#its just translated so well?? and made the go even better??? if you hear strains of it down our soulmate line im sorry but am I really? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

levihantrash · 3 years

Note

Hi! Got a prompt for you if you're interested (feel free to write a drabble, a one-shot, or a multi-chap): Levihan, "One more chance." Open to interpretation. Thanks, and good luck! :)

okay so i decided to combine this prompt together with my headcanon for that levihan ring merch for a canon setting one-shot!

One More Chance

"What do you think of rings?" Hange asks Levi out of the blue, in the little room that could suffice as an office for his unofficial position as second in command.

"Why?" Levi knows that Hauge doesn't ask questions out of the blue without motives.

They could be random, absurd, silly, but there was always a reason behind their questions.

Hange plants one elbow on the table, bent forward in anticipation for Levi's answer. His eyes catch the glint of Hange's bolo tie as it swung back and forth.

Jewellery? Vanity aside, Hange knows better than Levi how expensive it is to obtain warm clothing and food, much less a bunch of shiny rocks. They spent days mulling over the Survey Corps’ budget, where to allocate resources, how to seek funding, and to keep expenses humane but tight.

“Why?” He repeats, unsure as to whether to sneak in a crass joke as Hange’s eyes were shining—in a different tone compared to the bright-eyedness that showed whenever they made a new discovery. It was, what was it? Nostalgia? Levi is certain that Hange had never, of ten years being by their side, even hinted at a desire for a ring, for whatever reason they might yearn for the object.

Hange knows Levi is perturbed—suspicious, even. They know that such an ambiguously-worded question, simple as it was, will not warrant a straightforward answer from Levi. He is far too observant to not think of Hange’s line of questioning as uncharacteristic from the usual. The usual Hange will elaborate; they will give details. Perhaps this is a ring made from a special sort of metal to go undetected from metal sensors to sneak past the enemy and pass on valuable information etched in code on the inside, for example. Whatever reason that prompted Hange to take a sudden interest in rings wasn’t for battle, or for moral good, which frankly, is more embarrassing for them.

“Do you keep those patches with you?” Hange changes the topic. Levi blinks, then turns to the drawer and pulls the handle. The open drawer speaks for itself; filled with rows and rows of haphazardly torn patches of the Survey Corp’s uniform, the emblem of the wings of freedom.

“You keep it here, huh…” Hange muses, touching one patch tenderly, feeling the crusted blood stain at the tip of their finger.

“Do you remember who each patch belongs to?”

Levi shakes his head, not defending the lack of differentiation between the patches. To him, each patch is louder than a name attached to it. A fellow soldier whose heart he carried on within him.

“If I die, Levi, will you bring back my patch?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Levi is quick to retort, sounding mildly irritated that Hange brought up the possibility of death.

“We all die someday.”

“We should think about how to stay alive,” Levi says firmly. “And what does any of this have to do with rings?”

Hange laughs, patting Levi on the shoulder affectionately. “You won’t let that go, huh?”

“It seems important,” Levi says, disgruntled. “You’re not usually so hesitant.”

“It’s not.” Hange waves their hands defensively, straightening up to avoid Levi’s gaze.

“What’s that in your pocket? Your hand keeps touching it.” Levi is sharp as ever, Hange thinks, itching to back out and tend to more important commander duties.

“Maybe next time! I have to go!” Hange brisk-walks out of the office, leaving Levi in the dust. He has the immediate urge to follow them, to grab their arm and ask what’s wrong, to force some kind of coherent understanding to this muddled conversation. Yet, he continues sitting on the chair, wondering if their mutual awkwardness had swept past them in the form of a lost opportunity. The patches flutter a little in the wind, as though asking him, what are you so afraid of?

He closes the drawer and sinks back onto the creaky, wooden chair, waiting for Hange to come back.

The next time he sees them again is when he’s so battered that his back trembles at the prospect of sitting on another hard surface. The series of negotiations, arguments, plans, fly past him in a whirlwind of decisions led by Hange. He occasionally spots the bulge in their side pocket, but his head is spinning with a million of other more dire worries to figure out what the hell is this unresolved mystery from months ago.

One night, as Hange tends to the bandages around his head, traces the stiches on his face, and mumbles quiet nothings about how they’re glad he’s alive, he finally lifts a shaky hand to point at the bulging pocket.

“Are you going to tell me what’s in that?”

“Nothing that will help us stop this mess,” Hange says, sweeping some of the fringe off his forehead to wipe the sweat underneath.

“But it’s important to you,” he states. Hange nods slowly.

“And you want to show it to me.” He tries, unaccustomed to the presumptuousness of his claim. But there is little time. If there was ever time before, now they were running on thin, cracked lines of time, teetering over the edge.

Hange sighs, and stuffs a reluctant hand into their pocket to bring out a small box.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t use the Scouts’ funds.”

“The Survey Corps doesn’t exist anymore,” Levi reminds them, to distract his mind from speculating endlessly about what’s in the box. He wants to sit up. Physically straining himself feels unwise, so he settles with tilting his head to get a clearer view of both Hange and the box.

Hange carefully holds his shoulders to sit him up, leaning him against them.

“I got rings for us.”

“Huh?”

The box is opened, and inside were two shining rings in silver and gold. Purple embellishment on the gold and green on silver. Not to mention it was heart-shaped rings. Levi feels his cheeks getting warmer by the second by its blatant implications, and is thankful that the bandages literally covered half his face.

“I know, I told them not to make it heart-shaped but you know when Reeves knew it was for you he said I had to make it obvious, whatever that meant,” Hange says quickly, snapping the box shut so as to save themselves from having to confront what was glaring at them.

“It’s not practical for fighting,” Levi murmurs, reaching out to take the box from Hange.

“Dedicate your hearts… wasn’t that what Erwin said?” Hange, always the one to inject light humour in tense situations, decides it will be alright to quote Erwin’s war cry in what is essentially a confession.

“Right.” Levi opens the box, looking expectantly at Hange.

“What?”

“Rings are for wearing, right?”

“You said they weren’t practical!”

“We’re not fighting now.”

Running their hands through their hair, Hange looks rather sheepish. “It’s a bit selfish but I just want to be remembered. As more than a patch.”

Levi frowns, bandages crinkling. “You think I’ll forget you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I won’t forget you. Ring or no ring.”

Upon hearing the seriousness of Levi’s voice, the light-heartedness returns to Hange, as they cheekily present the ring to them.

“Well then, will you dedicate your heart to me, shitty Captain?”

“Whatever, Four-eyes.” He says it as flippantly as he can, yet handles the ring like sudden movement will break it.

“Hah! I wonder what the kids will say about the rings…” Hange stretches out and lays beside Levi, admiring the ring on their hand amidst the backdrop of night stars. He takes their hand and weaves his fingers through it, placing their interlocked hands on his chest.

After the plane takes off, Levi’s eyes are trained on the floor. The plane rattles, swerves, and gains momentum. Everyone around him is emotional—rightly so, because their leader had said a fleeting goodbye before leaping to their death. He holds one hand in the other, feeling the cold metal on his finger. Rings don’t leave the smell of Hange’s skin when they lie their head on his shoulder after a long day. Rings don’t capture the sound of Hange’s laugh when they make friendly banter with their juniors, or when Levi makes the occasional, dry joke that only they pick up on. Rings don’t emulate the dialogue of their late-night discussions in his office, the tea that he makes and that they drink from the same cup—to save the time needed for washing, according to Hange. He doesn’t protest.

Still, the ring is all he has left. The one chance Hange had, they entrusted in him this ring. They could translate Levi’s words into more palpable versions for other people, but they could not for the life of them come up with words to express their more vulnerable feelings. For Hange, the ring was another chance to cement what remained unspoken: I hope you remember me. I’m here with you.

The last chance Levi had, he placed a fist on their heart.

“Dedicate your heart.” The ring flashes in the sunlight, making Hange blink back tears.

Now, he clutches one hand in the other.

“See you, Hange.” The ring stares back, patiently. He closes his eyes, bringing the thin, metal sentiment to his lips.

“Keep watching us.”

thank you for the prompt @djmarinizelablog !! ^_^

#aot #levihan #rings #levi ackerman #hange zoe #levi x hange #fanfiction #my writing #hanji zoe #shingeki no kyojin #prompt #how many times can i use these same three lines from chapter 132 #yes i admit merch has inspired my writing what can i say #tbh a heart shaped ring irl sounds hard to wear XD

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ephemerlskies · 4 years

Text

constant craving | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: drabble series, angst, unrequited love, idiot!jungkook, idiot!oc, basically everyone's an idiot

⇢ word count: 1.7k

⇢ warnings: unreciprocated pining, explicit language, themes of hopeless romanticism (!!), (slightly) unedited

⇢ summary: your best friend decided to confide in his best friend on how to win his girlfriend back after a fight. you tell him exactly what to say to her, however he is unaware that what you were saying was a sincere delivery of your once undeclared love.

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: hello my little loves!! this was definitely ;) not ;) an impulse write and release ;) ;) sorry for being so inactive lately. i've been focusing on myself (i know how cliche that sounds but it's true). anyway, enjoy this incredibly angsts fic i wrote at 2 am for absolutely no reason at all other than i'm an emotional sadist and a masochist. love u!!!! <3

part one: control

He was coming over for the third time this week. Third time. Three times is two more times than he'd gone over his girlfriend's house, but you did everything in your power to convince your inconvincible heart that it meant nothing. Friends see each other more than their girlfriends, right?

It was making a racket in your chest, that muscle that strained much harder for a man who had his pumping for the girl of his dreams.

But, he was coming over for the third time this week.

The first time he said this visit ranked, in his words, 'out of the question' on the degree of necessary that he come over and show you Star Wars. You played a good game of reluctance when asking if it was the entire series or just one movie, and in your head, you hoped to God it was the entire series. For him, you'd watch the series four times over if it meant you sat through this outrageously nerdy movie next to the even more outrageously nerdy love of your life.

The second time was particularly funny to you. He called while you were cooking dinner, almost as if he was in stride with you in a way that was an ounce too synchronized to be platonic, and asked if you were whipping up a delicious meal that he could mooch off of. Knowing he was a terrible cook, plus the fact that when he begged so politely you felt your posture unbind into to a puddle, you more than happily obliged.

This time, the circumstances made it harder to say yes, but not yet impossible. And it was a second or two before you heard that knock on the front door that had your once pounding heart come to a complete halt. It was still, waiting for you to make a decision.

Since it was Jungkook, of course, you'd say yes. And your heart would continue beating. Beating, as in sending sharp jabs that stained the inside of your chest with bruises. Beating, as in when the time came, the final blow of your constantly craving heart would devastate your entire being.

"Thank you so much, ___. God, I'm such an idiot." He walked in with all the confidence of someone who was a bit too familiar with your company. Jungkook's feet reintroducing themselves to your floors in the same manner as he would the night before, and the night before that, and the countless nights you kept secured in your collection of memories. As if he belonged there; as if he was coming home.

"An idiot with a great friend." That last word nearly withdrew the bile you had been ever so gracefully holding in.

"Yeah yeah." And he was comfortable with that same word, 'friend', that deepened your bruises into scars. He had absolutely no clue. Idiot. "I can't believe I broke up with her. I was so angry and acted on that instead of logic. Fuck, why would I do that to myself? I love her."

"Well, you never know. Maybe..." You hated yourself for not resisting the selfish temptation that was about to fall from your lips. The words you've been internally screaming to him to leave her and fall in love with you instead were diluted to something much more tame when your tongue formed them into sound.

"Maybe it was for the best. Maybe you guys are better off apart? To, um, grow or whatever."

"No." He said that with too much certainty and too little hesitance and just enough conviction to sink another wound in the organ exhausting itself in your chest. "She's the one. I know it"

"Jungkook."

He looked at you with all the earnestness of a man who carved his utmost and unchanging dedication to her. A look that any love-induced sap would kill for. A look he would never direct towards you.

Your eyes weren't under your control as of now. The glue that held them to his eyes, his lips, his hair, and every other part of him you dreamed of was more than a marathoned yearning. It was an adhesive twelve years in the making, not showing the slightest sign of wearing away.

"The way you love is something to die for..." And then he smiled at you, but still not for you.

You were utterly crushed.

"She'll take you back in a heartbeat. I mean, she has a brain, so of course, she will. Anyone would."

I would.

"I hope you're right." The couch was four feet wide at most, but there was an impressively vast space between you and the man who was sitting next to you. "Can you tell me what to say? You know I suck with words."

"Uh... Yeah. Of course. Anything."

If breaking hearts were a crime, then Jungkook would have much to atone for. You'd be convicted as a willing accomplice for holding on this long. Up until this point, you've let every small glance, every shy smile he sent your way, every eyebrow twitch conveying a meaning only you knew well enough to retrieve him from whatever awkward situation he needed rescuing from, every accidentally brush of his hand against yours, every purposeful embrace that lasted so long your tears stained his right shoulder string you into a knot of miserable, unrequited love.

And up until this point, you had hope he would choose you.

Each ring of his phone worked in tandem to reduce your undying devotion to Jungkook into a compressed seed of denial.

I don't love him. He's just my best friend.

Your pulse pronounced itself loudly in your ears, as a not-so-gentle reminder of how much you hated him for loving him. Somehow, your heart beat faster. Then again, anything was possible when it came to him. Anything except the miraculous event of him hanging up, declaring his love for you, and living in the land of happily ever after that only existed in your deluded imagination.

"Hey Irene! I'm so fucking glad you picked up."

He gave you that look. With the arched eyebrow, his widened doe eyes, and the slightly hung jaw, you read each feature better than words and nodded to signal you knew exactly what he needed.

"I'm sorry about what happened." You said, in a whisper, though the deflated volume of your words carried no implication of the unbridled sincerity sealed in them.

"I'm sorry about what happened." He repeated, laying down that same Irene-contrived smile on you that fostered a smile of your own, knowing fully it surfaced as a reflex from hearing her voice.

"It might be crazy to try this, because I don't know how you feel."

If the thing people say about your life flashing before your eyes during encounters with death, then you were sure your heart was about to consume its last pulse of blood. The scenes of you and Jungkook spending your Friday nights when you were a ripe city dweller in your shoebox apartment doing everything and nothing at all had convinced you that you were certainly about to go into cardiac arrest.

"It might be crazy to say this, because I don't know how you feel." Jungkook was so many things, however emotionally perceptive was not one of them.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you." Those words tasted sweet despite fermenting in a chamber of your heart you kept preserved since, as you said, the very moment you met him.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you."

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

He repeated your words, but dehydrated all of your sentiment from them. You were left with the remnants of the feelings, and none of the words from him you were so desperately starved of. He took them right from your throat, along with the very breath that seemed to keep returning because of Jungkook, molded them into his own, into a sequence of sounds that were meant for Irene. You were left hungry, breathless, and forever wanting.

Irene must have been smiling right about now. Who wouldn't smile hearing those things from someone like Jungkook?

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Then, you began to ask yourself another question.

If you make me complete, Jungkook, will my story ever end?

You knew the answer to that. You swore your heart beat in a morse code that told you everything you needed to know.

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Jungkook looked to you, before Irene could form the proper response, and smiled. It was the third time he smiled at you today because of course, you were keeping track. You knew it was his own physically linguistic version of a 'thank you' or a 'you're a life saver' but somehow, to you, it translated to something similar to a 'goodbye'.

Your legs miraculously rose and carried you to the back porch. The sun was just beginning to dip in the horizon, proliferating a warm orange that was about to subside to an indistinguishable and unpredictable dusk. Whatever color came after the sunset, you were ready to accept it, to memorize how it reflected against a world without the possibility of him. And even though the night will always embody undertones of orange, it was time to focus on the colors around it.

It was time to let go.

a/n: i might make this into a drabble series!!! if anyone would be interested in that please let me know :)) thank you for readinggggg <3

#bangtanarmynet #btsgoldnet #ficswithluv #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts writing #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #bts drabble #jungkook drabble #jungkook #constant craving #rubycoast

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nevertheless-moving · 3 years

Text

Suicidal Misunderstanding XIV

Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Part XI - - - - Part XII - - - - Part XIII

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Plo Koon woke to find himself chained in a dark room.

Somewhere behind him he could hear steady dripping; it was uncertain if that was deliberate or not.

He strained to discern anything in the dim light, but the walls of his prison refused to form into anything recognizable.

Cautiously, the trapped Master cast his senses out, only to find them reflected back at odd angles. He decided to wait before attempting to push any further past what his captor wished him to see.

Time passed strangely, but sooner than expected there was the sound of a pressurized airlock opening and, distantly, a raging ocean.

The airlock cycled through its rotation and Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped out of the amorphous shadows looking...decidedly worse for the wear.

Plo ached at the sight. His normally carefully maintained beard was a scraggly mess. His robes hung tattered and bloodied. Of particular concern was how dry he looked, skin cracked and bleeding for want of water. The figure standing before him with a dead-eyed glare resembled less an accomplished Jedi Master and more the wretched husk of one.

“Who are you?” Obi-Wan's shade hissed. The chains around the Kel Dooran tightened.

