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tenspontaneite · 3 years ago

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Across Shared Skin (Chapter 2/?)

“This is the worst possible way this could have happened!”

(Chapter length: 3k. Ao3 link)

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The back of his hand still ached from where she’d hit it. He couldn’t quite draw his mind away from that, couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t get away from it. The back of his hand hurt, because that was where his soulmark was, and she’d hit hers, and of course it had carried over, that was how soulbonds worked.

She was still standing there. Still with those swords in her hands, though she’d lowered them now. Still standing over him, though she’d backed away a little, as if someone had shoved her. Still wide-eyed, still aghast, still an elf, still his soulmate-

“Shit,” she said again, more emphatically, and staggered further backwards. For a moment it seemed like she was trying to lift her hands, to bury her face in them – but then she saw her swords and flinched, shuddering in a violent motion that terminated with her fingers so tight on the weapons’ hilts that they trembled.

She had white hair. All the books had said that Moonshadow elves had white hair, but it was one thing to read it, another to see it. And those horns, too, and the ears – she was – she wasn’t human, she really wasn’t, and for all that he’d spent years trying to imagine what that would look like, it still fell short of reality. It was her. It was really her. This was what his soulmate looked like. “Rayla,” He said again, testing the name, feeling his pulse race so fast that his head swam. She flinched again at the name, eyes jerking back towards him, so plainly distressed that it made his gut twist.

Her eyes were purple. He’d seen that before, of course, when she was standing over him with that sword, but – somehow it mattered more, now that he knew who she was.

“No,” she uttered, despairingly, like it was a reflex response to hearing her name from his lips. Her expression twisted as if to hold back some unbearable emotion.

Ezran was frozen at the portrait hole, and hadn’t moved. Callum was only peripherally aware of that. Mostly, he was aware of the thrum of his heartbeat, and the look on his soulmate’s face, and the part of him that was still tense and terrified in anticipation of death. In those moments, it was all confusion, a conflicting tangle of his shock and his fear. But then – he looked at her, and his mind began to catch up. She’d been this nameless, frightening elf mere minutes ago, but he’d seen her hesitate even then, seen her listen to him – and now she was Rayla, and he knew Rayla, and-

In a sudden, decisive moment, it was like something clicked into place. The elf who’d threatened him at swordpoint and the elf who was his soulmate were the same – and as that knowledge reconciled itself, he felt his shoulders slump with unthinking relief. All at once he understood, without reservation or doubt, that she wasn’t going to hurt them. He knew. He’d never been more certain of anything in his life.

“Rayla,” he repeated, steadier this time, secure in that knowledge, and slowly went to stand up.

She recoiled, flinching backwards as he rose. “No,” she said again, and then again, and again- “No, no, no, this isn’t – this wasn’t supposed to-“ She whirled around, pacing in broken and aborted steps around the office, like she wanted to flee but didn’t know where to go. Her shoulders were so tense it looked painful, and – she snapped towards him, suddenly, one of those swords suddenly up and pointing accusatively his way. “This is the worst possible way this could have happened!”

The way she’d said it, it was almost like she blamed him for that. Like he’d decided that these should be the circumstances of their pre-ordained meeting. “…I’m…sorry?” He offered, weakly, looking back at the bristling affront that had come over her in that moment. She seemed angry, right then, but – then she saw the blade she was pointing his way, and it all crumpled away at once.

“I was going to kill you.” She said, voice tight and haunted, and she looked up at him blankly. Her eyes slid to his brother, still frozen motionless in the mouth of the secret passage. Quiet, she added “…I’m supposed to kill you.”

He swallowed. “Yeah, you said.” He acknowledged, remembering his terror when she’d said she was here to kill his brother, his absolute certainty that he could not allow it to happen. That felt so long ago, now. “You’re…an assassin,” he tested the words, looking at her, looking at the swords, the armour, the wiry muscles tense along her arms. He remembered years and years and years of seeing her write about her training. “You’re an assassin, and you came here to kill Ezran.” He tilted his head at her, a little solemn. “I guess whoever sent you probably wouldn’t mind if you got another human prince, too.”

She barked a harsh laugh. “If you got in the way? No. No, they wouldn’t.” Again, her eyes flickered to Ezran. She exhaled. Again, she said “I’m supposed to kill you.” It was strangely bleak, this time. Defeated.

Ez flinched a little, but Callum didn’t falter at all. Not anymore. He took a step towards her, and she rocked back on her heels as if to lean away from him. He stepped again though, with a confidence that surprised him, and said “You won’t.”

She didn’t move back this time. Just watched him, rigidly still, expression twisting. Her fingers clenched on her weapons. “You sure about that?” Her voice was low.

He stepped again, and again, until he was directly in front of her. Close enough for her to run him through with either blade. Close enough for her to reach out and break his neck. But she wouldn’t. “Yeah. I’m sure.” She watched him, so wary, so conflicted. There was something in her expression that made her look startlingly vulnerable. With utter certainty, he said “You’re not going to hurt us.”

She closed her eyes, then. Exhaled. When she opened them, her hands flexed on the weapons. He didn’t even flinch as they moved, convinced beyond the possibility of doubt that she would never threaten him with them again. And, sure enough, the way that motion ended was with the blades flipping away, melding by some mechanism back into their handles. Sheathed. Safe. “No.” She agreed, finally. “I’m not.” There was an edge of self-recrimination in her eyes as she looked away. “I couldn’t.”

Finally, Ezran seemed to sense an opening in that tension. Cautiously, he stepped out of the portrait hole, creeping a few steps forward until her eyes fell on him. He looked up at her, wary but interested, Bait held tightly in his arms. “You’re Callum’s soulmate,” he spoke, like he just needed to say it, to get it out there. “Rayla. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her expression twisted, like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “And you’re his brother. Prince Ezran.” Her hand went to one of the silvery ribbons she wore around her wrists. “I’ve heard plenty about you, too.” She exhaled, shakily. “I came here to kill you.”

Ezran crept a little closer, surprisingly confident, as if some of Callum’s certainty had bled into him. “Why?” He asked, curious and almost calm, as if this were some matter considerably lighter than one of life and death.

“You’re the son of a king who killed our king and his son.” She answered, bleakly. “We’re supposed to pay it back. Blood for blood. Justice for their deaths. Make it right.”

Callum hesitated, then reached out. His fingertips grazed her forearm; the first time he’d ever touched her. She flinched as though burned, eyes snapping to his. “Revenge isn’t the same thing as justice, Rayla.” He told her, quietly. “You know that.”

“Do I?” Her voice sounded almost tired.

“Killing Ez to make up for what happened to the Dragon Prince wouldn’t solve anything. Wouldn’t make anything better.” He looked at her, exhaling softly, and could finally speak a truth he had never been allowed to write: “Just like…King Harrow killing the Dragon King, to make up for what happened to my mom, didn’t solve anything.” He saw her recoil at that, and added quietly “Didn’t help me, and…didn’t help the world, either. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Your mother,” she whispered, like she was abruptly reconciling Callum the prince with Callum the soulmate. Like it had just occurred to her what that meant. “Queen Sarai. The – Dragon King killed her?”

A twist of pain gripped his chest. “Yeah.” He studied her eyes, her expression. “You didn’t know?”

“No.” With that awful understanding on her face, he couldn’t doubt her. She shuddered and looked away, hands clenching on her sheathed weapons. When finally she looked back, she seemed so horribly uncertain that it made his heart ache. “Callum…” she said, finally, the first time he’d ever heard her speak his name. “What am I supposed to do?”

He hesitated, then. He wanted to say don’t murder anyone, but she didn’t need telling that, and…that wasn’t an answer to that question. Not really. She was here in the heart of the kingdom, and could have killed him, and could have killed his brother, and – surely, she wasn’t alone. Surely they’d not have sent only her. There had to be others, and that wasn’t something he knew how to answer.

Ezran, though... “You should follow me,” he said, plainly, finally approaching enough to insinuate himself beside them. “If this is about the Dragon Prince…” he nodded towards the open portrait hole. “Then there’s something you need to see.”

She stared down at him with obvious consternation. She glanced at Callum, as if to check with him, and he shrugged helplessly. “You sure, Ez?” he asked his brother, dubious, and received a very firm nod in return. He sighed. In a situation like this…he had to trust that Ezran wouldn’t mess around. “Alright,” he accepted. “Lead the way.”

‘The way’, apparently, was into the secret passage connected to Lord Viren’s study. Ezran and Bait climbed back into it, but Rayla hesitated before following. She went off to the side, picked something up, and pushed it into his hands. “You dropped this.” She said, quiet. “When I knocked you over.”

It was Harrow’s letter. Callum swallowed past the lump in his throat, and held it close. “…Thanks.”

Ever-so-briefly, and so lightly he hardly felt it, she rested her hand on his arm. Her eyes met his. Then she turned away, and walked off into the dark.

Callum followed.

---

Ezran had been right. They had needed to see this.

“The Dragon Prince is alive,” Rayla breathed, eyes wide, fingers shaking. “This – this changes everything.”

After a little discussion, though, it transpired that some of that ‘everything’ might be a little harder to change than the rest. “So there are more of you.” Callum concluded, voice tight, as she finally admitted that the ‘others’ would be coming.

“Five.” She agreed, voice just as terse as his . “I – was supposed to stay behind. I didn’t. I came early, so they wouldn’t stop me, but-“ She glanced up at the stone ceiling, as if she could see the sky even through a castle’s worth of rock and air. “But they’ll be coming once the Moon rises. When we’re strongest.”

“…Can we stop them?” He asked, carefully controlled. He’d known he had a Moonshadow elf for a soulmate for years. He’d done research. He’d asked people. He knew how powerful they were supposed to be at Full Moon.

She looked at him, uncertainty plain on her face. “If we show the egg to Runaan-“ She started, falteringly. “He…might call the mission off?”

He could see how unconvinced she was of that. “You think?”

She exhaled. “No. But I think we have to try.” She stood. “I know where he’ll be. We should get there as soon as possible.”

Ezran picked up the egg, and the three of them prepared to set off.

Except that was when Claudia arrived.

---

Not much later, with a primal stone in his hands and the exhilaration of magic still fresh in his veins, Rayla turned to him for a moment and smiled. It was a tentative thing, but- “Preferred that to all your sword lessons, didn’t you,” she observed, and he stopped short, strangely breathless. There was something about the reference to their history, to the things she knew because she was his soulmate, that – that was just – kind of amazing.

“So much,” he agreed, heartfelt, and felt his face break into a grin at her. She went a little pink around the ears, but huffed at him with a friendly sort of humour. She patted him on the shoulder.

“Well, magic’s plenty good for defending yourself, so just keep that spell in mind and you’ll be fine.” Her lips twisted thoughtfully for a moment. “Don’t suppose you know that lightning spell too? Looked proper useful, that one.”

“Er,” he said, eloquently, and thought. “I remember the rune. Is that enough?”

“No, you’d need the incantation too.” She frowned.

He tried to remember it, but��in the end, his memory was mostly only good for things he saw. “…Finalous?” He guessed, knowing it wasn’t right. “Culminus? No…”

She scowled at the wall for a second, holding up a finger to silence him. “Fulminis.” She concluded, decisively, after that moment. “I think.” She glanced back at him. “Try it.”

“Now?” He blinked, taken-aback. “Shouldn’t we be going to find your assassin leader?”

“It’s related.” Her teeth gritted a little. “Try it.”

He exchanged a glance with Ezran, then shrugged. “Alright.” He lifted the stone in one hand. Drawing the rune was easy; it lit up with sparks, magic surging at once, impatient for release. And then the incantation did turn out to be right, because saying “fulminis” unleashed a bolt of lightning from his fingertip that crackled loud and bright into the wall he’d aimed it at. He beamed.

Rayla noted this with a sort of grim satisfaction, and said “Good.” When he looked askance at her, she exhaled, and admitted “He’s probably going to try to kill you.”

It took him a second to think of who she meant. “…Your leader?” He questioned, confused. “Because…I’d get between him and Ezran?”

“That too.” She looked away. “Mostly, though, because you’re my soulmate. My human soulmate. And we’ve only just met, so…” She glanced back at him, troubled. “Well, you know.”

Oh. Right. He could imagine how ‘human soulmate’ and ‘only just met’ might be a recipe for violence from a murderous, concerned-for-Rayla elven assassin commander. He winced. “Yeah. He’d…what, want to kill me before it’s ‘too late’?”

She scowled, expression tightening, and inclined her head. “I wouldn’t put it past him to think I’d be better off that way.” Her shoulders straightened, and she reached out to tap the primal stone. “So keep this handy. And defend yourself, alright?”

He swallowed, and nodded. “What about you?” He asked. She looked confused. “He’s – you’re Moonshadow elves. The mission is supposed to be everything, right? You’re supposed to act like you’re already dead, even, so it doesn’t matter if you die to pull it off?”

Rayla stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“He’s been reading about you guys forever.” Ezran offered, and her eyes turned his way. “And talking to anyone who’s ever met Moonshadow elves or knows anything. Aunt Amaya, Lord Viren, everyone.”

At her expression, he shrugged self-consciously. “I knew you were a Moonshadow elf. I wanted to know what that meant. And – you weren’t allowed to talk to me about that. So I had to ask other people.” He shook his head. “That’s not important right now, though. What I mean is – you’re going against the mission, right? You’re trying to stop him. So…” Carefully, he looked at her. “Are you going to be safe?”

She was quiet for long enough that the silence was an answer of its own. Finally, she said “Probably not. I don’t think he’d actually kill me. But…” She shrugged.

Callum set his jaw, and clutched the primal stone close. “I’ll be ready.” He promised grimly.

Rayla looked almost startled at that response, though he didn’t know why. Wasn’t it obvious that he’d try to protect her, if he could?

“We should go.” Ezran said, nervous, looking between the egg in his hands and the ceiling. He glanced around at them. “We’re going to the roof, right? There’s a pretty quick way there. Follow me.”

“How much time have you spent in the castle secret passages?” Callum asked, exasperated, already following.

Ez smiled a little, smug. “A while,” he said nonchalantly, and opened a hidden staircase in the corridor beside them like it was nothing.

They were in a doorway opening out to the castle battlements when Rayla stopped them, suddenly tense. “He’s out there.” She said, terse. “Or he will be soon. I-“ She hesitated for a moment, then said “I’ll try to get him to call off the mission. I might call you out to show him the egg. But if he won’t stop…” She exhaled, hands drifting to where she’d hung her sheathed blades. “I’ll have to stop him myself.”

Callum, meanwhile, was very resolved that she absolutely wouldn’t be doing any assassin-stopping by herself. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He fixed the spell into his mind, gritted his teeth, and waited.

---

End chapter.

Notes: also a cliffhanger! I guess! But the story wanted it, so. Who am I to argue.

Canon is going to get drop-kicked off of a mountain next chapter, FYI.

Thank you everyone for the response. It’s been flattering to hear from those of you who read this in the zine first, who are looking forward to the story continuing. I hope it continues to do justice to the concept!

Worldbuilding stuff of note in this chapter: if you’re curious about what Callum and Rayla meant about the ‘only just met’ and ‘too late’ stuff, the answer is: soulmate mechanics! Gonna tease this for a bit, but you’ll see what it’s about in ch4.

#rayllum #tdp fic #soulmate AU #tdp callum #tdp rayla #tdp ezran

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shih-coulda-had-it · 4 years ago

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casualty report

my entry for @queenangst‘s bnha gen contest! Link to AO3, but also contained below the Keep Reading.

WC: 2,454

Summary: Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing. Yet whenever Toshinori sits in one with Gran Torino, it seems that Toshinori is always clawing at his own heart. Spoilers up to C305.

The air is cold, sterile, and silent, save for the low hum of machinery and intermittent beeping of the heart monitor.

Yagi Toshinori enters Gran Torino’s assigned room in a similarly muted fashion, sliding the door open and shut with barely a click. He finds the chair where he left it; the old man hasn’t gotten any visitors besides him and the nurses. Like Midoriya, Torino teeters on the knife edge of survival, and like Midoriya’s classmates, Torino’s colleagues are swamped with work.

Toshinori has the privilege to visit them both. So he splits his time between his teacher-mentor-father and his student-successor-son and waits. They are similarly stubborn about clinging to life; Toshinori is confident they will wake.

Whether they will be happy about it…

As he sits, Gran Torino’s eyes crack open. His already labored breathing stutters, resulting in a full-body twitch that eventually culminates in a pained groan.

“Take it slow,” Toshinori advises.

“Stupid lesson from a stupid teacher,” Torino snaps. Toshinori looks away to focus on the bright yellow fabric bundled on top of a cabinet, neither laundered nor repaired. He’ll have to do it later.

The silence between them is tense. Surprisingly, it’s Torino who breaks it.

“Izuku?”

“Coma,” Toshinori says, fingers curling into fists. Before Torino can curse, Toshinori adds, “I think he’s talking to the predecessors of One for All.”

“Not something you could do,” the old man comments. He’s peering down at his injuries with a detached fascination: the maimed leg, the thick compress hiding beneath his bandages. Toshinori is uncomfortably reminded of his own injury, and of his own convalescence. He had recovered quickly, and privately, though he suspects that One for All had assisted with the process.

However lucky Torino is to have survived, Toshinori thinks the aftermath will be so much messier.

“It’s not,” he agrees.

“How can you tell?”

“A feeling,” says Toshinori. He forges on despite Gran Torino’s disbelieving eyebrows. “I think oshishou had a point, about the predecessors’ spirits living on in One for All. I’m not able to channel One for All anymore, but I think I still have some connection to the Quirk.”

