#it's midnight and i really should be asleep so it's entirely possible this is incoherent so that's unfortunate but i had to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sneezefiction · 4 years

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of night owls & early birds

Kuroo x Reader

desc: Kuroo, your roommate and longtime best friend, likes you but he really dislikes your sleep schedule. alternatively, your crush gets up way too early and you “suffer the consequences.”

a/n: the irony of working on this fic at 5 am doesn’t escape me… but it also hasn’t assuaged my awful sleep patterns. i hope you enjoy!!

warnings: school/general anxiety, crass/offbeat humor (jokes about planning your own funeral), idk if you’re scared of love don’t read this - it’s very fluffy.

wc: 3.6k

--- You’re screwed, you think, as a light flickers on just outside of your room. It illuminates the carpet underneath your doorway with a warm orange tint.

And though it shouldn’t make your heart jump into your throat, it does.

You’d promised, swore to Kuroo, that you’d be asleep by 2 am - and to him, even that was a stretch. But he should count himself lucky that you’d even agreed to his demands at all.

After all, he is well-versed in the world of night owls.

Kenma, though maybe not your kindred spirit, shares at least a couple of qualities with you. Kuroo likes refer to these “qualities” as crimes.

One of these crimes (and quite possibly Kuroo’s least favorite) is your god-awful sleep schedule. And you’re a repeated offender.

There was only so much nagging and bickering you could take before you’d cracked and told exactly him what he wanted to hear. In a flurry of words, you’d agreed to turn off your laptop, close up your textbooks and actually put your head to a pillow.

You also may have been bribed.

To sweeten this deal, Kuroo had promised to buy you pizza this upcoming Friday, given that you actually did get some rest.

But as you reluctantly lift your phone, the glass screen glowing a little too brightly, you realize that it’s already 5:30 am.

You grimace.

It’s Tuesday morning. Meaning that the repetitive beeping across the hall is Kuroo’s alarm.

Your lips press into a firm line. Most birds don’t even get up at such a godless hour.

You can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have a functional morning routine. Or a morning routine at all.

Leaning back in your plastic desk chair, you squeeze your eyes shut.

It stings.

You probably got so caught up staring at the blob-like words on your computer screen that, somewhere in the process, your body had forgotten how to blink.

And while the tension in your neck and shoulders is painful, it’s nothing in comparison to the festering guilt of not listening to your longtime best friend and now roommate (a suspiciously well-intentioned college boy who had somehow managed to win your heart over the course of this fall semester.)

Thinking back, working on your final English assignment at midnight wasn’t the brightest of ideas. It wasn’t even due for another week. But as due dates loomed, the impending fear of a bad grade had begun to burrow deeply within you.

If you could just pump the brakes on deadline anxiety, you wouldn’t feel so pressured to type incoherent sentences at odd and empty hours of the night.

And maybe Kuroo wouldn’t feel the need to coerce you into a firmer sleep schedule. Though you do find this caring habit of his to be inexplicably endearing.

Thus, the prickling feeling continues to infiltrate your restless mind and the brewing concoction of anxiety and guilt in your tummy makes you feel uneasy.

But before you can sneak into bed and tuck yourself inconspicuously under the covers, you hear a floorboard creak.

As if on instinct, you hold in a breath.

Kuroo isn’t one to forget about little promises. Of course, he’d want to know if you’d made good on your side of the deal.

Gently, you close your laptop and swivel your chair to face the door. You still your movements, keeping your body taut against the back of your chair.

More soft steps fall just outside of your room.

Your eyes can’t pick a place to land, so they choose to wander. And with a quick scan of your room, it doesn’t take you long to realize that your bedside lamp had been left on - an instant giveaway.

You begin planning for your funeral.

However, if it were up to you, you wouldn’t go out this way. You prepare yourself for death by interrogation or shame-induced coma.

Regrettably, neither options seem very interesting to you. If you ask politely, maybe your friends will engrave a portion of an epic poem into your gravestone just to make your passing seem more sophisticated. Yeah, that sounds nice and pretentious.

Okay, you might be overdramatizing things - Kuroo would never send you to your grave. But that doesn’t change the fact that your psyche likes to play tricks on you in the wee hours of the morning and that the eerie quality of the atmosphere somehow reminds you of a cemetery.

As you sort through who-gets-what on your will, there’s a not so sudden knock on your door. The soft tap makes your heart skip for two reasons:

The first being that you still haven’t gotten used to the fluttering in your chest from him being present all the time. Developing a crush on him (and suspecting feeling on his side) had made you a little jumpier over the past few months.

And the second had to do with the fact that you were actually going to have to talk to him about this. To apologize for being a bold-faced liar. It wasn’t clear to you whether you’d be teased or reprimanded. And honestly? You’re not sure which option would feel worse.

So you take a breath and steel yourself.

“Y/n?” A gravelly voice sounds from outside your room.

It’s tainted with sleep. You shiver.

There’s a preemptive sigh, “C’mon y/n, your light is on. I know you’re awake.”

You’ve been caught, so there’s no point in prolonging it.

“...You can come in.” You reply meekly, clenching and unclenching your fists.

The door cracks open.

That soft orange hall light floods into your room and directly into your eyes. With a squint, you try to fully visualize Kuroo. He’s positioned himself so that he’s leaning in your doorway with his arms crossed.

Before coming to grips with the situation, you scan the boy up and down. Amusingly, you realize that he has to duck his head just to fit underneath the door header - he really is tall. You have to wonder if he’ll ever stop growing.

Aside from his intensified bedhead (which doesn’t shock you) and the sleepiness in his eyes, he looks normal. But you must look positively spooked, because the moment he sees you, there’s a flicker of humor in his golden eyes… and an almost invisible smirk.

At least he isn’t angry. That fact alone allows you to let out the breath you’ve been holding in. Anger isn’t really a trait you’d ascribe to him anyway.

“It’s funny…” He wonders aloud, “I thought we’d agreed to something yesterday.” Kuroo brings a mocking hand to his chin in a thinking motion.

Your body naturally begins to shrink into your seat. You want to sigh, protest, explain yourself… anything to keep him from lecturing you. But, technically, you deserve this.

“I’m pretty sure you promised me you’d be in bed, asleep,” He emphasizes “by 2 am…”

“And” he adds, motioning evenly to your set up, “I highly doubt you’re up early just to get work done.”

You bite your lip while gripping and releasing the fabric of your sweatpants.

Kuroo isn’t a mind reader by any extent, but the body has a language of its own. Right now, your actions are murmuring signs of discomfort. And exhaustion, according to your dark circles.

Kuroo heaves out something between a sigh and a yawn before he takes another couple of steps into your room.

The sound of mattress springs and rustled bed sheets gets you to turn your head toward him, though you hesitate to meet his gaze.

He makes himself comfortable.

This is a familiar scene, Kuroo invading your space. Well, it’s less of an invasion and more of an unspoken agreement that the both of you can ‘come and go as you please’ in regards to bedrooms, granted that the “invader” knocks first.

Essentially, if Kuroo wanted company, he would find his way to you and plop himself on the edge of your bed. You would do likewise. The interaction could last 5 minutes or 3 hours depending on your mental stamina that day.

In a way, it mimicked your childhood - going over to Kenma’s and knocking relentlessly on his bedroom door until he finally let you and Kuroo tumble through the doorway together. The only difference now is in the way that you spend time together. Conversations become deeper a lot faster. Belly-laughs after a miserable day of classes are considered sacred. Study sessions are done shoulder to shoulder and with a myriad of disgusted faces when frustrated with a particularly tricky problem.

But this is different from your usual conversations. It’s sickeningly early, you haven’t slept a wink, and a tidal wave of stress from this entire semester is finally crashing into you.

“I’m sorry,” You start softly, fiddling with your fingers, “I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about this expository essay I’ve been working on and my mind is totally numb. I’m so stressed out by all of these-”

“-Classes.” He finishes for you.

You swallow, bobbing your head softly in confirmation.

“I get it.”

And just by looking at him, you know he understands. For someone so laid back and put together, Kuroo’s eyes could speak a novel’s worth of emotion and information at any given moment.

“But you’ve already spent more than enough time on it.”

Have I really? Have I actually done enough? Because it feels like I’m failing. Like I can’t seem to finish what I’ve started. I can’t even complete this paper.

But at least Kuroo sounds resolute.

He’s stating a fact, not an opinion.

And he’s not trying to be unempathetic. He does get it, he really does.

But Kuroo also sees how hard you work already. And he knows all too well that there’s only so much work you can get done in one night. You’ve got enough on your plate even without your classes, so having the extra academic pressure is just the cherry on top.

“Mm,” you hum, “yeah, I guess you of all people would know.” You hunch over and rest your elbows on your thighs, using your hands to prop your head up.

He’d been there at your most and least productive moments. On days when you were cranking out a few thousand words and nights when you could only jot down a few sentences. Hell, Kuroo had even volunteered to help you edit and format it when the time came. What kind of person offers to do that before they’ve even been asked to?

It’s just another feature of his charm, you suppose.

But you still feel stuck. Like you’re a boat stranded in the middle of the ocean and you just can’t seem the muster up the strength to pull up the anchor. The anxiety lingers.

“...It just doesn’t feel like it’s ever enough, y’know?” You breathe out.

There it is. Finally out in the open.

And Kuroo hums thoughtfully to himself.

He’s been there.

Not knowing if the effort he put into his work was having any actual effect. Being unsure as to when he should stop taking responsibility for something. Putting work, classes, and people before himself.

It’s draining; a swirling spin-cycle of exhaustion.

But he’s also been learning that “enough” is subjective. So he decides to say just that.

“Enough is a pretty vague word, don’t you think?”

You blink.

Yeah, you suppose it is.

Hopefully this isn’t another one of his bizarre epiphanies - the kind that makes you think your brain is going to implode. Sometimes Kuroo could be a little too philosophical for his and your own good. But you humor him anyway.

Shifting in your seat, you give him a stiff nod.

Satisfied with your understanding, he proceeds with his thought.

“What I mean is that we probably have totally different definitions of enough...” he drawls on, “... and different standards too.”

“Okay...”

“What I mean is that-” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, “-what’s ‘enough’ to you may not be ‘enough’ to me. And vice versa.”

Kuroo tilts his head back, brows furrowing in thought. He’s grasping for the right way to put it.

“Y/n, I think you’ve done enough. You’ve worked hard,” he points out, “and I don’t think I know anyone who deserves a break more than you do.”

That makes you pause. You lift your head up to catch his gaze - his eyes are already studying your expression. Something inside of you stops functioning because never have you seen such raw sincerity. Or maybe you have, but you’re only just now noticing it.

He gives you a gentle smile. It makes your chest ache.

“You mean it?” You half-whisper.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

You’ve known this for years now, but Kuroo truly has a way with words. They had the ability to pierce like a harpoon or stick sweetly to you like warm honey. Even with a few (thousand) shitty jokes littered throughout your conversations, it’s only natural to be awestruck by him. By his ability to make even the most awkward of situations a little more bearable. How he subliminally knows how to soothe and temper you. You think he would make a really great businessman - he’s quite persuasive; a real salesperson.

One part of you wants to apologize to him again. Another part wants to jump up and kiss him. To tear up and cry in his arms with relief. You chalk these potential reactions up to exhaustion and hormones… but you don’t write them off entirely.

Because suddenly being 3 feet apart feels like miles. And your bed is looking terribly comfortable.

“Mind if I join you?” You ask, but you’re already moving from your seat.

He gives you an indifferent shrug - though he feels anything but.

“It’s your bed.”

Oh, you’re well aware of that fact. You can already feel heat rising to your face.

You stand up slowly, raising your arms to the ceiling in one final attempt to stretch. Then softly, you place a knee to the mattress and wedge yourself on the rest of the way until you’re sitting crisscrossed in front of him. He shifts his torso so that it’s facing you.

And now that you’re finally eye to eye, you can breathe.

He may be your crush, but you feel strangely comfortable in his presence. You always have. It’s part of what makes Kuroo... well, Kuroo. He embodies security while still pushing you out of your comfort zone. And for that, you’re grateful.

You break the silence.

“I really am sorry,” you echo your earlier apology.

You undoubtedly are. And you’re not sure why it feels like such a heavy thing to say over something as menial as a good night’s sleep.

“Hey, hey,” He soothes, reaching a hand over to ruffle your hair, “it’s no big deal, alright?”

You send him a half-hearted glare but it immediately breaks into a soft smile. His hand lingers for a moment longer than it should before he draws it away. You miss the teasing touch.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to maintain eye-contact, but even as you look away, you note that his eyes remain concentrated on you. You can’t tell if it’s you who has moved closer or if he has. Either way, those few inches of distance have narrowed by a decent margin.

“I honestly just wanted you to get some rest. You’ve had it rough and by the looks of it-” He scans your face like he’s trying to diagnose you with something.

“Hey, watch it-” You warn, narrowing your eyes.

You already know you look tired. Kuroo loves reminding you of that in his own little way.

He smirks playfully, continuing anyway.

“-You could really use the sleep.” Kuroo’s raspy voice trails off.

“But apparently even pizza isn’t a convincing enough strategy.” He gives you a lopsided grin.

You shake your head, “Oh no, no, the pizza was very convincing.”

He scoffs, “Was it, now?” Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, “Because you seem very awake to me.”

“Can’t we just blame this on the paper, please?” You sigh.

He furrows his brows in contemplation, “Hmm, no. I don’t think so. This is partially your fault.” A rather underwhelming response.

“A small part.”

“I’d say it's fifty-fifty.” He reasons with a raised eyebrow.

Rolling your eyes, you respond, “Okay, you can quit whatever-” You gesture to his expression, “this is.” He always managed to pull the strangest faces and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you laugh.

He snorts, “Oh? I thought you liked-” Kuroo gestures to his own face, “whatever this is.”

His voice has a curious edge to it. Some might even call it flirtatious.

And you go quiet.

You can’t help but stare at him. His messy hair, his barely parted lips. The fact that Kuroo just woken up and somehow still looks this attractive to you is so annoying. So frustrating.

