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emu-lumberjack · 4 years ago

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Don’t Answer the Phone Tired pt. 2

It’s the next day and Damian has gotten even less sleep, thankfully he’s not too tired after a some surprise news shocks him awake.

———————————-

Hey guys here’s the sequel everyone was super excited for. I really hope y'all like it, I definitely wrote it tired, but it should be coherent.

Read part 1 here

Read part 3 here

Read part 4 here

Read part 5 here

He really needed coffee, especially after dealing with his brothers after they found out about Marinette. The youngest Wayne was up till four yelling at them to lay off, among more colorful terms, everyone time they called. He would’ve just ignored them but he knew that ignoring them would just wind up with him getting a surprise visit sooner than later. The fresh Parisian air felt good against his face as he stood on his balcony.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair!” Marinette's voice called from the street.

“Only if the prince is willing to protect me from my aggravating brothers!” He cracked a smile as he shouted back.

“Alas I cannot do that, but would my damsel take this as a reward?” She held up a purple travel mug and a bag filled with a croissant.

“I think I could take that deal. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He ran inside to grab his bag and throw on some day clothes before meeting Marinette.

“Have I mentioned you’re the best girlfriend? Because you’re the best girlfriend.” Damian said walking up to Marinette.

“You could stand to mention it more.” The bluenette replied handing him his promised coffee and croissant. He gulped down the coffee barely taking a breath until Marinette laughed and said, “Slow down there, you won't have any time to savor any of it.”

“If you want to stay up late dealing with my brothers, please be my guest but if not,” He gestured with his cup, “I’m gonna drink as fast as I want to.” Marinette nodded to that.

“Was it that bad last night after you left?”

“By bad do you mean each one of was trying to call me every five minutes out of ‘concern’ for my health or to check to make sure I hadn’t kidnapped you.” Marinette laughed again. “Anyway if I didn’t talk to them at all they probably would’ve hopped on the first flight they could to see what’s going on.” They stopped at the light, when Damian turned to look at Marinette he noticed she was avoiding his gaze. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about my brothers. Would you Angel?”

“Well, I might have gotten a text from Aurore to keep you away from school because three older guys had come and were asking around for you. One of them was half asleep and she couldn’t figure out how he was functional.”

Damian paled, after a moment he said “And why then are we going to school, I personally want to get as far away from them as possible.”

“She sent me a follow up saying to get there as fast as possible. Lila told her lie in front of the wrong person and, well I’ll show you the video.” Marinette handed her phone to Damian who hit play on the video that was up.

The forms of Grayson, Todd and Drake half asleep leaning on Jason. A voice came from off screen saying,

“Girl I can’t believe Tim’s not taking you to the Wayne Gala.” Alya, Damian thought. She was beginning to walk into frame with someone else. He knew who she was before she spoke.

“I know right. It’s just why would he invite someone else!” There in all her demonic glory stood Lila Rossi, not yet realising who she was walking next to.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you talking about Tim Drake? Adopted son of Bruce Wayne?” Grayson asked innocently. Damian knew that voice, it was the same one he used when he was going to demolish someone. “Well yeah. He’s her boyfriend, who are you anyway? Why do you care?” Alya was immediately there to be Lila’s guard dog.

“Well my name is Richard Grayson-Wayne. Tim’s brother and Bruce's son. I care because unless he’s as good at keeping secrets as Damian is, which he’s not, then he isn’t dating this girl.” Alya paled, the camera zoomed in on Lila’s face. She looked like she was about to be sick

“Huh? I heard my name.” Drake, who was in a rare moment of lucidness, looked at Dick.

“Are you pulling a Damian and secretly dating a girl in France?” Todd still Drake’s support was glaring at Lila.

“What?! Are you kidding me? No!” Drake looked like he was just hit with a cement slab.

“What are you talking about obviously you’re dating Lila! Stop Lying! I bet you're not even the real Tim Drake.” Alya was shouting now drawing crowds from around the courtyard. Drake looked at Grayson confused.

“She does realize that we can sue her if she’s really telling these types of lies right? Like she can’t be doing that.” Tim stood in front of Dick and turned his back to the paled liar and fuming reporter

“Oh leave Lila alone!” Alya came towards Drake and shoved him into Grayson.

“That does it.” Todd who had moved off to the side started walking towards the brunette rolling up his sleeves. Grayson and Todd recovered quickly, and moved to hold Todd back.

“We should get there before Todd kills them.” He said calmly before handing the phone back to Marinette. “Otherwise we won’t be able to take her down ourselves.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

In no time the duo were walking up the steps of Françoise Dupont where the sounds of shouts could be heard. The scene they entered was somehow more chaotic then the one Aurore had sent in the video. Todd was hanging upside down, the rope leading up around the handrails on the second floor then back down to a corner of the courtyard. Drake was on the bench snoring softly with his head almost touching the floor. Dick was on the phone, presumably with some lawyers. The entire bottom courtyard of the school was littered with papers and balloons were strewn about. Lila was nowhere to be seen.

“It looks like they’ve taken care of the situation, and they haven’t spotted us yet so I’m just gonna…” Damian began.

“There he is! Demonspawn, finally I thought you’d never get here.” Jason interrupted. He had spun around and caught sight of Damian and Marinette walking in. Dick turned around at the sound of Jason’s voice before saying “Yeah Duke I’ll have to call you back, but we need to sort this Lila stuff out.” He put his phone away before walking over to a corner of the building where he took out his knife and slashed a piece of rope. Jason came crashing down.

“A little warning next time Dick.” Jason said brushing off some dust that had settled on his tan leather jacket. Each one of them were dressed in their civilian clothing. Dick had on a pair of blue jeans with a grey t-shirt paired with some black sneakers. Jason was wearing his usual jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket combo. Drake was in some weird form of pajama and day clothes mixing a graphic T-shirt and red flannel with grey sweatpants and slippers.

“Now I know that we have to be dreaming. Demonspawn is actually wearing a sweatshirt. I don’t even think Alfred could get him to do that.” Damian had run out once he heard Marinette’s voice that morning so he had just thrown on a pair of pants, a shirt and a sweatshirt barely thinking about it. He had become relaxed in Paris.

“What the hell are you guys doing here.” Damian’s face was quickly beginning to match a tomato in color and he was backing out of the entryway.

“Well obviously we had to come and see you, and meet your girlfriend.” Dick who had walked over to Marinette grabbed her hand and shook it. “My name’s Dick, the grumbling menace over there is Jason. The one currently passed out is Tim, nice to meet you, uh”

“Marinette.” She supplied. “I also have to thank you for taking care of a certain person, I’ve been trying to figure out how to get rid of her for a year.”

“Oh it was no problem at all, especially after she claimed she was dating Tim.” Damian quickly interrupted the two with a few well placed coughs. “I don’t mean to cut this short Grayson but we have to be getting to class.”

“Oh don’t worry. Bruce already called you out for the day, and Marinette I’m sure you can miss one day of school.” Jason said walking up behind Marinette.

“As much as I’d love to, I have two tests today. I’ll be happy to meet up with you afterwards though.” Damian’s eyes widened as the words sunk in and he realized what that meant for him.

“Please don’t leave me alone with them.” He looked at Marinette pleadingly.

“You’re gonna have to tell us how you got him to say please, it took Alfred a month to do that.” Jason remarked.

“Maybe another time, now I’ve gotta get to class.” She gave one look at Damian and there was laughter in her eyes.

“I hate you.” He said.

“No you don’t.” She called back, disappearing around the corner.

“So how bout we wake up Timmy and go get breakfast. I for one am famished.” Jason came up and put a hand on Damians shoulder.

“Ya know that doesn’t sound so bad Jason. Then Damian can tell us all about Paris, and the people he’s met.” Dick stood in front of Damians glare gleefully looking at Jason.

“I will kill you both and Father will never be able to find your bodies.”

“Yeah but then Marinette will be disappointed. For some reason she gives off the ‘thou shall not kill’ vibe.” Grayson said. “Now how are we gonna wake Tim up.”

“Oh I’ll take care of it.” Damian said grabbing his Ice filled water bottle.

Tag List:

@ur-average-reader @kristycocopop @k-laconia-bug1 @smolplantmum @dast218 @pirats-pizzacanninibles @acoursedprophetwithasmothie @g-arya @loysydark @mewwitch @itsemeanne @hauntedstudent99 @clumsy-owl-4178

#Maribat #Damianette #damienette #marinette x damian #marinette dupain-cheng #Lila salt #alya salt

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terrm9 · 4 years ago

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Home (Ethan X MC)

Words count: 2 700 Warnings: cursing Author’s note: This is my version of events that take place after Ethan and MC (Chiara) leave Louise Ramsey at the rehab centre. It was supposed to be fluffy piece about Ethan taking MC to his place when she says she wants to go home but somehow it got a little bit angsty.

Also, the biggest thanks to everyone that supported me to write this! You guys made my heart swell and I am going to tag you because I am so, so, so thankful you encouraged me. It means a lot to me, really.

———– HOME ———-

“I should thank you more often,” Ethan let out as he leaned back into his seat, turning the engine on.

“I think I could learn to live with that,” Chiara grinned back at him, fastening her seatbelt. “I truly am proud of you Ethan. And I also can’t wait to go home.”

Ethan nodded, his gaze fixed on the road ahead of them. Chiara observed his features, testing her skills by trying to guess what exactly is going on in his head. His knuckles were turning pale by the force he held on steering wheel with, his jaw clenched and his expression forcibly neutral. It didn’t take a genius to see that there was a war of emotions inside of him, just as it didn’t take one to see that he had no intensions to share what was on his mind at the moment.

Knowing better than to push him, Chiara teared her eyes off him and despite trying her hardest to not to, she glanced at the watch at the car’s dashboard.

5:57 PM.

One minute until Sora comes to see what happened.

Chiara can’t help it. She tried, she got rid of every single watch in her apartment, she purposefully doesn’t look at her phone and yet, every single day since the accident, she keeps checking the time, repeating what happened that day.

Locked in the room with Bobby and Danny and Travis and later only with Rafael and then all by herself, all she could do was to stare at the round white watch hanged above the door and memorize the exact time of every single moment that somehow affected that day. No matter how many weeks have passed, no matter how much she tried to persuade herself, as well as everyone else that she was okay now, she kept checking the damn time every day.

“I meant what I said back then, Chiara,” Ethan spoke abruptly, breaking the thoughts occupying her mind. “That I wouldn’t have done that without you. If it wasn’t for you, I would never give Louise a second chance. I would never even try to forgive her.”

“I am not sure that’s exactly a good thing, Ethan. You have felt some way towards her for twenty-five years. You have only known me for almost two years now. I don’t think I should be the one to tell you if you should or shouldn’t forgive, it needs to be your decision. Something this huge cannot be decided on my suggestion of what I would do in the situation.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he shook his head, not tearing his gaze off the road. “It was not your suggestion that made me forgive her. It’s you. Your ability to always be kind. For twenty-five years I was angry. I was so angry with my mother and the thing is, I was proud to be angry at her. I was so proud to feel the anger, to not to look for her like my father did, I felt like caring about where she was or missing her, like that would make me weak. She did us wrong and all she deserved was my anger and hatred, right? And this was not only the case of my mother. Every time in my life someone hurt me I decided all I would ever feel for them again would be anger. Because if I have forgiven them, it would make me weak and they would be able to hurt me again. And then I met you and in you, I met a person that has always been nice to everyone. Even the people who have hurt her, even those who have been rude to her, strangers, a person that, despite my efforts to push her away, despite me being an absolute asshole, has always shown me how much she cared and that she would be there for me,” he gulped and took a deep breath before going on.

“When the leakage happened, I went to see Travis with Dr. Trinh. He never told me anything that could help us and I hated him with every single cell in my body. As I was leaving the room he was in, he asked me to help him with his pain, to increase the morphine dosage. I could see that he was suffering but I was so angry with him that I left him to suffer. It was on our way back to the hospital when it hit me. That if it were you at my place, you would never leave him to suffer, no matter how much hatred you felt. You are everything I have never been, Chiara and only now I know that your kindness, your ability to forgive, that none of it makes you weaker. That you are the strongest person I know. When I asked you what would you do, with Louise I mean, I knew very well that you would give her a second chance. I just needed to hear you say that. To remind me that if I gave her the chance, I wouldn’t be weak.”