“Ghosts in the machine,” says Torino dryly. He studies Toshinori. “Oh. You’re not joking.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this.”

Honestly, Toshinori had thought Torino would be ecstatic (as ecstatic as the old man ever got, as he swung between smugness, serenity, and seething fury) at the possibility of reconnecting with Shimura Nana. He had also quailed at the thought of telling Gran Torino that Toshinori’s own connection seemed to be a one-way thing.

And Toshinori doesn’t know how to tell Torino that he feels betrayed, in a way.

When he was researching the previous users of One for All, an alien-like urgency had pushed him past investigating to obsessing. As though a whisper had filtered through his head and said: what else, what more, why now?

Shinomori’s case. The hypothesis that Toshinori’s Quirkless heritage had protected him from the pitfalls of a stockpile Quirk.

The harsh intake of multiple people breathing in at once, even though Toshinori had been alone, with only stacks of heavily-redacted reports to keep him company. All of Toshinori’s devotion, and it had earned him nothing but sleepless nights and silent vigils.

Torino sighs then, heavy with resignation. And just like that, he moves on. “Shigaraki?”

“Escaped,” Toshinori reluctantly says. He doesn’t want to talk about the current situation of society and its failure to stabilize in the wake of so many terrible revelations and events. He really doesn’t want to talk about Tartarus. Except, it will be impossible to keep Torino in the dark about it forever. “Don’t have a heart attack on me, but—All for One’s back on the field.”

One heartbeat. Then two.

Something like forty years ago, Gran Torino and Toshinori had sat in a hospital room, numbed to the core by the very real confrontation and consequence of baiting All for One into the light. The superficial injuries belied the grief suffusing Toshinori’s body, and although he hadn’t recognized it at the time, the terror in Torino’s.

White-faced, Gran Torino had told Toshinori that they could not afford to stop moving.

Sleep. Wake up. Go to school. Your internship hours are going to be spent sparring with me.

For the rest of the year?

Until I’m goddamn satisfied.

It was a miracle they had survived the first week without killing each other. In retrospect, Toshinori could see the value in Torino’s decision to forgo the mourning period. Toshinori had still ended up sobbing on the ground, confessing to his father what he could not to his mother.

And of course, without dwelling on Toshinori’s admission, Gran Torino moved on to the next point of business.

“Cockroach,” Torino says through gritted teeth. The heart monitor stays impressively calm. “Third time’s the charm, then?”

“Torino-sensei, the third time was Kamino Ward. It’s safe to say the odds are against us.”

Toshinori’s bleak assessment earns him a narrowed glare, and it’s a sign of how exhausted and bitter Toshinori feels that he is unfazed. He can afford to be scared of Torino when Torino is walking of his own volition, cursing up a storm about the fact that he can no longer eat a whole box of microwaved taiyaki.

“Casualties?”

“Multiple civilians,” says Toshinori. “Multiple pro-heroes. None of the students, thank goodness.”

Torino stares at him. “There were no students at the hospital.”

“Many were… encouraged to participate in the mansion raid.” It still leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Terrible, yes, to see Eraserhead bandaged up yet again due to Toshinori’s failures, but it was even worse to see his students file back into U.A.’s dorms, eyes shadowed with something more than grief. Midnight’s death haunts them still.

The old man breathes.

“What else?”

“A loss of trust,” Toshinori says, leaning his elbows on his knees, fingers pressed together like a prayer. “Civilians want to protect themselves, and the remaining pro-heroes of Japan are stretched thin. Some died, and many are retiring.” He offers Torino a mirthless smile. “Yoroi Musha is out.”

“Twenty years too late,” Torino responds.

“You never liked him.”

“Gimmicky cowards with a chip on their shoulder shouldn’t be in this line of work.”

Well. Either Toshinori takes that as a personal insult, an unintentional dig, or Gran Torino’s acerbic sense of humor. He goes quiet anyway. Now is a good time as any for a lull in conversation to occur, but Toshinori doesn’t get long to contemplate his next move.

“What’s eating you up,” Torino demands flatly.

“Nothing.”

“Pull my other leg.”

“It’s nothing,” Toshinori stresses. “And if there was something, I wouldn’t want to talk about it.”

“Toshinori. When you bottle up your specific brand of guilt, it has a tendency to backfire on you spectacularly,” says Torino. “I’m not walking away for a long time, so get it off your chest right now while I’m wired to half a dozen machines.”

Toshinori interlocks his fingers.

“Toshinori.”

“The Public Safety Commission has been disbanded,” he tries. “Their headquarters were attacked the same time the raids occurred.”

“Unsurprising,” says Torino.

“I don’t think anyone could have anticipated a direct attack, Torino-sensei.”

“I’m not talking about the Commission. I’m talking about you. Deflecting.”

Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing. Yet whenever Toshinori sits in one with Gran Torino, it seems that Toshinori is always clawing at his own heart.

“Do I disappoint you?” Toshinori asks, resigned to hearing an answer he already knows, staring hard at his hands. He’s pushing the wrong side of his fifties, less grizzled and more gaunt, more of a beanpole and less of a pillar. It’s impossible to remember all the things he did right when all Toshinori can see is where he went wrong.

And even though Gran Torino looks so fragile, tiny and bedridden, bandaged and hooked up to more machines than Toshinori can count on one hand—he still has the strength to look ahead.

Toshinori didn’t learn that. He had thought he did, those six years ago when he survived the fight with All for One, because in spite of the grievous injury, All Might had forged on.

“You can be honest,” Toshinori says. “Just like in U.A.”

“We’re a long way from that time,” says Gran Torino. His expectant and unimpressed expression hasn’t changed.

“It was a yes or no question, Torino-sensei.”

“No, then.”

He says it so simply. Toshinori blinks. Torino tips his head to the side, watching with half-lidded eyes how Toshinori processes his answer. Except Toshinori cannot fathom when this change of perception happened, because just as recently as Kamino Ward, Toshinori had still been reduced to sitting on his ass, listening to Gran Torino’s instructions.

“You’ve done more than anyone should have asked of you,” Torino says. “And you did it well.”

“I overlooked so many problems,” Toshinori protests. “So many people didn’t feel safe.”

“Brat,” says Gran Torino fondly.

“Torino-sensei.”

“There’s something more than that. You’ve been dealing with that insecurity for decades, and you know as well as I do that even a Symbol of Peace can’t catch everything. What’s going on?” Torino is ruthless when he wants to make a point; Toshinori circles back to his original impulsive question and thinks—

“Midoriya-shonen,” says Toshinori in a soft voice. “He’s talking to the predecessors.”

“So you said.”

“And I couldn’t. I can’t, even now, even though I’m connected to One for All still.” From there, the words come spilling out. “Oshishou told me from the beginning that One for All had some kind of spiritual essence. She might not have said outright about the voices, but she hinted at it. That we could meet again, somehow. And all those years… forty years, Torino-sensei, and—and nothing. Not a word, not a vision.”

Midoriya’s crybaby genes must have bounced over the connection, because horrifically, Toshinori can feel his face contort and his eyes water. He hasn’t cried in front of Gran Torino in decades.

“Like I wasn’t worthy,” Toshinori concludes, choking on the last word.

Here is what Toshinori learned on his own, independent of Gran Torino’s teachings: don’t cry. Smile through the fear and the pain, and don’t cry.

Conveniently, Toshinori has forgotten that all those decades ago, Gran Torino never censured him for his tears. So it is now, that Toshinori feels the unfamiliar prickle and the cooling trails sliding down his face, and Gran Torino says nothing.

Until he does.

“You’re everything Shimura stopped hoping for. Did you know that?” Toshinori jerks his head up from its bowed position; he can hear oshishou saying in her wry tone, typical Torino. Can’t make eye contact when communicating an emotion. “I saw her through almost every big milestone in her life. Her pro-hero license, her marriage, her pregnancy. The loss of her husband, and then her son.”

“You didn’t try and stop her.”

“She knew best.” Torino’s grin is painful. “I believed that then, and I believe it now. Kotarou survived longer than he would’ve if he stayed in her custody, which was ultimately her goal. So Shimura was right on that, never mind what Kotarou did with his life after. And you… I told you already.”

“You know me,” Toshinori jokes. He recalls his rusty impression of Torino’s lecturing tone, perfected during those golden hours of patrol with oshishou. “‘It takes twice as long for me to tell you something, versus me beating the lesson into you once.’”

“Then listen,” says Torino. “When Shimura met you, she was still hurting from giving up Kotarou. She couldn’t stop being a hero, but she didn’t want to stop being a mother. And every day, the news cycle spoke of a crime wave, fueled by something bigger than the injustices of the world.

“I was enough to keep her from drowning in work. It wasn’t until she met you that she started smiling again. That she had a son again.”

Toshinori scrubs his eyes. “Really could’ve used this talk forty years ago,” he manages.

“I wasn’t this emotionally intelligent forty years ago.”

“If Hound Dog ever managed to sit us down for therapy, he’d diagnose us both as emotionally-stunted,” he tells Torino. “You probably perpetuated a family cycle, Torino-sensei.”

“One of us cries, and it isn’t me,” Torino shoots back waspishly.

“It’s Midoriya-shonen,” Toshinori agrees.

Torino’s laugh comes out as a wheeze, and Toshinori winces in sympathy. The exhaustion that comes out of crying begins to settle in; he hasn’t allowed himself to cry for a while. Not in front of the students, and not in front of his colleagues. Gran Torino is situated in that blurred zone of family and teacher and co-worker.

Gran Torino is tiring as well. The conversation’s taken a lot out of him, and it surely doesn’t help that he was treated to a hint of Toshinori’s resurfacing insecurities.

“You asked if you disappointed me,” the old man says quietly, hoarsely. “Didn’t I disappoint you?”

His throat sticks.

Torino smiles, wry. “I know,” he says.

“Torino-sensei,” Toshinori attempts, horrified at his slip. He should fix this. He has to make sure Gran Torino knows that the past is past, and that his efforts haven’t been wasted on an ungrateful child. As Toshinori opens his mouth to reassure Torino, an urgent flicker of something calls out to him.

His head jerks to the door. Outside, down the hallway, in another room—

“He’s waking?”

Toshinori looks back to Torino, distractedly saying, “Yes,” before he freezes. Gran Torino has propped himself up halfway, teeth gritted with the effort it takes. He has reached out and clumsily pressed his hand against Toshinori’s forehead, fingers dipping into his hair.

It feels like a benediction.

“I am,” Torino forces out, “so proud of you. I could not be prouder. You were worth it, do you hear me, Toshinori? You are, still.”

The moment doesn’t last forever. Whatever burst of adrenaline fuels Torino, it dwindles with emotional vulnerability. He pats the top of Toshinori’s head and slumps back into his pillow, looking gray with exhaustion.

For his part, Toshinori stares, wide-eyed, like he’s fourteen years old again, meeting Gran Torino for the first time.

“Go,” says Torino. “Izuku shouldn’t wake up alone. He should have his family with him.”

There is a weak grin pulling at Torino’s mouth, familiar in its toothiness. Toshinori gets to his feet. He’s unable to return the smile, because he is suddenly terrified that if he leaves this room, Torino will somehow find a way to escape the hospital, hole up in his apartment, and—and—

“He’ll need you too,” says Toshinori. “Get better soon, tou—Torino-sensei.”

Gran Torino closes his eyes, and Yagi Toshinori moves on.

#queenangst gen contest #bnha #torino sorahiko #gran torino #yagi toshinori #all might #shih.txt #/DIVES THROUGH THE FINISH LINE/ TOUCHDOWN #found family feels #except the found family won't/can't acknowledge it #this is a long overdue conversation i hope we get in canon

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onthecrosslook · 3 years ago

Text

Three Acts

Note: Fuck it, I’m just going to post this now. @call-me-moo.

Act Three

I dial Mary’s number on my dying mobile. “Do c...come in. It’s a little cramped…I must warn you.”

I’m sitting on a rickety old chair in an abandoned building. No, not even a building- a mere façade.

Just like Mary.

I shake away the thought and concentrate. I don’t have long before I start bleeding through the stitches. Every passing minute is crucial to both the plan and my survival.

I’ve already gotten through the bulk of the phone call with Mary. It’s mostly filler to keep her from storming inside and shooting me on sight, and it’s working so far.

Like scenes from a play...

She’ll be coming inside soon, judging from her initial distance from the building. It won’t be long now.

I can hear her breathing quicken over the line as my question grows more and more personal. “What do you want, Sherlock?” she growls, her voice lower than I’ve ever heard it.

“Mary Morstan...stillborn in 1972. Thought it’d be...a-awfully clever, taking her name like that,” I say softly, clutching my chest with my free hand. “It’s why you don’t have any...f-friends from before...then.”

Common enough tactic.

Mary’s sharp laugh rings out. “You don’t sound very well, Sherlock. Perhaps we should get you to a hospital.” Her voice lowers. “Or a morgue.”

“How...how good of a shot are you?” I ask, biding my time with the questions. I need to stall. Answers can come later, hopefully with John’s assistance.

Even so…

I need to know.

I can almost hear her smirk from the other side of the line. “How badly do you want to find out? I’d be more than happy to demonstrate. I can see you’re right in front of me, it would only take a single pull of the-“

“If you’re such a good shot…” I take a few shaky breaths and continue to interrupt her, “…th-then...demonstrate. Unf-fortunately, I don’t have any l...live targets, forgive me. You’ll h-have to...settle for a coin.” I force a weak laugh that makes my stomach ache and my labouring lungs burn. “That is...i-if you can…”

The line crackles a bit on her end. “You think you can bait me, Sherlock? I thought you knew me better than that.”

Yes, Mary.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“I want to...know how good you are,” I say encouragingly. “Go on...the doctor’s wife must b-be...rather bored, by now...Because…” I gasp for a much-needed breath.

“Because what?” she snaps, frustrated, as she adjusts the leather strap of her heavy purse.

Added weight of the gun. Obviously unaccustomed to carrying it around. Is she still a good shot?

“Because...you’re a psychopath...and p-psychopaths get bored.” I groan into my coat collar in pain. At this rate, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold out.

“Ha,” she scoffs. “I’ll entertain you, Sherlock. God knows you can’t have much left in you, anyway.” Mary pulls out a fifty-pence piece from her purse and holds it aloft. She glances above, gauging the height of the ceiling with a critical eye, and flips the coin in the air. In one swift move, she aims the gun and fires. A metallic clank is heard, and she smirks triumphantly.

I hang up the phone with a flourish. “Impressive,” I whisper, the faintest smile on my face visible in the flickering light.

Mary turns to look at me, clearly startled. “You’re…standing. Then who...Ah. I see. A dummy? Fairly obvious trick, don’t you think?” She slides the coin over to me with the tip of her boot.

I lean over with a grunt and pick it up, pausing only to examine it. I straighten up, the stabbing pain making it harder to stand. My breathing is growing more and more erratic, but I choose to ignore it in favour of my deductions.

Ordinary fifty-pence coin, no obvious assistive modifications. Hole where the 0.38mm bullet penetrated is precisely in the center. Fifteen-plus years in the killing business, at least. She’s a remarkable shot, I’ll give her that.

Not good enough, though.

“Impressed?” she asks, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Spectacularly...accurate sh-shot, yet you...failed to place...a kill. Sentiment, or d-did you...not want to...blow y-your cover?” It’s a risk to taunt her so openly, but unfortunately a risk I must take.

“Neither. John wasn’t supposed to come save you. The doorframe creaked fairly loudly and that alerted him. You would have died if it hadn’t been for my damn recklessness,” Mary snarls, looking more angry at herself than anyone else. “It’s not a mistake I’ll make again.”

Wait-

She raises her gun to my forehead.

-this isn’t how it’s supposed to-

I hear a click and a loud shot.

When I open my eyes again, I see Mary crumpled on the floor, her chest weakly moving up and down as blood leaks from her body, filling spaces it shouldn’t be. I can hardly breathe from the shock of seeing her so suddenly vulnerable.

“You...d-don’t...you didn’t…h-have a...g-gun…” she chokes out. “H-how…?”

“Sorry,” I hear a bitter voice behind her say, and suddenly John is standing there, his gun pointed straight ahead, and it all makes sense. “Not that obvious a trick.”

“John- b-but-“ I stutter out, my mouth moving, but hardly any noise coming out.

How…how did he…?

Mary groans loudly, and I move to ask him again, thinking perhaps he didn’t hear me.

“J-John…”

“You. You don’t get to speak,” John hisses, before leaning down to Mary’s side. “Mary, I can still…”

“N-no…” she says softly, obviously straining to sit up. “It’s...t-too late, John. I...I suppose...n-now I know how...Sh-Sherlock f-felt...Ah-!” She cries out in anguish and lifts a shaking hand to John’s face.

He doesn’t push her hand away. “You’re a pathetic liar, Mary. You lied to me, you shot my best friend, you- you-“ He’s practically hyperventilating with anger now, each breath harder than the next. “You killed our baby.”

Mary is eerily silent for a moment, but she nods eventually. “I d-did...John...Will...w-will it matter...i-if I say...I-I’m sorry…?”

“No,” he says honestly. His face is more pained than I have ever seen, contorted with unspoken rage and agony. “You’ve destroyed it all, Mary. I will never forgive you.”

“P-please…” she begs, clinging onto his collar with an almost frightening desperation. “I c-can’t go...n-not like this...J-John…”

“You should have thought about that…” John swallows back a sob, “...before you shot Sherlock.”

Tears stream down her pale, stricken face. “I th-think I l-loved you...o-once...d-did you ever...l-love me...J-John…?”

