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neonacity · 3 years

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HYACINTHE | CHAPTER 4: JAEMIN X READER

SUMMARY:

Na Jaemin is far from being your typical 20 year old. Instead of slaving through college, he wastes away his hours cracking safes. Weekends that should be spent partying with friends consist of illegal races on good days and small scale bombings on bad ones.

Na Jaemin is far from being average, unless you consider being a member of Seoul’s top organized crime family normal. There is no such thing as a sense of normality and peace in his trainwreck of a life, so when he met a barista who was brave enough to call out his dangerous taste in coffee, he was like a moth to the flame. Everything about her is normal, which means she is forbidden to him, in all sense of the word. So why, then, does he always find himself at the front steps of her shop, breaking all his personal rules even if he wishes he could stay away?

A/N + Disclaimer: this is a side story to Black Daisies, my main mafia fic feat. 0T23. While the plot is based on the main story, this can also be read as a standalone fic. As usual, this is purely a work of fiction and in no way am I implying any member of NCT to behave the way I write them here.

TW: crimes, heists, potential death, mentions of drugs and other illegal activities.

PAIRING: Jaemin x Reader

CHAPTER 1 / CHAPTER 2 / CHAPTER 3 /

FIC TRAILER

MASTERLIST

"Hi. Can I have one iced americano, no sugar, with an espresso shot, please?"

My hands froze and hovered momentarily on the drink I was preparing as I heard a male voice say that from the counter. I didn't turn around to check who it was, but my boss—who is currently helping me man the cafe today—was quick enough to dash the pit-pattering of my chest. He hooked the order slip on the board in front of me and my eyes immediately raised to read the name there.

"One to-go, americano for Youngho."

I sighed internally. Whether it be from relief or disappointment though, I don't really know. A part of me wanted to be in denial of my emotions, but I realized you can only go so far if the person you are trying to fool is just yourself.

It's been almost three months since that night that I last saw Jaemin. I wish I didn't know the exact number of days that passed since then, but I do and I couldn't help it. Every little detail of what happened was still marked fresh in my mind, especially the feeling of hollowness that exploded in my chest when I woke up that morning to see them gone.

If not for the chip on the edge of the table left by Jeno as he tried to hold a half delirious Haechan down that night, I could have easily brushed off everything as a fleeting dream. But it isn't. It is a nightmare, at least in my part.

He really meant it when he said he would leave me alone.

There were no calls, no messages, no visits, nothing. It was like he didn't exist at all, the past year spent with him nothing but an imagined illusion.

We were back to being strangers again, exactly like how he wants to. If you think about it, it's selfless of him to do this, but I hate it. I hate it with everything I have.

Why? Because now I have to live through the feeling that I'm the only one suffering from all of that has happened. I couldn't watch the news anymore without thinking about him. For heaven's sake, I couldn't even get an iced coffee order without freezing like a statue because I remember him. I hate it. I hate every single moment without him, as much as I didn't want to admit it.

I placed the plastic cover over the finished drink with a soft sigh before turning to hand it over to the customer. At least I can still manage to put out my well-practiced, service smile.

"Iced Americano for Youngho," I called out into the receiving area as I slipped a straw on the cup sleeve. A tall man looked up and walked over to me to receive it.

"Thank you for coming to Brick and Beans. I hope you visit us again soon," I said in autopilot, my words so well-rehearsed that I didn't even have to think through while delivering them. The customer smiled at me before giving me a wink.

"I sure will. Thanks for this, sweet cheeks." He turned and left the shop, leaving me slightly confused.

My attention was then called by my boss who had just finished wiping down the counter. The man—who really has been more of a father figure than an employer for me—gave me a warm smile and motioned me over.

"Can we talk? I have something to tell you."

I briefly glanced at the clock. It isn't my break time yet, but the store is empty so I guess it will be fine. I shrugged.

"Sure."

"Grab a cake for you and me while you're at it," he nodded towards the pastry fridge before walking towards the nearest empty table. I wordlessly took two slices of basque cheesecake, his favorite, before following him. The man has a mean sweet tooth and we both know it.

He was silent for a little bit as he took the fork to take a bite of his treat. I waited patiently for him to speak, hands politely folded over my lap.

"I'm going to sell the cafe."

I blinked and stared. I wasn't expecting that at all.

"You're… what?"

He sighed and leaned back against his seat. He looked a little sad over what he just said but he managed to offer me a small smile.

"I'm getting older. You know how much I love this place because I started it with my late wife, but I really can't continue to manage it anymore. My children, unfortunately, do not have any plans of continuing the business. And they've been asking me to retire, too."

I nodded slowly, taking the news bit by bit.

"Do you already have a buyer, ahjussi?"

"I do. It is kind of strange, actually. Someone offered to buy off the franchise at such a perfect time. And for a very good price, too."

That made me smile. I've had this job ever since I started college so it makes me a little sad that it's going to have a new owner, but I really am happy for him. I just hope whoever buys it off takes care of it really well. The old man loves this place to bits.

I felt him take a hold of my hands from across the table. I looked up and was met with a fatherly smile.

"Don't worry. You won't lose your job. The new owners said that they aren't planning to change anything here and I told them that they had to take you with them."

That made me almost want to burst into tears. I squeezed his hand back in return.

"Ahjussi... You didn't have to do that. I can always look for another job." Who am I kidding? I know it will be hard for me to land another sideline especially with all the financial hiccups I am already dealing with so this is really sending me over to the edge of tears.

"Nonsense. You are part of this business. You've done so much for this place so you deserve this. Don't worry, they said yes to my condition."

I gave his hands another squeeze and he answered back with a fatherly pat.

"Thank you…"

"You're welcome. Just promise me, when you become a doctor, you'll give me free checkups, okay?"

"No, I won't. Because you will always be healthy and won't need my help at all," I said with a wrinkle of my nose.

That sent the two of us laughing.

"When will the new owners take over?"

"By the end of the month," my eyes rounded with surprise and he nodded in understanding. "I know, I know. It really happened too fast. I can't turn down the offer though. To be honest it was way beyond what the business is worth."

I sighed. "Well… as long as you are sure about them."

"I am. For now, I'll be here for a bit with you. I just need to enjoy my last days here. So just don't mind your old man, okay?"

I grinned.

"Only if you promise to give me a free cake every day you are here."

He reached out to ruffle my hair.

"Deal."

----

It was a slow day at the cafe so my boss decided to turn down the jazz music that usually floats from the speakers in lieu of the television volume. It was an odd hour in the afternoon and I found myself smiling as I watched him flip the channels over to look for a good show to watch while I dried some mugs. Just then, the overhead bell on the door dinged, welcoming with it a pair of uni-looking kids.

My boss looked over, but I was quick to jump to action instead. "I'll take care of it," I mouthed to him, to which he gave me a smile before turning his attention back to what he was doing.

"Hi. Welcome to Brick and Beans. What can I offer you today?"

"We'll have one dirty chai latte and one irish coffee over ice. Make it to go. "

The couple offered their names and I nodded as I punched their orders on my POS. "Would you like some pastries to go with that?"

"No, that's all."

"Got it, you can wait over there to the side. I'll have your drinks with you shortly," I said with a smile. The girl pulled the boy over into the receiving area to continue their conversation.

"So what I'm saying is, we gotta go. Tonight is going to be epic. The bets will be high for sure. We can get some mean cash if we put it in the right car."

The other gave a soft snort and started drumming his fingers against the wood of the counter. I let their conversation act as white noise while I worked behind the bar.

"I don't know. You're not even sure who is going to be there."

"Jeno is in the line-up. That at least is confirmed."

I dropped the metal scooper I was using on the floor with a resounding clang.

The three others in the room looked over to me as I hurriedly picked it up with shaking hands. I gave all parties a sheepish look before turning on my back to continue what I was doing.

This time, I was full-on listening.

"If Jeno's going to be there, then it is a goner. There's no chance for others. It'll be full-on suicide," the boy said thoughtfully. The girl, however, shrugged in reply.

"They said the others might come, too. You know, to make the run a little bit more balanced," she offered.

"You mean the seven?"

"The Four, at least."

"Oh shit."

"Uh-huh. So I'm telling you, we gotta be there man. If we can't bet then fine, but we have to see it. It’s been ages since they actually went on lane."

I didn't really know how I managed to finish what I was doing, not with how hard my heart was beating in my chest. I'm not sure how many Jeno's there are in this part of town, but I am sure as hell that there is only one who is a member of a seven-piece 'group.'

"Here's your order," I said thinly as I pushed the finished drinks over to them by the counter. The boy offered his card and I took it quickly, all the while thinking of what I should do next. The few seconds of me typing away at the terminal was the longest quarter minute of my life.

"Here's your receipt. Thank you for coming and see us again," I said, my voice a little weaker than usual. The couple gave a quick bow before turning to leave, drinks in hand.

There are two ways this could go. I could let them out of that door and have my only possible chance of getting in contact with any of the boys leave with them. Or I could call after them and…

I whipped around to call out to my boss, my figure already halfway out from the bar.

"Ahjussi, I'll be back in five minutes, sorry. I promise I'll be quick!"

He had barely looked up when I started running out the door.

-----

"Excuse me!"

The duo looked back at me, then at each other in confusion as I tried my best to hurry up to them without landing on my face. God, why do they walk so fast? They were just a few seconds ahead when they left the shop! Thankfully, they stopped at my call, giving me a chance to skid before them as I tried to catch my breath.

"Um… Is there a problem? We paid, right?" The boy asked me with an odd look. I waved my hand before finally trying to answer.

"Yes. I uh—"

Well, I obviously didn't plan this out clearly. How do I say this now without sounding like a lunatic?

"I heard your conversation earlier. You were talking about Jeno."

The pair exchanged glances again, this time tinged with suspicion. It was the girl who answered this time.

"Yes, we were. What about it?"

"I… I just want—to maybe know where he is? You were talking about tonight's—"

"The drag race?"

I stopped for half a heartbeat before nodding.

"Yeah. The race. I wanted to come, too, but I don't really know the address."

The boy cocked his brow at me in blatant suspicion. It took all of me to pull out all the basics I learned from drama class back in high school to remain calm before his withering glare.

"You know Jeno but don't know the address? That doesn't make any sense," he said as he crossed his arms over his chest. "If you've been in one before you should have been included in the text blast."

Oh shit.

I could feel my palms growing cold from nervousness. Still, I tried pushing on.

"W-well, I was invited before by one of them. But then things fell apart and I started not getting any of the...texts anymore," I said, not having the slightest idea of what I am saying myself. What's ironic though was that what I just blurted out was sort of a half-truth, too.

Apparently—and miraculously—it also made sense by the look of understanding that dawned on their faces.

"I see…" the girl trailed off. She cleared her throat and looked at her friend before glancing at me again.

"Look, I can give you the address, but promise me that you never got it from me when someone asks, okay?" She asked. The boy looked at her incredulously.

"Are you crazy? She was already shadow banned!"

She shushed him and waved her hand off to shut him up. "Look, this is a girl thing. Don't mess with it. Just go ahead to the car, I'll take care of it."

He scoffed but stalked off towards the direction of the parking lot.

She turned towards me again and pulled her phone from the pocket of her leather jacket. I watched as she unlocked the screen before showing it to me.

"Do you have your phone with ya? Here, take a photo of this address."

I swear I could almost kiss her. I scrambled to get my phone from my back pocket and didn't waste another second to take a snap of her screen.

"Thank you so much."

She nodded in understanding before locking her phone again and shoving it into her pocket. "Hey, a girl's gotta stand up for another. Who was it? Was it Haechan?"

"Um…"

She didn't wait for me to finish.

"Really, whoever it is among them, I can't really blame you. They're all cute, but they do need to be taken down a notch when it comes to girls. Those boys," she tsked. "Dangerous."

Oh…

Oh. She thought I was an ex-fling who wanted to teach one of them a lesson by crashing the race. I let that sink in before a frown settled on my features.

Well, aren't you one? The devil on my shoulder cackled at me sardonically.

"Glad to have helped though. But remember, you didn't get it from me, okay?"

With a wink, she strutted off, leaving me staring at her retreating form.

----

I told myself I simply wanted to see him again.

I reminded myself that for the hundredth time tonight as I parked my car on a free space by a gravel road, my eyes roaming the darkness beyond. The place looked deserted, and I had to do one last check if I really put in the right coordinates on my map before finally turning off my engine. The road beyond was wide but uncemented and to its left is a half unfinished building with metal banisters reaching out to the sky like skeletal arms. I swallowed. Every little thing about the space beyond screams danger.

Which probably means I am in the right place.

I reached out to zip up my jacket and pulled the hoodie over my head before getting out of my car. My sneakers crunched on the gravel as I made my way towards a low wall circling the building beyond.

Just try and take a look. You don't have to talk to him. You can keep your distance.

I repeated that in my head again and again as I approached what I assume to be the entrance. A part of me still wants to berate myself for doing this but I am too far gone to try and play the denial game again. I want, no, I need to see Jaemin's world.

The moment I passed through a crack on the wall, it felt like I stepped into a different world. It opened up into an even wider area, the shadows of a multi-lane road behind the abandoned building beyond. Milling around is a throng of people, some smoking, others sipping on red cups on their hands. Some cars were parked against the wall I just passed, their headlights on with music booming out of their rolled down windows.

I tried to swallow the lump on my throat as I looked around. Already, I felt out of place in the crowd, but I steeled myself to push on, my hands digging deeper into the pockets of my jacket.

"Hey."

I looked up to see a boy around my age wave at me. He was also holding a red cup and what looked like a bundle of paper. My eyes widened as that came into focus when he got closer.

Money.

Wads and wads of cash.

"You put your bets already?" He asked as he stuffed the bills into a small belt bag hidden beneath his oversized shirt. He pulled his phone out then, unlocked the screen, and looked at me, waiting for an answer.

"Uh…"

He gave me an odd look.

"Who are you betting on?" He asked again.

I gave the first name I could only think of.

"Ja-Jaemin," I stuttered.

That earned me a low whistle from him as he typed away at his phone, probably to record my choice of 'player.' "I don't know, man. Dude seems pretty out of it lately, but whatever floats your boat." He stuck out his hand to me then, and it took me a few seconds to realize what he was asking for.

"Oh," I scrambled to grab my purse. I was in the middle of pulling my card from my wallet when I saw his face. Slowly, I put it back to reach out for bills instead.

"Cash only."

I sheepishly handed him the last few hundreds I have. He took them, expertly flipping through each bill to count them off.

"First time, eh?"

I nodded.

I watched as he slipped the money into his already overflowing belt bag, thinking that he would leave after that. Instead he nudged his head towards the direction of the building and motioned me along.

"Come on then. At least try and get a good look at your first race."

I blinked in confusion but ran after him as he started walking away.

We stopped at the front row of the half ring of people that had already gathered in front of the abandoned rafters. Just then, a huge spotlight shone over the road behind it, driving everyone to erupt in cheers. Parked in a single line at the foot of the road are five cars, headlights opening one by one.

"Jaemin's the yellow one," the boy nodded towards the one occupying the third lane. I stared. I know next to nothing about cars, but I know enough to be sure that none of the ones in front of me now are something you can buy from your run-of-the-mill auto dealer. Lowered, with shining reams, and a low motor hum that reverberated to where I was standing, I could only briefly compute in my head how much each of those customized rides must have cost.

I heard the boy beside me snort amusedly. "Your first race and you get to see this. I'm telling you, this happens once in a blue moon," he said with a smirk. I didn't say anything, my gaze never leaving the yellow car.

Slowly though, I noticed the crowd's noise die down dramatically the same time that a petite form walked out from the building. The woman stopped in the middle of the road and raised her hand into the night sky, a small pistol in her grasp.

Everyone has gone so quiet now that you could almost hear a needle dropping. Just then, the resounding bang of a gunshot pierced the air. Few other large spotlights turned on simultaneously, revealing the snaking road ahead that was disguised under the darkness earlier. I gasped. The roaring sound of engines blared beyond and with a new uproar from the crowd, the cars were speeding ahead, leaving trails of light in their wake.

My heart was beating so hard against my chest as I tried my best to follow the speeding cars ahead. I was only able to comprehend the real expanse of the road the moment each ride took over its lanes—the place looked more like an abandoned air dock field more than anything else. I was barely aware of my nails digging on the palms of my hands as my eyes switched from Jaemin’s car and the others, particularly on the deep red one that he was currently toe in toe with. The space between the two were a hair’s breadth away and I could almost swear their sides would collide any second.

That went on until a curve on the road appeared. It was the last turn before the finish line and the crowd turned wilder as the nose of each car tried its best to take the lead. I didn’t even realize that I was holding my breath until the last second when the yellow one took over the inner space of the road before swerving successfully ahead.

Everyone around me erupted in cheers. I gave my own gasp, hands covering my lips before joining the rest.

Jaemin’s yellow lambo parked on the finish line, the rest of the race participants trailing behind. I watched as his door opened, revealing his beautiful wide grin and tousled hair. He was glowing, cheeks flushed from the adrenaline. I was so caught up in the image that I barely noticed Jeno appearing from the red car, followed by Renjun, Mark, and Haechan from the other rides.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I watched with a smile as they huddled over Jaemin, playfully pushing and cajoling him for his win. They looked happy, carefree.

But it seems like they aren’t the only ones who were out there in the road. My gaze moved back to Jaemin's car when I saw his passenger seat open. As if in slow motion, a girl got out of it, wearing the same wide smile the others have. The group hooted at her as she joined their huddle.

That’s when I felt as if time has stopped.

The smile on my face slowly faded as I watched Jaemin wrap his arms around her before pulling her into a tight hug.

---

A/N: Hey guys! This is going to be the second to the last chapter of Jaemin’s side story! I originally wanted to finish it in one go, but I thought it would be nice to release the epilogue on Nana’s birthday! So yes, that’ll be out on the 13th, lol. Thank you so much to those who have continued reading this side fic! <3

Chapter 5 (END)

Taglist: @negincho, @springdaybreaks,

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sapphim · 3 years

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Mine Massacre - Cut Content

Cut content from DA2′s act 3 bone pit questline! The mine massacre quest was originally much longer than it appeared in game.

mine massacre journal entries

Go to the Bone Pit to assess the situation for Hubert. See to the workers who are sheltered in the mines. Return to Hubert in Hightown's market by day. Control of the Bone Pit was handed to the miners to settle a labor dispute. Control of the Bone Pit was wrested from Hubert to settle a labor dispute. The Bone Pit labor dispute ended when Hubert's guards killed the miners. The Bone Pit labor dispute ended when Hubert's guards killed the miners. The high dragon has returned. Kill it! The Bone Pit has been overrun by dragons. Slay them! Hubert was grateful for the dragons being eliminated. The high dragon at the Bone Pit was left to its own devices.

quest start

(Hawke completed act 1 quest The Bone Pit) Hubert: Catastrophe has struck, partner! We are ruined. Ruined! Hawke: [Calm yourself.] Don't panic. Tell me what happened. Hawke: [It figures.] It's always something with this mine. Hawke: [Spit it out.] I've no patience for hysterics. Tell me what's wrong. Hubert: A cart came back from the Bone Pit, half-wrecked, with a dozen mangled bodies! Hubert: The horse pulling the cart was the only survivor, and it does not speak! Hubert: Town full of rotten mages and not one can get answers from a horse? Hawke: [I'll go.] I'll see what's going on. Until then, try to stay calm. Hawke: [What would you do without me?] I'll check it out. You keep interrogating that horse. Hawke: [Enough. I'll deal with it.] If you've nothing relevant to add, I'll get to it. Hubert: I knew I could depend on you. Just like old times, partner!

(Hawke did not complete act 1 quest The Bone Pit) Hubert: Champion! Catastrophe has struck! I am ruined. Ruined! Hawke: [Calm yourself.] Don't panic. Tell me what happened. Hawke: [Do I know you?] Since I became Champion of Kirkwall, everyone wants a piece of me. Hawke: [Spit it out.] I've no patience for hysterics. Tell me what's wrong. Hubert: A cart came back from the Bone Pit, half-wrecked, with a dozen mangled bodies! Hubert: My mining operation could be in grave jeopardy, and no one can tell me what is going on! Hubert: I implore you, Champion! Go to the Bone Pit and set things straight! Hawke: [Isn't the Bone Pit cursed?] I've heard the place is riddled with misfortune. Why would you have a mining operation there? Hubert: I thought the rumors were exaggerated. The mine has been good for the city these last few years. Hubert: It provides hundreds of jobs for your own countrymen, Fereldan expatriates who would otherwise be on the streets. Hawke: [I'll go.] I'll see what's going on. Until then, try to stay calm. Hawke: [I have nothing better to do.] With the Undercity sewers backed up, I'll take any excuse to get out of town. Hubert: Oh thank you! I knew the Champion of Kirkwall would come to my aid. Hawke: [Maybe later.] I'll get there when I get there. Hubert: Please make time for this, Champion. With each passing moment, wealth is being lost. And lives too!

As released, Hawke goes to the bone pit, fights a high dragon, and returns with bad news for Hubert.

vanilla quest end

Hawke: A dragon attacked your mine. Everyone is dead. Hubert: Dear Maker! What of my equipment? Did it seem salvageable? Hawke: [You selfish bastard.] Unfortunately, your precious equipment didn't make it... and neither did your workers. Hawke: [Priorities first, right?] No. And neither did the workers who died trying to save it. Hawke: [Everything was razed.] The dragons scorched every last cart and shovel. Hubert: Oh, my heart! So many years of investment... I am ruined. Ruined! Hubert: I am sorry, Champion, I appreciate your help, but I sank all my coin into that rotten mine. I have nothing left to pay you. Hawke: [I'll take the mine.] Give me the Bone Pit. Perhaps in a few years I can get it back in order. Hubert: What? (Scoffs.) Fine, take it! I wash my hands of this cursed venture! Hawke: [I didn't do this for money.] I slew the dragon to protect the city. I need no coin from you. Hubert: Up-jumped bloody dog-lord.

In the cut content, however, Hawke finds Hubert’s hired guards outside the mine. Recorded audio for the cut content can be found on youtube.

cut conversation - Cara

Cara: Champion! I didn't think anyone was coming. Hawke: What happened here? Cara: The dragons caught us by surprise, coming down from the mountains. Cara: Robart, my best lieutenant, was watching for them, but... he's missing. Cara: We held back the dragons so the survivors could take shelter in the mines. Now we're clearing a way out of here. Hawke: [Are the miners safe?] You're not leaving without the miners, are you? Hawke: [So you're running away?] Better save yourselves while you can, right? Hawke: [What, are you cowards?] You should be protecting the miners. Why aren't you with them? Cara: It's not like that! We're clearing the way so they can escape before the high dragon returns. Aveline: A high dragon? So near to Kirkwall? Anders: Come now, high dragons are exceedingly rare, and I've already slain one of them. Hawke: A high dragon? Are you sure? Cara: I've read the tales of the Hero of Ferelden. The description matches. (Here the high dragon interrupts the conversation in some way.) Cara: Believe me now? We're running out of time! Cara: Champion, please go to the mines and get the workers on their feet. I'll watch the skies.

Cara: I'll guard this path. Please, see to the survivors.

Cara: Maker be with you, Champion.

Hawke finds the surviving miners in the mines.

cut conversation - Earl & Jansen

Earl: Champion, you're here! Jansen's asking for you. I fear he don't have long. Blue Hawke: Jansen. I'm here to get you to safety. We don't have much time. Purple Hawke: Jansen, my friend. You look a bit worse for the wear. Red Hawke: Jansen... help is here. Hold on.. Anders: He's dying. There is nothing I can do. Aveline: That wound has festered. It's... not good. Isabela: This one's beyond help. Fenris: The wound rots. His death is certain. Varric: That's a nasty wound. Jansen: The... Champion of Kirkwall. I knew you'd come. Earl: He's delirious. Been trying to tell me something, but I can't make it out. Jansen: I thought my life would be more than this... more than mines and dragons and that bastard Hubert. Jansen: But I gave my life to the Bone Pit, like so many others... Hawke: [I'm so sorry.] Forgive me. I would have saved you if I could. Hawke: [You're not dead yet.] Cheer up. While you still draw breath, there's hope. Hawke: [We don't have time for this.] Jansen, I need to get the miners to safety. If you've something say, make it quick. Jansen: I feel the cold creeping up. Not long till it stops my heart. Unlike Hubert, I can't live without one. Jansen: I overheard that bastard, talking to a guard—thought it was nothing till now. But he knew the dragons was coming. Earl: Hubert's a son-of-an-Orlesian-whore, but there's no way he'd leave us to die. Jansen: Listen to me! This mine's cursed—let it burn! Don't let it take another innocent life. Jansen: Please... Earl: No! No, not yet! We can still get out of this... Cara: Messere Hawke! We're too late. The dragon's returned!

Earl: Ah, Jansen. I'll drink a pint for you, my friend. Earl: If Hubert knew those dragons were coming... I'll crack his head open!

Earl: Best of luck. We're all depending on you.

After the high dragon is killed, Hubert appears outside the mine with the guards.

quest end

Earl: You saved us, Champion. When we reach Kirkwall, we'll send help for the wounded. Earl: Hubert! Now you show up? We watched our brothers die, all for your blighted pit! Hubert: How dare you! Without me, you would have starved to death in the gutters of Lowtown. Earl: That's better than filling a monster's belly! Hubert: Imbeciles! How could I predict the dragons would return? You bark like you are the only ones who lost something. Hawke: [Let's calm down.] Throwing accusations around doesn't help anyone. Hawke: [You're welcome, by the way.] In case you hadn't noticed, your dragon's dead. No need to thank me. Hawke: [Shut up, all of you.] Quit your shouting. Hubert: Yes, thank you Champion! I, for one, am both grateful and amazed... Cara: Robart? I thought you were dead. You were watching for dragons. Why didn't you warn us? Robart: Cara, I... I've got new orders now. Cara: Hubert? You knew about the dragons? Hubert: Just calm down and you'll be well compensated. Cara: Do you know how many died? And it's your fault! Keep your blood money. Hawke: [Hubert, please explain.] I assume there's a good reason you didn't tell me about the dragons. Hawke: [What were you thinking?] You knew dragons were coming and you kept it to yourself? Hawke: [You sent me here to die?] Was it your plan that the dragons would kill me? Hubert: Not at all! Hubert: Robart reported dragons in the region, but they could have gone anywhere. I simply wanted to avoid panic. Earl: And get every last hour of work out of us before we were eaten! Earl: To think I didn't believe Jansen. You motherless bastard! I'll rip out your shriveled heart! Hubert: Champion, talk some sense into your countrymen before they get themselves killed. I would rather not have to train new workers.

(Ending 1: Hawke takes the bone mine from Hubert.)

