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oatmealwrites · 5 months ago

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A Night To...Forget? Ch.5

Aizawa x Eidetic memory! Law student! F Reader

Part 4 | Part 6 -> coming soon!

[a night to forget masterlist here]

Synopsis : Keigo is suspiscious when you finally come home but offers words of encouragement for your upcoming date. Classes drone by, some work piles up, but it's finally time for your date with Shōta. Of course you triple check your purse before heading out the door: Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Apartment Keys...? whoops

Tags : Mentions of hickies, french kissing, only first base -> he's a gentleman, mentions of ogling, both parties flirting, alcohol, situationship? Kiego a hypeman but also an ass, JEALOUS AIZAWA, no established title yet, precursor to nsfw hehe, MDNI, 18+

a/n: this was supposed to include nsfw you guys fucking but the chapter got a bit too long -> i already wrote it though, so I'll post it soon as ch.6!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The elevator ride up from the lobby to your apartment is done mindlessly as you walk to your door and turn the key. Recalling the moment of kissing Aizawa over and over again is at the forefront of your mind; your quirk ensuring each detail is in perfect view as the scene unfolds on repeat.

As you step inside, a dreamy grin on your lips, you barely register the company that’s sitting at the kitchen island watching your every move. Calloused hands remove the cap to a bottle of beer while a blonde eyebrow raises in a mixture of concern and frustration.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.” He takes a sip with a questionable expression as you startle slightly and kick off your work shoes. “What happened to ‘I’ll be up in a few minutes’?”

You ensure the zipper of your winter coat is zipped high under your chin and move to awkwardly shuffle past him to your bedroom while rolling your eyes. He spins on the chair when you don’t offer an actual explanation.

“Your winter coat is still on.”

“Oh– I’m just gonna…. Uh, hang it up?” you stop short and try to nonchalantly keep walking away but his eyes keep you locked in place.

“In your room?” He stands up but remains in the kitchen. “You have a coat closet by the front door.”

There’s a moment of silence; a deaf countdown to when either one of you will move next. Within a fraction of second you both scramble to run: you towards your bedroom door, and him to stand in front of it.

Keigo reaches it at the same time as you, and when you twist to turn the knob he angles further to drive your balance forward. In a moment of the scuffle, your coat collar dips forwards and his height gives him an angled view down the fabric and at your neck.

“OH MY GOD”

In a scramble forward to tug your collar down further, you swat him away and try to avoid his incredulous stare. Keigo surrenders your coat and instead blinks rapidly in excitement and eagerness.

“You guys fucked? When?!... NOW?” He makes a dash for the living room window and swivels his head to examine every corner of the parking lot in a frantic hurry.

In defeat, you walk towards your actual coat closet and shimmy off your parka before hanging it up and meandering over to your kitchen island. Keigo is still frantically searching the parking lot for a sign of Aizawa’s car and shuffles over to the next set of windows for a better view.

His breath is fogging up the glass as he hovers in front. “Where is he?? He's gonna lay pipe with my best friend, and not even walk her up?!”

“Keigo–” you warn curtly, and he takes the cue to come back into the kitchen and slide into the spinning island stool across from you. “Can’t we just eat?” You whine, eyeing the to-go packages and plates all set up.

He shakes his head and leans onto the counter further as you pile your plate with fried chicken wings and a few sides; his gaze is brutal. “Spill. Now.”

You squirm slightly and pick up a fry from your plate; your fingers dip into a sauce container but never bring the food up to your lips. “Well… I don’t really know what it is to be honest–”

“Huhh?? Your neck is covered in bruises!” He points at you with the bone of a wing he had previously finished.

“It’s complicated.”

You sit feeling torn, a mixture of excitement and frustration at the lack of clarity of everything which just happened. Keigo sits and, for once in his life, remains silent while you work out the sentence on the tip of your tongue. “I had to leave after we kissed… but we did confirm the dinner is a date.”

Keigo claps his hands and is satisfied enough to now continue eating as he congratulates you. “I knew you could do it! On your date, just ask if it’s a casual thing or something exclusive!”

Feeling slightly better, you take a few bites of the food on your plate and work out the logistics of how to bring that topic up. It’s not like you wanted him to commit to something super serious right away, but it would be nice knowing he saw you as something more than a colleague or potential quick fuck.

Chewing happily and sucking a few crumbs from the fat of his thumb, Keigo reaches over and opens another bottle of beer and slides it across the island to you. He finishes the current skewer between his fingers and places the stick on his plate with an intense gaze before clapping his hands once.

“Alright, now it’s time for the important part.”

You raise an eyebrow and don’t bother to question him, throwing a few sauce covered fries into your mouth as your appetite increases.

He raises his hands up slightly over his plate and keeps them touching at the palms. “Ok, now... Tell me when to stop.”

“Wait, what–”

He slowly begins separating his hands in a form of measurement and you roll your eyes. “Are you ser—”

“Woa, ok so average…” Keigo continues the distance.

“Keigo.”

“Woa, ok– didn’t expect that..” His hands are around seven inches apart.

“Keigo.”

��OK, now this is just showing off.”

“KEIGO, STOP”

He stops his hands at around nine inches and looks between you and his hands with a shell shocked expression. “Here?! That just looks painful– how are you walking? Let’s restart, ok.”

“Can you just shut up?” You rub your eyes with the back of your hands; mascara slightly flaking off. “We didn’t fuck, ok?”

Keigo looks down at his hands before glancing at his own crotch in thought before resigning to continue his food; his gaze on you is still skeptical. “Ok… so he just sucked your neck like Nosferatu and left? Either impeccable self restraint or a total virg.”

“Can you be helpful for once, please?”

The man across from you laughs and raises his hands once in surrender before he continues eating. “Ok ok. I’ll be serious– though it is good you guys didn’t fuck in the car; the back aches are not worth it.”

You roll your eyes at him and poke your tongue out in disgust. “Ugh, gross.”

Satisfied, you finish your chicken wing and wash it down with the cold beer Keigo had slid you earlier. There’s a comfortable silence as you both finish your meals and he silently takes on the task of putting away the dirty dishes when you leave to change out of your work clothes.

Sweatpants and oversized hoodie on, you rejoin Keigo in the living room as he mindlessly scrolls through a variety of programs in search of something good. Sitting in your usual position next to him, you pivot slightly and hold your phone.

“What do I do now?”

He hums slightly and settles to watch a few moments of a Hallmark romcom before flipping to the next channel. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do I text him now? Or do I wait for him to reach out first?”

“Ha, you’re so overthinking this.” He laughs slightly before settling on an obviously staged ‘real housewives’ program.

“It’s not like I can not think about it– the moment is literally seared into my mind forever.”

“Kinky.”

You shove his shoulder and Keigo finally puts down the remote to face you better from his seat. “Ok, just relax alright? If you guys didn’t settle on a title or label, then you’re still just colleagues… and now maybe friends who happen to makeout and go on dates.”

Deflating slightly and opening your phone for the 100th time since you got home, you sink into the sofa cushion when there’s no new notification. “That doesn’t sound like friends…”

“Well, that’s all you got right now”

You purse your lip and stare down at the screen in thought. “If it’s casual then it shouldn’t matter if I send a message right? It’s chill…platonic, right?”

Keigo chuckles but is obviously happy to see you in slightly better spirits as you open your messaging app and pull up Aizawa’s contact. Well, now it’s technically ‘Shōta’ between you both.

To: Aizawa Shōta

Thanks for the ride earlier! I have some classes and externship work this week so my schedule is a bit tight… but I’m excited for our date next week!

You place your phone on the coffee table and sit back on the couch trying to convince yourself that you’re fine. You’re not. Despite attempting to watch two women passive aggressively fight over something menial, you’re glancing down at your phone every few seconds.

Why isn’t he answering?

Keigo peels his eyes off the screen and notices the way you sit uncomfortably while staring at your phone as if it’s paint drying; with a sigh he stands up and pats your shoulder before walking to the coat closet.

“Alright, I’m heading out. You need to relax.” He tugs on his signature hero jacket and fixes the collar. “Shower, sleep, do school work or something.”

You lean up over the back of the couch and watch as he fixes his boots on and pats down his pockets to ensure he has everything. “I’ll be busy tomorrow, but if you’re up for lunch after your lecture the day after, I can swing by.” He offers while taking out your spare apartment keys.

With an anxious ‘goodbye’, you watch as he opens the door and clicks the lock; when the sound of his boots disappear down the hallway you stand up and head for the shower.

It’s your usual evening routine of a quick warm shower, skincare, and a few social media scrolls before you’re tucked into bed and setting your morning alarm. The warmth of your comforter is enough to let drowsiness wash you over you and to finally subside the worry that was sitting under your skin for the past few hours.

Heavy eyelids shutting, you’re convinced that none of the things you’ve been worrying about really matter– and that you don’t need the approval of a man to make you happy anyways.

Ping!

Immediately you throw off the covers and snatch your phone from your nightstand to see who had messaged you as the device pings again..

From: Aizawa Shōta

I look forward to it as well.

Please let me know if you work late again, I don’t mind driving you if it means you won’t be walking alone at night.

Straightforward and chivalrous, despite your bruised neck, his message is permanently memorized into your mind as you read it over a few times. Giddy energy leaves you kicking your feet slightly and a sensation of happiness washes over you; though the time is too late to respond and make it seem like you weren’t waiting by the phone.

Smiling to yourself and preparing to shut the device and sleep, it pings in your hands once again.

From: Aizawa Shōta

It’s also a nice excuse to see you.

~~~~~~

The days leading to the date seem to drag on endlessly as you count down to the night where you ask him what the fuck the two you were and could be. Keigo makes good on his promise and meets you for lunch a few times; his presence is surprisingly helpful as he casually offers advice.

“I just don’t know what to make of Shōta not mentioning the fact he remembers parts of that night without telling me– he’s totally hiding something.”

Keigo eyes the leftover scraps of food on your plate with begging eyes before he peels them back in shock. “Are you gonna finish– Wait. Shōta?? He’s letting you use his first name?”

You slide your dish to the man and shrug slightly in explanation he had offered you to speak casually. “Can’t you ask Kayama for that video? Toshinori explained she had her phone out all night with the camera open.”

Keigo doesn’t hesitate to finish your food before you can change your mind. “I tried, but she won’t give me it.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin when you pass him one from the dispenser. “Said she couldn’t show anyone the video ‘cause of some promise.”

You rub your chin in thought for a few moments, reviewing the behavior. “A statute of limitations for a blackmail video between friends is definitely suspicious… someone probably told her not to share it for a good reason.”

“Probably Tsukauchi–” Keigo starts before loudly sipping the last few drops of his drink and sloshing the ice around in the cup. “The stuckups at the police department would probably chew his ass out for having fun.”

It’s a reasonable explanation that you and Keigo agree on before continuing your usual conversations.

The week also progresses with you taking Shōta up on his offer; his first name foreign on your tongue at first but slowly relaxing into it. You only work late at the office twice, and both times his car sits idling in front of the building with the seat warmer already on and awaiting your arrival.

Each one gets progressively more casual as you settle into a comfortable rhythm of talking about your days outside of the little snippets you’ve begun texting each other about. It becomes funny class stories, cafes you want to try out, and even movie trailers that seem interesting or potential flops.

The drives also increase in length, the route he ‘blames his GPS for’ takes additional detours and pathways that make the 20 minute drive turn into 30 and then 35. You don’t mind it though; his company quickly becomes something you crave and grow accustomed to in a way different from that of your friends or Keigo.

Each time he drops you off also ends in around 20 minutes of sloppy makeouts.

It starts with a simple smile while his lips linger on yours as you say goodnight but make no effort to leave; his car is always parked in a visitor spot rather than the ‘5-minute passenger drop off’ lane in front of your complex. What starts as a few pecks when you meet at the console ends with his tongue down your throat and the windows fogged from the heat.

It’s enough to make your lips chapped and swollen for the amount of biting and sucking he does against them. The act is somehow more sexual than the first time despite the fact he leaves no new bruises and manages to reign himself in before you can offer for him to come upstairs.

The erotic and sensual scene leaves you weak at the knees, your panties a mess, but your head full of frustration as you quickly deduce this was becoming a ‘situationship’ which you had no desire of being. Hell, you would even settle for friends with benefits if it meant some sort of label could be placed on whatever the fuck you two were.

But there wasn’t. Each time you parted for air Shōta would open his mouth to speak before doubling back and having a distant look in his eye as he seemingly talked himself down. It’s obvious he’s pent up and just as curious as you that creates such intense frustration in your bones.

When you hestiate to speak, his lips chase yours and he slithers his tongue inside; when he pauses to contemplate, you tug him by the hair to meet your mouth once more. Chivalrous hands never make an effort to escalate past first-base while he has you pinned against the car door in the hottest makeout you’ve ever been in.

He hasn’t even undone your blouse buttons yet, but each time you end the ride with such a sloppy and desperate kiss, it leaves you feeling as if he’s already fucked all the air out of your lungs.

~~~~

By the day of the date rolls around, you’re a slighlty nervous wreck as you sit in a lecture on campus.

Class is particularly excruciating this morning; your professor droning on about a proposed memorandum to an act you’ve never even heard of as you snap yourself awake several times. It’s a lecture in which none of your friends are in, and the room is so small you can see the laptop screens of everyone else from your tucked away corner position in the room.

Online shopping, answering externship emails, and reviewing the menu of the restaurant over and over again is the only way to pass the time until the course wraps up and you’re the first person out of the room.

It was the final class of the day on your schedule, and walking out of the law building lobby towards the campus gates you spot Jackson in front of a vending machine. Idly choosing between two beverages, you tap his shoulder and shuffle to the opposite side with a grin.

“Ah, you got me.” He turns back to the selection buttons and presses the code for a bottled coffee. “You ready for tonight?”

You lean against the metal and watch as he takes a few long sips of the drink with a grateful sigh at the caffeine. “Ready as I can be, though maybe I’m not ready for after…if he decides it’s something casual.”

Jackson nudges your shoulder and pulls out his cellphone to check his course calendar and mentally plan the easiest route across campus to the art & humanities building for his music elective. “Aw you’ll be fine y/n. If you’re free this weekend I can try and throw a part–”

“–Ha, thanks, but I’ve got to meet with some defense lawyers from the villain case I’m assisting with.”

Jackson nods and offers you a reaffirming pat on the back as he slides on his headphones for the trek across campus. “Alright, alright. But I’m gonna pry every detail out of you during our next study session!”

You smile as he heads off before making your way to the metro station near the school to head home. You’ve got a few hours to get ready before Shōta picks you up for your reservation at 7; Keigo has already offered to be at your apartment at around 5 to help you get ready.

Of course ‘helping you get ready’ is more of an excuse to get out of work early and eat the food in your house while watching reality TV. Music plays on your phone as you finish up the last few steps of a long ‘everything shower’ and Keigo whines against the bathroom door as you take your time.

Steam fogs the mirror and when you click open the lock of the door, he immediately shuffles in while pushing you out of the way. “Damn woman, how long do you need to shower?”

He doesn’t wait for you to leave as he lifts the lid of the toilet seat and haphazardly undoes the fly of his jeans to take a piss. You roll your eyes and grimace while stepping out and examining the damage to your living room. Throw pillows on the floor, your stashed bags of chips empty and thrown about, and a few cans of soft drinks litter the coffee table.

“Seriously Keigo?” you yell back to him while shuffling into your bedroom.

The toilet flushes and Keigo sighs slightly before washing his hands. “I’ll buy you more.”

Lotion and body oil on, hair dried and falling casually; you sit on the floor, still wearing your bathrobe in front of your mirror. It’s a giddy feeling to do your skincare; the feeling intensifies once it’s absorbed and you start on your makeup. The look is casual face products with your eyes being a bit smokier with a few touches of under eyeliner.

Makeup completed, you move to your closet to grab the dress you had already decided on wearing several nights ago and toss it onto your bed. It’s a simple formula you’ve worked out given the amount of Google Maps photos you’ve stared at in order to get an idea of the restaurant vibe.

A black off the shoulder long-sleeve mini dress, black opaque tights, and slight heeled boots are the aspects of the outfit. Every friend you’ve sent an image to has approved, and stepping out of your robe and into the garments leaves you feeling confident despite the nerves building. If the date were to end in the worst possible way, at least you would look hot in the process.

You toss your robe over your door to dry and step into the living room while digging through your purse when Keigo briefly looks up from his position in front of the TV and nearly drops his freshly opened beer bottle onto himself.

“Oh, hey you done– woa.”

He shamelessly stares and sits upright, placing his drink on the coffee table as you smile and do a little spin. “Sooo, how do I look? I clean up nice, right?”

Keigo opens his mouth and shuts it a few times as he takes in the image in front of him. “Yea I mean…shit you look…yea–”

You laugh and walk further into the living room. “Perfect, that’s the reaction I was going for.”

He admires your figure a moment more before looking up to meet your eyes. “You and Aizawa are friends, who get to makeout while you wear that? Remind me why I never got this perk in our friendship?”

You take a pillow from the loveseat and throw it at him; he catches it with a laugh and before you can scold him a notification pings on your phone.

From: Aizawa Shōta:

After-class training wrapped up sooner than expected. I’ll be there shortly.

SHIT

Keigo sits upright on the couch to tease again before you nearly patch out to dig through your purse and run to the kitchen. “Keigo, where did you put my–?”

He hops up and runs into the kitchen ahead of you, signaling to the counter. “Two tequila shots already prepared for us.” A coy smile on his lips.

You pull out your chapstick with a grateful sigh and slide it back inside your bag. “I wasn’t gonna say that, but… ok”

Keigo holds his smirk and slides you a glass; no salt or limes prepared, though you’re not picky given the time crunch. Grateful for the liquid courage, you down the shot with a wince and look at the glass bottle on the counter.

“Another?”

Keigo laughs and picks up both empty shot glasses and puts them in the sink. “Uh, maybe not the best idea considering the last time we had tequila.”

You nod with a pause; if Keigo was the one telling you to lay back, it must be pretty serious. “Ok ok fine– I’m just nervous~”

Keigo peers over from his spot at the sink and splashes his fingers at you while mocking your whining pitch.

You flip him off and scurry backwards away from his hands. “Ugh, asshole! I’m gonna have a heart attack here– how am I supposed to face him?”

He wipes his hands down on your old kitchen towel and leans against the counter with his hip. “Like I said earlier– he’s a guy.” Keigo points up and down to your outfit. “And you… look like that.– trust me, he’ll be just as nervous and into you, as you are to him.”

A slight blush on your cheeks from his compliment, you shrug humbly and pull the hem of your dress down slightly. “Yea but, I like him. Of course I want him to think I look good.. But I also want him to actually like me.”

You watch the way he gives you an earnest smile and drags his eyes up and down one last time before glancing the other way with a slight cough. His voice is lower and slow. “You’re fine, y/n. He’s seen you plenty of times in your work clothes and now even your bummy hangover outfit–and he still proposed coffee and this date.”

He places a supportive pat to your head and walks around to open your fridge in search of anything else that catches his eye. You rummage through your purse and confirm a triple check of everything inside: chapstick, mints, wallet, phone, lip gloss. A mental headcount of how many hours until your deodorant runs off, a ping from your phone makes your heart beat cold.