“Once,” he says softly, closing his eyes for a moment. “Not anymore. Not since Sherlock came back, I think.”

I’m silent.

What could I possibly say…?

Her face grows sadder, if that’s possible. “I...c-could never...c-compare...not t-to…him…”

“I’m not gay,” he says with a weak smile, forcing a small chuckle.

“A-and...I’m...n-not an...a-assassin…” she gasps out with a laugh, pulling harder on his coat. “I...w-would have...n-never really...k-killed you, y-you know…?”

His face is grim. “I don’t know that, Mary. Because I don’t know you at all. I- I bet...I bet your name isn’t even Mary.”

“It’s n-not,” she admits, her grip beginning to fail. “Th-that- ...wh-what I just s-said…- was a lie...I w-would have…” she coughs out, dark blood trickling from the corners of her pink lips. “I w-would h-have...I w-would...b-because I’m s-selfish…”

He nods. “I didn’t believe you, anyway.”

“I e-even...w-wanted...R-Rosamund…” Mary’s trembling hand slips from his jacket.

“Mary…”

“R-Rosamund...f-far better...th-than...Sh-Sher...Sherlock…” Her breath hitches on my name, and her face tightens with the effort. “G-goodbye...b-both of you…”

“Mary,” John breathes. “D...don’t…”

“G-go b-back to B-Baker S-Street...J-John...And Sh-Sherlock…?” She turns her head slightly to look at me. “I-I’m...s-sorry…T-take c-care...of...J...John…”

Her eyes go glassy and dull as she quietly exhales for the last time. John looks numb as uses two fingers to gently push her eyelids shut. Pressing a final kiss to her clammy forehead, he abruptly stands up and snaps his fingers. “Sherlock. Let’s go,” he says, his tone deathly quiet and clipped.

“J-John…”

“I said...let’s go. There’s nothing left for us here.”

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I’ve waited too long. I should have called someone. I should have called the hospital. I can almost hear John scolding me already- ‘Why do you never call the police?’

My vision goes blurry as my legs fail me. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, but then again…this night has been full of surprises. Nothing short of dangerous encounters and yet another miraculous deus-ex-machina from John Watson.

Not dead. Not yet.

“Amb- ambulance…” I whisper hoarsely, before collapsing on the floor next to Mary’s cold, limp, unmoving body.

John rushes towards me, and I get a glimpse of her pale face as my eyes flutter shut. Her lips are slightly parted, almost upturned. She seems to be finally at rest. She doesn’t deserve it, but I don’t think I could think of a better way for her to exit this world. A brutal display of karma…

…And yet…

I feel my flat expression become a weak smile.

She looks...so peaceful...almost like she’s sleeping…

The End (?)

Act One linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/656892650818011136/three-acts

Act Two linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/656968775195934720/three-acts

Epilogue linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/657054522939686912/three-acts

#bbc #sherlock holmes #john watson #sherlock #johnlock #jim moriarty #post reichenbach #mary is not good #she’s actually pretty evil #like ew #Mary sucks #lol

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parkers-gal · 4 years ago

Text

cups

boomerang pt. iii

wc: 2k

warnings: very detailed anxiety attack

There’s two faucets, each with a cup under, catching the liquids. There’s one that flows consistently, one she drinks out of on the daily. The other comes out in drips, in which she sips from the cup rarely. Now, the rare cup is overflowing, so much that she can’t drink all of it. She’s drunk on it now, and she’s not sure where the end or the start is anymore. The other cup has stopped flowing all together. The once consistent flow that kept her thriving and hydrated was now barren and dry.

One would complain about how different the two beverages taste, one being bitter and sour and tart, the other sweet and honeyed and enjoyable. But not her. Maybe the whole point of having both is to keep them balanced. Maybe that’s where the fault line is, where the recurring problem always starts from. Maybe nobody is ever supposed to have too much of one beverage; perhaps it needs to be even, balanced, steady. One thing’s for sure, you’re always supposed to have both; never neither.

Y/N’s in a pickle. Out of the two of them, she wasn’t the actor. But now, pretending is her main task; something she must do everyday just to survive to the next. It starts at her friends house, the place she’d ran off to when things went crumbling down. To any outsider, the split wasn’t as drastic as others, though the pair didn’t exactly end on great terms, one would expect both to hold no grudges or remain satisfied. When they said the game of love was a battlefield, nobody ever told them it would be war.

She’s sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room. Despite the name, the room is anything but alive. It’s dead and cold and dull and unwelcoming. The welcome mat outside could even be considered click-bait, in Y/N’s opinion. But nobody had ever cared about Y/N’s opinions. Or her feelings. Or her thoughts or struggles or ideas or wishes. Because she’s the nurturer, the person other people turn to when they want to show insights of their lives. Y/N had never gotten the opportunity to do the same.

At one point, though, she thought she had found the person she could do that to. But of course, things went crashing down, the foundation crumbling and cracking until piles of rubble and concrete were left, dust wafting through the air and making her lungs burn.

Three weeks have passed, and by the middle of the fourth week, Harrison had told her about his accident with the car. She wanted to be there – as the person who sat with him in the ambulance, or the person who was driving the car – she wasn’t sure, but she knew she wanted to be there. She almost drove to the hospital; the keys were in her hand and the door was opened, but she had ultimately decided that he didn’t want her like he used to.

The heart does a lot to a human. Love is like blood, the source of living and anyone’s lifeline; you need it to survive, the heart needs it. That’s why the heart pumps it 24/7, flushes it through the body and asks the lungs for continuous support in doing so. Y/N used to be breathing heavily, panting as the love ran through her veins and pumped her heart, filling her soul and her skeleton. Now, she was lying on the floor in an empty void, bleeding out the love that once kept her alive. It’s ironic, how the thing you need is also the thing that gets you killed.

“Get up,” Aisha nudges Y/N with her foot. “get off the floor for once.”

Groaning, Y/N sat up, head rush flooding her skull as she rolled her eyes. “What?” she whined.

“Let’s go out tonight.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Aisha cuts her short, standing up and reaching for Y/N’s hands to help her stand too. “You said you would; I’ve already promised the gang we’d be there.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, standing up and patting her thighs for any stray hairs or dirt.

“Go shower,” Aisha nudges her in the direction of the bathroom. “We can get ready on time for once.”

Y/N laughs with a nod, walking towards her room. Once her back is turned, the smile drops from her face and her hands cover her face as she rubs. Hopefully, makeup would cover up the luggage her eyes carry under them.

She’s wearing heels and an off-the-shoulder-top dress that’s shorter than anything she owns. Aisha called it “clubbing material,” when she bought it, so she knew this would suffice for the night and satisfy her friends’ requirements.

“Y/N?!” Aisha calls from the kitchen. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” she yells back. “Let me just grab my purse!”

Opening a drawer to grab her jewelry, she wears a necklace before grabbing her purse. She halts all of a sudden, practically tripping her own self as she looks at the handbag her fingers are encased around.

“Y/-!” Aisha walks through the door, two shot glasses in her hands, but she too stops and takes notice of what Y/N is doing. “Are you… okay?”

Y/N shakes her head wildly, dropping all thoughts as she gives Aisha a smile, reaching for one of the glasses as she leads the way out of the room.

Club hours extend on weekends. Friday’s run all through Saturdays, so the club is pretty wild when they arrive. There’s five of them, each wearing something equally sexy and stunning and powerful. Y/N wishes she could feel all of those things, but she pretends, for now. It’ll do.

“This way!” Jennie calls, grabbing Y/N’s hand as they move to a particular section of the dance floor, some of them already getting into the groove with the beat. Y/N laughs before moving her hips, joining them.

She dances for about fifteen minutes before a certain figure catches her attention. It’s not who she thinks it is, thankfully, but he is wearing a familiar hoodie, one she’s certain she had worn a copy of. The memories flood back quickly, and she stops her movements suddenly, trying to catch her breath.

“You good?” Aisha asks, a hand on the small of her back. Y/N nods, telling her something about needing a glass of water, and Aisha nods, coming with her. Hands linked, they make their way through the crowd of sweaty twenty-something-year-old’s before settling on two stools at the bar counter.

“What’ll it be this time, ladies?” Ciara, the barista, asks.

“Just a bit of h-two-oh,” Aisha says with a laugh, going on about some new store opening down the street. Ciara happily chats back, and Y/N is thankful for the free moment to distract her brain. Before she knows it, she’s sipping out of a glass cup and another figure sits in the vacant seat next to her. The girl – who’s wearing something Y/N would love to buy – is chatting with the fellow she saw earlier. Her perfume is so strong that Y/N can smell it from her spot, and the scent is so familiar that she recognizes it immediately.

Upon the realization, she stands up from the stool hastily, setting the glass on the counter before going back onto the dance floor – a different type of distraction. She doesn’t last long, though, because someone is changing the song for Karaoke Hour, and the runner up is some girl – and the song she’s chosen sends Y/N into a furry of more memories and nostalgia.

Her breaths get short, eyes unable to focus on one particular item, and she’s reaching her hands out for nothing in particular, reaching out because she’s been abandoned for so long.

“Are you alright?” Daniella asks, lightly holding her left arm, one that Y/N had accidentally swung into her stomach.

“What’s happening?” Aisha asks, coming over to the group, abandoning her spot at the bar.

“Y/N,” Daniella tries again.

There’s tears trickling down her face, mascara smudging in the most cliche way. Her breathing has picked up so much she’s practically hyperventilating now, and her heart is beating faster than a 365 GTB Ferrari. Sweat builds on her palms and her underarms, and she nearly trips while stumbling backwards, her heels sabotaging her ankles’ strength.

“Let’s take her out of here,” Aisha shouts over the music, and the four of them attempt to bring her outside of the club. The majority of Y/N’s weight is on the girls around her, and she’s internally grateful they’re not as oblivious as former friends.

They sit her down on a bench, one of them wrapping a jacket around her shoulders as Aisha talks softly to her, sending two of the girls inside to get another glass of water. Y/N gulps half the cup down on her first go, and her breathing calms down after ten minutes.

After five minutes of sitting on the bench in the calmest degree she could manage, Aisha tells the three of them to get the rest of their stuff and pay the tab while she calls for a taxi cab, and Y/N feels guilty for ruining their girls night out.

“We can talk when we get home- if you want, of course,” Aisha assures her.

When Y/N’s certain they’re alone, she rambles. “It was just- so much, the lights and t-the songs and my p-purse and the perfume and ja-jackets-”

“I know, baby, I know,” Aisha coos at her, pulling her into a hug before the rest of the girls come out, and they file into a cab, scents of alcohol lingering on them.

***

When Y/N wakes the next morning, there’s seven missed calls in her notification center. Four are from the girls (about last night), two from a colleague at work, and another from Harry. Unplugging her phone, she clicks on his number, the phone dialing.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice is raspy through the phone, and Y/N has a feeling she just woke him up.

“Hey,” she breathes into the phone. “You called?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Aisha told me about last night; ‘was just checking in.”

“Oh,” Y/N sighs. “Yeah.. I’m okay,” she whispers.

Harry hums in response, and a few beats pass before he speaks again. “Did you hear he punched me?”

“What?” Y/N laughs. “Yeah right-”

“No really. I had to go to the hospital to make sure my jaw wasn’t fractured.”

“Wow.”

“I know- what a fuckin’ twat.”

It’s Y/N’s turn to hum, and Harry just laughs, rubbing his jaw from the remaining aches.

“Are things… bad?” Y/N whispers again, afraid somebody might shame her for being curious, for being worried.

“Worse than they’ve ever been,” Harry says back quietly. “I know you were Tom’s, but everything is different over here. It’s like this piece of our lives is just gone, and everyone has to work around it now.”

Y/N sighs and looks down, phone still to her ear as she thinks about his words. “Yeah,” she whispers before wiping at her face. “I get it.”

“I don’t know if you do, though.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Do you honestly think you’re meant to be apart?”

“Harry,” Y/N says sternly with another sigh. “I just- we’ve talked about this already. I’m tired of being the one that doesn’t matter.”

“But you matter to me,” he says back. “And Harrison and Sam and Tuwaine and Paddy and-”

“But who’s the base of it all?” Harry doesn’t reply, so she asks again. “Why’re you a group?”

“Because of him,” Harry admits. “No, yeah, I know, I get it,” he sighs too. “I just.. miss my home.”

“It was home to you but hell to me.”

“I know. And I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel guilty about doing what’s best for yourself.”

“Don’t be,” Y/N rubs at her face. “It’s whatever.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

Y/N looks to the window, glancing at the rays of light and the green leaves, and she ponders the thought.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

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besanii · 4 years ago

Text

shattered mirrors 53

WangXian ; 1386 words

[set before #02]

The first sign of trouble rears its head when the clothing Mo Xuanyu had taken downstairs to be laundered comes back with a large tear along the sleeve. The cut is too clean, too large, too prominent, to have been accidental, but there is little they can do when they do not know who the perpetrator is, so Wei Wuxian sends Mo Xuanyu to the tailor to see if they are able to salvage the garment at all.

Later that day, one of his favourite headpieces—one with red stones set in a silver band, one of the very first gifts he had purchased for himself in this new life—is found broken on the floor beneath his dressing table, one of the stones cracked and partially dislodged. Mo Xuanyu lets out a frustrated cry when he sees it and stomps about the room with helpless anger as Wei Wuxian examines the broken pieces in his hands.

“We can’t let them get away with it, Xian-ge!” he says. “First the robes Zhao-daye gave you, then your favourite zanzi?”

He’s right, of course. In the weeks since they’d set up shop here at Caiyi Pavilion, Wei Wuxian has been on the receiving end of baleful glares and jealous whispers, which had only worsened after Lan Wangji had started frequenting the establishment. It is understandable: he’d been here only a matter of weeks and had managed to not only bring in a whole slew of new patrons, but also taken a few existing clients from his colleagues without even trying. He would be more surprised if they weren’t resentful of his presence.

“Leave them be, A-Yu,” he says, setting aside the headpiece in a box. “Trinkets and robes can be replaced. No need to get so worked up about it.”

Mo Xuanyu huffs. “Xian-ge, if you don’t do something soon, they’ll just take more and more liberties! They’ll break your things now, but what if they come for you next time?”

Wei Wuxin smiles and passes him the box.

“Patience,” he says. “We don’t know who is behind all of this yet. Let’s not strike the grass and alert the snake.”

The next few days are relatively uneventful—the resentful looks and gossip continues, but there is no further damage to his property, and he carries on with his usual routine as if nothing had happened. They manage to get the headpiece repaired by a skilled craftsman and the robes modified to hide the tear, and he shows off both during the day as they all make their preparations for that night’s business. It doesn’t take long for one of his colleagues to take the bait.

“Xian-er, you must tell me where you purchased that zanzi,” she gushes, circling around him to get a better look. “It is absolutely exquisite.”

She is easily half a head shorter than he is and has to crane her neck to see, but he stays still and keeps his hands tucked into his sleeves as she inspects the headpiece. They are in the middle of the main hall where the servants are cleaning and polishing and rearranging furniture while there are no clients to get in the way. The other courtesans mill around in various states of preparation, still in their day clothes, eyeing the two of them with interest.

“Honglian-jie is too generous in her praise,” Wei Wuxian says with feigned warmth. “This is just a trinket I bought at the market on a whim, only recently repaired after an unfortunate incident. It is nowhere close to the value of the gold buyao you wear.”

“Oh, this little thing?” she says with a simpering laugh. “Just a small gift from a devoted client, nothing special.”

Honglian’s lips curve upwards with all the satisfaction of a spoilt cat as she reaches up with one hand to finger the ends of the gold hairpiece that dangles from the twist in her hair. It is a fine piece of jewellery, as far as jewellery goes, and it flatters her pretty neck just so as she moves; he knows there are other girls in the brothel who eye it with barely concealed envy, but he supposes that is the intention. Already now he catches Caiqiao, one of the more popular girls in the establishment, rolling her eyes from where she is sitting at a nearby table with a plate of osmanthus cakes.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to have such generous clients like yours, Honglian-jie,” he insists. “I had to buy this piece of scrap out of my own pocket.”

He watches as her eyes light up at the bit of bait he’s tossed to her; she laughs, high and breathy, and shakes her head.

“Now, Xian-er, you must be teasing,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to teach me a few tricks. It seems that, when it comes to attracting and pleasing clients, no one can boast themselves better than you.”

Her smile turns sharp and pointed, her voice silky and heavy with connotations. The other girls within earshot have gone still, their bodies poised in the tell-tale way eavesdroppers always have when pretending to do otherwise; it is so predictable that Wei Wuxian has to smother a laugh in his sleeve.

“Honglian-jie, you flatter me,” he says, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I use no more technique or tricks than any in this trade. Perhaps I have just had more luck than most in recent days.”

“You’re being too humble, Xian-er,” Honglian tells him. Her voice is simpering and pleasant, but her eyes are hard. “We all know it takes more than just luck to seduce Hanguang-wangye, who is known to be cold and untouchable as ice. Won’t you pity your sisters and share the details of your great conquest?”

The girls around them titter with amusement and curiosity at her words, all pretences forgotten as they lean in to catch his reply. When none comes, Honglian clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

“Xian-er, ah, Xian-er,” she sighs, sliding forward to loop her arm around his in a sisterly fashion. “Let me give you a word of advice, as the former huakui of Caiyi Pavilion: you mustn’t be selfish. We are all sisters here, in this business, and it is the nature of sisters to share what they have.”