Chiara smiled at him lightly and took his free hand into hers, not wanting to burden the lightness that surrounded them with worthless words.

Thirty minutes later, Ethan parked his car in the garage of his building and leaned his head into the seat back, closing his eyes.

“I was thinking about making Thai red curry for dinner, how does that sound to you?” he asked with his eyes still closed.

Chiara was looking at him, her expression both surprised and amused.

When it took her too long to answer, Ethan opened his eyes and turned to her.

“What is it? Do you hate curry?”

“What? No, not at all. I am just, well, surprised you took me here. To your place, I mean.”

Ethan furrowed his brows in utter confusion as he shrugged: “Well you said you wanted to go home so I took you-“

He stopped mid-sentence as he realized what has just happened. Opening and closing his mouth for a few times he was gaining himself some time to form a coherent sentence.

“I am sorry, Chiara. Jesus, I don’t know what I was thinking, I mean, I clearly wasn’t thinking. Of course you meant your place. Chiara I am so sorry, let me just take you there and-“

He was stopped again, this time by Chiara’s lips pressed against his.

You are a fucking idiot, Ramsey, he thought as she kissed him, feeling her grinning. All she wanted was to go home. Her home. The one where she lives. With her roommates. Imbecile.

“Stop apologizing,” she smiled as she broke the kiss. “The curry sounds great.”

They were sitting at the opposite sides of the table, both simply playing with the food on their still half-full plates.

“You’ve hardly even eaten anything,” Chiara pointed out when she noticed Ethan putting his fork down.

“Do you want to compare?” he asked back, gesturing toward her plate.

He didn’t say it to make her feel bad or to push her to finish her meal. Ethan knew Chiara wasn’t doing this on purpose, nor had it anything to do with his cooking abilities. Through the weeks, he’s noticed how drastically has her appetite decreased and how she hasn’t really gotten it back.

With everything going on these past few months, neither of them could actually eat or sleep.

Chiara simply shrugged and noticing the watch at his wrist, she asked: “What time is it, please?”

He watched down and answered: “Half past eight.”

“Precisely half past eight?”

“Precisely thirty-two minutes past eight. Why are you asking?”

8:32 PM.

At 8:37 they came to the room to take Rafael away because he slipped into coma.

At 8:39 Ethan told me that Danny was dead.

“Huh? I am just curious,” she lied and needing to change the topic, she asked another question. “Do you feel somehow lighter now that you got your closure?”

It was Ethan’s turn to shrug – and maybe even to lie.

“I actually do feel lighter. It was something I didn’t know I needed. But I am also scared – I promised Louise to visit her and now I feel like it was a stupid promise. I will hardly be able to see her again anytime soon.”

“I can come with you every time if it would help. Louise already thinks we are good friends.”

“She does?”

“She told me while she was in the hospital. Apparently, that’s what your dad told her.”

Ethan groaned, obviously bothered by the fact that his parents talk about him and Chiara at all. However, after a while, he simply muttered: “I guess I should give my dad an update, then.”

Chiara laughed loudly at the remark, the first real laugh Ethan’s heard from her all day. Knowing that both of them were finished with their meals, he took the plates back to the kitchen and decided to wash the dishes too while he was there. It gave him some more time to compose himself, to allow himself to simply feel lighter and happier, without the haunting feelings of doubt and fear of being hurt again.

He also felt guilty. Chiara has been through so much and even though she tried to act like she was okay, he knew her. And he could see rather clearly that she was not okay. On those precious nights they’ve spent together, he could hear her screaming from her sleep.

Please, you don’t have to do this.

Not Danny.

Not Bobby.

Just kill me.

Not Raf.

Travis stop!

Just kill me.

No. no, NO!

It could go on like this through the whole night. And here he was, burdening her with his family issues.

“You do realize that you own a dishwasher, right?” she disturbed his thoughts with wide grin on her face, leaning against a doorframe.

“I am sorry, Chiara,” he blurted out before he could even think about it. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I know you have enough on your plate and it was selfish from me to ask you to do this with me.”

She closed the distance between them and gently stopped the water, handing him the dishcloth to dry his hands. After she made sure he was all set, she hugged his waist tightly, resting her head on his chest.

Ethan circled his arms around her petite form and closed his eyes, letting her rose-yasmine perfume rule over his senses, taking him to the place where it could be just the two of them.

Where they could be happy.

Where they wouldn’t be broken.

“I am so happy you dragged me into this. I want to be part of your life and that means all the aspects of it. Let me be there for you, okay?”

“Will you stay for the night?” he whispered into her hair and felt his shoulders relax when he felt her nod.

After taking a quick shower, Ethan entered his bedroom in his grey pajama bottoms and didn’t even try to suppress a smile that found a way onto his mouth when he spotted Chiara sitting on the bed in nothing but his shirt, reading a poetry book she found on his bedside table.

“Come here,” she waved her hand as she closed the book and leaned into the bedframe.

Ethan sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for further instructions and was rather surprised when she pulled him toward her, his head landing in her lap. Immediately, Chiara started to play with Ethan’s hair, massaging his scalp softly.

“I can see that there is something else bothering you, Ethan.”

“There is.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“I am scared, Chiara,” he whispered.

Chiara simply kept stroking his hair, waiting for him to elaborate his statement.

“What if I am just like her? It makes so much sense now that I see why she left us. I finally know what I have been suspecting - and fearing - all those years. That I am the picture of my dear mother.”

“How do you mean that?”

“I have always hated her for leaving us, for running away, when really, I am doing the same thing every time life gets hard. When Naveen was dying and I thought he wouldn’t be saved, I left Edenbrook. When Dolores died, I stormed out of the waiting room when you reached out to me. After your trial when it became clear that we would be working together again, I left to Brazil. And all those times I kept telling myself that it was better for the others, that I was doing it for the hospital, for Naveen, for you, when really, all I was doing was running away like a fucking coward I was. All those years I blamed my mother for hurting us and now I am doing the same to the people I care about. What if I can never change? What if I am destined to be the same failure she was? What if I hurt you again?”

There was a long silence.

Ethan hugged Chiara’s waist and closed his eyes, scared that she realized that he was right and would leave him now.

Chiara’s eyes were filled with tears as she pressed her lips on Ethan’s head, her heart broken for the man with the biggest heart, only to have it filled with so much hatred and doubt toward himself.

“If there’s something you are destined for, Ethan, it’s all the great, beautiful things in this world. And you deserve someone to show you how worthy of love you are. I will be here with you tonight, okay? Try to sleep. I am not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

He simply nodded, the words stuck in his throat. As if there were any words that could ever describe the way he felt with Chiara.

After she was sure that Ethan was deeply in his sleep, Chiara gently untangled herself from his grip and headed back to the living room, where she left her phone. She knew that Sienna was on her night shift tonight and so she needed to text her.

It became their ritual through these past weeks, checking on each other on the nights they didn’t spend together.

Chiara knew that, just like herself, Sienna was far from okay. She knew they were both trying their hardest to act normal and she also knew that they were both failing miserably. But Chiara had Ethan looking out for her.

Sienna had no one.

There were nights when they would sleep together in Chiara’s room, crying, talking about Danny and how much Sienna missed him, hugging each other until the sleep found them. And when they couldn’t be together, they would text each other to make sure that the other one was as alright as she possibly could be.

After returning back to the bed, Chiara found Ethan sleeping on his side, his back turned to her. Trying to adjust her little body behind him so that she could be the big spoon for tonight – which was ironic really, as she could never be anything big compared to Ethan – she wrapped her hand around his torso and after making sure that his breaths were slow and steady and therefore he was asleep, she said the words she wanted to tell him for a long time but never did, afraid of scaring him.

“I love you.”

After that, she closed her eyes and not even a minute later, she drifted off.

Ethan felt her small, warm arm as she wrapped it around his body, but decided to pretend to be asleep, not wanting to ruin the moment and also her attempt to somehow surround him completely.

His whole body stiffed at her words and it took him all the willpower he had to not to turn around and look at her. Only when he heard her soft snores indicating that she was asleep, he enlaced his fingers with hers on his chest as he whispered:

“And I you.”

Once again, THANK YOU GUYS: @queencarb @perriewinklenerdie @starrystarrytrouble @the-pale-goddess @catchinglikekerosene @udishaman @messrprongs

#open heart #open heart choices #open heart fanfiction #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #sienna trinh #chapter 16

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letthefrogsbe · 3 years ago

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remember when I was gonna write that parkner fic?

cool so I've decided I'm gonna, but because I cannot write for SHIT and I hate my writing every time I see it, ill just share my outline of what I have so far. its not coherent. sorry.

Section one: aunt may dies. It’ll be like “it's been 3 months. 3 months since May was shot. 2 months and 3 weeks since she died.”

Something like that idc. Basically this section will base around peter living tony, because he’s not doing well, and he is only 17- which is not actually old enough to be on your own after something like this. Setting is established, with cameos from dr strange (who tony is dating and lives with (yeah bite me, this is my fanfiction i can make it what i want.) it will be made obvious that this takes place after endgame, which also means that tony is Not going to die. I’m not that mean lmao. The avengers are like largely together, there was not as much death in this as there was in endgame. Whatever. Everyone is very nice to peter because they know that for him its either this or him becoming a ward of the state so like.

Section two: harley gets kicked out. His mom finds out that he’s gay (from gossip sources idk) and kicks harley out. Im not going to write them having a big fight like in the moment, but harley will recount what happened somewhat to tony in this section, and then more to peter later in the story. Gay ppl trauma dump, we know this. Okay anywaysss so harley calls tony literally sobbing and like freezing fucking cold. IM SORRY IM BEING SO MEAN TO THEM I PROMISE THEY'LL GET A HAPPY ENDING. Okay. harley explains how his mom kicked him out. Tony asks why, harley says something like “she didn’t agree with my lifestyle choices” like bitterly. Tony is a good person in this (i know, im really taking some character liberties) and he’s in the mood for collecting strays apparently, so he has happy send over the quinjet. He can’t make it himself bc hes in fucking japan or something for the next few weeks,, but. Yeah! Tony also calls peter, who is presumably in bed and feeling depressed. “Hey pete. How ya feeling? Any better?’ ‘Not really, tony. Sorry.’ ‘you don’t have to be sorry-’ ‘damn tony you sound like my therapist.’ “sorry pete, but i do have something to tell you- you know harley?’ ‘only from what you’ve told me about him, but yea. He was the tennessee garage kid, right?’ ‘i mean. Yes. so- he’s gonna come stay with me for a while too- it might not be permanent but it will probably be a bit. He’s about your age, and he just has no where to go (just like u). He’s not going to stay in your room or anything, but with bruce and thor here, he will be in your apartment area.’ ‘okay tony.. Will i have to talk to him a bunch?’ ‘not if you don’t want to- i already warned him about you, so it should be okay. I wouldn’t worry so much pete- you guys are so similar in a lot of ways that i wanted to introduce you two long before he called me.’ ‘okay tony, i trust you. Thank you again for letting me stay with you :)’ (yeah that kind of got away from me)

Section 3: build up. this is a shorter section. Harley and peter are gonna meet in section 4. This section is harley’s jet ride (with an intuitive happy) and harley’s nerves about how he really isn’t worth this (i mean hes pretty intimidated tony sent a private jet just for him) and happy like reassures him. Hes still insecure though. Peter is also nervous bc what if harley doesn’t like him? What if he doesn’t like harley?? Tony did say they would get along, but peter hasn’t really been himself recently, so who knows? Yeah lots of that. I do want to emphasize though- peter is not completely unhealthily coping. Like he has a therapist and he has been reaching out to ned and mj, but its still an open wound for him. Obviously. He still has a sense of humor though, but its to cover these deep insecurities. Like the first month or so that he was with tony, he was reallllyyyy trying to not get close to him bc he sort of thinks he kills everyone around him. Like logically he knows this isn’t true, but he does really think the that non superheroes that he surrounds himself with are very at risk if they know about his spider-man-ness. The only people who know now are ned and mj (may knew too).