From: Aizawa Shōta

I’m outside; no rush if you aren’t ready yet.

..SHIT.

Keigo watches with an amused glint in his eyes as you fluff your hair and breathe out to calm yourself a few times; he takes a few strides to push you towards the door. “Alright, go ‘em tiger.”

“W-wait! Maybe I should brush my teeth again! O-or I think I’m coming down with a fever, I should cance–” Pushing you into the hallway, Keigo blocks the doorframe to prevent letting you scramble back in. “Deep breaths, act natural, and fuck already!”

The door shuts in your face and the lock clicks into place– ah. Keys… you don’t have your keys.

“But my–”

“Text me when you're on your way back and I'll leave it unlocked” He yells through the door. “But if I fall asleep… you’ll have to find somewhere else to spend the night.”

You can practically see his shit-eating grin through the door as he cackles. What have you gotten yourself into?

Mindlessly walking to the elevator as your heart rate spikes to nearly 200 bpm, you pick apart your appearance in the reflective walls of the elevator over and over again. All the hickies have disappeared and you adjust the way your hair falls once again before the doors open with a ‘ping’.

The lobby is colder than you expect, and walking up to the entrance doors you debate running back upstairs and banging on the door to beg Keigo to toss you a jacket. It’s too late though– you spot the familiar black sedan idling in the passenger pick-up zone and watch the way Shōta opens the driver door to stand up.

It’s happening. This is really happening.

A breath to calm yourself, you push the front door open and step out into the cold. He shuts his own door and looks up to walk over to the passenger side to get your door, pausing when he fully takes in the sight in front of him.

A blush on your cheeks mirror the one on him. His stance falters slightly at the image of you walking over, trying desperately to avoid ogling too much.

Shōta is dressed in black slacks, a pale blue button up with the top button undone, and a matching black blazer. His long dark hair is styled into a half-bun and his face is cleanly shaven once again; he looks like a dream as you approach the passenger side.

You wave slightly once you get close and flash a nervous smile on your glossy lips. “Hi.”

“...oh! Uh, Hi.” He stutters out once he realizes he’s taking too long to answer.

Shōta’s eyes never leave you, even after you slide into the seat and he shuts the door for you. The seat warmer is on full blast and his car is impeccably clean; scents of his woodsy cologne fill the air and the excitement in your veins begins to bubble. It’s really happening.

He sits back in the driver’s seat behind the wheel and clicks his seatbelt into place before offering you a nervous half-smile and putting the car in ‘drive’. The buildings begin to pass as the radio station plays a soft jazz in the background.

“You look really nice. Well, you always do but uh–”

“Thanks, Aiz–” you pause to correct yourself. “Shōta. You look really handsome yourself.”

The man glances at you from his peripherals and slides the nail of his finger over the skin of another in an effort to wake himself up if he were dreaming. He accepts your compliment and turns back to the road with a long exhale.

Sitting with your hands in your lap and trying to busy yourself with staring at the scenery, you make an attempt to bring up similar conversation you two would typically have.

“So, how were classes today? Anything crazy happen?”

A gruff exhale as he smoothly turns the car down another street. “Well, if the baseline of normality is one student trying to kill another for simply offering help…I’d say it was pretty normal.”

You chuckle and lean into the seat; the warmth coming from the leather provides some comfort. “Mmmm, I’ve heard a few stories from Toshinori about how rowdy they can be.”

Shōta continues explaining today’s training and how his students were progressing; obviously proud of them despite his tendency to state the opposite. You sit and listen, silently taking in the different atmosphere of this drive than the ones you’ve previously shared.

It felt real. More official and raw than your previous times; the vulnerability noticeable in his body language. Despite having his tongue down your throat on more than one occasion, his hands sit politely at 10 and 2, only ever leaving to adjust the volume or the mirrors.

Fiddling with the hemline of your dress and looking out the window slightly, you miss the way his eyes dip down to the flesh of your thighs where the fabric ends; he swallows thickly and peels his gaze back to the road.

“And how was your day? You had classes as well, correct?”

“Oh, it was the usual, nothing too interesting…”

He tilts his head and drags his eyes to meet yours. “It’s interesting to me though.”

Damn he’s smooth.

You’re convinced he’s not even trying to be suave; his gaze is slightly hooded but his tone is deep and honest. A blush on your cheeks, you sink slightly into the seat. “W-Well, I had a morning lecture, bumped into a friend, and did a few tasks for my mentor remotely from my apartment. It’s not nearly as exciting as your life I’m sure.”

Shōta frowns slightly and presses further. “Mmm, did you do anything while at your apartment though? I’m sure you had a few breaks.”

“Ha, actually there’s this stupid reality show Keigo got me hooked on– the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.” Memories of the program come flooding back.

This time Shōta doesn’t react when you mention the man’s name, instead he tilts his head and takes in the image of you in his car once again. “Sounds interesting. Maybe…you can show it to me sometime?”

“Agh, this season is so dramatic too–” you ramble slightly, agreeing but not registering he had inadvertently offered an unofficial second date to be more intimate and private.

The drive to the restaurant is filled with you explaining various drama between ridiculously wealthy women, and while Shōta has no interest in petty celebrity arguments, he greatly enjoys listening to you speak. You’ve basically given him a run down of the first few seasons, hyperbolizing the intensity of the show with drastic hand movements by the time you arrive at the restaurant.

“It’s such a dumb show– I’m sure it’s staged. Oh! But this one episode–”

The passenger door clicks open as a young valet pulls it back and offers you a hand; blinking slightly in shock, you turn to Shōta who chuckles a few times and steps out. You slide your purse on your shoulder and take the hand, walking back from the car and watching the way your date passes the keys to the employee.

Guiding you by the lower back, Shōta ushers you inside the restaurant and leaves your side to explain the reservation to the hostess.

It’s hot. He’s hot.

The way he acts as a total gentleman, and guides you to follow the employee to the table and pull your chair out for you. It’s a fancy restaurant, but not inherently romantic. A few families sit eating, there’s a group of people in work attire for a business dinner, and a handful of friends and couples are scattered at the other tables.

The lights are dim, but not too dark, and there’s a comfortable background chatter as music plays gently in the background. As you take in the view, silently comparing it to the online reviews for the ambience, you take in the way Shōta sits across from you; shoulders are tight and his spine is arched to a perfect posture as he sits stiffly behind his menu.

“This place is really nice. Thanks for recommending it.”

He peers up and relaxes slightly. “Really?”

“Mhm. It smells really good, and the vibe is relaxing.”

Shōta smiles to himself and places the menu lower; his anxiety slowly melting away as you begin to review the menu as if you haven’t preplanned your meal days in advance. After a few moments of small talk about the dishes, a waitress walks up and offers a trained customer-service smile.

“Hi there, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I bring you anything to drink? Maybe a bottle of red?”

Shōta gauges your pause and responds on your behalf. “Sure. Is there a house recommendation?”

“I can bring a bottle of Shiraz for you to sample.”

“That’d be perfect.”

The waitress disappears as quickly as she arrived and Shōta nudges your foot from under the table with a slight smile. “I take it you don’t know much about wine.”

You shrug slightly in defense. “They taste so similar anyways. I only buy for two reasons: it’s on sale, or if I'm on a da–” you pause. He looks at you expectantly and you take a breath. “Unless I’m on a date.”

Shōta looks up with an amused smile, obviously feeling at ease. “Ah, that’s nice to know. Maybe in the future we can expand your palate?”

Face flushing you nod and feel yourself settling into the moment. “I didn’t take you for a sommelier.”

“I’m not– and I’m not the biggest drinker either… just a few years of fancy dinners for some pointless higher ups has left me with a bit of knowledge.”

You smile and when the waitress returns with a bottle to taste which Shōta approves of, you order your meals and enjoy the complimentary bread while sipping on wine.

“Sooo, you take all your dates here then?” You giggle, the flush of the alcohol making you both a bit looser.

He scoffs and takes a sip. “Ha, I actually found this place from Hizashi, or uh, Yamada.”

You nod, recognizing the blonde man’s first name and bring your glass to your lips again. “Ah, hopefully he won’t think I’m taking his spot.”

Shōta rolls his eyes but holds an amused expression, the evening no longer feeling awkward or forced; instead, ridiculously easy in each other’s company. Your phone pings several times throughout the evening, most likely check-ins from Keigo, and each one you ignore– too wrapped in your company to even think about looking away.

The waitress returns with your meals and offers if you would like a second bottle; the fact you two had already killed one is a surprise. Accepting the offer, you ‘oo’ over the amazing taste and find yourself getting comfortably warm as your glass is always filled.

“To be honest, he had talked my ear off about this for a while.” Shōta explains, a pink tinge from the wine making his lip looser than usual.

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean this.” He gestures to you both. “He had been talking nonstop about finally taking you on a date.”

It’s not a huge confession, but it makes your heart swell slightly as Shōta continues eating, unaware of the exact implications of his words. You lean over the table slightly, feeling a bit flirty. “Yea, but didn’t I propose we come here when we had gotten coffee last week?”

He leans in slightly, “Yea but I was the one that brought it up last Fri–” He pauses and rushes backward to sip awkwardly on his wine.

Before you can press further, eagerly wanting for him to divulge a bit more, the waitress returns to offer the dessert menu.

You’re definitely a bit tipsy, though Shōta seems to hold his alcohol much better than you regardless; she leaves to give you both a few minutes.

“Do you need time to sober up at all? We can order dessert.” You offer while glancing through the list of pastries and gelatos listed. Taking a moment to feel just how warm your face was feeling, you spin the bottle of wine on the table around and gulp when your eyes linger on the alcohol percentage of 17%.

Oh shit. How many glasses has it been…?

You knock your elbow back slightly and the purse hanging on your chair falls to the floor; on instinct you lean down to pick it up. Of course you don’t even realize the perfect view down your dress it gives your company. Tits basically pouring out as you pucker your lips in effort to reach the strap, Shōta’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows while blatantly staring.

He coughs slightly, now staring at your lips as you return to your upright position. “I’m feeling warm, but definitely a good idea to wait a bit. I don’t mind eating something sweet either.”

You don’t look up– too absorbed in now scanning over the dessert list once again. “Oh really? Do you have an idea in mind?”

“Yea, I do.”

Eyes looking up in curiosity, Shōta snaps out of his trance and frantically searches the now nearly empty restaurant for something, anything to save himself. “The… uhhh… tiramisu? Is really good.”

You both settle on ordering it and the waitress clears the table except for the remaining wine and your glasses; by this point he’s not exactly slick at the glances he makes and you’re feeling maybe too bold considering your current blood alcohol content.

His second button now sluttily undone as he continues explaining his current hero training schedule for upcoming class events, you flutter your lashes at him and bring your hand up for your chin to rest on. It seems like you’re just super interested in his current routine; in reality you’re using the flesh of your bicep and forearm to smush your tits together a bit more while they partially raise above the already low neckline.

And as much as Shōta is a gentleman, Keigo is certainly correct that at the end of the day, he’s still just a man. Eyes dart down to your cleavage before peeling them back up in an attempt to be respectful before he glances back down again.

You swirl the wine in your glass with your free hand and pause to set your spoon on a now empty dish of dessert; Shōta’s years of staring at villains leaves him unblinking across from you, taking in every move. The bottle of wine is empty, and when his story comes to an end, you notice the now quiet atmosphere of the restaurant.

Most tables are empty, and the waitstaff sits in the back organizing silverware and glasses in preparation to close. You peel your gaze back to the man across from you and offer a sheepish grin at your realization that you had been here for several hours.

Shōta’s long empty glass is pushed away from the edge of the table as he stands up and adjusts his blazer; taking out your phone and standing as well, you notice the time of 10:45 and several missed calls from Keigo. A few texts from him are full of encouragement while your eyes linger on the most recent one.

From: Keigo ;p

Heading out of your apt.

I forgot to leave it unlocked... oops!

Shōta takes a few steps to stand at your side as you slide your phone back in your purse and try to think of a way back into your apartment. You still had no keys to get back home…

“Are you ready to go, y/n?”

You spin and adjust the strap of your purse on your shoulder and awkwardly let out a forced casual exhale. “Hm? Oh, yea.. Totally. But, don’t we have to pay?”

Shōta guides you back towards the front doors and gives a small nod to your waitress as she brings a tray of fresh glasses from the kitchen to the bar. “Already did. I just had them use the card I kept on file for the reservation to pay for the meal.”

“Wait–” You turn to him but continue his guidance to the exit. “You really gave me no chance to try and pay, huh?”

“Mhm.”

You laugh at his traditional chivalry and lightly nudge him while the valet runs out to retrieve the car. Shōta makes no effort to stand firm, letting himself be swayed by your small push and leaning right back to remain steadfast at your side.

Sliding into the passenger seat and grinning when he shuts the door for you, a quick panic ensues within your mind. It’s plausible that Kiego might be able to come back and give you his spare keys… but maybe Jackson would let you crash on his couch? Sleeping in makeup and without pajamas was not the most appealing, but it’s better than sleeping in front of your door until morning when maintenance could let you in.

“Are you alright?” Shōta looks at you as he slides his seatbelt into place and adjusts his rearview mirror.

“Hm? Oh, y-yea…”

He isn’t convinced and keeps his gaze intently on you; the look is so serious that you wonder if he’s stone cold sober for a moment. “Listen, if you’re thinking of a nice way to say you aren't interested in a second date… that’s fine. You can just say it now, it won’t–”

“Wait.” You raise your hands and wave them. “No! I’m not thinking about that at all. I’d love to go on another date in all honesty.”

Shōta pauses and lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God. Ok, that’s a nice reassurance… but why are you looking nervous like that?”

He doubles back on his words when you slide down the visor and flip open the attached mirror to examine your makeup for a moment. With a pathetic chuckle as he slowly pulls out of the parking lot, you take a few deep breaths in attempt to figure out the most casual way of stating you had nowhere to stay for the night.

“I just…I might be–” You start and trail off; Shōta gives you a patient look with some concern. “I am locked out of my apartment.”

There’s a beat of silence and Shōta opens his mouth once before his face slightly contorts in a thought process of how you would have managed that. He slows down and pulls into a parallel spot with ease to allow other cars to pass.

“Can I ask how you managed that? You can’t just forget your keys, right?”

You sink into the seat in embarrassment and fiddle your thumbs sheepishly. “No, that wouldn’t usually be possible. It’s just that...I did have a list of things to put in my purse…and my keys didn’t happen to be on said list.”

He chuckles beside you and raises an eyebrow. “Ok, I’ll bite. What was on the list that was more important than your house keys?”

You purse your lips and look up guiltily at him. “Phone, wallet, chapstick…” He leans down a bit further when you pause. “... mints and my lipgloss. That’s it.”

Shōta chuckles heartily when you complete the packing list and offer him an apologetic smile. “Mmm, those do sound very important.”

“Ugh.. don’t rub it in.”

You sink down a bit further at his sarcasm until he pauses to look genuinely at your face; the warm city lights illuminating the shine of your hair and lips. His gaze darts down to the hemline of your dress that hugs the upper portion of your thighs before dragging his eyes to the plump swell of your breasts that sit nearly pouring out of the top.

He coughs slightly and looks back at the digital clock on the car radio. “What’s your plan then?”

Taking your phone out of your purse and sending another message to Keigo, you note that he hasn’t sent a message in 90 minutes, and sigh slightly. “I can see if my law school friend is awake… or I can always wait in the lobby of my apartment until maintenance comes in at 7am.”

“No way, you’re not just going to sit in your lobby alone for hours on end. Does anyone have a spare key?”

You fiddle with your thumbs again and look down. “He’s not answering…”

Any resolve or self restraint that Shōta had been holding in is now completely drained. You don’t even need to say the name to know you’re talking about Keigo. Shōta knew you two were close friends– a camaraderie similar to nearly that of siblings, but that didn’t stop the ugly and vile envy that always coursed through his veins whenever the name was mentioned.

It was childish to feel jealous of a friend who you firmly trusted, and the mentor to one of his own student’s internship, but Shōta couldn’t help it. ‘Keigo this’, ‘Keigo that’; it was half of the topics you happened to ever talk about. The way you two were physically comfortable also rubbed Shōta the wrong way– though none of it was inherently romantic or sexual, it still made the older man insecure.

That night, Friday night, had been a tipping point. You came into the bar with him, and had a few drinks before even walking over to the table of your expecting company. Being forced to watch the way Keigo wiped your mouth was too much, and before he could stop himself, Shōta had used erasure on the man.

It didn’t do anything, other than make Keigo feel slightly uncomfortable, but it was enough for the table to laugh and ridicule Shōta for acting so brazenly. Now sitting here, with you in his passenger seat, texting a man who wasn’t even bothering to respond, was once again Shōta’s tipping point.

The words fall off the tongue with urgency, desperate for you to know you could depend on him to be there for you; to always respond to your texts and calls if you sent any. Shōta can’t even blame the alcohol, himself a relative heavyweight anyways, and he’s not sure there’s anything to blame the sentence on besides the facts he’s just a man trying to make a move on the most beautiful girl he’s ever had the privilege of knowing.

“You can stay with me tonight, if you want.”

a/n: I KNOW ITS BEEN FOREVER i'm sorrryyy

[I've been traveling a lot on the weekends so I haven't had much time to sit and write -> i'm staying local the next two weeks so i'll be grinding it out i promise]

ALSO: this was supposed to include you staying the night but it got too long so I have to post it as a ch.6 [it's gonna be a loooong night let's just say that ;) ] -> i have it written tho so i'm just gonna wait a few days to post it

i love all your support on this series, it's been so much fun to write it!

likes/comments/reblogs all appreciated and i luv reading all ur comments

LMK if u wanna join the tag list

<3 - oatmeal

tags: @idkidk32 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aizawasbaeee @smashley351 @beachaddict48 @lynnesm @lashaemorow @kriscr0ss @hotvillianapologist @loverofdeepspace

#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shota #aizawa shouta #aizawa shouta smut #aizawa smut #aizawa shouta x reader smut #aizawa shota x reader smut #bnha x reader #bnha x reader smut #bnha smut #mha x reader #mha x reader smut #mha smut #oamtealwritesaizawa #oatmealwordsaizawa

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bxllydxnnabxtch · 2 months ago

Text

Eternally Elusive

Rhysand x Reader

❀🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹❀

Summary: A pestering passerby drags up an unexpected guest that almost blows your cover.

Read pt. 7 - HERE (wip)

Wanna go back?

Warnings: Harassment, injury.

In your pain riddled haste, you hadn’t realized how worked up you had made Azriel’s shadow. It seemed to be fretting at any slip up in fear of you damaging your already broken wing, it’s movement jagged and sharp as it circled you. But alas, you paid it no heed- couldn’t as you stumbled your way over the border and onto Dawn Court soil in the most pain you’ve been in since you’d left your homeland. The feeling buzzed in your head, and you just knew that you’d be in pain for months just waiting for this to heal up, but that’s only if you get the proper care for it, which you were certainly not.

Even being courts apart, Rhys still seemed to find a way to make your life difficult.

