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gxldenflower · 3 years

Text

Little Talks (Zemo x Reader)

Zemo chuckles half-heartedly. “You were a pawn used by SHIELD and then used by the Avengers.”

You shake your head, “I still don’t follow. I did everything of my own free will.”

“No,” Zemo tells you firmly. “You’re no saint, but you were a child when you were recruited by SHIELD. Made to believe that you were doing the right thing by working with them, and then later on the Avengers."

Warnings: Angst, grief, brief mention of alcohol, the Feels, Zemo & the reader are both Going Through It, does handholding count as hurt/comfort?, one (1) swear word

Word Count: 1,406

A/N: this was suggested by the lovely @thefandomqueenuno! I hope y'all enjoy this!! I have some other requests/ideas lined up for Zemo, so watch out for those!

Gender Neutral Reader

“There is no way in hell that I’m gonna fall asleep with Zemo watching over me.”

Sam crosses his arms tightly, huffing indignantly. He stares down Zemo from across the plane, who seems unimpressed by Sam’s statement. Your gaze flickers between the two men, who seem to be caught in a staring contest.

“Sam, look. I already have to deal with you and Bucky’s bullshit, so I’d really appreciate it if you would just suck it up and deal with him.” He turns to glare at you, and now you’re the one in a staring contest. Everyone on the plane is silent.

“It would make no sense for me to kill any of you now.” Zemo breaks the heavy silence that the tension’s created. You glance over at him, locking eyes for a split second. You’d been sat next to Zemo the entire plane ride, and he’d barely said a word until now.

“What, is that supposed to make us feel better?” Sam scoffs, shaking his head as he smiles bitterly.

“Depends on your viewpoint,” Zemo replies simply. You sigh heavily as Sam goes back to his one-way staring contest.

“Bucky, you haven’t spoken for a while. What’re your thoughts?” As you address him, you give Bucky a poignant look, hoping he understood that this was code for please help me before Sam ends up strangling Zemo.

“Zemo’s right,” Bucky finally says, clearing his throat. “We’re too useful to him right now to be killed.” He glances over at Zemo, looking him up and down warily. “But,” he sighs, “we’ll take turns sleeping. One person will take shift while the other two sleep.”

After a beat of strained silence, Sam finally gives in. “Fine,” he grumbles, acting as if it was painful to agree with Bucky. You breathe out a sigh of relief, leaning your head back against the cushiony seat and closing your eyes momentarily. At least they’ve finally agreed on something. As if reading your thoughts, Zemo lets out a quiet chuckle.

You enjoy your moment of silence; where all you can hear is the noise of the private jet until the crackly intercom system breaks through your tranquility. The pilot announces that your destination is 20 minutes away, though you could barely decipher it through his heavy accent.

***

“What is this, your family’s mansion? Passed through generations until it fell onto you?” Sam’s snarky voice echoes through the large, empty foyer. Just this room alone was bigger than your apartment; you couldn’t even imagine how big the rest of the place may be.

“No, actually. I just barely closed on this house last week.” You share a look with Bucky, who’s had his mouth agape in wonder the entire time you’d been in here. How rich is this guy? You mouth to him, and he just shakes his head.

“I’m kidding. Sam is right, this has been home to my family for decades.” Zemo turns around to face you, his lips curling up into a sly grin. All three of you stare at him, bewildered by the fact that he just made a joke. The situation is so absurd that you can’t help but let out a small snort.

“That wasn’t even that funny! Why are-why are you laughing?” Sam asks you, and you let out another small snort.

You shake your head, “I don’t know, man. Let’s just-let’s just get situated and call it a night.” From one of the massive windows in the foyer, you could see that the sun was finally setting, bathing the room in a burnt orange.

***

Although there seemed to be an endless amount of rooms (and even more creepy paintings of old men. Zemo’s predecessors, you presumed) all four of you ended up in one of the many large living rooms.

You, Sam, and Bucky had set up makeshift sleeping bags on the floor. To most people, it would’ve looked painful to lay down on. But to you, it looked like Heaven on Earth.

Unfortunately, you got the short end of the stick (literally.) The three of you drew sticks to see who would get what shift, while Zemo looked on from one of the plush chairs, seemingly amused by the whole thing as he sipped from a glass of whisky.

Once Sam and Bucky had reluctantly laid down in their “beds,” you made your way over to one of the couches that stood next to the chair Zemo had claimed. He’d barely spoken a word since you’d arrived at the mansion.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you murmur to him, slowly crossing your legs. He offers you a slight smile at that.

“I figured you’ve had enough of a headache dealing with those two.” Zemo gestures with his free hand to where Sam and Bucky lay.

“I can hear you both,” Sam calls out. You and Zemo share a smile, and you shake your head, amused.

After a few seconds of silence, Zemo moves to pour you your own glass of whiskey, but you quickly decline.

“I don’t drink,” you tell him plainly. He nods understandingly, placing the bottle back down on the table that stood next to him. Zemo doesn’t pressure you or ask why. Just a simple nod.

You and Zemo sit quietly as the sun fully disappears and is replaced by the moon and stars. It wasn’t an unpleasant silence, much to your surprise. It felt natural to sit with him.

Zemo doesn’t start talking until you hear a small snore from Sam.

“I lived with my family here for a while,” he tells you quietly. It was so small and meek that you barely registered it at first.

You look over at him, and there’s a sadness on his face and in his eyes you hadn’t quite noticed before. Zemo doesn’t bother to make eye contact with you.

“I haven’t been back here since they were killed,” he continues. It doesn’t seem like he’s telling you this for pity or your empathy, Zemo never came off that way to you.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him quietly. You know that nothing you would say would ever truly make him feel better. Sure, you’d lost people in your life. Tony and Nat’s deaths were still a fresh wound in your mind, but it was nothing compared to what Zemo must feel.

“Thank you,” Zemo replies. “Though, you’re one of the few people who have nothing to apologize for.”

You cock your head to the side. Why would he say that? “What makes you think that?” You ask him.

Zemo chuckles half-heartedly. “You were a pawn used by SHIELD and then used by the Avengers.”

You shake your head, “I still don’t follow. I did everything of my own free will.”

You open and close your mouth, not quite sure how to respond. “I’m assuming that you read my file?” Is all you manage to say. You’d never been told that before. It was either that you were a hero and a martyr, or a monster who chose the wrong side.

“I did. You’re not the one who I blame, Y/N.” Zemo says, studying your face. You sit in resigned silence, feeling a lump in your throat begin to form.

Zemo continues, “we’ve both lost people we care deeply about, and I don’t think either of us has truly moved on, have we?”

At this point, you’re sure if you open your mouth you’re going to start crying. You take a deep breath through your nose, doing your best to keep the tears at bay. “Why are you saying this?” You ask him.

“I want to form a pact.” Zemo locks eyes with you. “Even if your friends decide I’m no longer useful, we could still work together as allies.” He scans your face, looking for any doubt. “We don’t have to be friends,” he assures you, “just allies.”

He holds out his hand to you. You know Sam and Bucky would scream at you to not do it, but this isn’t about them. It’s about you and Zemo. And he’s offering you something you haven’t had in a long, long time. Trust.

You clasp your hand in his and squeeze it tightly.

“It’s a deal.”

#baron zemo #helmut zemo #zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #tfatws #marvel #tfatws x reader #i tried out a newish format for my oneshots so yeah #and this wasn't really romance heavy but. i really liked it. so.

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spectral-musette · 3 years

Text

She touched his face, fingertips light along his temple, nails delicately scraping through the short beard on his cheeks, lingering on the cleft in his chin before resting on his mouth.

“I thought…” she began, but then choked on a soft sob as the tears began to run down her cheeks.

“I thought you would be angry,” he said instead, nuzzling his cheek against her hand and then kissing the palm.

“I am furious,” she assured him, tenderly. “I am incandescent with rage.” Her lips were against his, her breath uneven in his mouth.

Directly following the Deception arc (Clone Wars Season 4 episodes 15-18), Obi-Wan asks for Satine's forgiveness for letting her believe he was dead.

Just over 2000 words, M in AO3-style rating, probably part of a longer work if I can ever finish it and think of a title.

. . . . . . . . . .

Obi-Wan had not protested very much when Padme offered him the use of her family’s lakeside retreat in the aftermath of the attempted abduction of the Chancellor on Naboo. He had, however, expected a slightly more modest structure than the sprawling villa he’d found upon his arrival. Despite the droids on staff, the place seemed empty, hollow, as though it still echoed with the voices and laughter of a happy family. So fresh from his undercover work, he wasn’t sure isolation was the best remedy for his rumpled spirits after the ordeal, but arrangements had been made, and he supposed he could make the best of it for a few days.

In some ways, he was eager to leave Naboo. The memory of Qui-Gon’s death still cut like a keen-edged blade here. But perhaps that meant he should stay, to meditate on his old grief.

Painful as that prospect was, at least it sounded more surmountable than returning to a Temple that had been mourning him.

He’d have to, eventually. Anakin’s (justified) expression of betrayal and Ahsoka’s wounded demeanor still stung, and he didn’t look forward to repeating these painful scenes with other dear friends, with Luminara, or with Quinlan. But until the GAR red tape was untangled (at least a few days), he was still officially dead, and granted all the freedom of a wandering ghost.

He felt a little like the ghost of his old self after a quick swim as he climbed out of the lake onto the patio by the house. He sat heavily on the flagstones, still warm from the sun even as the stars were coming out. The constellations of Naboo seemed startlingly familiar considering the few times he’d seen them. The span of nearly 15 years felt short tonight. Perhaps it was the mere stubble of hair on his skull, shorter even than a padawan’s. Perhaps it was the ache of his old Master’s absence. He tried to ground himself in the present; as he toweled off his wet limbs, the ugly burn scars from his duel with Count Dooku shone pale in the moonlight, and his face still hurt from the dreadful biotech that had transformed him into the Mandalorian marksman.

It was always Mandalorians, wasn’t it? Proof that the Force possessed a sense of dramatic irony that the brethren of the woman to whom he’d lost his heart seemed to continually haunt him.

The guilt of it weighed like a stone on his chest. The mission had dragged on far too long for Satine not to have heard news of his apparent death. He had hoped it might all be resolved before… Well, it had been an unlikely hope, anyway. Padme almost certainly told her immediately.

There hadn’t been anything for it. To ask for permission to tell Satine the truth before the charade would’ve been tantamount to confessing his feelings for her. Had there only been the censure of the Council involved it might’ve been one thing, but any careless word to the Chancellor’s staff could’ve proven disastrous for Satine and the gossamer-fine line she walked to keep peace and authority on Mandalore. He’d been keeping her safe even as he wounded her.

Just like the old days, pulling her out of harm's way, or shielding her with his body.

Only this wasn’t an accidentally scraped knee or bruised arm. Perhaps it was vain of him to assume, but he knew how deeply she cared for him, how intense her feelings ran…

He’d tried composing a message to her so many times. Even still in the guise of Rako Hardeen, when he caught a moment’s rest, he’d gone over it in his mind, lulling himself into an uneasy sleep as he tried to find the words to ask her forgiveness.

In the end, a forthright Forgive me, was the best he could muster, hastily sent to her private channel as soon as he’d gotten access to a comm unit at the conclusion of the charade. If you’ll listen, I’ll try to explain, but nothing will excuse what I’ve put you through. Know that I am so very sorry.

She hadn’t replied. He checked the comm unit again as he pulled his undertunic over his head, the rough linen soaking up the last of the lake water on his back, seeing only his own message, stark and insufficient.

He didn’t blame her, truly.

He’d slept since sending it, through the afternoon, reveling a little in the luxury of resting when he felt tired, regardless of the local daytime cycles. And he dreamed in disjointed flashes, mostly of her… her grief, her melancholy, her ire… of the glint of tears on her dark gold eyelashes, the quaver of anger in her beloved voice.

He wasn’t sure if he ought to just sleep again, now that night was here. Weary as he was, he felt he could sleep for days.

He heard the door from the house to the patio open. He didn’t look immediately, as it seemed likely to be one of Padme’s droid caretakers, there to ask if he required food or clean linens. But there was no whirring of servos, and the footsteps on the flagstones sounded too soft. He caught a whiff of an achingly familiar floral scent just as he turned.

She must’ve been too much in his thoughts already, his mind too clouded with guilt and regret and weariness to clearly sense her presence.

But Satine stood, silhouetted by the dim illumination of the house, resplendent in the scarlet gown she’d worn the night they’d met in secret on Coruscant, though her hair was loose about her shoulders, pale and shimmering in the moonlight. For a moment she was utterly still, then she merely raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a soft gasp.

He scrambled to his feet, keenly aware that this was not the state in which he wished to appear before his lady. His trousers were still sopping, his undertunic open to the navel, and his hair had barely grown in longer than the stubble on his jaw. But her eyes were only on his, and shining with tears. She took a few steps towards him, then swayed a little. He lunged to catch her around the waist; the last thing she needed on top of all the rest of the suffering he’d caused her was bruised knees. She twined her arms around his neck, and his knees gave a slow surrender too, such that the pair of them sank to the flagstones, wrapped in each other’s arms.

She touched his face, fingertips light along his temple, nails delicately scraping through the short beard on his cheeks, lingering on the cleft in his chin before resting on his mouth.

“I thought…” she began, but then choked on a soft sob as the tears began to run down her cheeks.

“I thought you would be angry,” he said instead, nuzzling his cheek against her hand and then kissing the palm.

“I am furious,” she assured him, tenderly. “I am incandescent with rage.” Her lips were against his, her breath uneven in his mouth.

He tasted it in her kiss, a fleeting note of bitterness and sorrow amid the heady sweetness of her relief and joy, the fire of her desire.

“I am so very sorry,” he repeated, abject.

“Oh, I hope so,” she replied, breathless.

As usual, Satine had the last word, as neither of them could speak for some time after that.

. . . . . . . . . .

She lay on her side, half propped up on her elbow, her head against the pillow and her hair spread across it in a tangle of pale spun gold. The bedclothes were pooled around her waist, and he deeply felt the intimacy and vulnerability they shared in that moment. He thought this image of her would be vivid in his mind for the rest of his days, however long that might be: the pale morning light on her bare skin, her flushed cheeks, the glint of unshed tears in her eyes, the soft swell of her breasts with her sharp, uneven breaths as she tried not to cry again.

Finished with his abridged account of the awful ordeal, he reached out to run the backs of his fingers along her arm.

“Say something,” he begged.

She sat up a little more, her hair falling across her face as she wrapped her arms around herself and turned away from him.

“It might be… easier to accept, if you’d done it for the sake of someone … worthy of all this pain. To protect Anakin or Ahsoka or Padme or…”

“Satine, I can’t decline a mission to protect the Chancellor simply because I dislike the man.”

“It isn’t a matter of dislike. There’s something… so… wicked about him. Manipulative and scheming. Don’t say it’s because he tried to put troops on Mandalore, and don’t you dare say it’s because he’s a politician.” She turned back to him, her gaze challenging.

“No,” he agreed prudently. “I won’t say that. I don’t disagree with you. He’s been a mentor to Anakin and to Padme for as long as I’ve known him, but I can’t help thinking it’s always been somehow for his own benefit. He steered Padme to get himself elected in the first place, and his grip on the office has been white-knuckled since. I can’t very well blame him for the war, but despite his lipservice towards peaceful resolution, the GAR keeps swelling its ranks.”

“I’ll blame him. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence to confirm it aside from my gut feeling.”

He placed a hand on her waist, his thumb tracing around her navel. “I’ve learned to trust your gut feelings. But dislike him, distrust him or not, my duty is to the Republic.”

He started to pull his arm back, but she gripped it by the elbow. He slid his hand to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

“What of your duty to me?” Her voice was quiet, but not without a note of beskar.

“Is it duty?” he asked. “I thought it was love.”

“Perhaps it’s very Mandalorian of me,” she said, “that we hold our most sacred duties to be to those we love.”

“Satine, I cannot put my devotion to you above the will of the Council or the good of the Republic. Not while I serve the Jedi Order.”

He almost expected her to pull away in anger or distress, but she shifted closer, pressing her face against his shoulder. “I know that. I’ve always known that. But it hasn’t hurt like this before.”

“Not since I left?” he suggested, burying his face in her hair and holding her tightly.

“No. Not even then. It wasn’t losing you, it was letting you go. This was… like I had died too.”

The guilt of it made his stomach turn. “I am so sorry, Satine. If there had been time to find another way… to spare you this…”

“The worst of it is that you knew how it would hurt me,” she accused. “And you still did it.”

“I knew,” he confirmed, regretful. “The Chancellor insisted on knowing everyone who was privy to the plan, and I had no time to even find the opportunity to disobey. I thought… the risk of revealing that you should be told…”

She let out a breath, hot against his skin.

“I think I’d have much rather run that risk than think you were dead.”

“If I’d had time to think it through, perhaps I’d have decided differently. But everything was snap decisions, and my instinct was to protect you.”

“And I can’t even be angry at you for that.”

“Of course you can be angry,” he soothed.

“Oh, what good does it do?” she demanded, lifting her head, fair brow furrowed. “Just wasting time quarreling when we have so little time together anyway.”

“Then you forgive me?” he asked humbly, kissing her forehead.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, stroking his cheek. “I know that I still want you, though.”

“Then I am yours,” he promised, kissing her fingertips.

“At least it’s not an offense that’s very likely to be repeated,” she reflected, shaking her head a little.

“Not very,” he agreed.

“I feel like I ought to extract some promise… some penance. But I expect you’ve punished yourself enough.”

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back. “The thing itself was terrible too. Not that I’m suggesting that what I went through can compare to-”

“Hush, darling,” she scolded. “It can be terrible on its own.”

“Sometimes I thought my death might end up not being a lie after all,” he said softly.

“Do you want to tell me?” she asked, her fingertips light across his brow.

He shook his head. No, he didn’t want to see how it would pain her, to think of him in danger, forced to behave as an utter villain. “Not now. Not more than I already have.”

She kissed him then, deep and ardent. “Then forget, for a while,” she said, breathless, her lips still brushing his. “Let me forget again. Make me forget.”

She hitched her leg around him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he shifted onto her, into the blissful oblivion where she was the center of the universe and the Force sang in resonance with their love.

#Obi Wan/Satine #obitine #Star Wars fic #Clone Wars fic #I wrote a thing #long post #Obi Wan Kenobi #Satine Kryze #guys I am so bad at titles #I have been trying to write something about this for ages

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walkinginland · 3 years

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A quiet moment in the earliest days of John and Claire's brief marriage in An Echo In the Bone. The morning after That Night, and the processing of grief and healing.

Title and inspiration from Hozier's "Foreigner's God."

This is the fifth installment in my series of fics inspired by Hozier songs. Just a reminder that these fics are unrelated to each other: though they all share similar inspiration, they can stand on their own and have different styles and exist in different universes.

****************

Her eyes look sharp and steady Into the empty parts of me But still my heart is heavy With the hate of some other man's beliefs

Wondering who I copy Mustering some tender charm She feels no control of her body She feels no safety in my arms

I've no language left to say it But all I do is quake to her Breaking if I try convey it The broken love I make to her

In the house on Chestnut Street, in the dim pre-dawn hours, John Grey – still half asleep – rolled over to find someone on the other side of his bed. He had been a soldier – with a soldier’s instincts – for far longer and with far more consistency than he had ever had the luxury of sharing a bed in peace; the instinct to defend himself had him freezing and slipping a hand underneath his pillow for the dagger he kept there. When he tried to close his hand around the hilt only to find empty linen, he remembered. He remembered why this was not his pillow, with his customary dagger hidden beneath.

Oh God.

He remembered everything.

John took a deep breath, scrubbing his hand over his face, before turning the rest of the way towards his bedfellow.

Claire was still deeply asleep, breathing slowly through her mouth in a way that – if John were not a gentleman – he might describe as a very slight snore.

It was a relief though, to see her rest so deeply. Ever since that horrible day in the print shop, surrounded by his own cloud of grief and the smell of something burning somewhere in the shop, she hadn’t lost the hunted, panicked look in her eyes. In the time since then, since that day when everything fell apart, her eyes had been in turns numb, pained, and so desperately lost. And always watchful.

This was not the only time in the past week that he had woken suddenly, reaching for a knife in the dark. Every night at some point there had come a sharp, pained cry from Claire’s room down the hall. He had always gotten as far as her door before the sounds of muffled weeping had made him pause, reassured and yet brokenhearted that the alarm was not a warning of danger, but yet another outpouring of grief.

That private grief had always stopped his hand at the knob, made him turn back to his own restless sleep, not wanting to disturb her even more or add to her burden.

Until last night.

He had been deep in his own grief, loss like a phantom limb haunting him in pain. But to see her pain, as similar and different to as own as two sides of a coin, or two echoes of the same cry… That was a grief all its own.

And so now it soothed his own bleeding heart some to see the lines of pain eased from her face — even if it was only for the moment — in the brief peace of sleep. He knew the abyss that she had been dancing around for the past week. He had recognized it, felt it intimately, when he came to her door last night. He had felt that same abyss at his own feet many times in his life, and was familiar was its siren call.

He could not – simply could not – stand to see her in such a place.

He had knocked on her door to check on her, to talk, to do something. His drink and grief addled mind hadn’t exactly had a clear plan for what that something was supposed to be, of course. But when he had entered her room, desperate to ease the gaping wound in his chest and spark something – anything – in that abyss in her eyes…. Well. They had talked, and they had talked, and then they had….

If John was being honest with himself, he was slightly stunned he remembered the night in such brilliant detail as he did. He really had been most dreadfully drunk.

But he did remember.

And he did not regret a moment of it.

**********

In the few days that they had been married, John had been waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, the glass to break, something to pierce through the haze living over both their heads. He had his duty, to his family, to Willie, to Claire, and to Jamie, to carry on putting one foot in front of the other. That duty did what it had done so many times in his life, and carried him forward when he otherwise would have no reason to. There was always something pushing him on, some force outside of himself calling him to survive.

Just as he had felt called to her room last night.

Before anything else, they had spoken; actually spoken, not only raged and wept and mourned and taken their mourning out on each other. They had spoken of Jamie. His reckless care for his family, his people. His humor and intelligence. His cunning in leadership. His small habits and idiosyncrasies. His humor and thoughtfulness. His laugh. Things seemingly both inconsequential and essential.

John spoke of his skill with a blade and on the chess board.

Claire spoke of his talent with horses and the touch he had with the land.

They murmured his love for his children.

They spoke and drank and remembered.

And Claire was the first to speak of the taste of his mouth. She had been staring into the distance, seemingly unaware of where she was, who she was speaking to, simply following the natural path of her remembrances to their next step.

John was not sure if he was surprised by the path she had started walking, or if he had known from the moment he had stepped in the door – bottle in hand – that it would always end in this direction.