And words are failing you.

It was an innocent comment. He’s just messing with you like he usually does. Maybe this has all gone a little bit too far. You should probably just say good night (or good morning) and rest your eyes.

Yet you can’t shake the feeling that this could be the perfect segway into addressing your relationship.

At literally any other time of day, you might be more rational. You could reason with yourself that this is quite literally the weirdest time to bring up your feelings for him. But something in you needs to close the literal and figurative gap between you two. And, for some indecipherable reason, it has to happen right now.

Whatever the outcome, you trust that Kuroo will always be your safe place.

So you throw caution to the wind.

“Actually, Kuroo…” You begin, staring at your hands which are placed neatly on your lap. “I really do.”

His eyes snap to yours.

This time it’s Kuroo’s turn to go silent in contemplation. Taking in a steady breath becomes an act of labor.

“You… really do what?” He asks slowly, grasping for your intended meaning.

Your heart pounds.

“I really like you.” You clarify.

It isn’t at all eloquent, but it’s sincere. You’d once heard that honesty came easier late at night, but you had no idea that it applied to early mornings as well.

But you finally make sense of the words that just escaped your lips. Panic arises. In an attempt to hide, you bury your face in your hands. You wish you could put the words right back into your mouth.

“I-” You take a deep breath, “I think I spoke without thinking.” Is all you allow yourself to mumble.

You no longer trust yourself with words.

Your face, your whole body really, feels like it’s on fire. Humiliation begins to wash over you in red hot waves… but you startle when a pair of hands meet your wrists.

You lift your head.

His fingertips are warm and worn. Still decorated with calluses from his years of volleyball back in high school. You want to question why the world has withheld this touch from you for so long.

He lures your hands away from your face, grasping both of them gently. For a sensation so new, it was somehow strikingly familiar. A thumb is meditatively tracing small, slow circles in the middle of your palm.

You gawk in disbelief… and as you scan his face, you catch a hint of pink on his cheeks. You can’t say anything though - your own face feels like it’s just become 1000 degrees warmer.

“I kinda figured you might,” Kuroo breaks the tension rather… bluntly.

Of course he did, wait what?

“But the thing is…”

Is this some sort of rejection? Is he just letting you down gently? Is that why he’s holding your hands like they’re as fragile as fine china? Then why is he looking at you so sweetly, so tenderly-

“I wanted to be the one to say it first.”

You start planning your own funeral again.

However, this time, emotional whiplash will be your stated cause of death. At least it’s a more unconventional way to go out.

“I- uh,” you swallow, “w- what did you just say?” It comes out as a stammer.

You’re squeezing his hands a little too tightly. When you recognize your modest death grip around his fingers you loosen your hold.

Kuroo smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly.

It’s nothing like that cunning smirk that you find annoying, yet so adorable. It’s also not one of his full-scale grins. It’s far too simple and reassuring. You almost don’t trust it.

“Well, in short, I like you too,” He re-explains, searching your face for a reaction, “but... I’d hoped to tell you that over pizza on Friday.” Kuroo looks away.

If you weren’t already gaping over his personal confession, you would probably be laughing at this new side of Kuroo. He looks unmistakably bashful.

It takes you a second to recover, but you finally open your mouth to respond...

But you’re cut off by Kuroo, once again. His softened expression is long gone. And, much to your dismay, he’s suddenly shifting himself off of your bed.

“It’s just too bad you didn’t keep up your end of the bargain. I guess that means there’ll be no pizza… no movie… no me.” He slowly releases your hands, knitting his brows together to feign sorrow - it looks hilariously forced, but you’re too worried about the warmth leaving your fingertips to care.

He’s teasing you like you’re his best friend.

And that’s because you are.

So then why does it feel like something’s changed? Like he’s daring you to make the next move?

Before he can pull away and leave, you tug at his hand which draws his whole body toward you.

Your heartrate spikes through the roof. When’s the last time you’ve been this close to someone? To a guy? A guy who’s shown actual living, breathing interest in you.

And he’s in your face.

Close enough that his scent, his cologne, is drowning your senses. Close enough that his breath is fanning faintly against your cheek. Close enough that you know there’s only one thing left for you to do.

Before you can think to hesitate, your lips are brushing up against his.

Intuitively, he brings his hands to your face, closing any extra distance.

Kuroo’s thumb feathers over your cheekbone, stroking it tenderly. His lips apply very little pressure and it’s unbearably delicate, but it fills you with an indescribable warmth. His lips linger just long enough for you to detect the mint from his toothpaste - he can probably taste the cinnamon tea you’ve been sipping on over the past hour. As far as kisses go, it’s reserved, but perfect for this distinct moment.

Plus, you figure, this is just the first of many longer, more eager kisses - though you can’t imagine being more breathless than you already are right now.

But you can hardly get another taste of him before those warm hands on your cheeks are prying you away. He stares. You stare back. His eyes are brimming with something warm and full. You immediately choose to label it, “affection.”

And in a much lower voice, Kuroo murmurs, “Let’s save this for later.”

You scan his face, wondering if he’s actually serious. He gradually makes his way off of the bed and onto his feet and before you can protest, Kuroo is speaking again.

“You-”

He leans down and gingerly lifts your chin with his fingers. The gentleness of his touch almost makes you flinch, but you somehow manage to hold it in the road. Though now you’re really at a loss for words.

“-need to get some good rest.”

He places a chaste kiss on your forehead.

You still feel it after he pulls away. After he closes the door. After you’ve laid you head down on your pillow in shock.

How does he expect you to fall asleep after all of that?

---

extra: this is dedicated to Izzy - our sleep schedules may be jacked up, but i’m pretty sure it’s a blessing in disguise if we’re taking our time zones into consideration. thanks for making me laugh & for not stealing my quarter of the braincell.

and to my precious friends and followers - thank you for being patient with me. it’s hard to post or even write at the moment, but i’m steadily pushing myself toward a better mindset. i appreciate your comments, likes, and the fact that y'all even bother to check out my works in the first place. i’m working on it.

also happy birthday, Tetsu. you’re a real star.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo

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op-peccatori · 5 years

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The MLQC Boys and Sleeping/Bedtime Habits (nsfw-ish)

more ‘quick thoughts’ lmao...I can go on and on when it comes to these men. Literally had to step away from the keyboard.

Rating: Mature

Tags/Warnings: mentions of/implies sexy times but nothing too explicit, this wasn’t meant to be so long wtf, unedited atm

song of the moment: little things by one direction

Kiro:

Most open to being the little spoon! Although he likes curling around you, likes to feel like he can protect you from anything, he also enjoys feeling your arms curled around him. You’re the treasure, and he’s the dragon guarding his hoard. Under his bright exterior is a fierce love, resolute and undying, which most people will never get to see.

This is something he’s told you before, and he hopes he’s done a good job conveying it—to him, you’re home. Climbing into bed with you after a long day is the only good way to end that day. He loves singing to you, whether it’s a soft ballad or a completely made up silly song. You can’t count on hand the number of times you’ve giggled over the songs you two have created, silly whispers in the dark, fingers stroking warm skin. Some nights are quiet, with your bodies doing the talking, pressing your love into each other’s skin, smiling into soft kisses. It’s like basking in your own personal sunshine, the warmth seeping into your very bones, leaving you with only hope and the belief that everything will be okay.

He’s your partner in crime. Midnight snacking, gaming and dance parties until you collapse.

Nights spent away from you are spent video calling you, singing to you onscreen, showing you any new foods he’s tried. He tries to keep days away from you at a minimum, and though he tries really hard to control that feeling of sullenness and unease when he’s not with you, the fact of the matter is that his day is just incomplete if he doesn’t get to talk to you or see your face.

It’s not surprising to wake up with his face buried in your stomach, or with his leg curled over you. Kiro truly treats you like his own beloved stuffed toy, and you can’t help but melt in his warm embrace as you both watch a movie. Neither of you is very good with horror movies, but watching them together as you cuddle in fear is better. You’re always stronger together, after all. Both of you have a hard time going to sleep after, choosing to play games to distract yourselves.

However, if you do happen to be good with horror, prepare yourself for an armful of Kiro, and to be the big spoon that night.

Lucien:

He doesn’t glue himself to you. Sometimes, he’s content to face you and watch you drift into sleep, or run his fingers through your hair until you sleepily cuddle closer to him. You grow bolder with your requests for him to read to you, his voice always soothing your stressed-out mind; nothing delights him more than seeing you inch closer to him even in your sleep, although he’s aware that it’s probably just due to his body heat.

He’s a movie buff, and you love listening to his interpretations of the plots, and the dialogue. He’s not a snob about his choices, he’ll watch anything. He does enjoy watching the LOTR movies, which never fail to–eventually–put you to sleep no matter how big a fan you are.

If he does fall asleep next to you, you might wake up with his hand still tangled in your hair, or laced with yours. Just a little contact with you feels grounding to him. It’s enough to calm the raging waters beneath his skin, to fill him with contentment. You love waking him up with butterfly kisses, because you know what he’ll do, and you pretend to be surprised every single time–when his lips curl up a little before his eyes have even opened, and sneaky fingers wrap around your waist so he can give you a proper good morning kiss.

You’ve been embarrassed about him watching you sleep quite often, but he doesn’t know how to explain it to you–how human it makes him feel. When it’s just you two in bed, he’s just a man in bed with the love of his life. He doesn’t remember ever having someone let their guard down around him so fully, and sleep without a care in the world. Every incoherent word you mumble, every little twitch, it’s seared into his memory. It actually makes him want to try harder and actually sleep, to join you in that other mystical world.

For the longest time, he looked forward to waking up next to you, just to see what he’ll wake up to. Will you be hanging off the edge of the bed? Will your face be burrowed into his armpit? It’s all very exciting for him, even if it makes little sense. For someone who’s delved into things most people can’t possibly comprehend, these are such tiny things. But they mean the world to him, and he could spend the rest of his life noting them down in his head.

Lucien craves intimacy, so badly that he has to rein it in, lest he scares you away. Especially when you both give into your desires and he loses himself in your skin–it shows in his eyes. You’re rendered speechless when you lock eyes with him, feeling so completely exposed as if he’s peering into your very soul. And he feels the same, because his eyes are where his emotions exhibit themselves, but only to you. It’s like looking into an unexplored yet inviting abyss, terrifying yet exhilarating, with promises of discovering things about yourself you couldn’t have even imagined.

Initially, it’s always Lucien who’s pulling you into his arms, taking over, sheltering you. When you finally convince him to place his head on your lap, carding your fingers through his hair, it’s as if he’s discovered something new. He enjoys pressing his face into your stomach during afternoon naps, shedding his armour and weapons for a brief respite. He feels like he could shatter into a million little pieces when you trace his features with curious fingertips until you’ve had your fill, which is never. He doesn’t quite know how to cope with the fact that you’re just as crazy about him as he is about you. On the surface, he’s thrilled. But with Lucien, you need to look deeper, and you’ll see the disbelief, the terror, the possessiveness, the vulnerability that comes with loving someone so deeply.

Once he’s had a taste, Lucien will do everything in his power to spend every night with you. He loathes sleeping alone, in a cold bed, and only feels better when he receives a selfie of you wrapped up in his shirt. If you just happen to give him a glimpse of bare skin, revealing the lack of clothing underneath, he’s calling you right away. He loves instructing you over the phone and receiving your own breathless demands. He loves hearing your breath even out as you fall asleep after, finally settling his heart down.

Gavin:

The first time you fell asleep next to Gavin, he couldn’t fall asleep the entire night. His nerves were on fire, and he was so afraid of making the slightest of movements and waking you up. It took a while for him to lift his eyes to your face. He felt a little guilty about it, but he couldn’t look away. You looked so beautiful even in your sleep, and it robbed him of all tiredness. He isn’t used to sleeping next to someone. This isn’t about taking charge and looking out for you. This is about relaxing.

He jolts if you mumble anything in your sleep, straining his ears to catch the words. Gavin takes time to really get used to you sleeping in his bed. The girl of his dreams (teenage and adult) tossing an arm over him, nuzzling his chest. The first few times, it’s a shame you’re not awake to witness the way he smiles. An arm thrown over his face to hide his burning cheeks, but it doesn’t help with the happiness swelling in his heart. He feels incredibly full with it.

Despite his shy smiles, romance comes to him rather easily. He doesn’t even realise it but he makes you feel so loved with just a few simple actions, you only wish he could accept the same from you. You have to bulldoze past his protests that ‘he’s fine’, massaging his sore feet or back–you get your reward in his snores, in his relaxed limbs, in the automatic way he pulls you into him when you settle next to him.

He loves hearing about your day. You can go on and on, thinking he’s probably tuned out, but he’s paying attention to every word that comes out of your mouth. Slowly, he starts sharing what he can of his days too. At first, he tries to hide the dangerous things, but when you insist on it, he shares–with as little detail as possible. It’s an important step for him, learning to share his troubles, his needs, his desires. He’s never been one for naps, but can’t help it when you curl into him. You feel so incredibly loved, nearly worshipped, and you’re warm with it. What you have to do is show him how important he is. Hold him close, tell him as many times as it takes (even if it’s forever) that he is loved, that he’s in your heart. Be there for him as he heals, as he comes to accept his own value. All he needs is for you to love him.

He doesn’t know how to ask for sex, afraid of pushing your boundaries or pressuring you. The day he slips a hand below your shirt, stroking soft skin, you nearly derail the attempt by beaming at him in absolute joy. It’s fixed by curling your leg over his hip and your slipping fingers into his hair, showing him how much you like it.

He doesn’t watch TV. But watching something with you, watching you react to whatever’s going on is amusing. To your delight, he does end up liking Brooklyn Nine-Nine quite a bit. It’s fascinating to watch him laugh softly, amber eyes shining with mirth–until he notices you staring and blushes. Tell him how cute he looks when he’s embarrassed and he might stop breathing.

