#know please that I jest and I only made these because I’m having a fever dream listening to them
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Is this anything???
#the academy is…#William Beckett#bilvy#know please that I jest and I only made these because I’m having a fever dream listening to them#decaydance#dcd#santi#fast times at barrington high#almost here
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Hello :) Here's another prompt if you're still taking them? WWX & LWJ met as children and declared that they would marry upon their first meeting. Their guardians just thought that it was cute, and that they will forget about it over time. (They don't)
(SOFT. SO SOFT. AU without SSC and GC transfer)
They first meet when Cansge Sanren and Wei Changze are still alive. The wandering cultivators find themselves in Caiyi town and Lan Qiren is reluctantly dragged from his duties to have lunch with a cheerful Cangse Sanren.
He brings little a-Zhan along.
His nephew has just recovered from a fever and is feeling a little clingy. Lan Qiren will never admit it, but something is in his chest softens when his little nephew clings to him with a pout, refusing to let go.
Cangse Sanren's son is exactly when Lan Qiren expected him to be; excitable, curious, restless, and frustratingly intelligent. Bright silver eyes track everything, fascinated and eager to know more.
Lan Qiren reluctantly nudges a-Zhan forward at Cangse Sanren's pointed stare. She's a protective mother and if he so much as implies her son is unworthy of making acquaintance with his nephew, she will cheerfully gut him.
a-Zhan is reluctant at first. He has never been the most social child, rarely interacting with anyone but his immediate family.
But Wei Ying, also a bit shy and reluctant, peeks from behind his father's robes and smiles.
Lan Qiren has to admit it is a pretty sight. The child is plump and healthy with bright eyes and a wide, sincere smile.
a-Zhan is enamored at first sight.
Lan Qiren is astonished when a-Zhan steps forward and grabs Wei Ying's hand, pulling him from behind Wei Changze and towards Lan Qiren.
Wei Ying comes willingly, curious and entertained by the unusual situation. Lan Qiren doesn't doubt he has had even fewer interactions with children his age than a-Zhan, being the son of traveling cultivators.
"Shufu," He pulls Wei Ying's arm up as though presenting him to Lan Qiren, "a-Ying."
"Indeed," He says, secretly amused but refusing to show it, "I am Lan Qiren, Wei Ying."
Apparently, the child doesn't lack manners because he attempts to bow even with his hand still firmly held in a-Zhan's grasp.
Lan Qiren is somewhat charmed.
He is less charmed when their lunch comes to an end and a-Zhan reaches for a-Ying's hand once again, refusing to let go.
"a-Zhan, it's time to go home. Don't you want to see a-Huan?"
"Show a-Ying to a-Huan." a-Zhan insists, "a-Huan sees too!"
"a-Huan can meet a-Ying later." Lan Qiren says patiently but he feels his eyebrow twitch at a-Zhan's stubborn pout, "a-Ying is staying in Caiyi for a few weeks, a-Zhan, I'm sure we can bring a-Huan next time."
"a-Huan see pretty now."
Lan Qiren winces when Cangse Sanren muffles a laugh in her husband's shoulder and the man looks at the sky, amused but too dignified to react.
a-Ying tugs at his hand, trying to free it only to pout when he can't escape.
The scene is too adorable for Lan Qiren's poor heart. He sighs.
"Alright, let's show a-Huan the 'pretty'."
---
The little wandering cultivator family stays in Caiyi for three weeks to rest, replenish their supplies, and give their child some time to play with others.
a-Huan, of course, is just as enamored by a-Ying as his little brother. Lan Qiren is getting accustomed to the sight of a little white-clad Wei child lead around Cloud Recesses by one nephew in the morning and another in the evening.
a-Huan is at least gracious enough to let Wei Ying walk on his own. a-Zhan is stubborn. If he's in a-Ying's company, he's holding the child's hand.
Wei Ying is a free spirit and being dragged around annoys the child at first. He tugs and pouts but eventually starts reaching for a-Zhan's hand on his own accord.
There's not a single person in Cloud Recesses that doesn't adore the sight.
---
"a-Zhan," Lan Qiren sighs, "a-Ying must leave with his parents. He belongs to them."
a-Zhan is red-faced and angry, his eyes wet with frustrated tears, "a-Ying stay. a-Ying stay, stay, stay!"
Oh goodness, a tantrum.
It is, unfortunately, a drama with three actors.
a-Huan is weeping with a tragic appearance of a love-scorned maiden; eyes wide and imploring, lips trembling, and face wet with silent tears.
a-Ying is burying sobs into his father's shoulder, his little body trembling with acute distress. "a-Ying not leave," He wails, "a-Ying wants stay with a-Zhan!"
"a-Ying," Wei Changze is compassionate instead of amused, his expression soft with sympathy. He rubs his son's back in gentle motions, rocking the child soothingly, "Baba promises we'll return. We'll be back before you even have a chance to miss your friends."
"Aiya! What a mess," Cangse Sanren says, amused, "a-Ying, do you want to leave us and stay with a-Zhan? We must go so you need to choose."
"Xingan," Wei Changze chides as Wei Ying looks up with wide eyes and shakes his head, looking heartbreakingly distressed, "Be gentle with our child."
Lan Qiren huffs in disapproval, glaring at her as she smiles sheepishly and presses a kiss to Wei Ying's head, "Aiya, baobao, you'll break your mother's heart. It's alright, little treasure," She plucks him from Wei Changze's arms, her face incandescent with love, "We'll bring you to your a-Zhan every two months, I promise! We would never keep you from your friends!"
Perhaps she knows something about raising children, after all. The definite timeline goes a long way to soothe all three children.
There are still many tears at their parting. a-Zhan and a-Huan sulk for days. Sometimes Lan Qiren catches a-Zhan looking at his hand with a forlorn expression.
"a-Zhan," He sighs one day, when his nephew spends an entire evening pouting and staring at his hand, "He'll be back soon."
a-Zhan doesn't say anything, just nodding gently and tucking his hand away.
The expression on his face melts Lan Qiren's heart, "I'll convince Cangse Sanren to stay a bit longer." He thinks about asking her to just let the child attend Cloud Recesses for his education. He's very bright, possessing a native intelligence that must be nurtured.
"Mn."
"Missing a friend is natural," He says softly, "But you must understand that everyone has their own life and obligations. a-Ying belongs to his parents. He must live with them."
"Mn. Will marry a-Ying so he belongs to me."
Lan Qiren chokes on his tea, "What...?"
"a-Ying promised he'll be my wife," a-Zhan nods solemnly, like he isn't nudging his uncle towards qi deviation, "a-Huan saw."
Lan Qiren turns to his older nephew, who nods with a cheerful smile, "They bowed to me and each other. I told them bowing to ancestors can wait until they're older!"
... what?
---
Tragedy strikes and Lan Qiren sees his nephew's heart break. Once. Twice. Three times.
Wei Changze and Cangse Sanren are killed. a-Ying is nowhere to be found.
Madam Lan perishes, and his little nephew deals with the weight of grief again, silent and solemn at her doorstep.
His brother retreats entirely and his nephews are left without a father.
They don't see Wei Ying again for well over a decade.
---
Wei Wuxian arrives at Cloud Recesses like an unstoppable storm.
Lan Qiren takes one look at him, sees the jaded edge in his eyes, watches his appeasing smile, and feels nothing but wrath.
This isn't the boy he remembers, raised under the boundless love of his parents. This one has faced injustice and doesn't trust the world.
The first time the boy challenges him in class, silver eyes sharp and assessing, he throws a book at him and assigns punishment with Wangji.
Let his nephew handle his cherished friend. He needs to look at the situation at the Lotus Pier.
He keeps assigning him lines, even for offenses that warrant the cane. Wei Ying doesn't remember much of his childhood but it is clear that the connection is still there.
The three children fall into their old friendship quickly. Xichen being amused and indulgent. Wei Ying being annoying and lively. Wangji never letting go.
Lan Qiren investigates.
What he finds doesn't please him.
He pens a scathing letter.
'She entrusted you with her treasure. You've made a hash of it. What do you mean by sending that child here in such a state? Did you think I would ignore it? Will you tell me the scars on his back are warranted?
Your audacity appalls me. You swore on your honor that you would raise him as your own son. I offered to take him in when you found him but you swore he was happy with you and his martial siblings.
My nephews love him. Your son only berates him.
You have deceived me.
I swear on my honor that I will find a way to wrest him from your sect, Fengmian.
You do not deserve him.'
---
Wei Ying is a naturally good-humored child. It takes just a month of being in Wangji and Xichen's company to soften all of his edges. His mischief no longer has a jaded edge to it.
He's still far too unruly for Lan Qiren's liking but he supposes that is a symptom of his youth.
"Jiang Yanli is betrothed," Xichen says as he serves them tea. He has a solemn expression but his eyes are sharp. He's almost as fond of Wei Ying as Wangji, after all, "I see no reason why Wangji and a-Xian can't be too."
Lan Qiren stills, staring at his nephew, "Betrothal." He repeats flatly.
Xichen dares to shrug, discarding his habitual poise in his anger, "Wangji has never loved another. It's unlikely he ever will." He looks up to meet Lan Qiren's gaze, "We wouldn't be able to separate them now, Shufu, not after Wangji saw-" He grimaces.
Lan Qiren looks away with a scowl, combing his beard furiously. His youngest nephew had discovered Wei Ying's scars, after all.
"We have letters from Wei Changze," Lan Qiren says, "Discussing a-Ying and a-Zhan's formal marriage arrangements." It had all been in jest, of course. When they found out the children had 'wed' with Xichen as a witness, their amusement had known no bounds.
Lan Qiren had quite enjoyed carrying out mock betrothal negotiations.
He clears his throat, "Very well."
---
Wangji and Wei Ying are officially betrothed before the lectures at Cloud Recesses come to an end.
Yu-furen's wrath knows no bounds. Soon enough, Jiang Fengmian sends Wei Ying back to Cloud Recesses with a letter full of excuses.
Wangji takes one look at his beloved's ashen expression and turns to Lan Qiren, "No more."
Lan Qiren nods.
It is difficult to negotiate but they pull it off. It helps that Wei Changze's letters speak of the marriage as an inevitable fact rather than a joke between parents.
The Jiangs lose their Head Disciple by the time the boy is seventeen. Lan Qiren arranges their marriage by the time they're twenty.
Wei Ying never leaves Wangji's side again.
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Violet Sunkiss (Loki x Reader)
Well it started as crack and then it got out of hand and DUDE THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE CRACK 😭 you can blame @natashas-favourite-knives (what do you think of the title ehhhhh?) for inspiring this piece and @justfangirlthingies and @mellifluousart and @creeping156tin-reblogs for encouraging it too 😂
Summary: What started out as a thought of “What if you had a sun burn and begged Loki to change you into a vampire so it didn’t hurt anymore” turned into something completely different...I’m not complaining but apparently I can’t write crack 😂
Loki rolls his eyes at your theatrics.
“Loki, it hurts, I feel like you could cook an egg on my shoulders!”
“Lokiiiiii, put your cold hands on-OW, ok, maybe don’t do that again, thanks.”
“Loki, how do you not have aloe vera, you’re a vampire, aren’t sunburns normal for you?”
“Loki! Could you use your magic to put un-melting ice on my back?”
“Loki-”
“Darling, if you give another inane request I will not hesitate to put you to sleep until the sunburn is healed.” Loki tells you with a glare.
You smile up at him, from the couch. Then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, baring your neck to him. When you see his eyes fly to your neck you smirk.
“Loki, it burns really bad, would you change me so I can heal faster?” You ask of Loki, coyly. He doesn’t miss the pout on your lips.
Loki’s eyes flash to yours and he growls. “Do not jest about that, you know how I feel about that.”
Your smirk widens into a smile. “Please! It really burns and it’s getting itchy! You know I have a hard time not scratching.”
Loki rolls his eyes, bringing a hand up to rub at his face.
“Sweetheart, if i turned you it would heal your sunburn but if you ever got another sunburn it would be ten times as bad. It is illogical to turn you for something this small, anyways.”
“Small? Loki, my entire back is going to be peeling in a few days, you call that small?”
“You completely missed my point.” Loki shakes his head then makes his way to the couch and sits next to you. He takes your hand into his, his long, sharp nails trailing over your pulse in your wrist as he envelops your hand in his.
“Is that what you truly want? For me to change you?” Loki asks, looking at you through his lashes.
You want to play with him, he will gladly play right back.
Loki smirks when he sees your face slacken and you swallow nervously.
You both have had the conversation. Loki wants you to change so he may have you eternally, you were hesitant and requested time to think on it.
Loki trails his free hand up your side until it rests on your neck, his thumb nail scratching slightly at the pulse in your neck. Loki watches with pride as your mouth falls open and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch.
Loki takes this moment to pull you to him, his mouth now rests above the pulse in your neck. He lets his tongue flick over your skin and chuckles when you gasp and your hands ball in his shirt.
“I thought you said you weren’t sure yet, darling. Have you made up your mind?” Loki whispers over your now goosed skin.
“I-uh...”
Loki pulls from your neck with a smirk. “That’s hardly an answer, sweetheart.” He tells you, inches from your face, in a smug tone.
Loki watches as you come back to yourself, he doesn’t miss the stubborn flash in your eyes.
“Unless you have a way to take away the pain and peeling...yes.”
Loki looks into your eyes with a squint. He lets out a frustrated sigh when all he finds is you being a stubborn brat.
However, he listens to you and settles a hand on your shoulder.
“Ow! I told you-Oh....”
Loki smirks as you melt into his hand. He used his magic to cool your heated skin and relieve some of the pain. He could make the burn disappear but he thinks you deserve a little retribution for your actions and demands.
When Loki is holding you after you melted into his touch, curling into his body on the couch, you let out a small thanks to which Loki smiles at but doesn’t respond.
A week later you make the request again.
“God, fuck, ah!” You shout, hopping on one foot.
Loki rounds the corner quickly and raises an amused eyebrow as you hop around, clutching at your other foot. He assumes you’ve stubbed your toe on the wall.
“Stop laughing at me, asshole!” You shout at Loki who can’t help a laugh at your yelling.
“Loki, it hurts really bad, can you change me so it doesn’t?”
That makes Loki huff and leave the area, you smirking at his retreating form.
It happens again a few days later.
“Darling, the food just came out of the oven don-”
You take a bite against better judgement and hasfafsafa the food in your mouth till it’s cool enough to swallow. You fan air to your mouth with your hand then pout at Loki.
“If you change me it won’t burn anymore!”
Loki purses his lips and stabs his fork into the food he had prepared for you both. “I did try to warn you, if you would listen.” He tuts, ignoring your plead.
“Loki! If you change me I won’t have to drive to the store anymore, I can just teleport!”
“If you change me I won’t ever get cold again!”
“Loki, change me so my nails get longer!”
Loki doesn’t ever listen to your demands but he lets you keep making them because he has hopes that thinking about it so much will help you come to a conclusion on his question. Perhaps with your mind constantly thinking about it you’ll become familiar with it and even want to be changed, seriously.
It happens one day when you’re both cuddling in bed, close to falling asleep after a long day.
“Loki?”
“Hmm?” Loki hums behind you. You lay as the small spoon, your back to Loki’s chest under the covers. He lets his hands wrapped around your waist caress at the skin under your shirt.
“If vampires couldn’t die there would be more of them, that means while you’re immortal there is something that can kill you, right?”
Loki blinks as he regards your random but, definitely thought out, question.
“Yes.”
“What can kill you?”
“Every vampire has a...an achilles heel, if you will. You don’t know where it is till you’ve changed. If someone were to stab you there with pure silver, we cease to exist.” Loki refuses to let his lips form the word die.
You’re quiet after his explanation but then you ask, “What’s yours?” In a small voice.
Loki tenses, his hands that had been caressing you now frozen over your skin. Then he lets out a breath and relaxes. You weren’t going to kill him, merely curious. He trusts you wholly, and that might scare him a bit if he hadn’t come to terms with it years ago.
“The nape of my neck.”
At Loki’s response you let out a thoughtful hum and turn in his arms to face him. You bring your hands from under the covers and wrap around his neck to rest on his nape. When your nails dig into the flesh and baby hairs there to slightly scratch, Loki shudders, his eyes closing, and pulls you to him, even closer.
When Loki blinks his eyes back open you look at him with a soft look.
“Change me.” You demand softly.
Loki frowns. “Why?” Not sure if your heart was in the right place yet, the whole conversation said otherwise though.
Loki watches as your eyes flicker over his face.
“So that way if I ever need to protect you, I can. If a vampire were to come and attack you, try to kill you, I would be a liability. If you change me, that gives you a better chance of surviving.”
Loki lets his lips twitch, as if wanting to smile. “Are you suggesting I can’t hold my own?”
Loki feels warmth bloom in his chest when you laugh lightly. “No. Just that I want to help protect you if I can. The cherry on top is that I get to spend eternity with you, I suppose.” You say, your hands involuntarily pulling at the strands of hair on Loki’s neck, nervously at your confession.
Loki lets out a small breathy moan but really looks at you to see if you’re serious. Looking in your eyes he finds nothing but confidence and love.
“Eternity is a long time, are you sure about this?” Loki asks, giving you one more chance to back out and retain a normal life.
When you smile at him and nod he feels his face soften into a stupidly in love look.
“Then your wish is my command, darling.”
Loki shifts till he hovers over you, sleep forgotten long ago by you both. As he looks down at you he expects there to be a nervous look on your face, a small tick to hint at fear, but instead you look up at Loki as if this is exactly where you’re meant to be. This pulls Loki towards you so he may take your lips in a sweet kiss.
Loki pulls from your lips and looks at you. “It will hurt when the transformation hits you. You will die,” Loki looks you in the eyes, to make sure you understand what you’re getting yourself into, “And then you will be remade.”
At your confident nod Loki straddles your hips and rests on his knees. He brings his wrist to his mouth and makes a small cut. As the blood begins to flow from him he holds his wrist over your mouth and watches as the first drop touches your lips before you realize you need to open your mouth and drink his blood. Smart girl.
Loki lets his blood flow and then you’re surging your arms up to grab Loki’s wrist and pull it to your lips. You suck at his blood with fever and Loki gasps. He hasn’t felt someone drink from him since he himself was changed. It’s a slight sting that’s overshadowed by a euphoric feeling.
Loki lets you drink from him with small gasps and winces when the pain exceeds the euphoria. Finally you let go of Loki’s wrist and he lets out a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Looking down at you he wants to smile. You’re messy when you drink, your lips are smeared in red, your white teeth also covered in red when they flash from under your lips.
That’s when you let out a grunt and try to curl up. Loki pins both of your hands above your head and his body pins your body down so you won’t thrash around and hurt yourself.
Loki does the only thing he can as you thrash from the pain. He whispers in your ear, giving you sweet nothings.
“You’re so strong, darling.”
“Soon you will be with me for eternity.”
“Even in death you have found a way to be beautiful and invigorating.”
Loki winces as you let out a hoarse shout, your face scrunched up in pain, tears falling down the side of your face into the pillow below you.
“Shhh. It’s almost over, you’re doing so well sweetheart. Just hold on for a few more seconds.” Loki says, kissing the side of your face as your body slowly stops thrashing and shaking with a wild fury.
When you fall completely still Loki pulls up to look down at you. The life is slipping from your eyes.
“I will be right here when you wake, darling, then we shall start anew.” Loki whispers, kissing your forehead as your eyes lose all life. Loki brings a hand to come over your face and close your eyes for you, then peels his shirt off to clean at the blood on your lips. He unceremoniously throws the shirt somewhere in the room and returns his attention to you.