He had involuntarily brushed his fingers across his lips in memory as she spoke, freezing when he realized what he was doing so blatantly and darting a glance to Claire, hoping against hope that she had not noticed and would let the moment pass. Hoping that that distant stare would still be in her eyes.

Those amber eyes were fixed on his hand though, not on some far memory. She most definitely had noticed then, and was touching her own lips as if to call back the memory of the last time they had been touched.

Their eyes met over their mirrored hands, in echoed remembrance of that same shared touch.

And then…. Well. And then they had grieved together in ways that required no speaking at all.

**********

Now in the earliest rays of light, John was not entirely sure what her reaction would be upon waking. As clear as she made her thoughts – both in blunt word and on that glass face of hers – predicting those thoughts was another matter entirely.

A more unpredictable woman John had never met.

The situation was not precisely… customary. It would be easy to expect some level of avoidance or perhaps regret – an awkward silence, the careful roll of a shoulder away, a slip out of bed and an unvoiced agreement to never mention the night again.

Avoidance? He didn’t think so. If John knew anything at all about Claire Fraser, it was that avoidance in the face of personal or societal discomfort was simply not in her nature. She was not the type to brush a dilemma under the rug and hope that no one would ever mention it again. She lived in her skin, and did not give people the right to make that living full of shame or silence. She spoke her mind, and expected those around her to do the same.

The woman had many strengths, but subtly was perhaps not one of them.

Regret then? John knew, as little sense as it made, that he himself did not regret the brandy-soaked night just past. He couldn’t explain it, wouldn’t have predicted it, and he would probably need more hours distant from said brandy to process it all, but he was feeling a sense of the ground beneath his feet that he hadn’t felt since… everything had happened. But would she regret it? He would understand if she did.

But... No. No, he didn’t think she would. She was a woman who may regret missed opportunity, choices that hurt others, or a patient that was beyond saving. There was much of her history that he did not know, but he didn’t think a life as full of hers was empty of regrets.

This, however, would not be one of them. He did not think that she would regret the mending of two souls through the joining of their bodies.

She was a healer after all.

Their hearts – his and hers – were not quite mended, or even close to being unshattered, and perhaps never again to be whole. One cannot live on the same when the person in possession of your soul is no longer there. But they were – perhaps – no longer quite in danger of bleeding out.

As the sun rose over another day – another day of one foot in front of the other – John rolled over in bed. Not to the right and away, towards an exit from this room and the memories of the night before, but to his left.

Towards Claire. Towards his wife.

“John?” Her whispered inquiry startled him out of his thoughts; she didn’t sound nearly awake, her voice rough with sleep and drink. Her back was turned towards him in the same position she had slept in, the just-dawning light casting patterns of shadow across the smooth planes of her skin.

“Yes, my dear?” He whispered as well, not wanting to break the spell of the quiet hours, still dwelling in the aftermath of their breaking and healing.

She reached her arm back towards him, not turning her head, just feeling blindly across the sheets for him; for a hand to hold, a tether to bind her to earth as she awoke to another day in the valley.

“Come here, will you?”

As she woke, there were sharp edges of grief still filling her voice. The remnants of their shattering the night before. Those jagged edges scraped against his own as her fingers – long and graceful – brushed against his own.

He took her hand firmly in his, and brought them joined around her waist as he slid closer to her in their shared bed.

“I’m right here, my dear.” He sighed as she took a shuddering breath in. “It’s early yet. Go back to sleep.”

Their mourning was raw, and would be for a long, long time. But neither of them mourned alone.

And that, John thought as he tucked himself tight behind his wife, in the sanctuary they were building together as the new sun rose, — no matter how broken it is – that is a blessing.

**********

Also on AO3

Thanks for reading all!! ❤❤❤

#outlander #outlander fanfic #claire fraser/john grey #claire fraser #lord john grey #missing moment #my writing #hozier fic series #into the empty part of me

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stratiotis-nth · 3 years

Text

The footsteps got louder, and they were close enough now that Dean could hear a low voice muttering to itself and a pen tapping against a stack of papers. The door behind him squeaked as it was pushed open, the voice’s distracted muttering coming to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, uh, hello?”

Something pinged distantly in the back of Dean’s head at the voice, but he was turning around before he could properly analyze it. A patented Dean Winchester Charm smile was lifting the corners of his mouth, a smile he had perfected over the years that he never really meant but always got what he wanted. His eyes raked up leather shoes and pressed black slacks to a fitted suit jacket over a black button down that was popped open at the top. Broad shoulders filled the fabric just right, and muscular arms clutched a stack of papers.

Everything was normal until Dean’s eyes landed on his face. The world came to a screeching stop as his entire body unanimously decided to try and vomit out it’s insides. His heart tried to split off in opposite direction to tug at his stomach and cram his throat. His split lip throbbed painfully and his ears filled with a loud ringing.

It was Cas.

Dean was lost when he saw those eyes again, accented by slanted eye bags that always seemed more artful and not at all unattractive. A pen was pinched between plump lips, stubble accented that sharp jawline, and unruly black hair that was longer and hung down the sides of his face, a pair of glasses perched on top. But those goddamn eyes…

Dean was well aware (was now, anyway) that all those times he and Cas had stared at each other that they were eyefucking. He knew those irises by heart—a stunning shade of blue handpicked from the sea, surrounded by a ring of navy that teased on black. They were just unfairly blue, and Dean never stood a chance.

Something sang mournfully in his chest, something that wailed with loss and grief. He forgot how long he had been staring without saying anything, too lost in his own shock and sorrow to register the man was talking.

“—help you?”

Dean blinked when the eyes broke from his gaze to flickered up and down, assessing him curiously. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, aggravating the split. Once again, that twinge of pain was enough to remind Dean of where he was. He cleared his throat.

“Professor Bradshaw?” He just barely managed not to sound choked up.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

Nothing was making sense. It was Cas—right down to the squinty eyes and tilted head. Dean’s head spun dizzily, and he couldn’t think to remember why he was even here. All he could think about was black ooze swallowing up that face, devouring this eyes and watery smile as he accepted his own death sentence—

“Sir?”

Dean blinked again, biting down hard on his split lip. It was going to get infected at this point, but he didn’t really care.

“Sorry, I—I just remembered I…I’d lost someon—thing. Something. I-I’m a private investigator, I wanted to ask you a few questions.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back for stringing that sentence together properly and not sounding like he was choking on his own trauma.

That’s Cas, that’s Cas, that’s Cas, that’s Cas…

“Ah well,” Bradshaw said quickly. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for an interview. I’m extremely busy—“

Dean was definitely no longer in the right headspace to be asking the right questions, so he immediately jumped on the out.

“That’s alright, your TA mentioned you were busy.” He leapt to his feet as if the seat burned his ass. “I’m sure I can find you at another time.”

Bradshaw blinked, a little taken aback by how little Dean had resisted.

“Right.” He mumbled, dumping his armful of papers on his desk. “You talked to Vipin?”

“Uh, yeah. Good kid.” Dean felt that lump rising up in his throat again as he watched Bradshaw frown at the papers like Cas used to frown at something that confused him. Shit, he couldn’t keep watching this. “I’ll come back another time.” He choked out, turning on his heel and darting for the door.

“Um, wait just a moment.” Bradshaw called. Dean’s entire body froze, inside and out. “What exactly are you investigating?”

Think, goddamnit. Dean mentally berated himself. His head was spinning. Black goo, teary eyes, a beautifully sorrowful smile.

I love you.

“Your father’s disappearance.” He rasped out, slamming his eyes shut to fight against the tide of memories pressing against his skull.

“My father disappeared forty years ago.” Bradshaw said, suspicion leaking into his tone. “Why are you investigating now?”

“His badge showed up, didn’t he?” Dean managed, his voice a little thick. “New lead.”

You changed me, Dean.

“Right, right…” Bradshaw hummed. “Feel free to come back tomorrow at 2. I have office hours.”

“Sure thing.” Dean gritted out, and ducked out of the office without another look back. His hands were clammy and trembling, and he shoved them into his pockets so he didn’t have to look at them. His breath was shallow, his head was light and he could see stars floating around the outskirts of his vision. His feet carried him down the stairs and back out into the parking lot, where cool autumn air slapped him across the face like a bucket of ice water. He drew in a sharp breath.

Everything you have done, the good, the bad, you have done for love.

Dean braced his arms against the Impala, pressing his forehead into the crook of his elbow. Everything was rushing back, vivid and more painful than he ever remembered it being. All he could see was Cas in the dungeon again, speaking with tears rolling down his face that juxtaposed the smile he wore. All he could feel was the terror and pain upon seeing Bradshaw in the doorway, looking exactly like the man he had lost.

Because the one thing I want…it’s something I know I can’t have.

“Goddamnit, Cas.” Dean choked, leaning fully against Baby as his knees buckled. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks as he heaved in air, trying to stay conscious. He’d passed out crying over Cas before, but hadn’t in nearly three months. The pain washed over him, the agony of losing someone he loved so familiar, but never less painful.

He knew he hadn't been coping well. He was on the brink of breaking every second of the goddamn day. But seeing Bradshaw, a shadow of Cas down to the very shade of his eyes, torn down the flimsy wall Dean had desperately tried to erect between reality and his emotions.

He let out an explosive breath, jerking his head up and cramming away the well of sorrow. He ran a palm across his face to brush away the tear tracks, sucking in a deep breath to regain his composure. He needed to get back to Sam without crashing the car. He could deal with this later with his brother there to back him up.

Dean rearranged his features into a scowl, locking his shit up tight, and ducked into the car.

He wasn’t Cas. He couldn’t be. For his own sanity, he could not be Cas.

Funny how Dean had spent so long hoping Cas would make some miraculous comeback, and now needing not to cling to the far away, near-impossible hope.

It might kill him if he did, and he was wrong.

#fanfic #aos #sam winchester #cas #dean #castiel #casdean #dean is bi #spn #spn fanfiction #bridgewater #misha collins #reunion #it’s cas but it’s not cas #dean has highkey ptsd #flashback #destiel

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power-of-plot · 3 years

Note

Hi! I'm here to request a hcs for Kakashi,Gaara and Naruto react to their best friend (or crush) s/o who's dying from unknown disease?

GaSp How dare you. WHY YOU DO THIS TO MY FEELINGS.

Warnings: Angst. Death. Your comfort characters are sad how dare u.

K A K A S H I

Hurt or any adjective to describe pain wouldn't be enough to explain how he feels when he finds out the disease was unknown.

He's an adult, he hadn't learnt to get completely over it but he was able to carry on and life a normal life after Rin's death. He didn't replace her with you, you had your own place in his heart and now he was going to lose you as well...?

Unless you did first, he would never bring up the subject, he tries his best to keep your mind off the disease and make you laugh for as long as you have left.

He would definitely cry about it in private, it wouldn't be a berserk of anger and sorrow but dull release of a storm, his sight completely blank as tears form in his eyes.

He'd comfort you the best he could if you ever felt scared or suffered from pain thanks to the disease.

Hand holding, backrubs and hugs. When the time comes he'd be by your side, without his mask, surprise- He has a handsome mole, probably the first and last time you'd get a full view of his face and his smile.

G A A R A

A stab to the heart and a scar, he had lost his mother and his uncle, both people he loved. He was happy with what he had left and you were the jewel of the crown. . . Too precious to be in this world.

He tries to think this rationally, sooner or later it would be everyone's turn, anything could happen to anyone indiscriminatelly. The fact was so simple yet so hard to process, out of all the people who could deserve it why you?

Kankuro and Temari would have to give him some emotional support on your back, the less he needs is to have you feeling guilty of his own unsubstantiated guilt.

Yes, he feels guilty, despite it's not in his power he can't help but feel that way as he can't do anything but watch as you slowly slip from his fingers.

Being in his office would make him feel bad, he forbid himself from mixing his emotions with his duty as Kazekage but.. every hour he spends there could be an hour spent with you, every hour he spends there could be your last one and he wouldn't even know.

He would fight with the devil itself inside holding back his tears when you take your leave, he wants you to go peacefully , you two would have your private moment but his sibblings would be there too.

N A R U T O

He gets reminded of all the times he has seen people slip like water in his fingers, there's always a time he's given something just so that he can watch as it flies away from his reach.. or so he thought at his lowest point.

His crying could tear down to pieces anyone by just looking at him, you're not only seeing it he's literally emanating his pain, just like his contagious cheerfulness. Sakura wouldn't have a clue of what to do about his inconsolable state, not even comfort coming from her seemed to work.

He does his best to hold his head up high and show his brightest smile to make you happy, every second would count, he would explain the situation to Jiraiya so he temporarily stops stealing his money for sake or gambles, he’d understand.

You discover all kinds of special edition ramen, rare spices and flavors, he’d give you part of his secret collection without hesitating. Even that ramen he bought in another village, he really devotes himself to make you happy.

The land of waves would be one of the several places he takes you to, all of them of emotional value, for example his first missions, the best ramen shops or the most turistic towns. He’d document each and every one of your trips, pictures and videos.

Iruka would have to check on him after he distancied himself from the grief of your passing, he has the great regret of not confessing his feelings but the guilt would be unbearable if the feeling wasn’t mutual and you had to leave with any kind of negative feeling.

Request are open. Oh yes this hurt, now i have a very good idea for some angst TuT . Thanks for reading!

#thanks for the ask!#this made me sad #i is sad #naruto angst #naruto x reader #kakashi x reader #gaara x reader #ok i'm lazy #i'm done #idk what else to tag

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alpacaparkaseok · 3 years

Text

Lost & Found - 12

Pairing: Park Jimin x soulmate (oc)

Warnings: Insecurity, anxiety, abandonment, oc feels like she’s gonna puke which, honestly, same

Word Count: 4.5k

a/n: holy. crap.

anyways, enjoy!

just remember that if it’s not ok then it’s not the end

Chapter 12. Bittersweet

series masterlist

“You wanna grab some lunch?” I ask as soon as I get into the car after my appointment with Dr. Mo. She seemed pleased with my progress, and reassured me that I did the right thing in writing Jimin’s letter.

The only thing left to do is wait.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Sunmi begins to drive. “How’d your session go?”

“Good, I think. I couldn’t stop fidgeting the entire time.” I blow a strand of hair out of my face. “Mind if I invite a friend to lunch?”

Sunmi glances at me sidelong, arching a brow. “Does this friend know about your thread and that you’re currently being chauffeured by a Bighit employee?”

I chew on my lip. “Well, yes to the first question and no to the second. But she knows everything else.” I bring my phone up to my ear, listening to it ring. “She actually helped me cut the thread...but she’s a really cool person. I swear.”

Sunmi just waves me off, appearing to be indifferent to adding another person to our lunch party. At this rate, I’ll have to invite Chung-hei as well.

“I was just going to call you! What happened last night? You left in a rush.”

“Wanna come to lunch? I think we’ll just grab something and eat it back at my apartment.” I look at Sunmi, who gives me a thumbs-up.

“And then you’ll explain what happened last night?”

I laugh at her persistence. “Yeah, sure.”

We discuss her order before she promises to meet me at the apartment. “I feel like I should invite my other friend as well,” I admit, looking at Chung-hei’s contact on my phone. “She’s Namjoon’s soulmate.”

Shrugging, Sunmi pulls into a drive through. “Don’t ask me, I’m just the driver.” She pauses. “Oooh, should I get a milkshake?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Get me one too-”

Chung-hei picks up on the third ring.

“I was just thinking about you!” She chirps. I can’t help but smile at the sound of her voice.

“How adorable,” I drawl. “Wanna meet up at my apartment for lunch? I’ve got a couple of friends coming over that I want you to meet.”

“Sure! I was just planning on taking a break, anyways.”

“Great. You want the usual from the diner on 6th?”

“Ooh, how sexy, you even remember my order.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Whatever. See you soon.”

✂

“How far are we going to run today?” Namjoon asks, not sounding entirely thrilled at the prospect of cardio at this hour. It’s an odd hour to be going out for a run, but the weather is warm enough for a jog around their closed off neighborhood.

“I have no idea,” Jimin admits, looking excited to just get to go outside. “Just...a ways?”

Namjoon snorts. “A ways?”

“You know what I mean.” Swinging the door opens, Jimin pauses before stepping out. “Oh, mail’s here.”

Namjoon doesn’t think much of the statement, the mail is always here around this time of day. That is, not until he looks down at the pile of mail and sees a familiar looking envelope poking out from behind another letter.

“Ah!” He shouts, crouching down and scooping up the mess. “Ah!” He shouts again for emphasis.

Jimin looks at him with a half-smirk. “Is there a reason that we’re shouting?”

Unfortunately, Namjoon is unable to do much else besides shout. He backtracks into the house, tossing aside the undesirable letters in an effort to get to the one that really matters. In his excitement, it slips to the ground.

Jimin leans down, grabbing the letter that Namjoon points at with yet another shout. “What?” His stomach drops. “Did we forget to pay this month?”

“No!” Namjoon exclaims. When Jimin shrugs and attempts to hand it over to him, he thrusts it back at him. “That’s yours!”

“What do you mean, ‘it’s mine’?” Jimin asks, frowning. “We split the cost-”

“Jolie. It’s from Jolie,” he pants, finally catching his breath and calming down. “Read it.”

Now, Jimin realizes, would be the perfect time to panic.

Reading the expression of confusion on his face, Namjoon takes a deep breath before leading Jimin to the couches in the living room. “Remember when I told you about going to visit Jolie right after she cut the thread and how I gave her-”

“You gave her this?” Jimin asks, looking down at the electric bill envelope with no shortage of disbelief. “Joon, this is probably just a bill-”

“No, we just got the electric bill three days ago!” Namjoon explains excitedly. “Just, read it.”

Jimin comes to stand before the couch, but he doesn’t sit down. Not yet. He’s too busy fighting the nerves that have manifested, the envelope shaking in his hands as he stares down at it.

“O-ok.”

He perches down on the edge of the coffee table, not even thinking to sit on the couch. Not as he tears the envelope open and slides out a piece of paper that looks suspiciously like notebook paper.

Namjoon is attempting to back out of the room to allow his friend a private moment, but stays just long enough to confirm that this is indeed the long-awaited letter.

When Jimin unfolds the paper enough to see the first line, addressed to him, he begins to greedily gulp down air.

She has beautiful handwriting.

Finding Namjoon’s eyes from across the room, Jimin wears his emotions on his sleeve. The hesitant hope and utter fear of what he’s about to read is apparent, and it’s with a quivering lip that he calls out for his friend.

“Can you stay with me?” He quietly requests. Namjoon nods, hastily coming to sit across from his friend on the couch.

In the silence, Jimin reads through the letter. Namjoon watches as his brows furrow. A hint of a smile touches his cheeks at the very beginning, and he mumbles something about Elle. Then his lips part in a pained, silent gasp.

He’s silent throughout, however as he gets to the final few sentences, he finds himself reading through them again and again. It’s almost as though his eyes deceive him, like something isn’t quite connecting.

I still want you.

I still-

His thoughts are interrupted when Joon reaches out to lightly nudge his knee. “You ok?”

Ok?

“Yes?” It’s a question more for himself than anything. His eyes drift back to the page, to Jolie’s swirling handwriting and the promising statement within.

It terrifies him to the bone, which only makes him frustrated. In his utter confusion, he reads through the letter again, assessing every word.

It’s a question that Jimin hadn’t thought to ask himself before. Now that his soulmate seems within reach, he hesitates. Why?

She still wants him. And while her reasoning is sound, albeit leading to rash and hurtful choices, Jimin finds himself feeling like he’s missing something as those four words echo through his mind.

When the answer comes to him, he gasps it out as though he’d been holding his breath.

“I want to believe her,” he says, looking like he’s just about ready to cry from the frustration. “But I- I-”

Namjoon just nods, an understanding look in his eyes. It’s that look that helps to calm Jimin down, his racing heart finding solace in the fact that it might be normal to find it difficult to trust so readily.

“I can’t,” he quietly confesses. “Not yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Namjoon reassures. “Just take it one step at a time.”

Finally setting the letter down, Jimin rubs at his face. “What step are we even on?”

Namjoon chuckles quietly at his question. “Who knows. This is uncharted territory. But the way I see it, you’re in control now. You decide if you want to move forward with her in whatever way you see fit, or if you’re ready to just leave it behind. Have a fresh start.”

While both thoughts seem to have their own terrifying aspects, Jimin knows that leaving Jolie in the past simply isn’t an option.

“She said she had an aunt here, but Joon, that’s it. I’m all she’s got left.” He doesn’t know why he brings that up now, but his heart aches to think of it. For nearly a year now, she’s been so alone. Going through her grief, hardly coping. “Which may sound a little pretentious, but...I don’t want her to be alone.”

Namjoon leans back against the cushions, and Jimin seems to realize for the first time that he’s sitting on a table. He makes no move to get off of it, simply leaning forward on his elbows with a creased brow.

“Then maybe that’s where you two start,” Namjoon muses. “Neither one of you is ready to just dive into a relationship - that should be the last thing on your mind. But for now...just don’t let her be alone. I mean, the best you can while keeping your distance until, you know, you’re ready.”

Namjoon’s advice soothes the gaping hole in Jimin’s chest, letting him breathe freely for a moment. Just one step at a time.

He realizes, for perhaps the first time in his life, that just because she’s his soulmate, Jimin doesn’t have to immediately hand over his heart. It’s in pieces at the moment as is, partly due to the severed thread hanging from his left hand and partly due to the tangible heartbreak in Jolie’s letter.

No, Jimin can first let it mend. Take his time to heal.

Perhaps they can heal together.

✂

“Ah, I’ve seen you in the news!” Christina snaps her finger as she makes the connection, grinning at Chung-hei who chuckles.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she sheepishly admits. “Please tell me I look even better in person.”

“Oh,” I chime in, “loads better. You looked hideous in those pictures they used.”

Taking a huge bite, Chung-hei vigorously nods. “I know, right?! I seriously almost called them up to ask them where I could send some better photos. If they’re going to be talking about me, they might as well have some good pictures to use.”

Sunmi nearly chokes on her milkshake, fanning her cheeks as she stifles a laugh. Christina smiles fondly at Chung-hei and I.

“Why didn’t you?” She asks, clearly invested in the story now.

Chung-hei takes her question in stride, setting her chopsticks down. It’s a clear sign that she’s going to become fully immersed in the storytelling now. I lean back, ready to watch the show.

“Namjoon’s a protective idiot, that’s why.”

Now I’m the one choking, Sunmi hitting my back even as she grins devilishly. “What?! Did I just hear you say something other than praise about Namjoon?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me.”

Chung-hei levels me with a glare, scooting her chair back to get up. I immediately throw my hands up in surrender. “Ok! Ok! Just keep telling your story!”