You wondered idly if he knew how badly his slip up had fucked you over as you splinted your injury, enchanting the wooden block to stay in place with a wave of your hand. Your wing still throbbed, the pain thrumming through you like a steady stream. It was the slightest bit more bearable with the splint in place, the appendage no longer visibly deformed, and it put you at ease to see it no longer sticking at an odd angle.

The glamour you held over yourself swallowed you like a comforting blanket, the weight of it putting you at ease as you looked out on the bustling streets of the Dawn Court. The last thing you needed right now was someone noticing who you were, the whispers would no doubt make their way back to the inner circle and you didn’t need another guest appearance as of right now. You dragged a hand down your face, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up along your trek into town.

A brush along your wing had you jumping and scrambling to recoil away from the touch. Your head whipped around, swiveling frantically in search of the source. Your eyes landed on a short, brunette fae. His eyes were a piercing gold, shimmering in the setting sun. You’d almost say they were beautiful if they hadn’t been holding a tinge of disgust, staring at you as if he was floored by your very presence. Azriel’s shadow stilled when you locked eyes with him, the darkness settling at your side.

It's slight coolness as it brushed against you offered you some solace from your peaked anxiety as you stared at the fae. “An Illyrian?” He scoffed, looking down on your form perched on a wooden bench. His upper lip curled into a scowl as his eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.” He sneered. Your eyes darted around, a few people nearby eyed you both, a few previous strollers slowing down to watch the interaction. Your pulse spiked, and the fae seemed to pick up on it as he huffed a snort. “Are you a spy? Come to feed information back to your whore of a High Lord?”

The comment hit you like a brick to the face, the insult causing a slice of hurt to bloom in your chest despite your current status with said male. Your features downturned, a kaleidoscope of memories flooding into you from Under the Mountain- both yours and his. You didn’t have time to fully react to anything the fae had said- to what your body had forced you to remember.

A sharp, commanding voice sounded from behind the Dawn Court native, and he bristled at the sound, a visible tremor running through him. “Are we now in the business of disturbing travelers?”

You watched as the golden eyed fae slowly turned around, almost as if he were dreading what he would see. He moved to the side, and your eyes landed on a black haired woman, the girl coated in glittering armor from head to toe. The Dawn Court insignia sat proud on her chest plate, her dark hair sprawling well past the emblem and stopping just before her waist. She held the same shimmering golden eyes as the male- but these were sharper somehow, and they seemed to swirl with power. White wings stood proud behind her, so big that the ivory feathers brushed the ground where she stood.

A Peregryn, you realized.

A member of the elite aerial legion the Dawn Court proudly harbored. You were stunned, as were most passerby at her presence, only attracting more attention to your already uncomfortable situation. Her eyes landed on you, and they widened slightly in recognition.

It dawned on you in that second, and you stiffened into an immovable force.

Glamour didn’t work on Peregryns.

You stared at each other wide eyed, a silent acknowledgement of what was taking place. A runaway monarch- and a soldier of another court. She had all the power here- a cruel switch that was bound to be flipped at some point; you just didn’t expect it to be so soon. She could report this back to Thesan, have you sent back without so much as a thought. Azriels shadow circled you, and you waited with bated breath to see what she’d do.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her eyes fell back onto the brown-haired male still staring at her in thinly veiled horror. “Get moving.” She said coldly, jerking her head in the direction of another bustling street. The male sputtered for a second, eyes darting back to you before stuttering out a “yes, ma’am.” You watched him disappear into the crowd of people making their way down the busy street, the few people that had stopped to watch the interaction dispersing with him.

Your eyes fell back on the woman, the Peregryn now making her way towards you as if she were on a mission. The look in her eyes had you leaping to your feet, hopping off the bench as if the wooden structure had scorched you through your clothes. You got up in time to meet her face to face, her golden armor glinting in the setting sun.

You swallowed thickly, your pulse racing as you locked eyes. Her face seemed to hold a certain kind of awe you’d compare to a child receiving a new toy. Her eyes slipped over to your injured wing, the glance lingering for a second longer than you’d anticipated before it flickered back to your face. The fae bristled, a realization seeming to dawn on her as she floundered. “M-my Lady.” Her legs bent to steep into a kneel, and your heart rate spiked so violently the Peregryn flinched, your arm shooting out to stop her from completing her bow. Your nails dug into her armor, creating a soft creaking noise as your voice fought its way out of you. Commanding. Desperate. Almost a plea as you spoke.

“Don’t.” You said lowly, eyes darting around as she slowly eased out of her half completed kneel. She managed to take in your frantic movements in her confused state, eyes searching the streets in hopes no one had saw what she had just attempted to do. A fae with light brown hair seemed to eye you as she walked by, and that was all it took to have you hauling the Peregryn into a nearby ally.

“Are you trying to get me in shit!?” You hissed, casting a glance to the street you were just standing in, the shadows of the ally helping you to remain hidden. “No- no, my lad-“ You cut her off. “Don’t call me that, I’m not Your Lady.” You let go of her armor, confusion staining the woman’s face, only becoming more saturated with each passing second. “I may serve the Dawn Court, but I was born of the Night, you are as much My Lady as Thesan is My Lord.” Your eyes darted to her dark sprawling locks, and it clicked for you. She may have been a Peregryn, that much was obvious, but she held prominent features of the Night Court.

It was possible, much like your own lineage. A union between a Peregryn and a member of the Night Court. You saw it. A reflection of yourself stared back, the pride that swirled in her eyes when she talked about her heritage. You remember being like that, once. So proud of being from both the Winter, and the Night Court.

It was long gone though, that pride.

One of those homes was ripped away from you.

You hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate.

“I’m glamoured right now.” You said, tone much softer. A crease formed between her brows, face falling. “Oh.” She paused, looking you over before she spoke again. “I thought you were here for the Fall Solstice.”

That’s right. The Solstice.

Where the three Solar Courts came together in celebration. Where the day and night fall together in equal harmony, each as long as the other. You had completely forgotten in your haste to make it back to Winter. Your mouth fell open, eyebrows raising as an expression of surprise overtook your features. It was clear Rhys wouldn’t be attending any festivals after Under the Mountain, and now with you missing, you’d be surprised if he left the house. Especially with… her to attend to.

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” She asked. Your eyes fell back on her. She really didn’t know? Did Rhys not alert the other Courts to your disappearance? Or is it just so early he didn’t have a chance yet? You swallowed nervously, wringing your hands together anxiously. “Well, since you’re in town you’re still welcome to come.” The Peregryn said softly, sensing your unease. “Pardon my bluntness, but you don’t look to be feeling too well, you should get some rest. I should probably get back to my post regardless.”

You realized just how long you’d been standing in the ally, and you nodded your head in acknowledgement. She inclined her head slightly, almost a bow but casual enough to be brushed off. “It was an honor.” She said sincerely, turning to make her way out of the overhang. You watched her exit the ally, ivory wings brushing the ground as they followed behind her.

Hauling yourself up the stairs of the inn, you used the wall to support most of your weight. Azriels shadow was swirling around you, fretting as it always did when you were in a less than favorable state. The groan you let out when you reached the top was almost guttural, and you had to muster up the very last bit of your energy reserves to scuffle the last bit to your room.

You fiddled around with the key, leaning your forehead against the door and attempted not to wince as your arm knocked into your wing. Getting the key into the lock was an accomplishment in itself, and you pushed the door open, ready to clean yourself up and have a short nap. The door swung open, and you threw the key onto the dresser on your right side, swinging the door closed behind you.

The door swung closed, revealing the bed and a battered Azriel sitting atop it.

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ode-to-melpomene · 7 months ago

Text

Control

Part 3 of 'Stray' Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: One bad idea snowballs out of control. Word Count: 2829 Warnings: Reader and Jason are both a little fucked up, allusions to depression and Jason's death, subtle size difference, negative self-talk from both parties, and a touch of angst.

Red Hood had to bend and scrape to get through your window. Had you not been in shock at the turn of events, you might have laughed at the sight of this broad, heavily armored man thrusting his arms in front of him and cocking his whole body at an angle to fit himself through your narrow window.

When his shoes touched down on the floor of your modest apartment he tracked snow in with him. Snow and slush, and despite knowing it would leave a mess on your old wooden floors you thought it looked like quite a pretty combination. You liked the grayish look of the rivulets that fell from his shoes as he stepped into the room.

Your heart beat faster when he finally stood to his full height. He rolled his shoulders and cocked his head from side to side, stretching the no-doubt sore muscles. He was broad and filled the entire space like the tiny interior was shaped around him. He hulked there like a wolf eyeing a rabbit. Were his jaws parted in hunger and salivating beneath his helmet?

He finally moved, one hand fiddling with the fingertips of his other glove. His shoulders slackened, curling in on himself slightly.

Your cheeks warmed as you snapped your attention away from him. This was definitely a mistake. This man was a known murderer and, from what you had heard from your associates in Crime Alley, was steadily building his own criminal network within the city. This was a horrible idea.

But you were lonely.

When was the last time you’d had company over? When was the last time you had spent more than a night in this apartment?

Jason observed you carefully from where he stood beside the window, watching you flit away from him. You drew your bottom lip between your teeth and turned your back to him, hiding that doe-eyed gaze. With your head on a swivel, you paced around your dimly lit apartment with a twitchy awkwardness that betrayed the discomfort you were trying to hide.

The apartment was messy. Jason felt less bad about dripping slush onto your wood floors when he saw the stack of dishes piled in your sink, the unopened letters and bills on the folding table in the middle of the room, and the basket of unfolded laundry on your orange couch. His brows furrowed beneath his helmet as he scanned the room from his position beside the window.

Like a moth to a flame, his piercing stare dragged back to you. You stood in the center of your kitchen watching him with that familiar nervous, flighty expression you maintained while meandering the twisting back streets of Crime Alley. Was it that same anxiety that got him caught by you weeks ago?

You held out a beckoning hand to him. Jason’s heart thudded in his chest.

You watched Red Hood, your own heart pounding as you stared at the unmoving figure shrouded in darkness. Backlit by moonlight. Blanketing the devil with a halo.

“The dishes?” you asked, your voice barely above a squeak. The man twitched as if your timidity spooked him. Red Hood lifted the dishes to his chest and stepped across your apartment in a few long strides. You flinched when he lurched to a stop in front of you, his movements clunky and intimidating. He didn’t move like a lithe panther like he had on the rooftop the first night you saw him–no, he moved like a teenager relearning his body after a growth spurt. All sharp angles and quick movements.

You avoided touching him as you took the glass baking dish and plate from his gloved hands and set it on the counter.

“Um,” you start, with no particular thought in mind as you skitter towards the fridge. You hear the sound of fabric shuffling and look over your shoulder to see his head cocked to the side slightly. He’s so close now, practically barricading you in your own kitchen. The apartment was so small, he could probably lash out and grab you before you had a chance to run away. A fox in a rabbit’s den.

How strong was he? If he were angry, could you throw you across the room? Would he even need his gun to kill you, or could he clasp his hands around your throat and squeeze? How much biting, scratching, and kicking would it take to get him off you?

If he pinned you down, would you even try to fight back?

You flushed as warmth spread through your traitorous body. Your shoulders trembled as you stood in front of the open fridge, filled to the brim with Tupperware and leftovers.

“I… do you like chicken parmesan?” you asked, your voice cracking. Your question is met with silence.

When you look over your shoulder you find the Red Hood looming in the corner of your kitchen, staring down at a picture frame. You liked the frame–silver, with pretty flower details at the corners that reminded you of spring in a place you didn’t call home anymore. The frame was empty, leering at you and your empty life.

“I don’t have anything to fill it with,” you answer his unspoken question, swallowing the lump in your throat. His helmet tilts again, jaw angled towards you–you can just make it skin in the thin space between the high collar of his compression-fit shirt and the edge of his helmet. You lick your lips.

“No family?” he asks. Your heart should have leapt into your throat at that–it was the sort of thing a serial killer would ask a victim to test the waters.

“None that would notice if I were gone,” you admit in a whisper. Red gleamed in the dim light of your kitchen, the solitary light in the corner of the living room illuminating his stiff figure. “They… had plans for me. College. Career. Things I didn’t want- not that they ever bothered to ask what I did want. It’s probably extreme, but… it was easier to disappear than tell them no.”

Or it’s easier to run and hide.

Jason tilted his helmeted head to the floor, his brows drawn together and lips pursed in a thin line. Growing up with- being raised to be a detective made it easy to parse out what you were doing. You were running. No concrete roots anywhere, ready to disappear again at a moment’s notice. You barely let yourself build a life, sequestered in this rundown apartment building for the sole purpose of dedicating yourself to something else. Anything to make you forget how lonely life had made you.

He knew that feeling.

“You were right the other night, y’know,” you said, rousing him from his thoughts. Jason lifted his head and fixed you with a cold stare. “When you said I don’t know what I’m doing? You’re right, I don’t. I don’t know why I’m here.”

You held his gaze steadily for the first time all evening, daring him to judge you. Some days you wondered if anyone would care if you disappeared–the answer always came back with a resounding no. That shook you to your core. No one wanted you, the hermit on the fifth floor with a dead-end job, no friends, no family.

But maybe if someone depended on you… maybe someone would mourn you, too. If you could give yourselves to others, bury a piece of yourself in their souls, maybe they would feel a piece of themselves break when you inevitably shattered.

It wasn’t kindness. It was survival. Desperation. A need to be remembered, held, cherished, and you clawed for it in the only way you knew how. Subservience.

Red Hood held your stare. Your gaze captivated him in a way he hadn’t felt since he watched the timer tick down to his death. His exhale came out shaky, his hands trembling at his sides because-

Because you got it. That ache that seeped deep into his bones, that desire to mean something to someone so viscerally that they would fight for you. Bruce had never done that.

Jason found that in the children who demanded he play games with them late on his patrols. He found it in the grateful mothers who thanked him for scaring dealers out of their neighborhoods. He found it in the fathers who stood beside him and fought for safer streets.

He found it in the reverence in your gaze.

“What do you want?” he asked, modulated voice breaking the tense silence. You blinked rapidly at his question, chasing away scattered thoughts.

“What?”

“You said… you said your family never asked what you wanted,” he hesitated, unease slipping into his rough voice. “What do you want?”

You hesitated for a moment. Jason’s gaze dropped to your parted lips before returning to the burgeoning hope in your eyes.

“Home,” you responded with a timid smile. Jason flexed his fist at his side.

When was the last time he had called something home? The Manor, maybe. Six months for him, nearly three for the rest of the world. Home wasn’t something he deserved when he had come back so wrong. Like a newborn fawn struggling to stand on tremulous legs, he fought to learn the body he had been reborn into that didn’t feel like his. He came back angry, volatile, wrong, wrong, wrong-

“Are you okay?”

Jason flinched. “Fine,” he answered curtly. He turned away from you and planted his hands on his countertop, fingers curling against the lip of the linoleum with a bruising grip. His chest heaved with deep breaths, huffing like a bull. Control wasn’t something that came easily anymore.

And then he felt you standing by his side. You, who seemed too sweet, a kindness he certainly didn’t deserve. You, who reminded him of the things he wanted but couldn’t- shouldn’t have.

“I’m not sure what I did, but… it’s okay to be upset,” you spoke softly, leaning beside him. “I can… I can go in the other room if you need a minute.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he answered with a huff, bringing one hand up to his helmet. What was he supposed to say to you, a literal stranger? That anger was easier for him to process than anything else? That it came naturally since his time in the Pit?

“Can I touch you?”

Jason’s heart raced. Every muscle in his body tensed, pulled taut with shock. His mouth felt dry, his tongue tacky, and sweat beaded on his brow beneath his helmet. You were asking to touch him?

When you finally did, Jason felt his heart stop. Your hand upon his upper arm, covered by his jacket, felt apprehensive. If not for every cell in his body on alert, he might not have felt the earnest touch.

Your own heart pounded. You didn’t take his silence as a no, but it certainly wasn’t a yes either. So you held still and offered a gentle touch to the soft, worn leather coat he wore over his armored figure. A vigilante, a murderer, a criminal, allowing you to touch him like it was the most natural thing in the world to both of you.

Or maybe just to you, given the way he shook under your hand. Perhaps you had misinterpreted the situation and inflated your significance. Of course, you had. What was a gnat to a hawk, if not a pest? You pulled your hand away.

Red Hood lashed out and your breath caught in your throat. His gloved hand tightened around your wrist in a harsh grip–not bruising, but firm enough to draw a whine from deep in the back of your throat. He relinquished his grip immediately, his shoulders sagging at the expression on your face.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered. Your hand remained raised between the two of you, and he wasn’t sure if it was a barrier or an offering. He twisted slightly to face you, looming over you in the shadowy kitchen. Jason hesitantly lifted his hand, the same that had gripped your wrist moments before. Slowly, he brought his open palm up and rested it against your wrist in a quelling gesture. “I scared you.”

“Only a little,” you answered with a shy smile. His stomach twisted. “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to be a perfect gentleman when I invited you in here. It’s okay to be overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed. That was a good way of putting it. Overwhelmed by the way you smelled, how you twisted your wrist to press your palm flat against his gloved hand, and the well of sadness and longing in your eyes. Overwhelmed by life, by hatred, by you.

You interlaced your fingers with his. Jason swallowed the lump in his throat. When was the last time someone had dared to touch him like that? You lowered your joined hands to rest comfortably between you and Jason’s eyes followed, wrestling with the image of your smaller hand cradled in his. It looked unnervingly natural.

“I get it. I’m not very good at talking to people either.” You offered a reassuring smile. “But you make it easier.”

Jason scowled beneath this helmet. “Why? Because you’re talking to a helmet and not a person?”

You scoffed a playful sound that brought warmth to his cheeks. “No, because I’m talking to you. You actually bother to listen.”

Jason couldn’t imagine anyone not listening to you. Your voice sounded like a melody compared to the roar of his own thoughts. Thoughts that suffocated him, made him feel less than and undeserving. That wasn’t his fault though. His past had forced him to respond with vitriol. The way you looked up at him from under your lashes with a pretty frown on your lips quieted those thoughts, even if for just a moment.

Jason turned his wrist, dragging your hand with it. He brought your joined hands up and pressed your knuckles to the edge of his helmet. It was the closest he could bring himself to a thank you, although he wasn’t sure what he was thanking you for.

Your breath stuttered. Red Hood pushed your knuckles firmly against the cold surface of his helmet, just off-center of where you assumed his mouth was. Your heart thudded in your chest, and despite the thick gloves he wore you were certain he could feel the frantic beat of your pulse on your wrist.

His grip was tight, but not demanding as it had been earlier. Your cheeks warmed, your lips parting in a silent question as you stared at the expressionless sea of red in front of you.

Warmth pooled in your belly and crept tantalizingly across your skin. Yes, he could break you… but he wouldn’t. At least, you didn’t think so. But, God, if it meant he would continue to touch you like that, you would let him break you. He cradled your hand like a lifeline, like you were the last thing keeping him rooted. The only thing that mattered in a torrential sea of emotion that you could barely stand to sail alone.

You took a step closer. You expected him to flinch, but he remained steadfast, his helmet angling down slightly to watch you closely. You tugged on his hand and he relented, allowing you to guide him as you pleased.

