#Hawke is a terrible patient

[theluckywizard]

DADWC prompt:

As requested 😁 For Hawke/An'da “it’s not my fault you’re so comfortable to lay on!”

Woohooo my first OC OC nonsense piece! @dadrunkwriting

Here we have an injured Garrett Hawke staggering to Darktown to Anders' Clinic where An'da is working as a healer. First he's suffering from blood loss and later is under the influence of a sedative as An'da works on him. Shenanigans all around!

WC: 2399

CW: Blood and stab wound

Rating: Teen

Hawke can feel his pulse in the wound made by three maybe four inches of dirty steel. It had been a boy, eleven at most, though it’s hard to tell with the malnourished. He sheathed the little blade in his side, his saucers of fear for eyes catching Hawke’s before dashing away and merging with the crawl of people in Lowtown. A message from the Coterie. Or the Carta maybe.

Hawke staggers down to darktown clutching his side, brushing aside the fuzz that enters his mind at the edges as he parses through the possible takeaways. The message.

First, one should never be lazy about armor in Lowtown. It may be home, but even the kids will cut you for a couple silvers.

Second, cutting into the profits of either group of malodorous ne’er-do-wells is asking for it. 

Third— well, there might be a third but his thoughts meander, a little bit like the crowd around him, anyone who notices the deep crimson wicking widely in his tunic stumbling back, recoiling from the preamble to death like it isn’t a daily fixture in this cursed swathe of Kirkwall.

He knows the route well enough to stagger there in this state, his mind swimming like there’s a half a bottle of Corff’s potato grog inside of him. He stumbles his way into the alleys that sink low under the city, into the stagnant air of Darktown, smearing his very essence on the tuff walls. Nonsensically impertinent thoughts invaded his mind as he bled his way to Anders’ clinic. The one who carved this tuff passage so long ago. Did they imagine the way it would smell dozens of ages hence? Did they secretly enjoy the break from the insolence of Kirkwall’s sun or did the humidity kicking up from the bay make them more miserable under the surface?

Darktown opens up to the harbor and the scent of mildew and human waste gives way to stagnant aromas of decaying seaweed and sloshing mystery flotsam. He’s close, he can tell by his nose, but his senses are getting rather unreliable and he’s beginning to think this is all some manner of mild inconvenience, something he could probably patch up himself given the right instruments and materials.

A healing draught to perk him up perhaps. Clean linen. Corff’s potato grog. A bent needle and some waxed thread.

He shoulders his way through the flimsy door to the clinic, a few workers startling to attention as he staggers into the space like a wayward drunk. He raises a hand, a little meekly and tries a few casual looking poses before leaning against a support timber, summoning his best winning grin.

“I— uh— heard I could get some supplies here. For minor lacerations and the like. I’ll be no trouble— just— ask Anders. Patch up my own stuff all the time,” he says, his head lolling to one side slightly before he rights it. He lifts his unfastened doublet from his tunic and stares at the blooming bloodstain laughing, the jerking of his diaphragm sending fresh surges of deep red through the fabric. He looks up and scans the room for what he needs, ignoring the baffled, questioning looks of the clinic workers. “Ah— there they are!” Hawke makes for a table laid with instruments beside a wooden operating table with a bloody trough down the center that makes him recoil slightly.

He’d rather not lie on one of those death slabs. He’ll patch himself up good as new, troubling no one.

“Hawke, is it?” come a lyrical voice, floating in pleasantly like it might be a dream as he picks up a needle that looks the right shape and a wad of clean cloth. He answers without looking up. “I’ve— seen you here before. Usually moments before Anders vanishes on some harrowing adventure.”

“I don’t know why he insists on tagging along, but I certainly can’t complain,” mumbles Hawke, collecting a handful. “The man could reattach a severed head in a pinch.”

“That’s a fair bit of blood, Serah Hawke,” she says gently, her hand creeping in to cover the hand he’s loaded with the needed supplies. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather let me have a look?”

“No, no— I couldn’t— possibly inconvenience you. You’re all so busy— and this is just a—“ he looks down again, the blood having spread into his trousers. “Flesh wound,” he breathes in a faint falsetto.

“Easy there, da’len. Easy…” she says softly. Hawke turns to see her, his vision growing fuzzy around the edges. Rosy cheeks, a delicately branching vallaslin and serpentstone eyes meet him. Hawke blinks languidly, admiring her shock of ashen white hair managed in tidy plaits and the elegant length of her elven ears. Lovely, he thinks as his head nods. Really lovely. She motions for assistance but it’s not soon enough.

Hawke lists, his consciousness dissolving into jelly as assuredly as his legs and he slowly pitches forward. The worker slips between him and the bench, pushing on his chest, desperately trying to hold him up to organize him around her shoulders in the most stable position but instead she melts under his floppy, hulking mass until they’re a heap on the floor.

“Looks like you’ve got quite a wound there, big fella,” she squeaks under his mass. But Hawke finds this position irresistible, his wits, his failing body melting into her. Into the ground.

“Actually this— is— really, rather comfortable. Perhaps I’ll just— stay— here.”

“Creators,” she mutters. “A little assistance please?” Her voice is the adorable squeak of a pantry mouse, he thinks, neverminding that the octave is at least in part because of squashing her languidly. He waves off those who come for him, his arms thrashing lightly wanting to keep the sweet little pillow beneath him. Perhaps she might just keep talking until he’s slipped into this delicious nap that’s calling him.

But hands circle each ankle and then his arms by his shoulders and he’s first gently lifted off the small woman and then arms find their way under his chest and hips and he’s heaved onto the death slab he’d dreaded, his mind practically circling the drain.

Emerald eyes hover over him solicitously, and it’s nearly all he can focus on, two little jewels suspended under a cloud and that voice.

oOo

Hawke comes to, at least partially anyway, because there’s a mushiness to it all that he finds unbelievably pleasant, the sharp edges of full awareness beyond his grasp still. Figures mill about him and he can’t tell if they’re there for him or someone else, but they might as well be there for him.

“Didja fixmeup?” he asks the first face to venture into his line of sight, his words dribbling out like molasses spilling off a spoon. But he’s smiling at least and the world feels as light as spun sugar and he can’t keep the rapture inside.

Green eyes peer over him, lifting up the hem of his tunic to check his wound.

“You.”

“An’da,” she corrects him, smiling, and he’s too hopped up on sedative herbs to catch the amusement behind her expression.

“Annnnn’daaaaa. Annnnderrrssss. You two planned it this way, din’tyou?” Hawke laughs to himself, his grin wide and languorous, practically spilling off his face. An’da is unmoved by his tumbling words, having heard it all before.

“A little longer and you would have been taking tea with Falon’Din,” she notes. She presses gently around the side of his abdomen.

“Owwwww,” he says flatly, his head falling back, hair spilling away from his face.

“You’ll need to take it easy for at least a week, da’len,” she says, ducking down to take a closer look. “But I’m guessing you’ll be testing your limits tomorrow.”

“If I ripmy sitches can I come back?” he slurs dreamily.

“You’re going to stay in bed like the darling man that you are so that you are good as new,” she says, reaching over him for a pot of salve that she dabs on the tidy stitches above his hipbone.

“But I wanna come back,” he says, his expression dulcet with sedative fueled-longing. “I would have died. You’re— you’re the bess.”

“I’ll add you to my collection of partially sedated beaus, sweet thing,” she smiles, two little rosy balls of warmth in her cheeks that Hawke thinks must have been pinched by the Maker himself. He reaches to touch one but his hand bobs heavily and he giggles at it as it lolls sideways away from its intended destination.

“But they don’t love you like I do,” he mutters to her with glazed eyes, his grin rather dashing for someone dashed out of his mind on a tincture of black lotus and ghoul’s beard.

“You’re right, da’len. Nobody’s ever loved me like you,” she replies sweetly. She slides along the bed and leans over to pat his cheek gently, and it would wipe his wits clean away if he had any to begin with. Anders sidles up alongside her, his hands on his hips, eyebrows arched high as he regards Hawke pityingly. Hawke lets his eyes slip closed.

“Anders,” he intones softly, as high as his name implies. “You have the mose beautful sister.”

“I know,” Anders replies gamely, giving An’da a quick squeeze around her shoulders. “I greatly look forward to your wedding.” If Hawke was more lucid he might notice the roll of An’da’s eyes in Anders’ direction or the way she elbows him lightly. He might notice the hushed conversation they have about the likelihood that he’ll tear his stitches back open unless he’s under strict bed rest. 

“Hawke, have you been a difficult patient?”

“I’ve been a perfeck gennleman.”

“That’s a separate question. An’da here kept you from bleeding out and I think we’d all like to see you live to fight another day. But if you’re going to ignore our recommendations and bash about Lowtown looking for the people responsible…”

“Gotta find the little sprog and have a word,” he says. “Probly hungry”

“I’ll pay you a home visit if you agree to stay in bed,” she offers. “Someone will have to come check to make sure you behave.”

“Never been one t’behave,” Hawke sighs. “Bud I’d be good for you.”

“Shocking no one,” says Anders. “If he gets fresh, hit him with another dose of sedative. Or just— hit him.”

“I could never hit such a puppy,” says An’da, giving his big hand an affectionate pat. Even miles from his right mind, Hawke musters a smug grin for his favorite battle medic.

“Maker, don’t encourage him. He’ll never leave you alone,” pokes Anders. “The wound looks good, another dose of healing and we can give him the antidote for the sedative.”

“You really don’t though,” muddles Hawke. “I could juss. Stay like this. Here. With Annnn’daaaa.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve seen the way you live,” quips Anders. “Can’t have my clinic looking like that.”

An’da drags a small stool alongside the clinic bed so she can reach the wound with her hands which he finds to be unbearably darling, abundant as he is in stature. She leans forward and places both hands over the wound, her Elvish words bouncing like a pebble across placid waters as she summons her mana and pushes the blue luminescence deep into his abdomen.

“Maker, you’re wonderful,” he sighs at the ceiling.

“I— um.  As much as I’ve enjoyed your sweet nothings,” she begins, wandering over to a bench of bottles and mixtures and mortars and pestles, “It’s time to set your mind to rights.” She arrives with a precious vial of liquid and kicking her stool over a few feet, climbs atop to lift his head and press the vial to his lips.

“Drink up,” she encourages him. “That’s right, da’len.” Hawke submits to her instructions like her very nearness enchants him, his eyes filled with stars as he blinks at her blushing cheeks and kind eyes.

The antidote for the sedative works quickly, replacing the haze with a headache that outstrips the worst of his hangovers. 

“Andraste’s smoldering arse,” he groans, clutching at his entire face like it might banish the pulsating behind his eyes if he claws at it enough. At least the wound seems to be behaving in this regard.

“Sorry,” she squeaks and his attention alights again on the sweet pantry mouse. He squeezes his eyes shut, nodding as he recollects his antics.

“I— believe I owe you an apology. Or at the very least a drink at the Hanged Man,” he says, in a shameless pivot.

“Careful, An’da or he’ll add you to his collection of beguiled healers,” says Anders, returning. He gives Hawke a clinical look and checks the stitches closely. “Pain on a scale of one to ten?”

“Stab wound? Two. Head? Eight.”

“I— um— I think I could be talked into a visit to the tavern,” she says softly, sheepishly, her chin tucked low like his gaze is some manner of threat. Anders just shakes his head, his grin wide and knowing. “But— only after you’re healed up fully.”

“Lovely! Maker knows if Corff’s special mead is ready there’s a solid chance I’ll need a comfortable pillow on the tavern floor. You’ll do nicely.”

“Oh— I—“ she fumbles, her entire face blazing, but she seems to catch on. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

“Have you and Merrill been trading notes?” Hawke asks and then calls after Anders. “Have they been trading notes?” He turns back to her again, fixing one of his usual brazen looks upon her. “It was a joke. Unless you’re secretly a pillow after all. In which case it very much wasn’t.”

“I— um— I’ll—just be over there,“ she stammers and blushes and stammers some more and Hawke thinks she looks as beautiful as a Fereldan sunrise. She turns and hurries away and Hawke mulls over another chance he’s dashed with his cursed trap flapping and misguided flirting.

“Hawke,” says Anders, “you always do this to my staff. I’m going to have to hang a picture of you on the wall with appropriate warnings. Yes he will profess his love to you under sedation. Yes he will attempt to enchant you with a sky blue smolder. *Do not engage*.”

“Please do,” replies Hawke. “And make me a copy. I’ll give it to Varric to hang on his wall.”

#Hawke & Anders #Garrett Hawke #Dragon Age 2 #Anders Clinic #An'da #theluckywizard #OC & OC Fic #Gift Fic #Kids will stab you in lowtown #Hawke is a terrible patient #And very large #An'da makes a good pillow

[hawkeyeslaughter]

hawk doesn’t wanna be sick he just wants to hang out

based on this post that took eight thousand bazillion years to find

#don’t know what possessed me between the hours of midnight and one thirty in the morning but i drew this out with only minimal distraction #yeah yeah hawk is a terrible sickie patient we know this but he is also a being sick denier #fever off the charts and he’ll come wandering into henry’s office wanting to play scrabble #henry’s like ‘ talk to him mcintyre ‘ and trapper who’s smoking a cigar and unfolding a pinup is just like ‘ i can’t tell him anything ‘ #( he’s already had to drag him back to his sickbed three times and sit by his bedside until he fell asleep ) #hawkeye is so me i’m also a terrible sickie #mash #mashposting #m*a*s*h #mash 4077 #hawkeye pierce #hawkeye #henry blake

[unreliablesnake]

I’m here now (John Price x reader)

Summary: Morning sickness is bad, but knowing John’s back home makes it better.

Warnings: afab!reader, pregnancy

Note: I know that Ghost won, but I love Price.

While John was away on a mission and you couldn’t talk for a while, you decided to break the news by sending him an ultrasound picture. He would see it when he had the chance, and he would surely call you immediately. You would be waiting. You were used to this. You could be patient.

But a week passed without a call, even though the message had been read by him. He knew, yet he didn’t call. Maybe he was mad, you assumed. Time might help him calm down and reevaluate the situation. Hopefully he would realize that having a child could be a good thing.

One morning you were awfully sick, kneeling next to the toilet as you threw up your breakfast. You didn’t even know why you ate anything with that terrible nausea. In your head you were counting back the weeks until the next trimester, wishing this torture would end with the first one.

“Love, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here now,” you suddenly heard John’s unmistakable voice as you felt his big palm rubbing your back.

At first you thought you were imagining things. He would have called to tell you he was on his way home. But when you felt him place a soft kiss on your temple, you knew he was truly back. You flashed a weak smile at him, but right then you had to turn away to puke a little more.

Once you were done, you stood up and told him you needed a few minutes to brush your teeth. But he stayed there with you, leaning against the doorframe as he watched your every move like a hawk. In all honesty, he was slowly getting on your nerves because he made you feel like you weren’t able to take care of yourself.

Your feelings must have been way too obvious. “Darling, I’m just admiring the view. My pretty wife is pregnant with my child. How could I not be happy?” he asked with a laugh before walking over to stand behind you and wrap his arms around your body once you were done. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, I just wanted to surprise you.”

“I was worried,” you admitted, keeping eye contact with him through the mirror.

“I know. But I’m here now, okay? I love you.”

When he kissed your head, you let go of all of your annoyance and anger. You only wanted him to stick around for a while, to be by your side when you told your families about your pregnancy.

#captain john price #john price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #modern warfare #mw2 #call of duty

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine you enter the woods of Lothlorien with the Fellowship.

Gimli: Stay close, young hobbits! They say a great sorceress lives in these woods. An Elf-Witch.

Y/N: *Smirks* Of terrible power?

Gimli: Tis no joke m'lady. All who look upon her fall under her spell.

Galadriel: *Telepathically* Frodo..

Gimli: And are never seen again.

Y/N: Do not fear little ones. We will keep you from harm.

Samwise: We should be saying that to you Y/N.

Galadriel: You're coming to us, is as the footsteps of doom.

Galadriel: *Telepathically* You bring great evil here. Ring bearer.

Sam: Mr Frodo?

Gimli: Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox.

The elves of the Lothlórien woods appears with bows.

Y/N: *Unsurprised* Is that right?

Haldir: The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark.

Y/N: *Stifles a chuckle*

They walk to Lórien

Haldir: *In elvish* Well met, Legolas son of Thranduil.

Legolas: Our Fellowship stands in your debt. Haldir of Lórien.

Y/N: Yep, I love it when he speaks elvish. *She smiles down at the hobbits.*

Haldir: Ah, Aragorn of the Dúnedain. You are known to us.

Aragorn: Haldir..

Haldir: Pethryn.

Y/N: *Nods silently.*

Gimli: So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves. Speak words we can all understand.

Y/N: *Grins* They are greeting eachother. Be patient my friend.

