has ripped his skull open, and poured thick, sticky syrup inside, gumming up his brain until he can't think straight, until he can hardly think at all, and it takes him far too long to remember he's only here to pick up the dirty plates, he shouldn't be playing with the swords, he has to put them down and get on with it and—

—and the blunt blade slips, and cuts him, much deeper than a blunt blade should.

He stares at the blood on the tip of his finger, bright and thick and red—

"What are you doing with that, boy?"

He whirls around—he knows he shouldn't, he knows it will only make his head hurt, and it makes him look guilty besides, like he's doing something he shouldn't, like he's doing something he knows he shouldn't— "Uh," the sword slips from his slack fingers, and he presses his bleeding hand, on reflex, into his chest, so the knights can't see the cut, but—but why's it is so important that the knights can't see—? "I-I was just tidying—"

"Keep away from things that don't concern you," Sir Oswald snaps, sharp and cold as the sword at Merlin's feet, and his eyes like ice as he glares, and for the first time since he met the man, Merlin feels the tiniest thrill of fear.

He gathers up the plates, and he leaves, and he's much happier than he should be, to get away from Sir Oswald.

Merlin tells Gaius about the sword.

It takes him the entire walk down to the kitchens, and the entire walk back to his chamber, to work out what the knights want with blunted-sharp blades, and that feels unbelievably, embarrassingly long, and he's sure if this horrible headache would just go away, he could think much clearer, he's sure if he could just stop stumbling and tripping, if the world would stop tilting, if those white stars would stop popping—

So Merlin tells Gaius about the sword—or, he means to tell Gaius about the sword, but the minute the old man sees him, he lets out a little gasp, steers him over to the nearest cot, and pushes him down onto it, and Merlin is far too tired to fight him on it.

"What happened to your head?" Gaius demands at once.

Oh. Oh, that's right, isn't it, Gaius hasn't seen him in days—the old man is always out when he gets home at night, and he's just too tired lately to wait up the way he usually does. He rubs lightly at his temple, where the pain burns hottest, with a little wince, before he forces himself to shake his head, to shove it down. "It's nothing," he says, and he tries to sound firm about it, too, but his voice sounds slow and slurred and small in his ears, "it's nothing, I'm fine—listen, I was in Sir Oswald's chambers just now, and I—"

"Merlin," Gaius says sharply, "what's happened to your head?"

"Yeah, I'm no physician," Gwaine tosses out, from his spot on the bottommost step in the dark, narrow stairway, "but you really don't look so good, mate, you should get yourself checked over."

Merlin throws him a glare.

Gwaine stares back, entirely unrepentant.

Gaius raises his brow.

"Okay, fine, I-I hit my head," Merlin concedes, because he knows he can steer the talk back around to the sword much quicker if he gives a bit of ground here, "in that fight in the tavern, but it's not important, it doesn't matter—I have something to tell—"

"The fight in the tavern?" Gaius echoes, like he hasn't heard about that already, like Merlin and Arthur didn't fill him in when they brought Gwaine to him, except they did. "Merlin, that was days ago!"

"It's fine," Merlin says, again, except he sounds worse than ever, weak and wavery, and he balls his hands up in fists on his knees so Gaius won't see he's shaking, "it's not a big deal, it doesn't matter, it'll heal up soon, I'm sure the chair didn't even hit me that—"

"The chair?" Gaius' brow has never jumped so high so fast.

"The chair?" Gwaine squawks and leaps up off the stairs.

Merlin realizes far too late that he's said far too much. "It doesn't matter, it was just—" he shakes his head, "—some madman chucked a chair at me, all right, but some other madman is going to—"

"A chair?" Gaius says, again, his pale eyes very wide. "Merlin, you could have died from a blow like that! Why didn't you come to me and—?"

"Please, Gaius!" Merlin blinks against the sudden burn of furious tears behind his eyes. "Please, listen to me, this is important. Sir Oswald's using a trick sword! He means to murder Arthur in the melee!"

And Merlin has never, ever been more grateful for the old man in his entire life, because Gaius listens. He sits up, a bit straighter, on his stool, and he drops his withered white hand back into his lap—out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see Gwaine edging a bit nearer—

"All right," Gaius says at last. "All right, Merlin. Tell me everything. But let me have a look at your head while you're here."

Oh, thank God. Merlin drags in a shaky little breath of relief, and hastily gabbles it all out as quickly as he can. "H-He's got a sword in his chambers, and to the eye, it appeared—" it takes him too long to come up with the word, because thinking too hard makes his head pound, "—blunt—but when I touched it…" he holds up his bleeding finger for Gaius to see.

The old man clicks his tongue. Like it's Merlin's fault he thought a blunt sword wouldn't cut him.

"Trick sword?" Gwaine frowns. "Then you were lucky it was just your hand. I've seen those blades in action. They're forged using sorcery."

Gaius lets go of Merlin's hand and stands up to prod at his bruised head again instead. "But what would they want with such a blade?"

"To kill Arthur," Merlin says, because it's obvious, now that he's finally realized it. "In the melee."

"But in front of all those people?" Gaius says, doubtfully, his brows pinched, and he presses his finger lightly to Merlin's temple.

"—perfect cover—" Gwaine's voice, quiet and loud and quiet again, rings suddenly through the room, "—nobody will suspect—"

"I-I need to warn Arthur," Merlin pulls back from Gaius' touch with a little wince, and hegets up, but he is so dizzy, and so tired, that the minute he's on his feet, he crashes right back down to the cot in mere moments.

"Not so fast, Merlin," Gaius says grimly, like Merlin was making any great leaps and bounds to the door, "—bad shape—no fit state to—"

"—I-I've got to!" Merlin tries to stand up again, but it's so hard, and his head feels so heavy— "—I've got to—I've got to tell Arthur—"

"Sir Oswald's a knight—from a well-respected family—" Gaius says, "—good friend to Arthur—can't accuse him without proof—"

"—then—" a sudden shock of pain pulses through his head, and Merlin rubs at his brow, "—then I need to—to get the sword from Sir Oswald—"

"No, Merlin, absolutely not—completely ridiculous—no fit state, as I said—a chair to the head, and you still—foolish boy—" Gaius' voice goes quiet and loud and quiet again, too, like Merlin's slipping in and out of deep, dark water, over and under the rolling black tide of pain.

"I'll get it," Gwaine says, suddenly. "I'll get it, Gaius."

And the last thing Merlin hears—before the stars flare up in front of his eyes again, big bright bursts, radiant and blinding and almost beautiful, before he slumps down sideways onto the cot, and passes out—is the quiet creak of Gaius' door, and the thud of Gwaine's boots as he leaves the room.

Merlin wakes up slowly.

The room is dark. The windows are shut, the curtains pulled tight over the dirty glass, and the candles on the table burn low.

It's cold. Gaius has taken his jacket from him while he slept—he can see the rough brown cloth flung over the back of the nearest chair—and his shirt is wrinkled from where he slept on it. He's not sure he wants to go to all the hassle of straightening it.

He still feels funny—fuzzy and bleary, like he's lost in a thick fog, like he's looking out at the world through dirty glass, like he's looking out at the world through a dark veil—but there's only the barest ache at the back of his skull, and when he opens his eyes, the room only slopes a little to the left.

He's still so exhausted, and he already wants to go back to sleep, but he can't go back to sleep—he's supposed to be with Arthur right now, or he's supposed to be doing something for Arthur, isn't he? Isn't that right? Hasn't he got something to do for Arthur? Hasn't he got something really important to do for Arthur? Isn't there something really bad he can't let happen to Arthur—?

It hits him in a cold shock of ice, and he bolts upright in the bed. "Sir Oswald."

"Merlin!" And, all of a sudden, out of the blue, utterly inexplicably, Arthur is there, his hands on Merlin's wrists, gentle but firm, his brow pinched, his face pale. "For God's sake, you idiot, lie back—!"

"S-Sir Oswald," Merlin gasps, breathless, frantic, "he's got a—a sword, and it—it looks blunt, but it's actually—"

"Merlin," Arthur says, sharper now, and he shoves Merlin back down to the bed, hard, "for God's sake, stop being an imbecile. Everything's all right, Gwaine showed me the sword, Sir Oswald's been dealt with."

Merlin almost doesn't believe it, but he can't think what would make Arthur lie to him, either. "H-Has he?"

"Yes." Arthur's blue eyes darken. "And it wasn't Sir Oswald. It was that thug from the tavern, Dagger."

"Oh." Merlin slumps down a little deeper into the pillows—now that he knows Arthur's not in danger, he's sorely tempted to go back to sleep again.