Red Hood let out a choked noise through his helmet when you brought his gloved knuckles to your lips. The barest touch, one that he couldn’t feel through the kevlar, and yet his heart beat wildly against his ribs. Your lips ghosted over the fabric for just a moment, barely a hint of a kiss, before you pulled away.

His free hand twitched at his side. Your gaze flicked down at the motion and the corner of your mouth quirked up in a half smile.

“You can touch me,” you offered, giving his hand a squeeze.

Jason thought he might die.

“I’d ruin you,” he answered, his voice warbling in desperation.

Loneliness, anger, fear, longing- he saw it all on your face. You felt the same weight he did, and yet you basked in it and let it guide you towards something better. Or maybe something worse, if it was guiding you towards him.

“I’m already ruined,” you said, clasping his hand between both of yours.

Jason jerked his hand away. Your hands fell limply at your sides, disappointment clear in the way your brows knit together. He took a lumbering step back, feeling like he had let you down again. That was all he was capable of, he was sure of it. He couldn’t let himself get entangled in your life without sending it all crashing down.

He was gone before you had a chance to protest. You shuddered at the blast of cold air that filled the room through the open window. Sunlight peeked over the Gotham skyline, draping the sky and your mood in a cloudy gray.

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

Tag list: @taylorgriffin, @joonunivrs, @solari0om

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader

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caitlynsvioletgarden · 5 months ago

Text

short little jayvik drabble I wrote for my friend :)

As always, the lowering sun is nothing of a deterrent to the citizens of Zaun and visitors alike. The shops are teeming with customers, food trucks making a killing with the dinner rush alone. It’s a side of his city, Jayce realizes, that he’s never seen. The peace that could come without prestigious charity events or passive-agressive cocktail parties.

It’s not like he grew up in wealth. Yes, the hammer business had made a living. But it was hard work and for as long as he could remember, supporting his mother was the number one priority. He’d just grown accustomed to the ways of the richer side of town, in Piltover. But down here, where string lights and neon signs were preferred to street lamps and sconces, there came a sense of community as well. Everyone seemed to know each other. You couldn’t glance over your shoulder without seeing old friends sharing a drink or a child running and squealing through the crowd.

Viktor’s pace was probably faster than his own as he gawked at the surrounding scene, just as curious as all those kids that raced around him. His head was brought back to his boyfriend’s from the previous swiveling angle it had been when a food cart materialized beside him, narrowly missing a frying pan to the face. Perhaps not his finest moment.

“You look like you’ve never seen the undercity before”

Viktor joked lightly as they reached their destination; picnic table-style chairs surrounding an open grill where a menacing, teal-hued man served what he could only guess to be Noxian-style seafood. The smell was phenomenal at its most modest, and Jayce reflexively propped the Zaunite’s cane against the far edge of the lawn.

“Am I gonna lose points if I admit that I haven’t? At least, not since it was so…peaceful” Viktor sighed but didn’t seem surprised. Of course he hadn’t. Once a Piltie, always a Piltie. He could reason with that. Not many would leave the plush of the progressing city to knock it back at The Last Drop, or to feast at Jericho’s. Nevertheless, it was slightly discouraging.

“You must give it a chance” He chided gently, accent thick in the low evening air, “I find it a place of community. Past judgement has no place in a future of domesticity. You of all people should understand that, Jayce. What is an inventor besides his drive and passion for a better way of life?”

“I’m not judging it by the past. I just didn’t know how much this place had changed since the last time I was here, alright? I’m not against the undercity. I wouldn’t have agreed to celebrate here with you if I was. This is a place of progress, just like Piltover. I guess my head’s been too clouded to realize it”

The little tension in the air faded as Viktor rested his hand over Jayce’s on the wooden table, and it helped to remind him why they were here. What this night was. It was supposed to be happy, to congratulate the first year of many they’d hopefully spend together.

Upon ordering, with great direction from his boyfriend of course, he was met with a heaping plate of steaming, saucy salmon, and that’s about all he could identify from the dish. He could conclude that it tasted as good as it looked though, and the first few minutes of their date was just them enjoying the food. Maybe not too romantic or conventional, but what could he say? Science yielded regular nutrition. There weren’t enough hours in the day to discover all they craved and take adequate care of themselves. Food was often neglected.

“You’re right. No one treats me like an outsider here, y’know? I can feel the community here. It’s…a nice change of pace” He was genuine, Piltover could be exclusive and prejudiced. These people didn’t seem to waste their time with constructs like that. They were wiser than they got credit for.

“I’m sure Caitlyn would’ve loved it here” Viktor said, earnestly.

Then, Jayce’s head exploded.

No matter how many years had gone by, mentions couldn’t be casual. He couldn’t just…smile at a good memory. She was bigger than that. She was the entire room even if she only shrunk into a small corner of it.

His throat closed up, and with a muttered excuse, he got up and trapped himself behind a food cart, hands on his knees. Scenes of his old apartment flashed through his mind, the rubble, piercing blue sparks, ruins of the drywall…her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, navy hair stained with soot and cheeks raw from scrapes. Not a breath left in her body.

Caitlyn had been like a little sister to him. A shadow, almost, but she was too curious for that. Too honest and outspoken and remarkable to be condemned to just a shadow. Her wide eyes, tooth-gapped smile, clumsy legs too long for her fifteen-year-old body. She was funny, and blunt, and so intelligent it felt like she could outthink him if their ages were parallel.

In a place so full of community, it was empty without her. She would’ve loved the freedom down here. Jayce could picture her out in the forest with that damned rifle of hers, shooting at anything and everything, always striking a bullseye. He felt all this pressure condensed in his chest, constricting his breathing. One mention and he was working through deep breaths in the middle of a date, hidden on the far side of a glorified truck.

Maybe this was a place for the future, but Jayce would always be stuck in the past. It wasn’t a good value for a man of progress, but then again, what was a man if not a broken value? He didn’t have an answer.

#arcane #jayvik #jayce talis #viktor arcane

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omnomnomdomcaps · 2 years ago

Text

Louder than Words

Yet another remastered story, everyone! And yes, I'm still here. - ONND

***

Ann stared in vain at the screen in front of her, lingering on the clock in the corner. She had told her boss - the firebrand lawyer that she aspired to be like - that she could have her report done by Monday morning, and yet for the past three hours she had accomplished absolutely nothing. It was as if a fog had set over her, and she knew exactly who to blame.

In one furious motion, the diminutive blonde rose from her seat, stomped through her apartment hallway as loudly as her five-foot frame could, stopped, and pointed, as sharply and as angrily as her finger was capable of pointing.

“YOU!” she bellowed, her face bright red.

“Yes?” Richard, her boyfriend, turned in his swivel, utterly unfazed, resting his hands in his lap as he looked up at his fuming visitor.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” the girl bellowed, “Your stupid fucking hypnosis bullshit has been messing with my head all night, and I’ll remind you that I have a lot of work to do.”

“My… stupid hypnosis?” he repeated softly, raising an eyebrow, “But… I thought that hypnosis didn’t do anything?”

“Oh shut up, smartass,” Ann barked, “it doesn’t. But all your yammering on about figuring out the trigger” - she added air quotes as she mocked - “and how revolutionary you seem to think this bullshit is has been giving me a fucking headache, and now I can’t focus on my goddamn work.”

“My oh my,” the man shook his head in his seat, “such rude words. As I said before, I’m quite proud of this new file, and I’m very appreciative that you would let me test it out on you. I just thought you should know that it’s trigger-based, in case that helps you manage it. After twenty-four hours, I’ll be happy to remove it if you just ask, but I need to collect a few observations first.”

“I don’t need you to remove shit,” she snarled, “It doesn’t do anything, and I wish you’d stop wasting your time on it. Just tell me what the stupid trigger is or whatever, so I can focus on more important things. Christ.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Richard smiled, “Besides, if the file really isn’t doing anything, then it’d seem to me that you just need a simple distraction. So why don’t you take your mind off work a few minutes, hmmm? Relax a little?”

Ann growled, but eventually released her pointing hand and exhaled. She wasn’t one to admit it, but perhaps, she thought, he was right - a simple distraction was what she needed.

The girl left her boyfriend’s office and made her way to the kitchen, where she quickly came upon some lingering plates and cutlery from the night’s dinner. Once more, she took a deep breath, before taking a sponge and turning on the faucet, immersing herself in a simple, productive task to clear the fog in her head.

And within just a few moments, that fog seemed to start to clear. The girl felt calmer and more at ease, and didn’t even show annoyance when a familiar face came in to join her.

“Aww, thank you!” her boyfriend remarked, “You didn’t have to do that. Maybe I can help?”

“I can handle it myself,” she said without turning, “but thanks.”

Indeed, it seemed she was almost done with the work anyway, only one plate left to scrub off and place into the couple’s dishwasher. But then, that plate slipped from her hands.

In a moment of sudden panic, Ann scrambled to regain a grip on the wide dinner plate, her wet fingers grasping madly at the air over the sink. Finally, she was able to regain a hold, but it came at such an awkward angle that she ended up diverting the full pour of the faucet towards her body, blasting her with such force that she had to drop the ceramic into the basin below.

The plate shattered into pieces, and Ann just stood there, trying to make sense of what had just happened, and what had come of it. She was drenched - the burst of water had reached her face, her t-shirt, and the front of her pants. As her boyfriend stepped calmly in front of her, turning off the sink and beginning to collect the shattered remains of the plate, the girl erupted once again in frustration.

“Fucking seriously!?” she yelled out, “Why the fuck did you have to distract me again? I was finally starting to fucking relax and you had to get up behind me and…”

“Whoa there now,” he gestured, as if trying to rein in a horse, “no need for that kind of hostility. I’ll just take care of the little mess here, and I think you should probably focus on getting yourself cleaned up?”

Again the girl growled, balling up fists as she walked away. Part of her wanted to keep arguing, but she knew there would be nothing to gain. Plus, she knew he was right - she needed to get herself cleaned up. Her shirt was sopping wet, and the stain on her pants had soaked her underwear as well.

As she changed herself out into dry clothes in their bedroom, Richard once again came to join, tapping her ajar door before peering in.

“You gonna be alright changing yourself there, babe? Maybe I should get you something a little more absorbent, in case you have another little mishap?”

“Real funny,” she rolled her eyes, “I can keep my pants dry just fine, as long as someone doesn’t keep distracting me. Now could you please leave me alone?”

“Alright, alright,” he acquiesced, and walked away.

Ann, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, took several deep breaths to try to calm herself down, hoping that she might be able to focus enough to get her work done. But as she stared again into the screen, she found herself again veering away from her task. She played games, watched news, checked social media, and did everything except the thing she was supposed to do, until a familiar feeling finally pulled her away from her seat.

“God fucking damn it,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she walked away from her laptop. She wondered why she had been so ineffective - she’d never been one to struggle so much with writer’s block or procrastination before, and she didn’t really care about the stupid hypnosis trigger, did she?

But then, only a few feet from her chair, Ann felt something strange. The urge that she had, that had started as a simple need for a pee break, seemed to be developing unnaturally, growing stronger and stronger each second. But it had gotten beyond even that.

The girl looked down, unable to believe what she was seeing. There, at the front of her fresh pair of shorts, spots were appearing. They weren’t some burst of desperation, but small, uncontrolled drop, leaking through underwear, and beginning to drip onto the floor.

“Fuck!” She launched into a sprint for the bathroom, but it was already too late. The drops had turned into a full-blown stream, flowing down across the legs of her shorts and forming puddles on the hardwood below, with her muscles unable to stop anything.

She finally did enter the bathroom, but there wasn’t much left for her to do there. She tossed off her ruined shorts and panties - her second such set of the day - and sat half-naked on the toilet bowl, mulling her situation, cursing until her face turned red.

And then, like clockwork, he showed up, carrying a crinkling package in his hand as he waved to his girlfriend from the bathroom’s entrance.

“What the fuck do you want!?” she balked, “And why do you even have that?”

“Occupational hazard,” he chuckled, “different hypnoses affect people in different ways, and sometimes these h-”

“NO!” she pointed, glaring suddenly, “Don’t say that word - that word that rhymes with ‘yelp.’ That’s your fucking trigger word, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

Richard smiled and shrugged, and then began to answer. “A good g-”

“No!” she cut him off, “You know what? Don’t fucking say anything. Don’t talk to me tonight. Sleep on the fucking couch. Okay?”

The man standing in the hallway nodded, raising his free hand up to gesture for calm. He said nothing.

“But,” Ann went on, her voice turning timid, “could you leave the package here? Thanks.”

Her boyfriend tossed the package towards her before proceeding to walk away once again. Ann, after a few moments, reached to bring it closer to herself, shuddering as she examined the contents.

Diapers. A small, mostly empty bag of thick, adult diapers. Ann wondered if she really needed them, or if she was simply letting Richard’s riddles get in her head. Either way, she figured, it would be easier to just put one on. Tomorrow afternoon, she reminded herself, she would be done with this insanity, free to go back to her normal life. And she would never agree to let that man hypnotize her again.

With a sigh, the girl took a garment from the bag and unfolded it, trying to make sense of front and back. This will be over soon, she reminded herself, and she stood to wrap the diaper around herself. It was an alien feeling, and she winced as she heard the plastic crinkle. Still, it wasn’t all that uncomfortable, and she was able to ease into the sensation as she walked back towards the bedroom, carrying the remainder of the bag in her fingers.

Richard had gone to sleep on their sofa, as requested, and Ann flopped onto their bed alone, thoughts from the previous day racing through her mind. She was too tired to try to do work any longer, and she reminded herself that it would be a waste of time anyway. Within a day, this would all be over, and that thought calmed her as she drifted off peacefully.

****

Some nine hours later, Ann rubbed her tired head as she tried to adjust to the new day. She wasn’t used to sleeping so long, and she certainly wasn’t used to the new sensation between her legs.

“Oh, Christ…” she mumbled, tossing off her blanket and covers to reveal a sopping diaper underneath.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Richard waltzed in, a wide smile on his face, “Ready for breakfast?”

“Could you not be so fucking loud?” she whispered, holding the side of her head, “i literally just woke up. Jesus…”

“Oh my,” he said, speaking more softly now, “looks like someone’s had a busy night, huh? I suppose I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

And for a few moments, he did, working away in the kitchen while the girl tried to orient herself. Slowly, Ann was able to untape her worn diaper, wrap it, and toss into their wastebasket, before pulling another from the bag - the last, she quickly realized - and setting it around her hips.

“Need any… assistance there?” Richard chimed in from the kitchen.

“No!” she balked, “I can change myself. I don’t need you using this as an excuse to humiliate me any more.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

This time, however, it seemed the tapes were baffling Ann. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t fix them around her waist, no matter if she was lying down or standing up, no matter how she tried to position her hands.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” he finally asked again, peering into the bedroom door.

“I told you not to… ugh…” the girl scowled, crossing her arms and turning her head. “Fine! Go ahead and fucking change me already. I hope you’re happy, asshole.”

“Always!” he answered cheerily, whistling to himself as he fastened the blushing girl’s diaper.

“Y’know,” he said, just as he was finishing the work, “I think I might have to pick up a few things at the mall today. Would you care to join me?”

“Fine,” the girl replied, her head still turned away, a scowl still covering her face, “whatever.”

Breakfast was a silent affair - flapjacks and scrambled eggs, which the girl ate, to her relief, without incident. All the while, her mind continued to race through her current situation, as she struggled to accept the profound effects the hypnosis seemed to have had on her, and wondered how much further it would go before the day was through.

Soon, the two were in the mall lobby, watching Sunday crowds scuttle about around them. Ann had chosen a light blue sundress to wear - the one clean item she had that wouldn’t leave her with an obvious bulge - but she was still highly self-conscious of what was hidden underneath.

“So what did you want to get here?” the girl asked, nervously maintaining her hands at the hem of her dress.

“Well,” he began, “I did notice that package I gave you was running a bit l-”

“Oh my fucking god,” she cut him off, “You fucking asshole. You just brought me out here to buy diapers, didn’t you? You just want to fucking humiliate me, is that it?”

“Now, now,” Richard answered calmly, “no need to make a fuss. Yes, I may have needed to pick up a few of those, but I’m also happy to go shop for anything you like. My treat - it’s my way of thanking you for -” he paused and grinned, anticipating her grimace at his next word, “helping me with this project.”

Ann’s face turned red as she clenched her teeth. She wanted to scream that this was some trap, but she fought against the urge, not wanting to call attention to herself in this state. Plus, if he was being honest, this could be a chance for her to salvage her situation with a bit of material compensation.

And so, the girl led her boyfriend without a word to an upscale clothing outlet, handing him a basket to carry. For the next hour, she would fill it with anything that caught her eye, smiling gleefully as she snatched up the most extravagant items in the store. And Richard, for his part, said nothing.

That was, until he heard the girl’s stomach emit a familiar rumble.

“Uh oh…” he teased, “looks like someone’s gotta go.”

“It’s fine,” Ann rolled her eyes, “I can wait. I’d rather not deal with a public bathroom right now.” And with that, she went back to picking clothes, as her boyfriend shrugged silently and averted his gaze with a whistle.

It was only a few moments later, though, that a sudden and powerful cramp struck the girl, causing her to nearly drop the dress she was holding. With wide eyes and blush cheeks, the girl looked nervously around before admitting a change of heart.

“Berightback,” she blurted, and she darted off into the mall. And after putting their overflowing basket aside, her boyfriend ran after.

For a moment, Ann stopped and turned. “Don’t follow me!” she yelled, “I don’t need your fucking help, okay? I - I - oh god…”

The second cramp that hit, it seemed, was far more forceful than the first. There, in the mall’s corridor, Ann grunted as she felt her body pushing and pushing, a massive, mushy mess filling the back of her diaper.

She wanted to cry.

“There there, sweetie,” Richard said softly, “it’s okay. Why don’t we just make a quick run to the pharmacy, and then we’ll be off home and get you nice and clean, ‘kay?”

“You…” she grimaced, but she held back. Don’t make a scene here, she told herself, not here.

And so she went along, swallowing her tongue and her pride as he took her by the hand over to the mall’s small drugstore. But against his word, Richard seemed to be taking his sweet time, whistling as he carefully looked through the packages in the diaper aisle, before settling on one he liked.

“Oooh, this is perfect! A nice big package for you. Can you read how many diapies are in here?”

“Fuck off,” the girl whispered through gritted teeth, “I can read fine, asshole.”

“Oh?” the man countered with a condescending smile, “Go on, then.”

Fuming through her nose as she tried to contain her rage, the girl let her eyes drift to the package, finding nothing but incomprehensible symbols on it. Then, those eyes began to dart around the aisle, finding only the same on every other package and sign. And when she realized what it all meant, Ann snapped.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME?” she yelled, stomping her foot against the store rug, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME??”

“Now now, sweetie,” Richard smiled, putting aside the package he was holding, “there’s no need for that kind of language. Don’t forget we’re in a store now.”

“Fuck you,” the girl retorted, her face beet red as she landed another stomp on the floor, “Fuck you fuck you fu-”

In an instant, the girl found herself looking down at the floor, positioned with her full diaper facing up over her boyfriend’s knee.

“Tsk tsk tsk” he shook his head, stern but calm, “How many times did I warn you?”