Well, however he might view himself and others...at least he’s willing to fight to defend what remains? At the bare minimum he’s not acting intentionally self destructive...

“Good Morning, Obi-Wan. I am a Jedi Master and your friend. I have been attempting to reach you through your rather impressive shielding. I must say, you’ve done a remarkable job confining me in this mental construct, its been sometime since anyone has managed to get the best of me in this arena.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Don’t try and flatter me, you barely fought back. You could easily have forced your way anywhere, but for some reason you let me corral you, presumably to try and gain my trust. Now answer my question. Your presence is very much light so I doubt you’re Sidious or...Vader. I could be wrong obviously, but i can’t see either of themselves putting this much effort into that sort of mask...just tell me who you are, and why you’re with them.”

“I am Master Plo Koon, a High Council Member, and I am not unknown to you” he elaborated without hesitation. “I am glad that you can identify that I am a light force user. Can you not sense familiarity within my force presence, even so far within your domain?”

Obi-Wan reared back and the dripping noise in the corner stopped.

“It’s a trick. We might be in my head but that doesn’t mean I’m surrendering any of my thoughts to you,” Obi-Wan snarled. “I felt Plo Koon’s death, he was one of the first...and even if he somehow survived he would never work with the Sith to invade my mind. Never.”

“Obi-Wan. Listen to me. Please. I am not dead. I am not working with the Sith. I was brought in to reach you because no other method was working. You are in the healing halls at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.” Plo spoke calmly, but implacably, “We believe you have either experienced a uniquely detailed vision, or a run in with a dark-sider. Whatever has happened, I can feel the lingering impression of unsafety. But here and now, you are not in any immediate physical danger. There must be something I can do to convince you of your present physical location.”

“A uniquely detailed vision, huh? ha!” Obi-Wan replied, gesturing wildly. “Ha! You expect me to believe that what, the last four years of my life were a detailed prophecy? Why?”

“You...believe you have lived years beyond the rest of us. I take it the- what you remember has been dangerous enough to warrant maintaining abnormally tight control over your mental walls, precluding simply reaching out to ascertain the truth yourself.”

“Clearly my control wasn’t enough if you’re in here.” Obi-Wan muttered.

“I do apologize for the intrusion, but we’ve already used every other tool at our disposal to reach you. I repeat, is there anything that can be done to convince you that you are, from your perspective, ‘in the past’. You are a High Council member with a grandpadawan. It’s been two years since the start of the clone wars. You recently finished an extended clean up of the Mon Cala sector after your victory.”

Obi-Wan stared at him curiously. “If I set a test and you fail, will you agree to dispense with the pretenses?”

Plo-Koon hesitated. “Perhaps I’m making this deal in bad faith, as I am know I am Plo-Koon, and that everything I have said is the truth... but I swear that if you somehow prove that neither of those things are true and I am secretly working for a sith lord, I will...reveal that.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “Best I’m going to get, I suppose.”

The chains holding Plo-Koon loosened. Before he could respond, there was a hurtling rising sensation that he struggled not to fight against. After a disorienting moment, he found himself in his own body, feeling vaguely seasick. Obi-Wan blinked awake, apparently unfazed by the precautionary bonds holding him in place. Master Aerdo’s gaze flicked between them intensely. Plo-Koon held up a clawed hand to forestall any interruption while the two gained their bearings.

Obi-Wan spoke first:

“Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation”

“...What?” Koon replied, honestly confused.

“Cihynglo was a renowned Kashykian Jedi, her mediations are, well i suppose were considered a quintessential example of High Republic cosmic poetry.”

“I’m familiar with Cihynglo- my master used to speak of her fondly.” Plo Koon said slowly. “Though I can’t say I’m familiar with her Fourth Mediation.”

“Hmm. Yes, well her poetry in the last few decades of her life got increasingly, well, esoteric. While most of her work was widely translated and distributed, she requested that those who wished to read her fourth Meditations do so in person, so as to experience without dilution the full calligraphy and artwork that accompanied her words. She only ever produced two copies. Any guesses where they were kept?”

Obi-Wan’s voice started out in the steady tones of a born lecturer, only to grow bitter towards the end.

“Is one in the temple?” Master Koon asked.

“Yes, one was held in the Master’s wing of the temple archives. The other was housed in a place of honor in The White Forest’s Great Tree of Knowledge. Considering both libraries were reduced to ash in the first month of the Empire, it is quite impossible, even for the Emperor, to find a copy.”

His vague attempt at a smirk quickly fell flat.

“I was privileged enough to be granted time to begin reading it once, but, alas, an emergency situation in the intergalactic war you created meant that I had to run off mid-sonnet. Bring me that book, let me hold it, read it, and I will believe that I somehow unlocked the secret of time-travel while overdosing on Spice.”

Obi-Wan paused, catching his breath. “In the next fifteen minutes, please. Any more than that and you might try tracking down the few surviving Wookie scholars.” Koon flipped open his comm. “Master Nu, I have an urgent request.”

“Nu here, go on,” came the response.

“This may sound strange, but it is crucial that Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation be brought to the healing halls, room seven. Within the next 15 minutes.”

“You do understand you’re talking about a physical book, not a flimsi-stack or a holocron. It’s not meant to leave a climate-controlled room.”

“I promise you, I would not ask if it weren’t life or death. Please Jocasta, I’ll explain later.”

“I’ll be there in 10. It had better be one durned good explanation.”

Obi-Wan looked bemused. ”You’re setting yourself up for failure.”

“I am glad you were able to come up with a test you found meaningful. Remember, you have friends here, regardless of whether you experienced subjective time travel or an incredibly detailed vision.”

They waited a little longer. Obi-Wan critically examined Master Aerdo.

“I’m a Senior Soul Healer” they offered at the non-verbal prompting.

“How interesting.” Obi-Wan remarked dryly.

They sat in awkward silence for another minute.

They were all equally trained in suppressing fidgets, coughs, or other nervous tics, which made the wait that slightest bit more unbearable, each second nearly imperceptible from the one before.

Eventually the sound of heavy boots moving at speed approached.

Master Nu strode in, gently cradling a great burden. The book gleamed large and vital in the light of its stasis wrap. Her eyes widened at they took in Obi-Wan, still cuffed to the bed.

“Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation, as asked for. I trust you have an excellent explanation for how a book of poetry is a matter of life or death.”

“I’m hoping that it will convince our friend Master Kenobi that I am who I claim to be and we are where I claim we are.” Koon gently pulled the book from her grasp and reverently placed it on Obi-Wan’s lap. Obi-Wan stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Obi-Wan, I’m going to uncuff you now. I trust that you will use your freedom to examine our ‘proof.’ We will physically intercede if you make any attempts at self harm.”

Master Nu gasped. “Then the temple rumors...I don’t understand.”

Obi Wan picked up the book as if he was afraid it might bite him. With an irritated snort, he opened brusquely to the middle, and began carelessly flipping ahead.

Master Nu started forward, offended, but Plo Koon held her back. “Please Master Nu, patience-”

Finally Obi-Wan seemed to reach the page he was looking for and stopped. “..And still the rain fell like blood of the womb” he murmured. “That...I tried to think of how the line ended but I...”

Everyone watched as the book shook in Obi-Wan's grasp. He turned the page, gasping slightly and murmuring as he read. “This is...a little gross, but oddly touching. I certainly would not have come up with it myself...but its so clearly...” They watched his react, eyes darting wildly and brow furrowing in confusion.

Several pages later he dropped the book abruptly.

“This is impossible,” he gasped.

Nu darted forward, carefully snatching it from his lap, "I am endeavoring to practice tolerance, but how is destroying an irreplaceable piece of literature supposed to help anyone?!” she snapped

“I admit I wondered that myself, but when I imagined what harm the Sith could do with some of the archive’s more practical works, I understood your decision to torch the collection” Obi-Wan responded dreamily. “I suppose the more beautific works would likely have been destroyed anyway...”

“Torch the archives? I would never.”

“But you did,” Obi-Wan insisted feverishly. “I found your message when we searching for survivors. There were so many bodies piled at the archive door that I was almost hopeful that they had managed to...but I suppose they held out just long enough for you to complete your task.”

Nu backed away slowly. “That sounds like quite the disturbing vision, Master Kenobi.”

“It wasn’t just a vision, it was my life. It-visions don’t last years!” he said, finally growing hysterical. “I remember everything! That gods-awful mission to Cato Nemodia! Getting takeout food with Anakin! The smell of burning flesh in the creche! Singing to Luke! The last year of the war! All of you! You crying after Dooku’s death,” he added gesturing wildly at the archivist. “It was so awkward! You were embarrassed! You told me that for some stupid reason you had ‘held out hope’ it was all an insane uncover mission, that he wasn’t really- Three years alone in the desert! I remember three years of living on fucking Tatooine, how could that possibly be a vision!”

“I...hadn’t told anyone that,” Nu whispered with a hint of alarm. She glanced at Plo Koon, daring him to comment. “I know its very much unlikely at this point, and by any measure, he’s taken things too far, but he’s gone on such long shadow missions in the past...” she looked away.

“Oh, Jocasta...” Plo sighed.

“Master Kenobi. I cannot explain how you came to have such detailed knowledge of the future,” Aerdo said, drawing focus back to the bewildered Obi-Wan, who had shifted into a defensive crouch on the bed. “But I do know one reasonably sure fire way to establish that this, us, is the present. Open yourself up to the force, please, just let yourself listen to what it has to say.

“I...want to, of course I want to believe- but the idea that I’m here- it’s, if you’re real than you can’t possibly understand, its too good to be true.” Obi-Wan responded brokenly.

“I know things have been clouded of late, but, if nothing else trust in the force to not lie to you.” Plo-Koon urged. “If you keep closing yourself off like this, how can you possibly learn if things are better than you think”

Obi-Wan collapsed from his crouch, knees folding underneath.

“If I am...even if I am in the past... Sideous might be watching...i didn’t- i don’t know the extent of his gaze- even if...” he trailed off.

“If it makes you feel safer, you are of course free to again raise your shields to whatever extent you feel necessary once you have verified your reality.” Aerdo replied smoothly.

Obi-Wan looked warily at the three Jedi in the room.“I...” he started, trying to articulate the swelling hope and fear only to find himself at a loss for words.

Aerdo shot him a reassuring smile, “If you don’t feel ready right now, that’s perfectly understandable. We’re very happy you’re willing to reach out as much as you have already. Would you like to pause this discussion for now so we can find you something to eat? I believe a simple broth is a customary first post-bacta meal, but if you have any special requests I’ll do what I can.”

Obi-Wan let out a deep breath, dropping his head into his hands. “I- I need to know, don’t I?” he mumbled. “Force help me...you win.” He took one last, searching look at the faces of his fellow Jedi before closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the force.

He opened a small hole in his mental barricades and tentatively allowed his thoughts to drip out. Tentatively, he trickled over the bank of Plo Koon’s being (expecting a frigid burn) only to find a warm and heartbreakingly familiar pool of tempered kindness.

He ran, slightly faster now, over the other Jedi presences in the room. Having finished his course without encountering any dark undertow, he ebbed back. There was an indistinct impression of something heavy giving way.

Obi-Wan’s Shields Fell Like A Dam Beneath a Tidal Wave -

#star wars #my au #suicidal misunderstanding au #star wars au no 27 #time travel #starwars #star wars fanfiction #obi-wan kenobi #fix-it

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7spaceace7 · 3 years

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By Fireflies’ Glow (Bagginshield)

Soooo I made a Bagginshield fic based off of this post and it’s on my Ao3 if you prefer to read it there, but here it is! The firefly scene didn’t make it into the movie’s cuts, so I made it myself and made it gay for good measure.

Word count: 2237

Warnings: None, unless you count unreasonable amounts of pining

Rivendell’s magnificence only extended into the evening, after the last light of day passed over the mountains surrounding it. Streaming waterfalls cascaded over the cliffs below, leading into rivers and streams down past the elven borders. Dusk crept up on Eastern skies in parallel to the setting sun, until the moon above followed its path high into the sky. Where there was sunlight cast into the water, silver moonlight now shone upon its surface. Bilbo had never seen an evening so beautiful, not in all his years.

The beauty of Rivendell had so captured him that the hobbit had spent nearly all his time wandering about the kingdom. While his dwarrow companions dined together, Bilbo explored the main halls of Rivendell, and the hobbit was quick to continue his self-guided tour just after Thror’s map had been translated. There was no doubt that Bilbo had fallen in love with the Valley of Imladris. He had to see as much as he could before their journey picked up once more.

At least, that was his excuse to distract from the real reason he had put distance between himself and the others. In truth, he did not feel welcome at their table. Bilbo was acutely aware of his outsider status to the dwarves; he may have been a contracted burglar of this company, but the hobbit knew he was still viewed as little more than a burdensome stranger without any experience of the larger world. The worst part was that he couldn’t blame them.

It was no secret he was inexperienced. What he had in his skills of gardening and baking (the best cakes from scratch in the Shire, you see), he lacked in the practical adventuring repertoire of sword fighting and travelling across Middle Earth. He was a Baggins of Bag-End after all, such respectable hobbits didn’t just up and leave on journeys with strange dwarves who ate his pantry stock.

But then, Bilbo supposed he wasn’t a respectable hobbit anymore. He had left that title behind as soon as he grabbed his signed contract and rushed out of his rounded door all that time ago. Instead, he was a member of a perilous quest to slay a dragon and reclaim a dwarven kingdom. However, the title of “adventurer” didn’t seem to belong to him either.

Another rounded corner of the path led Bilbo to find himself back where his exploration had started in the gardens. He hadn’t meant to come this way again, but it seemed his feet had started wandering on their own when the hobbit became lost in doubt. Bilbo didn’t mind, though.

The gardens of the elves were some of the most enchanting he’d ever seen. Hedges encircled the area, trees sprung up their lanky limbs that seemed to welcome all who ventured there. It was well-kept, organized, and filled with flowers of all colors he’d only ever seen in books. The colors seemed to glow by moonlight as well, transforming into translucent blues, purples, and greens. Bilbo used to daydream about places like these from reading his books, wondering what it would be like to live in a place where such beautiful things can grow. Lord Elrond’s offer of staying in Rivendell returned to his mind.

“Master Baggins,” Came the rough voice of Thorin Oakenshield, pulling the hobbit from his thoughts in surprise. Bilbo’s head turned to see that the gardens had already been occupied by said dwarven king, who sat upon the backless, stone-carved bench alone. He held an expression that Bilbo could not place. At the least, it was not a glare or look of disdain toward him as usual. “I was beginning to think you’d run off. You made quick leave after reading the map. You weren’t at dinner, either.”

“You’re right, I was..”The hobbit shifted to his other leg. The words didn’t find him to explain that he didn’t think himself welcome in their company. Exploring didn’t seem much like a Baggins pastime either, so Bilbo’s sentence hung unfinished. “I didn’t realize someone else was here. I expect you wish to be left alone, I’ll take my leave-”

“The others are resting,” Thorin said before Bilbo could take even a step away. His gaze turned away from the hobbit and back to the open trees. “I couldn’t find sleep.”

“...So you came here?”

Thorin bowed his chin in a nod. The halfling recalled many sleepless nights of his own being comforted by the fresh air found in his garden back home. He allowed himself to wonder if this was something he and the dwarf had in common.

“I never took you for a lover of nature.”

Perhaps on better terms, Thorin might have seemed amused. “I assure you, I am not. The gardens just happened to be far enough away from the sounds of Bombur’s snores.”

“I see. It is rather peaceful. In the gardens, I mean.”

“Indeed.”

Moments of silence stretched between the unlikely pair while the two admired their surroundings, even if Thorin wouldn’t admit to elvish work capturing his attention. Bilbo remained awkwardly at the steps of the garden where he was first stopped. He didn’t mind standing since Hobbits had more resilience in being on their feet for long amounts of time, but to Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin made room on the bench beside him.

The halfling’s lips twitched in figuring what to say, should he say anything at all. Finally he decided that he ought to try and test the waters. If Thorin was offering him a place to sit, he would take the opportunity and see where it took him. The Tookish part inside told him that this could be his chance to reconcile their strained first impressions. Bilbo walked over and took his seat at the far end of the bench.

“I have my own garden, back in Bag-End,” He started, after the silence became too heavy to hold any longer, “You might have seen it when you arrived that night. It’s certainly not as impressive as this, but then I’m just one hobbit compared to many elves. Besides, it has all the flowers I really need, all of my favorites. The Shire has perfect weather for my hydrangeas best of all.”

The dwarf didn’t speak as he watched him ramble. Bilbo didn’t think Thorin much the type for listening about gardening techniques and therefore spared the details, but a quick glance over to the dwarf proved that he was, indeed, listening. Still silent as ever, but this was a bit different. The exiled king seemed at peace for once. Like he was grateful to hear of a hobbit’s silly affinity for plants instead of a mountain kingdom to be reclaimed.

It was a sight Bilbo found himself having trouble looking away from. He willed himself to focus on the fireflies gathering around the bushes instead.