"Wonder if Dagger was the one," Arthur says, in that casual sort of voice that means he's actually seething with sheer rage, "who threw a chair at your head in the fight."

There it is.

Merlin winces. "Look, Arthur, I—"

"You know, there's one thing I'm a bit curious about," Arthur cuts him off, talking deliberately louder than he needs to. "Are you really stupid enough to think you can take a chair to the face and just walk 'round like nothing happened?"

Merlin flushes. "I thought I was all right, I-I felt all right—"

"You don't just take a chair to the face and feel all right!"

"Well, I did." Merlin feels he has to point this out, if only to see if it will finally shut Arthur up.

"Well, that's not normal!"

Apparently not. Merlin rolls his eyes. "What are you doing here, anyway? Haven't you got the melee to worry about?"

Arthur waves him off with an impatient little flick of his hand. "The melee's over."

"Over?" Merlin echoes incredulously, and he looks at once to the window, but it's still shut, and the only light in the room is the faint glow of the candles, so he whips back around to face Arthur. "H-How long have I been asleep?"

Arthur shrugs. "About five days. Give or take."

"Five days?"

"Well," Arthur says, in a rather sanctimonious sort of way, "that's what happens when you take a chair to the face and walk 'round like nothing—"

"Whatever," Merlin says, and it makes him feel sixteen all over again. "So," he adds, quickly, "so, the melee's over with, and Sir Oswald—Dagger," he corrects himself, "is gone?"

Arthur nods. "Dead. My father had them hanged for attempted treason and, once the life left them, the sorcery wore off, and their true faces were revealed."

"Right," Merlin says. It's rather hard to feel sorry for the brutes. "Right. Good." He nods, and he's surprised it doesn't make his head hurt. "How's Gwaine?"

The corner of Arthur's mouth ticks up in a small smile. "Highly offended. My father's just tried to give him a reward for his part in all this."

Merlin laughs. It's hard not to—he can already see Gwaine's outraged face in his mind. "He hasn't got much love for nobles."

"So I gathered," Arthur says peevishly.

"Well, you can't blame him," Merlin says fairly. "Hard to like nobles when they're all arrogant, supercilious prats—"

Arthur yanks one of the pillows out from behind Merlin's head and stuffs it in his face. "Shut up, Merlin."

The door creaks open and Gaius shuffles in. Merlin hastily peels the pillow away from his nose and mouth.

"Merlin!" Gaius tears the empty basket off his arm and tosses it onto the nearest chair before he hurries over to the bed. "You're awake!" He grabs Merlin's wrist to feel the pulse there. "Any pain? Nausea? Dizziness?"

"No," Merlin says, truthfully, "no, I'm fine."

Gaius' eyebrow creeps up an inch or so.

"Just tired," Merlin admits, a bit sullenly.

Gaius nods. "Right, then, that's good. Thank you for staying with him, Sire," he adds, over his shoulder to Arthur. "You may leave now."

"Of course, Gaius," Arthur nods and gets up on his feet, stretching his arms over his head. When the old man turns away to pull a few glass bottles down off a higher shelf, Arthur leans in and adds, in a low whisper, "Don't run into any more chairs while I'm gone. You really haven't got the brains to lose, you know."

And, with a light little pat to Merlin's shoulder, he's out the door.

#merlin #bbc merlin #fic #filled prompt #anonymous

57 notes · View notes

alygatorwrites · 3 years

Note

Hey baby! This match up event is such a fun idea, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy 🥰

Also sorry for the long answers I just wanted to make it as easy as possible (and not because I want YOU to marry me 😤)

my name is sage

my pronouns or she / her

my sexuality is straight

my sign is cancer

my love language is quality time and acts of service

I love it when my partner goes out of their way to do something special for us, and I much prefer experience gifts rather than material gifts, like a weekend away or taking me to a restaurant or surprising me with a dinner or going for a walk together (pls I sound like a dog)

my hobbies and interests

I love animals with a passion and you will find me volunteering any chance I get! I’m a big fan of travelling and I would do it everyday if I could, my favourite places to go are Italy, greece and Australia. I’m also in love with Switzerland! But yeah anything beachy and woodsy is where my happy place is. I also love to journal about the places I have been, and collecting little souvenirs on the way. I’m like a magpie it’s crazy how much stuff I have from my travels.

my personality

my mbti type is isfp and I’m more of an ambivert, I’m outgoing with friends and family but I’m a bit more reserved when it comes to people I haven’t met before and would prefer if they started the convo first. After that initial awkwardness (which I hate with a passion) I’m good at carrying a convo. Once you get to know me I’m more of an extrovert. Over text I’m the most extroverted person but in person, I’m a lil shy and reserved until I get to know you.

I’m also VERY clumsy, I never seem to finish my day without breaking something or waking up with a new bruise. There was one time I literally broke 3 plates and dropped 4 glasses all in one day…..and the amount of times I trip or fall up the stairs. I seriously need a warning sign around my neck. I’ve also been told I have a bit of a resting bitch face but I swear I’m nice :)

I’m known to my friends as the funny one of the group and very free spirited. I have never been in a relationship and I don’t feel I need to be in one right now. I’m not looking for anyone at the moment, and I wouldn’t go out of my way to find someone (ie dating apps). I’d rather find them along the way. As you could probably tell, I’m more on the independent side and as of right now, I’m just enjoying that.

physical description

It’ll be a lot easier is I just add a picrew for the physical description cause I finally found one that looks like me :)

And OF COURSE I want some nsfw headcanons!! You’re nsfw writing is what keeps me going BABYYY

I’m so excited to see who you pick for me mamas! *BIG FAT SMOOCHES* ilysm 💖

♡ 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐧

→ your caring and charitable persona is what draws jean in, along with the fact that you’re pretty as hell. while he can be blunt and stubborn, this man finds himself magnetized toward those who are lively and vivacious — this is you! add in your sense of humor and he is instantly fixated on establishing a relationship.

→ jean finds the lives of others valuable, and he likes how you feel the same, shown by how you enjoy volunteering. this would make you extremely compatible! because you're both dedicated members of society with strong moral compasses, a deep sense of understanding is easily formed.

→ an opinionated extrovert who speaks his mind, jean would take the initiative in social situations. when you're uncomfortable or too nervous to start a conversation with a stranger, he'll be right there to introduce you and get the ball rolling. this balance and support is helpful! honestly, jean thinks it’s super adorable how shy you can be. the way you can go from being extroverted over text to a bashful girl in person is amusing to him!

→ you and jean's personalities form a mutually beneficial relationship! your understanding nature breaks down jean's walls, while his resolve and committed character keeps you grounded. this bond would be unbreakable as it's forged through trust, responsibility, commitment, and affection.

→ your love language of quality time would be respected by jean, and he’d have no problem in giving his undivided attention. as a practical individual who knows that a tomorrow isn't promised, jean finds that each passing minute is irreplaceable. he values being there for his partner. not only that, but jean's love language is also acts of service. this gives him an understanding of how precious it is to show and not tell. he will do things for you such as cooking breakfast, folding your laundry, brushing your hair, taking you to the beach, and even planning over-sea vacations. a little embarrassed to show his emotions, jean takes this as an opportunity to wordlessly express his love.

→ jean has a soft spot for beauty! this is what made you catch his eye. he's definitely a sucker for your curls; the way they perfectly frame your face — the spirals a gorgeous sepia-brown, brushing along each cheek — would make him melt. your beauty marks? he pecks them with a tenderness that can't even be explained. they're too cute and charming.

→ he finds clumsiness sweet. that being said, sasha and connie already keep jean on his toes as it is, so he'd never admit it. despite that, he's always down to help collect the broken pieces of whatever you knock over ... which usually results in him grabbing a broom and saying he'll clean it up for you altogether (those shards of glass can't be trusted!) jean can still be an asshole though, and he snorts out a laugh whenever you fall up the stairs.

→ your love for animals and wildlife would change jean for the better. this man doesn't have an affinity for them until you come along: watching the way you light up around a cat or dog makes him vow that he'll give you all the pets you want.

♡ 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

→ the sharp inhales you make when jean fucks you has him bursting at the seams. hearing you moan when he holds tight onto your hips is his absolute favorite thing.

→ as mentioned before, jean loves hair, especially yours. his favorite thing is to tangle his hands in each lock — the brown swirls wrapping around his fingers — and gently tug them as he envelops your lips into a deep kiss.

→ reducing you to a quivering, breathless heap makes jean feel invincible. the power trip has his head swimming every time!!!

→ orally pleasuring you is a must for jean. he likes it even better than he enjoys getting off himself. the primal sensation of you gushing around his tongue can make him cum in seconds if he doesn't control himself.