The first few minutes between all of my friends had felt like seeing three different worlds collide. Of course, Christina was the odd one out among the other two: her profession made her a bit of an odd candidate. A part of me was dying to tell her story, to help Chung-hei and Sunmi see just how amazing she was. However, all it took were a few jokes at my expense (something that Hei and Christina both have an uncanny ability to do) before the three of them were picking at their food and chatting like the neighborhood gossips that they surely are.

“What was it like?” Sunmi asks, and suddenly I’m thrown back into reality and realizing that I just missed the entire story.

“It was…” judging from the faraway look in Chung-hei’s eyes, she’s talking about when she first met Namjoon. “I don’t know. I always expected sparks to fly or the world to stop spinning, but it wasn’t like that at all.”

I glance over at Christina, gauging to see if we’re veering into something that might make her uncomfortable. She catches my gaze, giving me a little nod that tells me she’s alright. Interested in the conversation, even.

“It just felt like coming home after a long day,” Chung-hei continues. “Like kicking off tight shoes and scrunching up your toes in the warm grass. Like the most common, simple things that life has to offer, that somehow make you believe that everything really will be alright in the end.”

My emotions get caught in my throat as I think about those little things and realize that it’s been far too long since I last drank in the beautiful normal.

“Wow.” I’m not sure who whispers it, but I grunt in agreement.

“That sounds so nice,” Sunmi says with wide eyes. Chung-hei smiles a radiant smile, one that isn’t too wide but reaches her eyes anyways.

“Yeah. It really is.”

The four of us get a little lost in our own thoughts, but eventually Christina clears her throat and shoots me a pointed look.

“So...what happened last night?”

Ah. Right.

Just like that, the reminder that my letter may very well be in Jimin’s hands right now has me fidgeting in my seat, just like I did all throughout my session with Dr. Mo.

With a tight smile, I explain the events of last night. How I essentially poured out my heart in the letter (this earns me a proud smile from Chung-hei), and how I confessed that he was all I wanted still.

The memory of him under those dazzling lights at the concert rush back to me. His white shirt loose on his body, hair swept back mainly because he kept running his hands through it. Full lips parting into a smile just as quickly as they would melt into a teasing pout. The crowd was wrapped around his finger, nearly as tightly as the bright red thread dangling from his left hand.

The thread that I stared and stared at while Chung-hei and I slipped backstage, growing ever nearer. Getting close enough that I swore I could hear his voice, his laugh like a waterfall.

I was drowning in that laugh, unable to come up for air until I found myself practically begging on my knees outside of Christina’s apartment.

“Hey,” Christina gently pulls me from my tormented state. “Are you nervous?”

Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly before answering. “Yes.”

Sunmi, who sits beside me on the couch, wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me a tight squeeze. Chung-hei abandons her food, leaving it on the coffee table and coming to sit on the other side of me.

“You told the truth,” she quietly comforts. “And that’s all you could do.”

I clench my jaw, staring at a wooden knot in the coffee table before me. “I told him that I forgave myself. But I feel like there’s so much I’ve done wrong, I hurt him too much-”

It’s Christina that rises from her chair and pushes everyone’s food aside until she can sit on the edge of the coffee table and reach out to cup my chin. Once I raise my eyes to hers, I see a raging fire in them.

“You don’t look back.” Her voice is made of steel straight out of the fire. “You cannot punish yourself for what’s already happened any more than you already have. Move forward. The only way to heal is to move forward and be better.”

I wonder for a moment how many times she’s repeated that to herself on the days when the shadows seemed a little darker and her past loomed a little larger.

“What do you think he’ll do?” I ask, my voice small.

Chung-hei sighs softly. “He still wants you...but I don’t know. He might need some time, Jolie.”

It stings, but I force myself to nod. My only hope is that he’ll allow me to somehow be a part of the time he needs to take for himself.

Eventually I ease into a semi-comfortable state, my friends chatting it up while I try to focus. Try as I might, my mind wanders back again and again to the letter. Maybe it got lost in the mail. Or maybe it won’t be delivered until tomorrow.

Maybe they really thought it was a bill and won’t open it for days, forgetting about it. It’s probably laying on that stupid kitchen island that Taehyung wants me to use for rolling dough out, collecting dust-

When my phone vibrates, I nearly jump out of my skin. My jolt makes Sunmi and Chung-hei jump as well, giggling lightly.

“Sorry,” I mumble, fishing my phone out of my back pocket. “My phone just-”

Elle’s bf 🙀: Hey...can we talk? Like, call?

I’ve rarely been able to curse fluently, but today appears to be the exception as a string of curses flow under my breath. The sentiment is mirrored as Sunmi and Chung-hei peer over my shoulder.

Christina doesn’t need to see the text to know what just happened. “He texted?”

“I’m gonna die,” I breathe out in response, heart rate ratcheting up at an alarming rate. “Dead, I’m dead-”

“Ok, look at me,” Chung-hei grabs my shoulders and forces a warm smile onto her face. “This is good-”

“Good?!” I shriek, looking down at my phone and back up at her. “How is this good? I feel like I’m gonna puke-”

“Great, but save the puking for after the phone call,” Chung-hei butts back in, taking charge of the moment. “Because right now there’s a boy on the other side of that message trying to be brave, and he needs you. He’s probably freaking out, and he needs some answers and reassurance that his soulmate really actually meant every word she wrote in that letter. And you meant it, didn’t you?”

I find myself nodding along, wishing that I hadn’t just eaten a ridiculous amount of food. Not as my stomach churns at the thought of talking in real time with Jimin.

“Go ahead and text him back,” Sunmi coos, the calm to Hei’s invincible will. “And...you know what, nevermind. I’ll ask about the way you have him saved under your phone later.”

It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to formulate a response, and even longer to type it out without making any typos. Staring at the send button, I groan, unable to press it just yet.

“I really might throw up.”

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” Christina springs up from the couch as Chung-hei begins to rub soothing lines up and down my arms. Despite the warm temperature in the room, I can’t stop shivering.

“If you want us here, that’s fine...but I also think it might be good for it to just be the two of you. So you can talk freely” Hei gently advises, so different from the little pep talk mere moments before.

I stare at the wall, chewing ferociously on the inside of my lip. The thought of my friends not being here makes me feel even more vulnerable, but at the same time I know this is something I have to do alone.

“Will you come back after?”

“Of course,” Sunmi reassures. “We’ll just go on a ride or something while you two talk. Text us when you’re done, and we’ll be back before you know it.”

Christina sets the glass of water in my hand, urging me to drink. With a few swigs that help to clear my head and temporarily calm my stomach, I press send.

Me: Of course. I’m free right now, go ahead and call if you can.

I’m not sure if I want to cry or squeal.

Both. I want to do both.

My three friends get up (Christina taking her food with her, a detail I hardly notice) and file through the door, offering me warm smiles and words of encouragement. Try and I might, I can hardly register them amidst the swirling feelings of panic and doubt crawling through my veins.

The sound of the door closing is what makes the first tear slip out.

Grabbing my phone and staring at the couch before deciding that I’d rather the comfort of my blankets and pillows, I jump and stub my toe against the coffee table when Elle jumps through the kitchen window. She appears to be unbothered, but follows me into my room and leaps onto the bed. She circles my feet before brushing up against my calves, laying between my legs. Resting her chin on my shin, she looks up at me with those big eyes of hers.

Waiting, just like I am.

I’m not sure how long it takes, but it feels like an agonizing eternity before the phone finally rings.

When it does, I scoop it up and stare at if for a moment. I pinch myself for good measure, giving myself one last chance to wake up.

Of course, I don’t wake up. This isn’t a dream. I realize that when my shaky thumb swipes to accept the call and I bring the phone to my ear.

It’s quiet, but I can hear the soft, shaky breath on the other side of the phone. Almost like Jimin was holding his breath but couldn’t quite hold it any longer.

It takes me approximately four seconds to remember that I’m supposed to say hello.

Of course, I fail even at that. “Jimin?”

It’s not the most eloquent way to answer the phone, but I need to know.

“Jolie.”

✂

“Jimin?”

Jimin stands outside on the balcony, facing the large pines that obscure his view of the rest of the neighborhood. When he hears the breathy, slightly panicked voice on the other end of the phone, he realizes that he should definitely be sitting down for this conversation.

“Jolie.” It’s a statement that should have been a question, but he knows - knew, from the single syllable his soulmate had utter, his name, no less, that it had been her.

It had to be her. His name had never sounded so beautiful coming from any other mouth.

When the silence stretches on, Jimin sinks to the ground and sits facing those great pines. The railing obstructs his view a bit, but it isn’t like he’s actually watching them. No, his gaze is a little dazed as he scrambles for something to say.

“I- I got your letter.”

There’s a pause in which Jimin is absolutely positive he hears a sniffle - the pitiful sound making him reach out to grab the metal bars of the balcony railing for support.

“Oh.” And then, “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess right now-”

“No, I am too,” Jimin rushes to reassure her. “I think it’s safe to say that we’re both a bit of a mess.”

He hears a wry chuckle and suddenly he can’t help but smile slightly, basking in the short-lived sound. “Jimin, I…”

“What?” Eager to hear what comes next, Jimin can’t help but widen his eyes as if that will urge Jolie to continue.

“I...t-thank you for the flowers.”

Someone might as well have brought him back to life. Shoulders relaxing and lungs expanding, Jimin blinks and finally sees the trees.

“Thank you for the letter.”

✂

Jimin’s voice is deeper than I thought it would be. His soft, angelic singing voice acts as a good cover for the delicious timbre coming through the phone.

Of course, I may be biased.

“You’re welcome,” I manage to squeak out. “You deserved an explanation. I hope it didn’t leave you more confused than before.”

“No,” he responds, dragging the word out in a way that makes me feel warm. “It was beautiful. I’m so sorry, Jolie, about your parents. I wish I could do something- change it.”

The familiar pang of pain strikes true, but it fails to linger like it normally does. “It’s nobody’s fault, Jimin.” His name is delicious on my tongue, and I fight the urge to say it again. “But I really, just...I know saying I’m sorry doesn’t cut it, but for what it’s worth...I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

It’s quiet except for the sound of a breeze and distant chirping, leading me to believe that he’s outside. If I close my eyes, I’m right there with him.

“Thank you. I...that means a lot. Thank you.” He takes a deep breath, and I can tell that he’s getting to the reason he called in the first place. “This might sound a little strange, but I need to say it.”

“Go on,” I urge.

“You mentioned - don’t hate me, because you said it was the cheesy part,” I can’t help but snort at his playful manner that peeks through. “But you sounded like you were willing to give this a try…? Give us a try?”

Blinking rapidly to dispel any lingering tears, I nod even though he can’t see me. “Yes. But only if you want to. I completely understand if you feel like you can’t after everything that’s happened-”

“I want to. I- I want you.”

My heart pounding in my ears, I bite down a gasp. “You do?”

“But just...can we take this slowly?”

Letting out a sigh of relief, a tentative smile makes its way to my lips. “Yes, please.”

Judging from Jimin’s little laugh, he’s more than happy with my response. “Good. I just don’t want to be alone anymore, you know? And hey, if I remember correctly, you thought I was funny-

“Woah, I thought Jaemin was funny, not you. You’re gonna have to start all over now.”

Jimin makes a sound of protest that I hope masks the schoolgirl-like giggle I let out at the sound. “Really? You’re ridiculous. Hey! Is Elle there?”

“Oh, she is! She’s sitting here eavesdropping, wanna say hello?”

“Yes, put me on speaker. I’ve missed my cat.”

“Your cat? Really?”

“Yah, put me on speaker already-”

His voice cuts off, and I strain to hear another person that speaks in the background. It’s muffled, but despite the poor quality I can hear the panic in their voice. A moment later Jimin returns, however his joking banter is gone. Indeed, he sounds deadly serious as he tries to calmly speak.

“Jolie,” he begins, and suddenly it’s cold. “You’re at home, right?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “What happened?”

“Stay inside,” Jimin instructs, not answering my question. “Do not leave, you understand me? And don’t let anyone inside. I don’t care who it is, do not let anyone in.”

My blood runs cold at that. “Jimin, you’re scaring me, what’s going-”

“Promise me.”

The pure desperation in his voice leaves me paralyzed, but I manage to speak. “I promise. But Jimin, what’s happening? Is everything ok?”

“I’ll call you tonight, ok? Just- don’t leave.”

With that, he bids me goodbye and the line clicks off. Scrambling to pull up the numer, I immediately call Chung-hei.

It rings and rings, eventually going to her voicemail. I end the call only to begin a new one to Christina.

Again, no answer.

Sunmi’s number is the last one I try, holding the phone up to my ear. “C’mon, pick up, pick up,” I chant, pulling my knees up to my chest.

But it just rings, over and over again.

“Hello, this is Kang Sunmi. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to take your call, please leave a message-”

Ending the call with a violent jab, I start the calls again from the top.

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wrienne · 3 years

Text

My Cheating, Amnesic Fiancé

Chapter 10: His Ring

Namjoon and Seokjin’s eyes widened, though you got no reaction from Yoongi. He was like an ominous presence, sitting at an angle you could only watch him through your peripheral view as you stared down at your hands.

“How?” asked Namjoon. “And how do you know that?”

“Yes, isn’t amnesia both incurable and irreversible?” wondered Hoseok. "That's what the doctor told us."

“Starting with that...”

While explaining what you and Kim Sejin had spoken about that morning and the battle plan you had organized all day during school, all six of them were quiet. You finished with, “...I figured I could grab some of his clothes as well as hear your ideas about my plan.”

“It sounds like some kind of movie plot,” said Seokjin dubiously.

“Exactly what I told your manager,” you said and smiled half-heartedly. “But this is the only option we have. I, for one, refuse to let Jungkook lose all that he’s fought for. What all of you have fought for.”

“Even if it’s a slight chance, there’s still a possibility,” said Namjoon in agreement.

“What would you have us do, then?” asked Jimin.

“If you could write down a list, just as I have,” you said as you showed them your scribbles, “I’d have something more recent to go on from. I have never been very close to him, especially since his debut, so your input would help tremendously.”

“Why help him then?” Taehyung regarded you warily. His hard expression had gradually morphed into one of focus and attentiveness, but now you saw it teetering. Would he flare up again? “What do you have to gain?”

“Would you stop it?” Hoseok gave Taehyung a harsh glare, which made Namjoon and Seokjin look curiously at him. Hoseok pointed at Taehyung. “This one almost lost it downstairs, blaming Jungkook’s accident on (Y/N). Taehyung, you coming at her doesn’t exactly help the situation.”

“Hyung,” said Taehyung coolly. “Everyone with half a brain understands that she and Jungkook parted on unfriendly terms. Have you ever heard him curse like that - especially to a girl who is supposed to be a ‘family friend’? And he wouldn’t speak to anyone at all until Sejin-manager had taken us to the bar. She made him drink and run out on the street.”

“He’s halfway right,” said Seokjin as he scrutinized you. “I’ve never seen our Jungkook that mad.”

“Exactly,” said Taehyung triumphantly. “So you better tell us the truth: what do you have to gain from Jungkook?”

“Nothing,” you said earnestly, then fumbled as you tried to structure the rest of your reply. Technically, you had absolutely nothing to gain from Jeon Jungkook’s potential recovery and reascent to the music industry’s top. Meanwhile, it would take you more than three months of hard work and utter, genuine dedication to even have a shot at getting him to Japan. It could all just prove to be a waste of time. Minutes, hours, days, weeks better spent on you and yourself. Not to mention, that bastard had been unfaithful to you for who knows how long, in addition to having treated you sometimes like air, sometimes like dirt and sometimes like you were his worst enemy in the world.

But still. Still. You couldn’t abandon Jeon Jungkook in his time of need.

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Taehyung and crossed his arms over his chest. “Jungkook told me you disliked each other, and that you couldn’t stand him. So why?”

“I just…”

You grasped after the right words. Your mind was muddled, however, so you had no choice but to simply follow the second voice-in-command: your heart.

“If you were me,” you began carefully, “would you have allowed the son of your parents’ best friend to forget his childhood dream? I’ve known Jungkook all of my life - we’ve grown up together, spent every holiday with one another and celebrated everything from birth, life and death side by side. He was horrible most of the time, I’ll say that, but he was there for me when others weren’t. You might believe my family fortunes and good name generated friends wherever I went, but no. It didn’t. I’ve been on my own pretty much all my life.”

You hadn’t meant for the conversation to suddenly turn so personal, but there you sat, pouring your heart out to six strangers. Perhaps that’s what made therapy so popular. People listening to other people’s problems.

You took a deep breath. “When my grandparents died, Jungkook was the first one to each of their funerals. When I was about ten or so and fell down a cliff during a hike with our parents and broke my collarbone, Jungkook was the one who found me and dragged me back to camp. He practically saved my life. Now, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have been able to look myself in the mirror if I just left him the way he is now, especially when I have a chance to help.”

No matter his betrayal.

“I have no clue what Jungkook told you about me, but I would never premeditate hurting or upsetting or exploiting him in any way.” You cleared your throat, grimacing as your windpipe had tightened with every word you said. “Now yesterday was the first time I saw you guys on stage. And though I possess no particular experience in show business or even an ounce of musical talent, I saw--no, felt that he belonged up there. Still - and I haven't told you all - would you have left him if you were me? Abandoned him for old grudges?”

You hadn’t noticed how hard you were clutching your hands together. Not until you felt the odd, ticklish sensation signifying a lack of blood and circulation did you realize that your knuckles and fingers had whitened. You loosened up and caught Taehyung’s eyes.

“No,” he said, immediately casting down his focus. “I guess not.”

“What we spoke of is private,” you said quietly, feeling your chest constrict in pain at the memory. “It is something I can never disclose. But the conversation wasn’t of a threatening or hostile nature, and if I knew he would run out drunkenly on a street because of my decision, I would have never made it. I would never, ever wish Jungkook harmed.”

No one spoke. Taehyung didn’t raise his gaze.

You sniffled. Hoseok quickly came back from the hallway with some tissues and handed you them. You wiped your eyes and were relieved to find the tissue only slightly damp. You weren’t bawling, at least, though the mere presence of tears made you frown - you didn’t exactly have something to cry for. You weren’t somber or filled with grief at the memory of your grandparents' funerals. However, you were extremely tired and weary after last night’s escapade to the hospital. And your conversation with your parents hadn’t exactly done much to brighten up your mood.

You almost chuckled. You were used to calling Jungkook stupid, but who was the bigger fool, really?

Considering how the next three months would progress, it was ironic, it truly was.

“What should we do?” asked Hoseok finally, breaking the silence.

“Let’s split up into groups,” said Namjoon after said someone’s stomach grumbled. “Jin-hyung and I will get to cooking since it’s our turn anyway. The rest of you can start with a list each.”

“What are we even supposed to write?” Jimin scratched the back of his head.

“It might be a bit personal,” you told him, “but it probably has to be in order for it to be memorable. Just write down anything you might have done with Jungkook that you feel affected your relationship in any major way.”

“Write down anything that you imagine Jungkook might have remembered up until the accident,” added Namjoon and slowly stood. “Like the time we went bungee jumping or traveled to Northern Europe.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” you said.

“And you’re going to do what with this information?” wondered Seokjin, standing also. “Isn’t it better if we just meet up with him and tell him all of this? Try to remind him while face-to-face?”

You shook your head. “I wouldn’t say he’s scared of you. But he doesn’t trust anyone and might straight-up refuse to listen to any of you. And even if some of you manage to convince him to hear you out, what if it turns out he doesn’t remember? That might make you frustrated at him or just left feeling needlessly hurt. Furthermore, I don’t want to stress him out any more than he already is. Imagine, it must be like waking up from a five or so year long dreamless sleep for him and suddenly he’s overwhelmed with the eager input from six or so people telling him he knows them the way he did.”

“Okay,” said Jimin with a nod. “Who has some pen and paper?”

“I do,” said Hoseok, then disappeared into one of the rooms. He came out with a notebook and tore out a page for everyone except you, Seokjin and Namjoon, then returned with an equal number of pens.

Namjoon and Seokjin headed into the kitchen while Taehyung, Jimin and Hoseok eventually started discussing what would count as a “memorable memory”. Yoongi quietly pondered his sheet of paper, his dark gaze fixed upon the clean slate while he tapped his pen against the table surface.

He briefly found your eyes but said nothing.

Swallowing hard, you carefully unzipped your jacket and hung it over your chair as well as placed your duffel bag underneath your chair. Feeling uncomfortable just sitting there, you rose while putting up your hair with a hair tie and poked your head into the kitchen.

“Is there something I can do to help?” you asked.

Seokjin was instructing Namjoon when he stopped and looked at you over the latter’s shoulder. “No, we’ll be alright. You can just sit with the others.”

You wouldn’t have minded just sitting and watching them if not for Yoongi’s watchful eyes. But since you couldn’t exactly say that, you smiled sheepishly. “I’m sort of not used being around so many guys.”

“No male cousins or siblings?”

“None.” Your smile fell a bit. “It’s a small family.”

“How long are you staying?” asked Namjoon. He had begun washing vegetables in the sink.

“Oh, not very long,” you said quickly. “I wouldn’t want to intrude for any longer than dinner. And I told Jungkook I’d be back at six.”

Seokjin and Namjoon looked at each other hesitantly. The latter shrugged, and Seokjin found your gaze again.

“Would you mind setting the table, then?” he asked.

About half an hour later, all seven of you were busy eating homemade tteokbokki and bought gimbap. They asked you about you and Jungkook, how long you had known each other, what school you went to, and so on. The lists had been compiled into one master list, courtesy of Namjoon, who had wanted to organize all of their ideas into relevant categories, like years, members and places. You hadn’t even been aware of how hungry you had been until then and ate quicker than everyone else. Or well, almost.

“It’s almost six o’clock,” said Min Yoongi as he stood. “Come, (Y/N). Someone’s got to show her to Jungkook’s things and Namjoon is still eating,” he explained at everyone’s confused frown.

“Oh, I had almost forgotten.”

You rose and began carrying your dishes to the kitchen when Jimin stopped you. “Let it be,” he said. “I’ll take care of it. You better get back to Jungkook.”

“Thank you,” you said, then looked at everyone seated at the table. For once, Taehyung didn’t look at you with poorly disguised fury. “Thank you for the food, and for your help. I really appreciate it, and I know Jungkook would as well.”

“We’ll finish the last of the master list meanwhile,” said Hoseok as you bent to pick up your duffel bag. “Try to steal some of Namjoon’s stuff. He has way too many clothes that fall underneath the ‘hobo’ category.”

“It’s ‘boho’ I tell you,” mumbled Namjoon as he covered his mouth with his hand. “It’s a popular fashion style overseas.”

“That might be, but you make it ‘hobo’.”

Namjoon sighed as the others laughed.