Section 4: the meeting of harley and peter. Keep in mind peter has been living in this apartment/area of stark tower for about 3 months now. He actually moved in while may was in the hospital because he couldn’t stand to be alone in the apartment when he knew why may wasn’t there. And um. Yeah. so peter is like comfortable in this space, basically. Also- the reason theyre in the same apartment is because stark tower was not really created with the idea of housing broken orphans in mind, so it only has a certain amount of residential space. Thor and bruce are currently staying there together (although no one really knows if theyre together, or if theyre just best bros who went through some extreme trauma together and are now inseparable. Hmmm wonder if thats gonna come up later) and theyre using one apartment, and happy lives there with his own apartment, and tony and stephen are currently sharing the penthouse, even though thats not public knowledge. Really only the people close to tony know that he’s dating stephen. So. this leaves just the one other 2 bedroom apartment for peter and harley. It has one bathroom, and the bedrooms are connected by a door but theyre pretty big so like. Theres a kitchen, a living room with a fancy ass tv, and a really pretty view (with a balcony bc <333). May died in march, peter got leave from the school in april, and it is now the middle of june btw. Tony is now peter’s official guardian (he was before may died anyways) and now has sole guardianship over him which he has fully accepted, even though peter and him both know that there are going to be times where he has to go out of town bc he does own a company after all. Times like right now. Harley is pretty nervous that tony isn’t going to be there to greet him and that he is going to have to like introduce himself to peter and everything. Cmon, theres no reason to feel like that, he’s the one intruding after all, he should at least be able to handle himself. (<--- harley’s thoughts). Yeah so theyre insecure super cool. A n y w a y s so peter was stressing about harley as he arrived, and so when harley walked in they were both complete bundles of nerves. Harley walks up but knocks. Peter actually jumps (bc spidey sense okay whatever) and goes to get the door. Oh my god these awkward teenagers i hate them so much (i love them). Peter kinda looks like shit, sorry king. He was a little bit crying earlier, then tony called and he switched into stressed out ball-of-anxiety mode. Distractions are good, its okay. Peter opens the door for harley and they like introduce each other all awkward (again sorry) and peter shows harley where he is staying. Harley doesnt really have muchhhh bc he was kicked out and all. He just has a suitcase full of clothes, his favorite blanket, his favorite stuffed animal (yeah whatever bc ofc he does) and his phone/charger. He sets all his stuff down at once. He thanks peter for letting him stay in his apartment and also said sorry. First thing peter noticed was harley’s accent. Stfu. peter asks why harley’s here- ok. Harleys had a long ass day. Too fucking long. He- he breaks down. He tells peter a lot. About how his mom found out that he was gay, and how she told him never to come back. Yikes. Anyways, this is establishing the beginning of their relationship as friends. Peter is there for him even though he doesn’t know him at all. Peter sees some of himself in harley in this moment, even though he’s not talking about himself yet. Eventually harley does ask about peter, and they really just get to know each other really quick. They have these deep scarring individual traumas, and neither has nearly recovered, but they find comfort in just knowing that theyre not alone in their suffering. At least for now. At least in this moment.

Section 5: the next day. Peter and harley spent that whole night talking about what they were going through. Peter said good night at around 5 am (there were no adults around they can do what they want to) and they both got good sleeps. In peter’s case, one of the first solid nights he’s had in a while. Harley was kept up a little longer after peter left, however, because he just couldn’t shut off his mind. It was really cathartic for him to just lay everything out there and for someone to just accept him. Peter told him he was bi, but he was.. Lucky. He had accepting people in his life. May was accepting. God, harley couldn’t fathom having lost everyone in his life, everyone he ever cared about, and still having the heart to sit and talk with the dumbass anxious gay kid who can’t go home anymore. His problems felt so small compared to peter’s, and all he could do was admire peter’s resilience and how he was seemingly able to bounce back from anything. God, peter was something. He couldn’t wait to get to know him more. With that thought circling in his head, he finally went to sleep at oh shit 6:30 am. Peter woke up around 1. Harley at 2. When harley woke up, peter was watching tv and eating cereal on the couch and he just sat down next to him. No words, just sleepy children being sleepy. They stayed like this for like an hour when someone knocked on their door. Enter stephen strange!!!!!!!!!!! Get excited people. Hes just coming in to check on them bc tony told him to, and he didn’t get the chance last night bc he was _busy_. K so now he’s here and hes awkward and he just wants to make sure these boys r okay bc theyve both been through too much recently, and it would be just the cherry on top if they didn’t get along. Him and harley had never actually met before so he like introduced himself and all that. Offered like if they needed anything he was there, and its only gonna be a few days until tony gets back (did i say a week earlier? Im retconning that bc i cannot find it in my writing so it is now retconned). Peter and harley just have to sort of explain to dr strange that theyre getting along gREAT and there is no need for concern….. And peter was even thinking about showing harley around the city a bit that night (something he had not yet told harley, but wanted to make it seem like he was doing well and not acting too depressed in front of Dr. Strange) so dr strange is like yeah !!!!!! do that, that sounds super fun petey !!!!!! and so now they have evening plans

ok ps I wrote this like 2 weeks ago and completely forgot I posted something on Tumblr about this fic idea, and so this is literally just how I talk to myself. was not gonna ever post this but then I decided to because I'm bored. there are more sections but I'm not gonna post them rn because this post is really fucking long already!!!!

#hope this is marketable??#sort of just wanted to share my 4 am writing tbh #it doesn't make sense just go w it #parkner #peter parker #harley keener

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imsurethisisprobablyabadidea · 3 years ago

Text

The Beginning.

The beginning of the fanfic with no name.

No warnings here. It is, after all, just the beginning!

Word Count: 1,276 (I told you this series would be long)

Mornings suck. We can all agree on that. However, we can probably also agree that mornings suck even harder after sleepless nights. You’ve been having a lot of those recently. Do you remember the feeling of anticipation right before a big vacation as a child? Or Christmas? Christmas Eve is the most difficult time to sleep. You used to lie in bed counting the hours in your head.

If I go to sleep now, do I think Mom and Dad will let me wake them up in 5 hours and start the festivities?!

The past week worth of nights have felt like that. That feeling when you are 100% assured something big and exciting in the morning, when the sleep, for a change, isn’t relaxing, but an obstacle keeping you from the true prize. You’d honestly like to give a shoutout to coffee for keeping you coherent recently. It’s through the grace of God and Arabica that you even made it to this dreary Monday morning. Which, as you hope we can all agree on again, is the worst kind of Morning. But today, you don’t even care. you’re awake, and it is Christmas morning, time to depart on your much awaited vacation, the day you win the lottery...whatever you want to call it. Either way, you’re done with the anticipatory sleepless nights today.

Even mornings here are warm. When your alarm clock goes off, that’s the first thing you notice, rolling over. Well, shifting over. This tiny twin bed doesn’t allow for a glamorous amount of room. Your body seems to be radiating heat already. The feeling of the humid air is what finally causes you to snap out of your sleepy stupor. You sit up in bed, wiping an embarrassing amount of drool off my chin. With a generous stretch, you swing my legs over the bed and sigh. The walk to the tiny bathroom in your tiny apartment is, if you can believe it, short. Once the shower begins to run, the small space is even more sweltering than your bed. Perhaps some people would take a cold shower to even out the weather, rather than complaining about the temperature as they make it worse, but not you. If anyone ever catches you taking a cold shower, send the ambulance. After all, this is a very important shower. It’s a big day, and you want to make a good first impression. When you work this closely and hands-on with people, shaving your legs becomes a pretty high priority. With such a lengthy shower, you had certainly cooled off by the end. Hey, guess that means the size of the water heater compliments the rest of the loft! You towel off quickly, brush your teeth, and run a comb and some product through your hair and leave it to dry of its own accord. When the air is this thick, there’s no sense in trying to tame the curly mane. While the Atlanta air saves you time on your hair, it’s the lengthy work day that cuts down the makeup time. A quick swipe of mascara and concealer will do, getting you out the door quicker too. Which is good, cause you’re already running late and, as previously mentioned, first impressions are everything.

Regardless of how late you am, you cannot skip coffee. So you throw on a pair of black leggings and a tank top, and race out the door. Starbucks, here you come. One trenta caramel macchiato later, and you’re feeling much more ready to face the day. We can pretend it was the block you jogged to the cafe and back, but we all know it was the unhealthy amount of caffeine. Trying to avoid rush hour traffic at this ungodly early hour, you begin my trek to the studio. Since it’s the beginning of production, today will be one of the easiest for you. It’ll begin with a script read through which, with the projected runtime of this film, will take a good bit, and then, after lunch, begin to work on some costuming, makeup, and fight choreography. You could not be more grateful for the scenery today. Though it is very fun to be on location, the air conditioning in the studio feels like kisses from heaven on this scorcher of a day.

People are already bustling around when you walk in the door.

Maybe I got the call times wrong.

You fret. Luckily, a quick swipe through your email assuages my fears. All these PAs must be eager to impress. Weaving through the masses, you make it to a much calmer room. It’s fairly plain, just tables, chairs and scripts, but then you notice the bagel spread against the wall. You love a good bagel. So, you grab yourself breakfast and take your seat, facing the open “U” the tables create. Only a few of the talent are here yet, sitting calmly in front of their nameplates, quietly reading through their scripts for what you are sure is the millionth time. By the time production makes it to this stage, most actors have their lines almost completely memorized. And with the quality of actors on this film, you’d be willing to bet your tiny apartment, for all it’s worth, that most of them would only use their printed scripts to make notes, not to read.

Though you’ve never worked with this cast before, a quick scan of the room confirms that those present are who you would assume the usual “early birds” are. Anthony Mackie sits calmly, although he isn’t reading his script like the others. Just staring at his phone. From the looks of his finger swiping...playing Tetris? Scarlett Johannson, however, is trained on her lines, her lips moving slightly as she runs through them. A laugh draws your eyes to the last two people at the tables. Mark Ruffalo smiles, script forgotten as his costar tells him what you have to surmise is a hilarious story. His eyes meet yours and he offers a slight wave of his hand. You smile and wave your fingers back. Chris Evans, his conversation partner, turns over his shoulder to meet your eyes as well, a smile lifting the corner of his lips.

You smile at him as well, with, you’ll admit it, a bit more heat on your cheeks than could be attributed to the Georgia humidity outside. Because, come on, we’ve all seen the man! He shifts back around, continuing his chat with Mark. You turn to your phone, people filtering into the room steadily now, deciding to spend the next few minutes responding to emails. When you look up next, the table is full, Robert Downey Jr, Sebastian Stan, Chris Hemsworth, and Jeremy Renner having joined the fray. Clearly, with a Marvel project, it’s nearly impossible to have the entire universe in the same room, so this script read will only feature the original six, plus Mackie and Sebastian, of course. The rest of the parts will be read by production staff. As the last stragglers file into the reading, Anthony Russo stands to address the room. With some passing comments about how important this film is to bring the MCU’s Phase 3 to a head, and jokes about the professionalism of his beloved cast, You settle into your seat as Russo begins by reading the movie’s title, “Avengers: Infinity War”.

#chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans/reader #chris evans/you #chris evans and reader #chris evans and you #slow burn #chris evans slow burn #chris evans/reader slow burn

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captain-emmajones · 4 years ago

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Here’s a Prompt; Emma’s when she comes back from the Underworld without Killian, pre funeral scene, when she realises she’ll never see him again 💔😉

Hello beautiful angel, thank you for the prompt! This is slightly different from what you asked for, but everything did originate from your idea. I hope you’ll like this <3

Big thank you to @snowbellewells who was a real angel and beta’d this and saved all of our eyeballs in the process <3

Fluff - Angst - Canon Compliant - Ao3 - 2500 words

Summary: This is set at the beginning of season 4 when Killian and Emma start dating and expands until the end of season 5 ... or the times Killian helped Emma make her bed after staying over, and the times he didn’t.

The first time he offers to help her, she is sprawled across her bed like a starfish, as she tries to properly tuck in her freshly-washed fitted sheets.