→ this man has the worst corruption kink. jean will not hesitate to tarnish you until you go from a good little girl to a whore who thinks about nothing but his cock <3

→ really loud, moan-heavy sex makes jean weak at the knees. he adores every breathy whine you make, and relishes in the way your face screws up when he slides into you. he'll push strands of your hair away from your eyes, tucking them behind a ear and fiddling with your piercings.

→ jean can't get enough of the sexual tension before you both hook up. the second he sees your will-power break, and how you strip away your shirt... god, it's so sexy to him.

→ run your fingers through his mullet and jean is a goner 🥴

→ whenever jean carries you bridal style to the bedroom with a smug grin, be prepared for the best sex of your life.

→ 100% a dom. NO IFS, ANDS, OR BUTS.

→ "fuck, sage—" jean frequently whispers, lips brushing along your throat as he thrusts into you. the way your name tumbles from his mouth is always a broken groan. "feels so fucking good."

→ one of his favorite sex positions with you!

#sage i screamed when i saw you entered #im living for these long answers pls #thank you my love 😤💕💗👊#KISS NOW #aly hits a milestone #jean kirstein #aot matchup

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mysteriesofloves · 3 years

Text

i’ll blow out the flame (can you and me remain)

When he wakes up, his arm is asleep.

post 4x16 au | 1.8k | rated M

The worst kind, Blair says, looming over him with her hands pressed to his chest. An intellectual —

When he wakes up, his arm is asleep.

It’s like the lights coming up in the theatre, the slow blink as he comes to his surroundings. Blair’s head droops at his shift, and his hand is there to cradle it before he can stop himself, some residual instinct he’s still trying to wax away. It wakes her, and he’s not sure why it makes his stomach dip, the drawing of her brows as she tips her chin up to look at him. She regains composure quickly, pulling her knees away from his, her skirt riding up her thighs as she straightens, the sheer black of her stockings like a mosaic on her pale skin.

“How long have I been asleep?”

He kicks at his laptop until the screen lights back up. “Hour,” he mumbles. Then, “You can stay.”

Her brow arches, less sardonic and more curious. He clarifies, “It’s late. I can take the couch.”

Blair’s lips part for a moment before she speaks. “As much as I would find joy in driving you out of your bed, I think I can manage getting home.”

He nods, a little stilted. She pats his knee companionably. “Well. Thank you.”

There’s a beat, like she’s waiting for him to say something, and then she stands, slipping back into her mismatched shoes. He smiles a little at them, and when he looks up at her, she’s smiling a little at him, too.

“Seeing as my schedule’s cleared up, I suppose I could join you at the Joseph Beuys exhibit,” she lingers in the doorway, turning over her shoulder to look at him. “That is, if you still want me to?”

“Of course,” he says, a little too quickly. He clears his throat. “No, yeah, I do.”

She nods, taking that same small beat before shutting the door, leaving him alone again in the blue-dark of the loft. It feels oddly empty without her. It hasn’t felt like a home in a long time, not the way it used to; not since Mom left, and Jenny, and Dad. Like the paint that chips and curls around the walls, little by little the loft lost what made it whole. It was nice, having someone there with him, making the space feel alive again.

Dan doesn’t want to think of Blair as some kind of missing piece, because she can’t be. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone involved.

When he brings a hand up to rub over his face, he smells her perfume on the sleeve of his sweater.

The knock is light, uncertain enough that it could just be the wind against the windows. But he pulls the door back open just in case, and she’s there, her lower lip pulled between her teeth.

“Did you forget something?”

Blair nods, her hand light on the doorframe. And then she kisses him, as light and uncertain as the knock.

She’s gone before he has the chance to respond, settling back, wide eyes staring up at him. She looks about ready to run, and as much as he wants to say something, wants to ask what this is and what they’re doing and what it means, he knows all it’ll take is one step back, both of them still stuck in the space between the dark hallway and the inside of the loft, and all Dan has ever done is let things pass, let things go because he asked too much. So he brings both his hands up to hold her face, kissing her with a kind of assurance that he doesn’t feel.

She takes a step forward.

The door closes and her back is pressed up against it and he’s peripherally aware that it’s him doing it, his hands in her hair, his mouth sucking on her bottom lip, but it feels like it must be someone else, like she would never let him touch her like this, how he’s wanted to but has been pretending that he hasn’t. The fists in his sweater are hers, relaxing and smoothing down his sides, her arms around his hips, hugging him closer, her palms pressed on his lower back, right where the tension is mounting.

When she finally breaks away, he feels hit straight through the chest with how pretty she is. He hadn’t let himself really look before, ever, but it’s so obvious now, the grey-slate of the door a blurred backdrop against the vivid colour of her, lips kissed red and face flushed pink. She looks nervous, and he runs his knuckle over her cheek, bumping his nose on hers. “Are you sure?”

She kisses him again in response, even harder than before, like she wants to draw blood. His knees almost buckle, and he grips her to him tighter, steadying himself.

“Blair,” he says, hardly able to catch his breath, hardly able to believe this is happening. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, an edge of scolding that burns through him. It’s all he needs, bending slightly and lifting her up, her delighted little gasp knocking the wind out of him.

The sheets of his unmade bed move like dark waves when he sets her down, and he thinks of Aphrodite and the sea foam, of Katherine Hepburn, of the copy of Metamorphosis left open on his pillow that slides to the ground with a dull thud, of the lights being left on and if he should turn them off, of not wanting to assume, of really, really wanting to see this, see her. Her top is gone, slid off with the book, and he loses his train of thought to her skin under his mouth, wanting to map her whole body with his tongue but starting with the smooth line of her collarbone. She’s all goosebumps, every part of her so delicate under his hands, her breathing gone shallow. He wants to break her in a way that won’t hurt, wants to feel her shatter around him. He pulls her shoes off, one by one, wiggling them a little before dropping them to the ground, and she lets out that shy laugh, that sweet smile, and oh, Dan wants.

Her heart shakes the small frame of her ribcage like bass through a speaker. He presses his palm over her, the way he would as a child, trying to feel the music, hold it in his hands and make it real. She stares up at him with that curious raise of her brows, lips parted and tongue trained to tease.

“Dan?” she says — and this gives her away most of all, so unlike the way she usually says it. He meets her eyes, and that’s real. It’s real. “Your room’s a mess.”

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he says, untucking her tank slowly, smoothing his cool palms over her warm stomach. She helps him lift it off, already having rid him of his sweater, and he hardly remembers it coming off save for the brief moment of darkness, her there and then not and then there again.

“You would’ve cleaned up for me?” she says, and her voice is all breathy, and her nipples are puckered, and he’s so hard he can hardly feel anything else, thinks his tongue and toes may have gone numb. “If you’d known?”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, her mouth pink like the blush spread across her chest. Pink like a sunset on a midsummer night. Pink like —

He presses two fingers to her lips, curling them inside her mouth, her tongue warm on him as she moans appreciatively. It’s not something he would normally do, but normally he wouldn’t be between Blair Waldorf’s legs, so he supposes anything goes.

“Can I?” he whispers, with her skirt off and his fingers digging under the waistband of her stockings.

“Can you what?” she says, trailing a hand over his shoulder blade, so impossibly soft, and he knew that this was her all along, he just never for the life of him thought he’d get to feel it.

“My mouth,” he says. “Are you… Is that –?”

Her laugh is light enough that it might be a sigh. He’s sure she’ll tease him, but she just nods. The waistband of her stockings etched marks into her skin, her stomach dipping under his mouth as he kisses the reddened line. She’s so wet he can smell it, kissing her core through the thin fabric the way he’d kissed her mouth.

Her hands slide into his hair, and he wonders about missing pieces, wonders if tonight is just an ellipses in her plan, or if it’s a whole new chapter. But she whines, her back arching, thighs spreading wider for him, and he decides he’ll worry about it later.

He reaches for her, already half-aware in his barely awake state that she’s gone, back to her tower and washing off the remnants of him on her skin. He tries not to be too hurt about it.

The bed is still warm under his hand, and when he opens his eyes it’s to the soft light of morning on empty sheets. He rubs over his eyes, shifts, startles.

“You snore,” Blair says. She perches next to him, her knees folded, feet tucked to the side. She would look quite proper if she wasn’t just in one of his old Strand t-shirts.

“Sorry.”

She shifts, exposing a smattering of bruises on her innermost thighs; little yellowing fingerprints, purpled kisses in the shape of his mouth, his teeth. She wouldn’t have been able to wash him off if she’d tried.

“I like you better in the morning,” she says. “You’re quieter.”

