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tinydefector · 18 days

Note

Could I request some human and Rung nsfw scenario? Maybe Rungs curiosity about human anatomy gets the better of him

Divine

Did I use this to write Wings of Primus AU yes, yes I did.

Wings of Primus AU

Rung x Human reader

Word count: 3.9K

Warning: Smut, religious experience. #Valveplug

Request and ask open, read pinned post

Rung's optics fixated on the human's back, his gaze drawn to the mesmerising sight of the gears and orb shifting and glowing with an ethereal light. As he observed this phenomenon,curiosity intertwined with a sense of guilt that gnawed at his spark. Every Time he saw them a small part of him felt guilty over the fact it was his wings that had fused to them.

How had this come to pass? How did the gears and orb become fused with the human's form? These were mysteries that tugged at Rung's inquisitive nature, but the fact that ancient Cybertronian technology had melded itself to a human did intrigued him.

A smile tugged at the corners of Rung's lips as they turned to look at him, their concern evident in their gaze. They sensed something was amiss, perhaps noticing his lingering optics and the weight of unspoken thoughts that hung in the air.

"Rung, is everything alright?" their voice is filled with genuine worry. Rung's optics flickered, momentarily caught off guard by the directness of their question. He quickly composed himself.

"Of course, my dear," Rung replied, his voice gentle yet tinged with a hint of wryness. "Just lost in my thoughts, you know how it goes. How have things been since Ratchet's examination?" He offered them a small, reassuring smile, attempting to deflect their concern.

“ It went well enough, getting sick of constant check ups, he can't really do much about the orb, it doesn't hurt, it's just kinda there, occasionally it transforms into wings, just don't understand why so many tests are needed” they reply.

Rung listened attentively as the human shared their experience since Ratchet's examination, his wry smile lingering on his lips. Their weariness and frustration over the constant check-ups is understandable and Rung couldn't help but empathise. After all, he was the reason this all happened.

"It's understandable to grow weary of the constant tests and examinations," Rung acknowledged, his tone sympathetically. "Ratchet's thoroughness can sometimes feel excessive, but he truly wants to ensure your well-being. As for the orb, he's worried for your safety."

It was a phenomenon that defied conventional understanding, and Rung couldn't help but be fascinated by it, He had encountered many enigmatic phenomena during his long existence, but this fusion of technology and organic matter was a rare occurrence, but this was different, it wasn't the same as techno organic, terraformers, no this was a part of primus that had literally melted into their body. It sparked his analytical mind, he himself did not know how it came to be, prompting him to ponder the possibilities and implications of such a unique integration.

"I can't help but be intrigued by the melding of organic and mechanical elements within your form, does it affect any of your functions?" Rung asked, his voice carrying a tinge of worry.

"It was kinda hard to get used to when it first latched onto me, kinda learnt my lesson not to go looking at shooting starts again, but it only hurt for about a week and it was sore joints due to extra weight, but don't know how Cybertronians work on the inside but its like its keeping my body healthy, it healed over the burns and fixed anything it rewired, kinda feels natural now"

He knew that living with something as extraordinary as the orb's fusion could be both a blessing and challenge.

“Rung your staring, is everything alright your not having a short circuit are you, do I need to get one of the medics?” They ask, head tilted while they move closer to him.

Rung had always been adept at masking his emotions, burying his own turmoil beneath a facade of calm and composure. It was a skill he had honed over vorns, allowing him to maintain a professional front.

However, the guilt continued to linger within him, a persistent ache that he couldn't easily dismiss. He couldn't help but feel responsible for the situation, The weight of that guilt pressed heavily upon him, tugging at his spark.

Rung's gaze returned to the gears and orb on the human's back, his optics tracing their intricate movements. He yearned to understand, to unravel the mystery that lay before him. "Yes, everything is alright," Rung reassured them, his voice softening with sincerity.

Deep down, he knew that eventually, the truth behind the gears and orb on the human's back would come to light. And when it did, he hoped they would forgive him. “Well back to the lesson I guess You did ask me to help you understand human anatomy, so guess you're gonna have to bear with me as we go along" they state. "So.. where do you want to start?"

He watched as they walked closer, their presence bringing a sense of warmth and familiarity. Rung's gaze softened, his wry smile transforming into a more genuine expression.

"As for where to start, I believe it would be best to begin with the basics," Rung suggested, his tone thoughtful. "Let's start with the major anatomical systems,”

Well humans have the skeletal system, that's our bone structure, muscular system which is our skin muscle mass and a few organs of ours, cardiovascular system, our heart and vein systems, pretty much the main ones we have." They grab Rungs servos as they guild him to different body parts explaining what they were and used for. Rung's knowledge of human anatomy was limited but enthusiasm for learning was evident, his desire to expand his knowledge.

"Rung your staring again, is there something on me, do i need to get ratchet to check my back again?" They ask while quickly turning around while attempting to check the orb.

Rung blinked, momentarily snapped out of his contemplative state. He couldn't help but chuckle at the human's playfulness.

"My apologies, my dear," Rung replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I was simply lost in thought, pondering the various similarities between humans and Cybertronians."

"One striking similarity lies in the presence of sensory organs. Just as humans have eyes to see, Cybertronians possess optics. Similarly, humans have ears for hearing, while Cybertronians have audio receptors. The ability to perceive the world through these senses is a shared trait."

He paused for a moment, allowing his words to settle. Rung's gaze softened, his expression thoughtful. "Furthermore, both humans and Cybertronians possess a central processing unit, so to speak. For humans, it is their brain, while for Cybertronians, it is their central processor. These neural centres enable complex processes, allowing for consciousness, decision-making, and emotional experiences."

Rung's voice carried a hint of excitement as he continued to unveil the similarities.

"And let us not forget the significance of the spark," Rung added, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "Just as humans have their hearts, the spark serves as the core of a Cybertronian's being. It is the seat of their life force, their essence. The spark is what defines a Cybertronian, just as the heart defines a human." One of his digits press lightly against their chest as he processes the sound of their heart beat, so similar yet different from a spark pulse.

Rung can feel the wings calling to his spark again as if they were calling though their heart. As the alluring feeling echoed in his processor, Rung couldn't deny the sharp pang of desire that surged through his circuits. His optics drank in the human's form, appreciating the unique beauty that lay before him. He leaned back in his chair, trying to maintain his composure despite the rising heat in his spark. Rung's gaze remained fixed on them, his optics betraying a mixture of curiosity and desire.

"I must admit, I find myself wondering about the intricacies of human interfacing," Rung confessed, his voice lowering to a more intimate tone. "It is a concept that Cybertronians are quite familiar with, as it serves as a means of connection, pleasure, and profound intimacy. I was wondering if humans have something similar" He wanted to delve deeper into the human experience, to explore the nuances of their desires and connections, and how different they are from Cybertronian.

They meet Rung's optics. “Rung, are you trying to proposition me?” They ask with a laugh, teasing him. Rung's optics widened slightly at the human's teasing response, caught off guard by their playful accusation. a rare display of embarrassment that betrayed his composed exterior. He quickly regained his composure, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Ah, I assure you that my intentions are purely intellectual," Rung replied quickly, shaking his servos while trying to save face, his voice laced with amusement. "As a psychiatrist, I have a natural curiosity about the intricacies of different species' experiences, including the concept of human interfacing." He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in before continuing, his tone retaining its intimacy and sincerity. “Oh I'm not helping my case” he mumbles.

They laugh, head thrown back as little snorts come from them before they settle. “I'm just teasing Rung, I promise, but your face oh my God it was priceless” they continue to giggle. Rung's optics flickered with a mix of relief and amusement “ cheeky i see” a gentle smile crossed his lips a hint of wryness lingers.

"you certainly know how to keep me on my pedes," Rung replied, his voice returning to its usual calm and composed tone. "I must admit, your playful nature caught me off guard for a moment there."

“Please continue Rung i just couldn't help myself” they reply waiting for him to continue his line of thought.

"Cybertronian interfacing is a deeply personal and profound act, encompassing both physical and emotional connection," Rung explained, his voice gentle yet filled with wisdom. "It serves as a means of not only pleasure but also forging intimate bonds and strengthening relationships. I was more curious if humans have a similar concept." He states while pressing his glasses back up his face.

“Well humans, we call it intercorse, sex, love making, reproduction. Kinda depends on the person but it's a mix of doing it for Fun, pleasure, stress relief, commitment to another or to have kids” they explain to Rung as he listens in rather fascinated.

With that, Rung leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed and open, “ so rather similar to Cybertronians” he mumbles before he looks back at them. 'They crave you' the words echo through his processor making his servo clench onto the arm of his chair, reminding him of the hidden desires that now threaten to consume his thoughts.

"I'm open for you to learn more, take a more hands on approach, just be gentle, don't ruin my clothes'' they respond. It nearly takes Rung off guard again, His optics widened ever so slightly. His spark fluttered with a mixture of anticipation and caution.

"Only if you are certain," Rung replied, his voice steady yet tinged with a touch of warmth. "I assure you, I will be as gentle as can be, and I'll do my best to avoid any mishaps with your clothing." He allowed his servo to rest on their leg, his touch light and cautious. Rung's gaze remained fixed on the human, his optics filled with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. He was acutely aware of the privilege bestowed upon him, the opportunity to learn and explore the depths of human interfacing.

"Before we proceed, I must emphasise the importance of clear communication," Rung continued, his voice soft and earnest. "If at any point you feel uncomfortable or wish to stop, please let me know, or we can adjust accordingly. Your comfort is of utmost importance to me." With those words, Rung's servo shifted slightly, the touch remaining gentle as he removed their shirt. His optics drank in the sight before him, captivated by their skin, the scared marks that run across their skin from the wing mechanism.

Rung's gaze lingered, his optics filled with a mix of guilt as he traces the scars before his digit runs along the ever shifting orb. He awaited their response.

"I'll let you know Rung” they reply, the give a come here motion to him waiting for him to lean down. When he does they lean up and kiss him.

'They are yours to Claim Primus, they wear your wings to present themself for only you' the echoed words linger only for him to hear. Rung Slowly moving, examining and studying their soft form. His servos and digits continued to explore the human's form, his touch gentle yet purposeful. Each reaction, each sound that spilled from their lips, fueled his desire to provide pleasure and to elicit even more of those delightful sounds only for him to hear. Rung's spark pulsed with a mix of anticipation and a growing hunger.

As the human moaned his name, louder and more desperate, Rung felt a shiver of excitement ripple through his frame. It was an affirmation of their desire, "stunning," Rung breathed, his voice laced with a mixture of desire and affection. "Let's move this to a more comfortable place. Rung stood, their body clinging to him as he swiftly moved towards the berth. Rung felt a surge of delight as the human clung to him, their smile reflecting their eagerness for what lay ahead. He savoured the sound of their small squeal

Rung's spark pulsed with anticipation as he led them to the berth he discarded his glasses on the bench as he laid them onto the berth. their bodies pressed intimately against each other. The urging whispers echoed in his audials, Rung gently lowered the human onto the soft surface, their combined heat and desire filling the air around them. His optics drank in the sight before him, a beautiful and willing form laid bare, their pants discarded and their need evident. The moans that escaped their lips fueled his own desire, spurring him to explore further.

"Is this alright?" Rung murmured, his voice husky with desire. With a gentle touch, Rung's digits pressed against their entrance, a wave of pleasure coursing through both of their frames. “Yes, more than alright” The desire in their voice, their plea for more, stirred a primal heat within him, urging him to grant their request. Rung's own arousal was evident.

With each deliberate movement, Rung explored their softness and elicited more moans from their lips. He revelled in their responsiveness, digits pressing deeper and stretching them open, they buck into his hand "Please, Rung," pleads spilling from their lips, their voice laced with a desperate need.

Rung's spark surged with a mix of adoration and desire as he responded to their plea, his touch becoming more focused and deliberate.

Rung continued to explore, to bring them both closer to the precipice of ecstasy. Their shared desire and trust fueled his own arousal, but his focus remained on their pleasure, on guiding them towards a peak of bliss that they both craved.

His little human moans and begs for more. The wing mechanism releases and the metal wings transform, Spread out across the berth from the human's back the wings flutter in delight against their back.. Their legs shake each time Rung's digits thrust back into their soft velvet walls.

'They are ready, claim them, claim them as yours Primus,' Rung's optics widened in surprise and disbelief as the wing mechanism on the human's back released, transforming into metal wings that spread out across the berth. His spark skipped a beat, a mix of awe and realisation surging through him, they looked stunning with his wings, very different from when he last wore them but yet they suited them so well.

His processors whirred, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and desires swirling within him. Rung knew that his wings were a manifestation of who he was, a symbol of his duty and purpose.

"Divine," Rung murmured, his voice a mixture of reverence and uncertainty. Rung's digits continued their thrusting, his touch seeking to bring the human closer to their peak of pleasure. Their moans and the trembling of their legs fueled his own desire, “that's it, let go overload for me” he whispers against their ear.

"Please, more" they moaned, their voice filled with a mix of need and desire. Rungs' other servo comes up to cradle their face. He slowly pulls his digits away moving so that he could be as close to them as the size difference allowed. Rung's own arousal surged, his spark pulsing with a mix of longing and restraint.

Rung moves with purpose and care, his interface plating releases as he slowly presses up against them. “Are you alright?” he asked again only to receive a nod as they try pulling him closer. He slowly presses into their smaller body, the sudden heat and pleasure that hits has him groaning loudly.

"Rung!" They cry out loudly as run sinks into them, arms shooting up to grip onto him. His servo moves Their legs, shifting to rest around his hips, slowly he starts to move and starts thrusting. Their back arches off the bed, wings fluttering and sprawling out more as moans fall from their lips.

Rung's spark surged with a mixture of desire and adoration as the human cried out his name, their voice filled with a potent combination of pleasure and need, need only for him. The sight of their back arching off the bed, their wings fluttering and sprawling out more, stirred a primal heat within Rung, this was for him, they had come to him.

Rung's thrusts were deliberate and measured, aimed at bringing them both closer to pleasure. With each movement, he elicited a symphony of moans and gasps.

“Your stunning, my stunning divine" Rung calls out, his voice laced with desire and tenderness.

The human's moans echoed in his audials, their pleas for more spurring him on. Rung's own arousal surged, his pace quickening as the intensity mounted. The tighten of their body have surging towards the peak of bliss.

He relished every reaction, every gasp and moan that fell from their lips. Wishing he could have them on repeat, he could melt just from how their eyes water, how they bite their lip as pleasure takes them.

Rung's voice became a low and soothing presence amidst the growing intensity.

"Let go, my dear," he urged again, his voice filled with a mix of desire and tenderness. "I've got you. Please come undone for me"

Together, they succumbed to the overwhelming wave of ecstasy, their bodies trembling with the intensity of their release. Rung held them close, venting heavily. ‘His’ wings enfolding them in a gentle embrace as they rode out the aftershocks of their shared pleasure.

They choke out as Rung lifts them up, resting on his knees as he pulls them up with him. Through hazed eyes it's like Rung's plating is Gold, the wings cling to him and for a brief moment when their orgasm hits, they see him. A glimpse of the bot Rung once was.

Gold and silver plating blue markings down his faceplate. Their hand extends to trace one of the diamonds of glowing blue.

Gently, Rung held them close, his touch and embrace a grounding presence amidst the ethereal moment that had just passed. His optics met theirs, a mixture of warmth and deskre shining within them.

And as they remained in each other's embrace, basking in the afterglow of their shared pleasure, Rung held onto their exhausted form, Their head resting on Rung chassis panting as he rolled them so he's laying down. The wings flutter and twitch but make no move to transform back. fingers tracing lines on his plating, it's the orange now, not the shimmering gold they had seen before.

The question that escaped their lips was soft and filled with curiosity, their voice carrying a sense of wonder. "What... what are you?"

Rung's optics softened as he contemplated their question. "I am Rung," he replied, his tone gentle yet resolute. "A psychiatrist aboard the Lost Light, here to help guide and support those who seek solace and understanding."

He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of their question to settle in. The significance of their vision and perception was not lost on him. It spoke to the depth of his spark.

"But I am more than that," Rung continued, his voice carrying a hint of wry amusement. "I am a being who has lived and experienced much more than others give me credit for. An old spark, if you will. Older than most"

He shifted slightly, allowing the human to remain comfortable in his embrace as he continued to run his fingers along their frame. The sensation of their touch, combined with their question, stirred a mix of emotions within Rung.

"I am a bot who has walked many paths, witnessed the ebb and flow of countless lives," Rung explained. "I was once known as Primus, keeper of the all-spark, the divine essence that flows through all of cybertron."

"But I am also just Rung," he added, his voice filled with warmth. As Rung spoke, his touch remained gentle and comforting, his fingers intertwining with theirs. The significance of their vision and their perception of him as the bot he once was, Primus, held a profound impact on their shared experience.

"You have seen something special," Rung concluded, his voice filled with gratitude. "A glimpse into the depths of my being, the intertwining of my own spark. and the divine."

"The wings, they are yours aren't they?" A mixture of emotions swirled within Rung, a sense of awe, nostalgia, and a tinge of sadness. He had thought those wings were lost forever, a relic of his distant past. But now, seeing them once again, merged with another being, it was a profound revelation.

"Those wings were once mine, a part of me from a time long ago." He carefully reached out, his fingers tracing along the edges of the wings, feeling the familiar energy pulsating through them. It was a bittersweet reunion, a reminder of who he once was and the journey he had undertaken since then.

"I never imagined I would see them again," Rung continued, his voice tinged with a wistful tone. "To witness them melded with another, it is a testament to the resilience of them, but I'm sorry it was you they joined with” the remorse in his voice is evident

"I'm not," they whisper, “they brought me here so i have to thank them, i just wasn't expecting this. Wasn't expecting the God of Cybertron playing therapist to a ragtag mixed bunch” they reply, it makes him chuckle as he pulls them further up his chassis. “you have me there my dear”.

___________

Have some funnies

Rung and The human sitting together after.

Human: so… your Cybertron's God?

Rung: *sighing* I was once, but I'm not anymore, I gave that part of myself up long ago.

Human: …. I fucked the God of Cybertron who's also my therapist….

Rung: *looking away embarrassed* please it sound bad enough as is

_________

Human: …..

Swerve: what's wrong squishy, you look like you have been through alot need a drink.

Human: I fucked God

Swerve: *raising his optic ridge* pardon?

Human:*having a panic attack* I fucked Primus Swerve, oh God I fucked an alien species God

Swerve: *looking worried* Was he a good Frag?

________

Human: Rung... I don't have to worry about having a cyberhuman God child do I

Rung: *slightly confused* I don't believe that will be something to worry about, why.

Human: ahh earth religion thing is all.

______

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yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt · 20 hours

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Hello and sorry for the delay, in regards to the ask I sent in a little while back. What I meant to say was timewise; can you do a drabble where they're (Comicverse A and B) in-between after the Joust incident but before their reconciliation? It would be in the middle of those years where they had a kinda undefined relationship (Not canon but as canon compliant as possible). Could you have it where A maybe takes care of B for an unrelated injury or consoles him thru something mentally? Just something that A does to help B without wanting to gain something from him. Which then that unintentionally builds a little bit of trust back. I hope that helps, sorry if I came across jumbled or made it worse (Lol and my crimes against punctuation). Anyway thank you so much for your time and wanting to clarify w me! I appreciate you so much :)

Hiii!! Thank you so much for clarifying your request, this was a very cute idea and I really enjoyed writing it!! It's a bit on the longer side for a drabble but I hope you like it!!

“God damnit!” Ballister spat, limping towards his hideout. This latest attempt to infiltrate the castle had proven far less successful than he'd hoped. The Institution put in a bunch more booby traps than the plans he'd intercepted showed. His leg was ensnared in barbed wire, as he'd abandoned his armor to fit through the narrow drainage gate. He ended up bloodied before his nemesis even got a chance to show up. He really hoped he wouldn't find him and rub his face in this now.

“Need a hand?” Said a voice from the woods. Ballister narrowed his eyes. “Come to gloat, Goldenloin?”

There was silence and then a rustling of leaves as the shiny, bronze-clad knight stepped out of the shadows. “Come on, don't be like that. I didn't set those traps, I didn't even know they were there! Nobody expected you or anyone else to try and bust in that way.” He looked at Ballister's leg. “You're hurt.”

“Oh gee, I wonder how that happened?” He replied sarcastically. Ambrosius rolled his eyes. “My horse is tied a bit further back on the path. He's good for double-riding, we’ll get you home.”

“I am not escorting you back to my house, have you lost your mind?”

Ambrosius crossed his arms. “Well I can't well let you stumble back there on your own in this state! But fine, I anticipated you might be stubborn about it, so I brought a first aid kit.” He rifled through his pack. “There's a clearing just up the road here.”

Ballister swallowed. Damn, he really didn't want to take help from Ambrosius, the bastard probably had some scheme planned. If he wasn't gonna arrest him, it'd be something else. But what choice did he have? He couldn't get back home in this state, not without getting patched up first. “Fine.”

Ambrosius smirked triumphantly, which was infuriating, and tucked an arm up under Ballister's shoulder on his bad side. Surprisingly gentle, he supported his weight while they limped to a nearby clearing off the road, where they wouldn't be seen.

Ballister hissed looking at his leg when he sat down. It would heal, but it was definitely sprained and torn up.

Ambrosius lit a lantern and took out his medical supplies. So far, Ballister didn't see signs of funny business. He insisted upon inspecting the iodine before allowing Ambrosius to use it, but there appeared to be nothing amiss.

Ambrosius donned a pair of gloves and wire-cutters and began carefully snipping and pulling away the barbed wire. Ballister fought to remain composed, but damn, it hurt like a bitch. For once, Ambrosius was quiet, not mocking. “I know,” he said softly. “I know it hurts. I'm almost done.” He dampened a gauze rag with iodine and dabbed the area.

Ballister’s eyes snapped wide and he bit hard on his tongue to stop from screaming. That shit always burns something awful. He briefly thought maybe Ambrosius was doing this to get pleasure from hurting him, but the way his brow furrowed said something different. “Shhh, take deep breaths. I’m sorry, I'm sorry, almost done.” He examined the leg. “It doesn't look like you need any stitches, so I'll bandage this up, okay?”

Ballister nodded stiffly, and he watched as those hands, bare from the scaled armor that usually concealed them, wrapped clean gauze bandaging around his calf with all the care and precision in the world. His eyes were focused, not manic as usual. He almost looked like the young man Ballister once loved, when he would ice his sprains and stroke his hair. Almost.

Ambrosius tied off the bandage and patted the leg. “That ought to feel better.”