Haldir: *In the common tongue* We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the Dark Days.

Gimli: And you know what this Dwarf says to that? Ishkhaqwi ai duru- (I spit upon your gra-)

Y/N: *Stops Gimli with her hand and gentle taps his shoulder.* Now now Gimli.

Aragorn: That was not so courteous.

Haldir: *Turns to look at Frodo.* You bring great evil with you. You can go no further.

Aragorn: *In elvish* We need your protection, the road is fell. Please we need your support.

Legolas: Y/N, you understand Sindarin?

Y/N: What, me solving the riddle wasn't enough for you? *She grins*

Aragorn: *In Elvish* I wish we may come with you. The road is very dangerous Haldir.

Boromir: Gandalf's death was not in vain. Nor would he have you give up hope. You carry a heavy burden Frodo. Don't carry the weight of the dead.

Haldir: You will follow me.

They travel to Caras Galadhon.

Haldir: Caras Galadhon.

Y/N: The heart of Elvendom on earth.

Haldir: Realm of the Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light.

Y/N: *Smirks to Aragorn.* I get to see the pretty elves again.

Aragorn: *Rolls his eyes*

Legolas: *Mutters* Am I not a pretty elf?

Y/N: *Laughs* You are the prettiest of all elves Miluir ("Lovely one" in Sindarin)

Legolas: *Gapes in surprise.*

Y/N: *Chuckles and walks away.*

Legolas: Wait! What did you just call me? Say it again!

#legolas x reader #lotr shitpost #lotr imagine #legolas #legolas x y/n #legolas x you #aragorn #aragorn x reader #imagine lord of the rings #lotr incorrect quotes #lotr x reader #lotr gimli #legolas greenleaf #Aragorn x you #lotr fanfic #lotr #lord of the rings x y/n #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings imagine #lotr x y/n #lotr x you

[alrtyhoney]

The rundown: You looked like someone Miguel terribly misses– his daughter. (FIRST PART)

Content: Miguel x Daughter!Reader (wc: 1359)

“Have you thought about it already?” 

The girl remains focused on her drawings, doodling away. “About what?” She mumbles a reply, without turning her gaze, still engrossed in her drawings. She knew what he was going to say anyway.

Miguel reaches forward and tenderly tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Your quinceanera, Gab.” He remarks warmly. 

She only laughs in return, shaking her head. It's silly, she thinks to herself. "I'm not even near being fifteen yet!" she protests in between fits of giggles. It occurred to Gabriella that his father had an ulterior motive from the sudden pique of interest in her hobbies and likes; he wasn’t particularly chatty, so the past few weeks had pushed her to finally ask him what he was trying to do. 

She didn’t understand at first. Miguel, very patiently, explained that a quinceanera was a special once-in-a-lifetime event for every girl. It was more than just a birthday celebration, it was an important milestone in her life. But she quickly discouraged the idea, not wanting to think about it so early. They had all of the time in the world, she thought, there was no reason to rush.

“I just want it to be special.” He says, “Your mother would’ve wanted that.” 

“No te preocupes, papá.” She reassures her with a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll make it special.” 

The clip ended, the screen slowly fading until only his reflection remained in the empty frame. All he could see now was a hollow shell of a man looking back at him; his expression blank and unflinching. Miguel closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. That scene had etched itself into his mind, burning– mockingly so. 

Nothing could ever fill the hole that his daughter had left in his heart - like when he first held her in his arms so many years ago; her presence still obvious on his chest where her memories had imprinted themselves, a permanent reminder of the loss of a child. He trudged through life with heavy feet and an even heavier heart. 

He wonders if things could’ve been different or if he would always be incapable of keeping people in his life, always slipping from his fingers and out of his grasp.

“You’re watching it again,” Lyla appears on his shoulder, sitting there with her legs crossed. 

“What about it?” 

"That's the fourth time today," She says, her voice laced with a trace of worry that she was quick to try and disguise as part of her normal banter. It had become increasingly clear to her that something was amiss and although she was programmed to know anything, Lyla did not know much about Miguel. 

“What do you want?” 

“An anomaly is spotted in earth-829, a renaissance-like hawk wreaking havoc in a modern museum– yikes.” Lyla briefs him, “Jessica is already on standby.” 

Miguel shakes his head, sighing. “Shouldn’t she be on maternity leave already?” He asks, his suit already appearing and opening a file regarding the mission. A hologram opens in front of him, filling in the details. Vulture. “Tell her to go home. I’ll handle this one.” 

“I think you shouldn’t,” Lyla squeaks with a nervous smile on her face. “Think you really shouldn’t.”

Miguel taunts with an arrogant tilt of his head, matter-of-factly declaring, "And who's the one taking orders here?" His mask then slides firmly into place, and a portal opens beneath his feet as he steps through. Lyla knows too well by now that there isn't any room for negotiation. 

As he stepped into the unfamiliar environment, a chorus of cries and screams greeted him from the running crowd. They pushed each other to safety, a few staying to watch spider-man in action. Miguel sighs, cracking his neck as he prepares himself to step in.

However, he slightly flinches as the said hero narrowly avoids him, crashing into the wall behind him with a loud thud. She quickly scrambled back to her feet, dusting the bits of rubble from her suit. “Hello? Mascot-man? I’m kinda in the middle of something here–” 

“I’ll take it from here, kid.” If it wasn’t for the mask covering his face, his nonchalant tone would betray his expression. It was no surprise to him that someone as young as her had been bitten by a spider like so many others before her, but he knows damn well what awaits for her and that is what troubled him every time. 

“And who are you exactly?” She shouts, running towards the anomaly again. 

Miguel quickly binds the vulture's wings with his webs, allowing you to throw in a few punches before the bird regains its footing and takes off into flight. “I’m from another dimension.”

You audibly gasp, the eyes on your mask widening as you swing around, “I knew dimensions were real!” Completely unfocused, the anomaly narrows his eyes before charging towards you– before you could react to your senses tingling, you were sent tumbling to the ground, near the broken pile of rocks and other rubble. 

Miguel loudly groans, getting a hold of the enemy. “Kid, focus!” He barks out, and you immediately snap back to what you were doing, swinging enthusiastically towards him. 

“How did you do it? I mean– I tried to prove it all my life!” 

“Aren’t you 12?” He scoffs at your statement, clearly not a fan of exaggeration.

“14 – and that’s not the point, mascot-man!” 

The fight went on with you chatting and talking his ear off. Miguel had answered in dismissive grunts and his usual ‘it’s classified.’ remark, but he just couldn’t discourage your eagerness in any way. You had tired him out, more than the anomaly did.

Spider-society, magic watch, many more of you– you’ve basically summed up. 

“You should definitely let me join,” You offered cheerfully, cocking your head and wiggling your foot. The battle had finally come to a close, thanks in part to the arrival of a couple more spider-men who lent an extra hand. You had caught up to Miguel, basically begging him to let you in. “We made a great team back there old man!” 

“Old man?” 

“Okay, sensitive,” You muttered under your breath. “But seriously– I could learn more from you!” 

“Kid, listen–” 

You had cut him off again, seemingly not taking no as an answer as you tried to persuade him again. You continued to babble, not leaving any room for him to interrupt. Miguel rubbed a hand over his face, hidden beneath the fabric of his mask, as he groaned in frustration for what felt like the hundredth time today. His eyebrows furrowed as he listened to you rambling on and on– patience nipping on itself from your lack of understanding with regards to the matter at hand. 

“First off, I did most of the work back there. If it weren’t for me calling for back-up, you could’ve been injured badly. This society isn’t some school club you can just sign yourself in,” He explained, already itching to return and leaving you in the dust. A liability is the last thing he needed. “You don’t have what it takes.”

You throw your head back, groaning. You take your mask off, revealing a busted lip and a frown. “Whatever, your club sounds stupid anyway.” You mumble under your breath, suddenly feeling worn out yourself. Of course what he said had stung– it had taken so much effort to learn how to control your powers over the past two months since you were bitten by that spider. It wasn’t like there was a manual or a book written for freaks that happened to have superhero powers under such circumstances. You had to learn on your own. 

Turning your back on him, you had fully expected him to disappear as well– but, to your surprise, he was totally motionless; a statue in solidarity unable to shift an inch. His stillness made the atmosphere unbearably tense and although you could not bring yourself to look back at him (well, you did call his club stupid.), you sensed his gaze upon you like a heavy weight pushing down on your shoulders. 

“Gabriella?” 

#alrighty honey ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara atsv #miguel o'hara x daughter!reader #miguel o'hara angst

[redheadspark]

i had a small idea yesterday for the prompt session! druig with #’s 3, 15, and 18. maybe with reader after the emergence. they’re both EXHAUSTED and even though druig’s hurt, he still wants to make sure his s/o is okay after fighting. you can change things around to your liking ofc!

A/N - YAS! I do like this a lot for Druig! Thanks for requesting this, dear friend!

Scars and All

Summary - Druig seeks you out after the Emergence

Warnings - angst and fluff mixed together

“How is she?”

“I’m more concerned about you since you took a beating from Ikaris on that beach,”

Druig huffed as Phastos was looking him over with some of his equipment, being ever patient but not willing to sit through a thorough exam.  He was sitting on what was left of Phastos’s work table, his armor stripped, and was only sporting his black pants and nasty bruises along his ivory skin.  Phastos and Thena were with him and taking the proper measures to check on him, Sersi was talking to a now-human Sprite in the Meeting Room, leaving Makkari to tend to you in your shared room with Druig.  Although Druig knew that Thena would hold him down in order for him to get checked over and be cleared, he would rather be with you.

You both took a beating on that beach in order to save the world.

Druig took on Ikaris’s beams head-on, thinking for a split moment that he wasn’t going to make it out alive.  It left him both physically and mentally bruised, not to mention the mental fatigue that he endured ignorer to take over the mind of a full Celestial.  Throughout the centuries that he has been on Earth, this was truly the first time he felt beyond tired.  

Not tired, exhausted.

“Your internal organs are still good,” Phastos hummed as he scanned Druig’s backside slowly and with determination, Druig’s leg bouncing on the workstation table as he was sitting Indian Style.  Even his fingers were fidgeting while he was staring dead ahead at the wall.  He was half listening, mostly thinking about you and how you were holding up.  Seeing you on the beach covered in scratch wounds and pale to the touch made his heart sink.  Saving the world didn’t matter to him anymore, nor did stopping Ikaris and stopping Tiamat.  All that mattered was you.

He needed to see you and make sure you were alright.

“The bruises are gonna last a bit,” Phastos explained as Druig was still sitting rather impatiently, Thena was watching like a hawk and not moving an inch while Phastos placed his instruments down and gave Druig a brotherly kind of stare, “I can have Makkiar get some herbs to make a paste and make the bruises shrink down a bit.”

“Not a fan of modern medicine I take it?” Druig asked with a hint of sarcasm, though Phastos cracked a grin.

“Modern medicine is too tame compared to what we endured in the glory days,” Phastos hummed, then pausing for a brief moment before he spoke again, “Plus, we need to be careful since we don’t have Ajak to help us,”

It made the mood more somber in the room, even when it was rue.  Ajak was always there to heal them, from the smallest scratches to the more massive wounds that they would get from Deviants.  The healing was more than the physical, her soothing tones and words of encouragement for every Eternal.  Even Druig, though they both clash plenty of times when it comes to the philosophy of Eternals, admired Ajak all the more and missed her terribly.  

“Thanks, Phastos,” Druig replied with a soft smile, hopping down from the workstation table.

“Get some rest,” Thena instructed him with a small tilt of her head to him.  Druig nodded back.

“Will do,” He replied walking past both Phastos and Thena to the hallways that lead to the living quarters.  He was glad that he was cleared from needing anymore assistance, and he was not thinking about himself at the current moment.  

“Couldn’t gone worse for him if it wasn’t for her,” Phastos said to Thena as Druig was walking away, his eyes going right down the hallway and nothing slowing him down.

“She saved his life, as she should since they were meant for each other,” Thena replied in an optimistic hum, which made Druig wish he could smile from hearing that from the warrior herself.  He might have been too tired to smile, or simply more concerned about you to smile from the comment.  But it still warmed his heart nonetheless, adoring Thena all the more.

Once he made it to your shared room, He carefully and softly opened the door to see nothing but darkness.  Your king-sized bed was against the wall, you were nestled amongst the satin sheets and already sleeping with Makkari sitting by your side and keeping a close eye on you.  

Makkari, still clad in her armor, saw Druig and immediately sped over to him, She’s okay.

“Thanks, ‘Kari,” He whispered to her as he gestured his head over to your sleeping form, “How bad is it?”

Her cuts are deep, but they’ll heal in a few days, She explained to him, I know how to make a paste for her wounds to make the healing go a bit faster.  I’ll make some for you too, I think you two need some rest,

“You might be right,” he agreed, seeing her crack a smile slightly before she leaned over to hug him gently.  He hugged her back, feeling her warmth in the embrace.  Once Makkari pulled away and slipped out of the room, Druig looked over at your sleeping form with both concerns and warmth.  

Warmth that you were alive and still with him in this life, and concern that you took a beating to protect him. 

He loved watching you sleep in the past, seeing how soft and content you were as you dreamed away with nothing haunting you.  There were even moments when he would watch you and be amazed at how peaceful you seemed to be in a chaotic and ever-grieving world around you.  He loved that about you and he wished he had that in himself sometimes.  

You had enough love and compassion to fill the both of you up instantly and overflow.  

Moving without him making a single sound, Druig lifted the sheet to finally see you.  The distinct slash marks along your skin, the deep bruises etched near your neck and hips. It was all too much for him to see.  You were never one to harm a fly or start trouble, it wasn’t in your nature.  Yet now, you looked so broken to Druig that it made his heart shatter. 

Immediately he moved, wrapped you close in his arms, and avoided some of the fresher wounds.  You stirred, your head against his neck now as he hummed to alert you.

“…Druig?” You said in a hoarse tone.

“I’m right here, darlin’.  Go back to sleep,” He mumbled to you since the last thing he wanted was for you to wake up and lose sleep.  You moved your arms, grimacing from the drained energy and the tender bruises along your arms.  

“You okay?” You asked him.  Of course, you would be worried for him and his health, not even worried about your own wounds and exhaustion.  Druig loved you for your selfless heart and need to care for others before yourself, both a blessing and a curse for him to witness as the love of your life.  He kissed your forehead, feeling his own energy draining within moments from being in a safe space with you and being in one piece.

“I’m alright now,” he reassured you soothingly, “We’re both alright now.  Let’s sleep, alright?  I got ya,”

As you both slept and healed together, all you both could dream of was your future together.  No matter that there was no village to go back to, losing some of your own to both the Deviants and Ikaris at the same time, none of that mattered compared to what you two wanted in your future together.  Somewhere quiet and away from chaos, maybe near the sea or deep in the forest.  Just you and Druig against the world, scars and all.

The End. 

September Prompt Session

#druig x reader #druig x oc #druig imagine #druig x female reader #druig x y/n #fanfiction #writing #barry keoghan #druig #marvel #marvel cinematic universe fanfitcion #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #mcu phase 4 #mcu fanfiction #mcu #the eternals #eternals fanfiction

[headcaasefiction]

Title: Suck

Mihawk/Shanks/AFAB!Reader

Minors Do Not Interact

Rating: Explicit 18+

Warnings: Threesome, Blowjobs, Vaginal fingering, Cum swallowing, Collar and leash, BDSM, Dom/sub, Daddy kink, Sir kink, Dom!Mihawk, Sub!Shanks, Sub!Reader.

Summary: You and Shanks bend to Mihawk’s will and service him together. Inspired by the song Suck by Nine Inch Nails.

A thousand lips

A thousand tongues

A thousand throats

A thousand lungs

A thousand ways to make it true

I want to do terrible things to you

Suck:

"Fuck..." Shanks sighs out, eyelids fluttering closed. His one arm is wrapped tightly around the waist of the golden-eyed warlord to his right, fingertips digging into his taunt hip, "I don't know how much longer I can last..."

Shanks' head is tipped back, bare chest and neck exposed. The lips and sharp teeth of Mihawk graze along his tan and sea-salt coated skin before he sucks a dark spot of purple into the flesh just under his pulse point.

"Just a little longer..." Mihawk murmurs to the red-head, nipping at his ear, "We can take turns cumming down her throat... you just have to be patient."

Seated at their feet in front of the plush couch they share, you are on your hands and knees, naked except for the black leather collar around your neck that connects to a chain leash Mihawk holds firm in his right hand. Slowly you are taking Shanks' cock in your mouth, all the way down to the base so it hits the back of your throat, before sucking hard and keeping equal pressure as you rise back up to his thick tip, repeating the process over and over again at an agonizing pace.