(Ending A) Blue Hawke: [I'm taking over as mine boss.] Coin can be earned again, but the lives lost can never be restored. Blue Hawke: Since they have sacrificed the most, the workers will own and run the mine, under my supervision. Hubert: What? After all I have invested— Blue Hawke: Hubert, you'll be a silent partner until your share's bought out. Hubert: Shit! Fine! I am sick of this pit anyway. I should have sold it years ago! Earl: Imagine that! We'll be owners! Earl: Be a lot of work to get this mine running again. First, we gotta get the injured back on their feet. (Ending B) Purple Hawke: [I'm taking over as mine boss.] As the person with the most impressive title, I'll make the decisions here, thank you. Purple Hawke: I'm taking over the Bone Pit, effective now! Red Hawke: [I'm taking over as mine boss.] You will give the mine over to me. Unless you'd rather pay with your life. Hawke: You men will have a safe environment and steady pay from now on. Hubert: Shit! Fine! I am sick of this pit anyway. I should have sold it years ago! Earl: No more taking orders from that Orlesian bastard! We'll be working for one of our own, now. Earl: Be a lot of work to get this mine running again. First, we gotta get the injured back on their feet.

(Ending 2: Hubert is killed)

Hawke: [The workers are right.] What you've done is indefensible. Stand down or face me. Robart: Sorry, Hubert. You can't pay me enough to cross swords with the Champion of Kirkwall and slayer of dragons. Hubert: No wait! I will double your pay... triple! Hubert: No! We can make a deal! How would you all like to be my partners? Hubert: (Screams.) Earl: I guess the Bone Pit's yours now. What are your plans? (Ending A) Hawke: [How'd you like to be partners?] The miners know how to run this place. I'll make you all co-owners. Earl: Imagine that! We'll be owners! Earl: Be a lot of work to get this mine running again. First, we gotta get the injured back on their feet. (Ending B) Hawke: [I'll be your new boss.] If you'll continue working the mines, I promise to treat you better than Hubert did. Earl: No more taking orders from that Orlesian bastard! We'll be working for one of our own, now. Earl: Be a lot of work to get this mine running again. First, we gotta get the injured back on their feet. (Ending C) Hawke: [I'm through with this place.] You and your fellows can have this blighted pit. I never want to come back here again. Earl: Aye, this place is cursed. Let's just walk away and never look back.

(Ending 3: the miners are killed)

Hawke: [It's your mess. Deal with it.] Hubert, I'll leave you to your problem. Hubert: What a bloody mess. Hubert: Thank you for dealing with the dragons. As promised, you are the majority owner of the Bone Pit now. Hubert: I will go draw up the paperwork. Men, leave the corpses to the crows.

assorted comments

Remarks from your party members during the quest:

Fenris: Most dragons kill for food or territory. These bodies were not devoured, so they must see this place as their own. Anders: They never stood a chance. Aveline: This was pure slaughter. Merrill: So many dead... Varric: I wonder if anyone could have prevented this.

Anders: So many injured... We'll never be able to get them all out in time. Aveline: So few survivors... and we'll lose more if we try to move them. Fenris: This cave stinks of death. These people won't leave here alive. Varric: Even were we all healers, it would be impossible to help everyone. Merrill: So many injured and dying...

Anders: Dragons. You never get used to the sight of them... Aveline: Dragons! The legends of this place must be true. They've returned to take what's theirs. Varric: Seems the dragons want their pit back. Merrill: After all these years, dragons have returned to the Bone Pit. Fenris: Dragons. Further proof this place is cursed. Isabela: I always thought dragons were supposed to be rare.

And comments from Hubert after the quest:

Hubert: I, eh, convinced the city guard to... overlook what happened at the Bone Pit. Hubert: I hired someone to post fliers in the refugee camps, so we shall have new workers before long. Hubert: The papers are in order. You will run the Bone Pit in my stead. Hubert: The papers are in order. The miners will run the Bone Pit themselves. Hubert: I never should have gotten involved with that cursed mine.

#cut content #da2 #dragon age 2

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butmakeitgayblog · 3 years

Note

“ I hope you like the new chapter “?? You kidding right

Cuzzz believe me dude.. we will read it with PLeasUrE! I mean come on Demon!lexa???

God i’m so excited, and I’m excited more that you said it will be a LONG chapter! Awesome.

Anyway i’m waiting the pain and pleasure in this story that i lovvee.

Ps : you promised us for 😆sneak peek 😆just a reminder don’t say I didn’t remember 🏃🏻‍♀️

Oh yeah you're totally right. And yeah it's now over 11k and I still have probably at least, at 👏 the 👏 least 👏, another 6k to go. But I'm betting more like 8k. Heyo ok anyway, happy last day of pride! Cheers to us queers 🍾🥂🏳️‍🌈

Snippet for chapter 8 demon au, forgive mistakes it's unedited and might change a bit between now and posting

Also go give love to sassymajesty it's her birthday today

/////////////

"Oh my God."

"You're very bad, Ms. Griffin."

She could only whine in agreement.

"Look at you. You're not supposed to be enjoying this this much."

Clarke clenched down at the loud slap to her ass. She hissed at the sting of it, rocking her hips on the silicon that pumped into her from behind.

Hands gripped at her waist and pulled her back into each rapid jog of hips, the clap of skin on skin ringing in her ears. Forehead pressed to the cool plastic of an industrial copier, she groaned and shook when the punishing rhythm quieted enough for her to breathe as sharp snaps of the strap slowed to deep, rolling thrusts.

Clarke arched at the feel of a hand smoothing up her spine to wind into the sweat sodden hair clinging to her neck. At a gentle tug, Clarke moaned and let herself be guided up, using the palms of her hands to support the weight of a warm body draping against her.

"Still good?"

Half delirious with a laugh and wiggling to get back the friction she had lost, Clarke felt herself dripping at the warm breath in her ear. "Mhm. Just fuck me, Lex."

"I think you mean 'Ms. D'Angelo," Lexa whispered, nipping at the fleshy skin of her lobe. "Remember, now. We keep things professional at the office..."

Clarke smiled to herself, biting her lip as she envisioned herself being pushed face-down back onto the copier. She checked her watch and glanced at the door, tapping her foot alongside the whirs of its rhythmic back and forth blinding neon light.

She thought of exactly how good Lexa's ass looked bound in buckles and strips of leather. How the harness they'd gotten the week prior sat in just the right way that it accentuated the lovely bubble-esque quality that made it all the more kissable.

Or biteable.

It really just depended on her mood.

A few solid raps sounded through the door as Clarke leaned back on the table beside the copier, a satisfied grin stretching across her face as she chirped a bright, 'Come in.'

The door opened and then slammed shut in a flurry of motion as a wild wave of chestnut slungshot into the room. Clarke let out a surprised yelp of laughter as the small space was crossed in two giant strides and hands cupped her face, pulling her into a messy kiss.

Lexa's groan was loud enough that Clarke worried for a moment that someone might hear. But the thought fell away just as quickly when fingers trailed to Clarke's hips, squeezing tightly and lifting her onto the table.

Clarke wrapped her legs around the waist that pressed into her, thanking last night's self for selecting such a forgiving dress.

"You… are driving... me crazy," Lexa breathed between kisses, pulling away just often enough to let fresh oxygen into Clarke's lungs. "What are you doing in here?"

"Making copies," Clarke smartly shrugged as dark eyes glistened in the low light.

"I am with a client," Lexa said with a needy sigh, resting her head against Clarke's as her hands mindlessly caressed thighs, hips, and chest. "A client and his father."

Clarke burst out in a poorly stiffled laugh. "Oh shit. My bad."

"Fuck, gorgeous," Lexa breathed, pulling Clarke's hips to the edge of the table and rocking onto her. "You are so bad."

A low moan rumbled through Clarke's chest as the words sparked fresh visions of her deviant daydream.

"What?" Lexa asked with dark eyes and an excited hum.

"Just something I was thinking about before," Clarke said, brushing a few curls from Lexa's face before letting her arms rest over her shoulders.

"And what were you thinking about?"

"You."

"Well that's certainly a relief," Lexa smirked as she peppered kisses across the dip of Clarke's chest. "It'd be awful for my ego if you were in here making me wet while thinking about someone else."

Clarke just grinned, sifting her fingers through the fine hairs that sat on the nape of Lexa's neck. "I thought that might get your attention."

"What has gotten into you today?"

"Boring day. Kept looking at those pictures you sent the other week. Wanted to kiss... Wanted to see you in this shirt again. Take your pick," Clarke said as she pulled Lexa back onto her lips. She swallowed Lexa's sigh and licked into her mouth only to have Lexa twist away with a wet pop.

"I have a client sitting in my office waiting to sign a contract."

"I can be quick."

"I don't want quick," Lexa shook her head as she grabbed Clarke's wandering hand that had been snaking its way under the belt of her skirt. "Let me finish this and we can take lunch right after. Go back to my place--"

"You have court at 1," Clarke sighed, deflating on the spot on the table.

"Fuck." Lexa hissed the curse as her eyes screwed moment for a minute, biting her lips as they popped back open a second later. Her breath picked up as she looked hungrily over the expanse of Clarke's body, hands squeezing once more at the swell of Clarke's thighs. "Okay… Okay. Come with me."

"What?" Clarke asked as Lexa took her hand and quite literally dragged her off the table.

Lexa leaned around her and grabbed a fresh pen from a box at random before tugging them toward the door. "Come with me to my office. We can pick this up when they leave. I'll just say I need a witness for the signing or something."

Clarke frowned as Lexa dropped her hand and flung the door open. "Uh. But you don't."

"Well they don't know that," Lexa whispered as she waved for Clarke to keep up with her pace toward her office.

"You're serious?"

"Yes. You stand there and look… God," Lexa swallowed as they pulled to a stop just outside her office door, eyes dipping down to the hint of cleavage that peeked out of Clarke's dress, "just like that. And then you conveniently remind me I have court in ten minutes so I can get them the hell out."

Before Clarke put up any sort of protest, Lexa turned the knob and glided back into her office with a flourish.

"Here we go," she announced, holding up the new pen in one hand and ushering Clarke inside by the small of her back with the other. "This is Ms. Griffin, a legal secretary here in the office and she'll be helping us today."

"I just wanna get this over with."

"Don't we all," Lexa sighed with a strained smile as she walked around her desk, leaving Clarke to stand awkwardly in the center of the room. "Now, you just sign these, and then Ms. Griffin and I will handle the rest. Sound good?"

A grunt was Lexa's only answer as she handed the pen over and pushed the stack of papers under his nose, Clarke reigning in a grin at the roll of her eyes. But still, Clarke waited patiently, hands idly picking at the hem of her blazer as she took in the pair sat in front of her.

A boy no older than possibly 17 sat hunched over and small to her left. Sandy hair buzzed in a high and tight cut and clothes starched to within an inch of their life, he looked as though he'd be more at home in a military school than in the confines of their humble law office. He didn't move, barely breathed through the scratching sound of his father's writing as Clarke watched him all but sink through the seat of his chair.

"You better thank your lucky stars this lady is willing to do this for you."

The low growl of words had Clarke frowning, shifting her eyes to the older man scribbling furiously through the stack of papers. His shoulders flexed with each rough flip of a page, his muscular body broad and tall enough Clarke wondered if he'd fit through the door without ducking.

"The pleasure's all mine," Lexa waved him off when the boy tipped his head lower and stayed quiet. "He's a good kid. Just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well that's the fuckin' problem, now isn't it," the man snapped as his head swiveled around to stare at his son.

And Clarke's stomach bottomed out at the sight.

The man from the street.

The temperature of the air inched upward as Clarke's eyes shot to Lexa, only to find her already looking back. A pleased smile played at her lips as a perfectly trimmed brow flicked upward. Clarke worked to control her breathing, jaw locked and hands balling full of the hem of her blazer as she tried to parcel out exactly what the hell Lexa was up to.

She knew Lexa always had her reasonings for doing what she did.

Always had a plan.

But fuck all if Clarke hadn't realized she was going to be a part of it. A damn courtesy heads up would've been nice.

"-- which is exactly the problem with you, boy," the man kept going through Clarke's silent freakout. "You don't get it. You can't seem to get a single thing through that thick, useless lump you use a goddamn hat rack."

And with no warning, he reached out a hand and slapped the boy over the back of his head.

"Mr. Trikru."

Lexa's voice echoed through the office, sharp and simmering with a quiet rage as they cut off his tirade.

Clarke halted in place from where she'd taken a few stumbling steps forward, dropping her hands that'd whipped forward as though to forcefully pull him away from the child who'd barely flinched at the blow.

Lexa's hand was steady as she plucked her phone from its base. "Finish signing the papers. Now." Her tone left no room for argument, eye dark and glued to the man who threw a final glare at his son and went back to writing.

A moment passed as Lexa murmured softly into her phone, holding up a finger when the last page was flipped and the pen tossed aside, before hanging up and folding her hands expectantly on her desk top. Clarke felt her chest rise and fall with a kind of confused and indignant rage because seriously what the hell was Lexa playing at?

Clarke nearly jumped at the tiny knock against the door, whirling around to see Raven's head pop through the opening.

"We all done in here?" Raven asked, her mask of professionalism firmly in place.

"Yes, we are. But I need to speak to Mr. Trikru for a moment alone," Lexa said with an easy smile, up and around the edge of her desk in just a few fluid steps. "Why don't you take this young man to the break room. Get him a snack or something."

Lexa all but yanked the kid up by his arm, ignoring how he tried to glance back at his father as she shuffled him toward the door. She coo'd a few pleasantries and assurances that it'd just take a moment, telling him to go crazy as she shoved a small fold of ones into Raven's hand and passed him off to her.

Clarke took a measured step back when the hulking man rose from his seat as Lexa shut the door and flipped the lock.

"What the hell are you doin'?" he thundered and crossed the office.

He stopped short when Lexa turned on her heel, eyes black and lips stretched in that increasingly familiar sinister smile.

"Teaching you some manners."

The sickly crack of her knuckles against his jaw made Clarke's stomach roll. She watched in stunned, horrified silence as Lexa punched him hard enough to send him reeling back. His knees buckled and he hit the ground with a dazed shake of his head.

A fist wrapped in the collar of his shirt before glassy eyes could stop rolling in his head. Another punch split his lip. Another caused his head to whip painfully sideways.

Lexa yanked him up by his shirt, slamming him into the wall beside the door. A growl vibrated through the thick air as her fingers wrapped around his neck and squeezed.

"Lexa," Clarke exhaled, her entire body shaking so badly she wasn't sure if she could walk.

But then she watched the hand clamped over his airway flex and lift him upward. His feet kicked uselessly and his eyes bulged from their sockets, his hands grasping and scrabbling at the locked arm holding him up.

Clarke's mind jumped into gear as his face became redder, his gasping more sporadic, his movements turning jerky and less desperate. She lurched forward, staring at the side of Lexa's face.

"Lex, let him go."

The growling only deepened.

"Lexa, let go of him," she snapped, raising her chin when black eyes turned to her with a snarl.

She licked her lips and steadied her breathing and said the exact first thing that popped into her head.

"You hate cleaning up messes at work."

The growling stuttered as Lexa's eyebrows furrowed together, her head tilting in obvious confusion.

"You told me you hate cleaning up messes at the office," Clarke rushed out, grabbing onto the one thing that Lexa had ever really complained about and riding the thought process to hell and back. "If you kill him right now, think about what you're going to have to deal with. There's gonna be an upset kid. Everyone's gonna freak out. Ambulances, witness statements. A literal dead body in your goddamn office. Think about it."

Lexa stared at her for a long moment, her jaw ticking in annoyance though, thankfully, the growling had stopped. And then without pause, Lexa loosened her hold and let him drop.

He crumpled to the floor in front of them, hacking coughs racking his body and his hands moved to massage his neck. Lexa squatted down, elbows resting on her knees as she leaned into his face.

"I think you should thank your lucky stars this lady was willing to do this for you, Mr. Trikru," Lexa spat in a harsh whisper. "But make no mistake... I will be seeing you again."

/////////////

#anon #demon!lexa

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stubbychaos · 4 years

Text

Mind Over Matter

Part 1

Pairing: Paz Vizla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: A particularly rough day at the infirmary leaves you exhausted and dead on your feet, but a familiar blue Mandalorian decides to make it a habit to walk you home--a habit that you think you can get used to.

Rated: M for darker themes. Please read with caution if you have any past experiences with abusive relationships or grew up in a toxic environment.

Word Count: 6.5K

Warnings: Descriptions of abuse, injuries and broken bones, though I tried to keep it pretty non-detailed. Extremely brief mention of drug use. Other than that, this is mostly heavy angst/hurt/comfort, with a dash of tooth-rotting fluff and tenderness.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

You see the blue Mandalorian four weeks and five days after your initial meeting.

Not that you’re counting or anything.

The heavy-infantry warrior is waiting for you after a particularly rough day where you don’t leave the infirmary until almost three in the morning, though he seems unfazed by being awake at such an ungodly hour, lazily leaning against the side of the building with thick arms crossed over his broad chest. Your wild mane must be an absolute mess after a sixteen hour shift, long locks fighting against the elegant braids you styled your hair into over half a day ago and your vision is borderline blurry as you almost walk past the Mandalorian without noticing him.

You’re not even aware of the way his visor slowly follows you as you tiredly stumble out of the infirmary, hellbent on getting home in one piece so you can get a couple hours of sleep before your next grueling shift.

You’re only a few steps past the massive warrior when he clears his throat loudly and you finally register his presence as you slowly turn around on your heels with narrowed eyes. You’re blinking owlishly at him to confirm he’s actually there and not some figment of your wild imagination, or some fatigue-induced hallucination, and you perk up a little when you realize that he’s really there. The vivid moonlight seems to emphasize the lighter blue in the hollows of his steel cheeks and you think his armor looks far more polished and less dingy than the last time you had seen him.

“You uh, hey--you--”

‘Way to speak so eloquently,’ You chastise yourself, realizing you’re making a fool of yourself when he cocks his helmet to the side as he seems to notice how fatigued and incoherent you are. Perhaps a cock of the helmet is the equivalent of a raised brow and you think he must be amused by your delirious state, though he doesn’t point it out and allows you to be a bit of a mess without making you feel bad about it.

“Saviin’ika,” He greets you with a polite nod, hands falling limply to his sides as he slowly approaches you, seeming completely docile and passive while he observes you through the guise of his shiny visor.

“Mandalorian,” You mumble blearily through a mighty yawn and you hear him sigh a little when you rub your burning eyes, though you remain as diligent as ever and force yourself to focus on any new wounds he might have obtained, “You’re not injured again, are you? I can go get my supplies if you need stitches again? I might even have some bacta pa--”

“No, saviin’ika, I’m not hurt,” He chuckles and you notice the way his visor seems to scan your face closely, making you feel self-conscious of the deep bruise on your flushed cheek and your sore bottom lip that is split in the middle and currently healing, “Had some business to take care of in the village. Thought I would check up on you.”

“Ch-Check up? On me?” You raise your brows at him and tiredly rub your eyes, suppressing another yawn before speaking, “At three in the morning?”

“It is only safe for me to come out when it’s dark and there are less people wandering these streets at this time,” He informs you, offering you his elbow, just as he had a month ago after your initial meeting, and you take it this time without any hesitation, “Because of the Empire, our kind are now nearly extinct and we have been forced into hiding; because I am the strongest in the tribe, I am usually the one chosen to go on hunts or provide supplies. When I come out of the enclave, it is solely to provide for my people and protect them.”

“And walk me home?” You add inquisitively, wincing when your little smile tugs at your sore bottom lip, “Which you really don’t have to do by the way. I appreciate it, but I don’t want you to have to feel obligated to check up on me. I know you may not think so, but I’m tougher than I look.”

“I never believed you to be weak, saviin’ika, and I do not feel obligated to do anything,” The huge warrior observes closely as you struggle to keep your heavy eyelids open and you think they must weigh as much as his armor; you wonder if the metal ever weighs down his body after an exhausting day and you can’t even begin to imagine how heavy that cannon must feel on his back, “I heard talk earlier of raiders wreaking havoc on shop owners and villagers. Wanted to make sure they didn’t steal shit from the infirmary again; you were already low enough on supplies as it was.”

You shudder when you think of the robbery from a couple months ago and you hate the feeling of helplessness that washes over you when you remember how overpowered you had been at the time.

Of course you still had the vibroblade that the Mandalorian had let you borrow, but you weren't exactly skilled when it came to wielding any kind of weapon and the raiders probably would have laughed at any feeble attempt to protect yourself. Still, it didn't stop you from carrying the weapon inside of the pouch you normally kept your credits in and you hoped that if the situation ever called for it, you wouldn’t hesitate to use the beautifully crafted weapon.

“You...” Your cheeks are burning at the way his tone softens a little when he confesses his worry, “You were thinking about me? About the infirmary? But you’re...”

“I’m what?” He huffs, stepping a little closer and towering over you in a way that you think is supposed to be intimidating, though you have to force your giggles away as he tilts his helmet downwards to regard you properly. For some reason, you find it difficult to find him imposing when he had once offered to let you stab him if you had simply felt threatened by his presence. You think that any hopes the Mandalorian had of intimidating you flew out the window the moment he surrendered and gave you one of his weapons, something so incredibly rare for the fearless warriors.

“Grouchy? Stubborn? Kinda cold and rough around the edges?” Your answers come out as more of a rapid fire of questions and when he cocks his helmet further, you quirk a brow up at him in a challenging way, “Besides, you were the one that said after you walked me home, I would never have to see you again.”

"Were you hoping for that?"

"No," You reply earnestly, still gazing up at him with a fond expression, "I'm glad you're here. Especially since I just got off from a sixteen hour shift and can’t even see straight," His helmet jolts to the side a little to get a better look at your face and you know he sees your newest injuries, along with the glossiness that shines in your unfocused eyes. His modulator picks up a strange noise that seems to get caught in his throat and you wonder what must be going through his head as he closely observes you, his helmet dropping a little bit.

You knowingly smile.

“You do care, don’t you?”

He huffs a little as you latch onto his elbow with both of your hands instead of just one and you’re surprised that he seems to miraculously remember the way back to your shoddy hut, easily guiding you through the bleak village where very few linger in the deserted streets. You’re grateful for the way his body is built like a brick wall, easily supporting your weight whenever you sway or sag from exhaustion. The blue warrior doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest by your vulnerable state, remaining diligent and cautious as he gently tugs you past a shady looking group of five or six men that barely spare you a glance, most of them glaring at the heavy-infantry warrior with disdain.

After working fifteen hour days--sometimes longer--every single day for the last three weeks, you find that your grueling job is catching up to you and you wonder if he had somehow sensed your extreme fatigue from wherever he had been working, though you don’t entertain the silly thought.

He had informed you that his main priority upon leaving the enclave had been to provide for his tribe; you had been nothing more than a lingering thought scratching at the back of his mind. Either way, you’re grateful that he had waited for your shift to end, knowing that tonight was probably the most you had ever been exhausted in your life. You can’t even see clearly or think about anything other than your uncomfortable bed and you’re certain that you’re in no condition to be walking home alone at such a dark hour where only the cruel emerged from their hiding places to prey on the innocent.

“I wanted to make sure those lowlife criminals didn’t steal medical supplies,” He insistently repeats, though something about the terseness laced in his deep, softer baritone makes you think he’s lying, “Besides, you don’t make for bad company, saviin’ika. Probably the only one I’ve met in this village that I don’t want to kill.”

The way he rushes through the last sentence has you grinning tiredly up at him, his visor barely glancing at your soft features before taking in your surroundings and scanning for any threats that linger in the sparsely populated village “So you were thinking about me, Mandalorian.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, little nurse,” He scoffs and you try to imagine the huge man underneath all the metal blushing or sweating from nerves, though you highly doubt there’s much that gets under his armor, let alone his skin, “Like I said, I already had business to take care of and happened to be in the area. Wanted to make sure you haven’t gotten yourself killed or accidentally stabbed yourself with my vibroblade.”

You roll your eyes, “If I recall correctly, you were the one that got stabbed, not once, but twice, in the same day. Besides, even if I was a fool that managed to stab herself, at least I have the mental capacity to fix my own wounds.”

He shakes his helm at the sass that suddenly fills your quiet voice, “For someone your size, you’re a ballsy little thing.”

“Only around people I know won’t hurt me over it,” You murmur, brows furrowing a little when you process his words a little more thoroughly, wondering if you’re starting to cross the line with him, “You did not strike me as the kind of man who would mind it.”

“I don’t,” He confirms your suspicions and squashes your worries, then for good measure, adds in another sentiment, “I am glad you do not fear me anymore, saviin’ika.”

You wince as a smile pulls at your split bottom lip, though you find it’s well worth the pain, “Me too, Mandalorian.”

He grunts and you wonder if all Mandalorians are bad at expressing their emotions with words, though you don’t think you mind as he urges you a little closer against his side when a cold breeze has you shivering. Perhaps he prefers speaking through little gestures and you think you prefer that over useless words and promises that can easily be broken.

You decide to stop teasing him then, not wanting him to grow uncomfortable around you and despite your better judgment, you can’t stop yourself from pressing your cheek tiredly against the small pad of dark brown leather that peeks out from underneath his pauldron. The cold sensation from the leather and metal feels good against your bruised cheek and you hope he doesn’t push you away, though you suspect he would have done so already if he was uncomfortable by your close proximity. Perhaps he senses that you need some sort of close contact with another human being where it won’t leave you feeling broken and absolutely terrified and for whatever reason, he’s willing to entertain your pathetic request.

You wonder if he enjoys the intimacy of someone who isn’t covered from head to toe in thick armor, if he ever craves skin on skin contact after spending an entire life surrounded by cold metal. Briefly, you remember the way he had tensed and how his chest had heaved a little the first time you touched his hot skin when you had been stitching up his stab wound and rubbing that bacta salve into bruised skin; you wonder how long it had been since he felt someone else’s skin against his own.

Does he ever crave it? The warmth of another human being? Does he ever long for a tender embrace after an unbearably long day of carrying the weight of heavy blue armor and massive weapons?

You aren’t even covered in metal, yet you often find yourself craving such intimate touches whenever you find yourself falling asleep at the end of the day, all alone and cold without the comfort of another. It isn’t necessarily something sexual that you yearn for, but something deeper where you can bare your soul and scars to another human without fearing their judgment. You aren’t sure if it’s love or companionship you wish for--perhaps it’s both--and you wonder if you would ever find someone who would accept you for everything you are and all of the hardships that came with loving someone like yourself.

“Keep your eyes open, saviin’ika.”

His deep baritone jolts you awake and you didn’t even realize you had stopped walking, your eyes closing as you sag against him and Maker… how long had it been since you slept more than one or two hours a night? Your eyes feel drier than the Tatooine deserts and your feet ache from all the blisters that had formed on your soles and the back of your heels after walking in ill-fitting boots nonstop for weeks.