Loki brings your arms down to hug yourself, he shifts over to lay next to you then pulls you back into the spooning position you both started with earlier.
He’s nuzzling his face in your nape when you take in a deep breath and return to the land of the living, more like conscious seeing as you were now dead though. His hand comes to settle on your chest. Loki admits, he will miss the feeling of your heart beating under your breast but he wouldn’t trade anything for having you for eternity.
You both just lay there, Loki letting you get used to your new senses, and you taking in all the new information you’re receiving.
Finally, when you’ve taken in everything new you turn in Loki’s arms, again, so you may look at him.
Loki first sees your eyes are bright gold, then he sees your lips quirked up in a smirk.
“Welcome to the land of the dead, darling.”
Loki watches as your face goes from smirking to disbelief.
“That is the most cliché-” You’re cut off when Loki pulls you into a kiss.
You smile in between Loki’s kisses. When he pulls back he looks at you with admonishing eyes. “Give me a break, you drank half my blood.”
You giggle and bring your hands around his neck. Loki lets a hand grab behind your knee and drag it up his waist. At your gasp and shudder Loki looks at you with raised eyebrows. “I suppose we know where your spot is.”
You nod, biting your cheek when Loki digs his fingers into the soft skin behind your knee. He loses interest though and rests his hand on the side of your thigh, caressing.
“As exciting as tonight has been we do need sleep. You will need lots of sleep and blood for the next few weeks.” Loki rests his forehead on yours. He steals a peck from your lips. “Sleep. Come morning I shall teach you everything.”
You nod and let your eyes fall closed. Sleep isn’t hard to find considering you now feel exhausted.
“Love you.” You get out before falling completely asleep.
“And I you.” Loki says, closing his own eyes and chasing after sleep.
#loki x reader#loki#loki laufeyson#vampire!loki#vampire!reader#my writing#god i have been working on this for a few hours because im so scared to post it#like idk why i feel like something is missing#but i cant figure out what it is 🤔#if you find it plz tell me XD#violet sunkiss#honestly this was meant to be like maybe 3 paragraphs and some banter#and then IT MORPHED INTO THIS#wtf#ive come to realize i cant do crack guys sorry#dedicated to violet#thank you for being a muse#this whole fic is because violet was saying they itch from a sunburn and where are vampires when you need them#like that's all it took to birth this thing#im easily impressed upon guys#small things give me grand ideas and it's a CURSE
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Oh for the bad things happen bingo, could you do 'passing out from the pain' with hurt Obi-Wan and the 212th being like 'this is unacceptable let us help you for the sake of our sanity Please'. Good luck with moving!
Thanks willow! 🤍 I hope this fulfills expectations!
General Kenobi had several policies that his men disagreed with. Strongly, fiercely disagreed with.
Unfortunately, all these policies were personal and were applied only to himself, meaning that the 212th had little means of having them changed.
Hoop, the Chief Medic, particularly hated his General’s insistence on handling all negotiations or Council briefings after a battle before he went to the medbay.
“If it’s bad enough that you need to see me straight away, you’ll be carrying me on a stretcher anyway,” the Jedi had said. Hoop sincerely hoped this was a jest. But so far, Kenobi seemed to return from every battle in either one way or the other — beaten and battered from leading the front line but capable of walking and talking, or on the brink of death on a stretcher.
How the man had managed to walk away from Kadavo with the injuries he had — Hoop wanted to punch a wall every time he thought of it.
The man should have been unconscious. He should have had lasting, permanent damage. He should have been on drugs for two weeks.
Instead he strolled alone into the medbay a full rotation after the rescue, still wearing his ruined tunics, every visible inch of him bruised or swelling or bleeding, his rib cage just a little too prominent through his undershirt. “I’m fine, Hoop,” he said, sounding vaguely amused. “I’ve held myself together this long, haven’t I?”
And he had.
But nothing lasts forever.
Not even the infamously stubborn Master of an infamously stubborn Padawan and Grandpadawan, the former protege of another infamously stubborn maverick.
Cody was aggressively trailing after his General like an overprotective guard dog, his lips curled in a snarl beneath his helmet. “Sir,” he said for the dozenth time.
“Never mind, Cody,” Obi-Wan said dismissively, waving an airy hand as he glanced over his shoulder at his Commander. “It will keep.”
“Sir,” Cody said more insistently.
“Cody,” Obi-Wan said, smiling.
They both knew there was no overriding the General, not when he was capable of thought and speech. Still, the Marshal Commander had to try. “Sir, it’s been two days.”
“And I’ve yet to collapse,” Kenobi pointed out blithely, now opening the doors to the bridge of the Negotiator. “If I had been injured on Tameris, then I’m sure we’d all know it by now.”
“Sure,” muttered Cody.
Obi-Wan turned his head again to face forwards, but as soon as he crossed the threshold into the bridge he was accosted by his Chief Medic.
“Sir, you didn’t report for detox,” Hoop said firmly.
General Kenobi sighed. “It appears I’ve come across a plot against me. I never would have expected my own troops to turn on me.” With a gentle tap on the shoulder he bypassed Hoop, who joined Cody in trailing the Jedi closely.
“General, everyone has to undergo the detox,” Hoop said angrily. “Not just the men. The officers too. Every species that was down on Tameris during the explosion—”
“I understand that,” General Kenobi said. He kept walking away, striding towards a group of officers gathered next to a holo projector, studying a slowly rotating map and arguing in low tones.
“I don’t think you do,” snapped Cody. He bit his tongue immediately, cursing his loss of temper. His General didn’t seem disturbed, however.
“I do,” General Kenobi said, and he stopped walking and turned to face them, causing both clones to stumble abruptly to a halt. “I do,” he repeated earnestly. “But so many of the men were caught in that radius, so many of the officers on the ground. I’m having a hard enough time trying to hold things together as it is; what happens if I step aside to be checked over and treated for days at a time while the Separatists close in?”
“I could do it,” Cody swore. “I’ve already been detoxed. I can take care of everything.”
“No,” Obi-Wan shook his head. His expression was unbearably fond as he stared at them both. “The structure is in shambles. The only reason we’re not on standby in need of assistance is because my rank and knowledge shared between the Senate and the Council permits me to make executive decisions. If I surrender my position to be treated…” he shook his head. “We can’t afford the chaos that would cause to our already fractured chain of command.”
He smiled and walked away as if the discussion had never taken place.
Around them, the bridge continued busy, the people present frantic and scrambling just as the General had said. Understaffed, uncoordinated, held together by determination. By the General.
Hoop swore colorfully and stormed from the bridge. Cody turned back to watch his General, a cold determination of his own creeping over him. He snagged a passing lieutenant and leveled him with a stern glare. “I’m setting up a rotation to have the General monitored at all times. He’s under extreme stress and he’s in danger of succumbing to possible illness. Understand?”
The lieutenant nodded. He did understand. With a discreet salute he stepped away, off to spread the word as quietly as he could.
-
Of course, Obi-Wan noticed that his men were suddenly watching him so intently.
No matter where he went, or how quickly, or how late he stayed up, there was always at least one brother standing nearby, close enough to catch him if he fell.
It was irritating and endearing. “Cody,” he began, his voice heavy with regret and reprimand.
“Sorry, sir, I’ve suddenly gone deaf,” the Commander said with a straight face.
Obi-Wan stated. “Excuse me?”
Cody didn’t even blink.
“What if I wanted to talk about the Chommel Sector instead?” Obi-Wan tried. Cody nodded and stepped forward, leaning over the desk the General was standing over to peer at the information spread out before them.
“And if I wanted to talk about the men followi—” Cody stepped away again, dropping his bucket back over his head.
“Sorry, sir. Deaf.” Cody said loudly.
Obi-Wan sighed long-sufferingly, although the corners of his mouth did twitch upwards, part of him touched by his men’s protective nature, touched enough to perhaps forgive the insubordination.
-
They were a week out from the disaster on Tameris when the General’s luck — or will of iron — finally failed him.
He was halfway through a holo transmission with the available Council, meaning that Mace Windu, Yoda, Shaak Ti, and Plo Koon were all watching when Obi-Wan dropped like a discarded droid part.
It happened so quickly that not even Cody, hovering a respectful three feet behind, was able to reach him in time. One second General Kenobi was staring up at Windu, nodding solemnly as the other man derailed their plans for the Chommel Sector, and the next second he was on the ground, his head striking the console and then the floor.
“No!” Cody screamed. He forgot about the Council, about the others in the room, and dove forwards, quickly removing his gloves so that he could search gently for injuries. And a pulse.
“Commander Cody!” Windu shouted, his voice full of concern.
“He’s breathing,” Cody said shakily, and he turned the General over ever so gently, nervous of aggravating the damage. “But his head… he…”
There was blood everywhere. Head wounds bled profusely, but there was already bruising forming around the places where the red-haired Jedi’s forehead and cheek had collided so sharply with the console and then the floor. His breathing was shallow, and his cheeks overly flushed on his pale face.
“He’s weak,” Shaak Ti said softly. Her image wavered. “He’s been weak for awhile. I can feel it, now.”
“We all can,” said Plo Koon. “Commander Cody.”
“Hoop!” Cody screamed over his shoulder. He pulled the General into his arms, cradling the broken head, the tired shoulders. “Someone get a medic in here!”
“Commander Cody,” Mace Windu said.
“Help is on the way,” Cody said, and he tilted his head far back to look into the holo-blue eyes of the Jedi. “Should I bring him back to the Temple? We can be there in four days.”
“Commander Cody,” Yoda said. Cody turned his eyes to the diminutive, ancient Master, pleading.
Yoda looked back at him, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. “Let him go, you must,” he said softly. “Too far gone, is he.”
“No,” Cody said. The word was defiant, but his tone wavered, wobbly and confused, like a frightened child woken suddenly in the night. Nothing made sense. He wanted to go back. “No, he’s just ill—”
“Sickness, there is,” Yoda murmured. “And strain. He will not survive the fever. Possibilities there are — hope, always hope. But very little. Overextended himself, has Obi-Wan.”
“No,” Cody said again, but this time there was not even the ghost of defiance in his voice. Just despair. “No.”
He curled around the General and held him tightly, even as Obi-Wan’s breath began to fade.
“He said— he said he had to—I shouldn’t have listened to him!” Cody screamed out between hitched sobs.
“You did what he asked,” Windu’s voice drifted to him through the ringing in his ears. “You trusted his judgement in a time of crisis. There was nothing else anyone would have asked of you. Come back to the Temple. Bring him home, no matter what happens.”
“I would have asked more!” Cody shouted, and he lifted his head from Obi-Wan to stare up at the other Jedi, his face twisted with rage and with tears. “I should have! I should have — I failed him. I failed my Jedi,” he said in disbelief, and Obi-Wan’s limp form trembled in his arms as his shoulders began to shake with wracking sobs. “I failed my Jedi.”
The Council was speaking, the other men were speaking, but Cody wasn’t listening.
He dropped his forehead to rest against Obi-Wan’s and waited.
Hoop burst through the door, furious and panicked.
The ship began to turn as they plotted their route back to Coruscant.
Obi-Wan’s breathing faltered.
fin.
#bad things happen bingo#obi wan kenobi#commander cody#212th medic Hoop#212th attack battalion#the clones love their jedi#someone hug obi wan#someone hug cody#my poor boys#kind of in theme with codywan week#codywan#my writing
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Fourth Try’s Not the Charm
for @autumnofanders Day 3: Kinloch
Wordcount: ~2100 Rating: T
CW: templar abuse, imprisonment, hurt/comfort
Anders didn’t plan his fourth escape from Kinloch Hold. It was a crime of opportunity. About two months after his Harrowing, some of the senior enchanters talked the Greagoir into letting them take the recently harrowed mages outside to teach them some spells that could be used with water - in the water. Supposedly, they could be trusted now. Allowed a bit more leeway.
He wasn't planning on doing anything except enjoying the sun, but once he's mastered a spell that creates an artificial current - intended to propel a boat - well, it only made sense to see if the same spell would work for a human body.
Yes.
And by the grace of Andraste or some other power, no one notices when he takes as deep of a breath as he can manage, ducks under the water, and reemerges a good fifty yards closer to shore.
Anders hides out on an overgrown bank for the rest of the day, then steals some clothes from a line and a handful or two of carrots from the ground in the little village beside the docks, and then he's gone.
It takes them one month and five days to find him in Amaranthine.
Anders is already pretty beat up when they get him back to the Tower. Greagoir is infuriated - angrier than Anders has ever seen him - and orders a public whipping to get his point across. Thirty lashes. Anders tells himself that he’ll live through that... he thinks. After about ten or so, his mind just sort of drops out, floats away, to nowhere in particular. Just somewhere very, very far away. He’s not really conscious again until someone tosses a bucket of salted water across his back, then two knights are hauling him down the steps and dumping him face-first onto a thin mattress.
The next time he’s aware of anything there’s a woman arguing with the guards outside the door.
“Sorry, ma'am, but the Knight-Commander wants him to be an example.”
“He won't make a very good example if he's dead, will he?” A very stern, determined woman. Wynne. Just what he needs. A warm, maternal tongue lashing. “Let me through. I won't do anything other than drive out infection.”
“Let her pass. Drop the dampening wards for her as well.”
The door creaks open. Anders can’t tell if the light in the cell increases. His face is too well hidden in his arms. Wynne touches his bicep and shakes him until he groans and turns his head to the side. “Hi, Mom.”
“You are the damnedest fool I’ve ever met.” Wynne tweaks his ear. “Don't you realize how much trouble you create for the rest of us? How worried some of us were about you?”
“I'm not the problem. If they didn’t -”
She sighs. “I’ve heard all of this from you before. You’re old enough to know better.”
Heat radiates from her hands as they hover over Anders’ back. It’s not a full healing spell, but it will keep the open welts from getting infected. And possibly calm the fever that Anders can tell is running dangerously high. Might get an interesting dream or two out of it to pass the time.
“That’s all I’m allowed to do.” Wynne gathers his hair at the base of his neck and brushes the back of her hand over his temple and cheek. “They're leaving you down here for two months and ten days, Anders.”
“Ah, I'll get caught up on my sleep.”
“Don’t jest. I suggest using the time to pray for some wisdom.” She pats his cheek and stands up. “You're smarter than this. You have a lot to offer if you would just learn to accept reality.”
***
Light. Even the limited light of Kinloch Hold’s entry hall is more than Anders can hand;e after two months and change in the dark. An unsympathetic Templar shoves him toward the door that leads into the library. They’re done taking him apart. If any of the other mages want to bother putting him back together, he’s their problem now.
Karl grabs him almost as soon he staggers into the library and shakes him by the shoulders. “You moron.” Then he leans close and kisses him. “You fucking idiot.”
Anders winces at the contact. A kick in the side is about as much human interaction as he’s experienced in the past... however long. In the dark, time collapses and expands in unpredictable ways.
Dark. His vision goes dark around the edges, and his knees give up.
Karl catches him and pulls Anders’ arm across his shoulder, holding him up. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Anders hadn’t had the time to fully explore the quarters where the mages who had survived the Harrowing but who weren’t yet enchanters slept. The baths off to the side are about the same as the ones in the apprentices’ dorm though. Cast iron tubs with chips in the enamel and a few folding screens to approximate privacy. Hand pumps for water. A drain in the floor for the same.
They’re on the second tub of water, and Anders is beginning to worry about just what Karl used as a bribe to get this much water and time. “I’m going to have to cut these out.” Karl has been trying for what seems like hours now to work loose the mats in Anders’ hair. Or maybe they’ve only been here a few minutes; Anders isn’t sure.
“Go ahead,” he mumbles.
“Maker, baby...” Karl pushes lightly on the back of his head. Anders lets his chin fall forward onto his chest. The sound of metal scraping together grates against his ears as Karl begins snipping clumps out of his hair. Karl is careful, working slowly and pushing his fingers along Anders’ scalp to keep from cutting the skin by mistake. It’ll grow back. Just like skin does.
He rests his elbows on the edge of the tub and lets his fingers dangle in the water. It’s warm, he knows, but he can’t really feel it, any more than he could really feel the rough fabric of a washcloth scrubbing across his skin.
“What are you humming?” Karl is still trimming, maybe trying to even out the length.
“Am I humming?” Anders started singing to himself maybe a week, maybe two, after he was left alone. Then it turned to humming. He doesn’t even think about it now.
Karl leans around him, scoops up a double handful of water, and rinses out his hair. “There we go.” He presses his cheek against Anders, beard prickling against freshly shaven skin. “Let’s get you dried off and dressed. Do you want to try to walk a bit? The garden is still nice.”
Anders can’t find the energy to respond or even to raise his hand and investigate the feeling of short hair. Karl decides for him, guiding him to the kitchens and begging a bowl of soup and a thick chunk of bread from one of the Tranquil cooks. He sits across from Anders, watching as he eats. Anders doesn’t finish the food, his stomach starts to feel tight and painful before he’s even halfway through. He stares at the surface of the thin soup and stirs it absently.
“Can’t eat more? They’ve starved you too.” Karl reaches across the table and touches his face, frowning when Anders reflexively pulls away. “I’ve never seen your cheeks so hollow.”
“Shoulda left the beard then.”
Karl almost smiles. “Let’s try to stretch your legs a bit then.”
Even though the autumn day is overcast, the garden is almost too bright. Anders has to pull up the hood of his robe to shade his eyes before he can bear it, and he isn't able to walk far before he has to sit down on one of the stone benches. So much for running.
The walled garden is busy with mages trying to catch a bit of sun before winter sets in, but everyone except Karl gives him a wide berth. Anders has no complaints, he can barely manage to not cry with delight from hearing other human voices - or to panic because he’s no longer accustomed to hearing the sounds of people interacting with each other and going about their business.
How much he can stand to be touched comes and goes, but after the first several times Anders flinched away, Karl waits for him to initiate anything, not even daring to hold his hand. It’s probably safer for Karl if that remains the case. Anders just creates trouble for anyone who cares about him.
“You should go. They’ll be watching anyone with me.”
“Fuck that. Besides, I’m already marked.”
“I’m sorry, Karl.” Anders slumps against his shoulder, blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to not start crying. Maybe it’s just the light causing his eyes to water.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
“Can we go back inside? I’m tired.” He hadn’t expected to be tired after spending so much time sleeping.
“Yes. If that’s what you want.”
***
Anders’ bed is just as he left it. No one had taken the opportunity to steal a desirable lower bunk tucked into the corner. A sign of respect? Or just Karl zealously guarding it? Who knows?
Anders crawls in and lays down gingerly on the mattress. His back is finally whole as of an hour or two ago when Karl peeled the filthy shirt off him, squeaked in dismay, and healed the one or two remaining welts that had been stubbornly refusing to close up. But Anders has gotten accustomed to moving with care to avoid reopening them. It’ll be some time before he’ll be able to bring himself to move carelessly, freely again.
Anders curls on his side and lays his head down on the large pillow, wrapping his arms around the much smaller one his mother gave him. The threads of the artful needlework are beginning to fade, much like the memory of her face.
Karl shakes out a blanket, drapes it over him, and starts to pull the curtains around the bed.
“No.” All the muscles in Anders’ body tighten, and his right calf spasms painfully. “Stop.”
Karl freezes. His eyes widen then soften with something between pity and pain of his own. Anders reaches out to him. “Will you stay with me? Please. Please don’t leave me alone. And not in the dark.”
Karl sits on the edge of the bed and strokes Anders’ hair. The short length transfers more of the sensation to his scalp, and Anders chokes back the sob that the gentle contact elicits.
“Do you want me to lay down with you?”
