[ sneak peek of the curse of, or; the dramione soulmate au that’s based on this ]
Draco is fourteen when he meets his soulmate.
He’s sitting in a sterile white doctor’s office, wearing a flimsy paper gown over his neatly-pressed uniform khakis and listening to a nurse lecture him about antibiotic ointment—the Mark on his arm, brand-new and blistering, is still bleeding, and there’s a stainless steel analog clock hanging above a laminated poster detailing the female reproductive cycle. He watches, jaw clenched and lips trembling, as the minute hand wobbles and ticks. His pain tolerance has always been for shit, but even he’s surprised by how visceral—how deep—the ache splintering through his bones is.
“Draco,” the nurse says now, a little too patiently. A little too kindly. “We’ve found her. She was in the homeroom next to yours. Are you ready?”
He isn’t sure how to answer that without lying, so he just nods, jerky and fast, before scratching at the back of his wrist. He hasn’t looked at his Mark yet. He wonders if his soulmate will think that’s romantic; wonders if she’s waited, too, and whether or not she’ll expect a traditional unveiling.
The office door swings open.
Another nurse steps forward, towing an unfamiliar girl behind her, and Draco swallows around the tension suddenly clogging his throat.
His soulmate is—
He closes his eyes and tries not to think. The pamphlets—the literature—this is supposed to be overwhelming, he knows that. He’s supposed to feel like this. Like his chest is being torn open, like his insides are being rearranged, repurposed, like all the superfluous parts of himself are being claimed, or shared, or broken up, shuffled around, put back together with gentle hands and quavering smiles and—
His soulmate is pretty.
Draco is aware, vaguely, that he’s staring. There are faint sounds as the nurses leave the room, locks clicking and hinges squeaking—but he can’t be bothered with any of that, not when his vision is tunneling and his pulse is thundering and the Mark on his arm is tingling.
A plaid headband and a pink mouth and crescent-shaped furrow in her brow.
She’s studying him, red-rimmed eyes flickering with something odd and decidedly angry—her skirt is rumpled, her blouse only half tucked-in, and there’s a dark, syrupy bloodstain on the front of her tie, a splotch of cherry-tinted violet clouding flat navy satin.
“I don’t believe in this,” she finally says, gesturing to the gauze taped haphazardly to her arm. “Any of it. I think it’s archaic, and—and invasive, and I have no intention of letting it dictate a single aspect of my life.”
Draco wishes, suddenly, that he couldn’t feel her.
That she wasn’t registering as a thumbtack-sharp thorn scraping at the nape of his neck. Bristling. Uncomfortable. Vindictive.
His Mark thrums, burning hot around the edges, and he grimaces.
JJ being nervous around Otabek is seriously one of my biggest kinks
JJ being nervous the day when Otabek had finally agreed to go out with him.
JJ not sleeping at all the night before they have the date because he’s afraid to fuck up so badly
JJ being nervous during the date. JJ babbling random nonsense during it because he’s so nervous. (with Otabek finding it incredibly charming). JJ spilling drinks because of being nervous.
JJ getting nervous when Otabek watches him during his training
JJ being nervous when he’s flying to Kazakhstan for the first time
and then: JJ being a nervous wreck when he’s about to meet Otabek’s family for the first time. JJ asking a thousand questions about them
before with Otabek telling him it’ll be fine every time, he can’t stop it.
GENERALLY JJ BEING NERVOUS AROUND OTABEK - sfw edition.
why do you all think its funny to make up shit like this and then make fun of people who believe it cause like…. youre all the one making an effort to make it believable. hello? guess youre all too intelligent for me…
Fulcrum sat, anxiously chewing a digit. It was the same spot that, a few days ago, he first saw the mech. Trepan, he later found out, was his name. He was a medic too, but that’s not really what piqued his interest.
First, it was just his optics and a nagging curiosity. He didn’t expect anything to come from it. But then he started digging into him, looking at pictures, and it was the optics, the color scheme, the goggles, all of it. The only proof he had was in their appearances, but the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became, and the more he felt like he had to talk to the mech.
And, oh, there he was again!
Fulcrum rushed over before he could disappear, stopping Trepan with a servo on his shoulder. And then he hesitated.
Turns out actually talking to the mech was a lot different than compiling all the evidence in his helm. He wasn’t sure where to start.
“Uh, sorry.” He looked at his servo and removed it from where it was still stuck to Trepan. “I’m Fulcrum. We haven’t met. Well, maybe. It’s just, ah–” Might as well just come right out and ask. “Have you ever been a sire?”