Ballister pulled his leg away and tucked it under himself. “Why are you doing this?”

Ambrosius looked at him, almost puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Oh please. You know it's weird! Why patch me up? What's your angle?”

Ambrosius shrugged. “You know my angle already.” He looked away, and the cocky veneer glossed over his face again, accompanied by a toothy grin. “You're my nemesis. If anything bad happens to you, I'll be out of a job!”

“Ugh!” Ballister rolled to his feet and began limping back to the path.

“Ballis– Lord Blackheart, wait!”

He swiveled. “What do you want, Goldenloin? What do you actually want?”

“Oh! Um–” he played with his hands. “You should take my horse. It will be hard to walk. Just send him back tomorrow.”

“Oh, you got a tracker on him or something?”

Ambrosius rolled his eyes. “I already know where your fortress is! Why would I even– just take him, okay? Just send him back, he'll get sad without his friends at the stable. He can find his own way home, he's done it before.”

Ballister took a deep breath, but he relented. He looked over the beast once Ambrosius retrieved it and as he claimed, there was nothing nefarious that stood out. Looking at that face, the face he once loved so deeply, saying goodbye, it felt somehow different.

Maybe the Ambrosius he loved wasn't all gone, maybe parts of him remained. There was an understanding between them. Maybe not quite trust, but there was something, like it or not, and there always would be

#nimona #drabble requests #nimona fanfic #nimona graphic novel #blackloin #goldenheart #ballister x ambrosius #ballister blackheart #ambrosius goldenloin

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disabledfurry · 2 days

Text

John Lee Clark:

"Since then, though, protest has remained the primary mode. Perhaps it’s because Deaf people’s cultures and languages continue to be marginalized. Protest is a worthy, logical response, but it can also be limiting. Instead of the full range of our realities and imaginations, we get drawn into arguments we did not choose for ourselves. For example, “visual music” and “ASL is beautiful” are the two most common tropes in Deaf poetry, working to counter audist notions of deafness and muteness; meanwhile, in real life, Deaf people are busy cooking, videochatting, texting, dating, raising families, and making transactions, not all of them legal. I realized that I needed to write beyond these arguments, not to leave behind our causes or obscure my identity, but to claim more and more space in which we can just be."

Jim Ferris:

"We. I presume, I claim an “us,” even though there are myriad ways of embodying (and denying) disability, and no two disabled people’s experiences are the same. Disabled people are well schooled, whether impairment is acquired early or late, to identify with and aspire to be as much like nondisabled people as possible.

But if we don’t claim our difference, if we don’t write disability, the normies will keep doing it for us. It is crucial that we don’t keep leaving the field to them, even when we love them. Even when they tell us it’s for our own good."

Jillian Weise: "I like John’s point: “We get drawn into arguments we did not choose for ourselves.” Sometimes I feel like I would rather talk about Kathy Acker. But what does the word “disability” mean? Is it useful to me? Can I get some heat from it? I am reminded of what Borges said to his nephew, “If you behave, I’ll give you permission to think of a bear.” Most often, I think about disability when I am asked to think about it. Then I feel an obligation to behave.

[...]

Yes, there is ableism. One able-bodied writer said to me, “Jillian, do you know why we use disabled speakers?” Do tell, Grandmaster. “Because all writers are outsiders and disabled speakers are the most outsider.” Noted. But I also hear this kind of thing: another writer once wrote to me, “I wish your book was not so dominated by disability poems.” And there’s the trap of ableism: disability is for able-bodied writers to write, because it’s easy for them, and they don’t have to think too hard about it, but disabled writers should stay out of it altogether."

John Lee Clark: "I agree with Jillian. Editors really need to start rejecting that kind of bad poetry. But I’m more concerned about what they do reject as “too niche,” “not a fit,” or simply “not poetic material.” Isn’t that funny? They are happy to publish poems with made-up disabled speakers, but these are mainly by poets who aren’t disabled, or, which is sometimes worse, by poets who are disabled but follow the “script.” You get a very good idea of what’s expected of you when editors ask you, “Why don’t you include something about how hard it is to be deaf?” or, “Why don’t you write about the things you miss seeing?” I get tired of explaining that it isn’t hard to be deaf or that I don’t regret becoming blind."

John Lee Clark:

"There’s something amiss — and missing — in publishing. Thirty million Americans are Deaf or hard of hearing. Add to that twenty-two million for the blind slice of the pie, and millions more for other groups — physical disabilities, different kinds of intelligences, and the rest — and what do we have? Nearly a quarter of the total population? Thanks to the capitalist interests driving the medical industries, that number is always growing, as more and more things are targeted as “abnormal” and in need of treatment. Disability is a major, major realm. But you wouldn’t know it from reading literary magazines or any of the “name” anthologies."

Jim Ferris: "How to change that bias? My best answer is to write the poems that you want and need to read, and keep sending stuff out there. (I’m speaking to myself as much as anyone else here.) Because there are editors and publishers and most importantly readers who are open to our work, who want our work, whether they know it before they see it or not. One of my poems is in part about rejecting messages that disabled people get about changing or at least hiding their nonconforming bodies. I have been repeatedly surprised at how powerfully that poem speaks to others who have heard such messages, particularly breast cancer survivors. I had no idea. What a robust reminder that my job is to make these little paper airplanes as well and as beautifully as I can and then sail them out into the breeze. How far they fly, where they land, what happens after they land — this is none of my business, except as it helps me to make the next airplanes better. My work is to make them and sail them — and then make more."

Jillian Weise: "May I talk about a different swindle? I was told there are speakers of poems and I believed it. When I invented disabled speakers I was told, “Those aren’t speakers. That’s you.” With minority writing, then, you don’t get the privilege of yourself. Self is constructed elsewhere. You are expected to be the speaker and represent the minority. Though, as Jim mentions, we’re not recognized as a minority yet. You are expected to be moral and teach. I think this is why Amiri Baraka wrote “Fuck poems / and they are useful.” Or what Laura Hershey meant by “Everything you say will prove something about / their god, or their economic system.”

I think there are certain kinds of disabled poems that some publishers want: the speaker overcomes disability; the speaker’s friend/relative is disabled or diagnosed; the speaker notices a disabled person on the side of the road. I avoid those poems at all costs."

Jennifer Bartlett: "Editors also may fear the considerations of “disability poetry”; real truths about prejudices and studies on the difficulties of the corporeal. No one wants to read that! It’s too scary. What people want to read in terms of disability is the aspect of how awful and difficult it can be. This leads readers to develop empathy (or her naughty sister pity), which is something they can connect with.

I have a current manuscript that questions and pushes the issue of ableism in a direct way. I’ve had a really hard time getting it published. I often am slow to publish, but sometimes I wonder whether the manuscript has been in limbo for so long due to its content. I try to imagine an able-bodied publisher who will publish a book directly challenging ableism. I do not have an answer."

from the article "disability and poetry", an interview with Jennifer Bartlett, John Lee Clark, Jim Ferris, and The Cyborg Jillian Weise, here: x

#god i adore this.#poetry #writing #ableism #disability #cripple punk #hi.

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genderqueerdykes · 1 year

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Hey uhm weired question but how does one figure out if they want to medicaly transition or not cuz I know I want to transition socially and legally but I'm still unsure if I want to medical transition or not cuz I know to have the body I want I'd need to but on the other hands there are so many hoops and hurdles to jump through and idk that even if I tried I'd succeed or if one one of the steps someone just goes "your not trans enough" And I have to start over and such I just I'm really unsure rn cuz one one hand I would love to transition and get the body I want but on the other hand I'm not entirely against my current body it's more of a meh and idk if the struggle of getting hurt and surgery is worth it

Hope this makes sence

hey i get that, it's a huge change, a lot to plan for, and a lot to think about! i think it feels very overwhelming at first when you're considering all of the possibilities, and if it's even right for you to begin with. it can be very easy to get weighed down by everything, but i am glad you're considering all the outcomes

i'd say for you, try to figure out if what you want is to change your actual physical body, or if you just want to change how people interpret you or address you. for some, people just want others to refer to them differently without having to make any changes, and that's perfectly okay. for others, there is something about their body that is amiss, and needs changing.

you don't need to experience dysphoria, if you do it's okay, but you don't have to in order to medically transition, it's just more about is there a change you WANT to see in your body? do you actually want your body to be different, or do you want to change the way you present? you can achieve the latter without any medical intervention

for me, medical transition was the answer because i wanted to be able to enhance my naturally high testosterone. i wanted to have my beard and have it be fuller. i wanted to have my body hair, and i wanted more of it. i wanted a deep voice. i wanted to look more rugged, squared, and defined. i wanted more muscle definition and i wanted to change the way the fat distributed on my body. i wanted smaller breasts and thinner hips, etc.

i think those are just a few good things to keep in mind. ask yourself what you want from transition, and don't worry, it's not a contest. i know cis people love to tell you that you have to do everything in order to be trans but there's no checklist, your transition is unique to you and you get to make the decisions, not anyone else.

i hope you're able to figure out if medical transition is right for you! either way , i support you and your journey and transition either way! you define your transness, no one else can =) take care, stay safe

#asks #answers #transition #questioning

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windblooms · 3 years

Text

inazuma girls – letting you fall asleep on them

inazuma girls × reader; reader's pronouns aren't specified. headcanons of ayaka, baal, kokomi, sara, yae miko, and yoimiya in the company of their very drowsy s/o. warnings for: power imbalances + unhealthy relationship with baal, don't let the romantic language fool you.

- ̗̀ ayaka ̖́-

if thoma were just a bit more unprofessional, then he'd be teasing her day and night about how her voice hitches the instant you look at her, or the brazen rush of color that swirls on the apples of her cheeks at the mere slip of her name from your mouth; ayaka has, on some occasions, been literally head-over-heels in the middle of the kamisato estate hallways for you, a flustered pile of arms and legs and strewn hair accessories.

"i– oh, i apologize. i wasn't watching where i was going, are you hurt?"

in other words: she's nothing but bashful in your company, and her fondness is painfully obvious, even to the untrained eye.

the first time you allow yourself to go completely limp against her shoulder, the timid kamisato actually believes that something is amiss. she immediately drops what she's doing, careful not to jostle your unconscious body, and inspects your face and pulse.

genuine astonishment isn't an expression she wears often, and it settles awkwardly onto her visage; ayaka reaches out to rub your shoulders and wake you up. perhaps you're ill, and you need to see a doctor. you probably haven't eaten enough today – all sorts of possibilities run rampant in her mind, but come to an abrupt halt once she feels you nuzzle your cheek onto her shoulder.

"oh." she gets it now.

of course, she'll still be concerned. while you're content to rest against her (and her heart keeps doing these little jumping motions, as if it's about to leap out from between her lungs – be still, poor thing), ayaka does her best to keep her figure upright so your neck doesn't crane uncomfortably. she'll also write a note to her retainers to send for a medical advisor, on the off-chance that there really is something that's causing you to feel unwell.

parts of –oh, all of her, from the tips of her ears to the extremes of her toes– are alight with the realization of your trust towards her. inazuma is so hostile nowadays, and being in connection with one of the most renowned clans in the nation can't be easy. your vulnerability, and apparent willingness to share it with her, stirs a warm, kindled sensation in her chest that seldom reoccurs with anyone else.

when you wake up, she's there for you. ready with a myriad of worries and check-ups that will surely keep the two of you preoccupied for the next hour.

- ̗̀ baal ̖́-

the relationship that the two of you share is . . . complex. for one, no one is on equal footing with the raiden shogun, nor ever will be in all of teyvat. two, well . . .

sometimes she will do things that make you feel equal. you've been conditioned your entire career –no, life– to believe that the shogun is all-mighty, barren of competition, and without any obligation to lower herself.

and you still think that. how could you not, when she holds your gaze hostage and curls her voice around your throat, trickles lightning through your bones and bends your knees with just the tilt of her crown–

but she lingers on your figure, beckons you to her side when her other retainers are dismissed, and asks you to stay for tea. her brow eases when you're just an arm's reach away, and you can see the faintest, nearly imperceptible tug of her lower lip between her teeth.

you don't dare protest in these instances, nor verbalize any curiosities. what the raiden shogun wants is her business, and you have no right to interfere.

if only you could tell your mind that, and ingrain it into your soul.

"if there is nothing else to say," she vocalizes one evening, studying your bowed figure on the tatami matt. however, she isn't addressing you, but the other attendants and scouts in her presence, "then you may leave."

the raiden shogun's gaze doesn't falter from you, a silent, unavoidable command, as you rise to your feet and take your place at her side.

this is what celestia is like, you determine as the shogun's palm hovers above your shoulder blades. if it isn't, then what else is?

you don't know (nor do you really want to, apprehensive of an answer to) what the two of you are. perhaps you're her pet, obedient to her whim and incapable of retaliation. yet that fondness in her irises . . . the violet inferno is absent when your eyes meet, and instead, you're only witness to a morning ocean.

"rest." she traces the words into your back, too, and your shoulders sag immediately. with open arms, the shogun welcomes you into her embrace, visage void of any distinct emotion as she cradles your form for the remainder of the night.

- ̗̀ kokomi ̖́-

"that's the last of our tasks today. you look a bit weary – would you like to retire for the day?"

with the lilt in her voice airy and serene, she manages to lure you into her tranquil reef. kokomi's clothes are so inviting to your senses, wafting of seabreeze and island ganoderma, and her smile . . . you'd probably be sent into cardiac arrest, since merely observing her makes your heart halt in your chest.

the sleeves of her dress tickle your cheeks, and boop against your nose. curtains drawn closed and with only candlelight to illuminate the room, the ambiance is much more intimate than in her office. there have been a handful of instances when she's worn herself out and collapsed on atrociously-strewn heaps of books, and you've had to craft a make-shift cot in the study. but thankfully those occurrences are seldom, and the two of you can enjoy the quietude of her room.

lethargy softens the skin underneath her eyes. concerned, you reach out a slow hand to brush the displaced hair from her forehead, but she catches your fingers in her own. she offers her signature, reassuring smile.

within moments, a small jellyfish materializes on her fingertips, just next to yours. it dances and pedals down your arm, over the ridge of your shoulder, and nuzzles your head affectionately. kokomi's quaint laughter follows.

she starts. "we made lots of progress today, and each hour was worth it. the resistance will be glad to hear of our accomplishments. but i can't go out there and speak without my lucky guppy." on queue, a watery string rubs against your cheek. the jellyfish, pleased with itself, evaporates into a light shower of hydro.

"so we should rest now. don't run that ingenious mind of yours in circles."

and what the lady sangonomiya decrees is what shall be done. she cranes her neck to give you a gentle kiss on your lips, content, before squeezing your hand. she observes as your eyes drift shut, and your chest rises and falls evenly.

kokomi falls asleep after ruminating of future days when she won't have to worry about protecting your resting form, because in the future, it'll be guaranteed.

- ̗̀ sara ̖́-

there isn't any instance that you can recall in which sara is at ease. shoulders drawn back and bow at the ready, ruthless efficiency is seemingly her only disposition. even in the face of you, her treasured and loyal tenryou companion, she has yet to let down her guard, or objective for that day.

you worry that's all there is to her. callous meticulousness and pragmaticism for such a devout, unwavering soul to the shogun. there's more to her, there has to be, you wish. not just for yourself to alleviate the shock of her piercing words as they puncture your ears, but for her. she shouldn't just live her life under one goal, one purpose. as prestigious as serving the shogun is, there has to be more to the reason of celestia's blessings than serving others.

the trek today has been laborious. tracking down the resistance is, unfortunately, a tedious chore, and the rest of the soldiers that accompany the two of you have withdrawn to their bedding for the night. sara sits, silent on the lake shore, eyes transfixed on the stark outline of seirai island. tepid yet hopeful, you approach her figure, softly calling out her name as she turns to greet you in the moonlight.

"is there something you'd like to speak about?" she curtly prompts, verbiage formal. you shake your head, and gradually ease yourself down to her side. "it would be best for you to head in soon. the clouds won't be merciful tonight."

again, you shake your head. sara doesn't say anything else, leaving you in the stillness of the night. all of a sudden, your eyelids feel heavy.

"i might . . . actually . . . " you murmur, and sara is quick to turn her head towards you. you seem to sway, and she suppresses the urge to reach out and support you; that would be unprofessional, after all, so she settles for a sigh.

after thoroughly asking for permission, sara wraps an arm under yours, bearing the weight of your body as she helps you to your tent. you're still partially awake, as your feet don't completely drag against the dirt, but she doesn't take any short-cuts. lowering you onto your cot, sara tugs the blankets over your figure, mutely observing as you float to sleep.

another deep exhale. in the morning, she'll ask the kujou physician to ensure that you're in adequate health to continue following the resistance.

- ̗̀ yae miko ̖́-

her eyes lift from the article in her hands as soon as she catches your figure at the tips of her vision. the edges of her lips quirk up slightly, lipgloss shining in the sakura light, as she extends a lithe arm to greet you.

"tell me," she murmurs sweetly, and you sink into her embrace. the weather is pleasant outside the shrine, and the two of you are sheltered from the poisoning at the base of the great tree. although she doesn't tell you aloud, yae does find solace away from the bustle of onlookers. her wit is quick and prowess, unmatched, but a maiden such as herself does deserve her withdrawals every once in a while.

"the day's been kind to you, hasn't it." it's a statement, as if she's seen your afternoon through a crystal ball. there's no envy, nor any other negative sentiment, behind her claim; in fact, yae allows her facial features to soften, rubbing a lone thumb along your side as you sink further into her hold.

"you can sleep. some suns needn't be alert."

a hum emanates from you in response. she speaks cryptically, and those familiar with her have the inkling she does so on purpose. you don't pay any mind to her coy mannerisms, and instead, listen to what she means: yae draws a landscape of the countryside in your mind, air fresh from a meadow and a breeze that carries tales from far away lands.

yae affords an indulgent laugh, lowers her body until her back is flush against the petal-covered ground, before puppetting your figure after her. with your head on her breasts, the priestess threads her fingers through your hair, fixated on how they fall back after she finishes toying with them.

her chest rises, then falls. with her heartbeat, you have a lullaby of the shrine itself, whispering into your ear and caressing your skin.

although yae closes her eyes, she doesn't drift like you do. she still intakes the mumbling of inazuma denizens from up the shrine, and the zephyr codings in the wind. eventually, her hand falls, and she indulges herself by allowing it to collapse on top of yours.

yes. some suns needn't be alert.

- ̗̀ yoimiya ̖́-

"what say you and i get some treats after the festival? did'ya hear – apparently there's this fellow from kannazuka who's really popular for making taiyaki . . . "

it's always lively with her around. any other stranger to yoimiya's eccentricity would probably be left with whiplash, since her pace is break-neck and adaptability, unparalleled. but to her jubilation, you seem eager enough to keep up.

the past month especially has been hectic, with non-stop preparations for the plethora of summer festivals in inazuma. yoimiya has been in and out of the work shop more times than you can count on your two hands, yet never relents.

you've even taken care to help out where you can, the pyrotechnician carving out breaks to teach you how fireworks operate, how to process orders, so on and so forth.

you're practically apart of the business now, and yoimiya ensures to compensate you with plenty of gifts and kisses.

this is one of the last festivals of the summer season, much to both your relief and despondency. the two of you are understandably exhausted, although yoimiya doesn't wear the fatigue on her sleeve as much as you do; that's just how she is, still insistent on enjoying the festival that the two of you contributed your time to make shine.

"waah, there's a good spot up ahead! c'mon, let's go there."

with snacks in-hand, you plop down next to her. she's right (as always): there isn't any foliage to obscure the twinkling sky above, nor too many nearby individuals that'll smudge your alone-time. content, you nestle closer to her, the melody of distant chatter and pacified onikabuto gradually dulling your senses . . .

of course, yoimiya notices when your breathing evens out and you're just a bit heavier against her arm. briefly, she detracts herself from the colorful, explosive display above to fold her legs and lower your head onto her thighs.

her fingers are nimble against your scalp, carding through your hair. you're none the wiser to her care, even as the blasts above dwindle off and the shore overtakes the ambiance at midnight.

#genshin impact x reader #ayaka x reader #baal x reader #raiden shogun x reader #kokomi x reader #yoimiya x reader #yae miko x reader #sara x reader #ayaka kamisato x reader #kamisato ayaka x reader #sara kujou x reader #kujou sara x reader #raiden shogun headcanons #baal headcanons #baal scenarios #yoimiya headcanons #yae guuji x reader #yoimiya scenarios #kokomi headcanons

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angry-geese · 2 years

Text

After Hours - Chapter 1: Understaffed

Tags: strip club au, bartender!reader

Pairings: [sukuna x reader], toji x reader, nanami x reader, shoko x reader, gojo & geto x reader, choso x reader

Warnings: blood and injury, bar fights, swearing lol. canon typical violence (technically?). mention of alcohol use. overall sfw

Synopsis: Should some cruel higher power—a god or whatnot—decide to make your life any more miserable, it wouldn't take all that much effort. Between the cafe you worked at having to close down, and your (ex) boyfriend deciding things weren't working out and leaving you to fend for yourself in a city you weren't familiar with, you were beginning to think things couldn't get any worse.

a/n: this chapter is basically just an introduction and entirely plot based so there's no smut yet lol. heavy focus on sukuna in this chapter, however the other chapters will focus more on the rest of the cast

[since i have another longer project im currently working on, there is not a set schedule this series will update on, however i will generally post on here updates about new chapters :)]

Wc: 3.2k

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Should some cruel higher power—a god or whatnot—decide they want to make your life any more miserable, it wouldn't take much effort. Between the cafe you were working at shutting down, and your (ex) boyfriend deciding things weren't working out and leaving you to fend for yourself in a city you hardly know anything about—let alone have contacts in—you were beginning to think things couldn't possibly get worse. But you should know by now not to tempt fate by saying that, because things can always get worse.

The cafe shutting down came as a complete surprise. As far as appearances went, business seemed good. The owner—an elderly man by the name of Niwata—made enough money to put both of his children through college, and afford for his wife to retire early. But new businesses moved into the neighborhood, eventually pushing out the smaller mom-and-pop owned shops. The building, which was already quite old when this shop first opened up, began running down, and with no money left over to fix it up, it remained that way. Yet throughout all of this, Mr. Niwata never let it slip that something was amiss. Even as medical bills for himself and his wife piled up, he was always tight-lipped when it came to the matters of money. And you never questioned it, as you were never given a reason to.

You're not sure what the breaking point was. Some of your coworkers must have sensed something was up, and fled to more stable work. Yet you remained, as the tips were good, and pay covered your rent. City living isn't cheap after all. Not wanting to face the uncertainty of finding new work, nor having to move back in with your parents, you figured you would weather things out.