“Gardens were not to be found in the mountain,” Thorin’s voice softened at the mention of his old home. He always regarded the Lonely Mountain with careful, almost protective, thought. Bilbo’s eyes settled back on the dwarf and clung to every word. “Nothing grows underground, of course. No grass or soil to grow it, and there was no true light, save for the forges and fires burning.”

“None at all? Did you never go outside..?” Bilbo asked. He had known dwarves were the type to mostly stay underground, but such a concept still seemed so foreign to him. Hobbits were known to spend practically all of their time outdoors, and there was light everywhere he could remember. Thorin, however, shook his head.

“Dwarves in that time were born into the darkness of caves. They grew used to seeing rock instead of sky, and I was no different. From the moment I could walk, my time was devoted to training, watching my grandfather as he ruled so I could one day take his place. Learning of the kingdom and its people, of how to protect and serve them, everything a young prince must know,” Thorin explained. His eyes cast toward the ground as he hunched over, deep in thought. It seemed a painful memory sprung from his words without his meaning to. “There was no time for anything but such duties, especially as my grandfather’s health began to fail...”

Thorin trailed off with regret held in his eyes.

“There was little I knew of the world outside of Erebor’s halls, and that’s how it would have stayed were it not for the snake residing there now,” The exiled king finished with bitten words. Bilbo shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I have no need of your pity,” Thorin’s words were said without malice. Instead, they were filled with shame, like he believed he did not deserve sympathy. Like this horror was his fault, somehow. “Especially from someone who knows a very different life.”

“Actually, it doesn’t sound completely different.”

The dwarf’s taken aback look was all he needed to continue.

“I mean, I certainly wasn’t an heir to a kingdom, but in the Shire you didn’t go much of anywhere else. Sometimes to Bree if you were the type, but that would get you odd looks from the rest of town, and by no means were you considered the respectable sort. In fact, I’m sure by now I’ve probably been declared mad beyond all reason, going off on adventures with strange dwarves and a wizard.”

The light brown curls framing Bilbo’s face bounced when he chuckled. Thorin found himself wondering why he noticed this.

“Hobbits simply don’t care much for learning what outside the Shire borders holds. We don’t get visitors, and we don’t do any visiting of our own. So..I suppose in that regard, I understand not knowing much else but what expectations you’ve been born to,” Bilbo finished with a hesitant smile. It was a smile simply for Thorin in that moment, reserved for his eyes and his eyes alone. And yet, the dwarf looked away, startled by its intimacy.

“I see both our clans have deemed us mad, then,” Thorin said, clearing his throat to hide the sudden topic shift.

“How do you mean?”

“The other dwarrow leaders called our quest a fool’s death sentence. I made mention of it before we left your home, but in truth they did not use as-- encouraging-- words as I led the others to believe,” The words of mockery bounced back bitterly to the forefront of his mind. “They believe we won’t make it alive to even reach the mountain. It is why we take on this task alone.”

Bilbo’s mouth twitched in thought again. “Well,” He began, “Perhaps they’re right.”

Thorin’s shock bubbled up instantly, paired with a list of insults in Khuzdul that he had half a mind to repeat from the aforementioned dwarrow council. The hobbit knew that look and raised his arms in defense.

“What I mean to say is, yes, perhaps you won’t reach the mountain, perhaps that’s how we’re fated to finish, but,” Bilbo took a breath, calmed his nerves, “It is still a noble cause to see through the end. And I know each of those who’ve followed you this far would agree. Anyone who doubts you hasn’t got the courage to see it as such.”

Thorin’s eyes softened. He looked down at the smaller creature, such a curious thing by anyone’s standards. A hobbit of the Shire, fond of books, green gardens, and the comforts of home, and yet it is he who has remedied his doubts of his birthright.

“...Thank you.”

Bilbo simply nodded. Even if he himself wasn’t fit for this journey, he truly did hope these dwarves would succeed. They’d all lost so much when their home was taken from them. Especially Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield, who’d braved unfathomable death and destruction and still stood, facing up against an almost impossible task. And here he was, thanking a small hobbit for mere words.

Their lives could not be more different-- and still, they were familiar.

A soft, shining glow from the middle of the garden grove brought their attention away from one another. Dozens and dozens of fireflies had snuck their way closer and completely surrounded the pair on the bench. Their patterns blinked and glimmered for all to see, with shimmering water nearby to exemplify the view. Thorin, surprisingly, was the one captivated most. His cobalt blue eyes shimmered from their reflection, trained on their light.

“Perhaps you were right. About us being raised too differently,” The hobbit mused. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched the king become a prince again. “I don’t remember being so enthralled by the nightly fireflies.”

Thorin chuckled. A small, but genuine, bout of humor. Honestly, it almost shocked Bilbo into the next age.

“Forgive me. I suppose I just never stopped to notice them before. Not in all my journeys across Middle Earth,” His smile lingered. Bilbo’s brightened.

They held such a gaze for some time in comfortable silence. At first meeting, Thorin had sized up the simple hobbit for a commoner, unfit for the wilds of the journey the company had planned to cross. And perhaps that was still the case. Only time would tell if Bilbo was truly a loyal member of this quest, but for now, they had this moment to share.

That is, until Gandalf’s voice was heard passing along the bridge mentioning the dwarven king by name.

#Bagginshield #the hobbit #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #thilbo #thilbo bagginshield #the hobbit: an unexpected journey #Rivendell #Fanfics #lil bit of both canon compliance and canon divergence #obviously in my AU no one dies tho #did i mention the pining

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jasontoddiefor · 4 years

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Summary: Every Jedi lineage has its own dance and Ahsoka, for one, is excited when Anakin finally begins teaching her theirs. However, before they can get really started, they run into a slight problem.Or That time Ahsoka learned Dooku is her great-great-grandmaster. AN: Based on that post about Jedi linages having dances that I can’t find anymore thanks Tumblr.

Ahsoka wanted to impress her Master. She wanted to prove to Anakin that it hadn’t been a mistake to take her on despite the more than untraditional claiming. She had to make him proud and show that she wasn’t a childish youngling anymore and could be useful on the battlefield.

Ahsoka also desperately wanted to jump up in excitement because they finally had found some time to spare and Anakin was going to teach her their lineage’s dance. It wasn’t the first sign that Ahsoka was his Padawan, but it seemed like the one that was the most binding. She had gotten her proper beads and even been sent to the quartermaster to get clothing more suited for the war front. Ahsoka hoped her Master hadn’t noticed she had picked her new tunics to match the colors he seemed to prefer to wear. She wouldn’t mind it per se, plenty of Padawans did it after all, but it was just a little embarrassing if he said something about it. Anakin already called her “my Padawan” or, after she’d done something particularly reckless, “my very young Padawan” plenty of times. They were a team and would stick together until Ahsoka was a formidable Knight of her own, but being taught something that was particular to their lineage somehow reassured Ahsoka that she had found her place more than anything else.

“Ready?” Anakin asked.

They had assembled in the bigger training hall of the flagship and carefully put their outer robes to the side together with their lightsabers. A few clones were training, but Ahsoka could already see them beginning to work out less and less to observe them. She had to give it her best. Like most younglings, Ahsoka had adored the celebrations when various lineages would show off their dance, dreaming of when she would learn hers. The elaborate choreographies were stunning, the backflips that were in pretty much every dance at least once had always made her screech in delight.

Not that Ahsoka would do so now.

She was fourteen. And a Padawan.

She didn’t giggle or watch in awe.

“Born ready, Master,” Ahsoka replied cheekily.

Anakin grinned, looking carefree and oddly young this way. Ahsoka was glad about it. She would have disliked it if an old and stuffy Master had picked her.

“Good. It’s been a while since I actually danced, so forgive me if it doesn’t look as fluid.”

Anakin shook his right arm, the one Count Dooku had cut off as if to underline the point. Ahsoka was sure that he must be joking. She had seen him go toe-to-toe against Master Kenobi during training and his prosthetic had hardly seemed to bother him. She had been a little put out by it at first, Jedi with such grave injuries didn’t get send on active combat missions or delicate negotiations anymore, but Anakin had definitely shown that it wasn’t holding him back.

Anakin took a deep breath and bowed in front of her, it was the first position which most of the dances Ahsoka had already learned at the temple shared. Then he took a step forward, raising up his right arm at the same time. The longer she watched, the more mesmerized did Ahsoka become. There were plenty of moves, each one representing one Jedi, and they all fit together perfectly. It reminded her of the gentle waves of the sea or shifting sands of the desert, but none of those images perfectly translated to the fluidity with which Anakin moved. She didn’t dare take her eyes off him even for a second, but she could tell that the clones too had all halted in their movements to observe him. It was beautiful and even though there was no music, Ahsoka felt like she could hear the banging of drums or the gentle play of a harp. More than anything she wanted to join right in, learn to copy all his moves.

With ease, Anakin rose from the ground, arched his back as he spun. Out of that flip, he stepped forward with one leg, slowly pulling the other with him. He raised his arms up-

And stopped with curse Ahsoka wouldn’t dare even whisper where any Master could possibly overhear.

“Is everything alright?” Ahsoka asked quickly.

Anakin’s expression had darkened, he was frowning and clutching his prosthetic arm with the other hand as it shook slightly. Had it malfunctioned and hurt him? Ahsoka jumped up from her position on the ground to walk over to her Master, worry trailing after her like a lost child.

“Yes, yes,” Anakin muttered. “I’m fine, I just forgot it. Obi-Wan and I haven’t fixed the sequence yet.”

“Fix it?” Ahsoka inquired. Lineage dances didn’t get fixed, that was the whole point. They got extended but never changed.

“Mhm,” Anakin hummed, pointedly not elaborating, and walked over to his bundle of robes to fish his comm unit out of them.

A moment later he was calling Obi-Wan. The whole situation was absolutely strange to Ahsoka, she didn't want to know what the clones were thinking.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan’s voice rang through the silent room as if he had been shouting. “Aren’t you supposed to be training with Ahsoka right now?”

“And aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Anakin retorted drily.

Ahsoka counted the hours and indeed. Obi-Wan wasn’t supposed to be awake, it was his nighttime rotation. They had scheduled the hours so that at least one Jedi was always up in case of an emergency. If none of them followed protocol, that particular system was rendered useless.

“I had more pressing manners to attend to." That, Ahsoka had already learned, was Obi-Wan speech for I was up reading through reports. "What can I do for you?”

Anakin rolled his eyes and send Ahsoka a look of fond exasperation, expressing quite clearly what he thought about Obi-Wan’s attitude. She snorted and was half in mind to tell him that he wasn’t doing much better than his Master.

“I’m teaching Ahsoka our dance,” Anakin said. “And we didn’t fix it. Dooku’s move is still in there.”

Silence followed. The name of the Sith Lord had cut through the air like a lightsaber, leaving behind a rough and burning wound.

“I- I had forgotten about that,” Obi-Wan picked up the conversation again.

He sounded tired and hurt, it made Ahsoka uncomfortable. Jedi Masters were supposed to know… well, not everything, nobody could, but the uncertainty in his voice was still unsettling.

“You’re in the main training hall, correct? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

And with that Obi-Wan ended the call and Anakin tossed his comm unit back into the clothing pile.

“Sorry, Snips,” he apologized. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Your first lesson is not turning out as I had planned.”

“That’s alright!” Ahsoka replied quickly. She had already figured out that not a lot of things about her apprenticeship were going to be going according to plan. “But, if you don’t mind me asking, what was that about? What do you mean with Dooku?”

Anakin blinked a couple of times as if he didn’t understand her question. For a moment Ahsoka wondered whether she had said something wrong or accidentally spoke complete gibberish, then Anakin’s face cleared up.

“Right, you don’t know. Look, Obi-Wan is your grandmaster. He was trained by Master Qui-Gon Jinn, who died ten years ago on Naboo. Qui-Gon’s Master in turn was Count Dooku, who was taught by Master Yoda. Dooku’s your great-great grandmaster.”

Anakin spit Dooku’s name like an insult, rightfully so in her opinion. Dooku was a cruel bastard, it was almost impossible to imagine that he had been a Jedi Master once upon a time. To think that she was of his lineage now, that he had fallen to the dark side when his own Padawan had been murdered by a Sith and had cut off Anakin’s arm-

“He’s no Master of mine,” Ahsoka said finally.

Dooku had betrayed everything the Jedi stood for. He didn’t deserve to be remembered as one of their own. The sooner they cut his sequence from the dance, the better.

“Can you teach me the moves after his until Obi-Wan arrives?” Ahsoka asked. “I still have to learn those.”

Anakin smiled, a little strained still, but cheer was slowly seeping back into it.

“Sure,” he agreed. “Let’s start with Master Qui-Gon’s move.”

He fell into a stance Ahsoka assumed was the one where Dooku’s usually ended and picked right up, transitioning into what must be Master Jinn's move, then Obi-Wan’s and finally his own. By the time Obi-Wan showed up in the training hall, Ahsoka could almost execute those last three in perfect synchronicity with her Master.

#star wars #Anakin Skywalker #ahsoka tano #obi wan kenobi #tcw #disaster lineage #fanfic #IF ANYBODY FINDS THAT POST AGAIN PLS LINK ME

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terrm9 · 3 years

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All The World Seems At Ease Tonight

a.k.a. Christmas Fic

Three years of Christmas Eve for Ethan and Chiara.

Warnings: some kissing, some cliché like mistletoes, mutual pining in the first part, other than that just fluff fluff fluff

Words count: 4 300

Author’s note: Here we are, in times when Valentine’s Day fics are being posted, I finished my Christmas Fic. Yay! It was supposed to be made of three equally long parts but I went crazy with the first one (it was my first time writing about Book One and I just truly enjoyed it). However, I hope you enjoy <3

Intern Year

It took longer for Ethan to finally walk the deserted corridor than he expected, but he decided to work on Christmas Eve for a reason – as he did every year – and checking on patients had to be the main priority. Of course it had to.

Yet, his steps carried him more swiftly than usually and he could feel his forehead ache from the constant concerned furrow of his brows. Naveen was feeling especially unwell these past two days and Ethan hated the idea of his older friend left alone and in pain on the day he loved that much.

Not that Ethan understood. Christmas, as every other holidays made no sense to him and if it was up to him, the whole nonsense would be erased and never celebrated again. But Naveen loved the festivities and the ‚merry spirit‘ of them, and so Ethan tried his hardest to keep him company for as long as he could.

Crossing the corridor enough to see the door of Naveen’s room, Ethan’s heart jumped in his chest as he noticed that they were slightly ajar.

Damn the man if he tried to take a walk.

Opening the door to the room fully, a soft breath of relief left Ethan at the sight of Naveen peacefully laying in his bed, his eyes closed but a gentle smile formed on his lips.

And he was not alone.

Ethan’s breath hitched in his throat again.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, he just kept standing in the doorway, devoured by the scene in front of him.

Chiara was sitting at one of the chairs next to Naveen’s bed, her back turned to the door and a small book in her hand.

And she was reading aloud.

„In fact I have no other choice

than, being alive, to live.

And every day,

into its every moment,

I lead this highly destructible body.

And if hope morse-signals: life

while hopelessness outruns possible death,

my decision is made -

I side with hope.

You can find me anytime

near its hidden paths.

Talking or silent.

I guard the human dream.

And I hold out

where I stand.“

Ethan’s throat tightened and he thanked the universe for the fact that the two doctors – the two doctors that meant so much to him – haven’t yet noticed his presence.

He was not sure what exactly made him feel the emotions currently filling his mind, and he could easily blame it on the merry spirit of Christmas, had he believed in it.

Maybe it was the melody of Chiara’s voice as she read the poem, so soft and gentle and beautiful. Or maybe it was a sight of Naveen, sick and weak and dying and yet looking so peaceful.

Perhaps it was the combination of both, the woman that captured his mind more often than he was willing to admit and the man that was like a father to him, spending time together in a perfect harmony, the air around them so serene it made Ethan wonder if his interruption would even be a welcome one.

„This one was my favorite,“ Naveen spoke into the silence, although he didn’t open his eyes.

„You said that after I finished the one before,“ Chiara chuckled softly, closing the book in her hands.

It was a miracle – not that Ethan believed in those – that Naveen managed to laugh at Chiara’s reponse without coughing. They looked almost... normal. As if his life was not ending anytime soon.

„It truly is a pity that there are only so few of his poems translated to English.“

„When you get through this,“ Chiara replied and Ethan hated that he could hear the sad smile in her words, despite not seeing her face at all. He had no right to know her that well. „You should learn the language and translate all of his poems.“

Naveen only hummed in a response, letting them both believe for a blissful moment that he would get through it.

It was the time for Ethan to make them aware of his presence. He coughed politely and stepped inside, doing his best to maintain a stoic mask on his face.

„Ethan!“ Naveen smiled brightly, just as brightly as Chiara did when she noticed Ethan, and for a moment it was easy to forget who they were, where they were.

„What are you doing here, Dr. Ray?“ Ethan asked instead of greeting and almost immediately winced at the choice of his words, knowing that he sounded rather rude.

When truly, he was simply surprised. He was not aware of Chiara working today.