*SMACK*

“Little girls like you shouldn’t be using such foul language.”

*SMACK*

“And now, this is what you get.”

*SMACK*

“Is that clear?”

Ann nodded behind watering eyes as she was let down onto her feet, her hand reaching to support her sore bottom as she winced at the sticky mess that had been pressed against it.

She would be silent for the rest of their mall trip, hiding her face behind her hands as her boyfriend checked out the new package of diapers, and looking away as they drove home. It was almost over, she told herself, remembering that there were only a few hours left before the day was up. This nightmare is almost over.

That only made it more shocking, however, when he led her back into their apartment to reveal what was once his office, redone completely into a full, adult-sized nursery, complete with a giant crib, soft pink-colored walls with infantile decorations, and a changing mat, onto which she found herself being placed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he smiled, “I did a little redecorating while you were asleep last night. Thought you mind need this.”

“What the fuck,” the girl seethed, preparing to burst once more, “You fucking psycho…”

“Now, now,” he chided, “what did we say about naughty words?”

“I can say whatever the fuck I want!”

“Can you, now?”

The girl was ready to go off once more, but she was interrupted by a strange feeling. Her tongue, it seemed, was lost in her mouth, and all of the sounds she wanted to make seemed impossible.

“Ga…” she mustered, “ba… da…” but she simply couldn’t formulate a word.

“Oh, too bad,” Richard commented, unable to fully hide his chuckle at the girl’s state, “Seems like someone’s lost her train of thought. And it’s such a shame, because I’m sure you really wanted to ask for me to undo this hypnosis.

“But that’s not going to happen now, because you went and said those words again - I can. So sad, really - you could have probably figured it out when you were still smart enough, but instead you went and insulted me and my work, thinking you were so much better than all of it.

“I guess it can’t be helped. I guess that’s just the girl you are - or at least, the one you were. Thinking you were better than everyone else, thinking you could do anything. And that’s exactly why I had to teach you this lesson.”

Ann lay in wide-eyed shock as she soaked in the revelation. Her mind raced as she tried to find a way out, a way to escape being this oversized baby, unable to speak a word, being changed out of a full, wet, messy diaper before being put down into her crib for a nap.

But she couldn’t.

#ab/dl community #ab/dl

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ladyseaforth · 3 months ago

Text

Bagga Eggs

Part One

Jasper Hale x OC

Idk I’m losing it, consider it a crack!fic with zero plot

“He’s got a bag of eggs again.” Eskra points with her cafeteria fork, a small fleck of lettuce still stuck to the tines. The room is an echochamber of chatter, laughter and the screeching of metal chair legs on the polished floor.

Muriel looks up, squinting under the fluorescent lighting. She follows the fork and finds Emmett Cullen upon the receiving end of Eskra’s comment. The broad shouldered boy sits in a white hoodie, laughing over a plastic bag of white hard boiled eggs. They looked like little ping-pong balls.

On one side was Rosalie, stolid and composed, and on the other, Alice, who was dwarfed in comparison to his frame. Each girl had an apple and one serving of mashed potato between them. One spoon stabbed into the centre of the unmoving cement pile.

Muriel nods sagely, “He’s definitely getting his protein. No wonder he’s built like a brick shithouse.” Eskra hums and winces as Emmett’s laughter reaches a new height. The chair creaks at his every move.

“It’s iron that he needs to worry about. They all do,” Eskra stabs a squishy cherry tomato with her fork, “I thought Doctor Cullen would be all over that.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses. They don’t fuck with transfusions or altering your blood. Maybe that’s their deal.” Muriel looks at the clock. Eight minutes until Biology. Eight minutes until listening to Jessica give a rundown of every smidgen of gossip in the school. The trying of her social battery.

“I’m not saying they need blood transfusions. I’m saying they need steak and an iron fish in their boiling water,” Eskra runs her tongue over her lips. Muriel hummed and started tracing the outline of a fish on the table with a rogue droplet of water.

“I could only imagine having that many eggs in one go,” Eskra looks off into the distance with a vacant gaze, “the farts I’d have would clear a fucking building.”

Muriel watches Emmett slip the bag into the bin, her finger still following the fish pattern as the water became less and less. “They already do,” she said as Eskra sighed.

“Shhhhh, I’m self-consciousssss,” Eskra whined, her freckled nose creasing with an overexaggerated expression of despair. She slid her fork onto her plate, and cushioned her chin with her hands. A comic pout.

Behind her head Alice pirouetted with an apple on her ankle boot, lacy floral tights blurring with motion.

The cafeteria grew louder as those outside began to drift into the school building, the last few minutes of lunch drawing to a close. Muriel caught sight of Jessica out of the corner of her eye, her body angled toward her table and ready to apprehend her on the route to Biology.

Starting slightly, she turned back to the Cullen table. Rosalie’s blonde and silent twin had joined in his own characteristic way, sitting ramrod straight and blinking like a doll as Rosalie spoke. His head moved like it was on a swivel, snapping back and forth towards whoever was speaking, his full focus imposed on their face. Jasper. Muriel’s mouth lifted a little, she always liked men that knew when to shut the fuck up.

Before Eskra could make another dietician’s comment, the bell rang out, cutting off the lunchtime conversation. The students began heaving to their feet. She watched Alice sidle over the back of her chair with no effort at all, her skinny legs windmilling. Muriel exhaled heavily, “what do you have now?”

“Philosophy, Carter fucking hates me. You?”

“Biology.”

Eskra smiles sardonically as Muriel shoulders her tan backpack.

“Mrs S still doesn’t wear a bra?”

Muriel shakes her head with the rhythm of a death knell. Emmett and Rosalie walk off into the crowd, arm in arm. Alice and Jasper remain sitting at the table, her head bobbing happily as his stare penetrates the window. His shoulders do not move.

“Respect.” Eskra thumps her handbag onto the table, “well I’m off to solve the secrets of life with eggman. We’ll let you know if we uncover anything groundbreaking.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

Eskra shrugs with a saccharine smile before heading off in the same direction as Emmett and Rosalie. The very second her friend departs, Jessica appears, all pencil thin eyebrows and grinning smiles.

“Hey girl! You ready? You have no idea what I just heard about Grace and Abigail.” Jessica’s speech continued as Muriel’s thoughts drifted, she couldn’t help but tune the girl out. Her mind followed her body, the latter operating entirely on its own, as Jessica’s shoulders nudged hers in a demand for closeness. Gossip. Comradery. Allegiance. Anything.

They walked past the two remaining adopted Cullens at the table, Alice singing lightly to herself, Jasper’s silence palpable and heady. Muriel glanced back to see his face and found his gaze returned in her own. His eyes were smoked coals, unwaveringly still under scowling brows. His forehead was a rock face, the tension embedded deep in tissue. She scowled. Fuck off. Don’t look at me like that.

Muriel turned swiftly, trying to tune back into Jessica’s chatter. She didn’t care to know him but strangely, to be perceived by him was unnerving. She didn’t like that his eyes could witness her body. They were too strong. Harsh on delicate flesh.

By the doorway of the cafeteria, Muriel looked down towards her right. Finding the black void of the bin, she saw the bag of eggs nestled within. All in a little pile, like snake eggs in a nest, fine hairline cracks in the shells like something waiting, gently, patiently, to awaken.

Biology always went one of two ways: Edward Cullen was absent and Muriel worked resolutely by herself or Edward Cullen was present but ignored her and Muriel worked resolutely regardless. Today was the former, with the new addition of the shiny, fresh-out-the-box student Bella Swan. Her big doe eyes fluttered in the corner of Muriel’s vision, looking and pretending not to, looking and again, pretending she was not.

White knuckles shuffling and tightening underneath her cardigan sleeves.

“Edward’s not here,” Muriel stated, labelling the adrenal gland on a diagram.

Bella coughed awkwardly and bobbed her head. “Yeah,” her lips quirked, “Yeah, I guessed so.”

Muriel gave her the glance of a judging receptionist, glasses low on the bridge of her nose. “You like him?”

Bella’s brown eyes latched onto hers, wide and prey-like, “Uhm, I mean, I don’t know him that well. I wouldn’t say that I-”

“He isn’t a very good partner in Biology. Quite uncooperative.”

“Oh. Right.”

Mr Molina dumps a whiteboard pen in the garbage, the blue ink running dry on the shiny plastic. A girl, Amy, in the front row hands him a new one. He says thank you Amy. Amy was renowned for being a biter in preschool.

Muriel turns the page and begins listing the hormones involved in the luteal phase. There are tooth marks along the shaft of the pencil. Bella leans in slightly. “Do you know why he isn’t in school today?”

The sky is white with bloodless clouds. She has to squint against the brightness of the outdoors.

“No, but it’s pretty common for him to be gone.”

Bella looked at Muriel for a beat before redirecting her gaze to Molina’s whiteboard. He drew a loose blobby shape of the pituitary gland. Beside it, a curving uterus with little attached ovaries.

“I think he hates me,” Bella said.

“Why would he hate you? You just got here.”

“He covers his mouth and nose every time I’m near him. I heard him try to drop this class.” Bella tucks a stray hair beneath her headband.

Muriel raised an eyebrow, “Then he’s more of a dick than I thought.” Bella’s smile flickered weakly.

Mr Molina underlines the word ‘adrenaline’.

The two girls work in relative silence for the rest of the class.

Five minutes to finish, Muriel looks to the door and sees Eskra standing at the small window, eating a banana. Jessica sees her and gives a glance back from the row in front with a small smile, as if she was in on the joke.

Eskra sucks on the banana, sliding the top of the fruit deep into her mouth and back out. Her grin tears at the pale yellow flesh.

Bella catches Muriel’s focus and begins to blush. She’d be a good fit for the Mormon family, Muriel grins at the girl’s shy nature.

“That’s Eskra. She’s fun.”

Bella giggles lightly, shaking her head at her own embarrassment. Her whole body relaxes for a flash, her taut knuckles unfurling to push a lock of hair behind her ear.

A second later, the bell rings. Twenty students scrape to their feet. Eskra bites down harsh on the banana, snapping it off into a gummy mush.

Muriel shuffles her papers into a pile, and slides them into her backpack. “Feel free to sit with us if Jessica and her brigade get too much for you.”

The new girl smiles weakly, her laughter fading gently, “Thank you.”

“No problem. See you next time.”

Muriel walks towards Eskra like a beacon, the girl chewing with an obnoxious open mouth. Once through the door, she pushes her friend lightly. Eskra stumbles backwards and falls into the feeling of matchsticks made of steel. The world stills for a moment.

Alice smiles and giggles like a tinkling bell. She pushes Eskra gently to her feet, “Careful! You might choke.”

She is a picture against the sea of blue lockers. Heart-shaped face and knowing eyes. Little licks of dark hair over her small forehead.

Eskra grins in an offhanded manner, caught off guard by the pixie whose tiny frame had held her with such surety.

“Thanks,” she flipped her hair, “Muriel can be vicious at the best of times.”

Muriel wasn’t looking at Alice, but instead, found her gaze upon Jasper. His movements were still robotic, one eyelid fluttering like an abandoned doll and flickering between Eskra and herself. He had lovely hair, gold undulating around his chin. Shoulders tight, like a soldier, under a neat navy jacket.

He looked back with a note of disdain. Self-righteous prick.

“I am an absolute bitch,” Muriel confirmed, detaching herself from Jasper’s stare. The blonde boy glanced at his sister before disassociating entirely. The Cullen crest on his sleeve revealed when he grasped his hand around the strap of his messenger bag. Muriel felt the gentle shoves of passing students against her backpack.

Alice laughed delightedly, shaking her head with a coy smile. “I refuse to believe that for a second. You just get misunderstood often!”

Muriel cocked her head to the side, her smile growing less sure. The hell did that mean?

The skinny little fae said nothing more, turning to her constipated looking brother. His eyes met hers, unblinking ochre stones in his face. His look gave the unspoken question mom, when can we go? Alice giggled again, energy thrumming, as if she found his bad attitude sweet and not completely off putting. All quiet and kill-y, shooter reddit manic energy.

“Well, we’ll see you guys around,” Eskra rounded up the interaction, nudging Muriel in the rib. The air felt uncannily warm for Forks, a sick heat in a cold climate. Jasper unlocked his jaw with an audible click. It was times like these that Muriel definitively felt that she did not receive the rulebook for the game which everyone else was playing.

She doesn’t notice the siblings leave, so focused she is upon her vertigo and the hot flush running through her body.

“Are you good?” the ever-insightful query comes. Muriel glances at Eskra, who is staring at the side of her face with a squint.

“Yeah,” Muriel says, “all good. Just feeling menopausal for some fucking reason.”

“Mm, I can’t relate but I will sympathise, sweet one. I’m really fertile right now.”

“Are you?”

“Yah, I have an app.”

“Cool.”

The hallway still spins as the two walk but it is a gentle eddying motion as opposed to the sickening churn it was before. The cold light breaks through the smudged high school windows, painting squares on the pattern of lockers and classroom doors. She feels the heat of her best friend’s body beside her. She can see the individual specks of dust floating in the beams, stagnant in the flash of warmth.

Sleepy, lazy, slowing, falling.

That night Muriel has dreams. And they are flavours of something untasted, untouched and yet to be satisfied.

The sublime awoke within the mundane, and all the rest began to fall into place.

#jasper hale imagine #jasper hale x oc #twilight imagine #twilight #jasper hale #Alice Cullen #Alice Cullen x oc #Bella swan #Edward Cullen #emmett Cullen #Rosalie hale #carlisle cullen #esme cullen

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sunlightandsuffering · 1 year ago

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Feminist and The Fratboy AU

THEORETICALLY, I COULD WRITE MORE BUT AS OF RN I KIND OF LIKE HOW IT'S ENDED AND STUFF?? it's not as smutty as i wanted but y'all i really think this is the essence of them, feminist mikasa and fratboy eren WE DO LOVE

She’s sitting in his room, lazily turning herself in loops on his desk chair, spinning around over and over again. And isn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

And yet here she fucking is, in the bedroom of one Eren Yeager, expecting it to play out differently than it has the hundred or so other times she’s been in this exact position.

Her socked foot taps against the edge of his desk once more, giving her the momentum she needs for one more spin– but she’s stopped.

Eren is glaring at her, his own foot wedged harshly between her and the desk, “No more.” She winces, definition of fucking insanity.

“I should go,” Mikasa tells him, sitting up from the comfort of her swivel chair, she should at least pretend she wants to leave, that she has some dignity. “No, we have to work on our gender women’s studies assignment, I need a good mark if I don’t want to worry about the final.” Mikasa glares at him miserably, slumping back into the comfort of the plush high-backed swivel chair, the one she is sure is used for all too much video gaming, “You could, you know apply yourself, that might help.” Eren shoots her an unimpressed look, “Why would I do that when I have an angry little feminist at my beck and call.”

This time she stands up, fully intending to leave, but Eren shoves her back, his foot on her thigh, dumping her right back into her chair, “Relax, Miki, I didn’t mean it.” Debatable.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, irritated, and a smirk tugs at Eren’s lips, those smug, full lips that she loves to kiss way too much, he’s so fucking irritating.

“Don’t be so sensitive.” She could murder him right now, in cold blood, and ruin his mother’s perfectly beige carpet.

For a moment she considers it, her eyes flickering toward the butter knife, lying innocently on the dirty plate on his desk. It’s probably from before she got here, when Mama’s boy eating his dinner at his desk, like a fucking king.

Her face twists into a scowl and Eren’s smirk blooms into a full-on grin, but he must sense her rage because he puts his hands up in surrender, just before she can make a grab for the dull silver of the blade.

“Fine, I’m sorry,” he kicks her affectionately, and she comes back to herself, stops contemplating murder, just three words from him and it’s over, her brain a puddle of mush, “You know I love my angry little feminist.” “Fuck off.” He’s practically beaming now, man spreading wide from his seat on the bed and Mikasa turns to glance over at her notebook, the list of prompts for an essay they need to write.

“What do you think chivalry is?” Mikasa reads aloud, picking up her pen to tap against the desk, she looks up at Eren curiously, awaiting an answer from the very antithesis of feminism himself.

“Get on your knees.”

He says it with such authority, such confidence that she’s already moving to obey before she stops herself, hands clutching the armrests of her chair.

“What?” He doesn’t elaborate, simply jerks with his chin, repeating himself, “Get on your knees.” Mikasa hates herself for following his directions, feels like a fever dream as she drops to her knees, only to find herself looking up at him now from between his legs, that dark feral smile on his lips.

For a moment, it’s quiet, and she simply sits there, her breathing quick as she tries to figure out his angle, and looks up at him through long dark lashes, coated in the most carefully applied mascara, a layer so thin it doesn’t look like she’s wearing it at all.

Because despite her rabid dislike of him, she’d wanted to be pretty, to affect him in the same way he does her, for his heart to skip a beat, his breath to come a little faster. Her heart is galloping in her chest as she looks up at him, the tense set of his shoulders, the complete and total fucking power he has over her, on her knees between his legs, looking up at him, awaiting her fate, her pretty face inches from his cock.

His hand moves and she flinches, expecting what, she doesn’t know, but his touch is soft, his smile still dark, eyes glazed over with something she can’t name, lust, desire, power?

Carefully, he traces a hand over her face, his thumb brushing over the hollow of her cheek, before slipping up to catch her bangs. He gathers her hair back, tucking it from her face with soft reverence, his other coming up to catch any stray strands.

He tangles his right hand through the silky strands of her, knotting it at the base of her skull so he has a firm hold, his other hand tipping her chin up roughly. His voice is gravelly as he speaks, evergreen eyes hooded, “Chivalry is holding your hair back while you suck my cock, Miki.”

Her mouth parts, from shock, or an unconscious desire, she doesn’t know, and the wicked smirk on his lips grows. He drops her chin to tug his sweatpants down, his dick jerking up as he’s released from his confines, no boxers because of course he’s not wearing any. He slaps against her cheek lewdly, a drop of pre brushing against her mouth as he lines himself up, resting comfortably against her cheek.

She’s entranced, watching as he gives himself an experimental stroke, even his own hands not enough to grip his cock completely, an inch or so left out, the thick length of him daunting against the delicate lines of her face.

He’s an imposing figure as he jerks himself off, and Mikasa is caught, silver eyes enraptured. She takes her lower lip between her teeth, tasting the saltiness of his pre, her breath coming faster now, her head foggy with desire.

“To me Miki,” Eren continues, his voice a low rumble that has her staving off a moan as it settles over her, “Chivalry is keeping your hair out of your eyes so you don’t have to worry.” Eren yanks at her long raven locks, a slow almost painful pull, reminding her of the hold he has on her, the literal and metaphorical grasp he has, how she couldn’t shake him off even if she wanted to.

“So you can be a good girl and focus on sucking me off.”

He gives her hair another experimental tug, pulling her just a touch closer, just enough so that plump lips kiss against the hard length of his cock, saliva coating the obscene length of him, a sweet massage that she has no doubt he doesn’t deserve.

“That’s what I think chivalry is,” He looks down at her, smiling dark with mirth, almost gleeful as her lips part, the weeping head of his cock slipping into her mouth, unbidden, a movement all her own, “Wouldn’t you agree, Miki?” Definition of insanity, huh? Call her insane, then.