“How long you been watching me sleep, Edward?”

Her brows raise. He says, “Cullen. Twilight? Jenny –“

“I got it,” Blair says. “Not long. I was going to leave.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was listing pros and cons,” she says. “Pro: your mouth has proven to be quite useful when you’re not talking.”

He snorts, his hand sliding up her thigh and just resting there. She looks at it, then him. “Con?”

“Con,” she says. “Your selection of morning-after attire is atrocious.”

“I’ll go shopping,” he says.

She worries her lip between her teeth, looking over him long enough to make him self-conscious. Finally, she says, “Was last night a mistake?”

“Probably,” Dan says. Her face falls, just a little, and he bites his tongue. “That was – I’m kidding. I don’t think it was.”

He’d gone so slow — too slow to be something casual, something with no meaning behind it — been more tender with her than he’d been with anyone, himself included, in a long time.

“Do you?” he says. She sets her hand on his chest, and he clasps it, brings it up to his lips. Her brow arches, curiouser and curiouser.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she says. And then she kisses him.

#dair #dan x blair #gossip girl #*#ao3 link in notes #mysteriesfic*

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knight-ingale · 4 years

Text

Chapter 6, Hospital Visit

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*—~—~—~—~—~—~— *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Shortly after the police and ambulance arrived with several EMTs, coach Clapp and one teacher you didn’t recognize helped the EMTs move the van enough for your awkward trio of thankfully-not-dead-students out from between the vehicles and into stretchers. Edward successfully denied his stretcher and Bella attempted as well but failed when Edward told the EMT she had fallen and hit her head. Bella was forced to wear a neck-brace, much to her fierce displeasure, while you were just able to sit it your stretcher while one of the ambulance attendants inspected your pained wrist. You tried not to make eye contact with anyone while you were being loaded into the ambulance.

You heard your dad before you saw him. He was yelling for you and Bella. You can hear him talking anxiously to an EMT on Bella’s condition before coming to your ambulance and checking you.

“Y/n, honey, are you alright?” He seemed less panicked than when he was questioning Bella but was still anxious. You shrug,

“My wrist is probably bruised, but other than that, I think I’m alright,” you smile. Your honesty seems to have soothed Charlie’s worry a fraction, which was all you could have hoped for.

The ride to the hospital was short and filled with sirens. You were pushed into the emergency room next to your sister, who looked very displeased with the current situation. You had your temperature taken by a nurse as well as blood pressure. Bella looked around as soon as the nurse left and ripped the velcroed neck-brace off and tossed it under the bed. She glared at you when you laughed. You were cut off by another flurry of medical staff bringing in another stretcher with a boy on it. From the screaming you from before, you guessed this was Tyler, the owner of the van that nearly smushed you and your sister.

“Bella, I’m so sorry!” Considering his condition, you were surprised he was knocked out cold. As the nurses unwinded the bandages around his head, you saw the small gashes and variously sized cuts littering his forehead and neck. Bella tries to soothe his guilt, but he ignores her, “I thought I was going to kill you! I was going too fast, and I hit the ice wrong-" he winces as a nurse dabs to clean the blood crusting against his skin.

“Don’t worry about it; you missed us,” Bella says. That seems to draw Tyler’s attention to you,

“God, I didn’t even see you! I’m so sorry, Y/n, right?”

“Yup,” you affirm. Tyler looks back to Bella, seemingly still swimming with guilt.

“How did you get out of the way so fast? You were there, and then you were gone…”

“Uhm, Edward pulled us out of the way.” Tyler looks between the two of you in confusion.

“Who?”

“Edward Cullen,” you say, “he was standing next to us.” You’re lying through your teeth and you know it. Bella knows it too, but you had to go along with her lie. Well, it was more Edwards lie than anything. You didn’t like the idea of protecting someone who had been so hostile towards your sister but there wasn’t any other option at this point. Not unless sounding like a crazy, mildly concussed person was the goal.

“Cullen?” Tyler questions, “I didn’t see him… wow, it was all so fast, I guess. Is he okay?”

“I think so?” Bella answers, “He’s here somewhere, but they didn’t make him use a stretcher.” You catch the annoyed tone at the end of her assurance. Of course she was annoyed that she had to be “publicly embarrassed” for her role in the crash and he didn’t. Over time, you had gotten used to all the hospital visits or visits to the nurse. It wasn’t the first time you and Bella had been carted off to the nearest medical room or facility as a pair. Bella still despised all the hassle and attention.

A moment later, They wheel off your sister to get x-rays on her skull. After they finished up her x-rays, they pulled you in as well. You had no concussions or fractures, and your wrist had also survived without any severe damage, which was nice. Casts aren’t exactly fun to live with after the hour of getting signatures on it.

Shortly after the nurse rolled you back into the waiting area next to Bella, who had closed her eyes, and a still quietly apologizing Tyler, Edward Cullen walks in. He walks smoothly and silently over to the foot of your sister’s bed, who was still attempting to drown out the sound of a still apologetically babbling Tyler.

“Is she sleeping?” He asks you. His eyes are still completely fixed on Bella as he asks. As if she were a voice-activated machine, Bella’s eyes snap open in surprise. Her sudden surprise fades and is quickly replaced with an unsteady glare and a healthy amount of annoyance. Tyler reminds you of his unfortunate attendance with even more apologizing, though they weren’t aimed at you or Bella this time.

“Hey, Edward, I’m really sorry-” he begins, but Edward lifts a pale hand to stop him.

“No blood, no foul,” he assures, flashing a brilliantly white smile. Tyler shivers, and looks away from the now three of you. Edward moves fluidly once again, settling on claiming the end of Tyler’s bed as his resting place. He sits facing you and Bella. Smirking, he looks at Bella, “So, what’s the verdict?” he asks.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with me at all,” Bella complains. Edward turns his gaze to you. Despite the warm golden hue of his eyes, you can’t help but feel a chill run down your spine at his cold gaze.

“I’m just fine,” You shrug, “not even the wrist is too hurt, but it’ll probably bruise.” Edward nods, taking his chilly gaze back to Bella before she even speaks.

“How come you aren’t strapped to a gurney like the rest of us?” she grumbles. You can see the laughter behind Edward’s smile before he talks again.

“It’s all about who you know, but don’t worry, I came to spring you,” he teases. Bella groans and rolls her eyes. Something catches her eye though, and her jaw literally drops. You turn to look at whatever she was fixated on and saw… a Doctor?

Turning the corner and headed towards your little accident club was, presumably. a Doctor. A very, very pale Doctor who looked more like a Nurse by age. Despite his almost sickly complexion and under-eye bags that could probably be used to pack for vacation, he was… strangely good looking. He looks younger than you would picture a Doctor to be, certainly, but he looked… almost angelic? Like a biblically inaccurate angel, like the ones you see in Renaissance paintings. Something about him spoke of inhuman beauty, but you couldn’t pin down exactly what it was, and it was actually kind of freaking you out.

“So, the Miss Swans,” The Doctor greets pleasantly, “How are you two ladies feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Bella says quietly. You can tell she’s exasperated at this point as the Doctor reaches over to the lightbox holding the x-rays of your sister’s skull and flicks on the light.

“Doing good,” you answer. Despite the heavy dread sitting in your chest, you managed to sound normal. Then again, Bella’s reactions were your only point of reference to guess off of, and she was rather distracted with the Cullen boy beside her. Speaking of… Cullen.

You realize the Doctor looks strikingly similar to Edward. The ridiculous paleness, the angular features, and the wholly unique golden-hued irises. Handsome man, a doctor, and father to Edward? This must be Dr. Cullen that your father had talked about.

“You’re x-rays look good. Does your head hurt?” he asks, “Edward said you hit it pretty hard.” Bella throws a withering glare over at Edward as she sighs,

“I’m fine.” She mumbles again. Dr. Cullen hums thoughtfully and begins examining her head, gently touching his fingertips against her scalp. When he touches over a spot on her head where she had hit the ground she winces and you flinch.

“Tender?” The Doctor asks.

“Not really,” Bella responds. She was probably thinking in comparison to other head injuries. And past head injuries there are many. It certainly wasn’t as bad as the time she fell off her bike and rolled down the hill and hit a rock. There were probably several visible healed head injuries that one could see if looking at the x-rays. Now that you thought of it, there were probably a few on your own x-rays.

“Well,” Dr. Cullen stands back upright with a smile, “Your father is in the waiting room- you can go home with him now. But come back if you feel dizzy or have trouble with your eyesight at all.”