Shanks groans in frustration, hand bruising further into Mihawk's hip as his head lulls to the side, his dark eyes meeting Mihawk's bright ones with a desperate look. He bites his lip and gently bucks his hips so his cock goes further down your throat, causing a small gasp to escape from you.

Mihawk tsks, his free hand grasping his lover's red locks, as he crashes their lips together in a messy and forceful kiss, all mean teeth and devious tongue, making Shanks pant into his mouth while rolling his hips. Mihawk then tugs on your leash, letting you know to remove yourself from pleasuring the captain's cock. Obediently you suck the head of Shanks' dick hard before letting go with a loud pop, causing the Emperor to whimper at the loss of sensation.

"Such a brat," he says after separating from Shanks, fingers held tight to the other man's scalp, forcing him to look into his eyes, "You're even worse than she is."

Shanks grins at the warlord's words, pleased with himself, "Am I now? Good thing I don't follow your orders too often then, aye hawk-eye?"

"Hmm, I suppose so," Mihawk drawls, punishing Shanks with a sudden and harsh bite to his bottom lip, a bit of blood immediately welling up at the wound.

Shanks cries out, cursing, flexing his arm as Mihawk leans back, pressing hard to the couch to trap his companion. In the same motion Mihawk tugs on your leash again, leading you over to his lap instead, where his painfully hard cock is trapped in the confines of his pants. Quickly you undo his belt buckle, and eagerly take him into your mouth instead, starting a much faster rhythm than you gave to Shanks.

"Good girl," Mihawk hums against Shanks lips, as he swipes his tongue over the captain to taste his blood, "At least someone around here knows their place."

In retaliation Shanks attempts to bite Mihawk back, a bad move considering his current situation, painfully hard and trapped against the cushions. Mihawk moves away gracefully, pulling Shanks' head back by his hair rather hard. The yonko's chest heaving as his breath comes out rapid and uneven, a glare in his dark eyes.

Their positions make Mihawk give an uncharacteristic grin, pleased and power drunk as you service him, and as he attempts to tame the powerful but bratty captain next to him.

"You know, Red," He smirks, bringing Shanks' face close to his once more, "If you want to be punished, you just have to tell me so."

There's something about Mihawk, something about the way he emits power and dominance, the way he purrs in the ears of his lovers that makes them melt, totally slack-jawed, compliant, and eager to please, like under some kind of spell as soon as his breath ghosts over their ears.

At his words Shanks goes limp, eyes glassy with need as pink tinges his cheeks to compliment the rouge of his hair, hips slightly squirming from lack of contact. He licks his lips, mouth opening and closing with hesitancy as he attempts to either come up with a sassy remark or to beg for whatever it is that he desires.

Mihawk watches him closely, eyes heavy with lust as you continue to suck on his cock, taking him all the way in and down your throat. You moan around his dick, their actions turning you on to the ends of the earth. It was a rarity when these two would get so intimate like this with each other, sometimes you would forget your Daddy liked to switch and submit too. With a gentle tug to your collar and the feeling of the leash loosening in Mihawk's grip, you know to remove yourself from his cock. You obey, sucking him hard once more and licking the shiny tip as you settle back onto your knees to catch your breath.

"What is it, love? Cat got your tongue?" Your golden eyed lover whispers to Shanks, placing another kiss on his jaw-line before pressing their foreheads together, "If not punishment then what do you want so badly to make you behave like this?"

Shanks swallows hard, his hooded eyes and pupils blown-wide with want as he gazes back at Mihawk, and with a hint of embarassment he replies, "Your attention...just want you to put me in my place too, on occasion..."

In response Mihawk presses his lips to Shanks' once more, not as rough as before, more passionate, more loving, tongue soothing over the Captain's bruised lip before licking into his mouth and inhaling to take the red-head's breath away.

You watch mesmerized as they kiss each other, Shanks a whimpering mess as your Sir all but devours him. Mihawk releases Shanks' hair with his left hand, and without hesitation reaches down to grasp the captain's aching cock, making Shanks keen into the swordman's mouth.

"All you had to do was ask, you brat," Mihawk mumbles with the ghost of a smile on his lips, swallowing the whine Shanks breathes out as he begins to stroke his leaking cock.

You rub your thighs together, slick with arousal as your drenched pussy flutters around nothing. You long to caress your aching clit, but you know you'll be punished severely for touching yourself without their permission. Obediently you keep your hands flat on the tops of your thighs, and press your legs firmly against the other so you can gently squirm for a smidge of contact.

Shanks' arm is then freed from the confines of Mihawk's back and the couch, and is desperately tugging at the warlord's cock. The both of them whimpering and groaning into each other's mouths as they jerk one another off in unison, making you ache to fuck yourself with your fingers in time with their strokes. You're drunk on the sight of them, your desire growing with each passing moment as you tremble with arousal.

You're not sure how much time has passed when the two men finally pull apart, panting as they rest their foreheads together once more and settle back onto the couch, oxygen starved and kiss-swollen. Both of their eyes flicker down to your kneeling form, regarding the desperate look on your face and rosy flushed skin.

Mihawk smirks, his grip on your leash re-tightening, his other hand returning to Shanks' hair "Enjoying the show, darling?"

"Yes Sir..." You nod earnestly, your fingertips digging into the tops of your thighs with anticipation, your cunt pulsing with need as you watch him tug Shanks' head back to look into his eyes again.

"Hmm, perhaps I'll let her watch me open you up sometime soon," Mihawk purrs to the red-haired captain, "Til' you're both begging for my cock."

You and Shanks moan together, a noise of bliss swallowed up as Mihawk presses gentle kisses to Shanks' plush lips. You bite into your bottom lip to gather the remainder of your self-control, you weren't sure how much more teasing you could take before you broke their rules and began touching yourself.

"But for now, I believe someone is feeling a bit left out, don't you agree, love?" Mihawk points his question at Shanks, gesturing towards you with a soft tug on your leash, "I think you should get on your knees so our princess isn't so lonely."

Eyes still heavily clouded with lust, Shanks glances at you with a longing look. His usual playfully dominant, and mischievous demeanor has been coaxed into submission. He shoots you a warm smile, and with one more kiss to the warlord's lips he says, "Yes, Sir."

Shanks peels himself from the swordsman's side, and drops to his knees beside you, his hand immediately grabbing you by the waist to collide with your mouth in a feverish kiss. You whimper as he opens you up, rolling his tongue against the sensitive flesh of your inner lips, sparks igniting under your skin as his hand frantically caresses your thighs, your breasts, your ass, any part of your skin he could reach.

"Daddy!" You gasp as his fingers finally dip inbetween your legs, 2 digits more than easily sliding through your folds into your soaked pussy.

"I don't want my princess to be lonely," he coos, peppering your face with soft kisses, his fingers fucking into you, "I'm sorry if we got carried away, I'll make it up to you..."

Your breath hitches in your throat as Mihawk tugs on your leash, pulling you to his lap so you are inches away from his cock, causing the captain's fingers to withdraw from you. Shanks crawls closer beside you, joining you as he rests his head on the warlord's lap, grinning his familiar lop-sided smile.

"Make sure she cums while you both take my cock," Mihawk orders Shanks, tone firm as they gaze at one another.

Shanks nods with understanding, "Yes, Sir."

"Now suck."

Without another word you do as you're told, taking him into your mouth whole and sucking with a light pressure until you reach the tip, where you swirl your tongue before popping it out of your mouth and licking a stripe from the base back up to the head.

Pleasure erupts in your core as you feel the euphoric sensation of Shanks' fingers entering you once more, spreading around your wetness to glide up and over your clit before diving back into your cunt. You moan, gripping the edge of the couch between Dracule's legs while you grasp the base of his cock to keep yourself steady.

In a swift motion Shanks leans over and repeats what you have just done, laving his wet, hot tongue from the base of Mihawk's dick all the way to the head and back down again, glancing at you half-lidded from the corner of his eyes.

You whine at his actions, your pussy clenching tight around his fingers as he simultaneously pumps them into you and takes all of your dark-haired lover's cock into his mouth. Shanks bobs his head up and down with a fast and sloppy pace for a moment, earning a low groan from Mihawk before releasing with a hard suck.

Shanks flashes his bright grin for a moment, switching to swirl his soaked fingertips over your stiff clit while coyly licking a bead of pre-cum from the tip of Mihawk's cock. You whimper with arousal at the action, biting your lip.

"C'mere and give me a kiss, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips still brushing against the dark red head of the warlord's member, as he continues his expert caress on your slick bud.

Your eyes roll back slightly, warmth shooting up your spine in ecstasy as you understand what he wants you to do. Eagerly, you lean your face close to his, pressing an open mouth kiss to Shanks that includes the tip of Dracule's cock.

"Fuck..." Mihawk hisses out softly, grip tightening on the leash as he threads his other hand in Shanks' hair, "Just like that..."

You and Shanks take turns licking, sucking, and kissing up and down Mihawk's length. You both comfort each other with soft spit-wet kisses, and gentle hints of tongue after he's individually shoved you both down to gag on his cock as he fucks your faces.

Shanks' fingers flutter soft and fast over your clit the entire time, making you cum with a cry as Dracule is more than halfway down your throat, forcing you to swallow around him, a growl tearing it's way from deep in his chest. Your orgasm ignites your nerves, fire in your belly as you twitch with satisfaction, your slick dripping down your thighs and coating Shanks' wrist.

You come up gasping, forehead pressed to Shanks' as you both breathe together, still panting over the swordman's throbbing dick. Mihawk watches enraptured at his two lovers, needy and wanton and sharing his cock, more than pleased with their unending devotion.

After what feels like an eternity of dizzying pleasure, of pleasing and being pleased, Mihawk tugs on your leash once more. He forces you to straighten yourself up and lean back on your knees, which makes Shanks' fingers finally leave you. Shanks mirrors your movements, sitting up straight with a toss of his hair and a smirk plastered on his face. By the looks of him you could hardly tell this cocky man just got throat-fucked on his hands and knees by his supposed rival.

"You've been a good boy, Red," Mihawk praises, leaning over to place a quick kiss to Shanks' lips, "I think you've waited long enough to cum down our precious treasure's throat. Wouldn't you agree?"

Shanks bites down a groan, his arm encircling your waist once more as he pulls you into a warm kiss, "Yes, Sir...would that be alright with you, princess?"

You nod frantically, pressing a few more eager kisses to his face and neck, "Yes, Daddy, please~"

Shanks wastes no time sliding back onto the couch next to Mihawk and spreading his legs, his neglected cock obscenely hard, the tip an almost purple color. You don't have to wait for Mihawk to tug you over on your leash, you crawl between your Daddy's legs and immediately swallow him whole.

"Fuck!" Shanks cries out, hips bucking frantically into your mouth as you suck him down, Mihawk whispering sweet nothings and marking up the side of his throat once more.

It doesn't take long for Shanks to reach his end, cumming with a sharp cry and his fingers threaded tight against your scalp, hips stuttering as you swallow every single drop of his cum.

You don't have time to breathe much or get your bearings as Mihawk yanks on your leash, extracting you from the captain's spent member and pulling you back down onto his, setting himself a bruising pace as he takes his turn cumming down your throat as well, filling your raw mouth up with a second helping.

"That's it darling, suck it," the warlord growls, "Every. Last. Drop."

You obey, eyes squeezed tight, throat as open and lax as you could make it as you whimper around his girth, always so eager and ready to please. Tears pricked at your eyes before sliding down your cheeks, your abused windpipe aching for air, saliva running down your chin.

With one last, shallow thrust Mihawk slumps back against the couch, panting in unison with Shanks as they ride the after shocks of their orgasm together.

Dracule rakes a hand through his dark curly locks, collecting his composure as he gazes down at your blissed-out form, admiring how you're still so beautiful with your messy hair, tear stained cheeks and spit-soaked mouth.

"Come here, my darling," Mihawk murmurs sweetly, as he gently takes the collar off from around your throat and gathers you into his arms, "You did so good for us, such a good girl."

His praise makes your heart fill as your mind tries to catch up with your body, the post-orgasm pleasure fading away as your throat and limbs begin to ache. He picks you up and places you on the nearby bed the three of you share, beckoning Shanks to join you as he tucks the both of you into the warm plush covers.

"I'll draw you both a bath, my dear ones," Mihawk soothes, pressing a quick kiss to each of your lips while pulling on a pair of his pants, "I'll be right back."

Mihawk leaves the two of you alone to retreat to the captain's private washroom, a heavy feeling of sleep beginning to engulf the two of you. You cuddle up close to Shanks' side, resting your head on his chest next to the scarred shoulder of his missing arm.

"I've never seen you like that before..." You smile, a bit giddy, "Is that what you two were doing before I came along?"

Shanks laughs quietly, running his hand over his face, "A little, sometimes. I like to give over the reigns every so often. I don't always want to be in control."

You giggle, draping yourself over him even more, placing a kiss under his jaw, "He mentioned something about opening you up...I would rather like to see that."

"I'm sure you would, you little siren," he chuckles, laying his head back against the soft pillows and closing his eyes, "I'm sure he'd be more than happy to show you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sorry this took me so long to write. The holidays and work were rough and gave me mad writers block. I’m working on my Sanji/Reader/Shanks cheater fic at the moment, hopefully I’ll get that out soon. Cheers!

#mihawk x shanks x reader #mihawk x reader #shanks x reader #mishanks #mishanks x reader #one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece live action #fanfiction #reader insert #x reader #akagami no shanks #dracule mihawk #fanfic

[visceravalentines]

folger's, eat your heart out

oh my god this got away from me so bad it's wanted in twelve states. but it's done (is anything ever done) and i'm.......i'm quite happy with it. i really hope you like it.

4.3k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. character study, lots of introspection. implied sexual content, nothing too explicit. so much kissing. hand job. light s/m. night terrors and vague mention of canon-typical trauma. mostly soft, so soft. benson is so in love and doesn't know it yet <3

read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

It’s a Tuesday. Benson knows this because his eyes snap open automatically at five in the morning even though he hasn’t set an alarm in weeks. He opens on Tuesdays, been on that schedule for so long he doesn’t even need the alarm anymore anyways. 

Well, he used to open on Tuesdays. 

He wakes up slow. Gets a savage satisfaction out of being somewhere unfamiliar, revels in it. With bleary eyes he traces the outline of the water damage on the ceiling and it’s different than the one back home. Room smells different too, stale sweat and dust and complimentary green tea bar soap. The mattress is too fucking soft, folds around him like dough. His spine is electric with pain. 

Fuck, he’s getting old. Twenty-nine going on fifty. 

He drags a hand over his face and wishes he could fall back asleep. Not going to happen. Not a chance with this marshmallow bed and the sun popping its stupid Raisin Bran fucking face through the blinds. Benson sleeps dark and cold and silent with his back to the wall. Arms locked in front of his chest like armor. Like a corpse on a slab. 

Or he used to, anyway. 

He can’t feel his left arm. He pushes his chin into his throat at an odd angle to look down at Randy, still asleep, curled up on Benson’s chest like a sandy-colored cat. His hands are tucked together, long, knobby fingers folded over each other, resting in the center of Benson’s ribs. The sun takes each strand of his hair and wraps it in gold, even his eyelashes, laying long and pretty on his cheeks. 

Fuck Folger’s. Nothing comes close to this. 

It’s surreal, still. Being here, being anywhere, together. Like, together. Unbelievable the way he fits so neatly under Benson’s arm. He rests his lips against the crown of Randy’s head. He does it because he wants to, because he can. He inhales slow and deep and he smells warm and bright and a little grimey. Like summer. Like sweat and mud and the most beautiful blue sky you’ve ever seen. Fucking perfect, he’s perfect. 

He's peaceful now, which is saying something. Randy’s a terrible sleeper. Sharing a bed with him is punishing. He thrashes in his sleep, digs elbows into Benson’s ribs and jolts him awake in a panic ready to fight, and then Benson has to stare into the abyss and count to a thousand before he can calm the fuck down and drift off again. 

He never talks about his nightmares. Benson knows he has them, but he knows better than to ask about shit like that. On occasion he’ll wake up to Randy tugging on his arm, pulling it around him like a security blanket. He doesn’t mind that in the least, rolls over half asleep and wraps himself around Randy’s sweat-soaked body. He pins his arms to his sides for both their sakes, buries his face against the back of his neck, and that’s that. Problem solved. 

Benson, on the other hand, sleeps like the dead–save for the nights he wakes up screaming and doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Doesn't even know he's awake until he sees Randy’s face floating above him in the dark, wide-eyed like some twig-limbed owl. Until he feels his hands on his face, wiping salt from his cheeks. 

Shit sucks, because then he has to turn all the lights on and pace the room, chewing on a cigarette and cracking his neck ‘til it's sore, trying to walk it off. Randy sits on the bed hugging his knees to his chest and watches him like a hawk. But he doesn't speak, doesn't try to push it, waits patiently until Benson crawls back into bed and lets him decide where he wants to be. 