„I am sorry, Dr. Ramsey,“ her bright smile turned into somehow sheepish one and she put the book on her chest, as if it could serve as a shield protecting her from Ethan’s inevitable anger. „All my patients are stable so I stopped by to keep Dr. Banerji company, at least for a while.“

„And what a pleasing company it was!“ Naveen exclaimed, shooting Ethan a reprimanding look, obviously not pleased by his behavior. „Are you finished with your tradition?“

Ethan tensed visibly and only gave away a stiff nod, the last thing he wished to share the tradition with the younger doctor.

„The... tradition?“ Chiara dared to ask despite his less than kind reaction. „I didn’t take you as someone with Christmas traditions.“

„I am not,“ Ethan spoke flatly, sitting on the chair on the other side of Naveen’s bed.

There were seconds of rather awkward silence between them before Chiara stated that she would leave them alone, wished Naveen Merry Christmas while hugging him and left the room.

It was as if warmth of the air went with her.

It didn’t take long for Naveen to chew Ethan out for how he behaved to Chiara – and Ethan noticed the affection, the gentleness lacing Chiara’s name as Naveen said it. He was right, of course. Ethan was hard for no reason and he wasn’t proud of himself, but what was he supposed to do? Ever since getting back from Miami, it was becoming more and more difficult to control his actions with her.

But Naveen was right. He had no right and he should make it all better.

And so after Naveen made it clear he would like to sleep, Ethan checked the schedule to make sure none of Chiara’s friends were working and then with a bated breath clicked on Chiara’s contact.

E: Where are you?

The reply came almost immediately, a sign that there was not emergency – which Ethan wasn’t sure he considered a good sign or not.

C: The on-call room. Why?

It didn’t really make sense to Chiara, why was Ethan texting her, him of all people. If there was an emergency, he could have easily paged her.

The answer to her question came quickly.

E: I am about to grab some take-out. I was wondering if you would care to join me in my office to share a meal.

Saying that Chiara gasped would be an understatement. She had to blink twice to make sure she was not missing a message stating that he sent it to the wrong number. But no.

C: Are you inviting me over for a Christmas dinner?

E: Do not be ridiculous. Do you like Italian kitchen?

C: Sure.

E: 9 PM, my office, then.

And then nothing. Chiara was almost absolutely sure that she was dreaming, because there was no way the same Dr. Ramsey that has been avoiding her ever since the conference would be inviting her for a – definitely Christmas – dinner.

But free food is free food and she would be lying if she said she wouldn’t welcome a distraction. No matter how hard she tried to stay positive, she missed her family terribly today.

And Ethan was a rather pleasant distraction after all.

At 10 PM, with her risotto eaten, a paper cup filled with an apple juice – the best option for a toast for them - she managed to get in the cafateria in her hand, Chiara found herself sitting comfortably at the leather couch in Ethan’s office, one of her leg crossed over the another, her white coat shrugged off and hanging over the arm of the couch.

It surprised her to see Ethan next to her, looking almost equally relaxed. One of his arms was draped over the back of the couch and Chiara could feel the warmth radiating from the skin of his hand, on her neck.

"So... is there a point in asking you about the tradition Dr. Banerji mentioned?" Chiara asked after finishing her drink, mischievous sparks dancing in her irises.

"No," Ethan replied immediately, although his voice wasn't nearly as stern as he wanted it to be. The right corner of his mouth twitched slightly, Chiara noticed, as if her question amused him.

Ethan wanted to share it with her, he almost let it slip, but he made a promise in Miami - to her or rather to himself, he didn't know - and damn him if he didn't keep that promise.

Professionals.

That's all they should, all they could, be.

And as if to prove himself wrong in the very next moment, he spoke again, asking a question that professionals shouldn’t want to ask.

"Are you going to share your reason for not visiting your family over Christmas?"

Chiara shrugged, her smile not quite faltering but losing some of its brightness.

He didn’t mean to pry, but he was curious. Chiara mentioned home and family fairly often and back in Miami, he could hear her on the phone with her mother – and it was exactly the kind of call a child and a parent that love each other share.

He found it only logical that Chiara would want to spend Christmas in San Francisco.

“I am not sure I would get that many free days as an intern.”

“All your friends have gotten three free days, so would you. It is not much, but it enough to take a quick trip to San Francisco.”

She laughed softly, her gaze strained with the thought or memories, Ethan didn’t know.

“We don’t celebrate Christmas at home since…” she stopped herself and cleared her throat and it didn’t take a diagnostician to see that she was looking for a way to tell Ethan enough without telling him the whole truth.

“It has been six years since we celebrated in San Francisco. For these last years, me, my mom and my sister travel abroad at the time of Christmas. This year, they are in Singapore,” she chuckled and turned to Ethan, a smile on her face wide, however her gaze still lost in the haze. “I am sure three days wouldn’t be enough for a quick trip to Singapore.”

Ethan laughed shortly at that and shook his head, no that would not, and he fought the urge to ask more, to get to know her more, to tell her about his mother, because professionals.

That is why Chiara hasn’t asked him back, why are you working today?, because he made it clear he wanted to keep things professional and she was not brave enough to push him again.

“I would want to stay in Boston anyway,” she added after a while, looking away again and she was biting her lips nervously.

Ethan didn’t want her to be nervous around him but damn, her teeth sinking into her lower lip and her cheeks flushed slightly and it took the last remnants of his strength to repeat the word in his head, professional, professional, professional.

“Why?” he asked.

“Well I knew that Dr. Banerji would be here and I thought it would be nice to spend some time with him. And I didn’t know if you would be here so,…”

She trailed off, not knowing what else to say and when she turned to Ethan, it surprised her to see how close he has gotten, his whole upper body slouching to her and his face so close she could feel his breath on her face.

And it would be easy to believe that he was only listening intently, that was the reason of his sudden proximity, it would be right to believe so, but Chiara was anything but stupid.

“Ethan,” she exhaled quietly and noticed how his pupils dilated at the sound of his name rolling off her lips.

She raised her hand and rested it on his cheek slowly, waiting for his reaction.

And in that moment, there were many words swirling through Ethan’s mind but professionals was not one of them.

He leaned closer, so close his lips brushed Chiara’s ever so softly and-

-and her pager went off.

Chiara stood up abruptly and took the pager out of her pocket.

“I guess that’s my call,” she smiled and it didn’t go unnoticed by Ethan that she sounded out of breath, that his effect on her was as strong as hers on him and he cursed himself for letting the damn word slip out of his mind.

He also cursed himself for not kissing her earlier, so that he could feel her lips fully before the pager went off.

“Merry Christmas, Ethan,” Chiara smiled at him for the last time and left the office before he could respond.

And Ethan thought that if he could celebrate the Christmas like this, with her, every years, maybe the holiday wouldn’t need to be erased.

Second Year

“So you already finished this tradition of yours today?” Chiara asked with that sweet, innocent smile on her lips as she stood between Ethan’s legs as he kept sitting on his chair, gently removing his glasses.

Only then she kissed the bridge of his nose softly, caressing his cheek with such care it almost didn’t make sense to Ethan.

“Yes,” he smiled back at her, enjoying their position and the fact that for once, Chiara was above his eye level and he had to raise his head to meet her gaze.

“And you are not going to tell me what it is?”

“No,” now it was Ethan’s turn to smile all-too-innocently and he knew Chiara was burning with curiosity.

He wouldn’t mind telling her now, but he would lie if he said that he was not enjoying seeing his Chiara, usually so composed and calm, freaking out about his secret Christmas tradition.

She leaned down to capture his lips and Ethan wondered if that was a part of her plan because if she’d continue to roll her tongue like that, he would tell her everything she would wish to hear.

And she knew that.

Ethan grabbed the back of her thighs, making her stumble slightly and sit in his lap and soon their kiss turned into proper make out session, his hands roaming her bare torso hungrily while her hands tugged on his hair, leaving them in the disheveled state she adored so much.

Before their Christmas evening could turn into the gala’s sequel – the memory still fresh in Ethan’s mind – Chiara pulled out with a reluctant sigh.

“My mom and Alicia told me to say Merry Christmas from them to you.”

Ethan nodded in thanks, however he couldn’t contain a sigh leaving him. He knew Chiara missed her family.

“Do you regret staying here instead of going with them?”

“Are you crazy?” Chiara laughed and unlike last year, Ethan remembered, her laugh was sincere and full of joy. “I am cold enough here in Boston. I wouldn’t wish to freeze to death in freakin’ Iceland.”

Not able to stop himself from rolling his eyes, Ethan let out a soft laugh too, however he had to agree with Chiara – the woman was cold all the time. He couldn’t imagine her hitchhiking through Iceland – a trip that evolved from what Chiara called ‘her mom’s middle age crisis’ idea’.

“And again, with the time off I took after the senator’s attack and Edenbrook’s closing, I wouldn’t be able to leave for three weeks.”

“You know I would sign off your vacation, three weeks or not,” Ethan mumbled into her neck.

Chiara smacked his arm lightly, an amused grin on her lips.

“And that, Dr. Ramsey, is not at all professional.”

Ethan wanted to argue that he could think of many not at all professional activities that happened in this very office, but sometimes not reminding himself of his terrible failure at staying colleagues was for the best.

Not that this relationship was by any means a failure. Letting himself fail his principles for once in his life turned out to be the best decision he has ever made.

“I knew you would be working,” Chiara added much more seriously and she was, of course, right. There were reasons Ethan was dedicated to work every Christmas Eve, reasons he never talked about but were enough for him to not to break the habit.

“And you would rather spend your Christmas at work with me, than in Europe with your family?”

“Yes,” Chiara stated simply, not a single hint of doubt in her voice. None.

Who knows how much longer we are going to work in this hospital together, she thought but didn’t say it aloud, not wanting to ruin the bright mood.

Checking his watch, Ethan gestured at Chiara to stand up and followed her in her tracks, trying his best to tame the mess his hair has become.

“I am going to pick up the food. Are you going to join me?”

“Nope, I still need to check on some patients. I will accompany you to the nurses’ station.”

They left the office together and Ethan still couldn’t quite comprehend this new reality for them, the life where they walked the corridor freely next to each other, Ethan’s hand put on Chiara’s lower back gently, and he didn’t need to worry about anyone seeing them.

“Dr. Ray, Dr. Ramsey,” Marlene smiled at them from the desk and noticing Ethan’s relaxed shoulders, she dared to go on. “Didn’t you want to spend your Christmas outside of the work?”

Chiara shrugged and smiled widely, not giving Ethan a chance to ruin Marlene’s mood by his sour response – it didn’t matter how relaxed he was, he couldn’t stand people asking him personal questions.

“We like to work. Someone has to do it even today, right?” she smiled at the nurse.

“Maybe you could engage at least in some form of Christmas cheer, hm?” Marlene gestured at the green adornment above their heads and Chiara couldn’t contain her smirk when she noticed what it was.

Mistletoe.

“Absolutely not,” Ethan stated, his arms crossed at his chest. “We are at work. I will not fuel rumors by indulging in such public display of physical affection.”

Chiara raised an eyebrow at him and Ethan was not sure if she was trying to remind him that the office’s walls were still made out of glass and therefore their earlier escapades could be very well considered a public display of physical affection, had anyone come by, or-

“Ah,” Marlene laughed loudly. “You didn’t mind to fuel those rumors at the gala not even three weeks ago, Dr. Ramsey.”

Ethan’s cheeks flushed brightly but it was clear at the moment that those two women would not let him leave that easily.

Sighing reluctantly, he planted a quick – yet gentle – kiss at Chiara’s cheek and muttering ‘food’ left the corridor.

“What are you doing to the poor man, Dr. Ray,” Marlene whispered as she watched his retreating form, winking at the young redhead she came to like very much.

Third Year

It seemed like it would become their very own tradition, to share their Christmas dinner behind the walls of Ethan’s office.

Chiara was extremely tempted to join her mother and Alicia this year – after all, it is at least warm on Mauritius and Chiara deperately wished to feel warm for a while. But with Leland not that approving of her relationship with Ethan – with her boss, as he reminded them – she wouldn’t dare to ask him for two weeks of vacation.

And maybe she was secretly thankful that he made that decision for her – she missed her family, but she couldn’t imagine sending Ethan beach pictures while he would be working. And she knew he would be working.

It took her by surprise, by the most beautiful surprise, when Ethan asked her if she wouldn’t want to spend New Year’s Eve in San Francisco – there was no doubt they would get three or four days off for that – and that he would accompany her, if she would like that.

Only then she found out he exchanged messages with her mother rather regularly and they came up with the idea together, actually.

And so there she was – walking down the long corridor of renewed Bloom Edenbrook’s hospital, a patient chart in one of her hands and a Christmas card she got from one of the patient in the other. Chiara only needed to drop the charts off at the nurses’s station and she was free to enjoy her take-out with Ethan for as long as their pagers would remain silent.

After checking everything twice and making sure she wasn’t needed anywhere, she stepped into the office, smiling at the sight of a single candle glowing in the middle of Ethan’s desk – maybe the idea of this truly being a Christmas dinner was finally getting on him.

„Before we start,“ Chiara spoke first, taking a seat next to Ethan on a couch. „I saw you leaving a paediatrics wing today and I know you have no patient there. Is that your tradition?“

She normally wouldn’t really care about Ethan being somwhere weird, but this was their third Christmas together and there were many, many attempts on Chiara’s side to get the information out of Ethan through the years, only for him to resist.

And it was beginning to be ridiculous.

„Yes,“ Ethan rolled his eyes but he didn’t really seem anyhow bothered. He hugged Chiara’s waist and put a lingering kiss on her temple, her smell intoxicating him even after years of knowing it. Knowing Chiara.

„So what exactly is it what you do there?“

„I read books to the kids that have to stay here and are alone. I am not dressed as Santa,“ he added quickly, noticing Chiara’s curious eyes. „I just come there, bring some books with me, read them for as long as I can. It’s not much, but...“

Chiara turned to him fully now and whispered: „It is more than much,“ before kissing him softly, pouring all the love she felt into the simple act of their lips meeting eagerly.

And she still wondered, how was it that it was her, that she was the privileged one to see this side of Ethan Ramsey, the side that reads book to sick kids and hugs overwhelmed mothers and buys a candle because he knows his girlfriend loves candles on the Christmas table.

„Didn’t you want to spend this Christmas with Alan?“ Chiara asked between the kisses, genuinely curious – the relationship between two Ramsey men was finally good, after all.

„He knows I will come tomorrow. I wanted to work today.“

„You... wanted to work?“ Chiara leaned back and shot him a confused stare.

She knew that it was Ethan’s habit to work on Christmas Eve, but it never occured to her that it was something he truly wanted.

Ethan leaned into the back of the couch, exhaling slowly before responding.

„I never had anyone waiting for me at home on Christmas. And I made sure, every year, that I would be working on Christmas Eve, because me working meant someone else being able to go home. When I work, it might guarantee another doctor to spend his evening with his family, his kids.“

There was a mix of emotions in Ethan’s eyes, even if his voice was steady – a gentlesness mixed with pain and perhaps even anger.

„I believe that parents should be home for Christmas. I am aware of our job being demanding, but no child should feel left behind because their parents have important job. If there is only one of the fellow doctors that is able to play board games with his kids now because I am here – we are here – working, then yes, I want to work.“

He propped his head on the back and closed his eyes for a while and it stunned Chiara how peaceful he looked, how content. She squeezed his hand, however before she could say anything, Ethan spoke again.

„Until that is something we have, I am more than happy to spend my Christmas Eve’s here with a take-out and you.“

It seemed like he didn’t even realize what he just said, his position, his expression not changed.

But Chiara noticed.

Until that is something we have.

They never really talked about family. Future. They loved each other, there were no doubts about that, and they enjoyed planning the upcoming months of their lives. Chiara knew she wanted to spend her life with Ethan. And deep down she knew that he felt the same – that they didn’t go through that much for him to just let her go.

But the statement left her speechless nonetheless.

It wasn’t even that much about him saying that there might be an option for a family in his future – Ethan changed a lot after all.

It was the way he said, with such easiness, such certainity, without a single doubt, until that is somethig we have.

We. Us.

It was his third Christmas with Chiara and Ethan knew that if it hadn’t been for her, he would still wish to erase Christmas from the existence of an universe.

#open heart #open heart choices #open heart fanfiction #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #christmas fic #chiara ray

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septic-skele · 3 years

Text

UT - Sooner Than Someday

Summary: Overwhelmed in the haze of a fever, Sans vents to his father about the secrets he keeps. The problem is that it isn't actually Gaster in the room, just a brother who looks very much like him.

A/N: Based on the idea that Sans has told Papyrus about resets before, but it never manages to change his Genocide fate and in the end, Papyrus forgets.

The face of his father was swimming over him, mouth moving in sounds and syllables that barely translated, and Sans had to strain to keep him in sight. His eye sockets felt like they were melting to the back of his skull, vision wavering to a blur, but whenever he considered dipping into the haze of blackness, Dad shouted.

Too good at shouting, he and Papyrus. It came naturally to them as upper-casers; they didn’t even seem to notice their own noise. Right now Sans’ head was already crowded with so much thunder; he couldn’t stand one cacophony bouncing off of another. He had always hated raising his own voice but he wished now—He wanted the strength to scream back at him.