“Come on guys, you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” she hisses between her teeth, one foot keeping the right corner down while her fingers battle with the left.

“Need a hand love?”

“Thought you were in the bathroom,” she mumbles -- this close from succeeding, this close -- and she doesn’t spin around to face him because the sheets just might escape her and she won’t allow it.

She hears him chuckle behind her back. How dare he be chuckling?

“Aye, well, a man has needs love...But now that I am here, let me help you.”

It’s actually quite funny then, because as she reluctantly raises her chin towards him, ready to tell him that she’s got it covered -- although she has actually broken a sweat over this terrible affair -- well, her eyes meet his and her heart leaps inside her chest just as the fitted sheet bounces back into her face.

Fuck.

Because, see, the thing is the sun is quite a traitor, and it has decided to dabble its most outrageous golden beams into his gentle blue eyes and this absolutely does not stir something weird deep within Emma’s belly -- not at all.

And Emma’s heart tries its best to remain neutral, cold, detached but the only thing it manages to do as Killian Jones offers her a bright smile and a raised eyebrow is to sigh and skip an alarmed beat.

“Y-yeah, sure. Thanks.”

The starfish leaves her natural habitat to stand up and hand him one corner of the white cotton sheets. When his warm palm brushes against hers, playfully, on purpose, she flushes remembering what those fingers did to her the night before.

“There we go, Swan,” he says, casually, as if all of this domesticity is normal and appropriate when her heart is throbbing and threatening to jump out of her ribcage onto the carpeted floor. “I’m actually quite an expert, as you’ll see.”

And because misfortunes never come alone, he has the audacity of gently pressing his lips to her temple and sighing a deep sigh of contentment against her skin, and by that time Emma has completely stopped breathing.

Because the thing is she is fucking terrified.

Later that day, when Killian has ventured out of the apartment, a piece of toast tucked between his teeth, pirate business to attend love, and Emma’s alone with her mother in the kitchen, and her spoon tinkles inside her mug, tinkles and tinkles, Emma wonders aloud:

“Mom, when did dad start helping you make your bed?”

And then it’s quite a scene for the ages because Mary Margaret nearly spits her entire mouthful of tea into Emma’s face, and Emma figures her question might be slightly weird and instantly regrets asking it.

“I’m, I’m…,” Snow White begins, and Snow White is blushing, and Snow White is Emma’s mother and Emma wants to dive into her mug of coffee and possibly drown there. “I mean, I don’t know.” She pauses, winces. “With the Evil Queen, and the sleeping curse, and all of that...your father and I didn’t really get to date, you know…”

Oh, Emma knows. This is all very new and weird to her, the whole dating Captain Hook.

“I see,” Emma replies simply, because Mary Margaret is gazing at her far too intensely and Emma is still contemplating diving into her small mug.

Instead, she stubbornly lowers her gaze and refuses to look back up at her mother, who will not stop staring.

“Why…” Mary Margaret’s voice resonates a few seconds afterwards, “Why are you asking, Emma?”

Emma feels her hair stand on hand.

“No, you know, just wondering…”

The next time he sleeps over, her parents are downstairs when they wake up. Emma feels like she is sixteen and she’s just had her first boyfriend at home, and while it is obviously inconvenient, a part of her cannot help but shriek (very silently) of happiness because this is is silly and dumb and it’s hers.

“Alright. Just stay here, I’ll go grab us some coffee.”

When she climbs back up, cold, morning air greets her and curls around her bare legs. But Emma cannot bring herself to complain. In fact, she can barely bring herself to form any coherent thoughts.

Because, see, the thing is Killian Jones -- her boyfriend, as we’ve mentioned before -- has opened wide the windows and is currently on all fours, busy fluffing her pillow, on top of her already tightly made bed.

Emma blinks, swallows, tries her best to contain the panic birthing inside her throat, ready to roar out of her mouth.

It’s just Killian. It’s just him. It’s just him.

Although her legs seem to burn with the urge to run, flee, disappear, she breathes in deeply, it’s just us, forces a smile on her face and clears her throat to signal her presence.

All it takes to quiet down the voices are his eyes gazing into hers as he turns his face.

And she says, “You didn’t have to make the bed”, but she means something else, something that she isn’t ready to voice, that she is terrified to even think.

And he smiles back at her, rolling back to her side, and she can tell in his “Don’t worry about it, love,” as he springs to his feet and to her lips that he heard it anyway.

As things turn out, Killian makes a far better bed than Emma ever could, and Mary Margaret is quite pleased.

“I have never seen your room so tidy,” she exclaims on delivering a hot cocoa to Emma who is still busy with sheriff files.

Feet propped on her desk, Emma shrugs and scans the room while this silly, little warm bubble of happiness swells inside her chest.

“Well, yeah, Killian always makes sure everything is in order when he--” and abruptly cuts herself.

Emma’s cheeks flush a bright pink then, what the hell was she about to say? and Mary Margaret’s cough is another poor attempt to hide her grin.

“I see...Well, I’ll leave you to it. Say hi to Killian if you see him tonight.”

Emma means to tell her that she absolutely doesn’t want to talk about her boyfriend with her mother, of all people, and she isn’t sixteen anymore and she shouldn’t feel this embarassed, but instead she just smiles, giggles a bit even, for fuck’s sake, and exhales: “Sure.”

And if she wants to slap her own face with her own two hands afterwards, it’s only because this is new and terrifying and the happiest she’s been in ages.

When she sleeps over on the Jolly Roger, and she wakes up to his side of the bed empty, a good sailor wakes up with the sun love, she tries to make the bed like he does...and fails, miserably.

“For both of our sakes, Swan, please leave the bed to me.”

And she wants to be mad, fists on hips, but instead a rare, childlike laughter rattles her ribs as she pounces on top of him and they both land onto the bed.

“What’s the point of having a neatly made bed if we’re going to mess it up anyway?” she grins against his lips, and then kisses him more, and more. She cannot get enough of his kisses.

He chuckles, too. It’s a wonderful sound.

“Point taken, Swan.”

And as she backs away to slowly delve into his eyes, Emma thinks she might need to hear it for the rest of her life, or else she might wither like the poets do.

(When he leaves, she doesn’t wither like the poets do. Emma figures she should have known, should have known that the metaphor was far too delicate and gentle, should have known that death would be fire and ashes and void -- oh, so much void, where he used to live in her heart.

When he leaves, she burns, she breaks, she collapses to the ground in a deafening bang, but she most absolutely does not wither.)

The first time, it is a parallel universe and it doesn’t count, it isn’t real, and she gets to hold him a few hours later, and squeeze him, as hard as she can, against her heart, and she doesn’t say it, then.

Although his smile weakens he lets her love him this way -- with her fragile, imperfect, scarred fingers that tremble even as she brushes his cheeks.

She doesn’t know how else to love him.

(He also loses her, that night. She tends to forget it. That she isn’t the only one bleeding, that he also lost his love when she took on the darkness in a flash of light. He also lost her.)

In Camelot, they share a room.

Although Dark Ones do not sleep she remains by his side most nights, and she watches him.

As the moon and the stars illuminate his skin, trace the shape of his face and dust his cheeks of constellations, she thinks about the time he died, only it wasn’t real but it could have been, and she thinks about how precious he is to her and that death should not be able to touch love, death should remain very far and hidden from her because god knows what she’ll do to keep him by her side.

She brushes a stubborn strand of hair from his forehead and brushes her lips against his warm skin, once, twice, thrice. I love you. I love you. I love you. In his slumber, he smiles.

She loves him. It is the only light in her darkness.

The second time, he lays asleep in a middlemist flower field. She doesn't let him sleep. She wakes him up.

He hates her for it. No one likes to be awoken in the middle of the night, in the middle of an eternal, ghastly night.

When Emma is alone in this big, enormous house, she is quite thankful Dark Ones do not need sleep. She doesn’t have to make the bed. But she does stare at it, the bed where they should be both lying down, curled up together, warm and comfortable and happy.

She stares at it and she remembers his sleepy smile under the golden morning light, not two months ago, she remembers his blue eyes disappearing, one instant, behind yellow sheets that danced in the air between them, she remembers how much love she had seen in his eyes and how much it had frightened her.

She isn’t afraid anymore. Her fingers have stopped shaking.

She only hopes she isn’t too late.

(She is, of course, she is but that will take some time to sink in.)

The third time, she sleeps on the couch, warm fingers against the cold silver of the ring he gave her.

“The Dark One is immortal. Emma isn’t. Bring her home to me.”

Her heart pounds inside her chest for the first time in weeks and it bumps against her ribs, it rattles, it begs, it cries: what is the point anymore? What is the point?

She sleeps on the couch.

It would be too much to withstand to wake up in her bed and forget that he is gone, stretch a hand and not meet his, stretch a leg and only find void, nothing, and remember it all, suddenly -- and stretch the bed cover and find her muscles sore and lonely and how the hell did she manage to do that alone?

She sleeps on the couch.

Until she stands up and decides Orpheus was right and strides to fetch him from Hell.

Is she meant to turn around, and lose him forever? Is there no other ending?

It can’t be. It can’t be, not when his skin still tastes like his skin, and his eyes are still blue and real and he is here with her, and they are going to make it out of there alive, together.

Orpheus failed. She won’t.

She does.

She fails. Again.

She leaves him behind. And when she turns around, her father’s fingers clutched around hers, tugging, tugging, Emma we have to go, she doesn’t even get to see him one last time.

She swallows broken pieces of glass and happy endings and true love, and she suffocates because it is the fourth time and she cannot breathe and this cannot possibly be the end, they deserve time, more time --

-- We already got more time than we were ever meant to.

The day she buries him, she’s staring at her unmade bed when, for the first time, she realizes, understands, that there will be no getting him back this time.

That his warm fingers will not close over her knuckles, his stubborn little sigh, as he mumbles not like this Swan, you have to really tug, just like that…

Her fingers will forever remain stretched, ready to grasp, hold, treasure... but there is nothing left to reach.

Tears burn her eyes as she stares at the stubborn piece of fabric in her hands that will not be properly tucked in.

A breath, a sigh, a sob shaking her spine.

She should have paid attention when he was explaining. Should have remembered the steps. Instead, she stared at him and his mouth and his eyelashes in this golden light and thought she would have him forever.

She thought they would have their happily ever after, so why bother with making a bed?

But now he is gone and she is unable to make the bed like he does, used to -- oh god, will this ever get easier? -- and her fingers have nowhere to hold anymore, nowhere to reach, nowhere to be.

It does. It gets easier.

As things turn out, Fate has other plans than death for Killian Jones.

Emma is forever grateful.

(Their nights are still haunted by terror and grief, but that’s quite alright.

Because, see, every morning, no matter the stormy night they just spent, no matter the nightmares and cries and screams, well every morning they make the bed together, and Emma actually pays attention when he explains, she’s learned her lesson, and they get to face the rest of their lives together.)

#cs ff #cs fanfics #captain swan #amy writes #my stuff #killiansprincss #im sorry i'm taking forever on those prompts but im trying :'))#much loove xxxx

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frogtanii · 4 years ago

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It’s wind anon!! Just very very soft rn. Got 5 hours of sleep and generally have been tired so expect less coherency than most of my other asks.

This might just be an entire thing of Akaashi brainrot. School stress has killed off any brain cells. I stare up at my ceiling and my head be empty.

Anyway—aaaaa it was even better than I imagined. Reactions! Akaashi being worried and anxious waaaa—I too be the anxious type. For me, it’s really hard for me to start doing things because I worry and think about them too much. It’s really easy to get yourself trapped in a cycle. I really liked how we saw Akaashi’s POV to this.

His thoughts towards Bokuto...I empathize a lot! Him being upset at their distanced relationship while remembering something they did together is just top tier content. However, I think Akaashi and I are a bit different. I’m the clingy type when it comes to people I really really like. Akaashi is...hm...respectful? He puts value in being polite, and with that comes a bit of distance and detachment. Not to say he can’t love people as much as anyone else—just that he would be more demure and quiet with his affection.

