Request: Omg! I’m so happy your requests are open again! You’re such an amazing writer! Could you do a Dean x reader, where they’re at a bar and reader gets into a bar fight. It’s all a result of someone close to her dying and she wants the emotional pain to stop. Maybe she tries to sleep with Dean when he’s patching her up, but he says no because it’s just because she’s in pain. If she still wants him in the morning, they can be together cause he loves her.
Musical request please! Race saves reader (girlsie) from getting beaten up. (And can they love each other please?) Many thanks!
race is my favorite newsie in the musical. great choice. loved writing this—Nails
Running was something a newsie was used to. Running from the refuge, the scabs… That list was quite a long list. Today, it was unfortunately Morris and Oscar Delancey. Apparently, girl or not, you made an insult too heavy-handedly, and you end up here. The worn soles of your shoes loudly hit the pavement. That was the sound you focused on, in an attempt to block out the harsh screams of the idiot brothers. They shouted everything from idle threats to slurs that hit close to home.
Your body was starting to give out. How many blocks you had run… No clue. Slowly, you moved to the other side of the street, itching to slide into the alley, while the brothers slid by, leaving you alone. Part one went off smoothly, part two, not as much. Morris and Oscar quickly backpedaled when they noticed you were out of their sights, and stormed in to the alleyway, trapping you. Not so smart now, huh? “Well, there, (Name)… Learned not to give us shit no more, yet?” Morris choked out, breathing heavily. Oscar wiped the back of his hand against his nose, and menaced a bit. It shouldn’t have been frightening, but the setting leant itself to your fear.
You took another breath and shook your head. “Tireda giving you shit? Never.” Why you said it escaped you, as soon as one of the brothers reached his hand back, balled into a fist. His, Oscar’s, knuckles hit you hard in the stomach, lifting you up, and pressing you back into the wall. The bag of papers on your back offered little padding.
As soon as you raised a fist to give him a good one back, your wrist was stifled by one of their hands. Everything was a flurry of limbs, but your eyes zeroed in on a raised fist, that seemed to move towards your face in slow motion.
But the blow didn’t come.
At some point, you’d screwed your eyes shut tight, without realizing it. You opened your them to the sounds of shouting. Race. The familiar boy was raging. He had a temper, yes, but it took a lot to get him there. He was there. Race was beyond there. “And that’s what jerks like you get,” the blonde shouted, pushing Oscar to the ground, knocking his new boy cap off his head in the process. “For laying a hand. On my girl!” Race had gotten a half a dozen good hits in before the Delancey brothers pulled each other out and bailed.
Race let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He whipped around and crawled over to you. “(Name), golly, they gotcha, didn’t they?” He asked softly, when he noticed you clutching your abdomen. Race placed a hand over yours and shook his head.
“They got you better.” You said. Race had a busted lip, and a light bruise forming under his right eye. You didn’t want to say it suited him, but he always seemed to be covered in bruises and blood. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself. You put a hand on the side of his face. “I could’ve taken ‘em, ya know.”
The boy couldn’t stop the smile that graced his features. “I know, I know. I'se just wanting to help.” Race mumbled. His face crept closer, and closer to yours, until your noses ghosted over each other. “Can’t stand you bein’ hurt, doll.”
“Yeah, I heard ya, sap.”
Neither of you could wait another second, and your lips met. Race had gone in for a hard kiss, you for a softer one, as not to hurt his mouth. He didn’t seem to care. After a brief minute, you pulled away for a breath. “Race?”
“You wearin’ aftershave?”
Race smiled again, his lip bleeding a bit more. “I was hopin’ you’d notice.” His smile faded when you coughed sorely. “Hey, let’s get you back to the lodging house, ‘kay?” Race turned around to pick up his forgotten cap and papers. Then, he threw and arm around your shoulder to support you. “Let’s get out of here.”
Re: the wing AU. Consider Chirrut always insisting on meditating on flat rooftops on sunny days, giving some bs excuse about the connection to the Force being clearer up there. His real reason is that Baze will always follow him up there - half worried about Imperials, half about Chirrut falling off the roof - and up there Baze will always stretch out his wings wile he watches over Chirrut. So Chirrut makes sure to meditate up there for a long time when the weather is right
Yes. YES YES! YES YES!!!
“Chirrut, where are you going?”
Baze let out a huff as he followed after his husband. “Has anyone every told you that you are insufferable?”
