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eleanorfenyxwrites · 1 year ago

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The Waves are Rising and Rising

|Beginning| |Previous|

Chapter 7

How about that last cliffhanger, huh? 😂 Chapter 8 will be out on Friday!

--//--

“–ot possibly still doubt his sincerity.”

Lan Xichen’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a room away, muffled through the ringing in Jin Guangyao’s ears and the too-loud whooshing of his own steady breathing. Jin Guangyao finds it difficult to focus on through the way his core is a yawning, gaping hole in the very centre of his being and he’s currently going cold with terror.

This is exactly what he was afraid of. He squirrelled away as much of it as he could possibly spare at the expense of his own healing and rest and now his qi is gone. It’s all gone. He was right, he didn’t have enough to spare in dual cultivation even if he’d finally figured out how to do it, and now who knew how long it would be before he’d get a chance to meditate regularly enough to replenish what he’d lost?

What he’d given.

Jin Guangyao’s breath hitches in his empty chest and he mentally claws along his meridians, hoping against hope to feel something, some ghostly little thread of qi promising that he didn’t actually lose it all, just most of it.

His meridians are cold and dark, scraped raw even, and his heart sinks further.

“Of course I don’t.”

Nie Mingjue’s rough voice is much closer at hand though still strangely disjointed, and Jin Guangyao realises he has no idea what he’s talking about. What doesn’t Nie Mingjue do? Need him anymore? That seems logical. What can he offer his sworn brother anymore without any qi left to help him with? Of course Nie Mingjue doesn’t want him around, who would give him a third chance after this?

He loses the tenuous thread of the conversation entirely as Lan Xichen’s voice subsides into muffled murmuring and Jin Guangyao succumbs again to the weakness of mundanity making him feel heavier and slower than he should be.

Some time later, Jin Guangyao is roused again, this time by something soothing and fresh sliding against his skin — under his skin, actually.

The stream of it cuts off abruptly just as Jin Guangyao realises what it is — qi, skimming along his meridians like a water bird, cool and refreshing against his hollowed out pathways — and he misses it as soon as it’s gone. Some small portion of it, no more than the equivalent of a sliver of a fingernail, has collected in his core again, a faint glow just barely bright enough to reassure him that he hasn’t somehow completely ruined his chances to cultivate ever again. He clings to that lifeline all the way back to true consciousness.

“Er-ge?” he rasps; he can still feel cooling sweat on his skin and the sheets are still warm from their exertions so he knows he hasn’t been unconscious for very long at all, but his throat still feels as parched as the barren patch of desert outside Bujing Shi’s gates.

“I’m here.”

Of course he is, wasn’t he just… doing something with his qi? The thought is slippery in the face of everything else currently clamouring for his attention, so Jin Guangyao just lets it go for now and fights to open his eyes to find Lan Xichen still lying beside him in bed, naked as the day he was born wearing only an expression of grave concern.

“Did I dual cultivate with da-ge?” That’s the most important thing, as far as he’s concerned. If that wasn’t it, if that wasn’t enough to help, to convince Nie Mingjue of his sincerity, then he’d be better off just never trying again. He doesn’t even know if he can do that again, but if it was right then he can at least try, can’t he?

Lan Xichen is quiet for long enough that Jin Guangyao forces his heavy eyes open again to find his sworn brother looking… conflicted. His heart stills and the pit in his stomach is suddenly only thanks in part to his drained core.

“I didn’t dual cultivate with him, did I?”

Lan Xichen winces around the reassuring lie he can’t tell and that’s really all the answer Jin Guangyao needs.

He failed. He gave Nie Mingjue everything he had and it still wasn’t enough, it still didn’t count. To a cultivator as strong as Nie Mingjue it probably felt like nothing at all, he thinks bitterly. It was something of a miracle that Nie Mingjue had let him come back and try again at all; sure he’d said what he’d said to Nie Huaisang, about dual cultivation requiring practice just like any other skill, and yes in some small way he’d technically acknowledged the truth of Jin Guangyao’s argument that their expectations of him were unfair when they know what they know about his cultivation training (or lack thereof). But if Jin Guangyao truly can’t be of any use to him then what’s the point in continuing like this?

He should just go, before Nie Mingjue returns from wherever he’s gone and kicks him out himself. He really doesn’t think his heart will survive another expulsion from Bujing Shi, not to mention for something as humiliating as weakness.

“A-Yao?” Lan Xichen’s hesitant voice cuts through his spiralling thoughts too softly to startle.

“I suppose I should go,” Jin Guangyao sighs and makes to sit up only to find his progress stopped quite effectively by a hand pressed to the middle of his chest. He blinks owlishly up at Lan Xichen’s suddenly fierce expression, so different from the soft concern from just a moment ago. “Er-ge?”

“You are not fit to travel, A-Yao. You were unconscious mere moments ago!”

Jin Guangyao blinks again; he’d forgotten how lovely Lan Xichen is when he’s so… forceful. The reminder isn’t exactly appreciated at the moment considering every instinct Jin Guangyao has is screaming at him to escape before Nie Mingjue can come back to run him off, but well, here he is.

“I only meant to my room, er-ge.” He didn’t, and judging by the unhappy purse to Lan Xichen’s lips they both know that, but Lan Xichen lets him have this little white lie. His room was at least going to be his next stop, anyway, and from there… well. Although, he supposes flying back to Lanling is completely out of the question anyway —

Oh. Fuck.

He’s trapped in Qinghe.

He can’t fly like this. He won’t be able to fly like this for an amount of time as yet undetermined. But he has things to do, he needs to be back in Jinlintai by tomorrow, absolutely no later than midday! There’s so much to do and to plan, and Jin Guangshan expects it all to be handled by him personally between any other duty his family sees fit to add to his list. If he isn’t there on time it’ll only make the consequences that much worse when he finally does arrive, and the journey takes days on horseback —

But he can’t ask either of his sworn brothers to take him there flying tandem on either of their blades. Leaving aside the fact that it would reveal a personal weakness he’s utterly unwilling to show to anyone in Jinlintai, the humiliation of it needing to happen at all is something he doesn’t think he could bear —

“Shhh A-Yao,” Lan Xichen murmurs and finally takes his hand off his chest to brush his hair back from his forehead instead, his fingertips warm and gentle where they brush against his clammy skin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Jin Guangyao shakes his head quickly side to side; Lan Xichen could never frighten him, it’s just the rest of the world that makes him want to curl up into the smallest target possible and never emerge again.

“Where’s da-ge?” he manages to croak.

“Bathing and then fetching a healer to come check your qi.”

Jin Guangyao’s entire body jerks away from the thought of that, though he doesn’t go far. He certainly doesn’t scramble to his feet and hurry to dress again as he desperately wants to do, but only because Lan Xichen is shushing him again and pressing kisses to his forehead that he’d be loathe to interrupt.

“It’s alright, he only left just before you began to wake, we have time to clean up and dress properly.”

Jin Guangyao forces himself to take a deep breath in and accept that this is inevitable. He’s extended himself too far, he’s given everything he has and even if it still wasn’t enough that doesn’t change the fact that he gave it. He lets Lan Xichen coddle him a little longer with kisses and careful strokes through his hair (it’s not exactly a hardship) and then he’s secretly immensely grateful for both Lan Xichen’s help and the lack of Nie Mingjue for an audience when Lan Xichen helps him up out of bed and he promptly feels every single bit of his pain and exhaustion all at once.

He bites his tongue bloody to avoid crying out and gingerly puts weight on his bad side to hobble, with Lan Xichen’s supporting hands under his elbows, back over to where he’d folded his clothes. Dressing is an embarrassingly assisted affair, Lan Xichen silently supporting his weight with ease to help him step into his trousers, and Jin Guangyao has to tip his head to look up at the ceiling for absolutely no tear-related reasons at all as Lan Xichen ducks down before he can attempt to bend over in order to pull them into place for him, his hands sure and steady when he ties the closure neatly around his waist. All of his top layers come next, Lan Xichen careful not to separate them as he helps Jin Guangyao slide his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and his several layers of robes all at once.

“I’m sorry,” Jin Guangyao finally mumbles when Lan Xichen is busy fiddling with the closures of his layers, his long fingers moving expertly as he ties knot after knot and makes sure each robe is pressed neat and flat before he moves to the next one out to begin the process again.

“For what?” Lan Xichen replies, just as soft and quiet in the scant space between them. “A-Yao, you have nothing at all to apologise for. While I admit I wish the circumstances were different, you know I long to be able to do more to take care of you than what I’m allowed.”

What on earth has gotten into Lan Xichen? He’s never so… bold, and yet here he stands, naked and unselfconscious in the middle of Nie Mingjue’s quarters, telling Jin Guangyao in no uncertain terms what it is he wants and that he’s accepted that he can’t have it. Of course Lan Xichen is always honest, he’s a Lan, but he usually couches so much of what he means in delicate language and fleeting glances that to hear him state such intimate things so plainly (outside of sex, he supposes) is startling.

Or maybe Jin Guangyao’s still just too exhausted to deal with this at the moment.

The door behind him opens and Jin Guangyao stiffens instantly, panic flooding his tired limbs with a fresh rush of adrenaline at the thought that the healer is about to catch them clearly cleaning up after having had sex —

“Oh good,” Nie Mingjue says, and sounds like he means it. He shuts the door with a wooden clack and some small bit of tension leaves Jin Guangyao’s shoulders when he only hears one set of footsteps come further into the room. “Yi-daifu won’t be able to come until the morning, one of the disciples has just gone into labour and the midwife needs her help. She said so long as Guangyao regained consciousness sometime tonight he’d be fine to wait until morning, so long as he gets some rest in the meantime.”

Jin Guangyao twists to look at Nie Mingjue over his shoulder. “What did you tell her?”

Neither of his sworn brothers can lie like he can, and if Nie Mingjue blew their cover by blurting out that Jin Guangyao had fucked Nie Mingjue so hard he’d passed out then by the gods—

Nie Mingjue scoffs, an interruption to his spiralling thoughts that puts Jin Guangyao’s hackles up. “I said you were heavily injured and exhausted if not also a little malnourished, and that you overextended yourself coming here.”

“Malnourished?” he hisses, incensed. “Am I some child who can’t even understand how to eat properly? I am not malnourished!”

“Tell that to your ribs, you’ll have no trouble finding every single one of them. For all that rich fare they serve in Jinlintai you’d think you’d have more meat on your bones by now.”

Jin Guangyao clenches his teeth around his own flimsy argument, knowing that Nie Mingjue has won this one and too tired to try to twist the victory out of his grasp. He begrudgingly adds a mental tally to the ‘Nie Mingjue’ side of the double column in his mind tracking the winners of their ‘sparring’ matches.

“I’ve been busy,” he mutters ungraciously and lets Lan Xichen turn his head forward again with a gentle fingertip under his chin to finish helping him get dressed by placing his hat carefully on his head and nudging the bead that holds the ties together up under his chin, snug but comfortable.

“Enough arguing,” Lan Xichen says, blithe and gentle. “I’m going to dress; Mingjue, you’re going to put on at least one more layer please, and then we are going to have a discussion. Not an argument. A calm, civil discussion between all three of us.”

Jin Guangyao yearns to protest and plead to be allowed to retreat to his rooms so he can crawl into bed and reemerge perhaps never, but Lan Xichen cuts him off far too neatly by leaning in to kiss his forehead precisely where his vermillion mark should sit (he can only assume it’s gone by now, rubbed off on the back of Nie Mingjue’s shoulder during their turn together) and nudging him towards the bed again in a clear indication to sit down where he can be comfortable.

Jin Guangyao goes meekly and settles in to watch, somewhat curiously, as Lan Xichen dresses somehow just as quickly as he always strips, clearly well-used to dealing with his unreasonable number of layers as efficiently as possible. On the other side of the room Nie Mingjue shrugs into a stiff outer robe and doesn’t bother belting it shut; somehow the effect is positively indecent when coupled with the damp ends of his hair still hanging loose around his shoulders and his bare chest peeking through the loose cross of his underrobe.

The pair of them settle at the table again around the empty tea service and both look like they’d really prefer it if there was the excuse of tea to keep their hands busy, but sending for a fresh pot this late at night would be more trouble than the comfort of it is worth. Jin Guangyao tucks his hands under his thighs and lets the pressure on the backs of his palms soothe some of the anxiety curling in his chest.

Lan Xichen settles his hands neatly on top of the table in front of him, the perfect vision of Lan elegance, and fixes Nie Mingjue with a piercing look.

“Da-ge, how do you feel?”

“Uh…” Nie Mingjue looks so thoroughly nonplussed by the simple question that Jin Guangyao has to curl his lips in and press them tightly together to keep from laughing, feeling a little fuzzy and drunk on his bone-deep weariness.

Lan Xichen, apparently in no hurry to elaborate, simply waits patiently for his answer.

“I feel… fine?”

“Better than before we began dual cultivating?”

Nie Mingjue, to his credit, blinks and pauses to visibly think about it in greater detail.

“Yes,” he finally decides, though it almost sounds like a question. “I think… Yes. I do.”

Apparently anything more complex or introspective is still not going to be forthcoming. Jin Guangyao resists another urge to laugh as Lan Xichen clearly suppresses a sigh. He doesn’t know what he was expecting — it’s not as if Nie Mingjue has ever been one to talk about the emotions that he clearly feels so strongly, and he’s well-known amongst anyone who nighthunts with him, or who fought with him on the battlefield, as an absolutely terrible patient who won’t do anything at all to help healers actually tend to him. That isn’t about to change just because the latest treatment in a long line of them is medicinal ass-fucking.

“Alright, well… that’s good.” Lan Xichen rallies with a smile. “I know it is perhaps counter-productive to slow down now when I feel we’re finally understanding what it is we’re meant to be doing to truly make this work, but I believe that is precisely what we will need to do.”

Slow… down? Jin Guangyao meets Nie Mingjue’s equally confused gaze for a split second before they both focus on Lan Xichen again.

“You don’t want to dual cultivate anymore?” Jin Guangyao asks, unfiltered in his exhaustion. And though they’re here for Nie Mingjue the utterly irrational and plaintive ‘you don’t want to do this with me anymore?’ is much clearer in his voice than he would prefer.

Lan Xichen instantly sits up straighter and shakes his head quickly. “I do! A-Yao of course I do, but… well, your core will take some time to recover enough to make another attempt, I believe, and there is also the matter of the hunt Jin-zongzhu announced that I am certain you have been tasked with planning. Da-ge is more stable than before and should it be necessary we can always play Song of Cleansing, but it just seems… we could perhaps all use something of a break?”

Jin Guangyao is too busy fighting the crushing feeling in his chest to catch whatever it is that’s made Nie Mingjue squint suspiciously at Lan Xichen (and isn’t that strange, to see Nie Mingjue’s suspicions laid on someone that isn’t him?).

“You’ve been neglecting your duties to do this so often, haven’t you.” This one’s definitely not a question, in fact it borders on an accusation, though without any real heat behind it.

Lan Xichen’s elegant little grimace answers that quite neatly.

“A-Huan,” Nie Mingjue groans and rubs at his eyes.

Almost desperately, Lan Xichen leans forward to rest a hand on Nie Mingjue’s forearm. “It hasn’t been a problem!” he’s quick to reassure, “The rebuilding efforts are going well enough without my being there to assist at all times, but…”

“But?”

“Shufu has perhaps hinted that it would be more… seemly if I were to spend a longer, unbroken stretch of my time in Cloud Recesses ahead of the hunt than I have since we began treating you.”

“I see.”

“It’s only temporary!” Lan Xichen definitely sounds desperate now, his usual placid expression morphed into something gut-wrenchingly earnest. “And da-ge if you fear your health will suffer for it of course we’ll come up with another solution, perhaps you could come to Cloud Recesses for a dual cultivation visit?”

Jin Guangyao tamps down a flare of both jealousy and panic. Jealousy, because if Nie Mingjue goes to Cloud Recesses for a dual cultivation session then Jin Guangyao will be unable to help, as per his own rules that he is absolutely dedicated to obeying; panic, because in his desire not to do anything at all to inconvenience Nie Mingjue it seems Lan Xichen has momentarily forgotten the very valid reasons behind Jin Guangyao’s rules and could possibly appeal to him that it would be fine, wouldn’t it, to not have to travel to Qinghe every time? Jin Guangyao hates to disappoint Lan Xichen and he’s already given the man so much to worry over this trip, he doesn’t want to upset him again —

“No,” Nie Mingjue says simply. “I mean yes I’ll come to Cloud Recesses if you’d like me to, but only to sit through Cleansing. Guangyao won’t have sex anywhere but here, and we agreed that was for the best.”

Huh.

Well.

He’s just. Not going to think about the sudden warmth in his chest. He’s going to blame it on his qi attempting to re-regulate, it’s absolutely not the warm glow of being remembered and respected by Nie Mingjue, of all people.

“We can take a break, Xichen. I won’t die if we have to miss a few weeks.”

Jin Guangyao winces at the poor choice of words — they’re still racing against the clock here, after all, and while yes Nie Mingjue probably won’t die in a few weeks’ time they still don’t know for sure when he will, and that sword is hanging over their heads at all times. It is, in fact, the reason for their urgency in the first place.

“You’re certain?”

Nie Mingjue shrugs far too nonchalantly and spreads his hands to either side. “Sure. I mean it A-Huan, I feel fine. I can still meditate whenever I want, and come to either of you to hear Cleansing if I need it —” Jin Guangyao wonders just when the hell he’s supposed to sit down with Nie Mingjue and play Song of Cleansing long enough for it to actually be effective if he shows up unexpectedly in Jinlintai some day, but the trust in his ability to do so is… nice “— and maybe I’ll let Huaisang talk me into wasting some time instead of training every day. Alright? Relax.”

Lan Xichen still doesn’t look entirely convinced, but considering he’s the one pushing for them to take a break from each other (it still fucking stings even if it’s entirely practical) it would hardly make sense for him to keep arguing the point. Jin Guangyao sits up a little straighter when Lan Xichen turns to look at him with an apologetic twist to his lips.

“A-Yao? Is that alright with you?”

“Er-ge is so thoughtful. This one does have many responsibilities in Jinlintai, and the hunt on Phoenix Mountain is a complex operation that must be executed to perfection. It will be… helpful to not require so much time set aside to travel to Qinghe, at least in the short term.”

Whatever else he feels about all of this, that much is at least true. Travelling to Qinghe is exhausting under normal circumstances, and lately his circumstances have been anything but normal. Watching the tension unravel from Lan Xichen’s shoulders is its own sort of consolation prize, and even if Jin Guangyao were at all inclined to be upset with him, which of course he isn’t, his obvious relief would knock the wind out of anyone’s sails.

“Wonderful,” Lan Xichen breathes with a beatific smile at the both of them. “A-Yao, I’ll help you to your quarters, shall I?”

“No –” Jin Guangyao’s mouth hangs open around his unsaid ‘yes, please’; he definitely wouldn’t say no to a little more of Lan Xichen’s kindness “– he’s staying in here, don’t be ridiculous. Yi-daifu is just going to come here to check on him first thing in the morning anyway, there’s no point in taking him to his quarters.”

“Ah… da-ge…”

“What? You think I can’t take care of him for half a night? It’s already near midnight anyway, dawn’s in just a few hours.”

Is it really? Jin Guangyao fights down the urge to try to see if he can spot the moon from the window across the room. It’s just not worth the effort when he can feel his energy slipping like sand through his fingers.

“That’s fine,” he sighs. What point is there in putting up a fight now? Nie Mingjue has clearly already made up his mind. Jin Guangyao is a man who knows how to pick his battles, and this fight simply isn’t worth picking (particularly not when his ears have just started ringing and his vision darkening around the edges in a way that doesn’t bode well). “I’ll sleep here, and da-ge can spend the night coming up with some plausible excuse to give Yi-daifu as to why I’m in his bed.”

There’s a strange sort of vindictive pleasure in turning his back on Nie Mingjue’s irritated scowl to lay down just in time to pass out again and make it look like he simply falls asleep.

--//--

“What the fuck did you do to Meng-fushi?”

“Nothing! I told you, he wore his core out between trying to heal himself and flying here.”

Jin Guangyao may still be more than a little out of it, but even he can tell the ensuing silence is judgemental as hell.

“Zongzhu. I’ve been up all night delivering a baby who turned out to be surprise twins. My congratulations on the good fortune for the Sect and all, but my patience is very thin and I would like to find my bed sooner rather than later. Now is not the time to insult my intelligence with such obvious falsehoods.”

Good to know some things never change — Yi-daifu is still terrifying and the most disrespectful doctor Jin Guangyao has ever met. (He sort of loves her; who else could ever hope to tend to a Sect full of battle-mad butchers who make for the worst patients?)

“I’m not, Yi-daifu, it’s the truth!”

“If he’d burnt out his core flying here then he wouldn’t have been able to walk to his room or have dinner with you and your brother, he would’ve collapsed in our courtyard and caused a diplomatic incident. Someone did something to his core after he arrived, and if it wasn’t you or him that did it then we may still be facing a diplomatic incident of an entirely different sort, so if you do not tell the truth -“

“Cleansing,” Jin Guangyao mumbles, because Nie Mingjue is a horrible liar and he’s about to cave and blow their cover, he can just feel it. “Er-ge showed me-“ Jin Guangyao coughs to clear his too-dry throat and finally manages to open his burning eyes to find Yi-daifu sitting on the edge of the bed next to his hip “-Er-ge taught me to infuse more qi into the Lan music we play for Da-ge. I overextended.”

“That is a gross understatement,” Yi-daifu sniffs and picks up his wrist with a put-upon air to feel his pulse with two papery-soft fingertips. Jin Guangyao has no clue how old she is but he’s pretty sure she’s been a fixture of Bujing Shi for long enough to have been present to assist the midwife when Nie Mingjue himself was born; but like all Nies she’s strong as an ox and stands unbowed; absolutely nothing phases her.

It’s… disquieting, then, to say the least, to watch her pause, then frown, then press her fingertips more firmly to his wrist, like she can’t find whatever it is she’s looking for. He abruptly becomes aware, with a sudden lurching in his gut like missing a step down the stairs, that something’s pressing on his core, probing it with enough pointed pressure that it borders on painful, and he snatches his wrist out of her grasp purely on instinct to cradle his hand protectively against his chest.

Yi-daifu sighs but doesn’t try to force him to give her his wrist again, for which he’s grateful.

“You’ll have to recover the slow way then,” she pronounces. “I assume you hadn’t planned to stay here for a week?”

“...No.”

“In that case we’ll need to provide a horse when you’re ready to return to Lanling, but that’s not really my problem. You’ll be fine with more rest and meditation, don’t push yourself too hard though I know I’m wasting my breath even saying it, and if you get more ‘mysterious’ injuries that take all your qi to heal perhaps reconsider your life choices in general. With that, I’m officially off-duty, don’t ask me anything else.”

Jin Guangyao blinks and tries to find something to say in defence of… well perhaps not in defence of those in his family who beat him but at least in defence of himself, for staying where he is, for accepting what his father sees fit to give him; but Yi-daifu stands and sweeps out of the room in a swish of steel-grey silk, leaving him and Nie Mingjue to stare at each other across the expanse of Nie Mingjue’s too-large mattress.

“Um,” Nie Mingjue starts, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Jin Guangyao blinks at him and makes absolutely no move to vacate his bed. “So how much of that conversation were you awake for?”

“Just the last bit.”

“Ah. So you didn’t hear the part where she definitely knows we had sex?”

Jin Guangyao’s mind goes utterly, blissfully blank for not nearly long enough, but he must be hallucinating because he’s pretty sure Nie Mingjue just said Yi-daifu knows they slept together, and that’s just not allowed to be true. That can’t possibly be real.

“I’m sorry, I must have misheard. It sounded like you just said Yi-daifu knows we had sex.”

“I… probably shouldn’t have gone to get her wearing only one robe? And we definitely should’ve changed the sheets before she got here.”

Unconsciousness would be so lovely to return to right now.

Instead, he can feel the blood drain from his face and he has to close his eyes for a moment to focus on controlling the nauseous dread roiling in his gut, the fear that had gripped him by the throat when he’d found the cutsleeve porn in his room returning a hundred-fold, and with a vengeance.

“It’ll be fine!” Nie Mingjue says far too gruffly, clearly aiming for ‘bracing’ and ending up somewhere too close to ‘dismissive’ for Jin Guangyao’s liking. “It’s not like she’s going to go around telling anybody or anything, just relax, you’re supposed to be resting.”

Jin Guangyao actually physically has to bite his tongue to stop himself from demanding how the hell he’s supposed to rest when Nie Mingjue might as well have just dumped a writhing mass of snakes in the bed with him and told him to deal with it. That doesn’t keep him from turning a belligerent glare on his sworn brother, though.

“That is much easier said than done,” he finally manages, throat tight.

Nie Mingjue stays standing awkwardly in the middle of the room for another long moment before he sighs, deep and slow, and his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, so quietly Jin Guangyao wonders for a moment if he actually heard it. “I didn’t mean to… make things worse. I just. You like having all the facts. So.”

Jin Guangyao is capable of appreciating that Nie Mingjue is attempting to be… nice, weird as that is. His rolling stomach doesn’t really give a fuck what Nie Mingjue’s intentions are though, and he’s debating how difficult it would be to force his battered body into leaning over the side of the bed to attempt to aim for something easily-cleaned when Nie Mingjue tuts and just gets in the bed.

“You’re not breathing, you need to breathe, A-Yao,” Nie Mingjue grumps. “Turn over.”

Jin Guangyao doesn’t have time to attempt to force his locked-up back to obey before Nie Mingjue just slides a massive hand under him and does it for him, turning him so carefully onto his side that it doesn’t even hurt. He’s still attempting to process how good it feels not to hurt while simultaneously dealing with the unpleasantness of, yes, not really breathing, and so he’s no help at all as Nie Mingjue lays down behind him and sort of… holds him.

No, not ‘sort of��. Nie Mingjue lies down on his side and holds him from behind, and the shock of it alone is what finally snaps Jin Guangyao out of his own head long enough for his body to take over the ‘breathing normally’ bit again.

“Oh,” he says, and misses nonchalance by a li, “You’re um…”

“Figured it’s better than trying to sneak out to sleep in your bed,” Nie Mingjue mutters. “It’s only been a shichen since you fell asleep, you need more rest. Yi-daifu is going to give the servants and the disciples instructions not to bother either of us, just go back to sleep.”

Jin Guangyao holds himself utterly still for the space of a few breaths, but continuing to do so would be both unreasonable and impossible and so he forces himself to (physically) relax, his next exhale shaking ever so slightly as it leaves his chest.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he tells the wall opposite; Nie Mingjue grunts something vaguely rude behind his head and mutters a mutinous, “Obviously,” that Jin Guangyao doesn’t have the energy nor inclination to try to unpack at this point in time.

To occupy himself while he waits for sleep to reclaim him, he returns to the question that’s been simmering away unattended in the back of his mind since that first meeting.

Who the hell is responsible for this whole… thing?

He supposes that, under the circumstances, he can at least rule Yi-daifu out as the as-of-yet-unknown doctor to suggest this dual cultivation scheme to Nie Mingjue. Not only would she not have been surprised to find Jin Guangyao in Nie Mingjue’s bed had she been the one to recommend he spend time there in the first place, but he just can’t imagine her suggesting to her sect leader that he try getting fucked in the ass to straighten out his qi. She’s disrespectful and bold, yes, but she’s also quite… traditional. Like all Nies she faces things head on and accepts that most of them just are what they are; the fact that Nie Sect Leaders die young and violently is simply too ingrained in the Sect history for her to attempt to find ways around the inevitability. In the mind of a traditional Nie — Nie Mingjue himself included, despite his willingness to go along with this scheme for now — it’s a worthy trade, longevity for the strength to strike down evil for as long as they can withstand the ever-strengthening onslaught of their sabers.

No, someone as hide-bound as Yi-daifu would never suggest an experimental sex-and-qi-based medical procedure to thwart the inevitable condemnation of a saber. She’ll treat wounds and knock sense into anyone who truly trains too hard and pushes themself too far, but to actively go against the inherent nature of the Nie cultivation? Unthinkable.