#lys's drabbles #GSWS EM #fratboy and feminist AU #eremika

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phightingheadcanons · 5 months ago

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subspace anon. ive beem Discovered. Swivels my head suspiciously it’s. Horn hcs mostly. They’re rlly neat

anyways horns r like uhjm goat horns. Do u know. with like the base having feeling n blood n whatever n the rest Doesn’t Really.Yah i hc demons to have horns like that. when they get exploded (and can’t heal, ex hyper/zuka) the edges r rlly sharp and can lioke be used as shrapnel so. Dangerous. Maybe a better example is hooves. Idk. Coil has ridges on his horns Right. I forgo. Rocket has those but they’re the main part that gets decimated by him smoothing out the horns.

horns have partial feeling near the base and center. hyper would have his horns bandaged up cuz else he’d feel all the touch and it would be BAD. Owch. the feeling in the center mostly fades out the closer u get to the outer area AND the tip so like. Imagine rockets horns he’s the best example i have. Circle esque thing where the horn connects, which is kinda in the horn shape and near the tip (think middle of 2nd part) it fades out. And surrounding allat is the main shell bit. For stuff like vine/scythe the spikes wouldn’t have any effect on the center bit.

U could probably induce spike growth by cutting down one of the flat sides and putting angled plates in or smth to the growth would slant up and out. Also relates to how horns heal. smth like rockets spikes would heal easier/quicker since there’s so much of the material under and around it could just pop up w/ no issue, but for smne like hyper its presumable only the base of his horns which would fuck up the growth (and also hes OLD)

A demon could probably like completely change their identity w/ their horns cuz i mean u can paint them (shuri redes, one katana skin) AND carve them cuz i imagine theyre the most identifying feature a demon has. some demons would probably b against it. Idk

deities horns Can’t stop growing due to age/lack of proper start materials. if u cut off like. Windforce’s horn it’s grow back super quickly . This passes down to their spawnlings just a little less each generation, like 4 ban it’d grow back only a little slower than windforces but for the flipside itd be like. Only a bit quicker and probably would take longer to stop when they’re old

most of this is excluding if u like. Tear out the whole horn so there’s no base or anything left btw erm

ok tummy hurt. Bye chat. SUNBSUBAPC OUT

i've never really thought about horn growth before these are very good

#✨☀️ mod 7mk0 🏵️✨#subspace anon #headcanon #phighting #roblox phighting #phighting roblox #phighting headcanons #phighting!#hyperlaser phighting #zuka phighting #coil phighting #rocket phighting #sfoth phighting #windforce phighting #flipside phighting

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practically-an-x-man · 9 months ago

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One prompt I can send is "They heard that sound, and knew something was going wrong"

Thank you!! I think I'm gonna write something for Spider here, I need to start writing more of him :D

____ Dead Air

Word Count: 1.1k Content Warnings: some horror themes, but it's an A Quiet Place fic, so that shouldn't be a surprise

____

It wasn't the sound of the meteors falling that worried him.

It frightened him, sure, the same way a thunderstorm or tornado watch would frighten him. Animal fear, sudden danger, bright and immediate. There was a difference between fear and worry. The climber in him always knew that much. Falling was frightening. Thinking about where you would land was worrying. Worry could be rationalized, in some way or another. Fear was an instinct- immutable, unstoppable.

So the meteors frightened him. Watching great chunks of rock rip through the overcast New York skyline and crash into buildings all around him was scary, in the purest simplest sense.

Spider's first thought, like any other rational human being, was to find cover.

His second thought, perhaps less rational, was to reach for his tape recorder. There was an orchestra of devastating noise around him, and he wondered if someday it might be made into a film of its own. Directors went wild for found-footage recordings like that. It could be the most valuable sound in his arsenal, once the disaster itself had passed.

What truly worried him was what came after.

First there was the cacophony. Crunching metal, splintering wood, two-ton impact of rock against rock, shrieking people, blaring sirens, pounding footsteps. Symphony of Destruction became much more than a song on his metal playlist.

Then came stranger noises. Organic, animal sounds, but not from any animal he recognized. Even, dolphin-like clicks amidst prowling, carnivorous footsteps. It sparked random associations in his mind - alligators and their heavy reptilian movements, deep-sea sonar and its echolocation-chatter, chitinous insects' legs and subsonic cetacean rumbling and a thousand other things he couldn't begin to categorize.

It wasn't familiar. It wasn't Earthly. Thousands of tapes, a whole world categorized in sound, and Spider couldn't even begin to place a label to what he heard before him.

He heard that sound, and knew something was going wrong.

This was no ordinary disaster. This was no Katrina, no 9-11, no California wildfire. This was more than a news special and a page in the history books.

Souriya Prakash-Cooper heard those noises, tape recorder held tight in a white-knuckled grip, and he knew his life had met a permanent shift.

He racked his brain for a way to put those sounds in order, a way to label them, a way to make this strange new shape fit amongst the carefully-cultivated shelves that lined his brain. He came up empty.

And even once he peered out from behind the rubble and caught a look at what was producing such a sound, he still couldn't find the words to describe it.

It was indeed animal, though that was as far as he got before his imagination shattered. The creatures roved the buildings like harvestmen over an old garden wall- the same comparison that had earned Spider his nickname in the climbing gym, in fact. Something shivered within him, to see his own movements reflected in something so undeniably alien.

The beasts were four-limbed and gangly, covered in a thick greenish shell. Their heads were armored plates, void of any openings - until he caught a lucky glance and saw one open in flowerlike petals, a pink membrane fluttering inside. It looked like the inside of a speaker.

Or an ear.

The creature let out a fresh series of spent-magazine clicks, angling its head like a radar dish. Spider watched, terrified yet entranced, his hand sweaty around his tape recorder. The creature's open maw swiveled towards him, and he realized he'd fallen back into foley habits. He stood stock-still, knees slightly bent to keep himself grounded, breathing slowly and silently like he'd trained himself to do during those long studio hours.

The pink membrane twitched inside its dark shell. Silence suddenly seemed very, very important. He didn't even dare shut off his recording - the soft click of the button might as well have been the blast of a shotgun.

Something echoed in the alleyway off to his left. The beast's radar ear flashed towards it, and then those petals snapped shut and it went crashing down the street. Spider finally allowed himself to shut off the recording, his heart thundering in his chest.

Though he could hardly bear to look, he forced himself to turn and watch the monster's movements as it sprinted for its prey. It moved wildly, fast and focused and yet somehow blind. It scrabbled not around but over obstacles in its path, indiscriminate of the litter and rubble and crashed vehicles.

Cautiously, Spider lifted his tape recorder to his ear and played back the tape.

Click-click-click-click-click.

The clicks changed pitch and speed, very subtly, and he remembered watching the creature swivel that radar-dish of a head. He remembered that quivering pink membrane on the inside, delicate flesh amid that rock-hard exoskeleton, and then way the shell had snapped shut as soon as it had found its prey.

Spider remembered a trip he'd taken as a boy. His family had all flown down to Miami one summer, just for a week. He remembered the crust of salt on his skin as he splashed his sisters with seawater, or ducked below the surface to grab them by the ankles and startle them.

He remembered the chorus of strange ocean-noises down there under the water, clicks and pops and creaks from unseen sources. He thought some of them might have come from dolphins, but maybe that was just his mind romanticizing the memory. He wished he could record the noises he heard back then.

He rewound the tape and played it again. He almost had those noises now. Not quite, but... close.

Something fell into place.

It hunted by sound.

It couldn't smell him. It couldn't see him. It might have heard him, if he'd been careless enough to make a sound, but he hadn't.

Spider glanced down at his Chuck Taylors, bright red like his hair but with soft rubber soles. He had a pair of climbing shoes in his bag, even softer. Even quieter.

He looked at the buildings around him, torn and broken but rife with texture- with handholds, footholds, dynamic movement - and the creatures that scuttled over them with their too-long grasping limbs. He glanced at the tape recorder in his hand, the growing almanac of those unworldly, ethereal noises.

He thought of kinetic camouflage, auditory camouflage, a way to blend in not through sight but through sound and movement. He knew sound. He lived on sound. He could hear every echo before it happened, how to magnify and how to dampen and how to move quieter than a secret.

A plan began to fall together in his mind.

He could work with this.

#my friends!!!#answered asks #my writing #my ocs #oc spider #souriya prakash-cooper #ficlet #snippet #a quiet place #a quiet place day one #a quiet place oc #faolonfiendrender

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frankenwolf1564 · 8 months ago

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Transformers ONE Optimus Prime and Megatron: ONE shall stand, ONE shall fall

Trying another little something this week, kind of a blend between a photo gallery and a full review. Not as in depth or with as much background as a full review but more complex than my notes on a gallery. Hasbro Deluxes are like… the default transformer toy? So there’s usually nothing exceptional to say about what the actual figure can do. “It has a waist swivel, it has a bicep swivel, it has an ankle tilt.” Standards have risen substantially over the past, like, decade, especially post Siege, so while there are standouts, the context of a toy will usually be a meatier discussion. I’ll still mention accessories and stuff but I’m not going over every point of articulation.

Starting with Optimus, he’s a fine little lad! He’s on the smaller end of the deluxe scale, not quite mini-bot, but close. That might be a bit small for some people’s taste, but it does leave him as the perfect size to work as cogged Orion Pax, especially when stood next to the Studio Series Optimus. It helps that most of the elements that distinctly denote him as “Optimus” are his accessories. The smokestacks can unpeg, the axe is completely optional, and the matrix isn’t even visible tucked away behind his thinner, opaque chest window. Nearly everything else that feels like Prime is just from the two forms looking fairly similar. The biggest thing that’s baked in is his face, which is molded with the classic mouth plate. Given the scale and some of the styling at play, he works wonderfully as the Autobot Leaders younger self. I’d even be willing to look past the SS’ weird color choices and get him too if it weren’t for something we’ll get into later.

Rounding out Orion, he’s a little lacking in articulation thanks to his slightly lower price point, with no ankle tilt and slight clearance issues in his arms, but you can still get him into a wide range of poses, no problem. It might just take a little more balancing. I love how the fingers are sculpted into the axe. It’s close to how it works in the film and is just fucking cool, innit? Optimus feels incomplete without an Ion Blaster but it’s not a deal breaker. You can use the smokestacks as guns if you really want anyhow, though they are a bit dinky. The axe tucks away neatly on his back, and the matrix is as nicely sculpted as ever. I like the more Prime styled handles, though they are mostly just to let him hold it.

His truck mode is cute. It rolls fine and does the job. I said Deluxes don’t have much to talk about when it comes to what they can do.

Moving on to Megatron, he’s similarly splendid! Like SS ONE Prime his colors are a bit off, having used an off grey compared to the movies shiny silver, but it’s much more at home on Megatron, and it doesn’t look like it’s just yellowing, either. The rest of him looks great anyhow! He’s well sculpted and the muted red pairs nicely. It’s a great rendition of the character but… that fusion cannon is seriously hurting selling him as Megatron. The tri-barreld cannon didn’t have quite as much screen time, but it is a huge visual distinction that clearly sets him apart from just being D-16. The sculpting and such are absolutely that of his final form with the harsher angles, but like Orion and Optimus there isn’t a massive visual shift between the two forms and the cannon isn’t doing him any favors.

He shares many points of articulation with Optimus, with a few improvements and one or two downgrades. He gains a second hinge in his elbows, his wrists swivel, his ankles tilt and his feet can rock, but he can. Not look up. Like at all. His head swivels just fine, and he can look down, thanks to the transformation, but that one thing really hinders what you can do with him. You’re forced to stick with more static poses unless you want him looking at the ground all the time. Or at least. I was.

The tank mode is fun! There’s also more to talk about here so- Nothing’s coming undone once it’s all pegged together and it’s a dead ringer for what we see in the film. It’s definitely one of my favorite tank Megatrons in recent years and in general. The turret is just “alright” though. The swivel is located above the hinge so it’s hard to point it up in any one direction other than straight forward and have it look natural. It also unpegs a tad easily…

Megatron has a couple things that could have used a little more work, but they’d probably require bumping him up a size class to get more parts. Things like the head, maybe his shoulders and hips, a few minor bits that we’ve seen done better elsewhere. He could have easily gotten the triple barrel cannon as well. I really like him at this size though? I wouldn’t want him any bigger, and none of those things are a deal breaker. All of this comes with zero kibble, too. Honestly my biggest complaint is that there isn’t a mainline Deluxe version of him. I’d have gladly gotten both Orion Pax and D-16 and Optimus Prime and Megatron, but they didn’t release a Prime Changers D-16. I have no reason to also get the SS Optimus, as I’m happy with the Prime Changers and that doesn’t have a direct Decepticon counterpart, so the whole set would forever be incomplete. Hasbro I want to give you my money please-

#transformers #toy #toys #toy review #transformers toys #transformers one #tf one #transformers studio series #megatron #optimus prime #transformers megatron #transformers optimus

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vendettaspathfanfic · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter Six

(Chapter Index)

(Previous)

(Next)

This evening, dinner was a simple affair, with only Sonic and his mother seated at the elaborately set table in the grand dining room, a familiar scene given his father's common late returns from the palace. He was a man of significant influence and stature, serving as the indispensable advisor to King Maximillian, a role that demanded much of his time. At seven years of age, Sonic found his father's endless discussions on the complexities of governance tediously dull, a stark contrast to the vibrant tales of his own day that his father rarely had the patience to entertain.

In the comforting presence of his mother, however, Sonic was able to talk as much as he wanted. He excitedly recounted the adventurous escapades from the latest installment of his beloved cartoon series, speaking with animated gestures while their longstanding family butler quietly placed plates of food before them. Unfortunately, tonight's dinner featured lobster, a dish that Sonic loathed.

The pungent aroma that wafted from the plate caused Sonic's face to contort in displeasure, his nose scrunching up as if to ward off the offending scent. He turned to his mother, seeking a compromise, only to find her gaze lingering on a cherished photograph adorning the wall. The image captured a moment of regal splendor, depicting her alongside her father and the other esteemed members of the Royal Court.

"Mom?" Sonic inquired softly, attempting to draw her attention. Receiving no immediate response, he pressed further, the word "mama" punctuated by a gentle nudge on her arm.

His mother momentarily snapped out of her reverie, her eyes refocusing with a slight flutter of her lashes as she angled her body to address her son with a soft “sorry, hun. What?”

Sonic's face contorted into a grimace, his voice dripping with distaste as he lamented, "I don’t want this again… it makes me wanna puke." His words elicited a disdainful huff from the butler, who promptly exited the room with a swirl of disappointment.

"It’s good for you, Sonic," she responded, her voice steady and reassuring, "besides, you remember what we’ve said about being wasteful."

Defiance etched itself into the young hedgehog's posture; he folded his arms across his chest like a barrier, slinking further into the embrace of his chair. His youthful face was wrinkled with obstinacy, as the furrow of his brow channeled the essence of his aversion. "But it's gross!" Sonic retorted, the fervor of his sentiment about the unwanted meal burning as brightly as ever.

"Just eat it, please?" The plea from his mother reached his ears as he turned his head away, embodying the spirit of rebellion. "If you do, we’ll get ice cream and candy."

The promise of such a sweet reward sparked curiosity in Sonic, and he swiveled his head back in her direction, catching the nascent smile blooming on her face, a signal of the incentive that awaited him.

With an effort that felt monumental to his young mind, the little blue hedgehog managed to ingest the detested lobster dish, the glazed carrots that accompanied it no less infamous in his eyes. Upon completing the ordeal, he beckoned for his mother's attention, which had drifted back to the photograph on the wall. She met his gaze with a smile that radiated pride and affection, a smile that could brighten the darkest of rooms. Sonic cherished that smile, for it was not just a mere curve of the lips; it was a symbol of his success in bringing her joy. That was a reward far greater than the promise of sweets.

"Good job, Scourge." The admiration in her voice was unmistakable as Sonic eagerly leaped from his seat to envelop her in a tight embrace. But as he held her close, an unsettling thought wormed its way into his consciousness, leaving him with an unnerving sense that releasing her from his arms could mean never being able to hug her again. It was an absurd notion, surely, for she was ever-present in his life, a constant in his home.

But, she’s never called him Scourge before.

Before he could ask where she heard that name, the space she occupied in his arms became empty. Darkness enveloped him, his world tipping into chaos as he tumbled into an abyss that seemed to have no end. A sense of vertigo overwhelmed him; his surroundings stripped away as if the earth itself had opened beneath him. He flailed, attempting to cry out, but found his voice trapped, his throat constricted by an unseen force.

In the midst of his panic, Sonic's efforts intensified, desperation fueling his struggle. His attempts finally culminated in a muffled, yet alarmed "mmh!" To his relief, the sensation of falling ceased abruptly, replaced by the oppressive reality of a worn, filthy mattress pressing against his back. Heat enveloped him, the summer's sweltering embrace untempered by the absence of air conditioning in the orphanage.

As his eyes snapped open, he lay there, drenched in sweat, his heart racing as the remnants of the nightmare clung to him. He struggled to ground himself back in reality, but it soon became clear that once again, he was a sixteen-year-old green hedgehog named Scourge.

Thankfully, when he awoke with a start, his sudden movement and noise didn't disturb Fiona, who was lying on her side, facing him, lost in deep slumber. The moon's soft glow streamed into the room through the slightly ajar window, casting moonlight gently on her beautiful face. As she dreamt what he hoped was a peaceful dream, her delicate eyelids fluttered.

The faint sheen on her soft, heart-shaped lips revealed the lingering touch of the chapstick she had applied before bed, adding an extra allure to her serene visage. With great care not to disturb her, he turned onto his side to face her, tenderly running his fingers through the fur on the exposed side of her muzzle, relishing the softness and finding solace in the quiet intimacy of the moment. A sense of calm washed over him, slowing his racing heart and quieting his restless thoughts as he took in every detail of his girlfriend, peacefully asleep before him. In that hushed stillness, he found a rare and precious moment to simply appreciate the beauty and peacefulness of his lover.

Realizing that sleep would elude him for the time being, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before quietly rising out of bed. Descending the stairs, he made his way to the kitchen, where he reached for a water bottle resting on the counter.

As the lukewarm liquid flowed down his throat, a distinct thumping noise echoed from downstairs, instantly seizing his attention. The source was unmistakable—it emanated from the direction of the freezer.

With a sense of urgency, he hastily replaced the bottle's lid, a quiet “fuck,” escaping his lips as the realization struck that they had neglected to assign someone to keep watch over the freezer that held Miles. Carelessly tossing the bottle on the counter, he grabbed and lit a lantern and dashed down to the freezer, swiftly unlocking it and wrenching the door open.

Thankfully, Miles had made only minimal headway in his attempts to free himself. The most significant achievement was toppling his chair to the ground and making almost no progress in loosening the ropes covered with duct tape.

Amused by the sight that greeted him, Scourge placed the lantern on a mildew-covered shelf and shut the freezer door behind him. "Are you enjoying yourself there, Miles?" he inquired, his tone tinged with condescension.

Miles continued to struggle against his bindings, clearly disoriented from the head injury he had suffered earlier. His mouth muffled by the tape, he could only respond with garbled, indiscernible words.