Do something! Help me, fix me, just make it stop, please!

As it was, all he could do was fling out desperate hands, hoping some kind of relief would be in his reach. A fistful of Dad’s shirt was only a distant flicker on his radar beyond the fire trapped in his bones. This fever felt like thousands, millions of white-hot pokers piercing as one. Every shudder of pain urged them on, stoking faster than damp cloths could counter.

There was nowhere he could twist or turn to escape; he couldn’t pry free of his own body. The throbbing heat in his ribs was too full. He couldn’t breathe.

Internal combustion of a magical fuel occurs with an oxidizer in a combustion chamber that is an integral part of the working fluid flow…

The end was already in sight: give it just a little more time to accelerate and his soul was going to explode. A guttural laugh, bordering on a wheeze, burst from his parched throat. A much cooler, hotter way to die than a knife to the chest; his own body would rather suicide-bomb than give that dirty kid the satisfaction. Could he call that a blaze of glory? A blaze of…copping out before the difficult part?

He had to let Dad know beforehand, he realized with a sharper, glass-like clarity. He’d pay attention. He’d want to put the damp cloth down and take notes.

Whatever intelligible sentence he managed to string together, it did make Dad falter for a minute or two—but where Sans had anticipated him shifting to grab a pen and paper, he made a different move.

When cool palms cupped his cheekbones, Sans flinched, staring with bleary confusion into familiar eyelights glowing gold and violet.

“—brother—know what—Papyrus—”

Confusion buckled and gave way to alarm as he jerked his head back against the pillows, almost wrenching free. A gasp caught roughly in his throat, forming a cough in its wake. No. No, he wouldn’t. He hadn’t.

I didn’t tell him, honest. In this timeline, at least, he’d swear to that. I didn’t tell Pap anything.

________________________________

“Brother,” Papyrus pleaded again, thumbing beads of sweat from Sans’ cheekbones. “I don’t know what you will understand in this state but I am right here for you! It’s Papyrus.”

He had hoped his presence would have a reassuring effect, but judging by the delirious panic that took over Sans’ face, it was a lost cause.

“I din’ tell him,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. “Din’ tell ’im anything.”

“And that’s precisely why we’re in this predicament now!” Papyrus snapped, taking up the cold compress again in one hand. “If you had only told me sooner that you were burning up, I could have done something to prevent this!” But of course, he never tells me. I should have noticed.

Sans only seemed to register the frustration, not the worry. Cringing, he lowered his voice to a croak. “I can’t do it. Can’t get him caught up in all this, he’s too—he’s too—”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’ve been ‘caught up’ in all of your trouble since I was old enough to walk and frankly, I think I’ve coped with it better than you have!”

“I’ve tried it before.”

Papyrus couldn’t help but stiffen at the sudden, keen edge of brokenness in Sans’ voice then. His brother hiccupped, a pitiful attempt at a laugh as he faltered on.

“I’ve tried an’ it jus’ never works. Never does anything t’help. I talk to him an’ he hears me but he doesn’t listen.” His sockets welled. He was trembling from more than the fever now. “He jus’ can’t let it go, he keeps coming back an’ being so good an’ it—it never makes anything right. I can’t do that t’him! Jus’ be so selfish of me, jus’ make him hurt like I always do an’ it wouldn’t change a thing!”

The tears ran free of his control, streaking through the sweat to dampen the sheets under his chin. Sans had never wept so openly; the sight was almost a shock to Papyrus’ system. For a minute he sat frozen, cold cloth loose in his fingers. In what seemed like shame, Sans turned to hide his face against it, muffling a pained moan.

“I din’ tell him…Won’t try again, I swear…”

“Sans.” Swallowing against a sudden knot in his throat, Papyrus moved his free hand over the crown of his brother’s skull—a familiar gesture, one Sans had offered him so many times when he was young and frightened. “Nothing you say or do will make me—will make Papyrus love you any less. He’s better than that. He’s greater than that. He wants you to know you can trust him. He wants that more than anything! And if you have before, if you’ve tried and he hasn’t listened properly…I know that he’s sorry. He would want to try again. Whatever burdens you’re carrying, it isn’t selfish of you to share. That’s…That’s what family is for, to make everything a little lighter.”

Sans’ jaw clenched, a shuddering breath hissing through his teeth.

“All Papyrus wants is to help you, to see you better and happier. Please, give him another chance, won’t you? Someday?”

After what felt like an eternity, a fainter sigh, weighed down with grieved defeat. “Maybe…someday…”

It wasn’t a promise, but it was all Papyrus had. Now to pray that someday came sooner than he’d think.

#undertale #fanfiction #sans #sans undertale #papyrus #papyrus undertale #w d gaster #(gaster isn't actually there he's just imagined to be)#sickfic #whump #angst #sans remembers resets #hurt comfort

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northlight14 · 3 years

Text

A love for love

Description: Roman loved love. He always had, even as a small child. So why was it so different whenever he was involved?

TW: panic attack, mention of making out but nothing is actually shown, cursing, questioning, unrequited love, let me know if I should add anything else

Ships: unrequited royality, platonic roceit, dukeceit

Genre: high school au

Prompt: prompt 6, aromantic (prompt by @pridewrite2021)

Roman loved love. He always had. Even as a small child, he'd watch wide eyed as Prince Charming leaned down and gave sleeping beauty true loves kiss, something so powerful that it was able to break an evil witches curse. He'd stayed up till early hours in the morning, squealing with excitement as he read about two warriors able to take on an entire army, motivated by their want to keep the other safe and stealing glances at each other as their metal swords collided with the enemies weapon. He'd sing his heart out when a romance song came on the radio, gushing about their love interest with such emotion that Roman adored.

Yes, Roman loved love.

So why was it so different whenever he was involved?

The earliest memory Roman had of this was when he was in first grade. Two of his classmates ran up to him giggling as they sang "Savannah has a crush on you!" Instead of feeling that overwhelming joy like the ones described in his books and music, he felt a deep cutting disgust in his stomach. Roman felt less like he could conquer the world and more like the world was going to swallow him whole. Rather than singing any great love song that he'd sang so many times in his room or in the car, he began crying instead while the two girls looked at him in confusion.

"It was just because I don't like her." Roman told himself.

But this feeling of being out of place only grew as his fellow classmates gushed about their boyfriends and girlfriends, crushes and which cartoon character they find cute. Granted, they were in second and third grade, so the terms "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" roughly translated to "they let me borrow their crayon at break once and now we're in love and going to get married." However, this love for love spread like a virus and Romans desire to fit in only grew. So, during a sleepover with his friends, Roman looked upon the TV, at the princess Aurora and decided 'She'd make a good crush.' Before announcing it to the crowd of toddlers, the words immediately sounding wrong as he spoke them, as if he'd spoken them in a foreign language. He decided that night to never speak of his supposed "crush" ever again. Roman liked Aurora with Prince Philip much more, anyway.

Roman was in fifth grade when he was talking to one of his best friends, Valorie. The two of them just laughing and joking when his friends approached.

"Who's your girlfriend, Ro?" one laughed, putting his arm around Roman. And he knew it was a joke. He knew that. But it still felt like the arm hadn't wrapped around his shoulders and instead knocked all the air out his lungs in one hard punch. This moment lingered in his mind like a haunting apparition, quickly causing any friendships with girls to become strained. First only talking occasionally while in class or on the yard, to only talking when his guy friends weren't around, to only texting outside of school to nothing at all. Roman mourned these friendships but it had been made clear that boys and girls couldn't just be friends and the idea of people thinking he was dating any of these people made him feel like a caged bird.

Later that year Roman decided, despite his love for love, he didn't want to date. The reason for this being...

"I'm just more focused on my career."

"I just don't see the point in dating right now."

"I've never really liked anyone so what's the point?"

"I just like being more focused on myself."

And any other excuse he could possibly come up with, repeating them as many times as he needed to to believe them. Roman had always been a good actor, after all. But, of coarse, with this supposed decision came "reassurance" from adults, as if they had the ability to see the future.

"You just haven't met the right person, yet."

"You'll change your mind one day, when you get a bit older."

"All kids say that at your age."

"Roman isn't interested in dating YET."

These invalidating promises made Romans blood boil the more he heard them. It was as if he was yelling while trapped in a soundproof box, unable to escape. But, despite what seemingly everyone around him was saying, Roman knew deep down that romance just wasn't for him.

He also remained thankful that this love for love hadn't infected his friendship too much.

That was until seventh grade when what was originally a few cases of a love for love became an epidemic. It seemed that all anyone wanted to know was "do you have a crush on her?" "Did you hear that Lily and Reese are going out?" "Do you find her attractive?" This soon made its way over to his friends as they talked about how hot the girls were and teased each other relentlessly about who they liked. Roman once again felt like an outsider in his friend group. His friends conversations about their girlfriends may as well have been spoken in Latin.

Then the day came when his twin brother, Remus, came out as gay and started dating a guy named Janus. It then occurred to Roman.

"Maybe the reason I haven't been feeling anything for all these girls was because they were girls! Maybe I like boys instead!" Roman had never been a very logical person but this definitely seemed to make more sense. If he didn't like women then that surely must mean that he liked men instead, right? Because otherwise...otherwise Roman didn't know what that meant.

So Roman tried. Really God damn tried to find boys cute, to fantasize about dating them, to relate to gay experiences. But all he was met with was the same foreign and hollow feeling he'd felt when he lied about having a crush back in 2nd grade. Roman quickly began feeling his love for the concept of love diminish.

So when Roman entered grade 9, he decided to put anything to do with his romantic feelings (or lack there of) in a little box in the back of his mind to deal with later. Instead putting his passion and good acting skills to use by joining his schools drama department. The moment he stepped foot on stage, he felt himself come alive. The crowd, the praise, the creativity, it was addicting.

And it was only made better with the more friends he made. There was one person who he grew partially close to. Patton Heart. The two quickly became best friends, often hanging out outside of rehearsals and texting non stop. And, for the first time in what seemed like years, Roman was happy and comfortable.

That was until 10th grade. Roman way lying on his bed watching Netflix on his phone when a message from Patton came through. Roman clicked on the message and was caught massively off guard as he read it.

Patton: hey, Roman. So I've been thinking a lot lately. In particular about us and about you. And over the past few months I've started to realize that I have a really big crush on you. You're really handsome, funny and talented and I love spending time with you. It's totally ok if you don't like me back, but I figured it's better to be honest.

It should've been it. The moment when one of the main characters confesses their feelings for the love interest and they proclaim they feel the same way. Sparks fly and their hearts beat faster with excitement. It all becomes so clear when they hear that confession in movies and books.

But this wasn't a movie.

Roman felt time stand still as he read the message, his hands shaking so much he didn't think he would be able to respond even if he knew how to answer.

He couldn't breath. Why couldn't he breath?! The edges of his vision went fuzzy as he desperately gasped for air.

"Patton's great." He thought through his suffocating panic. "He's funny and charming and sweet. You should like him. Why don't you like him? What's wrong with you?!" Romans thoughts yelled as he tried desperately to hold back the tears threatening to spill over.

Not sure of what else to do, Roman ran to Remus' room, hoping he'd know how to respond.

Roman knocked on his brothers door and Remus responded with a very annoyed "come in" after a few beats of silence. Remus and Janus were sat on Remus' bed and Roman could tell from their slightly red lips that the two had been making out. But he wasn't in the headspace to even pretend to care that he'd interrupted them right now.

"Ugh, what do you want?" Remus said, clearly too irritated by his brothers presence to notice his distress.

"P-Patton just messaged me s-saying he likes me and I don't know what to say." Roman barely stuttered out, trying desperately not to cry in front of Remus and his boyfriend.

"Aw, cute. Roro finally got a man." Remus joked but Roman was definitely not in the mood for that kind of humor.

"Do you like him back?" Janus asked, calmly, clearly taking more notice of Romans distress.

"Well, I do. But not like that."

"Ok, so just tell him that. It doesn't have to be this whole thing. Why are you getting so upset?" Remus said, looking at Roman as if he was stupid.

Which, to be fair, Roman did feel very stupid right now.

"He's my best friend. I don't want to upset him." Yeah, that was the reason Roman was freaking out. He just didn't want to hurt Patton. That was it.

"Well, just say you don't want a relationship right now or some shit. Besides, he's probably more worried now because you've taken so long to answer." Remus pointed out. Yeah, Roman was never coming to Remus with his problems ever again.

"Yeah...ok." Roman said. Slowly, he walked out the room, noticing Janus looking at him curiously but deciding not to focus on it.

Roman: I'm really sorry Patton, but I don't feel the same way. We can still be friends tho. It doesn't have to be awkward between us. Especially because I really like being friends with you.

Patton: Yeah, that's ok. This is kinda what I was expecting to be honest. But yeah, I still wanna stay friends.

A few days later Janus came over again for dinner. Afterwards, Roman went into the living room and sat on the couch, scrolling through Instagram.

To his surprise, Janus followed after him and sat next to him. "So, how are you feeling after a few days ok. Broken his heart yet?" Janus teased.

Roman huffed out a laugh. "Uh, yeah, we agreed to just stay friends. Which I'm happy about but it's also really weird. I honestly don't know where we go from here which sucks because I really like Patton. Just not like...that." Janus nodded in understanding.

"You must care about him a lot if you had a panic attack just because you didn't want to hurt his feelings." Janus said. Roman just shrugged in response. "So, does that mean you like someone else?" Janus asked.

"No...I. I don't know. I've...I've never really liked anyone. I don't think I ever will. And people say I'll change my mind but...it isn't like I've made a choice. I've felt like this my whole life and everyone around me has had a crush on someone by now. I just... don't think I was built for romance. Which I know probably sounds stupid but that's just how I feel." He said, so honest it almost hurt.

Janus nodded slowly, taking in what Roman was saying. "It doesn't sound stupid." He said before pausing, as if considering his next choice of words. "Roman...have you ever heard of the term aromantic?" He asked.

"No." Roman answered, looking at Janus curiously.

"It basically means someone who experiences little to no romantic attraction. So they don't get crushes and stuff like that." He explained.

Roman felt his heart leap and for once it wasn't because of a fight or flight reflex. "Wait, that's a thing?" He asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, a surprising number of people identify with it. I don't want to assume anything but I thought I might mention it just from what you've told me and what Remus has said in the past. Plus that panic on your face yesterday reminded me a bit of when I tried to force myself into romantic situations with girls." Janus smirked to himself.

That night Roman researched more on aromanticism than he did for his science test. The more he searched, the more it just made sense. Of coarse, he still had a long way to go towards self acceptance. Roman could feel himself already starting to mourn the idea that this was a choice he'd made ages ago and he was going to feel romantic love one day. It was an odd feeling, realizing that even though he knew deep down it wasn't a decision and he'd always hated when people made those comments, a part of him took comfort in adults promising that he'd change his mind one day. He was also horrified to realize that he didn't know what his future was supposed to look like now without romance. After all, media seemed to show single middle aged adults exclusively as depressed and lonely. But as he scoured through wiki articles to tumblr pages to memes, he knew this was a good start to unlearning any nonsense society had been shoving down his throat.

The more Roman learned and the more people he talked to online about it, the more he started to feel his love for love increase. But instead of it being centered on a prince and princess in a movie, two in love warriors keeping each other alive in a book or a cheesy love song on the radio, it was a different type of love Roman was finally starting to feel the more he accepted himself.

Self love.

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nyctophilin · 4 years

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I Was a Fool | I

sweet anon: May I request a forced marriage with Mafia!Changbin, please? Where like he's cold at first, but then they fall in love in the edn? And can there be some smut as well,,, sorry if this is too much lol.

Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III

Description: She has been in love with her best friend for as long as she can remember. However, life doesn’t always like to play in your favour. Forced into a marriage she didn’t want to happen she lives her days lonely and unhappy the only thing bringing her joy being the occasional hangouts with her best friend. At some point, her husband starts to get bothered by the said hangouts.

Pairing: Changbin x fem!Reader, Lee Know x fem!Reader

Word count: 3.2k

Genre: Mafia!AU, Forced Marriage!AU, Angst, Fluff, eventual Smut

Warnings: heartbreak, rude Changbin, spelling/grammar mistakes

A/N: Anon, I know Minho is not part of the request but it just felt right to put it in. I felt like I can create more drama if he was there and who doesn’t love drama? I hope you don’t mind.^^ I have so many ideas for this mini series. I’m so excited for it. I hope you all like it. Feedback is very much apreciated.

She stretched slowly, the sun bathing her in its rays. Although it was pretty hot outside a breeze will start occasionally making the bottom of her dress fly up ever so slightly and cooling her heated body. They were close to the bank of a river, settled on a soft blanket, a few dished making it impossible for them to be as close as they wanted to be to each other.

She stole a glance at her best friend who was propping himself on his palms while looking at the few ducks that were populating the river. She has known Minho since her sophomore year of high school. He was a transfer student from another city. At the time his dad had got a new job in her city and they had to move.

He intimidated her at first. He was quiet when he wasn’t with people from his class that he befriended and he constantly had a resting bitch face on. They actually started talking because of a...let’s call it a cliché accident. She can still remember it so vividly.