Mr. Niwata would stay behind and count the registers, and you would sweep; that’s how most shifts ended. Normally such a task doesn't take you all that long, but you liked chatting with him. He became the closest thing to a friend you had after you were stranded in this city. At the end of each of your shifts, he made sure you would make it to the train station on time. And any leftover pastries that you wanted were yours, as they’d just go bad anyway.

He broke down one day, as you were finishing your closing duties. That morning he seemed sick. But with his already ongoing health issues, you hadn't thought much of it.

You stood with a broom in hand, looming over a stack of clean dishes that needed to be put away. Closing took longer than usual. There was a group of students that showed up right before you were supposed to close, and Mr. Niwata couldn't turn them away.

From the register, he collected a mix of bills. All together it made a little under ten thousand yen. You stopped sweeping long enough to shoot him a confused look.

"The shop’s closing," he said, "I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner, but this business with your boyfriend- I don't want to make excuses. I should have told you sooner. But I wanted to spare you any more bad news."

"You're going out of business?"

"Not necessarily. I've got an offer to buy the shop. It's enough to pay for my retirement, and hopefully give you enough cash to get back on your feet," he held the cash from the register out to you, "here. Take this. Count it as your tips for the day."

"I can't take your money."

"Didn't they teach you not to argue with someone older than you?" He asked. He tried to feign some kind of sternness, but he couldn't quite seem to commit to it. “And besides, it's the least I can do. They're coming by the shop in the morning, so don't leave anything behind tonight."

You accept the wad of bills, and stuff them in the front of your apron.

“I'll have your last paycheck by Friday,” he said. “If you want to stop by here to pick it up. Or, I could drop it off at your apartment. Do you need a ride home?"

Having only lived in Tokyo for three months at the time, and doing so entirely with your boyfriend (ex, you guess you can say that now), losing your job was devastating. Between a messy breakup, and draining your savings just trying to survive, you weren't sure what to do with your life. Moving back in with your parents wasn't an option, and you haven't spent much time out and about in Tokyo to make many friends. Appreciating the city wasn't something you could truly do until you had broken up. And now that you're no longer together, you don't have the money to do much exploring.

You're tired of this place, and all the people in it. Of making the mistake of dating a man who’d just dump you off in this place. Of being left to fend for yourself.

For you, adult life was one disappointment after another. Everyone made the city out to seem like this amazing thing, but really, it's nothing special. Cities are, well, cities. They're practically all the same. You came to Tokyo because things were supposed to be different. Life here was supposed to be better than that out in the country. But really, it felt like you were shoved from one forest, into a completely new one.

And then came the Herculean task of finding another job in a city that was seemingly hiring no one. You’ve applied to just about every place on this side of tokyo. Everyone is either not hiring, doesn't pay enough to cover your rent, or demanding something well out of your skillset.

Did you want to apply at various clubs in a shady neighborhood in Tokyo? No. Do you have much of a choice? Also no.

You're desperate, and tired of eating pre-packaged ramen.

Your experience at the cafe, combined with a past job as a bartender, leaves you with the skills necessary for this kind of work.

The offer didn't seem too good to be true. It was quite the opposite. You would be working an entry bartending position (graveyard shift��graveyard shift isn't ideal, although you’re not too against it), and you got paid lunches and breaks. The full-time position even offered paid vacation time. The pay wasn't anything amazing, but any tips you would earn would make up for that.

The owner himself seemed a bit standoffish over the phone. That alone should have been a reason for you to turn back, and apply somewhere else. But this offer wasn't outwardly suspicious, and desperate times call for desperate measures. While not a glamorous position by any means, it was simply survival.

So you applied. And within the same day, you were called in to do an interview.

You've heard rumors about the owner—who hasn't? Ryomen Sukuna, a man rumored to be an ex-yakuza. The tattoos are a dead giveaway. Plenty of people have them, sure. It's becoming more and more accepted to have them. But generally, especially with the younger people that get them, they're not so visible. How he managed to leave his previous line of work is up for debate. Some say he took out an entire enemy hideout in a night. But you know real life is nothing like a video game, and that such a feat is unlikely.

Still, you’re faced with an undeniable nervousness as you cross the street towards the bar, purse under one shoulder, umbrella under the other. The news called for rain this morning. Steeling yourself, you fish your tube of lipstick out of your purse, applying some. The repetitive, familiar action does help calm you down a bit.

The interview itself should be simple enough. Look pretty, show you can make a few drinks, and have decent people skills. All three things you can manage.

The bar is nestled between a run-down laundromat, and what used to be a plumbing supply store. It's certainly an interesting neighborhood. This building looks like it could have had apartments in it at one point, but you doubt they get much use anymore. The front windows are dark, and the only thing signaling that this place is open, is a neon sign out front.

You must have come early, as the music is off, and the overhead lights are on. The room smells faintly of lemon floor cleaner, cologne, and cigarettes.

Ryomen Sukuna is far more terrifying in person. He’s sitting at the bar, elbows resting on it, chatting idly with a blonde man. That you're certain of. You can deal with assholes over the phone—that’s a talent of yours—and you like to think you can hold your own in a conversation, but even you have your limits. The man is quite possibly huge. He’s nearly a foot taller than you—hell, probably more than that, the man is huge—with tattoos running up both of his arms. Even sat down he’s eye to eye with you. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and what looks to be another tattoo crests out from under it. Expensive cologne is practically dripping off of him.

"You called me in for an interview earlier," you say, and introduce yourself, holding your hand out for him to shake it.

When he stands, you feel yourself dwarfed by this Adonis of a man. He looks you up and down. Part of you wishes to shrink back under his gaze, but you restrain yourself from doing so.

“You’re not our… typical demographic, but that doesn't mean you can't work.” He says, pinching a lock of your hair between his fingers. It takes everything within you to not slap him there and then. "You look… different enough that I think you could pull it off. Your people skills do need some work though,

"Changing rooms are over there. Showers are on the second floor. So are the lockers, if you need to store your things during your shift,

"So, some ground rules: theft and fighting won't be tolerated. I catch you fighting someone in my club and I'm throwing your ass out on the street myself. You get caught messing with another dancer's belongings and it's the same thing. Tips aren't pooled. Be sure to gather the money off the floor after each set or it's up for grabs by anyone—customer or not.”

"What?"

"Your audition," he says, tapping his foot expectancy.

“I'm uh- applying to be a bartender,” you say.

It's as if a switch has been flipped. His expression softens considerably. Sukuna sucks in a breath, saying a soft “shit”, before standing, and motioning for you. “Cmon,” he says, “we’ll conduct your interview over here."

He leads you to an adjacent room, one that is far better lit than the previous. Sukuna asks you a few questions, ones along the lines of “have you ever been convicted of a felony?” and other basic things about your past jobs. Whether or not he’s impressed, you can't tell; his expression remains the same throughout the entire interview.

"As you may have guessed, we're a bit short handed when it comes to bartenders." He says. "Shoko can only work so much overtime. And Nanami—that blonde guy behind the counter over there—has been filling in where he can, but with his knee injury, there's only so much standing a day he can do,

"Generally you're not going to be serving anything more complicated than shots. But still, occasionally other things will be ordered." Sukuna continues. "VIP rooms typically order by the bottle. As I'm sure you've noticed, vodka is down there, and the champagne is in that cabinet. So are the glasses. Usually whoever is working in the private room will bring the booze, so don't worry about that,

"And I know you're not dumb enough to do this, but I have to tell it to every new hire: don't drink during your shift. If a customer is hounding you to take a shot with them, there's a Grey Goose bottle filled with water right by the glasses. And if the customer is real pushy, get either me, or Toji—that guy over there. You see the one with the scar? We'll sort him out real quick."

"What's the pay look like?" You ask.

"You get paid by the hour, plus you're part of a tip pool between the other two bartenders." He then proceeds to list a number that'll pay your rent at least twice over. "Closing shift gets paid slightly better because it's busier. Tips are better too. Harder work, really."

"And I'm just bartending," you ask, "you're not going to have me do anything else?"

"You may be asked to do some janitorial work, but that's pretty much it,

"Toji and I are technically security. Again, if a customer is ever giving you more trouble than you can handle, come to one of us.”

From his front pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Menthols.

"I've read over your resume—and I'm interested. Would you be able to work a training shift tonight? You'll be helping me run the bar for a few hours since Shoko's out." He says. "Thursdays are pretty slow, so don't worry about there being a bunch of customers. Since you've had bartending experience in the past, I don't think a full training shift is necessary, but there's still certain things to go over."

"That depends—how late do you need me to stay?" You ask.

"I'll pay you for a 5pm to 10pm shift." He says. "Technically it's short enough that you don't get a lunch, but I'll let you keep any tips you make tonight."

Shady. At least you're getting paid.

At the very least, you figure if you hate the job enough, you'll call him tomorrow and tell him you're not fit for the position.

“I’ll do it.” You say.

You swear you see the corners of his lips twitch. A look of relief briefly flashes across his face.

The next three hours of the night are rather uneventful. You don't have to do a whole lot other than sit and look pretty, but not as pretty as the dancers. Though, you’re getting paid by the hour, so you suppose there's not a whole lot to complain about. About halfway through your shift, Sukuna gets a call. He disappears into the back, leaving you alone out front. Though things are pretty slow, so there's not a whole lot for you to do. Occasionally people will come by and ask for shots. Tequila usually. You’re not sure where all the chasers are, though.

"How are you settling in?" He asks. Sukuna's voice comes from somewhere behind you.

"Pretty good," you say, "it's taking me a bit to figure out where everything is though—where are the limes?"

Sukuna whips his head around, before sighing, and saying, "I think I forgot to bring them out this morning. I'll get them from the back. Hold tight."

His fingers brush against your lower back as he steps away. He's hardly gone for a minute before the next customer comes in. A man steps up to the bar, absolutely reeking of booze. He asks for a rum and coke. Simple enough. You go a little light on the rum, seeing as he’s shitfaced already.

He appears a bit agitated, and is pacing, but you chalk that up to the alcohol. Booze makes some people just a bit… weird. You greet him with your best customer service voice, cheerily asking what you can get for him. What draws your attention is the set of keys he pulls from his pocket.

“Did you drive here?” You ask. “I can call you a cab.”

He ignores you.

“Hey, I can't let you drive home in this state,” you say. “I'll call a cab. I’ll cover it. Just let me know when you're-”

The man lunges forward, seizing you by the shirt collar. Your nails leave little red stripes down the side of his cheek. And it's as if a switch has been flipped. He goes from mad, to furious.

The music switches off—a short break between sets—leaving the bar uncharacteristically quiet. You gain enough leverage to pry yourself free, seeking refuge behind the bar.

Sukuna grabs a glass from the counter, swinging it into the back of the man’s head. The cup shatters on impact, spraying glass shards across the bar. Tiny shards litter the ground, glinting in the dim light much like glitter. He falls flat on his face, and it sounds like he’s snoring. The cut on his temple is hardly visible, but it bleeds. Badly.

Is he… dead?

"Sukuna!" You're too shocked to shout anything other than his name.

The expression on his face is unreadable, but you don't have to be a genius to know that he’s pissed. Sukuna grabs the smaller, unconscious man by the shirt, dragging him towards the exit.

“You. Outside. Now.” He says, motioning to you.

The contents of your stomach seem to turn to cement. You’re certain you’re now a few shades paler. The cool air feels nice against your burning face.

Sukuna drags the man out the door, leaving him face down between two dumpsters. This back alley smells vaguely of spoiled milk, and something oddly sweet. You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat is seemingly stuck there.

Sukuna pulls a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter from his pocket. You decline when he offers you one. "I watched him getting a little too handsy with Kento earlier," he says, "I was going to kick his ass out sooner, but he slipped away on me,

“Are you alright?” Sukuna turns to you to ask. “Did he hurt you?”

“Nah, just startled me,” you say. “That's all.”

Sukuna nods, but his expression says anything but agreeance. He joins you in sitting on the steps. You can smell his cologne from here. And it should be a nice smell, but really, it just makes you nauseous.

“Wanna take a few swings at him? Cops won't be here for a while. I’ll say it was me that did it—they’re a lot less likely to haul my ass in for a domestic disturbance.”

True. A man is less likely to be arrested for a petty fight than a woman is for defending herself. Gotta love living in the city…

"No," you say, after a moment of consideration, "just leave him out here with the garbage."

You gather a wad of blood and saliva in your mouth, before spitting it out onto his back.

"I'll get you some ice." He says.

"For what?"

"Your hand," he says, "looks like you got that guy pretty good."

Sukuna groans as he stands. Rain clouds gather overhead. Bad weather for an even worse mood. How fitting. You suppose you spoke too soon about the rain. Slowly a dull ache spreads through your knuckles. There's no blood, but dark bruises are beginning to bloom under your skin. He returns a moment later with a ziplock bag full of ice cubes, and a towel. He takes your hand in one of his much larger ones, pressing the ice pack against it. Despite everything about him being quite rough, his hands are gentle, and warm.

"I completely understand if you no longer wish to work for us." He says. "I must say, what happened tonight is not a normal occurrence. Such a thing isn’t-"

"Sukuna," you say, interrupting him, "I'll take the job."

#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk #sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #toji x reader #nanami x reader #shoko x reader #choso x reader #satosugu x reader #i feel weird tagging the rest of the cast that isnt in this chapter but theyre a pretty big part of this fic so its fitting ig #after hours #this was soooo close to getting called after dark

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heyiwrotesomethings · 3 years

Text

Feeding the Weary Traveler

Mitsuri Kanroji x She/Her Reader

A/N: Warnings for this one are homophobia and a mention of physical assault. Let me know if you think I should mention anything else. It’s a relatively light story considering. I usually like to keep the sexuality of the reader undiscussed so it could be anything, but this time around reader doesn’t seem to be interested in men in the slightest. It’s only a couple of lines but just a heads up. Hope you like it! Sorry if there are more errors than usual. My internet is painfully slow and it makes uploading a chore and a half. Word Count: 6,388

Mitsuri hummed happily to herself as she surveyed the various food stalls lighting up the night around her. She wasn’t sure where she should begin, it all looked so good! She was so lucky to have stumbled upon this bustling little village, and during a festival no less! This dinner was going to be legendary! Hopefully there would be an inn nearby where she could rest between missions and take some time to enjoy it all.

Mitsuri decided that the sweet dango stall was calling her name so she made her way over there first and purchased four skewers. She chewed happily as she walked around and tried to decide what to try next. The dango tasted so good she had half a mind to go back and get a couple more.

The Hashira was about to approach a yakitori stall as she finished her last dango when her crow landed none too gracefully in the dirt beside her. She flapped her wings frantically, her little clover shaped crown slightly askew.

Mitsuri whined as she chewed the last bit of dango before swallowing it down. It looked like dinner was over before it really even started. Well, when duty calls...

She cast one last longing glance at the sizzling meats and followed after her crow out of the village’s well lit valley and into the dark mountains above. Lives could be on the line, dinner could wait.

Mitsuri scaled the rugged terrain, hopping from tree to tree. Her crow flapped erratically just ahead, guiding her to whatever demon was wreaking havoc tonight. Her fingers wrapped tightly over the hilt of her blade as the air became heavy with an overwhelming dense dread that could only be brought on by the demon’s bloodlust.

Mitsuri unfurled her blade and kicked off of the next tree branch particularly hard as a scream ripped through the craggy boulders. A few more leaps and bounds.., she did not slow, a scream could mean many things, it wasn’t over yet. They could still be alive!

Her crow cawed in alarm just as Mitsuri’s eyes locked onto a struggle in the brambles below. Almost on instinct, she cracked her whip-like blade over the demon’s grotesque form, causing it to shriek. The Hashira twirled in the air to land in front of the beast and the young woman trapped and writhing beneath it.

“Get off of her, you miserable fiend!” Mitsuri commanded, readying her blade to lash at the demon again.

The demon wailed again in anger, crushing the dirt beside its hostage’s head before tearing off into the forest in an attempt to get away from the powerful newcomer.

“Oh no you don’t!” Mitsuri called after it, cracking her nichirin blade over its retreating form. The blade sliced into the tendons in the back of one of its legs, causing it to tumble to the ground. Before it could skitter off to heal, Mitsuri swung her blade around again. The specially forged metal curled around the demon’s neck and with one clean yank, it’s head came clean off.

The slayer stayed alert, scanning the area for any other nearby threats. An exhausted caw from her crow alerted her that it was safe to let her guard down. She quickly turned on her heel to asses the young woman’s condition, observing her as she shakily got to her knees.

Her kimono was ripped and dirtied. Blood seemed to be seeping through her cloth of her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and frightened while her breath came shallow and quick.

“Are you alright?” Mitsuri spoke gently, slowly moving into the girl’s line of vision. She didn’t want to scare her anymore than she already had been tonight.

“I don’t know,” she said between gasping breaths, “I, I’m alive. That’s something.” She tried to get to her feet, but something twinged in her ankle and she fell back to her knees.

Mitsuri knelt at her side in concern.

The girl would need some medical attention. “My name is Kanroji Mitsuri. What’s your name?”

“(L/n) (Y/n).” She shakily replied.

“Let me help you home, (L/n)-san. Do you live in the village down below?” Mitsuri asked, helping (Y/n) to her feet, carrying most of her weight for her.

“No,” (Y/n) answered quickly, almost as if the insinuation pained her, “no, I don’t. I live here, in the mountains. My cottage isn’t too far from here.”

“I’ll help you get home, (Y/n)-san. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands.” Mitsuri assured.

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

Mitsuri eyed the young woman sympathetically. The poor dear was still shaken, but managed to direct Mitsuri in the direction of her home while the Hashira carefully held her up, guiding her through the tough terrain.

Mitsuri frowned at the sight of the worn down shack as it came into view, this couldn’t be it, could it?

“There, I live there.” (Y/n) proclaimed, her voice laced with exhaustion. She must have been able to feel the shift in Mitsuri’s mood at the declaration because she then added, “It’s not much, but it’s home. I built it myself even.”

“Do you live here alone?” Mitsuri couldn’t help but ask, slightly horrified.

“I do.” (Y/n) affirmed, missing Mitsuri’s open-mouthed, wide-eyed shock when she stumbled towards the weathered door. “Thank you again, for saving me and bringing me back home.”

“You’re welcome but...” Mitsuri tried to find words but none would come finally she just shook her head and followed (Y/n)’s stumbling form to the door. “Do you have any medical supplies? Let me help patch you up.”

“I have some things. I’m not sure how helpful they’ll be. You needn’t concern yourself. You’ve done so much for me already, Kanroji-san.”

“Your shoulder could get infected without proper care and your ankle looks sprained or even broken. Let me see what I can do. We might need to take you to the village, there’s got to be a doctor down there.”

(Y/n) shook her head furiously, wincing a bit and grasping her head soon after, “I’m not going into town for anything. I’ll invite you to do what you can here, but that’s where I draw the line.”

Mitsuri was concerned by the girl’s reluctance to go to the village, but she took (Y/n)’s offer and entered the small shack. She was surprised by how homey the inside looked once (Y/n) lit a few lanterns. Not only that, but it smelt heavenly inside.

(Y/n) cursed under her breath as she hobbled over to some kind of makeshift oven and carefully peaked inside before sighing in relief and opened it fully. “It didn’t burn! Thank the gods for small favors I guess.”

“What have you got there, (L/n)-san? It smells very good in here.” Mitsuri said, holding a hand over her stomach in an attempt to quiet its rumbling.

“Bread. Please, help yourself. It’s the least I can offer for all of your help tonight.”

“Really? Thank you!” Mitsuri was practically glowing at the invitation before she remembered why she was here in the first place. “Later! First, let’s check you over.”

(Y/n) gestured to another corner of the space to a wobbly, rustic shelf next to a futon so flat it couldn’t possibly be comfortable to sleep on. Mitsuri’s heart went out to this girl. She couldn’t be too far off from her in age, this was no way to live, and alone no less.

Mitsuri recovered the tin sitting atop the bottom shelf and motioned the girl to sit on the ground as she noted there were no chairs. She kneeled beside (Y/n)’s injured shoulder. A pained grunt rumbled at the back of the hermit’s throat as she painstakingly loosened and lowered the fabric around her shoulders, baring the bloody claw marks to the Hashira.

“Oh you poor dear...” Mitsuri cooed as she gently probed the torn flesh. At least it wasn’t too deep.

“It’s fine,” (Y/n) shivered and looked away, “could you wrap me up now please. Try to be sparing with the bandages if possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Mitsuri frowned. She disinfected and wrapped the wound as Shinobu had shown her during her first aid training and managed to only use about a third of the already meager roll. “There,” she gently patted (Y/n)’s shoulder, “that’s all set. Now I just need a look at that ankle. Oh my, it’s swollen pretty bad. We’ll need to elevate it and you should really lay down.”

“I am pretty tired,” (Y/n) sighed wearily, pulling her kimono back up over her shoulders. “Could you help me up?”

“Of course!” Mitsuri eagerly replied, easily scooping (Y/n) up in her arms and standing to her full height.

(Y/n)’s hands scrambled for purchase on Mitsuri’s uniform from the sudden movement. Once she realized Mitsuri’s hold on her was solid and unwavering she relaxed a bit before pulling her hands back to her own chest and jerking her head outwards away from the pale expanse of the demon slayer’s chest. If at all possible, she was sure steam would roll out of her ears like active geysers.

Mitsuri didn’t notice anything amiss and took the few steps needed to lay (Y/n) down in the sad little bed. Then she paid careful attention to (Y/n)’s leg, tilting and rotating it while getting feedback from the girl.

“Well, I don’t think it’s broken, but you should definitely stay off of it for awhile.” Mitsuri informed, feeling anxious. “So you know anyone nearby? Someone that can assist you with your recovery?”

“I’ll be just fine, trust me.” (Y/n) had said.

“That um, didn’t really answer my question.” Mitsuri smiled a bit tightly as more worry settled in her heart. “Do you have family nearby, friends, close acquaintances?”

“If you must know,” (Y/n) weakly spat, “there isn’t anyone. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for nearly two years now.” She finished bitterly.

Mitsuri flinched back at (Y/n)’s tone and the bedridden girl immediately felt bad. She was only trying to help after all. (Y/n) would have been dead without her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.”

“It’s alright. You’ve had a hard night,” Mitsuri patted (Y/n)’s hand reassuringly. “I’ll just have to watch over you then.”

“Cawww!”

Mitsuri looked over her shoulder at her crow, flapping and comically sweating buckets from her uneasy perch on the windowsill.