You smiled at Hoseok, who returned the gesture, then turned anxiously toward Yoongi. He gestured for you to come and you followed him into the same room Namjoon and Seokjin had exited from. The bedroom was small, with only barely enough space for two single beds, a wardrobe, a tall mirror and a desk with a lamp, but surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the apartment.

Yoongi closed the door shut after you, then led you to the swelling wardrobe, which almost reached from the floor to the ceiling. He opened the wardrobe doors and pointed in a general area of blacks, jeans and whites. There was a surplus of beanies, mouth masks and brand underwear as well.

“That half is Jungkook’s,” said Yoongi as he opened the wardrobe doors and pointed in a general area. “Though some of his clothes might be in the washing machine or drying.”

“I think he can manage with this,” you said as you began placing one item after another into your duffel bag.

You didn’t know exactly how much you needed to grab, but when you considered the bleak possibility that Jungkook might not ever return to the apartment again, you decided to take everything of his at least in the wardrobe. While initially conscientious - you knew how prim Jungkook could be with his things - you took it slow, placing clothes like Tetris. Then, realizing it would take hours, you just shoveled as much as you could into the bag.

You tried to ignore the pair of slim dark eyes silently watching your every move.

“Is there anything else of his in here?” you asked Yoongi when you were finished. The duffel bag actually looked like a body bag now, but would still have some room left over for a phone charger or a headset or so.

“He has a laptop and some gadgets he carries in a small bag.”

It didn’t take you long to find the computer and you carefully placed it inside a computer bag marked “JK”. You found chargers, a mouse and a headset inside the bag first, though, which you poured into the duffel bag instead. When you were finished, however, and started toward the door, Yoongi stopped you.

You frowned and tried not to sound frightened, but felt your heartbeats surge into a gallop. “Hey, what--”

And you stopped so abruptly you almost choked on your words. You had wondered where Jungkook’s engagement band was, ever since you saw its obviously vacant place on his finger the evening before. But now you knew.

Held between his index finger and thumb, Min Yoongi raised the promise ring your parents had given Jungkook, its circular, golden shape familiar to you. His expression didn't change, nor did his voice.

“At which point of the dinner were you going to tell us about your and Jungkook’s engagement?”

#MCAF #wrienne #ao3 #bts fanfiction #bts x reader

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parrisher · 3 years

Note

ooh ronan pov of the bllb scene?? fuck yess!!

anon i love u endlessly

on ao3

As Ronan fluttered back to reality, he realized two things very quickly. One, he was frozen in place, lying in a pew. Two, his clothes were drenched —he looked as far as he could without moving his head—his own blood.

Well, technically his own blood. And technically, those were his own whimpers echoing agonizingly through the pews of St. Agnes. But Ronan’s mouth was stuck shut.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adam start awake.

Fuck.

Adam jerked back from the twitching dream-Ronan before he even seemed to fully realize what he was seeing. Ronan watched, still helplessly stuck, as Adam’s eyes raked over dream-Ronan’s arched spine, his shaking fingers, his desperate eyes. Adam sucked in a sharp breath. His lip began to curl, quivering, and Ronan tore his eyes away.

Watching Adam grieve felt too private to watch, even for the grieved himself.

He heard the shuffle of denim against carpet and finally, as Adam scrambled over to the body that pleaded with Ronan’s own voice, Ronan’s body sagged against the hard wood of the pew. The manila envelope, stuffed with a hundred different horrors, almost fell out of his hand before he tightened his grip, refusing to let go of everything he’d just sacrificed for.

He had to get up, he had to get them out of there. But as he lay there, Ronan couldn’t think of anything besides the panic in Adam’s eyes. The heat of a thousand different emotions mounted in his chest.

The simple, wringing sadness from seeing death. The heart-stopping fear of his nightmares. The pain in Adam’s gasp that had lodged like an arrow in his chest and, above all, the frustration that Adam had insisted on staying. That he’d been sappy enough to let Adam stay, that he’d had to see this-

“Ronan-” Adam’s voice came out strangled. Ronan sat up in a rush, but Adam wasn’t talking to him. Bent over dream-Ronan, bleeding out on the church carpet, his voice was barely a whisper, no life behind it. “Oh, God.”

A prayer fit for a church. Ronan didn’t miss the irony.

The pain, the guilt, the tears straining to be held back all exploded in his chest with those two damn words. Watching Adam move helplessly over Ronan’s own body, beautiful hands fluttering from blood-soaked stomach to ruined throat to chest, Ronan had the sudden impulse to run before Adam could see him. Another impulse immediately followed, barely stronger than the first.

You can't run from this, idiot. He thinks he’s watching you die.

How many more burdens would he throw carelessly onto Adam’s shoulders? How much more could he take? He’d watched the bags under the other boy’s eyes grow deeper and deeper as the hunt for Glendower had stolen more time from Adam, and now—Adam didn’t deserve this, he didn’t need the nightmares. He was running on empty already.

Frustration spiraled up again, faster than he could push it down. Anger picked a target before he could stop himself.

“Are you happy now?” Ronan regretted the words as soon as he’d spit them out. “Is this what you wanted?” He gritted his teeth as Adam jumped, looking around wildly. When his eyes finally landed on Ronan, he looked-

Emotion swelled again in Ronan’s chest. Adam looked lost, gaze faint. Unreachable. His voice came from miles away. “What’s-” he blinked several times to no avail. “What’s happening.” It wasn’t a question.

Dream-Ronan let out a shivering cry. Real-Ronan knew how he felt.

He couldn’t stop the fear-sorrow-anger from flashing across his face as he saw the version of himself bleeding out on the ancient St. Agnes carpet. Somewhere deep in the fog of his brain, something told him he should scream. Something else told him that it could have been worse.

At least Adam hadn’t had to put the pieces of him together.

Ronan looked back over at Adam, and found that he was watching Ronan intently. He still looked about ready to faint, but the fog in his eyes had cleared. What was underneath, though—an unguarded sadness, pain, pity written all across his perfect cheekbones--was somehow even worse.

It was the fact that he’d seen this part of Ronan, all the shit inside his head. Adam was crouched over a hard copy of all the bad decisions he’d made, all the times he’d gone to bed wondering if he would be around to bring anything back. All the terrible, too-real things he’d brought back. Wasps in Monmouth. Adam’s t-shirt. Slit wrists.

Maybe Ronan should scream.

Maybe he should break down, throw his arms around Adam, beg him not to let him die.

But if there was one thing he and Adam had in common, it was that they couldn’t stand to be pitied. So Ronan dragged the ice back into his tone.

“You wanted to stay?” he snarled. He thought of Kavinsky. Leash your dog, Gansey. “Well, here we are. Hope you enjoyed the show.”

Adam pushed himself up from where he’d been kneeling by the body. There was a tiny red bloodstain—Ronan’s blood—on the worn-out neck of Adam’s shirt that Ronan couldn’t tear his eyes away from. Dream-Ronan was still gasping for air. “Why would you- why?” Surprise met with his Henrietta twang as they laced their way through his voice. “What did you do? What happened?”

What had happened?

Nightmares. They should’ve known. Even if Ronan had tried to dream a godddamn lollipop, he would’ve had nightmares, but dreaming this kind of shit? To get photos, he had to stage them. To get a hand, he had to cut it off. Adam’s plan was the kind of grisly detail that nightmares eat for breakfast. And he’d been in there so long…

The dream-Ronan gave a last shuddering cry and went still. Ronan knew Adam was watching, could feel Adam’s eyes on his face, and he tried to keep his face neutral.

But God- he’d just died, for fuck’s sake.

“I tried for too much at once,” he said. His voice betrayed him- it was too flat, too emotionless even for him. Adam’s eyes flashed with guilt growing more watery by the minute, and the resulting stab of self-hatred shocked even Ronan with its force. He stared resolutely past the other boy. “I was in there too long. The night horrors came, and then-” he realized in horror that his voice was shaking. He took a breath in and refused to meet Adam’s eyes. “Then I heard the wasps, and I knew I would bring them back, and then-” he gestured with practiced thoughtlessness towards dead-Ronan. “That would be me. But, like, for real.” He could see Adam’s jaw clench out of the corner of his eye. He refused to let himself think about what that meant, and this frustration only added to the mix of emotions coloring his words. “Easy solution. Dreamt a new me, fresh and ready-to-die. Woke up. Here I am. Here I am, again.” He was spitting the words out now. “What a cool trick. What a damn cool trick.”

He finally glanced over, but Adam’s face was unreadable. He had a look in his eye like he was putting together a puzzle that was, as he went, gaining more pieces. Ronan felt far too known.

He couldn’t do it anymore. He had to get out. Some corner of his mind reminded him why they’d gone through all this in the first place, and he only remembered the envelope in his hand as he was shoving it towards Adam. “Here’s your shit.” The words came out embarrassingly wounded. Ronan could feel his window of escape slipping.

It seemed to take a second for Adam to recognize what the envelope was, and a second longer for him to reach out his hand and grasp it. The blood-stained manila looked wildly out of place in his long fingers.

There was a moment of silence as the two faced each other. It was obvious from in the pain in Adam’s eyes, in the way he seemed to wilt in on himself, in how his breath hitched that he had lost something precious in this church. That Ronan had ripped something from him.

Dream-Ronan’s eyes stared up at the chapel ceiling, seeing nothing.

A sigh broke the silence. “What now?” Adam sounded almost embarrassed. “What do we-”

“Nothing,” Ronan interrupted. His eyes had just caught the bloodstains on Adam’s knuckles from the dreamt envelope. He thought about crossing over to him and wiping them away. He thought about pausing, hand in hand, looking into the cornflower eyes that had shed tears over his dead body, lifting a tan knuckle to rough lips. He thought about running away and leaving Sister Whoever to find his dead body. “We do nothing. You go.”

Adam’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, then crinkled in confusion. “What?”

Heat was rising in Ronan’s chest again, that same fiery mix of grief and anger and fear and this time love, maybe. He couldn’t breathe. He realized he was shaking. “I said I didn’t want you here in case this happened. It happened. Look at you.”

Any trace of grief or even embarrassment was suddenly gone from Adam’s eyes. He was the magician again, making bargains with Ronan’s dreams without ever feeling a thing. “Asshole.” His mouth twitched. “This wasn’t my fault.” Ronan knew it wasn’t Adam’s fault. Of course it wasn’t Adam’s fault. Adam wasn’t the one who had made Ronan watch him die, slowly and painfully.

But he still couldn’t breathe right as long as Adam was standing there staring at him, and by now, the bloodstains were sinking into the carpet. The chapel was starting to feel less like a house of worship and more like a place where demons were made. “Just go,” he said in a voice too low, too rough, not to mean the opposite. “Get the hell away from me.” He stared up at Adam, and Adam stared back, and he knew they both could feel the echoes of a thousand past fights, a thousand times where neither had backed down.

“I’ll ask one more time.” There was steel in Adam’s voice. Ronan knew, instinctively, that they would never mention this again. There was a part of him that wished they could. “What now?”

But another, stronger part needed to watch it all burn, if only for a moment. Ronan wished desperately that he could shove it down, but it set his jaw and drew his face into a scowl before he could stop himself. “Bye. That’s what.”

He was an idiot who deserved whatever came to him.

“Whatever.” Adam stepped around dream-Ronan on his way out. Ronan couldn’t tell if he imagined the way Adam’s expression faltered when he looked down or not. “Next time you can die alone.” His footsteps faded up the stairs to his apartment. Much later, so late it would almost be early, Ronan knew those same stairs would echo with Adam’s panicked shout as he woke from seeing Ronan’s glassy eyes over and over again. He knew he would do the same.

He knew he’d hide a worn-out gray t-shirt underneath his bed.

He finally screamed. It echoed off the chapel ceiling, past the altar, back to the stairs where Adam and his cheekbones had just left, until Ronan couldn’t tell if the sound had come from himself or the pale dream-Ronan still lying in a pool of his own blood.

“What’s happening?” Adam’s shaky voice, scared because of him. “Ronan, oh god.”

Ronan fell into the pew and buried his head in his hands.

#pynch #ronan lynch #adam parrish #trc #the raven cycle #pynch fic #my writing #ask

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colehasapen · 3 years

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(ONE SHOT) we can turn it into gold dust STAR WARS

Jangobi Week Day 2 - Time Travel

A03

When Ben had first woken up in the past, he’d had nowhere to go. He hadn’t known where he was, what he was doing, or what he would do, he hadn’t even been aware that he was in the past at first. He had still been shaking with adrenaline from his battle against - against Vader. Bone weary from the grief of losing his family, from the ache of the betrayal of his men, he hadn’t been sure of anything, but the fact that he’d had two children in his arms that needed protection and that he was no longer on Bail’s ship. No longer standing beside his Grandmaster and the body of one of his dearest friends.

At first, he hadn’t even realized that he was over a decade younger than he had been only months before, all he’d known was that he was immensely grateful for the peculiarities of Stewjoni biology, because he’d had two very hungry newborns to feed before he could truly wonder about what had happened.

He’d disguised himself as a farmer, hiding his and Anakins’ lightsabers, stealing some clothing from an abandoned homestead, and that had been when he’d truly gotten his first good look at his face, and he’d nearly retched in his shock. The face staring back at him had been fresh with young, a face round with immaturity and smattered with freckles Ben hadn’t worn since he was a Padawan, free of the beard he had once worn. He barely looked out of his teens, like he should still be following his Master around on missions and attending lessons in the Temple. He had stood them, bare as the day he had been born, for a long time, just staring at his reflection in the broken glass until one of the twins started wailing to be fed and Ben had forced himself to move.

Luke and Leia needed him, so he couldn’t let himself crumble.

Ben had forced himself to keep moving, because he had two orphaned infants who needed him for everything. Without him, they’d have no food, no warmth, no care - so he’d kept moving forward, looking to the Force for guidance. The lack of slimy Darkness around him had been a shock at first, had made him realize how used to it he had become over the years, and it wasn’t only all from the two supernovas that he carried around with him, one strapped to his chest, the other to his back, as they’d worked their way through the countryside of a snow-covered planet that Ben didn’t recognize.

It had been beautiful, at least, seeing the sun glinting off of ice crystals and snow capped trees, white dusted on the undergrowth like a layer of powdered sugar on those donuts he remembered Garen enjoying a little too much when they had been children. He had spent too long confined to the war front and Coruscant, unable to see the beauty of nature like he could on the unknown planet he had found himself on.

The peace hadn’t lasted.

Urged on by the Force, Ben had kept walking, and eventually he’d found himself stumbling upon a camp of armoured Mandalorians - who had all seemed equally as surprised to see him as he was to see them. It had been a tense stand-off, staring down the business end of almost a hundred blasters, until Luke had started fussing under his coat, uneasy with the emotions being broadcasted into the Force and hungry once more.

The sights and sounds of a fussy baby had been the sign that the Mando’ade had needed, and Ben had found himself immediately ushered further into the camp by protective and worried warriors. They’d been utterly delighted when both children had been unveiled, like seeing a second infant was the most precious thing they’d all ever seen. He’d found himself and the twins herded to the tent at the very center of the camp, the most well-defended position with the best insulation and heating, private enough to let him breastfeed in peace. Eventually, a medic had come to him, carrying a scanner and leading a younger verd laden with blankets and pillows behind xem. Blood work had been done, a medical profile created, and none of them had even blinked an eye when neither Luke or Leias’ genetics matched his own.

To them, he was Ben Tano, twenty years old, just another refugee who had gotten in over his head, who had taken in two orphans who had needed care and comfort. Baar’ur Nawara had been knowledgeable and well-trained, and perhaps Ben shouldn’t have been as surprised as he had been that the Twi’Lek had known the specifics of Stewjoni biology, considering that Mandalorians had once been known to take in beings regardless of species, as long as they swore the resol’nare.

Eventually, their leader had returned from scouting, had swept into the tent and into Ben’s life, and then there he had stayed.

It was then, shirtless under one of the blankets offered to him, cradling the twins in his arms as they’d fed, that the truth of his situation had truly sunk in, because when the buy’ce had come off, Ben had found himself staring into a hauntingly familiar face, one he had spent the last three years of his life surrounded by at all sides. Jango Fett, young enough that he could have been mistaken as one of his clones, dressed in beskar’gam painted in a way that Ben had never seen, dark hair curling around a face unlined by years of hatred and suffering, had stared back at him. Barely out of his teenaged years himself, Jango Fett had proven himself to be a completely different person than the man Ben had met in his own time, the one that had consigned millions of his own children to a life of slavery and death. This was a Jango Fett who was still Mand’alor, still a leader among his people, one who had not yet been given the name of Jedi Killer - and Ben had made sure that he never would.

Somehow, he had been thrown decades into the past, in a body young enough that he could be mistake for a teenager, on Galidraan before the slaughter of the True Mandalorians, before the Mandalorian Civil War had truly spun out of control and Death Watch gained the amount of traction Ben had once known them to have. He’d been thrown into a past before Jango had given himself over to a life of vengeance, before the clones had even been created, and Ben had made sure it would never happen.

He mourned for the friends he lost by meddling; mourned good, strong Cody, kind Waxer and Boil, cheerful Wooley, and so many more that had been lost. He mourned for his 212th, who had betrayed him for reasons Ben doubted he’d ever know, for Rex and the 501st, for all of the clones who would never get to live. By making sure the True Mandalorians didn’t die on Galidraan, Ben had ensured that they’d never live, he had changed the course of history and everything he had known.

He had nowhere to go, no home to go back to - there was already an Obi-Wan Kenobi at the Temple, and even the thought of returning made him think of the bodies of his family on the floor, of smoke rising above the spires and fear staining the walls like blood. So when Jango had offered him a place with the True Mandalorians, among people he hadn’t known in his own time, he had accepted.

He had accepted, had become a Mandalorian, and, eventually, he became the Be’alor as well.

An arm slides across his waist, pulling him closer against a warm, broad chest, and Ben feels lips press against the back of his neck, hot breath ruffling the shaggy copper hair there. “It’s too early to be thinking, Mesh’la.” His husband murmurs, his end of their Force bond buzzing groggily, and Ben hums, enjoying the pleasant tingle of human contact, melting into Jango’s embrace as a large hand splays across the faint bump of his abdomen. “What’s wrong, riduur? Is the ikaad bothering you?”

“Just thinking, cyar’ika.” He soothes, pulling away just enough that he can roll over to face his husband, letting the other man tuck his head under his chin, dark curls brushing against the clean shaven skin there, hand moving back to the ever-growing baby bump. This late in the night cycle, it’s just the two of them in the Mand’alor’s suite, far too early as it is for even energetic five year olds to be running around. The Keldabe palace is a fortress, impenetrable and safe, and it lets Ben relax, allowing him to be sure that his ade are safe. “It’s been five years.” He muses, almost amazed by the fact, playing absently with Jango’s soft hair.

Jango purrs deep in his chest as his nails drag over his scalp, a genetic hold over from the nonhuman ancestors Ben had never known he’d had - but maybe he shouldn’t have been too surprised to learn, considering how pack-minded the clones had been. “Best five years of my life.” The man rumbles sleepily, nuzzling against Ben’s collarbone. “I might just like your Force-shit after all. It gave me you.” Then, when Ben’s mouth opens to say something appropriately witty, still unsure what to do with the love and care aimed towards him to this day, Jango silences him with a sweet kiss that tastes like morning breath and makes both of them screw up their faces in exaggerated disgust.

“Urg.” Ben says dramatically, like some great insult had been given to him, flopping over onto his back and ignoring the faint roll of nausea that follows when the baby makes their displeasure known. Jango follows like a limpet, burying his face in Ben’s stomach and rubbing his cheek against the delightfully soft fabric of his sleep shirt as he stretches his arms across him like another blanket. “So uncivilized.”

“You love me.” Jango grins at him, soft with sleep and his cheek resting against the bump of their growing child, dark eyes shimmering with so much love that Ben wants to cry sometimes.

He doesn’t know what he ever could have done to deserve this sweet happiness.

“Unfortunately.” Ben teases, reaching out to ruffle his hair again, and Jango melts into his touch, purrs kicking up once more. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you and accepted Myles’ proposal instead.”

“Betrayal.” Jango grumps, voice thickening once more as sleep creeps towards him once again, “My own brother, betraying me. I should have him hanged.”

He can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up in response, “You wouldn’t.” He says playfully, dodging the half-hearted swat that lands on his pillow instead, leaving Jango’s wrist to rest against his mouth, and Ben nips at it teasingly. “You love Myles too much.”

“Lies and slander.”

Ben laughs again, the weight of his past long forgotten in the face of his husband’s warmth, and he gently kisses the pulse point he can feel beating against his lips. “Go back to sleep, Jan’ika. We have a few hours yet until your court needs us.”

“Our court.” Jango mumbles, surrendering to the gentle Force suggestion Ben had lined his words with. “You got half of it when you agreed to marry me.” His breath evens as he slips back to sleep, filling the room and the Force with foggy contentment and gentle love, and Ben smiles.

“Of course.” He teases his sleeping husband, unable to not get the last word even as he finds himself being pulled back to his dreams. “How dare I forget that.”

Taglist: @a-mediocre-succulent @yellowisharo @spoofymcgee @roseofalderaan @everything-or-anything @bellablue42

#cole writes #jangobi week 2021 #jangobi week day 2 #Obi-Wan Kenobi #jango fett #obi wan kenobi #time travel #trans obi wan kenobi #luke skywalker #leia organa #true mandalorians #breastfeeding #galidraan fix-it #star wars fanfiction #jangobi

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mikauzoran · 3 years

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Lukadrien: Zebras Can’t Change Their Stripes: Chapter Four

Read it on AO3: Zebras Can’t Change Their Stripes: Chapter Four

When Adrien woke up, everything smelled fresh and clean, like fabric softener and laundry detergent.

He was warm and dry, and the bed, the covers, and his pyjamas were all comfortable and soft.

He’d been holding his cat plushie, Chat Noir the Third, when he’d fallen asleep, and C3 was still tucked under Adrien’s arm, fur fuzzy against Adrien’s skin.

It was comforting. In a way, it reminded him of Plagg and how they would sometimes snuggle.

Adrien rolled over onto his back and hugged C3 closer.

Grief and joy mingled in Adrien’s chest as he stared up at the clean, white ceiling.

The morning sun was pouring in through Adrien’s windows in a cheerful, inviting way that Adrien had never experienced in his old room with his old windows.

He was safe. He had a home—a real home this time.

It had been eleven years since he had last had a true home…since he’d lost his mother and the mansion had become silent, cold, and empty.

But now Adrien was home and safe and wanted.

He buried his face in C3’s fur, remembering what Luka had told him the previous day: Luka had bought C3 for Adrien so that he would remember he was loved.

It had been a long time since Adrien was last loved, and the prospect of getting something like that back was overwhelming.

He set C3 aside so that he wouldn’t get him dirty as he cried.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he was crying, if it were happiness or sadness or stress, but it felt good to get the emotions out.