Her nails dig into his arm where they rest over the sleeve—they are painted a deep red to match her lip rouge, and contrast against the pale grey of his robes—but he does not humour her with a reaction. Instead, he rests his other hand over hers and pats it gently, in the same way a parent may do to reassure a child.

“I will keep your wisdom in my mind, Honglian-jie,” he tells her. “But I fear whatever details I share will be of no use to our sisters. Hanguang-wangye is not so easily won over by simple tricks or seduction employed by any common courtesan. Indeed, I myself do not presume to know all his likes and dislikes. What I do know is this—”

He leans in close to whisper his next words in her ear.

“He abhors deception.” She stills beneath his hands, eyes wide as his breath ghosts over her. “It’s in his title: hanguang. The bearer of light. Someone as upstanding and righteous as Hanguang-wangye would not look twice at those who employ underhanded tactics to achieve selfish means.”

He gives her hand one last pat and pries it off his arm.

“If you come to my rooms later, I will give you the name of the craftsman who repaired my zanzi,” he tells her with a friendly smile, loud enough for the others to hear. “He did an excellent job, considering its sorry state when we brought it to him. Perhaps you’ll have need of his services in the future.”

He reaches up to brush the gold hairpiece, letting the ends fall over his fingers as he smiles down at her. She stares up at him, frozen in place even as he inclines his head in farewell.

“Come, A-Yu,” he says, motioning for Mo Xuanyu to follow. “Let’s leave them to their preparations.”

Notes:

zanzi (簪子) - decorative hairpins worn by women

daye (大爷) - Master, usually used for rich, idle men

buyao (步摇) - decorative hairpiece with dangling ornaments that sway as the wearer walks (literally means ‘swaying with each step’)

Also two random OCs who might not appear again, but needed names for Reasons: Honglian (红莲) and Caiqiao (彩繑). They were the former “top” courtesans of Caiyi Pavilion before WWX arrived, so hold a bit of a grudge against him for stealing their spotlight.

Master Post and ko-fi link on my sidebar!

#mdzs #wangxian #shattered mirrors fic #shattered mirrors au #王爷机 X 花魁羡 #prince!lwj #courtesan!wwx #lan wangji #wei wuxian #no knives #my writing

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fandomsalive · 4 years ago

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So Listen Dear, Won’t You Meet Me Here While I’m Bringing in the New Year

So Listen Dear, Won’t You Meet Me Here While I’m Bringing in the New Year | Reddie | Teen and Up | 5,627 words

Summary: “Fuck you, I would have gotten it eventually,” Richie shoots back, even as he rushes to save the game quickly, and then tosses the controller to the side. “I’m bored," he declares loudly.

He stares resolutely at the TV the same way he’s been avoiding Eddie’s eyes most of the night, like he’s too nervous to meet Eddie’s gaze.

“You were the one who wanted to play video games all night,” Eddie grumbles, glaring at the side of his face. When we could be making out instead, he complains in his own head, but refuses to say aloud.

It’s New Years Eve, and Eddie’s just waiting for Richie to make a move already.

—

Title from "Bringing In A Brand New Year," by B.B. King. I was inspired by this (x) tik tok and I know it’s way too late for New Years but take this New Years fic anyway. This is also set 2016 but the boys are teens. Thanks to @imnotinclinedtomaturity for the beta I love you.

Ao3 Link

—

Stan (10:16 PM)

so has he made a move on u yet?

Eddie (10:16 PM)

fuck you stan you know he hasnt

Stan (10:17 PM)

i told u ud have ot be the one to suck it up kaspbrak

Eddie (10:18 PM)

I hate you.

Stan (10:18 PM)

ur just mad i was right. i knew richie wouldnt have the balls to follow through on his plans to jump ur bones tonight

Eddie doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead choosing to toss his phone onto the edge of Richie’s bed with a huff. Richie, who up ‘til then had been blatantly (and perhaps a little desperately) trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed Eddie was on his phone, glances at the discarded phone with far too much interest.

“Who ya texting, Eds?” he asks, feigning indifference but missing by a mile. Eddie wants to roll his eyes at just how transparent his best friend is, but he really shouldn’t be surprised. Richie has been on edge all night, more often than not turning to Eddie to say something, and then changing his mind last minute, so of course the moment Eddie’s attention isn’t on him, he’d be concerned.

“Your mom,” Eddie snarks back, crossing his arms over his chest in irritation. Richie snickers, but his heart clearly isn’t in it. He keeps darting his eyes towards Eddie’s phone, and then back to the TV screen, where he’s been playing Kingdom Hearts for the last hour, as if he wants nothing more than to take Eddie’s phone and find out for himself.

Do it, Eddie begs him internally, eyes narrowed at the back of Richie’s head.

Richie doesn’t, but Eddie hadn’t really been expecting anything different. Richie hasn’t been picking up on anything Eddie has been hinting at recently. It’s starting to feel like nothing short of screaming his intentions from the rooftop will work to knock some sense into him.

In fact, he’s been sitting at the head of Richie’s bed for the last two hours, sprawled as invitingly as he could imagine in a pair of sleep shorts and one of Richie’s jackets. He looks good, he knows he looks good.

More than once he’s stretched himself towards Richie, pressing their thighs together and tossing his ankle over Richie’s, but rather than encouraging Richie to just do something already, it had only succeeded in Richie giggling nervously and, after the third rendition, retreating half way down the bed.

Richie has been sat cross legged down there for the last hour and a half, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do to salvage the damn night. He can’t exactly chase Richie, because so far drawing any attention to Richie’s weirdness, or Eddie’s blatant attempts to flirt, has only seemed to spook him, and any attempt to broach the subject — that subject being the fact that Eddie wanted to date him — only made Richie clam up more.

Eddie has been waiting the last couple of months for Richie to just… come out with it already, ever since Janice had asked Eddie to be her date to homecoming, and Richie had gone into such a fit he hadn’t spoken to Eddie for a week. Eddie had been so mad at him for being a dick and ignoring him, but every time Eddie’d tried to catch him on his own, Richie would disappear. For three days straight he’d been to all of Richie’s favorite hang out spots and hadn’t seen hide nor tail of him until the end of October when Eddie stumbled out the back of the Chemistry building and accidentally overheard a private conversation between Richie and Bev.

He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop but… Richie was his best friend, and more than anything else, Eddie had been hurt by the sudden refusal to speak to him. He hadn’t even understood at the time, hadn’t made the connection to Janice at all, until he’d heard Richie confessing to Bev, his voice hesitant, quiet… hurt.

“It’s only a matter of time before someone asks Eddie out and he says yes, Bev,” Richie had sniffled miserably. “What am I supposed to do then, because I sure as fuck can’t pretend to be happy for him? It’ll break my heart.”

Ever since then, Eddie has been trying to tell Richie that Eddie doesn’t want a girlfriend. In fact, Eddie isn’t interested in girls at all. He’s far more interested in his foulmouthed best friend, despite his better judgement.

Richie doesn’t seem to get it, though. The following Monday, Richie had started speaking to him again as if nothing had happened, and any time Eddie attempted to bring any of it up, Richie would say something so nonsensical and infuriating that Eddie couldn’t help raising to the bait.

Now it's been over two months and Richie is still pussy footing around despite the fact that Eddie has been flirting with him this entire time. He’s dropped so many hints about his own fucking feelings that now all of the Losers know he’s in love with Richie, and their sympathy is quickly waning.

“You need to just tell him outright, Eddie,” had been Bill’s sage advice after the millionth time Eddie had practically sat on Richie’s lap in the hammock and Richie had responded by jumping out of it. “He’s an idiot, and obviously terrified you’re going to reject him if he so much as breathes on you wrong. He’s not going to realize you like him back when you’re flirting with him the same way you’ve been flirting with him your entire friendship.”

Eddie had told Bill to fuck off, and hid in his room for the rest of the night, frustrated at his own inability to sack up, as Bev would put it.

And truthfully, Eddie doesn’t know why he hasn’t just blurted it all out yet, but every time he’s even come close, he’s felt almost faint with anxiety. It hasn’t helped that everytime Richie senses a serious conversation coming, he diverts the conversation as fast as he possibly can. Richie’s lack of desire to actually fucking talk about this isn’t exactly comforting, despite the fact that Eddie knows Richie likes him.

But it’s New Year’s Eve tonight, and Stan, sick of watching Richie and Eddie dance around each other, had confided in Eddie that Richie was planning on confessing his feelings tonight, if he could only convince Eddie it would be worth pissing off his mom to spend the night.

Spending any amount of time with Richie was worth it, but if it meant Richie was going to admit to how he felt, Eddie wasn’t going to miss his chance.

Except… so far, Stan’s assumption that Richie wouldn’t have the guts to tell Eddie the truth seems to be the most likely outcome. Eddie sighs at the thought, unsure what else he could possibly do to make it clear to Richie that he’s more than receptive to Richie’s feelings..

All Eddie can really think about just then, however, is how shit Richie is at Kingdom Hearts.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Eddie grouses loudly, as Richie makes another attempt to defeat Luxord, and the loud death animation plays out on the screen.

“Fuck you, no I’m not,” Richie shoots back, stubbornly clicking “restart” and beginning the fight all over again. Eddie sighs loudly. This is the fifth time he’s seen Richie attempt this fight tonight, and each time he’s fallen to the same fucking trap. It's probably thanks to the fact that Richie hasn’t actually been paying very much attention to his game at all, apparently too busy fidgeting in place and sending Eddie obvious, but nonetheless longing, looks.

“You just have to pay fucking attention,” Eddie grumbles and shifts onto his knees, crawling determindedly over to Richie. Richie looks over his shoulder at Eddie, a nervous look in his eye, tongue sticking out in concentration. Richie shifts with Eddie, leaning forward like he wants to get away. Eddie wants nothing more than to shove him off the bed already. “Look, see, when he turns into a card you just have to —”

At Richie’s side now, Eddie reaches for the controller in Richie’s hands, and jerks it into his own.

“Hey!” Richie complains loudly, but doesn’t fight it. Instead, he practically recoils, and moves over on the bed so that he’s on the edge, a large gap between him and Eddie’s knees. Eddie does everything he can to ignore it, and starts mashing buttons on the controller.

“See, look, if you just fuck with the camera you can tell which card he’s and then —” Eddie unleashes a combo attack on Luxord in the few seconds that he’s stunned, before Luxord changes tacks.

Eddie doesn’t bother handing Richie the controller back, because Richie doesn’t ask and Eddie is tired of sitting around looking tempting when it’s clear Richie isn’t going to fucking do anything about it. Irritated, Eddie unleashes his anger on the game instead. “And then when he does it again, you just —” Again, Eddie manipulates the camera until he knows exactly which card Luxord is in, locks on, and beats the shit out of him all over again.

“Alright, alright,” Richie grumbles, pouting and reaching up to throw his hoodie over his head, casting his face into shadow. Eddie rolls his eyes at the way Richie fiddles with the drawstrings there. Eddie recognizes it as one of Richie’s nervous ticks, and if he hadn’t known Richie was working himself up to confessing tonight, that would have been a good red flag that Richie wanted to do something.

Finally, after three more rounds of doing the same shit, Luxord dies, and Eddie thrusts the controller back into Richie’s hands. Richie takes it cautiously, sneaking a look at Eddie’s irritated face.

“There,” Eddie exclaims proudly. “I told you you were doing it wrong,” he adds smugly, and settles himself more firmly into the spot he’s taken up residence in. Richie will just have to deal with Eddie in his space, and if he wants to sit on the very edge of his bed with one foot pressed to the floor, only barely keeping him up, then so be it. Eddie’s tired of making this easy on him.

“Fuck you, I would have gotten it eventually,” Richie shoots back, even as he rushes to save the game quickly, and then tosses the controller to the side. “I’m bored,” he declares loudly, and drags the remaining leg he has on the bed up to his chest, wrapping his arm around it and resting his chin on his knee.

He stares resolutely at the TV the same way he’s been avoiding Eddie’s eyes most of the night, like he’s too nervous to meet Eddie’s gaze.

“Yeah, but you’re so much better at it,” Richie whines, and tosses himself backwards on the bed. His hood acts as a halo around his face, dark curls spilling out of it, as Eddie turns his body to stare down at him. Richie meets his eyes for half a second before his cheeks turn bright red and he looks away again. “Hey, I’ve got an idea!” he declares suddenly, and sits back up. He turns giddily to Eddie and declares, “Why don’t you play Dark Souls?”

Instantly, Eddie groans. “Fuck no!” he complains, “The last time I let you convince me to play Dark Souls, you spent the entire time making fun of me when I got my ass kicked. I’m not doing it again!” Eddie practically shouts at him.

Richie is cackling on the bed, grinning like an absolute lunatic at Eddie. It’s the first time all night things have seemed semi-normal between them. “That’s the best part, Edwardo!” Richie exclaims brightly. Eddie groans loudly at the nickname, but Richie steamrolls past him before he can say anything. “No one wants to watch someone being good at that game, it’s boooooring,” he sing-songs, dancing in place.

“No!” Eddie refuses, reaching out to shove at Richie’s shoulder. “I refuse! Pick something else!” he demands.

With a pout, Richie turns and drops back onto the bed. This time, his curls are what halo his face, and they’re so cute that Eddie wants to bury his fingers into them. Eddie has to fight a blush at the stupidly cheesy thought, and turns away.

“Fine,” Richie grumbles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You pick something then,” he adds, still pouting.

Sighing, Eddie reaches out to pick up Richie’s controller, and exits out of Kingdom Hearts. He scrolls through Richie’s downloaded games in search of a different one — not Dark Souls.

The clock in the corner blinks 10:32 PM, inching closer and closer to midnight. Richie only has an hour and twenty-eight minutes left to follow through on his supposed plan (and, unknowinglingly, prove Stan wrong. Eddie’s not so certain he’s going to manage it).

“For someone who spends so much time on his PS4,” Eddie complains, “you don’t have very many games.”

“It’s not about quantity, Eds,” Richie snarks back, shifting to prop himself up on his elbows, “It’s about quality. Oh!” he exclaims as Eddie skips through his games, “Crash Bandicoot! Eds, Eddie, Edwardo, Eddie Spaghetti,” he rattles off, shooting off the bed and grabbing for the controller. “Come on, we have to play that!”

He’s so excited he doesn’t seem to notice the way his fingers cover Eddie’s for a moment, but Eddie sure does. It sends a spark of heat down his back and he swallows thickly, releasing the controller.

“Fuck you, that’s not my name,” Eddie complains automatically, frowning. Richie isn’t listening to him. Instead, he’s opening up Crash Bandicoot N. Sane Trilogy, and debating between the three options. “Wait, I thought I was choosing the game,” he adds as an afterthought, not really caring but arguing out of habit.

“You were but you took too long,” Richie shoots back, sticking his tongue out. Eddie rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother arguing. It had been thirty seconds at the most. Richie is just impatient. “Besides,” Richie adds, eager as ever, “We can take turns defeating the levels,” he insists, and finally settles on Warped.

“Take turns my ass,” Eddie grumbles, but settles himself more comfortably on the bed regardless. He’s taking up the majority of the middle of the bed again, and Eddie isn’t surprised when Richie chooses to fit himself back against the very edge again, one leg propped on the floor to keep him stationary. His leg is bouncing nervously as he darts his gaze back and forth between the game and Eddie’s face. “I don’t think you know what take turns means,” Eddie adds, stubbornly ignoring Richie’s gaze.

“I do, too!” Richie claims, pouting. A smile twitches at Eddie’s lips, but he chooses to ignore it. “I’ll even prove it to you. You can go first!” Richie insists, and this time presses the controller into Eddie’s hands.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie takes it and starts the first level.

It turns out that Crash Bandicoot is one of the worst decisions Richie could have made, because they’re both disastrous at it. Within the first ten minutes, they’ve lost every single one of their lives, and they’re forced to start the level over from the beginning, rather than from the last checkpoint they’d hit. This only serves to make the game even harder, and Eddie isn’t the least bit surprised when he and Richie end up fighting over the controller.

“It’s my turn!” Richie screams in Eddie’s face, giggling as he wrestles him for the controller.

“No it isn’t! I haven’t beat the level yet!” Eddie argues back, struggling against Richie’s longer arms. As is par for the course for the two of them, their wrestling isn’t the least bit careful. In fact, Eddie’s fairly certain he’s going to have a bruise on his jaw tomorrow from where Richie had hit him with his elbow, but Eddie doesn’t mind. It’s always been satisfying to roughhouse with Richie.

“Yeah but you used our last life!” Richie shouts at him. “That’s pretty much the same thing! It’s your fault we had to start the level over!”

“Like you haven’t done it a million times already,” Eddie growls, finally shoving Richie off of him.

Richie goes careening off the bed, and hits the floor with a loud thump. Startled, Eddie drops the controller on the bed, and crawls across the sheets to stare down at where Richie has landed, eyes wide. Richie is staring up at him dazed, blinking rapidly as if trying to reorient himself. Eddie bites his bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and leans down to grasp onto Richie’s wrist. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, waiting for Richie to grip onto his wrist in turn before dragging him up and into a sitting position. Eddie lets go of him, and Richie reaches up to press tentative fingers to the back of his head. Eddie winces when Richie winces.

“I’m fine,” Richie groans, and drops his hands to the floor on either side of him. He takes another moment to gather himself, before leveraging himself to his feet. Instinctively, Eddie leans backwards until he’s sat back on the bed and out of Richie’s personal space. “You pack quite a punch for such a little guy,” Richie comments playfully.