Victor:

It might take you both a while to really settle into this intimate space. Victor is such a private man, and his bed is the deepest part of his fortress–he has his own sleeping habits, and you’re not sure if you should press. You’re not sure if he likes his space in bed. At the time same, Victor is agonising over whether or not it’s okay to just pull you close and bury his head in your fair. He does eventually notice you inching closer, waiting for him to react, until there’s barely a few inches between you. A whisper from you about the cold will have him suppressing a smile as he winds an arm around you.

It doesn’t matter if the temperature in the room is actually perfect–he keeps you close. When he wakes up in the morning to find himself curled around you, his front to your back, he decides that from now on, this is how it’s going to be. He loves spooning you but will never admit it, always feigning ignorance when you wake up with a snuggly Victor, even though you had gone to sleep in completely different positions.

He’s a man of action, of never wasting time, but Victor can actually spend the entire day in bed with you, doing absolutely nothing. It’s so cosy he has a hard time leaving the little nest. You’ve spent countless Sundays wrapped in blankets, blowing on hot cocoa, watching the cheesiest rom coms you can find. Victor likes movies with intelligent plots, but what made you fall a little harder for him was discovering all the rom coms suggested for him. He refused to comment on it, scoffed when you said you wanted to watch something romantic but you will never forget the sight of a misty-eyed Victor refusing to look at you after an emotional scene.

His expression when you said you wanted to watch The Time Traveller’s Wife had been priceless.

He has a strict diet and routine, but with your corrupting and persuasive ways, you do manage to talk him into midnight snacking–occasionally. He loves arguing with you over characters’ actions and thought processes, always interested in knowing what you would do in their place. He thinks you look cute when you’re riled up, but isn’t as prepared for the high of emotions that usually ends with his leg slipping between your thighs as your tongue slips into his mouth.

He teases you about snoring, smirking wickedly when you turn flush and flail. What you will never know is how softly he smiles when he hears you snore, amused more than anything as he tugs you closer and you press your face into his neck. Sometimes, you mumble things about food. Even though you won’t remember it, he cooks it for you the next day. It’s his own little way of fulfilling wishes you’re not even aware of.

Please cuddle with him. He doesn’t know how to initiate it other than just taking you into his arms. Hold him close, kiss his hair, tease him. Climb onto his lap or pull him onto yours. Learn to read his face and body, because there’s so much he doesn’t know how to say.

He’s always believed naps are a waste of time but it’s also never stopped him from indulging. With you, he’ll still complain–even as he loosens his tie and plops down, looking up at you expectantly, and holds on tighter when it’s time to get up. Falling asleep with Victor feels like stepping into the ice fortress, only to find unbelievable warmth and safety inside. You never want to leave.

He feels a little pathetic when he’s away from you, feeling dejected and cold in his silent hotel room. Thoughts he’ll never voice out loud spring up, dramatic in their very nature. It’s awful, he thinks, being on his own. Are you thinking about him? Is it too early for a bedtime call? Is he being too needy? He’s not very good at sending pictures or video calling, and he resorts to excuses when he calls even though he just wanted to hear your voice. If you tell him you miss him, he’ll melt instantly. Keep talking, even if he’s not listening to every word, the sound of your voice is enough to bring him warmth. You can hear his sleepy responses to your words, but you know there’s no point in asking if he wants to go sleep–he won’t want to hang up until you’re both asleep.

#mlqc #mlqc headcanons #mlqc victor #mlqc lucien #mlqc gavin #mlqc kiro #mr love queen's choice #mlqc fanfic #mr love: queen's choice

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blustersquall · 6 years

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Only Make Believe // Chapter 33: Kirkwall

Sorry for the delay in chapters! Last weekend I was really not well, so I had to put off uploading until this weekend because I needed to edit! Thank you for your patience! Please enjoy this chapter. <3

As always, this chapter is also up on AO3 for those who prefer to read it there.

January 1st

The first morning of the new year was a blissfully lazy one. Despite waking several more times during the night, Cullen was refreshed when he rubbed his eyes, determined not to fall back to sleep. Nevena was still in the bed beside him, her back to him and almost entirely hidden under the covers but for the mess of golden blonde waves spread over her pillow. He checked his phone quickly to see the time. It was late in the morning – almost lunch time. It was a late night for everyone, and Cullen wasn’t used to staying up past midnight.

Perhaps when he was younger. But not anymore.

He lamented the fact he was getting old.

After returning his phone to the bedside table, Cullen rolled onto his side to face Nevena’s back. He pulled the covers down enough that he could see her cheek and her shoulder and found she was still asleep. Though not deeply as she stirred when he slipped his arm over her waist. She wriggled herself towards him, her back pressing into his chest murmuring a few incoherent words to him or to herself. Cullen arced his hips away as much as he was able while still maintaining a small level of comfort.

“Time to get up,” Cullen said, kissing her shoulder. “It’s almost lunchtime.”

Nevena groaned something in response, her face scrunching up before she turned slightly and buried it into her pillow. The gesture only caused Cullen to laugh.

“You really are not a morning person, are you?”

“S’not morning if it’s lunchtime.”

“Almost lunch time.” Cullen retorted, prodding Nevena in the ribcage. She jerked sharply at that, her whole body jumping as if hit by an electric shock. “It’ll be a slow day, I’m sure. We should, at the very least, see how Varric and Cassandra are faring.”

After a momentary silence, a deep breath, and sigh, Nevena rolled over onto her back, clearing her hair away from her face. She was alert but looked tired with a subtle shadow beneath her eyes. Cullen wondered just how much she’d slept during the night, both before she came to him and after. Had his nightmares caused her to wake as well? He was never sure exactly what he did or if he said anything when the nightmares came. In the past, Solona occasionally slept in the living room when the withdrawal was particularly bad, and her sleep was suffering due to Cullen’s post-traumatic stress. He never told her, but it hurt him deeply when she did. It was just affirmation to him that he was a problem.

“Good morning,” Cullen cupped Nevena’s cheek and kissed her as tenderly as possible, happy to feel her reciprocate with her own sleepy kiss. “How did you sleep?”

“Okay,” Nevena sighed again, her eyes only half-open. “The mattress is a little hard for me. My back hurts a bit.”

Cullen frowned, “is it bad?”

“No,” she shrugged, “just uncomfortable. I’m sure it’ll ease out if I move around a bit.” Even as she lay beneath him speaking, he could see the effort she was making to keep her eyes open.

“You’re tired.” Said Cullen, gently brushing his thumb beneath her eye. He knew the answer, but asked anyway, “did I wake you during the night?”

Her hand came and covered his. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He huffed and lay down on his side, nestling as close as possible. It was stupid for him to even ask her. He woke her, and she was too kind to come right out and say it. “We don’t have to get up. Try and go back to sleep if you can.”

“Cullen…” Nevena’s sleepy gaze grew a little harder when she looked at him, but she said nothing else beyond his name. Cullen moved his hand at her cheek, laying that arm over her waist and settled into the covers beside her. No further attempts at protest came, and in seconds Nevena was breathing steadily, her eyes closed, the fingers of her hand lightly stroking a repetitive pattern up and down his forearm.

Perhaps spending the night together had not been the best idea. They’d had a late night anyway, and even after they talked, they probably didn’t get to sleep until after four in the morning. And given that he woke several times… He hadn’t got up out of bed again, but he knew first-hand how jarring and startling it was when he woke from his nightmares.

He was used to it. Nevena was not.

After what might have been ten minutes, Nevena’s fingers had stopped and her breathing deepened. Choosing to let her sleep longer, Cullen set about leaving her embrace with care, trying to avoid waking her again. He pulled the covers up to her chest, kissed her forehead and left to venture downstairs after pulling his sweatpants and a hoodie on.

He was able to hear both Varric and Cassandra talking in the living room as he made his way to the kitchen, his need for caffeine pulling him there. From what he could recall of the night before, they had both been drinking but not excessively. Cullen poured himself a mug of black coffee before entering the living room to join them.

“Good morning!” Varric said, grinning and far too cheerful.

“Mornin’,” Cullen sat on the couch beside Cassandra. Both she and Varric were dressed in what Cullen could only describe as ‘sloppy house wear’. Comfortable and baggy. “What time did you two get to bed last night?” He sipped his coffee.

“Three?” Cassandra looked to Varric for clarification.

“About that,” he nodded and leaned back in his arm chair. “Kestrel – y’know, Hawke - and Fenris stuck around a bit after everyone else had left.”

“Ah.”

“Is Nevena not up?”

“Not yet.” Cullen drank from his mug again, almost certain Cassandra and Varric could see on his face that she spent the night with him. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to hide it. They were adults and had established they wanted to be in a relationship. There was nothing wrong with them spending the night together… perhaps it was more due to it being Cassandra and Varric’s home. “I thought it might be kind to let her sleep in a bit longer.”

“Wore her out did you, Curly?”

“Varric!” Cassandra quickly snapped at him before Cullen could retort a biting response. He held the hot coffee on his tongue until it burned.

“We stayed up talking, actually.” Cullen said primly. “And, unfortunately, nightmares have been quite frequent. We’ve both been a bit worn out.”

At the mention of nightmares, Varric’s expression sobered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know.”

“How bad have they been?” asked Cassandra, with a soft almost sisterly tone.

“They’re… you know, I manage. Nevena’s not used to them, that’s all.” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, averting his gaze to the floor. “I’m sure once we’re back in Denerim and normality has resumed they’ll become infrequent again.”

“Probably,” Varric shrugged. “If you didn’t get them much before…”

“There’s no chance of them ever stopping?” Cassandra queried, lifting her coffee mug and taking a drink afterwards.

“I don’t know.” Cullen said, “there’s a lot about lyrium and coming off it that I don’t know. And… that I’m not privy to knowing, now I’m no longer serving with the TEMPLARs. If the worst I get is nightmares, the occasional muscle weakness, and headaches – I’ll take it.”

Cassandra’s quirked her lips to one side, clearly unhappy with the answer, but lacking anything more to say.

“Well, stepping away from such a happy topic of conversation,” Varric got to his feet, “any thoughts on what you and Freckles want to do today?”

“Relax?” Cullen smiled, happy to talk about something that wasn’t entirely focused on him. “Nevena asked about seeing Kirkwall… She wanted to see my old ‘stomping ground’.”

“Your stomping ground?” repeated Varric, his smile growing into a grin. “The Hanged Man? The Gallows?”

“Maybe not The Gallows…” he sighed. “They’re not the most cheerful place.”

“The Blooming Rose?” The tone of glee in Varric’s voice was a little unnerving.

“I…” Cullen ran a hand back through his hair, “I suppose we could make a stop there.” The tips of his ears started to grow warmer. Cullen had never partaken in the services offered by Kirkwall’s local gentleman’s club, but he’d gone there to deal with difficult customers in the past and that was enough for him. He was often teased by his comrades during his time in Kirkwall for not taking advantage of the services, and while there had been times he was tempted, he never did because the thought of paying for sex, or just simply sex for the sake of sex never sat right with him. Plus, at the time he had Solona, and even when times were difficult, the thought of being unfaithful never crossed his mind.

“You know,” Cassandra put her coffee mug on the table, “I think there’s an exhibition happening at what remains of the Grand Cathedral.”

“Oh?”

“Some kind of art installation. Or… something, there was a leaflet about it, just before Christmas.” She smiled, “I’ll double check when it begins, but if you feel up to it, we four could go along. It’s free, I think and better than staying cooped up indoors all day.”

“That sounds like a pleasant, easy-going afternoon,” agreed Cullen. “The Hanged Man and then the Chantry, then?”

“Have you decided when you’re heading to Ostwick?” Varric picked at a chip on the handle of his mug. “Dorian and Josephine told me they’ll be looking into Nevena’s family, or at least, her mother’s side. How did she find talking to them?”

“Uh, a little difficult?” Cullen shrugged, his mouth quirking to one side. “She didn’t say so, but I got the feeling she didn’t think she was particularly useful. She knows as much as her father told her, which wasn’t much… and I’m not entirely sure if everything he said was true. But both Dorian and Josephine seemed satisfied with what she could provide. So… fingers crossed they can find something.”

“Don’t you worry,” Varric arched his fingers, leaning back in his chair. “Those two are the smartest people I know. If anyone can dig up information, it’s them.”

“You don’t have to leave for Ostwick right away, you know?” Cassandra said gently. “You’re welcome to stay here until you have to leave to meet them. What would you do in Ostwick in the meantime, anyway?”

“I think Nevena wanted to see if her family home was still standing.” Cullen rubbed his hand over his stubble. “Though why she’d want to go back there is… I can’t quite fathom her reasoning, though I’m sure there is one.”

“Sentiment.” Varric shrugged. There was a tone to his voice, Cullen noticed, that seemed to have a gravitas to it. As though he was speaking from experience. “Even if your experiences somewhere are… bad, there’s always a part of you that clings to it. Whether that sentiment is bad or good though, I don’t know.”

Cassandra levelled him with a shrewd look. “Not everyone clings to their memories as much as you do, Varric.”

“I don’t cling, that’s Bartrand. He’s the one who buries himself in the past. I hold on to my personal angst and channel it into my writing.”

“Oh!” she laughed, “is that what you’re channelling when you write that smutty literature. Angst?”

“Inspiration has gotta come from somewhere!”

Cullen leaned back, smiling into his coffee while he listened to the two of them bicker playfully back and forth. He knew there was no venom or meanness behind the things being said, that this was simply how Cassandra and Varric communicated sometimes. It was nice. The simple domesticity of it. His parents used to bicker back and forth.

He could remember them doing so in the kitchen, then one of them kissing the other to bring the banter to a close. As a boy he used to pretend to retch and groan when his parents indulged in acts of affection. Now, as a grown man, he understood the importance of those little things. The small acts that went unnoticed by everyone else, but were part of the bedrock of a safe, secure, and trusting relationship.

He hoped one day to have a relationship like the one his parents had. He thought he found it with Solona though, in hindsight, he knew that wasn’t the case. There were so many things he kept hidden from her. So much trauma he kept internalised, too afraid of it scaring her, and too afraid of it to confront it himself. Maybe, now he was older, and he was beginning to exorcise the demons and the shadows and the ghosts of his past, he’d be able to move past that. Maybe, in time, he and Nevena would be able to have that same closeness and unspoken affection his parents once shared.