Anders nods. His throat is too tight to speak. Karl crawls into bed next to him and pulls the curtains around it partially closed, leaving at least some light streaming in. He folds one arm under his head and continues stroking Anders' hair and cheek.
“I’ve missed you,” Karl whispers.
Three, nearly four months, counting the time Anders was on the run and if in fact, Greagoir had only left him locked up for the time he first named and hadn’t conveniently forgotten about him for a few days or weeks more than promised.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not the problem. It’s this miserable place.”
“Keep talking.” Anders hasn't heard voices that weren't gruff commands in so long. “Please. Anything. Tell me what happened while I was...” His voice trails off.
“Hmm... Amaury finished his thesis. He’s got two apprentices now. One accidentally set a tree in the garden on fire last week. He let the Templars scramble for a minute or two before extinguishing it.”
Anders smiles, even if he can't quite find the strength to laugh.
“Speaking of Templars, two were caught at it in a stairwell the other day, and dear Knight-Captain Maude is furious because she'd been tupping one of them, but she can't say anything of course, because you know Greagoir frowns on cross rank relationships. So that's been a bit fun to watch.”
“Ah, so much honor and self-restraint from our selfless protectors.”
“As always. Let’s see... The Formari were asked to up their production of goods. I guess the Chantry didn’t get enough donations this year, or some Revered Mother wants new drapery for her halls. Pity that increased speed increases mistakes. Exponentially, of course.”
“Of course.” The Tranquil within the Formari might not care about being asked to do more, but the enchanters would find subtle ways to indicate their displeasure.
“Enchanter Ines managed to arrange another research trip, so every mage with any training in botany or herbalism is jockeying for a position. Have you ever seen what happens when a growth spell is cast on a fly trap?”
“Please tell me the overgrown carnivorous plant caught a Templar.” Anders manages a chuckle. “I should ask to go. Ines loves me. Maybe I could take a vow of silence."
"Now, now -” Karl kisses the tip of his nose. “Don't make promises you can’t keep.”
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Can you do "I'm just a little cold, I'm okay, really. Let me sit with a blanket or something" with anakin (cause desert kid) and obi wan and cuddles?
from these extremely exhausted starters
“And that one?”
“Bassin Minor.”
“Good,” Obi-Wan nodded. Anakin tried not to sink too deep into the pride Obi-Wan seeped into their bond. “You’ve been studying.”
“You don’t let me do anything else,” Anakin said to shield his own joy at Obi-Wan’s praise. He was a teenager now; Obi-Wan didn’t need to know that Anakin still cared about his opinion.
“Ah, yes,” the older Jedi surveyed the star map thoughtfully. “I had a lapse and momentarily forgot what a terrible, totalitarian teacher I am.”
“I don’t know what that word means, but it sounds like something you’d be.”
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you should focus on your politics now that you’ve mastered constellations.”
Anakin shifted in his seat. “Politics are stupid.”
“Very good, Padawan,” Obi-Wan beamed in jest. “A lesson better learned early on.” A dismal frown replaced his smile. “Unfortunately, they still dictate a large part of our lives.”
“I dictate my own life,” Anakin said with all the confidence of a thirteen-year-old who knew everything. He leaned back in his seat and put his feet on the holo-projector.
Obi-Wan shoved them back to the floor.
“We’re landing soon. Get your parka.”
It was music to Anakin’s ears. It seemed like they’d been flying forever and he wasn’t even being allowed to pilot, so all he had for entertainment was a star map, a broken mouse droid (which he’d finished repairing six hours ago), and Obi-Wan.
Anakin needed off this kriffing ship.
He stood from his seat, quickly–and immediately fell back down. His head suddenly felt heavy and his vision swam. Weird.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan called from the small room in the back of the ship. “Parka! Some time today, please.”
“Coming,” Anakin groaned, standing again–slowly this time–and holding his head as he walked.
Every step toward the back room tugged at muscles that shouldn’t be sore. Maybe he’d just been sitting too long, but it seemed strange for him to suddenly ache all over, when he hadn’t even done any physical training in a few days.
“Here,” Obi-Wan shoved a parka into his chest as soon as he got in the doorway. “Make sure it’s zipped.”
“Okay, okay,” Anakin mumbled, sliding it over his robes.
“If your feet get cold, tell me. I don’t want a repeat of–”
“Master. I’ve been to Halak IV before.”
“Yes, and I practically carried you the entire way back to the ship because you were whining.”
“Oh,” Anakin grinned sheepishly, tugging on his earmuffs. “Right.”
Obi-Wan moved past his Padawan into the main hall. “I’m going to check on the cargo bay and see if everything’s secure for landing. You go ahead to the cockpit and supervise the autopilot.”
“Can’t I put it on manual just for landing?” Anakin pleaded.
“No. Now go.”
Anakin watched his Master walk away with a sour pout. Obi-Wan was no fun when he was stressed–and he was almost always stressed.
He made his way to the cockpit and settled into his seat. Supervise the autopilot. Stupid.
Nothing was visible through the thick atmosphere they were flying through, but they must be getting closer to ground-level because the air in the room ran cold and Anakin barely managed to contain a shiver.
It was strange, because even though his body was freezing, his head felt warm–and still so heavy. He leaned against the back of his seat and tried to pinpoint the pressure. Maybe this atmosphere had less oxygen than they had anticipated?
That could be a problem.
“Hey, Master?” Anakin tried to shout to the back of the ship, but quickly clamped his mouth shut. Obi-Wan had always been impressed with his ability to speak at obscene decibels, but suddenly, Anakin found that his throat was tight and unable to produce more than a whisper.
It had been a little sore earlier, but this was ridiculous.
He rubbed at his throat with a frown and tried again. “Master Obi-Wan!”
The throat only tightened and the pressure in his head amplified. He was so distracted by the pain, he didn’t manage to catch himself before shivering along with the next wave of chills that overtook him.
“What’s wrong?” Obi-Wan’s voice came from behind him.
Anakin spun around his chair and winced. When his feet planted themselves on the ground, the room didn’t stop spinning. “I think–” He pressed on his temple, willing the pain to go away. “I think we read the–stats wrong. The atmosphere seems...ugh, highly pressurised. And not oxygen based.”
Instead of insisting they hadn’t read the stats wrong because Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t do anything wrong as Anakin expected, the older Jedi only stood in the doorway of the cockpit and studied his student with a frown.
“What?” Anakin asked, uncomfortable under his gaze.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Huh? Nothing.”
“You’re shivering.”
He shrugged as casually as his headache would allow him. “Just cold.”
Obi-Wan didn’t look like he was listening. Instead, he dropped into a crouch in front of Anakin’s chair and laid a palm against Anakin’s forehead.
“You’re burning up,” Obi-Wan said quietly. Concern flickered through their bond.
Anakin pulled away. “I’m fine.”
“Have you been feeling like this all day?”
“I’m fine, Master.”
“You’re staying on the ship.” And, like that, Obi-Wan was back on his feet and walking out of the cockpit.
“What?” Anakin cried, jumping up to follow. Immediately regretted it. His head–ow, ow, owww.
He fell back into the seat with a groan. “Master!” he yelled, his voice straining and stretching
“You have a fever, Anakin,” Obi-Wan called from the main room before striding back into the cockpit with a heap of emergency blankets. “I’ll drop off the supplies. You stay and rest.”
His voice came out garbled behind all of the blankets, but Anakin understood enough to scoff in protest. “No way, Master! I’ve been stuck at the Temple for your last two missions. I–oof.” His words were cut off as Obi-Wan unceremoniously dropped the heap of fabric into his lap. “Master Obi-Wan.”
“Don’t Master Obi-Wan me. You’re sick and I won’t have you going out into the freezing cold and getting even sicker. Now strap in. We’re landing.”
Anakin made sure to click his seatbelt as loudly as possible and give a disdainful groan to make sure Obi-Wan knew just how unfair this was.
…
He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep or how long Obi-Wan had been gone, but it had felt like hours since his Master had gotten off the ship and locked it behind him, leaving Anakin frowning under a few hundred tons of blankets.
But suddenly, he was being lightly jostled and–
“Master?” he slurred, blinked up at the face hovered a couple inches above his.
“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, pulling back. “You’re awake.”
“Why are you on top of me?”
“I’m trying to undo your seatbelt.”
“But you always say that safety is–”
“Anakin.” Obi-Wan sighed, but the corners of his lips quivered. “We’re on the way back to Coruscant. The mission went off without a hitch. I have auto-pilot set. Go to the back room and sleep.”
“Not tired,” Anakin lied.
“Bed.”
“I'm just a little cold, I'm okay, really.” Anakin scrambled to sit up and realised he was, in fact, very cold. “Let me sit with a blanket or something.”
“Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, gently. Why was Obi-Wan being so nice? “I’m worried about you. I’d feel better if you were getting real rest in a real bed.”
“That’s not a real bed,” Anakin pointed out.
“Please.” And something about the way he pleaded instead of demanded it. Like it was a personal favour he was asking his Padawan to complete–
“Okay.”
Anakin didn’t need help walking to the back room, but he let Obi-Wan guide his shoulder anyway, because something told him it’s what Obi-Wan needed.
And it definitely didn’t count as a real bed, but maybe Obi-Wan had been right, because it sure looked more inviting than the stiff seat in the cockpit. He stumbled into it and Obi-Wan’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” the older Jedi asked and, for the first time in Anakin’s life, he thought maybe his Master looked a little unsure of himself.
“No.”
“Okay,” Obi-Wan nodded quickly to himself. “Okay. Okay.”
“Master?”
Obi-Wan’s head snapped up. “Yeah?”
“You said that three times.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan breathed and then chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry.” Then, he looked back at Anakin. “Do you need more blankets?”
Anakin grinned, looking down at the mountain of fabric on top of him. “I think I’m set.” But his teeth chattered anyway and Obi-Wan’s frown deepened.
“I don’t have any medicine,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself, his eyes flickering around the room as if he had the ability to speak it into existence. “I could comm Bant and see if she could–
“Obi?” Anakin asked, too tired to be embarrassed by the old nickname that tumbled through. “I’m okay, but would you–would you just stay?”
He felt like a youngling again–like the nine-year-old who had known nothing about this life and had relied completely on his Master. Obi-Wan had been there for him every single time, even in the midst of losing his own Master. It was something Anakin had only recently found the time to process and be grateful for.
Obi-Wan’s face softened and Anakin felt warmth through their bond. “Of course.”
Anakin moved as far toward the wall as he could and Obi-Wan’s eyebrows lifted of their own accord, like he’d only just realised what Anakin meant by ‘stay.’ In that moment, Anakin’s bravery crumbled–he was so stupid. Too old to ask Obi-Wan to sleep with him. Too grown, too big, too independent–
Obi-Wan climbed into the tiny bed and rested his back against the wall, dropping his hand to rest on Anakin’s head, his fingers absentmindedly moving through the small curls that had formed in the absence of a haircut.
“Hey, Master?” Anakin said, his voice coming out quiet and croaky. Relieved. At peace. Safe.
“Yes, young one?”
“You’re good at taking care of people.”
The tiny movements in his hair froze for a moment and Anakin wondered if he’d said something wrong. But then–the movements resumed and Anakin didn’t need to see his Master to sense his smile. Obi-Wan’s smiles were always like this. The genuine ones anyway. Blinding and merciless in the way they spread through a room, touching every heart in their path and almost always pulling smiles in response.
Anakin thought he was pretty lucky to get to be on the receiving end so often.
#my fic#I guess obi & ani cuddles are just the vibe for the week#obi & ani#the PADAWAN years#soft sweet boys#I just wrote this one in my classroom bc one of my students walked up to me and was BEAMING that he passed a hard test#so I gave him a fist bump and told him I was proud of him and I watched this kid STRUGGLE to not grin at me#and I was like oh#OH#that’s anakin skywalker#anon you know my heart bc platonic cuddles are my THING#this one got obnoxiously long SORRY#obi wan kenobi#anakin skywalker#writing prompts#sw fanfiction
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five intimate moments | din djarin x reader
A chronicle of five moments that shaped the Mandalorian’s relationship with his one and only crew member.
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3.5 k words
Mentions: illness, hallucinations induced by a high fever, minor injury to the reader character, NO SMUT!
(This is my first attempt at a Mando fic so please have mercy!!!)
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1.
When the Mandalorian says he wants to hire you as his first and only crew member, you’re taken aback to say the least. Your first impulse is to laugh and tell him that his joke is very funny, because what else could an offer like that be from a man like him? He’s entirely self-sufficient from the look of things, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the credits to buy services from others when he needs them. But one long look into the darkness of that visor tells you at once that what Mando’s said is no jest, tells you that he’s serious.
He tells you that he’ll cut you in ten percent if you help him out a little bit. It’s standard stuff, really, just ship repairs, navigation, and taking care of the baby. You’ve learned a lot under Peli over the last several years, you’ve definitely sat in the pilot’s chair a time or two, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have a soft spot for Mando’s weird little baby— so why not? Working for him would get you off this planet, and it would be a change of pace for sure.
Doubt sets in the night before you’re set to go off with the Mandalorian, though Peli waves your feelings off pretty readily.
“You’re being stupid,” she tells you bluntly. “He’s a Mandalorian. Just do as you’re told, help him with the kid, and let him keep to himself if he wants to. Everything’ll be fine.”
Peli’s words are of some comfort, though anxiety is still fluttering in your gut the next morning. You say your goodbyes to your mentor and the droids, and then you’re flying off in the Razor Crest on the way to somewhere.
The first day is strange as you try to pick your way around your new home, and you spend much of your time feeling as though you’re snooping around in someone else’s space. The Mandalorian is just as quiet as you thought he’d be, clanging around in his armor doing this and that while you try to make yourself busy. You run out of tasks quickly, however, and it makes you skin itch to sit idle like this.
You watch for nearly an hour as Mando fiddles with the mechanics in one of his arm guards, cursing under his breath through the modulator as he picks at this and that. You think you know what the problem is, but you’re not sure you’re brave enough to tell him that. Finally, though, you can’t let him struggle anymore.
“Let me see,” you declare, cringing as you realize your tone was more commanding than you’d meant for it to be. But Mando says nothing to this, letting you take hold of his arm without uttering so much as a sound. Just as you thought, there’s an issue farther up the guard, one he’d overlooked. A little soldering here, a change of wires there, and then the thing’s good as new again.
“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says, and you can feel his eyes on you through the visor.
“It’s what you hired me for.” You laugh nervously then, suddenly shy under the attention. “Gotta show you I’m not completely useless somehow, right?”
The Mandalorian stands, headed for the ladder on the other side of the room.
“Don’t call yourself useless.”
This is said without so much as a glance over his shoulder, and you find yourself rushing to explain for no apparent reason.
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did.” The Mandalorian pauses with one foot on the first rung, finally turning to look at you now. “You’re not useless.”
2.
The Razor Crest’s interior, in the grand tradition of spaces owned and maintained by single men, is in desperate need of a tune-up. There’s a bit of clutter here and there, and the walls and surfaces and well, everything else could do with a good scrubbing. It’s a big project to say the least, but you think you can tackle it given enough time and supplies.
The perfect window for such an undertaking opens up just a few days after the idea strikes you. Mando’s got another assignment, and it’s brought you to a relatively safe planet nearer to the Outer Core. He’ll be gone a few days, or so he says, and you know already that the market in town will be the perfect place to get what you need.
You set about your task the same day the Mandalorian leaves to set about his, the baby secured to your chest in a makeshift sling. It’s a good thing you brought him, too, because his charm helps you score several bargains along the way.
Organizing everything takes almost a whole day by itself, but after that, the cleaning is easy. You scrub and dust and mop until everything sparkles, and then it’s time to do laundry and see if you can make some functioning garments out of the scraps you find in Mando’s small closet. The clothes he wears aren’t rags by any means, but a little patching here and mending there gives him two more shirts and another pair of pants to work with.
It takes two more days for Mando to come home after you’re done, and he notes the changes immediately. He stops dead in the little hall between the main hull and the place where he keeps his carbonite-contained quarries, looking to the left and then to the right very slowly. You can’t tell if he likes what you’ve done at first, his expression obscured by that damn helmet like it always is.
“I didn’t touch your weapons,” you declare, holding up your hands as if to ward off whatever anger Mando’s about to level at you. But he doesn’t get upset, doesn’t cuss or ask you what the hell your were thinking, so you think it’s safe to go on.
“I scrubbed the whole interior, organized some of the stuff you had laying around, and made myself a better place to sleep.”
You gesture to the pallet you’ve made for yourself on the floor, proud of how you’ve managed to tuck it out of the way. That was the problem with your old spot— Mando had to step around you a lot, and it was becoming impractical. This new space comfortable, too, plush thanks to some cushions and blankets you managed to score in the market. You even have pillows now, but this is something you delight in privately.
The Mandalorian stands silently before you, and you prattle on, showing him this and that.
“I got the baby a couple of outfits to wear, one for colder weather and one for warmer weather. I mended some of your old clothes and washed everything that was here, so that’s done.” You shut the door to the little wardrobe and go to Mando’s bunk, pushing the button so he can see inside. “The woman that sells upholstered goods in the market really liked the Child, so she gave me a great deal. I managed to get you a decent mattress, or something close to it, and a couple of new pillows. She fixed up your old quilt for me too, so I hope it’s warmer now…”
You trail off, words escaping you under the intensity of Mando’s gaze. He’s staring you down properly now, the visor trained right on your face.
“Why did you do all of this?” he asks, gesturing to his bunk, the wardrobe. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps you should have asked before you messed with his things, his sleeping space, and a wave of something not unlike embarrassment sweeps over you.
“I— Mando, I’m sorry, I should have—”
But the Mandalorian still isn’t cross, cutting you off before you can finish apologizing. “Don’t apologize for anything. This is… This is…” He stares at his bed for a long moment, searching for his words. “Thank you.”
Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flutter, though you can’t decide if that’s good or bad.
3.
The cough is innocuous enough when it starts, just a tickle in the back of your throat that comes on one afternoon. You brush it off as allergies, even telling Mando you’re fine when he asks about it that night.
Two days later, you’re bedridden.
Mando insists you’re absolutely burning up even as you shiver and shake beneath a virtual mountain of blankets, so cold that you think you’ll never be warm again. He forces you to sip on broth and water, though it all settles like sludge in your stomach. It must be bad, whatever you have— you must look bad— because the Mandalorian’s façade is slipping. He’s having full-blown conversations with the baby now, asking the little green infant if he thinks it’s a good idea to cut this hunt short, if he thinks you can be left alone for even just a few hours while he collects the last quarry. And though your body is aching, though you can practically feel the fever cooking your brain at this point, you tell him to finish the job. He made an agreement, and you know it’ll kill Mando not to honor it— you’ll be fine by yourself.
The two of you touch down on some planet in the Outer Rim, and then Mando’s practically running out of the ship. He promises to be back within the day, the sincerity in his voice managing to pierce the haze clouding your mind, and the ache in your bones makes you hope he means it.
Sometime later, you begin to hear a voice coming from the ‘fresher, one that taunts and teases you. It speaks nonsense on and off, but the clearer messages are frightening nonetheless. The voice says that Mando’s not coming back, that he’s left you here forever. Why else would he have taken the baby, hm? He doesn’t care for you, he’s not going to help you.
“Yes, he is,” you retort weakly, becoming more and more upset with each passing hour as this faceless thing continues to fill your head with words and threats. Somewhere in the very back of your fever-addled brain, you know that none of this is real, that all of this is a fever dream. But still, you weep and twist in your bed, scared that the Mandalorian really has abandoned you.