“I can take care of myself,” (Y/n) voiced her stance once more, “besides, it looks like your work isn’t over yet. Take a couple loafs for the road as thanks. You’ll need to keep your strength up.”

“I couldn’t.” Mitsuri shook her head. The girl already had so little, it would be a crime to take advantage. She was already paid plenty as a Hashira, she could hold out for a few more hours.

“I insist. I make more than I know what to do with. Quite a bit gets thrown to the wildlife.”

“Well, if you’re sure...” Mitsuri’s resolve crumbled like loose gravel. She was hungry, and the bread smelled really, really good. If (Y/n) was going to insist, how could she say no? Then Mitsuri straightened as an idea formed in her mind. (Y/n) startled as Mitsuri loudly smacked her hands together.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, tomorrow before the sun sets!” Mitsuri said with conviction.

“What?” (Y/n) blinked, watching Mitsuri pack three loafs of bread into a rucksack before giving it back to her crow to fly off with.

“I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you.” Mitsuri said before taking a bite out of a fourth loaf of bread. “Mmm, this is so good!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I have to get going now, but I’ll be back! Keep your weight off that ankle and don’t strain yourself!” Mitsuri called as she opened the front door.

“No, wait, Kanroji-san!”

But she was already gone, the door closed tightly behind her before she ran off headlong into the dangerous night.

“And she’s gone,” (Y/n) sighed, “just who is she anyway? She’s practically superhuman,” she covered her face in the crook of her good arm, “and she’s really pretty.”

***

By morning Mitsuri was halfway through her last loaf of bread and standing before the familiar sight of the Butterfly Estate. After seeing the state of (Y/n)’s medical supplies, Mitsuri thought it prudent to visit Shinobu and procure a kit for the girl.

“Mitsuri, hello.” Shinobu greeted upon looking up from her microscope. “What brings you here today?”

“Shinobu, you have to help me,” Mitsuri immediately started in, “I saved a girl last night and she got a roughed up a bit before I got to her. Can you help me make a medical kit for her?”

“Of course I’ll help you,” Shinobu smiled, “but I must ask, why not just take her to a civilian doctor? Surely they would be able to provide the help she may need.”

“She lives alone in the mountains. She seems to have a bad relationship with the village in the valley below, but I don’t know why.”

“Just be careful then,” Shinobu warned, “who knows, you might be dealing with a criminal.”

“No way!” Mitsuri gasped, waving the last couple bites of bread in front of Shinobu’s face, “Could a criminal make bread this good? I think not!”

“Please stay vigilant regardless,” Shinobu giggled before switching gears, “now, tell me what happened last night.”

Mitsuri explained the situation the best she could, detailing (Y/n)’s injuries and what supplies she had left. Shinobu helped her pack up a new med kit that would not only replenish (Y/n)’s supplies, but give her some other helpful medicines that she didn’t have initially. Mitsuri thanked Shinobu with a tight hug that forced her fellow Pillar to dangle in the air for a few moments before being lowered to the ground once more. Then she made her way off the property, running off into the woods. She had a lot of ground to cover before sunset.

After a few hours of travel Mitsuri was feeling peckish. She had unfortunately finished the last loaf of bread before leaving Shinobu’s estate and didn’t have time to replenish her snack sack that her crow carried for her. If she was lucky, maybe the festival she had stumbled upon last night was a multiple night event and she could stalk up once she checked on (Y/n).

With an excited hum, she practically flew up the mountain, making her way in the general direction she knew (Y/n)’s shack to be.

“Oh dear, was it a left at this boulder or a right?” Mitsuri mumbled to herself. The forest was more inviting in the evening light but it looked so different. Cautiously, she tried the left path and scoured her surroundings for anything that looked familiar.

Mitsuri had begun to grow a bit anxious, worried that she had taken a wrong turn. She took a deep breath through her nose to calm herself which was quickly followed by a few more testing scentings of the air. Something smelled delicious. She couldn’t be sure, but it was the best lead she had so far. She followed the hearty aroma and cheered to herself as the rundown, misshapen hut came into view.

The Hashira wasted no time hopping up to the door. She gave a courtesy knock and announced herself before letting herself inside. She smiled to herself as she imagined how happy (Y/n) would be to have such an arsenal of medicinal goods. That smile quickly became a shocked, open mouth of light horror upon seeing (Y/n) up and moving about her small home.

“Ah! I thought I told you not to put any weight on that ankle, you’ll hurt yourself!” Mitsuri worried. She quickly went up to (Y/n) with her arms out in front of her like (Y/n) would collapse at any moment.

“I couldn’t just lay in bed all day.” (Y/n) tried to reason. “You said you were coming back so I felt the need to make dinner for you. You know, to repay you for all you’re doing for me. A little ankle pain can hardly keep me down.”

Mitsuri was touched by the gesture, it made her heart flutter with appreciation, but (Y/n) needed to follow her instructions or who knows what long term damage she would cause herself.

“It smells wonderful, (L/n)-san and I thank you endlessly, but please, lay down right now!”

“I’ve been taking breaks. I’m fine—ah!“

Ah, swept off her feet by the strong and beautiful demon slayer once again. As embarrassing as being doted on in this manner was, (Y/n) was definitely going to revisit this tender care in her dreams. Gods, she was touch starved.

“Really (L/n)-san, don’t be difficult. Let me check on your shoulder, okay?” Mitsuri didn’t even sound strained as she slowly placed (Y/n) down on the futon.

“Oh, okay.” (Y/n) fought through the fuzzy tingles, shaking them from her body as she slid her sleeve off her shoulder.

“Aw, it looks a little infected,” Mitsuri whined as she softly prodded the tender flesh, “but don’t worry! I paid a visit to a dear friend today and I’ve got everything you’ll need!”

“Kanroji-san, this is too much.” (Y/n) gaped in awe at the tightly packed tin Mitsuri presented to her.

“Not at all! Now, hold still while I apply some of this cream.” Mitsuri beamed before swirling the cool salve over the cuts. (Y/n) flinched a bit but the numbing chill soon soothed the pain.

“Wow, that feels really nice.”

“Right? I can always trust Shinobu for the best!” Mitsuri proudly proclaimed as she finished re-wrapping (Y/n)’s shoulder. She then took care of (Y/n)’s ankle the way Shinobu had suggested and looked at her handiwork with pride. “There all done! Shinobu said you’ll want to keep it elevated and free of strain for at least two weeks.”

“Okay, I’ll rest where I can. Thank you.”

“No no,” Mitsuri made an ‘x’ with her arms and pouted, “none of that, you have to rest!”

“I can’t afford to rest. It’s not easy living in the mountains alone.” (Y/n) informed, her eyes shifted over Mitsuri’s shoulder at the burning embers in her ‘kitchen’, “Could you take that off the heat please?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Mitsuri shot up and stole to the dingy pot, her eyes shined upon witnessing the rich, golden broth up close. “Wow, this looks amazing!”

“I’m glad you think so, the mountains are harsh but there are plenty of resources if you know where to look. Please, help yourself.”

“Thank you so much! Here, let me get you a bowl as well. Food always tastes better with company after all.”

Mitsuri tried to prepare another bowl for (Y/n) but quickly discovered she only had one. It seemed like the more she looked at the place, the sadder it made her. (Y/n) seemed to notice the sudden downtick in the slayer’s mood and spoke up.

“Hey, I’ve got a tea mug I’ll happily drink from if you don’t mind my bad manners.” She laughed, provoking a smile from Mitsuri.

“Of course I don’t mind.”

They ate the broth and fresh bread together as they made small talk and Mitsuri was having a great time. It was rare to get to know someone she rescued like this and being able to see (Y/n) while the sun had not yet fully disappeared she got an opportunity to have a really good look at her.

Mitsuri’s face heated as (Y/n) laughed at something she said and she silently praised the forces at hand that allowed her to make it to her in time. It felt good, so very rewarding, to know such a beautiful soul’s time was not cut short by a cruel end. She wanted to keep it that way.

“Something on your mind, Kanroji-san?” (Y/n) asked, breaking Mitsuri from her thoughts with a start.

“Oh! I, um, I was just thinking about how good your food is! You know, the village down below was having a festival yesterday. I bet you could sell a lot of what you make really quickly if you set up a stall there.” Mitsuri exclaimed before diving back in.

(Y/n)’s face soured a bit at the thought, though she sighed wistfully and a sad smile crossed her lips.

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” She said before taking another sip from her chipped cup.

“Why don’t you go down to the village, (L/n)-san?” Mitsuri asked, her pastel-green eyes gazed at (Y/n)’s downcast face.

(Y/n) stayed silent for a few moments, debating with herself if it was worth delving into her strife with a girl she had only just met the night before and probably wouldn’t see again. At least, she definitely wouldn’t see her again if she were to explain her situation.

“It’s not something I’d really care to discuss. Sorry.” (Y/n) curtly replied.

“No, I’m sorry,” Mitsuri frowned, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine. It was an innocent question.” (Y/n) assured, giving Mitsuri’s knee a friendly pat before withdrawing once more.

They continued to talk about anything until the sun disappeared and the stars lit up the night sky and the lanterns were lit to illuminate the hut.

Mitsuri needed to go. The Hashira was reluctant but she wasn’t going to leave (Y/n) completely on her own just yet. She told the mountain dweller she’d come back to check on her in three days time, giggling at the girl’s surprise at the declaration. Mitsuri reasoned that (Y/n) would still need help while she recovered and although she was busy with her duties, she couldn’t in good conscious leave (Y/n) completely on her own. Especially when the girl had a tendency to skip out of much needed rest.

Mitsuri filled her rucksack to her heart’s with (Y/n)’s blessing and set off into the night. She hoped to see improvements in (Y/n)’s health when she returned in a few days.

***

The next visit went well. Mitsuri still had to scold (Y/n) for moving about, but she still, albeit a bit guiltily, heartily ate the meals (Y/n) would prepare for her upon her arrival.

Even after (Y/n) had completely healed, Mitsuri didn’t stop visiting. (Y/n) would always laugh when Mitsuri would show up unannounced, joking that feeding Mitsuri was like feeding a stray cat, she’d always come back for more. (Y/n) was happy for the company though. Very happy.

Mitsuri would also bring little things to make (Y/n)’s shack more bearable, starting with an extra set of dishes so they could properly enjoy a meal together. Before long, they considered themselves close enough to be real friends.

One night Mitsuri came by so late, she had awoken (Y/n) when she knocked on the door. (Y/n) let her in and Mitsuri nearly toppled them both over in her exhaustion.

“Hi,” Mitsuri whispered both shyly and with great exhaustion, “sorry for coming by so late. It’s just been a really long night and I think I’m about to crash any minute now. You were the closest to where I was so...”

“You know better than to think you ever need have an excuse to stop by.” (Y/n) lightly scolded. “Come lay down, are you hungry?” She asked, laying the Hashira down on the new futon that Mitsuri had brought for (Y/n) a couple visits prior.

“I could never say no to anything you make.” Mitsuri smiled, causing a prickly heat to swirl over (Y/n)’s cheeks.

(Y/n) heated up her leftovers and presented them to Mitsuri who ate them with the same vigor she would have if it was fresh.

“So good,” she sighed happily, “really, if this is what you can make in this little hut, I would die of happiness to see what you could do in a proper kitchen.”

“You flatter me, Mitsuri.” (Y/n) smiled shyly. It still gave her butterflies to speak to the demon slayer so familiarly, but it was a good feeling.

“I’m serious, (Y/n)!” Mitsuri swore, “I still maintain that I think you would do very well in the village.”

(Y/n) pursed her lips, which Mitsuri noticed straight away and mirrored before fidgeting with the now empty bowl in her hands.

“Are you ready to talk about that yet? It’s alright if you aren’t.” She hesitantly asked.

(Y/n) would be lying to herself if she thought she wasn’t nervous at the prospect of telling Mitsuri her history with the village, but she found herself wanting to share that part of her story with the sweet woman. Mitsuri had never done anything to hurt her, but that’s what made the aspect of sharing so much more frightening. What if Mitsuri became disgusted with her? Accused her of befriending her with alternative motives? But when (Y/n) met her eyes those doubts quieted and she took a deep shutters breath before blowing it all back out in one harsh breath.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to listen? It might be better if you sleep for the night first.”

Mitsuri seemed more alert already, sitting up fully in the bed and giving (Y/n) her full, undivided attention. “No, I can listen! I want to be able to understand you better and support you in anyway I can! Tell me whatever you are comfortable sharing.”

“Okay,” (Y/n) took another breath, taking a moment to decide how to proceed.

“I was born and raised in that valley, actually. My family owns an inn that doubles as a restaurant to boot.”

“That explains a lot.” Mitsuri commented with a small smile, patting at her full stomach. That earned a chuckle and a nod from (Y/n) before she continued.

“Yeah, my mom started teaching me almost as soon as I could stand on my own. She was strict, but with food that good, she was entitled to that attitude. My father took care of the inn side of things and when he wasn’t doing that, he was drinking his weight in saké.” (Y/n) took note of Mitsuri’s concern and patted her hand while flashing her a reassuring half smile.

“It wasn’t ideal, but that was just life. Incredibly, the business didn’t suffer and he never treated us badly so we saw no need to address it. I didn’t know of any other way of life so I was content where I was. Until...”

“Until what, (Y/n)?” Mitsuri cocked her head to the side.

“Until my parents arranged a marriage for me to be wed to the blacksmith’s son. The union would have brought a large sum of money to my family. The whole village seemed to know about it before I did.” (Y/n) chuckled humorlessly and shook her head while Mitsuri listened, holding herself back from jumping in to ask questions.

“They would talk over me about what I’d wear, who would be invited, even as far as when I should bare a child. I felt like everything I thought I knew was crumbling around me. I hadn’t even talked to the blacksmith’s son before. Even now I don’t recall his name. All I knew was that the idea of marrying him terrified me.”

“Did you tell your parents this?” Mitsuri couldn’t help but blurt, her eyebrows had upturned and creased her forehead.

“Yes,” (Y/n)’s eyes shadowed over as she peered down at her lap, “I admit, the middle of town wasn’t the best place to air my reservations, but they wouldn’t listen to me. They would tell me it was just cold feet or that I was overreacting. Then I had finally had it, and two days before the wedding, I screamed at my mother that I didn’t want to be married to some boy I had never talked to and made a big scene.

She had said then, since I was making such a fuss, that I must have been handing myself out to some other boy while her back was turned and it just made me so mad. I told her there was no other boy, that I didn’t want one.” (Y/n) sighed and pressed her head back against the wall.

“I told her that the only people that I had ever thought of marrying were either the grocer’s eldest daughter or the seamstress’ apprentice who had helped me at my fitting the day prior and then my mother slapped me in front of the whole village.”

Mitsuri gasped, covering her mouth. She was no stranger to the disappointment of a parent, but her parents had never laid a hand on her for any of her failed engagements.

“She was disgusted with me and word traveled fast. The blacksmith called off the arrangement, not wanting his son to have anything to do with my... perversions I think he called them. The grocer refused to sell his produce to my family and kept his daughters inside.

My father, once greatly respected, was humiliated by me and shunned by the whole village. He was furious and drunk which made for a very bad combination as you may imagine. I was severely... disciplined and locked away.

Later that night, I could hear him and my mother discussing selling me to a brothel to be trained as a courtesan. Needless to say, once I believed they were asleep I tore through the paper wall of the room I was trapped in and packed up what I could carry before I escaped into the mountains. I’ve been surviving here ever since.”

As (Y/n) finished her story, Mitsuri sniffed loudly and hiccuped, startling (Y/n) from her memories to try to comfort the demon slayer as she cried for her. Mitsuri pulled (Y/n) into her chest with such ferocity that it cracked the poor girl’s spine.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve such treatment!” The Hashira blubbered. “It was awful of me to ever suggest you go back to that terrible place devoid of love and compassion.”

(Y/n) struggled to breath and patted Mitsuri’s back. “Don’t be hard on yourself, you didn’t know. It’s okay.”

Getting all of that out there, having someone to listen and not judge her for her tale, it made (Y/n) feel so much lighter. Mitsuri kept her close and rocked their bodies side to side and how was (Y/n) not going to cry when she hadn’t been treated so tenderly since she was little. Before long, they were both sobbing messes in the corner of a dingy shack in the middle of the mountains.

By the time their bout had subsided into the occasional sniffle or the loud, gross honk of mucus being sucked back up someone’s nose, the girls had migrated to spooning on the futon with one of Mitsuri’s arms wrapped securely over (Y/n)’s side while the the other alternated between lightly scratching at the nape of (Y/n)’s neck and between her shoulder blades. The fit on the futon was tight, but neither seemed to mind.

“You know,” (Y/n) sighed, “the night you saved me I was out because there is a cliff that you can see the whole village from. I knew the festival lights would be up and I really wanted to feel the warmth I used to feel at festival season. Figures I’d be attacked by a demon before I even got there.”

“You’re going to make me cry again.” Mitsuri said, her voice coming out a tad nasally because of her stuffy nose.

“I didn’t mean for that to make you sad. I was just going to say I was glad for that night for nothing else other than I got to meet you. Thank you for sticking around, Mitsuri.”

“Now you’re being so sweet I’m gonna cry again!” Mitsuri sniffled, weakly batting at (Y/n) and making her laugh as she apologized.

“I’m glad I met you too,” Mitsuri whispered softly once they calmed down again. Then they finally went to sleep as the sun was rising.

***

“I just— mm! I don’t want her living in that rundown shack anymore. I never did! But now, I think about it all the time and I just can't stand it!” Mitsuri complained to Shinobu as the Insect Pillar tried to concentrate on the medicines she was measuring out.

“I see.” Shinobu answered simply, making a note before giving Mitsuri her full attention, “Well, if she’s as good of a cook as you keep telling me, I’m sure Aoi would be happy for another pair of hands in the kitchens.”

“What?” Mitsuri blinked.

“You know me, Mitsuri. I have a history of taking in young girls who have nowhere to go. I assume that’s why you have been telling me all of this.” Shinobu smiled mischievously, “besides, you make her sound so cute, how could I say no?”

That got a rise out of the Love Hashira.

“You—! You already have a girlfriend!” Mitsuri sputtered her face as pink as her hair at the possibility of Shinobu trying to woo (Y/n). Worse yet, the very real possibility that it would work! Mitsuri knew just how charming Shinobu could be! But thankfully, Shinobu laughed and diffused the state Mitsuri had worked herself into.

“I was only teasing, but she really can live here. I have plenty of room. I just figured you would want to keep her closer. I didn’t realize your estate was operating at full capacity.”

“Wait, say that again.” Mitsuri said, the wheels in her head turning as she tried to work backwards herself.

“(L/n)-san can live here?” Shinobu tried.

“No, after that.”

“I didn’t realize your own estate was running at full capacity. I thought you would want (L/n)-san to live with you.” Shinobu reiterated.

“Ah!” Mitsuri shrieked, making Shinobu wince ever so slightly. Then Mitsuri roughly grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her around a little bit, “You, Kochou Shinobu, are a genius! I can’t believe I hadn’t realized sooner! Thanks for the talk, bye!”

“Take care!” Shinobu saw Mitsuri off, fixing her tousled fringe as she watched the blur of pink, green and white run out of sight around the corner. Deciding she was due for a break, she wandered down the opposite end of the hall to find out what her girlfriend was up to at the moment.

***

By now, Mitsuri knew the mountain like she knew the back for her hand. The delicious scent of sizzling vegetables and meats never hurt either of course. She didn’t even bother to knock before letting herself in.

“I had a feeling you’d come by today.” (Y/n) smiled as she checked over her shoulder, “I’m not sure what it was, but I’m glad it proved true because I definitely made too much food.”

“(Y/n), live with me.” Mitsuri blurted before shyly hiding her face in her hands. How could she ask that so suddenly? Never mind ask, she definitely didn’t even phrase it as a question!

“Huh?” Was all (Y/n) could get out before she forgot how her voice worked.

“Would, would you maybe, possibly consider maybe living with me?” Mitsuri tried again, her voice raised almost to the point of cracking with every word.

“...I wouldn’t want to impose.” (Y/n) nervously replied after a few moments, busying herself by stirring a pot that was in no need of attention.

“You wouldn’t be!” Mitsuri said with more conviction. “I really want you to come with me. I know you are proud of what you have managed to do for yourself, it’s better than anything I could ever make, but the more time passes, I can’t help but hate how you still live in this rundown, rickety, shack that I can clear in four strides!” Mitsuri demonstrated her point by walking from one wall to the other before turning back to (Y/n) with pleading eyes.

“Please, come live with me. I love you and you deserve more than this.”

“La, la, lalala, lov, love... love me?” (Y/n) quickly turned back to her cooking as the fire cracked so loud it made her jump. Why was she acting like this? Mitsuri loved a lot of people, she obviously meant a friendly, platonic kind of love and now she had just made it even more awkward!

But then (Y/n) jolted again when Mitsuri’s strong arms wrapped around her middle and her chin rested against her shoulder. The Hashira hummed an affirmative as she slowly began to rock them side to side. Between the heat of the low fire and the heat of Mitsuri’s front pressed against her back, (Y/n) was sure she was going to pass out.

“Please (Y/n), live with me?” Mitsuri asked softly. She kissed (Y/n)’s jaw as she moved.

“?!??!!” (Y/n) short circuited, lost in Mitsuri’s softness. Mitsuri merely giggled and rested another to (Y/n)’s cheek, then her ear, her temple, until—

“Oh dear!” Mitsuri gasped as (Y/n) fell limp in her arms. “(Y/n), are you alright? Are you sick? Why didn’t you say something? You shouldn’t be up!”

“I, I’m not sick,” (Y/n) mumbled, smoke rolling off of her like a steam boat, “It’s just a lot of touching that I’m not really used to yet.”

“Oh! Should I stop?”

“Gods no.” (Y/n) sighed and gripped onto Mitsuri’s haori so she couldn’t back away.

Mitsuri beamed brightly before resting a kiss over (Y/n)’s forehead and rubbed her back. “Come with me?” She asked again.

“I’d follow you to the bottom of the ocean if you asked.” (Y/n)’s eyes slipped shut as she enjoyed Mitsuri’s scattered kisses.

“Great! I can’t wait for you to meet all my friends! Iguro-san and Kabumaru will love you, Kyoujirou-san too! He’ll love your cooking. Just watch out for Shinobu though, she’s flirty.”

“Okay, I’ll stay vigilant.” (Y/n) laughed.

“Good girl,” Mitsuri nodded, “now let’s pack up all that you hold dear. We should be able to make it to my estate by dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” (Y/n) nodded excitedly in return. She took the little pail of water from the floor and doused the low flame, “maybe you’d like lunch first though? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

“Yes! Lunch first and then the beginning of the rest of our lives!” Mitsuri amended, skipping over to the meal (Y/n) had prepared.