Your back and neck both throb in pain from the position you constantly have to sit in whenever you’re patching up a patient or filing paperwork and your fingers feel horrifically stiff as they curl tightly into the blue Mandalorian’s elbow. There’s a horrible pin and needles sensation prickling painfully in each of your shoulder blades and you think you must have pinched nerves there--just another check mark on your seemingly never-ending list of afflictions.

You try to ground yourself before responding to your unlikely companion, willing yourself to not slur your words as you quietly speak up and ignore the fog that clouds your mind and makes it hard to think straight.

“S-Sorry,” You murmur even though his tone hadn’t been admonishing in the slightest, but more concerned than anything, “Just a little tired.”

“A little?” He scoffs again and for a moment, you fear he’s going to inform you that you are a fool for not taking care of yourself properly, “You look like you haven’t slept more than a few hours since the last time I saw you and… you look thinner--almost malnourished. Have you not been eating? Your body needs nourishment, saviin’ika.”

“I--” Your cheeks flush when he turns his helmet down to look at you and you sheepishly avoid the expressionless gaze of his shiny visor, “Credits have been a little sparse lately but uh, I’m fine, really! I’ll have a ration bar or something when I get home.”

You’ve always been a terrible liar and you’re certain he easily detects the slightly higher pitch of your tone and the way you gnaw on your bottom lip as you avoid his intense gaze. His visor is still pointed at the way your cheek is pressed half against his dull blue pauldron and half against the leather padding that pokes out from the metal and you wonder what he must think of you clinging so desperately to his arm, though you barely know him. Despite his huge, intimidating stature and his reputation as a fearless Mandalorian, you think that there must be something so soft and warm that lingers somewhere deep inside of him--far beneath the cracks of his metal armor--that he doesn’t get to display often.

Perhaps he’s just like you, having grown so accustomed and desensitized towards the cruelty and violence of others that he’s willing to take any soft touch and sweet, intimate moment that the Maker will allow him to have. It’s a peculiar thought--that you could have possibly anything in common with the massive warrior--but as he supports the majority of your weight against his side, you feel like you’ve never related to anyone more than the blue Mandalorian, despite your stark differences.

“I could…” He lets out a strange sound that sounds distorted and garbled as it gets stuck in his modulator; it sounds like a groan of frustration, though you think it’s directed more towards himself, rather than you, “I can carry you the rest of the way home, that way you can get some rest. You look like you’ve been on your feet all day.”

The sweet offer knocks the breath out of your lungs and while you’re utterly touched by his kindness, it also fills you with guilt that he would feel the need to go out of his way just to give you a tiny amount of reprieve, “Y-You really don’t have to do that. I just--I can walk--I’ll try to be faster, I-I promise! Besides, I’m sure you already have enough weight to carry around, what with all that armor and your weapons; I wouldn’t want to weigh you down anymore.”

“I’m used to the armor and weapons,” He insists, visor pointed at your pale face as he drops his tone into something gentler, though the deepness of it warms your cold cheeks, “You haven’t been eating or sleeping and you can barely stand up. Just… let me carry you home, saviin’ika. I don’t mind.”

“But--”

Before you can weakly argue with him, he easily slips his elbow out of the gentle grip of your hands and he’s bending down at the waist to slide a thick arm underneath the backs of your bare knees, efficiently knocking you backwards into the safety of his other arm. A graceless squeak escapes your mouth and your arms scramble to find purchase around his shoulders and neck as he effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, suspending you high above the ground and you think this is the most awake you’ve felt in the last month as you peer down at the rocky terrain beneath his big boots. Your stiff fingers painfully curl against the cloth that’s bunched up at his nape as he hikes you up a little higher up his chest so you can comfortably rest your head between his pauldron and the lip of his helmet.

“A-Are you sure about this? I don’t want to tire you out and--”

He huffs out an amused noise and you think you feel his chest rumbling a little, though it’s hard to tell with his cuirass in the way, “Do you think I would be doing this if I wasn’t sure? You don’t weigh anymore than my armor or weapons, little nurse.”

“‘M not little,” You mumble tiredly, giving in and nestling your face into a more comfortable position against his neck so his armor isn’t digging into the black and blue skin that’s covering nearly half of your face; your eyes grow unbearably heavy when you inhale his clean, spicy scent, “You’re just a big brute.”

He barks out a laugh then, making you pout a little against his neck, though you decide quickly that you like the unfamiliar warmth of his laughter, “You're not little? Sure, saviin'ika, and the sky isn't blue, water isn't wet, I'm not a Mandalorian, you're not a--"

"Okay, okay," You huff, trying your hardest to sound annoyed, though his sarcasm has you smiling against the soft material of his tunic, "Hush, Mandalorian, I am trying to get the rest you were so hellbent on me having in the first place.”

“Fine,” He grunts and you think he’s done antagonizing you for the rest of the small journey, but then he speaks your name softly and you think it’s the first time he’s ever used your real name, rather than some sort of nickname, “One more question and I’ll leave you alone.”

You make an inquisitive humming noise, barely paying attention, though his following question has your heart plummeting into the pit of your stomach, making you feel sick and nauseous.

“The bruise on your cheek and your lip… was that him? Your father?”

You’re actually kind of surprised it’s taken this long for the Mandalorian to say something, especially with how quickly he had called your father out on his deplorable actions during your initial meeting. For a moment, you contemplate just closing your eyes and pretending like you’ve already fallen asleep, but something tells you that the warrior is far smarter than most would think and you know he would be able to easily detect your facade.

You remain silent for a few seconds, thinking of the circumstances surrounding your painful punishment and you remember how you had initially told the Mandalorian that the bruises inflicted on you were for your own benefit, so you could be better. You think of how angry your father had grown at you two nights ago for no rational reason other than coming home high off of spice and already in a bad mood after a long day of work. Your eyes fill with tears and your chest heaves when you remember the weight of his palm colliding with your cheek and how hard you had hit the ground from the heavy blow; it had completely thrown off your equilibrium and the only reason you had stood up right away was because you had been forcefully yanked up by your bicep.

You remember forcing yourself not to scream later that night as you forced your aching shoulder back into its socket, not wanting him to wake up after he’d finally pass out.

“Saviin’ika…”

His voice is a low growl, but you swear you hear a soft twinge from somewhere beneath his helmet and something about it has tears burning your dry eyes.

Perhaps it’s just your imagination or wishful thinking.

“Does it matter, Mandalorian? It’s done and over with.”

“You say that, yet you know it’s only going to get worse,” He mutters and you feel the way his leather-clad fingers curl lightly against the inside of your knee, as if he’s trying to ground himself, “It may just be bruises and split lips now, but how long before it turns into broken bones and concussions? What will you do then?”

“Same as always,” You whisper, eyelids growing impossibly heavy as your body finally starts to give into exhaustion; you decide not to tell him you’ve suffered plenty of broken bones in the past and you’re more than capable of patching yourself up after a particularly painful punishment, “Survive… it’s the only thing I know how to do, next to helping others.”

“It is not what you deserve though,” He insists just as quietly and you think you hear the natural baritone of his voice from where your ear is pressed just underneath the lip of his helmet, “You would let him break your spirit so easily? Let him hurt you so badly without putting up a fight?”

“I think my spirit was broken long ago, Mandalorian.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever confessed such a thing and it leaves you feeling exposed like a livewire, terrified of anyone getting too close because you don’t want anyone to suffer because of your own trauma and emotional baggage. Something tells you that the blue warrior is all too aware of the atrocities that one can experience in a lifetime and you think it wouldn’t weigh down on him if you explained to him everything you’ve been through and everything you fear. You would like to think he would remain unwaveringly sympathetic and kind if you recounted the horrible torture your father had put you through since your mother’s death, but a tiny part of you fears that the powerful warrior would believe you to be weak--at least weaker than he already sees you as.

“I think you are wrong,” He argues quietly, sounding as calm and soothing as ever, “I don’t think you are broken, saviin’ika. Maybe a little lost and confused, but not broken.”

A tear trickles from your eye and you pray to the Maker that he doesn’t feel it soak through his thick cowl, though you know better and the Mandalorian is far more perceptive than most give him credit for, “Do you remember when you were walking me home the first time and you said I should fight for a better life? Do you truly believe there is any way I could possibly feel happy and safe on a planet like this, Mandalorian?” Your voice cracks a little and you tighten your arms around his muscular shoulders, thinking that even though you’ve only met this dark blue warrior twice, he’s been the only good thing to happen to you since long before your mother’s death, “I have come to terms with my fate long ago and I no longer feel sorrow or pity for myself, nor do I want you to feel it for me.”

“It is not pity.”

He’s repeating the same words you had spoken to him when you gave him that jar of salve, knowing he had nothing to give you in return and you nearly sob into the crook of his neck at the realization that he seems to remember everything from your initial run-in with him.

Most people forgot about you as soon as they left the infirmary.

“Then what is it?”

“I… I don’t know,” He answers honestly and you’re grateful he doesn’t come up with a lie to make you feel better; you didn’t take the big blue warrior for a dishonest man, “I just know I don’t like the way he treats you--the way he looked at you like you were nothing more than a burden than to him. Has he always treated you that way?”

You hum a little and bury your face further into the slope of his neck, “Please don’t make me talk about this, not when I already live with it every single day, Mandalorian.”

“Ni ceta.”

You don’t know what it means, but you take it as an apology by the regretful tone in his modulated voice.

Tears form at your waterline and you don’t have the strength to force them away when he lightly strokes your kneecap with a leather thumb. You don’t sob or make a show of your sadness and exhaustion, but you let his warm cowl soak your tears as they fall from your eyes on their own accord. It’s been a while since someone has held you while you cried--at least over a decade--and something about the way he comfortingly caresses your knee or says something in his sacred language every now and then brings you an overwhelming sense of catharsis that you have never felt in your life.

He’s murmuring something to you in that low baritone, but you find yourself being pushed under a massive wave of exhaustion after such a long day and it’s suddenly difficult to focus on his what he’s saying when all you long for is some rest and peace of mind. The taut slope where his shoulder meets the bottom of his neck is surprisingly comfortable and even though you had never been much of a drinker, his warm, comforting scent leaves you feeling delightfully intoxicated.

There’s a soft pressure rubbing circles against your ribs and he’s still murmuring, but everything is so hazy and his warm body isn’t doing anything to keep you awake or coherent of your surroundings and you realize just how much trust you’re putting into this man that you’ve only met twice. He could easily take you to some unknown location and take advantage of you, but you have no fears of him doing so and find yourself growing completely limp against his broad chest, your fingers unfurling from the bunched up material at his nape.

You’re trapped in a strange limbo between wanting to fall asleep completely and wanting to savor his warmth and deep baritone, but every now and then, you feel the Mandalorian curl his big arms tighter around you or you hear a deep murmur from underneath his helmet--always something in his native tongue.

If you ever see him again after tonight, you promise yourself that you’ll ask him what all of these words mean--what he’s calling you when he refers to you as ‘saviin’ika’--and you pray that you see the big blue Mandalorian again. You never thought that you would find solace in the massive warrior’s company or that he would have surprisingly gentle hands whenever he touched you, especially after all the stories you had listened to as a child. Since meeting him, you no longer fear the Beskar-clad warriors that live underground, but more so those who live above and torment and prey on innocent people for no reason other than to satisfy their own sick desires.

You childishly wonder what the Mandalorian thinks about you--what he feels for you.

Perhaps you’re just acting like a fool who has a crush on someone you don’t even know, someone whose face can’t even see, though you’ve never cared too much about physical appearances, especially when someone has a kind heart. You think that despite his cold disposition, the Mandalorian has a warm soul buried underneath all those weapons and armor and you wonder if he only displays it when he’s surrounded by his tribe and others he deems worthy.

Does he deem you worthy of exposing such vulnerability, despite only knowing you so little? Is there something different he sees in you that he’s never felt with anyone else in the village? Does he see something familiar and comforting whenever he looks into your eyes through the safety of his expressionless visor?

You wonder if you’ll ever find out the real reason as to why he sought out your company tonight, if he truly wanted to check up on you or if he genuinely enjoys your company.

His voice barely trespasses the fogginess that’s clouded your mind and you’re more than half asleep when you feel yourself slowly being lowered, dizziness washing over you as he attempts to remain utterly gentle. Realizing that you have been restlessly sleeping in his arms the entire way home, you turn on your stiff mattress until you’re curled on your side, the uninjured side of your face pressed into your flat pillow as you slowly convince yourself to give into exhaustion.

The Mandalorian, however, isn’t finished taking care of you and you barely hear him shuffling around as he pulls something from one of the pouches attached to his utility belt.

You think you’re dreaming when you feel something cold and tingly rubbing against your flushed, bruised cheek, though it’s not enough to cause any excess pain. You can feel rough calluses covering his thick fingertips and they promptly freeze on the apple of your cheek when they graze a particularly tender spot, causing a small whimper to expel from between your chapped lips.

The Mandalorian’s modulated voice is gently shushing you and you know you’re having some sort of sweet dream when you realize his hand is bare, simultaneously coarse and soft and so deliciously warm as it caresses your cold cheek and soothes the intense pain there. Eventually, the pain gives way a warm, numbing feeling and your breath catches in your throat when you feel that coarse skin glide along the bottom of your lip, stroking gently along the thin gash in the center.

A soft cry pierces through your lips, louder and sharper than the previous one, and you don’t know whether it’s from the dull, throbbing pain or from how tender the warm pressure is against the tender wound. Another hush has you slowly turning on your back and you force your eyelids open, realizing that you’re definitely not alone in your little bedroom. The blue Mandalorian is slightly hunched over you as he tentatively swipes a slippery thumb along your injured lip, though you feel the rough digit lightly graze your upper lip once or twice, despite it being completely unscathed.

You realize he’s using the salve you had given over a month ago for his ribs and when your eyes flicker to the jar that he’s holding in his gloved palm, you’re surprised to find that it’s barely been used, maybe only a quarter of it missing. The bright moonlight that pierces through your window emphasizes the bright blue gel and hesitantly, you let your eyes wander back up to the hollows of his cheeks and you find that the color is almost similar to the healing ointment in the glass jar he holds so gently.

He must not realize you’re awake because his helmet jolts a little when you speak in a breathy whisper, lips barely moving so you don’t ruin his skilled fingers that are tending to the minor wound.

“That salve was for your ribs, Mandalorian.”

“The pain in my ribs was annoying, but not unbearable,” His thumb continues to lightly rub the healing ointment against your plush bottom lip until it’s fully absorbed into the tiny gash and you can already feel the immense relief that follows in the wake of his rough digit, “There were others in the tribe who could have used it more than me.”

You smile sadly when he lightly strokes the apple of your cheek, inspecting the severe bruising there, “Yet you waste it on the nurse that gave it to you in the first place. My pain is not unbearable either, silly man.”

“It is not a waste,” He says in a cool, deep rasp and your eyelids slip shut when he strokes the tail of your brow soothingly, “Besides, it will be good for it to heal faster.”

“Mm,” You’re mind is growing hazy as he moves to the end of the bed to untie the laces of your worn boots and gently tugs them off, as well as your socks, “Why’s that?”

“The faster it heals, the less tempted I’ll be to leave the same marks on your father--or kill him,” The gruffness of his deep voice nearly makes you chuckle, but then you hear him utter something in his native tongue and he promptly speaks up again, “Your feet are covered in bruises and blisters; how long have you had these boots? The soles are completely worn out.”

“I’ve been living off of ration bars,” You tiredly remind him, gracelessly flopping onto your stomach and lightly kicking his hand away when you feel his thumb graze an intense blister on the back of your heel, “New shoes aren’t exactly high up on my list of necessities.”

He grunts his displeasure and you hear him shifting around a little before you feel his hand between your shoulder blades, followed by his deep voice; you think you hear something nervous brewing in his usually calm tone “Do you want me to take out your braids so your hair doesn’t get tangled?”

You pray to the Maker that he doesn’t notice the way you shudder a little at just the thought of more close contact with your unlikely companion, though you’re certain he hears the shakiness in your voice when you quietly speak, “S-Sure, if you don’t mind.”

He doesn’t say anything and you hear a bit of shuffling before the mattress next to you dips and creaks underneath his weight; it nearly makes you giggle at how massive he must look sitting on your little bed. The Mandalorian is endearingly gentle as he unclasps the tiny silver cuffs that hold your two thick Dutch braids in place, setting them aside on the nightstand next to your little vase that contains your beloved violets. You don’t have many belongings nor are you materialistic by any means, but your plants and your mother’s hair beads are items that you cherish and value over anything else that you own.

After plucking the wildflowers from the weaves in your braids and carefully dropping them next to your mother’s hair beads, his hands deftly unwind one of your long braids, slowly and carefully, as if he’s worried of tangling your thick waves. The feeling of his fingers gently carding through your unruly mane has you closing your eyes in bliss and you shiver a little when you feel his blunt fingernails lightly scraping against your scalp to undo the braiding at your crown. You’re grateful that the bacta salve you concocted seems to be healing your split lip, because you can’t stop yourself from smiling so softly when he unweaves your second braid and combs his bare, thick fingers through your long hair.

“Pel,” He breathes, his vocoder barely picking it up as he strokes down the length of your hair before picking up a lock of it and bringing it up to his visor, inspecting it with seemingly great interest, like he’s not used to handling longer hair.

It’s deathly quiet for a few moments and you think he’s going to simply stand up and leave, but then you feel the rough pad of his index finger gliding up along your bruised cheekbone, though his touch is so achingly soft that you don’t even feel an inkling of pain in his wake. Your eyelids squeeze together tightly as you try to commit the sensation of his skilled fingers to your memory, though you fear you won’t even be able to remember it even in the sweetest of dreams that the Maker would kindly bless you with.

A shaky exhale wracks your body when his index finger continues it’s sweet ascent up to the cartilage tip of your ear before he rotates his hand a little so he can run all of his fingers through your hairline, coming to a blunt stop at the base of your skull to affectionately stroke your scalp. After having your hair in braids for such a long amount of time, the relief that his fingers rub into your tender skin nearly lulls you to sleep and you have no idea how long he sits there, merely massaging your scalp and stroking your long waves.

As if realizing what he’s doing is wrong or selfish, the blue Mandalorian is quick to drop a thick, wavy lock of hair that he had been inspecting and awkwardly clears his throat a little. The mattress rises when he stands tall in your little room and even though you’re sleepy and drowsy as hell, you dread the thought of him leaving you in solitude until your father arrives later in the morning right before you leave for work.

“Mandalorian.”

You’re surprised he hears your muffled voice as he slowly makes his way to the curtain that separates your room from the rest of the hut, turning to you before leaving, “Saviin’ika.”

You smile softly at the nickname, despite not knowing what it means, and you turn your head so he can hear you more clearly, “Will I see you again?”

“Are you always going to ask that whenever we part ways?”

“Depends.”

His helmet cocks to the side inquisitively as you turn back onto your side and curl your knees up to your chest, peering at his dark silhouette with soft eyes and shivering when his strong baritone pierces through the silence of your little bedroom.

“On what?”

You wonder if his visor somehow allows him to see the smile tugging at your lips that are still slick with salve, along with the pink tinging your warm cheeks.

“If we’ll keep finding our way back to one another.”

You see the outline of his broad shoulders and how they seem to deflate from the vulnerability in your bashful voice.

“Goodnight, saviin’ika,” His voice is raspy and you wonder what it must sound like without the old modulator in his blue helmet, “I’ll see you sooner than you could wish for.”

Somehow, you doubt his words, but it’s the first time you can remember falling asleep with a smile stretched across your face.

Saviin’ika=Little violet

Ni ceta=Sorry (lit: I kneel)

Pel=Soft

Author’s Note: I wanted to put this at the end of the chapter, since it’s kind of long, but I sincerely want to thank you all for your kind words; it’s really encouraged me to write more. You guys are all a bunch of sweethearts and I really appreciate it!

I honestly wasn’t expecting to get such positive feedback on the first chapter, especially since Paz doesn’t play a super huge role in the Mandalorian, but I’m glad we’re all still thirsting over our big blue grouchy boi and I’m so excited to continue with this story!

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa

#paz vizla x you #paz vizla x reader #mandalorian #my writing #the mandalorian fanfiction #why did it take me so long to find a gif for this chapter #even then #I still don't like the one I chose #that's what happens when you stan a character that has less than a minute of screen time lmaoo #anyways #EVERYONE IS TOUCH STARVED AND PAZ HAS HEART EYES UNDERNEATH HIS STUPID BLUE HELMET

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raleighcarrera · 4 years

Text

make way

open heart | bryce lahela x mc (casey valentine)

the prompt said: ‘bryce tells mc that he loves her while she's falling asleep and the next morning she just assumes it was a dream bc she was just so tired’

also for @choicesseptemberchallenge20 day 1 which worked out nicely (tired)

tags: @choicesarehard ; @zigtheeortega ; @omgjasminesimone ; @beccadavenport ; @pixeljazzy 💕

~2.3k words | T

she’s coming off of thirty-six hours straight at the hospital when it happens.

it’s been an exceedingly long week. balancing her work on the diagnostics team along with her regular responsibilities and managing her intern would be difficult enough without the added wrench of a bus crash thrown into her day, but, of course, that’s the way life at edenbrook goes: every day has its own new bus crash, in one way or another.

regardless, there’s new injured patients to treat and old ones to check up on and high-profile cases to worry about in the interim, so she can use her strategy to save the hospital and then rub dr. ramsey’s self-righteous nose in her success (in that order).

there’s a lot going on, and not much time to sleep. there’s brief breaks, here and there -- just enough for a quick nap in the on-call rooms -- but then it’s right back to work.

and before she knows it, it’s been thirty-six hours and bryce is forcibly dragging her onto the t in her scrubs, and she’s falling asleep with her head on his shoulder and almost definitely drooling onto his jacket.

because he’s bryce, and he’s perfect, he doesn’t say anything about that. he only runs his fingers through her hair and takes her home to his blessedly quiet, roommate-less apartment, where the pizza delivery’s been timed so perfectly that the driver is actually coming up in the elevator at the same time they are.

casey’s so grateful she could cry. instead, she waits until her mouth is half-full with her third slice to look over at her boyfriend with wide, appreciative eyes and groan, “god, you’re wonderful.”

bryce laughs at her. “please. i’m just glad i found you before you actually collapsed in ramsey’s office.”

she nods, finally chewing and swallowing the bite she’d paused to sing his praises. “i am going to sleep -- all day tomorrow.” her head is throbbing. it’s a massive effort just to remember what day it is, but there’s one thing sticking out to her, a fuzzy memory from when they’d compared schedules last weekend. “wait. you have to work?”

he sighs, dusting off his hands. “yeah.” bryce pulls a face as if to imply that it’s the single worst thing that’s ever happened to him. “sorry, babe. wish i could kick it here with you.”

“it’s okay.” a wide yawn stretches her mouth open. “you don’t mind if i stay here?”

“nah.” bryce’s smile is easygoing and a little excited. “stay as long as you want. knowing you’re here will make my day go by faster.”

maybe, she thinks deliriously, her limbs feeling even heavier now that she’s eaten than they had on their commute home, she can do something nice for him tomorrow. make dinner, or something -- after she’s slept.

casey blinks, realizing all at once that she’s completely zoned out again. “what? sorry. i’m just --”

“i know.” there’s a fondness in his voice and a softness in his eyes when he stands and pulls her to her feet, tugging her in so she can lean against him. she does so immediately, burrowing into the warmth of his chest. “come on. let’s get you to bed.”

she isn’t sure exactly how it happens, but when she yawns at him next, it’s from the lush safety of his mattress and the blankets on his bed; casey cuddles into the pillows and blinks sleepily up at him, waiting for bryce to join her. the only thing in the world that could make going to sleep now, at eight o’clock with a day off ahead of her, is having her boyfriend’s body heat beside her to soak up.

but bryce laughs at her again, shaking his head. “i gotta put the food away. i’ll be in in a minute.”

“fine,” casey mumbles. the word breaks with another yawn halfway through. her eyelids are already fluttering. “just -- hurry up.”

“of course.” she feels the brush of his lips against her forehead, and then her mouth, bryce’s kiss so gentle it’s almost not there. his fingers slip through her hair again.

the sound she makes is somewhere between a delighted groan and a sigh of pure content. she isn’t sure she’s ever been so comfortable in her life; bryce’s bed is warm and cozy and the sheets are clean -- they smell like him, and so does the shirt she’s wearing. her whole body is heavy with exhaustion and the satisfaction of the work she’s done. she feels cared for. she’s happy.

just before everything goes dark, somewhere, in the space she’s floating in between sleep and wakefulness, she hears bryce’s voice -- one last hesitant murmur of her name. it’s only on the very edge of her conscious, but she’s positive the words he says are, “i love you, casey.”

the apartment is predictably silent when she wakes up.

there’s nothing like the peacefulness that comes from waking up in an empty apartment. with so many roommates, it isn’t something that casey’s accustomed to, and she relishes it now, soaking up the stillness of bryce’s bedroom joyfully.

there’s birds chirping outside. she turns her face into the pillows and breathes in slowly, burrowing a little further into the sheets.

there’s nothing on the horizon, for today -- no work, no chores, no responsibilities. it’s the perfect way to start her day, if only her boyfriend was in bed beside her.

speaking of. casey reaches her hand out, fumbling blindly on the nightstand until it closes around her cellphone. she finally blinks her eyes open when she pulls the device under the sheets with her, balking at the time displayed on the home screen.

it’s past two-thirty in the afternoon.

she blinks, knuckling sleep out of her eyes. she really had been exhausted.

there’s a slew of text messages waiting for her, mostly from her roommates. the group chat is abuzz with wondering where she is and if she’s alive; casey holds off on answering them in favor of navigating to her thread with bryce, where he’s texted good morning beautiful and text me when you wake up. getting out of bed this morning was impossible with you in it

her teeth bite at her bottom lip to stifle the smile that’s threatening. eight months of being official with bryce and it still never gets old, to be on the receiving end of those cheesy, over-the-top compliments. no boyfriend of hers before him had ever sent a good morning text message.

hiiiiiiiiii she writes back, spreading out in his bed, just woke up. hope today’s going well for you. can’t wait to get you back in this bed with me

his reply is almost immediate. fuck you, it says, making her grin up at the ceiling, i’m about to go into surgery. you’re evil

casey settles for an onslaught of heart emojis, as she rolls out of said bed and heads for the kitchen. as expected, there’s no food in bryce’s fridge, but there is coffee, and she takes her time enjoying it and flipping through the channels on bryce’s tv -- they don’t have cable, at her place -- before finally making her way into the shower.

she’s in the middle of shampooing her hair when she remembers what happened last night. it comes back to her abruptly, the memory too vivid to be true. bryce’s lips, brushing against hers -- his hands pulling the comforter up to her shoulders -- and then...

i love you, casey.

she frowns, tipping her head back under the water to rinse her hair.

that has to have been a dream, right?

she’d remember it, if it were real. she’d’ve said something to him, last night, or... today. he’d’ve said something about it.

right?

casey marinates on it for the entirety of her shower, waffling back and forth. it both feels like a dream and not, making it difficult to ascertain what really happened. she was exhausted last night -- she barely remembers leaving the hospital, after all. but if bryce had really said... for the first time...

she’d have to remember that, wouldn’t she?

she thinks about it when she gets dressed and heads to the store to find something passable she can make for dinner (though it’s definitely going to be pasta, again). last night was a blur; her memory of everything that happened after bryce found her in the on-call room is in bits and pieces. there’s only the vague outline of their evening flashing in her mind: sleeping on him on the t, eating pizza shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, stumbling into his bedroom and falling into bed...

and then the same bit she can’t stop thinking about, as clear as day -- his kiss, and the soft, hesitant sound of his voice when he’d said those three words and that reverent utterance of her name.

it plays in her head on a loop in the check-out line. it has to have been a dream, that’s the only explanation for it.

he wouldn’t -- they don’t -- because he’s not...