True to his word, though, Mando’s back in record time. You cry out for him the minute you hear footsteps inside the ship, and even the quarry grows quiet at the sound of your voice. Things are hazy after that, but you know that Mando comes to you after just a few minutes, promising over and over again that you’ll be better soon.
You and the Mandalorian and the baby fly somewhere together, this much you know, and Mando comes to sit on the floor with you once the Crest is in hyperspace.
“We’ll be there soon,” he tells you, voice tense and nervous through the modulator. He shushes you when you become upset all over again, emotions stirred by more taunting from the voice in the ‘fresher.
“Make it stop,” you cry, so very weak, “please make it stop. It’s so mean, Mando.”
“Hey, hey,” the Mandalorian cuts, pressing a gloved hand to your forehead. “Nothing can hurt you while I’m here, I won’t let it. I’ll stay right here until we get you to a doctor, I promise.”
And that’s enough to calm you for a few hours, it’s enough to help you fall asleep. You only wake again when you feel arms around your body, when the plushness of your mattress is no longer underneath you.
“Come on,” Mando says, talking to himself as much as he’s talking to you. “The medic will fix this. He’ll fix this, and everything will be fine.”
The medic the Mandalorian takes you to does fix this, but things are touch and go for a few hours there. Your fever breaks in just a couple of hours, thank the Maker, but you’re still very weak from being so sick for so long. You spend two days confined to a medbay bed before you’re deemed well enough to be discharged, and even then, it takes about a week before you’re truly feeling like yourself again.
It’s not until much later that you realize Mando never left your bedside once, and not for the first time do you find yourself wondering what something like that means coming from a man like him.
4.
Mando’s been gone nearly two weeks, and the baby’s beginning to lose it just the slightest bit. He doesn’t talk, of course, not in a way you can understand, but you know he misses his father. If the Child isn’t in a sour mood, he cries, and you’ve caught him playing in Mando’s clothes more than once. It’s stressful, taking care of the baby when he’s like this, but you understand how he feels. You feel strange and almost embarrassed to admit it, but you miss the Mandalorian too. The rational part of you knows it would be best to chalk it up to proximity, but you know in your heart that it’s a little more than that. But just because you know this doesn’t mean you accept it, and you tamp down the feeling at every turn, focusing instead on getting the Child through this rough period.
At the sixteen-day mark, the baby refuses to sleep in his pram entirely, insisting instead that Mando’s bunk will do much better. And you would be fine with that, all things considered, if he wasn’t insistent that you climb in there with him as well.
“Bug, I know you want Mando to come home, and I know you like sleeping with me when he’s not here, but I’m not getting in there with you.”
The baby makes a most discontent noise, pulling on your fingers so hard that he tumbles back onto Mando’s mattress when he lets go. You tell him once again that you won’t be invading his father’s space like that, and then the Child is crying, sobbing so hard his little shoulders shake beneath his baggy outfit. I’m too tired for this, you think to yourself, and you finally give the baby what he wants.
“Alright, alright,” you acquiesce, climbing up into the bunk with a sigh. “But we’re not telling him about this.”
The Child is soothed at once, snuggling down beside you in Mando’s blankets as if he was never upset in the first place. You lie beside him in the dark, eyes already growing heavy as you breathe in the scent of the covers around you, the scent of the pillow beneath your head. All at once, you realize that this is what Mando probably smells like under all the armor and the weapons. Something about that only serves to make this whole thing feel even more like a violation, but you force that thought out of your mind.
At some point, you do drift off, only the be woken hours later by the feeling of a hand on your ankle. And there the Mandalorian is, standing before you in the flesh (and beskar) after all those days away.
“You’re in my bed,” he says to you, though there’s no edge to the words. It’s a simple statement of fact, a plain observation.
“We missed you,” is all you have to say in explanation, though it takes you about three seconds too long to realize which pronoun you chose to throw out in the front there. Now properly awake, you go to cover the mistake, but Mando cuts you off as he is so wont to do.
“I missed you too,” he says slowly, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Both of you.”
5.
You realize that Nevarro may not be as safe as you thought about three seconds after a man with a vibroblade demands you hand over all the credits you have. You try to flee on impulse, your mind focused on protecting the baby—
Right up until the man catches your shirt, using the natural momentum of the action to propel you right into his clenched fist. Searing hot pain blooms behind your eye, spreading across the entire side of your face and into your nose. You’re completely stunned, unable to so much as form a coherent thought as your attacker moves to hit you again.
It’s like everything happens in slow-motion after that. One minute, your assailant is bearing down on you with murder in his eyes— the next, he’s grimacing, falling to the ground with thud. Two voices urge you to follow them now, and there are hands on your shoulders, your back. You’re so disoriented that it takes you a moment to realize that there are two fucking Mandalorians in your face, but when you do, the urge to fight back leaves you immediately.
Neither Mando is your Mandalorian, but you follow them anyway. They usher you into a tunnel system beneath the city, telling you to turn this way and that, and you do as they say without question. For some reason, they know you— they know your name, and they certainly know the baby because they ask about him the moment the lot of you are concealed. About a thousand questions swim around in your mind as you follow the Mandalorians deeper and deeper into the tunnels, but you aren’t given a chance to ask a single one.
Finally, you’re allowed to stop in a smith of some sort, coming to stand before a Mandalorian woman sheathed in maroon and gold. She regards you for a long moment, pausing over her work to take in the sight of your face, the way you clutch the baby protectively against your chest.
“Fetch him,” is all that she says, speaking to one of your saviors, and they turn and leave without a word.
A period of time elapses before you hear movement in the hall, though you can’t be sure how long. What you are sure of, though, is that you hear Mando’s voice drawing near, and the wave of relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming. You’re safe here, of course— anyone would be, surrounded by this many Mandalorians— but… but they’re not him.
“What happened?”
It’s the first thing Mando says to you, picking up the pace once he lays eyes on your injuries. You’re taken aback by how he crowds you, how he lets his gloved hands linger on your cheek.
“She was attacked by a chakaar,” says the Armorer, speaking from workspace. “He will not be bothering anyone again, though.”
Mando is satisfied by this, thanking his brothers and sisters for protecting you and his child. You thank them as well, though it’s hard to tell if the sentiment lands with the Mandalorians. The Armorer is the only one who responds at all, saying, “You are our brother’s cyar’ika,” she explains, confusing you with a word you don’t recognize, “we as his brothers and sisters must protect you. This is the Way.”
“The is the Way,” intones the group, and then you’re being ushered from the room, tucked under Mando— your Mando’s— arm.
The walk back to the ship is a quiet one, though the Child coos happily. He seems largely unaffected by all of this, even dozing off in his pram as though he’s had an uneventful afternoon. You’re glad he’s asleep, knowing it’ll give you and Mando some time to talk. You want to ask him about what the Armorer said, what that word meant. Mando’s cyar… cyar’ika? Is that what she’d called you?
But you don’t get the chance to speak a word, because Mando crushes you against him the moment you get the baby settled. His arms are strong around your back, the sensation of being held by him effectively knocking the air from your lungs. When he finally lets you go, every question you had stuffed in your mind is gone.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” the Mandalorian says to you, sounding more distraught than you ever thought possible. You shake your head at that— how could he possibly have known?
“I’m fine, Mando,” you press. “Don’t worry about my face, it’s—”
“I should have been there.”
The both of you just look at one another after that, and the Mandalorian doesn’t flinch away when you lay your hand on the side of his helmet. You know at once that everything is different now, but you need to hear it just to be sure.
“That woman—”
“The Armorer,” Mando corrects.
“The Armorer,” you begin again, speaking slowly and deliberately. “What did she mean when she said what she said about me? What is a cyar… cyar’ika?”
Mando’s hand comes up, and his glove is cool on your uninjured cheek.
“’Beloved,’” he says softly, “’cyar’ika’ means ‘beloved.’”
You think your heart’s going to beat right out of your chest, but you force yourself not to be calm.
“If you’re going to call me your cyar’ika,” you whisper, afraid you’ll shout if you don’t, “then what should I call you?”
“Din. You can call me Din.”
#my writing#din djarin#din djarin x reader#din djarin fanfiction#the mandalorian fanfiction#cw: illness#tw: illness#cw: hallucinations#tw: hallucinations
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For the sicktember thing, 9 with Nameless King, please? Thank you! 😊
Title (Do not) let him eat cake!
Fandom: Dark Souls
Characters: Nameless King, Ornstein, Gwynevere, Smough, Artorias, Sif.
Word-Count:2911
AO3-Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34321024
Summary: Eating too many cakes in one go may not have been as fun as Gwynsen had thought...
Prompt: I am not sick
I am so sorry for taking so long!! Life got in the way but I finally finished your prompt :D I hope you like it, writing this was fun!
@sicktember
It was the smell which lured him out of his way and guided him to the dinning hall. Deep down, he knew there was something of importance he was meant to be doing. There was someone waiting for him.
Unconsciously, Gwynsen tried to remember, but all his thoughts faded into the background of his mind once he saw the tower of freshly baked pastries carefully placed on the table.
They exuded a sweet and delicious steam, the spicy scent of marzipan.
There were plenty, enough to feed a small army or a very hungry court.
Or, in Gwynsen’s case, a god of war with a grumbling stomach and a watering mouth.
Well, marzipan cakes are my favorite. Gwynevere finds them overly sweet and Gwyndolin often says they would rather lick a basilisk’s eyeball than to take a single bite of these sugary abominations. Oh Dolin, always so melodramatic.
Gwynsen carefully took one of the cakes in his hands.
So, surely, these were baked for me. The cooks must have wanted to surprise me. They are too generous to me. I shall see that they are rightfully rewarded! But first…
“I shall feast!” He opened his mouth and prepared to take the first bite.
“No, Gwynsen!”
But all he ended up biting was thin air and almost the tip of his tongue when, with a swift swing of her hand, Gwynevere took the cake away from him.
“What the--” Gwynsen said after his jaws recovered from the forceful impact of his empty bite. “Sister, where did you come from? And more importantly, why have you stolen my cake? Could this be fraternal betrayal?”
Gwynsen’s heart started to break at the mere thought of his own sister turning against him; thankfully, Gwynevere soon proved him wrong, but not before giving him a small slap on his head.
“Please, stop fooling around.” Gwynevere said with a heavy sigh as she placed the marzipan cake back in its former place. “Father will not approve of you eating his desserts. You know well how finicky he is about his midday cravings. Do you remember the time he destroyed the East tower with one of his lighting spears just because his pastries did not have enough powdered sugar on top? Because I do, and so do the cooks. I created many lovely memories in that tower. I loved that tower, brother, I really did.”
Gwynevere’s gaze became dark and sharp.
“Sister, please. You are scaring me.”
“Oh, I am sorry. I got a little carried away.” Immediately, Gwyenevere went back to her laid-back and cheerful demeanour, but her determination had not waned. “In any case, you shall have none of these baked goods. Unless, of course, you convince Father to share a few of them with you, but we both know that taming a rageful dragon would be an easier task, so really brother, don’t waste your time.”
“Ask Father?” Gwynsen snorted, half amused and half angry at how ridiculous the idea was. “Please. I would rather kiss Smough on the lips.”
“Brother, don’t be like that, for underneath that grotesque armor, lies a skilled kisser.”
“What?!”
“I said I would never want to do so either.”
“Gwynevere, that’s not what you said.”
“Brother, don’t you have places to be?” Gwynevere interrupted him without shame. “Isn’t it time for your daily training with Ornstein? It is not proper of a god to leave others waiting for long.”
Ornstein!
So that had been his original task before he had become distracted by the mesmerizing aroma of the cakes.
“I shall go to him at once.” Gwynsen exclaimed. His treacherous stomach seconded him with a loud growl.
He looked at the cakes again.
I’m already late for our training… so truly, you wouldn’t mind waiting for a few minutes more, would you, Ornstein?
Ornstein would definitely mind, and Gwynsen knew it.
I’ll think of a way to make it up to him later. Right now, there are more important matters at hand. And I know the way to turn things into my favor...
“Nevy, please.” Gwynsen looked around to make sure no one was around. Once he made sure there were no witnesses, he joined his hands together and looked at Gwynevere with hazy and sad eyes. “Let me have one. Father will not notice its absence, I promise. Please my dear, wise, beautiful, patient, smart, noble, brave--”
“No, Gwynsen.” Without mercy, Gwynevere interrupted her brother’s overused list of compliments. “I already told you no.”
“Then I hope you know how to explain Father about those little kisses you steal from Executioner Smough everyone now and then.”
“Oh dear… you know about it? Yes, I should have expected it. Gossip travels faster than light in this place.”
“So it’s true?! Gwynevere, you really should be more mindful of your secrets and your words. You are not what I would call subtle about them. And why, sister? Why Smough?”
“I think the right question here is ‘ Why not Smough?’ ” Gwynevere answered, winking an eye to Gwynsen.
“Gwynevere, stop. You’re killing your big brother.”
Unrepentantly, Gwynevere chuckled. “Don’t you worry, it was all a jest. Very well Gwynsen… if only to keep this small rumor between us, I shall let you eat one of Father’s cakes. Just one, understood? Now, if you excuse me, I too have someone to meet. He awaits for me in the west tower. And that someone’s name is Smough.”
Lighting power began to manifest around Gwynsen’s frame.
That bastard! How does he dare?
Gwynevere laughed at his reaction. “Oh brother, you are so easy to fool.”
She gave him a small pat on top of his head to calm him down. Gwynsen had just succeeded in controlling his temper when Gwynevere pulled him closer to her and whispered, “Seriously now, don’t come by.”
And with that, she was gone.
“My dear sister and the Executioner? No, I will not allow it!” Gwynsen exclaimed, his voice echoing with ruthless determination, the same way it did every time he commanded his soldiers to battle. “This is a transgression I cannot overlook! Wrathful lighting shall be your punishment, Smough! You shall curse the day you were--”
His stomach growled again.
Almost unconsciously, one of his hands reached for a marzipan cake.
“By the first flame, they sure smell good.”
His fury started to disappear, and it was completely forgotten when, at last, Gwynsen took the first bite.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Master!” Ornstein welcomed him as soon as Gwynsen entered the training grounds. His apprentice and friend did not bother to hide his anger at his pronounced delay. “What took you so long? We were supposed to start our training two hours ago. I had to listen to Artorias’ anecdotes this whole time. And don’t get me wrong, Artorias is my beloved friend and you know how much I care about him, but I swear, if I ever hear one more story about Sif’s antics...”
“What?” Gwynsen had heard only half of Ornstein’s rant. He wanted to pay attention, but it was difficult for him to focus on anything else other than the torturous knot on his stomach.
It hurt more than a dragon fang stuck in his gut after failing to evade the beast’s jaws. Gwynsen didn’t know how he was still standing, or how his fever had not melted his brains yet.
Oh, nonsense. I’m fine. Am I not the god who slays dozens of dragons and comes out of their fiery attacks unscathed? I am fine! I just need to walk it off.
“Oh… Oh yes, Artorias.” Gwynsen said, doing his best to sound amused. “Where is he? I thought he would be joining us.”
“He had to leave. It was time for Sif’s daily walk.”
“Wait, the wolf walks his master?”
“What? Master, what are you talking about? Sif is the wolf, Artorias is the knight.”
“Oh… right.”
An awkward pause followed, one in which Ornstein took off his helmet and revealed his concerned expression to Gwynsen.
“Master, is everything alright?”
Ornstein’s worry was like a wake-up call for Gwynsen.
“Of course it is! “Gwynsen replied with the most forced smile he had ever made in his life, even more than when he had to pretend to be happy in his father’s presence. “ Why would you ever think otherwise, Ornstein?”
“You are sweating, your face is red, your legs are trembling.” Orbstein observed, unamused but still concerned. “And you keep embracing your stomach as if you were hugging an invisible lover.”
“Ornstein, don’t tell me you’re jealous!” With gigantic effort, Gwynsen straightened his back and unfolded his arms. The sharp sting in his stomach came close to making him gasp; to conceal it, Gwynsen cackled instead. “There is no such thing as an invisible lover in my arms! Ornstein, you say the wildest of things!”
An agonizing sting pierced Gwynsen’s stomach.
I am going to pass out.
His sight blurred and his belly burned as if he had swallowed the First Flame like it was wine.
No!
Gwynsen stomped his feet. Lighting energy shattered the ground below his sandal.
No, I am not sick! I am fine. My stomach is simply overreacting at the memory of my sister and Executioner Smough sharing kisses.
His stomach growled louder than a furious dragon.
Why Gwynevere? Why did you brand that image on your brother’s mind?
“Master, you are not well!” Ornstein exclaimed with great concern. “We need to take you to Lady Gwynevere. She will know how you heal whatever ailment is--”
“Nonsense!” Gwynsen countered, making Ornstein jolt back in surprise. “My sister is quite busy, you see. He is tending to Smough at this time of the day, and not in a chaste way.”
“What?” Gwynsen and Ornstein said at the same time.
Realizing he had spoken more than he should have, Gwynsen quickly gave Ornstein a strong slap on the back. “It was a jest! Ornstein, you are such a stick in the mud! You need to loosen up and relax, for laughing and resting are also fundamental parts of a knight’s training.”
Before Ornstein could protest, Gwynsen wielded his spear and readied his fighting stance.
My stomach is going to explode. Oh Father, what will you see when you gaze upon the scattered guts of your first- born?
He would probably say something akin to “Oh Gwynsen, look at the mess you made! You are a lost case, boy, you truly are!”
“Oh Father, you insensitive knave!”
“Master, there’s no need to be rude.” Ornstein protested. He too had wielded his spear and had readied his stance.
“No, I was not talking about you, Ornstein. I was talking of my big, dumb, stupid… No, it doesn’t matter.” Gwynsen shook his head and focused. “Let’s begin. Come at me and try to land a hit, Ornstein. I will treat you as I would an enemy, so don’t hold back.”
“Master, I really think we should take you to your sister instead.”
“You talk too much! Battles are not won with words, but with arms!” Gwynsen charged at Ornstein. For a second, the adrenaline of battle, even one of training nature, erased any trace of pain. For Gwynsen, it was like a blissful and distracting gift.
I knew it. I knew my pain would go away on its own.
Gwynsen closed his eyes, rejoicing in his healthy and numb stomach.
You were no foe for this god of war, marzipan cakes! Your sweet and delicious ingredients are no match for my iron guts. MY IRON---
The rest of his victorious thought remained forever unfinished after an explosion of burning pain, born from the impact of the blunt side of Ornstein’s spear, spread from his stomach to the rest of his body.
Perhaps… I am sick.
Gwynsen thought as the darkness of unconsciousness took over his world.
Just a little bit.
----------------------------------------------------------
“Last time, Gwynsen.” Gwynevere said to her brother with anger as she and Ornstein helped Gwynsen keep the vasin still on his lap as he emptied his stomach inside it. “That was the last time I ever trusted you and your insatiable hunger!”
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to.” Gwynsen stuttered in a small pause his intestines gave him. “My will may be strong, but the marzipan was stronger.”
He wanted to say more, but he was interrupted by another gush rushing up his throat. Once he was done, Gwynevere and Ornstein put the vasin down on the floor and tucked him in bed.
“Well, I have to say,” Ornstein sighed with little enthusiasm, “this is not how I pictured my day would go. There was supposed to be more training in it and less vomit. At the very least, I am glad you are feeling better now, master. Next time, don’t try so hard to pretend you aren’t feeling well.”
“And while you are at it, how about you also try not to devour four hundred marzipan cakes in one go like some hungry animal?” Gwynevere added as she glared at her brother. “God of war… The only thing you are a god of is gluttony!”