When Cassandra got to her feet, marking a clear end to their playful arguing, Cullen followed her to the kitchen, and emptied what was left of his coffee into the sink.

“Go and wake Nevena,” Cassandra said, ruffling a hand through her short hair and causing parts of it to stand at odd angles. “Take your time, there’s no rush to get going. I’ll find out a bit more about this installation thing.”

“Alright.” Cullen stacked his mug in the dishwasher and quickly went upstairs, opening the door to his room softly so not to wake Nevena if she was still asleep.

She was still sleeping soundly on her front, cuddling a pillow with one leg bent and her knee visible poking out from under the covers. She looked peaceful; settled and comfortable, Cullen didn’t have much of a heart to wake her, but if he didn’t then Cassandra or Varric would.

He went and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over her and kissing the side of her temple. He brushed her hair back away from her face. “Nev?” He waited a moment for a reaction. “Nev, time to get up.”

“Yousmelllikecoffee.” Nevena mumbled. She reached up with a heavy arm, patting the covers and blindly searching for him with outstretched fingers. He held her wandering hand, squeezing her fingers and kissing her knuckles. “Come back to bed…”

Cullen chuckled, kissing her temple again. “Would that I could.” He nudged her with his nose. “Cassandra has plans for the day. And, if I remember rightly, you wanted to see my old stomping ground?” He saw one of Nevena’s eyes open and focus on him, her interest piqued. “You have to get up and get dressed.”

She groaned. “Okay…” Slowly, and with some reluctance, she rose to sit up, stretching her arms above her head and yawning. Doing so caused her shirt to rise, exposing her belly, a view that was tantalizing and brought memories of her hot skin bare beneath his hands flooding back to Cullen’s mind. Nevena blinked, smiled a small dopey smile and shuffled towards him. “Hi…” she mumbled, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Good morning,” he kissed her nose. “Go get showered.” He patted her thigh in a gentle suggestion she get moving. “I’ll have one after you.”

“Then we get going?”

He nodded, “once Varric and Cassandra are ready, we’ll get going.”

Nevena smiled, kissed him, and clambered off the bed.

The Hanged Man was located in one of the less savoury neighbourhoods of Kirkwall and Cullen was pleased, in a strange sort of a way to see that the macabre piece of a carved wooden man being dangled by his feet above the door hadn’t changed in the years since his last visit. It had aged. There were water stains from rain, and the rope that once held it aloft had been exchanged for some kind of thick industrial wire, but beyond that it was the same. Even the interior appeared exactly the same. The hardwood floors were sticky underfoot, the tables all looked as though they had seen better days and Cullen counted only four matching chairs. All the rest was a brick-a-brac of stools and chairs probably bought from car boot or yard sales.

When he was stationed in Kirkwall, he only frequented The Hanged Man when he was dragged along by his comrades. Back then, the beer was awful and strong. More than once an evening at The Hanged Man resulted in a horrific hangover the next morning and Cullen doubled over the toilet, suffering.

Still, despite its décor and the rough look of the place, it was… familiar. Homey. Despite the threatening name and the way everything looked as though it was being held together by duct tape and glue, there was a friendliness to it that came with the patrons glancing towards the door and the barkeep warmly greeting their group as they entered.

Cullen glanced down at Nevena at his side, worried she would be disappointed that whatever she imagined his ‘old stomping ground’ to be, this would not be it. He was surprised to see her grinning, and her eyes wide, taking in everything around her.

She was the same the whole time they walked around Kirkwall. Cullen forgot it was her first visit, so everything was new and fascinating for her. Although Kirkwall was just like any other city to him, Nevena found small nuances and intricacies that he either missed, overlooked in his time there, or had forgotten about.

Like how some of the paving stones were carved with sigils and symbols from ancient Tevinter, which made sense, when Cullen really thought about it. Kirkwall was built by the ancient Tevinter Imperium and had been abandoned when the original inhabitants retreated back to their homeland thousands of years ago. She paid attention to the bronze statues that lined some of the streets and reeled of interesting little facts about the number of stairs in each flight they came across as they walked from place to place – explaining how certain numbers had specific meanings for the ancient Tevinters.

The walk-through Kirkwall’s Hightown, where Varric lived took them through a collection of large houses that had been converted to flats to make room for the growing population. They cut through the old Grand Cathedral courtyard, wound down though the main thoroughfare of shops, where they paused to window shop and – much to Cullen’s chagrin – Varric guided them so they had to at least pass by The Blooming Rose.

It was open, two bouncers standing outside it with ear pieces and frisking anyone who wanted entry. Cullen was at least glad to see the place had upped its security since his last time in Kirkwall. As a TEMPLAR he was called out one too many times to deal with disturbances there. Several times he escorted rowdy clients or violent ones to spend the night in the Gallows. Though Varric teased about going inside to at least have a drink, Cassandra was the one to cut that idea down in its tracks and got them walking towards Lower Kirkwall, and their primary destination.

When they entered the Hanged Man, Varric was immediately recognised and greeted by a gristled older man behind the bar. He beckoned both Varric and Cassandra over, and Nevena went with them, guided by Varric to be introduced. Cullen found a table to sit at and glanced over the small bar food menu. There wasn’t a lot on offer, and Cullen didn’t think he would eat anything from the Hanged Man kitchens anyway, if the front of house was anything to go by. Still, he was pleased to see the place in business and, apparently, doing quite well.

There was music coming from over some old speakers, and Cullen found himself tapping his fingers along to the beat of the music while letting his mind and eyes wander over the interior of the building. Most patrons glanced his way, and then went back to their drinks or their conversation. One of the wait staff smiled at him when they made eye contact – he smiled back out of politeness. He examined some of the décor on the wall. Strange, obscure signs from a by-gone era. More macabre art, similar to the hanging man outside. Some black and white photographs of Kirkwall from years ago, blown up to be bigger. It was all very quaint and comfortable, enough to put him at ease.

The sense of someone watching him only dawned on him after he’d been sitting quietly for about five minutes. A gaze, not angry or threatening, watching him from across the room. He searched for the source, smiling to himself when he realised Nevena was watching him from the bar, where she was standing slightly off to one side while Cassandra and Varric continued their conversation with the bar tender.

Realising she’d been caught staring, she offered a small bashful smile and equally sheepish wave, before turning her attention back to the conversation… For about ten seconds. Then her eyes were on Cullen again, and this time neither of them looked away.

It was a strange sensation, as though the room and the world around them melted while their eyes were locked. Cullen could feel himself smiling and warmth on his cheeks, beginning to spill down his neck. Nevena quirked the corner of her mouth a little. Her gaze dropped as she fiddled with the cuff of her jumper, and then she lifted it again to meet Cullen’s eyes. This time, she bit the corner of her bottom lip in a way that was coy but also reminded Cullen of the night they spent together, and for the second time that day, his mind was flooded with memories of that time. The smell of her skin, the sound of her voice in his ears. Breathy moans, soft murmurs of his name spurring him on. The way she clung to him, as if trying to draw him deeper into her with every grind of his hips.

He shifted in his seat, his legs jiggling under the table while he tried to ignore the heaviness that settled in his stomach. There was heat in her gaze, the same kind of heat he’d seen in her the night before while they were in his room. The same heat he’d seen in her gaze when they were alone in Redcliffe, and during the crossing to Kirkwall.

Was she thinking the same things he was? Was her mind filled with sights and sounds like his? Did she hear his grunts in her ears? Could she feel his weight on top of her? The way his heart raced when he came? Nevena licked her bottom lip. She tilted her head back, lifting one hand to brush her fingers back through her hair, pushing it away from her neck and shoulder. Her throat was exposed, and Cullen remembered the sounds she made when he kissed her there. He remembered the giggles too, when his stubble tickled her.

His fingers twitched. It was as though every gesture reminded him of the night before. Of breaths and bodies intertwined and how easily and naturally they came together. Of course, it wasn’t perfect. Clothes remained, which he didn’t mind, and he would need to spend more time tending to Nevena’s needs in the future, rather than focus on himself… but there was time. There would be time. Plenty of it, once they were back in Denerim and they could really try this relationship out. And he wanted to spend time getting to know her body. Exploring every inch of her, covering her skin with kisses. He wanted to spend hours caressing her skin, memorizing every curve and dip. If she allowed him, he wanted to rest his head between her thighs. He wanted to feel soft flesh around his ears. Wanted the taste of her on his tongue, to hear the way her voice lifted as he brought her to the edge with his mouth and his fingers. He wanted to see her satisfied, satiated, loved and adored and--

Someone sitting down heavily opposite him broke Cullen’s train of thought, and The Hanged Man came back into view in a dramatic and jarring fashion – like glass breaking. Cullen’s face was hot, and his jeans were tighter around his erection mercifully hidden by the table. He could almost see the redness in his cheeks, so he swallowed hard and cleared his throat, breaking his gaze away from Nevena – who was now in conversation with Varric and the bartender.

Cassandra sat on the other side of the table, her drink and his on coasters between them. Cullen lifted his beer to drink. She levelled him with a long, judging look, before taking a sip from her glass. “Honestly, the way you two were looking at each other, I’m surprised you didn’t set the tables between you on fire.” Cullen sputtered on his mouthful, quickly thumping his chest to clear it as the beer went down the wrong way making his eyes water. Cassandra held no sympathy, and simply waited for him to settle before she spoke again. “I say this to you as a friend, and meaning no insult, but you need to slow down.”

“I… what?” Cullen asked, blinking hard. “I thought you liked Nevena.”

“I do.” Cassandra said. “I do like her. I think she’s very sweet. But I am concerned for you.”

“You needn’t be, I’m in total control of my faculties.”

“Cullen,” sighed Cassandra. The severity of her expression belied a genuine sincerity in her words. She was looking out for him, as she had become accustomed to doing. Cassandra only had his best interests at heart. He swallowed his pride to hear her out.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You’ve never moved this fast with anyone.” Cassandra explained, “I worry that you’re rushing into things. You’re adults. What you do is your business, but I hoped that the two of you coming here would allow you to put some space between you and examine your relationship. Instead, you’re practically joined at the hip.”

“And that’s… bad?”

“No,” she took a sip of her drink and quickly glanced back to where Nevena and Varric were still engrossed in conversation. The bartender was pointing to the various decorations and photographs on the wall, explaining what some of them were. “It seems… out of character, for you, to rush in like some foolhardy, lovesick school boy.”

“I’m not...” Cullen sighed and rubbed his hand over his chin. Leaning his elbow on the table, he took a breath and tried to contain the irritation building in side him. “We’re not rushing things.”

“You’ve known each other less than a month.” Cassandra argued, her voice waspish. “You’ve shared a bed the nights you’ve been here, despite both having your own rooms. You disappeared from the party last night to spend time with her. Cullen, I’m simply suggesting you put the brakes on, at least a little.”

“I know,” Cullen’s tone was still and hard. “But it’s hard to do when you just… know.”

“Know what?”

“That…” he tutted, the tips of his ears warming. “That the person in front of you is just the right one for you.” He saw a look of disbelief in Cassandra’s face. “You’re a romantic. You know that sometimes it just feels right.”

“In books.” Cassandra said. “In films. In television. It doesn’t work that way in real life, Cullen.”

“Maybe it does!” he tried to keep his voice low, but a few patrons glanced at the table when he spoke. He took a long inhale, trying to calm himself. “Maybe it never has for you, but… I don’t know. I can’t explain how I feel about her, but I know that it’s good. I know that I have never felt like this about anyone. Not even Solona.”

Cassandra touched his hand, “and I’m happy for you, I am.”

“But…?”

“But I would hate to see you go so fast into something, only to be hurt. Nevena seemed sincere when I spoke to her. She also seemed… hesitant.”

“Hesitant?” Cullen repeated. “Well,” he took a sip of his beer to give him a moment to think. “She probably didn’t like you interrogating her at six o’clock in the morning.” His words came out sharper than he anticipated, and Cassandra’s gaze grew stony. She removed her hand from his.

“I was not interrogating her, merely airing my concerns, as I am doing now. With you.” She stated with a steady, detached coolness. “You will do whatever you decide, as you always do. I have said what I meant to say, and I will continue to say that I believe you should slow down, before you say something or do something you cannot take back, but ultimately, you will do as you see fit.”

“Thank you for that, at least.” Cullen bit back, knowing how petulant he sounded.

Cassandra pursed her lips. She took a long drink from her glass and the two of them sat in silence, waiting for Varric and Nevena to come to the table and join them. Cullen fumed quietly. He thought Cassandra liked Nevena, but now he wondered if that was the case at all. Or if Cassandra was simply pretending for Nevena’s sake.

Why couldn’t his friend just be happy for him?

He found someone, quite unexpectedly, that he liked and cared about. Yes, maybe things were going too fast. Or faster than he or they anticipated – but they were acting as though he and Nevena were getting married after knowing each other a day when that wasn’t the case. He supposed it wasn’t easy for them to see the whole picture. After all, they hadn’t witnessed everything the two of them had experienced together, all the things they told each other, and the intimacies they shared. He supposed that from the outside and not knowing everything, maybe it did seem like he and Nevena were like a train careening off the rails with no end in sight.

Of course, there was the worry that Cassandra had a point.

What if Nevena wasn’t as invested as he was? And what if perhaps she was simply trying to meet him step-for-step? Maybe she would have preferred if things moved at a more sedate pace but was too afraid to say something. Given her past experiences when she gave her negative opinion, he wouldn’t have put it past her to stay silent to maintain avoid confrontation. And that… only further added to his worry.

What if he was forcing her into this relationship? What if everything he felt wasn’t entirely reciprocated? What if, despite everything, he was just like Rick?

That thought made Cullen’s stomach turn.

He didn’t want to be another Rick in Nevena’s life. He wanted her to be free to make her own choices. To be with him because she wanted to be, not because she felt obligated, or too afraid to say, “thank you, but no thank you”. He thought back to the ship and was horrified to remember that he was the one who prompted her to say what she said, about giving their relationship a chance. Had he put the words in her mouth? What if she’d been trying to say something else and he’d spoken over her?