"I'm sure whatever you just said would have been so terribly hurtful," Scourge began in a mockingly sorrowful tone as he righted the chair. "But it's nothing compared to what you're going to get if you don't tell me what I want to know." With a swift motion, he tore the tape from Miles' mouth, inadvertently pulling away a thin layer of fur from around his muzzle in the process.

Grimacing in pain, Miles averted his gaze from Scourge, his breath coming in ragged pants as he struggled against the dizziness and the throbbing ache in his head.

"Now I can see you renovated the castle a lot since you screwed me over and got me thrown in jail," Scourge remarked, leaning casually against a nearby shelf. "looks real nice, but I’m sure in the process you souped up the security, right? So, if I were to try to waltz in and take back what you took from me, I’d be screwed wouldn’t I? So, either you tell me how to get past security, or you’ll end up getting more than just a punch."

Miles steadied his breath, slowly turning his head to meet Scourge's aiming gaze. With gritted teeth, he growled, "You can't."

Grasping the chair that held Miles, Scourge cocked his head, a grin of amusement playing on his lips. "Well, I doubt that's true. They told us we couldn't escape from Zone Jail, yet here we are. Even the tightest ship can spring a leak."

Miles' widened gaze shifted between both of Scourge's eyes as he swallowed thickly. "Not this ship, you fool. Every doorway, hallway, and corner is monitored by scanning posts. And unlike the ones attached to police lines, this system doesn't just sound an alarm. Every entrance and exit is impenetrable to anyone lacking clearance. Not even rats could infiltrate the sewers. And all of that's hardly a fraction of our security measures."

Impressed, Scourge raised his brows, emitting a low whistle of astonishment. "You've really built an airtight system there, my friend. It almost seems... desperate?"

"With the rapid advancements in technology and cybernetic implants, we can't afford to leave any vulnerability unaddressed," Miles retorted, narrowing his eyes as he regarded Scourge with undisguised contempt, as though he were less than the dirt on his shoes. "As I mentioned before, nothing I can say will aid you in the slightest."

Scourge sighed and shook his head. "That really sucks, man," he said as he exited the freezer, closing the door behind him and ignoring Miles' inquiries about his destination.

Hurrying upstairs to his and Fiona's room, he knelt beside her bag to retrieve her combat knife. Startled by the sound of someone rummaging through her belongings, Fiona's eyes flew open, and she sat up, her expression softening as she recognized Scourge's silhouette, relieved that it was him and not an intruder.

"Jeez, you scared me," Fiona sighed, sleepiness evident in her voice as she rubbed her face. "Are you lookin’ for cigarettes or something?"

"Nope," Scourge replied, revealing the knife he had acquired. "Miles is awake and refusing to talk."

"I'll accompany you," Fiona offered, stifling a yawn as she retrieved her bag from his reach, pulling out a pen and an old receipt. "I can write down what he says while you take care of the dirty work."

"Attagirl," Scourge praised, grinning as he affectionately tousled her hair. "Let's go."

Guiding her through the dimly lit building, they traversed downstairs to the freezer, where Miles continued to struggle to escape.

"Why's she here?" Miles grunted, straining against the duct tape and rope binding his wrists.

"If you happen to come up with a way for us to get through, she'll take note of it. If not, well, then you're of no use to us. And we can't exactly release you since you know too much, so it seems the next step is to kill you," Scourge chuckled, delighting in the horror that washed over Miles' face. "But don't worry. I'll make it nice and slow, giving you time to reconsider and perhaps change my mind about doing it. However, first..." His gaze shifted to his tails, tightly bound together with rope and duct tape. "We need to make sure that you won't have any chances of flying away. Fiona, you might want to fetch the first aid kit. Can't risk him bleeding out before he has the chance to speak."

"W-wait! No! Please don't do this!" Miles cried out, his breaths quickening into hyperventilation as he watched Fiona obediently exit the freezer.

"Listen, I didn't want it to come to this, but much like you, my hands are tied," Scourge said, his voice laced with feigned sympathy as he leaned against a shelf, crossing his arms.

"No! I can help you gain entry! You won't be able to do it without me!" he screamed, his wide eyes blinded by fear.

Scourge's expression transformed into a wide, menacing grin as he slowly uncrossed his arms and straightened up to his full height.

“Really?” The smug green hedgehog asked, striding over to the young two-tailed fox and looming over him, leaning in close as he jabbed his forefinger against his chest. “Well, it’s a good thing you remembered. You could’ve been killed.” His smug grin suddenly gave way to a menacing glare. In a swift motion, he withdrew his hand from Miles’ chest and delivered a harsh slap across his face, causing the chair to wobble and splitting his lip. Scourge quickly steadied the chair and grasped Miles’ chin, forcing him to meet his intense gaze. “Don’t you fucking lie to me again, Miles,” he growled, baring his sharp teeth, sending shivers down Miles’ spine.

When Fiona returned, Scourge briefed her on their change of plans. She took the pen they had previously acquired and began to write finely on the back of the receipt.

The success of their mission hinged on having the right technology at their disposal. Miles, the primary designer of the security system, was indispensable to their plans. Their first objective would be to hack the body scan post for entry, a task that required a neural link to connect to Miles, allowing him to access necessary technology through the eyes of the person with the implant. However, due to the Destructix's distrust of him, he would have to be guarded and sequestered away from the castle to prevent any potential betrayal.

To bypass the body scan post, one would need optical implants that would allow them to scan the post, enabling Miles to use the neural link to hack into it and grant every individual passing through with clearance. Yet, this was only part of the larger challenge— the entire security system needed to recognize the Destructix members as authorized personnel. To achieve this, someone would require an interface plug, a wired implant located at the back of the head, along with a neural interface chip. When the wire was extended and connected to specific machinery, it would grant the individual the capability to hack into the technology.

Once someone was plugged into an access point with the interface, Miles could then proceed to hack the entire security system. This would provide the Destructix with unhindered movement throughout the castle, enabling them to locate the remaining members of the Suppression Squad and eliminate them, ultimately allowing the Destructix to seize control of the throne.

Before Scourge and Fiona could explain the plan to the Destructix in the morning, they found themselves contending with the aftermath of Predator, Lightning, and Flying's excessive drinking the previous night.

"Well, I don't know why you drank so much of that crap, but I hope it made you happy," Simon grumbled with a scoff as he entered through the front door, carrying a tray of to-go cups from a nearby coffee shop.

"Mmmm'kay. Shut up, Simon," Predator groaned, his eyes tightly shut as he sat hunched over in a nearby chair, nursing his throbbing head.

With a roll of his eyes, Simon handed Predator a cup of black coffee, scoffing, "drink up." He then turned his attention to Flying, who was slouched against a nearby wall, struggling to keep his eyes open as his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. "Got some for you too, Flying," Simon said, prompting Flying's eyes to sluggishly roll toward him, blinking one at a time.

"Is that coffee-tea-fre-" Flying began, before a sudden wave of nausea overtook him, causing his eyes to bulge as he clamped a hand over his mouth and gagged. He scrambled to his feet, dashed toward a nearby window, flung it open, and retched outside.

Simon groaned in disgust and called out, "I'll put this in the kitchen, then..." before handing Scourge his coffee.

"Thanks, man," Scourge said with a courteous nod.

"Thanks for not drinking as much as these idiots," Simon remarked, his disdain evident in his voice. "Have you seen Lightning, Fiona, and Toxic?"

“Lightning’s probably still asleep cause I haven’t seen him yet. Fiona’s giving Toxic a haircut so she looks less like her wanted picture and also we saw a daddy long leg crawl out of one of the mats in her hair.” Scourge said, casually drinking his coffee.

Simon blinked a few times in surprise before muttering, “go figure… Well, if you see the girls, let ‘em know they got drinks with their name on them in the kitchen. I’m gonna wake up Lightning.”

As expected, Simon located Lightning, who was sprawled out on a set of child-sized mattresses, emitting loud snores. With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, Simon set aside Lightning’s coffee, knelt down, and nudged Lightning's shoulder, attempting to rouse him. When his efforts failed, Simon noticed that Lightning still had water in his bottle. He unscrewed the cap, tossed it aside, and emptied the remaining contents onto Lightning's head.

Lightning groaned and attempted to turn his face away as the water splashed against his forehead. Without opening his eyes, he managed to mumble out a slurred, "hello?" before some water entered his mouth, causing him to choke and erupt into a fit of coughing as he hastily sat up.

"Hello, Lightning. Coffee's here," Simon said with annoyance, standing up.

As Lightning recovered from the coughing fit, he grumbled and shook his head in an attempt to rid his fur of the water, groaning as the motion exacerbated his headache and nausea.

"You didn’t have to waterboard me, Simon," he groaned, squinting as the bright light aggravated his newly awakened eyes.

"Don’t be so dramatic. You gotta get straightened up. Fiona and Scourge got Miles to talk, and they’ve got a plan they want to tell us," Simon responded, offering Lightning his coffee.

"I don’t want anything else in my stomach right now…" Lightning groaned, the scent of the coffee in his hand intensifying his nausea.

"Well, if you get sick, either puke out a window, or if you do it in here, you're cleaning it. This place is filthy enough without three drunk bastards making it worse," Simon declared firmly, his distaste unwavering.

"Agh… Fuck off…" Lightning slurred, his struggle evident as he fought to keep the vomit down. He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the window, grappling with it in his disoriented state.

"For crying out loud…" Simon growled, stepping in to open the window for Lightning, who leaned out and threw up.

As he left Lightning to deal with his hangover, Simon muttered bitterly, "it’s like a house full of toddlers. Hell, today I haven’t even had a problem with the actual toddler here.”

After a wait that spanned several hours, the group finally regained enough composure to gather and listen to Scourge and Fiona outline the plan they had devised. They arranged their seats into a communal circle within the same room where they had convened the night before.

“How can we trust Miles to do what we say?” Predator questioned, his voice tinged with doubt.

“He doesn’t have a choice. I know from experience he’s a coward that’ll do anything to live. One of ya will need to stay with him while we work and be ready to gut him if he makes even one wrong move,” Scourge replied, his arms extending in a languid stretch as he reclined back in his chair with an air of nonchalance.

“I volunteer-steer-beer!” Flying burst out with gusto, only to wince as his booming, obnoxious voice aggravated his pounding headache.

“Alright, knock yourself out,” Scourge casually responded with a dismissive shrug, now leaning forward in his seat, his fingers weaving together in front of him.

“Who's getting the implants?” inquired Lightning, downing some ibuprofen that Fiona had supplied to ease his discomfort.

“The rest of you guys. We never know what we’ll run into. Can’t leave any stones unturned,” Fiona declared, her voice firm and decisive.

“Me too?” Toxic chimed in, twirling one of the short pigtails Fiona had fashioned in her hair.

“No way, kid,” Scourge stated adamantly with a shake of his head. “Cybernetics aren’t good for you when you’re that little.”

“I’m taller than Ren!” Toxic contended, climbing onto her chair and stretching to her tiptoes in an attempt to demonstrate her height.

“Tough. You’re still barely taller than a fire hydrant,” Scourge teased, his mocking tone evident. “You gotta wait til you're older.”

“Sit down before you fall and crack your head open,” Simon commanded, his tone authoritative, directed at the young blue hedgehog.

With a scowl of indignation and a growl meant to convey ferocity, Toxic reluctantly descended from her perch and slouched back into her seat, her arms folded in a tight cross.

“Save it,” Fiona interjected with an eye roll, “anyways, Simon, Lightning, and Predator; you guys are going in first. Grab some uniforms from the guard locker room and you’ll easily pass as one of the guards. They know Scourge and I too well, so we’ll wait until the security system is down and you find Patch and Alicia to storm in and join the fight.”

“But what do I do?” Toxic mused aloud, now reclining sideways in her chair, her legs swinging idly over the edge.

“You’ll help Flying guard Miles,” Fiona replied, her tone conveying confidence that this modest assignment would satisfy Toxic’s desire to contribute.

“But before all of this, we gotta remember implants cost money that we don’t got. So…” Scourge began, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, his hands eagerly rubbing together, “We’ll be ‘borrowing’ some money from a bank out of town.”

This infectious excitement quickly rippled through the group, with members exchanging eager grins and approving murmurs.

"It's in a pretty wealthy neighborhood. And hey, even you can join us, Toxic," Fiona said, her arms crossed, a hint of pride in her voice as she gauged the group's reactions.

"I can?" Toxic gasped, her voice lifting with excitement as she bounded out of her chair and approached Fiona, her tail wagging like a flag of enthusiasm.

"She can?" Scourge echoed, his tone a mixture of surprise and concern, unsure of involving someone so young in such a dangerous activity.

"Yes," Fiona confirmed, assuring the group with a calm authority, "like I said, it’ll be an easy heist. She can help us take out security. We’ve all seen how she can kick ass. Simon, you can train her on a pistol."

Simon, looking somewhat resigned, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "If you insist, ma’am," he conceded, albeit with heavy reluctance.

"Babe, are you nuts? She’s four years old!" Scourge protested vehemently, his arms thrown up in disbelief.

"So what? Don’t be a fucking dickface!" Toxic retorted sharply, flipping Scourge off with her ring finger. Scourge responded in kind, sneering as he mirrored her gesture.

Pulling Scourge aside from the rest of the group, Fiona's voice dropped to a hushed, persuasive tone. "Look, we made a deal with her that if she didn’t do what we told her she’d be rat food and clearly it’s been working. This is part of that deal, hun. Besides, if she managed to put us through that much hell at first, imagine what she’d do to plain ol’ guards."

"How is it worth the risk?" Scourge pressed, his apprehension evident as he pondered the unpredictable nature of their youngest member.

"It’s like I said, if we broke out of Zone Jail of all things, we can rob a fucking bank even with your crackhead sister tagging along. Besides, we need everyone from the gang there to do different things, and do you really wanna leave her alone? She could wander off and a bounty hunter would snatch her. Then what? Game over," Fiona argued, her logic resonating with the risks they faced.

Scourge's jaw tightened, the truthfulness of Fiona's words sinking in, especially the part about leaving Toxic alone. With a heavy exhale of resignation, he muttered, "this better work."

"It will. You’ll see," Fiona reassured him with a confidence that bordered on certainty, punctuating her promise with a light kiss on his cheek before returning to the group. "We’ll start preppin’ tomorrow. Get all the equipment we need." She turned to address Lightning, Flying, and Predator, her face scrunching in disgust as the pungent smell of vomit and alcohol reached her. "For now, there’s a gym with showers not far from here. Let’s make it reek a little less around the place, hm?"

Nodding in silent accord, the gang made their way to the gym, their footsteps echoing against the pavement as they traversed a desolate stretch of the neighborhood. The eerie stillness of the area hinted at its sparse population, offering them a cloak of anonymity that would aid in evading any potential bounty hunters on the prowl for Toxic.

Upon reaching the gym, they made a beeline for the bathroom and obtained the much-needed cleaning supplies from the dispensers, the clinking of coins and the soft hum of the machines filling the otherwise quiet space. As they each cleaned up in their respective shower stalls, the sound of water cascading down in rivulets served as a welcome reminder of the simple luxury they hadn’t had since their escape from prison.

Despite Scourge's usual indifference to cleanliness, he found solace in the sensation of grime washing away from his body as he stood beneath the shower's stream. Closing his eyes, he allowed the water to cleanse not just his physical form, but also his spirit, feeling the weight of his troubles slowly dissolve and disappear down the drain. During his time in prison, he had been constantly on edge, his natural strength and agility restrained by a control collar that left him vulnerable and exposed to frequent beatings. However, as the water flowed over his face and quills, he realized that despite the lingering risks, he was finally beginning to believe that everything would ultimately be alright. He resolved to face whatever challenges lay ahead with newfound determination and resilience.

After everyone had completed their showers, they returned to the orphanage. While some members of their group were still recovering from the effects of the previous night's revelry, Simon took Toxic to the backyard to teach her how to shoot empty beer bottles off the fence using a silenced pistol.

"Keep one hand on the bottom, Toxic, and don't touch the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Keep your finger to the side, like this," Simon instructed, kneeling beside her and guiding her small hands to demonstrate the proper way to hold the firearm.

"Okay," Toxic responded with an eager nod. "Can I shoot now?"

"Not yet. First, aim at the space between the two small bumps and make sure it's pointed at what you want to shoot," Simon advised.

"Okay," Toxic responded, her small hands adjusting her grip on the pistol with determination. "Now can I shoot?"

"Go ahead," Simon replied with a nod.

Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger, and the sharp crack of the gunshot was followed by the satisfying shatter of the bottle.

Toxic gasped in amazement and giggled, her eyes sparkling with pride as she beamed at Simon. "I fuckin’ gotted it!"

"You sure did," Simon said with a soft chuckle. "Now take out the rest of them."

Leaning against the weathered wall of the building, Scourge and Fiona observed as Toxic skillfully shot several more bottles, her focus unyielding and her aim true.

"Not bad. She's a natural marksman in the making," Fiona remarked with a lopsided grin.

"Good thing she's only shooting bottles," Scourge snidely remarked, retrieving a cigarette and lighter from his jacket pocket. Fiona signaled for one, holding two fingers in his direction, and Scourge obliged, lighting both of their cigarettes. As they inhaled, Scourge wrapped his arm around Fiona, the sun casting a warm glow over them as it descended toward the horizon.

"Do you think we should check on Miles?" Scourge asked, a sudden pang of concern causing his heart to skip a beat.

"I'll feed him later, but there's no way he's getting out. Simon and I tested that padlock we got earier, and it's secure," she replied confidently, referring to the heavy duty lock lock they had obtained during their earlier supply run.

Scourge smirked with pride, imagining the futile attempts Miles might be making to escape, a sense of control and satisfaction washing over him.

"Not much longer," Fiona began after blowing a cloud of smoke out of her mouth, the wisps curling and dissipating in the air, creating a momentary haze around her. Her eyes, filled with a determined glint, scanned the horizon as if envisioning the future. "We'll rule this world again. We'll bring everything under our control, just like it used to be."

"Fiona," Scourge chuckled softly, the sound mixing with the rustle of the wind, and dropped his spent cigarette, the feeble embers flickering before he snuffed them out under the sole of his shoe, his eyes fixed on his lover's with an intense yet tender gaze. "We already do."

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angelseraphines · 3 months ago

Text

THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER THREE

“by code or by conscience.”

the heat was unlike anything she had known.

from the instant the ramp of the royal starship began to descend, the air that poured in was not merely warm, it was alive with dust, dry and merciless, thick with the scent of sunburnt stone and scorched circuitry. the light was harsher than on naboo, more intense, devoid of water’s softness or forest shade. it poured across the landing platform in wide, golden torrents, illuminating the uneven texture of the earth and reflecting off the chrome plating of the ship’s hull until the vessel gleamed like a dropped jewel half-buried in sand.

vasharre stood beneath the curve of the open ramp, one hand clasped lightly in front of her, her eyes narrowed against the glare. her outer robe had been exchanged for something lighter, a muted violet cloak over a fitted dress of linen and silk, the embroidery modest by rharrellis standards but still elegant. the desert heat clung to the fabric at her wrists and collar, and her dark hair had been twisted into a loose coil at the base of her neck to ease the weight of it. beside her, the droid r2-d2 chirped softly, his dome swiveling back and forth as he scanned the terrain ahead.

a few meters away, master qui-gon jinn stood near the ship’s forward edge, speaking in low tones with captain panaka.