“Can’t I go back to school?” Bella asks anxiously. Funny, how she’d rather go back to school with the intimidating bagel hater, instead of going home. Thinking of it though, it made sense with her character to not want to go home with an anxious and presumably attentive Charlie.

“Maybe you should take it easy today,” The Doctor chuckles. Bella glances over at Edward,

“Does he get to go to school?” You snicker at Bella’s obvious agitation. Edward chuckles,

“Someone has to spread the good news that we all survived,” He says smugly.

“Actually,” Dr. Cullen corrects, “Most of the school seems to be in the waiting room.” Bella groans and slides back down from her sitting position into a hunched laying with her hands over her eyes. The Doctor raises an eyebrow at her reaction, “Do you want to stay?” He asks perplexed.

“No, no!” Bella assures, throwing her legs over the side of the bed and hopping down swiftly. Too swiftly, if fact, as her momentum nearly has her topple over. Dr. Cullen catches her easily, but he looks over her in silent concern. “I’m fine,” she insists.

“Take some Tylenol for the pain,” he advises as he steadies your flushed and unbalanced sister.

“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” She insists again.

“It sounds like you were very lucky,” Dr. Cullen says as he signs off on Bella’s chart. He walks over to you and smiles.

“Lucky Edward happened to be standing next to us,” Bella clarifies. Her gaze reverts back to Edward for a moment.

“Oh, yes,” The Doctor agrees almost absentmindedly as he picks up your chart from the edge of your bed and looks through the papers. “Let’s take a look at that wrist now, shall we?” He smiles and you extend your arm out. You try not to flinch when his cold hands come in contact with your skin, but you can’t help but grimace. “Does that hurt at all?” he asks. You shrug.

“A little. I’ve had worse, though I’m sure it’ll be a nasty bruise later,” you say. Dr. Cullen chuckles and looks over to your x-rays. You can see Bella and Edward moving behind him, walking to the far corner of the long room. Edward looks annoyed, if not aggressive.

“It seems so. Your x-rays look clean, though it does appear you’ve broken your wrist before?” You snap back to your current situation and laugh at the doctor’s observation.

“Yeah. I fell out of a few trees when I was little. And down the stairs… and off bikes.” He chuckles again at your explanations. Did you sound as nervous as you felt?

“Ah, so it seems both of the Swan girls are magnets for accidents, hm?” You shrug with an awkward smile. Dr. Cullen looks over your head, pressing his cold fingers gently against your scalp as he searched for any bumps. As he works, you see Edward walking away from your sister, who seems frozen in place. Whatever they were talking about didn’t go very well.

“Eh. Mostly me trying to keep Bella out of said accidents, but yeah.” He stands back upright and gives you another charming but unsettling smile.

“Well then, it seems you’re good to go! As with your sister, take some Tylenol for the pain, and come back it if you feel any sharp pain in your wrist, or have any visual impairments or dizziness.” You nod at his advice as he reaches down to sign off on your chart.

“Alright, thanks Doctor, have a good day,” You swing your legs off the bed, much more efficiently and with better balance than Bella had, and stand up. The doctor waves you off and you walk over to your sister. “Hey, Bells?” You put a hand on Bella’s shoulder and she nearly jumps as she snaps her head to look at you. You can see her face is flushed and her eyes are glossy.

Unlike most people, Bella almost never cried when she was sad. Weirdly enough, this was one of many qualities you had accidentally picked up growing up with Bella. She only ever ired when extremely upset to the point of breaking down, or when he was angry. You only half shared that part, since you almost never cried when genuinely angry.

“Hey, let’s go home, alright?” Bella nods stiffly, shoving her hands in her pockets, and shuffles with you towards the door. You have one of your arms around her back as you walk, partly to support her both balance-wise and emotionally, and partly to gently hurry her along.

Once you made it to the waiting room, Bella nearly cringed herself out of existence. It looked like the entire school was packing into the little reception area, including some people you didn’t fully recognize. Charlie quickly rushes up to your sides and Bella puts up her hands in mock surrender.

“There’s nothing wrong with us,” she grumbles tiredly. She was obviously is a sour mood and was itching to just get home.

“What did the doctor say?” Charlie presses anxiously. It wasn’t much like your father to be so… fatherly? Then again, you didn’t have much of a basis to judge that on. Renne had never been one to really “parent” you or Bella. Maybe all parents were like this.

“Dr. Cullen saw us, Dad. He said we’re good to go home,” you assure him. Bella squeezes closer to your side as students start getting closer.

“Let’s go,” Bella urges. Charlie swiftly ushers both of you out of the hospital walls and into the cruiser. For the first time ever, Bella seems relieved to be in the police car. You wave at your friends in the crowd quickly spilling out of the hospital’s doors as Charlie pulls the vehicle out and onto the road.

The drive home was silent as it ever was. Charlie had kept the radio off as he drove like he usually did, so that left you to put in your earbuds and listen to music as you drove the short way home.

As Charlie pulls into the driveway, he clears his throat.

“Um… you’ll need to call Renee,” he says, hanging his head in guilt, trying to avoid your sister’s gaze.

“You told mom?!” Bella practically wails. Charlie mumbles out a quiet apology before getting out. You and Bella get out of the cruiser, and she slams the car door, making you wince.

Bella heads upstairs when you get into the house, and you just drop off your backpack into your chair at the table before going to the telephone. First things first, you needed to call Renee.

You call twice and she picks up the second time.

“Hey Mom,” you greet gently.

“Oh, sweetheart! Are you okay? Where’s Bella, is she alright? Please tell me you girls are alright!” Renne frets.

“Yeah Mom, we’re alright. Hold on,” You lean the receiver into your chest as you call up the stairs, “Hey Bells! I got Mom on the phone, come talk to her!” Bella shuffles down the stairs, changed into her comfy sweatpants and a large sweatshirt. She grabs the phone and talks to your mother, assuring a panicked Renee that you both were in fact fine and well.

“Oh, I can’t believe something like this could happen, my poor girls!” She wails. It took nearly 20 minutes to calm your mother, including her talking to Charlie and making triple sure her daughters were alright. Once that was over though and you said your farewells, the day was relatively calm. Charlie popped into your room every once in a while to make sure you were alive and even helped you make lunch.

Dinner was the quiet meal you had come to expect and was over quickly. Bella bid you and Charlie a good night right after dinner and presumably went to sleep.

You hung out with Charlie in the living room as he watches a random sports show while you say on the ground, using the coffee table to hold your sketchbook as you doodled and sketched.

It was about 8 o’clock when you decided to pack up your things back up and go to sleep. You hugged your dad goodnight, went upstairs to grab some Tylenol, and settled into bed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*—~—~—~—~—~—~— *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A/n: Hey guys! I’m so sorry this is posted so much later than I had promised. I had an unforeseen grocery shopping trip last night (after realizing we had no food in the house) and went to bed very late as a result (making dinner took forever) and had some school things I had to attend outside of the usual online classes after school today. Please don’t be mad at me (; ^ ;) I’m doing my best!

Tags: @twilight-loveer @rushiruby

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bldreamer · 3 years

Text

Can’t Fight This Feeling | FORTHBEAM

2moons2 : ForthBeam

Summary: Forth stumbles into Beam’s cafe at four in the morning and it’s love at first sight despite his swollen black eyes. OR, the MMA Fighter meets Barista meet cute no one asked for. Genre: Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Stupid banter. Coffee Shop AU / MMA Fighter AU. Warnings: Tiny bit of swearing. Mentions of injuries. Author has NO idea what MMA fighting entails.

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for months. I fully intended on making this a multi chapter fic but then I remembered I can’t write long stories to save my life so here we are instead. I sincerely apologise for the title.

It’s 4:47 in the morning and Forth is walking aimlessly through the empty streets of Bangkok, expertly avoiding his own reflection in any store window he passes.

His adrenalin will soon bottom out, the fog of numbness will fade and he’ll feel every inch of his bruised and abused body. The cracked ribs, his busted lips and his battered eye socket that has doubled in size will all throb like a mother fucker come morning.

Until then, Forth is happy to entertain his ignorance. Anything to keep himself from having to face the reality nipping at his heels.

He’s been walking for over an hour, vaguely wandering in the direction of his apartment building with no real desire to actually go home. It’s not like there’s anything waiting for him besides musty bed sheets and his neighbours screaming cat out on the balcony.

With a sigh, Forth shoves his hands into his pockets when a flash of neon pink catches the corner of his eye from the opposite side of the street. He cranes his neck, squinting to make out the artsy sign in fluorescent fuchsia hanging above a brightly lit cafe. He imagines the warm scent of coffee under his nose if it wasn’t blocked with his own dried blood. His stomach grumbles in response regardless, reminding him he hasn’t eaten since lunch.