Maker, had he really been so crass and thoughtless? What if everything from that point had been because she was afraid of angering him? What if she had never wanted things to get as far as they had? She never wanted him to get as attached as he was? What if everything they’d done was because she felt she had to, and not because she wanted to?

Sickening coldness slithered through Cullen’s body. It made his skin crawl and his whole being from the outside-in feel empty and numb. Was he just another Rick? He hoped not, but now the seed was planted and he couldn’t shake the feeling he was just as bad, if not worse.

His spiral into self-loathing ended briefly when Varric and Nevena joined them at the table. Varric sat beside Cassandra, and Nevena beside Cullen. Immediately she reached out and squeezed his hand, a sweet smile on her face. Cullen tried to return it, but it felt like his face was going to crack, so he distracted himself with a drink. He could feel the warmth of her skin trying to penetrate the coldness of his fingertips. He wanted to lace his fingers between hers, to brush his thumb over her knuckles as he had done over and over and over again… but now he wasn’t sure if he could.

If he even should.

Cullen fell silent while the others talked, the sense of dread and self-hatred threatening to swallow him whole.

They left The Hanged Man at around quarter to seven, as the exhibition Cassandra suggested they attend started at seven. While Cassandra and Varric led the way, Nevena followed with Cullen at her side, clasping his hand. They spent a good two hours at The Hanged Man, mostly Varric talking and regaling her with tales of his friends, and their exploits around the city. Cullen was worryingly quiet. At first, Nevena thought it was simply because he was letting Varric talk, but after a while she noticed he began to fidget with his hands, lacing and unlacing his fingers over and over again. She wondered if the tremors had returned and watched carefully when he had his hands on the table. She couldn’t see any shaking, but Cullen had years of practice when he wanted to hide it.

When they left the warmth of the pub, the biting cold forced the air from her lungs; stunning her for a moment until she sucked in an almost painfully frozen breath and pulled her coat tighter around her. They passed what remained of the Grand Cathedral on their way to the Hanged Man, and at the time Nevena had taken little notice. Now, as they approached, she could see the sheer mass of the building. Even though most of it was destroyed and a large amount had been rebuilt, what remained of the original foundation gave some small indication to its original enormity. She ventured a guess that before the structure was destroyed, it would have dwarfed the cathedral in Redcliffe.

“How was the original Grand Cathedral destroyed?” Nevena asked Varric as the four of them climbed the stairs up towards the main entrance. The steps themselves were lined with candles, all part of the exhibition it seemed. There were other people making their way too. Nevena saw security guards at the bottom of the stairs, and saw two more standing at the large open, double doors, checking people’s bags and directing them to walk through what appeared to be metal detectors.

“It was blown up.” Varric sighed. “Someone desperate to be heard and who was tired of being ignored… His, and the plight of other people going ignored.”

“Oh,” Nevena mumbled.

“Cullen was here when it happened, weren’t you?” Cassandra asked, glancing back over her shoulder at Cullen who seemed to start when he was addressed.

“Hm? What was that?”

“You were in Kirkwall when the Chantry was destroyed.”

“Oh,” Cullen swallowed visibly. “Y-yes, I was.” He offered Nevena a brief smile, his hand clenching for a moment around hers. She could recall him mentioning Kirkwall the first time he opened up to her, after his panic attack on the ski lift. How he said he had become trapped in the rubble of a destroyed house for days after trying to help someone else trapped inside.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up a sensitive topic,” Nevena murmured, reaching across to rub his arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner. Cullen gave a weak smile and continued after Varric and Cassandra when the security guards had checked them over for anything potentially dangerous.

Concern gnawed the back of Nevena’s mind. There was something off. In the time between arriving at The Hanged Man and she and Varric sitting down after the bartender talked to her at length about the history of the place, something had changed in Cullen’s demeanour. That morning he was warm and affectionate, and while he wasn’t being cold towards her per se, there was something… off. He held her hand but didn’t go to take her hand. She kept being the one to hold his. He hadn’t kissed her since before they arrived at The Hanged Man, and his smile seemed strained.

She put the change in him down to one of two things: a headache, which she could understand given the cold and the late night or, he and Cassandra spoke while they were alone, and there was a disagreement between them. Nevena didn’t want to pry. If it was a disagreement between Cullen and Cassandra, then it wasn’t her place to butt her nose in and ask questions, but she was worried. Given how much Cullen’s demeanour changed, it was clear that if it was a disagreement, it clearly weighed heavily on Cullen’s mind. And if it was a headache, then he was forcing himself to carry on with their outing, when he probably just wanted to go home and sleep.

Nevena caught up with him when they got inside the cathedral.

What was destroyed had mostly been rebuilt though in a more simplistic style. So much of the original Tevinter architecture had been lost, but there were certain aspects that remained intact. In some cases, parts that remained destroyed added a certain character to the place. A giant statue of Andraste covered in gold leaf now stood head-and-shoulderless, just two extended arms holding a bowl of eternal flame above the visitors. The aged wooden pews had been exchanged for chairs, and many of the tiles in the flooring had been left cracked and broken.

The vast inside of the cathedral was dimmed and lit with electric wall sconces all around the edge of the main chamber, and up the stairs to the galleries. There were already at least a hundred people who had come to visit the exhibition of local artists and their works. Strangely, there was a small choir of young men and women near the half-destroyed statue, singing softly giving the whole building an eerie ambience. Some benches had been provided for people to sit on while they took time to fully absorb the works of art available to them for viewing. The pieces themselves were eclectic to say the least. Paintings the size of windows, sculptures, glass hangings, some modern pieces displayed hanging from the rafters were drawing a lot of attention. Nevena realised, rather sheepishly, she had never really been in an art gallery, except when she was on school trips.

“There’s no set place to start,” Cassandra informed her and Cullen, quickly skimming a free leaflet that contained blurbs about the pieces on display and the artists. “But there is going to be a talk in about fifteen minutes from the curator. While there’s no starting point, all the pieces chosen have a secret theme in common which she’s going to talk about!” There was little hiding Cassandra’s excitement, and she hurried to one side of the main thoroughfare with Varric.

Nevena walked to the opposite side of the cathedral where Cullen was already staring at a large landscape picture. At least, it looked like a single image from afar, on closer inspection Nevena realised it was hundreds upon thousands of pictures all carefully put together to create one massive image of what she could only assume was Kirkwall from a great elevated distance.

“It’s what Kirkwall looked like before…” Cullen said, “the photos used are all from when...” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “From the attack, and the aftermath.”

“Is it hard for you to be here?” Nevena asked, shifting closer as a plump woman jostled forward to get a better look. Nevena bumped into Cullen’s side. He appeared to move an arm to wrap around her, but stopped mid-gesture, and instead lifted his hand to rub the scar on his lip. Nevena’s concern grew.

“Funnily enough, no.” Cullen smiled grimly. “Despite what happened here, being trapped, Kirkwall… I have no issue being here, walking around. Not like when we were in Kinloch.”

“Hm,” Nevena rocked back and forth on her heels. “Feels like it was weeks ago we were there.”

“This whole experience feels like it’s been going on for months.” Sighed Cullen. A moment later, it was like his brain caught up with the words and he stumbled, “I-I mean—that is, I don’t mean it’s felt like months because it’s been a bad experience. It’s just that—"

“Cullen,” Nevena gently squeezed his arm, “it’s okay. I know what you mean.” She smiled up at him, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he smiled back and the lines of worry that creased his brow all afternoon lifted.

“Sorry, I’ve not been very good company today, have I?”

“Do you have a headache?”

“No,” Cullen pushed a hand back through his hair and breathed out in a rush. “Over-thinking.”

“Isn’t that my job?” teased Nevena.

“I have my moments of it, too.” The plump woman next to Nevena pushed in front of her and Cullen to get a better look at the smaller photographs. Cullen took Nevena’s hand – a sensation of relief washed over her when he did – and he led her a small distance down the cathedral to a tall sculpture of a couple embracing that was tucked away in what must have been a vestibule once. The sculpture itself was carved from some kind of white stone, and illuminated by the flame sconces on the wall, causing intricate shadows to appear on the faces of the figures, giving them expressions that seemed to move with the light.

“May I ask you a question?”

“So formal.” Nevena tried to keep the atmosphere light, but Cullen was clearly agitated, shifting his weight from side-to-side. She sobered, led him to a small two-seater bench, and sat. He joined her, keeping a small distance between them. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you think we’re moving too fast?” Nevena was starting to notice that Cullen had a habit of simply blurting out questions that were causing him anxiety. It was sort of sweet, in an awkward kind of way. His question did take her by surprise, and it took a moment for Nevena to gather her wits.

“Do you?”

“I…” Cullen huffed, “actually, maybe… yes?” He scrunched his eyes closed. “I just, I want to make sure we’re both on the same page. I don’t… I don’t normally go this fast, with anyone. Ever. I’m… in the past, it’s been weeks of texts and phone calls, and coffee before I’ve even gone on an actual date with someone, let alone kissed them or done half the stuff we have.”

Nevena tried to keep the smile on her lips, but felt it falter as he spoke. A sickening feeling settled in her stomach that he was going to change his mind from everything he said in Redcliffe, and on the boat, he was going to change his mind from everything he said in Kinloch.

“Okay,” Nevena managed to say after finding her voice. “Well, we might be going a bit faster than is… traditional, but as long as we’re both happy with where we are, then that’s okay, right?”

“Well, that leads me to my next question.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Are you?”

“Am I… what?”

“Happy? W-with where we are, I mean? Are we on the same page?”

“I was given to understand we were,” Nevena squinted at him, “unless something has changed in the last couple of hours.”

“No. No.” Cullen closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “At least, I don’t think so?”

Nevena shifted closer to him. “Darling, talk to me.” She took his hands in hers. “Come on, we can’t figure this out unless we talk. And I’m meant to be the one with the communication issues, here.” Another attempt to make light and Cullen did manage to chuckle.

“Forgive me if this…” He stopped and sighed. “I have this horrible feeling that I… perhaps put words in your mouth. On the boat from Gwaren to Kirkwall.”

Nevena quirked a brow. “In what way?”

“When… after dinner, when we were talking, and you were trying to tell me something, I… I think I said what I thought you were trying to say, without really letting you say what you were trying to say— uh, does that make sense? Perhaps I was over-eager, or… or something, but it occurred to me that what I thought you were trying to say and what you were actually trying to say might have been two completely different things.” He spoke quickly, words tumbling out like a faucet on full blast. “And then I started thinking that everything we’d done since then had been because you felt you had to, and not because you wanted to, because you were worried I’d be angry, because I had presumed, rather than listened. So, I—"

“Hold on, hold on.” Nevena lifted a hand and gently placed her hand over Cullen’s mouth. “Are you worried that since the boat, everything we’ve done has been because I felt trapped into a corner?” She removed her hand.

“Yes,” Cullen said, after a moment. Then he added, hurriedly, “I don’t want to be another Rick in your life. Making you do things you don’t want to because you’re afraid of the consequences of saying no to me. I want you to be comfortable with me, enough that you can say no if something we’re doing, or something I’m doing isn’t…”

Nevena barely kept her laughter contained as she leaned forward and kissed him, cupping his face in her hands. Cullen stayed still apparently shocked by her act of affection until he returned the kiss, smiling against her lips.

“You could not be more different from Rick even if you tried.” Nevena assured him as she pulled away and brushed her nose against his. “Cullen, darling, you’re the utter antithesis to him. Everything we’ve done has been because I’ve wanted to. Because we’ve wanted to. From Redcliffe, to last night, we were both willing participants.” Nevena kissed him again before pulling away completely so they could look at each other better. “You didn’t put words in my mouth on the boat, you helped me say what I wanted to say. Even before that, you have respected my boundaries and stopped doing anything the moment I’ve said something, so…” Nevena cradled Cullen’s face in one hand and ran her thumb beneath his eye, “don’t worry, okay?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Okay.”

“And, if we are going fast, then we can always put on the brakes if you want to. You keep talking about how you want me to be comfortable, well – this has to go both ways. I want you to be happy and comfortable, too.”

“I am.” Cullen said quickly, grabbing the attention of a passer-by who happened to glance into the alcove. “I mean, I am – happy, that is – with where we are.”

“Me too.” Nevena leaned in. Cullen met her half way pressing his forehead to hers. “I think I’ll be happier in Denerim though. Kirkwall is great, but there’s a part of me really hankering for home.”

“Same.” Cullen chuckled. He kissed her forehead and then exhaled deeply. “I’m sorry if this came out of nowhere. I suppose I need to work on my communication skills, too.”

Nevena shrugged, “we’ll get there when we get there. At least we’re talking about things.”

“True.”

“Do you mind if I ask what set this off?”

“Cassandra.” Cullen groaned, “she wasn’t being malicious. Just concerned. I can understand that. To an outside perspective I suppose it does seem like we’re going a million miles an hour.”

“Mhmm…” Nevena mumbled. She sat back a little. “Do you think if we slept in our own rooms it might give her peace of mind? I don’t want to cause friction between you and her. Or you and anyone.”

Cullen sighed again. “Maybe? I don’t know… We’ll see how we feel tonight.”

“Okay.”

There was a clapping sound from inside the main foyer of the chantry and a voice that Nevena could vaguely make out was informing the visitors that the curator was running late and would be giving her talk in ten minutes. A sound of excited murmuring arose after the announcement, and feet hurrying to find seats.

Cullen stretched and reached into his back pocket. Nevena saw the screen on his phone was alight with notifications and he frowned at the screen. “Six missed calls…”

“Important?”

“Potentially.” He pursed his lips, “I’ll go and call back outside so I don’t disturb anyone in here.” He got to his feet and kissed the top of Nevena’s head. “Back in a minute. We’ll go and find Varric and Cassandra once I clear this.”