“Four hundred marzipan cakes?” Ornstein said in disbelief, only adding to Gwynsen’s shame. “Master, how could you have done such a thing? And here I was starting to think one of the cooks had tried to poison you! Four hundred cakes! And worst of all, why didn’t you ask me to join you or save some for me? You know they are my favorite too.”
“Dragon Slayer Ornstein!”
“N-no, no.” Ornstein turned crimson and began to stutter. “What I meant was… I was just saying… Oh, bollocks.”
“Ornstein!” A newcomer exclaimed. He entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him. “Such foul language in the presence of Lady Gwynevere. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Gwynsen, Gwynevere and Ornsteind stared at Artorias at the same time.
“Hey now, do not look at me all at once.” Artorias chuckled nervously. “No, seriously, please stop. I’m getting self-conscious.”
“Artorias, what are you doing here?” Ornstein asked. “I thought you were walking Sif.”
“I was, but Lord Gwyn summoned me. He told me about what happened with Lord Gwynsen and his poisoning. Something about marzipan cakes? I am not sure. Honestly, I stopped listening to Lord Gwyn soon after he started talking. I don’t know the details, but he assigned me one task: to be Lord Gwynsen’s one and only companion during his recovery. I told Lord Gwyn that you would be more fit for the job, Ornstein, but he insisted I was the one to do it. He also told me how much Lord Gwynsen is fond of my anecdotes of Sif…. Oh master, I had no idea you felt that way. Worry not, I have plenty of stories I have not told you yet. I’m sure they will be a fine diversion while you recover!”
Gwynsen closed his eyes and cursed his father in his mind.
Father, you vengeful twit! I knew you would not let my mischief go unpunished! It was just some cakes… is this truly the punishment I deserve? You are cruel, Father. Cruel.
“But at the very least, I’m not alone.” Gwynsen said under his breath with relief and gratitude. He opened his eyes again and smiled. “For I have my dear sister and loyal friend by my side.”
The words died in his mouth when he saw neither Gwynevere nor Ornstein around. The only evidence they had left behind of their presence in the room was the open door they had forgotten to close during their hurried escape.
“Nevy?” Gwynsen whispered in despair. “Orny?”
But they were gone.
Only Artorias was there with him.
Artorias and his endless anecdotes of Sif.
“Do not worry master, I am sure they will be back soon.” Artorias said, pulling a chair closer to Gwynsen’s bed and sitting on it. “In the meanwhile, how about I tell you about the time Sif answered the call on nature inside Smough’s helmet and he only noticed once he put it on? That was a day Smough will not forget....”
Father, if I ever turn against you, know that this was the reason!
Gwynsen thought as he hid his head under the pillow.
As for Artorias, he kept talking and talking.
This was the reason!
-----------------------------------------------------------------
It didn’t take long for Artorias to regret having left his master behind.
“Oh Lady Gwynevere, we should have not abandoned your brother. We should have remained by his side.”
“And listen to the time when Sif chewed on Father’s favorite sandals and almost brought doom upon us all? Do forgive Ornstein, but I think I shall pass. Besides...” Gwynevere turned around and stared longingly at the West tower. “There is someone waiting for me, and his name is…”
“No, I do not want to hear it. My mind shall not be branded as my master’s was!” Ornstein covered his ears and escaped from the scene. He did not know where he was going, but anywhere was better than staying there. As he ran, he kept chanting, “If I don’t hear, it isn’t real. If it isn’t real, it won’t haunt me!”
Gwynevere watched him go and laughed, unaware that Smough was standing behind her and had witnessed the whole thing.
Before he too walked away, he shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“By the Lords,” he lamented under his breath, “it is always the same thing with these gods and their knights. Every day. Every darn day.”
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Second Chance (Miraak x Reader) Part 4:
The truth,
Before we knew it, a week had already flown by. Much like a mother educating her child, I taught Bjorn many things he might've forgotten about the world. I reminded him about the war, to which he was thoroughly shocked over, I demonstrated how to plant various plants and crops, and I even gave him a few spell tones to study.
The two of us sat in the shade for a while, chatting away. I remembered Elsbeth throwing several mischievous glances my way throughout the week. In my own confusion, I let it be and pretended to act aloof. "Did you know that you can even heal plants?" I flipped over to a certain page in the book and ran my finger across the wording.
I provided him a quick example by plucking a dandelion from the ground and snapping its stem in two. I focused a small percentage of healing magic over the damage and let the energy flow from my palm. With a swipe of my hand, the flower was replenished in seconds. "How interesting, though I fail to see how it can be beneficial," he confessed. "It usually helps with alchemy, but judging from how skilled you become, you could even fasten plant growth and create a barrier for defense!" He truly seemed to be intrigued by the lesson. "You're a good teacher, Y/n." My cheeks burned at his compliment and I scratched the back of my neck bashfully. "I'm really not that good. I just read a lot and work hard. Plus, there's still so much I need to learn," I clipped. "Hey, you two! I have some jobs for you to do," Elsbeth called from the porch. Bjorn rose to his feet and lended me a hand, which I gladly took.
Once we made it back to the cottage, we were both given a task. Bjorn was requested to cook dinner, and I was sent to feed the chickens. One would only think our roles would be the opposite. "I'm gonna visit Alvor for some supplies before it gets too late. Don't let me down!" We waved her goodbye as she slowly retreated down the hill. "Would you like for me to help you with the feed?" he asked. "No. I think I can manage," I laughed. "Just make sure not to set the kitchen on fire."
When he retreated into the house, I went to fetch the chicken feed. Roosters and hens combined, they swarmed around my feet, demanding their supper. "Alright, Alright! No need to get aggressive!" Their attention diverted in a flash as soon as I began to scatter their food around. While they were busy pecking away, I exited the pen and headed back towards the cottage. Before I could reach it however, I saw two figures approaching.
It seemed to be a woman and a man dressed in gawdy uniforms. "You there," the man snapped. I stood my ground and flashed a cautious smile. "Yes? Can I help you?" They both stopped just feet in front of me. Now that I could see them more clearly, they looked like something straight out of a nightmare! Their apparel was oddly fashioned, both torn and sloppily stitched. But what frightened me the most were the masks they wore over their faces. I gulped and tried to remain calm.
The woman retrieved a rolled up slip of paper from her pocket and held it to my face. My stomach flipped upon examining the illustration of a character with the very same mask that I still had in my bag. "Have you seen someone who looks like this?" he interrogated. I was somewhat able to maintain my stoic facade, though I could feel it cracking. "No. I haven't," I said, stiff as a log. "She lies, just as that deceiver did," the woman hissed. "I will ask again." I yelped when he grasped my shoulder. I sucked in a breath after feeling a dangerous heat emitting from his hand. "Where is our Master Miraak?" My eyes grew as wide as stones at his words.
"What...?"
My blood ran cold as he ignited a flame into his other hand. My shoulder started to burn painfully. "I don't know what you're talking about," I whimpered. Still, the man refused to release his hold on me. My heart drummed against my ribs and my throat ran dry. These people were going to kill me. I didn't even have enough time to watch my life play out in front of me.
Suddenly, I heard the door open from behind me and a heavy pair of footsteps marched over to us. The two culprits beamed in delight at his presence. "Master Miraak--!" A large hand swooped in and clutched the exterior of the man's face, while another shielded my eyes. I could hear my attacker kick and squirm under my savior's deadly grip. I flinched in terror as his entire body burst into flames. The heat completely overwhelmed me, licking my face as it did. And oh, the screaming. That agonizing screaming. My ears couldn't take anymore.
I knew the other one had been running by now. I cringed at the thought of being forced to endure the same awful shrieks of pain again. I tried to claw my way to safety, but I couldn't move. I was completely and utterly paralyzed under Bjorn’s touch.. "Fus, Ro Dah!" A deafening force reverberated through my very bones and melted through my skin. I couldn't even begin to comprehend it. Was that what a shout sounded like?
Although I was finally granted permission to see, I didn't dare open my eyes. I couldn't. But eventually, I did. All that remained was a pile of ashes, though there were no signs of a second one. Bjorn, or Miraak, had already left my side and was now facing away from me. I peered at him in a mixture of fear and disbelief, and something else. Sadness. I was sad. I was so terribly sad because I knew he was going to leave us; he was going to leave me. Now that his secret was out, there was no reason to stay. We were both aware that I was scared, but I wasn't scared of him. I was scared for his safety, I was scared of those people that were after him. But most importantly, I was scared for myself. I didn't want to say goodbye to someone who had brought so much light into my tiny world. And I was selfish for it.
On impulse, I ran forward and threw my arms around him. He stiffened sharply, but didn't utter a word. "Don't leave. Please don't leave." My voice was barely above a whisper, so I was certain that his ears didn't catch my plea. But he eventually tilted his head down at me in a sullen silence. My chest panged at the sight of his face. He didn't want to leave, but his words spoke the opposite. "There will be more. Your life has already been endangered once, and I can't let that happen again. Let me go, Y/n," he demanded. "I won't," I cried. I only held him tighter. "I know I'm selfish and naive and foolish, but I won't let you go!" One by one, tears slid down my cheeks and bled through the fabric of Miraak's shirt. I always loathed the way I sobbed. They were a loud and ugly mess, but that didn't stop me regardless of how embarrassing it was.
I soon found myself trembling on the ground with my hand now clutching the hem of his trousers. The tall ravenette slowly crouched to my level and reached out. However, he stopped himself and went to retract his arm away. Before he could, I grabbed his hand and held it against my damp cheek. He traced his thumb over my eyelid to rid of my tears, but frowned at his unsuccess. "What would your sister think? She'd have my head for making you cry like this," he said suddenly. "Yeah, she probably would. Don't tell me that's why you're so eager to run away," I jested. He was relieved to see me revert back to my cheerful self, but the corners of his lips flattened once again.
"You are hurt because of me. If I stay, then..."
His sentence escaped him when I shuffled closer to where we were only a breath apart. "Then take me with you." I then leaned in and softly connected our lips. I was fairly inexperienced with kissing, so I didn't know if I was doing it right. All I could do was scrunch my eyes shut and pray that he understood. My heart leapt when he returned the kiss. His lips were chapped and his scruff tickled my cheek. Everything felt so surreal. It was as if I was under some sort of hazy hypnosis. Miraak's hand cupped the back of my head while his other squeezed the small of my waist. I enclosed my arms around his neck in wild euphoria. We both seperated with great reluctance, exhaling heavily. I giggled as he began to peck every inch of skin of my face starting from my jaw to my temple. Knowing him, he probably hadn’t even held a woman in centuries.
I grimaced, instantly reminded of my current delima. Miraak threw his arms back as if he was the cause for my pain. "Come, let's go back," he recommended. I nearly released a squeal when he hoisted me into his fit arms. "What are you--what are you doing?" I stammered, face as red as the evening sky. I knew our body comparisons were different in both height and size, but this was the first time he made me feel so tiny. "I am carrying you," he stated a-matter-of-factly. "It's just my shoulder. I-I can still walk!"
“You’re still injured. It’d be shameful of me not to at least take you off your feet for a short while. Such a gentleman! Miraak's bicep curved against my back and my other shoulder bounced against his broad chest as he walked. I wasn't convinced that my face could get any redder! After acting so boldly a moment ago, I should've expected the embarrassment to catch up with me. I couldn't help but voice out a squeak after his fingers slid a bit further past the bend of my knee. "Are you alright?" It was an easy question to answer, but my mind was so scrambled I couldn't form a single syllable!
I buried my face into his shirt and shook my head. "Are you in any pain?" How could I be? I was far too distracted by my current situation, I couldn't focus on anything else! Again, I managed a silent 'no'. Miraak stood in contemplation before resuming towards the porch steps. He placed me down with great care before sitting down beside me. I avoided eye contact as he closely examined my face and held his forehead against my own. "You're warm. You must be running a fever," he concluded. I fidgeted under his touch. "Um, I don't think I have a fever," I timidly denied. Miraak's confusion roused. "Then why are you so red?" He was so close, it was like he was trying to see through my soul! "I just--," I stumbled. "I'm just a little embarrassed, is all..." He sat there a minute before also averting his gaze. "Oh. I see." The First Dragonborn cleared his throat. The two of us sat there quietly, a blushing mess.
Once Miraak was able to regain his composure, he slowly etched forward once more. He then directed his finger to my shoulder. "May I?" I nodded curtly and steered my sights to the floor. Miraak gingerly tugged at the neckline of my blouse and inspected the raw burn on my skin. I waited with interest to see how skilled he was with Restoration magic. He probably had hundreds of years’ worth of experience. A soothing warmth enveloped the entirety of my arm. It reminded me of the many hugs and kisses Pa gave me on the days before he left for yet another journey. The nostalgia brought a smile to my lips as I continued to reminisce back on my childhood.
Alas, with a snap of a finger that warmth had abandoned me. I peeked at my injury, which vanished without a trace. "If I would've known how good you are, I wouldn't have wasted time teaching you things you already know," I chuckled. The man hung a light smirk over his features before drawing me in for another kiss. "You've taught me many things, Y/n. And I am hoping for you to teach me many more." By now, the only thing I could hear was a high-pitched ringing with Elsbeth's voice echoing in the background. Wait, Elsbeth's voice? "Well, well~! I'm hardly gone for thirty minutes and you two are all over each other," she taunted, clearly amused by the display in front of her. Miraak and I both jolted away from one another and fiddled our fingers in ungodly embarrassment. “El...! When—when did you get back?” I stammered. “Oh, not long. But just in time to see the juicy bit! Tell me, how long have you been together?” Knowing that she had already seen him kiss me was humiliating enough, and she wouldn’t be my sister if she didn’t make it worse by talking about it!
That night, I told her everything, well, almost everything. Miraak and I decided that it would only complicate matters further by revealing the truth to her. Even now, she was terrified of the stories. I couldn’t even begin to imagine her reaction after realizing that it was him the entire time. I neglected to mention the assaulters, as well as the ash pile on the ground outside. As odd as it was, Elsbeth was completely unbothered by our newly founded relationship. “Y/n, you’re my little sister. Sure, I’m mad. I’m mad that a man succeeded in stealing your heart, but I’m not Pa. If you two are in love, who am I to stop you? I want you to live a full life, as well as a happy one,” she had said. In a matter of seconds, I took her into my arms and thanked her profusely. In addition, she even consented in allowing me to travel with him.
Although Miraak was paranoid, we stayed at the ranch for another week before packing our gear. I searched around my room, collecting an assortment of knickknacks and storing them into my bag. As I opened my satchel, a certain mask greeted me. I held it gingerly in my hands. The eye slits peered up at me in such an eerie way, yet I felt no fear. If anything, staring down at the pitiful thing made me feel almost melancholy. That damaged wood carving was once a shell of such a wonderful person. I brought the mask to my chest and held it there a moment with a somber smile. “Is something the matter?” I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, causing me to turn around. “No, I’m good. You’ll probably be needing this back, huh? I’m sorry I kept it so long,” I chuckled. Miraak examined the worn face piece with uncertainty. He ran his thumbs along every edge and crease and even tipped it upside down. “How do you feel?” I asked him. His green orbs met mine in a look of puzzlement. “I feel... nothing,” he stated simply. “Seeing this mask after so long, I imagined I would be more impacted. But instead it just feels silly to be haunted by it for so long. It all feels like a tucked-away nightmare.” My lips stretched into a grin as I leaned forth and wrapped my arms snuggly around him. "And that’s exactly what it is. It’s all a tucked-away nightmare.” Miraak hummed, smiling at me with adoration. He then bent down to my level and gave me a soft Eskimo kiss.
When we left home that day, we bid our farewells to Elsbeth and I made sure to do the same with all of the cows, goats, chickens, and pigs as we went. Once we reached the gate, I looked back at the ranch one last time. I thought about all of the many times I walked past this gate thinking about how extraordinarily dull my life was. Everyday, I fantasized about romance and adventure. I didn’t think someone with my position would be blessed with such an opportunity, but here I was, madly in love and on my way to start an adventurous life of my own. “Did you leave something behind?” I faced him and shook my head. “No. Let’s go!”
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Yayy, finally finished the 4th part (this took me freaking forever)
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The Nurse and the Skywalker (6 Undergound Oneshot)
Paring: Four/Billy x nurse! Reader
Word Count: 1847
From anon request: Can you do one with Ben( as 4/Billy in underground 6) getting injured and you’re a no-nonsense nurse having to tend to his wounds and he flirts with you at first, but then he gets serious/tender and vulnerable with you and it makes your heart melt?
Warnings: Swearing, hospitals, mentions of blood, illness, surgery, and injuries.
A/N: Thanks for your patience! Much thanks to @rhapsodyrecs for suggesting a great line! As well as @yourlocalmusicalprostitute and @joeneslee when writers block got me in this one!
The afternoon coffee you had been sipping was gulped in one hot swig when your co-worker ran in, yelling “Y/N! It’s an emergency! You need to hurry!”
The 12-hour shift and it’s exhaustion was forgotten at the words. Your shoes squeaked against the floor as you were led into the room.
“A young man-he has a bad injury-he’s been shot and his bones are broken too!” she cried.
Looking over, the patient was young. Not too far from your own age in fact. He was groaning in pain. His arm and leg were broken. But you noticed a few gashes here and there. Still bleeding. A lot. But he looked up and kept his eyes on you. As you reached over to see some charts the mysterious man left and what could be known, you felt his eyes, and saw him even crane his neck just to keep an eye out on you.
Maybe I spilled something on my scrubs you thought, dismissing the notion as they wheeled his bed out into the hallway.
“Quick, give me the anathesea- and a surgeon- we can get the bullet out, but we have to be swift!”
You were handed the pain medicine to give to the patient.
As you put the tube over his mouth, he glanced up at you. His eyes were as green as a field on a picnic day. And you noticed his hair as well-it was cut short but very blonde.
“I…I’m scared…please don’t…” he muttered lowly.
You felt your guts stir at the sound. He was deeply hurt. If he didn’t have the bullet removed, he was a goner.
“What is your name…?” you asked.
“I…don’t…have…a name…” he croaked.
He turned ghostly white and then pink.
“I…I’m sorry, I should have been stronger…thought I could make that jump…I couldn’t. I’m not that fucking strong…” he muttered.
“Who dropped him off?” you asked your co-worker.
She shrugged.
“This guy with a beard and this weird voice and then after we got the kid on a bed, he just vanished with all the bills paid already in cash! The guy was loaded!” she gossiped, tugging at her bright pink scrubs.
Turning to the patient, you forced him to look right into your eyes.“Okay mister, you don’t have a choice. You got lucky someone paid all of your bills, so you better suck it up and be grateful, got it?” you scolded.
He looked at you blankly before you put it right to his mouth and wheeled him to the surgeon’s office.
Two hours later you got word that the boy got lucky. The bullet was found and removed. It wasn’t too deep and nowhere near any vital organs. But he seemed to be ill and needed to be checked up and have his limbs bandaged.
“Here he is…he’s still on the pain medicine some, so he might be a little loopy…” the surgeon warned, before leaving you alone in the room to do your work.
“Hello…I’m Y/N, I’m your nurse…hang in there, you’re gonna be fine…” you said, he seemed half asleep. Almost in another world. There was no reply.You were checking his blood pressure when his eyes fluttered open. Your head whipped around as you tied the black strap tightly around his arm.
“Hey there…” he croaked out.
“Checking your blood pressure, hold up…” you mumbled, making it tight as possible.
“I must be in a museum…” he said softly.
“Well, I don’t see any Da Vinci any…”
“Because you’re a piece of art.”