...except that he might be.

he might be, because she’s pretty sure that she is, and -- if he felt the same way, that would be... life-changing. exceptional. pretty much the greatest thing to ever happen to her, outside of her professional accomplishments.

because bryce is pretty much the greatest thing to ever happen to her. he is everything she’s ever wanted and didn’t know she was looking for -- completely different from her usual ‘type’ in the best way. bryce is smart and thoughtful and funny and witty and devastatingly sexy -- complex and considerate and an amazing listener and a world-class shoulder massager...

someone so easy to fall in love with she hadn’t even realized it was happening until it was too late.

so her stupid, useless brain had probably imagined that he’d said it first to give her something pleasant to dream about. casey glares bitterly at the tomatoes she’s blistering when the realization washes over her.

and that’s how bryce finds her: in the kitchen, stirring spaghetti in sweats she stole out of his closet, her long hair still drying where it’s damp on her shoulders. he’s loud when he crowds in behind her at the stove, talking a mile a minute about his day, how good it smells in the apartment and how much he missed her, all at once.

he buries his face in the crook of her neck and inhales, pressing his lips lightly against the side of her throat. “you sleep okay?”

casey relaxes despite herself and her annoyance, melting a little against his chest. she nods. “yeah. thanks for taking care of me last night.”

bryce’s hands are warm when they slip under the hem of her (his) hoodie. his hands fan out over her hips. “of course,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose at the base of her neck, “anything for you, babe.”

maybe he had said it.

she thinks about it some more as she spoons pasta into two plates and they tumble back onto the couch together. the words bounce around in her brain while he slurps spaghetti beside her, interspersed with more compliments: how good dinner is, how thoughtful she is, how multi-talented she manages to be.

well, there’s only one way to find out.

casey lets him clear the plates away and load the dishwasher because she cooked, and it’s only fair, and waits until he’s back on the couch with her with that inviting space at his side wide open.

then, she slips into it, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning against him. bryce’s arm curls around her shoulders in turn, and his lips press a delicate kiss to the top of her head.

“i love you,” casey sighs. the words leave her lips so easily she’s hardly able to believe that there was once a point in time where she felt nervous to be the first to say so.

it’s true, after all. she’s not sure if she’s ever been in love, before -- she thought she had, but it wasn’t like this (nothing could ever be like this) -- but she’s positive about bryce. with her life constantly in flux, filled with so much chaos, being with bryce is the one thing she feels like she’s actually gotten right.

his hand stills from where he’d been rubbing her shoulder, hesitating for just a moment. then, he says, “i love you, too.”

casey turns her cheek to look up at him, her eyes wide. “really?”

the laugh he gives is low and fond, sending a thrill of happiness straight down her spine and to her toes. “how could i not?”

“so... you did say that last night. i thought it was a dream.” the swarm of butterflies in her stomach beat their wings harder at the very idea.

bryce makes a noncommittal hum into her hair. “i wasn’t sure if you heard me. i meant it, though. i love you, case.”

casey opens her mouth to crack a joke, but her throat feels suspiciously tight. how emotional she is catches her completely off guard, surprising her silent.

so -- she’s loved. by probably the most perfect man on the east coast, if not in the entire united states of america. or the world.

weird. part of her had thought something like this might never happen for her.

“i...” she trails off, shaking her head. it’s overwhelming, just how happy she is. her arms press bryce a little closer, pulling him to her a little tighter. “um, thank you.”

he laughs again, sounding taken aback. “for what?”

“for loving me,” casey answers, as though it should be obvious.

she can feel bryce’s shrug against her side; the movement jostles her against him, a little -- but then he squeezes her back, crushing her into the broad planes of his chest.

“it’s easy,” he promises, and though he’s the first person to ever say so, she believes him.

#open heart #bryce lahela #casey valentine #bryce lahela x mc #bryce lahela x casey valentine #bryce x casey #bryce x mc #myfic #long post #ty again for sending this request anon i loved it a lot 💕💕 hope you like the fic !!#choicesseptemberchallenge #choicesseptemberchallenge20

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come-on-shitty-boys · 4 years

Text

//chocolate mornings. akaashi keiji//

Warnings: Your heart may explode from too much fluff

Word Count: 3.3K

Notes: Part 2 because my Wattpad readers were on the verge of murdering me! I would d i e for this family dynamic~

(Single Parent!Doctor!Akaashi x Reader)

*Part 2 of Chocolate Impressions. Read Part 1 HERE*

It was a picture perfect scene: a slumbering home, the only source of light coming from the moon as its rays filtered in through the windows. Katashi was fast asleep in his bed, a stuffed owl held tightly in his arms, tucked in beneath a thick layer of blankets, the love of a father’s kiss still lingering on his forehead. You had been pulled into Akaashi’s chest the minute the two of you had sank into the soft embrace of his mattress. Soft words were shared about each other’s day, plans for tomorrow, plans for the distant future. Short, breathy laughs in an attempt to stay quiet for Katashi’s sake were the only response to small quips and silly stories. Warm kisses and cool wandering touches were soon replaced by quiet “I love you”s and the small sounds of Akaashi’s little snores against your skin. Wrapped in his warm embrace, a final kiss was placed against his skin before allowing yourself to fall victim to sleep’s grasp.

The all too familiar tune singing loudly from Akaashi’s bedside table was the sour note that ended it all. You jolted up, obviously more distraught by the sudden noise than your boyfriend was as he simply buried his head under his pillow with a quiet “No.”

“Keiji, your phone,” you mutter, shaking his shoulder, trying to keep him from falling back asleep.

“I don’t care.”

You reach over him to grab his phone from the table to check the caller ID. Exactly who you expected. “It’s the hospital.”

“I don’t care.”

“Keiji, come on.” You pull the pillow away from him and a heavy groan is the only response as he takes the phone from your hand.

“I’m not on call,” he states plainly, avoiding any sort of pleasantries. You can hear the person on the other end of the line talking rapidly, multiple apologies being uttered in quick succession, and Akaashi can only sigh as he sits up and swings his legs off the edge of the bed. “What’s the point in telling me that I’m off if you’re just going to wake me up anyway? Where’s Ohashi? Or Ichirou?” He runs his hand through his bedridden curls and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I have my son this week. You know that. . . What? It’s two in the morning. I am not waking him up to drag him to a hospital for who knows how many hours. . . No. No. It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.” Akaashi slowly gets up from the bed, stumbling slightly as the fatigue hasn’t quite left his body yet. “Yes. I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.” He ends the call and tosses his phone on the bed, his form radiating pure annoyance. “Absolutely ridiculous,” he grumbles, shoving his feet into a pair of slippers to save himself from the chilly hardwood floor. “I guess I need to call Akiyo and see if she can take care of Katashi until I’m done.”

“Why? It’s not like you’re going to be leaving him alone.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”

You laugh a little, getting up on your knees to wrap your arms around his neck. “But, I want to.”

He nuzzled his face in your neck, letting his black curls tickle your skin. “You’re going to be such a good step-mom to him someday.”

“I hope so. But, come on. You need to get ready. You have lives to save.” He offers a quiet whine as you pull away from him in order to put on your own slippers. “I’ll get your clothes and get some coffee going, okay?”

Akaashi nods, slumping off to the bathroom to brush his teeth and attempt to wake himself up with a quick cold shower. You padded softly towards the kitchen to start a pot of coffee before going to the laundry room to grab a fresh pair of scrubs from the dryer. Back in the bedroom, you rummaged through his drawers to find him clean boxers and a pair of socks.

A swift knock to the bathroom door is all it takes for Akaashi to pull the door open. He’s holding a towel around his waist as his other hand vigorously tries to towel dry his hair. A soft grin takes over his features as you set his clothes down on the counter. “Thank you, princess,” he says, placing a short kiss on your cheek.

“You’re welcome, Keij. Coffee should be done in a few minutes. Do you want to eat anything before you go?”

“Uh . . . Can you throw a granola bar or something in my bag? I don’t know if I have time to stay and eat.”

You nod and leave him to get dressed in order to go pack his work bag with snacks for his drive. You add a few granola bars and a package of fruit snacks to a Ziploc bag, rummaging through the drawers to find the sticky notes. Snacks for my snacc lol love you - Y/N. You put the sticky note in the bag to make sure it didn’t get lost before placing his snacks in his work bag.

You had just gotten his thermos out of the cabinet as Akaashi came sliding into the kitchen, sock-clad feet propelling him across the tiles. Arms immediately wrap around your waist and a happy hum filters into your ear. “I don’t think you’ve ever been this happy to go in to work. What's wrong with you?” you laugh, reaching up to play with his hair.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?” You ask, filling the thermos with the freshly brewed coffee, adding a spoon and half of sugar, just how he likes it.

“About how much I like this. Waking up with you. Getting ready with you. I’d be okay with always going in in the middle of the night if it meant more of this.” He nuzzles his nose against your cheek, never wanting this moment to end.

“I think the lack of sleep is making you delirious. You hate having to go in.” You turn around in his embrace. “But, I like this too.” You place a soft kiss on his lips, eagerly returned by your boyfriend. Pulling away, you place a hand on his chest. “You really do need to go though, Keiji.”

“Yeah, I know.” He begrudgingly lets you go so he can go put his shoes on. You follow him to the door, his coffee and bag in your hands, his coat draped over your arm. He stands up, taking his things from you and grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. “I should be back by the time you and Katashi wake up. I’ll see you soon,” Akaashi says, a quick kiss to your forehead before he rushes out the door.

You turn to go back to bed after watching him back out of the driveway, flipping off any lights that were left on during the franticness of this early morning. Between the thick blankets and what little warmth remained on Akaashi’s side of the bed, it didn’t take long for exhaustion to start to weigh your eyelids down.

Fresh sunlight and the sounds of something clattering to the ground brought you quickly from your deep slumber. A sigh left your lips as your eyes fell to the empty spot on the bed next to you, sheets still crumpled from his early start. You get out of bed, making your way to the kitchen only to stop completely in your tracks to fully take in the scene in front of you.

Katashi was perched on top of one of the dining room chairs so he could get a better look into the kitchen cabinets. A frying pan had been tossed to the ground, likely the source of noise that had yanked you from sleep’s loving embrace. “Katashi, what are you doing?” You ask slowly.

“Making pancakes,” he stated plainly as if the answer should’ve been obvious to you.

“Why?”

“Because Dad and I always have pancakes for breakfast. But, he’s at work, so I was going to make them so they’d be ready when he got back.” Katashi jumped down from the chair, the box of pancake mix in his hands.

You pick up the pan and bowl from the floor, setting them on the counter before taking the mix and putting it back in the cabinet. Taking in his defeated expression, you give him a warm smile. “Why don’t we make your dad some special pancakes?”

“Special pancakes?”

“Yeah. Like, not from a box. We’ll make them from scratch.”

“We can do that?”

“Yes,” you laugh, grabbing the needed ingredients. “Do you like chocolate chips in yours?”

“Yeah, but Dad doesn’t.”

“I forgot he was weird and didn’t like chocolate chip pancakes.” You scrunch up your features, making Katashi laugh. “Okay, I need a scoop and a half of flour,” you say, handing the boy the measuring cup before busying yourself with measuring out the other dry ingredients.

Katashi dumps a heaping scoop in the bowl, creating puffs of flour, dusting his dark hair. He giggles happily, staring at you with those same sleepy eyes that his father had. You never took the time to really look at his son, a near perfect carbon copy of the man that you’d fallen in love with. It almost looked like someone had plucked Akaashi from his baby photos and stuck him in front of you. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You just look so much like your dad,” you sigh, turning back to finish adding ingredients to the batter.

“That’s what Gran says too.” Katashi slides the bowl over to himself, taking the spoon and stirring everything together. “She’s always showing me pictures of Dad when he was my age. It’s so boring,” he whined.

“It does get a little old, doesn’t it?”

“You’ve seen them too?”

“So many times,” you laugh. “The first time I ever met your gran, I thought we were going to be there all night. She just kept pulling out photo album after photo album. I didn’t think she was ever going to stop.”

“What’d you do?”

“Your dad was super embarrassed and wanted it to end just as much as I did. I think he made some excuse about having work the next day when we all knew he didn’t.”

Katashi laughs, leaning into your side as you separate some batter out for Akaashi’s boring pancakes. Your breath catches in your throat when you feel his arms wrap around your waist. Your hand goes down to run your fingers through his curls, a small smile finding its home on your lips. Any reservations you previously had about your relationship with Katashi and your role in his future were quickly erased. It already felt like you had been a part of his life for years and you couldn’t have wished for a better start. “Hey, hold out your hand,” you say, poking his cheek softly.

“What? Why?” He asks, looking up at you.

“Just do it.”

Katashi cautiously holds out the hand that wasn’t hugging your waist out towards you, bouncing in excitement as you shake some chocolate chips into his hand. “Dad never lets me do this!”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” You wink down at his smiling face and pop a few of the chocolate pieces in your own mouth, dumping what’s left in the batter.

The sound of a car engine whirring and cutting out is the interruption to the perfect morning. A loud beep as a door is locked has Katashi ripping away from you to greet his father at the door. A tired smile complimented even more exhausted eyes as Akaashi knelt down to embrace his son. “What smells so good?” You hear Akaashi ask as he stands up.

“Mom and I made pancakes!” Katashi exclaims, grabbing his dad’s hands and dragging him towards the kitchen.

“Mom? Why is your mom here?” Keiji stumbles into the kitchen behind his son, fully expecting to see his ex-wife sitting at the dining table with the glare that she always greeted him with nestled on her face. But instead, he was greeted with your sleepy features as you set the table, divvying up steaming pancakes between the plates. You had flour dusting the front of your t-shirt, a smile causing your eyes to crinkle when you looked up and saw him in the doorway. His confusion settled into a softer expression as he stared at the perfect morning unfolding in front of him. Absolutely beautiful.

“Huh?” Katashi asks, looking up at Akaashi. “Oh. Sorry, I meant Y/N.” The boy just shrugged, letting go of Akaashi and sitting down in front of one of the plates, digging into the pile of pancakes that you had placed onto his plate.

Akaashi set his things down and let you wrap your arms around him. A short peck on the lips and sleepy smiles were exchanged. “How was everything?” You ask, running a gentle thumb over the small purple bruises on his cheeks, a side effect of the long hours of his surgical mask digging into his face.

“Six hours in the OR for an emergency CABG," he sighed, his hands trailing along your sides.

"Six hours? Isn't that a little long?"

"Yeah. It was a pretty nasty blockage, but it's bypassed and he should be back on his feet in a few days."

"And that's why you're the best," you say, a soft smile giving him any reassurance he could've possibly needed. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving. My 'snacks for my snacc' wore off quite a while ago," he teased, poking your sides, making you blush as you squirm away from him. He laughed, letting you pull him over to the table to join Katashi for pancakes. "Alright, Katashi. Who's pancakes are better? Mine," Akaashi pauses, giving his son an exaggerated nod. "Or Y/N's?" He shakes his head, making a disgusted face which is quickly replaced by a look of hurt as you smack his thigh.

Katashi giggles, shoving the last bit of pancake in his mouth. "Y/N's, for sure. She should come over every time I'm here!" He finished his glass of orange juice and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. "May I be excused?"

"Depends. How do you spell 'because?'" Akaashi asks, not looking up from his plate.

Katashi groaned, slinking down in his chair. "That's not fair. You know I'm not good at that one! Pick something else!"

"Okay. Spell 'choledocholithiasis.'" Akaashi smirks, now looking at the shock on his son's face. "What? You wanted a different word!"

"Something I would know!"

"Your options are 'because' or 'choledocholithiasis.' I know what I'd pick," Akaashi shrugs, take a bite of his pancakes.

"Okay, Doc, we get it. You know how to spell coal-docter-antithesis," you say, rolling your eyes, Katashi laughing as you poke fun at his father.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny, Y/N. Katashi, how about 'today?'"

"Ooh! I know that one! T-o-d-a-y!"

"Very good. You're excused."

"Yes!" Katashi jumps up from his seat, setting his plate in the sink. "Thank you for breakfast!" He gave you and Akaashi quick hugs before running off to his room.

"You make him spell to leave the table?"

Akaashi shrugs. "Not always. Sometimes he has to do an easy math problem. It may seem a little . . . Much, but it helps him retain what he learns."

"Well, I think it's nice that you care so much about his school work," you say, rubbing his shoulder as you sit back in your chair.

"Thank you." He smiled, reaching for your hand.

His thumb runs over your knuckles, a shaky inhale catching your attention. "You tired?"

"Yeah. It's been a long morning,” he sighs, running his free hand through his messy hair.

"Go back to bed, Keiji. You need some rest."

He nodded, stifling a yawn, but rather than getting up to heed your advice, Akaashi takes a deep breath, turning in his seat to face you. "But, not right now. I want to talk to you about something."

Akaashi watches as your eyes widen slightly, feeling your hand start to shake a little as you’re suddenly caught off guard. "Is this about Katashi liking my pancakes better? He just wanted-" The sound of his laughter cuts you off.

"No. This isn't about that.” He takes a moment in an attempt to compose himself, a few stray chuckles escaping as he tries to continue. “I was thinking about this morning. The whole time I was at work, it was all I could think about. Well, not all I could think about, but you know what I mean. I just- maybe it's silly, but I genuinely enjoy having you there with me every time I get called in. Before, I always had to do it all by myself, which is fine, of course. I don't expect you to get up and help me, but you do, and I want more of that and I want more of this,” he says, giving your hand a light squeeze. “Seeing you this morning, I realized just how happy I am when you're here. And Katashi, he really likes you. I don't know if you heard, but he called you 'mom' earlier and-" Akaashi pauses, the wide smile on his face saying everything for him. He was completely exhausted, the lack of sleep tearing down his normal quiet demeanor, letting all of his emotions flow from his mouth like a waterfall.

"I love you and I don't think I could ever say it enough for you to know just how much I do." He stopped again, patting his pockets with his hands. "Hang on." He gets up and starts rummaging through one of the kitchen drawers. "I know I put it in here somewhere. . . When did I buy this?" He pauses, holding up a small little kitchen timer that looked like a penguin. He just shrugs, setting it down next to the stove. “Did I really put it all the way back there?” He grumbles, leaning over to get a better look into the back of the drawer. “Oh, wait. There it is! Come here,” he says, taking something and hiding it in his hand. He's practically bouncing like a little kid on a sugar high as he pulls you to stand with him in the middle of the kitchen floor. "This isn't exactly how I planned on doing this and I get the middle of my kitchen isn't the most romantic place, but-" Akaashi’s quick words are cut off by your lips pressed against his, hands holding his face, the feeling of your body melding perfectly against his.

"Keiji, it's okay," you whisper, a calm smile soothing his nerves.

"Thank you," he whispers; a second kiss, shorter, less intimate than the first, but still carrying the same amount of complete adoration for you. Akaashi breaks away, kneeling down in front of you. He holds a delicate ring in one hand, your hand with the other. "I know this is probably not how you imagined this moment. Honestly, it's not how I imagined it either, but," Akaashi takes a deep breath, meeting your eyes, the dark circles from lack of sleep more pronounced in the poor lighting. "I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up with you, even if it is at stupid hours in the morning. I want to come home to you making pancakes with our son. I want to talk about you to the others in the OR, but not just as my girlfriend, as my wife. So, what I'm trying to say is that I love you and I love that in such a small amount of time, you've made my family become our family." He smiles, his sleepy eyes filled with nothing but love for you and everything the two of you had built together.

"Will you marry me?"

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #akaashi #akaashi keiji #keiji akaashi #akaashi x reader #keiji #fukurodani #setter #fluff #imagine #x reader

221 notes · View notes

hankwritten · 3 years

Text

Long Time Listener, First Time Caller

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for @tokyotrain, Music

1. Reveille

There had never, ever, in the history of time or space, an instrument Demo hated more.

The bugle reverberated through the open window that someone had conspicuously left open, just in case the man in bed wouldn’t have been awakened by its bellows piercing through the glass. Not that that would ever happen. Demo was pretty sure he could’ve heard that damn instrument all the way in Hell, and grasped blindly for the pillow he could smother his own face in. It didn’t help. He shouldn’t be able to taste the cacophony the bugle was making, but there was the sting of copper on his tongue, as though his gums were bleeding in revolt.

“I’m going to kill him,” he muttered into the three layers of feathered pillows.

By the time he stumbled down to breakfast, there were bags under his eye, diluted homicidal intent on his face, and his fluffiest robe around his shoulders.

“And he’s finally up,” Mum said, and sipped her tea. Usually she’d be giving him an earful about his lazy behind tarrying in making her morning cup, but since she was smirking at his disheveled state, Soldier must have brewed it for her.

“Grrnn…” her son replied.

Coffee was the only thing that would make this morning better. Thankfully, there was a pot already brewing; Soldier wasn’t that heartless.

“I see you have acquired your morning cup of Joe!” Soldier said when he finally retired from his routine, sweeping into the kitchen on a wave of wholly unwelcome cheer. Beyond him—since the mansion didn’t have a flagpole, he’d found ways to make do—a rake was shoved into the lawn with a Stars ‘n Stripes bandana tied around it. This he erected every day at dawn. “Excellent! Now that you are refreshed and full of energy, you are capable of participating in post flag ceremony drills!”

Demo skipped the not on your life and went straight to, “I’m going to take that bloody thing and re-twist it until you can hang yourself with it.”

Mum laughed, and Soldier grinned jubilantly, confident in the knowledge that he would always win mornings.

2. Taunt

“Whomp whomp whaaaa,” the stupid bloody trombone played at him.

Half delirious from blood loss, Demo bared his teeth at the smug BLU above him who, as soon as he finished taunting, promptly executed his unwilling audience with a shotgun blast to the head.

This was the fifth time this had happened today, and Demo was pissed. Where was Soldier even keeping that thing? Every bloody time there was no sign of the instrument whatsoever, then as soon as victory was assured he reached into hammer space and pulled out five feet of tubing! It was ridiculous to drive a man crazy under the best of circumstances—but having it be your partner was something that garnered a certain degree of necessary revenge.

Demo had had enough. It was about time he did some stooping to Soldier’s level.

The next day, Demo managed to shove Soldier off Upward’s scaffolding with a well-timed shield bash. He couldn’t have hoped for a better opportunity, perfectly executed so Soldier hadn’t even gotten a kill on him that day, which might have ruined the ‘surprise’. He stood, one foot on the Soldier-shaped hole in the wood, and leaned on his knee.

“Nice of you to drop in!” he called.

“Eugh,” Soldier grumbled, impaled haphazardly on various bits of wood.

“As long as we’re both taking a breather, mind if get a bit of piping practice in?”

Not waiting for a reply, Demo pulled out the bagpipes that had been eagerly awaiting their time in the sun. Sitting as they had been for the past five years in the attic, derelict ever since he’d purchased them on a lark, he didn’t blame them. When he flexed the bag, dust came out the mouthpiece.

“Oh no,” Soldier said.

“Oh yes!” Demo disagreed, and began to play.

Soldier was in a very unfortunate situation, arm broken the exact wrong way to keep him from covering his own ears. Thus he was forced to listen as Demo played out a belching and eardrum-bleeding anti-tune, rippling the open air above the drop off with painful ineptitude.

“Never played a day in me life,” Demo said cheerfully as he ceased blowing into the bellows.

“And you should never do so again!” Soldier accused. “The only positive thing I can say about your first attempt is that thank God it is over!”

“Over?” Demo smirked. “Nah, there’s another four movements to get through.”

Soldier’s head flopped back in defeat, helmet rolling off into the abyss and eyes pointing at the sky. “Jesus and Thomas Edison, please give me strength.”

This was not heard over the resuming of what only the foolish and the damned would refer to as ‘music’.

3. Radio

“Do not touch that dial, maggot!”

“I’m shotgun, I get radio privileges.”

“Guh,” Soldier complained as Demo flipped until the NMDX began to flow from the box, polluting the airwaves with its electronic beats. “What even is this hippie garbage?”

“It’s disco, laddie!”

Demo was already grooving in his seat, dead set on enjoying the new wave in direct defiance of his partner’s annoyed twitch. Or, perhaps, maybe because of it.

Soldier grumbled. “Doesn’t make any damn sense! What’s a duck doing at a disco in the first place?”

“He wasn’t a duck when he went there,” Demo scoffed. “It’s like you’re not even listening to the song.”

“I’m trying not too.”

“Fine then! What do you like to listen to in the car?”

Soldier hummed quietly for a second, the fading carols of Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots catching on the notes and escaping into the hum of the highway. After a moment of contemplation, Soldier peeled his eyes from the road and began to rummage about in the center console. This caused him to swerve wildly along the highway, other cars blaring their horns as the blue Camaro glided over the dotted line. Demo watched these events with mild interest.

“Aha!” Soldier exclaimed, emerging with an 8track clasped triumphantly in one hand. “This’ll get us to Springerville without all that play-it-backwards-to-alter-your-brainwaves nonsense!”

He slid the track into the Camaro’s player.

“…Welcome to the audio edition of the Farmer’s Almanac, for the year of our lord, 1972.”

“Oh god…”

“Hah!” Soldier brightened. “Now this is what I am talking about!”

It was going to be a long four hours.

4. Folk

Demo didn’t mind Soldier’s record, to be honest.

It seemed to be about something at least, more than he was used to the things Soldier liked being ‘about’ anything that wasn’t unquestioning patriotism. Sometime he wondered why, of all the folk records in the world, Soldier had decided to settle on Dust Bowl Ballads as his fixation in the realms of music. Americana of all kinds of blended together in Demo’s opinion, but despite the repetitive twang of the banjo and the stifling trite melody, even he could tell there was a story of deep melancholy to be found between the harmless little tunes.