When he was done, he sat up, cleaned his face with the tissues on the nightstand, and got out of bed, ready to do his best with the second chance he’d been given.

It felt amazing to get dressed in new, clean clothes with the knowledge that he could throw them in the laundry whenever he felt like it at no charge and that he didn’t have to sleep in them or wear them for multiple days at a time.

It was really nice to have a spacious, private bathroom with a door that locked where he didn’t have to worry about the sanitation.

Well…Luka’s bathroom was currently a mess with toothpaste and shaving cream smudges on the counter and mirror and grooming products left spread out all over the place. Used towels were scattered, crumpled on the floor, and the medicine cabinet was left open.

But Adrien wasn’t necessarily worried, unlike he had been when using other bathrooms where he didn’t even want to think about what kind of germs were growing on surfaces.

Once dressed, Adrien went to Luka’s door and listened for signs that his roommate was awake.

The apartment was still, and Adrien didn’t see any light peeking out from underneath the door, so he assumed that Luka was still sleeping and, instead, made his way to the kitchen.

It was a war zone that had been subsequently ravaged by flood, famine, and pestilence.

It was hard to believe that things could go to ruin in as few as six days, but Adrien was seeing the evidence with his own eyes. Luka was the comparatively neat and tidy Couffaine, but The Breakup had obviously laid him very low indeed.

Dishes were piled high in the sink and crusted with days-old food debris, so Adrien rinsed and scrubbed to the best of his ability before loading them all up in the dishwasher.

Hardly anything in the fridge was worth salvaging.

Adrien got out trash bags from under the sink and started checking dates. He sniffed the items that still resembled food and summarily tossed the ones that were more petri dish than pasta.

He cleared off the counters, sorting the refuse from the misplaced possessions and raided the cabinet below the sink for cleaning supplies.

Once the kitchen was spotless, he expanded his efforts to the living room, picking up the dirty clothes, junk food wrappers, and takeaway containers.

He located the mop, broom, and vacuum cleaner in the coat closet and set about sweeping, reasoning that he would vacuum the rug once Luka was awake so that he didn’t disturb him.

With the living room looking presentable, he gathered up the rubbish, dirty clothes, and items needing to be returned to their respective homes, putting each grouping in their own location to be dealt with later. He then moved on to the bathroom.

By the time he was done tidying and scrubbing, it was midmorning, and he was starting to get kind of hungry. When he’d woken up, he’d still been full from the ridiculous amount of food he’d eaten the day before, but after burning so many calories cleaning, his body was getting ready to eat again.

Luka still hadn’t emerged from his room, so Adrien left a note on the blank page of a sketchbook he had found while cleaning to let Luka know that he hadn’t run away. He was just grocery shopping.

He tore another empty page out of the sketchbook so that he could write up a list of the things he needed from the store.

There was a Monoprix just up the street from the apartment, so it took him less than an hour to walk there, shop, and make it back home again.

He picked up a croissant from the bakery section to snack on as he cooked breakfast but noted that it paled in comparison to what he remembered of those from Tom and Sabine’s.

Adrien was beginning to think that Luka was dead as he plated the food. It was almost noon, and Adrien hadn’t heard a peep.

Luka had looked exhausted the previous day, and he’d mentioned not sleeping well since The Breakup, so maybe he was just catching up on sleep, but Adrien had enough experience with depression to know that it was time to step in and drag his flatmate out of bed.

He knocked on the door, but there was no response.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and discovered it was unlocked.

“Luka, I’m going to be really mad if you’re actually dead,” Adrien grumbled, hesitantly pushing the door open. “Luka?”

Adrien blinked as he got his first glimpse at the inside of Luka’s bedroom.

It was even worse than the rest of the apartment, and that was saying something. Garbage and dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, and the floor was like a minefield of filth.

“Oh, Luka,” Adrien cooed, carefully making his way across the room to the bed. “You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

Luka snored softly, deaf to Adrien’s sympathy.

“Orpheus.” Adrien kept his voice quiet as he gently shook Luka’s shoulder, not wanting to startle his friend. “Luka? Hey. Wake up.”

Luka drew in a long breath, and his eyes slowly blinked open.

He stared up at Adrien in a daze.

“Angel,” he whispered, reaching out to stroke Adrien’s cheek.

Adrien was torn between enjoying the attention immensely and feeling guilty about it because Luka was obviously still out of it.

“You are not awake,” Adrien chuckled, carefully removing Luka’s palm from his face. “Earth to Luka. Come in, Luka.”

Luka gave a jolt as he blinked and his eyes came into focus. “Oh my gosh. Adrien. Sorry. Hi. What’s wrong? Did you need something?”

“It’s breakfast time. Get up,” Adrien teased, tugging on Luka’s arm lightly.

Luka cursed under his breath. “I am so sorry. Give me just a minute and I’ll go to the grocery store and then make you some breakfast.”

Adrien snorted in laughter. “No need. It is I who have made you breakfast. Come eat before it gets cold.”

Luka blinked at Adrien. “You what?”

“I made omuraisu,” Adrien explained with a pleased smile.

“You what?” Luka repeated, wondering if his ears were failing him.

His Adrien didn’t cook.

“I’m twenty-four,” Adrien enunciated. “I make my own breakfast. Now, get up or I’m seriously climbing in bed with you and pushing you out.”

“…You made breakfast?” Luka echoed in disbelief as he followed Adrien toward the door.

“Yep,” Adrien confirmed with a pop to the p. “I’ve worked in a lot of kitchens these past few years. The chefs taught me some things.”

They stepped out into the living room, and Luka had to do a doubletake. “Faeries came during the night and cleaned the apartment.”

Adrien cracked up. “I mean…it’s not like this is the first time someone’s ever called me a faerie, but…I prefer the term ‘knight in leather armor’.”

Luka gawked at Adrien. “You cleaned the apartment?”

His Adrien wouldn’t know what to do with a broom if his life depended on it…unless he needed to use the broom as a weapon. His Adrien had that covered, but to use a broom for its intended purpose…

Adrien came to a stop in the kitchen, pushing one of the plates of omuraisu towards Luka.

“Surprise,” he announced softly, a sad expression in his eyes that made him look older than Luka had ever remembered. “I’m a functional, responsible adult now too.”

“Yeah,” Luka breathed, looking at Adrien with new eyes. “You went and grew up on me, didn’t you?”

He pulled Adrien into a tight hug, and Adrien squeezed back.

“I had to get it together pretty quickly,” Adrien confessed bitterly. “I cook, clean, do laundry… I even scrub toilets now.”

Luka pulled back, looking mortified. “Please tell me you didn’t clean the bathroom.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Adrien assured.

Luka dropped his forehead to Adrien’s shoulder and let out an animalistic groan. “I am so, so sorry. I swear I was going to clean everything today.”

“I know. I believed you when you kept telling me so last night,” Adrien informed. “It was just that you were completely wiped out, and I saw an opportunity to be helpful.”

Adrien took Luka’s face in his hands and tipped it up to look him in the eye. “This isn’t like before when I’d sneak out and come visit you when I was upset. I may still be a mess, but you’re a wreck too at the moment, and, now, I’m able to help and support you too.”

“Don’t sound so pleased about me being a disaster,” Luka chuckled, horrified and amused all at once.

“I promise I’m not. I’m just glad that I can finally do something for you after all you’ve done for me.” Adrien gave Luka a sincere smile and then stepped back to focus on his food. “Eat your breakfast already.”

Luka sighed, resigning himself to this alternate universe where his Adrien was fully capable of taking care of himself.

“Thank you,” he stressed, digging into the omuraisu. “…Geez, this is good!”

Adrien smirked around his fork. “Told you so.”

“What else can you make?” Luka wondered through a mouthful of rice and egg.

“I specialize in ethnic food,” Adrien preened. “I do desserts passably too, so maybe tomorrow I can make tiramisu and chickpea coconut cashew curry.”

Luka bit his tongue to stop himself from confessing his eternal love to Adrien because it was way too soon after The Breakup to be developing feelings for anyone. Besides, Adrien was vulnerable; Luka would be taking advantage of Adrien’s dependency on him if he made any kind of move.

He never wanted Adrien to feel pressured into anything for fear of winding up back on the street again.

Instead of the declaration of love, Luka smiled gratefully. “I’m really, really glad you came back into my life yesterday.”

Adrien paused, looking taken aback for a moment, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. “You like curry that much?”

“It’s not just about the curry,” Luka chuckled. “Thank you for all of this.”

“Sure.” Adrien returned the smile with a grin full of pride. “I’m not even done yet. I still have your room to clean.”

“No,” Luka groaned. “I can clean my own room.”

“I’m sure you can, but I’m going to help you,” Adrien informed in a tone that told Luka he would not be backing down. “You can tell me what you don’t want me touching, but I can at least help sort the trash from the dirty clothes from the dishes from the stuff that just needs to be put away.”

“I will consider letting you help,” Luka conceded through gritted teeth.

“Perfect!” Adrien chirped cheerily. “…So, I didn’t start any laundry yet because I wasn’t sure what your preferences were, but this evening after we sort through the stuff in your room, you can tell me how you want your laundry done, and I can work on that while you hide your dirty magazines or whatever.”

Luka rolled his eyes. He was pretty sure that Adrien remembered that Luka was demi and didn’t experience sexual attraction unless he had a strong emotional connection with someone and, therefore, had no need for dirty magazines. They’d talked a lot about sexuality when Adrien was sixteen/seventeen and trying to figure things out. Adrien didn’t have trusted adults to talk to, and Luka was actually really honored that Adrien had come to him.

“I will consider letting you help with laundry,” Luka repeated with a shake of his head.

“Great. So…status update,” Adrien prattled right along, leaning his forearms on the counter as he consumed his omuraisu. “I gathered all the trash and piled it up in bags by the door because I didn’t know what the building’s trash collection procedure was.”

“We can take it down to the dumpster on our way out the door to band practice,” Luka replied.

“Cool.” Adrien nodded, taking in the information. “I also piled all the clothing articles in two heaps over by the couch….” He hesitated, biting his bottom lip. “…Not all of the clothes are yours. I can wash them and fold them up in a trash bag so you don’t have to see them, if you’d like.”

Luka winced. “…I don’t know right now. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Adrien rushed to assure. “I’ll just go ahead and do that, and then you can deal with them whenever you’re ready.”

“I really hope there wasn’t anything too embarrassing,” Luka groaned.

Adrien grimaced. “You both have impeccable taste in underwear?”

“I want to die,” Luka replied with an ironic smile.

“It seriously wasn’t a big deal,” Adrien stressed. “…Though, I wasn’t able to determine as easily what was yours as far as possessions go, so I just lined them up neatly against the wall out of the way. I hope that was okay? You don’t have to go through them anytime soon. They can just wait until you’re ready.”

Luka reached out and rested a hand on Adrien’s bicep. “Thank you.”

Adrien placed his hand over Luka’s and smiled. “What are friends for?”

“For times like this,” Luka hummed, feeling blessed.

There was a beat, and then Adrien went back to his status update. “I cleaned out the fridge and went shopping for the essentials, but we’ll need to shop again tonight or tomorrow for the rest of the week. Also, I bought a cheap rice cooker. I hope that’s okay. I had a rice cooker up until a few months ago, and I used to cook all kinds of things in it. I can do a lot with a rice cooker.”

Luka grinned, watching Adrien fondly as he animatedly recounted his rice cooker culinary adventures.

Adrien had slipped so easily into Luka’s life, making himself indispensable in less than twenty-four hours. It left Luka wondering what he’d been doing without Adrien for the past four years.

“Émile!” Josie cried, sprinting across the bar and enveloping Adrien in a fierce hug.

Luka, smiling fondly, stepped around them and went over to get the things he’d left with Jacob the previous day from the bassist. “Glad to know I mean nothing to you, Josie.”

Josie ignored Luka, focusing all of her enthusiasm on Adrien. “Look at you! You clean up nice, Kid! Look at your little baby face! You are the cutest thing. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Josie,” Adrien chuckled, hugging her back with genuine affection.

Luka couldn’t stop grinning because Adrien was adorable. He got attached to people so quickly.

Jacob looked back and forth between Luka and Adrien and quirked an eyebrow quizzically. “You two came together?” he whispered so only Luka would hear.

“He’s actually my roommate now,” Luka confessed, wanting to get this conversation over sooner rather than later.

Jacob’s eyes bugged out. “Dude. You work fast,” he hissed. “You’re already shacked up?”

“No.” Luka winced. “It’s not like that. It’s completely platonic. He just needed a place to stay.”

Jacob nodded, not believing that for a second. “Right.”

“Émile!” Marc greeted, leaving his guitar propped against his keyboard on stage to go give Adrien a hug. “Hey, Kiddo. I did get your text with your phone number. Sorry I didn’t text back. I read it right away, but I was in the middle of burning food, and I completely forgot.”

“No worries,” Adrien assured, returning the hug and absolutely loving it. “So long as you got the message.”

Luka promptly shoved down the little niggling of jealousy that sprouted up at seeing Adrien being affectionate with another guy.

Josie quickly distracted him as she came over and hung off of his shoulder. “You don’t look like crap today.”

“Thank you?” Luka frowned, trying to decide whether to be insulted.

“He said Émile needed a place to stay, so he moved in with him yesterday,” Jacob reported, looking at Josie expectantly.

Josie’s eyes went wide. “Wow. Very opportunist. You get any yet?”

Luka swatted her away. “It’s platonic. I just broke up with The Girl, guys. I am not jumping into anything for a very long time.”

“Are you trying to say that my baby brother isn’t good enough for you to seduce?” Josie snorted, doing a very good job of actually looking offended.

Luka threw his hands up in frustration. “You know, I was having a good day until I had to deal with you two clowns.”

“Émile!” Jacob waved as Adrien and Marc came over to join them. “Sup, Kid?” He opened his arms for a hug which Adrien readily gave.

“Hey, Jacob.” Adrien smiled nervously as he pulled back, reaching up to rub at his neck. “I actually have something I need to tell everyone.”

The band’s expressions suddenly went serious.

“What’s up, Émile?” Josie prompted gently.

Adrien took a deep breath. “That isn’t actually my real name.”

Luka’s eyes widened, and he reached out to rest a hand on Adrien’s shoulder. “You sure you’re ready to do this now?”

Adrien nodded. “Yeah. They’ve shown me nothing but kindness. I don’t want to lie to them.”

“Is your real name ‘Adrien’?” Marc inquired.

Everyone looked to him in surprise.

Adrien blinked. “You knew?”

Josie and Jacob turned to Marc with twin frowns.

“How’d you know that?” Jacob demanded.

Marc shook his head. “I wasn’t sure. I just thought you kind of looked like the billboards I used to see all the time.”

“Billboards?” Josie echoed, arching an eyebrow.

“My name is really Adrien,” Adrien confessed. “Adrien Agreste.”

Jacob blinked. “That…sounds familiar?”

“I used to be a model,” Adrien elaborated. “Especially about ten years ago my face was on everything. You couldn’t get away from the advertisements if you tried…. I’m also known more notoriously as Gabriel Agreste’s son,” Adrien informed, gaze directed intently down at his shoes. “You know. Papillon.”

Jacob promptly pushed Luka out of the way and wrapped his arms around Adrien, announcing, “Just so you all know, this is mine now.”

“I don’t think so,” Josie huffed, coming to join the puppy pile. “I saw him first, but if I get caught when I sneak into jail to assassinate his father, you’d sure as hell better take care of him for me.”

She turned to Adrien (who looked very, very confused).

“You’re adopted,” she declared, her voice just on the right side of calm even as it came out clipped and furious. “There’s no way you’re actually related to that slimewad. He akumatized my little sister when she was being bullied, and there is no way you’re related to him. Besides, like I keep saying, we are officially adopting you now.”

Marc reached out a hand to rest on Adrien’s shoulder. “We’re here for you. Promise.”

“People…don’t usually react like that,” Adrien hiccupped. “They usually want nothing to do with me when they find out who I am.”

“People suck,” Jacob reported. “Obviously, they didn’t put much effort into finding out who you really are because, if they had, they would have discovered that you’re a precious baby who deserves to be loved and protected.”

Adrien turned to Luka with a watery smile. “You pick good people.”

Luka grinned. “I picked you, didn’t I?”

The whole group besides Adrien groaned.

Adrien only smiled.

“…So why ‘Émile Dupain’?” Josie inquired as they slowly pulled away.

“‘Émile’ is actually my second name,” Adrien explained. “I was named after my mom.”

Everyone nodded, making cooing, “that’s so sweet” noises.

“‘Dupain’ I stole from a friend,” he confessed with a blush that made Luka narrow his eyes. “It was the most common surname out of all of my friends, so… Plus, it was like taking a little piece of home with me while I roamed around.”

They all cooed again.

“Wait. Hold up.” Jacob turned and pointed to Luka just as the conversation was about to shift. “He’s not surprised about any of this. Did you tell him already yesterday?”

Adrien bit his lip, smiling guiltily. “I’ve known Luka for about a decade now, actually. I didn’t recognize him yesterday until we were outside on the street, though. He still had blue hair when I last saw him.”

“Man, I dated him when he had the blue hair,” Jacob sighed, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have let him go so easily if I had known the black hair upgrade was coming.”

“Hey,” Luka grumbled. “I looked good with blue hair. It went with my eyes.”

“I actually think the black offsets your eyes better,” Adrien hummed thoughtfully. “The black makes the blue pop. I like it like this.”

Luka’s brain broke. “O-Oh? You think so?”

Marc put a hand over his mouth, holding in a laugh. “He’s never going to dye his hair again.”

Josie opened her mouth to quip, but then she caught the soft, warm, gooey way Luka was looking at Adrien.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Holy crap! He’s Adrien!”

Adrien gave a start, suddenly very worried. “Uh…yes? I thought…that was okay?”

She waved her arms, shooing away his concerns. “No. The thing with your father is fine. I meant that you’re Adrien. Luka’s Adrien!”

Jacob’s jaw dropped. “He’s The Boy!?”

Adrien looked to Luka for reassurance, quite obviously anxious at something he had no way of understanding.

Luka grimaced and wrapped a comforting arm around Adrien’s shoulders. “Yes,” he said pointedly. “He’s the dear friend I’ve mentioned many times to you.”

Jacob scoffed under his breath at that.

Marc decided to stay out of it.

“I really was worried about you while you were away,” Luka explained to Adrien. “I may have been a little preoccupied.”

Slowly, Adrien began to nod, thinking he understood. “Sorry again for worrying you.”

“He survived,” Marc assured, beckoning Adrien over to the stage. “He was a real mess for a while, though.”

Josie hung back, giving Luka a skeptical look. “You moved in with The Boy a week after breaking up with The Girl?”

Luka shrugged helplessly. “It’s platonic.”

“You make questionable life decisions,” Jacob snorted. “You’re screwed.”

“He’s going to wish he were,” Josie sighed. “Does your sister know that you’ve set yourself up for total emotional annihilation by platonically moving in with The Boy a week after your breakup with The Girl?”

“Adrien isn’t ready to tell people he’s back in Paris yet, so don’t you dare say anything to Juleka,” Luka growled protectively, getting his friends’ attention.

They shared a look and then held their hands up in surrender.

“We’re just worried about you, Dude,” Jacob clarified sympathetically.

Luka sighed, all the hot air coming out of him. “I’m kind of worried about me too,” he confessed.

#Lukadrien #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Adrien Agreste #Luka Couffaine #Fluff #Hurt/Comfort #Slow Burn #Friends to Lovers #Flirting #Pining #Mutual Pining #Roommates #Mikau's Writings #Zebras Can't Change Their Stripes

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sneverussape · 3 years

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leaving is the loudest

one-shot, 2300+ words. purely because i couldn’t get this drawing out of my head. it was originally supposed to be a two-shot, with the second part focusing on severus losing tobias and essentially having the tables turned from this one. but...i got tired. heh. cw: abuse, parent death, toxic parent-child relationship summary: abraxas malfoy dies when lucius is 16. severus is the sole witness to lucius’ complicated grief.