Anyway! Let’s continue. Akaashi signing the contract because of Bokuto, I am— awestruck. I simply cannot. I will gift Akaashi an owl plushie for when he’s anxious and wants to squeeze something soft. Call wind anon weak if one so wishes, this automatically ‘redeemed’ him in my eyes.

His care, selflessness, and adoration :0! Wind anon practically buzzing with beaming smiles.

And yes! The therapist talking about how the environment would/might be bad for him—though actually, it’s not that high energy? Or maybe it gets hogged energy when they are able to bounce off each other but so far there seem to be a significant amount of introverts. I’d imagine it would be more isolating if/considering they might not have the same passion of books as Akaashi does. Though it’s more helpful to be in familiar places when it comes to anxiety.

Meiko...I will figure out a way to launch a textbook at her face. I cannot believe the audacity. Just because he isn’t as “showy” as he others doesn’t mean he is boring. He’s perfectly fine the way he is and if it was me, I would be willing to listen to him talk about books anytime! So what if you personally find a book boring; I would definitely be enraptured by his passion when talking about it.

Next, the hug!!! Don’t have much to say besides I wish I could do that with my friends irl. If only they could’ve continued on forever...Bokuto being hurt when Akaashi stopped :0! I hope that they hug lots when it’s just themselves then, we wish for everyone of them to be happy and fulfilled so yes.

I’m legit falling asleep (so sorry) so I might have to end it here.

Wind anon would 10/10 lean on Akaashi and listen to him read-aloud, chances are him reading aloud helps with his anxiety. I can just imagine him reading until we fall asleep www. Us cuddled with a blanket over our graceless tangled limbs.

Wind anon will try to finish this act after she finally gets some sleep... but she does love fr0ggy very very much! Just also...needs the sleep...to function.

Do take care!!

hi wind nonnie!!!! i hope u get some sleep babes!!!! && now, after reading all of this hehe, i think i ship u and akaashi — i feel like u would be a very wholesome duo so kith kith <3<3 i love u too & i hope ur sleep is v sweet n sound muah <3

#j’s asks #anons babey #℗ poker face #wind anon

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let-it-raines · 4 years ago

Text

What a Wicked Game {15/15}

Killian met her in a pub on a rainy night in March. Going inside was only supposed to be a way for him to avoid the rain and fight off the demons in his head. It was a place for him to pass through, not stay. But then he was charmed by a blonde woman with a quick wit who had absolutely no interest in him or who he was.

That was a first. It was also the beginning of Emma Nolan helping to bring him back to life. It was the beginning of everything.

Five years later, with their worlds crumbling around them, Killian can’t help but wonder if this is the end of the peace they have known now that his family knows about his relationship. It wouldn’t be a problem if his father wasn’t the King of England.

rating: mature

a/n: thank you to @captainswanbigbang for running this event and letting me write this story, to @resident-of-storybrooke for plotting and listening to me talk and for reading this, like, four times while never complaining, to @captainsjedi for making all of the incredible art for it and writing the sweetest tags, and to @wellhellotragic for finding the original story over on ao3 years ago and supporting me then and still supporting me now ❤️

ao3: beginning | current

tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

-/-

February 2021

His heart is in his throat.

It’s been that way for several hours now, and at some point, Killian should probably get that checked out by a medical professional who can assure him that he’s not going to die and that his heart will return to his chest and beat at a normal rate again.

He is in a hospital, after all, so there’s likely someone who can help him out.

“Killian, you have to stop clenching your fist.”

“I’m not clenching my fist.”

“Literally, look down at your hand.”

Killian blinks before looking down at his hands. His right is tangled with Emma’s, his grip stronger than it should be, while his left is, indeed, balled into a fist on her mattress.

Oh.

Sighing, Killian unclenches his first before loosening his grip on Emma and leaning forward to press his lips against her knuckles. “I’m sorry, love. I - fuck. I really don’t mean to be so dramatic, but you fainted out of nowhere just as we were about to leave to go home, and I’m terrified that something awful is wrong with you.”

Emma’s hand pushes into his hair, scratching at his scalp, and he shouldn’t be the one who is being comforted right now. He should be comforting Emma. She’s the one who is in a hospital bed waiting on the results of all of the tests they ran on her, and while he knows she likely had low blood sugar and a lack of sleep from the hectic schedule of their tour, he cannot help but think of all of the horrendous things that could be wrong with his wife.

He loves her in sickness and in health, always, but God, he hopes she’s alright. He can’t live without her, which is so damn selfish to think, but this is where they are now.

(And he can be selfish when it comes to wanting Emma to be alright.)

It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.

“I’m fine,” Emma promises, but he knows she doesn’t actually know, not yet. “It’s been a crazy week with no sleep, and I skipped meals, which was stupid. It’s probably low blood sugar or exhaustion or something else I can fix when we get home and have some time off.”

“But you don’t know that.”

“I mean, I could be dying, but I didn’t think that’s what you wanted me to say.”

“Swan - ”

Emma huffs and rolls her eyes at him. “I’m fine until the doctor says otherwise because I pretty much refuse for something to be wrong with me.”

Killian nods and leans down to press his lips against her knuckles once more. He understands. He refuses for something to be wrong with her too. They’ve already spent too much time in their lives with Emma in a hospital, and he doesn’t want to keep doing this.

“Good afternoon, Your Highnesses,” Dr. Roberts sing-songs as she walks back into the room. He has no idea if this woman is always this peppy or if maybe this is her way of saying there’s nothing wrong with Emma before she actually says it. If there is something wrong, Dr. Roberts really has to work on how she speaks. “So, I have some good news.”

Killian perks up, while Emma stays sitting as she was, her thumb rubbing over his knuckles. “What is it?”

“Well, you’re fine,” Dr. Roberts continues, her smile bright as ever, “and so is your baby.”

“Oh thank God,” Killian sighs, leaning forward again. He’d truly convinced himself that something awful was wrong, but Emma is fine. She’s fine.

“I’m sorry,” Emma mumbles, “did you just say I’m pregnant?”

What?

“I did.”

Pregnant.

“I cannot be pregnant.”

Emma is pregnant.

How did he not hear that part?

“You are most definitely pregnant, Your Highness.”

How is Emma pregnant?

“You just told me I apparently have a baby in my uterus. You can call me Emma.”

Is he going to be a dad? Is Emma going to be a mum?

Killian’s head shoots up from where it’s buried against Emma’s hand to quickly look at her and her slack-jawed expression before looking at Dr. Roberts.

The doctor nods before looking between the two of them, and Killian stops staring a hole into her eyes to turn to look back at his wife who is apparently carrying their child. He feels like the biggest asshole in the world because he can’t seem to form coherent thoughts and should probably be having some kind of poetic thought about what this is going to mean to him, to the both of them.

Killian may be a little shocked.

The fact that Emma is too makes him feel a hell of a lot better.

“Emma,” Dr. Roberts sighs, “I think I’ll give the two of you some time to yourselves to talk since I seem to have shared some rather big news. Just know that both you and your baby are fine, but you need to make sure that you’re not overexerting yourself. You fainted because of a lack of sleep, proper nutrition, and your pregnancy.”

“Thank you,” Killian manages to mutter out while his thumb caresses Emma’s knuckles and Dr. Roberts walks out of the room. The moment the door closes, Killian leans down to kiss Emma’s hand before looking up at her. “Penny for your thoughts, love.”

“I’m really scared that my feet are going to get bigger.”

Killian barks out a laugh and rises from his chair in order to get closer to Emma, dipping his head down and kissing her because he can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t be kissing her at every available moment.

Especially now.

Especially always.

“I believe that means you’ll simply have to get new shoes. I think that can be arranged.”

“Never did I think there would be a day where you were encouraging me to get more shoes.”

“Well, you do have to throw out the old ones, of course.”

Emma’s chuckle is small, but it’s there, and Killian rests his forehead against hers while Emma’s hand comes to rest in his hair, toying with the little strands at the nape of his neck.

God, that feels good.

They’re having a baby.

“Killian,” she whispers, “how am I pregnant?”

“I don’t think I really need to explain the concept of sex to you.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m serious. When we are having sex, or making love if that’s your preferred term, and I reach my - ”

“You’re being an ass.”

“Wrong part of the body.”

“Ten years from now, when we think back on the moment I found out I was pregnant, this is what you’re going to have to remember.”

Emma is pregnant.

They’re going to be parents.

Bloody hell.

“I love you, darling,” he whispers, pulling back from her so that he can tuck her hair behind her ears and see the beautiful green of her eyes. They’re wet with tears, and he imagines his are too. “And I don’t know how this happened. I assume...I don’t know. I don’t know how this happened, but I do know that I’m happy. Are you happy?”

Emma nods while tugging on her bottom lip. “I’m happy, but I’m scared. I mean, we’ve talked about wanting kids, but talking about it and actually knowing that I’m pregnant is - ”

“Nerve-wracking.”

“Pretty much,” she laughs. “I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby. I don’t think we know how to have a baby.”

“I imagine we’ll figure it out.”

“I guess we will.”

-/-

Killian is flooded with joy for the first week of them knowing Emma is pregnant. She’s only eight weeks along now, so they haven’t told a soul yet, but he’s itching to, if only because he desperately needs to talk to someone about it.

Someone who isn’t Emma because right now, he’s feeling like a piece of worthless scum on the sidewalk for some of the thoughts he’s having.

There are so many damn emotions that come with Killian knowing Emma is pregnant - happiness, elation, joy, terror, anxiousness, excitement - and as much as he fluctuates between all of them, there’s only one that creeps into the forefront of his mind in the middle of the night after a day wandering around knowing that their lives are going to keep changing every single day.

Uncertainty.

And it’s rubbish because he’s not even sure if uncertainty is an emotion, but it’s also rubbish because he’s feeling uncertain not because he doesn’t want this baby, but because he’s terrified that he won’t be a good father to their child.

Killian has a piss poor excuse for a father, and as much as David has filled in for that role, it’s not the same as having a good example for his entire life and seeing year-by-year proof that children can grow up to love their dads and not resent them or be hesitant to even be in the same room as them at family gatherings. He doesn’t love his dad, and he hates that he’s consumed by that. This is supposed to be one of the happiest times in his life, and all Killian feels some days is that he’s already a failure.

(It’s been a week. How is he already screwing up after a week?)

If he didn’t know that Emma is going to be the most incredible mum on the planet and make up for all of his shortcomings, he’d be fully convinced that he couldn’t do this and that fatherhood simply wasn’t for him.

Which is utter bullshit. He’s been in love with Emma for nearly a decade, has known he’s wanted to have children with her for most of that time, and Brennan should not still be able to take up so much space in Killian’s head.

Not anymore.

He’s fighting those demons and dealing with them in his counseling and every time he has to deal with his father, and Killian is determined not to let him taint this.

He can’t.

Not when the woman in bed next to him might as well be an angel sent to him from above, and not when the almost invisible curve of her stomach resting underneath his hand can be felt. They weren’t prepared for this. It wasn’t planned, and it’s apparently the result of the two of them thinking that the month of December was some kind of sex parade where birth control was sometimes optional.

(Emma found where she had skipped birth control pills after they got home, and he thinks she stared at the package for an hour at the very least.)

They were so stupid.

But he doesn’t regret it. Killian can’t. If they’d waited and tried some time from now, the baby growing in Emma wouldn’t be this baby. It would be a wonderful baby he and Emma both love with everything in them, but it wouldn’t be the same. Maybe next time, if they’re lucky enough, the pregnancy will be a result of months of careful love-making and a pointed attempt at trying, but to him, it doesn’t matter.

He’s scared out of his mind about being a dad, doesn’t know how he’s going to do it, but he wouldn’t change a thing. Not when he has Emma.

“You’re thinking too much,” Emma mumbles, twisting in the bed.

He lays his hand flat over her stomach. “You’re talking in your sleep.”

“I’m awake. Your thoughts were so loud.”

“If you can hear my thoughts, I feel like you need to explain quite a few of the fights we’ve had.”

“Don’t wanna,” Emma mumbles sleepily. Killian huffs into her hair before twisting around her and allowing her to stick her freezing cold feet between his calves while his lips brush over her cheek. His hand flexes over her stomach again, feeling the proof of a decade of love and heartbreak and everything in between. “You’re a good baby daddy.”