So it wasn’t the fact that Soldier had a record. It was the fact that Soldier had a record, singular.

The idea that a person might purchase multiple albums over the course of their life and play them at different times when the mood struck them never seemed to have been explained to the Soldier. His concept to the record player was this: play the first side. When it was finished, flip it over and play the second side.

Repeat.

For hours.

No matter how sweet Woody Guthrie’s crooning was, having it repeated over and over again day in and day out could give anyone’s otherwise delightful performance all the dulcet notes of prison moonshine. It didn’t bother Soldier one bit it seemed—he would hum to himself merrily as he sat on the chaise, perfectly content to dissemble his shotgun on the coffee table while the same fifteen songs played.

“Y’know love,” Demo tried. “The reason records don’t come glued on to their players is because you can put other ones on. Look.”

He delicately switched out Ballads for something from his own collection, setting the needle so it could fall where it willed.

Soldier eyed the player dubiously as an entirely different style began to fall from the trumpet’s maw, grease rag in hand.

“I don’t get it,” he said as the first refrain came to a close. “You can’t understand a word she’s saying. What’s the point if you don’t know what’s going on?”

“You can’t understand it because it’s in Gaelic, lad.”

Soldier furrowed his brow. “Are you being vulgar at me right now, maggot?”

“Ach, no! I…” Demo sighed. Sometimes why he wondered why he even bothered. “Gaelic’s the language. It’s rare that anyone’ll make records in traditional tongues, but I had a few and I just thought…ah never mind.”

Gently he slid the record back into its sleeve and put Ballads back on.

“…Okay,” was all Soldier said, still frowning as Demo exited the room.

Demo wasn’t so callous to admit he hated the damn thing aloud, not when he could tell it made Soldier honestly, genuinely happy. They’d rib each other for their interests all the time, but not for something this important, and he resigned himself to having Woody as an unwanted houseguest for the rest of time.

That was, until a dreadful cold found him alone in the living room and unwilling to move.

The sickness (and Mum) had demanded he get plenty of bed rest, but he was just so bloody tired of spending all his time between the same four walls and occasionally the bathroom. He’d thought, well, there’s no harm in a quick trip downstairs, only to discover that once he’d gone horizontal on the couch, he lost all motivation to go back up those stairs.

That was how Soldier found him, cocooned in every blanket in the living room, blinking up pitifully as sniffled at his partner. To his credit, Soldier didn’t chastise him for sneaking out of bed; he simply sighed, moved the tissues box closer, and got Demo a cup of tea.

This was all unsurprising, if sweet. What was surprising was—as Demo lay with his back to the majority of the room—the sound of a record sliding into the player. A moment later the room was reendowed with Fear a Bhàta, the song flowing over his senses as he huddled for warmth under his blanket pile. He lifted his head to look at Soldier, who merely shrugged. That was all. Then he sat down on a chair near his Demoman and opened up an issue of Guns & Haircuts.

After that, sometimes Demo would come home to find a piece from his library playing, wafting through the mansion’s halls with no objection from its audience. If Jane had truly changed his mind, or was just doing it for Demo’s benefit, Demo couldn’t tell, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.

5. Piano

“Nothing?” Demo asked as his hands stilled across the keys, the last notes echoing in the music room to the resounding absence of symphony. The only thing left to fill it was the painfully normal sounds of two people simply being alive. “Not a single word of complaint?”

Soldier grinned, and shrugged. “Maybe we found something we can agree on.”

“And that something so happens to involve me doing all the work.” But despite that he grinned, taking Soldier’s hand and rubbing a thumb across the bones along its back, a private concert undergone and concluded. “You should help out. Grab a microphone, lay sultrily across my piano. That’d jazz up the performance.”

“Sounds like a good way to break a piano.”

“Excuses excuses.”

Soldier leaned down, capturing Demo’s mouth in a kiss, knees pressed against the back of the bench, hand still in Demo’s. When he they parted, Demo thought of how he always tasted like gunpowder, no matter how long it’d been.

Soldier smiled against Demo’s lips. “Play us another?”

“So demanding,” Demo smiled, and put fingers back to ivory.

#demosolly #boots n bombs #tf2 fanfiction

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 3 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 94580/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 // Ch 9 // Ch 10 // Ch 11 // Ch 12 // Ch 13 // Ch 14 // Ch 15 // Ch 16 // Ch 17

Read on: Ao3

Killian is reading in the garden when it starts to rain. It’s not a lot, just drops against the thin pages of his book. He’s nearly to the end of Jane Eyre now. He’s honestly ready to be done with the book. Where it had once been enthralling, it now seems tiresome. The pain of the loss of Alice lingers folded in it’s pages.

He’s wondering if he should seek some refuge from the rain, when he looks up to see Emma running across the field. She’s windswept, her hair falling loose from her ponytail. Yet she’s still beautiful, like a Romantic heroine, her dress sticking to her torso. He can tell there are tears in her eyes.

He rises to his feet, striding as quick as he can to her. They meet in the middle. He wraps her in his arms quickly. Something is wrong, he notices instantly, from the slump of her shoulders and the desperateness she clings to him with. Her hands knots in the back of his shirt, holding on to him.

“Emma, love?” He asks into her hair. “Whatever is wrong?”

It must be the statue, he thinks. It must have gotten into her head. He should not have left her there by herself. She had heavy emotions that he should have been there to help her with.

“Killian, I can’t,” she mumbles, her voice half delirious.

“Can’t what?” He prods, fear trickling through his body.

She sniffles and whispers again, “I can’t.”

It’s windy outside, the rain picking up, and he can’t hear her well.

“Come, love,” he says. “Let’s get you inside. It’s getting bad out here.”

She shakes her head against his chest, “No. I can’t.”

He rubs his hands up and down her arms. “You’re going to catch a cold, love. I want to hear what’s upset you, but some place a bit less damp and cold.”

“No, no,” she says. “We can’t go into the castle. I can’t deal with it.”

“Deal with what, Swan?” He asks, slipping his hands down her arms to take her hands in his. He raises them to his lips to kiss them softly. They are already freezing.

“They’re going to tell me that I’m the lost princess,” she whispers. “And I’m not ready for it.”

He tries to process what she is saying. She’s the lost princess. She’s not ready.

His mind flits through all the evidence that he’s been trying to not point out for so long. The uncanny resemblance between the girl in Killian’s memories and Emma herself. The name. The accent. The right history. The scar on her shoulder. Even the chin. Killian’s spent so long trying to get Emma to remember something. For the connection to hold. And maybe, just maybe this visit to the gardens triggered the very thing that Killian’s been dreaming of. Maybe, even after last night’s fight, she has finally had the epiphany that he knows, he’s certain, must be coming.

But maybe that’s not it? Killian doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Reality rushes through him. Maybe the Queen or Regina just think that Emma is the lost princess and they want her to go public about it for publicity. Maybe now they’re manipulating her, asking her to pose as the princess. For what? For Misthaven Morale?

He’s going to need more information. Emma’s given him such few words, but his mind is spinning with possibilities. He knows, he’s certain, that something fundamental, potentially something he’s yearned for, is changing right here and now.

He brushes his hand against her hair softly, like he would a timid animal. She curls into him more, shivering.

What she needs, he realizes, obviously isn’t to go back into the castle. She needs to talk and in more than one way, unfreeze.

“Come love,” he whispers into her hair.

He leads her out of the castle grounds, the statues and winter garden behind them. Looking back now, he’s uncertain why he thought it was a good idea to take her there when she was in a bizarre state from the night before. As they weave down the cobblestone, she sniffles now, looking a bit less anxious. He thanks the gods for that.

There is a little tea shop in the grey stone shops lining the road. Called “The Castle Gate Cafe,” it’s lace doily sort of place. The counter boasts an assortment of cakes. He situates Emma in a table that’s tucked into a bay window off to the side that overlooks a damp patch of garden.

As he orders an Americano, a cappuccino, and a slice of lemon lavender cake, he glances back at Emma. Her face is distant, as if her thoughts are in another world.

When he comes back to join her, he presses a cappuccinos into her hands. She closes her eyes and takes a sip, her shivering subsiding.

“Sorry,” she says, after another pensive sip. “I must have seemed crazy back there. Or pathetic.”

“Emma, love, you seem traumatized,” he tells her.

She swallows, “I think I am a little.”

He takes a bit of the lemon cake. It’s sweet and soothing. He puts a piece of it on a fork and passes it to Emma. She takes the bite and gives him a smile.

“I was really affected by what I saw in gardens. I felt so ashamed for scamming the queen. I honestly couldn’t take it anymore. I was like in a weird trance or something, I swear. I felt like an out of body feeling, I don’t know.”

He takes a bite of cake and nods at her to continue.

She rambles, ”So, I went into the castle and all of a sudden, Mary Margaret was there and I just had to tell her everything.”

Killian chokes on his cake, “Everything?”

“Yeah, about the opera and our old plan and everything,” Emma manages.

He frowns knowing this means risking her security in Mishaven, her trust with the Queen, and the possibility of her returning to the country- and to him. “What happened?”

“She didn’t care. Killian, it’s crazy. She said that it doesn’t make a difference. She loves me,” Emma admits.

He reaches out to take her hand. Killian knows how much this means to her- to get the Queen’s affection and approval, to be loved by a parental-type figure in the way she’s always yearned to be. He knows it because he’s wanted it too. That’s part of why he’s never taken Ruby’s Granny’s generosity for granted. He rubs his thumb against her palm, part of him so understands and is proud for Emma.

“That’s marvelous, Swan,” he says.

She takes another sip of cappuccino, before she presses her lips together, and looks up at him.

“But then all of a sudden, Prime Minister Mills walked in,” she tells him.

He lets an eyebrow lift in place of a question.

“And she said that she took DNA from us both, without either of us knowing,” Emma says.

Killian thinks back to the week before, the suspected break-in. Of course it wasn’t the hooded man, it was the Prime Minister.

“We’re related,” Emma tells him. “I’m Mary Margaret’s daughter.”

So he was right.

He’s been right all along. It’s her. Emma is the girl from his childhood. It was Emma who he used to play games with in the castle courtyard. It was Emma who he used to eat sweets with in the kitchens when the cook would make them an extra treat. It was Emma who he ran across the field with that dark night. It was Emma who saw his brother right before he died. It was Emma who was now his sovereign. Emma.

“You’re the lost princess,” Killian says.

He feels a weird bit of emotion well up in him, a feeling of completeness that now is crescendoing. The girl who disappeared that night has been found. The lost girl who never had a family has been welcomed home.

When Emma looks up at him and sees the emotion in his face, something changes in her too. Tears spring again to her eyes. He quickly moves from his seat to slide in the booth next to her. His arms wrap around her. His lips kiss her hair. He tries to hide his sniffles, but he can’t.

She wraps her arms back around him, burying her face in his chest.

“We found you, Emma,” he whispers. “You came home to us.”

She sniffles.

“Killian, I don’t know how to react to this,” she murmurs back. “You’re crying, Mary Margaret is crying. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t feel like a princess. I don’t feel like my life is changing. I still don’t remember anything. It’s not like a sudden dramatic flashback or anything. All of these people keep looking at me like I’m supposed to be crying, but I don’t even know.”

Killian tries to be attentive to her. He realizes that Emma isn’t experiencing this moment as he is. He needs to be there for her. Princess or not, Emma is his girlfriend. She needs him to support her through this emotionally cataclysmic moment.

“Don’t know what?” He asks, brushing another hand through her hair.

“How to be a princess? How to be a daughter? I’ve only ever been Emma Swan. I’ve only ever been lost or alone or fighting for myself. I just want to go back to Durham and write my thesis. I don’t want to learn how to curtsey or use dumb shrimp forks or whatever people do in those Hallmark lost princess movies.”

“I’m not quite sure what a Hallmark is,” Killian replies.

“It’s not important,” Emma says, sniffling and sighing. “It’s just. I’m not really sure I ever wanted this.”

“Emma, you have a family,” he says emphatically, tears still in his eyes. “You have a real life fairy tale. You weren’t reading Blanche Neige all these years to run away from that. Princess Emmaline Georgette Analise Charmant Blanchard Nolan, I promise this is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

She smiles and sniffles and nods, “Yeah, I think I know that. Maybe that’s what scares me the most.”

He hugs her tight.

“I still don’t know what to do,” Emma says. “I ran away from the Queen.”

“You ran away?” He laughs.

“Yeah, I didn’t know how to react and she was crying and I absolutely couldn’t be in that room another moment,” she says.

“Oh love. Oh Swan,” He says, amused. His voice is still ragged from tears. “I think we should go find your Mum now. She’ll be wanting to hug you too after all these years.”

They walk back into the castle. Emma has to fight against everything inside her that says to turn her back, head for the Misthaven airport, and take off for North Carolina. But Killian’s hand inside her own helps, a lot actually. She lets it ground her, stabilize her. He’s still looking at her with tears in his eyes that makes her uncomfortable, but she’s managing.

Queen Mary Margaret and Prime Minister Mills are standing in the foyer when they arrive. She realizes that everyone else is gone- the secretaries, the dignitaries and diplomats, or whoever else might be in the castle. It’s just them.

“Your Royal Highness,” Regina says, “I’m truly sorry for springing the news on you in an improper way. I apologize.”

Emma tucks some hair behind her ears. It’s still damp from the rain earlier, which has now turned into a gentle mist.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m sorry for running away. It’s an old habit, I guess.”

“Emma,” the queen says finally, her voice choked up.

Mary Margaret takes a step forward, her lips pursed to hold back a sob.

Emma realizes that like it or not, this is her life now. She can keep running from it. Or she can embrace it. It doesn’t mean she needs to give up everything. Those details- her thesis, her livelihood, the dumb shrimp forks- they can be sorted out later. But right now, she’s just found out that this woman who has been nothing but a kind motherly figure to her these last few months is her actual real life mother. The least she can do is hug her.

She crosses the space and steps into her arms. It feels like melting, like comfort. Like a blanket wrapped around you on a cold day. Like turning the doorknob on your apartment door. Like a bowl sized cappuccino made just how she likes it. Like home. Mary Margaret, Killian, Misthaven- this was her home. She has a home. She is home.

“I’ve had a few assistants go out to get some Mamie’s coffee and croissants for you,” Mary Margaret says. “And we’ll call in some take away later for dinner.”

Emma doesn’t say that they just got coffee, because really, she always wants coffee. And it sounds, oh so cozy, to drink more coffee in this castle with the Queen. With her mom.

“I was thinking that I could give you a tour of the castle,” Mary Margaret says. “And then maybe, this is silly, but we’ve got these old home videos David used to take of you as a child. They’ve been too painful for me to ever watch, but maybe, since you’re here- we could watch them together.”

Emma smiles. She could do this. And maybe the home videos might even help her process and visualize and remember.

“That sounds great,” Emma tells her.

“I’ll just see you later then,” Killian whispers from behind her.

“No, no,” Mary Margaret says. “Please, Killian, you are family. Stay.”

Emma turns to smile at him and offer him her hand. “Stay.”

It’s late that night when they make it back to Emma’s apartment. After the long, harrowing, revelatory day, the clean white apartment and cozy house plants are the perfect greeting.

Emma is pretty sure she’s never been so tired. The rain and the emotions of the day have left her past drained. She leans on Killian as they walk in.

“Shower,” she mutters, as she stumbles towards the bathroom.

When Killian doesn’t follow immediately, she turns to him, “You too.”

He chuckles, before following her into the bathroom. She turns on the shower and cranks it up as high as it will go. That’s all she can think of right now- warm water and then a long sleep in her bed.

She strips off her clothes. Despite how tired she is, she glances behind her to see Killian’s expression. It’s something of admiration as he takes her in. She smirks and raises her eyebrows, before stepping in.

He’s inside the stream with her, sooner than she expects. The hot water alongside Killian’s arms wrapping around her lulls her and she feels the stress of the day leave her. She lets her eyes flutter closed as she leans back against his chest.

“What did you think of the evening with your mum?” He asks.

Emma smiles at the fact she has a mother. It’s a fact that is going to take a very long time to accept and set in, but for now she’s honoring her personal intention to embrace it.

“It was good,” Emma says.

“You know you can be honest with me,” Killian tells her, his hands moving to rub her shoulders. She realizes all the tensions she’s held in.

“No, I’m being honest,” she insists. “It was like having a family. A very rich, ridiculous family. But a genuine cozy little family.”

Killian nuzzles her hair, before moving to get her lavender aromatherapy body wash. He dabs it on a loofa and begins to rub it all over her.

“It was weird with those videos,” Emma murmurs.

She thinks back to the happy memory from less than an hour ago: of her, Killian, and Mary Margaret piled on a couch in one of the more comfortable lounges of the hilltop castle. They’d had takeaway pizza, which Emma could process now as a gesture from the Queen to be “chill” and let her ease her way into this.

They’d watched these videos of Emma with her family as a child. Baby Princess Emma waltzing with her father. Baby Princess Emma riding around on Prancer in the woods. Baby Princess Emma giggling as she plays tag with Killian down palace corridors. It’s weird to look at that little girl and know that it was her who did those things.

“I guess,” Emma says, as Killian switches from washing to shampooing, “I’ve been thinking for the last months, since I got here, that Princess Emma is this other person. A person who probably hates me for impersonating her. A person who is far more innocent than myself. A person who is probably dead.”

Killian starts rubbing shampoo into her hair and it’s fundamentally soothing. She lets out a soft sigh.

“It’s just weird to think that she’s me,” Emma says. “We are one in the same.”

She turns to face Killian and looks up at him. “You aren’t saying anything. I’m just monologuing here.”

He shakes his head as he runs his finger along the scar on her shoulder.

“I know, love,” He says softly. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve thought you were her this whole time. I know you don’t want to hear it.”

She takes his hand from her shoulder to bring it to her lips to kiss his palm.

“No, it’s fine,” Emma says. “As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew you had your suspicions the whole time. Even last night, you did. And in the end it doesn’t matter, because here we are anyway.”

Killian reaches behind her to turn off the water. He kisses her softly before opening the curtain. He passes her a towel and she wraps it around her shoulders, following him out of the bathroom.

She pulls on a Duke Writing Studio t-shirt and a pair of underwear, before toweling off her hair and crawling into bed. Killian is already there, arms ready to pull her close.

Her eyes flicker closed naturally and she sighs softly.

She supposes that is another good, but terrifying thing about this whole situation: every obstacle of distance that was between her and Killian has faded. Misthaven is her home now.

She knows that she has plenty of thoughts about that to fret over in the future. A tendril of fear and another of anticipation wind in her stomach, but for now the wave exhaustion crashes over and pulls her under.

The next morning, Emma tries to fall into her normal schedule. She needs routine and hard work to ground her. She always has. It’s a coping mechanism.

Killian is still sleeping when she wakes. She makes coffee in the French Press before heading to her desk overlooking the park. She pulls the soft grey blanket off the couch and wraps around herself, before opening up her thesis materials. She’s just a happy little Emma in her quaint, minimalist Misthaven apartment enjoying her coffee and working on her PhD.

She doesn’t know much about what the future holds, but it has to hold her dissertation. She’s spent so much time on it. She’s put in so much work. Looking at it now, she hopes that she won’t look ridiculous for writing her thesis on her own mother’s work or specializing in the literature from the country she is now sovereign of. But she thinks that if she can keep the Blanche Neige secret under wraps and she can probably pass off a decent thesis.

She smiles fondly at herself as she starts typing- she can be the first Princess with a PhD. She googles it just to fact check herself. Frowning, she realizes that a Japanese princess has already beat her to it.

A princess , she reminds herself. She’s still processing it. If she’s being honest, she’s probably at a sort of denial stage in the process because she’s feeling pretty chill about it. The shock of it has worn off, but she’s certain that the reality hasn’t set in yet either.

“How is my princess this morning?” A groggy voice asks from behind her.

She turns to see a disheveled Killian leaning against the door frame of her bedroom. He’s just in boxers and his hair is sticking up in all directions.

She purrs, “Come here.”

He walks behind her chair and loops his arms around her. She feels the scruff of his beard on her cheek as he leans down to give her a kiss.

She turns her head to kiss him on the lips, her hands cupping his face to pull him down to her. His body curves around hers to deepen the kiss and pull her close. She feels so soft and delicate, like she’s something so precious to him. She’s grown to like that feeling- like she matters.

Her arms lift to his shoulders and he uses his own arms to lift her. Her legs curl around his torso.

“Sorry about the coffee breath,” she whispers, self conscious.

“Dammit Emma,” He whispers, as he falls onto the couch.

She transitions perfectly into straddling him. Her hands dive into his gloriously disheveled hair. His head lowers to kiss her neck, then her collarbone, before he settles to lick at the base of her throat.

She hums in pleasure. All her thoughts, her worries, her cares are gone. All she can think of is Killian, the man she loves- and it’s bliss.

Then a phone's ringtone strikes the air and the spell is broken.

Emma stumbles off of him to head for her bedroom where her phone is lying on her bedside table.

“Hello,” she asks, not pausing to glance at the number.

“Emma, darling,” replies Mary Margaret.

Her mom. The queen. Blanche Neige. It’s almost dizzying.

“Oh hey,” Emma says, sitting on the side of her bed.

“I was wondering if you and Killian would like to join me and Regina for brunch,” she says. “We have a lot to go over- publicity, citizenship, castles, balls.”

Emma can hear a smile in her voice, but her own stomach churns. The denial phase is slowly slipping away into something else, some sort of reality setting in. She can’t have slow and silly mornings with her boyfriend because she has princess responsibilities.

But she feels, alongside of that, a weird sense of duty well up in her. Of course, she must be at this meeting. She can tell that just like the night before, the Queen is trying to make it easier for her. She isn’t throwing her into royal duties, just inviting her to a casual brunch.

“Yes, certainly,” Emma says. “We’ll be there.”

“It’ll be at my place,” Mary Margaret says. “The Summer Palace. I’ll send a car for you in about a half an hour. See you then!”

Killian pokes his head in and she explains the brunch meeting.

“I’ve actually got work this morning, love,” He explains. “I can skip it, for certain, darling, if you want. I don’t want you to go alone if you are nervous.”

Emma can’t believe she forgot that Killian has a life outside of her. But of course he does. She senses that everything for them is going to change very soon. “Publicity” the queen said. It may be one of the last times that Killian will get to work in peace, or work at all.

“It’s fine,” Emma says, rising to meet him and kissing his cheek. “Go to work, Killian.”

They launch into action, mutually displeased to leave behind their moment on the couch, but both busy with their plans. Emma changes into a pair of black jeans and a sweater, hoping that it’s a nice enough outfit for brunch with the Queen. Her hair, messy and tangled from sleeping it in wet, goes up into what she hopes suffices as an elegant top knot. A spritz of perfume, a bit of concealer and mascara, a peck on Killian’s lips- and she’s out the door to meet the car.

The Christmas decorations are up in their full glory when Emma arrives at the summer palace: fairy lights, garland, and wreaths of evergreen adoring the palace. She exits the car and is greeted by a doorman who informs her that the Prime Minister and Her Majesty are in the Forest Room. Emma nods and makes her way through the palace, trimmed with Christmas cheer, before finding the tea room.

“Emma, darling,” Mary Margaret says, crossing the room to envelop her in a hug.

Emma wants to resist, because that is her instinct. Flashes of Ingrid, of other foster parents flash through her mind. People she thought she could trust, but proved her wrong. It’s hard to believe that there is actually someone here who truly loves her and won’t leave. But it’s true. So she lets her mother hug her and lets herself relax into the hug. A part of her that has always been raw and ragged, now feels soothed.

“Did you sleep alright?” She asks.

Emma nods.

“Well there is fruit and patisserie on the sideboard, coffee and tea as well. If you prefer a hot breakfast, you can just order from one of the footmen,” The queen directs.

Not being fussy, Emma takes some strawberries and a pain au chocolat. She fills one of the dainty mugs with coffee and then joins Mary Margaret and Regina at the table.

“Shall we dive into it?” The Prime Minister asks. “We need to decide when to send out the press release. I’ve already had it drafted and you can review it if you please.”

She pushes Emma a piece of paper with the official Misthaven seal on it. Emma tries to skim it, but her mind is too all over the place to focus.

“I think it’s best to do it as soon as possible,” Regina informs her. “It would be disastrous if the information was leaked from someone else. Obviously there will be a lot of commotion about it at first. This is, afterall, a nearly impossible event to happen- lost princess finds her way home. So I expect that we’ll have a fair bit of international coverage. It’ll be best if you lay low during that time, avoiding reporters and the like. However, once it dies down, you should be fine. Misthaven is too small to have the insane paparazzi that English and Swedish royals face.”

Emma nods. The words paparazzi makes her squirm and want to run away. She thinks about the simple pleasure of drinking coffee at Mamies or sitting, editing her paper, in Killian’s pub. She wonders if she’ll ever get that pleasure again. Or at least how long she’ll have to wait to do that again.

“We’ll hire you security as well,” The queen adds. “At least until the hype dies down and even after, so we all know you are safe.”

Emma nods again. She wishes she brought a notebook to take notes.

“You’ll obviously move into the house in the Southern Valley,” the Queen tells her. “And we’ll have to make plans for the Christmas ball. It’s a bit last minute for a dress, but we can figure something out.”

Emma feels her forehead crinkle, all of it hitting her too fast to process.

“But, I’m leaving Misthaven next Thursday to be back in America for Christmas,” Emma says. “I already bought the ticket.”

The only way that Emma could buy the ticket was through her grant and fellowship. There was no way she could afford it on her own. She couldn’t just buy another one because she changed her mind about when she wanted to go back.

“What do you mean going back to America?” Regina asks, perplexed.

“To go back to Duke and finish my PhD,” Emma explains.

“Well clearly that isn’t important now, is it?” Regina says.

“What do you mean?” Emma says, startled. Her mind races with defensive thoughts. She can’t lose her thesis. “That’s everything. My life’s work.”

“Emma will finish her PhD,” Mary Margaret says. “Of course she will.”

Emma feels her pounding heart decelerate.

“It might be in your best interest, however,” the Queen says. “To take a semester off. See if you can take a small leave of absence. I’m sure it’s understandable, just so you have time to transition.”

Emma wants to say no. She wants to say that she spends Christmas with Belle and her father each year. She wants poinsettias in the green house and presents under the tree.

But then she thinks about waking up on Christmas morning with Killian beside her. A Christmas tree in her own house. Emma’s never even entertained the thought of having a house of her own before because it seemed too impossible. But now she’ll have one and a family of her own to spend Christmas with. Yes, she’ll have to stay. It seems silly now to have even thought otherwise.