He was running but he wasn’t alone. “Snape!” Lucius thundered as he faced down the boy who had halted in his tracks as soon as he whirled around in mid-step. It was November and the grounds were near-frozen, and the scrawny second-year was following him like a shadow across the Great Lawn. He was also wearing the coat Lucius had given him just two weeks ago – it wasn’t charity, it was merely a necessity since Lucius had recently discovered that Severus’ own coat was more than a bit threadbare and barely able to keep out the elements; he had no desire for the boy to get pneumonia before the term was even over – and scowling in a manner that would have made milk curdle. “What do you think you’re doing? Get back inside!” “Malfoy!” the boy shot back with equal ire, his face pale and pinched under the moonlight. “Where are you going? After Professor Slughorn met with you three days ago you’ve been disappearing for all hours! What’s the matter with you?” There was a thread of something like worry in his tone but it disappeared fast enough that Lucius could have thought he had imagined it. Severus was not done with his litany, at any rate. “You’re my assigned prefect, mind! I’ve had to go round the corridors the long way to avoid Potter, and we’ve a schedule for French and Defense Against the Dark Arts revisions tonight! Plus you said you’d show me that book of poisons your aunt gave you. You promised!” Blast. He was right. But Lucius was not in a tolerant mood tonight. Those could wait. “Get back into the school, Severus, and leave me be,” Lucius said, hoping the use of the boy’s first name would make him obey without him having to resort to any hexing, and he would if pushed. He doubled down with a threat: “I will remove House points if you continue in this fashion.” Severus snorted, crossing his arms. Lucius’ coat was two sizes too big for him but he remained unbothered and wore it with ease, folding the sleeves so his hands could at least still be visible and utilized easily. “As if you would and even if you did, as if I would care,” he challenged Lucius with a glint in his eye. “Besides, you’re the one skipping on supper to go off on this moonlight stroll. Reckon that’s already earned us enough demerits as it is.” “Get back inside, now.” “No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Lucius bristled as his temper flared, rendering him warm despite the frigid night air. He had not counted on this intrusion to what he had hoped would have been a strictly private affair – if he had been planning to stomp off into some hidden corner to shout, cry, or blast an unknowing tree into bits of bark while everyone else had been seemingly occupied with the evening meal then that was between him and him alone. He, of course, had not counted on Severus Snape to notice his departure from the Great Hall, let alone follow him. He didn’t even know how Severus had slipped out himself, with the second-years so near to the staff table, but he knew better than to underestimate the boy’s talents, as everyone else was wont to do. “I’m warning you.” Lucius was already fingering his wand in preparation to strike. He didn’t want to hurt the boy, but it seemed he had little choice. He wouldn’t make it bleed too badly, at any rate. “You have one more chance to turn around and return to the cast—" Something inside of him seemed to snap with such suddenness and ferocity that he gasped and dropped to his knees on the damp grass. Despite being frozen in his spot, he felt as though he had been submerged in ice-cold water, and the Malfoy signet ring he usually wore on his right hand burned with a heat that had him clutching at his wrist. The pain vanished in a span of seconds, but a cloying emptiness where there had once been the familiar, if not tenuous, connection to his father had enveloped him thick enough to smother, and Lucius let out a strangled breath, feeling as though he had been left untethered in the middle of a raging sea. He could barely hear Severus’ voice over the roar in his ears. “—Lucius, oh my God, get up, please! What’s wrong? Are you all right? Fuck, I’ll have to call Madame Pomfrey!” He reached out and snatched Severus’ wrist before the boy was able to run back to the castle. The last thing he needed now was an audience. “No,” he commanded through gritted teeth. “For Merlin’s sake, Severus—” “What’s wrong with you?!” Severus demanded, his tone high-pitched with fright. He shook Lucius’ shoulders. For such a scrawny whelp, he was irritatingly strong. “Malfoy, please talk to me. Are you all right? Did you take anything? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me!” Despite the intense emotions that were already threatening to swallow him whole, Lucius nearly laughed at Severus’ boldness. “You can’t help!” he snapped, determined to put the boy in his place. No matter Severus’ intentions, there were some things he was loathe to explain to him. “But if you go to Pomfrey or any of the professors right now, I swear to Merlin will hex you into next week and I can assure you Sluggy will do nothing in your defense if I do. I mean it, Snape.” “Are you even listening to yourself? I’m not the one kneeling on the ground right now—” “My father’s died. Just now.” Lucius felt wooden speaking the words, and it was as though he was hearing them being spoken from a stranger’s mouth. “He’d been taken ill a few days ago and it was quite serious. But now he’s gone. I…I felt it.” Severus gaped at him for all of two seconds before nodding very solemnly. “I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly looking very young. “Malf—Lucius. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” “Don’t apologize, would you?” Lucius snarled. “You didn’t create the ruddy pox that took him. And you hadn’t known him either, so his loss has no real effect on your existence.” Two red spots appeared in the boy’s cheeks. “I was being polite. You don’t have to be such a right bastard about it,” he said through gritted teeth. “He is…was your father. You’re my…mate…prefect...something, I don’t know. God.” Severus mumbled the words before he blew out a breath. When he next spoke, it was tentative: “What…what now, then?” Lucius was surprised that the boy even had to ask, but he remembered that Severus wasn’t a pureblood. Of course he wouldn’t know. He inwardly groaned as he willed himself to be patient enough to answer coherently. “My father’s death,” he released a shuddering breath, “automatically makes me the head of the family. Hogwarts will likely receive the missive announcing it before tonight’s end. I expect that I shall have to go to Wiltshire tomorrow to attend to those matters as well as his burial. He’ll have to be buried beside my mother…” The magnitude of the change that would be brought about by his father’s death slowly sank in: the Gringotts accounts. Their properties. The hidden cache of Dark Arts tokens in his father’s study. The changing of the magical signatures. The wards. The updating of blood contracts. The expectations. And as the new pater familias he would have to grow out his hair now…Merlin and Circe, he had just turned 16 just that September! And now he was an orphan…. Lucius buried his head in his hands, the yawning emptiness inside of him like a chasm he wanted to throw himself into. When he felt the hand on his shoulder, he flinched away automatically, half-expecting it to be his father’s touch. A bitter taste crept up the back of his throat when he remembered that the last encounter he had had with Abraxas Malfoy was the tirade he had been subjected to on the day before leaving for Hogwarts; it had been a long one about failure and ineptitude despite his outstanding O.W.L.S., and how his poor mother had died in childbirth for naught, but Lucius had only half-listened. He was used to that type of treatment; any spare moments between him and Abraxas had always been filled with his father’s constant vitriol, the cycle only broken by the rare occasions of doting whenever he was in a generous mood, or when he remembered and wanted to drive home that their family now consisted of just the two of them. His father had demanded for his only son’s respect and loyalty, despite having wielded words as weapons and throwing them at him with startling aim, and Lucius had loved him enough to let all his attacks, unprecedented or otherwise, be met with silence. But now…the thought of arriving at an empty manor terrified Lucius. His father had always been such an imposing and terrifying figure in his life that the full realization of his loss paralyzed him. He did not know how he could possibly move forward. He did not know how to come to terms with a silence that should have been his father’s to fill. “I’m sorry.” Severus said again, although Lucius wasn’t sure exactly what he was apologizing for. His hand landed with uncharacteristic gentleness on Lucius’ shoulder, and this time, Lucius didn’t flinch. He heard the grass beside him rustle as Severus sat down. “You’re missing supper,” Lucius stated, his prefect instincts overriding his current emotional turmoil. It was no secret to him that, besides Potions and spells practice, mealtimes were Severus’ favorite times of the day. The boy never missed a meal if he could help it, and he’d be damned if the brat lost weight while at school, on his account no less. Narcissa would kill them both. “I know the way to the kitchens. Hogwarts will at least never let me starve,” Severus scoffed in reply, defiance edging his tone. Lucius sighed. He knew what Severus was doing; the boy was as subtle as a rhinoceros set loose in an apothecary. “Snape, you don’t have to—” “Malfoy,” Severus interrupted, and Lucius could already imagine him sneering. “You don’t have to talk about it, but I’m not leaving you here, all right? Stop being such a thick, stubborn git.” “I’m the prefect, mind you. You’re not allowed to make concessions.” “Yeah, and you’re a bloody numpty too, I can tell you that, sitting here in the freezing cold.” “You’re a child.” “So are you if we’re going by technical terms.” “For all intents and purposes, my being Lord Malfoy now makes me an official adult.” “You don’t even know how to pay your bloody taxes, you pureblood ponce.” “Ha!” Lucius felt strangely triumphant, and the reply came before he could restrain himself. “I’ll have you know that my father taught me well in that regard. Handling an estate or several isn’t one for the weak-hearted.” Severus looked slightly impressed although he tried not to show it. Talking about their families’ personal matters was not a popular topic in Slytherin house. For the most part, they knew where each family stood with regard to the Dark Lord, and the inherent closeness those relationships bred entailed that they were also quite knowledgeable of how everyone else’s fathers and mothers were like behind closed doors. The occasional halfblood or Muggleborn that managed to get sorted into Slytherin however was often a challenge they had to contend with, but Severus had always been a quick study. “You loved him then? Your father?” he asked, clever enough to steer clear from the labels of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ that more simple-minded folk tended to veer towards, but also sufficiently impertinent enough to bring up a concept that Lucius felt was a cauldron fit to explode. Love…was a strange emotion to attribute to his father, and he would be lying if he said that Severus’ words didn’t make Lucius feel as though he had been kicked in the throat. “He was my father. Of course I…” Lucius paused as the words caught on his tongue. He all at once felt humiliated, enraged, and confused at the realization that his father could still manage to reduce him to such a state of speechlessness. What Severus had asked shouldn’t have been a difficult question, and yet it clearly was. “He was the only one I had left in the world after Maman died,” he finally said, attempting to put into words the turbulent emotions that warred within him. “I…cared for him a great deal. I gave him nothing less than what he asked for…what he expected. I’m…grateful…to have been his son. To be a Malfoy.” He saw a knowing gleam in Severus’ eyes and was grateful when the boy kept his mouth shut. His chest felt tight and he wondered for a moment if his heart was still beating…if his father had not, in fact, stolen it away in his final moments. Lucius would not have been surprised if he had. It seemed, after all, that Abraxas Malfoy had taken everything else upon his leaving, even those that Lucius had never thought he had been willing to give. The silence in the wake of his father’s final departure was deafening, and Lucius covered his hands with his ears. “It will be all right,” he heard Severus say, his voice soft and muffled. A warm weight flitted over his shoulders and Lucius quickly realized the boy had transfigured his coat into a large blanket and had wrapped it around him. He didn’t bother to protest. “You’re all right.” He wasn’t, and he wouldn’t be, not for a long time, but Lucius’ eyes stayed strangely dry nevertheless as he leaned into Severus’ comforting warmth. .

#young slytherins #definitely not snucius as snape is too young #but it's a picture of a complex friendship #snape #lucius malfoy #my fic #hp

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mafia-nct · 4 years

Text

NCT 2018: Their S/O dying in an accident

Warning: grief, drugs, alcohol, violence, torture, swearing.

Fun fact, I almost cried writing Johnny’s, Yuta’s, Doyoung’s, Jaehyun’s and Mark’s (They are really sad in my opinion I’m sorry for the emotional damage).

Don’t forget to give me your opinion! Since it’s my first time writing something like that I’d love your feedback!

----

Premise:

A slippery road. That’s all it took for you to be taken away from him. To leave him with no possibility of you coming back. You lost control of your car and ending up hitting a pole. The doctors told him you didn’t suffer, you died on the choc but he, now, had a void in his heart that could never be filled.

Taeyong:

The day you died is the day Taeyong’s heart stopped beating. The day he stopped feeling anything. The day he lost all of his emotions. It’s the day the boss turned into an emotionless robot that had two things on his mind: revenge and domination.

He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care about anyone or anything.

After one of their new recruits gave information to the enemy resulting in NCT losing a bunch of very important blue prints, Taeyong called a meeting.

Johnny got up from his chair fixing his tie. “Boss, that’s a bit intense don’t you think?”

Taeyong turned slowly his eyes narrowing at Johnny. “Oh, I’m sorry are we in kindergarten here or in the mafia. Do you want me to give that jackass a lollipop and thank him for selling info to our enemy?”

The atmosphere in the room was heavy.

“Torturing anyone who dares to harm or cross us is a principle I live by!” Explained Johnny. “But don’t you think we are going a bit to far with that torture plan. Make him bleed for days until he dies of blood loss is something we don’t even do when we catch to our worst enemies.”

“I don’t care.” Taeyong grunted putting emphasis on every word. “That bastard will die how I want him to die understood?” Johnny nodded and sat back down. “Now, Winwin, Jaemin get to it. That fucker is waiting for you in the cell.”

Taeil:

He lost his lucky charm. And a racer without his lucky charm wasn’t any good. He hit a slump; he didn’t win anymore. Taeyong had no choice but to stop assign him races. He wasn’t even a getaway driver anymore. He was still in charge of 127 but missed the road. He missed you even more.

“Please Tae,” he begged, “just this one race. If I lose then I’ll stop pestering you with it.”

“I don’t know Taeil.” Answered Taeyong. “You lost five races since...” he didn’t dare to say it. He didn’t want to hurt Taeil even more.

“I know, but please I need to try again. For her, please.”

Taeyong agreed and that night he was back in his car on the starting line. He knew he was going to win. He could feel it. He could feel you with him. He grabbed his necklace: a simple chain with your engagement ring as a charm.

He kissed the ring. “I love you baby, this is for you!” And he started his car with the loudest roar.

Johnny:

Standing in front of your grave was like hearing the news all over again. You weren’t coming back. The preacher was speaking, but he couldn’t hear him. He heard himself chocking on his tears, heard Taeyong’s comforting words. He felt his throat closing up, his cheeks getting wetter, the pain in his chest and Jaehyun’s hand patting his back.

When the preacher walked away, Johnny couldn’t take it anymore. He fell on his knees in front of your grave, crying rivers, and stared at the words written in the stone: “Here lies Y/N Seo and Grace Seo.”

Grace, the name you both agreed on naming your daughter. The daughter he’ll never be able to hold.

Johnny raised his head and there, on the other side of your grave stood two, other, mafia leaders with their crews behind them. The two leaders placed their network’s flags on top of your gravestone. A sign of unity in the mafia.

Johnny bit his lip and nodded his head as a thank you.

Then, Taeyong raised his gun in the air and everyone followed. They all fired one shot: for you, his wife. And a second one: for his unborn daughter.

Yuta:

He wanted to be back in the field. In a mission, he could focus on what he had to do and he could forget the pain. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling he couldn’t. He wasn’t able to move. His heart ached. He missed you so bad. He cried himself to sleep every night. Why you? Why? He hated life, he hated himself. It should’ve been him.

“Daddy.”

At the sound of his son’s voice, he whipped his tears quickly and sat up.

“What is it buddy? Are you alright?” His throat was hoarse.

His son climbed in his bed and hugged him hiding his face in his father’s neck.

“I miss mommy.” He cried

Yuta couldn’t help but cry again. He tightly hugged his son and laid back down.

“I miss her too buddy. I miss her so much.”

That night, and the following ones, they both cried themselves to sleep.

Kun:

Everything was a mess. His office was a mess, his head was a mess and his life was a mess.

He started living in his office because back home you were still there. Your stuff was there, memories you made together were there, it was all there and he knew that he might destroy everything out of anger, out of grief.

“Hey boss,” said Yangyang cracking the door of his office open, “can I ask you something real quick?”

Kun cleared his throat. He didn’t want one of his members to know he’d been crying; again. “Yeah, come in.”

Yangyang opened the door and stared at the mess surrounding him. “Dang boss, do you live here?”

No one knew he lived in his office apart from Taeyong.

Kun sighed nodding “I can’t go back home, she’s everywhere.”

Yangyang nodded in agreement. “I get it, once when I was five years old. My dog died in the backyard, out of old age don’t worry, anyway he died there in the middle of the backyard. And I didn’t want to go outside anymore because his presence was everywhere outside... “

As Yangyang rambled, Kun smiled faintly. He was grateful he had Yangyang in his life to stop him from being serious from time to time. But right now, Yangyang made him stop thinking about you for the first time weeks.

Doyoung:

Two police officers came at the mansion. Everyone expected the worst: that was it. They had legitimate proof. The officers asked to speak to him in private but Taeyong didn’t allow it. So here they were, the entire network, in what they call the living room surrounding the officers.

“Mr. Kim,” started the older officer Doyoung sat on the edge of his seat listening to his words, “there was an accident on the 640. Your wife lost control of the car and hit a pole.

“Is she ok? Is she fine?” Rushed Doyoung.

The older officer looked at his partner who took a big breath and swallow hard before speaking.

“The paramedic tried everything they could but it was too late. Mr. Kim, she didn’t make it. We’re sorry for your loss.”

The world stopped. They were lying; this had to be a joke. His tears were unstoppable. He wanted to scream, to shout at the officers to double check. There was no way that you were gone. Feeling Doyoung’s emotions starting to surface, Johnny guided the officers out thanking them.

As soon as the front door close, Taeyong placed a hand on Doyoung’s shoulder and spoke up.

“Let it out buddy.”

Doyoung sobbed loudly. He grabbed the vase that was on the table in front of him. He got up and threw it at the nearest wall. As pieces of glass were flying all around the room, Doyoung fell on his knees screaming.

Ten:

“Peacock are you in position?” Asked Kun bringing him back to reality.

Ten cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m good Zipper.”

He was lying; he wasn’t good. Losing you had literally ripped his heart out of his chest. He was in constant pain. Taeyong and Kun agreed that he needed at least two weeks off but Ten begged to come back only a week after your death. On the field, he could stop thinking about you. That’s what he thought. The moment they were all in position, his mind went back to you.

He was so lost in his own world thinking about you that he never heard him. He never heard one of the enemy’s men coming from behind him. He never heard the gun shot. He only felt it.

The bullet entered in his back and got out in the middle of his chest. Blood poured out and fast. He placed a shaky hand on his wound and fell to the floor.

“Zipper,” he whispered in his walkie-talkie spitting blood, “I’m down.”

His vision started to become hazy, his breath short and his eyes heavy. He wasn’t going to last long and he knew it. Then he saw you, dressed in white. You were so beautiful, angel-like. He smiled for the first time in a while. You were here; you were back.

“Come on honey, come with me.” You whispered holding out your hand to him. He didn’t hesitate. He took your hand and closed his eyes for the last time.

Jaehyun:

He couldn’t sleep. He saw you every time he closed his eyes. Even though you occupied his thoughts keeping him away from, your once shared, bed. It’s not like his daughter was of any help.

The 2 month old needed constant care and attention and to remind her father to do so: she cried all the time. Jaehyun is pretty sure she hadn’t stop crying since the day you died.

“It’s alright princess, I’m here. Daddy is here.” Jaehyun whispered rocking his baby.

He tried everything: feeding, changing, checking for fever, everything. But his daughter was inconsolable and Jaehyun was going insane. He knew his daughter needed her mother but you weren’t there anymore and that made him miss you even more then he already was.

Jaehyun tried his best to calm the infant down, but when his daughter’s cries only got louder he started to cry too. The stress, the feeling of being a bad parent and grief hitting him all at once.

He placed, his still crying, daughter back in her crib and walked out of the room. Jaehyun was doing his best to hold back his sobs not wanting to cry in front of his baby. But when he closed the door he broke down. He leaned his back on the door and slid to the floor face in his hands sobbing loudly with the screams of his newborn in the background.

Winwin:

Every night, he tried to distract himself. The thoughts of you were heart-wrenching at night. He tried a bunch of things: alcohol, gambling, weed, nothing worked. He was on his last resort, here: in a private room with a dancer, in one of Jaehyun’s brothels.

He tried to concentrate on the dance happening in front of him but failed to. The air was to heavy, the music was too loud, the couch he was sitting on wasn’t confortable and he kept imagining the snarky comments you’d make about Jaehyun’s choice of decor. He kept imagining you, he was on the verge of losing it. So when the dancer came close to him to dance on his lap, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He placed his fingers on the dancers stomach and pushed her away gently. “I can’t, I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m the worst.” He rushed the words out. “I’ll tell Jaehyun to pay you double. I’m sorry, I really am.. I just.. I can’t.”

He got up from the couch, took a hundred dollars out of his wallet and gave it to the dancer. Tears were threatening to fall at any moment. Why did he have to think about you now?

“Don’t worry it’s fine!” Replied the dancer. “Are you ok? You don’t look ok.”

He sat back down hands hiding his face. “We..we were supposed to get married.” He choked out. The dancer sat beside him and patted his back. “She.. She died a three weeks before we were supposed to get married.” He was now full on crying in a VIP room of a brothel.

Jungwoo:

His throat was hoarse all the time. He was also, probably, constantly dehydrated from the amount of crying he did. The worst was that he caught himself wanting to cry at the worst possible time: like right now.

They were in a meeting with another mafia, making a pact, when he felt like crying. He tilted his head forward hoping no one would see his watery eyes. He breathed by his mouth trying to clam himself down.

Fortunately, Taeil noticed the distress in Jungwoo’s demeanour. “Go take a breath of fresh air outside Woo.” He whispered in his ear.

Jungwoo got up making sure to make little noise and to hold back his sobs. Sadly, it didn’t go as planned. Everyone looked at him as he walked out of the room.

“Sorry about that,” he heard Taeil say as Jungwoo was getting close to the door, “his girlfriend died two weeks ago.”

Jungwoo closed the door to the meeting room. He put a hand in front of his mouth, to keep himself form crying, and sped walked to his usual breakdown place: the closet close to Johnny’s office.

It’s only when he closed the door of the closet behind him that he took his hand off of his mouth and starting crying. He slid to the floor: back pressed to a wall, knees close to his chest and forehead on his knees. And cried until he had no more water in his body.

Lucas:

He raised his empty glass towards the bartender. “Another one, please good sir.”

The bartender nodded.

Jungwoo had enough. He watched Lucas chug every drink the bartender gave him for the past hour. It wasn’t the first time this week and Jungwoo was fed up. He left the VIP section to go retrieve his friend.

Lucas felt a hand on his shoulder; he turned around slowly trying not to fall off the barstool.

“Jungwoo!” He screamed as he hugged him. “What are you doing here? Come here, this good sir is very good at making drinks.” Lucas looked at the bartender. “One drink for my friend good sir please!”

Jungwoo looked at his bartender for the night and shook his head. The bartender nodded and went to another client.

“Lucas, it’s the fourth time this week you come here to get shit faced. You need to stop bro!” Said Jungwoo

Lucas seemed to sober up at that statement. “What if I don’t want to? When I drink I forget about her.” Lucas pressed his finger against his temple repeatedly. “She’s always here.”

Jungwoo sighed “As much as I appreciate the income that comes along with dudes coming to drink the pain away, it’s a different story for my friends.” He grabbed Lucas’s arm. “Now come on, we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Lucas pushed his hand away. “No leave me alone, I want another drink from the good sir.”

Jungwoo crossed his arms on his chest. “Lucas, do I have to call Kun and Taeyong?”

Lucas rolled his eyes “Fine.” He grunted getting up and following Jungwoo out of the bar.

Mark:

His back pressed to your tombstone sitting cross-legged on your grave was his new favourite place. He came at least four times a week. To have a moment for him, a moment away from all of his responsibilities. He’d talk to you about anything from the new restaurant he discovered to how their recent mission went.

He missed talking to you so bad. You were the only one who listened to his every word. You’d push all of his insecurities away. Now that you were gone, it’s like they were all back ten times stronger.

He missed hearing your voice. It was like music to his ears. It calmed him down after a hectic day. After such days, he used to come home and say the word: “cuddle” and you knew exactly what he needed.

He missed hearing you say that you loved him. He’s been in the network since he was very young. He used to think that he was unlovable. That his line of work meant he was never going to have someone to call his own but then, you came.

He missed your laugh. It could bright up any room, even the cells. Hearing your happiness made his heart flutter. When you’d laugh at one of his jokes he’d fall even more in love.

He missed your kisses. They made him forget about everything. They made him forget that he spent an entire day yelling at Dream Team to get their act together. Or, they made him forget that he spent hours in the freezing rain to meet up with a buyer that never came. They calm him down. They were addicting.

Mark lifted his head up and looked at the sky. Streaks of tears fresh on his face. “I miss you so much baby.”

Renjun:

“Where is it?” He grunted to himself.

He looked through every cupboard but he couldn’t find it. The one thing he needed right now. He could feel himself needing it, craving it. If he didn’t find it soon he was going to go insane. Something else caught his eye and he took it in between his index and middle finger. Could this be better?

“Renjun, what the hell are you doing here?” Asked Ten

Renjun jumped dropping what he had in between his fingers.

“Oh..um nothing.” He answered rapidly

Ten approached him. Renjun tried to hide what he dropped with his foot but it didn’t go unnoticed by Ten who bent down and picked it up.

“I don’t remember Jungwoo or I assigning you a cocaine run Renjun. What are you doing here?”

He’d been caught. Renjun looked at the ground.

For the past two weeks, the drug room, as they call it, had been one of his daily stops. He’d steal enough weed to get high but never enough to get caught by his other members.

“In my defense,” started Renjun, “I was looking for weed not cocaine.”

Ten crossed his arms. “I know.” Renjun’s mouth fell to the ground. “Do you really think that Jungwoo and I didn’t notice that our numbers didn’t match up with our stocks?”

“I just..” Renjun tried to explain holding back his tears; he hated feeling things. “I lost the best thing I had in my life. And it hurts so much, I just want to forget the pain.”