“Oh, fuck you!” Eddiee screams instantly, reaching for the pillows at the top of Richie’s bed. As soon as he’s got one in his grip, Eddie starts pummeling Richie’s face with it. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” Eddie shouts, as Richie laughs and bats futilely at the pillow. “See if I ever worry about you again!” Eddie complains, huffing loudly.

It takes another few smacks of the pillow to Richie’s laughing face before Eddie finally relents.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, sheesh,” Richie says, still laughing. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he offers sweetly, using that stupid smile he always uses on grown ups to get out of trouble. Eddie huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Yes you did,” Eddie argues darkly.

Richie laughs again. “Okay, yes I did,” he agrees, nudging at Eddie softly, and then shuffling onto the bed next to him, “But I only do it to rile you up,” he admits. The moment the words are out of his mouth, Richie starts blushing and looks away.

Eddie, shocked at the confession, can only stare at the side of Richie’s face, terrified of doing or saying anything in response that might scare Richie off.

They’re silent for a moment, nothing but the sound of their game echoing around the room. The sound is annoying, considering how many times they’ve died in such a short period of time, but Eddie can also hear his heart beating roughly in his chest while he waits anxiously to see what Richie will do next.

Finally, Richie clears his throat. “You know, Eds,” Richie starts, his voice soft and tentative, the way it has been on and off all night. Eddie’s eyes dart to Richie’s face, and he feels his heart clench up tight in his chest. Is this it? Is this the time? Is Richie actually going to tell him—

With a huff, Richie shakes his head and gets up off the bed. He doesn’t say anything else, wringing his hands at his sides again instead, and Eddie’s chest deflates.

“Come on,” Richie says, completely changing the subject, “Let’s see if we can get to the boss before midnight.”

With darting, anxious eyes, Richie looks for the controller he’d just been sitting on, and snatches it up quickly as soon as he locates it. Then he throws himself back onto the bed, this time pressed up against the headboard, curled into his small pile of pillows.

So, no. Not this time, no point in Eddie getting his hopes up again.

Freshly annoyed at Richie’s new positioning once again away from Eddie, Eddie reaches up and snatches the controller from Richie’s hands.

Richie lets it go without a fight, eyes wide and unsure.

“It’s still my turn,” Eddie explains tersely, and turns back to the TV screen, where he can see the time 11:12 PM sitting innocuously in the corner, mocking him.

Eddie doesn’t know why he thinks it, but somehow he feels as if Richie hasn’t confessed by midnight, Richie isn’t going to confess at all.

With a sigh, Eddie tries the level again. And again. And again.

They do make it to the boss, eventually.

Richie’s the one to beat level 5, though it takes him a good 50 times to do so, and only then because the fourth level had been pretty easy and Eddie had managed to farm more than a couple of lives. He’d gone so far as to play another round of keep away with Richie to play the level a second time, to which Richie had sat in his corner and pouted.

But now they’re on the first boss, and Richie has refused to hand the controller back over.

“You got two turns with level 4!” Richie argues defiantly, “We’ll take turns with the boss. Everytime one of us dies, we hand the controller off!”

Grumbling to himself, Eddie relents, and, starting to feel uncomfortable sitting in the middle of the bed, moves to the top to settle in next to Richie. Eddie leaves some space between them this time, unwilling to put himself through the depressing experience of Richie pulling away from him again.

Richie still shoots a terrified glance at him, and scoots over the tiniest bit. Eddie does everything he can in his power not to roll his eyes too obviously, and nods at the game instead. “What are you waiting for? Start it already, dumbass.”

So Richie does.

Shockingly, the boss is pretty easy to beat. He’s so easy, in fact, that Eddie doesn’t even get a go at it, and while Richie laughs and cheers for his own victory, Eddie swipes the controller from his hands and starts level 6.

It’s inching nearer and nearer to midnight. He can see the clock glaring 11:47 at him. The year is almost over, and Richie still hasn’t confessed to him. Eddie isn’t sure if he should even be expecting it anymore, given how many times Richie has stared at him and then clearly chickened out without saying anything. It’s disappointing, when Eddie had come over that night feeling so hopeful.

Stan had warned him to keep his expectations low. None of their friends seemed to have any confidence in Richie’s willingness to confess, regardless of whether or not Richie had said he was going to do it. Eddie had just been hoping…

Well, he’d been hoping that maybe, by midnight, they would have talked about their feelings and Richie might have kissed him. The longer the night goes on, though, the less and less likely it seems that Richie actually will.

Eddie is so deep in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even notice it when he runs out of lives on level 6. He sighs, frustrated, when the game starts back over outside the level, and he turns to hand the controller off to Richie.

Their eyes meet. Richie’s are wide and terrified. His hood is pulled up over his head again, hiding part of his face in shadow, and he’s playing with the strings again, tightening and untightening his hood over and over again. For a moment, the look on Richie’s face is so startling that even Eddie feels nervous.

And then Richie says, “It’s almost midnight,” with a tremble in his voice.

Eddie nods his head slowly, feeling that familiar quiver in his chest that tells him the hope is building.

This time? he wonders.

“Yeah, it is,” Eddie agrees after a moment, unsure.

He does his best not to make Richie feel any more uncomfortable than he already does, and stays as still as he dares. He wants to reach out and take Richie’s hand in his, wants to drag his fidgeting fingers away from the strings of his hoodie, wants to shift forward so their thighs are pressed alongside each others’, wants to lean his forehead against Richie’s and beg him to kiss him.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because he knows that Richie is scared, and he knows what it’s like to be scared. Eddie’s spent his whole life being scared. He’d grown up being told all the ways he could get sick if he wasn’t careful, being told that he had allergies he didn’t have, and illnesses that wouldn’t stick. There had been a time in Eddie’s life where he couldn’t go one hour without taking another set of medications, and his inhaler had been his best friend.

So he understands being scared, and maybe that’s the real reason he hasn’t pushed Richie on this. Eddie knows that forcing someone to get over their fears isn’t going to fix anything, not in the long run, anyway — they have to want to get over them themselves. And Eddie is willing to wait.

“Fuck,” Richie mutters to himself, fingers tangling tight in his hoodie strings. His hands look like they might be shaking, but Richie is fidgeting too much for Eddie to know for sure. “Fuck, uhm, Eddie?” Richie asks nervously, eyes darting all around Eddie’s face, avoiding his eyes completely.

“Mm?” Eddie replies, breathless, his own eyes wide and nervous. He flattens his hands down hard against his thighs, and begs himself not to touch, to not scare Richie, to not push him.

“I’m—” Richie starts, cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, then starts again, “I’m going to do something now, but if you hate it, just tell me, okay?” he babbles nervously, finally detangling his fingers from his hoodie strings, only to clench them deeply into his jeans.

Eddie’s breathing speeds up, and his hands are shaking now too.

“Richie,” Eddie whispers, aiming for encouraging and falling short. He can hear that his own voice is shaking.

Richie doesn’t seem to notice, barreling on, “I promise it’s fine if you don’t like it. I just want to — I just want to try…” Richie’s voice trails off as he gulps, eyes darting all over Eddie’s face. He opens his mouth to say something more, but hesitates, and then starts to retreat into himself, clearly losing his nerve.

Eddie panics.

Before Richie can try and back out of it once again, Eddie blurts,“Kiss me.”

The words are half garbled with breathlessness, almost a gasp between them, but Richie seems to catch on. His eyes go wide, and he inhales sharply, struck dumb. For a long moment, they just stare at each other, Eddie with his heart in his throat, and Richie absolutely stunned. Finally, Richie bursts into a flurry of giggles.

He releases the strings of his hoodie to instead press his fingers to his mouth, laughing loudly around them, and gasps, “oh my god.” Richie is trembling all over as he drags his hands away from his mouth and wheezes, “holy shit,” the shock more than a little apparent.

Unable to help it, Eddie starts smiling as well, fingers clenching tight into the fabric of his jeans. “Richie!” he demands, giggling. “Come on, asshole!”

The I’m waiting feels heavy between them.

“Dude!” Richie shoots back, absolutely beaming now, and without another moment of hesitation, he reaches out and threads his fingers through the hair at the back of Eddie’s neck.

Eddie will never forget the way it feels when Richie tugs him into their first kiss. The sensation is like a shot of electricity to his spine, and he gasps before their lips even touch. He can feel his heart in his throat, beating so hard he shakes with it, and then Richie’s mouth is on his, and the feeling is like fireworks going off in his head.

Eddie doesn’t mean to groan. The sound is just ripped out of him, shocked and needy. Richie’s lips are hot against his, and he despite all of his previous nervousness, he doesn’t seem nervous of this at all. Maybe it’s because the scariest part is over, or maybe it’s because Richie knows Eddie wants it too. Regardless, he doesn’t seem to be holding back now.

Richie is a shockingly good kisser, and he takes Eddie’s bottom lip between his instantly, sucking so softly and sweetly that it's more a tease than anything. When he introduces teeth, it's the tiniest nip, and it drives Eddie absolutely crazy.

The way Richie sighs against his lips makes Eddie shiver. It takes Eddie a moment to realize that he’s raised his own hands to fist his fingers into the back of Richie’s curls, knocking off his hood and holding on tight in an attempt to prevent Richie from pulling away even the tiniest bit. Richie’s other hand has found Eddie’s waist, and it’s only when Richie yanks Eddie in closer that Eddie realizes he’d begun to melt backwards into the bed.

Gasping at the feeling of being held tight, Eddie shoves himself further into Richie’s personal space, until the warmth of him is seeping into Eddie, and Eddie is practically in Richie’s lap.

Their mouths come together again, and again, and again, their breathing hot and heavy between them.

Eddie’s heart feels like it’s going to burst. HIs entire body feels like it’s on fire.

“Fucking finally, asshole,” Eddie groans into the kiss, pulling lightly on Richie’s hair in punishment. Shocked, Richie laughs, and kisses Eddie even more enthusiastically, the wet sound of their mouths loud in Eddie’s ears. It’s almost all that he can hear, the faint sound of Crash Bandicoot so far away it might as well be in another room.

It feels like they make out forever, making up for all the lost time they could have spent doing this. Richie’s fingers dig deep into Eddie’s hip, and Eddie tugs on Richie’s hair unapologetically. Richie’s tongue sends sparks down Eddie’s spine every time he drags it against his lips, against his own tongue, against the back of his teeth. It feels so good that Eddie never wants to stop kissing Richie.

With every shift of their mouths, Eddie shifts his body closer to Richie’s, until finally Eddie manages to knock Richie over and lands on top of him with a small oof.

“Holy fuck,” Richie gasps, shocked as their mouths pull apart. His eyes are hazy when they meet Eddie’s, his mouth wet and red.

Short of breath, Eddie can only manage to gasp back, “Holy fuck.”

For some reason, this makes Richie laugh. He slams his head back against the bedsheets with the force of it, and lets his eyes drift closed.

Hovering on top of him, Eddie releases Richie’s hair to instead prop himself up, unable to help the way he grins down at Riche.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months,” Richie admits breathlessly, grinning as he finally opens his eyes again and looks up at Eddie. Eddie laughs and rolls his eyes, knocking his forehead gently into Richie’s.

“Yeah, I’m not an idiot, I could tell,” Eddie admits a little brashly, leaning in to peck Richie’s lips before Richie can tense up too much.

“You could?” Richie asks into the kiss, sounding shocked at the admission. Eddie nods, and kisses him again, and again, and again — soft little pecks that don’t turn into anything more.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, nuzzling their noses together. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a pair and do it already,” Eddie adds teasingly, and drags his head away from Richie’s long enough to look him in the eye. “Seriously Richie, I’ve been waiting for months,” he complains good naturedly, some of the irritation gone now that it’s out there — now that Richie’s kissed him.

“Oh,” Richie replies, eyes furrowing until he’s frowning. Surprised at this change in demeanor, Eddie pulls back from Richie again and shoots him a worried look.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, panicked.

Richie glares at him. “What the fuck, you asshole!” he whines, scrabbling at Eddie’s back until Eddie falls fully on top of him. “You knew this whole time, and you didn’t say anything?” he groans, wrapping his arms tight around Eddie and squeezing the life out of him.

The hold makes Eddie giggle, and he shoves his face into Richie’s neck, breathing hot there. “I’ve been trying, fucknuts! You’re just too fucking stupid to notice when someone’s flirting with you!” Eddie argues back, giddy with it.

Richie shakes his head against Eddie’s neck and says, “You know, you could have kissed me, too.”

The words are softer than the rest, a little coy and shy. Eddie feels his heart melt at it, and he pulls away from Richie’s neck slowly.

“I guess,” he agrees quietly, but doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t think he has to, with the way that Richie is looking at him. Despite Richie’s grumblings, he thinks that both of them know Richie had to be the one to kiss Eddie first.

Sure enough, it takes a moment, but eventually Richie rolls his eyes and says, “Alright fine.” Then he lifts one hand to press it into Eddie’s hair, and pulls him in close, “But did you know that I love you?” he whispers right up against Eddie’s lips.

Eddie shivers, and laughs softly, eliminating the last few inches of space between their mouths with a searing kiss, before whispering, “Yeah, and I love you too, dumbass.”

#reddie #reddie fanfic #Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak #it fanfiction

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chipper9906 · 4 years ago

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Third Times The Charm

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 15 (Episode 03: The Rupture, Episode 09: The Trap

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 6,508

Status: One Shot - Complete

Chapter Preview:

“Well… not… not that part,” Dean stutters out, taken aback by the fiery, spitting rage that Cas so rarely displays towards him. “If you’d just let me-,”

“No,” Castiel interrupts him, slowly rising back up with his duffel in hand. “You think you’re trying, Dean. You really do. But when it comes down to it, you’re not entirely ready to apologize to me. Not yet.” Dean couldn’t even get a word out as Cas reached into his trench-coat pocket before firmly planting something into his hand – something familiarly rectangular and thin in shape. “And even if you are… I’m certainly not ready to forgive.”

* * *

Three times Dean Winchesters attempts to "apologize" to Castiel. Except... This is Dean Winchester. Apologies aren't exactly his strong point.

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He knew he’d messed it all up the second the words left his mouth. And yet, in that moment of overboiling, long over-due anger spilling out, he simply didn’t have enough reasoning left to realize it.

So, he said it.

“Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?”

Cas had looked at him like he had physically hit him. He might as well have. But through the seething rage he felt, he just didn’t care that he had hurt Cas. A part of him felt good about it. Vindicated. Because if he was hurting, then Cas should, too.

And maybe that’s why… that’s why he can’t take it back. It’s why he can’t just apologize, tell Cas that he didn’t mean it, that it was a moment where he wasn’t thinking right. And that right there was the problem. He had meant it. He had been thinking back to all those times, all those fuck ups that have happened in their lives, and there was no doubt that Cas was involved in a lot of them. Maybe it had been something clung to the back of his mind, building, and building until he was pushed over the edge.

But it didn’t matter. He had said it, and he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t remove the pain he had inflicted on Cas.

And he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

But that was beside the point. They didn’t have time for this. They didn’t have time for petty silent treatments, and the boatload of therapy they probably needed. Mom was dead, Jack was dead, Rowena was dead, they had just barely averted yet another goddamn Apocalypse whilst simultaneously being thrown into another; this one with God himself out on a personal vendetta against them, and the entire friggen Universe, and goddammit, they didn’t have the time for Cas to go off sulking on his own!

So now that’s why he was sat here on the edge of the map table, phone in hand, staring glumly down at Cas’s name as it glowed back at him from the screen, thumb hovering just over his name. He didn’t have much faith that the call would even go through, considering the past twenty or so times he’s tried so far were sent straight to Cas’s voicemail. And not in a way that suggested his phone was off, or even that he was letting it ring out and not answering it. Dean knew that the few brief rings he heard before being cut off by Cas’s voicemail could only mean that the bastard saw Dean was calling and was rejecting the damn call.

Which is why, as he waited to be greeted by the same annoying voicemail message he’s listened to way too many times now, he’s caught by surprise when he’s instead greeted by the click of the call connecting, and the loud silence of Cas on the other end, not speaking.

“Cas? You there?”

Nothing but silence greets him. For a moment, the annoying part of him that still cares starts envisioning the worst scenarios. What if it wasn’t Cas? What if someone or something had killed him, and the killer wanted to know who the hell was stubborn enough to call someone twelve times in the span of around four minutes.

But no, it’s Cas that answers on the other end of the line with a very curt and unfriendly sounding, “What?”

Dean just about holds his tongue – pretty much has to bite down on it to stop himself from saying something he shouldn’t – and takes a deep, not at all calming breath. “Any reason you’ve been ignoring both mine and Sammy’s calls?”

“I think the answer to that question is fairly obvious,” Cas’s answer is scathing, dripping with levels of sarcasm that Dean didn’t think angels could even reach.

“Alright, fine. But couldn’t you at least answer Sammy’s calls? Or even just his messages?”

“No.”

Another deep breath, Winchester.

“And why’s that?” Dean gets out through gritted teeth, hearing his phone crack and groan in protest under his vice-like grip.

“Because I don’t want to.”

Turns out, that’s all he needed to be pushed over the edge again.

“Yeah? Well, Cas, funnily enough, you don’t always get what you want. Woulda’ thought you of all people would have learned that by now, with as much time you spend with us. And you know what? Now isn’t one of those times where you get what you want. Hell, what neither of us want. But we both know that the crap going down right now is bigger than what you, or me, or Sammy, or anyone wants. So how about we both put aside our hissy fits for the time being, get over our own damn egos, and you get your feathery ass back here and help us figure out how the hell we’re supposed to kill God?”