“What about my flight home?” She asks. “I already bought it.”

“Don’t take it, obviously,” Regina says. “I’m not even sure why we are talking about this. You’ve just inherited a hundred million euros, I’m not quite sure why you’re hung up on this.”

Oh.

Emma tries to process a hundred million.

She thinks about stealing concealer from the drugstore because she couldn’t afford it and she wanted to cover up the bruises.

She thinks of eating a grilled cheese every other day and sleeping in the library.

She thinks of all the opportunities she said no to- studying abroad, nights at the theater, dinners out with professors- because she couldn’t afford it.

And now she has a hundred million euros.

Emma doesn’t realize she is crying until her fat tears fall into her coffee cup, a sob coming out of her chest.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret gasps, coming over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “My dear, what is it?”

Emma tries to breath and chokes on her breath, a hiccup forming.

“I’ve never had money like that,” she says. “Nothing close to that. I’ve always had to scrape and fight for scraps. I don’t know how to have this life now.”

Mary Margaret and Regina exchange a look and the Prime Minister leaves the room. The queen lowers herself down so that she meet Emma face to face.

“Emma,” the queen begins, rubbing her back as tears tumble from Emma’s eyes. “I am terribly sorry that you’ve lived a life you didn’t deserve. I’m so sorry that you’ve had to experience such horrible poverty and so much financial anxiety. I’m sorry for every moment you’ve been lonely. Every moment you’ve wondered where your mum was. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tuck you in at night and take you on nice holidays and buy you new books. I can’t begin to understand what your life has been like, but I can tell you it’s going to be better now.”

Emma sniffles and looks up at her.

“You’ll never want or fret about money. You’ll be able to help others with that money, make a difference in the world. You and Killian will be able to give your kids everything you didn’t have,” The queen says.

The queen beckons Emma into another hug and she obliges.

“You are going to have a good life now, Emma,” the Queen tells her.

Eventually Emma’s tears lull and Regina returns. They start to make plans for Emma’s move, which is to happen in two days. They take her measurements to send to the dressmaker for Emma’s dress for the ball, which will also double as her public debut. And they pass along a debit card for her new royal bank account. Regina advises she starts updating her wardrobe with pieces that are “couture” and informs her that once her move is finished, a stylist will come to help her look a bit more sophisticated.

The comment makes Emma want to roll her eyes, but she decides that isn’t very princess-like and resists.

It’s overwhelming and totally new. But Emma is trying, with all her might, to shove the walls down. If they come up now, she’ll only hurt Mary Margaret and Killian. She hasn’t worked this hard to turn on them.

As the driver takes her back down from the mountaintop palace, she leans her head against the window. She imagines herself turning into a tree, roots growing deep into the ground, branches reaching towards the sky. She tries to think of herself as being unmoved here, firm of purpose and place. Growing a home here in this place, here in Misthaven.

She has the driver drop her off at Mamie’s, where she gets a cappuccino and reads a book of fairy tales. Emma decides she needs to make the most of her last few days of anonymity. It starts to rain again, the weather decidedly cold now, Indian summer behind them. From Mamie’s, she can see Killian’s pub across the street and across the blustery street she can just make him out at the counter. She sends him a text telling him to come over when he finishes his shift.

As she flicks through her phone, she realizes she has a text from Belle.

Sorry to change our usual plans girl, but Will invited me to Misthaven for Christmas to meet his family. Any chance I can convince you to stay in Misthaven for Xmas as well?

Emma taps back.

Haha I just decided today to stay in Misthaven for Christmas too.

Emma smirks to herself and sips her cappuccino as she waits for a response.

Yes, amazing!! Can you stay with Killian then? Is it okay if Will and I take back his apartment?

Rolling her eyes, Emma replies:

In a huge plot twist, I’m actually getting my own place in Misthaven. I’ll explain more later on facetime when I am not at a coffee shop. Loooong story.

#Captain Swan #CS fic #CS fic rec #cs ff #cs ff au #cs modern au #killian jones #emma swan

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drawlfoy · 4 years

Text

Mirror, Mirror Finale (P.1...)

masterlist (catch up on parts 1-5 here!) request guidelines

pairing: draco x ravenclaw!reader

summary: y/n has had a crush on draco malfoy from afar since--well, forever. what will happen when they’re paired up for prefect rounds and run into a special mirror?

warnings: language

a/n: heyyy guys...how are you doing...so i’m sure you’ve noticed that i have p.1 added into this even though it’s marked as a finale...yes i am aware of the fact but it is not even close to being done and i do not want to give this a half baked ending. i thought you guys might like seeing what i’ve been sitting on for a long time. more writing will be coming soon! i promise! i’m actually working on another oneshot soon that’ll be fun to put out there !

overall tags: @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry

mirror mirror tags: @theres-a-dog-outside-omg @mey-rapp @kaibie @blackpinkdolan @the-wiener-soldierrrrr @sugarbby99

word count: 2.9k

music recs: i sink i sink -- living hold ; wishes -- beach house ; could this be love? -- saturn 17

Y/N played with the cup of tea that sat steaming before her, running the tips of her fingers around the golden rim. The soft chamomile scent rose up to her nose in charmed yellow tendrils, something that would’ve been calming had she not been sat in front of Professor Trelawny, answering uncomfortable questions and averting her gaze from her loony eyes.

“Dearie, I know that you may not want to share, but it’s incredibly important for the healing process. Even more important than the potions and the tea leaf readings.”

“Er...when I first fell asleep, all my dreams were just of past memories. Aft--”

“Excuse me.” Trelawny held up her hand as she scratched a heading on her parchment. “If you want to get better, you must add more details. What memories? Of what?”

Y/N swallowed, casting her eyes to the ceiling. “Erm...I saw Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” Her breath hitched as the professor furrowed her eyebrows. Suddenly the teacup felt scalding in her hand. “I saw our rounds together. When we ran into the mirror, that is.”

“What mirror?”

“The Mirror of Erised.”

Trelawny raised her eyebrow--a quick motion but not entirely unassuming. “Interesting. Very, very curious indeed. Go on.”

“I saw us...together. I didn’t think that it was a special mirror until afterwards because it looked the same. We were...uhm...together.”

It took a few seconds of staring at Trelawny’s googly eyes before she realized she’d just repeated herself.

“And after that….” Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to draw out the rest of her memories. “I don’t remember everything else. I’m sorry. It was just everything that I remember about Malfoy in particular...like, the first time I saw him, what it was like to talk to him for the first time, running away from him in the Slytherin dungeons that one night I had to stay overnight for potions...that’s it.”

Her professor nodded gravely, shifting in the only chairs that the hospital wing provided to visitors--hard, cold mahogany wood. “Well done. And after? Once Miss Severyjn woke you up?”

Her throat felt dry. Of course I’d have to recount what happened. Of course I have to tell them about how I had a dream about making out with him in my dorm. Of course. Just my luck.

“I’m sorry,” said Y/N. “It’s just...weird. It felt too private.”

Trelawny seemed slightly empathetic at this; her eyes seemed even kinder (albeit still dreamy) than usual. “I’ve heard it all, love. No need to be ashamed.”

“Okay.” She took a steadying breath. “I...well...it’s fuzzy. I can’t remember exactly why we ended up ditching our rounds and why we decided to go to my dorm instead.”

It was difficult to continue when she saw her companion’s eyebrows shoot up a few inches, but she steeled herself.

“It took me a long time to unlock my dorm door--I think I was nervous, or something, because my hands were shaking too hard to hold my wand steady. He moved my hand aside and said something--I can’t quite remember what--and he just unlocked it himself. I think I dragged him in by his tie, and he told me that I was trembling, and then before I knew it he was cupping my face. I remember being surprised by how warm his hands were. I thought they’d be colder.”

“Go on, doll. I only need a little bit more.”

“It’s awfully embarrassing, you know,” said Y/N. “I hardly know him.”

“Don’t you worry. Your dream was created by whatever traces of magic the Mirror of Erised left on you. This has nothing to do with how you view Malfoy.”

She dared to smile at this point, mostly as a way to pretend like she wasn’t mortified recounting her tale. “He kissed me. I don’t know if you need any more details, but that’s the grand picture of it all. He kissed me, and I didn’t stop him, and now I feel like a proper creeper, having fantasies about a boy who wants nothing to do with me.”

The wrinkles on Trelawny’s forehead deepened. “Don’t fret. The Mirror of Erised is a very powerful thing. You couldn’t have influenced that dream to work any different than it had. On that note…” She brushed herself off and rolled up the parchment. “You’ve given me enough to work with. The reason why I ask is because sometimes certain dreams can be prophetic--sometimes regarding important wizarding events that the headmaster ought to be aware of--or potentially deadly. Both instances require a bit more...of an intensive treatment regiment, if you will. I’m happy to report to you that your bout of Dream Sickness shouldn’t develop into anything more sinister. I’ll recommend that you stay here for a bit longer, just to ensure that you don’t slip into it again, but you should be able to have visitors and wean yourself off of Dreamless Sleep. Rest up, darling. You have a lot of sleeping to do.”

Y/N smiled weakly as she allowed Trelawny to pluck the teacup from her hands and swirl the leaves about.

“Nothing but good news in your future, just as I suspected. Good night!”

oOo

Life in the infirmary led Y/N to walk a wobbly line of consciousness. Once Madame Pomfrey lowered the doses of her potion, dreams began to once again tickle at her sleeping mind. Sometimes people she knew would appear next to her bedside, and she was never able to tell if it was real. During one of these instances, Rena appeared to hold her hand and recount the hottest gossip that she missed.

“...And after that, Parvati told Lavender Brown that she was nothing but a ditz whose only acts of Gryffindor bravery had to do with the fact that she left her room every morning wearing THAT disaster of a cloak…but I’m boring you, I can tell.”

Y/N, or perhaps Dream Y/N, whichever one she was, sent her a soft smile. “S’okay. Tell me more.”

“Oh, I totally forgot!” Rena squeezed her hand. “I talked to Flitwick about the whole incident. He sends his condolences. He also says that you’re excused from rounds until we reassign partners. No more late nights with Malfoy!”

She rolled her eyes, shuffling further under the blankets. This was just a dream, just a dream.

“Sucks to be him. He’s gonna have to walk all those big, scary halls alone at night.”

Rena cracked a grin, but something flashed across her eyes that Y/N couldn’t quite decipher. “Yeah. He already had his knickers in a twist over having to do it the first night. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he missed you.”

“He missed having someone to harass, you mean,” corrected Y/N.

“Yeah, I suppose so. He’s not all bad all the time though, you know. I mean, granted, he is a rich little prat, but he has some good in him.”

“Got a crush, hm?”

Rena’s eyes shifted again. She was nervous thought Y/N. But why? She quickly decided to ask Madame Pomfrey for a higher dose of Dreamless Sleep the next time she saw her as a lucid member of society. This stuff is getting out of hand.

Before Dream Rena left, she dropped off a bouquet of flowers--white roses, her favorite. Y/N tried to thank her, but she felt herself being tugged softly to a different dream, away, away, away from her dear friend.

It took a rough shake of the shoulder from Madame Pomfrey before she was awake again.

“Drink,” she said, forcing a goblet of something foul into her hands. “You’ve been delirious. You need to wake up.”

The taste that hit her tongue was bitter and laced with the nostalgia of O.W.Ls season last year--Wide-Eye Potion. Her consciousness came crashing down on her like a cool tide and she became aware of how much sweat was dripping down her back.

Gross.

“Feel better?”

Y/N nodded, but as she turned to set her now-empty goblet on the table next to her, her stomach lurched.

A vase of white roses stood, unimposing in nature but anxiety inducing when she considered the implications they carried. Rena’s visit hadn’t been a dream--and her last excuse to see Draco, the boy who had made her life hell for the last few weeks, was gone.

So why did it feel like she’d just been punched in the stomach?

oOo

Exactly a week and one day after she had been admitted to the hospital, Madame Pomfrey allowed her a special privilege--the chance to take a walk around the castle grounds. After breathing the same stale hospital wing air, Y/N was eager to fill her lungs with something colder and fresh.

“Stick close to the gravel path,” said Madame Pomfrey, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening with each word she spoke. “Do not, and I mean, do not, get near a single magical artifact or so help me Merlin. If you feel the slightest bit feverish, you will come right back here and you will not--under any circumstances--lie down and shut your eyes. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Madame Pomfrey.” The words fell out of Y/N’s mouth without her really taking any notice; instead, she watched the way the trees moved outside, swaying softly with the wind. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

The nurse nodded--a brisk, tense motion. “Good. Be back here in 30 minutes. Any later and I will employ the entire staff of this castle to come track you down so I can personally drag you back here.”

Y/N had forgotten how air could be crisp--crisp she thought giddily--as she waltzed her way down the steps and into the courtyard. Her loafers made a satisfying tap on the stone that she almost missed when the pathway turned to gravel, the rocks crunching under toe instead. But regardless, she was stoked. In that moment, she had never felt more alive, not even after she’d gotten near straight Os last year...but seconds later, she was hit with something other than euphoria: namely, a silk clad black shoulder.

“Ow.” Y/N went face first into the ground, her cheek bouncing off the hard floor.

“Ah, fuck! Fuck! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” A posh voice, no doubt the owner of the silky shoulder, sounded from above her. “Oh, oh my god, Y/N? Is that you?”

She rolled over on her back and looked right up into the concerned eyes of Draco Malfoy.

“Er...Hi,” she said. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at her. “Are you alright? Why are you out of the hospital wing?”

“Madame Pomfrey let me go for a walk. She said that it’s good for me. Also she told me not to...fuck, I’m not supposed to lie down!”

The flash of terror in her eyes seemed to say enough, and before she knew it, he was hauling her up off the ground.

“Why are they letting you walk out all alone?” asked Draco, his tone demanding but not entirely uncaring.

“I think they presumed that everyone on the path would have the common decency to avoid a poor sick girl coming out for her first walk in a week, but clearly they thought too soon.”

Draco still hadn’t completely let go of her shoulders, where his hands were clasped firmly around the sides in a gesture meant to steady. He snorted at that moment, a bit of his old self shining back through as he narrowed his eyes down good-naturedly at her. “It’s hardly like the entire school has been issued a warning that you’ve been released.”

“Oh, quit stroking my ego like that.” Y/N tilted her eyebrow to examine him. For the most part, her old rounds partner looked no different--same strikingly light eyes, same aristocratic features, same expensive and fashionable apparel--but the bags under his eyes were new. “Have you been sleeping? Like, at all?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Who else?”

His hands moved away from their supporting position to scratch the back of his neck. “Oh, er, not much. I keep worrying about getting what you came down with. Rena told me about the Dream Sickness and how it was because of the mirror, and it’s just hard for me to sleep.”

“Oh. I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah.” He shifted his weight back and forth, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“What exactly did Rena tell you?” Y/N’s words snapped Draco back to attention. “And if you say everything I will lie down on the ground, go back into my dream coma, and tell everyone it’s your fault.”

“Well, then.” A smirk danced across his lips. “Nothing. Rena told me nothing.”

Y/N stared at him for a few seconds before lowering herself to the ground, never breaking eye contact.

“What--what are you doing?”

His face went out of her eye line as she lay flat on the ground, stretching her limbs out to vaguely resemble a starfish and exhaling a heavy sigh. “I’m going to sleep right here. When Madame Pomfrey finds me, barely toeing the line between life and death, I’ll have rehearsed a speech in my mind about how Draco Malfoy knocked a poor sick girl over in the gravel pathway and then harassed her to the point of exhaustion.”

When Y/N opened her eyes, she could see Draco come into vision. His green and silver striped tie swung in the air above her as he leaned over her, a slight grimace on his face.

“I don’t think you were sorted into the right house.”

“Keep your comments to yourself,” she said, shutting her eyes again and taking in a deep breath. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“I thought you were--Y/N, wait!” A hand reached out to gently shake her shoulder. “Wait! I thought you were kidding!”

“I never kid. I’m very serious. Leave me be, now. I have a speech to write.”

She heard a loud and rather over dramatic sigh above her before a hand started tugging at her arm, lifting it up over her head and pulling.

“Draco! Stop!”

“Calling me Draco, now, huh? Awfully intimate when you’re about to frame me for attempted murder,” he said, his tone surprisingly consistent and clear for someone hauling a whole adult woman off the ground. “Can you at least try to help me? A little bit?”

“Fuck off,” was the only thing coming out of Y/N’s mouth as he pulled her to her feet for the second time in less than 10 minutes. Once they were both standing, just barely a meter apart, Y/N found herself at a complete loss for words. Draco was looking down at her with an emotion displayed across his features that she could not quite place, and it made her stomach twist.

“You have gravel stuck in your hands.”

His voice took her by surprise. It had softened considerably, almost to a whisper. There was none of the usual snottiness or nasal judgement present--just a breathy declaration that made her knees weak from the sudden shift in energy.

His hand moved towards hers, and he met her eyes with a gaze that asked “is this okay?” Y/N couldn’t help but just stare, wide-eyed and unable to blink, as he gently took her hand and began pulling out the rocks.

“I have to tell you something,” said Draco, still quiet and unimposing in tone. “I...I know that this might come as a surprise, and I know that you...er...probably don’t care to hear this, but, erm…”

Y/N just stared.

“I’ve been feeling this way for a while, and I just didn’t really figure it out until you, uh, you got sick, and I know I’ve been a proper prat to you and that you have no need to reciprocate anything, truly, but, ehm…”

His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he squeezed his eyes shut, like he was in pain or something.

“Spit it out, Draco, I don’t have all day,” added Y/N lightly.

“Miss Y/L/N!”

A voice boomed across the courtyard, making Y/N nearly jump out of her skin. A quick turn revealed that it was Madame Pomfrey. And a furious Madame Pomfrey at that.

“You foolish, foolish girl,” said Pomfrey, seizing her by the arm and dragging her away. “Speaking to the same boy in your dreams? Why don’t you just go and lick the Mirror of Erised and fall asleep right after? You give me migraines.”

“I’m so sorry Madame Pomfrey! I didn’t mean to!” Apologies rolled out of Y/N’s mouth at a rapid-fire pace, not stopping until she’d been escorted back to her bed.

“I am so disappointed in you,” the older lady snapped as she stormed over to the neighboring bed, angrily wringing out a washcloth. “No visitors. Not until you have a perfect bill of health.”

Hospital air had never felt so stale.

final a/n: whew this was a long one and definitely not all. this was about half of my draft and i’m still working on it, so we’ll see how long the next one is. i hope that you guys enjoyed! comments/thoughts on this chapter will definitely give me more motivation to finish this series strong, so i’d love to hear what you guys thought of this :) thanks for reading!

#draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #draco #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco x you #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #harry potter imagine #hp imagine #draco lucius malfoy x reader #draco lucius malfoy #mirror mirror

268 notes · View notes

sweetsmellosuccess · 3 years

Text

The Best Films of 2020

The 15 Best Films of 2020

Normally, when I assess a full year of cinematic offerings, I consider both sides of that coin — the outstanding entities, and the least successful — but the year of our lord two thousand and twenty provided more than enough misery for all of us, I do believe. Ergo, in my own small way to bring better vibes into the universe, for this year’s round-up, I’m staying solely on the positive tip, highlighting those films whose unfortunate release date during the Year of the Hex shouldn’t preclude them for being fully appreciated. Let’s take a year off from negativity and schadenfreude, shall we, and just stroll amongst the poppies and bright sunshine of some of the best releases of the year.

15. The Invisible Man

“Leigh Whannell’s film is thoroughly modern in approach and sophistication, but the film it most reminded me of was made back in 1944. George Cukor’s Gaslight starred Charles Boyer as a loathsome husband who attempts to convince his already anxious wife (Ingrid Bergman) that she’s going insane by secretly rearranging things in their house and taking things from her so she thinks she’s always misplacing them. He preys on her emotional vulnerability in order to mask his own pathology and emotional detachment. The effect is absolutely enraging: Onscreen, he’s one of the more hateful villains ever committed to celluloid.”

Full Review

14. The Killing of Two Lovers

“From the opening sequence, with a distraught, estranged husband standing over the bed of his wife and her new boyfriend with malice in his heart, and a gun in hand, the film spirals out into incredibly well structured compositions, taking us inside and outside of David’s recurring psychosis, utilizing a bevy of techniques: The framing shrinks down around him, the sound gets muffled, as if underwater, save for the incredibly unnerving metallic sound of cables being stretched taut, and the sickening kathunk of a heavy car door slamming shut.”

Capsule Review

13. Another Round

“Typically, Vinterberg avoids simple conclusions — and God help us all if this film gets picked up by a U.S. studio and remade with, say, Vince Vaughn, Kevin James, Steve Buscemi, and Chris Rock — providing more or less equal examples of the delirious fun drinking with your friends can be (the film opens with a group of high schoolers gleefully doing “lake races” whereby teams compete to drink a case of beer while running around the nearby body of water; and closes with the same teen crew, and some of their teachers, whooping it up in celebrating their graduation); and the horrorshow it can become (one teacher ends up peeing the bed, and on his wife in the process, another wakes up bloodied and out of it in front of his neighbor’s house), leading to very real and horrible consequences.”

Capsule Review

12. Soul

“Co-director Pete Docter is the creative force behind many of Pixar's best titles, having a hand in the Toy Story franchise, WALL-E, Up, and also directing Inside Out, a brilliantly moving treatise on the subject of emotional upheaval. This film, which he co-wrote and made along with fellow co-director Kemp Powers, is his first film back at the helm since that high-water mark, and he has again dug into the fertile earth of our mortality and come back with a particularly vibrant crop.”

Full Review

11. The Burnt Orange Heresy

“Based on the novel by Charles Willeford, the film briskly moves through its paces, clouding the waters with the schemes of duplicitous men, who have sold out any love of art for their greater obsession of cash and prestige. A literary thriller in the vein of The Talented Mr. Ripley, it’s become a genre all too rare in the era of blockbuster bravado. This film will remind you what a mistake that is.”

Full Review

10. Lovers Rock

“In the course of the party, the fuses blow while the house DJ is spinning Janet Kay's "Silly Games," a fan favorite at the time. Undaunted, the guests continue dancing away, singing the lyrics a capella in delirious unison, as McQueen's camera swirls around the living room as if nothing happened. Such a heartfelt moment of unbridled togetherness, putting into distinct bas relief the sense of community we've been denied as a species in 2020, feels like a benediction, an epitaph for the year, and a salve for what we've all been so desperately missing.”

Capsule Review

9. Time

“Ostensibly, it’s about the strain of incarceration on even the most grounded of families (an experience naturally disproportionate for POCs); but, on a deeper level, it’s also about the manner of our use of the limited number of revolutions we get to enjoy situated on this earth. It is a profound knock-out.”

Full Review

8. New Order

“Meet the new boss, only in Michel Franco’s damning portrait of a society locked forever in cycles of oppression, revolution, and new oppression, it makes no difference who you are, what your belief system is, or whether or not you subscribe to a moral set of ethics.”

Capsule Review

7. Dick Johnson is Dead

“Utilizing stunt people and special effects, Johnson kills her father off a number of different gruesome ways, as a means of softening the blow of actually losing him as his mind slowly slips away. This eventually culminates in a final gambit, both acutely painful and deeply moving, in which our sense of things gets seriously upended. As Johnson put it during the post-screening Q&A, the film serves as a “doomed experiment trying to keep my father alive forever.” This film won’t make him immortal, alas, but it does make him indelible.”

Capsule Review

6. Martin Eden

“Marcello packs the film with offbeat bits and pieces of other films, including strips of what appear to be vintage home movies, sometimes in juxtaposition to what Martin is feeling — a group of kids swinging wildly from the bar of a fence, to a full galley ship taking in water and suddenly sinking like an iron ingot – which adds a more winsome, timeless element to the narrative. It’s clearly set in the past, but avoids being too dependent on that particular sense of place and time. Martin is a young man, at first, just coming into himself, and the actions he takes, what he goes through, the film seems to suggest, would be similar in any age.”

Full Review

5. Minari

“The film is certainly charming, but that’s not to diminish its straightforward approach to its characters’ plight. It doesn’t shy away from their difficulties, and as a result, it doesn’t cheat towards smarmy emotional closure.”

Capsule Review

4. Collective

“The breath of hope in the film, when the inept Minister of Health resigns, leading to the placing of a new, emboldened director who works quickly to clean the quagmire left by his predecessors, is just as quickly expelled after the next round of elections, in which the Social Democrat party — the very ones in charge of this catastrophe in the first place — gets re-elected with an even greater majority than what they had before. A perfect reflection of what happens when a government is allowed to exist without any meaningful oversight, other than from a bedraggled press and a disenchanted electorate.”

Full Review

3. First Cow

“Reichardt, a naturalist at heart, is not known much as a humorist, but there is a lightness to her screenplay -- co-written by Jonathan Raymond, her frequent collaborator, who wrote the original novel upon which its based -- that keeps it as sweetly airy as one of Cookie's fried confections. The two friends are so out of step with their surroundings -- the party of men Cookie initially travels with are little more than brutish thugs, and the fort upon which they end up is no better -- they almost had to find each other. They are reunited in the local bar of the fort only because literally every other patron runs out to egg on a brawl between two loutish combatants.”

Full Review

2. Never Rarely Sometimes Always

“Hittman’s eye for detail and emotional complexity — her characters can rarely articulate anything they’re experiencing — is incredibly acute, and she pulls tremendously understated performances out of her two leads.”

Capsule Review

1. Nomadland

“Perhaps no American director since Terrance Malick has made more of the collapsing light of dusk and twilight than Chloe Zhao. Much of her new film, which stars Frances McDormand as a transigent woman (“not homeless, houseless”), who traverses back and forth across the west in her beat up live-in van, doing seasonal work, takes place in that particular kind of vibrant half-darkness that shrouds the desert and its mountains with a magic kind of mystery.”

Capsule Review

Other Worthy Mentions: 7500; Assassins; Bacurau; Beanpole; Beginning; Black Bear; Bloody Nose Empty Pockets; Boys State; Come Play; Emma; Gunda; His House; Horse Girl; I Am Greta; Jacinta; La Llorona; Let Him Go; Limbo; Mangrove; Mayor; MLK/FBI; One Night in Miami…; Palm Springs; Possessor Uncut; Red, White & Blue; Relic; She Dies Tomorrow; Shirley; Shithouse; Shiva Baby; Some Kind of Heaven; Spring Blossom; Swallow; Tenet; The Dissident; The Invisible Man; The Nest; Sound of Metal; The Vast of Night; The Viewing Booth; The Way I See It; Vitalina Varella; Welcome to Chechnya

Inexplicably Underrated: 7500; Shithouse

Biggest Welcome Surprise(s): The Vast of Night; His House; She Dies Tomorrow

The Best Two Films I Saw This Year, Period: Satantango (1994); Harlan County, USA (1976)

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oftenderweapons · 4 years

Text

Everyday

Pairing: member x reader

Wordcount: 300-400 words each piece

Genre: fluff, smut, slightest angst

Rating: suggested 18+

Small announcement

Unfortunately, I couldn't complete Jin's Love Talk scenario in time, since his conversation with Angel is a lot more difficult to handle and I still have some research to do (a lot of educational BDSM talk Yay! And I want it to be accurate and as precise as possible).