She was walking towards the school’s cafeteria with her friends after their French class. Oh, how much she hated French. Not only was the grammar complicated but they also had an awful teacher. He didn't know how to explain things and he was very demanding.

“Class, today we will talk about something sophisticated and I expect all of you to already know about it because how dare you not know everything about France?” She heard one of her friends mock the teacher and she giggled lightly.

“You did it wrong. You have to add a French accent and more spitting to it. This man went to France once for a week and suddenly he forgot where he is from.” Her other friend rolled her eyes when she remembered the teacher’s antics.

“Oh come on. You guys are so mean!” She finally spoke just a tiny bit of sarcasm present in her voice.

“Oh please! You are the one that hates him the most.” Her friend challenged her with a raised eyebrow.

“Hate is a strong word. I just don’t have the same vision as him on most things.” She felt one of them nudge her in the back with her elbow and she adopted an offended frown. “Stop, I am serious!” She nudged her back and they started pushing each other. A particularly hard push from one of her friends had her bolting forward and knocking down the person in front of her, falling over them.

When she lifted her head and noticed who she hit she was up in a second. The second he spent getting up from the floor she was thinking of all sorts of excuses she could say. When he turned towards her she opened her mouth ready to let all her thoughts spill but she was cut off.

“Are you ok? Did you get hurt?” He placed his hand on her arms crouching down just a bit to inspect her face. His hands were really warm.

She felt a faint pink dust her cheeks. “I am fine. You don’t have to worry about me. I was the one who made you fall.” She looked into his mesmerizing eyes and gulped as discreetly as she could.

“I am okay but we can’t allow such a fragile lady like you to get hurt.” A smirk tugged at his lips and made her rosy cheeks to go into a deep red.

“Hey! I’m not fragile. I still put you down, didn’t I?” The most pleasant laugh she ever heard left his lips and he patted her head lightly.

“Yeah, sure you did, sweetheart. Be more careful next time!” His hands left her body and he turned on his heels joining his friends again and continuing his way to wherever he had to be.

After that incident, they started greeting each other on the hallway and making small talk every time they would sit at neighboring tables in the cafeteria becoming good friends eventually. The time she has spent with him was never boring and she ended up having some of her best experiences because of him. However, somewhere in that period of time, she fell for him. And how could she not? He was caring and gentle and funny and always made sure that she was comfortable before dragging her into another one of his crazy adventures.

She was also aware of his feelings for her. She didn’t know if it was love but she knew he cared for her more than a friend cares for another friend. But none of them ever confessed. Maybe they were waiting for the right moment and maybe they made a mistake by doing that because from now on there were no more right moments.

“I will be getting married.” Her whisper got lost in the breeze but he still managed to hear her. His head shoot in her direction, watching her side profile with blown pupils. With quick moves, he pushed the food out of the way and stood in front of her. Even though he was on his knees his body was standing tall, her calves trapped between his legs.

“What do you mean? Please tell me you are talking about that giant stuffed bear in your room.” Minho tried to bring some humour into the situation hoping that any second she will push him, make him fall on the fresh grass and start laughing. His voice was strained when he spoke, however, because these were the first words she said to him since they met twenty minutes ago.

Y/N bit her lip while avoiding his eyes. That was the hardest thing she ever had to do. Finally looking at his face she felt something tugging at her heart when she remarked his pained expression. “No Minho, I’m not talking about Honey. He’s way too good for me. If he ever decides to marry me I’ll be the luckiest woman alive.” Minho didn't appreciate her joke. If it was true then it was no joking matter.

“Y/N, please!” She bit the inside of her cheek at his slightly annoyed tone. She knows she shouldn’t joke about this but it’s easier than telling him the truth. She wished there was a better, less painful way than that.

“I’m getting married, Minho. In a month.” Y/N felt tears stinging at her eyes but she refused to let them fall.

“With who? Did you have a boyfriend all this time?” The thought of her with someone else left a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

“I don’t know who.” She said under her breath focusing on the abandoned food on the blanket.

“What do you mean you don’t know who?” She moved her face even further away from him wanting to avoid the conversation as well as she could. His unusually cold hand cupped her face making her watch him in the eyes and bringing her closer to him but still keeping a decent distance between their faces. “What do you mean you don’t know who, Y/N?”

She felt so intimidated by his demeanour. She knew she owed him an explanation. Actually, no. She didn’t. They were just friends and she can do whatever she wants. But she needed to give it to him for her own sanity. “It’s an arranged marriage. My parents made this deal a long time ago with a rival in business. If I am not in any relationship when he prepares to step down from his position and hand the legacy to his son, I have to marry him. I don’t know why there is such rivalry between flower shops but if that helps my parents from losing the family business I have to do it.”

“Y/N, this is crazy. We have to do something. You can’t just marry a complete stranger.” His hands descended from her face to her shoulders, shaking her slowly hoping that maybe they both can wake up from this nightmare if he does.

Tears pricked in her eyes as she took a deep breath. “If I was in a relationship I wouldn’t have to do it, but I am not. Everything is already decided on and I can’t do anything more about it.”

Minho collapsed on her legs but didn’t fully let his weight on them. He brought her face close to his only a few centimetres apart. “Yes, we can. Listen Y/N, I…” She placed her hands over his, making him stop in the middle of his sentence.

“Please, don’t do this to me. Not now. Please!” Tears started pouring down her cheeks as her vision of him became unclear.

“But…”

“Please!” She let her head fall into his chest and started crying uncontrollably. He felt his heart break at the sight of her crying and he never thought that his love could hurt her like that. He knew what he was about to do wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair for her. He understood that she can’t do anything anymore but he was selfish. He was too selfish when it came to her.

“I love you!”

Her whimpers became even louder and she wrapped her hands around his torso burying her head more into his chest. He embraced her as well, a hand rubbing up and down her back in a calming way. He was silently crying trying not to disturb her, hoping that maybe, just maybe he is actually dreaming.

From afar they may have looked like two insane people. Crying on a picnic on such a nice day. But it wasn’t a nice day for them. On that day their hearts have been broken by one another even though they still loved each other.

Y/N was fidgeting on the wooden chair looking around frantically. Her father placed his rough hand on her delicate one in an attempt to calm her down. She looked him in the eyes and he gave her a smile trying to hide his sorrow from her. She smiled back and finally stopped her moving, realising that nothing is going to change even if she wastes her energy like that.

Tomorrow was her wedding day and a few days prior they received a phone call from the father of the groom saying that they should meet before the wedding. Originally they weren’t supposed to meet because her soon to be in-laws were busy with the whole stepping down thing. She didn’t know why but she felt relieved that she gets to meet her husband before the ceremony. Even though her father assured her that he is a “young handsome man just right for my baby girl” she needed to see it with her eyes. No one wanted any weird reactions from her in the middle of the ceremony.

She will finally get married. Is something she has wanted to do since she was young. Being with the one you love forever and absolutely nothing being able to separate you. She always dreamed of completing this one desire of hers. Dressing up in the most beautiful dress she has ever seen and having her hair done beautifully. It was going to be a beach wedding sometime in spring. Everything was going to be perfect and in the end, her loved ones were going to witness the love of her life and her vowing eternal love for one another.

But she wasn’t getting her beach wedding and she wasn’t marrying the love of her life. She realised some time ago that life can be cruel. You get everything you want and then, all of a sudden it stops. You are left broken and have to live an unfulfilling life just because you can’t die yet.

She was woken from her slumber by the screeching of her father’s chair. When she looked forward she was met with two masculine forms looking down at her. She hurriedly got up and bowed deeply as an apology for not noticing them sooner.

“There’s no need for something like that. I can imagine how nervous you must be.” His voice was deep, shaking her from inside out. It was the older male that spoke. His shoulders were really broad and he was fairly tall, his imposing presence giving her a claustrophobic feeling. He had a fake smile plastered on his face and he extended his hands which she shook hurriedly. “I’m Mr Seo but you can start calling me father.” He laughed and she forced a laugh as well, uneasiness settling inside her.

She looked at the other man from the corner of her eye. He was very well built, his black T-shirt stretching over the muscle of his arms. “I’m Y/N.” She extended her arm and let a smile paint her lips in an attempt to be nice.

The man rolled his eyes and slapped his hand over her’s, shaking it violently before letting go. “I’m Changbin.” Immediately after, he sat down disinterested in that whole meeting.

A bored expression was adorning his face. All he could think about was the moment he could go home. His eyes travelled down her body trying to take her figure in. He had seen so much better. She wasn’t crazy beautiful and even though her body was presenting some appetizing curves her shy and reserved demeanour was a big turn off for him. He couldn’t understand why he had to marry her. Did they really have to form a pact with the District 9 Mafia? They were clearly stronger than them so why not just eliminate them.

He took another look at her. The way she sat, that forced smile, the fear in her eyes. Everything about her annoyed him. Maybe he was influenced by the fact that he had to marry her against his will but she was sparking something inside him. Filling him with rage until he had to stop to breathe in order to calm down.

“Do you go to college Y/N?” Mr Seo’s question surprised her.

“I did. I majored in Chemistry. I wanted to become a perfumer.” Excitement overtook her at the mention of her dream job.

Surprise settled on Mr Seo’s face. “Oh, is that so? How come?”

“Well, since we have a flower shop as a family business I grew up around nicely smelling flowers. I thought that maybe we could sell perfume as well. That way people would buy more things when they come by and maybe we would be able to beat you.” She giggled lightly and she had both men in front of her raising their brows.

“Oh yeah. Your father’s and my rivalry when it comes to our flower shops.” Mr Seo smirked at the other man and he averted his head, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

On the other end of the table, Changbin was both dumbfounded and angry. Not only was she not aware of her father’s real job but she was also naive enough to believe the flower shop story. He doubts that he and his father looked like they could work in a flower shop. He hated this marriage already.

The rest of the afternoon went smoothly with her, her father and Mr Seo making conversation. Changbin didn’t say anything unless spoken to and for the entire afternoon, he looked like he would rather be thrown out of a moving train than be there. Y/N tried striking a conversation with him a few times but he would either answer drily or would straight up ignore her so she gave up.

When they finally parted ways a few hours later she felt like she could breathe again. She was going to have a long and lonely life if this is how their marriage was going to proceed.

Y/N looked at the lights coming from the city. Everything looked so small from up there. So small that she could pick them up and do whatever she wanted with them. Wrapping her jacket better around her body she leaned against the hood of the car making herself comfortable.

“How is he?” Minho was looking at her expectantly.

“He is okay, I guess.” She let out a sigh turning her head to look at his eyes.

The older man made a clicking sound with his tongue before tilting his head to one side. “Okay? You guess? What am I supposed to understand from this?” He sounded annoyed.

“He didn’t really talk. He ignored me for almost the entire period we were there. He did say ‘Good for you.’ when I said that I am a good cook, though. In conclusion, okay, I guess.” She was sick of him honestly. The few hours she spent with him today were enough for a lifetime. He wasn’t okay, he was a complete unmannered pig. But she couldn’t say that to Minho. She couldn't tell him about all the dirty looks he gave her or how many times he rolled his eyes whenever she excitedly spoke about her interests. She knew how he would react and that would only make her fall for him even harder. She needed to get over him.

Minho felt his blood boil at her words. He gave her up, he respected her wish of not going to her father and fighting for her, only for her to end up with someone like him. Wasn’t life a bitch? He could make her so much happier. They could have a carefree life where the only thing they’ll be thinking about was how much they loved each other. But they won’t. Y/N is Changbin’s and as much as he hates it, if she is fine with it he will respect her decision.

He wrapped a hand around her shoulders and dragged her closer to him. “Maybe you just got the wrong impression. I’m sure it will be ok.” He said that to her but it was more for him. A reassurance and a reason not to start a fight. He wanted to tell her to go against her father. Tell her to think again. Tell her that he was ready and if she spelt the words he would jump in the car and run away with her. Go to a place where no one could find them and they could live a happy life. But he almost lost her once and he can’t risk that again.

After their picnic “date” Y/N avoided him for a few days and he thought that he ruined their friendship. But then, thanks to someone that probably loves him, she called him. Told him how scared she was of the whole situation and how she’s trying to stay strong for her family. That night she confessed to him many things that got him worried and he agreed to stay by her side because she needed him. He even agreed to walk her down the aisle. Walk with her on arguably the most important day of her life and then hand her over to someone else.

“Maybe you are right. I hope you are right.” She closed her eyes and inhaled his scent. The last few moments she can spend with him like that before it becomes wrong. And she is going to enjoy them.

They sat like that for a good period of time in comfortable silence. None of them wanted to go home afraid of tomorrow. But they did because this was not a teenage rom-com where the protagonists end up together. This was the real world and they had to confront it.

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thatmultifandomhoe · 3 years

Text

Knitting You a Home - 6

Pairing: Wolf Hybrid Namjoon and Human Reader

Word Count: 1,551

Genre/Rating: Hybrid AU - Established Relationship - Angst - Fluff - Smut - PG-13

Overview: Things have changed for you and Namjoon. It’s been a year since the two of you got together, and despite a rocky start, it was impossible to deny the bond and love you shared for each other. But ever since Hoseok had been separated from his Mate, Namjoon has been withdrawing himself from you and doesn’t come home until late at night.

With questions far larger than either of you imagined, you can’t help but wonder if he’s let his past and old fears come back to haunt him. You had shown him that it was possible to have a home and be loved once before, but will you be able to do it again?

Warning: None.

Playlist:

Main Master List:

Knitting You a Home Master List:

Mated Love is Never Easy Series Master List:

Sneak Peak - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - ?

Tugging on his baseball cap, Namjoon pulled out the folded-up flyer once again, making sure he had the right address. The overhead purple neon light flickered once but continued to light up the dark as packs of people entered and left Lotus at the same time.

He was tucking the paper into his back pocket when he suddenly heard laughter. Looking up only to see a woman with both her arms around two friends who were laughing just as hard. Their smiles were contagious and for a moment, Namjoon felt himself smiling, wondering when the last time he had felt that relaxed was.

After meeting you, his life had fallen into a familiar routine. It was exactly what he needed and he loved it, but sometimes he found himself wanting to do the unexpected, to just go with no real plan or idea and stumble upon something different.

Which was why he was walking through Lotus, the most popular night club in town. Eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness, strobe lights bounced around the room as the bass thumped out of the speakers. Sweat and liquor hung in the air but nobody appeared to give a damn. The other Hybrids that Namjoon spotted as he made his way to the bar were either used to the sounds and smells, or they were too drunk to care.

Before Namjoon reached the bar, he managed to stumble his way over to the restrooms to catch his breath. It wasn’t as crowded as the dance floor, allowing him to relax his tail. He was looking around the club, watching the bartenders toss glass bottles and shake up mixed drinks, one even filling about seven shot glasses with amber liquid in a straight line at once.

Out of the corner of his eye a door opened, a man stumbling back to the bar with a shit eating grin and he thought nothing of it. But when the door didn’t close right away, Namjoon’s ear twitched in its direction, hearing different music coming from there than what was being played in the club.

It was faint, but in seconds he was able to detect the rap music coming from behind the door underneath the sound of EDM.

The flyer suddenly felt heavy in his pocket, and as he pulled it out once more, the paper clenched in his grip. Behind that door was where he wanted to be.

Not thinking twice, Namjoon opened the door to find a hallway leading to a staircase that went down. The rap music grew louder as he walked down the stairs, his heart beating in unison as his steps were drowned out. Following the music, the stairs only went down one floor before breaking out into another hallway, and halfway down there was a door that at the moment, was open, allowing red light to stream out into the grey hallway.

There wasn’t anyone guarding the entrance like he thought, and nobody stopped him when he walked through the door. Instantly he was transported to another place, one that he hadn’t expected to exist underneath Lotus.

The room opened up into a large underground basement, cinder-block walls encasing the several hundred people that were occupying the space. Red strobe lights danced around and in the middle of the room was a large stage that was being used. Only there were regular white spot lights being used to highlight the stars of the show. Amps were set at the sides of the stage, but with music seeming to be coming from everywhere, Namjoon assumed they had installed several in the ceilings or on the walls.

Up on the stage were two groups. On the left side were a group of nine men, and on the right was a group of about thirteen who were currently dancing. The crowd screamed as one of the dancers flipped, twisting his body and spinning around on his shoulders.

Namjoon smiled as he walked further into the room, not quite entering the crowd but absorbing everything that he saw. Despite the numerous strobe lights, he had to take out his cellphone and hold it above the flyer. He didn’t recall there being dance battles advertised as well.

“Hey newbie!” a voice suddenly called out.

Startled, Namjoon looked around him, wondering if he had misheard or if they were looking for someone else. But he was off to the side with no one else around him, and the blond-haired man was coming straight towards him. Namjoon straightened up, watching as he came closer. The stranger was wearing a black tank top that showed off his muscular arms while piercings decorated his ears.

He nodded towards Namjoon’s phone, gesturing with his hand across his neck. “If you’re gonna be down here, first thing you need to know is to kill the light.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon murmured, double tapping the screen.