As they are together (Y/n) couldn’t help but grin. Mitsuri was right, food really did taste better when sharing it with people you love. The kisses and nuzzles throughout the meal didn’t hurt either.

#demon slayer x reader #demon slayer oneshots #kny oneshots #kny x reader #mitsuri kanroji #mitsuri kanroji x reader #mitsuri x reader

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offtorivendell · 3 years

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The Significance of Elain and a Cup of Tea 🍵

Do not screenshot this post.

Disclaimer: these are my own interpretations, and obviously not canon - though I do think that the text supports Elain and Azriel ending up together. I'm sure I'm not the first to see this connection, but I had fun writing it, so... here you go.

It's another long one, sorry. Again, maybe go and make yourself a cuppa first.

In stories that involve Seers, they often read tea leaves, using the patterns they leave at the bottom of a tea cup to predict the future.

Elain, a Seer Made by the Cauldron, seems to have an interesting relationship with tea - it symbolises her/her life, and her reactions to her surroundings while she's written with a cup of tea appear to predict her own future.

The tea predicted Elain being Made

Elain lifted her teacup. “Whatever the reason, Feyre, we are happy to see you. Alive. We thought you were—” I pulled my hood back before she could go on. Elain’s teacup rattled in its saucer as she noticed my ears. My longer, slender hands—the face that was undeniably Fae. “I was dead,” I said roughly. “I was dead, and then I was reborn—remade.” Elain set her shivering teacup onto the low-lying table between us. Amber liquid splashed over the side, pooling in the saucer.

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 23

When Feyre, together with Rhys, Azriel and Cassian, visited her family's estate in the human lands, Elain (and Nesta) discovered that Feyre had been Made into a high fae after she died at Amarantha's hands. They are grateful that she's alive - they'd understandably thought otherwise, but rattled by her transformation.

More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water. And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown.

Alive, she had to be alive, had to have wanted to live— Elain sucked in a breath...

Elain’s ears were now pointed beneath her sodden hair.

Elain was still shivering on the wet stones...

From however Elain had been Made… Nesta was different.

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 65

Later on in ACOMAF, after it is revealed that Elain and Nesta were kidnapped by the King of Hybern, Elain is lifted into the Cauldron by the Hybern soldiers, then washed over the edge a Made being, left shivering on the stone floor; in her relief that Elain was alive, Feyre noticed her newly pointed ears - a direct call back to Elain's reaction to seeing Feyre for the first time since she was Made. Feyre was shocked, this time around, and Elain was shivering on the stone ground, as opposed to her tea cup on the low-lying table.

The tea predicted Elain's failed engagement to Graysen

Nesta looked to Elain, still silent and wide-eyed. The tea she’d prepared—the finest, most exotic tea money could buy—sat undisturbed on the table. Elain thumbed the iron ring on her finger. “It is your choice,” Nesta said with unusual gentleness. For her, Nesta would go to Prythian. Elain swallowed, a doe caught in a snare. “I—I can’t. I …”

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 57

Elain, raised to be a fine lady, the prettiest (most exotic) of the Archeron sisters, will eventually lose the life for which she was "prepared," and is left "undisturbed on the table," i.e. Graysen, represented here by the iron engagement ring that he gave to Elain, refused to marry her after she was Made against her will. The ring is also important in that Elain spends a lot of her time in ACOWAR touching it, while she mourned what she lost with Graysen.

Her too-thin shoulders seemed to curve inward. “No one ever does. No one ever looked—not really.” A bramble of words. Her voice strained to a whisper. “He did. He saw me. He will not now.”

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Here Elain predicted, heartbreakingly, that Graysen would refuse to See her again - that her being Made fae would prevent him from not just loving her, but identifying with her. There are a couple of great analyses out there that discuss whether and why Elain truly loved Graysen, but what we cannot deny is that they shared a goal, and that goal gave her purpose.

All of that aside, I think we can all agree - his loss!

The tea predicted that there was nothing wrong with Elain

Nesta, sharp-eyed in the corner, had kept quiet. After a long minute, Madja asked us to join her in fetching Elain a cup of tea—with a pointed glance to the door. We both took the invitation and left our sister in her sunlit room.

“What do you mean, nothing is wrong with her?” Nesta hissed under her breath as the ancient female braced a hand on the stair railing to help herself down. I kept beside the healer, a hand in easy reach of her elbow, should she need it.

“What I mean,” Madja said at last, sizing up Nesta, then me, “is that I can find nothing wrong with her. Her body is fine—too thin and in need of more food and fresh air, but nothing amiss. And as for her mind … I cannot enter it.”

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 28

Madja, the Night Court's chief healer, informed Feyre and Nesta that there is nothing she can find wrong with Elain, other than a lack of food, which she is still refusing at this time. Nesta's words, to me, symbolised the concern that the IC and Lucien have for Elain - they're not 100% sure that she came out of the Cauldron with a sound mind - but Madja reiterated her point: there is nothing medically wrong with Elain, and she cannot enter her mind.

Is it because Madja is not a daemati, or something else entirely?

The tea appears to predict a failed relationship - and potentially a false bond - with Lucien

She’d [Jesminda] seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been… thrown at him. He glanced toward the tea service spread on a low-lying table nearby.

Forced his hands to be steady while he poured himself a cup of tea and sat in the chair opposite Nesta’s vacated one.

For a long moment, Elain’s face did not shift, but those eyes seemed to focus a bit more. “Lucien,” she said at last, and he clenched his teacup to keep from shuddering at the sound of his name on her mouth.

But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.”

She did not love him, want him, need him. Another male’s bride. A mortal man’s wife. Or she would have been.

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

The only time we've had Lucien’s POV (so far) in this series is significant, in that he almost immediately compared Elain to Jesminda, his late first love, and he mused that, while Jesminda had chosen him, had loved him without hesitation, Elain had been thrown at him - very romantic - and she certainly goes on to hesitate in any interactions she has with him. It follows, then, that Elain might not choose Lucien.

Additionally, Lucien forcing his hands to remain steady while pouring the tea, then clenching the tea cup (read: dealing with Elain), could be read as symbolic of the bond between them restricting them both. Lucien then went on to call Elain "another male's bride," which is (potentially, of course) Very Important.

Who might that other male be? We have our suspicions. 🦇

When discussing Elain's health, Madja said the following:

The ancient healer jerked her chin toward Lucien. “See what he can do. If anyone can sense if something is amiss, it’s a mate.” “How.” The word was barely more than a barked command. I braced myself to warn Nesta to be polite, but Madja said to my sister, as if she were a small child, “The mating bond. It is a bridge between souls.”

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 28

The beginning of chapter 29 in ACOWAR had Feyre experiencing "the most uncomfortable thirty minutes" that she could recall; Elain and Lucien were having tea, so that he could attempt to sense if "anything was amiss" - as Madja had instructed.

Lucien and Elain sat in stilted silence by the dim fireplace, an untouched tea service between them. I didn’t dare ask if he was trying to get into her head, or if he was feeling a bond similar to that black adamant bridge between Rhys’s mind and my own. If a normal mating bond felt wholly different.

A teacup rattled and rasped against a saucer, and Mor and I glanced over. Elain had picked up the teacup, and now sipped from it without so much as looking toward him. In the dining room across the hall, I knew Nesta was craning her neck to look.

The sound [Amren in the other room] seemed to startle Elain, who swiftly set down her teacup. She rose to her feet, and Lucien shot to his. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “What—what was that?” Mor put a hand on my knee to keep me from rising, too. “It—it was a tug. On the bond.”

Elain sidled toward Nesta, who seemed to be at a near-simmer. “It felt… strange,” Elain breathed. “Like you pulled on a thread tied to a rib.”

“There’s a bond—it’s a real thread,” he said, more to himself than us.

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 29

The words that signify what is between Lucien and Elain here seem quite telling - stilted, dim, untouched - a call back to the "undisturbed" tea service that Elain laid out for their meeting with the queens, which foreshadowed the end of her relationship with Graysen.

The stilted silence and dim fireplace suggest that there is no communication down their "bond," and that they lack the fire of other truly mated couples. More specifically, they could be referring to Feyre/Rhys (bond communication) and Nesta/Cassian (fire between them). Will touch play an important role in Elain's eventual romance?

Elain sipped her tea - read: will live her life - without looking to Lucien at all, while Nesta, Feyre and Mor all watched her/them. Feyre took a moment to wonder if a "normal mating bond" felt different to what she shares with Rhys, not knowing that what Elain and Lucien have may not be normal at all.

Not long after this, Lucien attemped to reach Elain down the "thread" (singular) of their bond and startled her; Elain quickly stood up, then shared that her bond felt strange - almost as if she was answering Feyre's thought. A "normal" mating bond should not feel "strange." What is wrong with the bond between Lucien and Elain? He was unable to sense anything, as Madja said a true mate would, and a little later on, Azriel figured out that Elain was a Seer.

I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said. No sign of Nuala or Cerridwen. Elain simply removed the kettle from the heat.

I knew I wasn’t truly angry with her, not angry with anyone but myself, but I said, “You couldn’t say a single word to him? A pleasant greeting?”

Elain only stared at the steaming kettle as she set it on the stone counter.

“He brought you a present.”

Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them. “And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”

“No.” I blinked. “But he is a good male.” Despite our harsh words. Despite this Band of Exiles bullshit. “He cares for you.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“You don’t give him the chance to even try to do so.”

Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.” She wanted a human man.

- Feyre, ACOFAS, chapter 18

I felt like this passage is partly prediction, and partly a way for SJM to let us into Elain's head; for Elain to speak her truths. A couple of lines did stand out to me, though:

I read Elain "watching the kettle scream" as synonymous with what must have been going on in her head at the time. Scream is an odd choice of word, as most would describe a kettle as whistling. As an aside, there is an interesting parallel that exists with Azriel, in his bonus chapter of ACOSF, where being with Elain makes the noise in his head quiet down.

Elain staring at the steaming kettle seemed to indicate that she might be evaluating her life - could the steam be a metaphor for the mist she will have to See through to find the fourth Dread Trove item? Lucien "not staying for tea" (read: Elain's life) sounded like confirmation (to me, of course) that they will not pursue a romantic relationship together.

Elain’s declaration that Lucien doesn't know her, and that he cannot buy her time or affection with gifts is *chef's kiss* good, though please don't read this as anti Lucien - it's more anti Feyre's poor choice of words.

I have discussed '"I don't want a mate. I don’t want a male.” She wanted a human man.' here, in depth, but a quick summary is that I think Elain wants someone to See all of her, including her humanity, and that her humanity will probably be helpful with her future love interest.

The tea appears to predict Elain's eventual relationship with Azriel, and maybe even a mating bond

She looked away [from Lucien]—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth. “When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.” Her too-thin shoulders seemed to curve inward. “No one ever does. No one ever looked—not really.” A bramble of words. Her voice strained to a whisper. “He did. He saw me. He will not now.”

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Firstly, and so significantly, Elain looked away from Lucien, and towards the windows, instead. We know that, earlier in that scene, Elain was talking to Feyre about being able to see the sea from where she sat, but I think that when Elain is mentioned as being around tea, her words tend to take on a deeper meaning - I interpreted this as Elain removing herself from the conversation she'd been having with Lucien. The next words out of her mouth, then - that "In my sleep, I hear your heart beating through the stone," appear to be spoken not to Lucien, but someone else.

Who do we know who always seems to be looking out windows to the garden, in search of Elain? Who could potentially be flying over Velaris, to or from the House of Wind? It looks like our flower grower might have started the trend!

Who sleeps at the House of Wind, where Elain and Nesta also stay? Aside from Lucien as a guest, there are two longterm residents. One of them is mated to Nesta, while the other one displays some strikingly familiar behaviour towards the middle Archeron sister.

Secondly, the tea burnt Lucien's mouth, then he thought to himself that there's a good chance Elain might not have been addressing him, may have intended to say that to someone else.

Lucien himself told us what was happening, which brings us to:

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports—likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City—the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it. “Why not make them mates?” I mused. “Why Lucien?” “I’d keep that question from Lucien.”

- Feyre and Rhys, ACOWAR, chapter 24

In direct contrast to the tea that Elain and Lucien shared - stilted silence, dim fireplace, untouched tea service (i.e. their bond) - Elain and Azriel sit comfortably - we can assume, due to the lack of negative adjectives - in the sun, a cup of tea (read, once more: her life) "before her." The wrought iron table could potentially be symbolic; that Elain will be hammered into shape by the events of her life, ultimately becoming strong.

Elain is, however, "silent," which may have been indicating that she will spend some time not voicing her own wishes/being passive in her life - we have seen this throughout ACOWAR and ACOFAS, until ACOSF, where she finally started to speak up. It might also mean something else, which I mention further down.

Azriel is even sunning his wings. If you haven't seen it, this is how birds sun their wings - and they look hilariously comfy as they do.

Image source. Can someone please draw the Rhys/Cass/Az version of this?!). 😅

The pose makes them vulnerable; we know exactly how sensitive and possessive Illyrians are about their wings, and how private Azriel is in general, but he trusted Elain enough to expose himself (figuratively - and also, sort of literally) right from the start, just as Elain trusted his reactions at the first "family dinner," back in ACOMAF.

I discussed the relevance of how Elain, the sun, lays bare Azriel's shadows in this post, but the mutual trust and comfort here is, in my opinion, more evidence that Elain and Az share some sort of bond, be that mate or other, that makes him feel innately secure around her. Outside the Night Court, Rhys only ever showed his wings to Feyre, and while Azriel's wings can't be summoned at will like Rhys' can, the same principle stands - protect at all costs, so the parallel is there.

I also think Az may have been showing off his wings - just a wee bit. This is when Feyre uttered her iconic - and maybe prophetic - line, "Why not make them mates?" Feyre, who had thought from the start that Elain and Azriel would make a handsome pair. This is yet another parallel to a canonically mated pair, as we saw Cassian (not so) subtly showing off his wings to Nesta in chapter 29 of ACOWAR.

Oh, and Azriel knew Feyre was watching. So did Cassian. Perhaps they didn't care?

I know Elain x Azriel is not the most popular ship for either of them, but the evidence, to me, has been here all along - not just for a chosen relationship, but also a potential bond. Of course, this shouldn't stop people from shipping who they want. 🖤

The tea predicts that Feyre will become too overprotective of Elain

Rhys smiled at me over his shoulder. Enjoy your tea, you overbearing chaperone.

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 29

" You think I stifle her?"

- Feyre (in response to Rhys), ACOSF, Feyre's bonus chapter

No matter who you ship, the one thing that almost everyone can agree on is that ACOSF demonstrated that Elain is frustrated with being coddled, protected, and not seen; she wants to grow, to come into her own and to have her help be both welcomed and valued.

Unresolved/potential predictions

The following are just bits of text that jumped out at me, that could hint at future events (or could end up being nothing, of course).

Elain thumbed the iron ring on her finger. “It is your choice,” Nesta said with unusual gentleness.

- Feyre, ACOMAF, chapter 57

A hint that Elain's story will be revolve around her making her own choices, both in terms of her love interest and role within the Night Court.

"And as for her mind… I cannot enter it.”

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 28

Elain apparently has an impenetrable mind - will this be important when she deals with Koschei, the queens and other future enemies? Is she an anti-daemati?

But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.”

- Lucien, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Future foreshadowing?! I really, really hope not.

Slow blinkers tend to have quick reflexes, let's hope that this is suggesting Elain will be quick on her feet.

- Feyre, ACOWAR, chapter 24

Will Elain become involved with Azriel's spy service, or work with him in some capacity? Spies must be able to stay silent, to keep secrets - and we know from ACOSF that Elain is adept at secret keeping.

#elain archeron #seer #elriel #pro elriel #anti elucien #feyre archeron #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #lucien vanserra #divination #acosf #tea #tea leaves #spy elain #anti gwynriel

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

Text

New Ways of Turning Into Stone

A/N Another long drive, another Outlander fanfic idea that dropped into my brain out of nowhere, shoving aside the historical AU I have been wrestling with for months. Here’s the pitch: Claire Beauchamp is a psychiatrist specializing in grief counselling. Jamie Fraser is referred to her by his sister, who is worried for his well-being after a series of family tragedies. You can probably guess the rest, but I’m going to write it anyway. The title is taken from a song by the amazing Phantogram that was playing as the story idea came to me.

After losing my WIP virginity posting Ginger Snap, I’m going out on that limb again and posting this first chapter with only a rough outline mapped out in my head. You people are a terrible influence! Also, there will be some trigger warnings on future chapters, so please watch out for those. And now, on with our show.

Claire Beauchamp glanced down at the leather-bound calendar open on her desk. The ivory page for Thursday was packed to the margins, each hourly block filled with the name of a patient followed by a series of cuneiform symbols she used to remind herself of the last session, course of treatment, overall progress, all while maintaining strict confidentiality. Not even Geillis Duncan, her office administrator and very good friend, knew how to decode the script.

Geillis liked to laugh at the old-fashioned day planner, reminding Claire that their practice utilized software that could perform the same function electronically, but she enjoyed the act of physically logging each session. The solid heft of her Mont Blanc pen in her hand, a medical school graduation gift from her Uncle Lamb. The scratch and grab of the nub as it bled black ink over virgin paper. It was a tactile ceremony in a detached world. Geillis would nod and then tell her she needed to get laid.

Speak of the devil, a sharp rap on her office door was followed by the appearance of her strawberry blonde head. blue eyes alight with mischief.

“Yer two o’clock is here. Did ye need more time tae finish bolting down tha’ chaff ye call a salad, or can I show him in?”

“It’s kale,” she defended. “It’s full of anti-oxidants.”

A disdainful scoff was the only response.

“Yes, Geil, please show Mister...” she glanced down at her planner, “...Fraser in, thank you.”

The tiny rectangle contained only a name, which meant this was their first appointment. Geillis vetted all prospective patients, but Claire preferred to go into the first meeting blind, with no assumptions or pre-conceptions.

She wondered what misfortune had caused Mr. Fraser to seek out her psychiatric services. The death of a child, perhaps, or the end of an extra-marital affair. People grieved for very different reasons and worked through or around that grief with a surprising variety of coping mechanisms. Most called upon her practice in much the same way they would a breakdown truck when their car’s engine failed. They simply wanted to get back on the road to happiness.

Despite the degrees and accreditations that decorated her office wall, Claire wasn’t certain such a thing was possible. In her experience, grief was a phantom limb that never really went away. The best one could hope for was to learn healthier ways of living with it.

The sound of Geillis clearing her throat snapped her back to the present.

“Was there something else, Geil?”

“Och, no’ really. Just, when yer considerin’ how tae thank me later on, remember tha’ my favourite stone is an emerald, that I prefer gold tae silver, but platinum is ne’er amiss.”

“What are you on about, Duncan?” But her friend had already disappeared back into the reception area, leaving behind only the glow of her Cheshire smile. Claire was shaking her head, bemused, when another knock rang out, this one considerably heavier than the first.

“Come in,” she called as she looked up. And up. And up some more.

The man who now practically filled her office door had to be at least six foot four, with powerful shoulders and a broad torso encased in a blue henley. His nearly endless legs were likewise muscular, as testified by the stretch of his jeans across each thigh. As if his physique wasn’t remarkable enough, he had a head of outrageously wavy red hair, worn long enough to graze the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck, but swept back from a high brow by a judicious use of product. His face was angular in a pleasingly unique way, with a day or two’s growth of beard counter-balancing an almost youthful, earnest appearance. But his most striking feature by far were his aquamarine eyes that shimmered like a tropical sea. Eyes that were currently observing her with perplexity.

“Dr. Beauchamp?” a deep Scottish brogue inquired. He pronounced it as though she were French.

“Yes,” she startled. “That’s me. And it’s pronounced Beecham. Please, come in Mister Fraser.” She shuffled a few items around her desk needlessly as she tried to compose herself. Damn Geillis for not giving her a bit more warning that her newest client was some sort of fitness model.

“Thank ye,” he replied. “An’ it’s pronounced Jamie, if ye please.” She added wit to the growing list of the man’s attributes.

If anything, he grew even more impressive as he approached. She could see he was nervous, although hiding it well. His striking eyes darted about the room, trying to get a sense of his environment. She indicated the well-upholstered armchair that sat to one side of her desk.

“Have a seat,” she invited.

With a surprising amount of grace for one so tall, he eased into the chair but didn’t lean back. The fingers of his left hand tapped restlessly against his thigh. She watched him quietly, waiting for him to speak. This was a trick she had learned when she first started practicing psychiatry, but in this case it also allowed her to continue her appraisal. He was, she concluded, the most attractive man she’d ever seen in the flesh.

“No couch,” he finally observed.

“No. That’s a bit of a Hollywood trope, I’m afraid. Lying prone in front of a stranger is hardly conducive to feeling at ease.”

He nodded his acceptance of her logic, but was otherwise silent.

“So,” she spoke at last, unable to wait him out, “what caused you to seek out counselling, Jamie?” His name suited him, she thought as she spoke it for the first time. Both boyish and imposing at once.

“I didna. Twas my sister, Jenny, who insisted I see a doctor.” His mobile mouth twisted into a grimace. She could imagine the sibling discord that such a demand would have caused. Whoever this Jenny was, she was made of strong stuff. Unfortunately for her, a hostile patient would receive no benefit from merely visiting her office. Counselling was a participatory process, and she could tell from the stubborn set of Jamie’s shoulders that he had no intention of participating.

“I see,” she said carefully. “Well, it’s your time and your dime, Mr. Fraser. This session lasts for forty-five minutes, and you’ve not been here for five. There’s a carafe of hot water on the table over there, if you care for some tea. Or you’re welcome to just enjoy that comfortable chair for another forty minutes. I’ll be working on some administrative necessities.”

She turned her chair away from him, but from the corner of her eye she could see his gobsmacked expression. He had clearly expected her to cajole and manipulate him into co-operating, but that simply wasn’t her style.

“I meant no offence, doctor. I’m certain ye’re verra good at what ye do. Tis only... well, Jenny is my older sister, ye ken. She practically raised me. And so ofttimes she treats me like a muckle-sized bairn, and no’ a man who’s capable of lookin’ after himself.”

As he spoke, Jamie leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, expressive hands gesturing in front of his face. Hostile to the notion of counselling he might be, but he clearly wanted her to understand it wasn’t a slight. As a physician, she had been trained to never take a patient’s reactions personally, but it didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the effort.

“No offence taken, Jamie. If you don’t need my assistance, I’m happy for you. That’s one less person hurting in the world.”