Nor would, he thinks, any of the other healers he knows of in Qinghe (who all trained under Yi-daifu and continue to work for and with her now) dare to propose something so experimental, so fundamentally antithetical to the Nie way of life.

Unfortunately, that still leaves the question of just who the hell did suggest it, then. He would very much like to know who to address his grievances to, and they are many.

First on the list will have to be the fact that he’s currently stuck in Nie Mingjue’s bed, too exhausted and in pain to do anything else, which means that he has no way to avoid Nie Mingjue reaching up to cover his eyes with one massive, rough hand and say, “Would you stop thinking for two minutes and go to sleep?”

How does he know?! Jin Guangyao bites back the scathing retort he definitely has ready to go and wouldn’t be pulling out of thin air in favor of huffing and settles a little deeper into the mattress with inarticulate grumbling. He’s not happy about this, even if Nie Mingjue’s bed is the most comfortable mattress he’s ever laid on, and even if it’s a bit… nicer when Nie Mingjue slings his arm over the dip in Jin Guangyao’s waist, a warm weight that helps him feel grounded enough in the present to stop chewing on the issue of whose fault this is in favour of letting consciousness slip out of his grasp again.

He can find out some other time, he supposes as he starts to drift off. For now, this is fine.

He wakes some time close to sunset, his back no longer over-warm from Nie Mingjue’s presence. He rises, finds himself alone, and takes the opportunity to slip as carefully as he can back down the corridors into the guest pavilion, where he sneaks into his room to finally bathe (as well as he can in a small basin not meant to hold enough water for a full bath) and change into his spare set of robes.

He feels surprisingly fine; not great, not even really normal, but certainly well enough to travel, so long as he takes things easy. He’s already lost a full day to his exhaustion, and what little qi he’s managed to recoup during his rest will give him enough energy to at least get on the road, perhaps enough even to make it to the next town over where he can bathe and sleep again properly in the comfort of an inn. He’ll lose so much time travelling by horse rather than by sword, and he really can’t afford to miss any time, let alone so much more than he could’ve anticipated; there’s still the hunt to plan, after all, and it absolutely must go off without a hitch if he’s to avoid Jin Guangshan’s ire — the little remaining good reputation of Lanling Jin currently hinges on Jin Guangshan being able to provide resources to all the rest of the Sects in repairing their damages (and refilling their coffers and treasure rooms) after the war, and if his newly legitimised son is the one to bring shame on the Sect…

Jin Guangyao orders for a horse instead of dinner, and he’s on the road before the sun has vanished below the horizon. He doesn’t stop at an inn; he rides through the night, driven by the ever-present urgency to prove himself worthy of his responsibilities and the fear of what he knows will happen should he fail.

(Said urgency is the only thing that stops him from turning his horse around and marching straight back to Qinghe to demand to know what the hell Nie Mingjue meant by calling him ‘A-Yao’, a memory that only resurfaces when the sun has fully set and so he has nothing more interesting to focus on than ruminating on the strange softening of Nie Mingue’s behaviour towards him.

Since when is he ‘A-Yao’ to anyone but er-ge?!)

By the time he arrives in Lanling, there’s so much work to catch up on (and so much discipline to receive) that he doesn’t have the luxury of so much as daydreaming about Nie Mingjue’s incomprehensible behaviour or writing his letter of grievances, let alone devoting any brainpower to solving the puzzle of just who he should send his hypothetical letter to.

There are seating arrangements to make, night-hunts to organise to capture their prey, corrals to have built for the prey once it’s caught, menus to finalise, further machinations against Wei Wuxian to plan for his father, decorations to oversee, a torture dungeon/demonic cultivation experiments to continue, opening ceremonies to orchestrate — and he does it all. He does it all, and he smiles, and he bows, and he does not, under any circumstances, waste his precious few minutes of free time wishing he could… relax in Qinghe with his sworn brothers.

In the interest of not losing his mind with this new and devastating want he apparently has for both of them, he tries very hard not to think of them at all.

|NEXT|

#the untamed fanfic #3zun #The Waves are Rising and Rising #Jin Guangyao #Nie Mingjue #Lan Xichen

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saint-felicias-writing-corner · 6 months ago

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WIP: Trouble in Shangri-La (Buddie)

Good Afternoon and Happy Saturday! Hope everyone's been having a good day! Just wanted to drop a small snip of the new chapter of "Trouble in Shangri-La". It's been a long time coming (a couple months now, but 'You're The Two' kinda ran away with my brain for a bit there.) Hope everyone enjoys

============================

Bobby’s hand is reassuring as it kneads into his shoulder. “When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

It takes Buck longer to think about it than it should. Tommy’s, right? He hadn’t been able to really sleep since… at least, not anything that would matter for much. There was the bit in the hotel, but that was fitful, filled with darkness and demons and regret. Thirty minutes there, maybe an hour? There was too much thrumming through him, cataclysmic mistakes and aching needs that he didn’t have the strength to fight warring with nightmares that reared their head the second he put his to the pillow. Everything was either a playback of his and Tommy’s last time or blood, water, and ash.

Yesterday, he had been at work. That would have been twenty-four hours. He glances at his watch. Noon. That means it was creeping up on fifty plus hours at this point, give or take, since anything he could consider greater than a nap.

After his shift, he’d initially gone to the boardwalk, the other place that Tommy had told Bobby he could be found, but disjointed caricatures of Christopher warred with soaked memories of Christopher then. There’s a space between there and here where he operated on autopilot, a wounded soul listlessly flitting through purgatory, reliving his greatest failures and his deepest wounds.

“Is Christopher okay?” He avoids Bobby’s question with his own.

“Chris is fine, Buck. Athena and I are happy to have him. But we’re worried about you right now.”

Buck sloughs Bobby’s hand from his shoulder and places a sidestep of distance between them. “I’m fine.”

Bobby doesn’t call him on his lie, which Buck is thankful for. He just mimics the other man’s stance, arms on the railing, fingers interlocked. “Eddie’s awake.”

“I know.”

“There was a brief scare there. He threw a clot into his lungs.” Bobby’s voice is impossibly calm.

“I know.” His voice warbles on the words. He hates it.

“He could really use his best friend, Buck.”

Buck squeezes his eyes shut to try to halt the tears. “He’s better off without me there.”

“I don’t think that’s true one bit. I’m sure he doesn’t either. He wants you there.”

Buck scrapes away the tears with roughened palms. “You don’t know that.”

Bobby’s hand rests on his shoulder again. Buck doesn’t shake it away. “I do know, because he told me, Buck. When I saw him. Whatever you think happened all those years aga, I don’t think it’s nearly as bad as you’ve made it out in your head. Even if it was, I don’t think Eddie cares right now.”

Buck sniffs loudly. For a moment, he feels impossibly small. Could Bobby be right? He thinks of Eddie then; sweet and beautiful, so full of pain but so impossibly vibrant that Buck had to be near him. The man had rewritten him, inviting a lost and wounded man into his family and his life with barely a second thought. God, he missed him. Their antics. Their friendship.

“I’m not strong enough, Bobby.”

“Strong enough to do what, Buck?”

Buck’s shoulders sag, blue eyes zeroing in on the spot where he’d almost lost Eddie all those years ago. The blood had long since been cleaned up, the chipped asphalt from the sniper’s missed shots patched and filled in. But Buck still knows their exact placement, as if he’s an actor, and its the blocking for one of the worst days of his life. When he finally turns to look at Bobby, the man is staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“To watch him leave again.”

“You know there’s a better chance of him staying if you go see him than if you avoid him, right?”

#my fanfic #911 fanfic #buddie fanfic #WIP: Trouble in Shangri-La #my fanfiction #buddie fanfiction #911 fanfiction

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lucky-clover-gazette · 2 years ago

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domestic bisque

fluff | 3381 words | vidow cottage au

Vio and Shadow make soup, and there's no plot. They literally just have a cozy evening together. Good for them!

They sit together for a while, watching the snow fall, silent and content. The smell of simmering soup fills the den and Pinecone continues to purr like a motor.

Shadow tucks a strand of hair behind Vio’s ear. “Love you.”

Vio leans in—not for a kiss, but simply to meet Shadow’s forehead with his own. “Love you too.”

read it on ao3 or under the cut, with author's notes:

Author's Note: The title is a soup pun. Appreciate it.

So funny story, this used to be a much longer and more melodramatic fic that I shelved all the way back in November of 2022. It’s been sitting incomplete since then, so I finally decided to take all the fluffy soup parts and play into that, while cutting out the angst. So if this feels a little awkward and disjointed, well… that’s because it is. But still, I think it’s very sweet, and I hope you enjoy :)

It’s perfect soup weather in the woods outside Castle Town.

Snowy, but not overly so, chilling the cottage just enough to justify use of the fireplace. Shadow busies himself in the kitchen, clearing the counter of Pinecone’s canned food and spare bags of tea, and begins to unpack freshly-purchased ingredients. He smiles at the sound of Vio’s footsteps as he enters from the den.

“Found it?” Shadow asks, taking a bunch of celery stalks over to the sink for washing.

“Yes,” Vio says. “I would appreciate it if we avoided getting anything on it.”

Shadow examines the leather-bound volume from afar, well-worn from at least a century of use. He’d make fun of Vio’s concern, but he also understands how important this historical volume is—it’s one of the previous Hero’s few remaining belongings, chock-full of handwritten insight from the man himself. Vio had begged Zelda to lend it to him, and she’d only handed it over after they both promised to return it in good condition. It was a warranted measure, honestly, since the majority of Shadow and Vio’s furniture was stolen from Hyrule Castle… and that’s not even mentioning their evil root beer stash in the cellar.

It had been Shadow’s idea to make the soup, after Vio offhandedly mentioned its inclusion in the Hero’s journal entry. Most of the ingredients are still common in modern Hyrule, except for the Reekfish—luckily, according to the Hero, the soup is better off without it. And with a name like ‘Reekfish,’ Shadow is inclined to believe him.

“Do you think Pinecone will get curious with all the ingredients laying out?” Vio asks, eyeing the massive pumpkin and wheel of cheese visually similar to the horns of Ordon goats.

Shadow glances into the den at their cat, a three-legged tortie watching the snow fall through a frosted window. “Pinecone,” he calls to her, watching her ear twitch in recognition, “are you going to make trouble while we cook?”

She doesn’t answer. Shadow shrugs.

“Did you know that the Hero could talk to cats?” Vio asks Shadow, resting his elbows on the counter.

“No,” Shadow says, “but that’s very cool.”

“Once we’re done cooking, I’d like to show you some of the passages,” Vio says, avoiding eye contact. “I mean, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”

Shadow smiles. “Of course I’m interested. Looking forward to it.”

“That’s… yeah, me too. Hey, can you make fun of me now?”

Shadow crosses the kitchen and plants a kiss on Vio’s forehead. “You’re cute.”

“That is specifically the opposite of what I requested. Also, you are cute too. Obviously.”

Shadow returns to the counter with a smile and grabs a knife from the wooden block. “I’m dicing the veggies and mincing the garlic, right?”

Referencing the recipe, Vio nods. “What can I do to help?”

Shadow withdraws another knife, this one serrated and twice as long. “Feel like butchering a pumpkin?”

─────────────────

They launch into their parallel tasks in contented silence, the only noise coming from Vio as he struggles to cut into the large Ordon pumpkin. Shadow slides the diced celery into a glass bowl and takes a break to assist Vio, who has switched from the kitchen knife to his Four Sword.

“Here,” Shadow says, “I’ll hold it steady while you cut it in half, right by the stem. Then you just have to scoop out the seeds with a spoon, slice it into pieces, and roast them in the oven so they soften. Once they’re done, you should be able to squish them into a puree with a fork.”

Vio narrows his eyes. “How do you know so much about this?”

“Vendor at the market talked my ear off about it. She was sweet.”

Shadow really had appreciated the Ordonian woman’s advice, as well as the fact that she’d treated him like a normal person. It’s been a little more than six months since Shadow’s reign of terror over Hyrule, and a lot of people in Castle Town still hold a grudge. Okay, maybe not a lot, but townspeople rarely go out of their way to engage in small talk.

“I’ll preheat the oven,” Shadow says as Vio begins to gut the pumpkin. He turns the dial and returns to his counter, making short work of the remaining ingredients.

“Pinecone, no!”

Shadow whips his head around as Vio begs their cat to get off the counter, his hands covered with orange pumpkin guts. “Shadow, can you please stop laughing and pick her up?”

Shadow retrieves Pinecone with a chuckle, kissing her forehead and returning her to the stool by the den window. She curls up and Shadow has the strong urge to sink his face into her soft fur.

“Pumpkin’s going into the oven,” Vio calls from the kitchen. “I’ll clean up the mess before we continue.”

“Sounds good,” Shadow says, giving Pinecone another peck (there is no limit to forehead kisses in this household). He consults the journal, placed far from the carnage, and commits their next steps to memory.

“We can start the soup while the pumpkin roasts,” he says to Vio, who furiously scrubs his hands in the sink. He has his hair up again, in that lame purple scrunchie, a few stray bangs falling into his face. Shadow feels the urge to tuck them behind his pointed ears, but there are more pressing matters at hand.

─────────────────

When Shadow and Vio first moved into the abandoned cottage, their friends had insisted on a small housewarming party. Some of their gifts are useful on a daily basis, such as Red’s hand-knitted blanket and Zelda’s fountain pens, while others are bound to a more specific purpose. A great example is a yet-to-be-used artisanal casserole dish from Green, which is shaped and painted to resemble a pumpkin.

Shadow removes the heavy vessel from a shelf and gently places it on the counter. “I wonder,” he says, “if somehow the Hero of Twilight’s spirit influenced Green to choose this gift. Since he apparently had a thing for pumpkin soup.”

Vio joins Shadow’s side, sizing up the dish. “Interestingly enough, he’s not the only one. Records indicate that several versions of the Hero have encountered pumpkin soup during their adventures.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The Hero of Winds grew up on Outset Island, where the locals made pumpkin soup that healed his injuries. Some sources even say his own grandmother created the recipe.”

“I see. And have there been any other heroic pumpkin soup encounters of note?”

“Yes,” Vio enthuses, “with the first reincarnation of Link, actually. He lived in the sky and flew on a huge bird. In order to save his version of Zelda, he had to deliver pumpkin soup to a whale inside a thunderhead.”

“Very normal,” Shadow remarks, one eyebrow raised.

Vio smirks. “About as normal as a magic sword turning the Hero into four distinct individuals, one of whom fell madly in love with the original Hero’s evil shadow.”

“You know that makes you sound like the weirdo in that situation, right?”

“Like you weren’t hitting on me from the start.”

─────────────────

Shadow busies himself with the soup, placing the casserole dish on the stovetop and grabbing a stick of butter from the fridge. He slices off two tablespoons and melts them against the warming vessel, then empties the glass bowls of prepped celery, carrots, and onions into the dish. They sizzle on contact.

“Wooden spoon, please,” he calls to Vio, who promptly places the instrument in his outstretched hand. He uses it to saute the veggies while Vio removes the sheet pan of softened pumpkin from the oven, pureeing it just as Shadow had described. Shadow tosses in the garlic as Vio begins to clean their prep dishes.

“Wanna pop open some vegetable broth?” Shadow asks once he hears the sink turn off. He receives no response and turns his head to see Vio kneeling by Pinecone in the den. Shadow opens the carton of broth on his own and pours it into the dish, taking care not to let it splash in his face.

“Soup has to simmer for ten minutes,” Shadow calls to Vio, bringing the Hero’s journal into the den. He plops down on the floor, because wherever Pinecone decides to be is more often than not where they end up. He nudges Vio and drops the book in his lap. “Show me something interesting.”

Vio gives Pinecone one last full-body pet and nods. “Very well. How much do you know about the Hero of Twilight?”

Shadow shrugs. “Nothing more than what you’ve told me.”

“And what have I told you, exactly?”

“He talked to cats, didn’t use the Four Sword, killed another version of Ganon but missed out on fun times with Vaati.”

Vio scoffs. “Yeah, well, he got Zant.”

“That’s a cool name. What was his deal?”

Vio begins to flip through pages, narrowing his eyes as he scans the text. “Ah-ha!” he exclaims, and it’s so unbelievably dorky that Shadow kind of wants to kiss him on the mouth. “He talks about Zant here,” Vio says, angling the page so Shadow can read.

A note on Zant, usurper king of the Twili tribe: For the majority of my journey, I believed him to be the greatest threat to Hyrule, the final enemy I would need to defeat. But Zant had only served as a proxy for Ganon, who allowed him passage through a dark mirror to wreak havoc on the world of the light.

Shadow makes a sour face. “Wonder what that’s like.”

“Keep reading,” Vio says with a small smile.

Imagine my surprise when Zant became frantic and unhinged in battle, the opposite of the imposing figure I had once believed him to be. Perhaps his initial stature had been an act, disguising the instability and insecurity within.

Stranger still, Zant somehow managed to linger despite a very graphic death. It’s almost as if his spirit couldn’t die, not truly, until he thwarted his former master. Princess Zelda and I defeated Ganondorf, fulfilling Hylia’s Triforce prophecy—but somehow, Zant struck the killing blow. He banished Ganon from the world of light by violently severing the connection between them.

“Huh,” Shadow remarks, his voice now proud. “Wonder what that’s like.”

─────────────────

Eventually, Vio appears to remember something important. “Has it been ten minutes, for the soup?”

“Just about,” Shadow says, getting to his feet. “Be right back.”

Shadow returns to the kitchen and adds the pumpkin puree, along with a dash of cinnamon, to the simmering mixture. The beige broth becomes a warm amber before his eyes, already starting to bubble with the new ingredients.

“That smells fantastic,” Vio says, peering over Shadow’s shoulder. He wraps his arms around Shadow’s waist, and sandwiched between a simmering pumpkin soup and his favorite person in the world, Shadow feels truly blessed. And then he cringes, because they’re supposed to be creatures of darkness, so why would he default to such a disgustingly wholesome adjective as ‘blessed?’

“About fifteen more minutes,” Shadow says, and Vio hums. “You could have stayed in the den, you know.”

“Missed you. And I want to help clean, you’re doing all the hard work here.”

“Well, I’m not going to argue with that.”

They finish the remaining dishes together, Vio washing while Shadow dries and puts items away. The soup fills their tiny kitchen with the aroma of pumpkin and warm cinnamon spice.

Shadow returns to the stove, stirs the soup with a wooden spoon, and covers it again. “Let’s keep it simmering a little longer.”

Vio nods and leads Shadow back into the den. He retrieves the journal and plops down on the couch, where Pinecone seems to have been waiting for his arrival. She immediately curls up in his lap and Shadow isn’t jealous at all, definitely not, because that would be ridiculous and he is not ridiculous.

“What are you waiting for?” Vio asks, stroking Pinecone idly. “Get comfy.”

“Didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary,” Shadow quips, settling beside the pair and resting his head on Vio’s shoulder. He breathes in the familiar scent of lavender shampoo, and wonders if Vio has just the one purple scrunchie, or if he rotates identical purple scrunchies every few days…

“Looks like you’re thinking hard about something,” Vio observes, reaching an arm around Shadow’s waist.

“Nope, not me.”

─────────────────

“And that’s it,” Vio says, closing the journal. “For tonight, anyway. I think I’ve had just about enough.”

Shadow nods. “Sucks about the mirror, and what happened with Midna. They seemed to really get along. Do you think they ever saw each other again?”

“Probably not,” Vio admits. “Not everyone is willing to perform dark rituals to recover a loved one from a different realm.”

“Lame.”

─────────────────

They sit together for a while, watching the snow fall, silent and content. The smell of simmering soup fills the den, and Pinecone continues to purr like a motor.

Shadow tucks a strand of hair behind Vio’s ear. “Love you.”

Vio leans in—not for a kiss, but simply to meet Shadow’s forehead with his own. “Love you too.”

And then Shadow pulls away.

“Soup,” he reminds Vio, standing up. “Bring the recipe, I think it’s cheese time.”

Vio is sleepy, beyond relaxed, and it’s adorable. “You’re cheese time.”

Shadow raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“I have no idea why I said that.”

Shadow chuckles and returns to the kitchen, releasing steam when he removes the casserole dish lid. “Looks good,” he reports. “Now, tell me all about cheese time.”

Vio cringes. “Please shut up about cheese time.”

“No.”

“Actually,” Vio says as he scans the page, “it’s not even… time for cheese… yet.”

“Tease.”

─────────────────

“Do we have a blender?” Vio asks, already opening up kitchen cabinets. “Or a food processor?”

Shadow cocks his head. “Did they, back then?”

“That’s what he wrote. Oh, here!”

Vio removes their blender from the cabinet and places it onto the counter. Shadow shakes his head.

“Bad idea. Hot liquid will make the lid stick. Use the immersion blender instead.”

Vio narrows his eyes. “What is that?”

Shadow removes the handheld wand from a drawer and raises it in the air for emphasis. There are blades at the end, and when Shadow presses a button they come to life.

“Not all of us have swords,” Shadow quips as he plunges it into the pot of soup, turning it into a smooth orange bisque. Some of the mixture splashes onto his face, right by his mouth, and he allows himself a taste.

“Hylia,” he mutters, tossing the immersion blender into the sink. Shadow opens the fridge and retrieves their final ingredient, turning to Vio with a wolfish grin. “Cheese time.”

─────────────────

As the soup simmers over low heat, Shadow stirs in the soft cheese and melts a dusting of brown sugar into the bisque.

“You can do the salt and pepper,” Shadow tells Vio, grabbing him by the waist and positioning him in front of the stove.

Vio nods uncertainly as Shadow forces the shakers into his hands. “This much?” he asks, seasoning the soup with great hesitation.

“Looks good to me,” Shadow says, resting his head on Vio’s shoulder. “Smells good, too.”

“Yeah. I can’t wait to try it.”

Shadow dislodges himself from his boyfriend and grabs two bowls and spoons from the cabinet. He brings them over and repositions Vio, reaching across the range for a ladle and beginning to serve the Hero of Twilight’s beloved pumpkin soup. He garnishes the two bowls with the remaining goat cheese and places the lid on the casserole dish—he’ll package up the rest later, maybe even deliver it to Green and Zelda as a thank-you.

“Couch or table?” Shadow asks, although he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“Couch, please.”

─────────────────

It’s precarious with the soup bowls, but they manage to arrange themselves nicely on the couch. Pinecone has resumed watching the snow fall by the window, and for once they prefer that she keeps her distance. Vio and Shadow both sit upright as they dig in, and… wow. Shadow had sampled the soup before, but this? With the cheese and everything? It’s fantastic.

“What do you think?” Shadow asks Vio, whose spoon currently lingers in his mouth. Vio nods intently with a decadent noise of approval.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “Legendary, even.”

“Glad to hear we did the recipe justice, from the mouth of the Hero himself. Well, a few reincarnations removed, but you know what I mean.”

Vio sighs. “I think he’d be happy. Seeing us, like this. I don’t know, maybe that’s just what I want to believe, but—”

“I think it’s a wonderful thing to believe,” Shadow says, placing his bowl down on the coffee table. Maybe his soup will get cold, but the idea of holding Vio in this moment is too tempting to pass up.

Vio leans into Shadow’s arms and hums. “This is so nice. Thank you for getting the ingredients, and doing most of the work.”

Shadow grins and kisses Vio’s forehead (seriously, it never gets old). “How about you do the dishes and we’ll call it even.”

Vio rolls his eyes but nods. “I should have seen that coming. You’re so evil.”

“The evilest. What atrocity will I commit next?”

Vio’s gaze meets his, and the blonde puts down his soup. Shadow recognizes the expression immediately—slightly lowered eyelids, a mischievous grin. Internally, Shadow has taken to calling it Vio’s Throne Eyes. Because, y’know, reasons.

“I’d love to find out,” Vio nearly purrs, and Shadow pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re just trying to get out of doing the dishes.”

Vio frowns, his eyes darting towards the kitchen. “You know what? You’re right. I think I’ll go do them now.”

He begins to move but Shadow’s grip only tightens. “Wait, don’t—”

Vio grins, and Shadow blushes. “You were saying?”

“You’re the worst,” Shadow chuckles, rubbing his hands over Vio’s back. In the absence of a soup bowl, Vio climbs onto his lap. Shadow kicks the coffee table slightly aside, displacing a bit of soup onto the wooden surface.

On his way to a forehead bonk (or kiss, dealer’s choice), Vio pauses, glancing over Shadow’s shoulder. “Hold on.”

“Um. Are you still joking, or…?”

Vio shakes his head. “Garlic and onion, in the soup. Pinecone could get sick.”

Shadow desperately scans their surroundings for anything that could keep them where they are. They could put the journal over one of the bowls, kind of like an impromptu lid… but if it got damaged Zelda would probably banish them, especially if said damage occurred while they were making out.

Vio sighs and removes himself from Shadow’s lap, picking up both bowls from the table with an apologetic smile. “Be right back,” he says, and Shadow does not move a muscle.

“Make sure the pot’s covered, too,” Shadow calls out, and Vio cradles both bowls with one arm to raise a thumbs-up.

In his partner’s absence, Shadow turns to Pinecone, still peacefully watching the snow fall. “You have no idea what we do for you,” he mutters fondly. The cat’s ear twitches.

─────────────────

From the kitchen, Shadow hears running water and the clink of dishware. Despite his protests, Vio is still doing what Shadow had asked.

Shadow considers picking up the journal in Vio’s absence, but decides against it. He would never say this out loud, but he doesn’t really care about the Hero of Twilight’s life. He understands why Vio does, though, and supports that interest wholeheartedly—he’s been told about Vio’s long nights in Hyrule Castle, researching resurrection rituals with only the company of the Hero’s writings.

And maybe, wherever he is now, the Hero has witnessed Vio repair the mirror and recall Shadow from his dark realm. Shadow knows their situations aren’t identical—namely, Midna chose to separate herself from the Hero due to royal responsibility (boring), while Shadow had broken his own mirror in a self-sacrificial middle-finger to the concept of darkness itself (badass).

But, still. The parallels are there. And Shadow doesn’t see the harm in Vio indulging them, as long as it makes him happy. But Shadow’s not here to dwell on the past—he’s here to eat pumpkin soup, and to kiss his boyfriend.

And you know what?

He is all out of pumpkin soup.

Author's Note: Someday I will actually let them make out in a fic. I’ve written it before, but it always comes out quippy and awkward and painfully self-aware. Which, hey—at least I’m consistent. I am considering an optional side-scene to an upcoming fic where they actually do, in fact, get to make out on the page, so please let me know if that’s something you actually want to see.

Thanks for reading, and if you’re going to play Tears of the Kingdom in a few days like me, have so much fun!

#fs #my writing #vidow #vio x shadow #vio link #shadow link #four swords #four swords adventures #this fic has been in wip hell for months please just take it

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 4 years ago

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Draw your swords, pt. 13

Summary: Terrified of losing Y/N, the Darkling lets his defenses fall.

Warnings: angst, slight fluff, sexual content

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five // Part six // Part seven // Part eight // Part nine // Part ten // Part eleven // Part twelve

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“Stay with me”, the Darkling trembled as he rushed back to the camp. He held her body close to his chest, her head slumped right where his heart beats thunderstorms in her name.

She’s slipping away, he can feel it. The injuries she suffered and the power she used weakened her irreversibly.

He should be angry with her, enraged, but he had no strength to spare for violent emotions. His heart couldn’t bare much more than the pain he found himself drowning in. It wasn’t the pain of his own wounds, rather the pain of her parted lips and ragged breaths that came like final gushes of air her lungs released.

“HEALER!” He shouted, hoping, praying to the Saints he never believed in before.

“HEALER!” There was something in his screams for help, an unimaginable pain behind it.

Y/N’s fingers twitched, her chest rising in a strange manner; what should expand with an inhale suddenly draws in, a paradox he had seen in dying soldiers.

“HEALER!” It was the kind of scream that went straight for the heart.

Everyone tensed, following the Darkling – a man who never showed genuine emotion other than rage. His call for healers felt like a cry from the heart and soul that stretched across the foundations of who he is. The anguish tore through him as he saw a healer run toward him.