He can't stand to be touched during and after those episodes, always hated when his ma would try to smother him when he was still young enough to smother, but funny enough, Randy’s okay. Doesn't seem to count. Maybe it's because he lets him set the pace and doesn't get his feelings hurt when Benson curls up on the edge of the mattress with pillows stacked between them. Either way, most times Benson falls back asleep with his head tucked into the hollow of Randy's neck and those skinny arms slung around his shoulders. And the light on.

The night terrors aren’t new, but it’s been a while since they’ve been this bad. It’s like they’ve worked their way to the surface of his brain. Like a splinter finding its way out of the skin. He doesn’t like Randy seeing him that way, but he can’t really help it. He used to sleep on his stomach with his face in the pillow so he wouldn’t wake Ma and have to deal with her on top of everything else, but he had so many nightmares about suffocating he can't do it anymore. 

But Randy never lets Benson apologize in the morning, insists he doesn't mind being woken up. He's told him that again and again, so often that Benson’s starting to believe him. They’re both fucked in the head just enough that it makes it okay. No hard feelings. 

Last night was quiet for both of them, for once. Benson wishes he was still asleep to take advantage of it, but this is nice too. He can feel Randy’s breath on his collarbone and it’s driving him crazy, a little bit. He’s not used to nice things. He’s always scared he’s gonna fuck them up somehow. Sometimes he wants to fuck them up. Track mud across the carpet, break a dish. Say the wrong thing. Bite down too hard. 

He’s learning how to be gentle. He’s trying, like, really trying. Randy doesn’t make it easy, that’s for damn sure. The way he whimpers when Benson’s hands are on him isn’t fucking fair. The way he bares his throat and gasps and begs. And then he shows Benson the marks afterwards like he’s proud of them, like Benson wasn’t there when he got them. 

“You did a number on me,” he said last night with this sheepish grin, almost giddy, leaning over the sink to look at himself in the mirror. Prodding at the bite mark on his shoulder, the hickies on his neck. Never mind all the shit he couldn’t see from that angle, but Benson saw it. The shape of his body all over Randy’s in bruises. 

Made him feel kinda good and kinda bad, sort of guilty, but then Randy looked over at him with those eyes, hair all mussed, bottom lip cherry red and swollen, and said with unmistakable adoration, “You’re an animal, Bence.” 

Un-fucking-fair. 

But he’s trying, he is. Trying to ease up on the reins. Trying to be soft, because Randy needs soft no matter what he asks Benson for in the dark. He can’t fuck this up. Can’t fuck him up; at least, not any more than he already has. On the list of things he’s ever wanted to fuck up in the world, Randy is at the bottom. 

And it’s good too, the lovey-dovey bullshit. It’s good. It’s great. The way Randy falls asleep on his shoulder halfway through the movie, any movie, no matter how good it is or how loud it’s turned up or how much Benson promised him he was gonna like it. The way he bumps his knuckles against Benson’s when they’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, just because. Just to touch him. He’ll catch him smiling at him for no reason, all the time, just glance over and there he is looking like they’re on their way to Disney World. No one's ever smiled at him like that. He’s not even doing anything to earn it, he’s just living his fucking life. The fact of his existence is apparently an ongoing novelty to Randy. 

Crazy fucking kid. 

Benson feels like he’s body-swapped with someone on better terms with luck and the skin doesn’t fit quite right but fuck, he’s figuring out how to make it work. He doesn’t get handed things like this. Good things with no strings attached. He’s always kind of on edge, always waiting for someone to break down the door and haul him away. For someone to pause the laugh track and punch through the set. For Randy to suffer a moment of clarity and tell him to go fuck himself. 

He’s never had this kind of good, never expected it. Never really thought he deserved it. And Randy sure doesn't deserve this kind of bizarre sideways bullshit that makes up the best that Benson can offer. He deserves better from him. From everyone. From life. Benson keeps trying to tell him that. 

Too bad he can't quite convince him. Too bad Benson’s selfish and couldn't let go of him if he tried. Wouldn't even try. Wouldn't turn out well. 

He runs his thumb across the angle of Randy's cheekbone, feather-light. He wants to let him sleep and he wants him to wake up and he doesn’t know which he wants more. He draws lines across his cheek, from the corner of his mouth, along the edge of his jaw, carefully, carefully, so gentle his hand shakes. He’s probably never been hit in the face. Probably never had a black eye, broken nose. Shy, scared, beautiful thing. 

There’s been a violence in Benson for as long as he can remember. Bone-deep. And it’s a magnet, pulls other violence right to him like wasps to fresh meat. Sometimes he loves it, sometimes he hates it. He always falls back on it, no matter how hard he tries to leave it behind or wrap it up so tight it can’t get out. He fails again and again. But it doesn’t scare Randy anymore. In fact, it’s like Randy gives it justification. Permission. Validates it. Like maybe it’s hung around this whole time just so Benson could learn how to use it, for his sake. To protect him. At least until he figures out how to protect himself. 

And Randy’s learning, he is. Stands up taller, takes up space. Orders his own food at restaurants. But Benson kind of likes playing guard dog. Likes being needed in that way, and others. Likes being needed by Randy in particular. 

Benson’s already killed for him, so it’s like he’s always trying to find a way to top that. That should be hard, right, but Randy makes it easy. Gets excited over nothing, little shit like finding both their names on some dumb souvenir keychains. Or when he brings him a bag of plain fucking potato chips, his favorite. Or when Benson covers his eyes before the money shot in some gore flick because he’s a pussy and also it dredges up some shit for him that neither of them wants to think about. The way he lights up about that stuff, stupid little stuff, makes Benson feel worthwhile in a way he can’t describe. 

For all he goes on about helping Randy become the best version of himself, the version of himself who’s confident and decisive and knows who Trent Reznor is, sometimes Benson gets the feeling like maybe, Randy’s the one making him better. Not changing him, not really, just…making him kind of okay. Making it all kind of okay. There are so many things Benson’s taken for granted, never thought twice about. About himself, about his life, about where both of those things would end up and how they’d get there. Randy makes him reconsider. Makes it worth reconsidering. 

It feels wrong to stop him. Might as well let him try. What’s it gonna hurt?

Sometimes he wants to laugh in disbelief at it all. Who the fuck is he these days? Going soft right and left and glad for it. He feels like he’s on another planet. Hundreds of miles from home, no phone, no way back. Shooting towards the sun with everything he needs inside his shitty little rocket ship of a car. 

Randy’s a spaceman for sure, no question. Ever since they turned west and hit the desert, he hangs out the window when they drive at night through all that nothing, head craned back to look at the sky. 

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” Benson asked him the first time, when he rolled down the window and started climbing out like a fucking lunatic. 

“Looking at the stars,” Randy said. “There’s so many, Benson…you should look.” 

“No thanks, I'm driving.” 

“I mean…you could stop first.”

“I’ve seen stars, Randy.” 

Randy was halfway out the window so his reply was almost lost to the wind. “Not like this.” 

Benson reached over and grabbed him by the pocket of his jeans. “If you fall out I’m leaving your ass behind.” 

He let Benson pull him back inside then, and stared right at him in this new way of his. This new, brave Randy who had finally shaken some of that paralyzing fear of confrontation and figured out how to be direct. “No you wouldn’t.” 

Benson had looked at him for as long as he could without drifting into the other lane, and then looked at him a little bit longer and had to course correct. “You’re right, I wouldn’t.” 

He’s right. He wouldn’t. 

Benson lets the memory slide away and finds Randy gazing up at him here and now, eyes crusted with sleep. He feels a twinge in his chest like a guitar string being plucked. The whole room is golden now. 

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, and even he can hear the velvet in his voice. Feels self-conscious about it for a second until he gets distracted by Randy wrinkling his nose to stave off a yawn. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, peels his cheek off Benson's chest and leaves a pink circle behind that matches the one on his face. He rubs at his eyes and gives him that dumb Disney World smile. “Sleep well?”  

“Slept great.” Benson swipes away a stray eye booger from the inside corner of Randy’s left eye. “Nice to have one single solitary night where I don't have to fight you to the death.”

Randy bites the inside of his cheek, looks bashful. Benson fucking loves it. “Well, I mean…you wore me out pretty good last night.”

Benson smirks, takes hold of the back of Randy’s neck and pulls him back into his shoulder. “Yeah I did. I oughta do that more often.”

Randy worms his arm beneath the covers and around Benson’s waist and it gives him honest-to-god butterflies. He runs his fingers through Randy’s hair. It's getting fucking long, almost falls past his ears. He keeps asking him to cut it and Benson keeps refusing. It's got this little flip at the ends that he thinks is cute. He bets it’ll grow out into gorgeous fucking waves when it hits his shoulders. 

He takes a fistful and squeezes, does that a couple times before he tugs his head up so they’re nose-to-nose. Randy’s eyelids slide half-closed and his lips part on reflex. 

“What you wanna do today?” Benson murmurs. He can feel Randy’s breath on his chin, licks his lips. 

“...just this,” Randy says, almost a whisper. 

“That’s it?”  

“Yeah.”  

“You’re not bored of this?”  

“No.”  

Benson almost smiles. “Me neither.”

He pushes Randy's head back down into the curve of his neck, rides the swell of satisfaction he gets from his frustrated groan. “Don’t worry, babe, we got all day. How about you, how’d you sleep?”  

“Good.”  His thumb moves back and forth along Benson’s hip and it’s electric, feels like he’s got lightning bolts shooting around under his skin, makes his muscles twitch. He’s still not used to that. Gentle shit like that. “Had a dream about you.”

“No shit?”  He’s not sure anyone’s ever dreamt about him before. He’s kinda flattered. “Was it hot?”  

Randy snorts. “No, it wasn’t…like that. We, uh…we were at the beach.”  

Benson screws up his eyebrows, looks down at Randy. He can’t see his face from this angle. “The beach?”  

“Yeah. We were just, like…there. Just messing around. I mean, there were other people there, but they didn’t…matter.”  

Benson doesn’t know what to make of this. “Huh. That’s it?  Just…beach day?”  

“Yeah. Well, I mean, until the end. A shark showed up and you…punched it so hard that it died.”  

Benson does a genuine double-take. “I punched a shark. And it died?”  

Now Randy twists, looks up at him, smiling. “Yeah. It was awesome.”  

It sounds kind of awesome. Benson pokes him in the ribs. “You’re a fucking dork.”  

“I’m just telling you what happened!”  

“Look, Randy, I’ve never been to the beach, but I’ve seen Jaws about one thousand times and I know for a fact a shark would swallow my ass whole. And it would eat you and not even know that it happened. I’m not saying I’m scared, I’m just saying, don’t count on me to save you from a fucking sea monster.”  

Randy doesn’t laugh and Benson looks at him and he’s making that face, that little frown and the line on his forehead that means that Benson just said something puzzling. Here we go. He tenses up without meaning to, braces for it. Grits his teeth, pops his knuckles. 

“You’ve…really never been to the beach?”  

Fuck, he hates this feeling. Like loss except you never had the thing in the first place. Like realizing maybe you’re supposed to be mourning something but you don’t really know what that something is or why it’s so important. He knows his upbringing wasn’t shit compared to Randy’s, compared to most kids’. He just wishes he could grow out of giving a shit about it. 

So he gets defensive. He always gets defensive. “No, I’ve never been to the fucking beach. What’s so super-duper special about a bunch of sand?  And water that’s mostly fish piss?”  

Randy props himself up on his elbow, leans lightly on Benson’s chest, completely unfazed by his attitude. “Well…let’s go. You can decide for yourself.”  

“To the beach?” Benson says incredulously. “Randy, we’re in fucking New Mexico.”  

“Not–not today.”  Randy waves his hand dismissively. “We can leave tomorrow. Make a beeline for California.”  

And that’s that. The magical realism of the newly reformed Randy Fucking Bradley. No pity. No shame. Just the simplest solution in the whole damn universe. 

“California.”  Benson pictures the Beach Boys and hippies on rollerskates, rolls his eyes. “Sounds dreamy.”  

“It’ll be worth it, Benson, I promise.”  Randy looks at him with those puppy-dog eyes, chews his lip, slides his arm around Benson’s waist. He knows what the fuck he’s doing, the little shit; he’s too smart for his own good. “We don’t have to stay. We can leave as soon as we get there. I just…I think you would like it.” He leans a little heavier against Benson’s ribs, nudges his foot with his toes. “Please?”  

Benson huffs. He’s not a fucking pushover, swear to God he’s not, but it’s like he can’t help but fold these days. He’s gonna spoil the guy rotten if he’s not careful. He has to at least pretend to put up a fight, just to say he tried. “What if I say no?”  

His brow furrows. The puppy-dog eyes flick down to his mouth and back. “Well...maybe I could convince you.”  

One of Benson’s eyebrows pops up. He likes the sound of that. “I’m listening.”  

Randy sits up unsteadily on the marshmallow mattress and straddles Benson’s hips, tucking his hands beneath the pillow on either side of his head. Benson looks up at him, the angles of his face kissed by the sun, and feels a pleasant sort of ache in his chest. It's almost the same feeling as when he finally gave in and pulled over and let Randy sit on the hood, leaned back next to him and looked up at the stars and felt big and small at the same time. 

“It’s amazing, Bence…you can't even imagine.”  His thighs press against Benson's waist, wrists press against his shoulders. 

“Yeah?” Benson licks his lips. His eyes can’t move fast enough, trying to take in every piece of his face, of his body, his name written all over all of it in red and purple. “Tell me about it.”  

Randy's hair is hanging over his face like a messy kind of halo. He peers through it with this earnest intensity, this lion cub ferocity that might be the hottest thing Benson's ever seen. He shifts his weight to one hand and strokes the sensitive spot behind Benson’s ear with his thumb, sends chills spidering across his skin. 

“The smell of the water and–and the sound. You never forget it. And it makes you feel…it’s massive. It’s amazing.” 

“You know what else is massive?”  

Randy stifles a chuckle, looks away, color rising in his cheeks. Benson grins. “Listen to me, Benson.”

“I'm listening!”

“It makes you feel…it makes you feel small, I guess. But not in a bad way. We could just walk around or maybe…swim a little bit?”

Benson pictures Randy with wet hair, dark and wavy, water rolling down his neck. Salt water, salty skin. “Could be nice.”

“We can do whatever you want.”  He curls his toes against Benson’s thighs. “We could get ice cream and sit in the sun.”

The image of melted sticky sugar dripping over Randy’s hand, down his arm, hits Benson like a truck. Knocks the wind right out of him. He thinks about licking it off, watching him suck it off his own fingers. He wraps his hands behind Randy's knees and grips harder than he means to. 

“That sounds, uh…that sounds good. I’m into that,” Benson says and he sounds like a moron in his own ears but it makes Randy smile so it's fine. He can feel the blood rushing away from his brain as fast as it can and he’s about ready to give in and end the discussion. Move on to other things. 

Randy gets that earnest, uncertain look in his eyes all the sudden and touches Benson's face, brushes his thumb across the lines at the corner of his eyes in this foreign kind of way that Benson’s brain registers passively as tenderness, and all the sudden he can't breathe right. His throat’s fucked up like he’s getting sick. He swallows hard. 

“I want to–I want to kiss you in the ocean,” Randy says quietly. “I think…I'd really like that.” 

So now this is the only thing Benson cares about. His number-one goal. A shining and glorious reason to be alive. He’s going to kiss Randy in the ocean if it’s the last thing he fucking does. 

“How about you kiss me right here, huh?”  He cups the back of Randy’s neck and pulls him in, hard, yanks him really, because he can’t fucking help it. Because he wants him right now, right fucking now. 

Randy resists, just a little, on reflex, and then gets overeager and his lips crash into Benson’s, but that’s okay. Randy kisses like he’s starved for it, always, no matter how long they’ve been at it. Even now, first thing in the fucking morning, he opens his mouth expectantly and moans when Benson slips his tongue past his teeth, one hand twisting the sheets, the other gripping his shoulder. He’s greedy, wants more, always more, is done depriving himself after fourteen years of solitude. 

They’re a perfect match because Benson wants to give it to him. Anything he wants, everything, always, no matter where they are or how much skin is showing. He wants to share his space, his spit, his air, his anger, every inch of the car, every inch of the sky. All the bad nights. All the good ones, too. All the golden mornings that come after. 

Benson laps at Randy’s bottom lip, catches it in his teeth and pulls. He digs his fingers into the half-healed shadow of his own hand on Randy’s waist from all the times before, opens his mouth to catch the gasp that wrenches free from his chest and swallows it whole. 