“I didna say I wasna hurting. But I can handle it my own way. I am handling it, that is,” he hurried to add.

Unable to sit still any longer, he rose and walked over to the small table where she kept an assortment of herbal teas and a tray of Geillis’ homemade biscuits. Bending over, Jamie set about making himself some; chamomile by the smell of it. The sound of spoon ringing off porcelain as he stirred in some honey made her smile, reminding her of Lamb and his obsession with the lost art of afternoon tea.

“Can I make ye a cup?”

The question was so unexpected, it took her a moment to process it. The tea was there as a distraction for her patients, to give them something to do with their bodies as they worked through difficult emotions. None of them had ever thought to offer her a reprieve as well.

“No, thank you. I just finished lunch.”

He dipped a shortbread into the steaming tea, then ate it in a single bite. Instead of sitting back down, he began to browse the framed certificates and photographs along the far wall as he sipped his tea. With his back turned, her eyes dipped to admire his ass, which filled out his jeans perfectly. When she caught herself, she gave her head a shake, appalled at her lack of professional detachment. Maybe Geillis was right. Maybe she really did need to get laid.

“How long have ye been a doctor?” Jamie asked without turning around.

“Ten years,” she replied. “But I’ve only been a psychiatrist for the last two.”

It was a dangerous topic, and she blamed his ass for letting the words slip out. Fortunately, his inquisitiveness took him in an entirely different direction.

“Were ye some kind of prodigy, then? Ye hardly seem old enough tae have yer own practice, let alone fer a decade. If ye dinna mind me sayin’ so,” he added quickly, as though realizing what he’d just said.

“Not at all. And you hardly seem young enough to be a, what was it? A muckle-sized bairn?”

As he turned to look her way, she understood the expression ‘shot-gun smile’ for the first time. It spread across his face like a sunbeam, transforming what was already remarkable into a work of art. If she hadn’t been sitting, she likely would have stumbled backward from the force of the blow. Scrambling for something familiar to keep her from making a very grave fool of herself in front of this man, she clasped her clinical training with both hands.

“Are you and your sister close?”

“Aye, when we’re no’ tryin’ not tae kill the other. Our Mam died when I was only four, and with Da workin’ dawn til dark on the farm, Jenny was parent, teacher an’ playmate all rolled inta one.”

“You’re not from Edinburgh, then?” Although what that had to do with his counselling, she hadn’t a clue.

“Nah, I hail from a wee village in the Highlands ye’ve likely ne’er heard of called Broch Mordha.” She shook her head to indicate she was indeed unfamiliar with it. Jamie launched into a detailed description of the place, his hands sculpting the landscape out of thin air. He obviously cared very deeply for his home, and she felt a twinge of jealousy, having never known that feeling of deep belonging herself.

“And what brought you to Old Smoky?” she asked as he wound down, her interest piqued. It was like slamming a lead door on his previously sunny disposition.

“Family obligations.” Said in such a way as to make it clear that no further words would be forthcoming on the topic. She regretted her nosiness immediately, despite what it revealed about his emotional state. Jamie was most certainly grieving something, but handling it he was not.

Before she could find a way back to the easy flow of conversation, a chime from her laptop indicated that the session was up. She couldn’t bear to dismiss him without trying to set things right.

“Listen, Jamie, I understand that you only came here today to humour your sister, but I want you to consider something. Whether we’re grieving or angry or jealous, or any destabilizing feeling, we’re often the worst surveyors of our own landscape. Just like you can’t know your place on the sea without referencing the stars, it takes something external to ourselves to measure how far adrift we have become. Your sister obviously loves you. Ask yourself, what has she seen in you that prompted her to force you to seek help?”

They parted with cordial but muted goodbyes. The door closed behind him, leaving Claire to stare at the blank rectangle in her planner that bore his name. No coded symbols flowed from her pen. When the door re-opened, it was Geillis, closing it firmly behind her.

“Weel, did I no’ tell ye? Wee fox, tha’ one. And he told me he liked my shortbread!” Geillis said this as though it was some kind of sexual euphemism, which for all Claire knew, it was.

“Yes,” she replied distractedly. “He’s very nice.”

“Nice! Nice? Tha’ man is tae nice what Wagyu is tae beef jerky. Have ye completely lost yer senses, woman?”

“Yes, well, he’s a patient, Geillis, as you well know. And not one I’m likely to see again,” she added, acknowledging out loud what she already knew.

“Oh, no?” Geillis sing-songed. “Thas’ strange, as he just made an appointment fer the same time next week.”

Claire’s eyes flew to where her friend looked on, smug as could be.

“Yer three o’clock called tae say she was runnin’ five minutes late. I’ll leave ye tae think about yer... patient.”

Claire picked up her pen, trying to pull together something resembling a professional summary of her first appointment with Jamie. Her mind replayed their interaction, but all she could remember was the way his eyes crinkled when he was listening attentively, the tidy half-moons of his fingernails, the seam of his jeans as it contoured his thigh, and the cymbal-crash in her chest that accompanied his smile.

Patient, she reminded herself. Jamie Fraser is your patient.

#my writing #outlander

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lime-gutz · 3 years

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Mmm so maybe could you do headcanons about the mercs helping out an autistic reader with sebsory overloads? If not that’s totally cool too

AS SOMEONE WHO CAN RELATE TO SENSORY OVERLOADS OFC I'M OKAY WITH WRITING THIS!!!

There wasn't a specification for romantic implications with the mercs so you get some general hcs!!

Engineer:

Engineer is a kind and all around easy to get along with friendly man. He's pretty sociable but often times desires to do some work and experiments of his own so sometimes he'll just speed walk straight on pass you, blueprints in hand, reading them quickly without so much as a glance or smile in your direction, not because he's wanting to be rude but because he's someone who has places to be and he'll talk later when he's done.

Engineer also has to deal with some pretty rambunctious teammates, Soldier, Scout, and Pyro come to mind and as shown before, he's also a super patient man, opting to not be super confrontational in a situation that seems to be tense or aggressive, example being how he had saved Scout from getting his face beaten in by Soldier by being calm and still carrying his friendliness to ease the situation at hand. Or Pyro!! As he's the only one at the base who even understands anything of what Pyro says because he was patient enough to learn.

So with all of that being said, I see him as someone who is very very well equipped to helping you out when you're getting intensely overwhelmed and your senses are overloading. If you're around people and are on the cusp of just crying or about to go into a panic of some sort, Engineer would be the one who would gently place a hand onto your shoulder, masking what's going on with his friendly demeanor and an excuse to have you removed from the situation to calm yourself. He does it in a way as to not draw attention to you or make you feel ashamed or embarrassed. He understands, it happens, he's had to help Pyro with the same situation you were in!

He's sure to be much more soft spoken than usual, asking if you want some water, to be left alone, or if you need some comfort and he will do whatever it is you ask of him to do if it means you can calm yourself.

Pyro:

Pyro is probably not going to catch on as quickly, their mind is constantly thinking about. Everything at once and often tuning in and out of conversations everyone has in general so it's very likely that they will be slow to notice if you're getting wildly overwhelmed.

However! If they were to eventually realize if no one else has before them, how utterly uncomfortable and teary eyed you are Pyro will "scold" his teammates, wagging a finger in there faces and tapping their foot..I put that in quotations because it's not like anyone (other than Engie) can understand them anyways). It's sort of childish, but it could maybe bring you some comfort in a small sense as they lead you away with a huff directed towards their rude teammates.

Scout:

Same deal as Pyro, he's also slow to realize something is amiss with you, his mind also wandering to the many other things he thinks or dreams about.

And like Engineer if he did snap out of his thoughts long enough to notice that you're beginning to look shaky and panicked he attempts to try and steer you away from everyone...although with a lot less grace than Engie, attempting to make whatever is going on isn't a big deal but he keeps running his mouth long enough that eyebrows are raised. But he succeeds anyways and is able to get you somewhere so you could calm yourself down away from it all.

His voice is a little softer when he tries to comfort you in some way. Maybe trying to crack jokes to make the air light instead of filled with dread. His angle is just to try and cheer you up more so!

Soldier:

Oh man. Okay Soldier uh. Let's be frank, he's most definitely not going to ever notice unless someone tells him directly. Soldier has a pretty strong character, a strong and very loud voice, very boisterous. He most likely will not notice that him being so loud combined with maybe some other factors might be too much for you to handle.

So, best course of action is to be very direct with him but explain it in a way he could understand you. If your point gets across, he can better recognize if you're getting uncomfortable!

His form of trying to comfort you is patting your shoulders or back (a little bit too hard but you appreciate his attempt none the less) while he tries to say some encouraging words to you.

Spy:

Spy is actually one of the first mercs to notice even just the slightest sign you're starting to grow uncomfortable. He's meant to be very observant man and he's someone who is very capable of reading body language and is very good at it.

So he's one to be quick to helping you out of a situation before you get to the point of getting extremely overwhelmed. He's quiet, quick, and smooth about it, most likely awaiting an opportunity where no one would notice that he gently grasped your shoulder, nodding his head in a direction that signifies you should follow him, and then the both of you slip away from a potentionally mentally draining situation.

He doesn't offer too much physical comfort, best he'll do is pat your shoulder a few times. But he does offer a listening ear or offers to leave you be, whichever makes you feel more comfortable.

Medic:

Right next to Spy, is also one to quickly notice that you're slowly growing distressed. He is-! Er. Was, a doctor and is still practicing medicine to this very day! He does surgeries on a weekly basis, he just knows a distressed or uncomfortable face when he sees one!

Takes the kind of mix between an Engineer and Spy route of things to help you. He's quickly able to steer the attention or conversation towards himself, in such a way that he gave you an out to hurry to flee and get away to save yourself from literally breaking down from how overwhelmed you are in front of your entire team. You see him give you a very quick wink if you're able to catch his gaze before you leave.

He does check on you later once everything is settled, glass of cold water in hand to hopefully improve your mood some more and offering it to you and if he's free, offers to be your listening ear.

Demoman:

This mostly depends on how drunk he is for him to be considered helpful I suppose you could say.

But! When he isn't just shitfaced drunk, he's quite unsurprisingly helpful as he's also someone who's generally very jovial and friendly. He's also noted to be generally as helpful as he possibly can. So when he sees you getting all shaky, uncomfortable, and panicky due to your sensory overload he's quick to act in a way where nothing is wrong, very nonchalant and keeps the mood light as he slowly pulls you away more and more from the situation until the both of you are good distance away where you could just slip by without a question.

He offers some encouraging words to you, patting your shoulder and ruffling your hair comfortingly and offers you a beer. He just feels like it's it's for you to calm yourself and cheer up.

Sniper:

Sniper can definitely relate to what you're experiencing. He's one of the mercs that's easily able to just immediately tell if you're experiencing sensory overload, your pained expression gives a pang to his heart as he feels immense empathy for you.

He's been in your place time and time again and..so it's time for him to do the thing no one besides his parents had ever done for him when he was on the brink of breaking down. He wordlessly grasps onto your arm, gently in his hold as to not seem harsh to startle you, and then when questions are asked they are plainly ignored as he takes you away from the situation.

He coaches you to take breaths, patting your back and being otherwise silent as he patienly waits for you to gather yourself before the both of you start talking quietly to one another if need be.

Heavy:

Heavy also understands what you're a feeling, although, he has worked passed this long ago that doesn't mean he can't help but feel some empathy undertones for you as you look so distressed.

Heavy is very very quiet when going to remove you from the situation you're in, his big heavy hand grasping your shoulders as gently as he can possibly muster as he knows how utterly easy it is just to hurt you accidentally, and he does not want that. He whispers for you to please come with him, not wanting any unwanted attention to be thrown towards you as he knows you definitely don't want that. Once you comply he's leads you away.

Heavy very gently pats your shoulder and back, talking to you quietly as to bring you some comfort as you cry and try to regain your composure. If you are crying, he doesn't try and make you stifle it in anyway, encouraging you to instead let it all out.

Once you're all cried out or feeling a little better, Heavy offers to get you some water or tea, and then offers if you would like to stay and either read with him, or have him read to you out loud to further bring more comfort if you're someone who appreciates just being read to as comfort.

#tf2 engineer #pyro tf2 #tf2 scout #tf2 soldier #tf2 spy #tf2 medic #tf2 demoman #tf2 sniper #tf2 heavy #tf2 #team fortress 2 #team fortress headcanons #Acidic-Asks

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detectivereyes · 3 years

Text

Ribs Like a Cage Full of Fire

Summary: A call at an ice rink leads to some painful consequences for TK

Written for the “broken ribs” square on my @badthingshappenbingo card, which was requested by @paramedicstrand 27 years ago and i finally wrote it <3

Beta and emotional support provided by @marjansmarwani

read on ao3

“You know, I practically grew up on the ice back in New York,” TK says, unable to hide the grin as they pull the ambulance up to the ice rink. Not to say he’s excited that someone hurt themselves on the ice, but he hadn’t found time to ice skate since moving to Austin so there was a part of him that looked forward to revisiting the ice.

“Wow, you’re from New York? You’ve never mentioned it before,” Nancy feigns sarcasm with a playful roll of her eyes.

“Ha ha, we’ll just have to see who's most comfortable once we actually get out the ice,” TK quickly retorts as Tommy gives them both a warning look. They lapse into a comfortable silence as they work together to get all the necessary supplies before heading out onto the rink.

As soon as TK steps foot onto the ice, he begins to wobble before quickly regaining his balance. He glances over to Nancy, hoping she didn’t see that but her mischievous grin says otherwise.

“Thought you grew up on the ice?”

He gives her a tight smile. “Well, it has been a while… Also I think the ice in Texas is extra slippery.”

“Whatever you say, dude,” Nancy says with a small chuckle.

Tommy, for her part, pushes past the two of them, walking across the ice with ease towards the patient. Through the crowd standing in a circle, TK can make out a young teenage boy carefully cradling his wrist against his chest.

Once they make their way over with only a few slips on both their parts, Nancy and TK busy themselves behind their Captain, getting all the supplies together as she addresses the patient.

“Hey there, my name’s Tommy. What’s yours?”

“Jimmy,” the young kid stutters out.

“Jimmy, can you tell me what happened?”

As Tommy tends to the patient, Nancy and TK prep the bandages and split. Stealing a side glance at the offending wrist, it does appear to be a compound fracture and TK winces in sympathy. He doesn’t wait for Tommy to ask before prepping an IV line in the hopes of providing some pain relief for Jimmy.

They work in a comfortable silence as Tommy carefully wraps the boy's injured arm before Nancy hands her the splint. They then ease Jimmy up to a standing position.

“You good to wrap up here, Strand?” Tommy turns and asks TK.

“Sure thing, Cap,” TK replies with a smile, watching as Tommy and Nancy carefully escort Jimmy toward the waiting ambulance.

He takes the time to pack up what’s left of their supplies before standing up, intending to follow them.

Except when he goes to stand, he must do so too quickly because before he can even process what’s happening, he finds himself losing his balance and struggling to remain upright on the slippery ice. His surroundings seem to blur as he falls back down, face first onto the ice. The moment his body collides with the ice, TK swears he can hear the audible cracking of his ribs from the pressure.

He winces as he pushes himself back into a seated position, ignoring the sharp protests coming from his chest and the cold ice shavings digging into his raw palms.

He takes a few seconds to glance around and see if anyone noticed. Other than a few side glances from various skaters gliding around the rink, no one seems to be giving him much attention. And by this point, Tommy and Nancy are loading Jimmy into the ambulance, too far away to see what had happened.

All of which means he’s on his own.

Left with no other option, he grabs his medical bag which had fallen with him onto the ice and forces himself to stand back up onto the ice, this time much more carefully. He slowly makes his way towards the opening on the side of the rink, using his arm to hold his chest tightly and relishing in the relief that it provides from the pain.

When he arrives at the back of the ambulance, he removes his arm supporting his chest and does his best to mask the pained expression. He must not do a great job though because Nancy gives him a questioning look.

“The ice is slippery,” he shrugs, giving his partner a reassuring smile. “I’m good though.”

The little voice in the back of his head is screaming that he should tell her or Tommy that he’s not actually good. That his chest feels like it’s on fire and each breath feels like knives stabbing him in the lungs.

But whether it’s out of pride or convenience's sake, he keeps his mouth shut and Nancy seems to accept his answer.

He shuts the doors on the back of the ambulance and slides into the driver's seat. If there had been any doubt that he was hurt, the seat belt digging into his rib cage and sending sharp pains radiating through the rest of his body confirmed it.

He suppresses the groan that threatens to escape from his mouth and sends a silent prayer that his teammates in the back of the rig don’t notice anything amiss.

All he can do is drive and choke back the tears that well in the corners of his eyes at each minor bump in the road.

The emergency room doors can’t appear in his line of sight soon enough. And fortunately he doesn’t have to do much as the hospital staff unload the stretcher, giving TK a few minutes to collect himself before he comes face to face with his partner and captain.

He takes a deep breath before pulling the keys out of the ignition and exiting the ambulance. Spotting Nancy on the side of the rig, he gives her a nod and hands her the keys. “It’s your lucky day, Gillian. You can drive back to the station.”

She raises her eyebrows curiously before shrugging. “I would question it, but I’m going to say yes before you change your mind.”

The ride back to the station passes by in a blur. He tries his best not to let on that anything is wrong and even with Nancy now sitting next to him, neither she nor Tommy seem to pick up on the pained grimaces or the fact that he’s much quieter than usual.

Once they are parked, TK wastes no time exiting the ambulance and ducking up the stairs towards the locker room, avoiding the curious glances of other members of the 126. Locking himself in a bathroom stall, he carefully unbuttons his uniform shirt before sliding his soft grey undershirt over his head. The movement only further aggravates his ribs and he can’t help the hisses of pain that escape from his lips.

He takes a shaky breath before glancing down, his face scrunching up in a wince at the sight of his chest. Though the fall only happened less than an hour ago, the faint outline of various shades of purple and blue are already beginning to paint his rib cage. Tentatively, he ghosts his fingers along the bruising and inhales sharply at the pain the soft touch causes.

At minimum, it’s very bad bruising. But more likely, he has a few fractured, possibly broken ribs.

He debates going to Tommy and confessing what had happened. It’s unlikely he would be able to last the rest of his shift like this and his paramedic brain is screaming that he needs actual medical attention.

But the urge to power through is too strong. Despite how loud the voice is telling that this is bad, the voice arguing back that maybe it isn’t that bad is louder.

There’s no reason to cut his shift short for this and make a big deal out of it. In fact, glancing at his watch shows that there’s only an hour left. Not that he wants to jinx it, but it’s likely that they won’t even get called to another scene. Besides, coming clean would also lead to not just his paramedic team, but the entire station finding out that he got hurt. Again.

No, that won’t be necessary today. He will power through the rest of his shift, looking forward to the moment he gets home and can ice his ribs.

He can do this.

Getting his uniform back on is no easy task, with sliding his undershirt over his again hurting him even more than when he slid it off. He settles for just wearing the undershirt for now, grabbing his blue uniform shirt before exiting the stall.

Re-entering the locker room, he hastily shoves the shirt in his locker, figuring he can hang it up later when it doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out if he moves the wrong way. He takes a moment to breathe, suppressing the panic when he begins to notice how hard it is to take deep breaths.

“Hey, man. You good?”

TK’s head darts up, caught off guard by the entrance of Paul into the locker room, but he quickly catches himself and smiles. “Yeah, just a rough call earlier. How’s your shift been?”

Paul studies him carefully and TK knows he can sense the deflection and quick pivot in the conversation. But at this point Paul has known him long enough not to press, knowing that TK needs the space and will come to him if and when he needs to.

“It's been a little Q-word around here, so not too bad. Looking forward to a few days off after this, though,” Paul smiles.

“Yeah, I hear that.”

Paul looks like he’s about to say something else before he’s cut off by the alarms blasting through the house. TK lets out a sigh of relief when Paul looks away that it’s only fire being called to the scene, and not ambo.

When Paul turns back to him, they share a look and Paul shrugs. “Duty calls,” he brushes past TK, giving him a light pat on the back as he exits the area. A gesture which normally wouldn’t be much, but today it makes him see stars.

Fortunately, Paul is already out of sight as TK tries to regain his composure. He rests his back against the hard wood of the locker door and tries to stop the tears as he struggles to breathe through the pain, with each breath seeming like it filled up less and less of his lungs. His ribs continue to throb, sending aches throughout the rest of his body and he wonders how he’ll be able to make it through the next 45 or so minutes.

Fortunately, the rest of the shift does fly by and he’s able to take it easy. The rest of the station doesn’t return from the rescue they were called to until near the end of his shift, so he only has to avoid Tommy and Nancy. With the former holed up in her office doing incident reports and Nancy reading in the common area, he is able to find refuge in the bunk room trying to rest and hoping that the alarms don’t go off again while he counts down the minutes until end of shift.

His prayers are answered once the second hand on his watch clicks past the hour and he’s officially off duty.

It doesn’t take long for a text to come through from Carlos that he’s outside the station waiting to pick him up. TK smiles to himself at the thought that his boyfriend was probably also counting down until the end of TK’s shift and was itching to see him as soon as possible, hence why he showed up at the 126. It’s a gesture TK has grown used to in the nearly a year that they’ve been together.

He forgoes changing out of his uniform, whether that’s because he’s anxious to see Carlos or he knows it would cause too much pain is unclear. Instead, he quietly slips out of the bunkroom and exits the station before anyone can spot him.

“Hey,” Carlos greets him with a warm smile while leaning against the side of his Camaro.

“Hey yourself.”

TK approaches Carlos, pressing a soft kiss onto his lips before Carlos pulls him into a hug. Though he tries not to blackout from the pain and to focus instead on inhaling the familiar scent of Carlos’ laundry detergent, he cannot hide the involuntary wince of as his body contracts out of pain.

Carlos quickly pulls away, scanning him up and down. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” TK nervously laughs and gives him a thin smile. “It’s nothing.”

“TK,” Carlos gives him a pointed look and before TK can stop him, Carlos is pulling up his shirt. His eyes widen as he takes in the bruising which has only continued to grow in the time since TK had last checked.

“It looks worse than it is.”

Carlos scowls, clearly not believing him. “Did you get checked out?”

“No. Well, it happened near the end of my shift and I figured that if I could just wait it out…” he trails off, shifting uncomfortably.

Carlos shakes his head before pulling TK’s shirt back down and grabbing his hand. He doesn’t say a word until they are back inside the truck bay, scanning the area until he locks eyes with Nancy exiting from the common area, on her way out of the station.

“Nancy, do you mind hanging back a sec and taking a look at TK? He got hurt on shift but didn’t want to tell any of you.”