Letting out a shuddered breath in relief, he collapsed to his knees. “Not me!” He growled as the healer tried placing her hands on him, “Help her! Save my wife!”

Nodding, the healer looked down at Y/N with wide eyes. Another healer arrived too, then another, and another.

The Darkling refused to let her out of his embrace as two of the healers tried to take her away. “No!”

“We have to take her”, the first healer insisted. “She doesn’t have long and we have to act fast and that’s not going to happen while you’re clinging to her!” Eyes wide, she covers her mouth as it dawns on her who she’s speaking to. “Respectfully, General.”

Staring at her with raw suffering, Aleksander licked his trembling lips. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her temple instead of her forehead – forehead kisses in this moment would feel as if he’s kissing her corpse before her final rest.

He couldn’t stomach that thought.

“If you die, I’ll never forgive you”, he whispers.

This isn’t how it’s meant to be, how it’s supposed to be. He could never believe anyone ever loved anyone the way he loves her.

Nothing ever made him so frightened as the thought of losing her.

“Take her”, Mal tells them. Looking down at Kirigan who seemed incapable of standing back up on his own, he realized he had to take over.. “And send someone for your General. Send everyone for the wounded in the field.”

Aleksander looked up, jaw clenched and eyes swimming in tears he has yet to shed.

“I’m not leaving”, Mal quipped. “She’s my General.”

Y/N wasn’t able to scream, despite the pain darkening her mind. She tried to focus on her breathing, on staying alive. The only awareness she had was of Aleksander’s arms around her – she felt his scent. When he touched her face, when he tried to gain her attention, she couldn’t open her eyes. Her ears kept ringing, mixing with a rumbling inside his chest. She managed to blink her eyes open once, just one more time to see him, but all she managed to get was a glimpse of his chin and beard.

She wondered how he’d look without it, if it would make him seem boyish, softer. Maybe it would have erased the burden on his shoulders - they may be wide, but they shouldn’t have to carry all that weight alone.

Suddenly, his scent was gone. She tried to reach for him, but her arms could not move, hanging freely instead. Cold seeped in, clinging to her insides, wrapping itself around her heart.

Slowly, her agony had faded. The pain gradually lifted, dissipating like fog. For a moment, she wondered if this is what death feels like – no more pain? No more suffering? Being alone and cold?

Despite everything, if she had a choice, she’d embrace the pain. If pain means she would return to him, to his warm arms, she’d gladly suffer.

Dizzy, confused, she felt herself being pulled up into reality. The disjointed haze receded enough for her to make sense of the world around her. Her eyelids feel heavy as she opens her eyes, the edges of her vision flickering. Blinking fast, her eyebrows knitted as her vision blurred.

‘Aleksander’, she wanted to call, but couldn’t say a word.

How odd it is that he’s the last one she thought about when she thought she’d die and he’s still the first one to come to mind when she wakes?

She no longer felt cold. He always had the ability to keep the cold away.

Sniffling, she jerked her hands away as she became aware of another’s touch. Sitting up on a table she was laid upon, she pulled herself aside before looking to the one who touched her earlier.

“It’s just me”, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “I needed to see you.” His voice is soft, sweet like honey.

Scoffing, she narrows her eyes at him and the cup of water he held out for her to take. Her mouth is dry, her throat like sandpaper. She may be angry with him, but the water he held out felt more important than their fight.

“Are you in any pain?” He asks, watching her drink all of the water in one go. “I could have them come and take it away.”

Letting out a loud sigh, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Raising an eyebrow, she licked her dry lips.

“Can they take you away?”

Snorting, he suppresses a smile. As long as she’s capable of annoying him, she’s going to be fine.

“What were you thinking?” Threading his fingers through his hair, Aleksander frowned. “You could have died.”

“Would have saved you a lot of trouble in the future”, she quips. Standing, she stumbles.

Feeling his hands on her waist, Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. Even now, when she’d like nothing more than to walk away, her body reacts to him. Looking up at him, she inhales sharply as she sees the tears in his eyes.

“I’m scared”, he admitted and she blinked.

“Of what?” She frowned, “Me?” Does her power frighten him? Because it frightens her.

He shook his head, “Of me”, he looked at her. His hands trembled as they touched her skin, “I’m scared of hurting you.”

“I’m scared of you hurting me, too.”

Dropping his hand, he takes a step back. “I don’t think I’m capable of ever hurting you.”

“Tell that to my neck”, she remarks. Her hand brushes over where his hand had tightened its grip just the night before, fixing his gaze on him. He seemed to regret it.

‘Good’, she thought. ‘I hope it haunts him, because it will haunt me.’

“I apologize”, Aleksander swallows thickly. He can’t remember the last time he apologized to someone. A part of him questioned if he ever apologized for anything he’s done in his unusually long life. “I had no right to act the way I did.”

“You once told me I could choose the way to punish you if you ever hurt me”, she takes his hand, intertwining their fingers.

Aleksander nods, “I’m a man of my word.”

“What’s your name”, she asks. “Real name.”

His eyes locked on hers like magnets of different polarities. Isn’t that exactly what they are? She’s his polar opposite in every way, fated to attract.

“Aleksander Morozova.” He uttered a name long forgotten; a name he wanted to forget.

Aleksander was a weak boy who failed everyone that cared for him. He was soft, young, naïve and a damned fool for ever believing Grisha would ever be free. Even now as he elevated their status, Grisha had to serve a human – the Tsar.

Her eyes held barely contained anger. As her hands clasped, a few stray flickers of light appeared on her fingertips. Unclasping her hands immediately, she raised her chin up. “I want to know everything. Tell me your story.”

“And when will I hear yours?” Darkling demanded, swiping his thumb under his lower lip.

“You seem to mistake this for negotiations”, she maintained eye contact defiantly. “Last night you told me to either go back to the Palace or to cross the fold and return to my father. It’s a choice that would easily mean I can choose to stay with you or leave and never look back.”

Placing a hand on his chest, Y/N smirked. “You can either tell me the whole truth or watch me leave.” She spoke through gritted teeth, “Don’t push me unless you’re willing to lose.”

Cupping his left cheek, she allowed a luminescent glow cast a light on his handsome features. She was angry, so angry and tired and her own power often terrified her. For once, she wanted to use it for her own benefit rather than hide it.

“What good will it do?” Aleksander’s bottom lip quivers as her light illuminates tears collecting in his dark eyes. “You’ll hate me as they all do. Even my mother saw me as a monster.”

“I’ve seen what you really are. And I never turned away…what makes you think I will now?”

She felt his jaw clench under the palm of her hand as he swallowed thickly, “You would if you could see my heart, all of it.”

Exhaling through her nose, she shook her head. Her eyes soften, her lips parting. How could she ever be indifferent to his suffering? She wished she could be colder, to leave him in tears and not look back. Hearing his words, his belief that he’s unlovable tugged at her heartstrings.

"Have you no faith in me?"

In a fight, they’re lethal, but around each other their armor is gone.

“I’ve waited for you for centuries. I dreamed about you for hundreds of years before I ever saw your face. I longed for you, missed you, died and lived for you.” Taking her face in his hands, Aleksander bends. His forehead meets hers as his nose brushes against the tip of hers.

“Ever since I laid eyes on you, my dreams have been clearer, focused on you. And in my dreams I am kissing your mouth and you’re whispering ‘where have you been’”, his eyes overflow with tears as he continues with a fractured smile. “I say, ‘I’ve been lost, but I’m here now’.”

Swallowing thickly, he felt as if his heart was breaking. “You’re the only person who has ever been able to find the real me. You saw me underneath all the darkness.” Reaching for her hand, his fingers tremble. “I was waiting for you without knowing it. I’ll make up for all the mistakes, for all the years I was supposed to be kissing you.”

“So why is it so hard for you to be honest with me?” She whispers, her hands trembling as they hold onto his shoulders.

His frown deepens, “Why weren’t you honest with me?”

“You once joked and said I’m no Inferni”, she shrugged. “You were right about that. My mother was. Father never knew about either of us. Your turn.”

“I was honest”, he sighs. Stepping back, he frowns. “I told you my name, I answered your questions about the black heretic.”

Reaching for him, she felt her heartache intensify once his tears began to flow freely across his cheeks.

“Don’t”, he recoiled from her touch. She wrapped her arms around her own waist, hurt by the rejection.

“It’s not easy for me to talk about my past. It’s as if I’m cutting myself open, letting the ugliness spill out. It’s not painless.” Swallowing thickly, Darkling’s eyes widen as he tries to hold back more tears from escaping him. “It would have been simpler to close myself off and find an unremarkable lover who’d never dare defy me, but I keep taking the risk because I want to be with you and I hope that one day you will feel the same way about me.”

“I want”, she stopped, tucking her hair behind her ears.

His voice was quieter, “What do you want? I’ll give you everything.”

“I don’t know”, she replied honestly. “I’m hurt, Aleks. You hurt me after you promised to protect me.”

Running a hand across his face, wiping his tears away. He averts his gaze. Watching her break because of him deepens the cracks in his poorly stapled, bleeding heart.

“What do you want”, she looked to him with a weight in her chest. How can loving someone hurt so badly even when the love is reciprocated?

“Never mind what I want”, he turned away. Facing her now would have chipped away at his fragile sanity, so he did what a coward would – he hid.

“You asked what I want”, she placed her hands on her hips. “I want to know what you want.”

Shaking his head, he let out a breathless chuckle. “You”, he smiled. “I’ll always want you.”

Closing the distance between them, she closed her arms around his neck. Before she could reach for him, he gripped her by her thighs and lifted her effortlessly. Wrapping her legs around his waist on instinct, she got lost in the rush of blood to her head when he pinned her against the table behind her. He paused, searching her eyes.

Whatever he was looking for, she hoped he found it.

“I don’t own you”, his eyes flicker to her lips as she sinks her front teeth into the soft flesh of her bottom lip. “I never did. Human or Grisha, you always owned me. I was just too blind to see it.”

Brushing his lips against hers, Aleksander smiled in resignation. His eyes are so different in moments like these, softer than she ever imagined eyes could be.

“Your silver tongue won’t get you far”, she struggled to keep her eyes open with his lips a whisper away. “But you’re free to try.”

She felt his burning gaze, finding it hard to concentrate on much besides breathing. He observed her, capturing her soft, naturally charming and appealing nature. She’s genuine and sweet, the reason why everyone’s head turns when she walks into the room.

How did he not realize it before?

She’s the sun.

She always was.

He always did squint angrily at her like he does with the fireball in the sky.

Y/N’s hands ran up and down his chest as her lips claimed his - passionately, roughly, determinedly. Without a word, she started to unbutton his kefta, her cold fingertips brushing his warm skin - until she lost patience and ripped the bottom part wide open, pressing her palm against his chest as he broke the kiss.

“Are you sure?” He raised his eyebrows in concern.

“I’ll be mad at you tomorrow. Kiss me”, she ordered, drawing a smile on his lips as she pulled him closer, her lips reattaching to his, her teeth sinking into his lower one.

Pushing him onto the floor, she didn’t waste time. Her bottoms were down so quickly he hardly had time to take a proper breath before she unfastened his pants too.

Heaving, Aleksander could hardly get enough of the view on top of him - her beautiful mouth opening in pleasure every time she sunk down on him, her eyes rolling back into her head, her hands placed over his chest to keep herself steady. She speeds up, prompting his loud, uninhibited moans that drew an honest smile upon her lips. He trusted up and into her as his high hit fully, taking her by surprise. She gasped, his thrust giving her an unexpected release as she clenched around him.

Gasping for breath, she laid on top of him. Y/N was very aware of his arm around her as it pulled her close, his hand on her hip, giving it a light squeeze. He leaned into her, his lips pressing a tender kiss to her temple, making her tingle with anticipation of something more - something she shouldn’t think about after their argument.

How can she trust his change of heart has nothing to do with the fact she’s the Sun Summoner? How can she ever trust him at all?

Clearing her throat, she pulled herself off Aleksander. “Put something on, someone might come in”, she told him as she secured her pants back on. She could hardly look at him, afraid he’d weaken her resolve. She couldn’t forgive him so easily, even if her heart ached for him.

“Let me in”, a voice from outside the tent made Y/N look to the entrance with a frown.

She crossed the distance swiftly, her hands ready in case she had to use her sword. She goes to place her hand on the hilt only to find her sword is not on her.

It’s a good thing that’s not her only weapon.

“Hey!” She shouts at the Grisha as they pulled someone away. “Stop!”

“General?!” Mal laughs as he manages to look back at her, fighting against the Grisha.

“Mal?” She chuckles, glad to see he’s still alive.

“Leave him alone!” She orders, feeling a presence behind her. She didn’t need to look to know it’s Aleksander. Unfortunately for him, she wasn’t in the mood for anymore talking.

“You’re alive?!” Mal goes in for the hug, but his eyes catch a glimpse of Kirigan’s glare and he slowly backs away. “We need to regroup.”

“How many have we lost?” She frowns.

“You’re Grisha now”, Aleksander speaks up. “You don’t have to fight for the humans.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she scoffs at him. How could he even think she’d give up on her people now?

“That’s not something I’d like. I enjoy my humanity.”

She was the flame who lit his life on fire and while he was burning, he wanted to thank her for it and ask her to stay a while longer. Darkling nearly chuckled at the thought of calling her fire, but she is and he craves the burn.

The Darkling wanted Y/N to be the one addicted to him, in equal measure as he was addicted to her. He wanted to give her a reason to stay with him, if not for love, then for lust. He’d find a way to her heart in the meantime and knowing they’ll have a forever comforts him, but he needed to have her in every other way until then.

He knew he could make her truly happy if she’d let him and he wasn’t about to let her go.

Not without a fight.

Watching her walk away with the soldier, he clicked his tongue. Mal, whoever he is, poses a threat he needs to handle.

Swiftly.

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A/N - I struggled so much writing this chapter, hope you guys like it. I’m probably gonna pass out now, I’m exhausted. xx

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9 @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless @azure23x @girlmadeofavocados @ashdab2611 @acciorudolphx @ladyblablabla @wckedheart @xceafh @sanna2020 @tarkanelima-blog @takethee @mellifluous-cosmos @marvel-ousnesss @tea-effect @starlightofsolaria @p3nny4urth0ught5 @blackbirddaredevil23 @sarcastic-and-cool @slytherinsbiggestproblem @within-thehollowcrown @notthatchhavi @musicconversedance @freakytillthemoon @lgkoval @honeyofthegods @queenmalhinewahine @misselsbells06 @whatthefluffrichard @aami98 @britriestbr @itsfangirlmendes @padme-parker @readingsssssssss @runawayolives @thehighladyofasgard @emlynblack @keithseabrook27 @dailydoseofchoices @deceivedeer @olympiacosplay @pansysgirlfriend @extrakyloren @daybleedsintonightfa11 @thoughts-and-funnies @weirdowithnobeardo @folkloresworld @remugoodgirl @yagorlemmalyn @gonehopelessgirl @fefethecoffeeaddict @naughtynecromancer @poison-of-the-ivie @strawb3rrydr3ss @supersouthy @theilliterateironman @evyiione @kimoranelson03 @wizardwheezes @woodsabby6 @liajiah @its-carlerrr

PART 14

#the darkling x reader #the darkling #aleksander morozova x reader #aleksander morozova #general kirigan x reader #kirigan x reader #general kirigan #shadown and bone

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theultimateultimateweapon · 4 years ago

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Kirby: Meta Knight and the Knight of Hades (Chapter 10)

Morpho Knight swung his sword down the slope, releasing a powerful shock wave. The crescent-shaped waves hit Meta Knight in quick succession.

Meta Knight flew left and right, but his arm was hurt and he groaned in pain. Morpho Knight didn’t even look tired.

Meta Knight remembered what happened in the underworld. In that world, he couldn’t feel tired, hungry, or pain at all. The red knight might not feel any of those feelings no matter how much he fights because of the power of the butterfly of Hades.

If so, does Meta Knight have no chance of winning…?

(No, it can’t be...) Meta Knight gripped his sword and thought. (Those who do not feel tired do not understand the breath of battle. Those who do not feel pain cannot read the movement of their enemy.)

Behind Meta Knight were King Dedede, Kirby, and Blade Knight. Both the great king and Kirby fought desperately, but they had finally lost their strength.

Only Meta Knight was standing. He didn’t know if he could get through this mess. Already, just breathing was painful and his whole body hurt.

(Good. I feel tired and painful because I am alive!)

Meta Knight gathered his strength and jumped up, slashing at Morpho Knight.

However, he repelled it easily.

Morpho Knight slashed violently at Meta Knight’s landing.

Due to his tiredness, Meta Knight, who had been struck before, couldn’t move. He held his sword over his body and guarded desperately, but the damage was great.

His head was fluttering. His eyes were hazy, and his feet were swaying.

(Will I… will I go to the underworld again? This time, forever?) When such an ominous idea came to him, something happened.

“Meta Kniiiiight!”

He heard a loud voice. Waddle Dee’s voice.

Meta Knight raised his face.

Waddle Dee overcame a broken pillar holding something.

“Don’t come any closer!” Meta Knight shouted out.

Waddle Dee turned around, gained momentum, and threw what he was holding in his hand.

“Meta Knight! Here…!”

Something flew through the air. Meta Knight quickly reached out and took it.

Immediately, Meta Knight’s whole body shook. His fatigue and pain disappeared as they were swept away. He felt the power in his hand.

“My treasured sword… the Galaxia!”

It’s unmistakable and genuine. Meta Knight held the Galaxia high. A bright light spilled from the tip of the sword.

Morpho Knight attacked. Meta Knight lightly dodged, shook up and jumped high.

“Spinning Knight!”

While spinning in the air, he slashed at Morpho Knight.

Morpho Knight flinched and was struck down.

Then, immediately, he held his sword horizontally and drill slashed!

Morpho Knight was blown off and struck against a collapsing wall.

Meta Knight had completely regained his power. The Galaxia gave him strength. And the Galaxia was also strengthened by returning to the hands of its true owner. The sword fighter and the sword, united for increased power!

However, Morpho Knight wasn’t finished.

When he stood up, he swung his sword down and sent crescent shock waves one after another. They flew with tremendous speed, but Meta Knight didn’t give up, dodging one after another, getting closer to him.

“Take this-!” Meta Knight swung after Morpho Knight.

Morpho Knight disappeared suddenly. He escaped with teleportation in an instant. Morpho Knight materialized above and behind Meta Knight.

Meta Knight looked back, feeling sick.

Morpho Knight slid in and rushed through the air.

It was tremendous speed. Meta Knight couldn’t dodge it.

“Kah…!” He was moving before he realized.

He grabbed the Galaxia, held it in front of him, and took a strong stance.

At the moment of attack…

“Galactic Counter!”

A deadly mystery that uses the enemy’s attack power against them!

There was no delay, the timing was perfect.

“...ts!” Morpho Knight stiffened his whole body and his attacks were slow.

The game was on. Meta Knight quietly stared at the enemy.

A streak of light spilled out of Morpho Knight. The lights gradually increased, two, three, and the brightness increased. His mask, his sword, and his wings on his back were swallowed by the white light. The knight turned into a ball of light and disappeared with a burst.

After the knight disappeared, countless red butterflies were dancing. The butterflies flew turbulently, fading little by little, and eventually disappeared as if melting away.

“Meta Knight…”

Meta Knight, staring at the disappeared butterflies, was called and turned around.

It was Kirby. He had been injured in the fight, but seemed to regain some energy.

“Did you win?”

“...Yes.”

“Meta Knight really is strong! I couldn’t do it at all.” Kirby looked a little sick.

Behind him, King Dedede stood up slowly. “Uh… Uugh…!”

The king, leaning on his hammer, managed to support his body and said with envy. “I was supposed to do it… I could’ve mustered the strength…!”

“Didn’t you turn and run?”

“I didn’t run off! I was getting a better vantage point!”

Blade Knight also stood up, in tears. “Meta Knight, sir, wow, you’re safe!”

“Yes. No need to worry about me.”

“But what happened? I could have sworn you were on the battleship Halberd…”

Waddle Dee rushed in before Meta Knight answered. “Meta Knight! You won!”

“Waddle Dee.” Meta Knight turned to Waddle Dee.

“I’m grateful you returned my strength with the Galaxia. Thank you.”

“I just carried it. It was the Galaxia that strengthened you…”

Waddle Dee jumped up. “Wait, we still need your help! Your knights are in a hole!”

“A hole?”

“This way!”

Meta Knight followed Waddle Dee to the knights.

The rescued knights were quiet, even surrounding Meta Knight. Everyone’s hearts were so full that no words came out.

Meta Knight opened his mouth. “It was foolish of me to worry, everyone fought so well.”

“Meta Knight, sir…!”

The Meta Knights wept as if the thread of tension had broken.

Sword Knight said. “You’re the real Meta Knight, aren’t you”

“Do I look like a fake?”

“No! You’re definitely real! There’s a big difference!”

Sword Knight saw Beryl crouching down.

Mace Knight snuck behind and grabbed Beryl’s head.

Axe Knight asked, “Let’s punish him for what he’s done. What do you think?”

“Hm…” Meta Knight thought about it.

Beryl was shaking, rattling.

Javelin Knight spoke. “Let’s tie him to the bow of the battleship and let him enjoy space travel.”

Trident Knight replied, “Why don’t we send him to Castle Dedede? Let the Waddle Dees take a break and let him do all the castle work alone!”

Axe Knight added, “No, let’s send him to all the towns he destroyed and make him fix them back up again! First, Dreamland!”

Meta Knight spoke. “That’s still too kind. Let’s tie him up so he can’t move and have Kirby perform a song for him.”

“Eh!?” Kirby was surprised. “Why do I have to sing for this guy!? What a waste…!”

“...No, trust me.” Meta Knight told Kirby. “Persuade him with your wonderful singing that he should never do anything wrong again.”

“...Eh? Persuade him?”

“Listening to a wonderful song can change someone’s mind.”

“Oh yeah… songs have the power to move hearts. I see!” Kirby was determined and nodded. “I will sing! It’ll be a moving song that will gentle the heart of any villain!”

“While you’re at it, would you like to serve your home cooking as well? You should make a special dish that will make him cry with excitement.”

“Okay! Looks like Meta Knight is kind to his enemies.”

“Waddle Dee.”

Waddle Dee, who was swaying and listening to the story, jumped up when Meta Knight called out.

“Ye...yes!”

“I’ll leave it to you. Hold Kirby a concert and set up a special seat for Beryl. Don’t forget to serve Kirby’s special dishes. Have Beryl eat until he is full.”

“Uh… uh… uh, yes…!” Waddle Dee imagined it and nodded in tears of fear.

(Me, Meta Knight…! What a terrifying thing! Kirby’s song is so terrible it could crack the walls of Castle Dedede, and Kirby’s food is so bad he could lose his appetite for the rest of his life…!)

Kirby said with a smile. “Heh, I’ll do my best! Let’s work together, Waddle Dee!”

“Ah… okay…”

“What should I sing? I have to sing with all my heart so Beryl doesn’t do bad things again… of course, I’ll do my best to cook too… Wow, I’m excited! Hey Beryl, I hope you’re looking forward to it!”

“Oh, oh. I’m sure I’ll change my mind.” Beryl was relieved and grinned.

The Meta Knights and King Dedede whispered in the shadow.

“Beryl’s acting like he’s saved.”

“How stupid, he doesn’t know the horror of Kirby.”

“Meta Knight is too cruel. No matter what he did, I’m sorry for Beryl.”

“How could sir make such a proposal…”

“Wow, he’s not kidding around! Good luck, Beryl!”

Meta Knight turned over his cloak and started walking. “Well then, let’s go back to the battleship Halberd.”

“Yes sir!” His subordinates saluted in unison and lined up.

Captain Vul and the Meta Knights were enjoying tea time leisurely for the first time in a long while.

Meta Knight wasn’t there. It seems he had something to do, so he went out without telling them where he was going.

Captain Vul was talking about, of course, Meta Knight.

Axe Knight said. “Even so, it’s strange. Why did Meta Knight, who had been unconscious on the Halberd, appear in the ancient temple?”

Captain Vul replied. “I have an idea, but I can’t quite explain it. I think…”

Captain Vul took a sip of his tea and continued.

“At that time, Meta Knight’s body and mind were disjointed. His body was in a bed in the Halberd here, but his mind was wandering somewhere else.”

“...Huh.”

“Usually, the wandering heart returns to the body. However, Meta Knight is a very strong person, so I think this time his body was called to his heart.”

“...Hmm.”

Blade Knight said. “Meta Knight has a strong body, though.”

“...Well, that is correct. However, if anything, his heart is stronger!”

“Persuasive, if not…” Sword Knight muttered.

“At that time, Galacta Knight took a big hit. Moreover, he was combined with the red butterfly to become even more powerful.”

“Yeah, but what about it?”

“I think I’ve got it. Meta Knight’s desire to fight a strong opponent called to his body.”

“I see, then I understand.”

The Meta Knights nodded.

“Meta Knight’s enthusiasm to fight can be a bit overkill.”

“Hold your tongue. Meta Knight doesn’t like fighting. He likes to make himself stronger.

“Regardless, his desire to fight a strong enemy caused a miracle.”

“As expected from our master!”

Around the time when the peaceful tea party was held on the Halberd, Kirby’s special dinner concert was being held in the basement of the Castle Dedede.

Meta Knight was standing alone in a flower garden of Dreamland.

A pleasant breeze blew and the colorful flowers swayed.

Meta Knight picked up a yellow flower and took a deep breath. It had a refreshing smell.

“It has a nice scent. Pink was… too sweet, wasn’t it?”

Meta Knight couldn’t forget Papi’s happy voice. The whole time he was trying to stop Meta Knight from returning to the original world… At the very end, he was desperate to save Meta Knight. Without Papi, Meta Knight wouldn’t have been able to return to this world.

He wondered, what was Papi doing now? Was he fluttering around looking for someone to talk to?

At that moment, a white butterfly flew by and perched on a yellow flower. It was slowly drinking from the flowers.

Meta Knight muttered in a small voice. “If one day you go to that world, let me know.”

The butterfly stopped moving, as if it had heard Meta Knight’s words.

“I’d like to thank that talkative butterfly with light blue wings. Papi was a good guide… no, a good friend.”

The butterfly fluttered away, and began to fly from flower to flower.

Meta Knight quietly watched until the butterfly disappeared.

(Chapter 9 - Table of Contents)

(The end, thank you so much for reading and all of your support!)

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mxvladdy · 4 years ago

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Sleep HCs

It’s a sleepy day for me and by doggo so here are some sleep head cannons of the brothers bc why not.

Lucifer

Is a stomach or side sleeper. Not because he likes it but out of necessity. His back still irritates him, so when he actually schedules some shut eye he preps meticulously.

He bathes before hand, usually soaking in a mix of muscle relaxers to help release some of the tension from the work day and to help with his nerve damage. His favorite scents are lavender and a blend of spearmint. They make him a little drowsy and soften his perpetual headache.

His bed is very nest-like. Pillows and blankets meticulously placed to help him stay in one place while he rests. Too much tossing and turning irritates him. He likes feeling cocooned and tight. It is a self soothing mechanism he developed over his first few years in the devildom.

But this is all when he actually has time to sleep for more than a few hours.

Most of his sleeping is little naps thrown in over the work week. On average he gets about 14-18 hours a week. It’s enough (so he says but he is a cantankerous bastard regardless so it’s hard to tell for sure)

He sleeps like the dead, hands down corpse like. But don’t let that fool you, he doesn’t sleep like the dead. He is up and moving the moment he hears something that sounds like trouble.

Runs cold. Has fancy silk pajama sets. A gift from Diavolo.

His mattress is extra firm.

Mammon

Back and side sleeper. He has a bed- but he uses it mostly as an extension to his wardrobe. Let's be real. He’s a messy guy. He normally crashes on his couch after a wild weekend bender.

He moves a lot in his sleep, kicking, tossing and turning. An absolute tangle of limbs and clothes. Like Lucifer he has a few scars and old injuries that twinge and hurt when he lays on them. Not that it stops him.

He sleeps like the dead, tossing and turning and all. Short of someone dragging him off his couch or touching goldie he doesn’t wake up.