To earn your forgiveness, I will publish a double update next week, with Jin's part published on Thursday 1 am GMT, and Yoongi on Saturday at 3 am GMT. (Please don't judge my night owl lifestyle)

Here are some mixed drabbles (watch out for the text mentioned in Joon’s Love Talk) 😉 Also this is unedited, I’ll grammar check it in the morning. Each drabble is about 300-400 words.

Here is my Masterlist!

TRIGGER WARNINGS: dirty talking, spankings, oral male and female receiving, cum play (pearl necklace), male masturbation, breast worship, mentions of role play, mentions of sex tapes, mentions of subbing and pain kink, mentions of nipple piercing.

Namjoon

-- the morning after Love talk --

Sunday morning felt like a nightmare. He asked himself why, why for fuck’s sake he had left.

You had kissed him, rubbed all over him, pressing your ass on him as you watched the film on the sofa, spooning. WHY!

He grabbed his phone. You were probably still asleep. Unless…? He texted you.

How’s your head? Mine is a mess.

You don’t know how bad it feels to wake up alone. I felt like eating some tiramisu for breakfast and ruin your underwear. Did you touch yourself last night, after I left?

I thought about you, you know. That perfect ass of yours. How much I want to bite it. God, I want to spank you so bad, Vixen. I swear, if I put my hands on you I’m gonna ruin you. You won’t sit for a week. For all that fucking teasing last night. You don’t know how many times I thought about putting my hand under your skirt. Were you even wearing panties, naughty girl? You bent over at dinner and I noticed that there were no lines on that incredible peach of yours… Wanted to push you down against the table, drag your skirt up and just ram into you from behind. But I wanna take my time. Toy around this mind-blowing chemistry with you, until you’re on your knees begging for me to be your daddy and teach you how to do it right for me. At that point I would finger you nice and slow, the way impatient, hungry girls like you can’t handle. I would make you cum so intensely your legs would twitch merely at the thought of me doing it again. And then I would lie down and have you sit on my face. Cute right? I would help you ride my face with my hands cupping your butt, until you’re dripping all over my face. I want you to look down at me like a queen on a motherfucking throne, Vixen. And right after your second orgasm I would make you roll down so I can fuck you missionary, looking at the face you make the first time I slide into you, those pretty doll lips wrapped around the hand I used to make you cum.

I know you must be so tight, little one. I can’t wait to leave angry, purple lovebites on your sexy hipbones and thighs, baby.

Tell me you want that too, little vixen.

After ten minutes of you not answering, he just headed to the shower, in the hope of blowing off some steam.

When he returned he noticed the notification.

My head? No complaints 😉😏

Thank you for the orgasm, daddy. Maybe I could help you with yours now?

Yeah. he was hard again anyway…

Seokjin

-- shortly after the Conversation with Jimin --

Water fell heavily on his back. You were laying in bed, your cute pjs making you look like a princess from a fairy tale.

That princess had your cum all over her chest precisely five days ago.

He pressed his forehead to the tiles. No, a part of him said, but his hand was already there, lingering on his shaft.

She licked it clean. Scooping it up with her fingers. Grinning at you.

He hit his head against the tiles in the hope it would help him stop.

You had your mouth on her panties, you coward? She was so lost she would have told you yes. He thought of your taste. He allowed himself that only once, maybe twice a month. Not because he didn’t like that, but rather because he had probably never done it before. Which seems ridiculous, but apparently his exes weren’t interested in cunnilingus? Was it absurd that he wanted to try with you?

He dragged his hand up and down, angry at himself.

He should just get in the bed and make you scream until even the florist at the end of the street knew who’s fucking you so good.

He thought about your hands tied up, about you cumming just with him ramming into you. He wanted to give it to you so hard you even forgot you had a body. He wanted your pleasure to be one with his. Just like last time.

Not like your previous life was unsatisfactory. But he saw the superior look of bliss, how radiant you had looked the morning after. How easily you had fallen asleep in his arms as he caressed your hair.

“Jinnie, love.” You called from the bedroom.

He didn’t understand what came next, he was lost in bliss, your voice and his imagination making him fall in the deepest pits of pleasure.

Yoongi

-- after date five, art gallery --

Fuuuuck. He fixed his trousers in the elevator headed to his apartment.

Rushing through his door, he almost tripped on his shoes as he took them off hastily. He had promised himself he wouldn’t. Yet again, here he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows propped on his knees. He took off his turtleneck lightning fast, his naked pale chest emerging from the dark cotton that protected him from the chilly spring air. He didn’t actually have enough patience to get rid of his trousers. He let them bunch up at his ankles.

“Kitten.” He whispered shyly, reaching for his hard on. He was so sensitive his hips thrusted up as he gave himself the first stroke.

Those tits. Fuck. Pressed against his back as you explained a picture to him, the tip of your nose running against the curve of his ear.

He had wanted to pin you against the white walls of the gallery, like a work of art, get his head under your cute skirt and nuzzle his face against your mound.

And the ice cream.

He thought he would cum in his pants, with you licking up your ice cream cone, your kittenish licks deviously appropriate to your nickname. And the ice cream dribbling down your hand in thick droplets a couple times. The way you had sucked it clean.

Fuck, fuck!

He laid down on his back and kicked off his pants, hand still busy on his cock. Half delirious, he turned to his belly, thrusting his hips up into his hand, one arm propping him up. “Fuck, kitten, so good.” He nuzzled his face against the sheets, lost in his imagination. “Love, please. ____.” And with your name on his lips he let himself crumble and dissolve. Crashing, exhausted on the bed he took only a couple seconds before emitting an exasperated cry. He had stained the sheets like a teenager.

Three times this week. And it was only Tuesday.

Hoseok

-- a couple days after his Conversation with Taehyung --

“Are you sure you want to keep it? We don’t have to, sweetie.” He reassured you.

“You’ll have to leave soon. I know you get frustrated with phonesex. This could help you.” You combed his hair back and booped his nose.

He hid his face into your neck. “Tell me you’ll see me in Los Angeles. Promise me you’ll come.”

“I promise, puppet.” You held him tighter.

“The guys hate me when you’re not around. They say I get duller.” He whined with a sad voice.

“My poor little puppet.” You fondled him. “And that’s not true Hobi. You’re always lovely.” You started waddling, bringing him from the kitchen to the sofa. Waddling always gets him to laugh.

Indeed, a few seconds later he giggled as you both plopped down on the cushions. He shifted around until he was perfectly curled against you, his head laying on your chest.

“You sure you’re okay with me keeping it?”

“Guard it like your own life, Hobi. You know the risks.” You reminded him.

“Yes, of course. It’s in my personal luggage. Safe. Don’t worry, seriously. Taehyung instructed me. And I’m pretty sure he travels with a whole library of this stuff.”

You cringed and laughed. “At least he can help you, eventually.”

“Your copy is in the pendrive in the bedside table.” He murmured. “It’s only three weeks until LA. It’s not awful. We can do this.” He tried to convince himself.

“Just three weeks. You’ve got enough stuff to last you a month.” You kissed his forehead.

“I love you.” He said, stretching to reach for your lips.

“I love you too, puppet.”

Jimin

-- The morning after your sixth date --

He woke up with an awfully painful erection. Probably because the night before you had teased him endlessly and when he’d come back home he’d been too tired to jerk off.

Pushing up his hips tentatively, he felt the softness of the cotton on his naked body. Turning around he found his spare pillow between his thighs.

Yes, he huffed out, thrusting his hips harshly. He moaned. He started with a punishing rhythm straight away, pushing so hard his whole back arched over and over.

His hand grabbed his own thigh, using his knees and free arm for leverage.

The hand on his leg climbed up to his ass, cupping it, slapping it carefully, gently. He wanted you to do that. Grab his ass as he rammed into you. Manhandle him a little. His hand climbed further up, toying wit his chest.

Shit. He tweaked his nipple, wetting his fingers with his mouth and bringing them back to his pect. His hips stuttered.

He thought of your mouth. Of your sinful red lips, Of the way you always seemed to have the situation under control. Of the way you make him always feel desired.

Were you touching yourself at the thought of him?

Were you as eager as he was? Having wet dreams about him?

He was tired of this frustration. He fucked harder in the pillow, one hand around his neck, the other gripping his ass, his short nails diggin in the flesh.

He could only think that your nails would look prettier. Sink deeper. Hurt more. Make it all sweeter.

Taehyung

— around date three or four —

“That lipstick looks lovely on you, Doll.” He murmured, holding your hand as you strolled down the gallery, a big bucket hat over his eyes. “I think I’ll call you poppy. That’s perfect poppy red. How fitting that opium comes from poppies.”

You looked at him surprised. “Are you saying I’m a drug?”

“I’ve been high on you for the last four days. Since I saw you at the shop. Do you usually strut around in full pin up attire?“ He asked, intertwining your fingers.

“No, not usually. I was just on my way to a theme party. I figured I could just get ready at the shop. I wasn’t expecting you to come around.”

“Theme party... Were you supposed to be the naughty housewife who can’t just get enough of her husband and has an affair with the poolboy?“ He asked, getting close to you enough to bite your earlobe. Oh, the teasing. He was reckless with it.

“Tae.” You reprimanded him. You looked around. The gallery was empty since he knew the owner and he had allowed him to come visit behind closed doors.

“It’s just us, Doll. No worry.“ His arm wrapped around your waist. “I can be your obedient poolboy.“

“Why be the poolboy when you could be my husband, spanking me because I ruined one of his expensive white shirts?” You looked at him mischievously as he cleared his throat. You both stopped in front of a painting. The still nature had a variety of vases with different flowers. Of course poppies were included.

“There they are.” He pointed to the flowers. “And here she is.” His arm wrapped you up, dragging you closer to him, his mouth dipping to yours.

You thought his spell would wear off, but time after time, his kisses taste wilder. Would it ever become too much?

Jungkook

— shortly after Where, when and how —

Jungkook was laying on top of you on the sofa, and god, didn’t it feel nice...

Nuzzling his face against your chest, he let his hand climb under your T-shirt, meeting the elastic band of your sports bra and slipping his fingers underneath, tracing the outline of your pierced nipple.

“Again, baby?” You asked him, who had already reached his destination.

“I love it. I’m sorry.” His face felt ten times hotter on your neck, his blush apparent.

He made to remove his hand, but you locked it there.

“It’s sweet, it’s just that it turns me on a little.” It was your turn to blush.

“If you want I can just let it be. Really. I mean... Unless you want me to... help you out with... that.” He questioned, doubtful.

“Are you asking me if I need to be fucked?” You asked, unceremoniously, with a grin on your face.

“I mean. I wouldn’t oppose if you asked me to.” He kissed your neck sweetly.

You combed his hair with your fingers. He emitted a low whine, especially when you massaged his nape.

“Would you like to try something, Koo?” You were getting an idea.

He seemed to raise his head like a curious bunny. “Mhmh.”

“Remembered when we tried cockwarming?” You asked, ready for mischief.

“Of course.” He replied. Duh.

“What if we did the same here. I mean, if you kept your mouth there, did your thing until I can’t keep my cool?” You suggested.

“Take off this damn shirt right now.” He replied immediately, lifting himself off to allow you to move.

There we go.

#bangtan sonyeondan #bts imagine #bts headcanons #bts scenario #bts smut #hoseok x reader #jimin x reader #jungkook x reader #namjoon x reader #yoongi x reader #jin x reader #teahyung x reader #bts drabbles

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delimeful · 4 years

Text

WIBAR Intermission: Making Adjustments (3)

WIBAR INT Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

if you’re new to this AU, you can find the first story here and the ao3 story here!

warnings: panic attack, bad decisions, ptsd

For the next several hours, Virgil stayed tucked away in an exhausted, half-dozing half-delirious state, his dreams flickering between vivid nightmares and the solitary silence of his cell, back on the ship.

He wondered if maybe all this was the dream, and the empty cell was the reality he was ignoring. Figured even his theoretical hallucination coma dreams would end badly.

Roman and Logan were searching the ship for him. He could hear them every time they entered the storage room he was in, or the rooms adjacent, but they never seemed to look up. He softened his breathing to near-nonexistent whenever they showed up, his whole body tense with the anticipation of being found out.

“--searched the ship through several times by now, Roman. I believe that our only choices are to wake Patton or give up. Wherever he is, Virgil clearly doesn’t want to be found.” Logan’s voice was somewhat subdued, his consonants less sharp than normal.

There was a rough scoff. “Wrong, there are still plenty of places to look! You saw how he folded into that cabinet, there are all sorts of Human-accessible spaces that size on the Mindscape, such as this--!” Roman opened a compartment nearby with a dramatic click as though to emphasize his point. “... Well, he’s not in that one. But the point still stands! We can’t just give up.”

“Roman, you know as well as I that you are not built to remain awake past one of your normal sleep cycles, let alone two. Even if we did come across Virgil now, if he felt threatened enough to attack us as he did earlier, you would be unable to fight sufficiently,” Logan explained patiently.

“Threatened by what? You and your jam stains?” Roman bit back, but Virgil could hear the way the response lacked its usual vigor. “Fine, we’ll give it up for the night. It’d be safer to stick together and guard Patton anyhow, what am I even doing?” Footsteps hurried over to the door. “But really, tomorrow, I’m giving that guy a piece of my mind!”

The chill that traveled down Virgil’s spine was nothing when compared to the ice-cold terror that seized him at Logan’s response, his calm voice fading off as they finally left the room. “Yes, I wish to have a word with him as well...”

He bit into the meat of his palm and rode out the surge of joint-locking fear, forcing himself not to make a sound in case they hadn’t really left. It was fine. Everything was fine. Neither of them had noticed him, and they were going back to the room they slept in now. Logan wanted... something with him, but had decided it could wait until tomorrow.

That just meant he had to be off the ship by tomorrow. Easy.

Slowly, he forced his trembling limbs to lower himself off the top of the storage unit, wincing at every thump or creak it emitted as he clambered down. Socks would have been useful for softening the sound of his feet against the cool ship flooring, but he’d been barefoot for so long it had become his normal. It was strange, the things one got used to when they were forced to adapt or die. He almost felt grimier on the pristine spaceship than he did roughing it in hostile terrain. At least in the outdoors there were bodies of water he could use to rinse off.

Shaking the errant thought away, he crept through the halls, taking a few winding detours to avoid going anywhere near the others’ sleeping quarters. He paused briefly in front of the kitchen, knowing from experience that his shakiness and lack of hunger despite not having eaten anything substantial in… a while meant that he should break his impromptu fast soon, but...

It didn’t feel right, stealing from Patton, no matter how insignificant. The guy had already had enough taken from him.

He spotted the bread and jam he’d dropped earlier, overturned on the floor and forgotten, and quickly ducked down another hallway before he could think too hard about what might happen if he didn’t get off this ship before Logan found him.

Unfortunately, the ship itself was the problem. Even if he had been well-rested enough to read quickly, all the labels were still in written common. There was even a form of alien braille etched into the plaques, which was considerate if completely unhelpful to him. He really could have used some helpful symbols at this point. Too bad nobody would have ever predicted an illiterate human being on board.

He wasted at least an hour poking around in any room that seemed like it might have some sort of exit mechanism, coming up with nothing that he was willing to actually mess with, lest it activate an alarm or vaporize his brains or whatever. He was tired, he didn’t have the energy to properly imagine what fiddling with alien tools could do to him.

Wired as he was, adrenaline could only last so long, and so he almost missed the skitter of footsteps coming up behind him. He spun around, and Patton drew up short with a tiny trill of surprise, glowing a soft blue in the dim hallway.

“No touching?” he asked, intuitive as always to Virgil’s body language. Though he had no idea how he’d slipped past the others without waking them, Virgil could tell just by looking at the Ampen that he hadn’t been told what had happened. Well, he wasn’t about to change that.

“Just a little nervous,” he reassured him, reaching an arm out and holding still as Patton hauled himself up to nestle in the crook of his elbow. He scrambled for something to say, not ready to decide if he could tell Patton he was trying to leave. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same,” Patton grumped, voice muffled slightly as he turned his face into Virgil’s arm. “... Had a nightmare. Needed to make sure you were safe. Why weren’t you in your room? I got all worried.”

He exhaled as though someone had reached into his chest and squeezed all the air from his lungs. Patton had been there at his side, in that cell. He’d suffered just like Virgil had. He hadn’t connected the dots, hadn’t realized that Patton might miss the security of sleeping as his side, too.

“I… I was just feeling restless,” he said, turning away from the unexplored rooms and beginning to walk back towards the one he’d been not-sleeping in for ages. “Patton, you said you trust your friends, right? They’d never hurt you?”

Patton tilted his head back to look at Virgil curiously, but answered nonetheless. “That’s right. Roman and Logan are good, Virgil. They won’t hurt us.”

He believed that Patton believed that. He believed that they were truly Patton’s friends, too; he’d seen the way they looked at him, caught glances of the softness between the three of them when they spent time together. The problem was that there was no way that extended to him, a human.

Patton cared about him though, he was pretty sure. And they cared about Patton, so they would have to behave in front of him. Maybe he’d be ‘persuaded’ to get some blood drawn, some samples taken, some tests performed, but with Patton there, things wouldn’t be as bad as the labs.

“Virge?” Patton called softly. “You’re shaking…”

“Just a little tired.” He forced his body into laxness, twisting his lips up in a wry smile to reassure his small friend. “No worries, Pat.”

He made his way into the room, curling up against the back corner behind the bed that would hide them from anyone passing by the door. Patton snuggled himself against the curve of his body, a tiny ball of feathers and fluff breathing quietly next to him.

“Soft sleep,” Patton cooed, one of the first phrases Virgil had properly learned in Ampen.

“Gentle rest,” he responded in a soft mumble. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend they were back out on the surface of some small, wild planet. Funny how that was more relaxing than the supposed safety of this ship.

Still, he had faith that Patton wouldn’t let anything like the labs happen to him. And if the other aliens refused to listen to Patton, then the two of them could leave, go back to roughing it and planet-drifting where things were simpler. He wouldn’t be trapped again.

Slowly, the tension leaked out of his frame as drowsiness finally overcame him, Patton’s presence like a balm on his weary mind. For the first time in days, Virgil slept a dreamless sleep.

“Patton!”

He woke to an angry bellow, something about it distinctly inhuman, and jolted upwards, automatically shifting to keep most of Patton concealed behind his arms. The guards— the ship’s inhabitants?— the Others were angry with Patton, why were they angry? Were they going to hurt him?

He wouldn’t let them.

His vision was hazy and spotted around the edges from his abrupt waking, but he could still tell when the larger of the two figures in the doorway began to move closer. He shuffled back slightly and bared his teeth, only catching fragments of the rumbling voice.

“-- let go of him right n--”

He hissed for good measure, mimicking the type of ‘come closer and you’ll regret it’ cadence that particularly furious cats used back home at the clinic. He was gratified to see the larger silhouette hesitate at the sound.

The Ampen in his arms finally stirred at all the ruckus, and the room seemed to go unnaturally quiet. Virgil didn’t even glance down as he woke, too nervous that one of the others would try to advance now that the target of their anger was awake.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” he mumbled, peeking out over the protective barrier Virgil’s arms made. “Guys? Is it morning already?”

Patton knew them. Virgil’s gaze flickered between the two, heart sinking. Not guards.

“Morning-- we woke up and you’d vanished!” the larger-- Roman cried, body rattling with his barely-contained intensity. “We thought something had happened! And we find you here--!”

“Roman--,” Patton tried.

“No! This can not stand!” Roman cut him off angrily, stepping forward. Virgil felt his vision almost white-out with panic, shoving himself back again and meeting ungiving wall. They were dangerous, he was afraid of them-- but they were Patton’s friends, he couldn’t fight them-- but they were mad.

Roman took another step forward, and Virgil quickly twisted around to face the corner, nudging Patton onto the ground and curving over him as a physical shield. If they wanted to hurt Patton, they’d have to go through him. Literally.

“Please,” he said, cutting off the beginning of a sentence from one of the others. He tried to inhale deeply, but he could only manage shallow gasps. “Don’t be mad at him. It was-- my fault, I brought him here, I’m-- I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. You can-- do whatever you want, just--” His voice cracked, throat contracting painfully.

White noise seemed to rise like a wave in his ears, and he curled in tighter around Patton as he felt someone get closer, steps vibrating on the cool floor. He made an upset noise, eyes scrunched shut in anticipation of the blow that was coming. “Get away. Don’t hurt him. Don’t-- Please.”

“Virgil,” a voice said, quiet and unobtrusive. “Virge, you’ve gotta breathe.”

A small hand patted his cheek lightly, a calming blue glow visible once he opened his eyes. He struggled to follow Patton’s instructions, still listening for the moment he would be attacked.

“Don’t worry about them, kiddo, I’m here. I’m right here, okay? Do you… um, do you remember the words for colors in Common?”

He did. Patton had taught him a few back in the cell, but there were only so many colors they could discern from themselves and their meager rations. Once they’d escaped, Patton had spent a whole day dragging Virgil around to every flower in the vicinity and sharing the names for each of their colors.

“What were your favorites again? I know you told me, I just can’t quite remember...”

Virgil struggled to speak for a few moments, and then pointed at the purple on his jacket, tapping it with shaky fingers.

“Purple! That’s right, that was one of them!” Patton beamed at him, his glow brightening, and Virgil managed a shaky but full inhale before touching the bags under his eyes with a wry smile. He’d used the same feature to share the color with Patton back in the cell. “Black!”

“Yeah,” he rasped quietly, and then tapped the feathers in the necklace around his neck last, eliciting a delighted chirp from Patton. “My blue!”

“Your blue,” he agreed, taking deep breaths. “I-- Are they--?”

Patton nodded sympathetically, which wasn’t helpful because Virgil had no idea what he was trying to ask. He straightened up slowly, and resisted the urge to let out a garbled protest when Patton took the opportunity to climb out of his lap. He quickly shifted back around to face the room at large, some irrational part of him still terrified that Patton would be hurt.

Roman was closer than he remembered, but he didn’t look angry anymore. In fact, he was looking at Virgil strangely, as though he’d never seen him before. Logan was in the doorway, face impassive, but all of his hands were clasped together in a tense knot.

“Okay, I think we need to have a talk,” Patton said sternly, and Virgil’s shoulders automatically rose up to his ears. Hilariously enough, Roman’s did the exact same thing. “Roman, Logan, why don’t you go get breakfast ready? Me and Virgil will be right there!”

Roman’s tail lashed. “But--!”

“No buts!” Patton shoved at Roman’s knee, corralling him towards the doorway. Despite being much larger, Roman allowed himself to be shoved into the hall, and narrowed his eyes at Virgil briefly before stalking away.

Patton brushed imaginary dust from his feathers, shooting Virgil a smile. “I love them, but they can be kinda stubborn and overbearing at times. I’m sorry everything was all overwhelming, kiddo.”

“You’re sorry?” Virgil asked, shifting to lean back against the wall. “I just freaked out on your friends and used you as a teddy bear, and you’re the one who’s sorry?”

“Yes!” Patton chirped, undeterred by his incredulous tone. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I think we all messed up this time, and now we’re all going to sit down and talk about it over breakfast.”

“...Do I have to?”

“Also yes! But I’ll be right there at your side the whole time, okay?” Patton patted his leg encouragingly.

After a long moment of entertaining stressful what-if scenarios, Virgil nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He followed the Ampen out to the kitchen area, and sat down in the unused seat he had used the day before with an odd sense of deja vu. This… was not how he’d thought the day would turn out.

The other two were content with pretending to be completely absorbed in setting the serving dishes out on the table, up until Patton decided it would be a good idea to climb right into Virgil’s lap and sit there, comfortable as anything. Virgil very carefully didn’t tense up as Roman and Patton both stared, choosing to instead look at a scratch on the table intently.

“Uh, Patton? Do you want to maybe sit with your friends?” So they stop looking at me like I’m about to take a bite out of you?

“Nope!” Patton answered cheerily. “As long as you’re okay with it, I want to sit over here with you! You’re my friend too, after all.”

Virgil got that weird breathless feeling again, and pressed his lips together to keep from making any strange expressions. “Yeah, that’s. That’s okay, then.” Patton beamed up at him, antennae brushing against the underside of his chin.

Once everyone was seated, there was a long stretch of silence, broken only by Roman and Patton beginning to spoon various foods onto their dishes. The awkwardness was thick enough to feel stifling, and Virgil didn’t dare reach out for anything lest he draw attention back to himself.

Surprisingly enough, Logan was the one to break the quiet, an odd throaty chirp serving as him clearing his throat to speak. “Virgil.” Virgil stiffened like a board, instantly sweating. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

What? “What?”

“For last night. I spoke without considering how your recent experience had affected you. I didn’t understand all of what you were saying, because you switched to what I assume is your native language, but what I did understand was enough for me to realize what I did wrong. I want to assure you that it won’t happen again,” Logan folded two of his hands on the table, bowing his head slightly. “To emphasize my point, I will refrain from taking notes without your explicit permission.”

Virgil scrambled for something to say other than, why do you people keep apologizing to me? “I thought you wanted to know about humans?”

“I do, but I believe in ethical science first and foremost, so causing someone distress in the process is never acceptable. If you ever want to speak to me about anything you’re confused or uncertain on in regards to alien culture, please know that my quarters are open to you.”

“Um… thank you,” Virgil said, still a bit off balance. Logan solemnly gave him four thumbs ups, and it startled a rasp of laughter out of him. Still perched on him, Patton returned the gesture with both hands.

“Well, I think you’re not the only one owed an apology,” Roman interjected, gesturing grandly with his fork. Virgil blinked at him, confused, and he shook his head like an agitated dog. “You threw a chair at me! I wasn’t even doing anything!”

He took a moment to recall, and yeah, he did vaguely remember tossing something in Roman’s direction to distract him while he bolted. “Oh. Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Of course you didn’t hurt me!” The spiky alien squinted at him, and then nodded once. “I suppose I can forgive it, so long as it doesn’t happen again.”

Huh. It was that easy? He’d kind of thought he’d be challenged to an alien duel for honor or something.

(Occupied as he was, he didn’t notice Patton send a meaningful look at Roman, and the way Roman pointedly turned his face away, stubborn as always.)