Curiously, Forth crosses the road and peers inside the hipster coffee shop. It takes a moment for his swollen eyes to adjust to the light.

The only person he can see through the glass front is a male barrister sat down behind the counter. Young, tanned skin, broad shoulders. He has a thick fringe of dark hair and he’s wearing a white sweater with a bright pink apron over the top that’s only marginally less offensive than the sign outside.

Caffeine is probably the worst idea Forth could have right now but he’s never been one to make smart choices so pushes open the door and heads inside towards the register. He looks up through his own messy fringe at the boy behind the counter, slowly looking up from his textbook.

“Hey, what can I get fo-”

The boy jumps to his feet with a gasp, eyes blown wide like a startled cartoon.

“Shit,” he murmurs without blinking.

“Did you forget to turn the stove off or am I just that good looking?” Forth chirps, voice gruff from disuse over the last hour or so.

“A-are you okay?”

Forth nods, clearing his throat. “Can I get an Americano?”

“Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance?” the boy responds.

He’s about the same height as Forth. Thick eyebrows, dark eyes, golden skin. His cheeks are round and soft, there’s a faint hint of stubble on his chin and his lips are plump and rosey pink. The shade much kinder on the eye than his clashing neon apron.

“Just the coffee, thanks.”

The boy swallows. “Were you mugged? Should I call the police or something?”

Forth pulls out his wallet and waves it. “Nope. Wasn't mugged. How much for the drink?”

“200฿,” the barista replies robotically. Eyes darting over the bruises and lingering when Forth runs his other hand over his lip that’s bleeding again. “Are you...sure you’re okay?”

“Just another day at the office.”

That doesn’t help to ease the boys' nerves. He seems more than a little flustered, his cheeks are starting to match the rose of his lips. It’s cute.

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional,” Forth assures.

“You’re a professional punching bag?”

Cute, check. Funny, also check.

“Some days, it depends how much my boss pays me.”

The boy looks stricken and Forth chuckles.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I’d never throw a fight, it’s illegal and I’d lose my license.”

“You’re a fighter?”

“MMA,” Forth replies proudly. “Are you a fan?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. I know I’d remember seeing you in the crowd.” Typically Forth would throw in a wink for good measure but something tells him its a terrible eye given the state of his face. Maybe next time.

“Staying in or taking out?” the barista asks with a frown.

“Sorry?”

“Your coffee, in or out?”

Forth shrugs. “In, I guess. If it's not too much trouble.”

“It’ll be a few minutes until the coffee machine starts up.”

It’s not clear whether the barista is being informative or he’s just trying to put Forth off to make him leave instead.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he says in any case and hands over the appropriate money.

“You should take a seat,” the boy offers, and Forth takes the opportunity to read his wonky name tag. Beam, it reads. It suits him.

“Thanks.”

Forth turns over his shoulder, looking around the bakery and taking in the decor. The mint green walls, the white marble tables, gold chairs and accents of bright pink. It’s all so jarring it’s only adding to his headache. He truges over to the closest table, sitting down gingerly with a hand over his sore ribs.

“Any cakes or pastries?”

Forth puts his feet up on the chair opposite. “What do you reccomend?” He isn’t much of a sweet tooth but why not while he’s here. He picks up one of the pink napkins and dabs his lip, wincing.

The cute barista tuts, flicking and clicking some things on the coffee machine.

“An ice pack and a check for concussion?” he answers with not a hint of irony.

“I’d prefer something with cinnamon.”

Forth closes his hand around the used napkin and sinks back in the chair. His left over adrenalin is starting to go stale and exhaustion is tugging at his weary bones. It won’t be long before the real pain rears its ugly head. He closes his eyes against the offensive decor of the bakery and lets out a slow breath.

The clink and clunk of the cute boy moving about behind the counter is almost enough background noise to block out the buzzing starting up in his left ear. He really should get that looked at one of these days before he goes deaf completely.

“Don’t they have medics where you work?” the barista asks behind his station.

“Sure,” Forth grunts. “But they’re sadists.” The three inch scar from the shoddy stitches he received on his forehead after one of his very first fights is proof enough.

He doesn’t know how much time passes but he must have drifted off for a few minutes because the next thing he knows is startling at the clink of something dropping on the table. He blinks away the fog and sits up to see the barista putting his steaming mug of coffee down next to a bowl of-

“I don’t remember ordering an ice bath,” Forth quips at the boy staring down at him.

“It’s a new deal we’re offering to customers who look like they lost a round with a wrecking ball.”

“Now you’re starting to hurt my feelings.” He takes his feet down from the chair. “Seriously, you should see the other guy.”

The barista frowns. “You’re telling me you’re the winner?”

The surprise in his tone does genuinely hurt Forth’s pride. He does his best to pretend otherwise.

“I’m the undefeated champion,” he boasts with a wink.

The barista doesn’t respond. Just blinks, eyes darting to Forth’s hand which is as cracked and bruised as his face.

“I’ll get you a cloth for the ice,” he mutters eventually, disappearing back behind the counter.

Forth wraps his sore fingers around his steaming mug and blows over the top, sipping gingerly so as not to burn his tongue.

The cute guy -Beam, Forth reminds himself- comes back and picks up a handful of ice from the bowl onto the cloth he brought over.

“Ah, shit,” Forth hisses, not expecting it to be pressed onto his battered face without warning and he almost spills his coffee. “That hurts.”

Beam rolls his eyes. “Now you’re complaining it hurts?” he asks without sympathy.

“Warn a guy,” Forth whines into his mug. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Relax, I’m a medical student.”

“You work at an all night cafe,” Forth comments after another sip, poking the inside of his mouth with his tongue as the string of bitter coffee hits his cut.

“Need to pay the tuition fees somehow.”

“Aren't you full of surprises?” Forth hums. “Cute, funny, makes decent coffee, and a doctor. I think I hit the jackpot.”

“Medical student,” the barista says slowly. “Not a doctor.”

Despite his blunt words, the ice presses more gently onto Forth’s throbbing cheek and he breaths out carefully, eye twitching from the cold seeping into his tender bruises.

His mind wanders as he sits silent and docile with his drink. He thinks about the weight inside his jacket, the thick rolls of cash hidden discreetly in his chest pocket. Tonight wasn’t the best he’s ever performed, and his wage is a reflection of that. But it's not a bad days pay for the meager hours he puts in. It’s not exactly the most honest way of earning a living but it's what he’s good at. He’s not built to be a doctor or lawyer or even a coffee boy.

He doesn’t know how long the cute barista stands over him, holding the ice to his face while he drinks from his cup. It’s odd and neither of them says anything, the only sounds coming from the grinding coffee machine.

The barista is the first to break the silence.

“How old are you?” Beam mutters.

“Twenty one. You?”

“Twenty.”

Forth suppresses a grin. “That means you’re my Nong,” he says cheerfully.

“I’m not calling you Phi.”

“Suit yourself, Nong Doc.” Forth’s breath hitches when the ice is pressed a little too firm into his cheek. “I’m Forth, by the way,” he mentions, voice a little tight.

“Beam,” comes the curt response.

“Because of your charming smile?”

The boy could cut glass with the look he gives Forth and a split second, he’s more intimidated than he was in the ring.

“I can kick you out,” the barista warns.

“Don’t they make doctors sign an oath to protect and serve all?”

“Protect and serve is the police,” Beam chirps. “Doctors swear to do no harm. And I’m not a doctor yet, like I keep saying.”

“Even so, I trust you.” It’s the most honest thing to come out of Forth’s mouth all night and it takes them both by surprise.

Their eyes meet and for a moment, Forth feels stuck, like the world hits pause. Not in a bad way. But so he can take in every golden fleck in the barista’s chocolate eyes staring back at him and count every freckle dotted over his nose. The boy isn’t just cute, he’s beautiful.

“So,” Forth clears his throat when things flood back to the present. “What’s your diagnosis, doc?” He hadn’t noticed he’d been white knuckling his coffee cup or that’s empty.

Beam purses his lips and pulls the ice away, narrowing his brow. “You’re probably lucky not to have a zygomatic fracture.”

“Cool.”

The barista looks doubtful he knows what that means. Forth doesn’t mention the fact that he gets hit in the face for a living, of course he knows what it means. And yes he knows he’s lucky to not need x-rays.

“Should I come see you in a week if the swelling doesn’t improve?”

“You’re embarrassing yourself, now.”

Forth licks his lips, the taste of copper on his tongue. His cut has opened again.

“Is Forth your actual name or your fighter name?”