His voice has raised perhaps a little bit too much near the end there, so much that he felt like it was ringing in his ears for a while after he had stopped talking; perhaps even enough to drown out whatever it was that Cas decided to respond with. Except, Cas didn’t respond. Not for a while, anyway. Nothing but silence – in the form of crackling white noise – emitted from Dean’s speaker, stretching on long enough that he had to take his phone away from his ear and check the screen to see if the phone was still connected.

And then Cas laughed.

He’s pretty sure he can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Cas laugh, and this one… was not a good one. There was some amusement in it, but mostly it just sounded tired. And… a little bit bordering on insane.

“Something funny?” Dean damn near growled down the phone.

Cas’s laughter faded away at that. “No. No, I suppose there isn’t.”

A single beep emitted from the speaker. Gone was the white noise. Gone was Cas’s voice.

Cas had hung up on him.

Dean takes another deep breath, one just as unsuccessful as the last few. He holds the phone limply in his closed fist, staring blankly out into the bunker before bringing his fist down hard on the table, barely resisting the urge to launch his “too expensive to keep breaking through rage or hunts” across the room.

“You stubborn son of a bitch,” Dean grits out, balancing his phone in his lap as he massages his now sore hand. “Just gotta make this complicated, don’t you…”

The idea pops into his head right then and there, jumping down from the table and settling into an actual seat. He pulls his laptop towards him, flipping open the top and getting to work. “Fine, Cas. You don’t wanna come back home? Then I’ll come to you…”

* * *

There were a lot of things Dean thought Cas might be doing in some small town out in the middle of nowhere.

Well, not a lot of things. Actually… Dean had no idea. The last time Cas went off on his own – admittedly, not of his fault – he had gone and tried to be a proper citizen of America with his own degrading, low-paying, soul-sucking retail job. He supposed that was a possibility, but, he doubted it. Most of the time, Cas is… well, with him, Dean supposed. Helping him and Sam with whatever big ugly had decided to rear its head for the year. Cas didn’t really get much free time, didn’t have much time for hobbies (neither did he unless you counted drinking and porn watching, but whatever), so of all the things he expected for Cas to be doing…

Fishing certainly wasn’t one of them.

Cas had managed to find himself a nice little dock to fish off as well. A cozy, hidden spot within the reeds, far out enough from civilization that Dean actually had to hike out here to find him. Admittedly, he was a little pissed to have to leave Baby behind and hike for four friggen hours in the heat whilst swiping away blood-sucking mosquitos, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

There was a single fishing rod cast out into the water, its little neon orange bobber oddly still despite drifting amidst the gentle waves created by the evening’s wind as it blew across the surface of the water. Strangely, there was an honest to God boom-box sat next to Cas, which would have undoubtedly scared away any fish in the area if it was playing music. Which… it wasn’t. Even from the other end of the dock, Dean could see the tape holder was open and empty.

Dean stands there long enough to see the little bobber start bobbing in the water, flicking left and right as fish nibble on its bait. It’s not long after that the lure disappears completely, sinking below the surface of the water and into its murky depths as a fish takes the bait. But… Cas doesn’t react. In fact, he hadn’t even been looking at the lure. He must have been holding something in his hands - what exactly that is, Dean can’t see from here – as he can tell from Cas’s hunched posture that this mysterious object must be whatever had won Cas’s attention over his bait being taken.

“You know, you’re actually supposed to catch the fish when fishing. I get that it’s supposed to be relaxing, but… you could at least try to catch something when it’s on the end of your hook.”

Cas doesn’t jump or startle at his voice, much to Dean’s secret displeasure. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Cas somehow sensed his presence. Maybe he could smell his scent or something. Hear his heartbeat. Feel his soul. Something like that.

What he does do is sigh. Loudly. Loud enough for Dean to hear from all the way over here, which kinda hurts if he’s being honest. That being said, he does put away whatever he was holding into his coat’s pocket and picks up the rod at Dean’s words and hooks the fish, reeling it in like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“I thought I’d give it a try. Perhaps make some sense of my thoughts,” Cas says without looking back at him, keeping his gaze fixated on the water ahead. “Try and see why so many are invested in this past time. I suppose maybe it’d be different if I was human, but… I just don’t get quite the same satisfaction.” It seems that, in a blink of an eye, Cas has the fish reeled in and dangling in the air in front of him. He gets the hook out of its mouth just as quick, looking down to the decent-sized carp he held in his hands. “What is it about fishing that makes it so worthwhile to humans? Is it the struggle of trying to reel it in? The sense of satisfaction you get out of pulling this creature from its habitat? Some feeling of power, a superiority, that you’ve outsmarted and outmuscled a lesser being than yourself?”

“Uh… I’m not much one for philosophical debates, Cas,” Dean looks to Cas wide-eyed, taking a few cautious steps onto the dock and towards him. “I just find it relaxing, I suppose. Bobby used to take me and Sammy out a few times when dad was off on hunts. We wouldn’t talk about dad, or where he’d be taking us once he got back - - if he got back. It was nice to just sit out in the sun, Bobby and Sam next to me and… get to feel some sense of peace that I haven’t felt since I was four.”

Castiel only hums at that, gently lowering the fish back down into the water and letting it swim away. “How did you find me?”

Dean steps even closer. “Sammy put a tracker on your phone a long time ago, bud. Can never be too careful.”

“Sam did?” Cas said, sounding genuinely surprised. The first bit of emotion Dean had heard slip into his voice.

“Yeah. I actually argued with him over it, believe it or not,” Dean shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, keeping a small amount of space between him and Cas. “Guess it turned out useful…”

Cas was still refusing to look at him, which was all kinds of frustrating. “When did…”

“Not long after you came back from… y’know… the Empty,” Dean gets out. “But, uh… he brought it up after you knocked us out with your mojo and ran off with Kelly against our wishes.”

Cas tenses up at that, carelessly tossing his fishing rod to the floor next to him and finally, finally, standing up from the edge of the dock and turning to face Dean. “And if I’d have gone with your wishes, there would have been every chance that Jack would have ended up dead – perhaps before he was even born!”

“Yeah? Well, he ended up dead anyway, didn’t he?” Dean says it like the words don’t hurt him as much as it does Cas. He says it like he doesn’t see the way Cas’s face fall, the little frustration he held shifts into what can only be described as both shock and grief. And then, to make it worse – and because he just can’t his mouth shout – he makes it a hundred times worse. “Maybe we’d be better off if we had stopped him from being born. At least then mom would still be alive.”

There wasn’t any grief left on Cas’s face. No sadness, no anger. It was nothing but disgust that he held for Dean and his words, and Dean knew he deserved such a look from Cas, but it wasn’t exactly like the rational part of his brain that knows this is in control right now.

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asks him, sounding too small and tired for a mighty angel of the Lord. “Did you track me all this way, come all the way out here to… what? To hurt me more?”

“No!” Dean yells, which totally defeats the point of what he’s trying to go with here. “No, that’s not why…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut. “I… I came to bring you home.”

Castiel raises a single eyebrow up at him. “To… bring me home?”

“Yeah. You know, back to the bunker. Look Cas, I’m not stupid enough to pretend that I… that we don’t still need you.”

“That’s surprising to hear,” Castiel bites back. “Considering you think I’m the ‘thing’ that goes wrong in every mess we’ve been through.”

“That’s not-,” Dean tries, but Cas has already turned his back to him; hurriedly picking his fishing rod back up and began disassembling it. “I’m trying, okay?”

“Trying to do what?” Castiel grumbles under his breath, pulling apart the rod pieces a little harsher than he intended.

“What the hell do you think?!” Dean throws his hands in the air, letting his irritation boil over. “I’m trying to make things right, I guess. Trying to… to apologize.”

Castiel actually pauses in trying to stuff the rod back into its duffel, his head snapping up to look at Dean. “Apologize…? In what part of you admitting your wish for Jack to have been terminated before birth should I take as an apology?”

“Well… not… not that part,” Dean stutters out, taken aback by the fiery, spitting rage that Cas so rarely displays towards him. “If you’d just let me-,”

There was nothing Dean could do. Nothing but stand there in astonishment as Cas simply walked right by him, leaving him there standing at the end of the dock staring down at the object Cas has pressed into his hand. And honestly, this in itself was more painful than anything Cas could have ever said in return.

In his hand was a clearly well used, well-loved mixtape, his own writing staring back at him in crudely drawn sharpie on the faded white label:

‘Deans top 13 Zepp TRA XX’

“Thought I told you you’re supposed to keep gifts,” Dean just about manages to get out, braving a look up at Cas’s retreating form.

Castiel’s steps halt for just a moment. Just long enough to say one more thing before continuing on his way. “You did. But, it is to my knowledge that you only keep a gift so long as it is wanted, is it not?”

Never mind. He was wrong.

That hurt a lot more.

* * *

He was a dick.

He knew that. He got that now. But now, it seemed, was too late.

He can’t say he wasn’t angry, because he was. What he can say was that he held onto that anger for too long. That he didn’t stop for a moment to look at things the way Cas probably did. Instead, he only saw things the way his anger wanted to, to keep him steeped in that burning rage, letting himself lash out at Cas because it was easy. Because he’d put the blame on Cas so many times before, so why not do it again?

And now, Cas might be…

No. No, he refuses to believe it. Cas is fine. He’s made it out of a few bad scraps before, he’s sure Cas will find a way to take out those dick-head leviathans and… and Eve… the mother of all monsters… right?

“CAS!” His yell echoes between the trees that surround him, seemingly amplified by the low fog that swirls around him. An endlessly hopeful part of him expects to see that trench-coat-wearing idiot stumbling towards him in the distance, maybe a little bloodied and battle-worn but otherwise whole. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the odd stillness of Purgatory when creatures aren’t busy ripping each other apart.

How long had it been now? It had felt like he has been out here, wandering aimlessly for any sign of Cas for hours. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone, and that awful squeeze of fear clenches around his heart at the timer ticking down, making it hard to breathe.

29 minutes. That was all he had. 29 minutes to find Cas in the whole of Purgatory and get them back to the portal in time. It took him damn near an entire year to find Cas the last time. 29 minutes just wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t fair. He couldn’t… He couldn’t tell Cas what’s been tearing him up inside, can’t tell him what Cas shouldn’t have to hear from him to know, and now he never will and-

“No, no no…” The words spill out of his mouth without his permission, sounding as close to a whimper of pain that actual words possibly could.

He didn’t want to do it like this. Hell, he didn’t even know if Cas even had enough grace left to hear him. But he had to try. It worked last time, didn’t it? Every damn night…

“Cas? Cas I hope you can hear me… that wherever you are, it’s not too late,” It was harder than he expected, saying this out loud. Almost like he was accepting that he was never going to speak to Cas again. Never get to say these words face to face. “I should’ve stopped you. You’re my best friend, but I just let you go. ‘Cause it was easier than admitting I was wrong.”

The incessant burning in his eyes gets too much, the heavy weight in his nose forcing a shaky sniffle out of him. He reaches out a hand to the tree next to him, barely enough time to process the scratchy roughness of the bark before his wobbly knees are giving out, forcing him down to a crouch, leaning his weight against the tree.

“I… Ohh…” He nearly says it, but the words get caught in the back of his throat. ‘Not yet’ a voice seems to whisper in his head. It was at least better than the voice that would always whisper ‘Never’ whenever he let himself think those words. “I don’t know why I get so angry. I just know – I know that – I-it’s always been there. And when things go bad, it just – it comes out. And I can’t – I can’t stop it. No matter how-,” His voice catches once more. He was well past the point of holding the tears back. “-How bad I want to, I just can’t stop it.”

This was it. He couldn’t hold back now. Not when this might be his last chance. Even if… Even if Cas was no longer alive to hear this message. “And – And I – I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. And – God, Cas. I love you. You hear me? I love you. And I – I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry it took me till now, till it might be too damn late to say it. Cas, I’m – I’m so sorry. I hope you can hear me… Please, hear me…”

He can almost hear the ‘whomp’ of wings he hasn’t heard in years. Could almost envision the sight of Cas stood behind him, head tilted to the side, looking to him in genuine angel curiosity as he answers Dean’s prayers. But when he looks around, the forests of Purgatory look just as empty through his tear-filled vision as they did moments before. “Okay…” Dean forces himself up, wiping a hand down his face to wipe away any evidence of what had just happened. Reset himself back to Dean Winchester. Hunter. Son of John Winchester.

Get the job done. Get back home.

His mind seems to switch off after that. He’s sure he looked every part the stereotypical zombies in the movies and tv shows and comics as he shuffles forward in the direction of the portal, face blank and devoid of life, shotgun heavy in hand and only the barest of survival instincts keeping an eye out for any movement within the trees.

He wasn’t far now. Just up ahead was his way out of here. He would step through, and be home. Without the flower. And… and without Cas. Mom. Jack. Rowena. Now Cas? What was the point? Would the world expect him to keep fighting if he lost Sammy too? And… God, what if Cas wasn’t dead? What if he walks through that portal, letting it close behind him, and leaves Cas here to be trapped for eternity?

Maybe he still had time. Maybe he could-

No. He didn’t. The timer on his phone displaying the numbers ’00:02:56’ proved as much. There wasn’t time. Cas was-

“Dean?”

Both hands are wrapped around his shotgun and pointing it towards the direction of the voice before his mind has fully caught up. His finger slides away from the trigger as his mouth falls open, lowering the end of the shotgun down at the sight of Cas, glorious Cas, looking a little worse for wear sat at the base of a tree. He looked every bit as dirty, bloodied, and miserable as anyone would after nearly twenty-four hours in Purgatory, but it didn’t matter, as it was the best sight Dean had ever seen.

Cas looks equally as shocked to see him, grimacing to himself as he pushes himself up to stand. “You made it?”

Dean can’t help but laugh. Not really the time for laughing, but it was mostly the delirium and pure, sweet relief bursting out of him. “I made it?”

Cas stumbles towards him, a bit of a limp in his gait, and Dean quickly makes up the short distance between them, throwing his arms around Cas and pulling the angel towards him. Cas feels real and solid pressed against his chest, and Dean thumps his hands against Cas’s back almost to prove to himself that the whole of Cas is here and intact. He almost wasn’t. He almost lost one of the only people left in this world he can say that he loves.

Which... which he’s said now.

“You okay?” Dean asks as soon as he feels Cas begin to push away from him, letting his eyes scan across Cas’s form to check for any obvious wounds or spilling of grace.

“I’m fine,” Castiel insists, probably a lie if Dean knows him. But, other than the sluggishly bleeding scrape on Cas’s head, he does look fine.

“What happened?”

“They were after me, not you,” Castiel gets out through panting, pained-sounding breaths. Yeah, sure. Fine. “I figured it would be safest to give myself up.”

And there it is again. Just another goddamn slap to the face. Even after everything that’s happened, after all the awful crap he’s said to Cas, the way he’s treated him… Cas was so willing to just put himself in the firing line for him.

‘These are not just monsters, Dean. They’re Leviathan. I have a price on my head, and I’ve been trying to stay one step ahead of them, to – to keep them away from you.’

“They take you to Eve?”

“Yeah. We were en route. I waited until I… saw this,” Cas reached into his trench-coat pocket, pulling out a sad-looking excuse for a flower that looked about as beat up as the person holding it. “It… got a little smushed.”

Dean could almost cry. Again. Here Cas was, somehow having escaped from a bunch of freak leviathans before being handed over to what would likely be horrendous torture and a death sentence from the mother of all monsters, manages to find the stupid fucking flower they came all the way out here for, get all the way back to the portal where he sits and waits for him… and he looks embarrassed that the flower got a little ‘smushed?’

That’s beside the fact that he probably crushed it by hugging Cas.

“Once I had the blossom, I fought; caught them off guard,” Cas continued. “They fought back. I managed to get away.”

Dean smiles. For what feels like the first time in quite a while, he smiles. “You did it. You did it, Cas.”

And then, by some miracle by God – wait no, not him, by something or someone… Cas gives him a tentative smile back. “Well, they’re still after me. We should hurry,” Cas gestures with a small shake of his head towards the portal, already starting to move away.

“Okay, Cas I need to say something-,”

“You don’t have to say it,” Castiel interrupts, that tentative smile back on his face. “I heard your prayer.”

But that wasn’t enough. Sure, it was of some comfort knowing that the prayer had at least reached Cas, but… but something didn’t sit right with him about that. Besides the fact that what he said is something that really should be said face to face (and maybe sending a message like that over the prayer is the equivalent of sending it over text message or… or voicemail?), Cas’s reaction was just… not what he was expecting. Not that Cas was ever entirely predictable in his reactions, and perhaps basing what Cas’s reaction would be on what his reaction would be if Cas ever confessed to him like that wasn’t the best of ideas, but… still, it was odd. Dean was expecting at least something, some sort of reaction to his words other than an acknowledgment that it had been heard.

Cas was right, though. They really needed to hurry; what with a bunch of leviathans after them and probably around 30 seconds left before the portal closes behind them.

They race towards the portal, his hand on Cas’s back helping to push him forward as he struggles with that new limp of his. Dean can hear his pulse racing in his ears as they step closer and closer to the portal, watching its light flicker and shimmer as it struggles to stay open. He wouldn’t be surprised if God had somehow caught wind of their plans, and was waiting until the very last second when they were about to step through, to close the portal a few seconds earlier and laugh in their faces as the portal disappears from sight.

But that’s not what happens. They step through the portal, one after the other, neither being left behind. There’s a split second of nothing but blinding white as the portal flares, losing sight of Cas for just a moment, and then he’s there again; stood just in front of him in the bunker, the tension and stress of Purgatory already draining away from his hunched posture.

