and that in its own quiet way is the miracle

quincette  asked:

Hullo! Are you taking prompts from that list? If yes, can I request #16 with Ieyasu please? You wrote tension so beautifully with Kojuro, I wonder what you'll do with this meanie tsundere^^ thank you!

Aww, thank you for the request! I haven’t played Ieyasu outside of his event route, but I’ll give it a shot. I’ve seen quite a few spoilers, after all ;)

#16: “Come back to bed.”

tokugawa ieyasu x mc 

When he wakes up and finds the other side of his bedding cold, he is, to put it simply, outraged.

Some would say the great Tokugawa Ieyasu is simply difficult to please – but, when it comes to her, it’s a bit more particular than that. The fact that she had the nerve to disappear, making him drag himself (or, rather, jump up so quickly he nearly fell on his face) out of bed to go find her in the middle of the night, simply baffles him.

He doesn’t like being baffled. And especially not at this hour by his kitchen wench.

Stalking down the halls (let no one see the fear in his eyes), he wastes no time trying to find her. The tension works its way across his shoulders, down his spine and up into his jaw, his steps quickening until he’s nearly running through his own castle. The moon itself feels as if its bearing down on him, and, for a moment, just a moment, he is afraid.

He has enemies. So many enemies. 

It’s a miracle – somewhere between circumstance and fate – that he manages to hear the quiet rustling in the kitchen. He can tell it’s her, easily; something about everything she does is always so markedly her that he needs only hear it to identify it. He swallows his relief and forces a scowl upon his face, because letting her have any sort of gratification for this behavior is completely out of the question.

But, damn him if he isn’t relieved to see her in the kitchen all the same, sleeves tied back as she scrubs at something in a basin of water.

He clears his throat after a moment, and she jumps, back stiffening and straightening as she drops whatever it is she was washing.

“L-lord Ieyasu!” She greets, voice an octave too high and words bleeding together hastily. Even so, he’s never been happier to hear his own name.

“What are you doing,” his voice is ice, and his eyes just the same as he rakes over her and her work. She wipes her hands on her apron and casts her eyes downward, stumbling over her words before she even begins to speak, and he wonders when this sort of behavior became endearing.

I, well, I noticed the dish in your room hadn’t been cleaned, and– and if it doesn’t get cleaned immediately, the rice is impossible to get off, so I-I thought I should–” 

“Dung-beetles don’t think, do they?” He interrupts, narrowing his eyes at her. She hardly bats a lash at the insult now, meeting his gaze steadily, waiting. He almost (almost) hates how well she knows him.

“You are to come back to bed.

“But, I–” 

“You are in no position to argue with me,” he says, shortly, trying to quell the blush steadily rising in his cheeks. “Bed. Now.” He watches her struggling to do just the same as him, and he assures himself that his blush is much less prominent than hers. 

“As you wish, Milord,” she says, and her tone makes it seem like she’s trying very hard not to laugh at him. He clenches his jaw and turns his back to her, ears burning.

“I don’t have all day, woman,” he complains. 

“Of course, Milord.” He scowls, taking her hand and nearly dragging her back to his chambers. If she complains, he doesn’t hear it, fully intent on making her pay for her insolence, dragging him out of bed so late. His door is barely shut behind them before he pins her to the wall, swallowing her surprise and protest with a kiss that even he can admit is markedly desperate.

“Insolent wench,” he mutters against her throat, hiding his face from view. His shoulder tense and then relax when her hands find their way into his hair, carding her fingers through it. For a moment, peaceful silence falls between them, her touch gentle and her breathing steady.

He tightens his grip on her.

“You’ll have to be punished,” he says, blithely, and feels more than hears her breath catch.

“F-for what?”

“For making me worry, of course.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, and the blush burns high on his cheeks like it does hers. She opens her mouth to speak, but he stops her with another kiss; he refuses to have anything but the final say.

They end up back in bed after all – but not necessarily sleeping, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Look around at what you have. Then, close your eyes and think about the other things you have – you can’t see anything worth having with your eyes open anyway. It doesn’t matter how you found them, and it doesn’t matter how long you hang onto them. The best and the brightest and the warmest things end eventually – you don’t have any control over that. But, you have them now and that means something. In its own, quiet way, that is the miracle.
—  The Outs - Over It

killians-dimples

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:

I have this headcanon for bh&h that Emma & Killian…

IM DYING. THIS IS GOLD. Now I need you to write movie theater make out.

Anything for you, BK! A “deleted scene” set in my BH&H ‘verse (and maybe went a bit past “making out” cough cough).


New York City, 1991

She stared down at the screen, watching as a young Russ Tamblyn snapped his fingers and sang about the joys of being a Jet on a Hollywood soundstage dressed to look like a NYC alley. He was singing to an audience of one, it was a wet, miserable October night and no one else had ventured into the somewhat dingy theatre to watch a midnight screening of West Side Story on the 30th anniversary of the film’s release. With VCRs in every house and a Blockbuster on every corner now, why bother?

Her jacket lay draped on the seat to her right and an untouched bag of popcorn sat on her lap. The theatre was old, built as a real theatre for vaudeville shows and revues and later converted into a movie house. It still retained a hint of its former grandeur, elaborate plaster work painted gold decorated the walls and thick velvet curtains were still hung over the stage, drawn back by hand before the movie started. It even had a balcony, and she sat in the last row right next to the back wall, a beam of light from the projector shining above her and ensuring that anyone who looked in her direction would be almost blinded by the glare and wouldn’t notice the solitary angel sitting in the shadows below.

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