Nancy’s eyes dart between the two of them before she drops her bag and ushers TK over to the back of the ambulance. He wordlessly follows and eases himself down onto the back bench, grimacing in pain now that there’s no reason to hide it.

At Carlos’ nod, he slides his shirt over his head, revealing the full extent of his bruised chest to both Carlos and Nancy.

“What the fuck, Strand?” Nancy exclaims as her eyes go wide. “When did this happen?”

“Remember when I said the ice was slippery…”

Nancy curses again under her breath before turning to Carlos. “Can you go grab Captain Vega? If she hasn’t left yet, I think we’re going to be making one more trip to the hospital today.”

“That’s really not necessary. Carlos can just drive me there. Right, babe?”

Carlos looks between him and Nancy, seemingly unsure of what his place is in this moment. “I’m staying out of this one. But I do agree Tommy needs to know.”

He disappears up the stairs, leaving TK and Nancy in a moment of awkward silence.

TK knows he should say something. Explain what had happened exactly and why he didn’t speak up before. Even though their relationship had gotten off to a rocky start, TK now considers her one of his closest friends. And it’s clear she feels the same about him, caring deeply that he’s injured. Especially after what had happened to Tim, he feels bad to be causing his partner this much stress.

But he lacks the words to properly communicate that so they sit in silence and wait for Carlos to return with Tommy. They don’t have to wait long as the pair arrives a few moments later.

“So, you want to tell me what happened here, Strand?” Tommy asks, taking a seat next to TK to start her assessment.

“The ice betrayed me,” he says, earning pointed looks from all three of his friends. He shakes his head before continuing, “I slipped on the ice after you and Nancy left. Might’ve cracked a few ribs.”

Tommy hums in agreement as she runs her fingers along his chest, earning a few painful hisses from TK. “Yeah, I’d have to agree with that assessment. Alright, up on the gurney you go.”

TK opens his mouth to argue but Tommy gives him a look usually only reserved for her daughters when they try to talk their way out of going to bed early. So he quickly closes his mouth and lets his shoulders sag. “Yes, Cap.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile and assists him in getting settled onto the gurney. It’s an unspoken agreement that Carlos is welcome to ride along, with him making himself comfortable on the bench next to TK. They lock eyes and Carlos grabs his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Nancy’s worried eyes also don’t leave TK. Tommy must notice because she quickly offers to drive, leaving the three of them in the back before anyone can say otherwise.

“I’m really sorry I scared you both,” TK says to Carlos and Nancy after a few beats of silence.

“I hate to say I’m used to it but,” Carlos lets out a light chuckle. “I’m always going to worry about you though. But, I am glad you’re okay today and I just wish you could get it out of your stubborn head that it’s okay to ask for help from your teammates. It’s kind of what they're trained to do.”

“Yeah, I know,” TK casts his gaze down unsurely before meeting Nancy’s eye. The other paramedic had yet to say a word and the apology was for her as much as it was for Carlos.

A small smile forms on her face. “Yeah, what he said. If you could at least try to go a few weeks without getting hurt next time, I would really appreciate it.”

“Okay, deal,” he extends his hand as far as he can without putting too much strain on his ribs for her to shake. Despite how much he tries, the motion does still provide a painful reminder of his injuries and he can’t hide the grimace that forms on his face.

Nancy gives his hand a quick shake before placing his hand back at his side. “Easy there, dude.”

He shoots her a quick smile before locking eyes with Carlos again, grateful to have two people who care about him by his side.

#badthingshappenbingo #911 lone star #broken ribs #bad things happen bingo #my fic #tuserpaige #pragmaticoptimist34 #reyeslonestartag #userbones #usersaaya #idk who to tag in fics anymore sorry #911lonestarfic

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you-can-call-me-wanda · 3 years

Text

There’s Been An Accident

Pairing: Axl Rose x Reader

Author’s Note: Just a warning, this includes mentions of serious injury. I have very little medical knowledge so please just bear with me...

It was Slash who first realized that something was wrong.

It was the middle of a concert and Guns N Roses’ manager was conversing with some of the crew side stage. That itself wasn’t unusual, but the look on his face was. He looked concerned. His brows were creased, and he bit at his lip worriedly as he stared off at something further upstage. Slash turned to see what he was looking at. It was Axl.

Now, it wasn’t uncommon for management to be concerned about Axl. The redhead had a notorious temper and loud mouth that often got the whole band into trouble, but tonight nothing had gone amiss. Not that Slash had noticed at least. Axl hadn’t arrived late to the show, he hadn’t chewed off an audience member. He was performing like normal, dancing like a madman and singing like an angel.

“Something’s wrong,” a voice mumbled in Slash’s ear, causing the guitarist to jump. It was Duff, Guns N Roses bassist. He had made his way across the stage during the song and was now leaning down and speaking to Slash as the song finished. The audience was applauding and cheering as Axl encouraged them, oblivious to anything out of the ordinary.

“I know,” Slash replied. “What do you think it is?” He glanced back at their manager nervously. He was still focused on the singer.

Duff shrugged. “There’s only one song left,” Duff said. “Guess we’ll find out soon.” And with that, he was swiveling on his heel and headed back to stage right for their final song of the night.

“Yeah,” Slash said, mostly to himself. “Guess so.”

After their bows, the band rushed backstage, post show excitement practically radiating from their bodies. It seemed only Slash and Duff had taken note of their manager’s nerves. Soon though, they would all be made aware of what was going on.

Axl was stopped immediately by their manager once they all left the stage. The singer only had to take one look at the frown on his manager’s face to know that something was up.

“What is it?” Axl asked. His tone was teasing but anyone could hear the agitation in it as well. No doubt he felt he was going to get chewed out again for some lewd or crude behavior.

“There’s been an accident,” his manager replied, surprising Axl greatly and rendering him speechless.

The rest of the Guns N Roses boys lingered nearby. They attempted to look busy doing something else, handing off their instruments to techs or taking off their sweaty shirts but in reality, they were focused on the conversation between Axl and their manager, curious as to what had happened and if everything was okay.

“What do you mean?” Axl finally got out. He was completely serious now. Something was clearly wrong. His mind raced to everyone and anyone he cared about.

“There’s been and accident,” his manager repeated, “and (Y/N)’s been critically injured.”

It was like time stood still. A million thoughts ran through Axl’s head. (Y/N) was hurt. There was an accident and (Y/N) was hurt. What kind of accident? What kind of hurt? There were so many questions Axl needed to be answered yet he seemed incapable of asking them. He just stared wide-eyed at his manager.

“I’ve already booked you a flight back home. There’s a cab here ready to take you to the airport when you’re ready,” his manager said, knowing exactly what Axl was thinking. He needed to be with you.

“Jesus Christ,” Axl breathed out, already halfway to the dressing rooms. He didn’t even glance at his bandmates as he rushed by. “I need to go now.”

****

Axl tapped his foot anxiously as he sat in the waiting room of the hospital. He hated hospitals. They were full of stress and sad people and they always smelled weird. He hated them.

He had been sitting in the waiting room for thirty minutes now, waiting for a nurse or doctor or anybody to call him back to see you. He just needed to see you. A nurse had filled him in when he’d arrived on your condition and what exactly had happened. You’d been hurt badly in a car accident. Some drunk asshole had veered into your lane quickly and suddenly and flipped your car over the guardrail and into a ditch on the side of the road. The man who hit you, of course, wasn’t injured. You, on the other hand, were suffering from a plethora of injuries most concernedly a punctured lung and possible head trauma.

Axl was furious of course, but even more so upset. He had no idea what you were feeling or what your current state was. He didn’t know jack shit about lungs or the brain or broken ribs. He didn’t know anything about concussions or fractures. All he knew is that it was serious.

“Mr. Rose?”

A nurse had finally come to retrieve him. Axl rose to his feet hastily.

“You can follow me.”

Axl did so without a word.

As the nurse led him back to your room, Axl’s nerves began to grow. With every step he took, he became more and more nervous about seeing you. It’s not that he didn’t want to be there for you. He was just scared to face the reality of the situation.

“I just need to warn you,” the nurse said, stopping outside one of the doors in the seemingly endless hallway. “Things might look a little scary when you go in. (Y/N) is hooked up to a lot of stuff right now. Most of it is just to monitor different vitals and such. They are now in a somewhat stable condition.”

Axl nodded his head and took a deep breath before following the nurse into your room. The breath left his lungs quickly at the sight of you. You were laying on a hospital bed in the center of the room and although the nurse had warned him about all the things you were hooked up to, nothing prepared Axl for the sight of the various tubes and cables attached to your body.

Your eyes opened a little at the sound of someone entering your room and you attempted to smile at the sight of your boyfriend in the doorway.

“Hey,” you croaked out, immediately regretting speaking. Your chest was in excruciating pain.

Axl wasted no time rushing to your side. His hand instinctively reached out to grab your own, but he hesitated before touching you. He didn’t want to accidently hurt you. He instead grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it to the side of your bed.

“Oh my god,” he breathed out. “Oh my god, (Y/N). Are you okay?”

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop the tears that were rapidly gathering there. Of course you weren’t okay. Anybody with eyes could see that.

You reached your hand out slowly, little by little, hoping he’d take the hint and hold it. He did, though his grip was soft and light as if he was afraid of breaking it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you whispered, knowing that you couldn’t speak much with him. It hurt too much to talk, but you felt those words were too important not to say.

Axl just looked at you and nodded before bursting into tears. Sobs raked through his body and you watched sadly, wanting nothing more than to pull him close and wrap him tightly in your arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, choking back a sob, “I’m sorry. I was just so worried y’know? Nobody could tell me anything for so long and I was so afraid that you were…” He wiped at his tears furiously with his free hand, refusing to let go of you. “What can I do babe? How can I help you?” he asked.

“Stay,” you replied. All you needed was him to stay. You had been so scared all alone here. Now that Axl was here, you could finally relax just a little.

“I will,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles. “I promise.”

You smiled tiredly at him. You were exhausted. Your eyes felt heavy and now that Axl was here, you finally felt comfortable enough to sleep, but you didn’t want to stop talking to him. Axl could sense this and reassured you that it was more than alright for you to rest.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You can sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”

All you could do was nod your head a little and squeeze his hand as you drifted off to sleep, feeling safe in your boyfriend’s company.

#axl rose imagine #axl rose x reader #guns n roses #guns n roses imagine #gnr x reader #guns n roses x reader #gnr imagine #wanda writes

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mari-beau · 3 years

Text

PARTNERS - A Rogue One Fanfiction

Written for Cassian Appreciation Week 2021 Day 4: Alliance Intelligence

(I know I missed Cassian Appreciation Week entirely with this one, but it got a little more out of hand than the quick scene tags and etc. Actually, tumblr posting etiquette question: At what point is a fanfic considered too long to post directly and should be hosted elsewhere and linked to? Or is inserting a ‘keep reading’ break enough?)

Title: Partners

Characters: Cassian Andor POV; Jyn Erso, Draven

Pairing: Cassian/Jyn

Words: 2633

Setting: Post-Rogue One, Canon-divergent (in that Cassian & Jyn live)

Summary: Cassian receives his first assignment for Alliance Intelligence after recovering from his Scarif injuries, but something is amiss with Jyn Erso. And something is gnawing at him as well...

Spoilers: Rogue One

Warnings: Our heroes have a little bit of PTSD/Separation Anxiety; Also it’s in a layered/nonlinear narrative format, which hopefully is clear/works.

“Where?” she asked. Was there a desperate edge to Jyn’s voice? Or did he just want there to be?

“You know I can’t tell you where.”

Cassian thought she would at least roll her eyes, if not spout sardonic criticism of Alliance Intelligence not even trusting their own people, not trusting those rebels who’d sacrificed everything for the Cause. But she surprisingly remained silent, pursing her lips and giving a little shake of her head.

“Are you allowed to tell me how long you’ll-” She swallowed, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “You’ll be gone?”

“I’m not sure.” Cassian wanted to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but he’d never seen her look so fragile, and he was afraid a single touch might shatter her.

“Okay.” Her response was clipped, even for her, and she just nodded her head, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’ll be back, Jyn,” he said. And maybe he’d never actually said it outright, but maybe she needed to hear it. “I’ll never leave you behind.”

Again, she only nodded her head, repeating “Okay.”

He gave into the urge, placed a hand on her biceps and stroked her arm through the layers of her thick thermal jumpsuit.

“Are you-” he tried to ask her whether she was feeling okay, but she shrugged his hand off and bolted, leaving him to watch her fleeing back as she disappeared down an icy corridor, blinking in surprise.

…

Earlier…

“Medical informs me you’re cleared for active duty, Captain Andor.” Draven managed to make it both a statement and a question. Of course he was the head of Intelligence, a spy to his very core, working in vagaries. Except when he issued orders. Those were always clear.

“Yes, sir.” Cassian tried to stand at full attention, but the stance honestly put a little too much pressure on his bad leg. If it was just the artificial hip, he’d probably be sprier than he’d been before. But the deep tissue damage was going to take awhile, if he ever did regain the full musculature in his leg, the tendons and ligaments would never be the same. The fractures in his vertebrae and ribs had thankfully knitted back up and neither bothered him too badly. Even with the unrelenting cold of Hoth.

“I have your next assignment.”

Cassian nodded, accepting the datapad with mission specifics. He gave it a cursory glance.

Deep cover.

“Is this a solo mission?” he asked, but pretended to continue to study the information rather than risk revealing his insecurities to his commanding officer. “Or am I going to need a team?”

Maybe just a partner?

“It has to be you,” Draven said. “And only you. They’re your connections. Well, one of your alias’ connections.”

The older man hesitated, not dismissing Cassian, not continuing with the briefing, just standing, waiting. Cassian mustered the best impassive face he could before meeting his commanding officer’s gaze.

“You’re still one of the best agents we have, Andor.”

Cassian nodded his head in silent acceptance of the reassurance.

“When do you need me to leave?” he asked.

“Whenever you’re comfortable enough with the mission brief. But the sooner, the better.” Draven was still studying him intently, with more scrutiny than Cassian had even faced as an undercover spy. “You know where to find me if you have any follow up questions.”

“Yes, sir,” Cassian said, recognizing his dismissal.

Something twisted deep in his chest as he walked away.

He needed to find Jyn and tell her he’d be leaving.

…

That Day on the Beach of Scarif…

“Look.”

It sounded like Jyn’s voice. Was there an afterlife, then? And could Cassian have somehow been lucky enough to be with her there?

No. No, that couldn’t be the case. There was too much pain. If he no longer had a body, then why did it hurt in the way physical flesh only could?

“Cassian!” Jyn’s voice was more urgent and she was squirming in his arms, her hands tugging on the sleeves of his shirt. “What is that?”

He forced his eyes open. It was bright. So bright. Why was she confused? It was Death.

No. No, it wasn’t?

He squinted, blinking his eyes as he looked off toward the ocean, well, where the ocean had been, where the wall of destruction had… stopped?

Jyn looked at him in wide-eyed amazement. “Is that a-”

“Shield,” Cassian gasped, in utter shock himself. “The Empire must have installed an emergency shield to protect the facility.”

“How long?” Jyn was breathing hard, already scrambling to her feet.

“Against that blastwave? Not long,” Cassian said. “Maybe it has dispersed some of the explosive force already but…”

“Come on.” Jyn was standing, leaning down to tug at his arms. He felt like he was ten times the weight he’d ever been on any planet.

“There’s not a lot of time,” he said, hoping she’d understand.

“Which is why you need to move your ass.” Jyn squatted in front of him instead, shoving her arms under his armpits and basically hugging him, she tried hauling him to his feet, but he was dead weight. He hissed with overwhelming pain that was practically blinding, his legs refusing to function. They collapsed back to the sand in a heap.

Jyn got back up, wincing and holding her injured shoulder before she renewed her attempts to get Cassian onto his feet.

It was a herculean effort for his weary body, but he managed to grab her arm.

“Listen to me, Jyn.” She locked eyes with him, and the desperation and pain he found there stabbed him in the chest, hurting worse than his aching ribs. “You have to go. You have to leave me behind. There’s got to be others still alive out there. Find them, get off Scarif. Leave me here. It’s okay. I want you to leave me. Do you understand?”

“No,” she said. There was a ferocious passion in the depths of her eyes, the green gone all steel grey. Any argument he could possibly make, any plea for her to save herself would not be tolerated.

“You listen to me, Cassian Andor.” Her hands captured his face. Her fierceness took away what little breath he had. “We live together. Or we die together.”

This time when she grabbed him, somehow her small body managed to haul him up, maybe she’d somehow given him some of her strength, some of her unrelenting determination, because his legs held... mostly.

…

Present

Cassian found Jyn hiding in a storage room, sitting on a crate with her hands on her knees, doubled over, breathing in big, sobbing gulps of air. He could only stand there and stare in complete shock. Not even on the beach that day had he ever seen Jyn Erso so… such an emotional mess. Angry. Passionate. Vulnerable. Yes. All those things he had seen in her eyes. But this sort of tangible, physical reaction? It was jarring to witness.

And he hesitated. Never hesitate. It could cost lives, the lives of others, your own.

Rushing to her side, he dropped to his knees beside her, the hard ice floor’s impact mitigated by his thick thermal pants.

“Jyn, what is it? What’s wrong? Should I find a medic?”

He placed a hand on her leg, tried to get her to look at him, but she turned away, her breathing still disturbingly uneven, like she wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

“N-no,” she choked out. “Just- Just give me a m-minute.”

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m right here. If you need anything, I’m here.”

A sob escaped her, and then she gasped, continuing to struggle to breath, hyperventilating. Cassian just remained there, kneeling beside her, a previously unfamiliar agony tearing at him, watching Jyn suffer whatever it was she was enduring and unable to help her. But he’d stay there, by her side, forever, if she needed him to.

Her breathing gradually grew placid until she was taking deep, regulated draughts of air. And then those determined breaths evened out as well until she was finally breathing normally. And still he waited.

Jyn swore, wiping at her face before she turned to him, and oh, force, her cheeks were raw-looking with tear tracks staining her skin. There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted. As if she’d been awake, hunted, for a week. How did that happen in just half an hour or so?

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” Cassian asked. He wanted to know, needed to know, so, “Maybe I can help.”

She nodded but her eyes were bright, welling up with tears. This was Jyn Erso. It took a lot to make the woman cry.

“What is responsible for this? Did someone hurt you?” Cassian could hear his own accent thickening but didn’t care, becoming too agitated to focus on proper Basic pronunciations.

Jyn shook her head but said, “No. Yes… I… fuck. This is so embarrassing.”

“What is it, querida?” He took her hand and when she didn’t pull away, squeezed it, caressed her bare palm with his thumb, noting that her skin was getting cold and he should get her back closer to the core of the base where the temperature was more bearable. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

She nodded. And again, Cassian was struck by how vulnerable the woman was. She always had a deeply hurt portion of her soul, but she seemed incapable of letting it show, even to him. It wasn’t deluding himself, or an over-exaggeration. Cassian knew that her friendship with him was different than any other she’d had in her life. It was the same for him. They finally had someone they could trust wholeheartedly.

But he still held his breath, waiting for her to bestow that trust once again.

She looked down at her hands in his, then to his face, her weary eyes holding his gaze, searching for something.

“You haven’t realized it, yet, have you?” she asked. Cassian’s heart beat faster. Realized what? “Until your Intelligence briefing this morning, we hadn’t been more than an arm’s length apart since Scarif. And force, I’m having a fucking panic attack just at the thought of being separated from you. How ridiculous is that?”

Cassian’s mouth had gone dry. He swallowed and wet his lips before he could even contemplate speaking.

“It’s not ridiculous, Jyn.” Maybe he hadn’t realized why, but that uneasy feeling had been twisting his insides since he’d first left for his briefing. And now, now he couldn’t deny its cause.

Because Jyn was right. She’d basically dragged him bodily out of that massacre, off that cursed planet, held him as he drifted in and out of consciousness until he’d blacked out entirely, to wake up in the infirmary on Yavin 4 with Jyn sitting at his bedside, arms folded on the edge of his cot, supporting her head as she slept. And from there, she had been with him his entire recovery. She refused to leave the room when medical staff or droids checked on him, only turning her back to give him privacy. He hadn’t complained. He hadn’t objected. Even when she set up a bedroll in the corner of his quarters when he’d been released from the infirmary. Even when she wordlessly climbed into his bed to soothe his fitful, painful sleep, even when she helped him dress. And shower. And limp down the corridors to exercise his injured leg. And after he was basically as recovered as he was going to get, she stayed. Always by his side.

The memory that would always forever be seared into his existence slapped him in the face.

“We live together. Or we die together,” he whispered.

Jyn’s pupils dilated, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on his.

“I meant it,” she said quietly. “But I didn’t think…”

Her hand reflexively clutched at the front of her thermal jumpsuit, seeking the only possession she cared about, the only thing she had left of her mother, her father, the only thing she had that was her own, special. But hadn’t she realized?

She had him.

Cassian took a risk, slid his fingertips over her cheek, which was soft and smooth and warm against his doubtless chilled fingers. But she didn’t flinch from his cool touch. Rather, she leaned into his palm as he cupped her face.

“I know,” he said. And he did know, could see the knowledge of it in her eyes, as well. He didn’t much believe in the Force, and despite the kyber crystal perpetually around Jyn’s neck, she had had a hard life, was a survivor, with a practicality that ran so deep it had taken him, a heartless assassin to make her believe in hope again.

Sometimes, though… Okay, often, he felt like that blastwave had swept them away, disintegrated them on the submolecular level. And then somehow they’d reformed. But their atoms had been mixed up, and he was as much composed of her stardust as his own, and she of his.

It was fanciful. And completely unlike Cassian. The Before Cassian. But now, it was absolutely the way he felt. It was foolish to deny it. And from the way Jyn was looking at him...

He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, his lips feathering over hers as he hesitated, waited for any signal from her, acceptance, invitation, or rejection.

It was an exquisite, agonizing eternity.

But then Jyn sucked in a sharp breath, one of her small yet strong hands grabbing the front of his coat, the other the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair. She pulled him into her, her mouth crashing against, hard and hot, and needy. Aggressive and tender at the same time. An inextricable mess. It was how they were. It was who they were.

It was perfect.

…

A little bit later...

“You have concerns regarding the mission, Captain Andor?”

Cassian had managed to catch General Draven in the rare moment where the man was actually in his office, sitting at his desk, reviewing… who knew what… intelligence, battle plans… food reserves…

“I do, sir.”

Draven looked up. Cassian had never questioned an assignment before. He’d always been such a good little soldier-spy. Even though it had been costing him his very soul.