“I can’t tell you my fighter name. I’m afraid you’ll want to come and watch me. And then how would I concentrate if I had such a pretty boy standing in the crowd cheering for me?”

“Who says I'll be cheering for you?”

Forth chuckles. It’s small and chesty but it's genuine and it feels right. “Ow,” he whines. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Something tells me it serves you right.”

“Probably. I have a history of making bad decisions,” Forth admits. “Karma and all.”

Beam shrugs. “I don’t believe in karma.”

“So you’re a make your own luck kind of guy?”

“Isn’t luck just karma backwards?”

If Forth’s head didn’t already ache. “Are you a philosophy student too?”

“Like I have the time.”

“That’s a shame. I was going to ask you out on a date.”

Beam shakes his head and mutters something inaudible under his breath. No matter, Forth is nothing if not persistent.

“Do you want a refill? I never got you that cinnamon roll.”

Forth looks inside the cup, he’s not sure why exactly. What he expects to find there. Maybe it's like when you look inside the can after you take a dump. Everyone does it, but no one knows why.

“I better not. I’ll never sleep as it is.”

Beam shrugs and drops the melting ice into the bowl. “I gave you decaf,” he mentions as he stands and leaves the table.

“Damn. I fucking trusted you, doc.” Forth feels a little violated.

He watches Beam slip back behind the counter. Forth had never taken into account how hot the whole hipster barista thing was before now.

“You’ll thank me later.”

Forth grins.

“Can I thank you over dinner?” See, persistent.

Beam lets a long exasperated sigh.

“Between classes, exams, and working to cover my ever increasing student debt, I’ll be free for dinner seventy years next Saturday.”

Forth shrugs, suppressing another wince. “I can wait,” he says. “I’m a pretty patient guy.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Can I at least get your number?”

Beam looks suspicious.

“You know, in case I need any follow up medical advice,” Forth explains.

“Ice your face in intervals. Always read the recommended dose on painkillers. Seek medical attention if you throw up or you have a persistent headache.”

“I should also mention I’m forgetful, doc.”

“I’ll write it down.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to write down your cell?”

“Do you also not know how to take no for an answer?”

Forth smirks. “Except you haven’t said no.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“Saying what?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

Beam glares. “You’re insufferable.”

“Or adorable?”

Forth chews on the inside of his torn cheek, waiting with bated breath as the cogs of consideration tick behind the baristas eyes.

“If I give you my number, will you leave so I can actually start work?” Beam says.

Forth grins.

“Fighters honor, doc.”

Another cup of decaf later -to go this time- Forth pockets the napkin, dotted with his own blood and scribbled with black ink he hopes is Beam’s real number.

“I’ll call you.”

“Can’t wait,” Beam grumbles.

~Fin.

#forthbeam #forth x beam #2moons2 #2moons #beamforth #beam x forth #2moons fanfiction #coffee shop au #mma fighter au #my writing

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a-spectacle-in-the-morning · 4 years

Text

“Macallan Isn’t Cheap, You Know” -- Rafael Barba

Notes: I wanted to give writing for Rafael another go. He makes me so nervous though, man. Fingers crossed with this one.

Kind of Summary: You’re a detective with the SVU that gets a little too drunk and winds up at Barba’s place. Sarcasm and sweetness ensue. ALSO there’s some very brief mentions of sexual assault and murder below that goes along with a case, so just be cautious if that kind of stuff makes you uncomfortable.

Tomorrow you will probably wake with bruised knuckles, but tonight it seems worth it. That’s what your drunk brain keeps telling you. It’ll be worth it. It’ll be worth it. Don’t worry. This is a good idea. Ow.

You’ve been knocking on his door for at least several seconds. It’s only two in the morning; there’s no way he’s asleep. You hear the lock click and brace for impact.

“What are you doing here... and how did you get through the front door?”

Fair enough.

“I have a badge and I’m very convincing. And I need to talk to you,” you can’t seem to stop your mouth. “You own pajamas?”

Barba just stands in his doorframe looking at you. “Of course I own pajamas. Did you think I slept in dress pants?”

You look down to the floor as you ponder your own question. “I guess?”

When you look back up to Barba’s face you see a glint of laughter flash in his eyes. “So, back to my earlier question- what are you doing here?” And when you can’t form a rational answer he continues, “Are you okay?”

You reach over to his doorframe and run your fingers down the wood. “Can I come in?”

He sighs, but steps back holding the door open for you.

As you step inside your remaining functioning senses are overwhelmed. The living room is wide and minimalist. There’s a coffee table, a grey loveseat, and a wide window that opens the space up to the lights of the city. It all smells of dark roast coffee and oak. It’s beautiful and very, very Barba.

“Of course your apartment looks like this.” You can feel his gaze on your back as you slowly make your way across the wood floors.

“I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.”

You start to meander in circles.

“How did you get my address, by the way?” You can tell Barba is trying to piece together what you’re doing at his place without bringing up the fact that you’re clearly inebriated. It’s kind of sweet. You turn to face him, a solid five feet between you two, and catch him taking a sip of coffee from a mug you didn’t notice him holding earlier. You aren’t surprised at all to discover he’d be brewing it so late.

“I asked Liv and she gave it to me right away. She must reeaallllyyyy want you to get laid.”

Barba chokes on his mouthful of coffee as you finish the last word . He sets his cup on the nearest surface and rubs a hand at his chest. “Is that so?” he croaks.

“Mhm.” You do a full 180 turn, extending your arms. The little semi-sober part of your brain begs you to stop. You’re in Barba’s apartment. He’s being kind and you’re acting like an idiot. But also, you feel like a helicopter.

When you stop you say, “Sorry. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“That’s good because that’s not going to happen tonight.”

You tilt your head and smile, pointing a finger at him. “Not tonight, huh? Maybe some other night, though?”

“Sit down. I’m going to get you some water.”

You follow his command and flop onto his expensive looking couch saying, “Yes sir.”

Barba stops in his path to the kitchen, shakes his head, and you’re pretty sure you catch him muttering something expletive as he starts moving again.

The lights out the window to your left are fuzzy and breathtaking. You pull your legs up and wrap your arms around them, still looking out to the city.

“Here.” Barba gently places his left hand on your shoulder and offers you the glass of water with his right.

You accept it with a quiet thank you. The couch is big enough that you can squish up into one corner as Barba sits on the other end without touching. An unknowable amount of time passes as you sit sipping your water. You fall in love with the cool feeling of it on your tongue and you fall in love with Barba and the way he patiently watches you. Then you fall out of love again. By the time the glass is empty your feelings for him are somewhere in the middle, and you know you’ll have to process that in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” you say as you set your glass on the coffee table. “Sorry for just barging in. It was unprofessional.”

You can’t make out his expression as the lights behind his head surround him in a dull sort of halo.

“Good thing we aren’t at work then,” he offers.

You untuck your legs and let them fall off of the couch. Best to be sitting like an adult for a serious conversation.

“I uh,” you try to choose the right words, but they keep slipping around in your head, “I waited for you.”

Barba’s countenance is still unreadable in the darkness, but what you just said makes his face scrunch so much you can see the lines on his forehead from your side of the sofa. “Did I miss something? I don’t remember making any plans.”

“No, we didn’t- there weren’t plans. I just went to Forlini’s tonight and I waited for you to show up. I wanted that drink that you promised me a couple weeks ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to text you. I kept typing it up and deleting it.”

“As you ordered drinks anyways?”

“Yes, jackass, as I ordered drinks anyways. We both had another shitty day so I hoped that you would be there. I waited for an hour.”

“I’m sorry. Today’s shitty day left me with lots of paperwork. I wanted to finish it as soon as possible, which meant no drinks for me.”

“You owe me fifty bucks.”

“Fifty bucks?”

“Yeah. Macallan isn’t cheap, you know.”

Barba lets out a huff and stands, picking up your glass as he makes his way back to the kitchen. “I do know.”

When he returns, but stops to stand near you as you bounce your feet, you ask, “Do you mind if I stay over? Couch of course. And I'll be gone before you wake up.”

The case you two just finished had involved a girl walking alone late at night. You were confident in your abilities to make it home, but sometimes things got to you anyways. With this case it was the image of the twenty-two year old girl thinking she could handle herself too, only to get raped and murdered on her way to a friend's house after dark.

“I can give you a ride home if you want,” Barba says, probably picking up on the source of your anxiety.

“Don’t want me to stay?”

“That’s not what I said. I want you to be comfortable. If that means a late night road trip, so be it.”

“Hm.” You stand to be equal with him. The tables have turned, and his face is now lit by the blues and yellows of the buildings behind you. You’re happy to think that he can’t see the tender and open look on your own. “I think I’ll be okay here, but thanks for the offer. You’re a real sweetheart under all that ego.”