Snores and drools-will not admit it but when he stumbles out of his room looking like a hot mess, crusty eyes and bedraggled hair you know he had a great sleep.

He doesn’t have a set sleeping schedule. He goes until he crashes- like the energizer bunny.

Sleeps with one body pillow. Likes the feel of having something draping or touching him in his sleep. Reminds him of when he would fall asleep with his brothers after a long day of training and studying in the celestial realm.

Runs hot so he likes to sleep in his boxers and a tank top.

His mattress is medium firm

Leviathan

Does he sleep? The world may never know.

Between the energy drinks he practically IV drips into his veins and he determination to power though another level he doesn’t remember when he sleeps.

He just blacks out. A blink turns into a twelve hour coma.

His tub is comfy as hell and everybody knows it. It cradles him when he sleeps, blankets and pillows are now molded to his shape.

He washes his tub lining often. He really likes the smell of citrus and musk. Whenever the smell begins to dissipate he’ll toss it all in the wash. Minus his novelty pillows. Those get dry cleaned or spot cleaned.

He’s a side sleeper. Once he’s settled he ain’t moving.

Though since he doesn’t plan to sleep 80% of the time he passes out at his desk. But can you blame him? I bet he has a super cozy gaming chair and pillow.

Runs cold. Cocoons himself in mounds of blankets. Snake burrito.

He doesn’t have a mattress but the mound of pillows and blankets is the equivalent of a medium soft mattress

Satan

Probably has the most normal sleep schedule. He has a set wind down time and lights out time too.

Does he keep to it? I mean- it’s the thought that counts. If he is wrapped up in a good book or research time just gets the better of him.

He has his bed nestled up against the one window of his room that isn’t covered in books or shelves

Uses the eternal moonlight to read. Drifts off most evenings with a book slipping down his chest.

Sleeps propped up on a poof or reading pillow. Doesn’t like things covering him. He runs hot so his pajamas are enough for him.

Needs the least amount of sleep out of all the brothers. He loves that. Means he can read and do more without it hampering his mood.

Very light sleeper any shift he does in his sleep wakes him up. But he normally falls right back to sleep.

His mattress is firm

Asmodeus

Scheduled down to the minute. If he doesn’t get his nine hours of sleep be prepared for a scene.

Starts getting ready for bed about two hours before he actually falls asleep. Hot bath, oils, new face mask to try, the works. School can be stressful you know? And six brothers? It’s a miracle he doesn’t have wrinkles yet.

He keeps his bedroom tidy and always smelling good. Needless clutter messes with him and makes it hard for him to fall asleep.

Has a noise machine and an oil diffuser on when he sleeps. Even if he's in bed he knows his brothers aren't so it helps mute them so he can sleep.

Sleeps in the nude. He doesn't run hot or cold but he likes to sleep in a cooler room. Helps shrink the pores or something like that.

His bed is large but sparse. He really only needs his silk sheets and a thin cover. He has a few bolster pillows and poofs on the bed but really he doesn't sleep with pillows.

Is a back sleeper and- no one will tell him this on fear of death but he is an ugly sleeper.

Mouth open, limbs akimbo, soft little snores and snorts. It’s cute, whether or not he thinks so.

His mattress is soft

Beelzebub

Tries to have a good sleep schedule. It’s imperative to keeping up a healthy body after all.

But he gets so hungry. He gorges himself when he starts to feel tired in hopes that he can sleep a few hours before getting up for a midnight (or anytime snack)

He drinks a lot of tea actually right before bed. It makes him sleepy and fills up his stomach.

He sleeps on his stomach with his arms wrapped around his pillow. Another one that sleeps in the buff too. He is a night sweater too.

He only started covering himself for bed when you started living with them. It’s only polite.

Gets about 2 to 3 hours at a time with a snack break in between.

He doesn’t have a lot of pillows mostly because he has eaten them while dreaming. Constantly buying new pillows adds up ya know?

He doesn’t toss and turn but he does roll over once or twice in the night.

Dead silent when he sleeps. He just emits a deep rumble when he snoozes. From his chest or his stomach. It’s a 50/50 split.

His mattress is medium firm

Belphegor

Ha.

The king of sleep. The lord of stealth sleeping. It’s become a sport to him now. How many sleeping nooks can he find around R.A.D so Lucifer’s blood pressure spikes looking for him. His highest score is 37.

If he could sleep with his eyes open he would. But he can’t and he hates it.

He likes to sleep during the school day. It’s a mix of protesting this dumb idea and so that he can stay up at night when everything is nice and quiet.

It doesn’t matter to him where or how he sleeps. As long as he can curl up around something soft he is happy.

Likes it dark and very snug when he’s sleeping. A very still sleeper. Once he’s comfy he locks in place.

Murmurs in his sleep. Little disjointed things. You can have a full fledged conversation with him. He’ll give you little grunts and sighs in response.

If he does get to his room before falling asleep he buries himself in blankets to the point where you can't figure out if he is in there or not. (Kinda like those lizards that bury themselves in sand, same motion and everything.)

Again doesn’t care where he sleeps but his mattress is soft.

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #Obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor

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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

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What I'm afraid to say

Part 5/6 - AO3

part one | previous | Next

Geraskier - T

Summary: Five times Geralt tries to tell Jaskier he loves him, and one time he succeeds.

______

Geralt follows Jaskier along the path, they don’t have any destination in mind and Geralt is happy to follow his bard as he struts and dances and twirls along the dusty road. Everyone always says that it’s Jaskier that follows the White Wolf, but Geralt knows differently. From the first day back in Posada it had been Geralt that spurred on Roach to trot after the bard as he strummed on his lute. Geralt has been following Jaskier ever since, taking contracts in the towns they visit, stopping along the path to forage for ingredients, and finding the best places to camp.

Geralt smiles, knowing his face is hidden from the bard as he chatters on ahead of Roach. Jaskier is beautiful like this. He may be a man used to the finer things in life, but travelling suits him. It invigorates him as he flits from town to town, like leaves on a breeze.

Jaskier talks about everything and nothing, weaving stories and ballads out of thin air about every little thing they encounter. Poetry falls from his lips as easily as a priestess’s prayer to the gods. Geralt had known only silence before Jaskier, but now that void would stifle him. Nothing is as peaceful as the constant tenor floating through the air, wrapping Geralt in its warmth, a reminder that Jaskier is alive. The bard may be born to travel, but travelling with Geralt puts him in danger. Geralt would do anything to keep him safe, anything, but it isn’t always enough. He cannot cage the bird that wishes to fly free.

Because Jaskier is free, almost like a force of nature that cannot be contained, and that thought makes Geralt chuckle. It seems only right that the bard named himself after a flower, and not for the reason many people would think. He isn’t delicate, and whilst he dresses as brightly as wildflowers, there is a nasty streak in the bard. He can be bitter, jealous, and condescending. He is not just a sweet little buttercup.

He is so much more.

He is the water that flows in a river, a breath of life and unforgiving all the same. He is the light of the sun, warm and yet blinding. He is the spirit of the forests, so alive and yet dangerous if you never learn how to respect it.

And Geralt loves him.

He loves him so desperately that the words are stuck in his throat. His tongue cannot seem to work anytime he thinks of how he might tell Jaskier the truth. So he finds other ways, and hopes, prays, that one day Jaskier will hear the full extent of his feelings.

His smile fades as he remembers the jagged scars on Jaskier’s skin, marks from the cockatrice that tried to take the bard from him. He would love to wrap Jaskier up in his arms and never let the bard leave an inn or tavern again, he knows it wouldn’t work. Jaskier chose his life with Geralt for the adventure, for the hunts that threaten him every time he ignores Geralt’s pleas for him to stay behind.

The Cockatrice hunt was the start of it, a catalyst that caused his feelings to spiral out of control. Now he’s barely able to hold on. Every day he feels like he’s falling over the edge of a waterfall but he never hits the bottom.

Fuck, he just hopes that Jaskier will be there to catch him when he does.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries, spinning round with his lute in his hands and a dazzling smile on his lips. “Can you hear that?” the bard asks, tilting his head.

Geralt frowns, looking around for any danger but even when focusing his senses he can’t hear anything, just the trill of the birds from a nearby tree and…

Oh.

Of course, Jaskier listens for the beauty in the world when Geralt only sees the evil.

“Hmm,” he replies, too ashamed to admit that he hadn’t even considered the birds until after he’d checked for bandits or monsters.

“I wonder,” Jaskier hums, deep in thought as his tongue flicks out and swipes along his bottom lip. “Do you think I could write a song based on the bird songs?”

Geralt doesn’t reply. He thinks that Jaskier’s songs are more exquisite than any bird song, but he doesn’t say that. He never says it. He wants to, gods he so desperately wants to. He wants to love his bard the way he deserves to be loved, but he is a witcher. He could never love Jaskier in the same carefree way that his bard loves everything and everyone.

Luckily, Jaskier doesn’t need any encouragement from Geralt, he never does. He just laughs, more musical than any other bard that Geralt has ever met, and spins back around. Disjointed notes fill the air as Jaskier tries to figure out the pitch and rhythm of the bird’s calls. He grumbles and swears under his breath until he gets it right. Geralt is no bard, but he knows as soon as Jaskier has cracked it, a sweet scent wafts through the air and Jaskier cheers, dancing forward with a spring in his step.

The rest of the day is filled with Jaskier’s attempts to find the right lyrics and rhymes for his latest song, an ode to nature, he calls it. Geralt is almost disappointed that Jaskier seems to have found a new muse. His heart aches in his chest as he considers that Jaskier may not need him anymore, that he’ll move on and leave Geralt in the dust.

Geralt isn’t sure what he’ll do when that happens.

Even the long winters at Kaer Morhen now seem empty without the bard to light up his life.

They set up camp quickly, falling into a well worn routine, moving around each other as they each complete their tasks, like nobles dancing at a banquet, completely in sync but never clashing. Soon enough they are sitting on logs opposite the fire, Geralt sharpening his swords in a steady rhythm as Jaskier plucks aimlessly at his lute. The bard stares up at the sky watching the stars that twinkle in the otherwise black sky. There is no moon tonight and the only other light comes from the fire, the orange glow casting eerie shadows around the camp. The soft light makes Jaskier look impossibly even more beautiful. There is a light stubble on his cheeks and Geralt tries to memorise the line of his jaw, his nose, his cheekbones.

“You know…” Jaskier breathes barely above a whisper, “we’re all rather insignificant when you think about it.”

Geralt wants to disagree. Jaskier is anything but insignificant, in the time Geralt has known him, the bard has become the single most important part of his life. Jaskier is the light in the dark, his guiding star on the path, the reason he fights so hard to survive in every hunt.

Geralt stays silent.

“The stars, burning bright and lighting up the heavens, each of them far larger than any of us. Even a witcher or a sorceress is nothing in the life of a star,” Jaskier murmurs, never looking away from the sky.

“It’s not about how long we live,” Geralt mumbles, his heart racing in his chest, almost as fast as a human’s. He feels the blush on his cheeks and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. This is the moment he will say it. I love you.

“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, finally looking at Geralt from across the fire.

“It’s about how bright you burn,” Geralt explains, and Jaskier burns so brightly, brighter than any star or moon or sun.

Jaskier’s smile widens as his expression softens, wrinkles appearing at the corner of his eyes and he bites his lip, a sign that he’s deep in thought. He hums and plucks a few notes from his lute that sound suspiciously like ‘Toss a Coin’. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll make a poet of you yet, darling.”

Geralt’s heart clenches at the pet name, but he knows it means nothing. Jaskier loves freely and Geralt is no exception, but it would never be in the way that Geralt longs for, he’s too damaged, too scarred.

And yet, Jaskier is also scarred now.

“Can I see?” he asks, knowing the bard will understand him. It’s the same question he’s been asking every night since the hunt. The scar has faded now, still visible but less red and jarring against Jaskier’s pale skin.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, a fond smile dancing on his lips. “And they say witchers don’t feel.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, only calming once the bard shrugs out of his doublet and pulls up his chemise. Geralt breathes a sigh, a weight lifted from his chest. The scar is exactly how he remembers it, fading and perfectly healed, and yet every night he worries, a nightmare plaguing him relentlessly that it has reopened and is bleeding beneath Jaskier’s colourful doublets.

“See, all fine, stop your nonsense,” Jaskier chides and pokes him on the nose. Geralt’s nose wrinkles and he sits back from the bard, causing Jaskier to let out a peal of laughter. “Oh dearest Melitele, how I love you,” Jaskier says between giggles, the words falling off its lips like the sweetest honey.

Geralt stammers wordlessly.

I love you too.

He opens his mouth, gaping, his cheeks burning hotter than the fire. Jaskier just laces their fingers together, as if it means nothing at all, and kisses Geralt on the cheek. “I know, dear heart, I know.”

A warmth pools in Geralt’s chest at Jaskier’s words, letting the bard’s voice soothe him. Those three damn words are still stuck, but he has time. Jaskier knows now, he’ll wait for Geralt.

He hopes.

#the witcher #geraskier #5 + 1 fic #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #wolfie's winter writing

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starlightrows · 4 years ago

Text

Protector

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings and Tags: Hurt/comfort, Near death experience, Blood and Injury, fluff, soft!Din

Summary: A near death experience has emotions running high on the Razor Crest

“Get him out of here!” Din shouted, laying down cover fire. You clutched the child to your chest and made a run for it. You knew if you could just make it to the Crest, you’d be able to seal yourselves in. Out of the reach of the Imps.

The sound of the speeders behind you in the distance caused a wave of panicky adrenaline to spread throughout your body. You could not outrun a speeder, but the ship was right there.

Blood pounded in your ears, you wished you had a sling for the baby so you could use your arms for momentum, or to fire off a couple shots if it came down to it. The Crest was right there. 50 feet in front of you.

Suddenly you were struck hard from behind, throwing you forward. The child flew from your arms and tumbled to the ground. The rider of one of the speeders had fired off a shot, hitting you square in the back. Thank the maker for good body armor.

You could feel your face is scraped and bleeding, and your back radiated a dull aching pain. But it didn’t matter. You dragged yourself up and limped towards the child who was also trying to get up.

The sound of the speeder stalled, the rider had stopped. They were coming towards you. You reached the baby just as the solider hit you over the head with something blunt and heavy. You dropped to the ground. Head screaming in pain. Your vision blurry, you lunged for the legs in front of you, successfully knocking him over.

Your own ragged breathing the only distinguishable sound you could make out as you tried to fight off the solider. Surely time passes, while you throw punches and cry out at the pain in inflicts on your already bleeding knuckles; because the next thing you’re aware of is the fact that you’re lying on your back, staring up at the sky. Body empty of all feeling, thought and energy. Tears streamed down your face as you closed your eyes.

Din was coming up on the Crest, knowing you were perused, he was afraid to catch up. But he had to. The speeder sat running some distance away from the ship, and then saw you.

Laying on your back bleeding from the back of your head, your nose and lip, breathing shallowly with a vacant look in your eye. The child at your shoulder trying desperately to get your attention by “talking” and pulling at your hair.

The solider on the speeder lay beside you, head at an odd angle and arm very clearly broken.

He calls your name, cautiously approaching you. You did not answer. He knelt down beside you. He came into your view, it took all of your concentration to bring his T visor into focus. He was speaking you presumed, but you couldn’t make the garbled sounds into coherent words.

It was bad, and Din knew it. He scooped you up, and brought you into the ship, his little son toddling in behind him. He set you down on the floor, and moved quickly to get the box of first aid supplies. He gingerly turned you over in his arms, to apply a bacta spray to your head wound. He hoped it would be enough. When he turned you back over, he found that your eyes were closed, but your breathing was evening out. He took that as a good sign.

With one hand he unlatched his cape, and carefully placed it under your head. He left you where you lay, and went to close the the hull door. He turned to the child,

“Stay with her,” he instructed, the baby chirped back in response. Din climbed the ladder into the cockpit, and prepared the ship to take off. His mind buzzed with anxiety. He wanted to get in the air, and set the ship to autopilot. Get off the wretched planet, and make you more comfortable.

It struck him that you very well could have died if he hadn’t gotten to you when he did. You still might, if your head wound is worse than he thought. He didn’t know what he would do if you died. Especially protecting his son. He hadn’t quite sorted out how he felt about you yet. He knew he was fond of you. You were strong willed and quick thinking, but you were also incredibly gentle with the child and with him. He was thankful to have an extra pair of hands around on the ship to help him out, and even more so to have someone who knew a thing or two about caring for children.

With the ship now cruising through hyperspace heading towards Nevarro, Din climbed back down the ladder. You were sitting up, but bent over forward resting your elbows on your knees cradling your head in your hands. The baby clung to your boot, and made low gibbering noises with eyes closed right.

Din sat down beside you, and cautiously placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey...” he ventured, suddenly unsure of what to say. You mumbled something he couldn’t quite make out. It was then he realized, you were crying. His grip on your shoulder tightened

“Are you in pain?” He asked with growing concern. That was the last of the bacta spray, and he didn’t have anything stronger.

“I couldn’t save him,” you wept, raising your head to look at the child, still clutching your boot. You moved to bring the child into your arms.

Din paused, confused at your reaction. “He is safe,”

You didn’t look up, you didn’t say anything. But you cradled the baby, stroking his little green cheek tenderly.

“I was so close,” you said softly “so close to letting go. Not even 20 feet from the ship, and he would have been safe. And all I could do was lay there,”

You finally turned to look at your companion. He doesn’t say anything.

“If anyone else in the galaxy had come before you did. The baby would be gone,” You turned away, once again gazing at the child. Silence settled over the room.

Din finally broke the silence “You were at death’s door. You almost died to save him. That is more than anyone can ask of you,”

Fresh tears streamed down your face

He whispers your name to bring your attention back to him “You beat a man to death, and saved my son” he said “I owe you everything”

Without warning, you leaned your head over and placed it on his shoulder. He didn’t exactly know what to do, never having someone need him in such a personal way. So he did the only thing he could think of, he leaned his head over to rest on top of yours. His eyes drifted down to the child resting in your arms. He couldn’t help but think how pleasant the feeling was. Not that you were in pain, but that you trusted him and looked to him for comfort.

“I love him so much,” you said quietly “he cries, gets into things he shouldn’t, throws up on me, keeps me up all hours... but I love him more than I ever thought I could love something”

“He’s your son too,” he replied with a hint of a laugh

“He is isn’t he,” you agreed “I never thought I would be a parent”

“Neither did I,”

Silence once again settled over the Crest, but a comfortable one. The child’s big eyes had begun to droop, neither Din nor you could tear away your gaze. With the baby now sleeping peacefully in your embrace, you felt a better about the situation. You were surprised Din had indulged this behavior for this long, physical touch... talking about feelings... not really his area. But you didn’t want it to end. Not this moment. Not this journey. Not this life... you really had walked the line between life and death and you were not ready to kick the bucket yet.

“Thank you,” you said “for saving my life”

Din considered chose his next words very carefully “I had to”... maybe those weren’t the right words, they sounded disjointed and procedural. And extremely contrary to the intimate moment the two of you were sharing...

“I don’t want to do this without you” he blurted out. Now you didn’t know what to say. You pulled away from him, turning to face him, hoping to gage what he meant. Unfortunately the helmet hid any indication of deeper meaning.

Your sudden disengagement from him startled him a bit. He cursed himself for saying that.

You were confused. Did he mean he didn’t want to continue traveling with the child without the extra help... or was it something more?

Din’s mind raced with ways to explain himself, but he was never the best at verbalizing anything. So once again he did the only thing he could think of. He placed his hands on your upper arms, and leaned his head in to touch the forehead of his helmet to your head.

“You, me and the kid” he said “we belong together” he swallowed hard hoping you would understand. You placed your free hand behind his head, and pressed into his strange embrace. A shy smile crossed your lips.

“The two of you, are my world” you said “and I would die to protect it”

Din chuckled lightly “Let’s hope it never comes to that”

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #baby yoda #grogu

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hockeyboysiguess · 4 years ago

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nine ladies dancing -> nine hockeys dancing | j. benn

a/n: i know christmas was two days ago, but 2020 isn’t real so here’s day 9. rest of the series linked here.

word count: 2,799

warnings: single!dad jamie, a very absent mother figure, some cute dancing.

“You want what?”

Jamie sighed, covering his skate blades before dropping them into their designated spot in his stall, all part of his routine that was so practiced and rehearsed he didn’t have to think about anything before he did it. He thrived in the routine of it all, as much routine as he could get at the rink because when he got home, all semblance of a routine went out the window for the dark-haired little girl in pigtails on the background of his phone, sitting in his lap. She was five now, joyful and gap-toothed and as perfect as she’d been to him the day he knew that he was going to be her dad. She was his pride and joy, the only thing that when the sun set everyday, no matter where he was, mattered. It was him and her and he’d do anything to keep her smiling, including ask his teammates to sacrifice a little of their time and a lot of their pride for her.

“Lottie’s nervous about her recital for dance,” Jamie repeated himself slowly and steadily. “She’s scared she’s going to mess it up if she doesn’t practice in front of people who aren’t just her dad as she says, so I was hoping some of you might be willing to drop by the house later to give her an audience? I know it’s a lot to ask for this time of year.”

Some of the younger guys bristled a little at the idea of giving up a prized free Friday night in Dallas without a team commitment the following day to watch Charlotte Benn dance as well as a five-year-old could perform The Nutcracker. Other teammates smiled with experienced and well-knowing understanding, having similar experiences in their own past, and standing up in front of the team to ask for something for their families. Jamie hated asking, but he asked more than anyone else. He hated asking now, especially this close to Christmas where people wanted to be with their families most of all, even though Jamie Benn hated Christmas these days.

“What time do you want me?” left Tyler’s mouth so much more easily than the call for help had left Jamie’s moments before. “Who else is coming?”

Jamie’s calls for help were always answered in this room, a gift he never expected to receive but now couldn’t imagine his life without the people in this room. Especially as hands went up, along with a disjointed but beautiful chorus of, “I’m in,” and, “Me too,” fell from his teammates mouths, Jamie couldn’t stop the grateful smile from forming on his face. The support fell over Jamie’s shoulders in a way that reminded him of the way his mom would pull his heavy, puffy winter coat over his shoulders before sending him outside back home in Victoria ages ago, back when he thought his life was going to be simpler than it was, back when he thought he would follow the traditional order. Grow up, get a good job, find a wife, get married, have a few kids, and live happily ever after in a blissful, peaceful, uncomplicated, adult world. To be fair, Jamie had done most of that, but after Charlotte was born, she left them both, wiping her hands of him and her daughter without a thought of how cruel it really was to leave your child who hadn’t even seen a full year of life the day before her first Christmas.

Jamie hated her for a lot of things now. One of the many things was that she made him hate Christmas and hating Christmas just wasn’t ever in Jamie Benn’s plans. But he had to pretend he didn’t hate Christmas, or her for that matter, because Charlotte deserved to get to be happy and unburdened by her father’s hatred or her mother’s lack of desire to be her mother. So, Jamie Benn loved Christmas, as long as you didn’t look too deep into his eyes where the pain rested as he lied about how excited he was for it.

Still, Jamie painted that smile on his face when he answered the door covered in the most basic Christmas wreath Jamie could get away with to see more of his teammates than he imagined standing behind it. Tyler led the group, big smile and a flower for Charlotte in hand, an attempt to maintain his title as her favorite uncle. Dicky and Guri seemed to have been pulled into this by Tyler, but were happy to have come along probably under the promise that Jamie might just join her for a terrible dance or two, terrible because of Jamie not Charlotte. The girl dad crew, as the shirts one of them had gotten them for the start of the season said, Comeau, Dowling, and Klinger, were all right behind them, and Bishop tagged along as well. The only true surprise was Rads, who despite being a dad himself, only had boys and wasn’t exactly a ballet sort of honorary uncle, but Tyler Seguin could make people do a lot of things for his very deserving niece and he’d put his mind to giving her the biggest audience possible.

The smile relating to Christmas itself might have been fake, but the gratitude Jamie felt to his teammates for stepping up on short notice brought a real one to his face in place of the fake one. His smile carried over as Tyler made a beeline for Charlotte who was standing in the living room, with all the furniture pushed to the walls, in her tutu and a gapped-tooth grin on her face. Tyler scooped her up easily, setting her on his hip and offering her the flower in one smooth motion.

“For me?” Charlotte asked him, her little hands already reaching for it.

“Of course it’s for you, Miss Charlotte,” Tyler smiled back at her as he placed it gently into her waiting hands. “There are no other pretty ballerinas around who deserve flowers.”

“You’d make a pretty ballerina, Uncle Tyler,” Charlotte told him with her eyes trained on her flower.

Jamie funneled past them and into the kitchen to grab a vase for it, the one Charlotte had decorated with her handprints in preschool. Jamie kept everything, every ornament, every macaroni art, every card, every little thing Charlotte made. He had bins of stuff by now, but he was more than content to buy more bins and fill his basement with everything she made. He rotated what was on the fridge weekly. This week, his fridge doors were full of various glittery Christmas artwork from school. Glitter rained on the floor every time he opened it. Jamie didn’t mind in the slightest.

Charlotte was charming his teammates with her dimpled smile when Jamie came back into the living room, vase with water in hand. He knelt down next to her and offered her the vase to slide her flower into. Taking it from her would lead to tears, but letting her put it in the vase she made herself eliminated that possibility. Jamie sat the flower in its vase next to the speakers and pulled up the soundtrack for her recital on his phone.

“Okay, you ready, Lottie?”

Jamie’s question caused his teammates to settle themselves around the room. Tyler took the floor in front of Bish and patted the ground next to him for Jamie. He started the music, then made his way to his spot, slumping down onto the floor while Charlotte fussed with her dance costume and shuffled her feet on the floor. Jamie could hear her counting softly under her breath and see her foot loosely tapping to the beat. Jamie didn’t know a thing about dance, but he had seen Charlotte practicing enough to know she’d missed when she was supposed to come in and was just staring at her shoes instead.

“You okay, honey?” Jamie asked her softly.

“I’m nervous, Daddy,” she mumbled in reply, fingers fussing with her tutu. “I don’t want to dance alone.”

Before Jamie could even begin to stand, Tyler was up on his feet and reaching for Charlotte’s small hands. She sheepishly held onto a few of his fingers.

“Would it help if Uncle Tyler danced with you?” he asked her softly, head ducked down to be level with her. “That way, you won’t be doing it alone.”

“But you don’t know the moves,” Charlotte mumbled, eyes trained on the grain of the hardwood as Tyler swung their conjoined hands back and forth to try and cheer her up.

Tyler laughed as he spoke, “Uncle Tyler can manage just fine, with a little help from some friends?”

Jason Dickinson was up on his feet without another word, with Guri hot on his heels and Klinger right behind him. Bishop might have been flexible, but dancing wasn’t exactly his forte. He still rose to his feet to join everyone else who was gathering around Charlotte. Tyler reached out and grabbed Rads’ forearm, seeing as he hadn’t moved yet, and yanked him into the crowd.

“Daddy!” Charlotte called out from his spot among his teammates, hidden from view. “Come dance too!”

Jamie really, really wasn’t a dancer. Jamie wasn’t a lot of things. He wasn’t the most bold sort of guy, preferring to stay inside of his comfort zone most of the time. He was a good captain, but not by being outspoken. He led quietly by example. Jamie wasn’t the guy who ever thought he’d be a single dad. Hell, sometimes Jamie thought he was the guy who was going to be relegated to the fun uncle role for his entire life before Charlotte was born. Jamie wasn’t the guy who ever thought he’d need other people like he needed people now, like he needed his friends to make his daughter feel comfortable enough to practice for her dance recital, a sentence Jamie never thought would be among his list of concerns in life, because he always thought his ex-wife would be there to help and could handle this sort of thing he was particularly bad at.

Most of all, Jamie never thought he’d hate Christmas, but he truly couldn’t wait for December 26th to come and for that godforsaken tree tucked in the corner that reminded him of everything he wasn’t, everything that he’d failed at, to go back into its box, for his daughter to be doing normal ballet recitals instead of ones of the Christmas variety, for everything to stop reminding him of the holiday he used to love. Still, Jamie rose to his feet from the floor and restarted the music, ready to sway as poorly to it as he did, because Charlotte had asked him to, like doing it didn’t make his chest ache and his head spin as he remembered that life he was supposed to have but never would.