He left with a quick stride, heading towards the entrance and weaving his way through people. Nevena sat quietly on the bench, her back facing the other visitors to the exhibition. A weight lifted off her shoulders and she breathed a little easier now she and Cullen had talked and she knew what was bothering him. She supposed it was normal. After all, she questioned their relationship too, and this was definitely new and, in some cases, utterly uncharted territory for them. She never expected to find someone like Cullen through a suggestion from a friend. Didn’t expect a ploy to pull the wool over her family’s eyes would result in finding someone so life changing – but she had.

Fate, sometimes, had a strange way of working.

Nevena looked up at the faces of the statues in front of her. The flames from the wall sconces created delicate expressions and images in the facets of the sculpture. As though each divot in the stonework was created with exact purpose and reason. As she watched the flames on the stone, she saw the expressions turn from happy and joyful, to laughing, sadness, anger, confusion. A whole plethora of expressions passing every second. Almost a true reflection of reality.

Two hands landed on Nevena’s shoulders and she barely concealed a surprised yelp. “That was fast,” Nevena said, smiling as she reached up to brush her fingers over the back of Cullen’s hand. “Ready to go listen to this talk?” She went to get up, but the hands on her shoulders pushed down keeping her in place. Cullen’s hands slid forward, fingers gently circling around her throat. Nevena swallowed hard, her heart beginning to race. Just Cullen playing a joke. “Cullen, I don’t want to miss the talk.”

“It’s been a while, Nene.”

Nevena froze.

She recognised the voice behind her and it didn’t belong to Cullen.

I hate cliff-hangers, don't you?

Who could the mysterious voice be? FIND OUT NEXT TIME. Sorry, I'm in a weird mood. So, how did you find this chapter? Do you think Cassandra is right to be worried and to question whether Cullen and Nevena's relationship is going too fast? Was it nice to see a bit of role reversal? To see Nevena offering comfort and reassurance to Cullen? To know that he sometimes has these worries and concerns that things aren't quite right? How about that bit of insight into Cullen and how little he really thinks of himself? Comparing himself to Rick... That's pretty damn terribad, right?

Anyway, I'll leave you guys stewing in the cliffhanger. Hopefully there won't be a delay in the next chapter upload! Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think/thought/your theories and opinions in the comments/tag flails/reblogs! And I'll talk to y'all in the next chapter. <3

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aubretia23 · 6 years

Text

Heartbeat chapter 1 part 3

Rating T

Disclaimer : I don't own anything belonging to Naruto or Boruto.

....

Hiashi, to no one's surprise, agreed on the idea immediately. Minato and his own son-in-law Naruto, in his opinion, were good people but took sentiments to an extreme. Passionate love was really a matter of luck. They both had been lucky. Boruto is luckier. Neji agreed. Boruto needed an anchor and a guide at this point in his life. And Sarada had unconsciously always played the role in his life very effectively. Perhaps they should not delay this.

The two of them broached the subject in an urgently invited family get together two days later after Boruto and Hima had gone to take a bath. The entire family planned to stay the night at the Hyuga estate. Naruto and Minato looked perplexed. Konohamaru fared little better. Hinata furrowed her eyebrows together thoughtfully. Hanabi and Kushina squealed in excitement. Hizashi rolled his eyes and smiled softly. Fifteen minutes of deliberation later, not a single one of them could find a single reason to oppose the match between Boruto and Sarada, especially when it already had Fugaku's own stamp of approval. The last hurdle now remained was to broach the subject to Boruto and to make him agree.

A family chat while sipping a mug of hot milk sweetened with honey had always been a bedtime ritual at the Uzumaki residence. This used to be the only few periods of time everyday when a young Naruto would have both of his parents to just himself and he had insisted on passing this down to his own children as well. Boruto took a sip of his honey milk and raised an eyebrow. The rest of the family, bar Hima and Grandpa Hizashi who were seated at a distance and way too focused on their chat, were looking at him with varied degrees of wariness. Like he was going to swallow rainbows or something.

“Is something the matter?”

“Um...yes.” Naruto answered nervously. Boruto raised a brow critically. “You see, you are going to be sixteen soon. You are a young man at the peak of his youth-” “What your father means to say,” Hinata cut off her husband before he made things more awkward, “is that we would like to know whether you are romantically interested in anyone or not.”

Dark eyes and a silky sheet of midnight coloured hair flashed through his mind. He would rather not talk about his rather frequent and not so innocent fantasies involving their owner.

“Uh…..”

His family waited for his response as he kicked himself back into recovery. “No. There's no one.” Boruto informed them firmly. “Not even Sarada?” Kushina teased. “Sheisjustafriend!” Boruto wanted this conversation to end as soon as possible. He really didn't want to devolve into an uncontrollable fit of blushing. “I see. Then I suppose you would be overjoyed to hear that Fugaku Uchiha has already found a match for his granddaughter.” Hanabi informed in an awfully gleeful tone.

"WHAT?!” Boruto’s brains froze in its tracks, unable to think any further. “And Sarada has agreed to the match already. Fugaku-sama informed me just this noon.” Neji joined in. Amusement at his nephew's expense was delicious.

Boruto felt bile rise up his throat and his chest burn.

Not only did he have no inkling of Fugaku’s plans despite being in the Uchiha head office till only a few hours ago, Sarada had already agreed to a match?! And she didn't even bother to inform him.

The image of a faceless man standing next to Sarada, holding her intimately and her looking at him as though he was the center of her universe scalded him on the inside. Anger rose within him and he didn't know where to direct it. But the moment he tried to imagine hurting Sarada, he couldn't. It was like trying to burn down your own home.

“Would you like to know who this person is? The one Fugaku considers his preferred suitor for his granddaughter?” Hiashi smiled. His grandson was still too inexperienced regarding controlling the expressions from becoming too apparent on his face. “Yes.” Boruto gritted through his teeth. He really wanted to sneak out of the estate after his family falls asleep, and hunt down and punch this person’s face in his sleep.

“You.”

Boruto felt his brain screech to a halt even through a fog of anger. He blinked.

“WHAT!!!!?”

He looked around flabbergasted, his head reeling from shock.

Sarada has agreed to marry him?!?!?!?!

The scalding feeling vanished completely, replaced by a bubble of warm joy blooming inside him. He knew that his face was burning up. He looked up from his thoughts to find his family was now looking at him as though he will now puke out rainbows or something.

"So?” A calm Hiashi asked, barely holding in a grin. “So what?” Boruto asked, confused. “What do you think of this? Do you accept Sarada as yours?” Hiashi prompted. Boruto looked on, jaw slacked, gurgling out something which incoherently sounded like “yeah” before adding “Ineedtotalktoher” and scrambling off towards his bedroom.

Boruto could still hear his family's peels of laughter at his expense as he ran through the corridors and locked himself up in his bedroom. Hot blood pumped through his brain and his heart thumped hard against his chest. He took a few moments to catch his breath before turning around and shrugging off his haori and throwing himself down on his futon. Grabbing his rose gold coloured iPhone hastily, he typed out “Can we talk?” Right now?” in the messenger. His thumb trembled a bit before pressing onto the sent thumbnail.

Sarada should be awake right now. And they really needed to talk about this.

He sighed, throwing his hands to the side, still holding his phone, the tension in his body melting a bit. He practically jumped up when the phone rang audibly within less than a minute, announcing a call. He brought the phone up back to his level of his eyes. Sarada smiled from below her name. It was a picture he had clicked very recently, on a rather terrific party that he had thrown right after the entrance exams ended, to make up for all the events he had missed out over the past two and a half years. She had been wearing Gucci that night. The red dress had been elegant but also a bit risque, the neckline dipping further into her cleavage than he had ever seen. He sighed. He slid his finger across to accept the call.

“Hello?” He heard her say, a little unsure.

Good. Finally.

Pettiness wasn't his style but the fact remained that despite his efforts, she had become distant after the warm welcome he had received at the airport. Initially he thought it was due to the entrance exams but soon, he noticed a pattern over the last one month. Sarada would deliberately avoid him especially at social events. Beyond saying “hi” and “bye”, she avoided any kind of contact with him, religiously tagging along with Chocho, diverting conversation between them to him and Chocho almost as immediately as they began. The fact that he had more conversation with the latter was enough to trigger his alarm bells. It was almost as though Sarada seemed to be determined not to have him in her life. Despite this, he thought of giving her space. A really really wide one. Whatever was going through her head, she won't be able to avoid him forever. They are going to enter the same high school after all.

However, the moment he heard what she was going through in regards to her summer program at Harvard, he immediately and instinctively jumped in. That had to be the reason why she had avoided him. Because she probably thought that he would perhaps side with her family. Boruto didn't even realise that his protectiveness had landed him up with an internship at the Uchiha's before the deed was done. He thought that at least his internship under her father might pique her inquisitiveness but no. He knew that she knew that he was interning with her grandfather even though she didn’t know the reason why he was doing so. He had hoped that she would at least call him up out of curiosity but no.

Dropping bombs like agreeing to marry him out of nowhere…..Miss Stuck Up really needs to explain herself.

“Hey, Sarada.” He said firmly. “Let me get straight to the point since that's how you like it. My maternal grandfather just told me that Fugaku-sama found a match for you. Are you aware of this?”

Sarada felt her body tense up. She shifted a bit in her bed and grabbed the edge of a red silk curtain hanging from her bedpost. The familiar texture which she often grabbed onto during the nights she desperately wished for his touch calmed her a bit.

“Yes.”

“And you agreed to that?”

“Yes.”

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kirachama · 7 years

Text

sobero (slight saeran x reader)

summary: of course saeran would get stuck baby sitting a drunk at his dumb brother’s new year’s party.

rating: 13+ (alcohol consumption)

notes: so last year (as in 2016) i was supposed to do a fic trade with @cannibalisticskittles and @zentherainbowunicorn and uh, so it’s a year late, but still in season. Ehehe. There were prompts involved but I don’t even remember what they were. ANYWAY, probably one of the most ridiculous things I’ve written since I graduated high school. i hope you guys enjoy and have a happy new year!

It’s an hour until midnight when Saeran finally gives into his brother’s incessant nagging to come out of his room and celebrate New Years with everyone else. There’s no doubt that in his mind that his brother’s friends are buzzed, if not outright drunk, since they’ve been getting increasingly louder as the night’s gone on. Saeran doesn’t mind the drinking, but he could do without the excess ruckus.

It doesn’t take long for Saeran to grow bored of the festivities though and he almost tries to sneak back to his room. However, one threatening smile from his brother is enough to keep Saeran from leaving the party. Saeran contemplates just ignoring him and leaving anyway, but is stopped when someone grabs him by the wrist.

“Heeeey~ where’re ya goin’?”

Saeran turns to look at his captor. Despite not being a member of the RFA, Saeyoung had let his fiancee invite her friend for some reason or another. You stare at him, eyes wide and somewhat glazed over and there’s no doubt in Saeran’s mind that you’re already plastered. When he doesn’t answer you tug at his arm, repeating your question.

“Back to my room,” he answers shortly. He’s hoping that his curt tone will dissuade you from keeping him any longer, but it turns out to not work.

“But whyyyyy~?” you cry, tugging on his arm more. “The party’s here! Not in your room!”

Saeran grimaces, trying to think of an appropriate excuse, but before he can, you start to pull him further from the sanctity of his room and closer to the rest of the party. He tries to struggle a bit, but each time he does, you yank him that much harder. But instead of pulling him into the thick of things like he expects, you usher him to sit down on the living room couch before plopping down next to him.

“Let’s sit here, ‘kaaaaay?”

Saeran nods hesitantly. Of course, he’d rather be in his room, but when given the choice he’d rather be here sitting down than joining in on whatever the others seem to be doing. You flash him a goofy grin before leaning your head down on his shoulder.

The sudden contact causes Saeran to jump, but you seem to either not notice or think nothing of it. He looks around helplessly, unsure if he should push you off or let you be. From across the room, he manages to catch his brother’s eyes. Saeyoung stares for a moment before slowly putting a thumbs up as he grins encouragingly. Saeran’s automatic response is a disgusted look. No doubt that that stupid brother of his has the whole situation misconstrued. He probably thinks that this is the start of some kind of half baked romance, when it’s really a tale of babysitting.

Saeyoung, of course, totally and utterly ignores the look on Saeran’s face and just mouths, ‘Good job!’

Saeran’s response is a pointed glare at his brother. Can’t that idiot tell that he’s chaperoning, not seducing you? Guess he’ll have to explain before his dumb ideas get any worse than they already are. Saeran whips out his phone to send him a quick text, ‘they’re drunk, dumbass.’

He continues to glare at Saeyoung until he checks his phone. His mouth forms an o before he types out a response, ‘ohhhh. take cake care of them, okay?’

Saeran groans. He did not sign up for this.

But then again, dealing with one drunkard is better than dealing with six.

At least that’s what he thinks until you wrap your arms around his body, snuggling closer to him. He jolts a bit, but manages to maintain his composure. You nuzzle your face into his arm, “You… smell really really nice…”

As soon as your words pass through his ears, Saeran feels his heart stop for just a moment before it starts thumping wildly in his chest for some unknown reason. He’s not really used to compliments, especially from anyone who isn’t Saeyoung. That’s got to be the reason, right? What does ‘nice’ smell like anyway? As far as he knows, there’s nothing really special about the body wash he uses.

You continue to mumble, albeit incoherently. Did you maybe fall asleep? He’s heard that some people get sleepy after they drink so maybe that’s what’s going on? If he had to choose between a loud drunk and a quiet one Saeran would definitely choose the latter. Unfortunately, since you’re using him as a pillow, he can’t leave. But it also means that he can’t be dragged away by the rest of the group.

After a couple minutes, you begin to stir. However, instead of letting go of Saeran you push against him more.

“H-hey, what are you-”

“ ‘m thirsty…” you say slowly, reaching over Saeran to grab at one of the cups on the coffee room table. Somehow, Saeran isn’t sure that the drink you’re trying to reach for is even yours. Hell, you might not even care in your drunken state. Instead of gripping the side of the cup like most people would, your fingers graze the rim before they hook around it. You pull, tilting the cup over slightly. Saeran moves to grab it, before you tilt it over, but you seem to realize your mistake and grab it correctly. You lean in closer to Saeran as you try to bring it closer to take a sip. The keyword here is try. You miss and whatever mystery liquid is in the cup spills onto Saeran.