“Benson,” Randy says, breathes his name like an exclamation of wonder. He presses the length of his body against Benson’s, weaves his fingers through the curls at the back of his neck and squeezes tight. He moves his hips in short, subconscious little thrusts, makes a desperate, hungry noise in the back of his throat. Benson can feel him hard against his stomach and fuck, he better pop a handful of painkillers for his back because they’re not leaving this shitty bed anytime soon. 

Randy leans to the side so there’s a little breathing room between them. He runs his hand over Benson's chest, down his stomach, wraps his fingers around his dick and the sound Benson makes is strangled, animal. 

“We can go, right?” Randy says. He strokes him like he can barely contain himself. “We can leave tomorrow?”

Benson arches his aching spine against the bullshit fucking mattress, digs his nails into Randy's back, feels lucky. Feels like a spaceman. 

“Fuck yes. Fuck–yes–you got it, baby.”

Randy lights up and it's like staring into the sun. Transcendent. Fucking beautiful. 

He twists out of Benson's grasp and ducks beneath the sheets and Benson can't fucking stand it. Can’t believe it’s real. He feels weightless, so light he just might end up way out there with all the stars. Nothing comes close to this, never has, never will. It’s not fair. He probably doesn’t deserve it. But no one ever said life was fair, now, did they?  Sooner or later the odds had to end up in your favor.

He closes his eyes and grips the sheets and lets it be, lets it all be for once. Because for once, it's good. He's good. He's great. And they’re leaving tomorrow. For California.

Sounds dreamy. 

tagging a couple friends who have gassed me up and been so patient sdlkfjlsk i just adore you guys <3

@crumb @ace-of-hearts-and-spades @cherubgore

#the passenger #the passenger 2023 #the passenger fanfiction #the passenger 2023 fanfiction #stockroom syndrome #randy x benson #ranson

[angelt0rres]

time for me to answer the question thats been plagueing this fandom (me) for centuries (minutes)

How Often Did the M*A*S*H Crew Attend Mulcahy’s Services?

Colonel Blake

Henry would attend for holidays and whenever he felt he had a personal crisis. Lorraines affair, his second child, those were times where Henry would be on the front pew trying his best to focus on the sermon (and failing, groaning with his head in his hands and distracting the father terribly).

Colonel Potter

Colonel Potter is almost always there Sunday morning, 5 minutes before so he can nab his usual spot (even though everyone knows not to sit there). The only times he doesnt make it (besides emergencies of course) are those rare, beautiful mornings where his body practically pulls him up and onto Sophie for an early morning ride.

Major Freedman

Sidney tries to attend a service whenever he’s in town, mostly because he enjoys Francis’ unique perspective in his sermons, but he also has a self described intellectual fascination with all different religions. He has all different religious scriptures in his office in Tokyo, he brushes up as often as he can so he can better relate to his religious patients.

Majors Houlihan/ Burns

I put these two together because they only go together unless the other is sick or indisposed, in which case the former doesn’t go at all. They attend regularly unless they’re preoccupied… 😉

Major Winchester

Charles never cared for church, he almost never goes unless he’s truly bored out of his skull- or on holidays. When he lived with his parents in Boston he would make excuses to why he wasn’t able to attend, a habit he curiously continues with Pierce and Hunnicut even though they couldn’t care less. All about keeping up his image, I guess?

Trapper/Hawkeye/BJ

Another case of both parties going or neither going at all. Trapper and Hawkeye wouldn’t go unless they could tell Francis was low in spirits, both trying to lift him up by attending and singing the hymns as over-the-top as they could. Hawk and BJ keep that tradition alive, but BJ drags Hawkeye to a few additional services when he can, too.

Klinger

Klinger LOVES going to church even though he isn’t religious. He gets to show off his best outfits, sing his heart out, and (most of the time) spend quality time with Mulcahy, Potter, and Radar. He only doesn’t go when he’s too hungover or tired from excessive weekend debauchery but he keeps a lid on that since he loses most of his money gambling on Fridays.

Radar

Radar didn’t go to church as often when Henry was in command, though he still attended at least once a month as a promise to his mother. He goes more often now that Potter is around because of that paternal bonding he doesn’t even realize his subconscious is seeking. He also genuinely likes sticking around to ask Mulcahy questions about the bible. He loves some of the larger than life books of the old testament- people like Sampson and Androcles remind him of his favorite comic book heroes which Francis invokes to help him relate to the scripture.

#m*a*s*h #mash #mashposting #hawkeye pierce #charles emerson winchester iii #max klinger #trapper john #sidney freedman #charles winchester #colonel potter #sherman potter #radar o’reilly #margaret houlihan #frank burns #bj hunnicut

[gotham-ruaidh]

thermodynamics - a 7x03 story

Ian had been gone from camp for some time – his departure had been rather sudden, following a brief but promising glimpse of pheasants in the treetops – but not too long to start worrying.

Had they pushed harder this morning, they would have made it out of the forest by nightfall. But tonight would be another night sleeping rough beneath the trees.

Claire didn’t mind.

That afternoon, as she unpacked the saddlebags and gathered wood for the campfire – Jamie within earshot, speaking in Gaelic to the horses as they drank from a nearby spring – she realized why.

For months – since the fire, the loss of her children and grandchildren, even the whole terrible night with the Browns and the even more terrible aftermath – a small, pinching weight had settled between her shoulderblades. A low, dull ache that no herb or gentle massage could cure.

Psychosomatic, to be sure – but that didn’t make the weight of it any less crushing.

But today, as she bent to gently set down an armful of branches for their fire and stood up, reaching to soothe the ache that she knew would be there…it wasn’t.

She puzzled it out as she continued about her chores. Finding the skillet and spices and knife for cooking; digging out hers and Jamie’s bedroll and setting it half behind a bush; worrying the pouch full of gold bullets sewn within her pocket.

It was the first time in years – since they’d come to the Ridge, really – that she hadn’t had some kind of schedule. Free to take an extra day to get to Wilmington. Free to wander, to explore glades and caves and stop to admire especially large trees.

Free to spend more time with Jamie. Not just in the evenings over dinner or before bed, but to share all moments of the day. Sharing space, and food, and sights, and smiles.

A warm hand settled on her shoulder – and she startled.

“Hush, a nighean,” Jamie soothed. “I’m sorry, I thought ye had heard me.”

Swallowing, she turned to face him. Touched his stubbly cheek with the back of a hand. Worrying the new fine lines at the creases of his eyes.

“It’s all right.” Her voice just above a whisper. “I missed you.”

A fleeting half smile, his hands enveloping her free hand, squeezing. “I told ye I wouldnae go far. I didn’t.”

He knew what she would do even before she did – and he was ready, lips soft and strong as she kissed him.

“I miss you.”

He drew her closer, arms locked around her waist. “We’ve time, before Ian returns…”

Her lips just lightly touched his, beath warm against his mouth. “You must feel it. The need. How strong it is.”

He swallowed, nodding. Touched a small spot in the middle of his chest. “Right here.” His hand settled on her stomach, above her navel. “And here.”

She nodded. “It’s always there, but…more now. Like when we were on the road.”

His hand glided up, tracing the buttons of her shirt, settling on the cool skin of her neck. Eyes locked on hers. Watching her lips part in a small gasp.

He smiled. “Gathering your wee herbs. We fooled nobody – no’ Dougal, or Ned, or Murtagh, or Rupert. Willie, maybe. But I didna care. I had to have you.” Leaned in for a quick kiss. “I wanted your body, but I craved your heart. I have it now, aye?”

Another quick kiss. “I didn’t think I could ever feel this again. Is it because we have lost everything else?”

Frowning, he pulled back a bit. “What are you saying? We haven’t, Claire.”

“We have.” Her hands skimmed his shoulders – worried a new tear in the back of his shirt that she’d need to mend later – eyes fixed on a tree behind him. “We’ve lost our home, our family, our responsibilities. Our routine. No more farming or whisky making for you. No more patients for me. No more waiting for Missus Bug’s dinner, or sitting with you in your study as you talk to the tenants. No more…” She cleared her throat. “No more reading with Bree and Jem by the fire.”

High above, a hawk cried out.

“Don’t hide from me. Look at me, please.”

She didn’t want to – but she did. Found his eyes shining with the same tears.

“Do you no’ remember what I said to you once? That nothing is lost, only changed, Claire.”

She did remember – a night in these same woods, not too long after enduring yet another loss.

“We haven’t lost our memories. Our family isnae wi’ us right now, but they’re alive and safe. Our tenants can bide wi’out us for a while, but we’re coming back. When we’re in Wilmington, and in Scotland, you’ll have patients again and I’ll find my way again. Changes, aye, but not losses.”

He brought his forehead against hers. “I haven’t lost you, Claire. You haven’t lost me.”

She closed her eyes, nodding.

“I can’t even bear to think about what’s to come. If I was to lose you on the crossing.”

“Dinna think of it.” He kissed her cheek.

She shifted slightly and found his mouth in another kiss.

Another kiss.

“We’ve time afore Ian returns wi’ supper, a nighean. That is, if you’re not too decrepit to lie wi’ me in the leaves.”

She smiled against his lips. “I’ll grab a blanket.”

When Ian returned with a pheasant, sometime later as dusk settled in the forest, he frowned that the fire had not yet been started. But he lit it, set to work plucking the bird, sorted the spices and knives. Knowing his auntie and uncle would be quite hungry.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #outlander 07x03

[funficwriter]

A Wolf and A Snake - Letters' Interlude #4

Taglist: @yue-caelum, @reyy-chanx, @mis-disaster, @ladyarchiviste, @keigo-hawks-takami-simp

Warnings: Cursing, sexism, corruption, mention of violence, some yandere shit but you know that by now. Moral dilemma? Lol.

From: Lady Y/N Balthazar - Balthazar Manor, Court Region, Fontaine

To: Duke Wriothesley of Meropide, Fortress of Meropide, Liffey Region, Fontaine

Wriothesley,

I know I risk sounding like a broken record saying this, but I really do wear each day. I'm just happy that I can still write to you because I feel that it's one of the few pleasures I have left. Between my piano lessons and reading time being interrupted by meeting with Archandelle, my parents' constant nagging, and the fact that I constantly have to sneak around their backs even for things unrelated to my marriage prospects... I'm exhausted, my love. And troubled. That's why I'm writing this.

When our last meeting ended abruptly, there was so much more I wanted to say to you. I was barely scraping the bottom of the barrel and our day lives tore us apart again. At least Frosty is good company and patiently waiting for me to finish this letter and send it to you.

Yesterday, I snuck out to the police station under the pretense of 'shopping'. Do you remember that young officer I once mentioned? Jacques? He looked scared when they let me in his office, even though everyone else seemed excited for him. I guess the visit of a noble does that.

I'm a terrible person, Wriothesley.

The first time I came here, I picked him specifically because he was young and new and a little naive, as all new cops are. He was so ready to help me, even more so when I said: "An injustice is being done upon me. I need evidence to counter it.". He almost jumped out of his seat until he understood what I meant: The 'injustice' is merely procedure. What woman says this, only for it to be her engagement that she, her parents, and the suitor agreed to? What sort of injustice was noble tradition that was carried out for centuries?

And I shoved the cash on the table, and it increased in volume. And I invoked his poor family that he was trying to feed, the girl he wanted to marry... "Do you really want to wait forever on your shitty wage, when you could propose in an hour? All you have to do is give me what I asked for. It's not that hard.". He couldn't. I was corrupting him, and by Focalors, what sort of noble am I - a Balthazar no less - if I use the very enemy of justice for my own selfish gains? All of this to not get married?

It was lengthy. It was uncomfortable and I could feel the fibers of my being twisting to accommodate this act that I would never have dreamed of committing. It was like exerting a muscle I didn't use, but way more intense. In the end, he gave me the pile you saw last time.

I did it again this evening. Wriothesley, last time, I was ridden with guilt. I think you'd understand why better than most. But this time? I started justifying it. With each reason I gave as to why this was fine, good even, my guilt washed away. After all, there would be no need to resort to such extreme measures if I could just be with you from the start. And then I thought: "I've never justified my father's deed until I started committing it. I am more like him and less just than I thought.". I wanted to cry. Who is this new person - no, these new people and this new logic? Why am I less like what I used to be?

Fuck my life, why do I have to be less like what I used to be just so I can marry the one I love? A privilege that many girls today have?

I'm sorry for the plaintive note today. I'm just... So torn. Yes, I think 'torn' comes closest to it. I am turning into what I was warned about my entire life, but it's not like I'm doing it to embezzle money or get someone wrongfully convicted. I just want to be with you, but even that's too much to ask in this stupid class and family...

Total truth? There are times where I want do more. Once, my father was talking to his friends about how excited he was for my prospects. Do you know what my brother said? "I was worried she wouldn't get her eyes off of that Meropide mutt. At least she's probably forgotten about him, as she should.". They laughed a lot and later joked about Father's lack of control during my first social. They said that they couldn't tell who needed a leash more: You for being "a dog", or me for giving you "loving eyes" back then, as if I wanted you for a bit. Father dismissed them by talking about another man's daughter and her bad marriage. He was embarrassed, but I wanted to go over there and scratch his eyes out. Maybe my brother's too, and the other men who were joking. I wanted to wrench my hand into Lord Carmichael's back and make his wife a widow to be judged. Maybe then he'd enjoy it down in hell. Or have some emotional intelligence.

I'm thinking of you, and hoping we can see each other soon. Maybe my spirits will be lifted....

---------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Duke Wriothesley of Meropide - Fortress of Meropide, Liffey Region, Fontaine

To: Lady Y/N Balthazar - Balthazar Manor, Court Region, Fontaine

Y/N dear,

It was only a matter of time until you sent me such a letter. For one, during our latest meeting, you looked like you had way more to say. I can only look forward to a life where the dawn doesn't shut us up and away.

First of all, please don't apologize for the sadness that you feel. Unlike that idiot suitor and father, I don't expect you to be happy 24/7, even if at your own inconvenience. I may call you 'my doll', but I know you've got a far wider emotional range than that.

I don't know how effective saying this would be, but your message reads a lot like my younger self. How it saddens me that you had to realize the double-faced quality of Fontainian justice like this... Even if you knew it deep down, as you grew up and understood how so many noblemen get away with their crimes, engaging with it is a whole greater beast. Sometimes I wonder whether there are judges, prosecutors, lawyers and other potential lawful agents who have lost faith in our judicial systems. Many of our current judges are indeed doing their best to combat it (I know Neuvillette will never rest as long as this issue remains), but it doesn't change the fact that many are still being failed today. Orphans. Young noble ladies. Poor people. Us. By Focalors, us.

As Meropide's administrator and a noble, I'm certain that you would think of me as a man of justice, just like many others. I think of myself that way, too. I know I have the power to end the laws and traditions that are screwing us over (and sometimes I wonder: How many other couples like us?). It sounds hypocritical, doesn't it? I am hiring back-alley investigators and threatening data out of whoever knows what I need. And you, a lady raised in the hearth of justice, you're lying to your parents and corrupting police officers. How could we possibly be good, you may ask?

After these few months, I came to a conclusion: A man of justice should not mean being a doormat, especially if the injustice will cost him his love.

For one, the change that could benefit us is nowhere near as fast as needed. What does this result in? Potentially happy couples are being torn apart. The point behind justice is to protect one's right to a life that he desires, that his loved ones desire and that harms no one. Is our union based on economic exploitation, power dynamics, sexism or leveraging? No. How is it that most noble couples stand on these crimes, while the only one with ours is that I am not fully human and that you want me? I am not going around slaughtering people or terrorizing the city. You, an angel sent by Focalors herself, have never commissioned your husband to kill, silence or bribe. Archons, what did you do to deserve this fate when I can think of women far more rotten than you?

Now you may counter me and say that you have engaged in bribery yourself, and that's bad. But you know what? It doesn't matter to me. I couldn't care less about it. This may sound worrisome to hear from a man of justice. But as a man, without fancy titles and more emotions and feelings, I'm getting real sick of this. I don't bring myself to care about judicial principles if an obvious double standard is taking place, one that is taking you away from me. I know what makes me get up and do my best everyday. I know what I'd turn savage for, who I'd risk a life sentence and a downfall for, and it's not justice. Justice can't enjoy brownies with me on a star-lit night. Justice can't lie in my bed. Justice can't wake me up with a good morning kiss and take me to go swim in Belleau. All of that is you, and it will always be you.

I care about justice. I really do. But justice, along with your father, money and Fontaine, can go fuck itself if it compromises my wife.

I look forward to the day that the noble class is held accountable, and choice unions are the norm. Until then, I'm just going to have to fight tooth and nail for my own. It's actually a must, my dear. We need to set a new precedent for the upcoming generation. Backing down is not going to challenge what your parents and their fellow nobles have always done.

I know your schedule is getting more hectic by the day. When you can, though, please let me know if a free window opens up. Perhaps we can see and update each other on our findings.