(He rather despises that term, and Emma seems fit to call him that this week. Hopefully that will die down, but he really can’t complain when Emma has just become fraught with morning sickness as of yesterday.)

“Am I?” he whispers into her hair, trying not to laugh. She’s not going to remember any of this in the morning. She has a habit of waking in the middle of the night, having a conversation, and then forgetting about it the next morning.

“Mhm. You’re sweet, and you’re also really hot. I like that about you.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad I can be of service for you in that way.”

Her breathing starts to even out after that, slowly returning to how it was, and Killian keeps moving his hand over the small, almost swell of her stomach, something that he knows is a comfort to both of them already.

“Killian?”

“Yes, love?” he whispers so quietly the ceiling fan drowns out the noise of his voice.

“You’re going to be a good dad.”

And even though she’s mostly asleep when she says it, Killian knows that Emma thinks that. She has so much faith in him even when she shouldn’t, and her words settle the beating of his heart and the worry running circles in his mind.

It’s not everything, but it’s a start.

(And technically, Emma having faith in him is everything.

It’s all he’s ever wanted and far more than he deserves.

But he’s glad for it.)

-/-

“What the hell are you wearing?”

“What? You don’t like it?”

“It’s rather beige.”

Emma huffs and tugs at her bra, pulling it out and gathering all of the excess fabric there. “My mom thought it would be appropriate to buy me nursing bras, but this isn’t even close to my size. Like, I understand I’m going to balloon up in every way imaginable, but this is gigantic.”

“We told your parents about the baby two days ago. How has your mom already sent you new bras?”

“Express shipping, babe.”

Killian laughs and walks toward her. She’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror in nothing but her knickers and this massive bra that he can’t ever imagine Emma properly fitting into. Apparently, she can’t imagine it either. It hangs far off her back and over her breasts, and if she lets it go from her grasp, it falls to expose her nipples.

She looks ridiculous.

But also rather lovely, and when she turns around to face him, bottom lip jutted out in a pout, he steps up to her and places his hands on her hips, fingers inching up over her sides. “This is the sexiest you have ever looked.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, slapping his stomach.

“What? Can I not talk about it? This bra is so much better than everything you have in your closet.”

“You’re being dumb.”

“Oh, always.”

He leans into her and brushes his scruff against her neck, knowing that it tickles her, before doing the same with his fingers against her sides. Emma is squirming away from him, or, at least, trying to, but he doesn’t let her, backing her up against the counter as he keeps moving against her while she gasps for breath and laughs.

In between calling him an asshole, of course. That’s her favorite name for him.

“K-killian,” she gasps, leaning away from him as he kisses her neck and moves to kiss her jaw. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“In an hour.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“Aye,” he promises before kissing the corner of her lips until she’s turning to him so she can move her mouth over his, soft and slow and absolutely perfectly. As always. “But I think I might have some time to spend with you first.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“Can I take this damn bra off?”

“That was kind of the plan.”

-/-

They’re having a boy.

Killian was convinced that they were going to have a girl, as was Emma, and while it’s definitely a shock despite the equal odds, it doesn’t change anything about their excitement level or any of their plans going forward.

They’re having a boy.

And they can’t decide on a name. Everything in his head and on the list on the refrigerator were decidedly more feminine names, and while David, Liam, and Graham all cheekily suggest that their son should be named after one of them, Killian isn’t too sure about that.

(Ruby says their son can and should be named Ruby because she simply cannot wait until they have a girl for her to have a kid named after her.

When Emma suggests she have her own kid - “pregnancy is a bitch,” Emma mumbles - Ruby raises her hands in defeat and says they should name the kid whatever they want.)

It’s not that simple.

For as much as he and Emma push back on the traditions of his family and some of the inane rituals, they do want the name to fit. However, they want it to fit both them as a couple and his family. It’s a mixing of lifestyles and opinions, and the debates seem to rage on and on. Killian’s mum tells him she’s happy with whatever name they choose because it’s their family, Killian’s father makes a rare comment just to tell them how much he’s still pissed over Emma saying she won’t pose for photographs the day after giving birth, and Emma can’t seem to decide on anything.

(Except that she’s still not going to pose for photographs and expose their child to the wildness of the press after twenty-four hours of life, and he supports her wholeheartedly.

The press has tried to ruin them time and time again, emotionally and physically, and Killian will not stand for it for his wife or their child.)

Killian has his preferences, but he’s trying to narrow down her choices on the massive list that seems to keep growing and growing each day.

The name debate wages on as the weeks pass by and Emma’s stomach continues to grow. Killian never spent a lot of time imagining what this period in his life would be like, but overall, it’s mostly the same as he expected it would be. At least for him. Emma has gone through highs and extreme lows as her hormones attack her and change her body, and all he could do was support her and rub her back when she was vomiting.

And make every food that she wants, no questions asked. Though, surprisingly, her cravings are not at all what movies make them out to be. They do follow along with a lot that he’s read in the books and articles he’s consuming.

“There is literally no reason to read ten different books on the same thing,” Emma mumbles as she pulls her up into a bun. “That’s got to be information overload.”

“It’s varying opinions, love,” he insists, taking another note and sticking it to the page in his book. “I want to know as much as I can so I’m not caught unaware, and I needed a break from looking at cabinet handles for the new house.”

“Babe, you’re going to be caught unaware. It’s going to happen. Not even you can completely prepare for this.”

“Aye, but I can try.”

And he does try. He tries as he reads his books and looks at articles online so that he can at least be the tiniest bit more prepared than he would be. Emma reads books as well and is always looking to see his notes and what he knows, but she’s definitely the more relaxed of the two of them.

At least he thinks that.

She’s six and a half months pregnant and in a wonderful phase of constantly wanting him no matter what they’re doing when he realizes that Emma doesn’t like to constantly talk about the baby because it is all anyone talks to her about. When she does engagements, it’s what people mention. When they go out to dinner, even the servers mention their impending parenthood. When Emma talks on the phone with his mother, Allison is constantly talking about gifts for the baby and plans and asking if Emma has looked into some of the classes Allison suggested. Everyone means well and simply wants to share in their excitement, but their life isn’t all about this baby.

Their life is greatly enhanced by him and will change because of him, but at the core of it all, they’re still Emma and Killian who have been having conversations for nearly a decade about things other than a baby.

And Emma is still Emma, and she wants people to ask her how she is or what books she’s read lately or any conversation that would have been had before she was pregnant.

Late at night, though, when they’re lounging in bed with his hand on her stomach and his chest pressed into her back, sometimes she likes to whisper her thoughts and her fears, all of the hopes that she has for this future that keeps getting nearer and nearer to them.

The road to getting here was full of sharp wrong turns and dark corners full of heartbreak, and while they may have gotten a little lost along the way, they’re here now. That’s absolutely all that matters.

It always has been.

“Babe,” Emma calls out on a sunny day in June. They’ve been home all day, neither of them changing out of their pajamas, and he imagines from the look of it, Emma hasn’t combed through her hair. To be fair, he hasn’t either. “Do you know where the peanut butter is?”

“We had that entire box shipped here for you. It should be in the cupboard.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Have you checked the bottom shelf?”

“Yes.”

“Did you really?”

“I’m going to slap you.”

Killian sighs and puts down the letters he was responding to in order to get up and walk toward Emma and the cupboard. When he steps inside the room, he immediately goes in search of the box of jars of peanut butter he ordered for Emma only for it not to be there.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“That’s kind of an extreme reaction to not being able to find the peanut butter.”

“How did we lose an entire box of peanut butter?”

“It can’t be lost. It has to be misplaced.”

“Lost, misplaced. Whatever, love.”

He squats down to look over all of the bottom shelves before scanning each and every other one, shifting around containers and boxes and every other insane organizational tool he decided to buy when he wanted this room to be contained and not a mess.

Except he can’t seem to find anything.

Mostly this damn peanut butter.

“You know what,” Emma sighs, “it’s fine. I’ll eat something else.”

“Darling, I will find it.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Killian,” Emma huffs, tugging on his wrist until he turns around to look at her, “it’s fine. We have those smoothies I like in the fridge. I’ll drink one of those instead.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.” She tugs on his wrists again until she’s pulling him out of the room and back into their kitchen. “It wasn’t important.”

“I simply don’t understand where the peanut butter could have gone. I mean, I suppose it could have been moved, but I - ”

Emma loops her arms around his neck and presses up on her toes until she’s gently sliding her lips over his in a slow kiss that has his heartbeat quickening and gooseflesh rising over his skin.

“Stop worrying about it,” she murmurs as they sway back and forth with her stomach pressed tightly against his. “I don’t want a repeat of the blueberry muffin incident.”

“Dammit, don’t - ”

She kisses him again, insistently pressing her lips into his, and Killian presses back, pecking her lips once before doing it again and again and again. He kisses her fleetingly all the while continuing to sway the both of them. The wood is cold against his bare feet, so he’s sure Emma’s feet are literal icicles, but he’s not focusing on that as Emma begins to laugh, a small melodic sound that carries with the music that’s playing over the speaker on his phone from where he was listening to it when he was working.

But the laugh grows louder as Killian’s mouth moves away from hers and more toward the corner of her lips so that his scruff brushes against her skin, tickling her in the same way that his fingers are scratching against her sides and over the edges of her belly.

“You’re the only one I want to make laugh, truly.”

Emma’s laugh quiets at those words until she’s tightening her arms around his neck and nuzzling her face into his neck. There’s a sharp inhale of her breathing him in, and Killian kisses the top of her hair.

“You’re a romantic, my love,” she whispers.

“That’s what I strive to be.”

“I know. It’s why you practice all of those lines in the mirror.”

Killian scoffs. “I do not do that.”

“If anyone asks, it’s your word against mine, and well…”

She lets the words trail off, obviously waiting for him to fill in the blanks and continue their banter, but he doesn’t. He can’t, because the song is changing, and it’s been ages since he danced with her in the privacy of their home. Everything lately has been in suits and dresses with Emma’s heels making her nearly his height, but it hasn’t been the two of them in pajamas with messy hair and the ghost of missing peanut butter cascading over them.

So he keeps moving them, a gentle sway that turns into more, and they traverse the space in the kitchen, their feet quickly moving as Killian whispers in Emma’s ear words of affection that flow from his heart. It’s moments and times like these in the sanctity of their kitchen when it’s just the two of them and no one and nothing else that he thinks of how grateful he is that they fought for their love and won. Nothing about this was ever guaranteed or predestined, but they figured it out.

“I love you.”

Emma hums. “I love you, too.”

She pulls her head back until he can see her eyes, the beautiful glint of blue wrapped up in the green, and her smile is so bright that he can’t imagine not kissing her. He can’t imagine not kissing her as often as he’s able and not kissing her every day on a multitude of occasions. So he does.

And he hopes not to ever stop having that desire.

He won’t.

Emma is his wife and the mother of his child, of this one between them now and any ones in the future, but most of all, he thinks, she’ll always be his closest companion.

His best friend.

“Hey,” Emma whispers after they’ve been silently dancing for at least two songs.

“Yeah, love?”

“I think I’ve finally decided what name I want for the baby.”

Killian chuckles and tilts his head to the side to press his lips into her hair once more, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and everything that he’s grown accustomed to over the years. “And what’s that then?”

-/-

Their son is born on September twenty-third, a few days after Killian’s thirty-second birthday.

They name him Andrew Killian Phillip Jones.

He always goes by Andy.

-/-

Any of my Second in Command (the original version of this story) will recognize Andy. He was, like, star of the show for that crazy long epilogue/sequel I wrote, and I really wanted to include him here. The main reason, though, was to show that even though some parts of Emma and Killian’s story changed, that they went through more of a wild ride this go round, that they still get to have the same happy ending...wait, I think I have to say “happy beginning” here 😉

Thank you all for the INCREDIBLE support! I hope you enjoyed this story!