Patton sighed, shifting to stand so he could be seen fully over the edge of the table. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, I think you two owe me an explanation of what exactly happened last night, and why I wasn’t woken up.”

Roman and Logan traded panicked glances, and Virgil bit the inside of his cheek to keep his lips from twitching up. His humor didn’t last long though, not while listening to their description of how he’d freaked out over basically nothing, yelled at them, and ran away like a coward.

“I’m sorry,” he cut in once Roman finally finished trying to justify his decision not to tell Patton. He drew in on himself slightly as everyone’s eyes turned to him. “Look, I appreciate you guys even giving me a chance, but it’s obvious that I don’t belong here. I… It’s okay if you want me to leave.”

“Virgil—!” Patton started, but Logan beckoned for their attention.

“Am I correct in assuming that you believe you are a hazard to this ship due to your negative stress reactions from your experiences while captured?” he asked, and Virgil nodded hesitantly. Oddly, Roman only crossed his arms, choosing to stay silent for once.

“I’m afraid that if anyone who experienced flashbacks was banned from our ship, there wouldn’t be a single person left to operate it,” he continued dryly, “so by that logic, I must conclude that if you wish to stay, there is no reason you cannot do so.”

Virgil felt his face burn hot with embarrassment, and Logan’s eyes widened slightly, alarmed.

“I apologize, I did not mean to offend.”

Patton answered before he did, breaking into peals of bell-like laughter. “Don’t worry Lo! That’s just what humans do when they’re flustered!”

“Patton!” he complained, ducking his head to avoid showing the others his red face.

“You better get used to it, Virge, because you’re not getting rid of me that easy!” Patton scrunched his face up in a closed-eye smile, and handed him a plate of food he’d been piling up during the conversation. It had something that smelled like an omelet, and he couldn’t help but drool slightly at the sight.

Virgil looked up at the others, waiting for someone to object, but Logan looked satisfied and Roman simply turned his head away, content to stay mum on the subject.

“Okay,” he conceded, and the taste of the first real meal he’d had in days was sweet in his mouth.

#sanders sides #g/t #ts virgil #ts patton #ts roman #ts logan #FINALLY GOT THIS OUT #space au #wibar #watch it burn and rust #wibar intermission #wibar int: ma #writing #my writing #this is the final part of this intermission section yaaaay!

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the-darklings · 4 years

Text

—WE WERE A FIRE WITH NO SMOKE;

pairing: santino x reader (V) x (+john)

wc: 1.4k+

an: HAPPY NEW YEARS YA FILTHY ANIMALS!!! A little surprise something-something to tide you all over and flex my writing muscles to see how I’m getting on after 4-day detox from writing. I’m honestly exhausted and short on sleep which made me half-delirious and this little drabble wayyy too h*rny but here we are. Also, the title/lyrics for this piece comes from Troye Sivan’s “DKLA” and I highly recommend you listen to it while reading.

warnings: some bad words and a lot of sexual tension 👀

timeline: post chapter 1 of COA, pre-Tokyo (not their first meeting).

Santino D’Antonio does not know nor understand subtlety.

No—that’s not quite right. His “business” instincts are sharper than most of your blades and that’s just facts. He can effortlessly weave between disarming charm and rage that spills blood in a blink of an eye. He’s a good mobster. Truly Italy’s—Camorra’s—finest. But he’s irritatingly arrogant in his insistence that the world revolves around him and his needs alone. Even quicker in betraying those he doesn’t like and cutting loose ends with people who so much as question his authority.

Egoistical. Inpatient. Spoiled. Bloodthirsty. Willing to step over anyone to get his way.

There isn’t much to like. Certainly nothing worthy of trust.

But he pays good money. And—despite what he may think—he’s easy to read. He wants what everyone in the underworld wants. More power, more pleasure, more money. But most importantly, to be the next Camorra head.

He’s powerful. And not the kind of powerful you need as your enemy so it’s easier to play nice. You know that the reason you got off as easy as you did with that threat to his life was simply because he wants to sleep with you. Because he sees you as a challenge, a conquest, something interesting and out of his immediate reach.

He’s handsome, that much is true. He’s beyond rich and has influence everywhere because he’s Camorra. Because he’s a D’Antonio. He’s all sly, seductive suggestions and eyes so bright they devour.

There’s only one problem.

He’s not John.

John who is a comforting shadow for you to curl into. Who is a steady, ever-present by your side. John is—

John is the only person you trust—the only one you could ever trust in this world of liars and backstabbers. Your mind drifts towards him constantly and never more so then when you work with D’Antonio. They’re as different as day and night.

John is a comforting embrace of the dark, quiet and patient. Deadly and terrifying to others but never you.

Santino D’Antonio is an open flame. He devours, he burns, and rages. He leaves only blood and damage in his wake.

John you love.

D’Antonio on the other hand…

“Target has his eyes on us,” you speak directly into his ear over the sound of blaring music, and tighten your arms around his neck. Noting the way you’re being watched, you hiss a soft, “Pull me closer.”

He doesn’t need to be told again.

His already wandering, lingering, greedy hands and eyes explore further. Your eyes meet for a moment; his hungry and hooded, while his fingers sink into the swell of your hip, massaging the skin there before pushing your hips together. You sway with him, pressing against him—into him—one hand snaking up the hot skin of his neck and into his hair. The styled curls crumble under your unyielding grip and you pull him even closer, your foreheads almost touching and breaths mingling.

Wrapped my thoughts around your mind

Wrapped your body around mine.

You have to be convincing, you remind yourself.

You have to appear as nothing more than another whore on D’Antonio’s arm.

You have to be a nobody, a shadow, a shell without purpose other than this man’s pleasure.

You think about John with every press and brush of your skin.

Think of John’s hands on you and John’s obsidian eyes caressing you like you’re lovers moments away from kissing each other.

You take my breath away, you know I'm bound to choke

When I close my eyes. I still see your ghost.

But Santino D’Antonio doesn’t touch you like John does.

He caresses, and claims, and consumes with a startling amount of intensity. You feel that fire of his singeing your edges, dangerous and seductive in its overpowering heat.

His fingers are sunk into you, not enough to hurt but enough to feel held, guided, desired and the music becomes nothing more than a pulse.

His hot, wet breath burns against the hollow of your throat and you feel him mumbling something into your skin. It could be a prayer or damnation or both but all you know is that it sears into your skin. A mark, a show, of his raw desire for you. It tingles and tickles, kicking your heartbeat up a notch and your grip on his curls constricts; a warning, a question—

You don’t even like him. In fact, you only tolerate him because he’s willing to throw money at you for jobs that can help you get your freedom from Tarasov faster.

But human bodies are so simple. The draw on a purely physical level is there despite your lacklustre opinion of the man himself.

He doesn’t make it any easier when his eyes lift to you, his stare almost a physical weight of heated want. A man starved; a man who is staring at your mouth like it’s the only thing that can save him right now. Like he needs it, craves it, above everything else.

If half the stories about his sexual exploits are true, then it’s a look many have crumbled under. Truth be told, looking at him right now, you can’t blame them. There is, admittedly, something so raw about Santino D’Antonio that you can’t help but wonder what kind of lover he is.

So what do I do now?

I don't keep love around.

But Santino D’Antonio is nothing in your heart. Your heart is John’s in its awful, worn entirety and you won’t trade that in for meaningless sex no matter how good D’Antonio might be.

The tempo of the song changes again and he tugs you closer, his hand coming to rest against the curve of your neck. His cool Camorra ring grazes your skin lightly, and your head tilts to the side exposing your neck to him. He leans into it, his lips ghosting over your pulse, hungry and eager as he inhales deeply over the thrum of music. But across the sturdy line of his shoulder, you watch your mark intently.

“D’Antonio, he’s moving—”

“Santino,” he breathes hotly into your ear, his arm around your waist tightening. “Call me Santino.”

It stills something inside you for a second.

The heavy, naked need that lowers and wrecks his voice just so.

It’s an honour. An heir allowing you to address them by their first name, considering that you hold no real power or title of your own. But something about how he asks for it leaves you cold, caught completely off guard.

It feels like too much.

There is a boundary you will never step over with him.

Some arrogant Italian princeling who only wants your body for quick gratification.

“Should I pursue?”

He stills. His breath still fans against your neck but his expression is serious when his head lifts. His fingers trace up your bare arm, slow and sensual, and he grins slightly, coolly. Neon lights dance over his features and wonder what you both look like, tangled in each other and suddenly still in a sea of movement.

“Bring him to me.”

You do.

No loose ends.

The man you only know as Flynn Hill dies with your poison eroding his veins from inside out. In the darkness of the alleyway, Santino D’Antonio looms over him, smiling and satisfied, his appearance once again immaculate.

“Everything has a price,” he says coldly in Italian with a clinical tilt of his head and a small scoff when the man stills. “Pathetic.”

He turns dismissively, shrugs on his overcoat, and glances towards you. His eyes sweep over you, up and down, unhurried and hungry as always.

“Coming, cara mia?”

Cara mia?

You turn to face him, and repeat his earlier gesture by looking him up and down. His gaze sharpens at the challenge, and you don’t miss the way he straightens slightly.

Just like you thought—he doesn’t know subtlety. It could smack him in the face and he still won’t know it.

“The drinks are on you and I’m not cheap,” you hesitate for a beat, considering the man in front of you as well as his pack of guards scattered around you. “Santino.”

You sidestep him, heading back towards the club but hear the man chuckle in delight behind you.

“Everything has a price,” he repeats softly as he falls to your side promptly. Close, a bit too close. “But it’s one I am happy to pay in this instance, cara mia.”

You bite back an irritated sigh. Let him have this. He no doubt thinks this is a victory.

That night is the first time he uses those words and that nickname.

It’s far from last.

. . .

an: well this literally had one read through as an edit so if this is awful and full of mistakes.....guess that’s tomorrow kat’s problem lol. just wanted to see how I get on with writing again (and surprise you lot <33 thank you for supporting this series so much oh god oof).

This piece dips back a bit more into my old style (description heavy and more internal) but writing V who is like “this man clearly wants to bang but it’s a no from me, thanks” is so funny. If I wasn’t half dead I would have tried to write this as more snarky (as V indeed was back in Chapter 1-2) but that actually requires brainpower and wit so nahhhh.

also, let’s make 2020 ours. no more putting up with anything!!! let’s go!!!! this year we all channel V and become stronger and fight through our problems no matter how long it takes us.

#santino d'antonio x reader #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio #john wick #john wick imagine #john wick fic #fic: children of ares #s: i can wait

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amarabliss · 4 years

Text

Safe - 3 (Nobunaga Oda/Military MC)

I know not what I normally write for but i’m feeling way out of it, so enjoy if you like Ikemen Sengoku!

EDIT: YOU GUYS! you inspired me to do more! <3 YAY for capable MC!

You were an active member of the military for many years and now you were in war torn Japan 500 years in the past. The lord protecting you dismissed your claims to understand what he was going through, but when you happen to peek at the war table you see many things that needed correcting…

Part 1 Part 2*

*Song played

Ieyasu took in a deep breath before letting out a sigh as he re-bandaged the wound, “Dummy…”

“…I have heard…” His eyes widened as you spoke, “you call me dummy at least 3 times…today…which is better than yesterday. So, I must be doing better.”

You opened your eyes looked at him as he looked away scowling, “If you would actually know your place you wouldn’t have been hurt to begin with and I wouldn’t have to be fussing over you.”

You started to sit up and heard his protests, so you stopped, “How long have I been out?”

“Two days…the first was a struggle, you were fighting delusions and fever…the second day, I sedated you to help you heal better…” He looked at you again curiously, as if he wanted to ask you something.

You stared at him before letting out a sigh knowing full well he’d seen more of you then any of the other warlords, “…it was a bomb…”

His eyes widened a little as you went on putting a hand to your face as you remembered the incident, “…on a patrol with my unit…it went off and I took shrapnel to my back. Lucky I can still walk, but it left a nasty scar. That was just my first tour…”

“Hmph…” He looked away again, “I don’t understand half of what you just said…you must still be delirious.”

“I’m sure.” You smiled a little as he looked back to you, “When am I allowed to resume normal activity?”

He rolled his eyes, “When you can learn to behave and be normal…”

“Sure…” You finally sat up, “So now.”

“Stop.” He hissed at you shaking his head.

“Ieyasu…I feel a little tired…a little sore…” You tilted your head at him, “but otherwise fine. How is everyone else? Nobunaga…”

“He’s fine.” Ieyasu stood up sighing as he shook his head, “Maybe a little more irritable then normal…”

“I imagine being almost assassinated in your home would do that.” Ieyasu gave you a dumbfounded look, “What?”

He scowled and looked away, “Nothing…I recommend resting more. Nothing overexerting for a few more days.”

You watched him turn away walking for your door, “Thank you…I know you’re not my greatest fan, but without you I’m certain I’d be dead…so thank you.”

“Tch…” He shook his head before opening the door, “Whatever…”

Nobunaga sat in his tenshu eyes closed trying to settle his mind. Every time he got close his mind would flash back to you on the bridge to the towers. The way you moved holding a weapon. It was clear you were never lying to him when you spoke of being in battle.

And the look in your eyes. The darkness of going in for a kill. It was…desirable.

He clenched his hand letting out a breath of frustration before he stood up. Nothing would help to get you from his mind. When you collapsed into his arms it was the most vulnerable he’d seen you and it…

His eyes widened at the realization…It frightened him.

He didn’t know you… not like his men… and yet you threw yourself into danger for him. Hideyoshi had explained everything to him. How you went from a guest to a warrior in a matter of seconds. Then Masamune…he said the same thing. From helpless and defeated to a war goddess.

And he saw you fall from your pedestal…dying in his arms…for him.

“Set her down.” Ieyasu instructed him before telling a maid what to gather.

Nobunaga set you down on the mat of you room. Your breathing was labored and skin paling, “Ieyasu…”

“You need to leave.” His eyes flashed up to the blond as rage began to fill him. Ieyasu remained calm, “My lord…you are not her kin…or her husband, you have to leave.”

“You will report me as soon as you are finished.” He stood looking down to you one last time before he left.

That was the last he saw of you two days ago. He sighed as he walked through the halls deep in thought. Everyone was busy carrying out orders he’d given them after the attack, so for once he was left mostly to his own thoughts.

He was brought out from them when he heard your laugh. It was a distinct sound, loud for someone so much smaller then himself. He stopped looking across the way as he placed a hand on the nearby pole. You were sitting on the edge of the deck enjoying the fresh air. The maid was fussing over you and you must’ve made some remark because it put her in a tizzy, which made you laugh even more.

He liked the way your eyes shut, and your smile got big. It was the look he hoped everyone would have once he attained his dream. Carefree and unburdened.

He hopped off the deck and walked over to you as you brought a cup of tea to your lips, “You’re awake…”

You looked up to him surprised. Your eyes still looked so tired but they brightened when you smiled a little, “I am, thanks to Ieyasu and his perky bedside manner.”

He let out a huff as you teased the poor cynical lord, “He let you out then?”

“I didn’t give him much of a choice.” You told him before waving over to the other side of the tea set, “Would you like some? Hideyoshi sent it over.”

Nobunaga looked around as you waited for his answer, “I suppose a cup would be nice.”

As he took a seat as you reached over to the pot pouring him a cup, “I never thought I’d like this stuff, but Hideyoshi knows how to prepare a nice brew.”

“He does and what do you mean you never thought you’d like tea?” He looked at you as you handed a cup to him.

“We…” You made a face as you tilted your head, “we only really have two kinds of tea back home and they…kinda taste like dirt to me. Dirt and sweet dirt…oh I should also mention we drink it cold.”

You laughed when he nearly choked on the tea, “Cold? I mean…there are some that I don’t mind when they cool off, I guess but…truly?”

“Yeah.” You nodded a little smiling as he looked disgusted, “I’m almost thankful for your assassin, so I didn’t have to tell Hideyoshi that bit…he interrupted us on the way back. I’m certain I would have gotten a lecture otherwise.”

Nobunaga hung his head a little, “About that…”

“It’s beautiful out here.” You interrupted him as you looked out at everything, “It’s so calm. It’s a nice place to reflect, I bet.”

He stared at you holding the tea in his hand, “It can be…especially in autumn. The colors in sky make it quite serene.”

You made a satisfied noise, “It would be nice to see that.”

You looked at him and there was a knowing in your eye. You didn’t thank a soldier for doing their duty. They did it because it was their purpose…their job…and he related to that immensely. He didn’t expect anyone to thank him for unifying Japan once it was done. He just expected everyone to live.

He sat in the comfortable silence with you. Both sipping on the tea. When he finished, he stood up feeling your eyes following him, “When you’re feeling up to it…I’d like your opinion on some movements."

"I’d be happy to do it now.” You began to stand up.

“No.” He turned to you taking a step toward you shaking his head, “No, you still need your rest. It’s clear to see.”

You stared up into his eyes thoughtfully, “That’s funny…I could say the same thing about you…but I suppose I won’t.”

“What does that mean?” He watched you carefully put the cups back on the tray before you stepped on to the deck, “Y/N…”

“It means…” You looked at him after you picked up the tea set giving him a sad smile, “I too have nightmares…I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You were so casual about everything. What a place you must be from to easily admit you were struggling? He opened his mouth to question you about it but was interrupted as a vassal appeared running to him, “My lord, we have news…”

He sighed turning to them, “Speak…”

He became engrossed in the information being given to him and it gave you the perfect opportunity to slip away. You moved quietly watching his face become serious. Something must’ve finally turned up about that mysterious second party that was not only messing with the Oda but the Echigo forces as well.

You sighed when you had to turn down the hall to the kitchen to return the tea set. The staff fussed over you for a good moment before sending you back out. You slowly walked down the hall letting your thoughts drift back and forth between your situation and a certain warlord who recently seemed a bit more interested in you.

“My, my…” You looked up seeing Mitsuhide observing you like he so often did, “up and about already, little mouse?”

You rolled your eyes smirking a bit, “I think I’ve proven that I’m at least a cat now.”

He chuckled his smile curving upward more, “I suppose you’re right. One that pounces so quickly to our lord’s aide.”

You eyed him carefully, you’d spent enough time with him to know that he was always thinking three or four steps ahead of everyone, “I feel like you here for more than just a check in, Mitsuhide.”

“Hm…you are cleverer than I give you credit for.” His smile faded a little, “Will you walk with me? I would like to see what you saw that day of the attack. It’s imperative that we all prepare ourselves and take note of what you saw while no one else did.”

“Yes, of course.” You nodded as he offered his arm to you. You took it appreciative of the support. You wouldn’t tell anyone, but your wound was a bit deeper than you originally thought and it was quite tender.

You walked back through the private courtyard with him. You were surprised to see Nobunaga still standing there. Hideyoshi had joined him now, but despite being engaged in a discussion his eyes managed to meet yours.

Carnelian eyes found yours and you found you couldn’t look away for a moment. There was something hidden away in his…What was it you were seeing right now? You didn’t have enough time to figure it out as Mitsuhide pulled you away.

His gaze seemed to haunt you the rest of the afternoon, even while you explained everything to Mitushide. He looked at you curiously, “My dear, you seem terribly far away.”

“What?” You looked at him raising your eyebrows, “No…sorry…I’m just…trying figure out a puzzle. Not sure I will.”

“Hm…is this puzzle a tall, handsome, ruthless warlord?” He teased you as you both began walking back.

“Gee…you only described…all of you.” You poked back at him getting him to stop. You laughed at his wide-eyed look, “My, did I make you speechless? I didn’t mean to surprise you that much.”

“You didn’t deny my question, that is what surprised me.” You looked away from pulling your arms around yourself, “You’re wise to guard yourself. He’s not an easy man to care for.”

“Mitsuhide…” You let out a breath shaking your head, “…it doesn’t matter…I’m going home in two months…”

“I think you’re much easier to care for then you think you are…” He stepped in front of you raising your face with a slender finger smiling at you, “You shouldn’t doubt that so much.”

“I hate how you’re so good at that.” You swatted his hand away smiling before looking away again, “And you’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head looking down at you as you went on, “It’s not that I doubt how easy it is …I just don’t want to be a burden. You all have so much more to worry about with the war. I chose to go after the assassin…and I got hurt. It’s not your problem that I’m hurt, and it shouldn’t slow you down.”

“You would have rather we let you die…” Mitsuhide smirked.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” You half smiled at him, “He doesn’t need stranger to hold him back…I’ll only serve to slow him down.”

“…mm…perhaps not a stranger…” Mitsuhide turned from you and began walking back, “but a fellow warrior to share council with. Anyone would cherish that…”

“Mitsuhide…” You shook your head catching up to him, “What does it matter, if I’m leaving…”

“That’s in two months…” He smirked, “a lot can change by that point.”

He looked over to one of his vassals approaching carrying your guitar case, “I believe this belongs to you. It was not easy to find amongst the rubble…”

“You-you found her!” Your felt yourself get excited seeing it. It was the only thing you couldn’t find after helping Nobunaga out of the burning building. You had been very upset that first week and finally resigned yourself to the loss.

“I fear it may be damaged by the fire, but you would know best.” He watched you set it down on the ground pulling out the guitar.

“Nah…she’s been through worse. Warzones and cross country moves…” You told him resting it against yourself as you started to pluck at the six strings. Satisfied it was alright you put it away looking up at him, “Thank you…this is one of the few things at helps me find some peace.”

“It seems you have another talent besides tactics.” He smiled at you and for once you felt it was genuine, “Next you tell me sing with it…”

“Well…I’m nothing special…but I can carry a tune.” You shrugged as you stood up wincing a little.

“A triple threat my, my…” He reached over taking the case from you. You could tell from the glint in his eyes that he knew you were hurting, but he wouldn’t say anything, “Nobunaga will be most pleased.”

“And why is that?” You asked him as you both walked back into the castle.

“He won’t admit and I’ll kill you if you tell him…” Mitsuhide glanced at you seeing you roll your eyes, “He has trouble sleeping…usually when he’s run himself down he’ll take someone just to hold for the night…but he too has a love for music and it helps. So, when he tasked me to find such a trivial trinket of yours…I didn’t hesitate in sending my men out for it. He has a talent for noticing when something is valuable.”

“Ah…I see…” You stopped as you entered the halls with him holding out your hand for the case, “If you think it will help him…”

“Oh! Certainly not tonight!” He shook his head before patting the top of yours, “You’re hurt still and need to get some rest.”

Mitsuhide escorted you back to your room for the evening. He set everything down bidding you goodnight. You retired for a while getting some rest, but sometime during that night you woke up seeing your guitar resting in the corner of the room and something stirred you to get up.

**Picking it up walking out to that inner courtyard looking up at the tenshu seeing the light flicker against the screens. So he was still up, you sighed taking a seat on the edge of the deck pulling out the guitar. After tuning it a little and placing the capo where you needed it, you began to play, plucking the strings finding a piece of home within their vibrations.

You smiled a little as you began to play. No singing this time… you didn’t want to accidently wake everyone up and have them hunting you down. You glanced up again seeing that the light had disappeared. Maybe this had been a bad idea…

You sighed as you started winding the song down. You damn near jumped when you heard Nobunaga behind you, “Don’t stop…”

You looked up at him feeling a butterflies enter your stomach. You nodded slowly picking back up slowly. You glanced up at him as he moved relaxing against the pole. He seemed like he was truly letting the tension leave his body as you came to close.

You smiled a little before you spoke softly as he took a seat, “…I hope I didn’t wake you…”

“I was up…” He spoke just as softly, “You play beautifully…I’ve never heard an instrument like this before…it’s sounds similar to a shamisen…”

“It is…” You looked at him before you lifted it up, holding it out to him.

His eyes widened before he shook his head, “No…I don’t know how to play it.”

“It’s okay…You won’t break it.” You moved a little closer to him placing it in his hands, “I’ll teach you…”

He looked at you as you adjusted it on his lap before getting up and moving behind him taking his hand in yours grabbing the neck. You were so bold to just make him do something. He listened as you placed his fingers on the strings while reaching around him strumming the strings.

“See…” You spoke, your breath fell against his neck in a pleasant way, “All it takes is a little pressure to make something beautiful…”

He watched as you moved back sit next to him, “…perhaps…one day I’ll have the time learn properly.”

“I hope you do. I have a feeling you’d make an excellent musician.” Your eyes twinkled as you said.

“Oh really?” He gently held it back out to you, “What makes you say that?”

“Just…” You smirked a little looking at him, “A little fox told me you liked music…”

“Tch…” He looked away scowling, “Mistuhide…”

You laughed putting your hand on his shoulder, “In his defense…I think he’s worried about you…He just wants you find some peace, and you have wonderful hands.”

“Do I?” He looked down at his hands seeing scars shin in the moonlight.

“Yes…strong…secure…” You held your hand out next to his as if comparing them, “Well tempered to apply the right pressure to mold what you want out of anything…I doubt there’s anything you can’t do.”

You hopped off the deck placing your guitar back in its case as he shook his head, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” You looked at him as he rose up to his feet.

“Find the beauty in something so ugly?” He looked down to his hands, “I know I must do to see my dream come true…it’s dirty…bloody…these hands are stained and will never come clean…”

You tilted your head frowning before you spoke, “Because I hated myself…and…I hated what I did…but I had to do it…it was…well that part doesn’t matter, but what does is I had to learn to love myself again. So, I try to make something beautiful…however brief it might be at times…I can still say I did it. Doesn’t stop the nightmares, and it doesn’t change reality, but it can it ease the pain.”

“And it works? Truly?” He stepped toward you, eyes dancing over your face looking for the other shoe to drop.

“Not always…” You looked down for a moment taking a deep breath in, “But that’s life…you can’t always be happy…but you can’t just let yourself stay sad all the time. Even a blind man can taste something sweet, though his world is dark. A deaf man can see the beauty of a sunrise even though he’ll never hear the songs people sing…life is choices. I choose to see greatness…if I can.”

His eyes widened as you reached out taking his hand in yours. He watched as you took it tracing over the scars. No one had ever been so daring to do such a thing before, “What do you see?”

“…” They weren’t pretty, he knew it, and your silence was confirming that each second it past. Then just as quickly you pushed it all away with one word, “Hope.”

You smiled before leaning down kissing his palm, “Goodnight, Nobunaga.”

“Goodnight…” He stood there feeling his palm burn from where your lips touched him. He waited until you disappeared down the hall before looking at his hand, “Choose to see greatness…”

Resting comfortably in a tower a sly fox chuckled to himself, “Oh if only you’d let you guard down a little more, my lord…you do both yourselves a favor…”

#safe #ikemen sengoku imagine #ikemen sengoku nobunaga #ikemen sengoku #nobunaga oda reader #nobunaga oda/reader #nobunaga oda imagine #nobunaga oda #hideyoshi toyotomi #mitsuhide akechi #ieyasu tokugawa

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