Your jaw dropped and your head whipped around to see him. Did that really come out of him? Moments after he was near death.
“Pardon?”
He gave you a half smile and you felt a blush creeping up on you and it made you mad. Of all places this was happening- at work!
Did a patient really just flirt with me? Maybe it’s just my imagination.
You undid the black strap and set it away without a word, writing down the numbers. He reached over and picked up the menu of food options to be ordered for patients.
“Do you know what’s on the menu?” he asked.
“Vegetables. You better order some with your dinner. Eat up, your body’s in bad enough condition…”
“Close, but it’s Me ‘n you.” He added with a devilish grin.
Your ears heard it right alright. You felt them grow hot.
“You know what else is on the menu? This antiseptic,” you ordered. Walking over to the side and getting an orange bottle and some cotton balls, eyes on his wounds. As you began to apply some to the cuts, the cool guy façade dropped.
“NNNnnnnng, no! No! And I’m sorry! Won’t do it! Won’t do it!” he whined. His voice getting a little higher than what was considered manly.
“Just shut up and suck it up, Romeo,” you replied, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
The next day a woman arrived to check on the patient. A beautiful woman with tan skin and yellow hair with a white suit. You felt envy twinge in your stomach as her heels clicked on the tile floor.
She went into the room. If only you did not have duties currently. But no, scratch it, you weren’t interested. Not some cheeky patient that was trying to break all the medical oaths in the book. Passing by the room to put away your lunch box, you forced your ears shut at the quiet conversation they had.
As you returned, she left the door of the room. She looked up at you and pointed at you to come near.
“You are nurse Y/N, right?” she asked in a European accent.
“Yes, I am.”
She glanced around to see if anyone was listening in. Then she leaned closer.
“How long have you worked here?” she asked.
You told her.
“Good, you know what you’re doing. We…we just need a bit of help. He’s on…on my company. He got hurt. Badly.” She said softly.
Yeah, no shit you thought.
“What caused the wounds? I think he mentioned a jump…” you asked, folding your arms skeptically. What kind of sketchy company was this that was all hush and made gallons of money where people got shot?
Her pink lips tightened, she glanced to the left and then answered “It was a fall. Bad one. Just…an accident.”
“What’s your name? And what’s his name? Why did he get shot? Was there a shooting at your job?” you asked.
“We would prefer to be anonymous,” she answered coldly.
“What, why?”
“For protection. He’s here to get better, right?” she answered with a twinge of annoyed anger.
“Yes…”
“Don’t hurt him, then…or make him do anything to hurt himself more…”
She turned around and clicked away, but gave you one look, softened. As if to silently say thank you- even if you did ask questions about whatever this “company” was.
Hours later, you came into the room with the patient. Though you armed yourself to fight off like the black cat with Pepe le Pew, he looked at you and glanced down at his lap. His left arm and right foot was in a cast and he seemed red as a beet in his face. But the light in his eyes were glazed, but had dimmed. And he seemed in pain.
His forehead was like a furnace. Sticking a thermometer in his mouth, you watched the numbers rise above healthy at the end. Gently, you pulled it out to put it away.
A half-grin reappeared on his face.
“Is it hot in here or is it just you?” he said.
“No, you got a fever dumbass,” you replied.
You showed him the temperature and he huffed lightly.
“Well, you will have to stay here a bit longer. Injured and sick. It doesn’t seem bad, but it’s still a double whammy. Three or four days…” you said,
He pulled out his free hand to play with his phone, pouting in defeat. You stayed to type into the pad you used for work to keep track of patients charts.
“Bi-billy…”
“Hm, what?” you said, turning around.
“You wanted my name, I’m…I’m Billy…” he confessed.
“Okay, thank you! I can finally call you something other than Romeo,” you jested.
“That’s not a bad name, either though,” he said.
The doctor working on him informed you that his fever did have a chance of breaking in the night. You offered to stay.
“Why, Y/N…you’re worried about him?” the doctor asked, cocking her head.
You shook away the creeping blush and smile growing on you.
“I just want the extra hours for pay!” you insisted.
You stayed there, reading with him. You realized what he was doing on his phone- watching movies.
“American movies are the best, like, us on the Pond get all the boring, slow stuff- America is where the real movies are!” he commented when you glanced over.
“Hey- that one’s my favorite!” you cried, recognizing it at once.
Indulging it, you watched the rest of it. Talking about your favorite actors, quoting the lines, and smiling ear to ear by the time the credits rolled by on the tiny screen.
“I was so scared…I was gonna die…” Billy confessed, setting the phone down.
“It’s just medicine,” you scoffed.
“No…when I fell…” he said.
“Really?” you asked, leaving the sarcasm.
“I felt that was it. You see…I…no, I shouldn’t…” he mumbled, looking down.
“You can tell me…” you urged.
“I got a chance to…uh, do something important. It was risky, but it was better than what I had before but I…I thought I was dead for good because I slipped and fell…” he added on.
Recalling the first day, he had a bullet in his body as well. How did that get in there? There was no news you checked of a shooting anywhere.
“And you were shot…how did you get shot?” you questioned.
“I…I can’t tell you everything but I just feel…I can trust you…someone was in danger…and I was trying to get him out and some’ow…I got shot and I fell off…” Billy explained.
“Fell off? Of what?”
“The skyscraper downtown…” he confessed, eyes down to his lap again.
“What! No! That’s a hundred feet high! How in hell are you even alive?” you gasped.
He looked at you and laughed.
“That’s some bad fucking words for a medical professional!” he teased. “But that’s a good question, really…”
Outside the window, a bird sat in the darkness on the pane. Its feathers seemed to glean in the moonlight. It was a clear night, even a sky filled with stars could be seen despite the smoke of the city
“I…I’m glad you survived. I’m glad you didn’t die and so you could- you know- help whoever this person is you were trying to help,” you commented. And this time you smiled back.
“I…I’m glad you were there to help me…dunno what I’ll do next time I’ll fall…” he said.
“I should be there then…”
Taglist: @themarchoftherainbowqueen @rhapsodyrecs (thanks for the wonderful line!) @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @sgt-stardust-killer-queen @queenlover05 @lady-ofmischief
#nurse! reader#nurse! y/n#6 underground#ben hardy characters#four/billy#four/billy x reader#four/billy x you#four/billy x y/n#ben hardy#ben hardy x you#ben hardy x y/n#ben hardy x reader#6 underground fanfiction#6 underground fanfic#6 underground oneshot#ben hardy fanfiction#ben hardy oneshot#carrie writes
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I see rivers
Levihan | this one’s pretty PG
They say time is a flowing river, but past the flood and the white waters, Levi knows her as Hanji first. And she hears it in the way he says her name- the words that remain unspoken-
I am yours, I am yours, I am yours.
It’s on Ao3!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724813
Levi knows her as Hanji first. And he hears the things they say about her. She has talent and an intellect that will save mankind. But before she’s promoted to squad leader, she’s Hanji when she first introduces herself to him, eyes bright, grinning like a madman.
She’s in the bath when she notices his apprehension. Levi favours stability, but the survey corps runs like a flowing river. The only constant is movement.
“You don’t have to call me squad leader...” she says, fingers breaking the surface of the water and watching ripples form by her wriggling toes. “I’m still your Hanji.” She says, so quiet Levi mistakes it for running water. He combs his fingers through her wet hair, untangling the knots. He tries not to dwell on the semantics.
“Rinse.”
And like clockwork, she closes her eyes and slides down the tub. The water laps around her face, tickling her cheeks, she giggles.
There’s someone at the door for her. Something needs attending to. But she’s Hanji first, and the sound of water drowns out the knocking.
≋
Hanji knows him as Levi first, he introduces himself with the mononym and she’s in awe when she watches him fight. It has taken her years of training to get where she is, but Levi is fueled by pure instinct. Even so, she gets to know him, sometimes she knows him better than she knows herself.
Hanji soothes over the sharp edges of his words and presents them how he intends. She wants the world to see him as she does. Wants them to know the depths of his heart. But when he’s alone with her, he smiles easier, laughs at the silly things she says. And Hanji's happy keeping those moments of sublimity to herself. She’s happy knowing his soul comes alive at her touch- a spectacle for her alone to witness.
Hanji knows he’s tired. She sees how the others rely on him to make the kill. Fear does things to people, and many choose to take refuge where Levi casts a shadow. Levi's face gives nothing away when Erwin promotes him to Captain.
Hanji only uses the name once in jest, when he’s making a face at the fawning. But later in her room, he’s just Levi. He’s Levi as he leans his head against her shoulder and falls into a deep slumber for the first time in a long while.
≋
And the river rages on, coursing with a vengeance. It takes Nanaba with it, then Mike, then the entirety of Levi’s squad.
Those who survive sink to the bottom of the river bed like rocks, they wash against each other in an abrasive dance.
But when Hanji finds him in the forest relief washes over her. Later she bandages his leg and tells him stories of Nanaba and Mike when they were recruits. And she tells him how much Petra adores him, how much Oluo looks up to him, how she overhears Gunther telling the younger recruits stories about him, how Eld had defended his name against the Military Police that one drunken night in the bar. With her fingers carding through his hair, she absolves him of his guilt.
“I’m happy you’re alive Levi...” she says, with enough force to silence a river.
≋
Humanity’s strongest bears a weight on his shoulders. And he’s been living up to expectations with mechanical precision. But even then, Captain Levi bleeds red.
“I’m sorry...”
“I’m not.” Hanji says, resolute. There’s a smile on her face that tells him she knows, and that he doesn't need to say anything else. “You gave your best Levi.”
“I couldn’t...”
Couldn’t protect your squad. Couldn’t stop them from getting killed.
He’s not made of metal and forged in fire. He’s Levi now, so vulnerable it makes her ache. Hanji tells him his name over and over and wills him into being. She tells him his body is made of dying stars, an intentional weave of chemicals and stardust.
And that she is happy he is alive.
That a star gave its life so he can be here; so they can be here. Safe in each other’s arms. And if even the stars are acquainted with temporality, maybe it is that which makes life so beautiful.
She doesn’t tell him that she dreams of Nifa, of Keiji, of the others. Because he’s there rubbing circles into her back when she jolts awake at night.
She’s here with Levi now, and her fear fades into the shadows. Her fingers extend like vines, pulling him close, the sheets feel like the earth beneath her skin. And she feels, in her arms, the warmth of the sun, a star, the brightest of them all.
≋
Levi finds her in the eye of the storm that has manifested around her. Upturned tables, broken chairs, and Hanji in the middle of it, fists clenched, breathing ragged.
"Goddam mess." He says as he sets the tables upright and piles up the broken chairs to be used as firewood. She helps when she realises he’s in the room.
He holds her hand and guides her away when they’re done and he draws a bath. She undresses with the compliance of a wounded animal cornered into submission. But she’s surprised when Levi joins her. It displaces some water and it splashes onto the floor. She sits, back against him, and pulls her knees to her chest. He works wordlessly on her hair, fingers massaging into her scalp, the bath water licking at the blood against their skin in an attempt at purification. It’s not their blood. Not a titan’s either. It makes Hanji feel filthy in a way she’s never felt before.
“Rinse.”
She closes her eyes and lowers herself against him. He makes way. Before she opens her eyes again, she feels the warm press of lips against her forehead. But when she opens her eyes, Levi is already reaching for the soap. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and she’s turning to face him, hands reaching to run soap in his hair.
“Your turn.”
≋
They learn to smile and laugh again. These are the little moments that remind them that they are breathing. The new recruits are grown now, hurried along by a world turned on its head. It seems ridiculous to deny them some alcohol. So they drink, to anything they can think of drinking to.
To the dead, to the living,
To vengeance, to love, and loving.
Hanji is laughing at something Connie said from across the room, and Levi doesn’t ever want to see her otherwise. But they are soldiers on the frontline of a world gone to shits, so he commits her laughter to memory instead. For now, they’re tucked in the corner of the mess, holding hands under the table out of habit, where no one can see.
She only lets go of his hand when she spots Jean and Eren fighting.
“It’s your turn with the kids, Levi!”
≋
Between stolen touches when everyone is sleeping, the brush of fingertips when they are back to back in the battlefield , and the little glances when they pass in the hallways, between death upon death upon decay, Hanji becomes the new commander.
Later in the night Hanji lets him tend to her eye. She catches the look on his face.
“It’s gross huh...” she knows, from how much it’s hurting. A reminder of what she has lost to get where she is. The people she’s lost to get where she is.
“No more than you usually are.” He says and she’s chuckling.
“I guess you can’t call me four eyes anymore...”
“Didn’t think it would be appropriate now that you’re Commander.” He says, and there’s hurt on her face. He remembers that this is his doing. He thinks about Erwin in his last moments and wonders if someone will make the same decision for them- to let the river take them. If that had been the right decision to make in the first place.
“Please...” she says like a whisper, “not you...”
Levi murmurs an apology. He pulls the sheets over them, her head on his chest, wet hair splayed on fevered skin.
“I’m still your Hanji.” She says, more for herself than anyone, and it breaks the silence like a storm. Terrible things have always happened in bad weather. But even when it’s thundering outside and the windows are far too worn to keep the wind out, Levi can’t deny that he has always loved the rain.
He remembers hearing the explosion, and him asking for her. He remembers Erwin telling him to focus on the mission. But the thing about living on the margins of heaven and hell- how easily the mind conjures up images of death. He remembers then, the relief washing over him when he sees her on the roof. He says her name like an affliction.
He kisses her forehead as she’s falling asleep to thunder rolling in the distance.
“I’m happy you’re alive Hanji...”
≋
Another year has passed. Hanji tells him the names of the flowers in Spring and they ride out to see the sea for the first time.
Levi tells her to be careful. He grabs her cloak in case she falls, and later he laces their fingers together. In case she falls, he tells himself.
They settle to the bottom of the riverbed- smooth and polished from the years that have gone, anticipating when the current will take them again.
By the candlelight, Levi looks younger, spared the fatigue of fighting. And Hanji is getting better at catching the moments when the guilt seeps back into his system. She holds him closer then.
And in the moments when Hanji lets responsibility take on a form that’s almost metaphorical- the meaning itself to a life that’s cruel and brutish- Levi holds her closer. He traces over the keloids on her skin. He removes the patch on her eye and brushes his thumb over the scar, a white line of taut skin, like a silk cocoon.
Levi knows this is stolen time, that they’re ever at the mercy of the river. But nights like these he wants to search for calmer waters, to set foot on land again and watch the water from the banks. He thinks of Hanji with him, body moulded perfectly against his like they are now. They watch the glimmer of the river flowing out to sea.
“When the time comes... Promise me you’ll let me go.” She says. Their foreheads are pressed together and Levi breathes her in, he takes in every word, how acrid they taste. He thinks about all the moments he nearly lost her. The world has taken everything from him. He begs an unnamed god every time they ride beyond the walls-
Not Hanji, not Hanji please.
It makes his stomach sink. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t protest because he knows, even though together they are whole, she’s Hanji first.
“You gotta dedicate your heart Levi...” she teases, placing a fist on his chest. She knows the whole Commander shtick doesn’t suit her. But she’s laughing and suddenly she’s young again, airy and playful. And Levi thinks there’s beauty even when they’re so far from the safety of shore. There’s beauty in the white rush of water and the capriciousness of the weather.
"Tch... Four Eyes..." Levi rolls his eyes and Hanji doesn’t point out that he’s smiling.
He presses a kiss on Hanji’s lips, no different from their other less urgent kisses- soft and gentle and the accompanying warmth blossoming in the sanctuary of ribs.
But despite words unspoken, Levi knows he has already dedicated his heart.
He is Levi first. A boy who only has a name to call his own. He is Levi who swears an oath and keeps it till his dying breath.
But there moments of being that are infinitely more beautiful. Moments that beckon to him with the defiance of home in a world with all the permanence of a flowing river. The moments that have his heart.
He is Levi when she calls his name in the thick of battle, and in the forgiving lull of the night. And he is Levi when she presses her palms over his chest and smiles when she feels the steady pulse of blood through his veins.
It beats with a defiance against the rapids, a steady thrum that calls out to her. Hanji's eyes flutter open at the touch of his hand against her cheek, the beginnings of a smile on her face. And everything left unsaid settles like dust around them. But she hears it when his hands snake around her in the bath, the water warm and inviting. In the way he presses kisses along her spine. She hears it loudest when he says her name-
I am yours, I am yours, I am yours.
"Rinse."
#levihan#levi x hange#levi x hanji#levihan fanfic#levihansofthours#shingeki no kyoujin levi#shingeki no kyojin#attack on titan#levi#levi ackerman#hanji zoe#hanji zoë#hange zoe#hange zöe#levihan fanfiction#mine#finish your other fics blip!#NO!#my fic
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.Primary Colors
Grell Sutcliff
warnings: none, it's mildly fluffy prose
a/n: Written for @saturnberry. I hope you had a nice Valentine's Day. Because there were so many mentions of Grell in your posts I knew right off that's who I wanted to write for, though admittingly I feel like I don't have a good enough hold on Grell's personality (hence why I avoided a ship with another canon character.) This is technically Grell x Reader as it uses instances of second person; however, the gender of the reader is left open ended.
In a world where everyone is designated a color—an indicator of who they were to become as they grew older—you were born an unremarkable cluster of blues, not bright enough to add to the sky, too morbid for the painters to use.
It was as though everywhere you went, people outshone you. In school the other children were wondrous blends, and your shade felt understated, a waste of anyone's attention. Even the other blues were brighter than you: one girl you likened to the ocean, a sapphire crystal—so warm a shade it leaked into the atmosphere. In class you sat beside a yellow, a cheery snaggletooth boy with sincere eyes behind coke frames, a penchant for silly games, and a willingness to try anything. You knew the rainbow, a brown—tough as nails. She hardly flinched at an encounter with broken glass. A dark grey who only spoke to you once. Even a pink, who laughed with the purples. It came from his uncle, he told you one morning, picking dandelions from the field beside the schoolhouse.
You on the other hand, sat beneath a tree with roots ripped and picked weeds out the Earth, never at home enough in your own shade to cajole with the others. It'd all be different when you grew up, you considered. Adults weren't like this; they'd treat you better, teach you there was never anything wrong with your color—because surely, it couldn't have mattered in the real world.
Yet, when you grew, your sense of loss grew with you.
The world was organized by color files in a dusty cabinet, by designation and molds that weren't intended for expansion. Bosses had those they preferred. Oranges made good leaders, they said, and greens could be consultants if they wanted. Trichromatics were sought after inclusions. But blues were in abundance, and therefore mere grunts, worker ants; those that populated the factories of London's lower regions.
Needless to say, you did not need to ask in order to know what designation the casualties were; some accident in a factory you heard. But you always waited for your carriage here and chose to do so regardless, even though the air agitated.
As you watched the road ahead, out came someone, bemoaning their line of work (an investigator, you wondered? who else would be in there?), glasses askew, near knocking you forward into the pavement before the fact you should move presented itself to you.
The speed in which you felt your chest constrict was maddeningly slow (surely an instant, but forever in your head based on the lump in your throat.) Away you had looked, heart an unruly child turning pans into drums. You prayed that no one could hear it sputtering beneath your coat, that the stranger in red couldn't sense your nerves. The stranger was definitely a red, just as their clothes would have said. You could tell by the mannerisms, those teeth, the flop of hair into the vision. The annoyance that the rain kept pouring and pouring as though the sky had a rip.
But then that stranger gave you a look, and said something, and for a brief moment you forgot to add air to your lungs, the necessity of breathing.