@mrtinski @klynn-stormz @jonirobinson64 @snowbellewells @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @sherifemma @shardminds @captainsjedi @galaxyzxstark @galadriel26 @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @itsfabianadocarmo @owlways-and-forever @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @onepunintendid @bluewildcatfanatic @397bartonstreet @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @a-faekindagirl @scientificapricot @scarletslippers @xellewoods @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @singersdd @tornadoamy @captainswanbigbang

#what a wicked game #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #csrt #captain swan #captain swan rewrite a thon

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teacupfulofstarshine · 4 years ago

Text

pattonella part 12: in which the author hijacks her conveniently comatose character for magical shenanigans

cw: comatose character, minor angst, mention of sleep deprivation

the song referenced in virgil’s visions (linked in the first one) is "soldier, poet, king" by the oh hellos because ya girl is a predictable bitch

wordcount: ~3.8k

part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5 // part 6 // part 7 // part 8 // part 9 // part 10 // part 11 // read it on ao3!!

“you should rest, prince logan.”

“i will not leave,” logan says. his back and neck hurt like hell from sitting in the same place for hours on end, and his voice rasps from the near-constant litany of song he’s been providing to virgil, but he makes no move to leave his chair. virgil’s hand is pressed between his, cool and limp.

“virgil will be alright,” remy says. “the magical exhaustion coma sucks, yeah, but it’s not going to kill him. we’ve pumped him full of as much healing magic and medicine as he can stomach, and he’s going to be okay. he’s going to wake up, and you’ll want to be awake and coherent enough to see it.”

“i will persevere.”

“you will collapse from sleep deprivation, is what will happen. you don’t have to leave the infirmary, but you’re going to be in the infirmary if you don’t eat something and sleep.”

logan opens his mouth to protest, but remy draws himself up to his full height (which is not much) and says, “you may be the prince of this kingdom, but i am your doctor, and so help me gods you are going to eat a damn meal and you are going to take a damn nap before i force-feed you a sleeping potion.”

logan blinks, startled, and remy holds firm, crossing his arms. “did i fucking stutter?”

“no,” logan says, voice quiet. remy sighs, reaching out to mess up logan’s hair. logan sputters indignantly, but remy has always been a parental figure to him, so he doesn’t protest.

“your worry is admirable, prince logan, but virgil would not want you to run yourself ragged like this. remember his concern when you had a concussion?”

“of course i do. he doted on me every hour of the day, remy. how can i say that i did not do the same for him? virgil is - he - i -” logan’s jaw works open, closed, open closed as he tries to form a coherent thought from the tangled mess of virgilworryconcerncarelove? buzzing around in his head.

“you don’t have to say it,” remy says. “i’m married, remember? i’m familiar with what it means to love someone.” logan startles, practically jumping out of his chair. remy laughs, shifting his hand to gently squeeze logan’s shoulder. “no need to sound so offended.”

“it’s not offense,” logan says. “it - it’s just -”

he trails off as his gaze slides back to virgil’s peaceful face and the even movement of his chest. “virgil has not had many positive things in his life. he had to deal with a suboptimal family life, constantly sacrificing himself to protect patton, and i - i just want him to see - to know that he does not have to constantly sacrifice himself for people to earn their love. i need him to know that he does not have to throw himself into the line of fire to protect his loved ones. and - and i do not want him to feel rushed into admitting that he cares for me. i do not want to presume that i know he loves me, because i do not!”

“trust me, prince logan, that man is head over his god damn heels for you.” remy smirks, confident, and logan exhales shakily.

“but i do not wish to rush it. i know that we are supposed to be marrying so that thomas can officially become the crown prince, but - but i cannot force him to marry me. i hope that he wants to marry me, i - i want to marry him, eventually. i do.” it’s the first time logan has ever admitted it out loud; remy’s eyes widen and his face softens. “but i cannot force him to marry me if he does not love me. i will not trap him in a loveless marriage.”

“please,” remy scoffs. “you cannot look at this man, laying in a hospital bed because he drove himself to magical fucking exhaustion to keep you safe, and tell me that he does not love you.”

logan squeezes virgil’s hand tightly, exhaling. his eyes feel like lead.

“you need to sleep,” remy repeats. “the bed next to virgil’s is open. get in and lay down and go to sleep, okay? i promise i’ll wake you at the first sign of trouble.” logan looks at virgil again and sighs, closing his eyes.

“very well, remy.” he leans over and kisses virgil’s forehead, carefully sweeping his bangs off his face. “you wake me at the very first sign of trouble, you understand me?”

“of course, prince logan.” remy bows, deep and sarcastic, and logan suppresses a smile.

*~*~*~*~*

virgil frowns, looking around. he’s in the middle of a blank black void; it looks like the place where he sees his visions, but no visions appear to him. “hello?” he calls. something floats towards him - a girl’s voice, high and ethereal, singing softly.

there will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword . . .

suddenly, a vision slams into him: roman, clearly no older than two years old, wearing a red baby onesie and holding a little wooden sword. he toddles toward virgil without seeing him, waving his little sword around and giggling. a pair of hands reaches down and gently stabilizes roman when he nearly trips over an unseen obstacle.

past, his brain whispers.

he will tear your city down, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

another vision: roman, sitting cross-legged on a bed with patton settled into his lap. he’s rubbing patton’s back and murmuring softly into his ear, probably reassuring him. virgil can’t hear anything they’re saying, but he catches the shape of patton’s mouth as he very clearly says “virgil.” roman smiles, kissing his forehead, and virgil smiles. he’s glad someone is taking care of patton while he’s unconscious.

present.

oh lei, oh lai, oh lei oh lord; he will tear your city down, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

a third vision: roman, much older, probably fifty or so. his hair is streaked with gray, and he’s managed to grow a full beard. it’s neatly trimmed and also greying. roman wears formal attire, a suit with a breastplate and a cape. he has various badges and medals attached to his chest and a sword that virgil recognizes as ceremonial hanging from his waist. roman looks to the side and smiles, offering his arm. patton steps forward, taking his arm, and virgil gasps as he sees the way his brother has aged.

somehow, patton still looks similar, even though he’s clearly aged. his hair is long, less gray than roman’s and more silver and braided off his neck with flowers. there are crinkles of laughter around his eyes. he’s wearing a sparkly blue-and-gold dress with red flowers embroidered on it, and he has a small golden circlet matching roman’s more ornate one. patton is still wearing roman’s pendant around his neck, and when roman places his hand over patton’s on his upper arm virgil spies a matching gleam of wedding bands on their fingers.

future.

the visions fizzle away, and virgil sinks back down into sleep, still clinging to the image of his brother and his husband in the future.

*~*~*~*~*

patton wakes up slowly. he’s still getting used to the idea that he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor, that he doesn’t have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn and drag himself into bed at midnight. he wakes up warm and comfortable, sinking into a downy mattress, vision hazy from sleep and lack of glasses.

he yawns, blinking to try and clear his eyes as best he can, and freezes when he hears someone else breathing beside him. he feels a weight on his waist over the duvet, and someone stirs next to him, the arm on his waist starting to pull him closer, and then patton remembers.

roman is home. roman is home and he’s here with patton, in patton’s bed, snuggling him and keeping him warm. patton flips over onto his other side, and comes face-to-face with roman. the youngest prince is still asleep, his hair flopped into his eyes, mouth open. a small puddle of drool is growing slowly on the pillow, and he’s not wearing a shirt, revealing his smooth, tanned collarbones.

patton kind of wants to bite them.

he snuggles closer to roman instead, blushing bright red, pushing his face into roman’s hair. roman snorts in a breath and presses himself closer to patton. his nose is chilly when it brushes against the warm skin of patton’s neck, and patton shivers a little.

he dozes in the comfortable warmth of the bed (his bed, roman’s bed, their bed) until roman wakes up with an undignified snort, narrowly avoiding cracking his head against patton’s chin. “mm-mngh-wh-pat?”

“morning,” patton says. he’s practically giddy with joy, and he can’t stop the laughter from spilling out of him, high-pitched and embarrassing. roman smiles at him, sleepy and lazy and so, so besotted, and patton’s pretty besotted himself.

“oh, vision of loveliness, star that outshines the rising sun,” roman begins, carefully propping himself up on one hand while keeping the other draped around patton’s waist. “loveliest of flowers, shining with the morning dew, face covered with a galaxy of freckles, visage that could launch a thousand ships and set a city ablaze with the light of your smile -”

“stop, stop!” patton laughs, burying his face in his hands.

“pull your hands from your face like a flower unfurling to the sun, how will i kiss your pretty face if you hide it from me?”

“but i’m embarrassed!”

patton feels roman gently wrap his fingers around patton’s hands, carefully peeling them away. “there’s my lovely patton, there’s your pretty face,” roman croons, leaning in to brush their noses together. “may i kiss you, my dearest?”

patton giggles again. “you may.” roman takes his time, carefully pressing a kiss to the center of patton’s forehead, then the left side, then the right; he kisses patton’s eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, and almost every freckle he can find. finally, he leans in and presses his mouth against patton’s. both of them still taste like sleep and morning breath, and it’s not the best tasting kiss patton’s ever had but he still treasures it.

“i’ve missed waking up to that,” roman says. “you are much better to wake up to than a field tent.”

“was this a one-time thing?” patton asks.

“kissing? i certainly hope not.”

“no, no i mean - this.” patton gestures to the bed. “you sleeping in here, with me. is this a one-time thing? do we have to sleep apart?”

“not if you don’t want to.” roman looks bashful, eyes skittering away from patton’s to look at his chin. “do - do you want to?”

“absolutely i do,” patton says, words spilling out in a rush of breath. “i hate waking up alone, i - even though i didn’t really have a bed or a bedroom before i was always with virgil, and i - please, ro, please -”

“oh, darling, of course.” roman reaches up to touch patton’s face. “i wanted to make sure you knew that you had your own space as necessary, because you didn’t have any of that before. but if you don’t want to be alone, you never have to be alone again. i promise, patton, i promise, i promise i promise. i swear it to you on my birthright as the third prince of this kingdom.”

patton feels tears running down his face, and roman carefully wipes them away. “no tears, my darling. i am here now.”

by the time nate comes in with breakfast, they’ve fallen asleep again, tucked into each other.

*~*~*~*~*

virgil rises back to awareness slowly, opening his eyes to the same black void he’d seen earlier. he frowns; another vision? they usually don’t come so close together. before he can ponder it any longer, the same haunting female voice from before comes echoing around him.

there will come a poet whose weapon is his word . . .

a vision, suddenly: logan, barely a year old if that, laying on his back. he’s wearing a dark blue footed onesie patterned with stars, reaching up towards a mobile dangling above him. he’s giggling, opening and closing his little fists repeatedly as he tries to grab the little wooden moons and stars and swirling carvings. he kicks his little feet, and virgil feels his heart swell with joy.

past.

he will slay you with his tongue, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

another vision: logan, looking the way he did when virgil last saw him. he’s sitting at virgil’s bedside, holding virgil’s hand. he’s pale, with circles beneath his eyes, and he’s murmuring something to virgil’s comatose body. virgil reaches toward the vision, but it evaporates before he can touch logan.

present.

oh lei, oh lai, oh lei oh lord; he will slay you with his tongue, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

a third vision: logan is sitting at a desk, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. he pushes a hand through his bangs, sighing; his hair is longer now, gathered into a ponytail at the base of his neck and shot through with silver. he looks tired, reaching for his quill to sign whatever’s in front of him. he turns his head to the right, as though someone has called for him.

virgil can barely believe his eyes as he steps into view. he’s wearing a dark blue shirt with a purple vest, both embroidered with silver. his hair is longer and starting to grey, but he leans in to kiss logan’s head and logan reaches up to touch his face with love in his eyes. virgil gasps as he recognizes that just like his vision of patton and roman from earlier, future-him and future-logan have matching wedding bands.

future.

*~*~*~*~*

logan wakes up blearily, rubbing his eyes. he jolts awake the second he regains control of his faculties, throwing off the thin hospital blankets and jerking around to look for virgil. he sighs in relief when he sees that virgil is in the bed next to him, still slowly breathing, still sound asleep. “how long was i out?” he rasps.

“like, four hours,” remy says, carefully placing a fresh washcloth over virgil’s forehead. “not nearly long enough, but i’ll take it.” emile comes in from the garden, carrying a steaming teacup in his hands.