The portal gives one last pathetic flicker, and then it’s closing down on itself. The bunker is left in silence, the crackle of the portal’s energy gone, and they’re both left standing facing each other in this awkward, “what happens now” kind of stillness.

“Um… I suppose I should-,” Cas begins, taking the flower out from his pocket and motioning towards the bunker hallway.

“Cas, wait,” Dean pleads, taking an unsure step towards Cas, who freezes in place with flower still in hand. “I… I really need to talk to you, man.”

Castiel’s forehead creases in confusion, hesitantly reaching back into his pocket to put the flower back. “I already told you, Dean. I heard your prayer-,”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand. His tongue darts out to wet his upper lip, a nervous gesture he could never quite hide. “I just… I feel like you should hear it directly from me, if that makes sense?”

“Not really.”

Dean huffs. “Look Cas, it’s… I meant it, okay? Even if I was panicking over the thought of you being stuck in purgatory again and… it wasn’t just a “I might as well say it because you might be dead” kind of thing, okay?”

“I know,” Castiel says, still looking just as confused as he did moments ago. “I know you’re sorry, Dean. It’s okay. I believe you.”

And then Cas turns to walk away again, and Dean can’t help but get the feeling that Cas isn’t quite getting what he’s trying to say here. So, he darts out a hand and grasps Cas’s arm, bringing the angel to a standstill. Cas looks down at Dean’s hand around his arm in genuine surprise, almost as if Dean had done something incredible offensive, and then brings his gaze up to meet Dean’s desperate one. “Dean? Are you okay?”

Dean couldn’t help it. He laughs, though it sounds about as humorless as he was feeling right now. “No, Cas. I’m not. But… are you… did you hear my entire prayer?”

Castiel frowns at him again, blue eyes scanning across the sudden, unexpected timidness look on Dean’s face. “Yes. I heard all of it.”

Dean returns the inquisitive gaze, searching for any kind of reaction, a give of some sort that Cas was thinking back to those words he had prayed to him. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the usual patient look that Castiel always held. “Listen man, I’m always one for avoiding big girly talks as much as the next guy, but… are you really not going to say anything about it?”

“About what?”

Damn it. He’s really gonna make him say it again, huh?

“You know… the bit about how I uh… the thing I said, after I said I was sorry?”

“Oh!” Castiel says, his tone bright in realization. “When you said you love me?”

And wow, what a way for Cas to say it. Like it was just… a matter of fact. Like he was simply stating what the fucking weather was like.

Dean must be staring at Cas with a damn right bewildered face right now, as the look of concern Castiel had worn for pretty much this entire conversation began to increase tenfold. “What is it?”

“Seriously?” Dean splutters out, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re telling me I had to discover this mind-altering revelation for myself, keep it pushed down, come to terms with it and finally get the balls to admit it to you, and your reaction is absolutely nothing?”

“But… I already knew you loved me?”

It’s enough to bring Dean’s mind to a standstill. Had he… he had somehow told Cas he loved him and didn’t remember it? Oh God, that damn memory spell… had he somehow called Cas and told him something before his memory completely went kaput? No, no, it couldn’t have been that… the counter spell regained all his memories of that shitty night, he’s pretty sure… Could Cas sense it, somehow? What if it was in his soul? Some kind of change to his soul that Cas picked up on?

“You… you knew?”

“Yes… You’ve reiterated to me many times that I’m like a brother to you, and, given your connection to Sam, I assumed that meant that kind of love extended to me as well? I don’t mean to offend you Dean, the fact that you put me in the same regard as Sam is an honor of itself-,”

Oh.

Oh, Cas. Oh, Cas, Cas, Cas. He had listened to what he had said, but he hadn’t really heard him. Strangely, it kind of hurt to think that, upon hearing his confession, Cas had just sort of automatically assumed that he had meant he loved him like a brother. Perhaps it hurt because, he wasn’t sure if Cas assumed that because of the way he’s always treated him, or because Cas could just never see Dean in any other way.

“Not what I meant, Cas,” Dean says quietly, though the words sounded loud in the quiet of the room. “Oh, Cas. You damn fool… I didn’t mean as a brother.”

Cas almost looks scared, and it’s about the equivalent of a rusty knife being twisted in his gut. Cas looked scared to be hopeful. Like he was scared to think of what his words meant. Dean reaches out a hand once more, gently grabbing hold of the sleeve of Cas’s trench coat. Cas doesn’t flinch or move his arm away, so Dean lets his hand slowly slip down, lets his fingers settle in the gap between Cas’s. Cas’s breath hitches at the feeling of warm skin against his hand, his eyes darting to their entwined hands then back up to Dean. His mouth parts, a question on his lips, which Dean answers with his own.

It’s… not what he was expecting. There’s no moment of inner panic, no feeling of wrongness that has him ripping away from Cas and furiously wiping at his lips. But it’s no “fireworks” moment, either. Cas’s lips are, confusingly, chapped and dry from the cold winds of Purgatory, and yet have a tender softness to them that has him leaning closer for more. He doesn’t taste like… well, that one Dean wasn’t sure about. He had kinda been expecting some kind of… of… soapy cleanliness taste of pure, heavenly Grace. But no, Cas tastes like dirt and sweat with a little metallic twang from what was likely a busted-up lip. It’s nothing like any girl he’s ever kissed has tasted like, and strangest of all, he doesn’t give him a damn. He’s not panicking about kissing Cas because “It’s Cas!”, he’s sinking into it, melting into the touch of Cas’s hand on his back, because It’s Cas.

But the moment can’t last forever. Cas goes tense under his hands, a sudden fear taking hold, and then he’s holding Dean at arm’s length. His eyes are wide and fixated on Dean’s face, chest rising and falling in tandem with his harsh breaths, despite the fact Dean’s fairly sure Cas doesn’t even have to breathe.

“Did you mean it?” Castiel asks, his fingers tightening their grip around Dean’s shoulders. “You… you love me like…?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says with a blissed-out smile. “Not like a brother. I don’t just love you. I’m in love with you. And listen, I know I kinda sprung this up on you at a bad time, and… I know I’ve acted like a real jerk to you lately, so you have every right to just pretend like this never happened and-,”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dean Winchester,” Castiel cut him off, but there’s no malice to his voice as he does it. In fact, the small pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth widens to a gummy smile that Dean knows means this is a really happy Cas, and considering how rare he sees that from Cas, it brings him a sense of satisfaction that he’s the reason Cas is smiling like that.

“Sorry, Cas. Being an idiot is just who I am. Especially considering I was apparently stupid enough to go and fall in love.”

And then it’s Cas’s turn to make Dean freeze up in disbelief and stare at Cas wide-eyed, because he chuckles warmly at Dean’s statement and tells him, “I suppose that makes me stupid too, then.”

“Oh…” Is all Dean can squeak out, probably the un-manliest he’s ever sounded, but considering the beaming smile Cas sends his way, he guesses Cas didn’t seem to mind. “You, uh… you don’t have to say it if you don’t-,”

“I love you,” Castiel confessed, soft and sweet, yet it punches into Dean hard. “But I thought you already knew that.”

“Maybe you should stop assuming things, Cas.”

“And maybe you should stop waiting until you think I’m dead to say how you feel.”

“Touché,” Dean settles, grabbing hold of Cas’s hand once more and tugging him towards the door. “Oh, and-,” He stops mid-stride, Cas nearly colliding into him. Dean forces down a grin at Cas’s curious head tilt as he searches in his jacket pocket, pulling out the mixtape he’s kept there ever since Cas gave it back to him and planting it perhaps a little too harshly against Cas’s chest. “Don’t you ever try and give this back to me again.”

Cas places his free hand atop Dean’s on his chest, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Cas grabs hold of the mixtape before it can drop to the ground as Dean removes his hand, fingers curled protectively around the tape as he looks down at it with a fond smile.

“I suppose I should have known,” Castiel murmurs quietly, eyes softening with realization as he stares down at the tape. “You already tried to give your love to me. It was just in a language I had yet to truly understand.”

#Destiel #destiel fanfiction #Destiel fanfic #oneshot #castiel/dean winchester #castiel/dean #angst #angst with a happy ending

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years ago

Text

Arranged Chapter II

Pairing: Poe Dameron x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: None for this chapter (series: E)

Word Count: 4,261

Summary: Prince and Princess of your respective planets you both agree to wed, not for love, but for advantage. Now married, it’s your wedding night. You and Poe come to an agreement, while you grow suspicious about how much the prince actually knows.

A/N: okay this chapter contains one of my favorite scenes i’ve ever written. I hope you guys enjoy!!

[ PREVIOUS ] | [ MASTERLIST ]

“Please,” you break the quiet of the room, turning to face him, “I don’t wish to be touched tonight.” Poe blinks at the sound of your voice.

The walk to the bridal suite was painfully silent.

But not for Poe. His heartbeat thumped in his ears in synchrony with the ringing that pervaded his mind. The door clicking behind you and the lights switching on revealed a flower laden bed - the only sound now the clink of your bracelets as you crossed the room towards the refresher.

Even now, as you speak, ringing your fingers before him, as you blink up at him, “I won’t. I promise,” he bites his lip, before swallowing the lump in his throat, and wracking his brain for something, anything, to say, “I’m Poe.”

Maybe not that.

You wrinkle your brow, but say your name for him in a half-murmur, arms crossed against your chest, “I don’t know how we are supposed to-”

“Do this?” Poe leaned against the wall by the door, “I was hoping you would have more answers that I did.”

You give a small scoff, “How so?”

“Your culture does this—”

You cross your arms, “Well this is my first time getting married,”

“What a coincidence, mine too,” he smiles mournfully, his eyes flickering to the ever so nearly imperceptible pull of a smile, “look-”

“No, you look,” you hold up your hands, his eyes catching sight of the intricate designs on them, he hadn’t realized that when he had held your hand, he was far too distracted by how your fingers intertwined with his and the reality of the weight of your hand in his, “I’m not interested in doing this.” you gesture between him and you.

He tilts his head, “But you realize this,” he does the same gesture, “is already happening.”

“You need an army, we need your technology,” you chuckle darkly at his raised brows, “Am I wrong? This is a business transaction, and it doesn’t need to be more than that.”

Poe keeps his expression neutral, was he okay with that? Was he okay spending his life with a perfect stranger who remained that? Nothing more than a person on his arm, a name written next to his? “We still need to know each other, at least for the press and for the people — we're supposed to be in love. Hard to explain being in love without knowing a single thing about each other."

Your eyes shy away, teeth chewing your lip, “Yes, that’s true," before you add, "it’s also true the press is naive and they can be fooled by something as simple as pet names and public displays of affection."

"What if they ask-"

"You know my name, you know my lineage, what else is there more to know?"

He grits his teeth at your hands off approach to the rest of your lives, "What is your dream?"

You turn towards the refresher door, the door whirring open, "my only dream is to serve my people — our people —" you glance at him over your shoulder, eyes unmistakably sad, "the sooner you learn that the better, darling."

He approaches the door, leaning against its side, "Sweetheart, the quicker you learn it takes more than that to get me to give up — the better."

———

You shake your head from behind the door, squeezing your eyes shut. The more difficult the chase, the more enticing it was to him — it was bait in a well laid trap and he had walked into it, into the maw of the monster, without hesitation.

Easy. Too easy. This needed to take time — draw the line in too quickly and it could slip away just as fast. You push the bracelets from your wrists, letting them clink against the counter, as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You needed to be trusted by everyone — not just a lovestruck prince. No, but his friends, his family, and the Queen herself. This needed to be done carefully with delicate precision until you gained their confidence and carved yourself a place in their family.

You untie the veil from your head, letting the flowers fall to the ground, petals scattering. Then, and only then, will you be able to destroy it.

——

Morning comes slowly — light taking it's dear sweet time to stretch over the horizon. Or maybe that is just how it felt. Morning always came early on Shar, lingering for far too long, until the sun finally sunk in complete exhaustion. You're awake far before dawn breaks — lying on the bed, free from flowers after you had cleaned the bedspread off last night — though you could still feel a few stragglers between the soft sheets and blankets.

The prince had taken the couch with great insistence. It was all the same to you. You could fall asleep in the middle of a desert, skin against the scorching dust, or in the middle of your own wedding for that matter — so a couch was a non-issue. But, laying back on the plush pillows, you had to admit you preferred this result.

You turned to look over at said prince, whose quiet snores filled the endless silence of the room. The next eight days could not proceed like this — not when you had him to yourself. Another Sharian tradition — the bride and groom spend eight days together in bliss.

Some bliss — to spend a vacation with a perfect stranger.

“Early riser?” a deep voice thick with sleep breaks the silence of the morning. Your gaze snapping back to the couch where you see hooded eyes through a few stray black curls, he stretches, muscles taut against his shirt, before sinking back against the couch.

You slip yourself from underneath the covers, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, tracing over the soft material of your meridian sleep clothes, “You won’t find a Sharian that isn’t,” fingers running through the tangles in your hair, before commenting drily, “I see you’re not.”

“I always sleep when I get the chance, and I usually don’t,” he yawns, drawing out the last syllables of his sentence, “Far too many meetings, far too many briefings.”

“Yes, poor us, stuck behind a desk while others die for a cause,” you feel irritation prick at your nerves.

He seems to perk up at your engagement, “I rather die for a cause then sit on the sidelines.”

You look unimpressed, smooth brow wrinkled with tight lines, “But would you have anything to contribute? Especially if you sleep so late. You know what they say, an early bird catches the space slug.”

“Would you really want to catch one of those?” Humor dances in his eyes, “Well, maybe I’ll have to give it a try,” he hums, before his gaze grows sharp, “if not for me, just so I can figure out what you’re hiding,” your heart stutters in your chest, but you quickly even your breath, brow furrowed in obvious confusion and lips pursed.

You resisted the urge to look at your bag, the bag where you knew your weapon was buried deep under a false bottom, “I’m not hiding anything from you, darling,” your voice light and lilting, but it fails to persuade him. He sits, sunlight beginning to stream in, caressing the curve of his jaw and the sharp edges of his face. You cannot deny that he is unfairly beautiful, even your traitorous heart squeezes as he smiles.

“Aren’t you though, sweetheart?” And your heart sinks at the implication.

“Your first check in is not until the end of the week,” You are only able to get away from the prying eyes of the palace after retiring to the refresher, smuggling in the com-link in your change of clothes. The Empress is not pleased, clear even over the crackling static of this ancient com-link, “what-”

“The Prince may know of our plans,” you hissed, uncaring that you had just cut off the Queen of Shar mid-sentence. What did it matter? You may very well be dead either way.

~~~

Poe had been unable to get you to crack. He punched the wall.

“Kriff!” but at least he was handling it well.

He knew more of strangers’ lives than his own wife’s. And he knew that you knew just as little about his life. He spent the night before, your arm wrapped around his as he paraded you around to a room of virtual strangers. Maker, he had kissed you before he had even introduced himself. Tradition and its audience demanded a kiss, and he was all too reluctant to oblige. As his gaze found yours again, your eyes only seemed to dare him to do so — flickering to his lips and back, until finally he did.

Lips pressed against yours as the audience watched, a voyeuristic act he would rather not repeat, but had to, several times throughout the night. Your lips were soft and kissable, and your soft gasp made him smile in spite of himself, swallowing it without another thought.

But that was the problem wasn't it? He had no other thoughts — not about you. Pain radiates from his fingers, but he pays it no mind, gritting his teeth instead.

How did he let himself conned into this? A marriage of convenience. His eyes drifted to the refresher door, where you had just rushed off to take a bath. Would this be every day? Forced to touch each other in public, but so utterly alone when together behind closed doors?

He sighed, sitting on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut. He wished he was flying right now, navigating through clouds and formations, instead of marriage. He had known this was coming — especially when his Queen transferred him from the guard to royal diplomacy missions. He knew he was being shaped - shoved into a mold and forced to conform. And now, he was married, he glances at the band around his finger, before tugging the necklace from around his neck. Fingering his mother’s ring, he took comfort in the familiar shape and grooves of the metal that had rested against his chest for so long.

He tugged at the metal. He told you he didn’t give up right?

You emerged from the refresher, no expression on your face — it was weird. He couldn’t read you, other people’s emotions slipped from their faces and bodies with ease, most did without a second thought. But you were different. Everyone else left footprints in the sand, but you didn’t leave even a single step to be found, erasing them as you walked. Why was it that he wanted to figure you out? Maybe it was because it was a challenge. Maybe it was because he found you interesting. Maybe it was because he was tired of being alone.

Or maybe it was none of those. But he still wanted to.

“I have an idea,” he says, and your eyes narrow — you certainly weren’t shy with your skepticism, “a deal.”

~~~

“Is this even allowed?” The prince snorts in response. Why had you agreed to this again? A day for a day — his choice of activity and then yours — and of course his was first. Oh yes, because it would allow you to do the one thing you were supposed to do — get closer to the prince. And yet, why was that the last thing you wanted to do?

“Well, he hasn’t killed you yet has he?” The Empress’s voice crackles over the com, “that either means the fool has no idea or that he’s foolish enough to think he can outwit you himself.” your silence is far too telling, “there’s a reason I chose you for this, amira,” You nearly scoffed. ‘Princess’ she called you, when you were as far from a princess as you could be. “it was the way you slit throats without another thought. The way you followed orders without hesitation. Don’t grow a heart now. It only breeds weakness, amira — it doesn’t suit you.”