He started to cry. His high long gone and he started to feel the pain he’s been dreading to feel. He started to grief. He lost you and he couldn’t do anything about it.

Jeno:

“You know she’d hate seeing you like this.”

“Yeah well she isn’t here anymore is she?” Jeno spat at Jaemin.

Jaemin didn’t react. He was used to Jeno’s temperament by now and knew that it was his way of grieving.

“Dude, I’m just looking out for you.” Started Jaemin. “You haven’t been the same since she left. You’re getting into random fights with dudes three times your size and you always come back injured. All I’m saying is that she wouldn’t want you living like this!”

“Of course I haven’t been the same!” Screamed Jeno. “The girl I love, the one I planned to marry died. She’s dead. D-E-A-D. She’s never coming back, what would you do if your girl died?” Jaemin opened his mouth but he couldn’t reply. “That’s what I thought! So don’t you fucking dare to tell me shit about how I’m living my damn life.”

Jeno got up from the chair in the infirmary abruptly. The wound on his forehead, that Jaemin was fixing, still bleeding but he didn’t care he wanted to be far away from him right now.

He went to the gym to punch bags: to get the frustration out. After two punches, his eyes started to water. Jeno didn’t stop punching even if he was sobbing loudly and Jaemin, who followed him to make sure Jeno wouldn’t get in trouble, watched from afar his best friend fall apart.

Haechan:

To put it simply, he stopped living. He hadn’t shed a tear since he learned the news. Too shocked to realize. He also hadn’t moved from his place on the couch. For three days, he’s been laying on his side on the couch in his living room. Arms crossed over his chest, not moving, not sleeping, not drinking, not eating; nothing. His best friends and their girlfriends tried everything to get him back on his feet.

“Taeyong, what the hell?” Screamed his wife.

The couple were in the doorway of Haechan’s place. Arguing because Taeyong had just asked Haechan to: “get your act together, I need you on the field tonight.”

“What?” Replied Taeyong offended. “I need him back on the field!”

“Get Hendery from the Chinese Division for all I care. Haechan’s girlfriend just died, you can’t put him back in the field this quickly!”

“Yes I can and I will.”

Taeyong’s wife sighed loudly. “Do you even care about him?”

“Of course I do, what kind of..”

She cut him. “No you don’t because if you did, you would know that the only thing he ate in three days is five spoons of apple sauce. You don’t because if you did, you would know that Jeno’s girl is lucky if she can get him to drink half a glass of water per day. You don’t because if you did, you wouldn’t try to send him back on the field right now.”

Taeyong opened his mouth to retaliate but his wife stopped him by raising her hand. “Don’t even try to justify yourself.” She lightly pushed Taeyong out of the apartment. “I’m staying with Haechan tonight because I care about him. Also to make sure he doesn’t die of grief.” She grabbed the door handle. “Meanwhile, maybe you can reflect on your words and actions.” She snarked closing the door and locking it.

Jaemin:

Currently, the only thing that brought him joy was torturing. His talent for medicine turned dark. These days, he rarely helped Winwin in the infirmary instead; he opted for torturing the network’s new prisoners until they begged for death.

“Please.” Cried the man he’s been torturing for three days now. “I’ve told you everything. I swear I don’t have anymore information to give you.”

“How can I be sure of that?” smirked Jaemin.

“Just kill me already. I have no value for you anymore. Please, just end this.”

Jaemin shook his head. “No, you’re a bad dude. Only good people deserve a quick painless death.”

The doctor’s words rang in his head: “She never suffered.”

“And you’re wrong!” Added Jaemin. “You have a value to me. You see, I recently lost the best thing that ever happened in my life. She was an actual angel; I used to pinch myself every morning. The fact that she was mine was surreal to me. Now, that she’s dead the only thing that brings me joy is torturing people. Seeing the pain in their eyes and loving the fact that she never experienced it. So I’m going to keep torturing you until I see every pain imaginable in your eyes.”

Jaemin planted a knife in the man’s arm and twisted it.

The man’s screams could be heard through the entire mansion followed by Jaemin’s laugh.

Chenle:

You were his source of comfort. His peace in this fucked up world. He did a couple of thing to remind him of you. He got a helix piercing on his left ear, just like you had, and put one of your earrings in it. He also got a tattoo of an octopus, your favourite animal. Even after these, he still needed the peace you brought him.

One night, he was walking around the mansion and decided to go take at a look at the shooting range. Xiaojun was there, practicing on moving target. When he was done, Chenle went up to him.

“Hey, Xiao how are you?” He asked

“Yo Chenle, I’m good you?”

Chenle shrugged. “I try to be.”

“I’m really sorry. She was a great girl.”

“Yeah she was.” Whispered Chenle as he lifted his head to the ceiling to keep his tears at bay.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

“I know it’s weird,” started Chenle, “but can I try that training? I just need something to occupy my mind these days and Mark never lets me train with moving targets. According to him, I’m a hazard to myself and to the equipment.”

Xiaojun laughed “Yeah, why not?”

He explained how that training worked to Chenle before going behind the bulletproof glass.

“You ready Chenle?” Called Xiaojun.

“Yeah!”

Chenle looked down at his tattoo on his right bicep and gave it a quick peck hoping you were watching over him.

Jisung:

He walked in the tattoo parlour a stern look on his face and the last letter you wrote him in his hand.

“What’s up dude? What can I do for you?” Asked the tattoo artist

Jisung placed the letter on the counter and pointed to the last sentence. “I want to get that.”

The words I love you, in your handwriting. That’s what he wanted; to have you and your love with him for the rest of his life.

“Ok,” nodded the tattoo artist, “thought I’m going to need an ID. You look a bit young dude.”

“I assure you that I’m of age.” Snarled Jisung

“Dude I believe you, but I need to be sure. You know legal wise.”

Jisung was losing patience, something he found himself doing a lot since you died.

“I won’t say it again, I’m of age you don’t need my ID.”

“I need your ID to be sure you’re legit.”

Jisung had enough. He took his gun out of his jacket and pointed it at the artist who raised his hands almost immediately.

“I said I’m legal. Now can you do that tattoo or should I find somebody else.”

The artist gulped “No need dude, I can do it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

#nct mafia au #nct 127 #nct dream #nct 2018 #nct drabbles #nct reactions #nct scenarios #nct imagines

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i-write-about-anything · 4 years

Text

Baby Daddies Part 29

Requested: idk why but i’m having some serious baby fever. could you something with a character(s) of your choosing with kids that’s super fluffy and amazing like the rest of your writing?

(you have two children with two different baby daddies lol bye)

Pairings: Stiles Stilinski x Reader, Issac Lahey x Reader

Series Masterlist

Third Person POV

When Stiles finally woke up the sun was shining in his face. Amy and Peter had been looking at him for an hour, not knowing what their father was doing on the floor. Noah hadn’t wanted to disturb Stiles; he knew what it felt like to lose a wife he would have never wanted his son to go through that much pain. Noah hadn’t slept much that night, he tossed and turned remembering the loss of his wife and how hard Stiles had taken it. This was going to be ten times worse. Not only did he lose (y/n), he lost the mother of his children that were still too young to understand where their mother went. He knew this was going to be hard, he knew that he needed to be there for his son, whether he wanted him there or not. Stiles sat up, his eyes searching the room before they landed on his kids, he had seen her last night, he had seen her carrying Peter, there was no doubt about it. He stood abruptly, both Peter and Amy jumping back at the sudden move. Stiles looked all over the room for a trace of her, but there was none. He was losing his mind and it had only been a day, he sighed and sat on the bed, his head coming to rest on his hands as he let out a couple tears. He always thought of the possibility that he may not come home from work one day, never in his wild dreams would he have thought she’d never come home, especially when she was a werewolf. Amy moved closer to Stiles, the only father figure she would ever accept from now on. Her arms wrapped around his arm, she was crying, of course she was, all the emotions that escaped Stiles were transmitting towards her. He took her into his arms, she was just like her mother, always wanting him to be happy, regardless of what she was feeling. “I love you, daddy.” Amy whispered only making Stiles choke out a sob.

“I love you too honey.” He kissed her head before bringing Peter into his arms, Peter was more like Stiles, he needed to be comforted, he needed to be told everything was going to be okay. “I’m not going to let anything happen to either of you, you got that?” Amy nodded as Stiles kissed Peter’s forehead. He loved them dearly, he would die for them both, even if Amy wasn’t biologically his, there wasn’t a single thing he wouldn’t do for her. That’s how Noah found them, all bunched up on the bed. Noah never knew how good of a father Stiles was going to be, he’d always been a troublemaker in High School, but he knew when he brought (y/n) home, that would change. He took her in with child, a child that wasn’t his but he still cared for her as his own, that’s something Noah would never understand. Stiles had changed the moment he allowed (y/n) love him, like something in him was missing.

“Breakfast is ready, if you’re up for it.” Noah’s voice echoed the room, three pair of eyes met him, they were all so broken and there was nothing he could do about it. “Scott’s on his way, wants to help as much as he can.” He added and Stiles nodded, he wasn’t going to tell his dad that he had seen her last night, he’d admit him to Eichen House, there was no doubt about that. He had seen his mom on multiple occasions when he had just lost her, it’s how he’d cope. He made her up, talked to thin air thinking it was her, and that’s exactly what he’d do now, imagine his girl, even if it would only hurt more. “Come on kiddos.” Noah tried his best to sound cheery, but he couldn’t not when he too was hurting. He grabbed Peter in his arms, Amy not wanting to be away from Stiles stayed with him.

“I’ll be right down.” Stiles gave his dad a small smile before he stepped out.

“Mommy wouldn’t want to see you cry.” Amy whispered making Stiles heart break a little bit more.

“I know bug, I know.” He rubbed her back and kissed her forehead before rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “You hungry? I'm sure grandpa made those blueberry pancakes you love.” Stiles gave her a pained smile, one she’d obviously overlook, she was small, she didn’t know much about faking. She nodded before Stiles placed her down on the floor, she walked out of the room as fast as she could. Stiles sighed and rubbed his hands over his face before standing up.

“She’s right, you know.” Her voice slid through his ears making his eyes close in pain, he didn’t want to turn around, he knew he’d break down again.

“I can’t do this without you.” He sobbed out; his eyes fixated on the door.

“Baby, you can do anything.” Her voice was silky, he wanted to hear it forever, he wanted to be able to face her, even if this was a figment of his imagination.

“I can’t.” Stiles whispered and when he turned, she was gone, no trace of her, of course. He was imagining her, just like his mother. He shook the tears off, his sobs dying down before he stepped downstairs, Scott, Allison, Liam and Lydia all in his dad’s living room, they looked better than he did, of course they did, they hadn’t lost the love of their life. Scott looked at his best friend, his eyes puffy and red, his nose too. “What are you guys doing here?” His voice broke.

“To be here for you.” Lydia spoke as she stood from the couch setting down a cup of coffee Noah had given her. “We know this is going to be hard, but you don’t have to do this alone.” Lydia offered a small smile and then he saw her again, standing next to Lydia.

“She’s right, you don’t.” She smiled at him and he instantly felt the tears fall from his eyes. He looked down, not being able to look at her face, the face he loved so much. God, he missed her, he wanted her to be there, with him. “Come on baby, let them help you.” She whispered next to his ear and that’s all it took for him to fall onto the stairs, his sobs filling the house as Scott and Lydia moved to wrap their arms around him. They hadn’t lost anyone this close to them, they didn’t know how to handle it but they were going to do anything and everything they could to help Stiles, because he needed them right now, he needed everyone. “They love you.” Her whisper was close to his ear and he couldn’t help but sob even harder. Allison cried into her hand, determined to be the one that could stand strong in the pack, but she was far from being strong. A knock at the door caused all their heads to snap towards it. Noah wiped his eyes before walking towards it and opening it. Revealing an alarmed Parrish, Jordan Parrish had become new to the pack, he’d known (y/n) for a while now, his grieving wasn’t as bad as the rest of them but he grieved nonetheless.

“I know this is a bad time, is there any way I can talk to you in private?” He spoke lowly, not wanting to alert Stiles and the others, bad news at a time of grief was never good for anyone, but Parrish needed help and Noah was the sheriff. Noah looked back at his son, his friends wrapping him up in their arms before nodding and moving passed the door to step outside. He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes wondering to the street, it was silent, he hated that. “Isaac hasn’t been found, last time we saw him he was leaving the hospital, he just vanished.” Jordan sighed, his hands resting on his gun belt.

“I need him found in the next twenty-four hours Parrish, my son doesn’t need to see him in the streets, it won’t end good.” Noah sighed before pinching the bridge of his nose, he couldn’t leave his son alone, even with his friends here he needed some kind of stability, someone had to be strong for him.

“We’re doing the best we can Sheriff.” Jordan whispered. “How’s he doing?” He looked back at the door and as queue he heard Stiles’ sobs.

“It’s only going to get harder, I never expected for him to go through this like I did, he didn’t deserve it.” Noah sniffed, wiping his tears once more.

“No one deserves this Sheriff. We’re going to catch that son of a bitch.” Parrish had a different way of grieving; he was a hellhound. Noah sighed, patting Jordan’s back before saying his goodbyes. He stayed outside, scared that he might break in front of Stiles, he released the tears he’d held onto. Inside, Scott had finally gotten Stiles to calm down, he guided him to the kitchen to sit him down with his kids, their smiles making Stiles’ heart tighten. They were so innocent, he hated that this had to happen to them just like it had to him. Stiles didn’t eat, he just picked at his food making Amy scold at him, telling him what he always told her, quit playing with your food. That made him smile a bit before he thought about how (y/n) would have laughed at the fact that her daughter was just as quirky as she was. He looked down at his plate, not wanting the tears to set Amy off again. Peter was silent, eating away at his bacon as he looked at Scott, he’d always loved his uncle Scott, he did everything he wanted him to do. But seeing him like this was different for Peter, he’d always seen him happy and willing to play, now he was sad and Peter didn’t know why. Stiles’ head lifted when he heard voices coming through the front door, his father and Scott’s mom, Melissa, had just entered. She hadn’t gone back to work after last night, she held Scott in her arms as he cried last night, she hated watching her son cry.

“Stiles.” Her voice was low, he wanted to look at her, he did, but he knew he’d break down all over again when he’d see the look on her face. He nodded before pushing the plate away from him. He looked at Peter who opened his arms for him, Stiles complied at brought his son onto his lap, kissing his forehead and closing his eyes. (Y/N) could have argued with Stiles all day, but no matter what she said, Peter looked more like her than he looked like him. He loved both Amy and Peter with all his heart, he’d do anything for them, he just didn’t know how he was going to do this. “I know this isn’t a great time, but we have some paperwork to go through, there’s also this,” She paused before placing a ring on the table beside him. Stiles looked at the ring and instantly began to shake, tears running down his face. He had bought the ring years ago, he was nervous, went to ten different stores before finding the one. He'd kept it for so long before asking her, he should have done it earlier, he should have married her years ago. He took the ring in his hands, placing it in his pinky, the only finger that fit the ring. He placed his head on top of Peter’s his tears soaking his son’s hair. “I’ll leave the paperwork with your dad, again, I know this isn’t the right time but we need the papers by the end of the day to release her body to the funeral home, they’ll take it from there.” Melissa hated this part, she’d only done this with strangers, it was hard, but this was harder, she knew (y/n), she knew everyone in her life.

“Thank you, Melissa, we’ll have them to you as soon as you can.” Noah cleared his throat, grabbing the folder from her. He placed it on the kitchen counter, he’d do most of it himself later. Amy looked at Stiles, her lip pouting before she wrapped her arms around his neck, Stiles gladly took her into his arms, sitting her down on the thigh that didn’t occupy her brother. Stiles held onto them both, trying his best to control his tears, he couldn’t, no matter what he did.

“I can help with those; I helped my mom when my grandmother died.” Lydia’s voice cut the silence that was created, mumbles coming from everyone as they planned where they were going to hold the funeral. Scott offering his house, Melissa agreeing. Allison letting Noah know she could take care of letting people know. All while Stiles sat there, ring in his pinky as he cried with his children in his lap, he heard their voices, he just couldn’t understand them.

“It’s okay not to be okay baby.” There it was, the voice he wanted so desperately to hear. “Maybe you were right.” She spoke before Stiles’ head lifted, he saw her there, sitting next to him, Scott and Allison behind her as they spoke to his dad. “He looks like me.” She gave Stiles a small giggle that broke his heart. “I’m going to miss them, you know.” She continued as she leaned forward, her eyes landing on Amy first. “I’ll never get to help her when she has problems, when she gets her first boyfriend, although I'm sure you’ll do your best to scare them off.” She giggled again, tears still spilling from Stiles’ eyes. “But she’ll get through this, she’s a strong girl, stronger than all of us. Peter won’t understand where I went.” Her voice dropped. “My little boy.” A tear escaped her eye. “He’ll grow up just like you baby, your dad did a great job raising you, you’re going to be great at raising him.” Her eyes met Stiles’ before he shook his head.

“I can’t.” He whispered out, the voices in the background stopping completely, all eyes now on him. He hadn’t said a word since their arrival. “I can’t.” He shook his head again before sobbing. Amy had been crying already, he hadn’t even realized it. Peter, on the other hand was still silent, his eyes searching for someone to take him from his father’s arms, he didn’t know how to feel. Scott took Peter in his arms before Stiles brought Amy’s face in his hands, his hands covering most of it. “It’s okay bug, it’s okay.” He whispered as his thumb wiped away her never-ending tears. “Don’t cry honey, please.” It only fueled his tears. Her tiny hands came to Stiles’ face as she desperately tried to wipe his tears. Stiles sniffed, grabbing her small hands in his as he brought them to his lips to place a kiss on them. He gave her a kiss on the forehead before standing from the table, bringing her into his arms before looking down at Peter in Scott’s arms. He took Peter into his arms before exiting the kitchen leaving them to talk about everything he didn’t. He walked to the living room, sitting on the couch, Liam had been glued there, he couldn’t be brave like Scott, not right now.

“Nemo?” Peter’s voice broke the silence in the living room and before Stiles could reply, Liam had gotten up to move towards the television. Peter clapped his hands before settling into Stiles’ lap, Amy moving to sit in the middle as Liam came to sit back down. Neither of them said a word to each other, instead they both looked at the television, not quite paying attention to it, they drifted into their own minds, wondering where the hell they were going to go from here. Stiles occasionally ran his fingers through Peter’s hair, earning a smile from him every once in a while, before he diverted his attention back to the screen.

___

Jordan had gotten a call from Noah only three hours after his visitation at his home, he needed someone to take care of the cleaning at Stiles’ place, he’d agreed, wanting to do anything that could help him and Stiles out during this hard time. He’d just arrived at Stiles’ home, he’d been here earlier in the morning looking for a sign of Isaac, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. As he walked into the home, he couldn’t help but feel strange, he’d discovered multiple bodies in homes before, but this was different for him. He led a group of crime scene cleaners up the stairs to Amy’s room, a trail of blood following from the entrance. Someone must have closed the door when everything had happened. Jordan hadn’t known how severe the fatal wound had been which was why he was surprised to see the blood spattered all over the room. Amy’s bed had been soaked; the blood now dry as it started to give a smell to it. Her toys had blood splatters and the he could have even sworn he saw some of her flesh on the floor. He quickly moved out of the room before letting them do their job. A single noise made him draw his gun as he moved towards the master bed room. He’d heard rustling, it was faint but it was there nonetheless. He slowly opened the door, his gun pointed in front of him as he examined the room. He could have sworn he was hearing things but when he heard it again it led him to the closet, then he heard it again. He made a quick move to open the closet, his eyes wondering all around it, finding absolutely nothing. He shook his head, clearly sleep deprivation was doing things to him. He put his gun back into its holster and walked out of the closet, the picture frame on top of the dresser catching his attention as he moved closer to it. He took it in his hands, examining it, she’d look happy, Stiles and the kids all in the same photo with her. Her smile was piercing, she was always the one to keep everything and everyone together. As he continued to examine the photo a reflection on it caught his eye. He focused on in before turning abruptly finding no one in sight. Shaking his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose before his phone startled him. "Hello?” He spoke into the phone before placing the picture back on the dresser and walking out of the room.

“We spotted him, three miles out of beacon hills, we couldn’t catch him, bastard was too fast.” A deputy’s voice rambled on before Jordan was running out of the house.

“I’m on my way, do not engage, he’s considered armed and dangerous.” He didn’t give him the chance to reply as he hung up the phone and climbing into his car and taking off. He was determined to catch Isaac, dead or alive at this point.

___

Stiles and his father were now on the way to the hospital, they’d needed to turn in the paperwork and they wouldn’t accept it from Noah, Stiles was her partner. Amy and Peter had stayed back with Scott and Allison. Lydia and Liam had now gone off to do other things that had to be done, like order the flowers and depressing shit like that. Stiles hadn’t said much, Noah knew this phase and he knew the one that followed would be even worse. “How about we take off after the funeral, huh? To that cabin we went to when you were a kid, Peter and Amy would love it.” Noah’s eyes didn’t shift from the road, he knew he’d start shedding tears the moment he saw the look on his son’s face.

“Whatever.” Stiles shrugged, his voice low, he didn’t want to think about burying (y/n), his heart broke even more at the thought of seeing her lifeless in a casket for the last time. But he guessed seeing her like that was better than seeing her bleed out in his arms, the image wouldn’t leave his mind, the hole in her chest was hard to forget. He shook the image out of his head before turning his attention to his father. “How long after mom died did it start to feel normal?” His voice broke, he hadn’t remembered much when his mom passed away, but then again, he wasn’t left alone, he’d always had his father, now, he was alone with two kids.

“It never started to feel normal son.” Noah’s voice too broke as he gulped. “It’s going to hurt, for days, weeks, years, it’ll hurt even after twenty years. But you have two wonderful kids who take after their mother, and when you realize that they’re the closest thing to having her here with you, that’s when you’ll start living again. It’ll always hurt, but with time you’ll learn to live with it.” Noah sobbed and cleared his throat. “I wish I hadn’t had to tell you that, you shouldn’t have to learn to live without her.” Stiles nodded, his own tears slipping from his eyes.

“We didn’t even get to get married. Or have more kids, I wanted more kids.” Stiles whispered, his head dropping to his hands. “It should have been me.”

“Don’t.” Noah hissed out before pulling to the side of the road, the abrupt stop making Stiles look up. “She didn’t deserve this, no. But if you think she wouldn’t have stopped you from confronting Isaac then you’re out of your mind. She would have done anything to keep you and the kids safe and that’s what she did. She died protecting her family.” He didn’t look at Stiles, instead he rested his head on the steering wheel. They both stayed silent for minutes before Noah pulled back onto the road. They’d arrived at the hospital in a matter of minutes but Stiles wasn’t ready to walk back in there after last night.