“is that for me?” logan asks. emile nods, handing him the cup. he sips it slowly, letting the honey-sweet taste slide over his tongue. “thank you, emile.”

“you’re welcome. it’s no replacement for sleep, but hopefully it’ll help you a little bit.”

before logan can respond, there’s a noise from virgil’s bed. logan nearly spills his tea as he twists around to try and see what’s happening. virgil’s face scrunches up, nose wrinkling, and his mouth moves slightly.

“wh - virgil -”

“. . . soldier . . . mighty sword . . . tear . . . city down . . .” virgil mumbles. his fingers curl in the blankets as his face smooths out again, sinking back into sleep.

“what was that?”

“it is possible that he’s having some sort of vision,” remy says. logan frowns, reaching over to gently touch virgil’s shoulder.

“i’m not sure that i enjoy the sound of that vision . . .” virgil turns his head just slightly, catching logan’s hand between his shoulder and his chin. logan’s heart melts into a puddle of emotion-goo as he leans over to kiss virgil’s forehead.

“oh, my dearest one.” virgil makes a soft, incomprehensible noise and his face smooths into calm sleep again. logan reaches his other hand up to carefully stroke virgil’s cheek. “rest well, my darling, and heal. i long for the day i can see your eyes again.”

“sap,” remy teases.

*~*~*~*~*

virgil isn’t sure why he’s surprised that a third set of visions comes. his normal visions come in threes - past, present, and future - and it makes sense that he would have a trio of visions. a trio of trio, a group of three threes; three is one of the most potent magical numbers, and the kingdom has three princes for a reason.

there will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn . . .

the first vision strikes: thomas, no more than four years old, playing with a cluster of roses. carefully, with his pudgy little child-fingers, he weaves them into a crown and plops it onto his head. it sags askew, flopping into his face, but he just laughs and pushes it back up onto his head.

past.

smeared with oil like david’s boy, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

the second vision: thomas, flopping onto his bed in exhaustion. someone comes up and sits on the bed next to him, an advisor that virgil vaguely remembers from earlier, when he’d stormed in on the court with a vision of roman’s death burning in his eyes. he thinks their name is joan? they place a hand on thomas’s back, and thomas sighs, sitting up and smiling at them. his mouth forms the shape of the words thank you , and joan offers the crown prince a hug which he eagerly accepts.

present.

oh lei, oh lai, oh lei oh lord; smeared with oil like david’s boy, oh lei oh lai oh lord . . .

the third vision: thomas, sitting on the throne. he’s older, wearing the king’s crown in place of his crown prince circlet. it fits perfectly. he wears a shirt woven from rainbow threads that shimmers in the light, and he has a golden scepter twined with flowers in his hand. someone comes up and kneels before him, and thomas inclines his head. he looks like a true king - wise, just, strong. a good ruler.

future.

virgil lets himself fall unconscious again.

*~*~*~*~*

“how long has he been here?”

“three days,” logan says. “to be more precise, it has been seventy-three hours, eighteen minutes, and twenty seconds. he has been unconscious for one-hundred twenty-one hours, eighteen minutes, and twenty-four seconds.”

“that’s not good, is it?” patton says. he holds one of virgil’s hands and logan holds the other. roman stands behind patton. one hand resting on his shoulder. patton tips his head and sighs when he feels the warmth of roman’s hand press against his cheek, a comforting, grounding weight. “that he’s been unconscious for so long.”

“not particularly. statistics show that the longer patients are comatose, the . . .” logan swallows, hard, but patton leans forward and he continues. “the longer the patients are comatose, the less likely it is that they will recover.”

patton feels his heart sink down to the deepest pits of his stomach. nate, standing at the foot of the bed, makes a soft upset noise. “would you like some tea, lord san - um, uh, i - i mean - patton, sir?”

despite how shitty he feels, patton lifts his head and smiles at his servant. “tea would be wonderful, nate.” he looks up at roman. “do you want anything, dear?” roman’s eyes widen in shock, and patton gasps when he realizes what he’s done. “i - i mean, um -”

roman’s entire face softens like a newborn lamb, and he leans in to kiss patton gently. “tea sounds lovely, my darling.” patton blushes a bright, burning red, turning to look at logan to try and quell his blush.

“i would not say no to some tea,” logan says. “could you, perhaps, see if the cook has any sweet buns prepared fresh as well? with some of her fresh jam?”

nate bows. “of course, your royal highness.”

“there is no need for such formalities. you may simply call me logan.” nate jerks upright, stammering.

“wh - n - i - i couldn’t possibly! i - i mean - uh - that - that is to say - i - um - wh -”

“it is alright,” logan says. he smiles kindly at nate, which puts patton at ease. “i understand that it may be a bit of a shock to switch from formal titles to none at all. however, i must insist that at the very least, you call me prince logan.”

“prince roman works just fine for me as well.”

nate looks overwhelmed with all this new information, but he manages to stammer out an “o - o - of course!” before turning around and all but sprinting to the kitchens.

“you make him nervous!” patton laughs.

“i find that is a common theme.” logan seems disgruntled.

“i’m not scared of you!” that brings a smile to logan’s face, and patton considers his job done for the moment.

nate returns quickly with a tray containing a steaming teapot, teacups, sugar, cream, and honey. another serving girl follows him with a basket of steaming buns covered by a cloth. there’s a jar of jam and a butterknife tucked into the basket as well.

“thank you,” logan says, taking a roll and tearing into it with vigor.

“of course, your royal highness.” the serving girl curtsies and sets the basket down at logan’s feet. “will you be needing anything else, your royal highness?” logan shakes his head, mouth full of bun, and the serving girl ducks out of the infirmary.

nate carefully pours tea for patton, adding the cream and honey that he’s learned patton loves, and then offers a cup to roman. “how do you take your tea, your - prince roman?” roman smiles.

“two sugars, a splash of cream, please, nate.”

they sit and sip their tea quietly for a while. logan on his own eats about five or six sweet buns before he takes a break for air or tea. in all the excitement of the tea and snacks, patton almost misses virgil’s eyes squeezing shut.

almost.

“virgil?”

logan sets his teacup down so quickly it sloshes out onto the floor, leaning forward. virgil groans softly and turns his head back and forth. “virgil, dearest, beloved, it is alright. take your time, i’m here.” patton watches the way logan tenderly brushes hair off virgil’s face, hears the soft way in which the prince speaks to his brother, and leans a little further into roman, smiling; he’s glad that virgil has found someone so lovely to love.

after a few more minutes of fussing, virgil slowly opens his eyes halfway. “mmmngh . . .”

“hello, beloved,” logan whispers, tearing up. patton notices that he’s tapping his feet against the floor, rocking back and forth just slightly in his seat, and he hears roman make a soft, approving noise at his brother’s happy-stims.

“lo?”

“yes, beloved. it is me. patton is here too, and roman. we’re all here for you.”

virgil’s head turns toward patton, and he can’t stop himself from crying either. “virge,” he chokes, all but throwing himself forward to hug virgil. he feels virgil press his face into his hair, and patton hugs him as best as he can.

it feels like he’s just been cut loose from a massive anchor bound around his ankles.

#starshinewrites #sanders sides cinderella!au #pattonella!au #romantic analogical #romantic royality #platonic TLAMP

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kiame-sama · 4 years ago

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i’m genuinely curious, with necropsy how do you go about your daily life? (studying, writing, going to school, eating etc) i hope you’re doing well! stay safe and healthy☺️

I hope you're doing well as well! 😊

(I'm gonna take a leap of faith here and guess auto-correct changed narcolepsy to necropsy.)

Going about my daily life is hard, not gonna lie. I take public transportation to my university from my home, 2 trains and a bus. However, doing so takes around 2 hours extra, and it is a 4 hour round trip. Due to my major, many of my classes are 8am classes so I have to get up 3 hours early to get myself ready for the day and to get to the bus on time. I have to wear a medical alert bracelet because sometimes people misunderstand what's happening with me and waking up in an ambulance with EMTs trying to give me Narcan or other overdose medications is never fun.

I am presently not allowed to get a licence because my sleep-attacks are too unpredictable and that can be dangerous when operating a motor-vehicle.

In classes- unless it is a lab with highly reactive/ dangerous chemicals- I literally have an accommodation that allows me to have caffeine at all times in many forms. I have become very good friends with the coffee-cart people and they know my name and my usual order by heart even though they see several thousand students a day. I also need to be able to have a note taker or record lectures because I tend to miss important things. My brain shuts down and even though it looks like I'm awake, I'm asleep and missing a good portion of content.

Since I have ADHD as well, studying is about as easy as making a hyperactive chihuahua sit completely still. That or herding cats. Either one.

I need to take naps during the day and I obviously can't just go home for a quick nap due to transport, so I usually nap in the anthropology department meeting room on the couch. The room is shared with the construction workers on site due to it being the closest semi-private room to the on campus construction, so I have to be careful about my naps.

When it comes to eating, I usually go the feast or famine route as my daytime medication suppresses my appetite severely. Typically, I only eat one meal a day because of it and because I choose naps over going to get food. My love of food is only trumped by my need to sleep. (My medication also makes it hard for me to lose weight + my narcolepsy beating me with a stick any time I try to exercise, so I do my best to not pack on extra pounds.)

My medications don't play nice with each other, but it is currently the only mix that semi-works. There are many drawbacks to them, one being the fact my body cannot regulate temperature very well so I can be pouring sweat in a blizzard. It's fairly embarrassing to be on the train and look like I ran 5 miles straight in the middle of winter. (Need to constantly drink water as a result of this and because my medications are thoroughly dehydrating.)

I have hypnogogic and hypnopompic hallucinations (entering and exiting sleep) but since my brain is constantly shutting down and restarting, I have near constant auditory hallucinations. Usually they're things like muffled conversations or faint music that has no origin. Take that and my ADHD, my brain is off like a shot trying to find the source even though it is the one making the noise.

I am considered disabled due to the limiting factors of my illnesses on my brain, but because it is an 'invisible' illness, I'm often harassed by people and told it's not bad and I should just 'get better'. I am also getting a trained psychotherapy service dog to help keep me awake or wake me back up during the day. (I expect more harassment once I have said dog).

People act like they're experts on said illness even though it is a very rare neurological disorder that some doctors refuse to acknowledge even though it is an identifiable illness. I have heard 'advice' from these self-proclaimed experts more times than I can count.

"Just sleep more!" (I have a hole in my brain that literally prevents me from ever feeling rested.)

"Drink some coffee" (I already do. If anything, if just helps keep my migraines semi-controlled, not keeping me awake.)

"everyone's tired" (No. Everyone does not know how it feels to have their own brain randomly shutting down because their body destroyed a piece of it.)

"I'm sure it isn't that bad" (what part of 'hole in my brain' is so hard to understand?)

"are you sure you even have it?" (Years of testing and a spinal tap seem to say so. And my medical bills.)

"Narcolepsy is a fake illness for lazy people!" (As if there isn't a literal hole in my brain.)

"Isn't it nice to sleep all the time?" (No. It isn't. I don't get rest and I don't get to choose when it happens. Not to mention how dangerous it is for me- a short and squishy female- to fall asleep in public. It fucking sucks, but thanks for the ignorant comment anyway.)

"But (insert character name here) isn't like that!" (You are aware that people react to illnesses differently, right? And you are aware that most shows depicting narcolepsy do it only to mock people with narcolepsy or as comedic relief, right? It's actually insulting most of the time.)

"I don't use my illness as an excuse!" (Stating my reality isn't an excuse and to assume that everyone just isn't trying hard enough is ableist as hell. There are things I truly can not do. It isn't a mind over matter kind of thing, I am literally unable to do some things.)

When it comes to writing, some days my brain has limited action tokens available and I need those action tokens for other things such at eating, bathing, brushing teeth, ect. Some days my brain won't sit still long enough for me to even form a coherent thought without zipping out the door to chase a butterfly. I try to write when I can because I truly enjoy it and it makes me happy, but some days it just takes too much from me.

Hope this helped! 😊

#ask #narcoleptic #narcolepsy #chronically sick #chronic disease #chronic #daily life

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