Yes, you did kill others without a thought, but that’s because it required no thought. No input. It was simple. Easy. Cleancut. There was no need for mind games. You didn’t have to think about the consequences of your actions because you didn’t stay long enough to see them, you didn’t even stay long enough to see the blood sink into the ground. But — your eyes shift to him as his hand tugs you, all too firm and all too real — this was different.

“I’m the prince — isn’t everything I do allowed?” you feel a migraine bit at the corners of your mind, as he pulls you against the wall as a guard rounds the corner, firm hands holding you there, until his footsteps echo no longer against the stone floor.

“Then why are we sneaking around like escaped heathens?”

“Because, technically we are supposed to be spending our time together inside our shared bedroom,” His tongue darts out to lick his lips, as you brush away his hands, reluctantly continuing to follow him, “besides,” he gives you an easy grin that dulls the edge of your annoyance ever so slightly, “isn’t it more fun this way?”

This man would be the end of you, “Where are we even going?”

“We’re going to see my best buddy,” and you furrow your brow, as he leads you toward a second story window, disabling the lock on it, the panel lifting out of sight.

“We aren’t supposed to be seeing any person besides—” You whisper, affronted, but only to hide the jittery fear of being outside the palace, away from everyone, where he could easily explain away your death as a lovers escapade gone awry, finding your body at the bottom of some ravine.

“He’s not any person,” He sticks his head out, looking around, one knee perched unsteadily on the edge of the windowsill, “just follow my lead.” Mouth agape, you watch him climb out.

"What are you doing?" You hiss, head snapping around to see if anyone else could see the crown prince climbing out of the window like a damn kowakian monkey-lizard.

"Leaving?" He grunts, as you lean out carefully to see him clinging onto a lattice trellis, knuckles white against the wood, “how else were we going to leave, sweetheart?” The nickname is followed by a loud creak of the wood.

You cross your arms, watching him maneuver his way down, using each diamond like a rung of a ladder, until he reaches the bottom, dusting himself off, “Very impressive,” you say drily, lifting your dress to demonstrate your predicament, “And how do you suppose I’m going to get down?” you crossed your arms, as he held out his arms, and you scoff, “no.”

“I won’t drop you—”

“No, more likely you’ll break your arms and then you’ll drop me,”

“So you agree I’m taking the much bigger risk here, Princess,” you roll your eyes at the title, glaring at his still awaiting arms, “what other choice did you have?”

You had a lot of choices. You could go back to your room. You could wait for the Prince to sulk and eventually return. You could sit in your room and slowly seduce him until he’s in the palm of your hand. It would be a lot easier — but would it work? He wishes to know you — to see you for who you are — but he would only see a smokescreen of a false princess, your hands clasped behind you so he wouldn’t see the scarlet that marred them.

But maybe, you looked down at the relatively plain dress you chose to wear today — you could allow him a peek at the monster behind the mask.

You hoist the dress above your knees, bunching it in front of you before pulling it between your legs. You separated the fabric in half, pulling it around your waist, before tying it off in a bow.

You followed his path out the window, “Whoa, sweetheart—”

You bit back a chuckle at his concern, you had climbed far higher things than this, and in far worse outfits. But he didn’t know that. And you didn’t plan on telling him. You made a show of it — fingers slipping, rattling the lattice against the wall, a squeal or two. You had to stop yourself from shaking your head at his tenseness, the feeling rolling off in waves from his locked gaze, even now, when you were almost to the ground. A few more steps and you were done — you glanced at him, finding him readying himself to catch you. You had stop yourself from rolling your eyes, a fall from here wouldn’t even kill you —

The panel you grasped onto snapped, and you lost your balance, stumbling off the lattice, “Maker-”

You squeezed your eyes shut, but there was no impact. Instead, softness enveloped you. And your eyes snapped open, breath caught in your throat as you found his face an inch from yours. His arms curled around you, fingers brushing your bare legs and bunched dress and your heart stuttered. Warmth bloomed on your face, and another feeling gripped your chest, as he set you down.

You refused to let your legs even wobble, but no words would leave your mouth, and instead, you found yourself staring at him. You wouldn’t shy away from his gaze like some embarrassed child — you clasped your hands tightly in front of you.

But he said nothing, as he brushed past you, “We have to keep moving,” and you blinked at his haste.

“Thank—”

He shook his head, glancing back at you. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “I told you I’d catch you, sweetheart.”

And your mouth only hung open, wordless. You had never fallen before. You glanced back at the trellis, the splintered plank had fallen to the ground beside it. But you suppose, looking at his retreating back, there was a first time for everything.

~~~

“This is my buddy,” you raised a single eyebrow, arms crossed against your chest.

“You failed to mention your best friend is a droid,” he kneels next to an orange and white droid, who rolls up next to him, “this is why you said he wasn’t just any person? Because he isn’t a person?”

He shrugs, “He’s better than most people,” he speaks to his droid, “I know, I haven’t been able to get out to see you, buddy. I left as soon as I could.”

You glance around as they chat. Yes, left the comforts of the palace to roam a relatively empty x-wing hanger. The air was cold — as it was in the early morning — but light streamed throughout the large space, exposing the dust that clung everywhere — even the air itself. The hanger had fallen into disuse, the panels of the ceiling loose and decrepit, the metal walls red with rust. A single x-wing occupied the far corner of the hanger, you wrinkle your brow, “Your droid lives in this x-wing?”

“Sort of,” he rises to his feet, “he’s my last bit of home.”

You tilt your head, gesturing around, “This planet is your home.”

It was his turn to tilt his head, “Don’t you know home is a person not a place?” he glances at the x-wing, “or a feeling,” You open your mouth to ask another question, but he holds a hand up, teeth brushing his bottom lip, “Do you trust me?” You raise a single brow, and he shakes his head, “Better question, do you trust me to catch you if you fall? Because I think I’ve proven myself.”

You look from him to the x-wing and back. You needed to get close to him somehow, and maybe this was just the way to do it. You needed to know what he knew. So you sighed, “Who’s flying? You or the droid?”

BB-8 chirps, and he scoffs, before shifting his eyes to yours with a glint in his eyes, “Which answer would make you more comfortable?”

~~~

Maker. Poe had missed flying. A clear understatement — it doesn’t account for the flurry of excitement that thrums through his body nor the thrill he feels as his fingers fiddle with the controls. And it doesn’t capture how it feels to sit in his mother's seat — peace. For once in his life.

You shift in your seat, eyes flickering around the controls, fingers drumming against the armrests, and it’s the first time he feels that he can actually see you, “You comfortable?”

You blink, your fingers stop tapping, “As comfortable as I can be,”

“Usually, x-wings don’t come with two seats,” he remarks, readying the ship to fly, “I modified this ship a few weeks back,” he grins at you, “otherwise you would have been sitting on my lap.”

You do your best to bear no reaction to his words, but he sees the slight twitch in your jaw, raising your brows, “But there are two seats now,”

He turns back to the controls, “Yeah, there are,” he reaches over above your head, and his eyes can’t help but see your chest flutter with your breath, “Buddy, you all set?” he hears the affirmative beep, “Get ready sweetheart,” he flicks the final switches, as the x-wing began to lift off the ground, “we’re taking off.”

The x-wing shot off the ground, zooming higher and higher, as he was careful to avoid any structures or pillars with a wide berth (he didn’t need another lecture about exaggerated near death experiences). He watched you from the corner of his eye, your knuckles white against the seat, teeth baring down on your bottom lip.

“Do you not fly often?” He pulled the x-wing into a steady pace, gliding across the atmosphere of the planet, “I thought you would because of all the diplomatic missions—”

You shook your head, “Most of those took place on Shar — the Empress is not one for travel, and she’s not one for giving others a potential advantage, no offense,” you add.

He says nothing, filing away to never get on the Empress’s bad side, before tilting his head, “So, the amount of times you’ve flown?”

“This is my first,” you whisper reverently, eyes turn to the glass, now filled with stars, “it’s beautiful.”

He watches your fingers press to the glass, lips parted and eyes wide, and the hint of a smile pulls on the corners of your mouth, "Yeah, it is."

You lean back in the chair, gaze shifting back to him, "How long have you been flying?"

"Since I can remember," you raise a single brow.

"I'm supposed to believe you were flying since birth?" He laughs, shaking his head.

"I didn't know you had that much faith in my abilities," he flips another switch, allowing the ship to drift, leaning back, "my mother taught me."

"The Queen flies?" Unlike yours, his expression gives away too much, and he shakes his head again.

"My birth mother," he says, he could still remember the warmth of his mother's arms around him, her much too big for him helmet slinking down his head, and her soft voice lulling him to sleep, "she passed away when I was young."

He was expecting questions — how, why, what happened — the same questions everyone asked. The same things everyone had whispered around him his entire life, but you didn't. Instead, a frown twisted your lips, fingers tucking your hair behind your ear.

"I'm sorry," your words small and quiet, "I know what it's like to lose someone important."

“I’m sorry too,” He bites back the questions that burned on his tongue — you would tell him when you were ready, “I think that’s the first real thing you’ve told me about yourself.”

Your brow furrows, “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been a mystery to me the moment you’ve stepped through the door,” he sighs, head falling back against the seat, “And even now, I don’t know what’s running through that pretty head of yours, sweetheart.”

Your teeth run over your bottom lip, “I’ve been told that’s part of my charm,”

“What are you so afraid of anyway? Afraid someone will figure out all your secrets?” his fingers flex over the controls, before shooting you a wicked grin, and he hopes he didn’t imagine your shiver, “because I told you I already would.”

For a moment, something dances across your expression, a certain tenseness leaves your body, but as quickly as he nearly finds your footprints, they are erased by crashing waves, or rather, your appropriately wide eyes, “Is that what the point of this little trip was? To find out all my secrets?” you echo his words, eyes falling to the stars again, “You’ll find it that it’s more difficult than a simple flight.”

“But it’s a start right?” his thumb runs over the length of your knuckles resting on the arm rest, and he feels your fingers twitch under his touch. Your hands slide into your lap. And he wonders, why were you just so afraid? "How about we stop talking and we start flying?"

And surprisingly you smile, your lips curled wide and his heart squeezes, until it feels like it could burst, "And where are we going to go?"

He returns it, a distinct feeling blooming in his chest, "Anywhere you want, sweetheart."

~~~~

Tag List (If you don’t want to be on the tag list, just shoot me a message please!): @awkwardbullfrog, @softly-sad, @mrsrafaelbarba, @arabellathorne, @bucky-of-the-opera, @laneygthememequeen, @spider-starry, @menscareme, @multifandomlife22, @marvelous-capsicle, @bucky-lents, @thechildorian

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron imagines #star wars imagines #star wars fanfiction #star wars

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nopenname23 · 4 years ago

Text

here’s a shitpost of me playing the click and drag game <3

If you wanna play too, here’s the link X.

KUROO is your Best Friend & BOKUTO is your Sibling

THE KUROO AND BOKUTO FRIENDSHIP ALDKJASDLK. Just living for the imagery of your older brother and your best friend having the BEST broromance?!?

I love it. You’d be the three musketeers

Bokuto is the best big bro and u won’t tell me otherwise

He’d definitely act like 5 years younger than you sometimes, even though he’s a year older

You’d call him nii-chan esp when he’s in emo/baby mode

You’d pep him up in a second when you say “but nii-chan can do anything!”

[[Akaashi (despite his understanding of Kou and abilities to control his funk) is admittedly quite jealous of the immediacy and certainty of your ways]]

Anyways, yeah yeah, kuroo was your brother’s bffl first

But over time he’s just been really dependable and like the /actual/ older bro of your group

Guh I love this dynamic a lot

ATSUMU is your Rival

Same year.

Same class.

Every year.

Sometimes you think it’s fate’s cruel joke.

You’ve got a rivalry going with Atsumu that has only been going on since pre K

It started with you two competing to make the biggest and prettiest sandcastle

To this day, no one knows who stomped on whose first, but everyone remembers the tears and the screaming blame game

In the present, he’s your rival in the sense that you try your best to destroy each other’s egos

Relentlessly.

Your interests are vastly different, but your temperaments are quite the match

Aka Atsumu loooves your reactions

And you take his bait Every. Time.

At the end of the day tho, somehow you still got each other's backs

You stick with the same circle of friends

There's this one time when you gave him the silent treatment for a while and he was very very confused.

He tried to play nice but even then u weren't having it

(Tbh it was like shaking the bottle of a carbonated drink. You felt it, but you seemingly had the patience of a saint)

Atsumu starts to get hurt by this bc even though you never gave each other a break, he's never considered you not a friend

He withdraws and his silence actually shakes the bottle more somehow

So when he mutters an offhand comment about you always being late under his breath at a group hangout

You burst.

LIKE YOU DON'T MAKE US ALL WAIT WHILE YOU PUT THE GREASE ON YOUR MUSTARD HEAD?

o.o

He's stunned (along with everyone else) but it only lasts a second bc everything is back to normal and this feels way better than being ignored

Ughhh why don't you just go home it seems like you haven't prepared your public manners yet >:(

"Don't worry, y/n. I'm not going anywhere. :)"

"KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF BUD ISTG—"

"Did you hear that everyone?? We're buds :)"

TENDOU Plays Volleyball with You

When you were younger, you’d accompany Kou and Kuroo to the community volleyball spaces

And when no one Tendou’s age wanted to play with him, there you were

And the cutest friendship blossomed <3

It was fun, he taught you a lot (and while your technique has improved, you don’t love the effort it takes to chase the ball lol)

You mostly just toss back and forth while you gossip

You both are THE BIGGEST shittalkers

You LIVE to just chat and each other’s antics (you both like to poke fun at others’ egos and laugh about it together later lol. I love a bully duo)

Dw this duo doesn’t make their victims cry or anything

Like max is poking fun at Semi’s casual clothes and saying he looks weird (even though he looks damn fiineee)

SEMI Takes You Out on a Date

speaking of Semi...

SEMISEMISEMI

[[PLEASE TAKE ME OUT MY MUSICALLY GIFTED BB]]

You’ve lowkey crushed on this beauty for a while

But there’s like too many degrees of separation between ya

He goes to tendou’s school, he works at the record store, he’s in a local band

He's so cool and hot and you have no nerve to talk to him

Luckily (or not) tendou somehow makes a date happen

(Tbh I don't think semi knows it's supposed to be a date but it def is for you!!)

You've only waited your whole life for this moment.

You’d go to the movies or something generic (bc you want to plan it out to a tee and make it perfect so u go with cliche bc this is everything you want to tell your grandkids etc)

Yay! Date with semi~

KAI Cockblocks You

(fyi I know next to nothing about Kai, but he gives off v nice guy with a nice smile vibes)

So on your date with Semi, Kai also happens to be working at the movies that day

You’ve been v excited about this date and have maybe overprepared

(as in pretty much scripted the entire thing)

Part of your plan was to see the latest horror film (you think it’ll make you look tough... and you pre-watched it so that you wouldn’t do anything too embarrassing and could come up with quippy lines/reactions)

As you approach the ticket counter, there’s this guy there with a nametag reading Kai

Turns out that horror movie is sold out :/

So Kai suggests a different movie bc it’s playing at the same time

-This is fineeeee. You’ll make do. Stick to the script.-

Too bad the movie’s a Schindlers List type of show

Everything goes NOT according to plan from this point on

You act super awkward (aka major performance anxiety)

You say lines that you prepared for the jumpscare scenes at the dramatic ones in this film

It. is. Not. cute.

No recovery available.

Sorry.

You had plans to eat after but it was a heavy movie and semi thinks it'd be best to part ways here

O.o

"oh. ok...bye"

You don't go to the record store anymore.

Sigh.

So, therefore, Kai inadvertently “ruined all and any semblance of romantic feels that could and would have developed!!”

It’s no fault of his own, but you refuse to forgive him. Ever.

Poor guy :(

(Later you see him playing at a Nekoma match with Kuroo, ur bffl, and you highkey shoot him glares the whole game lol. Gives him SEVERE shivs)

Again, poor guy.

KITA was your First Kiss

When you were in middle school Kita was your first kiss after some freak ‘accident’ on suna’s part HAHA

[[or maybe, casual middle school bf bc he was the nicest friend and you walked home together, held hands, and then tried to kiss and were both like lol nah]]

Dw he’s been very chill about the whole thing, apologises and lets you know it doesn’t count and he’s still your pal (sweet bb)

Atsumu looked on with a surprised raised eyebrow open mouthed look like D8<

If anything, Atsumu is the one who doesn't let anyone forget this happened

YAMAGUCHI Has a Crush on You

Yamaguchi (and all other ‘nice boys’) crush on you because you give off sweet and quiet and perfect wife-y material vibes

Little do they know when you’re with your pals, you’re the rowdiest of the bunch, got the mouth of a sailor, and just the biggest roaster of anyone and everyone

So he has a crush on you for a while

But he never talks to you and that's cool~

?????? Is Your Boyfriend

Tbh i have no clue who that character is... dkm lol

You probably had a period where you forgot his name too

You call him petnames to get around that

You’re mostly dating bc he confessed to you and he seems like he rly likes you so you thought the attention would be nice :)

Atsumu definitely gives you the HARDEST time when he catches on that you don’t know your bf’s name/anything about him.

It is 100p THE. WORST.

He def baits you when you’re in a large group setting with your bf to embarrass you (ex. “Okay, now y/n is going to order us by our first names/birthdays/day we first met her! >:)”)

Yeah, so this relationship lasts longer than it realistically should (but not really that long, you don’t waste ur best years with him or anything)

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #hq au #haikyuu au #kuroo #bokuto #tendou #atsumu #kita #kai #semi #yamaguchi #my writing #my shitpost lol #haiykuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios

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