Tyler was the best worst dancer of the bunch, attempting to spin when Charlotte did, arms over his head doing his best impression of a five-year-old doing her best impression of a real ballerina. Jamie just swayed a little to the music, feet shuffling side to side. Rads was trying his hardest to be The Grinch, but it was increasingly hard to do with their teammates making fools of themselves for the sake of Charlotte Benn, Guri finding himself in the air courtesy of Jason and being spun like a top. John was swaying with admiration on his face, seeing this as his future with his own little girl. Charlotte’s giggle was drowning out a lot of the music. Rads ended up slow dancing with Tyler after a fight about which of them was actually right to lead. The fight lasted all of four second before Radulov took charge and started leading Tyler around the living room. Comeau and Dowling were swaying together, giving Jamie supportive looks because they understood what seeing her laughter meant to him on a level others didn’t.

The only thing that dulled the ache in his chest was Charlotte’s laughter. She loved Christmas still, something Jamie would never try to take from her. He didn’t want to pass any of his resentment and anger down to her like a tradition that should’ve died years ago. It would die with him. Jamie was determined to make it so.

His teammates doing their best attempts at ballet meant for five-year-olds to The Nutcracker soundtrack with the fire crackling in the background was a pretty good way to make sure all Charlotte remembered from his Christmas was love and joy. Jamie scooped her up as the song ended, causing a fit of giggles to pour from her mouth.

“You did so good, peanut!” Jamie tickled her a little as he spoke, heightening her giggles. “So good, right guys?”

The chorus of approvals and cheers from his teammates made Charlotte's smile wide impossibly more.

“I think I’m going to do so good tomorrow at the re-re-recital,” Charlotte stuttered a bit as she spoke. The word recital was a difficult one for her. “Uncle Tyler should join. He’s a good dancer.”

“Not as good at you, Miss Charlotte,” he assured her, ruffling her hair a little and making her giggle again in Jamie’s arms.

Charlotte carried the smile she grew that evening with her all the way through to her recital the next day. Jamie dropped her off early, as he always did, and took his seat in the audience among the other eagerly waiting parents. He managed to find a prized seat at the end of the aisle, where Charlotte might actually have a chance at spotting him from the stage.

“Is the seat next to you taken?”

Jamie lifted his eyes from his phone to see you standing there, coffee in hand despite it being seven at night two days before Christmas. You were beautiful and Jamie wondered who you were here with. He wasn’t able to make most dance practices or parent events, so he didn’t have a good idea of who you might be even though it made him feel like a worse dad for not knowing.

“Your Charlotte’s dad, right?” you asked him after clearing your throat.

“Uh, yeah,” Jamie mumbled as he scrambled to his feet to let you get by and take the seat next to him. He dropped back into his seat when you did. “How’d you guess?”

“Well, she looks just like you,” you told him. “But also, figured you had to be the hot single dad everyone talks about in the moms’ group chat.”

Jamie threw his head back and laughed, “The moms’ group chat talks about how I’m hot?”

“Shhhh,” you shushed him softly. “Don’t rat me out as the source of that information though. You’ll get me kicked out of the chat and that chat is the only source of entertainment I have in my life that doesn’t involve a five-year-old.”

Jamie nodded and put a hand over his heart, “Your secret is safe with me. Promise.”

“Better be, or I’ll have to kill you,” you joked, drawing another laugh that caused him to tip his head back and shift his hand over his stomach as he laughed with his whole body.

As he came down from his laughter, the lights began to dim around you to signal the start of the show. You watched as various moms slipped into the aisle, phones outstretched, to record the show. You shook your head softly. The studio always recorded the show and sent it to all the parents after, and you were partial to watching her dance with your own eyes rather than through your screen.

“Gonna get out there?” Jamie whispered to you.

“Their teacher will send out the recording,” you shrugged. “I’d rather watch it.”

“Finally,” Jamie sighed, voice heavy with relief, “someone else gets me.”

“Maybe we should sit together at more of these,” you suggested to him as the lights went dark. “Single parents who don’t believe in watching the recital through their phones.”

Normally, especially now when trees stood in people’s living rooms and wreaths hung on front doors, the acknowledgement Jamie was in this alone with Charlotte, that she left them both, made him feel alone. When the words left your mouth, Jamie felt a sense of closeness, of kinship, of mutual understanding that he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was natural, the way you two talked between dance numbers, about Charlotte, about your daughter, about hockey, about your work, about your lives. Jamie left that recital with your phone number burning a hole in his pocket and Charlotte’s hand in his, feeling like, for the first time in a long time that Christmas might still have some magic left in it after all.

#jamie benn #jamie benn fanfiction #jamie benn fanfic #jamie benn writing #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl fanfic #nhl imagine #Hockey Fanfiction #hockey fanfic #hockey writing #hockey imagine

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suckerforhotchniss · 4 years ago

Text

Some things just aren’t meant to be

tw (or is it cw? i am not sure): infertility, self loathing

for @aubreyprc and @eprcntiss because otherwise this would’ve never seen the light of day thank you bffs, hope you enjoy<3

(listen to Wife by Mitski whilst reading this at your own risks)

***

Emily takes a shaky breath and waits for the test to register.

Two others are already discarded in the bin.

Third time’s the charm, she tells herself and she tries to find it funny.

The lines register. She inhales heavily, closing her eyes and lowering her head.

The test slips from her fingers and she bends over, running her free hand through her hair.

She feels nauseous.

There’s a soft knock on the door and Emily sighs. Her eyes slide down, falling to rest on the failed test, but she otherwise doesn’t move.

It’s there, right there. In plain sight. He’ll just walk in and see it and then he’ll know.

She doesn’t want to get his hopes up, even for an instant, because then she’ll have to let his hopes down.

“Em?” Aaron’s voice is gentle.

“I’m here,” she says.

The door cracks open and Aaron slips inside. He’s at her side in a moment, crouching down. She feels the pressure of his hand on her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, softly.

Hey,” she replies, without looking at him.

Fabric rustles as Aaron shifts positions to be closer to her. Gently, he brushes a strand of hair away from her face and tilts her chin until their eyes meet.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, so sincere that it hurts her heart. He has eyes only for her right now. But sooner or later, he’ll look down, and he’ll see. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me. You know that, don’t you?”

“Who says something’s wrong?” She tries to steady her breathing so her voice doesn’t shake.

Please don’t look. Please don’t see it.

She hates lying to him. She hates it, but she hates hurting him even more and if she shared this with him...

Emily knows how much he wants more children. She knows how deeply this would hurt him.

She’s not an idiot. Aaron isn’t either. She knows that, sooner or later, he’ll figure things out. But, for now, she can’t bear the thought of seeing his heart break.

It’s too late though. Aaron’s wordless, muted gasp is enough of a tell to let her know that he’s seen it.

She can’t look at him. She can’t. She can’t. She can’t.

“Emily…” he says gently.

She looks at him.

“Did you think you were pregnant?”

“I’m sorry.”

Aaron stops short. “Wait, what?” he breathes. “Sorry? Sweetheart, what are you…”

She wipes her eyes with her hands- when did she begin to cry? “I know what the doctors said,” she begins. “That with me… being the way I am, we may never be able to conceive. But you wanted it so badly and I thought maybe there was a chance-a chance the doctors could have been wrong. I’m sorry. I’ve let you down again.”

He slips behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pressing a gentle kiss into the crook of her neck.

“Em, it’s okay, you didn’t let me down, hell you could never let me down.” He says gently. His breath tickles her neck. “Whether or not you can get pregnant… That doesn’t matter, okay?” He says trying to force the words into her skin with his lips.

But the traitorous, intrusive thoughts have already made their way back into her brain.

Is there something wrong with me? Am I to blame?

It was not just her mind but her body that had recently begun to feel insubstantial and disjointed, as though it was simply an empty frame.

It was like a tangible force, pressing down on her chest, reducing her to nothing more than what she could never be.

“I know.” She pulls away from him and looks down, though she allows him to take her hands in his. “I know. I just...”

Now, she blames herself. Perhaps she has waited too long. Perhaps she has put her body on the line one too many times.

Aaron would assure her it isn’t her fault, but after her illegal abortion in Rome and what happened with Doyle she can’t help but wonder just how much damage she has done to her body.

Not that she regrets doing either of those things. She knew she wasn’t ready to be a mother at 15, she went after Doyle to protect her family and if she had to do it all over again she would. It just isn’t fair to Aaron that her past mistakes are impacting his future too. If she hadn’t wanted to fit in so desperately in Rome and hadn’t been so silly, maybe, they would’ve already had a baby by now.

They had seen doctors. She had begged for an answer to put the only ifs and could haves to rest. Because if she could point to something medical, some underlying condition, maybe her guilt would shrink, would become insignificant enough to be tucked into one of her well compartmentalised boxes. Maybe then she could make enough sense of this to feel normal again, to lay blame on anything but herself. Or maybe not. She doesn’t know if she thinks she deserves to feel better.

Unfortunately no one had been able to give her a straight answer.

There had been damage, yes. Could she still conceive? No one knew the answer to that, although it now seemed very unlikely.

It had been frustrating to say the least.

Beyond frustrating.

Maybe it was for the best, she told herself. He had Jack and with what they did for a living maybe it was better not to bring a child into that environment.

She feels him lean forward and press his lips to her forehead in a soft kiss.

“I love you, Em, and that isn’t changing.”

He sits back and gives her that little grin. The one that never fails to make her heart skip a beat.

Aaron moves his left hand and lovingly strokes her cheek, then plays with her hair, then runs his fingers along her arm, admiring her delicate wrists. His eyes follow the line of her jaw, her cheekbone…

She is so beautiful.

Emotions that he can’t stop overwhelm him. He can hardly believe that he alone gets to kiss her, to make love to her, sleep next to her at night, fold her in his arms, touch her like this. Emily might believe she is disappointing him, but her presence alone is enough, more than enough. Her love, though, is more than he could have ever imagined, absolution, total sublimity. He can’t believe his luck, nor ever tire of her affection, not in a million years.

“Maybe now isn’t the right time to expand our family.” He gives her hands a squeeze. “And that’s okay.”

But what if she can never get pregnant? There are other options surely, but they are probably not fit for adoption because of their jobs, and neither of them is ready to give that up just yet. One look into their past and adoption centres would never give them custody of a child.

Maybe this isn’t meant to be, she thinks.

It’s almost funny. She used to tell herself that if she was to ever have children she wouldn’t be like her mother but how did she think she could ever be a good mother without having ever experienced maternal love herself? How can you give something you have never received?

I guess we all become our parents at some point.

She remembers JJ saying that and thinks it is most likely true for people like her. Not for Aaron though, despite him doubting it, she knows he is nothing like his father and never will be.

“Let’s go to bed.” Aaron’s voice makes her snap out of her thoughts but she just stares blankly at him.

“Go ahead I’ll join you in a minute.” She finally says with a shaky voice, having only partially regained enough strength to answer him.

He stares deep into her eyes.

One of the lessons he has learned is that you can’t heal a mood. Another lesson, one on which he still has to work, is how to resist trying anyway. Watching the woman he loves turn away from him is torture, and Emily knows he’s hurt, and it hurts her to hurt him, and the guilt pushes her away more, and the spiral patterns on as ceaselessly as the rain.

It’s obvious he doesn’t want to leave her, he can barely let go of her hand, but he understands she needs a minute to herself.

He exits the bathroom leaving the door half open just in case.

Emily slowly gets up, her head spins so much she has to grab the sink to try and keep her balance. She stares at her reflection, eyes focused on her stomach as if asking “What is wrong with you, why can’t I get pregnant?”

The word failure barely exists in her lexicon, yet, there she is.

She opens the medicine cabinet and takes some painkillers. She wishes they could cure or at least ease the emotional pain too. She stares back at herself in the mirror. Her eyes look empty. She looks tired, she is tired, but she isn’t crying anymore. Her tears have long since dried.

She takes a few deep breaths before exiting the bathroom. She walks to their room and slowly slips under the covers.

As she feels Aaron’s arms come around her waist her heart aches knowing she can’t give him what he wants. What they want. What they deserve.

But some things just aren’t meant to be... right?

#hotchniss #hotchniss fic #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #tw infertility #tw self loathing #hum #yeah #this is my first fic so i know it’s not perfect but please bear with me #this is sad i’m sorry besties #angst #angsty fic #correct me if i made any mistakes pls

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dilfbane · 4 years ago

Text

Your Weeping(Your Need For His Touch)

Summary: When things go south on a mission, you have to confront more than just the sketchy town, cartoon villains, and one-bed hotel room you’re forced to share with Loki. You have to come to terms with not only the consequences of being captured, but also the God of Mischief’s feelings for you - Because for all that he might be an asshole, sometimes, he really does have a heart. Written for the Picture Is Worth A 1,000 Words 6k Follower Writing Challenge by @startrekkingaroundasgard

Pairing: Loki/(Female)Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and medical treatment, as well as discussions of the inevitable mindset around sacrificing oneself for the mission that I feel like being part of the Avengers would entail. Also swearing, because at its core, this story started out as a bit of a crack! fic.

Word Count: 7.8k.

A/N: So apparently when I have mental breakdowns they result in me writing crack-fic that takes a 180 veer into angst and fluff for absolutely no reason. For the sake of the crack-fic, in this timeline Loki was forced to help the Avengers take down bad guys directly after the end of the first Avengers movie, so… Is that a confusing plot hole I didn’t know how to account for except by making this AU? Maybe. Did I do it anyway?…. Yeah. This really was meant to be a crack-fic about Loki and the reader confessing their feelings set in the bizarre world of meme culture, I didn’t realize there were going to be feels in it until it was three in the morning and all of a sudden this happened. That being said, your girl went there, so enjoy!

“Oh, shit,” You say, as you take in the grimy hotel room. The walls all smeared in what looks like dried blood, the putrid smell of rotten eggs, a crack-screened television with a fine dusting of some suspiciously white powder. And, of course, “There’s one bed.”

“Hmm?” Asks Loki, turning towards you, briefly, from unpacking. He had dumped his suitcase(Magically plucked out of a chaotic liminal space) unceremoniously on the bed’s scratching, pilling coverlet without so much as a second glance at the rest of the room. And why do you need a suitcase, anyways?? You wonder. It isn’t like we’re planning to be here that long. In fact, you hoped with every fiber of your being that you’d be here for as little time as possible, because this town might actually be the sketchiest place you’ve ever seen in your life; no small feat, for a bona-fide member of S.H.I.E.L.D.

You’ve kicked alien ass on a mutated purple Mongolian death-worm three thousand feet over New York City. You’ve run reconnaissance to rescue debatably-magical items sequestered away in an ancient cave labyrinth plastered in paintings and untranslatable runes, gunfire and what could only be described as the baying of hellhounds in the near distance. You’ve fist-fought a gigantic hive-mind robot in a field of artificially sentient feral steel suits - You’ve even survived Tony’s parties.

Yet none of those scenarios hold a candle to this fucking town.

And Loki, the asshat, seems utterly, competently - no, maniacally - unfazed.

“There’s one bed,” You repeat, into the air.

“Ah,” Says Loki, straightening.

“You don’t see that problem with that?!”

“Should I?” He asks you, walking across the room in long, graceful strides to stand in front of you. He wears the same expression he always wears, amused and indifferent, but this time with the addition of a single, elegantly-arched eyebrow. You drop your head, refusing to meet his somewhat-curious gaze. It physically hurts, how attractive Loki is. Not for the first time, you curse whatever god decided that you and him would once again be mission partners - in this case, you belatedly realize, and choke back a thick laugh, said god is, unsurprisingly, Thor.

If you survive this, you make a note to beat his head in with Mjolnir. As it is, you are here in this room with Loki, with perhaps twenty IPP agents and a reckless poisoner dogging your every move, and there’s a high chance that you won’t live long enough to navigate whatever the hell sleeping with your crush-who-has-murdered-men. Ok, so ‘murdered men’ isn’t entirely accurate. More like ‘caused the murder of men inadvertently through his schemes’. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, right now.

And what about Loki? He is still staring you down, like you’re some wind up toy moments away from going off. Funny, that, you think. If ever there were a time to not have a mental breakdown, it would be here, with him. You’ve crossed a lot of moral lines in your life, but you will be damned if you let Loki Laufeysson see you cry. Loki is graceful. Composed. Sarcastic. Lithe. Rolls his eyes at almost every statement that comes out of somebody’s mouth. But he is, also, beautiful. Shockingly comforting, in his own nihilistic way. You don’t know what it says about you that you find comfort in statements like, Try not to die, you know that I hate funerals. Part of you - most of you - doesn’t want to. But it gives you strength, somehow, to shrug off the day and ground your flailing mind in evading Loki’s calculated manipulation. I won’t show you my weakness, you think to yourself. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

“No,” You tell him - too quickly, he’ll pick up on that - “You’re right, you shouldn’t. It’s fine. We have - a lot to deal with, is all.”

Loki nods, seemingly accepting your answer, but his eyes are still narrowed, watching you like he’s calling your bluff. You talk right past that look - have to, to keep yourself sane, to not think about the one bed that looms large over this entire conversation. It doesn’t even look like a comfortable bed.

“We have two days,” You say, to stop yourself thinking of it. And, also, to talk your way through your disarmingly disjointed thoughts. Loki nods. It would really help if you said something, you think. Swallow the thought, hot and thick, down your throat. What’s the point of a mission partner if you can’t even soundboard off them? “The Pink Cobra could strike anyone, anytime. The IPP is planning something in New York - “

“Isn’t everyone, these days, planning something in New York?”

He sounds regretful, and for half a second you want to offer him the reassurance that his very presence offers you. But you are sure he doesn’t know what he does to you - with his words, with the sidelong glances that you’ve felt linger on your form far too long in the heat of a fight. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Loki worries about you.

“We have to shut him down,” You say. Focus on the Pink Cobra, because honestly, that’s easier. “Find out where he manufactures. Not get poisoned,” You add, at the end.

“Yes,” Loki says, tone dripping with sarcasm, “We should certainly try not to get ourselves killed. Failing that, I suppose, we can at least request that no one in H.Y.D.R.A gets autopsy access.”

“Loki?” You ask. Rhetorically. “You’re not helping.”

He smirks at you, then. He knows.

“What do you propose that we do then?” He asks, taking a step towards you, getting so close that you can feel his hot breath. “About the Pink Cobra?”

“Find him.” You say, fumbling, blush rising high on your cheeks.

Tonight?

One bed?

You are screwed.

***

When you were a kid - think really little, Capri Sun pouches and still believing that true love wasn’t complicated - your father told you that every story needed a good supervillain. You aren’t sure if the Pink Cobra counts as a good supervillain, but he’s the least confusing one that you have to deal with - and, as far as villains go, a fine enough challenge to face. He’s like a madman out of some high fantasy novel, with dark eyes and a sable-sewn cloak and a penchant for poisoning. He is adept in all the arts of the woman’s murder; he has a keen grasp on the side-effects of arsenic and camphor and tansy and cyanide and strychnine. He’s been found to have dropped crystal phials filled with belladonna and ricin while fleeing a scene. If all else fails, he’s more than practiced with daggers.

In other words, he’s the kind of villain that none of you, with your flying suits and telekinesis and super-strength, are anywhere near prepared to waylay.

The plan, as far as team Avengers is concerned, is easy:

You and Loki. This town, where the webs of his manufacturing production and the few glimpses of information that Thor has totally legally excavated out of his captured minions has led to. Two days until some undefined grand attack bears down on the city you live in. Two days to find the Pink Cobra and kill him. The more time passes with no headway, the more you think that this is an impossible task, but you know what Tony would say. We have our best minds on it.

The thing is, you aren’t sure that that’s true. The minds that have been set to this task are you and the God of Lies. It’s hardly the best they could have come up with, considering your track records. Actually, you take that back - Loki was a good choice for this mission, because, not three hours after arriving in this hellhole of a city, he seems to have somehow developed the ability to read minds. More specifically, yours. And that could prove stunningly useful.

The scene, as it stands: Loki, sprawled across the lumpy bed, three pairs of crisp white shirts, a plaid scarf, and a full set of Asgardian battle armor neatly hung in the mothball-infested closet, flicking through channels on the grain, cracked television with an apathetic expression and one arm thrown haphazardly over bent leg. Propped up in such a way that he could jump or spin or parry at a moment’s notice, yet perfectly, devastatingly languid, leafing through Nick Fury’s dossier on the Pink Cobra. He looks at you like a god, you think, and then remember. He is one.

You, on the floor, because on top of all the other things this hotel doesn’t have, like two beds, there isn’t anything even resembling a desk, shifting through a glowing, holographed file archive from headquarters that barely runs on your severely outdated laptop. It’s a point of pride to you, keeping the laptop - not because it’s good, but because it’s survived five years of being an Avenger, which is something not even all the Avengers can claim to have done. You’re also fairly certain that Tony’s attempts to update the firmware had infested it with some sort of renegade virus. Elevated above your screen, the files are split into two groups, the sum total of everything that you know about both of the groups that are avidly trying to kill you.

There’s the wealth of information containing the Pink Cobra’s poisoning sprees, but those aren’t the files that interest you, and you know that Loki’s not much interested in them either. That honor falls to the fanatics at the IPP, the Imminently Predictable Psyops organization, which you know even less about than you do about the Pink Cobra, chief among which the fact that they need a new name. Imminently Predictable Psyops?, Tony had said, when you’d finally apprehended one of their proxies. What do they think this is? Some type of ARG?

What you’ve gleaned, from months worth of studying the network, is that they operate as a sort of cringe-oriented death cult intent on ‘reshaping the universe through meme agents’. They’d been on S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a long time - upwards of a year - before anyone at team base learned they existed - which, you can almost hear Loki saying, was a failure in the extreme. Currently, it was your job to obsessively worry over whether they were going to send ‘meme agents’ to bust through the door of your seedy hotel room and off you both. You hated - truly loathed - how casually Loki was taking it all.

He’s acting like nothing was wrong with this situation, when, in fact, you’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that this night will end up with one or both of you dead. It is, to say the least, disconcerting.

Kill switch, the holograph files read. Cross-referential Neil Cicierega acoustic weaponry. Your mind sees the words, but doesn’t comprehend them, and you run a hand up to rub at your bleary eyes with annoyance. You risk a glance upwards; on the bed, Loki scans page after page after page with disinterested nonchalance, punctuating the flipping over of each document with a noncommittal hum; as if to say, I understand you. As it to say, This could be worse. You try to slip into that mindset. Certainly, things could be worse.

Actually, though? Not really.

Because, for all the world, the holo-file in front of you just said ‘Pepe The Frog Chaos Banking Laser Initiative’.

“What the fuck does that even mean?!”

“Sorry?”

You whip your head around. Loki, raising an eyebrow. Damn that - perfect - eyebrow.

“Sorry,” You echo back at him, rubbing your eyes again, perversely glad for the break, even if it is this awkward. “I … said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Marginally,” He tells you. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” You - well, it’s not a whine, not exactly. You’re tired, and there’s no way you’re going to sleep tonight, so you feel like your tone’s justified. “I didn’t mean to do that. I think I’m just - this is. Completely nonsensical.”

“Show me?” He asks, and you snort. He could totally just look up, but -

“Do you have a P.h.d in memes?” You ask him, and, before he can answer, “Because unless you have a P.h.d in memes, I don’t think you’ll be able to help.”

“You’d be surprised,” Loki says. Vaults over the bed with the speed and grace of a panther, filling the air with a cringing wheeze as the rusty springs bend underneath him, and landing in front of the holo-file, pushing you aside slightly to get a better view. When his fingers brush against your side, cool and firm, you flinch.

“Tired,” You offer, when he shoots you a momentarily concerned look. “Just. Need to sleep, later, I think.”

But Loki is already scanning the file, and when he looks up, not five seconds later, you want to hit somebody. Preferably, you think, him.

“I would assume,” Loki says, “That they’re using time travel in order to obtain and store monetary value by way of a Pepe-the-frog inspired laser array.”

“Oh,” You say. You blink once. Blink twice. Still have no idea what that means. “Right.”

“Do you not know your memes, love?” He asks you, smirking. And oh, if you don’t feel things.

“I don’t go on the internet, much,” You tell him. “Too busy, you know, trying not to get killed.”

Loki shrugs. Sidles away from the file. The groan and squeak of those springs tells you he’s back on the bed, giving you some well-needed space, but you can’t bring yourself to look.

“You can sleep,” He says, “If you want.”

“Ha!” You yelp/choke/embarrassingly bleat out into the room’s stale silence. Underneath the rotten eggs, you catch a whiff of bong-water. “No.”

“There’s a bed,” Loki says, cocking his head pointedly and patting the lumpy covers.

“Yeah, that’s - kind of the problem.”

“Why?” He asks you.

“You - really?”

“I was only asking,” Says Loki, re-focusing his attention on whichever Pink Cobra document’s next in the folder. “If you aren’t comfortable telling me - I merely thought, seeing as you were tired, you might take this opportunity to rest.”

“Yeah,” You tell him, “Of course, that’s - nice of you.”

It comes out stilted. Patently off. If he notices, he doesn’t say.

“Are you going to - um. Do you need help, with the rest? The ones I have seem kind of hopeless. I mean,” You say, when he doesn’t look up, “I don’t think that we have to worry about getting demolished by trans-dimensional Agarthian wormholes.”

“Of course not,”” Loki says, scoffing and incredulous, gaze, you are sure, on his page. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d send someone with a gun.”

In reality, it’s several someones.

***

“You jinxed it,” Is the first thing you tell him, when the men leave you. They’ve thrown you into a one-room warehouse, rickety shelves stacked with cartoonish tubs of green goop and mildewing boxes filled with grenades and machine guns and what appears, at second-glance, to be twelve-fingered latex gloves. You’re tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and your throat feels uncharacteristically parched. Fear, you tell yourself. Apprehension. “Can’t you just - use your seidr to magic us out of this?”

If you could see him - which you can’t, because you’ve been tied back to back - you’d swear that Loki was glaring.

“Do you - do you have a plan?” You ask, after a moment.

“I’m working on it,” He says.

“That’s all?” You say. “We were dragged out of our drug-dealer’s hotel room by a bunch of robed men with guns and the only thing you have to say is ‘I’m working on it?’”

“I’d get it done faster,” Says Loki, “If you wouldn’t interrupt me.”

“Ok,” You tell him, “No interrupting you. Got it. That’s - Alright.”

Unfortunately, not interrupting him is easier said than done, because without the sound of your voice, you are left to your thoughts.

The men had broken in nearly immediately after Loki’s glib, sardonic retort to your worries, shooting the glass out of the room’s already half-smashed-in window and kicking the door in simultaneously. A bit much, isn’t it?, Loki’d asked, and you had wanted to smack yourself on the forehead. Really not the time, you had hissed, but Loki hadn’t seemed to hear you. Do you do this with everyone they send you to assassinate?, he had asked, instead. The men had been dressed in long, billowing cloaks of bright red, embroidered with orange snakes framing a picture of Beaker from the muppets with early 2000’s emo hair. Chaotic meme agents, you had thought to yourself. So that’s what they’re supposed to look like.

You hadn’t picked up, until now, on the snakes.

“They’re working together,” You say, when you can’t stand the playback of Loki being disarmed after spinning and tossing his silver daggers at the men, of the men kneeing him in the balls and twisting your arms behind your back, holding a gun to your head to stop you from trying to fight. Waking up in the back of a van that smelled like microwaved fish. Being tossed like garbage onto the floor of the warehouse, painted in bruises and cuts from the small pieces of glass that had dug their way into your skin. “The IPP and the Pink Cobra.”

“Obviously,” Loki says. Sharply.

“Did Tony not -“

“Stark,” Loki practically growls, and, ok, you’re not losing it but that did make you jump in your skin, “Is an idiot. He wouldn’t know how to connect the dots if they were presented to him in a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode.”

“That’s - You had that on Asgard?” You ask him, momentarily distracted. You wish that you could see Loki’s face, and are very glad that you can’t.