Always yours, and you're always mine,

Wriothesley.

#yandere wriothesley x reader #yandere fontaine x reader #wriothesley x reader #a wolf and a snake #yandere genshin x reader

[tonyboneysblog]

A Fleeting Memory

synopsis: you and keigo meet at a party and play hide and seek, plus almost kiss

note: hawks thoughts are put in italic!

Word count: 1.5k

“Hawks do you have any friends, at all?”

this was an out of the blue question and kinda offensive coming from a worker of the P.S.C.

“Why do you ask..?”

the worker sighed softly, “Well you see, my daughter is throwing this house party but apparently she ‘doesn’t have enough people’. So I was wondering if you wanted to spread your wings a little?”

keigo faltered for a minute, thinking it over.

“oh…I’d like that a lot.”

replied Keigo Takami, the boy with no friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

why was Keigo doing this?

he was never really interested in the party life so what’s the point of going to some random girls party just cause?

because he was terribly lonely that’s why.

“Alright hawks were here!”

the worker named “Akari” said

“Let’s hope you have fun yeah? I have to go back to the work place so don’t do anything stupid while I’m not here!”

shutting the car door then walking up to the door, his nerves on fire, then knocking.

before he could even get to the next knock, a good looking girl threw open the door.

“Aha! Takada your here!” the girl yelled.

the only thing going through hawks mind right about now is “who the hell is takada??”

the girl grabbed his hand a dragged him into a nice a warm living room.

“Everyone, this is Takada! my dads co-worker.”

oh so Takada is a fake name? could’ve been a little more creative.

the group excitedly starts cheering, very nice of them to do to a stranger….

“Okay so, Takada, let me introduce you to everyone.” The girl then starts pointing at everyone one at a time, “The brown haired one is Aoi, that’s Ayaka, this is Hiroto, keiko, akimitsu, and-“

holy mackerel who the hell is that…

“This is y/n, and I’m Habiki!”

careless whispers must be playing right about now because that is the most jaw dropping mouth watering- oh god their coming towards me.

“Hey there, come around her often?”

the girl named y/n joked.

What do I say? holy wow she’s so cute…what if she thinks a look stupid?? Do my wings look goo-

“Earth to Takada?” She laughed.

Takada? Oh wait that’s me.

“A-Ah y-yea I come here all the time!”

okay now what the hell was that keigo.

“How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking of course…” she spoke softly towards the end.

“15.” Keigo barked back immediately.

“That means I’m one year older than you!” She said cheerfully.

“So you’re 16?”

of course she’s 16 she literally just implied that.

“Yep! I’ll be 17 in (birth month), when’s your birthday?”

god I love her voice.

“It’s uh…December…”

“That means you’re a Capricorn! Ever been interested in astrology?” She asked.

“I…uhm..”

Before keigo could respond suddenly the girls name was called.

“Y/n! Come write these names!” The girl named…Aoi? yelled across the room.

“Eh? But why I’m talking to Takada!?”

“Because your hand writing is the prettiest!” The girl yelled angrily.

Everything about her is pretty, of course her hand writing would be too…and what the hell is astrology…?

“darn…I’ll be right back Takada!” She bounced off towards the kitchen to help with something, while hawks sat on the couch, patiently waiting for her to come back.

during this period multiple people came up to hawks speaking to him briefly, not as interesting as y/n though…

Habiki suddenly came out of nowhere shoving a hat filled with paper in hawks face…”Draw!” She barked.

Hawks took out a piece and then slowly unraveled it. It said…hider?

what the hell does that mean.

“Okay everyone has drawn from the hat of the wolves and sheep!” Habiki said.

what the hell does that have to do with hiding..?

“We…shall be playing… HIDE AND SEEK!!” Habiki said full of energy.

what’s the hell is a hide and seek?!

Then softly a hand tapped hawks shoulder… y/n did.

“You know how to play right? Just find a hiding place until someone finds you.” She said quietly as if not to embarrass him about the fact he didn’t know what hide and seek was.

your a damn angel I swear.

“Now our seekers are Aoi and Hiroto shall be seeking, So go and hide quickly!” Habiki said loud.

They suddenly start a timer and everyone separates to hide while hawks is left in shock.

wait how the hell am I supposed to hide with thews big wings?!

Hawks quickly leapt from the couch booking it towards the stairs.

Maybe I could hide under some bed covers? But that’d only work if they were messed up.

Hawks quickly peeked into a room and..the bed sheets were a mess!

“Bingo.”

Hawks dives into the covers like a kitten playing with a cat toys, throwing himself under only to met with..you.

“shit! You scared me Takada…” y/n said quietly.

shit…should I leave? No there’s no more time left to hide what do I d-

“No worries you can hide with me.” She smiled sheepishly.

god i wanna marry you.

“T-thanks…I would’ve been a cooked bird if you pushed me out.” Hawks said in a whisper level.

“We never got to continue talking..”

“y-yea?”

“Mhm…”

Awkward.

Suddenly there was loud running up the stairs, “FOUND YOU HABIKI!”

“…”

“…”

“I suppose habiki got caught…”

“And we’ll get caught if you keep speaking so loud, Takada.”

won’t lie that was kinda hot.

“m’sorry..”

“…”

at this point your staring into hawks soul, what are you thinking? hawks definitely doesn’t know.

“Can you feel anything that touches your wings? Kinda like an extra arm?”

random but okay.

“uhm…I don’t know..”

“Can I touch them?”

HOLY MARCELLO SHE WANTS TO TOUCH ME. not like that hawks. Chillax go with the flo-

“They look so soft..n’pretty..”

is it getting hot under these sheets or is it just me…

“y-yea I’m okay with that…”

“Really?” She lights up.

She slowly moves the caress the top joint of his wings.

“Fuck, that feels nice.”

“They’re so soft..” she stops, “thanks for letting me touch them..”

Wait that was it? Cmon touch a little more…!

“It felt good..kinda like when someone massages your temple?” Hawks says.

“Your name isn’t actually Takada is it?”

okay now what the holy hel, how in the world did she know-

“You’re too pretty to be just a Takada…”

She says softly.

oh thank the lord she’s just trying to flirt with me.

“N-nah that’s my real name! I think…”

He mumbles off into a sentence that can’t be heard.

“What was that?”

“I said that your….” He mumbles off again.

“One more time?”

“Isaidthatyourprettytoo….” He says far too quickly with a red face.

“I-I..well thank you…” she blushes brightly.

Her face is so red. I wanna kiss her. She so pretty, so nervous, so nice, please kiss me, please kiss me, please kiss me.

“please kiss me.”

KEIGO WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU SAY THAT ALOUD??

“O-oh gosh..your quite forward aren’t you??” you whisper yell.

“M’sorry! I-i didn’t mean to say that aloud!”

Hawks rambles trying to save himself.

“H-hey it’s okay! I mean I definitely wouldn’t mind b-but..!” She says quickly, and loud.

Hawks tries to hide his red face in his wing, unable to face the situation at hand.

“M’really sorry..”

“you don’t have to be sorry…” she softly touches the side of his face.

uh oh.

“I-I wouldn’t mind..”

Hawks faces you with a bright red face and slightly teary eyes from the embarrassment.

“would this be your first kiss, Takada?”

AHHHHHHHHHHHH-

“y-yes ma’am…” hawks says softly then turning his face back to his wing.

“Ma’am?” You say confused, “m’only a year older than you..”

you never know I might like older women, I mean I definitely like you.

“Takada?”

“Y-yes?” Hawks says.

“how bad do you want to kiss me out of ten?” You say quietly.

“so bad…” hawks says softly.

you slowly part your lips aiming towards his

fuck she’s so close, she smells so good, her breath smells..minty? oh god she’s gonna kiss me.

Hawks face gets redder and redder, parting his lips until-

“TAKADA I SEE YOUR WING!”

shit, did it bust out of the covers? Damn this guy for real ruined the whole moment.

“looks like you got caught, pretty bird” you says quietly, So, so close to the place hawks wanted you the most.

If hawks died right now- actually he feels like he just did. You so close calling him these names-

“TAKADA GET OUT OF THE BED WE FOUND YOU!” Aoi screamed.

Hawks jumps out of the covers, still hiding you.

“Fine, fine, you caught me…” he said jokingly

“You okay Takada? Your face is really red..” Aoi said with concern.

“Just being under the covers for so long…no need to worry.” Hawks said quickly.

Then after the game the two of you didn’t even speak of the cover situation, the hawks had to leave. Waving off everyone then getting into Akari’s car, his eyes lingering on you while they drives off.

“So, hawks, how did spreading your wings go?” Akira said.

wonderful, I thank you for me meeting my future wife. Next time I see that amazing beautiful angel I’ll give her a million kisses and then call her-

“SHIT!” hawks screamed.

“WHAT, WHAT HAPPENED?” Akira yelled.

Hawks pouted sadly.

“I forgot to ask for her number.”

At least keigo could live with the memory of your beauty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

p2 when yall😉

#keigo takami #mha #mha x reader #mha fanfiction #mha hawks #mha takami keigo #bnha keigo #keigo x reader #keigo x you #anime #fanfics #takami keigo #my hero academia #houseparty #party #public safety #bnha hawks #hawks x reader #my hero academy fanfiction #fanfic #Spotify

[greypetrel]

thank you for answering, here is my reaction request, feel free to deny it if it's something you don't feel like doing:

Dragon Age 2, between Acts 1 and 2. Mage!Hawke, Fenris, Varric, Aveline + whoever else you would like to include. FenHawke being the main focus:

Hawke faints while walking around Kirkwall, surprising everyone, eventually they find out Hawke has been starving themselves to make sure their family has enough to eat… I headcannon that magic and spellcasting consume a lot of the bodies natural resources, so mages need to consume more calories, hence why they like bread and cheese so much

Hello!

Sorry if I’m late, it took me a little thinking and I am generally a little intimidated from writing Fenhawke, as much as I love to read it. It feels like so much has been told already, but I eventually took the courage. Thank you for pushing me towards something I wouldn’t have done on my own, I hope you’ll like it!

I interpreted it as “how each would react seeing Hawke faint” and went with it. For Fenris, it’s a little ficlet. I had my fenrismancer Hawke in mind, but I tried not to make it too specifical for him. I only allowed myself one little concession, which is some terrible humour (and a reference to pop culture, let’s pretend in Kirkwall they know Backstreet Boys as a travelling band of dancing minstrels). Adding Sebastian too even if he's not recruited yet. It felt bad to leave only him out, and I think it'll be sweet to have him around. everything under the cut, because with no one's surprise, IT LONG.

Varric: “Hawke? Shit, Hawke! Don’t do this to me, you’re too heavy for me to bring you back.”

He will bring you back on his own if he has to. You’ll wake up in a room at the Hanged Man, with Varric and Anders in the room. Anders will sigh and bid you good morning, and comment that you have been lucky in not bumping your head against something. You just need to eat, and plenty. Before going, he will tease Varric about acting like a mother cat defending her kitten. Once alone, Varric will sigh and tiredly scold you: You only should have told him that you had trouble with food. Didn’t you trust him for help, already? After Bartrand, you’re a little like family, and he’ll love to help at least you. No, he’s not at all offering you a room and plenty of food because he may or may not have made you the main character of a thing he’s writing. Pointless slander.

Aveline: “Hawke? Hawke, wake up!”

She didn’t move you, in case you bumped your head too strong. She called a guard passing by to bring Anders here, you’re waiting for them to be back. She’ll ask you how you’re feeling, you fell down like a wet shirt and she got worried. You’re also looking pale, and she told you that you were overdoing it and she doesn’t want you to be sick and- Her rant gets interrupted by Anders. He heals you, checks that your skull isn’t in fact broken, does a check up. He frowns and tell you that you really need to eat. Aveline’s worry only grows: You’re not eating? Why? How? Why didn’t you ask for help? Of all the shenanigans and reckless things, she wasn’t expecting this. She grumbles, helping you stand and forcibly bringing you to the first inn in sight. On her: she never really thanked you for helping her out of Fereldan and into the city, this seems a good chance as any. And oh, the Guard Captain will know that people in Lowtown have no food. He’ll know it.

Anders: “What- Hawke!”

You’ll wake up with him glaring daggers at you, complaining that you’re an idiot, and you thought you could hide it with him? Oh no. He knows of being hungry, and you really only had to ask him. He’ll produce from his pocket a linen cloth with some homemade snack in it. It’s a bar made with cereals and honey and dried nuts: the wife of a patient gave some to him this morning, he’s happy he was late to meet you and he forgot the one he wanted to eat for breakfast in his pocket. He’s fine, he ate yesterday and you didn’t. He’ll urge you to eat: it’ll give you enough strength to make it home. He'll tell you that you can’t help anyone if you starve yourself: and that if you need help, you have friends to ask for. You can ask him, after all: you showed him your friendship more than once already, and he’d be glad to give something back.

Isabela: “Hey! It’s too soon for swooning!”

She managed to drag you into a shady corner, out of the way. She’s sitting beside you with a dagger out, to make sure no one gets any ideas. She’ll ask you if you made sweet dreams, and tease you that she’s beautiful, but you could at least contain yourself and avoid swooning. It was really embarrassing on your part and look, she was forced to show a conscience and that was very rude of you. She’ll tease you while fussing over you, and a joke after the other, it’ll turn out that you’re just hungry and not eat it. You can tell her, or your stomach will grumble. Her smile will turn sad, but she’ll cast everything off with a joke. That’s just it? You’re hungry? Why didn’t you say sooner! She knows just the place: the dirtiest hole in the Docks, it’s not the Hanged Man but it can hold its own. More interestingly, the innkeeper owes her a favour, and it’s surely lunchtime, somewhere. She could eat and she will: you can come with her if you’d like. She won’t make you feel bad one minute, and accepting her help will only seem like your own decision, not as pity.

Merrill: “Hawke? Hawke! Oh Mythal, no no no!”

You wake up with a balsamic smell in your nostrils: focusing, it’s Merrill’s hand, crushing some dried leaves with her fingers. Your feet are up on a wooden crate, and she rolled her scarf under your head as a makeshift pillow. She smiles when she sees you’re awake, and lowers her hand to start trafficking with her pouches. She tells you that she got worried, and didn’t know what to do. Thankfully you were close to the stalls she buys her fruit from, and she asked the kind lady that owns it for help to move you to the side. She also gave her the crate, you know that when you faint is very important to keep your feet up? So the blood can rush to your brain again, you need that more than your feet. Not to say that you won’t need your feet anymore! She fumbles with words, and soon enough you’re both laughing. She keeps smiling, and tells you that when people fainted, in the clan, the Keeper always said that some sugar was just what was needed. She picks some dried fruit from a pouch, and urges you to eat it: it’ll make you feel better right away, she’s sure. She dried the plums herself, and always carries them and some roasted nuts with her, as a snack. You can have it, come on. She gave you a full handful -your handful of it, but if you make her notice, not thanking her right away, she’ll casually shrug and say she can’t never tell with humans, you’re all so bigger than elves. Her pouch is already secured at her belt.

She’ll wait for you to eat and be ready to stand up again, chatting all the way about her clan, and what she did when someone was sick. She pushes on good food and plenty of rest, very casually. Once you’re ok, she’ll insist to stand by your side, and accompany you somewhere. She’ll suggest the Hanged Man -it’s close!- or Anders’ clinic, but will walk you home if you insist. Anywhere you go, you’ll be discreetely served food without an explanation. It’s not lunchtime, but people are eating with you. If you go home, the next morning there’ll be a basket full of groceries and food. No note, nothing at all: but a small pouch filled with more dried plums.

Sebastian: “Sweet Andraste, Hawke!”

You wake up in a shady corner, this time under the covering of a stall. He knew the stall-owner, they met in the Cathedral and prayed together. He sells cheese, here, you can have some, lad, it will make you feel better. Sebastian isn’t doting on you, properly, but he is helpful. He asks you if you’re feeling well, and if he can help. Please let him help, it’s the least he can do to repay you from your kindness. Pointing out to him that he doesn’t have to do it, you didn’t help him to have anything in return will make him sigh, heavily. It’s with the utmost seriousness and sincerity that he’ll answer, promising you that he’ll help you nonetheless. Not only because the Maker wants him to, but because your differences don’t matter much. He won’t leave any companion he spent time with in need. He may not be sure of what he wants to do in life, but he’s very sure that he wants to help you and show you some kindness. As you have shown him. Can he offer you something? Can he help? Your choice in accepting it or not: he won’t recognize what’s going on, but whether you want to be brought at home, to Anders or anywhere else, you have him by your side. He’ll stop by your house the next day to check you’re all right. The moment he’ll know you haven’t been eating? It’s not stealing from the Church if the food was meant to be shared with those in need.