The stranger grinned though, coming to a stop once they were close enough to hear each other without straining their voices to shout. “It’s alright. Boss prefers there to be no phones so none of the artist get caught.”

“But they’ll hang up flyers at recording studios?” Namjoon asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Studios are always looking for new talent,” he pointed out. “They’re willing to look the other way. Officers however, would love to break this up. I’m Jackson by the way. What’s your name?” Jackson held out his hand, waiting for Namjoon to shake it.

“Namjoon.”

“Well, Namjoon, how the hell did you find the Underground?”

The flyer was still in his hand, so instead of answering, Namjoon simply held it up. Jackson shook his head, glancing at the stage before looking over his shoulder. Following his gaze, Namjoon spotted a lounge area that was further away from the stage.

“Come on,” Jackson called out. “Let’s go over there and talk. It’ll be easier than over here.”

Without waiting, Jackson headed over to the lounge, leaving Namjoon no choice but to follow after him. There wasn’t anyone else when he joined Jackson, but empty glasses littered the large square table as well as crumbs.

It wasn’t as loud this far away from the main attractions, and he was still able to see the performance going on. “I thought this was for rap battles?” He asked Jackson, finally tearing his eyes away from the dancers.

Jackson nodded, sinking into the black leather couch. “It is. We have a high demand for rap and dance battles, but not everyone does both. So, we alternate between the two. This just happens to be our dance battle night; come back tomorrow night and you’ll see the rappers go at it.”

Pressing his lips together, Namjoon joined Jackson, taking a moment to take it all in. He was finally here, and he had come on the wrong night. This was just his luck.

“You wanted rap night I take it?”

“Yeah, but it’s alright.” Shrugging, Namjoon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to watch the stage, smiling when the whole group got involved this time.

Raising an eyebrow, Jackson gave Namjoon a once over. He wasn’t dressed as if he was going to participate in either battle, and he didn’t look as if he came here to get his party on. All he wore was jeans, a green shirt, denim jacket and a baseball cap. Instead, he looked like he was about ready to go home. Like this was the last place that he belonged.

However, his eyes honed in on the square outline in one of the pockets of his jacket. Jackson had been around artists long enough to have an idea of what it was. “What’s with the notebook?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Namjoon patted his side, relieved to feel that it was still there. “I work at the recording studio,” he explained, taking his notebook out of his pocket. “I saw the flyer a couple nights ago and finally decided to check it out.”

“What do you think so far?” Jackson stared at the notebook, spotting the worn-out corners on the cover. As Namjoon absentmindedly flipped through it, the black ink in his sprawled-out handwriting became visible for a brief second before disappearing again.

The Hybrid couldn’t take his eyes off the stage though. As he inhaled, he was able to make out the faint distinguish scent that Jackson was human and friendly, a note that he mentally marked up in his mind. For some reason, like he felt with you, he knew he’d be able to trust Jackson.

For years he had been working on his own music project, and Yoongi - who had spent as much time helping Namjoon out and listening to it – had even encouraged Namjoon to finally put it out there. It was ready for the world to listen to, but he kept holding back. He needed to see if people would actually give a damn about what he wanted to say, to know if they were able to look beyond the tail and ears, and see him as himself. As a serious artist. Pointing at the stage, he turned to look at Jackson over his shoulder, a wolfish grin appearing on his features as he held up his notebook.

“I want to get on that stage.”

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riddlelikesstuff · 3 years

Text

it’s baby’s first fic!!!! or at least first posted fic. i’ve written like.. tiny little things and then deleted them before, aksdjg. i’m scared of all my writer friends here, but i figured this is for fun so why not. anyway i don’t have a title for this or anything so enjoy!!!!

Edith woke up and immediately regretted doing so.

If the fact that her head felt like someone had taken a war hammer to it wasn’t enough to keep her in bed, the nausea most definitely was. She groaned softly and weakly raised an arm, letting her hand fall haphazardly over her eyes. White spots danced across her vision all the same.

What a way to spend a morning, she thought bitterly as she tried to recall literally anything about her life.

As her head cleared, Edith could hear the sounds of early risers training in the courtyard through her open window. She was thankful that she had been careless for once. The crisp, cool early-morning air of a Wyvern moon morning filtered in and cooled her throbbing head. At least she hadn’t slept in long enough for someone to come barreling in and make her migraine worse.

Time passed, and events came back to her. Stealing off to a tavern late at night... a couple of burly men... a drinking competition. Cheers. Laughter. Empty kegs. Shanties that her parents taught her when she was small.

Edith smirked to herself, despite the fact that moving her lips made her temples audibly throb. She knew herself well enough to know she probably drank most of those men under the table. At a price, of course. She'd been hung over before, but never like this. Lady Edelgard would be beside herself if she knew.

As soon as the nausea faded away enough, Edith grunted softly and forced herself to sit up, setting her head spinning and bringing bitter-tasting bile to the back of her throat. She wrinkled up her nose and sat back on her hands for as long as it took for the room to be level again. She thought she felt herself shaking, though that might have just been her dizziness as well. How much time had past? Wouldn’t she like to know.

Edith didn’t bother tying up her hair, and merely threw a jacket over her shoulders and pulled pants on. She was sure by the way they awkwardly stretched across her waist that they were backwards, but she couldn’t be bothered to take them off and put them on again. Every time she bent her head down the world spun on that angle.

She stared at the door as if it had said an insult against her mother, silver hair spilling in tangled clumps over her shoulders. She had to open it and walk somewhere. She couldn’t just lie down and magically warp. Edith groaned softly to herself and let her head tip back in exasperation. Which was a terrible idea.

There was no question about where she was headed. The question was, however, would she actually get there?

Thankfully the monastery halls were not entirely crowded, though Edith could tell she was getting some funny looks from the noble students. She smirked bitterly to herself every time, hobbling on stiff legs toward the infirmary. Every step made her head throb.

She finally made it to the infirmary doors after what had felt like an eternity. Edith didn’t mind the public humiliation of shuffling with her pants on backwards in front of dozens of her classmates, but the headache was just insulting. She rested her hand on the doorknob and immediately felt the impulse to rest her head against it. Cool, smooth metal was a blessing amid all the curses of this morning. But she put that aside, telling herself that it was just short-term. Medicine would last longer, work better. Maybe she’d headbutt the doorknob on the way back out.

Edith’s fingers slipped a little on the metal as she struggled to get the door open, and peered in after much too long. Professor Manuela sat at her desk, nonchalantly going over some paperwork. A couple of light brown strands rested on her forehead, and noticeable circles rested under her eyes. Edith frowned. It couldn’t be.

The professor didn’t give her much time to think before looking up and assuming a knowing smile. “Well, look who just rolled out of bed,” she remarked, which drew a bitter snort from Edith. Manuela’s smile became playful as she rose from her seat and gestured to one of the beds. “Come and tell me what’s wrong. Edith Armbrust, yes?”

Edith pouted out her bottom lip. In her mind she responded, “Yes, my name is Edith Armbrust of the Adrestian seas, and I’m here because I woke up with the most dreadful of headaches, so I would like a draught and some rest to treat it.” But that translated as a barely-coherent mumble that resembled the word “Yeah” and a zombie-like shamble to collapse face-first on the bed. She could hear Manuela chuckle lightly and the sound of small glass vials clinking against each other. That sound was music to her too-hot, throbbing ears.

Before she knew it, Manuela had turned her onto her back, and she was looking up at her up closer. She could see in more detail how disheveled she looked, now. The eye bags were deeper than she’d thought. Her complexion was a little paler than usual. A cowlick had formed in her hair, and more of that hair was plastered to her forehead than Edith had first realized.

She broke into a wide grin. Two could play at this game, she supposed.

Manuela raised an eyebrow suspiciously, which drew a lazy giggle from Edith that she couldn’t have kept in if she tried. Perhaps it was the delirium from the headache, or perhaps the alcohol hadn’t quite worn down yet even now, but this was the funniest thing she could imagine. She almost missed Manuela’s inquiry, “So, how can I help you?”

Edith giggled more, clearly drawing Manuela’s annoyance. “I gotta headache,” she slurred giddily. “No reason~”

The professor threw up her eyebrows disbelievingly, and Edith burst into laughter. For once in her life she didn’t mind the stereotypes people had about pirates, because the fact that Manuela most likely knew the cause of her headache was hysterical to her.

Manuela pursed her lips and hummed lightly, turning to her vials. Edith watched with wonder as she pushed aside most of the vials to fetch a slightly larger one made of blue-stained glass. She poured some of the contents of it into a cup of hot water along with some tea leaves, and after it had all set she set the blue bottle back into its hiding place.

She set the cup in front of Edith with a small sigh. “Keep this between us, okay?” she murmured knowingly, with a strained smile. Edith watched her face carefully. It was clear that she would probably get in trouble if anyone knew she had this sort of life. Perhaps this happened often.

And Edith, ever the tender soul, burst out laughing again.

#fe3h ocs #riddle writes #edith armbrust #i didn't proofread. please enjoy this garbage fire

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thegreatobsesso · 3 years

Text

A longer bit feat.: Callie and Simon angst. :)

Talking with @drippingmoon got me thinking of some cornerstone scenes in the enemies-to-friends slow-burn I do with these two idiots and this one, I think, stands out as the dead-center point, so I’m gonna not second-guess myself and just post it. 🥴

Tagging @thelaughingstag too! (I remembered!)

Context: Callie broke into Delaney to steal an ancient magical artifact and, believing she meant nothing but harm, Simon stopped her. But while waiting for the cops to come and drag her back to prison, Simon asks her to just tell him the truth, once and for all. Callie agrees to let him read her mind all the way back to the beginning, thinking she’s got nothing left to live for. Simon gets hit with a truckload of tragic backstory he wasn’t prepared for and is asked to follow them back to Downing Bay, the prison she’s being held in.

They’re still mentally connected, even after Simon has let go. He can hear her, and she can hear him too, which definitely isn’t normal.

Word count: 3,200

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

failure. failure. failure

She wasn’t even doing this on purpose and it wasn’t just the word reverberating through his skull.

More like a full-bodied feeling flooding his consciousness as he left Delaney, a steady stream of self-hatred punctuated only by expletives.

Stop, he begged her.

i can’t, you stop listening

I can’t.

She laughed, out loud in her cell. He heard it and felt it, over the miles that separated them, the ocean and metal and glass.

He’d overextended; that’s what caused this. It took him awhile to put it together because he’d been so upset - maybe even been in a mild state of shock, in retrospect - and he spent a lifetime being so careful with his powers that he’d never done it before to know what it was like.

And so that was bad, yes, but come on. How much longer could it last?

He was stepping onto the boat to Downing Bay when the pain started - hers, and not the torrent of existential agony he was struggling to adjust to but pain, physical and substantial.

What’s happening? he tried to ask, but it got lost - she could barely think, suddenly, let alone focus on sending him mental telegrams.

The cluster of metal buildings hovered threateningly on the horizon, and as they got closer, minds inside got louder, almost drowning Callie out. He wanted to tell them to turn around and take him away; the claustrophobia was overwhelming, the collective sense of being trapped.

The boat brought them underneath the smallest building; a scorched sign read Diagnostics in block letters with an arrow pointing up. What might’ve once been a loading dock was sectioned off with caution tape and hanging sadly down into the water, barely still attached to the rest of the infrastructure. They laid a make-shift bridge between the boat and platform to walk across.

Once inside, they asked him to empty his pockets and leave all his belongings in a small box.

“This stays with me,” he said, holding his Headmaster’s key, bronze and solid, in the palm of his hand.

“No, sir,” said the tired corrections officer, unaware of who he was. “All belongings.” She shook the plastic container for emphasis, rattling the rest of his stuff around.

“I’m the headmaster of Delaney of School for Magicians,” he said. “This is a master key and it doesn’t leave my neck. If you need to call your superiors about it, please do it, but I won’t leave it here.”

A few minutes later, he put the chain back around his neck, dropped the key down inside his shirt, and was escorted inside.

“No one’s suppressed me yet,” he said to one of prison officers. He waited until the last second; surely they knew their own duties better than he did. He didn’t wanna insult anyone, but they hadn’t done it and they were bringing him though thick, reinforced doors to the warden’s office and if not now, when?

“We’ve not been asked to, sir. This way.”

The warden smiled when Simon entered his office, waved everyone else away. He introduced himself as Warden Prescott and extended his hand - it was thin and cold when Simon shook it, despite the muggy warmth.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. “How fares your school?”

“It’s seen worse. It looks like she hit this place harder, to be honest.”

The warden smiled, and Simon caught an image of a collection, varying people with differing characteristics on display in tiny boxes, one of them out of place. “Yes, she put on quite a show on her way out. Destroyed all our boats and did a significant amount of superficial damage, but nothing structural, thankfully.”

Of course not - living her memories alongside her showed him she made sure she didn’t hurt anyone, only crippled their ability to pursue her.

It was too warm in here and he wondered how the warden could be so buttoned up in thick polyester when he had to unbutton his own light jacket.

“A hearing will take place tomorrow morning and your presence will be required,” he began. “I suspect I know at least part of the reason why. News reached my ears that you behaved quite badly.” He made a tsk-tsk sound and shook his head at Simon like he was a naughty child.

“I did what I did,” he said flatly. “I shouldn’t have read her mind, and I accept the consequences for it, whatever they’ll be.”

“Oh, I meant absolutely no disrespect,” the warden said. “The opposite, in fact. I daresay if I had your powers, I’d like nothing more than to take a stroll through that mind of hers. She’s an interesting one. The fact that you did so might work to our advantage, in fact. You see, we’re in a bit of a bind with all this. May I speak plainly?”

“I wish you would,” he said. The warden was carrying his collection of dolls in his mind, all unique and valuable and distinctly dehumanized, and Callie’s thoughts were still flowing like a steady IV drip, making him feel irritable and short.

“Well, Mister Bennett, the facts are as such: we’ve got a limited testimony from you that the authorities will need expanded upon, that says you’ve seen the original crime in the first person, and your account differs wildly from the one she’s given. There are additional crimes stacked up past that - her escape from prison and attempted theft of an undisclosed item from your school. And the world wants to know how an infamous killer managed to become the first person in history to escape Downing Bay.”

“It’s a valid question for them to ask.”

“With an undesirable answer. But I think you’re in pain, Mister Bennett. Do you need a doctor?”

He was, but it wasn’t his own injuries that made wince.

“It’s her,” he groaned. “You’re hurting her, what are you doing?”

The warden sighed. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

He took Simon down the hall, into a sterile room filled with recording equipment and a solid wall of glass. On the other side of the it, Callie. She sat a bare table in prison scrubs, hands cuffed to its surface. IVs were inserted in both her arms, the needles taped down, liquid flowing from bags hanging behind her. The metal collar around her neck flashed blips of red, yellow and green, reminding him absurdly of a Christmas tree.

She bit her lip and shuffled restlessly, an involuntary response to the pain she was trying to ignore.

“You’ve got to stop this,” he said.

“To be fair, this isn’t what diagnostics usually looks like,” the warden said while he swallowed down a wave of sickness. “Typically, we focus on finding a long-term suppressive solution that both nullifies abilities and has minimal side effects for the prisoner. We are, unfortunately, in disaster minimization mode rather than long-term maintenance with your friend here.”

This was the strain being put on her body - the combination of every drug known to medicine that could hold back the expression of magic for any amount of time at all. “She’s not my friend,” he muttered. “Isn’t this unethical?”

“Should we allow all her power to rush back in so she can kill my people and escape again?”

“She’s not killing anyone,” Simon said with certainty.

“That’s not what she said a few hours ago,” the warden recalled. “We had no less than five guards trying to process her and she threatened their lives.”

Dammit. “What we you doing to her?”

“Attempting to place her segregation.”

He resisted the urge to groan in frustration, to punch the glass in front of him. “She didn’t mean it,” he muttered, not relishing the job of being her translator. “She’s terrified of solitary confinement, she just didn’t wanna go.”

“That’s unfortunate, given that we can’t very well place her back into general population. This is all that’s left, a quarantine unit, meant for contagious disease.”

On the other side of the glass, Callie squeezed her eyes shut and dropped her head. A fresh wave of pain ran over him too.

how much longer, how much more?

“How long can you keep this up, these stop-gap measures? Surely they won’t work forever.”

Warden Prescott raised his eyebrows. “These measures aren’t even working very well, Mister Bennett. I daresay if she wanted to, she could be gone before nightfall. I’m afraid she’s only here at her pleasure.”

Pleasure? He looked back at her in the next room, her face contorted. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” Warden Prescott said, with a small smile. “We’re in the dark here, fumbling through uncharted territory without a map. She’s got my best techs feeling like children when they try to interpret the results of all this treatment. She’s a thing that isn’t supposed to exist: a hybrid. Focused magic and Eclectic, all at once.”

The implications of the warden’s words began to stack up in his already overtaxed mind and part of him thought, ridiculously, of a vacation. Of sitting on a beach with a book getting a suntan, drinking something with a slice of pineapple on the rim, smoking a cigarette or two or fifty - of not having a care in the world, for just a little while.

A hybrid, then. Focused and Eclectic.