“That isn’t the point,” Loki says.

“I know,” You tell him. You’re scared that your voice is trembling. Scared that he can tell, even though he’s not facing you, how badly your fingers are shaking. Scared that he knows your worst, biggest secret -

That, despite being an Avenger, you are anxious. That, despite him being Loki, despite him being here, and wonderfully, infuriatingly himself, he cannot help you, this time.

You are going to die, covered in cuts and abrasions, on the floor of a meme network’s headquarters, at three a.m in the morning. They are going to come in with umbrellas that shoot poison darts or the ex-presidents Point Break masks and mow you down, and Loki has no fucking plan. You feel the ropes tighten where they’re knotted, itchy and fierce, and you have to fight to keep yourself from whining in terror and nerves. Whining isn’t what Loki needs right now. Whining’s not going to save you.

What is going to save you, you try and remind yourself, is Loki. If you can shut up. If you can let him decipher what needs to be done. If he can figure out some way to do it before the blowtorch-wielding robed vigilantes or some disincarnate meme god comes back and draws their electronically-sharpened fingernails across your throat hard enough to split skin and sinew, send waves of blood down the front of your shirt like a river of sweet, thick red honey and toss your corpse in a ditch by a highway and -

“Y/N?” It is foggy, barely-heard. Posh. “Y/N!” Louder, this time. There are fingers on your wrist, bent backwards to grip you. Squeezing, insistent and there. “Breathe.”

Fuck, you think. You’d started to hyperventilate. To shake, with a full-body tremor that forecasts a great, unstoppable wave of sobbing panic. And Loki had noticed. “I need you to trust me,” He says. “Trust me to get us out of this. Can you do that for me, darling?”

He has never called you darling before, but God how you’ve wanted him to. You feel like you’re being stabbed in the heart - because there is no way he means it, no way that this is anything other than a desperate and cruel attempt to get you to calm down. Something that belies how obvious you are. How needy you are. How pathetic. And yet -

And yet, he doesn’t say it meanly. He speaks like he cares about you, and in the face of your impending death, you want to think Loki cares. You’d let him say anything, do anything to you, right now. More than that, though, more than any of that - as you think back to meeting him, to your blossoming late-night friendship and twitchy banter and the quiet moments you’ve shared with him in-between battles -

“I trust you, Loki,” You tell him, and feel your breath quiet in you. Feel yourself growing still and calm with the certainty that Loki will do as he’s said.

That you will survive this.

That -

“Good,” Loki says. Not relieved, but determined. Leaving you no room to argue.

“So what do we do?” You ask him.

“Nothing,” Says Loki, and you can hear his wide grin.

“Nothing?” You ask him, gawking.

“Nothing,” Says Loki. He gives your hand a tight squeeze.

And then the Pink Cobra walks in.

***

This will end badly, you think. It’s about the only thing that you can think, preoccupied as you are with -

It might be easier not to -

Fuck.

The thing is - and you really do try not to move, not to groan, not to scream - the thing is, you thought that when Loki said he had a plan, that said plan wouldn’t involve you being collateral damage for a LARP-er who’d most likely broken out of an asylum. I wish that we could be back in that shitty one-bed hotel room, you think to yourself, and - alright, not the best timing, but it rips a laugh out of you, spiraling and unhinged, before you feel the Pink Cobra, resplendent in coral cloak and villainous swagger, slug you one in the jaw. It hurts worse than you’d thought it would - you’ve never really gotten injured on missions, you’re usually good at talking yourself out of things, which is why the Avengers keep you around. You can speak any language, as long as you’ve heard it once, and your customary daily awkwardness can shift into persuasion like flicking a light-switch on.

Usually, though, you had an opportunity to speak, and weren’t rendered speechless by -

Loki, if you’re being honest. How much you want to kiss him. How much of an asshole he is. Trust me, he’d asked you. Can you do that for me? The Pink Cobra’s grip is sharp and bruising on your side; he’s slipped his fingers up your shirt and is pressing the point on your side that threatens to make your knees buckle, making bile rise up in your throat, driving you wild with the aching need to flee. He has one hand clasped over your mouth, now that you’ve quieted, and you can feel something - pain, and a pill - pressed snugly into his palm. He will force it down you, you know, if Loki so much as sighs wrong.

You’ll never trust him again.

You wish that you knew what the time was. If you end up dying at 4:20, you’re going to throw fists with somebody in hell.

You wish, also, for aspirin. Avengers training has left you woefully unprepared for the reality of getting punched in the face. You can already feel your jaw starting to swell, taste an egregious amount of blood. You’re pretty sure that the force of the blow knocked a tooth out.

What strikes fear into you, though - a fear somehow deeper than the absolutely bone-chilling, blood-curdling knowledge of what the Pink Cobra might do to you - is the look you’d seen on Loki’s face in the seconds after he’d grabbed you, before it fell into practiced, amused apathy. He’d gone white, and his eyes had blown wide. His fingers had spasmed with anger.

He’d looked as scared as you feel.

And you have no idea why.

It isn’t like you’re anyone special. Not any more than the rest of the team. Less so than most of them. You aren’t a god, like Loki and Thor are. You don’t have stealth-assassin training, like Bucky, or super-strength like Steve. You can’t seamlessly pilot mechanical suits over the New York skyline like Tony, or use a crossbow like Clint, or beat thirty people in single-hand combat like Nat, or change into a nitro-fueled rage machine like Bruce.

You can’t do anything, much.

Except, apparently, die.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not letting yourself look at him. You won’t let Loki’s disinterested face be the last thing that you see. It makes the Pink Cobra’s words all the worse, when he speaks. His voice is dark and sick and timbered, and you feel maggots crawling over your skin as he slots you closer to his body, tightening his already painful grip on you so that you can’t move even an inch away from his tensed, coiled muscles.

“So,” He says, “You are superheroes? How long did it take me, to apprehend you? Ah - three and a half hours? Tell your boss-man, do better next time.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Loki says. His voice sounds different. You can’t place why. Still won’t look.

“You won’t,” The Pink Cobra says. You can feel his shoulders rise, then fall. Feel him smirk. You love Loki’s smirk - secretly delight in drawing it from him, sometimes - but the Pink Cobra’s only fills you with yet more terror. You’ve pursed your lips tightly shut against the intrusion of his hand, but when Loki speaks he forces your bruised, bleeding jaw open and shoves the pill into your mouth. The pain of your injury tears through you like white lightning and you thrash, trying to escape. A keening sound claws its way out of you, fevered and anguished, and you feel your hands, still bound up in ropes, trying in vain to push off and away. The man behind you sighs, and then aims a swift kick at the back of your knees, which sends you down before you can so much as yelp. Your knees hit the floor, and he’s holding you by your hair now, twisting it so hard that you’re almost sure he’ll scalp you. He’s pulled something - too big to be be a knife, some kind of shortsword?! - Out from beneath his cloak, and is pressing it up against the column of your throat. You feel the weight of the capsule between your teeth heavily now, and realize what it means in the split-second before the Pink Cobra bends and whispers, Your choice; stale and rancid into the shell of your ear.

Next, he addresses Loki.

“You’ll be wanting to know what our plan is,” He says. Our, you think. We were right. “Hmm? I know how you people are. Always wanting to know. Tell me this, Mischief Man. What will I get, if I tell you? What price are you willing to pay?”

You know what this is. You know it like the ache in your heart when Loki brushes you off. Like the safety you feel in his arms. You open your eyes. Take in Loki’s face - he’s trying to hide, but you know, you know how he feels. You know what he’s going to choose.

And you know that you can’t let him choose it.

“You’ll let her go,” Loki asks, “If we let you leave here?”

“The thing could be managed.”

No, you think. No, Loki, don’t! Whatever the Pink Cobra’s going to do, whatever the IPP’s planning, knowing’s worth more than your life.

“One thing I want to know,” Loki says. He’s twirling a knife of his own, a slim silver number he keeps on him at all times, and you feel the blade on your own throat start to dig in - not enough to draw blood, but enough for you to feel it. The threat of it. The promise of it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal. “You and the IPP? How does it fit?”

“You want information from me?” The Pink Cobra asks. Lets his blade bite you, just barely, and the strength it takes for you not to scream is more strength then you’d known you possess.

“Yes,” Says Loki. “It’s not like I’m asking for much.”

He meets your gaze. You meet his. You hope that he cannot read it. His eyes are so worried, so desperate, you nearly break down.

“I suppose,” The Pink Cobra says, “That you’ve earned it. Getting here - getting this far - it must have been no easy task. Fine. There is no Imminently Predictable Psyops organization. They were a - what do you call it? Red herring? A scent of blood for the shark.”

“You fabricated them,” Loki says. “Why would you fabricate them?”

He is losing his composure, you can tell. You will never be ready for this. He will never be ready for this. You hope that he will forgive you, and you know that he never will, and you swallow the pill in your mouth.

“Because it was fun,” The Pink Cobra says.

And then your body knows pain.

***

“He didn’t think I would do it,” You say. Your mouth feels thick, clotted with blood and shock, and your body is one raw, gaping wound, but the giddy feeling of victory has begun to course through your veins. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline. You had waited for the moment of death to come, and it hadn’t. The pill is fake, your mind had screamed. But there’d been one thing left, that might work. You had breathed as slowly as you possibly could, forced every muscle of your scared, writhing body into single-minded limpness, rolled your eyes backwards into your head, drew one last breath in, and fallen. Twitched, for a few seconds, like a rag-doll. Then made yourself still.

Loki had slit the Pink Cobra ear to ear, beaten him within an inch of his life as he bled out, screaming like a man deranged. He’d left him a wet, bloody mess on the floor, and the blood had run down the not-quite-steady plane of it, pooling around you and mixing with the blood from your jaw, from the evening’s earlier glass cuts, from the deep, burning stab wound the Cobra had got on your arm.

You breathe, and your body knows pain.

You look at Loki, and your body knows pain.

He is shaking. Visibly shaking. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he looks as pale as bleached bones. His eyes are shot red - he had sobbed, when you fell, and a howl had torn through his body. You don’t know what to do, what it means, what the hell even to say to him. His cheeks are tear-stained, his breaths ragged.

You blink, and your body feels pain.

“We won,” You croak out. “Loki, we won.” It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. “I think he broke one of my ribs.”

You don’t mean to say that last part, but you do, and you are the one crying now, because it feels like he probably has, and you can barely even stay awake through this pain. It feels like the Hulk is pulling you limb from limb. Like all of those nightmares you’ve had where Loki decided to leave you - to go back to Asgard, and never speak to you again.

Stupid, you think. He won’t, again. Not after this.

Loki still hasn’t spoken. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are wild. Desperately, jaggedly roaming your body. His fists twitch with every new part of your body they land on.

“That bad, huh - Oh, fuck.”

And just like that, the tension leaves Loki’s body. The dam that had held him firmly in place is broken, and he’s running towards you with none of his usual grace. Dropping down by your side. He hoists you, and you hiss, and the tears won’t stop coming, so you bury your face in his shirt, nose pressed at the crisply ironed collar. Don’t care that it’s bleeding, because Loki’s here now. Holding you. Keeping you real. He’s got one hand stroking your hair and his touch feels right, nothing like the Pink Cobra’s, and he’s whispering: You brave, precious, idiot, how dare you, how dare you throw your life away like that?!

“It worked,” You exhale - it’s the most you can manage. You would laugh, if it wouldn’t shred you to pieces. Loki cradles you fiercely, hands grasping at the sweat-and-blood soaked fabric of your shirt, running over you as if he doesn’t believe you’re alive. “It - hurts,” You get out. Barely. “Loki, it - I can’t -“

“Don’t,” He tells you. His voice has gone brittle, choked with thorns. “Don’t talk. Don’t - Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me? You will never do that again.”

If I need to, I will, you think. And you wonder if that’s why you’re here. Wonder if that’s why you’re strong. You wonder, and hurt, and believe. Feel the strength of him, clutching you like you’re the only thing in the world, taking in greedy lungfuls of your weeping, your need for his touch.

You can’t talk, anymore. It hurts too badly. But you surge, upwards, up into where he’s holding the back of your head, pressing your forehead into the dark, warm space under his jaw that smells like smoke and peppermint. Loki is taller than you are - you fit right into the curve of his neck, and his long curls curtain you in a bubble of warmth and content.

“Promise,” You say, but it comes out unintelligible, and Loki’s hands are running, so gently, over your skin.

“What was your plan?” You ask him, forcing it out of your body.

“Hush,” Loki says, “Later.”

There might not be any later, you think. Not like this.

***

In the hotel room, an ocean of scattered pages and ceiling mold and blessed privacy, you balance, cross-legged, on the bed. The wind blows wet and cold from an earlier rain through the busted out window. You have managed this out of sheer stubborn-ness, because it is the most that Loki allowed you to do. You’d passed out, twice, on the journey back - he had magicked you there, though it had taken a considerable amount of effort that you weren’t sure you really deserved - and had immediately propped you up on the pillows and stooped to ruffle through his suitcase, emerging not long after with binding tape, cat-gut thread, and a needle so sharp you could feel it slicing your flesh. You had opened your mouth to protest, but Loki had silenced you with a glare that could fell Director Fury. So you had gone quiet, and caved, letting him kneel over you on the distinctly lumpy mattress and begin inspecting your wounds. It had taken a few tries and a Please to convince him to let you sit on your own, and it hurt much more than the manner in which he’d arranged you. You were starting to, slightly, regret it.

“You don’t have to do this,” You say, pulling it from bleeding lips. He shushes you with a harsh, stern tut. “You’re not my mother,” You tell him.

“You could have died,” Loki says. There’s a snarling undercurrent to it that you can’t even start dissecting. “What were you thinking?” He asks. It is easier, though still painful, for you to answer him - he had used nearly half of his Thor-limited magic reserve to perform a basic stasis spell on your injuries, but the spell wouldn’t last forever. You’ll need stitches, he’d said, choking it out like he was the hurt one when he’d seen the number the Cobra’s blade had done to your arm.

“I’ve had worse,” You say, grinning weakly.

“Are you lying to me?” He asks you, with the tone of someone who’s distinctly not in the mood for joking.

“I thought,” You say. Steel yourself. “I thought you weren’t going to do what needed to be done. So I - Did it myself.”

“What needed to be done.” Loki says, enunciating every word.

“We couldn’t let him walk away,” You say, meeting his eyes. Emerald, clouded with fury. You don’t let yourself flinch from that anger. You don’t let yourself run from your choice. “You know what he would have done.”

“I don’t,” Loki says. “I know nothing. I know - I know that you think that your life means so little I wouldn’t care if you were gone. That I could - Live, without you.”

That’s… different.

“And I know,” Loki continues, “That I told you to trust me, and I meant it.”

“I do,” You say. There is no hesitation. “I trust you - Loki. Of course I trust you. It’s not - it wasn’t -“

“Stop talking,” He snaps. Gentles, when you jerk your head away, blink back a fresh wave of tears. “You need rest,” He says. “And - This is. This is going to hurt.”

You nod.

“Best get it over with, then.”

“You should keep your eyes closed,” He says.

“No! I want - I need to look.” You bring your eyes up to your arm, which he’s settled onto bed’s chewed, scratchy quilt without you realizing, but Loki tilts your head up with a barely-there graze of his fingers, achingly gentle to avoid aggravating your swollen jaw. He holds your gaze for a long time. Doesn’t look mad, anymore.

“Are you sure?” He asks you. Like all of this could be over with, if you wanted.

“How bad it could it be?” You ask back.

The injury is horrendous. You’d thought - honest-to-God, you’d thought the pain was terrible, but you weren’t ready for what your arm has become. The line of the wound runs in a craggy jigsaw from just under your shoulder to the tip of your elbow. Small wonder you can’t move it, can barely think through it at all.

“Y/N?” Loki asks, “Are you -“

“Fine,” You say. Blink, and your body knows pain. Try not to let how scared you are show, when you look back up at Loki. The Pink Cobra’s dead. You shouldn’t be scared, anymore. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Loki sighs. Long and low and sad.

“Will I have to - “

“Bite,” Loki says, and shoves something - the sleeve of his shirt, crusted in blood which you realize, sickeningly, is yours - into your mouth. “It’ll help.”

It doesn’t, but he holds your hand through it, hushing you through the pain with furrowed eyebrows, thread and needle flying deftly through skin, air, skin again. His fingers move precisely, deliberate, quick, and when, on one stitch, you audibly whimper, he pauses to lean down and press a soft, utterly unexpected kiss to your hairline. You are unable to fully express how much it means to you, so you do the next best thing and kiss him yourself, pressing him back once he’s finished the last of his stitches and breathing all the the words you can’t say into him. You press every fear and gratitude and lingering nerve into the warmth of his lips, wending your fingers through his dark hair despite the pangs of agony still thrumming through every inch of your body. Your face hurts, but the kiss is all you’ve ever needed and more, and Loki is so, so gentle with you, pulling away with creased eyebrows and a look of genuine concern.

“I wanted to,” You tell him, mustering all of your strength. “It didn’t hurt.”

“Stop,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Stop lying.”

“I’m not,” You say. “I wanted to, Loki, I did.”

“And you wanted to -“

“No.” You are vehement about it, for a broken-ribbed, broken-jawed, freshly-stitched person coming off the high of his teeth and his tongue. “Not that, I swear, never that.”

“Why did you do it, then?” Loki asks. He has steepled his fingers under his chin, and his narrowed eyes pierce through you to the soul. You couldn’t lie to this man, you think, if your life depended on it.

You know that you have to tell him, this time. Really tell him. You don’t.

“”Why didn’t you use your magic?”

“You know why,” He says, and you do. You’d remembered it as the white pill turned to white powder in your gums, as the Pink Cobra’s knife had carved its way into your flesh. Thor had put a set limit on it, as condition of Loki’s release - Proof, he had said, We can trust you. Loki had thought to save it for later, that you wouldn’t need him right then. He had thought you’d talk them out, to safety.

You’d failed him.

“You didn’t,” He tells you, voice raw. He goes to grip your chin, to force you to listen to him, but with a glance and ill-concealed wince at your purpled jaw he thinks better of it. “You think that you failed me? You let yourself be - be beaten and stabbed - just so people you’ve never met in your life wouldn’t die, and you call that a failure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Bites back a snarl. Drops your arm. “I need you to listen to me,” Loki says, “Very, very carefully. You’re going to tell me why now, love. And then we’re going to fix it.”

You raise an eyebrow. Worse than he does, you’re aware.

“Sleep,” He amends, with a pointed look at the bed underneath you, “And then we’re going to fix it.”

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, “And I feel like I just got run over by a truck.”

Loki huffs, a puff of warm air that you feel, from how close he still is. A grin twitches at the edge of his lips. It sets off sparks inside you.

“I thought -“ You say. Shake your head, and restart. “You would have let the Pink Cobra attack. You would have let him just walk away, and I couldn’t just - let that happen.”

“Enlightening.”

“No,” You tell him, “I mean it. I couldn’t - I’m not - I’m not worth more than anyone else. We’re the Avengers. It’s our job to save people, Loki.”

He’s regarding you carefully, eyes still narrowed, all vestiges of softness gone from his face. When he opens his mouth, it’s to close it. Form thoughts. Discard them. Exhale.

“My mother once told me,” He finally says, “That I would never know what it meant to be human until I found the person who made me want to bleed the world dry. Take all of its’ suffering, all of its’ cruelty, and leech it out of the very fabric of time, just to keep that person from anguish, from harm.”

“I don’t -“

He holds a hand up. You still.

“She never said they would infuriate me,” Loki says. “She never said they would make me laugh, or smile, or question my sanity on a regular basis. She never said that they’d try and get themselves killed, and that I’d have to watch, and that I would feel like my heart was being ripped from my body and torn to a bloody pulp; that I would make the sky rain blood and fire at the sight of it alone. But she was right about one thing - Many things, but also this. She told me that it wouldn’t matter. That I would - love you - anyway.”

“You don’t,” You say, not daring to hope. It’s an automatic retort.

“Foolish girl,” Loki chides, and you blink back fresh, stinging tears. How long have you wanted to hear Loki say that to you? How many sneaky looks have you stolen in the heat of your missions, just to see his smart mind and tricky magic at work? How many nights have you sat up together, sequestered from your insomnia in a bubble of hard-earned banter and peppermint tea, fighting the tight, coiling urge to push aside your steaming mugs and pull him into your needing?

He could not - he can’t - feel the same.

“Loki,” You say, stumbling over the words, “You can’t - This is - This is me we’re talking about.”

“Is there anyone else here,” Loki asks you, “That I could be talking about?” He seems nonchalant, now, as if this - this cruel fucking joke, when you already feel you’re on fire - is merely a fact of his life. “We’re going to leave this excuse of a town, and get you - proper care. Fix it. Because I will not, on my honor, watch you suffer in pain. But first, you’re going to sleep.”

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, and feel your resolve as it shatters. You cling to the statement like it’s the last remnant of the girl you were and the woman that you’ll never be, “And the shower doesn’t work. And I’m covered in blood.”

But when you look at Loki, his eyes twinkle, mischievous.

“Will you stay with me?,” You ask him, biting your lip.

“You astound me,” He tells you, and rolls his eyes, and it feels - it feels normal. Good. A tender heat unfurls in your heart like orchid petals in the sun, numbing the persistent ache in your ribcage. “To even think that I would do anything else.”

Later, you will ask him why. Why do you love me?, you will ask, and Loki will hum, low in his throat, curled around you just like this first night; your back pressed into his chest, your legs tangled up hopelessly, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns onto your spine in the dawn-light’s syrupy gold. Because, he will tell you, trailing a line of soft kisses up the scar on your arm - an ugly thing, but it functions, mostly, and only ever seems to hurt on the days when he isn’t there - I was given no choice.

But if you’d had one?”, You will ask, and spin around, propping yourself on your elbow.

You tempt me, He’ll tell you, baring his sharp teeth. Shouldn’t you know better than that?

You will lie there, next to each other, not needing a single word. Because you will know. Because he will have told you, a thousand times, a thousand ways, exactly how he feels about you.

Tonight, though, isn’t that night. It takes a moment to get settled in his hold, and the rain spits and drums against what glass remains in your window, slicking the carpet with dark, greasy splotches. It figures, you think, that even the rain in this city has the smell and the texture of oil. You feel like a bag of bones, stretched too thin. But safe, in his arms, in a way that you’ve never felt, before now. Loki is with you, you realize. Wrapped around you like a traveler’s cloak, the comforting weight of a slim, balanced blade at your side in a fight. He is cool, around your afraid. Warm, where his clever fingers whine and needle their way through your skin to your heart.

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?”

Loki laughs, a deep, rumbling purr.

“Go to sleep.”

#picture1000wordswc #pic 4 #loki/reader #female reader #crack #so much crack #just a lot of references to bad memes and cringe movies that turns into all the angst #because for some reason i’m like this #guess which character from another popular franchise i based my crack villain off #soundtrack to this was 800 percent mouth moods #in all seriousness though huge congrats to @startrekkingaroundasgard #you deserve all the love #unfortunately i showed my love by writing insane crack fic but HEY #loki is in it so hopefully that makes up for the c r i n g e

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underworldobsessed · 4 years ago

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I Don’t Intend to Suffer Any Longer ll Extra Fic! Bo-Katan Week Day 7: Free Day

Title: I Don’t Intend to Suffer Any Longer Rating: T Ship: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Luke Skywalker Series: This Life is Mine (Bo-Katan Week 2021) Collection: Obitine Cave Fam Summary: Bo-Katan knows that when she doesn't feel safe, she doesn't sleep. She so rarely feels safe, that even visiting her sister's family on Tatooine leaves her feeling unsafe and refusing to sleep. However, on this particular trip, that changes. ll Extra fic for Bo-Katan Week Day 7: Free Day Author’s note: So this is actually based on a roleplay universe a bunch of my friends and I created, and I got permission from them to create a little fanfiction universe based in it. I adore the AU we created and I'm so excited to bring this world into my writing. Also, I felt kinda bad that my last day of Bo-Katan week was smut, so here’s an extra fic for all of you Bo-Katan fans!! I had a blast with this week! Thank you all for sticking with me!

Tagging: @bokatanweek

Read here or under the cut

Bo-Katan got the ship ready to land as she lowered into the atmosphere of the most backwater planet she could think of; Tatooine. She never understood why both Satine and Obi-Wan chose this planet to settle down on, and raise their young adopted son; Luke. It kept them safe, which to her, was the most important thing.

Yet despite all of it, she never felt safe enough to get rest while she was there.

She still felt uncertain with Obi-Wan, still trying to get accustomed to working with a jedi like him. Her sister knew this well, which was while she questioned it, she never judged her sister for not sleeping while she was on world. It was something she wished she could do, but sleep never came to her while she was there.

Wherever Bo was, if she didn’t feel safe, she wouldn’t sleep or her sleep would be plagued with nightmares. Even places she had been dozens of times, like the main Nite Owl base could cause her to become anxious and prevent her from sleeping. If they got a new member, or if they had recently had a close call. She became used to working on limited sleep, if she ever slept in general.

As she landed on the created landing platform, she picked up her helmet off the console. She would only hope her sister didn’t see that she had bags under her eyes from the stress she was under and sleepless nights. She hid a yawn as she walked down the ramp, only to get slammed into by a four year old, seeing her sister and her husband walking up towards her.

“Auntie Bo!” She smiled despite her exhaustion, lifting Luke up to set him on her hip. She pressed a kiss to his head. “Welcome home, Auntie Bo!”

Her heart warmed at the greeting, still unbelievable that she had a home that wasn’t a military base. Her sister and family actually had a place for her to stay, and wanted her there.

“Hello, Bo.” Satine walked up and wrapped her arms around Bo to try and hug her without crushing Luke. “How long are you going to be here this time?”

“I’ve got three days of leave before I have to return to base.”

“Awww,” Luke whined as Bo set him down. “Why can’t you stay longer, Auntie?”

“I’ve got people to save, kiddo.” She didn’t want him knowing just what she was doing when she wasn’t on world. At least not while he was this young. She knew her sister would frown at the consideration that she wanted to tell him of violence. Best not to let her know that she was planning on buying him a dagger for his birthday this year. She got one when she was this young from her parents, so it wouldn’t hurt to get him one as well.

He pouted but hurried into the cave where he lived. Obi-Wan smiled at Bo, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m glad to see you in one piece, Bo-Katan.” He smiled “Perhaps once Luke goes down for the night, you can tell us about what you’ve been doing and the progress on Mandalore.”

“Of course,” She promised as she followed them inside. On the table was already a full meal prepared. She was still not used to someone preparing a meal like this for her. She typically made herself something quick and easy, or just resorted to eating rations to get buy. A real home cooked meal like this was rare for her. Not that she was complaining necessarily, and she knew Satine had become a relatively good chef in the time since they were younger.

They all took their seats at the table, Luke making sure to sit next to Bo. She knew how much the kid missed her and she had to admit, she missed him too. It killed her to be off world more and more, finding less chances to come back and visit her family. At least for now, this was the way it was going to have to be.

“Is Korkie gonna come visit us anytime soon?” Luke asked, and Bo sighed. She looked over at Satine, who was pointedly not looking at her anymore, but she knew she was listening. Satine had still been keeping Korkie’s true identity a secret, but she always worried about the state of her son now that he had joined the Nite Owls in their fight to reclaim Mandalore.

“He wanted to join me this time, but he went on a supply run and won’t be back on base for another few days.”

“Oh…” Luke pouted as he took a bite of his food, before launching into a description of what he had been up to for so long since she had come to visit. The story was disjointed, but Bo could keep up fairly well. She listened to his story, smiling to herself as he went. She caught that he was making friends with some of the other kids, though always under the watchful eye of Satine when they went out. They had been to Mos Eisley a little bit more frequently, but lost what they did there in his rapid talking.

“Luke, you need to not talk with your mouth full,” Satine chided him, and at least he had the chance to look a little sheepish as he stopped talking briefly to eat a few bites.

“Sorry, Mamma.” He said, and Bo could see that same stunned face she made every time Luke called her that. She knew that Satine and Obi-Wan had told Luke the story of his birth parents, of Anakin and Padme and all they had accomplished. She had almost expected Luke to stop calling them mamma and papa after that, but the affection of them as his parents remained.