Fixing a Hole (🎶)

[ FenHawke || No warning || 2389 words ]

And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong, I'm right Where I belong, I'm right Where I belong See the people standing there who disagree and never win And wonder why they don't get in my door - Fixing a Hole, The Beatles

The world blurred first, and then it quickly became black.

“Hawke?”

It was the last thing Garrett heard, noticing with exhilaration what was happening. A last moment of clarity when he felt his limbs losing strengths and saw the world shifting. Fenris’ voice sounded alarmed, which only contributed to the excitement of the moment. Thankfully, everything went black and he lost conscience before he could blush.

He dreamt of the farm.

A sunset in early summer: the air was still warm from the long day, and the sun painted the wheat field in firey oranges and golds. Everything looked gold, and Garrett smiled at the sweet memory. He could smell the fields, the earth baked by the sun, and he knew that if he turned, he would have met with Bethany, leaning out of the windowsill and calling him for dinner. He longed to turn and see her, and at the same time knew he shouldn’t. It was still too painful, at least in his dreams, to see his little sister there, smiling. If only…

You can have it.

Someone whispered, voice brought by the wind. Garrett closed his eyes, away from the sunset, away from childhood and happiness. He had been happy, then: he didn’t fully realize until everything was lost. But it was not the first time he dreamt of home. A home where they thrived, a home where they had been happy, a home where he didn’t let Bethany die, and Carver hadn’t hopefully been killed by the Wardens he left him with. A home where he could look at his mother in the eyes without feeling blame and guilt creeping up his throat.

It wasn’t the first time and he knew what to do.

Take a deep breath, concentrate on how your chest rises and falls, on the sensation of air filling your lung. Stay in the moment, in the present, the past is gone and the future an illusion. The dirt under your feet, the smell of summer in the air, the warm caress of the last sunrays: they are gone, you can’t have it, they don’t exist anymore. They burnt and you couldn’t have done nothing to prevent it.

He concentrated on the good things he had: he was alive, his mother was alive, things were looking up and soon enough he would have sold everything and had the money to get a home for real. He had some friends, some real ones that knew he was a mage and he didn’t need to hide from. He loved them, and they loved him back. They wouldn’t want for him to stay there, lose himself in dreams. Kirkwall was nice, from the bazaar in Hightown the sunsets were pretty. Prettier, when he was there, leaning on the balcony and chatting with-

“You can have this. You can have me.”

He startled, his eyes opened as he felt a hand closing on his own. At his side, there was Fenris, looking at him with his usual serious expression. Something melted in his eyes, tho: something soft took place of the constant challenge he saw in them, the suspicion and mistrust. His heart did a double leap as he saw his lips curve up in a smile.

“You just need to say yes,love. And we can stay here. Forever. Far from Templars, far from Magisters. Far from guilt. It will be just as you want, and I will never leave your side.”

For the first time in years, Garrett felt tempted. He didn’t realize he had it so bad for the elf: he was good company, reliable in battle, and he liked him, sure. Physically, and his humour. He also knew it was impossible, between him being a mage and the other’s past. And now… He realized that yes. That was what he wanted. Something impossible in real life, and…

… Something was wrong.

The way Fenris turned, the way his lips opened in a wide smile, showing teeth, and he leaned so minutely towards him, still holding his hand.

“What about Danarius?” Garrett forced himself to ask.

“What about him? He doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t you want to get your freedom? End the chapter?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I have you, I’m happy like that.”

Garrett closed his eyes, the illusion clear as day in front of him. He held his hand, lingering on what never could have been for a moment still. It had been nice, until it lasted.

“He would never say that.” He opened his eyes and smiled at the demon. “And I would never say yes to him. Not in this way.”

He explained. Kindly, because it was just the way it was. Getting angry wouldn’t have brought him anyway.

The face of Fenris rippled and twisted in a snarl, the details got blurred.

I know your one desire.

“Oh well, as the wise man said.” He sighed, letting that hand go. It had started to grow talons and pinch uncomfortably against his own, anyway. “Ain’t nothing but a heartache.”

He quietly sang, stepping back and snapping his fingers.

Magic, at least, always came easier in dreams. He watched, as flames engulfed the demon, Fenris’ shape twisting and morphing, showing horns until he blinked, skin turning purple, teeth growing sharp. A piercing shriek filled the air, and soon enough everything was on fire. The wheat in the field, the old oak tree at the end of the courtyard, the chicken coop, the well and the farm, Bethany still on the window, frozen in place.

Would you set your own home on fire? The demon shrieked, in a last attempt at swaying him.

Garrett smiled, genuinely sorry for ruining the demon’s day like so. It was its nature, after all, and a part of him was grateful for the small glimpse of clarity it gifted him. It was easier to fight, if you knew your limits and what you wished.

“I already did.”

His eyes opened, and he looked blearily at… Wooden planks that looked old and like they were just about to crumble to dust.

Not the sky framed by Lowtown sandy buildings.

Weird.

“You’re awake.”

Garrett turned, blinking bleariness away. He didn’t recognize the place, but he recognized that voice.

Fenris was sitting on a stool, leaning his back against a wall whose paint was so scrapy and dirty that it could only mean that they were at the Hanged Man. For a moment, Garrett thought it was yet another dream. But the elf was typically grumpy, and frowned at him with an expression that was all too familiar.

“Am I?” He asked, still dubious.

“Hawke.” Fenris rolled his eyes, already exasperated.

It only made Hawke grin, calming down as he realized that it wasn’t, maybe, a dream. Only one way of knowing it. He just needed to wait for the right occasion for it.

“Where are we?” He asked instead.

“The Hanged Man. You fainted on the street, we were close.”

“You brought me all the way up here? I’m flattered.”

“So little you think of me, to believe I would have left you in the middle of a street?”

Hawke turned to his side, to face him better. His head still spinned something nasty, and he knew that standing up would not have done him any good. He saw one too many patients in Anders’ clinic to know that he would have had to be dragged up to bed again. It wasn’t a particularly appealing option. Or well, it was, but the context was wrong, and as many things he would have joked about, that wasn’t one. So, he just settled down better, and looked at Fenris in front of him, turning serious.

“I do not. But thank you anyway.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

He saw the other scoffing, averting his eyes to the side and shrugging it off with a remark on how irresponsible it would have been, after a whole year of looking up for one another in battle. It brought a smile on Garrett’s face.

“How are you feeling?” Fenris asked, after a while.

“I’ll be good, I just need to lie down a bit.”

“Hawke.”

“I swear! I’ll take a nap and be as good as new. Nothing happened.”

“Hawke.”

“What’s the worse it can happen? Maybe I’ll die, so what. Everybody dies, sooner or later, is just another part of life. Never understood why people are so scared about it… I’ll be one Mage less, at least.”

“Hawke.”

There, the chance. He didn’t think about why that “Hawke” sounded different. It was all typical, but…

“Do me a favour.” He asked him, sighing as he rolled back heavily on his back. “When I die, cremate me.”

“Are you-”

“It’ll be my last chance to have a smokin’ hot body, after all.”

He arched his back, stretching just for show. The low, exasperated groan that followed was part a victory, part a relief. It wasn’t the Fade after all. In the Fade, all the demons laughed at his jokes, they were a great appreciative public.

“If you’re jesting, it means you’re feeling better.”

Hawke turned, grinning from one ear to the other as the elf, in a clear complaint, kicked back the stool and rose up. He saw the faintest trace of a smile on his face, and it was then impossible to pretend he was sorry.

“Leaving me so soon? All by myself? What if I die.”

“I’ll risk having you on my conscience.”

He reached the door and opened it, placing half a step on the threshold. He hesitated then, eyes lost fixating on something in front of him and brows furrowed in thoughts. Hawke stayed there, not that there was much choice but that.

“I am not so cruel as to leave you in such a state.” He said, finally, as if each word burned in his throat. He turned towards Hawke, still a crease between his brows that wasn’t totally obscured by a silver lock of hair. “I know we have… Our differences, but the next time, please tell me.”

Hawke frowned at that.

“Tell you what?”

He couldn’t know, could he? He would expect Anders to notice, or Merrill. People with experience in treating others. Surely not the broody warrior. As much as he tried to flirt with him, suddenly the idea of being so much in the open, so vulnerable and raw, scared him. He swallowed, not daring lowering his eyes first.

“Just tell me, Hawke.”

He didn’t say another word: just nodded to the side, casting him a look that was all too eloquent, and on another person, another less broody and aloof person could almost have been taken for worry, went out the room, without a word more or waiting for an answer.

Hawke turned on his back and groaned aloud, covering his face with both hands. Of all the people he could faint in front of, it just had to be Fenris. His typical luck. The one he shily wanted to impress, and the one that he didn’t really feel like he could complain about his situation without sounding whiny about it.

He wondered how he was gonna pay for the room.

He wondered, a little later, how was he gonna pay for the full meal that was brought inside the room. Steaming soup, a whole roast with vegetables, drowned in gravy on the small table before he could protest. Peas and potatoes with a thick slice of ham. Two pints of beer.

Hawke almost fell ashamed, but it was a fleeting moment. Fenris shrugged, as he took a big gulp from the tank and scrunched his nose in disgust, glaring at the offending beverage. It broke the tension, and soon enough they both were eating and drinking, friendly arguing about whether beer or wine was better. Hawke laughing and Fenris smiling.

“Fenris?” Hawke asked, in the end when conversation has naturally ended and he felt better, both physically than emotionally.

“Yes?”

“I do not think you’re cruel.” A pause. “I never did.”

An eyebrow rose in his direction, skeptical, as the only answer he got.

“You just have shitty opinions about us mages, but cruel? Nah.”

He huffed, shrugging it off, and rose again, changing the topic abruptly and informing him it was time for him to go. And that the room had been taken care of and not to worry about it. He could stay until the next morning. A pang of guilt and shame rose back in Hawke’s throat, but he nodded, without complaining.

“The next time you feel like I need to change my mind, please find better ways to prove it.” The elf told him, helping him out the bed when Hawke insisted to at least rise up to bid him goodbye. With his belly finally full after days, he felt strong enough for it.

“Were you worried?” Hawke meant it as a mock, but it slipped out of his lips without a bite. It sounded all too hopeful for his tastes and he would have bonked his head against the wall.

“Yes.” Fenris just replied, seriously enough.

“Ah.” He averted his eyes, embarrassed. “Well, I’m sorry and… Thank you, I mean, for helping me. You didn’t have to.”

There was silence, for a full minute, heavy and tense. Or maybe it was Hawke reading too much into it, as the topic fell dangerously close to feelings and crushes he knew were totally one-sided and would never have been reciprocated.

“I am of the understanding, that helping is one of the basic requirements of friends.” Fenris finally spoke. “It would be pointless to be so lucky as to have some, without accepting help in return.”

He patted, quickly, his shoulder, and nodded a goodbye, leaving him for the night. Hawke, smiling again, stepped out of the door, watching his back as he strode down the corridor.

“Fenris?”

“Yes?” He stopped and turned.

“Is the mysterious benefactor that paid for this Varric, or is it you?”

Fenris bent one corner of his mouth.

“I promised not to tell. But I’d order the lobster for breakfast.”

Garrett Hawke hated Kirkwall. He missed the countryside, the wheat fields and the pumpkin patch, fresh vegetables and a clean stream. Today, tho, he hated it a little less, and let hope bloom in his chest.

#da2 #dragon age fanfiction #character reactions #male hawke #fenhawke #petrel replies #garrett hawke #writing petrel #I know Merrill's longer but uh- I'm a Merrill stan. #This should probably have been done in two posts #but oh well #if you're here from 10 minutes you MAY have noticed I'm wordy uwu" #hope you liked it and it was what you meant!

[appalachianapologies]

hello friend! have you finished MASH? I haven't ever read any MASH fic but if you feel like it how about something in the aftermath of either 9x10 Operation Friendship where BJ has compartment syndrome in his arm or from 4x18 Hawkeye where Hawkeye has a concussion and monologues the whole episode?

hello! not quite yet but i am getting through episodes scary fast. my daily routine has been lots of crocheting with mash on and i'm developing equal amounts of both carpal tunnel and brainrot. 4x18 (which hulu has as a different number for some reason) was literally one of my favorite episodes. alan alda singing broadway my beloved

"You are not Radar."

"Right again, Hawk."

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Hawkeye adds, “Unless you’ve grown a foot and a half.”

“Still me,” BJ confirms, gently smoothing hair off the side of Hawkeye’s skull. “After some questionable pantomimes and a terrible game of charades, Potter thought I’d better go grab you in case you were hurt. I guess it’s a good thing I did.”

“You missed my show,” Hawkeye pouts, a grimace appearing on his face as he tries to bat away BJ’s hands. “Ow. Stop it.”

“Hold still.”

“I could’ve gotten you first row seats, Beej.”

“There’s a lot of dried blood here. How long were you bleeding for?”

“You know, I got to hear all the greats before they came through New York.” When BJ touches a particularly tender spot, Hawkeye pulls out of his grasp, gasping with the movement. “Beej!”

“Sorry! Sorry.” At his friend’s betrayed look, BJ promises, “I won’t touch again. Lemme look at your eyes.”

“Why, I haven’t gotten permission from your father yet.”

“Hawk-”

“We’re not even on our third date.”

“Hawk! Look here. C’mon, you know concussion protocol just as well as I do.”

Finally following his directions, Hawkeye adds, “You know it’s actually a myth that concussed patients can’t sleep?”

“Your pupils are barely dilating,” BJ mumbles back, though mostly to himself. “Alright, c’mon Hawk, let’s get back to camp.”

Frowning, Hawkeye replies, “I haven’t finished my one man show.”

“Oh-ho, yes you have. Let’s up. Up and at ’em. There’s a bed in post-op with your name on it.”

It’s a tense few seconds, betrayal clouding over concussed eyes, before Hawkeye eventually acquiesces. “Fine. But I’m picking the radio.”

“Hawk, if you manage to get a station working on a jeep that doesn’t even have a radio, you can pick the music for as long as we’re in Korea.”

#apparently the Hawkeye episode is actually not a fan favorite. which blows my mind #i LOVE that episode so much i've literally already rewatched it and i haven't even finished up the show #alan alda giving a concussed monologue for 25 straight minutes?? HELLO??? I'D WATCH A FULL SEASON OF THAT #this man is so talented #and his reaction to taking a sip of the moonshine lives rent free in my head. ''ah- of course! battery acid :)'' #anyway no way they'd send radar if they knew hawk was hurt so i sent bj instead. i'm just assuming the girl was somehow able to convey that #hawkeye had some sort of head wound #in which vi actually writes #prompts #mash #M*A*S*H #hawkeye pierce #i might write the 9x10 prompt too #perhaps send in another cheeky ask haha

[novoaa1writes]

worthy

pairing(s): queen ramonda x reader, queen ramonda & okoye (platonic)

summary:

“No.” You’re quick to stop her, scurrying forth and taking her hand in yours. Speaking out of turn, laying hands upon a member of the royal family… all punishable offenses. If the Dora Milaje saw it, they’d have you face-first on the ground surrounded in a ring of gleaming spearheads before you could blink. But now, here, she is not Wakanda’s Queen. She is Ramonda—your Ramonda.

Her hand is warm and lax in yours, and the way she’s looking at you… so open, so trusting. So patient. “This is my home, s’thandwa. A place where I feel safe and loved. But it cannot be that if you do not feel it, too.”

Or: Okoye can be a little overprotective sometimes, especially when it comes to Ramonda. You cannot fault her for it.

cross-posted on ao3.

word count: ~1,600

rating: general audiences

warnings: spoilers? for wakanda forever? i guess? tbh the only “spoiler” here is just that i mention ramonda’s hair in brief detail, because it’s different from the first movie’s look. also vague allusions to reader’s past relationship(s) being not terribly fulfilling.

notes: reader’s gender is not specified here. with me, i write these with the reader-insert characters in mind being typically female, non-binary, or transmasc, but it’s really all up to you

— —

The Queen returns in a mood. The way she strides through the rounded entrance to her chambers with downturned lips and all the intrepidity of a woman on a mission is enough to tell you as much. 

You’d only been lounging about in her chambers for a short time, having stopped to visit with Shuri in the laboratory on your way over. 

You were not native to Wakanda; as such, your visits spanned few and far between. Though, admittedly, that had been subject to change as of late—what with your increasing… familiarity (for lack of a better term) with her Queen. 

With this familiarity, you were granted certain privileges. The most obvious one being: You were permitted access to her private chambers—yes, even when they were empty. A weighty concession, to say the least. 

The others, though not quite so rife with implication, were no less significant: You could walk freely around Birnin Zana as you pleased, provided you wore a set of Kimoyo beads and checked in with Ramonda—or someone she trusted—every hour or so. As guest of the Queen, you were permitted an additional (non-Wakandan) companion to Wakanda—that is, a plus-one—provided that they were vetted first by the Dora Milaje, and second by the Queen herself. You’d never exercised that particular exemption, and did not foresee a point in time that would find you doing so—but the offer was there all the same, and its connotation was not lost on you. 