“Alright, that’s it. Bed time.”

You laugh and instinctively follow him as he leads you further into his apartment. By the time you realize where he’s taking you he’s already flipped the lights to his bedroom on and started folding the covers down.

“I’m perfectly happy on the couch. Promise. Please don’t make me feel like even more of an asshole by taking your stupidly large and soft looking bed from you.”

He walks back to where you’re stuck by the entryway and stops in front of you. “I’m not going to get any sleep tonight anyways. One of us should get to enjoy it.”

“Not planning on joining me, Counselor?”

Oh my God. I’m never drinking again, you think.

But Barba just rolls his eyes and moves to return to his office. You catch his hand as he steps past you. Before he can say anything you press a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks.”

You can’t read the look on his face and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the booze or the fact that five thousand emotions seem to be racing behind his eyes. You shrug and make your way over to his bed, flipping and falling into it so you’re laying on your back.

He switches the light off with the smallest “goodnight” you’ve ever heard.

“Goodnight Rafael.”

And you swear as you slip off to sleep that you see Barba fail to hold back a smile as he shuts the door.

Yes, this is another attempt at a follow up for this. I wasn’t happy with how my other follow up turned out and I wanted to give it another go. I feel like this fits the vibe of “Woeful Wins” a bit better. At this point I also feel like I have to admit that I actually hate whiskey. I really do. Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn and not in the nice, warming way I wrote about in the first part.

The things we do for Barba…

Would you guys be interested in some semi-smut in the near future? I think I might try to do something a little smutty the next time I write Barba. Not full-on smut, but perhaps smut adjacent.

Sorry for this excessively long note after the fic. As always, massive thank yous to those of you that read my stuff. Every single like, comment, and reblog fills my little pessimistic heart with love. See y’all soon.

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba x you #rafael barba imagine #rafael barba fanfiction #rafael barba fanfic #law and order: svu #Law and Order: Special Victims Unit #law and order: svu imagine #law and order: special victims unit imagine #fanfiction #fanfic #rafael barba

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wajjs · 4 years

Note

Jason is hurt or have a panick attack and one of his brother, or all the brother, or bruce, or slade, is here to help him, hurt/comfort and fluff please!

This one is weak on the fluff front mostly because fluff refused to cooperate with me, sorry! (I also didn't have the time to proofread this one 😔)

Prodigal Son

It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one.

From where he stands, he stifles a laugh because he's sure as hell no one is gonna make it in time. And that's the thing with him, that's the truth to his story: he's always been a bastard to the clock ticking away the minutes, the seconds, till it's time to go boom. Still following the branches of truth, he's not standing. He couldn't be so even if he were to try, not with an exposed fracture in the shin and a knife stuck deep inside his thigh.

He doesn't even move, not an inch or centimeter, in the chair he's been dumped on. His skin around the coarse ropes is raw and bleeding, too. That's because of his earlier trashing. He doesn't have the energy anymore. Because there are more open wounds littered all over his torso, bruises on his face, split lip all swollen and tender. His energy is going to keeping his breathing steady. To staying awake.

What for, though? Why is he staying conscious? No one's coming. He knows. He damn well knows.

Maybe it's just so that he can walk through death's door with both eyes wide open. Not that anyone will notice, because as stripped down as he might be, left only in his underwear and socks, at least they didn't take off the mask. The only true mercy.

There, right there: the sound expensive shoes make when their owner walks on concrete floors - getting closer again. He lifts his head towards the source, smiling, because the only way he'll ever stop taunting someone is when he's six feet under, mouthful of maggots choking him down.

"Miss me already? Can't have enough of me, huh?"

When they shatter his clavicle, this time he does black out.

A body can only withhold so much damage when delivered in different visits throughout several hours that by the tail end of the ordeal begin drifting onto one big mass of existence. He can even hold his head up anymore and his eyes are barely open behind the mask. There's a sound of an agitated rattle snake inside his chest every time he breathes. He can taste his blood, thick and warm, in his mouth, on his tongue.

He isn't even sure why he's here, how he got here, when, where, what is left or right or in front or behind. If he's still sitting it's impossible for him to tell. He's stopped feeling the rope some stabs ago. He thinks he's smiling. He thinks he never stopped.

"Stubborn asshole," someone says in between the sea of buzzing silence taking over thought.

" — now? What now?"

He tries to focus. He honestly tries.

"Let's leave — couple of hours — he'll croak."

So much for trying.

At least he stops hearing that buzzing, nonstop, piercing and looming all over. At least he gets to rest. A little bit. Just a little bit. No harm in closing his eyes, sleeping a little. Letting himself fall into that lull, the one that comes after one too many aches piled up one atop the other. The one that tells him come on son, let go, it will all be easier if you let go. You held up well, more than the very best of the best, you fought your fight. Come on, son. It'll all be over.

No one's coming, that lull says. No one's coming but that's alright, isn't it? You've learnt to pick up after yourself. You haven't mastered the science of putting a stop to the waiting, that's true, but everyone has their shortcomings.

He tries to curl the fingers of his hand, any of the two. He doesn't think he quite manages to. Ah, that will make crawling trickier. If he can even make it to the floor.

It's unclear when he passes out again but this time, when he comes to, is to shouts drowning out other shouts, gunfire blasting off and disrupting the rhythm of the thick, nearly impenetrable molasses existence has come to be. He tries to open his mouth to complain, ask them to stop with their bitching already, but only a trickle of blood comes out, spilling down his chin sinuous and slow.

Someone lets out a whistle near him and the sound is somewhat familiar. He latches onto it for good, struggles against the lightless nothingness threatening to take over the still working part of his brain. He's staying awake this time even if that's the final thing to push him over.

"They really did a number on you, kid," that someone says and ok, yes, he knows that voice. Knows that tone. One that carries ease and danger all in a neat package, precise and deadly. There's an undercurrent there, though, of something else but he's too out of it to realize what.

What's important is that he recognizes the voice. And so he struggles with sound again.

" —troke."

The bastard laughs. It's short, clipped, and maybe, perhaps, a little bit, probably, pissed off. What did he do now? It's not his fault his jaw is probably fractured. Wait. Maybe it is. He did taunt them.

"Good enough," Deathstroke speaks again, presumably before or while untying him, he can't tell. There's probably more that's being said but he can hardly stay focused. A pinch and he's — gone.

By the time he opens his eyes again, life seems new and the same old bitch at the same time. New because his surroundings are definitely different and absolutely, one hundred percent, cleaner. He's also lying down now in a bed that's too comfortable to be true, or maybe it just feels that way because he is redefining the meaning of the word 'tired'. Making a whole new entry for it in every fucking dictionary in the world with the description of 'being dead hurts way fucking less'.

It doesn't matter. Before he can even do something like groan out in mild discomfort, there's a face right above his, dark hair and vivid blue eyes the depth of the ocean.

"You're awake," none other than Dick motherfucking Grayson says, voice tangled up in worry. "Jay, thank gods you're awake."

"You better don't speak, kid," Slade says from somewhere he can't see, his usual rumble something that in this situation actually soothes, which is a fucking rarity. "Not with your jaw like that."

Dick carries on like this is just a regular monday, like sure, yes, there's nothing odd about being in what Jason's pretty sure is one of Slade's safehouses wounded under the care of said asshole and Grayson, an utter dick by trade. Maybe this is the updated torture hell has designed for him, for this second time around on the wheelhouse of brimstone and flames, and he's well and truly dead.

He's pretty sure he isn't, though.

It's… strange. He had truly believed no one would get him, because, well, he had told no one where he was going, what he was doing. He had jumped guns first into the chance at dismantling the human trafficking group without ever considering asking for backup.

Kudos to me, Jason thinks and hums as he watches Dick turn around and start digging for fresh bandages inside a first aid box. I still got rid of most of the operation.

Following his own rules, too.

None of those bastards were ever going to lay hands on another human again.

After that, it's easy for him to adapt and accommodate to this new strange situation. To Dick just being there, like he's never been before, replacing ice packs, helping him to the bathroom. It's a miracle neither he nor Slade have taken his forced silence in their favor to yell about the many mistakes he made that led to his capture.

He knows Dick is probably waiting for him to be able to reply to the question of what the fuck were you thinking so he can weaponize the words and throw them right back at Jason in a twist worthy of an acrobat.

Jason finds that he doesn't care too much about that.

#blob writes #jason todd #slade wilson #dick grayson #blob's prompt party #i was going places with this one and then inspiration left so you have this first try at a bigger story

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