Still, even with the feeling of Jyn’s kisses freshly on his lips, the presence of her burned into his entire being, questioning orders made him nervous. Almost as nervous as allowing himself to have wants, a sense of self beyond what the Alliance had given him.

“Well, what is it, captain?”

“I need a partner.”

Draven frowned in thought. “If I recall… the assignment is best suited for a single operative.”

Cassian swallowed but looked his commanding officer straight in the eye. “Then I won’t be taking this assignment. Or any others for Alliance Intelligence. Not unless I can work with a partner.”

Draven stood, did a quick pace behind his desk before he fixed Cassian with a hard stare. “You would desert the Alliance over Jyn Erso?”

Cassian wet his lips. Revealing such personal, emotional aspects to himself was… entirely against his nature. Jyn did not count. She was simply an extension of himself.

“I would choose her.” Cassian held the man’s war-weary, hardened gaze that still somehow seemed to have an iota of softness about the edges. “I have chosen her.”

We live together. Or we die together.

“She’s my partner.”

Draven sighed, but inclined his head.

“I’ll update the rosters. Make whatever alterations to the mission outline you view fit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I don’t know if you should be thanking me, Andor,” Draven said, but an elusive smirk flitted across his face.

Cassian did not hide his smile as he left, to find Jyn, and to tell her she was the newest member of the Alliance Intelligence unit.

#cassianappreciationweek #fanfiction #Rogue One #rebelcaptain #Cassian x Jyn #Cassian Andor #Jyn Erso

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my-writings-and-musings · 3 years

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hello! if you are taking requests, can you please do the oxygen loss prompt with megatron and whirl?

I did Whirl in part two, so I have Megatron here with a ridiculously long one and I hope that's okay! I added Thunderclash as well so I can keep my pattern of two because... I like patterns. I might be getting super into this prompt...

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: You're Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Megatron

·You're in the ship's recently finished classroom organizing lesson plans on your own, having been working with Megatron to try and set up more structured class schedules on the growing list of topics he's begun to cover. You're thrilled he's found a kind of calling on the ship, especially one that seems to be allowing bots to see the side of him you know best. He's made it quite clear in his own way that your assistance in this endeavor means the world to him.

·He's on the bridge, scouting out potential locations for refueling on the next leg of the journey with the rest of the commanding officers. For once there's mostly cohesion in their efforts, and his insistence on choosing planets hospitable to humans is met with agreement, if not surprise. They're on schedule to finish early for a quiet afternoon off when everything turns to a level of chaos even the experienced crewmembers have to call extreme. The rumble that shakes the entire ship is one Megatron and experienced space travelers know well; they've been ambushed.

·You're nearly knocked off the desk you're standing on by the unexpected tremors. While you're trying to figure out what could possibly have caused the disturbance, a message is appearing up on the bridge, where alerts of failing systems and corrupted codes almost make it impossible to hear an alien captain decree an intent to storm the ship. Megatron attempts diplomacy before lives are lost, but the enemy makes it clear; this ship and its contents are more valuable than anything they could offer. While the captain notes their species has heard of the famed Lost Light and its crew, their hack of the security systems proved embarrassingly simple, and they look forward to the easy payoff from selling the scraps of the Cybertronians onboard!

·With communications down and systems struggling through an ongoing sabotage, Megatron still prepares to coordinate a defense, but is stopped before he can begin by a final taunt from their enemy. Their hack of the security cameras showed his fondness for his new pet, a homo sapien of all things, and thus his current concern should be for the atmospheric regulation instead of battle plans. But considering how many dead organics he's left in his wake, surely one more shouldn't perturb him too deeply, yes?

·The line goes dead just as the ship's alarm attempts to sound, signaling an impending attack before it too crashes with everything else. His fellow officers are moving to get defenses up however they can, preparing to get the resident tech experts on the job of restoring key systems while trying to plan a counterattack with no way to reach anyone. He's near to frozen as he tries to message you to no avail, the cruel mockery of the enemy cutting deep in ways words rarely do for him, if only because the implication terrifies him like nothing ever has; he's all but helpless to save you.

·Only experience and an undying determination allow him to break through the fog. Without asking for guidance or permission, he states his one intent; to rescue you however he can. If there are any objections, he does not hear them, and soon his pedes are tearing down the hallway to where he last saw you and prays he'll find you; the classroom. Oblivious to his rush, the only thing you're aware of is the fact that something is amiss, but you don't have a clue as to what. Between the tremor, the brief blare of the alarm and your inability to get your communicator running, you only know there's danger inbound.

·Not having much information to work with, you surmise that the classroom is probably not the safest place to hunker down, and recall that the medical and scientific wings aren't far. As the doctors on the ship have added human medicine to their repertoire, and are hardly defenseless, trying to get to them seems your greatest hope for securing yourself. Not wanting to panic, you push your supplies into a somewhat neat pile and climb down the small ladder that's been added to the desk for your sake. Somehow you don't find yourself at the top of your worries at all. Your thoughts center almost entirely on Megatron, who will undoubtedly be forced into whatever conflict might erupt, and even an unexpected staleness in the air around you hardly registers amidst your anxiety.

·Megatron is still too logical of a bot not to stop every crewmember he sees to give them a brief list of orders. He knows that, without a united defense and victory, there won't be any way you can be saved at all. So he takes the hindrance, though bots hardly take long to move when he issues a command. But his growing fear gnaws at him with a simple truth; without communication, he can't even be sure of your location, let alone your condition. Perhaps he's going the wrong way. Perhaps you're already beyond help. Perhaps you've already been discovered by the enemy. All he can do in the face of blinding terror is keep moving, keep coordinating, and keep hoping beyond reason that he'll be fortunate for once.

·You can't remember the classroom ever taking so long to cross, but that's hardly important, especially with your communicator still failing to function. Reaching Megatron would give you incredible comfort right now, if only to hear he's alright, yet that's obviously not going to happen. Honestly, it sounds silly to really think about it, the human worrying for the Cybertronian... But your anxiety isn't comforted merely to remember he's a gigantic combat veteran, not knowing anything about his current status is all it needs to wander to scary places...

·Closing in on your position, the mech in question echoes your worry, but his knowledge of the current danger puts his feelings closer to panic. All he knows is that he's coordinated a not insignificant number of bots for a better defense on his way through the ship. With better resistance on their side, he knows they can win, because they must. The alternative won't come to pass while his spark still flickers within him. That promise comes to an early test when he overhears enemies moving on the path ahead, and he takes the charge without hesitation, his terror converting quite easily to rage for extra assistance.

·By the time you're at the door you know something is wrong with you. Each step comes with a wobble you can't explain, and soon the dizziness you thought was worry has grown to almost debilitating levels. Why is the room spinning? Why does your body feel so heavy? It doesn't worry you as much as it probably should, but you know it needs to be fixed, especially with the ship potentially in jeopardy. Faint activity from the hallway outside spurs you to finally trigger the door to open, which thankfully appears to be one of the few systems still working. Heavy footsteps not too far away register in your ears just as you're forced to lean against a wall for support.

·The aliens that come into view before you quite unexpectedly are large, tough, and well armed. Most races would have found them an insurmountable challenge, and even an experienced Cybertronian combatant couldn't expect an easy victory against a single fighter, leaving you quite hopeless as you stare upwards in confusion. Megatron is not the norm, and his drive to win is fuelled by far more than just survival, so he feels little more than irritation when he finally arrives to the hallway you're pinned within. More than a dozen mark his path to you, their forms clustered around the helpless human in sick curiosity, and as a result they're heedless to his appearance.

·Hulking forms most definitely not of Cybertronian make tower over your body as it struggles to keep upright, the ceiling spinning overhead as you try to connect thoughts and move your legs to flee. A language you don't understand precedes a slow swipe in your direction, one that you stumble away from more than dodge, resulting in you roughly collapsing to the floor. Something like cruel laughter greets your painful tumble. You should be angry, being mocked like a bug skittering from its inevitable squishing, but God you're so exhausted. It's not even in you to be afraid when the barrel of an alien gun is pointed at your head and the scent of ozone fills your nose while the barrel fills with light.

·A second tremor shakes the ship, but this one proves to be far more deadly than the last. Your would be killers are obliterated by a blur of gunmetal gray that pummels them into the floor, and before you can blink the carnage begins and seems to escalate to unimaginable levels of ferocity. Only your familiarity with Megatron allows you to discern him amidst the flurry of quickly diminishing combatants, but he's nothing like the mech you know in this instant, going for sheer brute force over strategy as he tears aliens apart with his bare servos. In the bloody chaos you can't tell if he's taking damage or not despite the sheer numbers he was initially facing.

·The end of it all is somehow more startling than the beggining. In one final attack he ends the last soldier, quieting the cacophony of battle to leave only the steady drip of alien blood down the wall and his own haggard ventilations. There's a dash of bright energon amongst the mess, glowing in rivulets down his side, and somehow that's what gets your cloudy brain moving again. Pushing exhausted legs against the floor, you try to rise as you cry out in concern, reaching for him before you collapse right back against the solid ground.

·Heedless to his own injuries, Megatron is over you in a single instant, no longer blinded by the fury he'd experienced at the sight of you in peril. All he'd known was that your attackers had needed to die, no hesitation, and tearing them apart had come easily from there. Now things are once again far from simple. The blood on his hands doesn't stop him from picking you up as gingerly as he can, though your impossibly tiny body appears more delicate than ever in his massive palms. Though it makes him sick to realize, he does indeed know a struggling organic when he sees one, making the captain's words burn in his audials once more.

·Guilt is forced down to a minimum so he can focus on what matters; you. He needs to get you somewhere safe but with access to oxygen, and the only place that can happen is the medical bay or the laboratory, and he knows both are quite close. He couldn't care less about his own gashed side, so even if the medics and scientists are elsewhere he should likely be able to rig something up before energon loss impacts him. Holding you close, in a way that will permit him to shield you with his body, he starts moving while he speaks to you. It's obvious even to him his words aren't motivating, but at least they seem to get your attention.

·Looking up at him, feeling like you're tiny beyond belief thanks to his incredible size, you wonder how much of this could be real. Megatron had just hurled himself into battle for you, enduring agonizing wounds in the process, and beaten back what should have been impossible odds... If he wasn't so close you could touch him, you'd certainly think he was just a figment of your imagination emerging from the spinning hallways around you. His deep baritone rumbles reassurances to you as your eyes slowly drift shut, your perception fading around the edges until he's all you can see, and you can feel sleep beckoning like never before.

·He truly has seen enough organics dying to recognize that you're fading in his arms, and seeing the connection between such atrocities and you is slowly starting to tear into him with guilt that refuses to be ignored. How many lives just like yours has he snuffed out? How recently was it that he could have ended your life amongst the billions of others, unaware of what a gift you are to the universe? More specifically, because of this, what right does he have to so much as look at you? The thoughts are a dark and unmanageable tangle by the time he arrives at his destination, where an already overwhelmed medical crew is tending to the injured from an apparently victorious battle. He's near to shock when he hands you over to a frantically rushing Ratchet and simply explains you need oxygen, his hand gingerly cupping his injury before he firmly insists on being the last to be repaired. If he's spoken to afterwards, he doesn't remember any of what is said.

·The medical bay is dim when you awaken, and you see that you've been placed in your own private room when you look about, oxygen mask holding secure to your face as you do so. A massive shape against the wall would have startled you if you didn't immediately recognize Megatron. He smiles almost sadly when you awaken, and while you initially attribute his uncharacteristic weariness to the welded injury on his side, he quickly makes it clear that isn't the case. Whispering a simple wish for your recovery, he excuses himself and makes to leave, and you know that something is amiss m

·When you merely call for him to stop, he breaks, confessing that his relief to see you alive is equal only to his certainty that he's not worthy of you and can no longer pretend otherwise. It takes all of your strength to sit up and demand he stay; you refuse to let the bot who just saved you walk out, especially when you've made it abundantly clear his past is something you've accepted, and your firm reminder is cut short only by dizziness forcing you to lay back. The sight stirs him to return to your side, concern in his optics, and you lay a hand on the tip of his digit in a breathless and wordless reminder; he's more than his past to you, and you made that decision knowing the struggles ahead. He smiles as his digit gently strokes your forehead, recalling that he too had made a decision that day; to trust you meant yours.

Thunderclash

·The two of you are in the hangar practicing sparring, which for your benefit mostly consists of him holding up a training dummy against his palm while you whack at it, and as is often the case you've become sidetracked by conversation over actual work. He's laying on his front to keep the two of you closer to eye level, leaning his chin against his spare hand for comfort, talking about all the little things that come to mind as opposed to the grand topics he's used to being asked about. Frankly, this freedom a big part of what he likes about these moments with you. He gets to just be a bot with interests like any other.

·Your casual chat is interrupted by a communication from the command team on the bridge, who summon him for assistance tracing where a series of small anomalies across the ship might be coming from. Systems are glitching in ways that can't be explained, the defensive radar can't seem to decide if there's something in the apparently empty space around them, and in an ironic twist the message goes dead just as communication problems are mentioned. It's quickly apparent something needs to be done.

·Apologizing for having to cut things short, the massive bot offers to give you a ride to the heart of the ship, which he'll have to pass on his way to the bridge. Always eager to spend more time together, you happily oblige, taking the place of the training dummy in his palm as he lifts you to rest beside his spark. While his shoulder is arguably a more dignified location, you take more than a little comfort feeling the hum of his energy at your back, and thus have chosen this as your travel spot. Between his wound and the many setbacks it's taken to get him back in shape, it's just nice to feel his spark going strong.

·Not long after setting off, he gets the sense there's more to these troubles than technical error, and that something less than desirable may be the culprit. It's not something he can explain, but being more attuned to the subtler things in his environment just gives him a feeling. When he voices this to you, along with the thought you should probably be left somewhere safe, you ask what he believes might be coming. Not because you don't believe him, but you know he only drops his smile when he is preparing for something bad, and you haven't seen proof of any concrete threat.

·With almost comedic timing, the ship lurches at that very moment, nearly knocking the big bot off balance. Only his firm but careful hold saves you from a twenty foot fall. The rumble fades off with something like a great dragging sensation through the ship, which you'd compare to a Manhattan sized car grinding to a halt. Now cupping you in both hands, Thunderclash asks earnestly if you're alright, to which you reassuringly reply that a little turbulence isn't enough to do any damage.

·Smiling at the fortitude of your tiny body, he begins walking straight away, shifting to strategy as his red optics narrow in contemplation. He explains that the particular nature of that shake confirmed his suspicions something is planning an attack. Rather, they're initiating an attack. The sensation of a ship being locked to another and anchored is a particular one, and combined with their systems crashing it's obvious an enemy has come prepared to strike for a well planned ambush.

·You see that he's worrying, but you say nothing of it, taking hold of his thumb to communicate support. Being with him in private has made it clear his existence as a perpetual source of strength for others exhausts him, so you've since committed to acting as his well of certainty in difficult times. Not letting your fear bleed in to your words, you instead ask what the two of you should do, confirming your own communicator is uselessly jammed as you do so.

·Moving through the ship at considerable speed with his long legs, he decides that you'll still need to be secured rather quickly, as enemy combatants are probably already storming the ship or preparing to do so. You'd debate him if you weren't well aware of the logic in his plan. No matter what the enemy is, you won't stand much of a chance in a full on brawl, as anything confident enough to attack a Cybertronian starship is likely to have the firepower to back itself up. Still, it's impossible not to be dissapointed by your inability to offer aid, though it's probably for the best as you're rather exhausted from sparring anyway.

·It happens in a blur, but that's partly because of the shocking reaction time of the bot carrying you, something few would expect due to his size. Thunderclash registers the threat as soon as he turns the corner, a feat aided by the very much not Cybertronian appearance of the figures he sees, and then made far easier by the multiple clicks of weapons preparing to fire. Your presence in his hands became his central point of focus in that instant. Turning on the spot, he allowed the first hail of bullets to strike his armored back, keeping you well out of the line of fire before ducking behind an opposite corner for cover. The sting of the gunfire matters little when he sees you safe in his hands, and less when he instructs you to stay low after setting you down and charging in to fight.

·In the heat of it all, you're embarrassed to be caught so frazzled, as this is hardly your first exposure to alien combat. But there's little time to admonish yourself when chaos unfolds just around the corner, and your tiny size permits a small peek... Thunderclash is the gentlest giant in the world to you, but in just a few blinks the hulking aliens are on the losing front, and while his fighting style is far from gratuitous it is effective. You're still trembling from the rush of the initial shock when the last enemy of the group is on the floor, but even with your shaky vision you can see your bot is unharmed. For a moment that little burst of relief supersedes everything else.

·In usual fashion though, he expresses worry for you when he returns to pick you up from where he left you, drawing an affectionate chuckle from you at how impossibly selfless this mech can be. But he doesn't back down from the question like he usually does. His expression of concern intensifies as he starts moving again, and his sharp optics find ample to worry about on your seemingly unharmed body, with particular attention being paid to your face. Those brilliant eyes of yours are well known to him, and so he can tell something is... off in their beautiful depths. Even if his medical studies focus very little on organics, he's able to recognize the signs of a body struggling, and your paleness combined with the way you labor for each breath tells him something is very wrong.

·Now in a race against time, he has no choice but to move, gunning it towards the ship's tech wing where the laboratories and medical bay are located. He doesn't yet know what's wrong with you for certain, but aid will be there if it's anywhere to be found. There's no time to be wasted in securing you somewhere either, he's going to have to face any threats as they come in the moment whilst ensuring your protection in the process. It's a set of circumstances he's encountered before in his long and eventful time as a soldier, but there's an entirely new variable this time around; you. He adores you, like no one he's ever met before, and perhaps it's selfish but the very thought of losing you... he's not sure his spark could take it.

·The soothing tone of his voice and the rhythmic thumping of his footsteps make it surprisingly difficult for you to heed his requests to stay as awake as possible. Even though your breaths are coming in with difficulty, it seems like sleep would be a fantastic idea at the moment, even if only to rest your eyes. His cupped hands just support your body so nicely, and are so warm, and his voice is so delightfully melodic. Why does he seem so intent on keeping you conscious? Why does he look so incredibly upset to see you struggling to keep your eyes open?

·The pathway he chooses is mercifully free of conflict at first, but that matters little due to your rate of deterioration, as you may not make it even at his full speed. Driving isn't an option due to his need to be combat ready, and the lack of options and hope is absolutely tearing him apart. He hasn't had someone like you in his life before, and the desperation in his voice begins to show that, cracking as he loses his steadfast control of his usually impervious wall of confidence. The selfishness of his desire kills him; how dare he put his own feelings on you due to his weakness? Begging you to survive for his sake?

·No amount of haze can prevent you from startling at his pain. There are tears in his optics, though he doesn't even seem to notice them, letting them fall down his face as he pleads. In the warm fog clouding your brain, you feel a surge of worry, and your hand instinctively grabs at his nearest digit to give it a squeeze. Before you can even offer a breathless reasurance, he ceases running and dives from gunfire that seems to erupt from nowhere, laying you in a tiny maintenance crevice before hurling himself at the second delay he knows you don't have time for. The last thing you see before drifting off is the grief in his optics that you wish you'd been able to comfort...

·While his combat skills always make things quick, in this blur of pain and rage he's downright brutal, ending each foe swiftly but with absolute contempt for their existence clear in every torn limb. Hits to his own frame don't register at all. Bullets and blades mean nothing in the face of what he's about to lose, and the vengeance fueling his strength turns foes into scattered body parts more effectively than any grenade ever could. By the end of it all he's likely set a record for the swiftness of his takedown, but it matters as little as his multitude of bleeding wounds. All he can see is your now limp body as he pulls it from the hiding spot, and his vision narrows to only your faintly moving chest and his pedes moving one past the other through the carnage.

·There's a mass of activity in the technology wing, likely due to injuries as well as the many bots ordered to stand guard in the event of battle, but he doesn't hear the reaction his arrival triggers in the slightest. His sharp processor is reduced to one goal, and anything unrelated doesn't exist. At the sight of the crowded medical bay he starts to strategize. Ratchet appears in his vision, first focusing only on his obvious injuries and the alien blood he didn't know was spattered across his frame, before well trained optics catch sight of the tiny human limp in his hands.

·There's a rush of an explanation; they think one of the systems downed was the atmospheric generators, resulting in a loss of the oxygen the ship maintains for your needs. It's all the information Thunderclash needs to act. Brushing off any help for himself and encouraging the more egregiously wounded to be tended first, he requests only to be provided what you need. Busy tending the injured, medics still assist him getting a supply of oxygen going where they can, with Ratchet using his particular knowledge of human anatomy to ensure the ratio is correct for your biology while Thunderclash prepares it all. Dexterous hands set you on a medical slab where an oxygen mask and scanner are used to return your blood oxygen to normal, and just like that, he knows you'll eventually be okay...

·By the time you wake up your tiny frame has been moved to a private room, both to keep you from the chaos of crammed in bots and to give the two of you privacy from adoring admirers. He's beside you, his wounds patched but his frame still dirtied with blood, a sight that shocks you enough to force a gasp into your mask. Perking up the instant he hears you, the hulking mech is as close as the berth allows in a flash. A stream of questions about your wellbeing passes his lips before you can get a word in. Between the dried blood, the patched wounds, and the faint discoloration of his optics that suggests recent weeping... It's hard to know what to ask him, so you vaguely request a rundown of what happened.

·His face falls, and in between recounts of alien attacks and near death experiences there's overwhelming self depreciation. To hear him tell it the entire affair might as well be his fault. You've always known him to be humble, even critical of his actions, but this borders on self destructive. Worse, the crux of his crisis seems to be that he was motivated to save you not just by duty, but by his selfish desire to protect the one he loved so dearly and can't bare to lose. His own desires are inexcusable in these things, as he puts it, and could have hindered him at your expense. Shaky arms rise so that you can grab the nearest part of him, a digit once again, as you encourage him to stop tormenting himself. You owed him your life, several times over just for today alone, and there wasn't a bot in existence less selfish than he. The kindness of his spark was what you'd fallen in love with, and what you still loved now, because he was more than a legend to you. You loved Thunderclash the bot, not the expectation everyone else had built around him, and thus he'd always be enough just by being himself. Finally relaxing after everything, and his spark singing at your ability to become his rock when he needs one, he allows himself to just rest and exist as he is. Laying his helm on the berth beside you, he nuzzles close, allowing himself to feel simple gratitude to have and love you as you do him.

#transformers #maccadam #more than meets the eye #mtmte #lost light #idw #tf #my writing #requests #anon #megatron x reader #megatron #thunderclash x reader #thunderclash #human reader #self insert

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