“Hey!” he protests loudly, hoping you’ll realize and get off of him.

However, it doesn’t work.

His sudden outburst seems to have surprised you, causing you to drop the cup and it’s remaining contents onto his lap. Saeran curses loudly, and turns to glare at you, ready to give you an earful. However, his words get caught in his throat as you stare at him with teary eyes.

“I...I’m sorry….” you cry, bowing your head.

“Urgh… ah…” Saeran’s jaw tightens as he struggles to keep himself from chewing you out. Luckily, the sad puppy dog eye look you’re giving him helps mollify him a tiny bit. “Just… just be more careful next time!”

You nod. Then, after a moment, you stand up suddenly, teetering a little bit as you go. Saeran looks up at you, confused at whatever you’re about to do. Then you grab him by the hand and yank him toward the hallway.

“We gotta get you outta those clothes,” you tell him in a very serious voice.

“Uh…” While it’s true his clothes are wet from whatever was in that cup it’s not so bad that he needs to change. “It’s… fine…”

“No!” you exclaim loudly. “Ish not fine!”

Saeran sighs, unsure of what to do next. Should he bring you back to the others and let them handle you? But part of him isn’t even sure that you’ll cooperate- you seem to be pretty stubborn.

Your head swings back and forth as you look around the hallway, “Where’s yer room?”

Saeran hesitates to answer. He really doesn’t think he needs to get changed, but maybe if he does you’ll behave. Unfortunately, you’re not patient enough for him to point it out and start trying each door you come to. Saeyoung keeps a lot of the doors (even some to the closets) locked so none of them open. Saeran’s fairly sure that the first door that opens will be dubbed his room.

“It’s over here,” he finally says quietly, maneuvering around your body to guide you to the room.

“Ah! Tanks!” you say as he opens the door so you can enter. You look around the room for a second before turning back to Saeran. “Okay, now you gotta change.”

Saeran takes a step back when you move toward him, “I-I don’t need your help changing my clothes.”

You squint at him, “But I got you wet.”

“I can change myself,” Saeran asserts. You frown and he realizes that it’s probably useless trying to reason with a drunk person. He circles around you making sure to keep his distance as he moves toward the dresser on the other end of the room.

Then you leap toward him, much faster than any drunken person should ever be. Saeran realizes that you’re much stronger than you look, as you manage to pin him to the wall and wrestle his sweater off of him. You start to go for the shirt he had on underneath, but Saeran manages to stop you, grabbing you by the wrists.

“It’s not wet,” he says in a firm tone, as if he’s reprimanding a child.

You blink and stare down at him silently. Saeran starts to squirm, feeling a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Finally, you say, as if you’re making some kind of revelation, “It’s… not.”

Saeran sighs with relief, glad that something made it through that thick, intoxicated brain of yours. Slowly, he loosens his grip on your wrists. When you don’t reach out to resume your attempts at stripping him, he releases you entirely.

Once you’re free, he expects you to maybe back away or something. But you don’t.

You reach down and start tugging the hem of your own shirt upwards.

Saeran sputters a bit, his face reddening at the sight of your exposed skin. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Gotta git rid of da wet clothes!” you respond a little too cheerily. Did you forget who actually got their clothes wet? Did you already forget that you had taken that person’s wet clothes off?

Saeran rushes over to stop you from stripping completely, but isn’t in time to stop you from pulling off your shirt. You start to tug at the button of your pants, but he grabs your hands once more, effectively stopping you, “Stop.”

You freeze, and slowly look up at him.

“...they aren’t wet,” Saeran repeats. He’s not sure if it’ll work again, but it’s worth a shot.

“They’re… not?”

“No.”

You look back down at yourself and squeak, “Oh…”

Saeran, once again, slowly lets go of your hands, and backs away from you. He notices your discarded shirt at his feet and reaches down to grab it. Making sure to see as little of your half naked form as possible, he looks away as he thrusts the shirt in your general direction. A second later, he feels the shirt being pulled from his grasp. He gives you a little bit of time so you can put it on. You may be drunk, but the rustling of clothes he hears must be a good sign that you’re coherent enough to dress yourself.

When he finally turns to face you he expects to see you dressed in some form.

But Saeran’s not surprised when to find the shirt bunched up around your neck like some kind of scarf. He keeps his eyes trained to the areas above your shoulders, but the knowledge that you’re still pretty exposed beneath them keeps his face nice and warm.

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then, you ask, in a cute sounding voice, “H-help…”

Saeran stares at you and sighs. As much as this situation annoys him he can’t bring himself to tell you no. So, he slowly reaches over and carefully realigns your shirt so that it’s facing the right way. Then he gingerly reaches over to find the sleeves so that you can slip your arms through them one at a time. At that point he pulls away, figuring that you can take it from there.

You pull down the hem and give him a child like smile, “Thank you!”

Saeran’s face which had finally cooled down, flushes pink again. He turns away from you and covers his face, mumbling a ‘no problem’ between his fingers. The two of you stand there for a moment, neither sure what to do next when you both hear a loud hollering coming from the direction of the living room. Saeran looks toward the digital clock on his bedside table to find that it reads that it is exactly twelve am.

“It’s… midnight,” you say, unknowingly echoing Saeran’s thoughts. Then, after a beat you begin to tug on his shirt. “Hey!”

He ignores you at first then you start tugging harder. Finally he turns his head back to you and asks, in an annoyed tone, “What?”

You stand on your tippy toes and plop a kiss right on his lips. It’s so soft that Saeran can barely feel it, but he feels his heart stop in his chest all the same. You pull away and shoot him an innocent smile, as if you don’t realize what you just did, “Happy new year!”

Saeran merely gapes at you, face as red as can be as he tries to figure out what would make you kiss him. He opens his mouth to ask when you start to tilt forward, falling onto his chest. Saeran jolts a bit at the unexpected contact. What in the world are you doing now?

He reaches to grab you by the shoulders, ready to demand answers only to find that you’ve passed out. He tries to shake you a little bit to see if you’ll wake up but no dice.

He’ll just have to wait and ask when you wake up.

If you even remember, that is.

#mystic messenger fanfiction #saeran x reader #mystic messenger fanfic #saeran choi #saeran choi x reader #so a sobero is apparently a bro who takes care of his drunk bros #according to urban dictionary #idk if anyone actually uses that word #but i couldn't find a comparable one #oo #happy new year guys

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agentkatie · 7 years

Text

Hesitation

My contribution to @cullenappreciationweek day 6! This is set in my Dragon Age/Mass Effect crossover The Two Commanders a.k.a. Shepard winds up in Thedas and spends 80% of her time trying to make Cullen blush.

Cullen receives a troubling letter in the middle of the night, and there’s only one person who can possibly help him.

2007 words, Cullen x f!Shepard, rated M for Shep’s inability to go a single scene without making a sex joke.

Skyhold was dark, save for the candlelight which danced in its Commander’s tower, and Cullen had lost track of the time at some point after midnight; it was now either very early or very late, the grounds eerily quiet, the merriment from the Herald’s Rest having long since subsided and his troops tucked up in their beds. The witching hour, he might have called it, if such phrases weren’t so frowned upon by the Chantry. Shepard had left him alone a while before, under the illusion that they’d waded through all his evening reports; in truth, he’d kept a pile of work to one side, to complete on his own once she’d gone. There was no reason for her to waste the entire evening with him; he could manage on his own, had always managed on his own, and would prefer not to burden her more than he already had.

Still, his heart had ached a little when she’d smiled her goodnight at him, and he’d wished she would stay just a moment longer.

And so he’d continued working, poring over reports even as the candles on his desk flickered their last, until he came across a letter which made his stomach twist. It was no more than a folded scrap of paper, addressed simply to the Inquisition in a shaky hand, wedged between weapon inventories and so inconsequential in appearance that he almost overlooked it; as it was, the desperate plea from the trapped Chantry sister and injured soldiers - his soldiers - was perhaps the most urgent document he’d received that day. He scowled at the note, mind whirring through possible plans, frustration flaring at the fact that, had he read it an hour or so earlier, there might have been another way to handle it. But now, late at night, the letter already unanswered for far too long, there was only one option he could possibly see - and it wasn’t an option, not really, because diverting his troops from their pursuit of Red Templars would risk more lives than it would save.

He pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood on stone far too loud for the hour, his footsteps echoing across the battlements as he trod the path to the Inquisitor’s quarters; even at such an unsocial hour it was for Trevelyan to decide who would be saved, and who would be left to die. But as he reached the Throne Room he found his feet, quite of their own volition, walking the lesser-trod path to Shepard’s room, barely even realising what he was doing until a distinct groan answered his knock on her door.

“Who’sit?” Shepard called out, voice muffled and thick with sleep.

“Cullen.”

There was another groan, and some incoherent grumbling as she shuffled about her room, and then a thud of her tripping followed by a very clear and colourful curse. He was just contemplating what revenge she might take for waking her up when she finally opened the door, and all memory of why he was there in the first place completely vanished from his mind.

Until that moment, Cullen had thought there was nothing left in Shepard’s appearance that could surprise him; she was such a relentless presence in his life that everything about her just felt so familiar. He’d seen her furious, invincible, with blood-spattered cheeks and impossible armour; he’d seen her scarred, yet defiant, in a gown that had taken his breath away. He’d seen her laugh more times than he could count, and cry just the once, and - to his great shame - he’d even seen her in his mind’s eye one lonely night, bare and brazen and his in ways she could never be in reality. But as she stood in front of him now - her ever-braided hair for once loose, cascading over her shoulders in messy crimson waves, an oversized shirt all that stood between her and immodesty - she looked strangely small, and vulnerable, and… human.

She also looked beautiful, of course. But it wouldn’t do to dwell on that.

Mercifully, she was still too disorientated from her slumber to notice his gawking; she merely rubbed her bleary eyes, looking up at him with confusion. “What’s the matter?”

He cleared his throat, trying his best to focus on her face rather than on the way her hair shimmered in the moonlight. “I - ah - I need your help.”

“Is there an attack?” she asked, foggy eyes sharpening as she cast around for her daggers, but he quickly shook his head.

“There’s no danger, but— I received a letter from some of our men. I need your advice.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, perceptive as ever despite still being half-asleep. “Rutherford, you told me you were finished for the evening.”

“This only just arrived.”

“No it didn’t.”

He considered arguing with her, but it was pointless; she’d already seen straight through him, and their ritualistic squabbling would just waste valuable time. “No, it didn’t,” he admitted, and she sighed but extended her hand nonetheless; he gave her the letter, and she quickly scanned its contents, looking up at him with a frown once she was done.

“What’s the problem? Just send out some of your troops to help.”

“They will not arrive in time,” he told her. “I have a group of men in the Frostbacks already. I can divert them, but…”

“But?”

“They’re on the trail of several Red Templars who have been trafficking civilians.”

“Ah.” She closed her eyes, leaning on the doorframe with her temple resting against the wood, and she was quiet for such a long moment that he was half-convinced she’d fallen asleep on her feet. “More people will die if you redirect them,” she murmured eventually.

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked, cracking one eye open to peer up at him, and in truth he wasn’t entirely sure. There was no hidden answer here, he knew that, no subtle plan or masterstroke of ingenuity he was missing. Perhaps he just needed her reassurance, to hear from her lips that she’d do the same; to know that the faith she placed in him - had always placed in him, almost since the start - would not be diminished in the face of his cruel pragmatism. Or perhaps he just wanted to see her, in the middle of the night, because there was no-one else he could - or wanted to - turn to about this.

“You always seem to think of something I don’t,” he told her, instead of all of that.

“Flatterer,” she replied with a teasing smile, straightening once more and absentmindedly ruffling her hair as she reread the letter, and he fought a ridiculous urge to brush his fingers through the knots she’d created. “Any of Leliana’s scouts in the region?”

“No.”

“What about the dwarves? Isn’t the entrance to Orzammar near there? Or, wait - didn’t we just send the Chargers out on a mission?”

“Orzammar is much farther north, and the Chargers are already halfway back to Adamant.”

“I guess there’s no chance of the Avvar listening to a cease and desist letter,” she muttered, scowling at the missive for a moment longer before groaning in frustration and handing it back to him. “I’m sorry, Cullen,” she said, her voice so much softer on his given name than when she ribbed him and called him Rutherford. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it? The ruthless calculus of war.”

He’d never heard the phrase before, but she said it as though she was quoting someone, albeit with a hint of scorn in her voice. “Is that from a book?”

She shook her head. “Just something a friend used to say,” she replied, a hint of sadness crossing her features for only a second before her face turned hard once more. “Don’t bring it to Trevelyan,” she told him, quiet but firm, and it took a moment for him to register what she’d said.

“Shepard,” he scolded. “I know how much you enjoy undermining authority, but—”

“I’m not trying to undermine him,” she bristled, louder now, irritation shaking away the remainder of her sleepiness. “I’m trying to help him; you saw him at Adamant after he left Stroud behind. And now you’re asking him to choose again, even though we both know there’s no real choice here. Just pretend you never got this.”

“He isn’t a child; he can handle it.”

“I know he can, but that doesn’t mean he has to.”

He considered her suggestion for a moment longer than he should have, her compassion for their leader further softening his heart to her. But the Inquisitor was stronger than she realised, and would not thank them for coddling him; besides, the thought of hiding away his soldiers’ final plea made him feel like he was conspiring against them, abandoning them, and they deserved one final chance from a man far better than him.

“No,” he murmured. “If nothing else, people should know of the sacrifice our men will have made.”

“Then don’t let him see your hesitation,” was her final advice, though the wry twist of her lips told him she still didn’t agree. “Do you… want to come in?” she offered, somewhat awkwardly, brows drawing together as if she was already regretting the words. “Take your mind off it for a while?”

“How, exactly?”