And so on, and so forth. 

These allowances aside, your, shall we say, place in Wakanda is in its infancy, still. Fragile, one might say. Since the start, the Wakandan sentiment towards you has ranged from wary acceptance to unequivocal mistrust.

… This, as evidenced by Okoye’s unwavering presence at the doors of Ramonda’s chambers. She’s been watching you like a hawk since the moment you arrived, spear poised, ready to strike at any moment. 

You’ve not bothered asking her why she does so. Despite what people seem to think, there do indeed exist stupid questions, and that would unequivocally be one of them. Similarly, you do not dare do her the injustice of attempting to offer any well-meaning sentiments, or assurances that you do not seek to do the Queen—or Wakanda—any harm. Actions speak louder than words, they say. And Okoye—who’s said scarcely more than five of them to you since your first meeting—quite plainly agrees. 

You do try. You tell her ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye,’ and, when the setting permits, you’ll even ask her how she is, or communicate that you hope she is faring well. (More often the latter, since any question you ask of her—those excluding an official matter—are continually left unanswered.)

It helps that you’re not white, as Shuri told you. Ramonda had scoffed at her daughter’s impudence, but did not disagree. 

And yet, the fact remains that you are not Wakandan—nor African, even—and before you lies a long, uphill path to gaining the Wakandan people’s esteem. For better or for worse, you are determined to climb it. 

Regardless—in the present moment, you shut the book you’d been reading when Ramonda enters, turning to give her your full attention. She displays no indication that she’s noticed you, merely dismisses both of her trailing attendants and Okoye with a wave of the hand and a quiet, “Out.”

The attendants exit swiftly, and Okoye is quick to follow—though, not before giving you a look. You imagine it translates (roughly) to: If you make this worse, I will not hesitate to skewer you. 

You give the barest hint of a nod in reply, but it is in vain—Okoye is gone. The doors shut behind her with a quiet noise, leaving you and the Queen alone.

Wordlessly, Ramonda divests herself of her headpiece—a gorgeous, deep-purple, crown-like thing—and discards it neatly on the dresser. Her hair is shorter these days, a neatly-trimmed ‘fro with springy, platinum-white strands. You know it was not done out of vanity, but you cannot help thinking it suits her all the same. 

As you watch, her eyelids flutter shut and she lets loose a long, measured exhale. You can practically see the tension seeping out of her; the taut line of her shoulders easing, the furrow between her brows dissipating. The queenly affect, the burden of her crown—all of it seems to divest itself of her in waves. And, in its wake: the woman herself, tall and proud. 

Your heart clenches, strangled with affection (and, perhaps, something stronger), but you do not speak. You dare not tarnish the moment. You know all too well that it is likely the first truly quiet moment she’s had all day. 

You’re content to wait patiently until her eyelids flutter open and her calm gaze sweeps the room, seeking—

She looks down. The furrow in her brow reappears when she spots you sitting cross-legged on the carpet, her painted lips pushed out to form a frown. “S’thandwa sam,” she murmurs, “why are you sitting on the floor?”

An embarrassed flush heats your cheeks. Your skin is too dark to render it visible, but Ramonda will notice it all the same. She notices everything about you.

“I, erm…” You scramble uncouthly to your feet, cheeks aflame. “Okoye was here.” You feel quite underdressed, all of a sudden; Ramonda, a vision in her ceremonial robes before you, and you in… socks and street clothes. 

Ramonda’s lips twitch with something like amusement even as she cocks a single brow and prompts, “Oh?”

Something twists in your gut. This time, it’s not anxiety. You shove it back down; tell it to take a Valium. “She… She does not trust me,” you manage.

Concern flares in Ramonda’s gaze. “You did not wish for her to see you in my bed,” she surmises, the teasing pretense having fled entirely from her tone. 

“I don’t… I don’t wish for her to think that I take my…” you pause, wanting for the proper word, “position here for granted.”

Ramonda considers this for a moment. “Okoye will think what she wishes to,” she tells you gently. You nod. “But,” she adds, her features hardening as her tone grows cutting, “it is certainly not her place to make you feel unwelcome. I will speak with her—”

“No.” You’re quick to stop her, scurrying forth and taking her hand in yours. Speaking out of turn, laying hands upon a member of the royal family… all punishable offenses. If the Dora Milaje saw it, they’d have you face-first on the ground surrounded in a ring of gleaming spearheads before you could blink. But now, here, she is not Wakanda’s Queen. She is Ramonda—your Ramonda. 

Her hand is warm and lax in yours, and the way she’s looking at you… so open, so trusting. So patient. “This is my home, s’thandwa. A place where I feel safe and loved. But it cannot be that if you do not feel it, too.”

Warmth erupts in your chest at her sincerity. You stroke gently over the skin of her knuckles in an effort to convey it. “Okoye is protective of you—” Ramonda cocks a brow as if to say ‘You think? ’ “—but I’m sure it will not be news to you when I say it is because she loves you. I cannot fault her for that.” The ‘because I love you, too’ goes unsaid. (For now.) “To be entirely truthful, it actually reassures me, somewhat.” At Ramonda’s inquisitive glance, you shrug and add: “I know you’re in good hands.” 

Ramonda’s brows creep higher up. “I am more than capable of looking after myself, you know,” she retorts, though her tone is not contentious—but rather, tinged with mirth. 

“I know, my Queen—you are very strong and mighty,” you acknowledge, only partly in jest.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “And you, my little minx, are quite mouthy today.”

You feel a renewed flush heat your cheeks (again), and a telltale clench in your belly, but you refuse to let it derail you. You still have more to say, and, by the slight tilt of Ramonda’s head, she can tell. 

“Maybe…” you trail off in a quiet voice, all pretense discarded. “Maybe I’m just a little protective of you, too.”

The effect is immediate: A broad, delighted grin splits Ramonda’s features. Her hand drops yours and snakes its way around your waist, the other reaching to cup your jaw and hold you like you’re something precious, something treasured. 

“I will not leave you, dearest,” she soothes, tracing circles into your cheek with the pad of her thumb. “I am yours, and you are mine.”

Your throat swells with emotion, a dam bursting in your chest. You bite your lip to bear it. When you speak, your voice is hoarse, choked with oncoming tears: “No one’s ever treated me like you do,” you murmur quietly, so quietly it’s like a confession—a secret. The truth of it burns like magma in your lungs, and the tears that trace your cheeks are not nearly hot enough to match. And Ramonda—bless her—she wants to reply, seeks to comfort you, but refrains because she knows you have more to say. Because she’s listening, truly and earnestly. That just makes you want to cry even harder. “I am going to be worthy of you, Ramonda. I promise.”

“Oh, s’thandwa sam,” she murmurs, placing a feather-light kiss upon your forehead. Her fingers nudge your jaw, raising your teary-eyed gaze to meet hers. The sheer measure of love and care you see in her eyes is enough to make your heart feel as though it’s imploding in your ribcage—all butterflies and warmth and love beyond measure. “You already are.”

— —

end notes: okay, i did some reading up on xhosa language and term of endearments for the couple that i used here, and i'll toss those sources down below (along with other sources i used) if anyone's interested. (also, if you've read this, and you're knowledgeable about xhosa + have some corrections / commentary /etc., please please please do not hesitate to message me! i did my very best to make sure i wasn't throwing any terms around, or refusing to do my due diligence, but this is not an area of knowledge i'm terribly well-versed in, and as such, i'm kind of bumbling around here despite my best efforts. let me know!)

update: a special thank-you to a reader on tumblr who messaged me and corrected the xhosa terms of endearment!! i have included the updated ones below. much appreciated<3<3

s’thandwa sam | my love, love of mine s’thandwa | love, sweetheart

sources:

queen ramonda | just an extra source to inform upon ramonda's character and canonical background 

symbolism behind the hairstyles in wakanda forever | a brief article about, well.... what it says on the tin

traditional south african dress | since the xhosa-speaking people are indigenous to a particular region of south africa, i wanted to look into traditional south african dress, particularly where it pertains to the marital status of a woman. but then i read up on queen ramonda's headdresses ('cause i wanted to know if i should take that part out for this fic if i wanted to make my canon a little different and say she was never married), which does indeed draw inspiration from some of the traditional headpieces worn in southern africa by married women, but in a wakandan context, it seems that her headdresses (particularly in this second film) are also to indicate her queenly status. so.... uh. yeah

“love, courtship, and marriage in africa” | this is the seventh chapter of a book titled a companion to african history (first edition). this particular chapter gives writing credits to nwanda achebe, who is one of the editors of the book. it includes pretty much what it says on the tin—traditional courting rituals and the like—along with terms of endearments in various african languages.

“wakanda forever: wakandan for emphasis” | this is an academic article written by sarah scott-nelson and alyssa penner. they delve into a sociolinguistic analysis of the use of isixhosa as a national language of black panther's fictional country of wakanda. it's a shorter read (~9 pages), and one i thought was pretty interesting!

— —

link to masterlist

#queen ramonda x reader #ramonda x reader #queen ramonda #stuff i wrote #reader-insert

[sulky-valkyrie]

200 followers fic "raffle"

from this post and for @laughingpunk

Morning came too early, as always.  But evil never slept, so justice (and Justice) apparently could only be afforded the occasional catnap.  Anders yawned and rolled out of his bed as the pounding outside continued.  "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

He'd been up until almost dawn thanks to a foundry accident, and, if the water clock Hawke had given him was working correctly, he'd had only three hours of sleep in two days.

Varric's grin faded as Anders opened the door.  "You look like shit, Blondie."

"Feel like it too," he agreed.  "What’s Hawke done now?"  Miraculously, the line of patients hadn't formed yet, but it was only a matter of time.  Best to get whatever this was over with quickly, maybe catch a few winks on Hawke’s couch, then be back to the clinic by noon.

"No, they're fine," Varric assured him as he walked inside and started poking through his closet, if half of a cupboard that permanently smelled of elfroot could be called such.  "But they do need you up at the mansion.  Soon as possible."

He turned to grab his coat and staff.  "That's not ominous at all."

"Leave the gear and put this on instead."  A bundle of pale blue linen was shoved into his hands.  "Time's money, and you're costing me a fortune."

Anders eyed it skeptically, then shrugged and pulled off his shirt to put this new one on.  "What's this all about?"

"It's a surprise.  A good one!" Varric amended hastily, then winced.  "I hope.  Ancestors know what they're up to without me."

"You're not selling this well."  The fabric was luxurious and soft on his skin, but the sleeves were too short.  Ridiculously so. “And this doesn’t fit.”

"I'm not selling anything.  Not to you, at least.  And we’ll fix the rest."  Varric grinned.  "Now, come on."

He stubbornly grabbed his coat and staff anyway.  "Fine."

Apprehension dripped from Varric as they made their way through the tunnels to Hawke's cellar, and Anders couldn't stop worrying and wondering, no matter how many reassurances were offered.

When they stepped into the kitchen, nothing could've prepared him for the sight: Bels and Fenris were wearing aprons, smeared in flour, and...

"Are you baking a cake?" Anders asked incredulously.

"What of it, mage?" Fenris asked, brandishing a - was that a whisk? - at him menacingly. 

Bels laughed and plucked it from his hand before going back to beating something in a bowl.

Freed of his burdensome cooking utensils, Fenris advanced on him, pulling his coat off his shoulders with disdainful noise and reaching for his belt.  "I said this wouldn't match." He clicked his tongue in irritation.

"I did the best I could, Broody," Varric retorted.  "He doesn't have a lot of options."

"What the fuck is going on here?" Anders demanded, yanking his coat back from Fenris and slapping his hand away from his trousers.  "Is it ‘make fun of the sewer mage’ day?  Some previous unknown holiday made up just to drag me up here and–"

"Not so loud!" Bels hissed.

The urgency of her tone shut him up immediately.  Something terrible must be happening, or be about to happen that even Bels was serious.  "Varric, you said this was a good surprise," he said with a glare.

"It is!" Varric insisted.  "Just not... look, it's Hawke’s nameday."

Anders frowned.  It’s not like I could’ve done something for them anyway.   Still, not even getting the chance to wish them well?  That stung.  "They didn't tell -"

"Anyone," Bels sighed.  "Their mother is doing that thing she does, and Hawke is doing that thing they do, and didn't want to drag us into it."  She pointed toward the dining room.  "Big fancy luncheon, full of big fancy hats and big fancy Leandra’s big fancy people, in about two hours.  And they were just going to sit through it with a big fancy miserable smile."

"And we're going to fix that?" he asked, then added.  “Without kidnapping them?”

Fenris grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the pantry.  "We're trying.  But you need to look the part."  He glanced at Bels.  “Remember, fold the chocolate into the egg whites slowly.  Don’t stir.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be as gentle as a lamb.”  She wiggled her fingers at him dismissively.  “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Fenris shook his head in irritated amusement as led Anders inside, then closed the door behind them.  

Well, this is new.  He fluttered his eyes coquettishly.  “You know, if you wanted to get me in bed, there are far simpler ways to do it.”

Fenris snorted.  “Take off your shirt.”

Anders tugged off his borrowed not-quite-finery and pretended not to notice the brightness in Fenris’ eyes as he handed it over.  In return, Fenris didn’t acknowledge the blush spreading down his chest.  They’d been in this strange orbit for weeks, drifting ever closer before something or someone pulled them away.  Usually it was the clinic: an urgent pounding on his door, or shouts at odd hours, but it could just as easily be Hawke themself, hauling them off together into absurd danger.  He’d resented the interruptions at first, but the more they occurred, the more grateful he was for them, simply because they’d kept him from doing something foolish.

Something foolish like getting dragged into a pantry and told to undress.

“H-How is this helping Hawke exactly?” he asked as he rubbed at his wrists to shop himself from trying to cover up.  Focus on something else.  “When did you have time to learn how to bake?”

A needle and thread appeared in Fenris' hand.  “The shirt isn’t enough to keep you from looking like the Darktown healer.  Also, I enjoy pastries.”  A dark blue jacket was pressed to Anders’ arms, and he tutted under his breath.  "This will have to do."

"Do what?"

"Why must you be so tall?" He complained as he started popping the seams at the shoulder.  "I have plenty of robes in the mansion, but they'd look ridiculous on you.  Too much ankle."

Anders had no idea what to say to that, so he just watched, dumbfounded at the speed that Fenris stitched strips of velvet between the detached sleeve and the shoulder.  It was unsettling to be half naked with him, and certainly not how he imagined it could be.  Not that he'd imagined it.  Well, not often.  Well, not too often.  "Where did you learn how to sew?" He finally asked.  "This, this quickly, I mean."

"Danarius expected his attendants to be able to assist with his wardrobe," Fenris answered flatly.  "I must admit, it's come in handy more often than he or I could have anticipated."

Any mention of Danarius always made Anders' skin crawl with the need to apologize hand in hand with the urge to insist not all mages were like that.  Over the years, though, he'd learned better.  What had been done to him was unconscionable, but to argue against his legitimate fears and trauma by equating it to the struggles of mages in the South solved nothing.  Even if he'd never admit it, Fenris had done plenty for Anders' kind, however grudgingly, and fighting with him over whether he'd done enough was a battle no mortal could win.  There would never be enough, not until every man woman and child in Thedas viewed magic as a blessing, not a curse.

"Anders."

He blinked back to reality.  Back to a pantry and Fenris giving him a look that seemed a mixture of fondness and exasperation.  "Hmwhat?"

Fenris handed him the shirt.  The cuffs were now longer, with bright blue silk stitched to the ends, and the tops of the sleeves were wound with black satin.  "This will have to do.  Your trousers are…" Fenris trailed off and glanced down.  "They're lost cause, but if you hurry to your seat, no one will notice."

Before Anders could muster an indignant retort, Fenris pressed the jacket into his other hand.  "The stitching is loose, but the black underneath should hide it.  Don't make too many sudden movements or an entire sleeve might shear off.  I'll do it properly when I have more time."

"Why?"  It was for Hawke, of course, but they could've simply not invited him.  The clinic occupied him at all hours, and he would never have noticed or known.

Fenris ducked his head and looked away as his ears took on a faint redness.  "Perhaps Hawke deserves to have a party they'd enjoy."  He licked his lips, then met his eyes.  "Perhaps I wanted to see you dressed up, haphazardly though this may be.  Perhaps crashing this luncheon was my idea, but it wouldn't be complete without you."

Something about his tone, so challenging yet so vulnerable, made Anders pause.  He looped the shirt over his arm and reached out to touch Fenris' hand.  "Is – Fenris, is this a date?"

He smiled softly and squeezed Anders' fingers.  "Perhaps."

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