He’d walked through her life with her and even she didn’t understand that, not really, not in such terms. She, and everyone else who knew what she’d done to Peter, had thought of it like an acquisition of new powers; not a fundamental genetic change.

Did Riley know this? Riley, who gathered Callie’s DNA and did extensive testing on it, who still had it?

“Has anybody been in touch with the family?” he asked, unwilling to explain why he was asking.

“I know someone’s reached out,” the warden said. “I don’t believe there was any reply.”

No, he supposed not. Riley would want nothing to do with any of this. Still, she had to be sweating, didn’t she? How could she know Callie still held up her end of their deal?

“I wonder,” Warden Prescott drawled, “if your trip through her mind was quite so extensive that if she were back inside your school, right now, you’d trust her not to hurt anyone.”

“It was,” he said. “And I would.”

He couldn’t imagine this would be easy for anyone else to swallow. He certainly wouldn’t believe it himself without first-hand insight. “I want to talk to her.”

The warden nodded his assent at the guards lining the wall.

“As I said, everyone wants to know how she managed to escape,” he said, walking Simon around to the entrance of the adjacent room that held Callie. “The thing I’m most curious about it why she even waited so long to do it. Is that something you know, from your jaunt through her mind?”

“Yes.”

“Are you inclined to share?”

He decided earlier, definitively, that he didn’t like the warden: the way he looked at his inmates like specimens, pinned inside a case. “No,” he said.

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “Although you might be asked tomorrow, by someone more powerful than me, in a much more formal capacity. We’ll be leaning on your expertise considerably to entangle that mind of hers.” He shook his head in admiration. “The unsuppressable Callie Ray.”

“I wouldn’t toss that around,” he muttered.

“Why not?”

The guard undid a stack of locks on the quarantine room door. “I don’t want her hearing it,” he said as they pushed the door open. “She’ll like it too much.”

—

Little black cameras dotted the corners of the room; he knew the warden would be listening on the other side of the glass where’d they’d just come from, and he was certain they were being recorded too.

She lifted her head, smirked at the sight of him. “I’d say hello,” she said, her voice scratchy. “But it’s like I never left you, isn’t it?”

She looked awful. Her red-rimmed eyes matched her hair; one was still swollen, decorated in bruises. “I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for this.” He gestured between his head and hers.

he just says it, just like that

“Did you get a good spanking for it? I’m sure nobody expected that from their golden boy.”

Her words were hollow to him now; they washed over him uselessly and left him thoroughly unimpressed. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her at the steel table, mirroring her position with his hands folded in front of him, except for the absence of cuffs, obviously.

We could talk like this, he said, if you don’t want them to listen.

A jumbled negative reply came across their connection. He nodded.

“There’s a whole team of people on the other side of the door, trying to figure out the best ways to keep your magic suppressed on a minute-to-minute basis,” he said.

“Can you believe it?” She tried for a smile, but it was poorly constructed. “All this for little old me.”

“Well, you’ve convinced the world you’re a dangerous monster and now you’re being treated like one. You did this to yourself.”

“Did you hear me complaining?”

Another wave of gnawing pain; she was sweating, her jumpsuit damp in the armpits. It hit him too, surely just a fraction of what it felt like for her, and he’d already had enough.

“Just tell them,” he said. “Tell them what I know, that it was an accident from the start and you don’t wanna hurt anyone else, and they might let up.”

“I don’t want them to,” she said, voice strained, hanging onto composure by a thread. “I like the pain.”

if I’m in pain I’m getting what I deserve I don’t have to feel guilty

He’d never felt a mind twisted up into knots like this, how did it get this way?

“Is that why you’re still here?” he asked. He looked toward the glass where he knew Warden Prescott was still standing, watching and listening. “They know you’re letting this happen. That if you wanted to, you could stop it.”

She blinked; a powerful emptiness surged up inside her. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question - she was interested in an answer if he had one, but he didn’t. He lived her life alongside her in a compressed whirlwind of tightly-packed failures and she had no family to take her in, Delaney certainly wouldn’t have her, there were no relationships, no friends…

He pulled back; it hurt to be near.

“Just because you say you’re not gonna try to escape again…” He fumbled, trying to lay out the mess. “They still can’t hold you on your word, Callie. You’ve got the public frightened that Downing Bay can’t hold you and the authorities are scared you’re gonna prove it.”

She nodded and winced; something crossed her mind too quickly for him to get a good look. “What are they gonna do to me?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think they do either.”

“Why don’t they just kill me?”

The way she said these things - it was infuriating. “They can’t just execute someone because they don’t know what else to do with them.” He narrowed his eyes like it might help him see her clearer. “Is that what you want? To die?”

She rolled it around in her head. “Not really,” she shrugged. “But I don’t really wanna live either.”

Hopelessness emanated from her; he felt her future the way she saw it, a vast, meaningless chasm of nothing. It made him want to scream.

“Don’t,” she snarled, her awareness of their connection snapping to life. “Don’t you feel sorry for me, you jackass. I don’t want your pity, I’d rather you spit in my eye.”

“I can’t help it,” he groaned. “You sit there acting like this while… it’s, it’s like two different radio stations blasting into each of my ears, I can’t think.”

She swallowed thickly, like she was nauseous. “Do you wanna know exactly how much sympathy I have for you right now?”

“No.”

“Zero,” she said anyway. “Nobody made you drill yourself your own personal pipeline into my brain.”

“That’s not what I was trying to do.”

“Oh, so sad,” she pouted, turning her bottom lip out. “You made your first mistake. Feels like shit, doesn’t it?”

he’ll tell everybody, then everyone will know how stupid, how useless, how embarrassing, and he’s listening to you RIGHT NOW, he knows it all, i wish i WAS dead so i didn’t have to, would be easier than this-

“You let me think you did it on purpose,” he bit out, too overwhelmed to hold it back. “You let me think the absolute worst of you.”

“The worst of me is the truth, the shit you know now.”

“No, it’s not. What you are is not worse than a cold-blooded killer, a, a liar, somebody I could spend the rest of my life feeling like a fool for letting in, how do you justify doing that to me?”

She shrugged, blinked slowly, helplessly, like she couldn’t believe she had to put words to something so simple. “I… the damage was done.”

He scoffed - he couldn’t help it. “It wasn’t. There was a lot more damage left to do, and you did it. You did it all.”

Anger, fresh and bitter, burned through their connection.

i was trying to fix it if you would’ve just walked away none of this would be happening i could have made it go away-

“At what cost?” he asked. It would sound like a non sequitur to everyone listening but he didn’t care. “Even if the orblex could do what you were planning, you can’t possibly predict how it would’ve worked. Did you think it would just drop you off on Christmas twelve years ago and let you start again? No one knows how Time magic works and you wanted to just unleash it. For all you know you could have ripped the world apart.”

Disbelief. how could he say something like that?

“Wouldn’t you?” she asked. A crack in her voice - a tear springing from her eye that hadn’t been there a moment before, rolling down her cheek. “You wouldn’t take that risk, Bennett? To bring him back?”

He wanted to say no, but it got stuck in his throat. She still grieved for him, as hard as he ever did, and it annihilated the space between them, blurred the final lines.

He pushed his chair back and got up - he needed a second. Not to be looking at her, not to be sharing feelings.

“Where are you going?”

are you leaving? don’t leave

He clasped his hands behind his head, breathed in and out, shut his eyes.

say something say something say something say something-

“There’s gonna be a hearing tomorrow,” he said, cutting off the flood of her thoughts she couldn’t control. “Or, not a hearing. A discussion, I guess.”

He turned to face her again; she was listening with rapt attention. She hadn’t been told yet.

“They’re gonna talk about whether there’s any kind of precedent they can fall back on for this, anything at all. I don’t know if they want me there as a witness or a human lie detector, but they asked me to stay for it and I’m staying. After that, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll see you again, maybe I won’t. I have to think this-”

He gestured to the space between their heads again, at a loss for what to call it. “This’ll fade with time and distance. It’ll have to. It can’t stay forever.”

It couldn’t, could it?

#tw: suicidal ideation #tw: swears #tw: prison #writing #writing snippet #writing excerpt #original novel #my wip #oc: callie #oc: simon

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collapse-and-comfort · 3 years

Text

Sudden Movements

I wrote this a while ago but I can’t find it anywhere on here, so I’m reposting it! I love the “character wakes up in a mental institution trope.” Please enjoy my self-indulgence!

Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E

(CW: Forced Sedation, Mental Institutions, Restraints)

It was late morning when Illya resurfaced, thirsty and aching.

His tongue felt too thick in his mouth. Light played off the beige walls.They were far removed from the dank, concrete walls of the other place.

Where, then? And why?

His sluggish mind supplied no answers. The inability to immediately translate stimuli into meaning grated on him, and made his heart rate pick up. Sweat spiked on his brow, and when he tried to raise a hand to brush it away he found that his wrists were bound to the bed. His ankles, too. He tried to lift his upper body to afford himself a better view, but the heavy leather strap across his chest prevented that. His breathing escalated as he began to struggle. The binds had limited slack, though the cuffs were padded. He was not meant to do damage to himself, then. He supposed he should have been grateful they weren’t steel manacles, but this was a different sort of captivity.

The more he moved his hand, the more he felt the vein in his left hand burning. There was a needle there. He didn’t have to see it to know it. His eyes traced up the IV line, though he couldn’t see where it terminated. That explained why his mind and body were so slow, but he didn’t know what chemical was being fed directly into his veins. The thought made him tug harder, but without any real coordination.

“It’s alright,” someone said. The unfamiliar voice coupled with the hand that was placed on his thigh was the final straw.

“Nyet! ” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and the fear in his voice jumbled with the effects of whatever drug he was on created a foreign sound, utterly devoid of self or sense. He struggled even harder.

“You’re safe, Mr. Kuryakin. Please try to calm yourself.”

The pressure of the hand became more assertive, and the voice attached to it had raised in volume, but remained calm and entirely reasonable. For a moment, the man at his side had been someone else. Someone he didn’t think he’d ever escape.

He’s dead, Illya reminded himself.

With his energy flagging, Illya’s breath hitched and he turned his head on his pillow to see the voice’s owner. His eyes were gray, and downturned at the corners. They appeared kind. He had white hair and a white beard. He sported a paunch. His mouth was a thin line, but that fact did nothing to detract from the friendliness of the smile that greeted Illya.

“ Gde? ” He rasped.

He gave a final, pitiful tug at the restraint on his left wrist as his unhealed wounds dogged him as well. He drew in a juddering breath, and translated himself on his exhalation.

“Where?”

He searched the stranger’s face. The man nodded, and with a pat on Illya’s leg, he leaned back in his chair.

“You’re safe,” he said with an understanding smile. “You’re-”

“Where?!” Illya’s entire body tensed and pulled at the leather restraints before panting with the exertion and hating how scared he sounded. “Who are you?!”

The man’s eyes narrowed, not in anger. Rather, they seemed to focus even more intently on Illya. Another figure stood -How long had he been there? -with his arms crossed. He cut an imposing figure, and he looked down at Illya with disapproval. Illya’s muscles tensed even more, and his eyes flashed a warning despite the fact these people could do anything to him, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. The thought made him want to both fight and scuttle away, but neither was a viable option.

“Everything okay?

“Everything’s fine, Paul.”

“I’ll be outside,” Paul said before casting another dubious look at Illya and disappearing out the door. Illya glared after him until the doctor spoke.

“My name is Doctor Vaughn,” he said. He kept his tone slow, and careful as though he worried Illya would misunderstand. “This is a private facility in upstate New York. You suffered a mental breakdown after your rescue, after which Alexander Waverly had you brought here for your own safety.”

Illya’s head swam.

He’d spent over a month denying he’d ever heard the name Alexander Waverly. Now here it was, casually stated. A fact. One of the people responsible for saving him. The person who put him here.

“You’re…” Illya trailed off. Vaughn was what? Lying? Playing a horrible joke? Crazy?

Illya swallowed and really regarded Vaughn, who looked down at him with what appeared to be earnest sympathy. Perhaps he was waiting for Illya to continue with that tack. Illya laid his head back on the pillow. Waverly wouldn’t betray him like this. No, there had to be a good reason.

“Why?” he whispered.

Vaughn nodded and scratched his chin as though he were pondering the parameters of Illya’s question. Illya opened his mouth to ask again -why was any of this happening? -but Vaughn laced his fingers in his lap and began to answer.

“What you went through on your last mission -your imprisonment, torture, the loss of a younger agent -”

Morgan, he thought.

Illya closed his eyes and shook his head. The darkness did nothing to curb the disorientation. Or the guilt. He was surprised by his binds again when he tried to cover his ears. He groaned. He couldn’t prevent Vaughn from saying those things anymore than he could prevent himself from hearing them.

“-these things have left you compromised. Hurting.”

Illya opened his eyes to meet Vaughn’s. There hadn’t been any condemnation or ire in Vaughn’s voice, but Illya flinched just the same. He was a broken thing to be fixed. A lump formed in Illya’s throat and he choked back the words ‘I’m fine.’ The ridiculousness of the thought didn’t escape him, even in his drugged state. A dark chuckle dredged its way out of him. It was a sludgy sound that in no way qualified as laughter.

“We want to help you process. To heal. We’ve been trying to stabilize you this past week...”

Illya opened his mouth to insist he needed no such help, but fell silent when Vaughn’s words sunk in. A week?! That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be, could it? He’d been rescued, and returned to U.N.C.L.E.’s headquarters, and then…

“You were, understandably, having difficulty adjusting after your rescue. A few weeks afterward, you suffered a collapse of sorts. Do you remember?”

Illya’s body went hot and he was certain he was going to be ill. There were patches of memory, but what led here? Illya swallowed his dread and remained silent.

“It seems you had an episode, during which you broke a fellow agent's arm, and the nose of another,” Vaughn continued.

A tiny noise escaped Illya’s throat. He could remember that old, familiar loss of control; everything going red. But there had been something else, too. There hadn’t been just rage. There had also been fear, and the need to escape. That same hideous desperation was clawing at the edges of his consciousness now. The memory of crunching bone made his stomach roil. It was less the recollection of the sound than it was the memory of the force and unmitigated fear that had propelled his actions; the lack of control.

“I understand spells like these, these dissociations, are not necessarily a new affliction for you.”

There was no accusation in Vaughn’s voice, but Illya didn’t respond.Those spells rendered him dangerous. He knew that, but never against his fellow agents.

Illya wanted to weep. He could have pulled in great, gasping breaths, but he clenched his jaws as though to keep his agony behind them. He dragged air in and out through his nose. He was aware of the pitiable sound it made. Tears stung his eyes. He swallowed hard and finally gasped for breath.

“I cannot be here,” Illya said as his eyes searched Vaughn’s. He began to pull at the restraints again, though he knew full well they wouldn't give. He couldn’t help it. He dug his feet into the mattress to compensate for his upper body's lack of mobility. He strained against the strap across his chest.

“It’s okay, Mr. Kuryakin,” Vaughn said as he stood. He did so with the fluidity of a man many years his junior. He disappeared from the room for a moment, but returned shortly thereafter with Paul in tow. “I appreciate that this is difficult, but I promise we are here to help you. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Illya caught sight of the syringe Paul had, and redoubled his efforts. He panted and cursed, not caring how crazed he might look; how dazed, and stupid, and ineffectual. Or how afraid. The restraints dug into his skin as he pulled. Vaughn advanced on him reciting calm, practiced assurances, the bulk of which were lost on Illya.

“NO!”

“Ssshhh, it's okay, Illya. It’s alright,” Vaughn said as he placed one hand on Illya’s left shoulder, and another on his left forearm. “You need the IV in for now. Paul is just giving you something to help you calm down. It’ll help. It”ll help.”

Paul loomed somewhere out of Illya’s line of sight, and Illya could hear similar, less sincere assuagements from him. Vaughn patted Illya’s shoulder. It was difficult to say if there was any condescension in the gesture, but the audacity of the gentleness made Illya wild with mistrust and the need to be free. The muscles and blood vessels in Illya’s neck and throat stood out in alarming relief as he continued to lunge, pull, and twist to try to see Paul.

“Do not touch me!” he snapped as his attention shifted between the two men. “No! No!”

It was too late.

Paul walked back into his field of vision. A cold burn crept through his veins, the source of which was stealing what remained of his senses. He willed himself to keep fighting, but thought did not translate to action. The forcefulness of his resistance ebbed, and the sound of his own erratic breathing filled his ears.

This isn't fair, he wanted to say as he felt his muscles go lax. The frown on Vaughn’s face told Illya that he would sympathize. Paul and Vaughn gently moved Illya’s limbs so that they were not bent uncomfortably.

“Nuh…” Illya mumbled. The shapelessness of the word ignited something in Illya, but it was snuffed out as quickly as it sparked. His world tilted and blurred.

“Rest,” Vaughn said. “This will pass.”

#tmfu #illya kuryakin #mental isntitutions #forced sedation #restrained #involuntary commitment #the man from UNCLE #psychiatrists #drugged #post trauma #mentions of dissociation #poor illya #I love him #I've always been pretty chuffed with this one.#released into the wild

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