She knew anything different would tear Satine’s heart apart.

“Let the kid talk, Satine, I’m here so infrequently. I want to hear his stories.”

Luke beamed and launched into another story, this one about his recent love of reading some of his mamma’s old books. Bo had been bringing Satine some old Mandalorian children’s tales that Satine would find appropriate to read for Luke so he could learn. She knew there wasn’t much she could do for Obi-Wan’s past, but had found books that he would approve of for him to read to Luke as well.

They had been trying to get him to learn Basic and Mando’a, and possibly Huttese as well though neither were fluent in that.

But it was a connection to his father nonetheless.

As dinner wound down, they retired to a seating area to continue talking. Bo had taken up a seat on the couch with Luke and was playing with his starfighter toys, engaged in a playful fight as Satine sat comfortably on Obi-Wan’s lap as she watched her sister interact with Luke.

Paying attention to this caused her to notice just how Bo’s movements started to become sluggish. Her eyelids lowered as Bo let the starfighter drop to her side.

“Auntie?”

Bo’s eyes opened briefly, and she looked over at her nephew.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” She ruffled his hair, and picked the toy up to continue playing with him once again.

As they played, and eventually just sat as Bo started to read one of the books she brought for him. She felt Luke grow heavy against her and she smiled, her eyelids lowering as well. Her arm wrapped around Luke’s shoulder and her head slowly fell to rest against the armrest of what she was sitting on. It wasn’t long before both of them started to fall asleep.

Satine looked over at the couch and gently nudged her husband to look at them.

“Obi, look.” Satine’s voice was soft to try and keep from waking Bo by mistake. “She’s actually sleeping.”

“Forgive me, darling, but I would assume Bo-Katan would sleep, it is quite late.”

“Obi, in the years my sister has come to visit us, how frequently would you say she came to sleep?” When silence greeted her, she continued. “When she doesn’t feel safe, Bo won’t sleep. She knows she has nightmares, and knows they’re more common when she doesn’t feel safe, so she won’t sleep. The fact that she’s willingly fallen asleep means she’s finally starting to feel safe while she’s here.”

Satine looked once again at Bo, who seemed so much younger now that she was asleep. The stress had melted away on her face. While she knew that they were twins, Bo had been graced with a younger face, so she always reminded Satine of when they were children and Bo would fall asleep next to her.

Finally, her sister felt safe enough in the same place as her where she would willingly sleep like this.

The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she felt her heart warm.

“Should we carry them to bed?” Obi-Wan finally spoke up once again “I don’t want them to get a crick in their necks.”

“Don’t worry about it, Obi.” Satine reassured him. “Bo used to be able to sleep pretty much anywhere once she was comfortable. Besides, I don’t think she will be able to fall asleep once again if we accidentally wake her. Let them sleep. Luke will be happy to sleep close to his aunt since Bo is so rarely here.”

“I’ll get them a blanket.” He said as he went to the spare bedroom that Bo never used. In the meantime, Satine got up and went to brush her sister’s hair out of her face.

“I love you, Bo’ika. I’m so happy to see you finally feeling comfortable here. This is your home too and we will keep you safe so you can always get a full night’s rest while you are here.”

#Obitine #Bo-Katan #Bo-Katan Kryze #Bo Katan #Bo Katan Kryze #Jen Writes #Bo Katan week

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softkuna · 4 years ago

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Yuuji Itadori | Sukuna || Interest || Fic

Everyone always says that they would absolutely enjoy and accept Sukuna taking over Yuji in heated moments. But what if someone didn't? What if they pushed him away, wanting and waiting for Yuji to come back?

Content ║ Yuuji Itadori x Insert x Sukuna. The curse within startled, chin lifting from clawed fingers. The brat had an interesting question. For someone so idiotic, his emotional competency was a fascination. Had Sukuna been too blatant in his emotions? Had he let thoughts escape into the nether that was their shared mind space? He had protected his own realm with his domain… surely Yuuji couldn’t have snuck his way into it without Sukuna noticing. The inner dwellings of his mind had ceased as her crystalline voice graced ears that weren’t entirely his.

Count ║ 1,660 words.

Consider ║ Pole Dance. Part 2-ish of Dancer. Mention of sex work. Mentions of sexual assault (not explicit but as a topic). Fem insert. Third Person (she/her).

Creator ║ Aight let me express real quick that this inspired me to continue part of that dancer fic so if it’s a little confusing please. I’ve also decided that the dancer series will probably be disjointed stories revolving around the same insert. I won’t put in names and shell retain she/her and third person. Hope you don’t mind! Also, this fic in particular doesn’t wholly answer this ask, but spoiler it will come. I was just naturally going with the flow here. I really hope you don’t mind.

She stood off to the side of the pole, hand pressing to her mouth as Yuuji climbed the beast. It was quite impressive. He used pure arm and grip strength. It didn’t take him long to realize that he couldn’t get any leverage when it came to jeans. His hand gripped at the rafter connecting to the pole, humbly showing off as he did a single pull up before completely dropping to a crouch on the ground, “Did I do it?!” the puppy-like excitement teetering in his words was beautifully accompanied by the toothy grin.

“Ah, sure,” She pressed her lips to the side, swallowing back laughter as he pouted, face scrunching into some sort of a scowl, “What?”

“C’mon! What didn’t I do?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes!”

With false exasperation, she whined, “Fine,” She approached the pole, both hands gripping the steel, “for one thing, you didn’t climb it pretty enough. Sure, you climbed it, but it’s got a different vibe.” Lean arms pulled her up in a seemingly effortless motion, core tightened to maintain her posture, legs together. Forearms braced the leverage on the pole, “Lifting like-whoo” she dropped back to the ground with an exhale, “that, is different from a climb like this,” Her right arm reached up so that the pole made one leg of an ‘x’ with her forearm, “Your fist should be just above your line of sight.” Her bare shin of the left leg made a similar ‘x’ with the pole, “Your opposite leg should be raised so it makes a 90 degree angle with your hips.”

Yuuji watched, enraptured by the instruction. She spoke so clearly and was so well versed in ~the ways of the pole~ that its general sexual context was nearly gone. Then again, she did say that it was more than just ‘erotic’. He watched as her right leg came so that the ankles compressed the pole between them, “Is this why strippers wear underwear?” It was a revelation! The light bulb went off!

She shot him with an incredulous bullet from her position. It was something like a squat, weight distributed between the leverage of her leg while her grip kept her from leaning back, “It’s not underwear, you neandrathal! It’s costume. Although some girls wear lingerie for their shows…” Her expression fell flat, “You know what, that’s not important right now.” Her hand lifted from the pole, waving off the debate topic for another time, “you wanna learn how to climb this or what?”

The pinkette nodded, taking a seat and criss-cross apple-saucing his legs. She continued, telling him the importance of a pointed toe. Much of it was more than he’d ever thought about before. It took a lot of skill and concentration. He even learned that there’s more than one division of pole dance: Exotic (the sexy shit), Flow (the spinny shit), and Strength (self explanatory shit). For competitions, there were levels. So much of it was so far above his head, he’d need to climb to even reach it.

As she continued, there was a languid fluidity to her limbs. Something that he only half took note of amidst the awkward staring during her first performance that he saw. He recalled an odd sense of déjà vu and the bizarre way in which Sukuna had acted. While they didn’t wholly share thoughts, the entanglement of their beings bled through from time to time. The King of Curse’s indifference often led to nothing, but when it came to her, he seemed to be ready for anything. It created an unease in the pit of Yuuji’s stomach.

“Hey…” His voice trailed, a hand coming to clasp the back of his neck, “You know I’m Sukuna’s Vessel, yeah?”

“Uh-huh, what about it?” She pulled her body close to the pole, right arm now by her chest, legs straight. Left arm now crossed the pole. Both legs swapped their previous position, creating an elegant illusion of ribbon unfurling. She continued to climb.

“Have you been around one of his fingers before?”

The curse within startled, chin lifting from clawed fingers. The brat had an interesting question. For someone so idiotic, his emotional competency was a fascination. Had Sukuna been too blatant in his emotions? Had he let thoughts escape into the nether that was their shared mind space? He had protected his own realm with his domain… surely Yuuji couldn’t have snuck his way into it without Sukuna noticing. The inner dwellings of his mind had ceased as her crystalline voice graced ears that weren’t entirely his.

“Don’t think so, why?” Muscles worked as she placed a hand under the coccyx of her tailbone, thumb pointed down. Her legs straightened horizontally to sit along the pole, as though it were nothing but a lounge chair.

Yuuji scratched his cheek, “I dunno. I get a feeling that he knows you. Or maybe I saw you walking down the street? Sometimes I feel that déjà vu feeling when I’m with you.” He didn’t bring up the awkward bodily response he got that surely wasn’t his own like the melancholic heart ache.

Sukuna was silent, awaiting a response. He knew he could speak for himself, but he felt no need to. This situation was new and he needed to acclimate to it. This vessel was experiencing him second hand. The swirl of memories and emotions this woman brought to the forefront of the now-curse’s contemplations leaked out to the vessel. A pot to hold ashes. Would she be able to feel the connection behind the ceramic?

The woman tipped so that she rest along the pole upside down, hair flowing with the weight of gravity pulling it down. A pink flush came to her cheeks as blood followed the same course, “Honestly, you reminded me of an ex.”

Sukuna’s eyes flickered open. Ex? Was that like the English letter Yuuji had to study? There were so many modern words he was unfamiliar with. He closed his eyes, focusing purely on her words, “The thing is, I didn’t date anyone,” there was a somber lick to the tone, “I saw you and felt… *something*. You know when you watch a movie and you know something bad is going to happen? Like that.”

Yuuji’s head tilted one direction before flipping to another. His expression was contemplative. For someone who seemed so filled with unbridled energy, it caught her off guard whenever he showed this side. It hadn’t been all that long since she joined Jujutsu Technical College, but her blossoming relationship with Yuuji came about as naturally as bees made honey. The kid was about as sweet as it, too.

Her attitude had been bitchy after the first full day. During work, she chat him up – was saccharine sweet. It was her go-to. Maybe I can get a buck out of him, she had thought. When she couldn’t and when they left, she caked herself in the mud that was her bitchy personality. She didn’t particularly enjoy being the way she was, but it was necessary protection. Despite this, Yuuji still dug through the dirt to get at her core.

“Hey, can you do that flagpole thing?”

“Yeah. It’s called a western flag.”

“Show me! Please. You know… if you have time.”

Men always made her cautious. She like the attention of it all, the lustful looks she’d get during a performance, the way men would try and literally buy her time when she play-flirted. She was a top performer both in talent and in business. People requested her, savored slots of solo shows. In her line of work, while she didn’t partake in the more lewd activities herself, it was still assumed that was her position, especially when they paid well.

“Sorry bucko. No private showings.”

“No no! Not like that. I really want to learn how to do that! I wanna see Megumi’s face when I show him that I did it first!”

Her brows scrunched up, lips pressing into a suspicious perch. If the guy were a dog, it didn’t entirely seem like he was barking up her tree that same disgusting way. His genuine interest was so whole heartedly pure.

“Fine.”

“Haha! Yes!”

After a moment of silence, Yuuji rose, placing his calloused hands along either side of her cheeks. His dashing smile riled up squeeze in her chest, gaze averting his. He pressed his forehead to hers, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” His voice was soft, whispered almost, “His interest… I just want to be careful.” While she couldn’t see, she knew that his lips would be pressed into a line, eyes probably trained on a shoe scuff on the hardwood.

“Don’t worry. I have no interest in a murderer.”

Sukuna saw through Yuuji’s cheerfully slit gaze, the gorgeous expression of the woman he once knew. Proud. Independent. She always did throw caution to the wind, even when he would say her life was on the line. Even so, his chest ached. Not with sorrow or desire, but knowing those were the words she had said to him when she was brought to his shrine. Said in the same way, with the same disinterested glint in her eyes.

Bonus:

Yuuji’s lips connected with hers, gently pecking and barely touching. As he pulled back, the remnants of his prior expression melted into a smile, “Need to get down, Mary-Jane. I’m getting dizzy hanging like this.”

He barked a laugh, hand grasping the pole as he bent at a 90 degree so that his back exposed to her. She used her core strength to pull her legs away from the pole, minding her shoulder’s ability to rotate. As hand released their grasp, she landed on his back, legs wrapping around him. Yuuji came to a stand, his new-found partner wrapped at his shoulders and waist, “Does that mean you’re spiderman?”

“I shoot white stuff and get a spicy kiss? Hell yeah it does!”

Taglist:

@auroria @wasabito @juliansbby @missalexbaskerville @3rdgymbros

#⛩.fic #⛩#🍺.fic #🍺#sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #itadori yuuji #yuuji #yuuji itadori #☄️.fic #☄️#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #yuuji x reader

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palbabor-writes · 4 years ago

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The Gap in the Door

1: Cold

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SFW, imma say it’s rated T for Teenz, also F for fluff

Word Count: 4643

“Watch out. The gap in the door... it's a separate reality. The only me is me. Are you sure the only you is you?”

- P.T. by Kojima Productions

Notes: This thing is like, tooth-achingly sweet. For me, at least. Most of the other stories that I’ll post this week are gonna be nice and spooky/angsty, for that Halloween spirit, ya’ know? But, I figured let’s start with the treat before the trick 🎃

Not beta edited, so any and all mistakes are mine, and mine alone.

Cold /kōld/ noun

a common viral infection in which the mucous membrane of the nose and throat becomes inflamed, typically causing running at the nose, sneezing, a sore throat, and other similar symptoms.

You wake, sneezing.

Your throat protests the sudden spasm and you gulp heavily, a sharp pain echoing across the back of your mouth. Lifting a hand to your neck you sit up, your comforter falling from your shoulders. It’s dark and your apartment is quiet. Leaning back against your headboard you chance another swallow, flexing the muscles of your throat. You wince, as that same pain shoots down your neck. Fuck.

Groaning, you lift your legs from the sheets, pressing your feet to the floor. Great, just great, you think bitterly, padding out into your hallway. Since moving to Japan you had largely avoided any major allergies or colds. Looks like your time has run out.

Flicking on your bathroom light, you kneel by your sink, fingers tugging a large, plastic caddie toward you. You dig through the various bottles and containers, hunting for something that will ease the burning in your throat. The best you can come up with is an old box of Tylenol. Shit, you think, shaking out the last few pills, it looks like you’ll need to go to the store in the morning.

Clutching the precious pain relievers into your palm, you stalk into your kitchen, turning on the lights as you step onto the tiles. Snagging a glass, you pour yourself a serving of chilled water and slug the pills into your mouth, easing their passage with a quick swig. They sting as they travel down your throat and you wince again. There’s nothing you hate more than a sore throat. You always found yourself swallowing impulsively and frequently, as if the pain would miraculously dissipate with the next gulp.

Clinking the glass back on the counter, you open a few cabinets, hunting for your battered teapot and electric kettle. You’re just plugging in the kettle when you hear your front door creak open. You turn your head at the sound, fingers coiling beside you.

“Hello?” you call into the void, hoping it will answer back with Tomura’s raspy voice.

He steps into the living room, his eyes already narrowed, searching. “What are you doing up?” he asks, catching sight of your bedraggled form.

“Making tea,” you supply, switching the electric kettle on at last, muscles relaxing at his familiar presence.

“At 3 am?” he queries, shrugging his trench coat off his broad shoulders and heading toward your bathroom. You think about calling an answer after him, but another deep swallow has you rethinking that tactic. It would really suck to have a sore and hoarse throat come the morning.

You hear the shower running and shake your head. At least he’d asked you a few, cursory questions. That was nice. For him.

Lifting up on your toes, you snag your small collection of tea bags, selecting a light chamomile and replacing the tin. Your kettle is just starting to beep when Tomura returns. He’s shirtless, his new sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His hands are scratching at the back of his head, sending small droplets of water across your mats.

“So,” he continues, eyes lifting to yours, “what’s with the tea?”

“Sore throat,” you supply, plopping the tea bag into a mug and pouring the boiling water over the sachet, watching it rise to the lid. You lift the cup to your nose and sniff at the fragrant aroma.

“You sick or something?” he asks, pulling a stool out and perching against your counter.

“Looks like it,” you grouse, lifting the tea bag out of the hot water a few times, watching the color shift to a pleasing sun kissed, golden.

“Since when?” he’s watching you closely, his head cocked.

“I don’t know, since a few hours ago? Sometimes colds just happen. It’s not really something you can predict.” You look at him appraisingly and arch an eyebrow. “You look, um, a little confused about that. You one of those people who never gets sick or something?”

Tomura shrugs, eyes drifting from you as he props his chin on his palm. “Always had access to a doctor.”

You laugh and your throat tenses again, making you grimace. Tomura is unamused and rolls his eyes at your response.

“Ooh, that’s fancy. Not everyone can say that,” you tease, taking a hesitant sip of your tea, the scalding liquid easing some of the lingering pain. A silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. The two of you have long since adjusted to the other's presence.

“He worked with my...Sensei,” Tomura expands, his voice low, almost too hushed to hear. You blink, surprised he’s elaborating on his thoughts.

While he has opened up to you a little more in the last few weeks, he’s never told you much about his upbringing. You sensed that his childhood wasn’t, well, normal. How could it have been? His quirk was activated by touch. Even if he has a family, there was no way that that manifestation had gone, uh, well.

“So, a personal doctor, that’s...yeah, I guess you weren’t really given a chance to get sick,” you take another sip of your tea and remove the tea bag, slipping it into your trash.

Tomura is quiet again. His eyes are staring off into the distance, the red unfocused, as if he’s remembering something.

Sighing, you blow against your mug and walk past him, stepping onto the mats of your living room. He doesn’t follow, but he does shift his position, twisting so his back is braced against the counter, facing you again. You flop onto your couch and lean against the cushions, clearing your throat after you take another scorching drag of your tea.

“Did you...eh, do you have medicine?” Tomura asks. His face is stuck in an odd scowl. It’s like he isn’t sure of the words and he’s testing them out. You smile. “Yeah, I took some painkillers. I’ll have to get the stronger stuff tomorrow.”

His jaw tenses again and he huffs out a sigh. His eyes lift to study your face for a moment. “You should sleep,” he murmurs, a light blush creeping across his nose. You try to hold in your grin and distract yourself with another swig of chamomile.

“Once I finish this, I will,” you assure him, eyes bright with your unspoken appraisal. His stilted behavior is kinda adorable. Not that you would tell him that. God, no, that would be a mistake of enormous proportions. He’d likely ignore you for the rest of the night, if not longer.

He nods at your response and stands, crimson eyes still fastened onto yours. He opens his mouth, but shuts it quickly, another scowl etching across his lips. Without a word he pads into your hallway, heading toward your bedroom. You cough out a laugh and wash the remains of your mug back, savoring that warming sensation a final time.

You sit on your couch for a while, your mug cooling between your fingertips. Tomura never ceased to fascinate you. Every time you think you’ve got him figured out, he turns on a dime, his personality shifting, surprising you. Tonight is no exception. He seemed...softer somehow, like he’s unsure how to voice his uneasiness with the foreign predicament you’ve found yourself in.

You lift yourself slowly, stretching on your tiptoes as you stand. Placing your empty mug on your media cabinet, you walk toward your hallway, switching off the living room light as you pass.

Your bedroom is cool and dark.

You can just make out Tomura. He’s splayed across your sheets, his hands balled in that familiar manner, quirk contained by his clenched fists. His eyes open when you shut your door and he watches you step toward him. Your knees dip the mattress as you climb across the surface, stopping when you reach his side. You sink into the sheets, tucking your legs under the covers and pulling your comforter up to your chin.

Tomura tilts his head to rake his eyes over your exposed face. You smile weakly at him, another sharp stab of pain racing along your throat.

Your eyes are drifting closed when you feel his arms around you, tugging you toward him. While this isn’t unusual, Tomura has long since established himself as Japan’s number one fugitive and cuddler in your books, you move away from his embrace. He sucks his teeth loudly and you look up at his irritated expression.

“Stop. I don’t wanna get you sick,” you tell him, shaking your head at his ire. He pulls at you again, lifting you effortlessly against his bare chest.

“Tomura,” you warn, pushing against his hardened grip.

“Go to sleep,” he grunts, digging his nose against your hair, his arms still locked around your back, fingers curling back into his palms. You sigh and try your luck again, squirming against his hold.

“Ugh, really?” you question, letting out a sigh of agitation as your efforts are quelled once more.

“Really,” he mimics, only loosening his arms when he’s satisfied you won’t try to pull from him again. You shake your head and let your cheek fall against his skin, the reassuring warmth of him seeping into you. His arms lower to the sheets and he locks his chin over your head, his own eyes finally closing.

In a few minutes, both of you are asleep.

******

A strange smell lifts you from your disjointed dreams. Wincing, you sit up. For a moment, you think you might be feeling better, then a well timed sneeze has you second guessing that diagnosis. Nope, still sick. You run your tongue over your teeth and shift your comforter away.

You’re alone in your bed. Your fingers trace across the side of the sheets that Tomura slept on. They’re still warm, he must have only just gotten up. Standing, you swallow heavily again and sniff back the sinus pressure that rushes to your temples. As you dig in your closet for a jacket, you catch a whiff of that odd smell again.

Your nostrils flare as you try to deepen your inhales, but the passageways are clogged. It’s no use. You can’t get a read on it.

As you pass your living room, you give the space a quick glance. The late morning sun is peeking playfully through your screen door and your console is playing the main screen music on the tv. It sounds dull, like a bad recording. Yeah, you think, popping into your bathroom to snatch up the Tylenol bottle, you definitely have a head cold.

Ick. There’s that smell again.

You pause as you enter your living room, searching for the source. Tomura isn’t on your couch. While that isn’t odd, on the whole, it’s not exactly normal either. He’s usually in one of two places when he’s in your living room: perched at your counter, or lounging on your couch. You peek into your kitchen and feel your jaw drop.

Tomura is standing beside your stove. There’s a pot resting on one of the burners and he’s poking at the contents doubtfully, wooden spoon stirring intermittently. It takes you a minute to process this image. Blinking, you shake your head and look again. Nope, it’s him alright.

Tomura Shigaraki is standing in your kitchen and appears to be attempting to, uh, cook? As he stirs the spoon across the pan again that smell wafts up. Ah, cooking had felt a bit strong. Besides, you reason, Tomura burning something at least feels a little more...normal.

“What’s that?” you ask and he turns, his eyes flashing. He doesn’t offer any explanation, he just twists back to the stove, a dark scowl spreading across his face. You walk to him and lean over his side, peering into the pot.

It looks like he’s found some of your chicken stock. There’s a small assortment of vegetables mixed in, some carrots, badly chopped onions and what appears to be some frozen peas. You tilt your head, checking the level of the gas burner. Yeah, it’s set way too high.

You glance up at him, “I’m going to adjust the burner. It’s too hot, so it’s catching some of the carrots.” He grunts and steps away, a red blush seeping across his nose and cheeks.

With a practiced ease, you lower the heat to a simmer and lift the pot up for a moment, shifting the contents. “All in all, it looks pretty good,” you tell him, sniffling as the strong aroma hits your nose. “Mind if I put some more stuff in it?”

Tomura snorts at that and shrugs, his eyes not meeting yours. “Do what you want.”

You smile at him and lift a hand to his arm, fingers tracing along his bare skin. He sighs at your touch, his eyelids drifting closed, shuttering his tense embarrassment.

Stepping past him, you grab your glass from the night before and fill it with some chilled water, popping the final set of Tylenol into your mouth. He watches as you swallow the pills and cocks his head, his pearly hair falling to one side.

Setting the glass back against your counter, you give him another long look and walk to your fridge. You grab a few ingredients: cold chicken, celery and extra broth.

Tomura circles to you as you set your selections down, curious.

Moving to your dry goods cabinet, you snag some spices and seasoning: ginger, thyme, rosemary, turmeric, salt and pepper. You chop the chicken and grab a small skillet, firing up another burner and heating it until it loses its pink center. As the chicken is cooking you chop the celery and start to add the seasonings to Tomura’s original attempt. Once the chicken is cooked through, you toss it in and add a dash of extra broth, sliding a lid over the contents.

Tomura hovers close by as you work, his eyes shifting from you to your preparations, seemingly fascinated. You let out a shuddering cough and he steps closer. Involuntarily, you lean away from him and turn to scrub your hands clean at your sink. He waits, letting you dry your hands on a nearby cloth, before repeating his movements. He’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him. You shiver at the sensation and look up at him.

He looks...concerned? You’ve not seen this expression before. His eyes trace your face, the red subdued, tamped down, the irises almost looks garnet.

“How long does it need?” he asks, jerking his head toward your stove. You tear your eyes from his and sniffle, another cough rising in your throat. “Should- hem- should be ready in thirty minutes, give or take. Don’t turn the heat up,” you warn, lifting your eyes back to his.

Tomura nods and tilts his chin toward your living room. “Go lay down,” he rasps, his voice low and even.

“I’m ok-” you begin, but he steps closer, peering down at you critically.

“Don’t argue with me (Y/N), go lay down.”

Smiling at his insistence, you lift your hands in supplication and he lets you pass him. Before you settle on your couch, you step back into your bedroom, snatching up a spare blanket from your closet. When you return to your living room, you’re surprised to see Tomura sitting on your couch. He gives you a passing glance and lets out a shallow breath, fixing his attention on your tv, using your console controller to select a game.

“I thought you wanted me to lay down,” you question, one brow arched. He looks back to you and his eyes narrow.

“I do, come on.”

You let out a coughing laugh, earning yourself a disgruntled glare. “Stop acting like an idiot,” Tomura grumbles, rolling his shoulders agitatedly.

Plopping beside him, you tuck your cold feet against the cushions. He grants you a quick peripheral glance and lifts his hands, clearing space for you on his lap. Your eyes widen and you swallow thickly, the pain in your throat momentarily forgotten. Well, that’s a, um, different solution.

Tomura heaves a heavy sigh at your hesitation and you can feel his frustration rising. Not wanting to provoke him further, you quickly lay down, stretching your feet out and gingerly resting your cheek against his thigh.

Tomura tenses for a moment, his sudden movement entirely involuntary. You twist your head at the tremor but he stills your motion, leaning over you, his white hair curtaining the two of you.

“Sleep,” he grumbles, his eyes resting on yours, the red glowing in the bright light. You nod silently and he pulls away, refocusing on his game. Your eyes drift closed and you shrug your blanket higher, savoring the warm, content sensation that is pouring into you.

You must have passed out pretty quickly.

The next thing you remember is someone lifting your foggy head and then everything is blissfully blank again. It’s not until you hear a gravelly voice calling your name that you stir, eyes bleary, wincing against the afternoon sun.

Tomura is sitting, cross legged, in front of you, a bowl of soup resting in his four fingered grip. He’s redressed, his usual black shirt and pants dark against your mats. You sit up, the heels of your palms pressing into your eyes, a sharp pain hammering against your head.

Tomura’s red gaze fills your vision as you blink back your exhaustion. He lifts the bowl, re-focusing your attention. “Eat,” he orders, shifting the vessel into your cold hands. You nod and lean back into the cushions of your couch. He stands and regards you, his eyes flicking across your pallid face.

“You said you needed medicine?”

You pause, lowering your spoon back to the chicken soup before answering. “Yeah, I only have painkillers...nope, actually, I just ran out of those too. I’ll go out after I eat-”

“No,” he replies, his voice sharp. You look up at him, your head already tilted in confusion.

“What do you mean no? I need something stronger than what I have...ick, had. Plus, this cough is only going to get worse if I ignore it. I can’t-”

“I’ll get it.”

You gape at him. “What?” you ask, bewildered, thinking your clogged ears have misheard him.

“I’ll get you the medicine,” he sighs, his eyes meeting yours.

“Tomura-” you begin, but he cuts you off, standing. “Eat (Y/N), I’ll be back.”

“You can’t, what if someone sees you. It’s like, 4 in the afternoon, you never go out in the-”

“Fuck, stop arguing with me. I know what I’m doing, I’m not fucking stupid. What do you think I do when you’re not around?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t want you to-”

He ignores your rebuttal. “You think I walk around with some giant sign with my name on it or something? No one is going to notice me.”