“Once or twice,” is Chirrut’s easy answer. Chirrut suddenly stopped in the middle of the busy street, the crowds sliding around them easily even with their glares and muttered curses. “You do not need to follow me,” Chirrut said as he turned to face Baze, “You could go back to the room and rest.” Baze watched at the little signs, Chirrut’s hands sliding on the staff, the way his wings lifted and unfolded just a touch, just enough to catch the light.
Baze considered giving him a flippant remark, the kind that Chirrut would have a response for. Baze took in the little signs though and decided against it. “And leave you to be shot by a Storm Trooper? Not likely.” Alright, so maybe he could afford to be a little flippant.
Chirrut’s smile lit the street and he turned again to keep walking. “Well then I guess you’ll just have to put up with me.” Baze shook his head as he kept walking.
Eventually they got off the busy street and passed into smaller and smaller streets, until they were just barely comfortable to walk through, when Chirrut stopped. Baze looked around for the reason Chirrut had stopped, but could see nothing. There was no one there except them, no signs of life in the building they stood next to either.
“It’s abandoned,” Chirrut said to Baze over his shoulder as if he were reading Baze’s mind, and he turned to the building on their left. “It suits my purposes though.”
“And what purpose is that?”
Without answering, Chirrut’s wings suddenly flew open, a spring that had been held closed by a hook. Baze had to back up to avoid getting hit, pressing his own tattered wings into the wall behind him. Baze goggled for a moment at Chirrut. There was no way the fool was going to try to fly there, they did not have room to. Even in ideal conditions they always needed to make a running start before they could get successfully airborne, and this alley in no way provided that.
And then Chirrut jumped straight up.
Baze grumbled, watching as the fool gave a single beat of his wings that sent the sand and the dust below flying everywhere, and landing on the edge of the building. It had not been enough to fly, no, but it was enough to give Chirrut the boost he needed to make it. “Are you coming, Baze?” Chirrut called down, turning and sliding his staff over the edge of the roof.
Baze did not stop grumbling even when he was out of ear shot of Chirrut and walking inside to find the stairs to the roof.
Once Baze made it onto the roof, Chirrut was already sitting on the edge, legs crossed, wings tucked, and staff settled across his lap. “Mediating?” Baze asked as he moved over to stand behind Chirrut. “We crossed half the city and climbed two stories so that you could meditate?”
“Mm-hm,” came Chirrut’s slow answer, and he tilted his head to show Baze he was listening. “The Force is strong here, I wanted to listen to it.”
Baze huffed and then sat down. “If you sit on the edge like that an Imperial is going to spot you and arrest you.”
“The Force will protect me,” Chirrut answered easily.
“You mean I will protect you.” Baze’s jaw set, and looked around the roof. Chirrut did not continue the banter, falling back into an easy meditation. Baze shook his head and he leaned forward slowly onto his knees. It was not all that bad, this spot that Chirrut had chosen. It was not the tallest building in the Holy City, not even the tallest in the alley, but because of its position it got direct sunlight that sank in through the biting cold of Jedha. Spots with this much direct sunlight were rare in the city, most buildings fighting for the light and blocking it off for other smaller buildings. They were like the plants in the gardens, competing for those few extra rays of sun.
Baze shifted to get comfortable. Chirrut’s meditations could last hours and there was no reason to stay uncomfortable. He pulled the blaster from his hip, and the blade from his boot, setting them close by in case they needed to be grabbed in a hurry. He leaned forward again, giving his wings more space before he slowly spread them, feeling every ache as tired joints moved.
He looked at his wings, how the underside of them glowed with diffused light. When they were younger, and Chirrut could still see, Chirrut used to marvel at that. He would run his fingers over each feather carefully and tell him how beautiful they were, how the wings were perfect for Baze. Large, warm, and full of light. Baze’s response was to inform Chirrut that the wings were cumbersome, dull, and boring like he was. Chirrut had smacked him for that. Despite himself Baze smiled at the memory.
They looked nothing like that now. The feathers were still the color of sand, some of them with bands of red near the tips of them, but now many were missing, or bent. The left wing has a jagged scar along the top of it where feathers have refused to regrow. If he asked Chirrut, Chirrut would still say that the wings were beautiful. That is why Baze never asks Chirrut.
The wings started to feel warm in the heat, and with that Baze started to feel sleepy. Baze decided that perhaps it was safe enough to lay down. As he drifted off, he missed the warm smile on Chirrut’s lips as he meditated.