Shepard shrugged. “I’ve got a bottle of Antivan whiskey and the latest copy of Swords and Shields. We can play a drinking time. Drink every time the sex is anatomically impossible.” He blushed, because of course he did, rubbing the back of his neck as she grinned malevolently and closed in like a predator on his display of weakness. “Drink every time something is ‘throbbing’. Or ‘burning’. Or whenever there’s a euphemism for—”

“Please stop,” he groaned, though he couldn’t help but smile too. “Andraste preserve me; you are incorrigible.”

“You love it really.”

He dropped his eyes to the ground, willing those words to pass him by, because that was something he was valiantly fighting against. He could be attracted to Shepard; he could indulge in a fleeting crush on a woman he’d once stupidly - unforgivably - treated with contempt. He could acknowledge the fact that, some days, the friendship she offered him was the only thing that kept him fighting. But he couldn’t allow himself to be in love with her. Being in love with her would be absolutely intolerable.

“I need to take this to the Inquisitor,” he muttered, still not meeting her eye as he began to turn from her. “I apologise for waking you.”

“Hey,” she stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, and he met her gaze once more; her brown eyes were almost black in the darkness, but the concern in them was unmistakable. “Make sure you get some sleep, alright?”

“I’m fine,” was his reflexive response, and she rolled her eyes, making a disapproving sound in the back of her throat as she did. “Truly,” he attempted to reassure her, but she merely arched an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest.

“Rutherford, I order you to—”

“You cannot order me to do anything,” he retorted, just as forcefully, stubbornly resisting the smile that itched at the corners of his mouth.

“Fine, but just you wait until I stage my coup. Then I’ll get to order you about all I want, and I’ll get your office, and your coat.”

A huff of laughter escaped from his traitorous lips, and she smirked at her small victory. “Goodnight, Shepard,” he bade her, despite the fact that, once again, parting from her was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Get some sleep, Rutherford,” she repeated as he left her, her door creaking shut as he eased inside the Throne Room once more.

After a hushed meeting full of worried looks and frayed nerves, the letter was left unanswered on the War Table, and try though he did to obey Shepard’s command sleep eluded him for the rest of the night.

#cullen appreciation week #cullen rutherford #commander shepard #dragon age #mass effect #my writing #crossover #this was more angsty than i was going for?#i can't wait til we get past adamant and i can write about cullen pining all day #sorry noodle

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icsek · 7 years

Link

Ch. 2 Losing Balance

This time, when he woke he was no longer in the Hall of Healing, he actually didn’t know where he was, the room as bare as a cell but the walls a glaring white and covered with padding. It was much too bright for him, the sharp ache between his eyes and throbbing temple making him feel nauseous. He reached out with the force to help ease the pain only to find that he was unable to touch it. Now he felt the force suppressing collar around his neck and the panic only fueled his confusion. Last he remembered he’d-, the pain grew into agony the more he tried to remember. His mind was blank about the last place he’d been.

“Anakin, calm down, you’re just hurting yourself.” Master Luminara was there, pressing a cool hand to his forehead and helping to ease some of the pain while soothing the worst of the panic.

“Where? What?” He croaked, now able to feel just how parched and scratchy his throat was.

“You’re at the Temple, Skywalker, in one of the holding rooms in the Mind Healer’s ward. You experienced some mental trauma and memory loss when you returned from your latest mission. When we tried to help, you were delirious and incoherent. You kept trying to attack us so we were forced to bring you here and break your connection with the force.”

He vaguely remembered the anger and fear swelling within him, trying to lash out at something, but the memory was fuzzy and incomplete. At least he’d made it back from wherever he’d been, it wasn’t too surprising that he didn’t remember. After Ahsoka had left the Order, he’d thrown himself into mission after mission to keep his mind occupied. They’d all started to blur together even before whatever had happened, happened.

“Water?” Having anticipated his request, she helped him sit up before bringing the straw to his lips. The water felt soothing on his throat and helped rid the gross feeling in his mouth that came with being asleep for too long. He drank the entire glass before pulling away. “Can you take the collar off now?”

Master Luminara frowned and shook her head, “We’d prefer you keep it a few days to let your mind heal before we take it off. The trauma was rather severe and we need to perform some healing before you’re ready to cope with access to the force again.” She smiled sadly at him.

“There’s something you aren’t telling me, Luminara.” Even without the force, he could feel that she was leaving something out.

“They didn’t want me to tell you this so soon, but I feel not telling you will do more harm than good.” She sighed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder before continuing, “Whatever happened to you, it severed your bond with Obi-Wan.”

Shock reeled through him, a memory of frayed ends and a gaping nothing flooding back to him with more pain. He winced, rubbing his temples in an attempt to ward off the phantom pain. “I… remember. Sort of, at least of the bond snapping. It hurt. Is Obi-Wan ok?” Whatever pain he’d felt, he knew his former Master would’ve felt as well.

“Master Kenobi is fine. He had a bad headache and he was dazed, but he was at the Temple and we were able to stave the worst of it off. A few days rest and he was fine.” She brushed the bangs from his forehead and he felt the soothing touch of healing in his head again.

“Can you have him come by?” He felt like he needed to apologize for something, though what exactly was apparently part of the memory loss.

“I’m sorry, Anakin, but with your bond being severed after so long, it was decided that you two should be kept separate just in case the bond tries to re-form on its own. Your mind can’t handle that right now and you’re no longer his Padawan so it’s not needed anyway. It’s why we’re keeping you here, the room, too, is shielded. Now get some sleep, someone will be by to check on you later.”

Exhaustion blanketed him, the effort of just the simple conversation having drained him of any remaining energy. He let himself drift back into the comfort of sleep.

The observation room was silent, each seemingly holding their breath as they watched Anakin drift back into sleep. Relief was evident on most of their faces as was exhaustion. Luminara joined them after performing a final check of Anakin’s vitals.

“Does it seem to be holding, Master Luminara?” Mace was the first to break the silence.

Luminara sighed, “For now, but he’s as cut off from the Force as possible right now. The real test will be when we start to reintroduce the connection. This is a good start compared to the others, though. And there’s still the other question of how much memory we’ve blocked, but the only one, other than Skywalker, who could really be a judge of that would be Obi-Wan.”

“Fragile, Skywalker’s balance is still. Centered around Obi-Wan, much of his balance is.” Yoda shook his head, “Allow them together, in a few days we could. A good test of the mind block, it will be.”

“And if it fails again?.” Plo asked.

Mace stroked his chin in thought, “We’ll do what we must.”

The Temple had always been a place of peace and relaxation for Obi-Wan. He’d never been able to understand Anakin’s claims of it being a stifling place until now. Everywhere he went there seemed to be someone or some issue needing his attention. While he was grounded from the front lines, the Council was keeping him busy with teaching youngling classes and performing official Council business that ‘only he could do.’ He knew what they were trying to do, but it was only helping so much.

At least no one bothered him in his new quarters, not that he was there for more than sleeping purposes. All those years he spent complaining about Anakin interrupting his sleep with his snoring or midnight tinkering or eating, he wish he could take them back. It was too quiet, too clean, both in the quarters and in his head. Especially in his head.

Obi-Wan sighed and stirred his tea, trying not to let this cup grow cold like the last two had. It had been weeks since their bo-, it, happened and he no longer suffered from migraines. He’d still not been allowed to see Anakin after the first time.

The Council made him sit out on any discussions of what would be Anakin’s fate. He only knew of their plan once they informed him of their decision.

Anakin’s fall had been confirmed by four different Jedi Masters, the dark side curled around him like a dog waiting his master’s orders. He stared them down with hate-filled yellow eyes and screamed at them that it was all their fault. That they had taken Obi-Wan away from him.

When Obi-Wan had went to visit, Master Plo had pulled him aside and tried to give him warning of what to expect. Even the warning didn’t prepare him for what he saw.

The room had been stripped of everything except the bed and bolted down table. There were sizeable dents in the durasteel walls where things had made hard impacts, more than likely with the Force. Anakin was bound to the bed with Force-proof cuffs. His eyes were closed, but quickly opened when Obi-Wan took a few steps in the room.

“Ma-Master?” Anakin looked so hopeful that Obi-Wan’s heart clenched. The yellow seemed to fade from his eyes, but it could easily his mind playing tricks on him.

All he wanted to do was run his fingers through dirty blonde curls, to hold him tight like he had when he was younger, but he knew he had to resist. He’d been sent here for a purpose, “Yes, Anakin.”

Tears started to flow, “Why did you let them, Master? Why don’t you want me anymore?”

Every ounce of discipline and willpower he had went into keep his Jedi Master facade up and to keep his voice steady. He was grateful for the room’s shielding as he knew his were faltering under the onslaught of his own emotions. “Anakin, you haven’t been my Padawan for five years. We were supposed to have done this years ago. I thought that it might fade on its own, many training bonds do, but you relied heavily on it.” He patted Anakin’s bound hand awkwardly, “Attachment is not the Jedi way and you weren’t able to let me go as you proved over the last few missions. It is past time for us part and go our separate ways.”

Fury battered Obi-Wan’s pitiful shields, fury and hate. He knew the feel and taste of Anakin’s emotions, knew just how powerful he could be, but the pain of a bond starting to forcibly reform drove him to his knees, unable to do anything about it. “Anakin, control yourself, please!”

“I HATE YOU!” The cuffs around Anakin’s wrists sparked and fizzled out. Lights overhead began to flicker and the table groaned as it shuddered under the uncontrolled fury.

Belatedly, Obi-Wan realized that someone was shouting his name or shouting for help. He wasn’t quite sure, the pain in his head overwhelming his senses until it all turned black.

The Council had forbid him access to Anakin after that episode, but the damage had been done. Anakin was considered too dangerous, too powerful to keep contained so the Council had made the decision to block and erase his memories around his attachments. He was needed for the war effort, they couldn’t afford to lose him, so this was their best solution. They would perform the mind block and forcibly drain the darkside energies from his body and aura.

Except the first one didn’t take. He’d nearly brought down the entire Healing Wing in his fit of rage when he broke down the mind block. The second one was much the same although it took hours instead of minutes. The third had seemed to hold until they had slowly allowed him access to the Force. Now they were on their fourth attempt, more than had been done on a person in over a millenia. It was a testament to Anakin’s mental fortitude that there was still some of him left.

Still, the reports from Master Luminara were promising. They’d made cover memories this time to explain the loss of bond and the distance between him and Obi-Wan. Master Yoda had pulled some of Obi-Wan’s own memories to help form the new ones and to make them familiar.

A part of him still whispered that it was his fault any of this had happened. He’d not been a good enough Master to Anakin, he’d not taught him the lessons he needed to learn, that he had encouraged the attachment because of his own feelings-

He cut off the rest of that line of thinking, it wouldn’t solve any of the issues at hand.

If this mind block didn’t take, Master Plo had informed him that Anakin would either be forced through another round of the mind block or sent to the Citadel. The Council hadn’t been able to make a decision one way or the other, the vote split evenly in half since Obi-Wan wasn’t allowed to vote. Either of the choices were a death sentence for Anakin. He’d be killed if he was sent to the Citadel considering he the majority of the residents there. If they tried a mind block again, he’d more than likely end up a hollow shell of who he was.

The beep of his comm startled Obi-Wan out of his thoughts, “Kenobi.” He didn’t bother to switch on the holo function, more than likely it was just another Council member with yet another task for him to perform.

“Good evening, Master Kenobi. I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”

The sound of Padme Amidala’s voice brought a brief smile to his face, “Not at all, Senator. It’s always a pleasure to hear from you. Is there something I can do for you?”

A brief hesitation in her response and he knew what she was calling about before she even responded, “I haven’t heard from Anakin in a few weeks since I saw the both of you after the Senate session. We were supposed to have dinner together one night while he was still planetside, but he hasn’t returned any of my comms. Was he redeployed?”

There was no way he could tell her exactly what had happened or Anakin’s current status. Which presented another issue, he had known they were involved for years and overlooked it as them simply finding comfort with each other. What he hadn’t known was exactly how involved they were. Their secret marriage had come to light when the Council had broken through Anakin’s tight shields and sifted through his memories.

Still, she was owed at least somewhat of an explanation, especially since Anakin would no longer remember their marriage or love. At least give her the opportunity to grieve and move on.

“Are you free right now? This isn’t a conversation I would like to have over the comm.” He might as well get it over with now.

“Yes, I’m at my apartment if you would like to come over. I’ll have Threepio prepare some tea for you.” It was a testament to her ability as a politician that she didn’t sound affected by his response.

“Thank you, I will be there shortly.”

All in all, his meeting with the Senator had went better than had expected. Obi-Wan had given her the vague cover story the Council had made up about his absence. He broke the news about Anakin’s memory loss from an attack while on mission in the lower levels as gently as he could. He assured her that Anakin was healing and with the best Mind Healers the Jedi had, but that the loss was permanent.

Padme had looked pained, but relieved and thanked him. It was then that he carefully explained that the Order knew about their marriage and that they would help her have it annulled quietly. He tried to be compassionate as he told her she could no longer contact Anakin and to treat this opportunity as a second chance. She had broken down at that point, crying and confessing that their relationship had been failing anyway with all the secrets.

It was her next words that had made him shatter too.

“He always loved you more than me, Obi-Wan. He loved the idea of me, and to some extent, he did love me, but it was as someone to protect and shelter. He always held back with me, scared to hurt me. You, he loves with everything, as equals. I was so jealous of you that I pushed the marriage in an effort to make him choose between you and me. It’s always been you, it always will be you. Just as it has always been him for you. Take this second chance, Obi-Wan, and don’t let him go.”

Everything clicked into place then. The strength of their bond, their ability to seamlessly fit together, their perfect balance together. Anakin wasn’t just his best friend, brother, and former padawan. Anakin was the other half to his soul and he’d willingly let them be ripped in half.

#obikinweek17 #obikinweek #obikin #obikin angst club #sorry forcearama & fireflyfish #my fic #fic: Breaking Bonds #obikinweek2017 #Day 2: Second Chances

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