“But, you don’t-”

“Goddamn it,” he bites out, red eyes flashing dangerously. “Do you want the medicine or not?”

“I was going to say you don’t even know what I need, Mr. I’ve never been sick before because I had a personal doctor at my beck and call.” You don’t mean to snap at him, but he’s starting to piss you off and your head is pounding.

Tomura glares at you and he lifts his phone up for your inspection. You blink, eyes squinting at the bright screen. It looks like he’s done a little research while you were sleeping. There are several pictures of various cold medicines and each has a small line of text underneath, listing the uses and side effects.

“Pick something,” he growls. You can tell that he’s trying to contain his anger and you feel a little guilty for snapping at him. He is trying, you think sullenly.

“You didn’t need to do all that...I mean, ugh, sorry,” you amend and point to two of the medications. He twists the phone back to his face, tapping on the screen a few times before lifting it back to you.

“Just these?” He shows you your two selected medications and that the others have been removed from his digital notes. You nod, lowering your head and biting your lip.

You know that he must have his ways of getting around. But, you can’t help that nagging worry that itches along the back of your mind. No, he’ll be fine (Y/N), you think. Remember how hard it was for you to find him on the fucking internet? Without those creepy hands of his, he’s practically an enigma.

Tomura stands and looks down at you. “Eat,” he reiterates and you dutifully dip your spoon back into the broth. He gauges you silently, but turns when you lift the spoon to your lips, sliding the hot liquid into your parted mouth.

He lifts his trench coat from a kitchen stool and threads his arms into the sleeves, sparing you a final glance before pacing down your walkway, toward your front door. You hear it open and shut, the lock turning with a decided click. Sipping another spoonful of soup you decide that your additions to the broth at least took the edge off the burnt carrots.

******

Tomura returns an hour later, a plastic bag rustling in his grip. A light rain had started soon after he left, so his hair is damp, clinging to his shoulders. He shrugs off his soaked trench, leaving it in your hallway, knowing you dislike wet clothing dripping on your living room mats.

You must look worse, because he eyes you gravely before stalking into your kitchen.

You hear your fridge opening and closing and a glass tapping down on your counter. A few moments later, he’s back in front of you, pressing a glass of water into your hands.

“One is a syrup. The other is a pill,” he informs you, tossing the plastic bag beside you. You clear your throat roughly, “Thanks.” He sits next to you, his shoulders tense.

“You ok?” you ask, worry creeping into your subconscious. You’ve never seen him like this. It’s like he’s vibrating with some unseen energy. You know it’s likely a mixture of apprehension and concern. Still, they’re not emotions that you’d usually associate with him.

He seems unsure, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest to hide his discomfort from you. Naturally, in tried and true Tomura fashion, that means he’s going to be sullen. Annoyance and anger are usually his go-to moods when he’s uncertain.

“Are you going to take them or not?” he questions, his voice clipped, sharp. His eyes lift to meet yours, the red dark and turbulent.

Yeah, he’s definitely on edge.

Huffing out a soft exhale of exasperation, you flick your hand into the bag, pulling out the first box your fingers land on.

It’s the syrup. Twisting the lid off, you portion out the recommended dosage and slug the thick liquid back, shaking your head against the slimy texture and biting flavor. Tomura’s eyes widen at your reaction, the red losing some of that underlying aggression.

“Does it taste bad?”

Shrugging, you replace the bottle in its original box, slipping it back into the bag. “It’s disgusting, but it works. This stuff always makes me loopy, so, uh, sorry if I pass out on you.”

You lift the final box from the plastic. This medicine is mostly used for migraines. It should knock out that pounding in your head pretty quickly. Cracking the packaging open, you slip the pill bottle out and pop a single tablet into your mouth, taking a quick swig of water to wash it down. Sighing, you lean back again. Here’s to hoping that this stuff would clear this cold out of your system.

Tomura is still observing you. You turn to him, curling your feet under your legs. “You should eat. You’ve been dealing with me all day, so I know you haven’t,” you press, lifting a hand to his dripping hair, fingers trailing along the strands. He narrows his eyes at your order, but leans into your touch automatically.

“Fine, go lay down,” he commands, titling his face into your palm. You grin, amused by his duality, and trace your thumb along the scar on his lip. His gaze darkens, tempted, but he leans back and your hand falls to your lap.

“Go,” he insists, standing, waiting for you to do the same. You gather your blanket around your shoulders and do as he asks, shuffling past him and into your bedroom. The autumn sun is just beginning to slip beneath the horizon and its hazy glow bathes your room in a low light. You sigh, unhooking your blackout curtains and pulling them closed, dousing your room in a comforting darkness.

As you curl into your cool sheets you can hear Tomura moving around in your kitchen. With a low exhale, you burrow your face into your pillow, the medicine starting to course through your system, lulling you into a dreamless sleep.

******

You shift back into consciousness as Tomura turns you to him. He intertwines his long legs with yours, settling heavily against you. His arms are tucked to his chest, palms facing toward him, fingers curled. His head bumps against yours and you have the distant sense to tilt your face away. Tomura dislikes this and unwinds his arms, his fingers urging you back to him.

“Just because I took medicine doesn’t mean I’m not contagious,” you warn, keeping your chin down, trying to avoid him. He grumbles at that, a low rumbling echoing along his chest. His hand lifts and cups your chin letting his rough lips capture yours, pressing you open. You gasp and pull away, but he follows, his lips urgently seeking yours.

“Tomura-” you scold, but he silences you with another kiss. You can’t help your moan, trying to ignore the warmth that is coiling in your core and shake your head, slipping him from you.

“Stop that,” he grouses, voice rasping against your parted lips. He won’t let you shift away, his strong thighs pinning your legs down, instantly tensing and stilling your halfhearted attempts at escape.

“I already told you, I don’t want to get you sick,” you pant, trying to ignore his incessant touch. It’s not an easy task. Part of you doesn’t want him to stop, while the rational, logical side is warning that if he’s like this when you’re sick, just imagine how agitated he’ll be if he catches this cold.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs, lips gliding against yours again. He’s soft, not seeking anything other than your caresses. He’s not pawing or groping at your curves. Instead, his hands are resting beside your jaw, fingers teasing along your smooth skin.

“You say that, but how would you know? You told me you’ve never really been sick…mmm...this shit isn’t fun, Tomura…”

He’s not giving up, his forehead pressing against yours. He cups your face and sucks against your lower lip. You sigh at the rough sensation, exasperated, and, at long last, give in, returning his kiss, your hands drifting to his hair. Tomura hums, finally satisfied, and lifts away, his eyes latching onto yours. You groan at the loss of his lips, but don’t lean toward him. Instead, you distract yourself by running your fingers across his face. Smoothing against his coarse skin, touch delicate and featherlight.

He closes his eyes, sighing contentedly and rests his forehead against yours, his arms curling back to his chest. “Sleep,” he grunts as you lift your hands away from him.

“Hey,” you call and he opens his eyes again, vermillion scanning your face, waiting. “Thanks, for today, I mean...”

He exhales and presses closer, his breath ghosting across your skin. “Go to sleep, (Y/N). We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

Notes: He’s so cute y’all. (.づ◡﹏◡)づ.

If you wanna see more of their interactions I have two things for you:

1. Look Upon the Light - This is the main story I’ve written for the two of them. The moments in The Gap in the Door start after Chapter 7: Polaroid.

2. Send me some requests or themes, if you want! I’ve got another few chapters written for them, some are SFW and some are NSFW. I’ll add tags and triggers as needed and on a chapter by chapter basis. So, lemme know whatcha think! My ask box is open atm.

#the gap in the door #look upon the light #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #tenko shimura #reader insert #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #tomura x y/n #fan fiction #fanfic #bnha #boku no hero academia #start of spooky week #so much fluff in here

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thedistrictsleepsalonetonight · 4 years ago

Text

Folk Songs (Weiss Schnee builds a home in the aftermath)

She asks Winter if she ever wonders why Atlas is named the way it is. Surely, naming a floating city after someone who was almost always pinned to the ground by the weight of the world would have been a mistake. Icarus, she muses, if it were up to her, she would have named it Icarus.

(Icarus flew and Icarus fell. Icarus, a slave to his own ambitions)

“Is that who you feel like?” Winter asks. “Atlas?”

It’s an honest question put to someone who has spent significant time carrying the family name around, by someone who handed it over when she grew too tall for it. Weiss shrugs.

“It’s not that deep,” she says.

Winter responds to that by patting her back. “Isn’t it, though?” she says, pushing a hand so Weiss straightens her posture. Weiss is sure the movement is unconscious, instinctual. Then Winter moves her hand to adjust the collar of the shirt she’s wearing, and lets her hand rest on Weiss’ shoulder for the rest of the conversation. Neither of them mentions it.

*****

She’s sitting at the piano when Ruby plops down next to her. “Teach me,” Ruby says, hitting a couple of disjointed notes.

Weiss, who is prone to losing her bearings when Ruby is near, plays a couple of notes in response. It’s supposed to be a tiny jingle, but she messes it up.

“I can’t play very well,” she, who has been trained to play the piano, the cello, and the violin since the age of five, says without a pause. Then she balls up her fists, because what she meant to say instead is — I can’t play very well when you’re around. Actually, I can’t do a lot of things very well when you’re around, Ruby.

(Blake and Yang need to come up with their combined manual on love soon. And when they do, she hopes there will be a section titled How to talk to girls you’ve kissed and sworn eternal devotion to but because there was a war going on neither of you ever sat down to define your relationship and now you don’t know what to do with your hands when she’s near. It can be a long section; she doesn’t mind as long as it gives her clear instructions.)

Ruby presses at a note. “What’s this?”

“An F.”

Another one. “This?”

“Either a C sharp or a D flat.”

Ruby stares hard at the piano, and Weiss entertains the crazy thought of kissing her frown away. She’s done it before — on sleepless nights, on ravaged battlefields, as a mark of comfort and of quiet, painful adoration. It’s damning how easy it is to bend to Ruby; every cell in her body calls out a primordial cry for her. How could she, mountain of carefully sculpted indifference, bow this effortlessly to fire?

(Her father, if she deigned to give him the time of day, would probably mutter something about how she’s a disgrace to the Schnee name, and she would disagree. What she feels in her heart for Ruby is nothing short of a miracle.)

“Here,” she says, pressing the notes in order, slowly so she’s sure Ruby can follow. “If you want to play a basic chord, you could just hold down C, E, and G notes together. That’s C major.”

“Like this?”

“No, that’s….to the right. No, not that,” she pauses, brings up her own hand to press over Ruby’s and guide her. It isn’t until Weiss glances up once and sees the mischievous smile on her face that she realizes.

“Oh!” she says, her hands retreating to her lap.

“I’m sorry if I—“, Ruby starts, sounding guilty, and Weiss turns to her, quick as a whip.

“No!” she says, then realizes they’re both almost nose to nose. “Don’t — don’t be sorry, please.”

“Did you not like that?” Ruby asks, her voice soft.

Weiss laughs, and the sound seems nervous to her own ears. “No, I,” she says, “I liked it.”

Ruby’s answering smile is sunlight through her windows in the morning, gradual in its brightness until it’s too much to bear. Weiss shifts, rests her forehead on Ruby’s shirt clad shoulder. The fabric smells a little like detergent and a lot like Ruby’s fruity perfume.

“You know,” she says, her voice half muffled by the shirt. She knows Ruby can hear her though. “I can never look you right in the eye when I talk to you. It feels — feels too much like burning up.”

Ruby shakes: Weiss can almost see her laughing. “Do you know how you can never look me right in the eye when you talk to me? That’s when I get to stare at you. You talk and talk and I just keep looking at your pretty face.”

The sound that comes out of her throat at Ruby’s halting admission is a mixture of acute embarrassment, disbelief, and delight.

“I used to wait two hours for you to come back from your missions with Blake and Nora so we could eat together.”

She feels Ruby press a kiss to her temple. “I used to stay up until 2 am because that was the only time I could be alone with you.”

“I can’t sit next to you,” Weiss tells her, “it’s like there’s this thing between our arms — this—”

“—electricity,” Ruby completes, and slides her fingers through Weiss. Weiss closes her eyes from her very comfortable position and feels Ruby’s lips on her knuckles, soft, careful. When Ruby removes her hand, she feels the loss as acutely as something has been ripped out of her soul. Another random note rings out in the silence.

“Go out on a date with me.” Nowhere in the statement is a demand, or a presumption, just quiet assurance. “Weiss,” Ruby says, when she still doesn’t answer. “Go out on a date with me, please.”

Weiss nudges aside the collar of her shirt and kisses her neck. Then she leans back to look at Ruby.

“What if you don’t like me after we go on the date?”

The question is delivered with just enough amusement, but behind it lies real distress. What if this only works because we’ve been thrown together all these years fighting a weary battle? What if you only think you like me because you haven’t seen the rest of me yet? What if, when you see the rest of the world and start spending time with other people, you realize I’m not up to all that you’ve built up in your head?

“If I don’t like you after we go on that date, then you have my blessing to blast me into space with your Arma Gigas.”

“Ruby—”

“In what world,” Ruby cuts in smoothly, “do you imagine I wouldn’t like you back? In what world does my stomach not twist when you walk into the room, or my breathing not falter when you talk? I have heard a million voices in my lifetime, Weiss, but in what world is yours not the only one I want my heart to cut itself on?”

“Stop,” she says, face burning, eyes closed, “Ruby, you — just, stop talking, I’m going to—”

“Weiss,” Ruby says. “Go out on a date with me.”

Not that the answer is needed, but Weiss nods anyways.

*****

Whitley is equal parts familiar and foreign. There’s the same bristling stance, the Schnee stamp prominent upon his features, his hair, still parted the same side as she would see back when they were children running around in their estate. What’s different is the thinly veiled animosity in his eyes, the angry twist to his mouth.

“You can’t just come in here,” he starts, waving a hand to wipe away the holographic design for SDC office headquarters Weiss has just pulled up, “and start ordering me around.”

“Whit,” she says, watching as he flinches at the old nickname. “I’m not ordering you around. I couldn’t. You’re the expert here—”

“—yeah, I am. The heir who stayed, remember?”

She is reminded, of a game of hide and seek on a Sunday a long time ago. Whitley had hidden himself so well that Weiss couldn’t find him even after wandering all around the estate. And then when Winter had come back from training, she’d abandoned the pursuit, running off to interrogate her sister instead.

You didn’t find me, Whitley had come running, crying after ten minutes, distraught. You and Winter, and — he’d paused to take in a wet shuddering breath too big for his ten-year-old body — you and Winter forgot about me. And she’d known, even then, that what he was protesting was being left alone when they were together.

“I do know a little bit of this, Whit,” she says, mildly. “I can help.”

“I don’t need your help!” he tells her, sharply.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Weiss says, “but we’re the last of Schnees, if you don’t count mom, and we should stick together. I’m not saying I know everything, but I have been training half my life for this, so I could contribute.”

“I’d rather,” he starts, then cuts off abruptly. I’d rather die, she completes in her head, and waits patiently for him to continue. He looks away. “So much for sticking together.”

She reaches out and pats the top of his head. He swivels away violently.

“You — stop, you, you don’t get to do that.”

“Actually, I do,” she replies smoothly, “I happen to be one of your sisters. Not historically a very good one, but I’m what you’ve got, so you’re going to have to make do.”

When Whitley speaks, every time Whitley speaks, all she hears is his ten-year-old version screaming You left me at her, upset and sulking. While Winter made sure Weiss was able to defend herself if she wasn’t around to do that for her, when opportunity to leave Atlas had arisen, Weiss herself had run off, too relieved about the freedom to worry too much about her brother.

He glares at her. “I’m guessing you’ll want something?” he says, flippantly. “The position of the CFO? A seat in the Board of Directors, maybe?”

“Not exactly,” she says, smiling as she messes up his hair one last time before she exits the room. “Dinner every Tuesday and Saturday evening. 7 pm. I’ll see you in two days.”

“Wha — what?” she hears him ask from behind. “What are you — no! I’m not doing…. Weiss!”

*****

When Weiss goes to pick Ruby up for their date, she’s greeted by the entirety of Mantle and Atlas instead.

“We’re not that many people, please,” Blake says, before she joins Yang at the door. “Oh. Oh wow.”

“Do I — does this look, okay?” Weiss asks, smoothing the front of her dress nervously. She didn’t quite trust Jaune’s choice in dresses, but this was what Oscar, Robyn and Winter had collectively agreed on: a midnight blue slinky…. thing that didn’t quite reach her knees and was making her feel very awkward.

Yang’s jaw is still open, her head moving back and forth between Blake and her. Blake closes it for her.

“Okay?” Nora calls out, as Weiss enters the house further. “Girl, if Ruby doesn’t get down on her knees at the end of the night, I’ll give away all of my wealth to the good children of Mantle.”

“Nora!” you say, scandalized, the same time that Yang screams Ew.

“What? I didn’t mean it that way,” she says. “But don’t you think it’s interesting how both of you jumped to….”

Ren covers her mouth with his hand, smiles wryly at the rest of them.

“Also,” Emerald points out, poking her head out from behind the fridge. “Doesn’t Nora have like, five lien to her name?”

And that will not go to the good children of Mantle tonight, comes through in the muffled voice of a still incapacitated Nora. Weiss walks around the room, trying to calm her nerves. She doesn’t want to walk too fast and sweat through, or rip something, but there’s this electric charge festering under her skin everywhere, and no amount of balling up and releasing her own fists seems to help. She tries to take a deep breath, discovers her lungs aren’t ready for it yet.

“Hey,” Blake’s already at her side, one hand gently resting on her abdomen, the other on her back. “Breathe. Breathe with me, Weiss.”

She focuses on Blake’s steady voice, on the numbers she counts out, and slowly her breathing evens out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

“Please,” Yang says easily, “you should’ve seen Blake after I kissed her the first time. She nearly passed out.”

“That’s because you weren’t wearing clothes!” Blake shoots back, defensively.

“Oh yeah,” Yang says, staring off into space. “Wait, why wasn’t I wearing clothes?”

“Can I just say,” Ren said, looking pained, “how much I do not want to hear this story.”

“I’m okay now,” Weiss says. “Also, why aren’t you guys helping Ruby get ready?”

“You think I need help getting ready?” Ruby’s voice rings out from behind her, and Weiss turns, and

(Had she just thought that she was okay? Because she’d never been more wrong in her life.)

The sight of Ruby, standing near the door rips the breath from her lungs so fast she’s left reeling. It imprints itself upon her memory, a postcard polaroid for the end of all her days, and Weiss wonders where to look. Surely she’s not allowed to look at Ruby directly — isn’t it illegal to look upon angels? She wants to shield her eye, hide her face, wants to turn and run away because she’s sure there’s a world out there where she’s worthy of holding Ruby’s hand and walk beside her, but this can’t be it.

“What?” she says, stupidly, when she realizes Ruby had asked her something but for the life of her can’t remember what it was.

“I — nothing,” Ruby says, walking forward. “Weiss. You look….”

She trails off into silence, until Emerald says — Yo, can I get in on that bet you were talking about earlier — and gets shushed loudly.

(Weiss wants to warn her against it. She’s convinced she’s going to be the one getting down on her knees and proposing marriage at the end of the evening)

*****

Life moves on. Weiss holds Ruby’s hands in hers, and watches autumn turn to winter. Whitley smiles at her on their fifth dinner date, and then, to make up for it, turns down all her proposals for the next two. Sun and Neptune come to visit, and Yang spends the entire time doing pushups ominously in full view of both Blake and Sun, to the former’s amusement and the latter’s bemusement. Oscar goes on his first date with a girl from Mantle, and discovers at the end of the night that Jaune, Ren, Nora and Emerald had been following them the entire time. Qrow makes a half-hearted attempt at warning her of the consequences of breaking Ruby’s heart, and when Whitley and Winter discover that, they kidnap Ruby for half a day. Ruby refuses to tell her what happened, but she also refuses to kiss her in public the whole next week.

Weiss decides to move out of the Schnee estate when she finds a tiny apartment in Mantle, a building over from where Blake, Yang and Ruby have theirs. There’s a lot of light and her favorite spot in the entire place is a corner where the previous family had marked the heights of their three children, apparently named Lee, August and Celia. Ruby draws a line next to it, names it Weiss’ patience level for the day and marks it at random points, depending on her mood. Her mother gifts her flower plants, and subsequently, vases, when Jaune breaks the few that Weiss already had.

The first night, when they’re all exhausted from the multiple trips up and down the stairs and are all crashed in the living room, Ruby finds her outside on the balcony. Weiss knows as soon as she enters through the door — Ruby’s presence carries trough the air — but she only looks back when there’s a red cloak wrapped around her from behind. She feels familiar arms wrap across her stomach and leans back.

“Miss home?”

“This is home now,” Weiss replies, and is surprised to find that the thought does make her a little sad, regardless. “But yes, I do.”

She’s going to miss living with Whitley and her mother, will miss sleepovers when Winter comes down to visit. All the loneliness in the world wrapped up in one large house, and it still stings to leave it behind.

“You know, I heard Robyn’s place isn’t too far from here,” Ruby says. “And if Robyn isn’t far, then—”

“—Winter isn’t too far.”

“—and Whitley and Oscar are already planning a video game session here next Friday.”

Weiss arches back, and kisses Ruby on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Whatever for, my darling?”

“For,” she flounders for an explanation that sounds normal. Thank you for loving me, while accurate, isn’t a very healthy sentiment to express, “for keeping me warm, always.”

Ruby chuckles against her cheek. “Okay.”

“And Ruby?” she asks. “I know this is the first time I’ve moved out on my own, and I need to build my own life here, and I will. But. In a while — maybe….”

Ruby hums to let her know she’s waiting.

“I’m just saying, that there’s. I mean — I’ve left half my closet empty. So, if, in a while, you ever want to. I just want you to know that I want to build a life with you.”

“Weiss Schnee,” Ruby says, and even with her eyes closed Weiss can hear the smile in her words. “If in a while, you want to share your closet space with me, then it would be my greatest honor.”

*****

She knows Ruby’s up even before she’s completely conscious.

It’s the little things — the fact that Ruby’s arm isn’t weighing on her shoulder, that her leg isn’t slung over her thighs. Weiss blinks, and turns over in bed, concerned.

Ruby stares back at her, wide-eyed.

“Can’t sleep?” Weiss whispers.

Ruby shakes her head slowly. There’s something in her expression that has Weiss worried. It’s not that she thinks they’re in any danger at the moment, but there’s some unsettling thought going on behind those beautiful eyes.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch that movie,” she says, but Ruby shakes her head once again. “What? No ghosts scaring you?”

Ruby opens her mouth, clears her throat once. “Only the human kind,” she says.

“Hey,” Weiss asks, bringing up a hand to brush the hair off her forehead, “sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Does this still bother you?” Ruby asks her in return, her hand sliding under Weiss’ shirt to expose the scar Cinder had left behind when she had impaled her. Weiss looks down, struggles to make out the tiny line in the dark. She wants to ask another question, but at this rate they’ll be stuck in an eternal loop and she does want Ruby to get some sleep, because she tends to lose her appetite if she doesn’t.

“Sometimes,” she says. Then she smoothens out a tiny crease that’s formed between Ruby’s eyebrows. “You want to tell me what you’re thinking?

“I didn’t see her do it,” Ruby starts, after a while. “Cinder, I mean. I only turned when you fell and I. Weiss.”

“Ruby,” she says, pressing her forehead against Ruby, kissing her once. “Stop.”

“—no, I. And then I left to fight. I left you with Jaune and Ren and Nora, but I still left, and every day I think about it, every single day, I think about you lying on the ground, the blood spreading on your dress, and if Jaune hadn’t been there—”

“—but Jaune was there!” Weiss tells her, not knowing what to say to make it better. Ruby is in so much distress; her voice is in shreds, and there’s a tear making its way across her face. “I’m fine. I’m safe.”

“I’d have killed her,” Ruby says, simply, her voice raw. “I would have killed her. I should have.”

“Ruby, no.”

“If you’d — if something had happened to you,” Ruby says, pausing, frustrated. Her eyes are closed tight, more tears squeezing out of them by the second, and Weiss tips forward to kiss one away. I’m safe, she says. You’re safe. We’re all safe. Ruby, Ruby, Ruby. We’re safe, she says, as she kisses her temple, her rumpled up hair, the bridge of her nose, and she has no idea how or when her words turn into I love yous in her mouth. I love you, Ruby, she repeats over and over, wanting to imprint the words on Ruby’s skin, wanting to tattoo her kisses on her cheek so the mark never fades, so she’ll never forget, I love you so much. And it’s easy in the thin light of the moon, to pull out the words from where she’s been hiding them, keeping them safe her entire life. There’s a moon in the sky and Weiss loves Ruby. There’s a garden blooming in the balcony and Weiss loves Ruby. For as much as love threatens to bring about her end, Weiss loves Ruby, and that love is both the beginning and the never-ending middle to her story.

*****

Tell me about what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, Ruby asks her, laughing, one morning over breakfast, and Weiss tells her there is destruction, but also that love is born in the carnage.

“Our hearts are but collateral damage, my love,” Weiss says. “But my heart, regardless of the damage it bears, is yours to do with as you please.”

*****

Robyn builds a school in Mantle.

No, that comes later. This comes first: Weiss grows tired of sitting in an office. She loves Whitley, but if she has to design one more plan, or take one more call talking to people about dust, she will kill herself.

Actually, wait. That comes second. This is what comes first.

Weiss grows tired of fighting.

*****

“My name,” she says, knowing from the whispering going on in the rows, that the information she is about to share is redundant anyway, but formalities are important, “is Weiss Schnee, and in this class we will be learning Grimm Studies.”

She’s pretty sure she hears someone whisper Hero of Mantle somewhere in the back rows, but ignores it, in favor of writing a couple things on the board. She jots down the curriculum and a brief lesson plan, acutely conscious of whether the clothes she’d had Ruby pick out for her this morning were appropriate class attire. The tie with dogs on it wasn’t something she could have helped, anyway, since she’d lost a bet with Emerald a while back. After she’s done, she turns around and asks the class if they have any questions.

“I have one,” comes a voice from the door, and Weiss closes her eyes. Of course. Of course they would come. “Miss. Schnee,” Yang continues, jumping on top of a desk in front of what seems to be a very impressed student, “when will the kids be divided into teams?”

There’s a lot more pointing, whispering and an abundance of awed looks going on in the class now.

“That is not something the students need to be worried about right now,” she answers, evenly.

“Actually, jumping off of Yang’s very astute question,” Jaune chimes in, “will each team also have a leader?”

She’s going to kill them she’s going to kill them she’s going to kill them

“Yes,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Awesome!” Blake adds, brightly. “But, in the event that they do not like their leader, and think their leader is an incompetent idiot, what can they do?”

Nora and Ren titter from their place at the very back. And from where she’s sitting between them, feet kicked up onto her desk, as casual as she had been all those years ago at Beacon, Ruby smiles, and raises her hand.

“I’d like to know the answer to that myself,” Ruby says.

She takes in a deep breath, summons the Arma Gigas. Has him sit just behind her.

“Now,” she says in what’s her best attempt at authority, “not only will I not be answering any of those questions, but also, unfortunately, question time is over for the entire class. If that thing I have summoned behind me is scaring you, please do not worry, I will make sure it only stands up when one of the six idiots sitting amongst you say something stupid.”

“Okay so,” she says, then takes it all in. Thinks back to years and years ago, when she’d been one of the students sitting in a similar classroom in an academy, miles away, next to people who’d end up meaning more to her than she ever imagined. After all the years of fighting and bleeding, here they were, trying to do something to make the world a better place.

This is not a tale that ends in tragedy, she thinks, and starts talking.

#rwby #weiss x ruby #whiterose #fanfiction #rwby fanfiction #another weiss schnee character study because guess what - she's actually my most favorite character ever #Also there's the usual found family feels #ah idk i finished this in the afternoon because i couldn't sleep but since it was prime naptime - there may be mistakes #you have now been warned #anyways - i hope you guys like it :)

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