“I can’t do this, I can’t.” Stiles spoke lowly once Noah was out of the car.

“You can do this.” Her voice spoke causing Stiles to look at the rear-view mirror, there she sat in the backseat. “Come on baby, just walk in there, give them the folder and everything else will be taken care of.” Stiles shook his head.

“I don’t want this to be it. I didn’t want to lose you.” He whispered.

“Oh baby.” She sighed, her eyes closing. “I didn’t want to lose you either. I didn’t want this to happen but I had to do what I did; I would’ve lost my baby girl if I didn’t step in and that would have killed me anyways.” Stiles shook his head not wanting to think what could have happened, not after he’d already lost his love.

“I can’t do this; I can’t be alone. You were it for me, we were supposed to grow old together, have more kids, I can’t do this!” Stiles’ screams made Noah look back into the car, the sight of his son uncontrollably crying made his heart break. He wanted to do nothing but comfort him but he knew he’d break down with him and right now that’s not what he needed.

“Stiles.” Her voice was soft, he closed his eyes shaking his head. “I love you, always, never forget that.” And with that, he could tell she was gone. He took five minutes to control his tears, and once he did, he exited the car, folder in hand as he stepped next to his dad, neither of them saying a word as they walked into the building. Melissa was pacing back and forth, her mind racing at what they had just told her.

“Melissa?” Noah’s voice broke her from her trance and her eyes meeting his before she looked at Stiles.

“What’s going on?” Stiles cleared his throat as he handed her the folder. She took it, placing it on the counter before she sighed.

“There’s really no easy way to say this but her body, it’s missing.” Her voice rang through Stiles’ ears, there had to be a mistake, surely Melissa had already gone to check herself and that only left more unanswered questions.

______

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onlytaylor · 4 years

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Drarry + Facing Demons and Finding Family

Tw: mentions of symptoms of depression, anxiety, ptsd, and child abuse. All are resolved with a happy ending.

Draco Malfoy walks the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, and it’s different now. The way it had bustled with a vibrant vivacity in his younger years is long gone now, replaced by the mediocrities that come with running errands and making stops for work. It had been repaired, for the most part, after the war, but something about the shadows of buildings that used to be constructed just a little bit different haunts Malfoy in his steps.

He turns to glance over his shoulder when the sound of a child laughing fills the spaces between bustling bodies and adult feet. A familiar tuft of blue hair comes dashing forward, and Draco feels a momentary reprieve from his own hollow dissonance. His face lights up as the boy throws his arms around his neck, crying “Cousin Draco! What are you doing here?”

And behind the vivacious grin is the humble one of Harry Potter, the boy who really did end up saving the world. Draco doesn’t hate him; how could he? If it weren’t for the testimony of the man standing there now casually in his Muggle plaid shirt and ripped-up jeans, Draco wouldn’t be walking these streets.

“Malfoy,” he puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth a bit on his feet. “What sort of business are you up to these days?”

“Oh, just... dropping off a package for the boss. You know.” He shrugs, suddenly vacant. His momentary reprieve shrinks into a daunting reality.

“Wanna come get ice cream with us?” Teddy’s toothy grin eats at the edges of his impending monotony.

“Oh, well, I wasn’t-“ he starts, but Harry Potter has stepped his foot forward.

“No, please. If you’re not too busy, we’d love to catch up. Teddy misses you.” And, allowing the package to feel a bit lighter in his coat pocket, Draco turns on one heel and heads to the parlor with them both.

***

Having Teddy Lupin run through his life is like chasing a tiny piece of dynamite. You never know just when it will explode, and when you’ve got it in your fingers it seems to roll invariably to the floor. Draco’s been waiting now for quite some time for his own destruction, but his regularly timed meetings with Harry (wow- really on a first name basis now) and his cousin had brightened his steps countably.

It seemed that the sparking fire may just never come.

***

Draco Malfoy doesn’t visit Malfoy manor, and its empty rooms are surely hung with cob webs and dust mites and other small creatures that have made it home. The stone exterior is beginning to succumb to a green vine that twists its way up the foundation, and apparently small children dare each other to knock on the door of the “Death Eater House.”

Draco doesn’t have to visit Malfoy Manor to know which ghosts roam its halls, apparitions of tortured souls and the results of his own mistakes. If only he’d stood up to his father. If only he’d run. If only...

Draco swallows, once, then twice, before straightening his stare ahead. Harry’s coming over soon, and this time Teddy is at the Burrow. They’ve never hung out like this, quite alone and unsupervised by Teddy’s string of home-made knock knock jokes. He’s not sure why, but he’s nervous.

***

After the war, Draco had considered himself a work-in-progress. He’d ventured through the stages of grief, mourning his losses and wishing he could change the past. He’d also picked himself up off of the floor, vowing to start new. None of this was easy. Panic followed him around every corner, but around every corner was the reassuring laugh of Teddy; smile of Harry. If he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit their great assistance in his own healing.

But that doesn’t stop the nightmares. Or the constant feeling of dread. And when Draco Malfoy is alone, his guilt consumes him. Why hadn’t he done the right thing? Why hadn’t he stood up to his father?

***

When Draco was eight, he’d drawn a portrait of his family. It was an assignment by his private tutor, a sort of busy-work while she prepared more practice for magical theory. He’d drawn them, stoic and cold, using shades of gray and black to fill in the spaces between them. They didn’t touch, didn’t love. Lucius told him that artists didn’t make any money in the Wizarding World. Draco ripped up the drawing and threw it in the rubbish bin.

***

When Draco’s lease on his London apartment is near its end, Harry finds him with a nervous twitch of his lips.

“You know, Draco, you don’t have to move into another building. I know you hate your neighbors because they remind you of your family. Our flat is large enough for a third member.”

Draco had almost immediately rejected- his first instinct was to scoff at any such attempts at pity. But Teddy’s eyes had met his, bright and foretelling- and his pleas almost melted Draco’s shoes to the asphalt.

“If you really want me to,” Draco smiles, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

***

Draco hadn’t realized that his ghosts would follow him here. But as he watches the shadows dance upon the walls of his very own room, he knows he’s not dreaming. It’s his father, reminding him that he will never be good enough.

It’s his mother, watching with irrefutable silence.

It’s himself, pointing a wand at Dumbledore. Leaving with Snape. And abandoning his dreams to follow in his father’s foot steps.

It’s a portrait of Draco’s family, stone cold and frozen against the frosted window pane.

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming.

Not until the door is thrown open, and Harry’s there, sporting nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a concerned purse of his lips.

He’s on the bed, and now Draco is crying. Yelling. Laughing hysterically. Because he’s fucking insane, sitting in a bed half-naked with Harry Potter and telling himself to shut his fucking mouth before Teddy wakes up.

But Harry is gentle. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and whispers “I know. But it’s not true. None of it is real.”

And Draco sobs, without really knowing how to stop, and Harry’s skin is warm against his own. It’s the first time he’s ever really felt whole.

Hours pass, though the clock reads otherwise. And Draco tells him that he needs to go back to bed. That they’ve both got work in the morning, and Teddy is visiting Andromeda...

But, no, Harry whispers, this is more important. You are more important. When had their relationship morphed into this... whatever this is?

Draco Malfoy allows himself to be held, and it is surprisingly wonderful.

***

Working for the ministry is like working in one of those Muggle cubicles. He should be grateful for the opportunity, but Draco hates his job. His boss is monstrous, a poised figure that reminds him far too much of his father.

He gets a bit panicky when requests are made, unable to say no. Draco Malfoy never thought he’d become a push over, but his inherent desire to please, to win, to have a second chance is tumultuous.

He doesn’t know how to live without it.

***

Teddy is spending the night at the Burrow, and Draco and Harry are doing their usual dance of washing and putting away the dishes.

“Fancy a movie?” Harry asks, and something soft flutters in Draco’s chest.

“Sure.”

***

It’s midnight when Draco feels the gentle presence of Harry slumped against his shoulder, his quiet snores a rhythm that he begins to memorize.

He doesn’t move, and the stillness is what allows him to feel the sporadic twitches that begin to ripple through Harry’s body.

“No, no,” he murmurs, “Please, no. Hermione... Cruciatus...”

Draco freezes, and he immediately understands the inner workings of Harry’s psyche.

He was there when his aunt Bella inflicted near irreparable damage to Hermione Granger. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t stop her.

There’s a tightness in his chest, and it fluctuates with his heart rate. Harry is having a nightmare, and it’s all his fault.

“You’ll never make up for what you’ve done,” he hears his father say, and the words are a gun to his head.

“Harry,” he whispers, desperately running his fingers along the side of his arm to calm him. If he couldn’t go back, the least he could do is aid his sleep.

Harry settles, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief. His father is laughing at him.

Ghostly shadows dance along the walls, flickering in the dim light of the TV. The world seems to grow around him, and he is infintismal.

His palms are sweaty as the guilt settles, rotting a hole in his stomach. And then there’s a whisper, a subtle word that shifts everything: “Draco.”

He glances at Harry’s face twice to make sure he’s not imagining the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. He said Draco’s name. And, from the depths of his slumber, he’s smiling.

Draco’s eyes are prickly, and he’s not sure why there are tears surfacing at such an inopportune moment. Perhaps he’s gone completely insane... or maybe...

“Not your father, Draco... amazing... need you... love you...”

A light seems to dissipate the shadows, which morph and expand into unidentifiable shapes before they slowly vanish. Draco’s hands are still clammy, but his mind is on overdrive.

The Savior of the Wizarding World is dreaming about him. Believes in him. Maybe, even...loves him?

And the remaining shadows come crashing down, spirits that find rest in redemption. If Harry Potter, with his stupid scar, and his stupid broomstick, could think highly of Draco Malfoy, the ex-death eater... maybe he could forgive himself.

Maybe... and then there are images flashing through his mind. Of stone family drawings and cruel and unjust punishment.

Of the desire to please, so much, that if his father pointed a wand at his throat he’d beg for forgiveness. Of pretending to have dignity for so long that he’d lost his own along the way.

And then, another sleepy rasp from Potter: “not your fault...”

And something snaps inside him.

“Not my fault,” he repeats, barely audible, yet it rattles an earthquake that cracks the floor. The ground faults, and everything he’s ever know crumbles before him.

“You are pathetic.” The voice of his father shakes the walls, breaks the foundation. Rips open the fortress of his solitude, jagged lines coursing through his very being and down to his core.

There’s a wand at his throat.

Harry isn’t here. Here, it’s a Malfoy’s paradise, and Draco’s skin crawls at the realistic image of his father before him. He’s so fucking life-like, the drawl of his criticism dripping with the poison of a basilisk. He’s smiling, and that hurts. It’s malicious.

But then, another whisper. A distant proclamation that rings through the periphery of his hearing. “Draco... always... good enough...”

Fuck. Harry?

“Good enough,” he repeats, the syllables a solid reality, just like the man before him. And, in a sudden fit of realization, Draco realizes the epitome of his salvation.

“You’re not real,” he says, and the words are a bit shaky as they permeate the air. His father’s face twists into something unreadable, a cross between a scowl and utter shock.

“You’re not real.” The wand lowers. His brow narrows.

“You were never real. My father is in Azkaban. You are just the ghost of what he did to me.”

His hands are drifting into the atmosphere, like grains of sand dissipating toward the floor. His expression morphs into utter fear, and, for once, Draco feels powerful.

It was never about defeating him. He could have dualed his fractured subconscious for years, constantly bettering himself, only to fall again. And the wand would always be pointed at his throat

But Harry, Harry said he was good enough. And he can hear the distant titter of Teddy’s amusement, the padding of his socks as they bounce along the hardwood floor of their flat. Of their home.

Harry cares. Loves. And so Draco must love himself.

“You could never kill me,” he says to the air, as the whisp of Lucius Malfoy’s presence fades into nothing. “It was just me, all along. Hurting myself because you trained me to. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fucking fault.”

There’s a sudden whoosh, and the room is spinning. And then it’s not. And Draco Malfoy is sitting next to a blissfully sleeping Harry Potter in a London flat.

The movie is over, and all that remains of the last few minutes is a line of scrolling credits.

The shadows, they’re gone. And somehow, Draco is no longer haunted. The house is peaceful, and a serenity seems to fill it’s every crevice, binding the cracks that once cleaved the walls. He pulls Harry closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Taking a risk he’d never had the confidence to execute.

Harry smiles, stirring a bit before turning his green gaze upward. “That’s nice,” he says, and Draco chuckles.

“Yeah, it is, hm?”

“Hey Draco?”

He doesn’t reply, but meets that vibrant stare of his with irrefutable honesty.

“Thanks for being a part of our family.”

“Family?” The word nervously slips his lips. He’s never done this before.

Harry nods. “You, me, and Teddy.”

His eyes are prickly again, and he swallows a hard lump in the back of his throat. “I love the sound of that. Of family.”

“Good. Because I’ll hex you if you go anywhere. Old habits do die hard, you know.”

Draco laughs, hearty. Whole. Harry snuggles into his shoulder, falling asleep lightly as he thoughtfully plans his next project.

***

The next day, Teddy enters to find Draco drawing a picture of his family at the kitchen table.

“Whatcha doin’?” He asks curiously, hopping onto Draco’s lap as he sketches.

The picture before them is a family, a blonde, a brunette, and a tuft or blue hair between them. There are no spaces, no empty holes between their bodies, and the sky is a vibrant array of purples and oranges.

“Let’s hang it on the fridge!” Teddy exclaims, grasping it and running to attach it to the front of the surface.

Draco eyes the picture smiling, and it is the best he’s ever felt.

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #teddy lupin #lucius malfoy #narcissa malfoy #draco x harry #drarry squad #draco malfoy x harry potter #dad! draco and harry #facing your inner demons #post war #draco malfoy will forever be my muse for kicking daddy issues to the curb #this was therapy for me

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tenmillionwhumperflies · 3 years

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Febuwhump ‘21 #4

#4 Impaled

Avizon whump anyone? This one is set a fair way into the future and will show a bit of a different side to our dear mean Avizon. I hope you like it.

WC: 1900

Avizon knew the secret tunnels would be in a bad state, he knew the traps hadn’t been maintained, but that wasn’t the reason he didn’t want to be here. It was because of the memories. The memories in these halls hurt him more than any injury ever could. He wiped a tear from his eye as he rounded the corner where he and Ro used to hold each other and kiss and love one another. It had been their own private area, safe from prying eyes, whispering lips and hurtful hands. Now it was cold, empty, and filled with spiderwebs, much like his heart.

He sighed and pressed on. Ihuka and Dyan were waiting at either side of the tunnel, by the hidden paintings in case something went wrong. He licked his dry lips and continued on, the burning torch in hand made his face uncomfortably warm, but it lit the way. He struggled to remember where the traps were. Why King Halve had thought it a good idea to put traps in these tunnels was beyond him. No one ever used them, save for Avizon and Ro.

He stopped walking and paused. Was that the reason? He tensed his jaw and tried to put those thoughts aside. Halve was dead, there was no point angering himself over ghosts now, no matter how much they still hurt.

He was so distracted by his thoughts, he miscounted a step. The floor suddenly caved and Avizon scrambled to try and not fall, but the rocks were old. He yelled as he tumbled back, he felt a sudden pain in this thigh and then everything settled. Avizon looked down in horror. He’d been impaled through the leg. If he’d fallen back, it would have killed him. He shuddered. This was not good. He forced himself to stay calm, but this was not going to be easy to fix.

He bit his lip and tried to get up. He screamed, but he made no progress, he needed help, but that meant risking the cloudwalker’s lives. Dyan was closest, and there were no more traps on this side, of that he was certain. He closed his eyes and sent an orb out toward Ihuka, and he let it guide him to Dyan and then brought it through the painting, back towards him.

It was hard not to sob as the pain started to make itself known. This was going to need magic healing, something he was actually terrible at. He’d have to send a message to his old mentor Orrien. It was his best and only chance and keeping his leg, if not survive. “Master?” Dyan called. “Go slow!” Avizon exclaimed. “I… I’ve fallen, my leg is stuck. I need your help, you will have to lift me up but there are spikes. You must be careful or you’ll end up like me.” “Can we climb down, or should we get ropes?” “Ropes won’t work I’m afraid, but you do need bandages. You’ll have to climb down in the pit, but I should be able to melt at least some of the spikes if I can reach.” Dyan spoke quickly to Ihuka before he heard Ihuka run off. Avizon groaned, feeling sick. This wasn’t going to be easy, he could already imagine the pain it would cause. He heard soft shuffling and soon Dyan came into sight at the top of the hole. “Master, I-” he froze, seeing the metal. “Keep calm. I just need to melt these and give you space.” He groaned as he reached behind him to melt one away. His hand tingled with the scalding heat it produced but soon the metal fell to the side. He did it again and again, but it was hard work, especially pinned as he was.

Ihuka returned triumphant with bandages. “Master? Could you melt the spike you’re on?” Dyan wondered. “It might be easier but I don’t know if it will burn you. I don’t think Ihuka and I will fit down there...” He had a point, and only a fool would ignore good advice. He just felt stupid for not thinking of it himself, but Dyan was right. The burning would hurt him.

There was a good chance this was going to brand his wounds and that hurt even more, but it was the better option. “I… I need one of you down here, to help me stay up while I work.” Ihuka was smaller than Dyan, and strong, so it was quickly decided he would come down. He stood in the shaved area Avizon had made. Avizon struggled to keep himself composed. “Lift me enough so that I can grab the bar.” Dyan translated, and then Ihuka carefully did so, lifting him up like he was about to carry him. Ihuka clenched his jaw and strained as he took Avizon’s weight. Avizon cried out in pain, but he had to focus. He grabbed onto the spike and let the heat do its work. It was getting more and more painful as the metal heated. It was burning his skin, enough to bring tears to his eyes and make it difficult to breathe. He clenched the bare as tight as he could until finally, it gave. Ihuka lowered him carefully, panting for breath. “G.good bird… help me up.” Ihuka did so, helping him to his feet, taking as much of his weight as he could as limped towards Dyan. The pit wasn’t deep, so Dyan was able to heave him up. Avizon screamed as the spike hit off the floor. “D.don’t… remove it. Bandage around it.” Dyan did so, the worry clear on his face. It was hard to help Avizon walk out of the tunnels. They just weren’t big enough for creatures with wings. He had to limp forward on his own, leaning against the walls. Ihuka led the way and Dyan was behind him, ready to steady him as needed. He had to get to the mirror. If he could get to the mirror of minds he’d be able to send a message.

Ihuka climbed out of the tunnel and bit his bottom lip anxiously before he helped Avizon down. He couldn’t bite back another cry of pain. The pain was only getting worse. He limped a little longer until he collapsed into a chaise.

Dyan knelt by him, “What should I do, master?” “The mirror… the black mirror… go and fetch it.”

Dyan nodded and took off sprinting, leaving Ihuka with him. He smiled softly as Ihuka propped his head up with a pillow and got him a blanket. He knelt by his side wringing his fingers together, so unsure of what to do. “Good bird,” he mumbled. He was tired, but he had to wait until he spoke in the mirror. Dyan returned, cradling it in his arms and held it out for him. Avizon grimaced as he took it and tried to sit up. Dyan offered to help but instead, Avizon gave up. He murmured a spell, as soon the shiny black revealed a face: Orrien. He’d aged since last he saw him, his blond hair and beard had gone almost fully grey, the wrinkles were clear under his tired blue eyes, but they still carried that usual glimmer of hope, of happiness that Avizon could only ever be in awe of. “Avizon?” he greeted, but his voice was full of concern. “You are in need of me?” “P.please… teleport here. I… my leg...”

“You’re wounded? I’ll be right there- don’t do anything foolish.” Avizon almost dropped the mirror but luckily Ihuka was able to catch it. He smiled softly at him, he could feel the sweat on his body. “A. a man will come to the castle, his name is Orrien. He is a friend. He will save me. You must be good for him.” “We will, master,” Dyan promised. Avizon nodded, but he felt awful. He heard a familiar swoosh of a teleportation spell, a screech of alarm from Ihuka, but then things settled.

Soon a familiar face was standing over him. “Do I dare ask how you ended up in this state?” Orrien said gently. “Fell,” he grimaced. The pain was blinding at this point. His leg kept twitching and bringing all the pain back at him in a bigger and bigger wave. “Do your… companions speak?” “Dyan does. Tell them what you want from them, they’ll do it.” “Dyan? Yes, I need you to both come here. We need to move him.” Avizon couldn’t help but groan, and Orrien put a reassuring hand on his chest. Avizon bit back a scream as he was picked up and lowered to the floor, but turned around. He lay on his front, but putting his leg down had started to push the metal out of his leg. He screamed and tried to get up, to get away from the pain. “Hold him still!” Orrien ordered.

They did so, and Avizon could only endure as Orrien settled a knee on his back and pulled the metal out. His cries echoed across the room and he tried to fight against Dyan and Ihuka, but they were heavy and stronger than him in his position. The pain only got worse when Orrien clamped a hand over the wound. He opened his mouth to scream again, but then there was nothing… _____ He woke in bed with a feeble groan and an aching body, but his leg felt good all things considered. Orrien was sitting at the side of his bed. “Master,” he mumbled. “Ah, he lives. Welcome back, my student. You’ll be glad to know your leg should fully heal. It took a long time, but my healing magic hasn’t failed me yet.” Avizon nodded sleepily. “I really should learn light magic...” “Yes, yes you should. It is a good skill to have, if only you weren’t so hellbent on destruction these days.” Avizon sighed softly. He paused seeing Ihuka and Dyan curled up in the corner fast asleep but smiled. “Things have changed...” Orrien looked down at the two cloudwalkers and back to him. “You found something worth protecting?” “Yes… they helped me find my purpose…. They could never replace Ro, but they did help me find my conscience again...” Orrien patted his arm, “He would be happy to hear that.”

Ro’s death had hurt both of them so badly, the grief would never fade, but it helped to know Orrien understood. Avizon had lost a lover, and Orrien had lost his son. Orrien cleared his throat. “I will stay awhile, make sure your leg is healing as it should. Would you like something to eat?” Avizon nodded. True enough he was starving.

“Master?” Dyan said softly from his spot. Ihuka was awake now too. Both of them looked at him with curious concern. “I’m alright, little birds. Come here if you wish, you can share my bed.” The two of them climbed on, but they stayed on his good side. Avizon chuckled and ruffled their hair one at a time. “You’ll both get a good reward for helping me. Thank you. You should go back to sleep, you look tired.”

Avizon watched them drift off until Orrien returned with a meal. Yes, things certainly had changed.

#febuwhump #febuwhump 2021 #febuwhumpday4 #impaled #whump #cloudwalker series #Avizon #Ihuka #dyan #Orrien #Orrien is another OC that we will meet again later #he is a good bean

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