You can't recall what you were told... cliche of love at first sight, and all. It could have been mundane complaints about how the sky was drenching you both, or questioning of why you seemed incapable of looking upward, or where White Chapel was—but you know it had to have been something sweet like 'what's someone gorgeous doing out here looking so glum' or 'what a pretty coat, where can I get one?'
(If not, why were you so flustered, then?)
You would later put a name to this stranger, but for now it did not matter. Grell had been complaining about the storm, eyes upward, expression turned near startled when you extended a hand and professed lunch on the Eastside, my treat, too willing to say please.
Oh, God. What possessed you to, you wonder? You were not spontaneous, or the type to offer lunch to a stranger in the dark. Reds and blues did not go together—because neither understood the other. Though it wasn't such a mystery why, the rain reminds. Red was your favorite color. That jigsaw smile, the collision of a million things into one, twisted upward, and you knew, no longer had to wonder: you liked red, even if it belonged to another.
And Grell brought out the red in you. Made you so always willing to run, to say I'm hungry, let's have dinner. Promise we'll have candles or flowers or a band that plays Saint-Saëns in fantasia.
I'll make it loud and bold, I'll make it red—because you wear it so.
How about the pier? The symphony? A massage—I'll do the planning.
Your hair is quite long, can I comb through it with only the tips of my fingers?
One day you had stopped to ponder, why is it I love red, I wonder?
Why not orange, or blue, or the shade of wet feathers? Why something so loud and abrasive and untamed. Untethered. Why stand out when it's comfortable in the rafters? Why did you feel more red than you were? But maybe those feelings didn't matter.
Your grandmother was a blue, and so was your father. Your mother had developed it one noon as a girl, came down with it like fever. It ran in your blood, slept in your grandfather's genepool, was inherited in your skin, lived in the liversplotches on your cousin's lips. You were a blue, and that was not worth denying.
You liked your books, the ones with the spines wrinkled. You drunk tea in evenings without sound. Your dwelling had seen better. Your wall clock swing was musicality; oh how boring, you'd imagine Grell would think.
Your shade of blue was mute, tired. A housecat slithered under a creaking armoire. An old weeping oak. A desire to rest before time ran out. But for all the inherent blueness of you, Grell never complained: and that confused you. Not even where you lived; an old building on a simple street with cramped beige walls and floors unnaturally even. At least if they were lopsided you'd feel more unique.
(Luckily, Grell had only insulted your abode once, when a long strand of red had gotten caught in the spinning wheel next to your bed and yanked from the scalp. It was in jest—you hoped—though Grell had been incensed and seemed alarmingly serious about cutting the thing apart...)
Fixing makeup in the mirror, spraying you with scents, Grell spoke where you preferred to listen; 'try this' 'no this smells much better' 'a maiden must always be adorned in fanciful arrangements' 'roses are my favorite, you know?'
Oh, did you ever. And so was bright weather, pretty corsets, lace feathers, heels that made the calves go on forever. Every utterance, complaint, and silly trait was inscribed in a tongue known to no one in the valley of your heart. You were a blue after all, and blues were dutiful lovers. Had memories like harp strings taunt; sharp. And how could you ever forget anything about Grell when there was always more to learn.
But you wanted to share that brightness. You'd walk and consider, could I make red if I mixed others? If I took his orange, my blue, that woman's green, maybe a splash of pink for authenticity... would I have a said shade like yours, a color that says 'look at me, I'm worth beholding'?
Maybe the rafters aren't so pretty. Maybe I'd like them all to look at me even if there's no smiling. Be seen. Red stops everyone, always has them looking. But you cannot make red from anything other. You are born red. You are born yourself. You would never have that shade, ever.
Sometimes you both spoke of what it would be like to be reborn, who either of you imagined would be the other.
Grell would be a supernova; grand, the death of something and the birth of another, a force you can't stop. A contradiction, a paradox; the brute with the love of flowers. Grell was red to the core. Wore it as though it was summer. Red was fond. Red was sticking up for your lover. Red was passion, and great things, and goosebumps from too much laughter. A person who in death, found that bold was always inside them. The poet's encouragement to be yourself. Something strange: spring in the snow, a funeral full of smiles. Red and worthwhile.
Grell hoped you'd still be you, to your wonder, because no one knew Grell better. You smiled when you were told, and that's because you're blue, hun. No one would understand those little details, loves, see so well beneath the water. Only a blue would. Could. A blue keeps the order while maintaining the spontaneity of a boat ride at the shore.
It was because you were blue. Because you were you. And blue is a nice color, Grell told you. Imagine how boring it'd be if we were all red or violet or green.
'I'd be bored'
You laughed, because maybe there was a point. Maybe blue wasn't such a bad color to be, because balance is pretty, a necessary evil. Grell had a flair for losing boots in the gutter, sneaking out to join the ball, and you liked picking up Cinderella's lost shoes. You've got a lover who loves a kiss on the hand, and you, a romantic from reading at all hours. Together you'd make blends and yellows and greens and purples; the shade of sallows, the sandy crunch of the desert, capture the sunrise's caricature.
I love your red, you tell. And Grell thinks your blue is quite special. Because it's red and blue together that unlocks the rainbow.
#kuro coup de foudre#grell sutcliff#grell x reader#grell sutcliff x reader#kuroshitsuji#black butler#the read more tag isn't working so I apologize for the wall of text#i swear I'm not usually this terrible of a writer#had to hurry and submit before the day was over but i swear I will fix the spelling errors
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sylvain + his s/o taking a hit for him
anon asked: “sylvain if his s/o took a hit for him on the battlefield?”
a/n: himbo sylvain hours boys... i guess this is me making up for killing byleth in the last sylvain hc OOP !!! --mod touko
[wakes up in a cold sweat] sylvain/byleth/felix poly.... [goes back to sleep]
ailell was hell on earth. the molten lava across the grounds made it hard for people to traverse, and on top of that you were surrounded at all sides by the kingdom army who now allied with the empire. you tried to carve a path with your creator’s sword to get to the general, perhaps that would put a stop to this grotesque battle, but no openings were to be found. it seemed there was to be no respite, until judith arrived with her forces, and you silently thanked the goddess.
that thanks was quite short-lived though, as you glance across the battlefield and see sylvain and felix, taking on way too many enemies for the two to handle. you curse to yourself, no doubt felix had led the two into the fray and sylvain followed, not wanting his best friend to be hurt. sylvain casts healing spells for felix and magic spells against the enemy until he’s exhausted, only then does he pull out the lance of ruin. you rush to their aid, knowing that if sylvain was out of healing magic they would soon be overwhelmed.
you shout for sylvain over the sticky heat and loud sounds of metal scraping against metal on the battlefield, but he doesn’t seem to hear. continuing to fight your way over to his side, you see a lance cavalier barrel towards the two. your feet work on muscle memory, ducking and jumping over both friend and foe to save him. as you reach him, the cavalier throws a spear steady and true towards sylvain’s back. reacting fast, you jump up off the ground, whipping the sword of the creator at him. it pierces through his chest, felling the enemy in one hit. it’s only when your feet hit the floor and you collapse that you realize the spear has also hit you too, piercing through your stomach through the little armor you wore there. you gasp, coughing up blood, and finally sylvain sees you.
he dismounts his horse quickly, and yells for help, gods he wish he hadn’t used all his magic on felix, he was such an idiot. your eyes flutter shut, head lulling back weakly as he fights the urge to pull the spear out. thankfully, it didn’t pierce all the way through, but it was still deep enough that you could easily bleed out. no, this wasn’t the time to think about that. sylvain forces the bile that was rising in his throat and starts to work on patching you up without magic, anyone that came near the two of you instantly being cut down by felix.
it had been a few days since you had been admitted into the infirmary. after the battle, sylvain and felix had carried you limp body to the wounded cart, setting you down gently as mercedes and manuela worked quickly to remove the spear and to stop the bleeding. you were still out cold, despite all the wonders of healing magic you had still lost a lot of blood, and there were still other complications that could come from a gruesome injury like the one you had sustained.
sylvain crawled his way beside you, holding your hand and whispering you reassurances that everything would be okay. it was more to reassure himself of that fact, however.
they had kicked him out of the infirmary as soon as they realized he wouldn’t be any help because his magic was drained. he felt utterly useless, slumped against the wall as hot, angry tears rolling down his face. he was weak, it was because of him you were hurt. he was supposed to protect you and now?
sylvain didn’t move much for three days, only getting up when ingrid would drag him to the dining hall to eat something. no one had ever seen him look so dull, the mask of youthful carelessness shattered as he was forced to face the reality that you might be dead, and because of him no less.
“still blubbering like an idiot?” felix jabs, looking down at sylvain who is still slumped against the wall. “you know they’re alive in there. quit acting like they’re dead already. it’s pathetic.”
“thank you, felix for your kind words.” he says bitterly, and felix crosses his arms.
“i’m not going to take pity on you,” despite his words, he does feel sympathy for his friend, otherwise he wouldn’t have been here. he had never seen sylvain look as lost as he did these past few days. “they’re strong, if you think a spear could end their life, then you’re more stupid than i thought.”
“yeah... i know all of that.” sylvain swallows his anxiety, “the moment it happened i just couldn’t stop thinking about the worst. what if they died and it was my fault... felix what would i do then?” sylvain casts his gaze to the wall, “i can’t live without them.” his voice is small and sincere. felix, for a moment, is taken aback, sylvain had never been serious about anyone before, so this confession made him wonder if he was hearing things right.
before he got the chance to answer, manuela walks out of the infirmary, looking more worse for wear than when sylvain had found her blackout drunk that one time.
“the professor’s fever has broken... it seems they’ve endured the worst of it,” she looks to sylvain, who is already on his feet. “they’re going to need more rest, but if you’d like, i’ll allow a visit.” sylvain thanks her, and then felix, before rushing in.
there he saw you, laying on your back and a small smile on your lips as you tilted your head up to see him. sylvain was at your side in an instant, kneeling by your bed and grasping your hand, kissing it over and over until he heard quiet giggles escape your lips. sylvain then finally looks up at you, noticing how you glowed a little bit less than you usual, but that smile was so alive sylvain can’t help but think that you look more beautiful than ever.
“i was so scared,” his hands clutch your own so tightly, like he’s trying to feel that you’re really there. “but... you’re alive! goddess, i’ve never been so happy. i might just faint!”
“please don’t, love, we don’t need the both of us down for the count.” sylvain chuckles, placing another kiss to your knuckles. a moment of tender silence passes, the both of you basking in each other’s presence is the only thing needed at that moment.
“i had been so intent on lecturing you about not risking your life for me but... i can’t. i can only thank you,” he looks at you tenderly, “i know i’m supposed protect you, that i should be here because of my carelessness but the past can’t be changed. but i swear on my honor... no, my life that from now on you won’t need to protect me ever again.”
“sylvain, i don’t want your honor or your life... i want you.” your tired voice rasps, and he feels his eyes start to water yet again. “let’s just both protect each other, watch each other’s backs. how about that?”
“yes, that sounds wonderful. especially if it means getting to be beside you in battle too.” you nod sleepily, squeezing his hand tight as to make a vow. “i hope i don’t get too distracted, sometimes watching you fight makes me want to--”
“i was going to invite you up here with me but after that comment...” you tease, rolling your eyes at his comment.
“ah, it was merely a jest, my love.” you scoot over nonetheless, slowly and carefully as to not open up a fresh wound, and he joins you, kicking his boots off and wrapping his arms around you. he feels so warm, and with the quiet thrumming of his heart, you’re quickly lulled into sleep. sylvain smiles, kissing your forehead, before nodding off as well.
later, when mercedes comes back to check on you, she finds you and sylvain both cuddled up and sound asleep. she can hardly stand how cute the scene is, sylvain holding you against him, your head on his chest.
#sylvain#sylvain jose gautier#sylvain x reader#sylvain x byleth#fe3h#fe16#fire emblem three houses#imagine#ficlet#headcanons#fluff#x reader#x byleth#angst#mod touko#q
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I am finally here with Good Omens prompts!! Okay, so let me know if you don't like this and I can try again, but I D E S I R E more crowley sickfic content :) maybe he has a fever and doesn't even realize because mortal stuff is so foreign to him that he can't figure out why his head hurts and he's dizzy until Aziraphale points it out? :)
HELL YEAH I CAN!! I need more Crowley sickfic in this fandom so hear is this fic! I had an idea in mind for this prompt and somehow, my keyboard decided to take a different one and run with it but I hope you like it!
When Crowley showed up late, it was fashionable, if a bit unusual for a lunch date with his – with the angel. A lunch appointment. A casual meet-up, maybe.
They had made reservations at the Ritz for 8:00 sharp, and according to Crowley’s mobile, it was 8:20 when he came sauntering in to sit across from Aziraphale.
The angel had ordered an appetizer and was picking at it nervously before his eyes settled on Crowley, and in an instant, the tension left him. “Oh, there you are, dear, I was about to get worried!”Crowley rolls his eyes, which was utterly pointless with his dark shades covering the demonic things, but Crowley knew the message got across just the same. Aziraphale seems to understand him some way or another these days.“Mn, yeah, no reason to be worried,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Lost track of a bit of a nap, that’s all.” Which was not necessarily true, but also was not a lie.Crowley, of course, being a demon could lie. In fact, he might say he could do it rather well considering that he had kept hell off his tail for, oh, ‘round six thousand years until the Armageddon’t became a thing. But while he could lie well enough to the uninterested party-and he’ll certainly did not care about him on any deeply personal level-he couldn’t bring himself to lie to the angel.So yes, he had indeed overslept a bit in what could be considered a nap. The only bit that was anything of note was that he didn’t actually mean to take a nap in the first place. He had been stalking through his flat, inspecting his plants when he had felt a bone-deep tired start to set in.He sat only for a second on a bench more concrete than comfort, and suddenly he had slept a little over a day. Crowley just wanted to sleep at least a thousand more, he felt so exhausted.
But leaving that out wasn’t really lying after all.
Aziraphale sighed. “I never did understand the appeal but, well,” he gestured to the food in front of him, “I suppose to each their own, my dear. I’m just glad you decided to wake up this century!”
Crowley could tell the angel was trying to settle any weird feelings with the jest, but somehow his mind was just a little… drifty. But he was pretty certain a smirk would do the trick, as it usually did when he wasn’t sure how to respond anyway.
Thank someone for sunglasses.
It did indeed do the trick, and Aziraphale smiled, easily settling down easily into the pattern they had managed for so long. He began with some small talk about his shop and the customers he had scared off, and even explained the newest novel he had found himself immersed in.
On the other hand, Crowley felt completely lost in what he was supposed to be doing. It was all he could take to try and make the right noises, or look like he was paying attention to the angel (which was a skill he had mastered, letting him talk about books for ages that Crowley couldn’t care less about if it weren’t important to Aziraphale).
He didn’t even notice the waiter ready to take their order until Aziraphale cleared his throat pointedly, murmuring a soft, “Crowley, dear?”
“Oh, just some wine, really. Whatever you’d recommend,” Crowley grumbles, waving off the waiter. He was hoping that since he usually didn’t eat much anyways, it didn’t seem off, but the truth was the thought of even trying anything made his stomach turn. It was confusing to say the least.
Something was wrong, Crowley thought, and the worried looks Aziraphale was constantly giving him when the angel thought he wasn’t looking only confirmed as much. The dinner seemed to pass by in somewhat of a fog. He felt absolutely miserable, but not in any way he was used to. He wasn’t upset but he still felt like absolute shit. It was all he could do to keep himself awake and mostly alert, giving the occasional one word answer whenever Aziraphale trailed off in a way he was clearly meant to respond to.
It was when a dull ache set in behind his eyes that things truly got out of hand. Even his own voice started to feel like it was drilling into his head, and the shining lights of the restaurant made him wish to by somewhere, anywhere else. Like his bed, or Aziraphale’s couch.
It was a relief when Aziraphale was finished. He was delighted with the meal as always, but there was something of a worried tone in his voice as he praised the food. Even then, he didn’t say anything about it. For all of Crowley’s going too fast, Aziraphale knew by now that something a little too caring or personal before the demon was ready, and he would be scared off.
Sometimes he was annoyed at the angel’s caution around him, like he were a not-quite-tamed animal. Other times, Crowley was grateful for it. Right now, Crowley couldn’t decide, because his brain felt like it was being baked and pounded into mush at the same time.
“Shall we go then?” Aziraphale asks, straightening out his jacket.
“I was gonna pay the bill, angel,” Crowley grumbles. Even if he was being rather awful company - not that he was the best anyways, Aziraphale really deserved better for h- well, for somewhere’s sake – he could at least give him that much.
Aziraphale shook his head, eyes crinkling in the way they did when he found something particularly peculiar, or even perhaps silly. “Oh, really Crowley,” he huffed. It was much more endearing than exasperated. “I believe I’ll manage this one time. But maybe you could, well, give me a lift?”
If it wouldn’t hurt his head so much, Crowley would have laughed. Instead, he smiled, just a little bit. Because the angel was still so shy, and never mind how he felt, he wasn’t about to say no when Aziraphale so rarely outright asked him something like that. “’Course I will,” Crowley said, willing away the strange urge to shiver.
He was rewarded with the sight of Aziraphale smiling brightly at him as he stood up. Crowley stood to join him.
And oh, fuck.
The restaurant was suddenly spinning. Crowley shook, feeling chilled and far, far weaker than he should. His vision was being encroached by darkness, and he stumbled weakly back, catching himself on the table with a clamber.
Nosey eyes were quickly miracled away and Aziraphale was by his side. “Crowley? Crowley, what is it, are you hurt?”
“Angel, I don’t know what’s happening, I feel awful, I’m scared,” Crowley says. Except he didn’t, and instead, all that came out was “Nnghh.”
Another wave of vertigo overcame him and when he blinked away his spotty vision, they were in the bookshop, Aziraphale immediately beginning to pace with nervousness that practically rolled off him.
Crowley sits himself down on the couch – if one could call nearly falling onto it without any sense of gracefulness sitting – and puts his hand to his head. It was hot. His body, however, felt freezing, and he curled up back into the fabric, trying to conserve his warmth as he shivers.
Aziraphale approaches him, still fidgeting anxiously. “Please tell me what’s wrong, dear. You’re frightening me,” he asks softly.
“Angel, I-“ Crowley doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what’s happening, and what if he’s going to discorporate? Or worse? It would be more than inconvenient, what with hell wanting his blood and all, there was no way he’d make a quick return topside. That is, if he ever managed it. He didn’t want to leave his angel. Not when they finally had a real chance.
Before he realized he was even doing it, Aziraphale had taken off his glasses, setting them down gently, and had begun to wipe away his tears. Crowley’s eyes were blown completely yellow, without a white bit to be seen; a sure sign of his distress. Crowley leaned into his hand, a somewhat strangled whimper escaping his throat. Aziraphale shushed him softly, and Crowley managed to find his voice.
“I don’t know why, Aziraphale.” The tearful tremble was still thick in his speech, although later he would never admit to being so emotional.
The angel looks troubled by this. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling then?” Crowley nods slowly.
“I’m… tired. Everything hurts, angel, can’t think straight… my head hurts. And it’s bloody freezing in here,” he complained, his body shuddering to prove his point.
Aziraphale’s face pinched further. “It’s warm here, my dear… you’re, well, rather feverish, it seems.” Crowley stares at him blankly. It was most certainly not warm although his forehead was delightfully cooled by the angel’s hands still resting on his face. When it was clear that he wasn’t getting the point, Aziraphale spoke again. “Crowley, I believe you might be sick,” he states carefully.
He blinks. “Demons don’t get sick, angel,” Crowley says.
Maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale was onto something. He certainly felt ill, after all. But it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, getting sick was something… human. And Crowley could tell, even now, weak and pitiful as he felt, he was still very much a demon.
“Perhaps, but we’ve spent all this time around them, well… it could be possible, couldn’t it?” Aziraphale ponders. “Unless you have a better idea?” His eyebrow is raised in a way that looks innocent, but holds a challenge to it, almost daring Crowley to disagree.
He just shrugs. “Guess so.” He hadn’t been around anything holy enough to worry and if this was what being sick was like then… well, that was that. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to do any more than just accept it.
Pushing himself up with his arms off of the couch, he takes a clumsy step forward, feeling horribly dizzy again. He stumbles, but instead of falling, he’s steadied by a soft pair of hands. “Dear, what are you doing?” Aziraphale asks. “You’re in no state to be walking around like that.”
“Gotta get home, ‘Zzzira,” Crowley explains. He’s leaning on Aziraphale quite heavily, letting his eyes close to stop the room from spinning. His stomach had started to spin with it. “Just need a bit of ressst,” he hisses, forgetting to stop the odd way he speaks, although he hardly notices it.
“Oh, Crowley,” murmurs Aziraphale, his voice unbearably tender. “I can just make you a bed here. I would be far too worried to let you go off alone when you can hardly walk.”
Crowley tries to argue his case, but all that comes out is stammers, and so when the angel sweeps him off his feet (literally, figuratively he had managed that 6,000 or so years before) he doesn’t struggle. Instead, he moans at the disorienting feeling, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He holds Crowley tighter.
Crowley was too light, too easy for the angel to carry.
Aziraphale sets him down on the bed – sheets, predictably in a familiar tartan pattern. Immediately, Crowley pulls the blankets around him, grateful to the warmth they provide. His shivering subsides from full body shudders to just a slight bit of shakiness. Aziraphale leaves but is back just as quickly with a cool glass of water and a few white pills.
“Take these,” he instructs, guiding Crowley into a sitting position. When did it get so hard to do that? His confusion must have shown on his face. “Your fever is rising quite a bit dear, you might not be feeling better any time soon, but this should help,” explains Aziraphale.
Crowley considers this and takes the pills with the water before laying back. His eyes feel heavy.
Someone is tucking him in, and it must be Aziraphale, and his hair is being stroked. Crowley mummers softly, “Please stay,” as he begins to drift off.
He thinks he hears a response of “Of course, my love,” from his angel, but maybe that’s just the fever talking
#good omens#good omens whump#Ineffable Husbands#otp: ineffable#Crowley whump#anthony j crowley#good omens fic#sickfic#sick crowley#good omens fanfiction#whump#hurt comfort#hurt crowley
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It Falls to Us
____
AU Oneshot. Padfoot was tried and found innocent and now has custody of Harry Potter. Moony struggles to forgive Sirius for thinking he would be the spy.
It had only been two weeks. Two weeks since the war ended. Two weeks since Wormtail had betrayed the Order. Two weeks since James and Lily Potter made their stand against Voldemort leaving their son an orphan. They had since been buried and laid to rest in Godrics Hollow in a private ceremony only open to those who knew them. Remus had watched his best friends be lowered into the ground feeling more hollow than ever before. Everyone who had accepted him was gone. James and Lily dead, Peter on the run for his treachery, Harry living with Sirius. And Sirius…well there’s only so much one man can forgive. He of course understood on a logical level why Sirius believed him to be a spy. He was a dark creature and had every reason to turn double agent for Voldemort. He had been shunned all of his life and could easily become bitter. It made sense. But how could he ever believe it? How could he think that Remus would turn on those he thought as family, on those who accepted him, loved him. Remus stood next to Sirius at the funeral only exchanging information about visits with Harry. Neither could bridge the gap between them that the war had left. He doubted that they ever would. But he forgot one thing...
“Remus!” Sirius’ voice rang through the cottage, shocking the depressing silence that had settled around Moony in the wake of all he had lost.
“Sirius.” Moony yelped in surprise seeing his school mate’s head in the floo.
“Remus please I need help!” he said earnestly, “I can’t get him to stop crying. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Lupin stood from the dining table.
“Harry?” he asked simply looking for more context.
“Yes bloody Harry. Please Moony I don’t know what to do.” Sirius pleaded with the werewolf
“I’ll be right there.” Remus stood and ran to his room for his wand and some potion ingredients. He hurried through the floo to Sirius’ flat and found him standing there holding a wailing Harry.
“He won’t stop crying.” He repeated handing the infant over to the werewolf, “I’ve tried changing him, feeding him, burping him. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Remus took the boy in his arms and tried to soothe him by gently rocking him back and forth. His screams persisted. Lupin then brought his hand to the child’s forehead.
“He has a fever.” Sirius paled at Lupin’s words. “Where’s Lily’s stuff?” he asked pushing through the pain at the mention of his dead friend.
“It’s all in the spare bedroom.” He responded taking Harry back when Remus indicated he should do so.
“Wet a cloth with lukewarm water and dab Harry with it. I’ll find her recipes for tonics.” Sirius hurried off to do as he was instructed while Lupin made his way to the spare bedroom with equal haste. He hesitated only for a moment when he reached the door; not knowing if he was ready to be confronted with the Potters possessions. However, the wails of their child pushed him forward. He sifted through boxes of pictures, clothes, and countless memories. His heart felt like it was going to cave in on itself. He fought through the tears now freely streaming down his face looking for the baby book he knew Lily kept. He finally found the small red notebook under one of James’ old quidditch jerseys. The one he wore under his wedding tux for good luck. He went to the kitchen where Sirius was bathing a still crying Harry.
“I’ve got Lily’s book, where’s your potions set?”
“Under the counter.” He replied over his shoulder, his voice still panicked. Lupin set to work, mixing a mild potion for Harry’s fever. He flipped through the notebook, passed excerpts on Harry’s diet, his nutrient potions, balms for his baths. Some were in Lily’s elegant cursive, and some in James’ messy scrawl. He found the anti-inflammatory potion and brewed it as quickly as he could. Harry was no longer screaming, but still whined in discomfort. Luckily the potion wasn’t too difficult and was ready in minutes.
“Here,” he handed Sirius a dish of the silvery paste while he held his own, “we need to rub this on him and it’ll bring down the fever.”
“Are you sure Moony?” he asked
“I’m not,” he looked down worriedly at the balm, “but this is Lily’s recipe, and she’s the expert.” He dipped his fingers into the paste and began rubbing it on Harry’s round belly. The cool substance seemed to calm him bit by bit, until he was practically cooing at the two men above him. Remus felt a smile stretch across his face as he watched his friend’s son clap with excitement. They gave him a proper bath, charming bubbles to dance around him, and the rubber ducks to quack at him. Lupin felt happiness fill in the hollow of his chest for the first time since the funeral. Harry was going to be ok.
He washed the boy’s thick black hair, lightly brushing his thumb over the lightning bolt cut on his forehead. He had survived a killing curse from the most powerful dark wizard of all time, and yet a fever still brought fear into the men’s hearts.
“We should put him down for a nap.” Lupin broke from his musings about the vulnerable child they had in front of them.
“He better be tired from all the wailing he did.” Sirius jested, picking up the boy in a towel. “You’ve got your mothers lungs kid. Merlin she could yell.” He carried the baby off to his crib leaving Lupin to clean up the kitchen. He let the cold flow of depression sweep through his veins again as he thought of going home to his grief. Although it had been frightening, he was distracted from his depression and even felt happy at one point. Harry was the only good thing left in his life, and seeing him smile despite his parent’s death brought some reminisce of peace to Lupin.
“Thanks for your help Moony.” Sirius’ voice jolted Remus from his stupor. “I really don’t know how I would have dealt without you.” Lupin noticed for the first time how tired Sirius looked. His skin was pale and his eyes red rimmed.
“Anything for Harry.” Lupin responded, receiving a nod from Sirius. He allowed a moment of silence to pass between them before asking, “Why did you call me?”
“I told you, I didn’t know what to do.” He moved to the living room and sat on the couch with an exasperated huff.
“Yes,” he followed him, “But why me? Why not Poppy, or McGonagall, or your cousin Andromeda?” Sirius looked confused with the question.
“You were just the first person who came to mind.” Silence fell again between them. Lupin watched as Sirius lost focus and stared off, deep in thought. They sat there for probably a half an hour letting the situation sink in. Upstairs sleeping peacefully was Harry Potter, the Boy who lived, James and Lily’s son and now, their responsibility. Sirius let out a long breath to break the silence.
“How the hell am I going to do this Moons?”
“With help.” He responded into the stillness of the air around them. “Poppy can help with all the—”
“I can’t go to Pomfrey.” Sirius interrupted
“Why not?” Lupin asked after a moment.
“Because I fought tooth and nail with Dumbledore so he would agree to let me take Harry.” He leant forward with his arms resting on his knees and his gaze down cast. “If she tells him about me needing help he’ll think I can’t handle it and take him away.”
“Then how about your cousin.” Lupin offered remembering the woman who ran off with a muggleborn. “She has a daughter, right? I’m sure she can help.” Sirius sighed
“She’s not ready to come out of hiding. Ever since Bellatrix tried to kidnap Nymphadora she’s been paranoid about coming back out into public.”
“Well I’m sure she’ll—”
“No Moony. I have to do this by myself.” He interrupted again, his tone now stern.
“Why?” Lupin asked annoyed at his stubbornness.
“Because it’s my fault that’s why?!” Sirius raised his voice in frustration. Lupin felt a sudden wave of pity for the man staring back at him through watery eyes. “Because I’m the reason they’re dead, because my stupidity cost James and Lily their lives.” Lupin reached for Sirius’ shoulder.
“Sirius” but he stood abruptly and paced away from Remus.
“Don’t you see?! I have to do this. He’s my fucking godson, the purpose of me is to take care of him now that they’re gone! I have to raise that little boy as if he were my own, love him and protect him, and then one day tell him I’m the reason he doesn’t have parents.” Tears were freely streaming down his face, all semblance of control lost. He took a vase from the mantle and threw it against the opposing wall. The sound of the shatter woke Harry from his slumber and set him into a new fit of wails from the other room.
“Shit!” Sirius rushed off to his room and returned with Harry in his arms no longer crying, but still shaken and fussy. Sirius focused on soothing the baby while Remus stood and walked over to the pair. He brushed back some of Harry’s thick black hair, revealing the wound from his confrontation with the Dark Lord.
“It’s not your fault Padfoot.” Remus spoke softly while Sirius’ gaze was fixed on the small child in his arms. “I trusted and loved Peter just as much. It isn’t our fault that we trusted our brother.”
“He’s no brother of mine.” Sirius said darkly.
“Not anymore, but he was, we all were.” Sirius finally looked up at Remus “It’s no one’s fault but his. He’s the one who chose cowardice. All we did was trust him.” Harry, now calmed, began to snuggle into Sirius and fall asleep again.
“I’m sorry I suspected you Moons.” Sirius said at a whisper.
“It’s understandable.” Lupin conceded.
“No it’s despicable is what it is. I let prejudice cloud my judgement.” He shifted so Harry was in one arm and put his hand on Lupin’s shoulder. “You’re more man than anyone I know.” This morning he was positive that he was going to hate Sirius Black for the rest of his life. But standing there both having lost so much, he found that he couldn’t help but forgive him.
“I’ll stay a few days to help with Harry.” Lupin saw Sirius smile for the first time since Halloween.
A few days turned into a few weeks which in turn became years. They helped each other grieve and accept what had happened. Although Sirius still felt guilty, he decided being a good guardian for Harry was more important than self-pity. He managed to convince Remus to co-parent with him, Lupin’s biggest reservation being, of course his lycanthropy. Sirius, having inherited a large fortune, bought a house in Godrics Hollow. Where they could raise Harry and bring him to visit his parents as much as he wanted. Their house had air tight security since death eaters were still out for the boy who lived, but they tried not to shelter him too much, knowing James and Lily wouldn’t want their son to be raised that way. It was a different situation and not always the easiest, but it worked for them. Some days were harder than others, like the day Harry asked where his mom was, or the time he called Sirius ‘dad’, but they made the best of it. Their family was smaller than it once was, but no less a family.
#sirius#Sirius Black#Remus Lupin#remus#moony wormtail padfoot and prongs#Nymphadora#nymphadora tonks#lupin#Harry Potter#remus x sirius#believe it or not this is actually the first chapter in a remadora fic im writting
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Shinju Maeda
Character Profile
Appeared in:
Nothing, yet. This was a rejected character profile and I haven’t found anything suitable since.
Prompt: 10 prompts given by @silhouette-of-a-dream. Here are the first four prompts: Morning Routine, Responsibility, Family Curse & Winter Moments
1. Morning Routine
The Maeda household woke up at five, starting with the head of the house who would wash his face and dress, ready to train. Shinju would follow in second, to set the example for the rest of the house, but also to wake the ‘pages’, the pupils of her father that aimed to become a master.
After washing her face both to wake herself and to get herself started she would dress in a hakama and a simple top before starting the morning training. First a warm up, then aikido, followed by archery or kendo, depending on the training schedule and specialisation.
Shinju had chosen archery, much to the dismay of her father. But she found solace in the aiming and the drawing of her bow, that moment of silence that surrounded her before the command to shoot was given.
The morning training ended at seven, where she was expected to cool down and to meditate and receive her pointers for improvements from the head. Compliments from her father were rare, especially so aimed at her, but she knew that she was his pride.
In her teen years she was expected to help out with the cleaning as well, but after her coming-of-age she was no longer considered to be a pupil anymore. Still, Shinju would remain, sometimes to help with the clean-up, other times to check up on sprains, or to give extra instructions to the younger pupils.
After showering Shinju would have breakfast at half past seven. At eight she would pay respect to her grandparents, which was also consequently the morning meeting. Reports were given, inquiries exchanged. Every start of a new month a presentation plan was given as well, every quarter a new business analysis, once a year new goals were set as well as the financial analysis. All in all the meeting could last from a mere hour to the afternoon, depending on what day of the year it was and what was on the agenda.
This was consequently also the time that Shinju’s true role within the family business started. The yearly reports, strategising, and the likes was where she was truly put in charge. If the morning allowed for it, if the meetings didn’t bleed into noon, Shinju would have the rest of the morning off until a string of meetings in the afternoon. Though, that by no way means that she could spend them at her leisure. Preparation and organisation was what followed, in which she prepared herself for whatever was scheduled later.
Sometimes, in the off-season, or usually Wednesdays, Shinju could be found in the main dojo, for once doing what she truly desired to do. But those moments were so rare, they were often more of an exception than anything.
2. Responsibility
“As the heir of the Maeda…”
Shinju could nearly dream those words, just as she could dream whatever was to follow. Yet, she didn’t show her disinterest or boredom, yet, she remained still and straight as she let the words reach her.
“As I’m sure you are well aware of…”
Her grandmother’s continued teaching of filial piety was a familiar introduction, and Shinju could almost predict what the reason was for the opening, hands wringing into each other as she just wanted to get to the point.
“Takeru is, as you know, from your mother’s side.”
Shinju felt cold as she was handed the picture. A male, of around her age, somewhat vaguely familiar, yet not. A bright smile, dark brown hair, he looked content with life, more than Shinju ever had felt with hers.
“Well trained, well educated, with a good background and a distinguished sportsman.”
Her grandmother’s words barely sounded through her as Shinju tried to maintain her breathing, trying to keep herself from showing the dread that was forming from the depth of her stomach.
“He will fill the gap that you leave when you take over. He can keep the Maeda relevant as a dojo while you focus on the business behind it.”
Her words stung, but Shinju could understand the reasoning. She didn’t have the talent with the sword. Even within archery she was considered to be somewhat average, barely able to maintain a spot on a national level.
“Takeru has five brothers and he is the middle one. I hope you will meet him with an open mind, just as he is entering this relationship with an open mind.”
Refusal was not an option, her grandmother made that implicitly clear to her and all Shinju could do was bow as she accepted the setup, her heart heavy as she realised that her life was forfeit before it even started.
3. Family Curse
Every year, without fail, Shinju and her family would visit the Oyama shrine in Kanazawa to pay her respect to the Sengoku head of the Maeda and the one that brought the family the glory they enjoy today: Toshiie Maeda. Every year it was highly anticipated, for the family believed that even skipping it for one year would trigger a family curse.
“The Maeda are not without their sins,” her grandfather spoke solemnly, “it is important that we remain humble and remember our clan’s origin.”
It was the first year that Shinju was to lead the ritual, dressed entirely in black simple robes on that chilly spring day. She was shivering each time the wind blew past her, but she would have to endure. Endure until the ritual was over.
Every year, without fail, Shinju would have a fever dream after returning from the Oyama shrine. Though, that year that she led was the worst, for she fell ill for a week afterwards.
“A common cold,” the doctor had said after examining her, “best to leave her to rest and keep her warm,” sounded the advice. And they respected that. But her family thought differently of the source.
“Did you dream?” her father questioned her sternly and Shinju could only nod, delirious as she felt from the fever she ran.
“Did you see him? Them?” he continued to press and Shinju could only draw a ragged breath in answer.
The dream her father referred to; a dream of who they believed to be a Toshiie remorseful of his life in which he had taken so much, hadn’t come to her. Instead Shinju had dreamt of white foxes dancing around the shrine, as if luring her. However, every year without fail her family was convinced she had dreamt the standard dream. Why else would she run the fever if not because she was the next heir of their dojo? Her father had them in his youth as well, her grandfather had been plagued by them, her great-grandfather had them lasting through his whole life.
Shinju decided to remain quiet instead, often feeling too awful to argue back, if she ever did. It was easier to have them believe that the Maeda sin had passed onto her, that the conscience of centuries of Maeda heads also rested upon her, instilling a duty to protect and glorify their old clan. Anything but a mischievous fox strangely vying for her affection.
“Now that you have led the ritual you are truly ready to succeed,” her father had said, a smile on his lips. How rare that look of satisfaction was on his face, “I will inform your grandfather, he will be pleased to hear this.”
But Shinju wasn’t pleased at all. Not if she had to fall ill for the sake of her family and be glad for it. Not if the whole curse they supposedly carried was a bunch of bogus that didn’t affect her in the way her family wanted it to.
4. Winter Moments
Winters in Kyoto didn’t tend to be cold. Rarely did it ever go below freezing point and for that Shinju was grateful, finding the single digit celsius degrees to be quite hard to withstand already.
“Shinju?” her mother’s voice sounded, looking around the room before looking down at the floor, “you will ruin your eyes like that,” she laughed, the image of her daughter cuddled up under the kotatsu while doing some paperwork.
“It is too cold,” Shinju responded, pulling the fabric of the kotatsu tighter around her, “and I’m not lying on my stomach,” she quickly informed.
“You will hurt your back then,” her mother continued, but Shinju ignored it, knowing that she was actually being scolded for her posture. But there was no one who would actually admonish her, and the female knew that she could expect a great deal more clemency from her mother than anyone else.
“Don’t you have the woolen haori your grandmother made you?” her mother continued to question, no doubt trying to coax Shinju out of her warm burrow and take a break.
Rolling onto her back with a sigh the female abandoned the papers next to her as she looked up, demonstratively pulling out an arm.
“Already wearing it,” she pouted, earning yet another laugh.
“Oh dear, did I give birth to a little frog perhaps?” her mother jested, finally moving to close the door behind her, “I will prepare some ginger tea, but do sit up already, I really don’t want you to ruin your eyes like that.”
Shinju could only sigh to herself, slowly peeling herself back into the open with a shiver.
“Nope, too cold,” Shinju tells herself, crawling back in.
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