“we will not be long,” qui-gon said, his eyes sweeping the horizon with the detached focus of a man considering options against necessity. “this settlement has merchants, supplies, some limited traffic. it will suffice.”

“the queen requests that the handmaiden padmé accompany you,” panaka said. “she has given the order directly.”

qui-gon’s gaze changed, not indignantly, but with a trace of disapproval.

“this planet is not suitable for court servants,” he said. “especially not the queen’s own.”

“it is not a request, master jedi.”

there was a pause. the wind swept dust against the starship’s shadow, swirling in narrow eddies across the landing field. qui-gon looked toward padmé, who was descending the ramp with quiet poise, her posture straight, her eyes lowered in the manner expected of her cover. though veiled in simplicity, nothing about her was undecided.

he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“as the queen mandates,” he said.

vasharre did not move.

she remained beneath the arch of the ramp, half-shielded from the sun’s direct gaze. her gaze lingered on the dusty skyline, low buildings shaped from beige stone, angled rooftops, mechanical towers swaying in the haze. there was no green here. no water. no trees. nothing of theed, or the lake provinces, or home.

obi-wan approached from the upper deck, cloak drawn across one shoulder, his lightsaber secured neatly at his hip. the desert light hit the edge of his cheek and the line of his jaw as he stepped into view, and despite the heat, there was no trace of discomfort in his expression. only attention. only readiness.

qui-gon turned.

“obi-wan.”

his padawan stopped beside him.

“yes, master.”

“remain with the ship. keep watch over the delegation. guard the royal lady rharrellis.”

his tone was not unkind. it was unfaltering, calm. there was no implication beyond the words.

obi-wan’s eyes drifted briefly toward vasharre, then back to his master. he nodded once, staunchly.

“of course.”

padmé had moved to stand beside r2-d2. jar jar binks shuffled behind her, clearly uncomfortable in the arid air, fidgeting with his belt.

it was then that padmé spoke again.

“the queen,” she said, “has also instructed that lady rharrellis accompany the party into town.”

the lack of conversation that followed was longer this time.

qui-gon did not speak immediately.

his eyes drifted to vasharre, then back to padmé.

there was no anger in his gaze.

only something else.

something discerning.

an old intuition, a ripple in the force that only he seemed to sense.

“lady rharrellis is the heiress to a great house,” he said, slowly. “tatooine is no place for someone of her station. i have no intention of placing her in danger.”

padmé met his gaze.

her tone did not change.

“she is stronger than you think.”

vasharre stepped forward then.

she did so tenderly, her violet robe catching in the desert wind.

“i can go,” she said, her voice level. “i am not afraid.”

qui-gon did not look at her at first.

he looked to obi-wan.

then back to her.

and something unspoken passed through him, something no one there could name.

he sighed.

“very well,” he said at last. “but the lady’s handmaiden remains on board.”

ebos, standing further back near the ramp, straightened. her lips pursed, but she did not speak.

vasharre turned toward her.

the words did not come easily.

“i will be careful,” she said. “i will return soon.”

ebos nodded once, but her green eyes remained fixed on the desert beyond.

vasharre crossed the final step down from the ramp.

the sand crunched softly beneath her boots.

she looked once toward obi-wan, who stood nearby, silent, watchful, his blue eyes fixed on the distance. he gave no gesture. no word. only a polite nod, so subtle it might have been imagined.

and then she turned, following padmé toward the horizon.

the suns rose higher over the sand.

and the city of mos espa awaited.

the blistering sand was everywhere.

not only beneath her feet, not only along the path they walked, but in the air itself, fine and granular, suspended in the heat, catching in her hair and against her lashes. it slipped into the seams of her boots, clung to the edges of her sleeves, settled in the delicate embroidery at the hem of her robe. it did not merely move with the wind. it was the wind.

vasharre had never known such a place could exist.

naboo, for all its complexities, was a world of temperate seasons and natural splendor. its cities had been shaped with care, its architecture carved with intention, its lakes and rivers untouched by anything resembling this hostile desolation. even the poorest districts of the capital bore traces of artistry. even the slums had gardens.

tatooine had no such mercy.

the twin suns blazed overhead, one low and one nearly overhead, their combined light casting sharp, doubled shadows across the dry stone streets. the buildings of mos espa rose around them in a muted palette of beige and rust, rounded towers with domed roofs, angled marketplaces constructed from aging stone and sun-scorched metal. narrow alleys twisted between them, thick with machinery and half-covered stalls. cables and wires dangled overhead in loose coils. engines lay disassembled in the street, half buried in sand.

the streets were crowded, though not with anything vasharre would have recognized as civilized congregation. there were no lords, no scholars, no courtiers or senators. the beings here were of every kind, giant, short, armored, cloaked, some furred, some scaled, some shaped in ways she could not immediately comprehend. there were dug merchants with slick gray skin and bulbous eyes, jawas with glowing yellow irises peeking through dusty hoods, rodians bartering over engine coils, and moisture farmers dressed in roughspun fabrics, their faces veiled to keep out the heat.

the noise was overwhelming.

not a cacophony, but a relentless murmur, market calls in a dozen different tongues, the hiss of steam-driven carts, the groan of a half-functioning exhaust vent spitting smoke from the side of a stone warehouse. the smell was worse: oil, sweat, rust, heat, and the unmistakable sour tinge of unwashed metal.

padmé walked with purpose beside her, shoulders squared despite the suffocating atmosphere, her eyes scanning every stall and passageway with practiced wariness. jar jar, farther ahead, stumbled over a gutter drain and flailed wildly, drawing stares from several passing merchants. r2 followed behind qui-gon, the whir of his treads muffled negligibly by the dust.

vasharre could feel the fabric of her gown clinging to her skin. it was not meant for this. the dress, though somewhat adapted for travel, bore the structure of nobility, embellished ollar, layered sleeves, silver threading along the bodice. her pendant hung heavy at her chest, the nova star dulled in luminosity from the layer of airborne sand settling across it.

“we are nearly there,” qui-gon said, leading the group around a corner.

they had not spoken much since they left the ship. padmé and vasharre had exchanged only a few glances. no words. there had been too much to absorb.

a few steps later, the group stopped in front of a low building carved from sun-bleached stone. a faded sign hung over the entrance, its lettering marked in huttese, flanked by repulsorlift coils mounted loosely to the wall. an awning of fraying canvas stretched overhead, offering shade of a poor and ineffectual quality.

watto’s shop.

qui-gon jinn entered first.

jar jar trailed in behind him, muttering something in gungan that neither padmé nor vasharre could quite understand, and disappeared somewhere near the entry steps.

vasharre wavered at the threshold, then went inside.

the interior of the shop was darker than the blinding street outside, but it was no cooler.

the air hung with the smell of rusted metal, sand-caked wiring, and chemical dust. overhead, fans creaked slowly in tired circles, doing little to combat the dry weight of the heat that settled between the walls. odd scraps of machinery hung from the rafters, circuitry panels, scorched hyperdrive coils, broken communicator heads, the stripped shells of droid torsos dangling like discarded skins. the floor was uneven, worn smooth in places by years of boots, paws, and treads.

vasharre stepped inside just behind padmé and r2-d2, the heels of her boots catching on the cracked edge of the threshold. her robes clung uncomfortably to her arms, the fine velvet lining sticking to her skin. even now, even here, her attire was entirely out of place, shimmering threads of silver embroidery, the soft plum of her sash, the polished jewelry that glinted dully in the murky light.

jar jar had already stumbled off toward the left aisle, mumbling some excuse about “slippery metal stuff” and brushing his hands against a stack of engine parts, which caused a precarious avalanche that r2 whistled at sharply. qui-gon ignored the commotion. his focus remained fixed on the figure hovering near the far end of the shop, a short, blue-skinned toydarian, flapping his small wings in staccato bursts, his potbelly hanging over a stained work apron.

“i’m looking for a t-14 hyperdrive generator,” qui-gon said peacefully.

the toydarian who identified itself as watto squinted one eye, then launched into rapid huttese, waving a tool in the direction of a scattered pile of parts and muttering about republic credits and garbage-grade parts. qui-gon’s posture remained composed, his arms resting behind his back, his eyes unmoved.

as the two began to speak further, watto growing louder, qui-gon more tense, padmé stepped forward to survey a row of datapads along the counter, r2 wheeling behind her.

vasharre stood where she was, closer to the entryway.

she brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead, her fingers trembling from the dry heat. her throat was parched. her sleeves itched at the crook of her elbows. she had not thought to pack simpler clothing. there had been no time.

then, without warning, a voice rang out, bright, clear, and young.

“are you an angel?”

the words were not aimed at her.

they came from the left, from behind one of the display cases, and were directed at padmé, who looked up in mild surprise.

a boy had entered from the workshop in the back.

he could not have been more than nine or ten years old, dressed in a worn tunic and utility belt, bare-armed despite the heat, with sun-darkened skin and sandy blond hair that curled slightly at the ends. he had wide, earnest blue eyes and a dust-smudged nose. there was something disarming about his presence. he stood like someone who belonged there, but not in the way watto did. where watto moved through the shop with hunched impatience, the boy stood with open curiosity.

padmé tilted her head, blinking once.

“what?”

“an angel,” he said, stepping forward. “i’ve heard the deep space pilots talk about them. they’re the most beautiful creatures in the universe. they live on the moons of iego, i think.”

padmé smiled.

“you’re a funny little boy.”

he returned the smile without delay.

“i’m not joking,” he said. “they’re real. they help people. i’ve heard they glow in the dark.”

padmé did not answer at first.

then, softly, “i’ve never heard of angels.”

the boy took another step forward, glancing toward qui-gon and watto still arguing in the back, then back to her.

“how did you end up here?”

“we came on a ship,” she said.

“are you a pilot?”

she shook her head.

“no.”

he looked at her for a minute longer, then turned.

his gaze moved across the shop and landed on vasharre.

his expression didn’t change. he didn’t hesitate.

he walked toward her.

vasharre stood still, startled.

“or maybe you’re the angel?”

the question, asked so innocently, caught her entirely off guard.

“i am not.”

he looked her up and down.

“you look like one.”

“i do?”

he nodded with complete sincerity.

“you shine,” he said.

vasharre looked at him closely now.

the boy had a strange presence. not imposing, not unusual. only honest. startlingly so. there was no calculation in his face. no attempt to impress. he was not trying to charm her. he was only saying what he thought.

“you are kind to say that,” she said, lowering her voice to match his.

he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“are you a noble?”

“i am the daughter of lord naem rharrellis, the former senator of naboo.”

his head tilted to the side.

“so… you’re royalty.”

she pondered his words.

“some would say so.”

he grinned.

“wow. i’ve never met a real royal before.“

vasharre folded her hands in front of her, watching him more closely now.

there was a freedom in his speech. not recklessness. simply the freedom of someone who had never been taught to speak through a facade.

“do you live here?” she asked, careful not to let any judgment touch her tone.

he nodded again.

“my mom and i. i work for watto, fixing stuff. droids, pods, engines.”

vasharre’s brow creased.

“you work for him?”

“yeah. i’m his slave.”

she stiffened.

the word landed like a jolt in her spine.

“you are what?”

“a slave,” he repeated simply. “all of us are here. it’s not so bad. i mean… sometimes.”

there was no shame in his tone. no anger. only fact.

vasharre stared at him.

not because she disbelieved him.

but because she had never met someone her age, or close to it, who could say those words and believe them normal.

“what is your name?” she asked.

“anakin skywalker.”

she didn’t know why an unexplainable sensation surged through her upon hearing the boy’s name, one that was so obscure and enigmatic, beyond words or comprehension.

“i’m vasharre rharrellis,” she said softly.

his eyes lit up again.

“that’s a pretty name.”

before she could answer, a metallic screech rang out from the far end of the shop.

“mesa go now!” jar jar called out, stumbling through a display of cable reels.

qui-gon’s voice followed, hushed but decisive.

“padmé. r2. come.”

watto was already flapping toward the side exit, pointing toward something outside. r2 let out a series of beeps and followed. padmé glanced once toward anakin, offered a small smile, then turned and walked after them.

anakin stood in front of vasharre, smiling without expectation.

“i hope you get your ship fixed,” he said.

“thank you.”

“i like your necklace,” he added, pointing to the pendant at her collar. “it looks important.”

she looked down at the nova star.

then back at him.

“it is.”

and then she turned and followed the others.

the light outside had become gloomy by the time padmé turned to leave.

the suns had lowered, but the heat had not relented. instead, it pressed against the doorframe like a living thing, curling inside the shop with fingers of scorched wind and powdered sand. anakin stood in the center of the floor, looking up at her with a grin that hovered somewhere between admiration and awe. there was a hesitance in him now, hardly visible, as though he had begun to sense the space between them, the difference in years, in bearing, in the way she moved through the world.

padmé hesitated near the door.

then she turned back.

“it was very nice to meet you, anakin.”

he blinked, and his ears pinked.

“you’re… you’re welcome to visit again, if you want. i mean, if you ever come back to tatooine. or if you need help with engines.”

his voice cracked slightly on the last word. he swallowed quickly, hoping she had not noticed.

she smiled again, tenderly, kindly.

“thank you.”

she stepped outside.

vasharre stayed behind a second longer, her gaze fixed on the boy who had spoken with such unaffected honesty.

“goodbye, anakin skywalker,” she said.

he looked toward her, more confident now.

“you too, vasharre.”

and with that, she followed padmé into the street, the door shutting behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss.

outside, the wind had picked up.

the marketplace had transformed since their arrival, more voices now, more dust kicked into the air as traders packed up stalls and locals navigated the narrowing paths. the air carried the scent of spice and old metal, and the sun cast long, angular shadows across the walls.

as they moved away from the shop, vasharre heard a familiar voice, steady and clipped, emerging from a handheld comm device carried by qui-gon jinn several paces ahead. he walked with steady purpose, r2 rolling alongside him.

“master,” came obi-wan’s voice through the static. “the ship is secure. local climate is wreaking havoc on one of the exterior relays, but we’re holding.”

qui-gon pressed the comm closer.

“understood. we may be delayed.”

“delayed?”

qui-gon did not elaborate.

he ended the transmission with a tap of his thumb.

before vasharre could wonder what he meant, a sudden shout pierced the air from somewhere ahead.

“no, no! mesa sorry! mesa no see you there!”

jar jar’s unmistakable voice rang out across the square, followed immediately by a growl and a guttural string of huttese curses.

padmé quickened her pace. vasharre followed, her robes pulling at her shoulders, her breath catching slightly from the exertion.

they emerged into the clearing near the market’s central fountain just in time to see jar jar tangled in the legs of a massive, leathery-skinned dug, sebulba, his long arms flailing as he attempted to back away. the dug hissed furiously, baring sharp teeth, one clawed hand already gripping the front of jar jar’s tunic.

“yousa let me go! mesa no mean harm!”

sebulba snarled something unintelligible and raised a hand.

then, a voice cut through the air like a flare.

“let him go!”

anakin.

he was already stepping between them before anyone could react, his small frame squared, shoulders drawn back.

“you touch him again, and you’re gonna have to answer to me!”

sebulba snarled again, this time in unmistakable menace, then snapped out something cruel in huttese.

anakin didn’t flinch.

he folded his arms and stood his ground.

sebulba glared, his nostrils flaring wide, then spat into the dust and shoved jar jar backward.

the gungan collapsed with a yelp, flailing backward into a basket of fruit.

anakin turned quickly to help him up.

“you okay?”

“mesa… mesa tink so,” jar jar groaned.

qui-gon arrived a second later, hand near his belt but not yet reaching for his saber.

he eyed anakin.

“impressive,” he said. “not many your size would stand up to him.”

anakin shrugged, though the pride was visible beneath his modesty.

“he picks on people smaller than him. i don’t like bullies.”

padmé looked at him now with greater admiration.

“you really are brave.”

anakin grew flustered. “come on,” he said. “your ship’s too far from here. the sun’ll be setting soon. you should come to my home. it’s not far.”

qui-gon studied him with intent, then nodded.

“lead the way.”

anakin looked up once more at padmé. she gave him a small, grateful smile.

vasharre watched the exchange from behind them.

she said nothing.

but as she walked beside the others, following the boy into the labyrinth of adobe homes and dusty stairways, she glanced sideways toward him again.

anakin skywalker.

a boy born of sand and dust.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

anakin led them through a winding path of narrow alleys and tawny walls, his pace brisk but considerate, checking often to make sure jar jar and the others had not fallen behind. the deeper they moved into the settlement, the more the noise of the market gave way to something quiet, layered with the hum of speeders and the whine of distant moisture vaporators, but gentled by distance and stone. the houses here were simple structures of hardened clay and weathered metal, shaped more by survival than aesthetics, their rooftops bowed beneath coils of salvaged wire and sun-faded tarp.

they stopped outside a modest dwelling at the end of a narrow causeway, its angled door set beneath a short arch and flanked by two rusted storage crates. anakin reached for the panel beside the door, keyed in a short sequence, and waited. the lock disengaged with a snap.

the door opened inward.

a woman stood there, backlit by the cool interior. her clothing was plain, sand-colored tunic, dark underskirt, but clean and mended with care. her hair was dark and pulled back from her face. her features were austere, but the lines around her mouth and eyes spoke of long years of effort. she did not appear surprised to see them. only alert.

her eyes moved first to anakin, then to the others.

anakin grinned broadly. “mom. these are my friends.”

shmi skywalker’s eyes moved across the group.

qui-gon offered a respectful nod.

“we were caught in the sandstorm,” he said. “your son offered shelter.”

shmi looked at him for a long while before answering.

“then you’re welcome here.”

anakin stepped inside first, motioning for the others to follow. the entry hall was low-ceilinged and shadowed, but cool. clay walls, smooth from years of sand and touch, were lined with tool racks and faded fabric drapings. the air inside carried the scent of dried herbs and old metal, a contrast to the scorched tang of the city outside.

they entered with reluctance.

shmi turned toward her son.

“anakin, get the others some water.”

“yes, mom.”

he darted into the adjoining room.

shmi turned toward the visitors. her voice was soft.

“we don’t have much. but we’re glad to offer what we can.”

padmé bowed her head.

“your home is lovely.”

shmi smiled, then looked to vasharre, whose posture had remained poised but uncertain.

“and you, my lady?”

“i’m… grateful for your hospitality.”

shmi’s eyes were fixed on her for a beat longer. then she turned away, vanishing into the kitchen with a grace that was born not of training, but of perseverance.

anakin reappeared moments later, carrying a tray with four mismatched cups and a dented metal pitcher. he handed them out with the proud air of a host presenting a royal banquet.

“come on,” he said, brightening. “there’s someone else i want you to meet.”

he motioned toward a narrow hallway.

padmé followed, with vasharre just behind her. r2 rolled slowly at their heels.

they entered a small, windowless room crammed with parts. wiring hung from the ceiling. crates of droid limbs and stripped-down circuit boards were stacked in every corner. a workbench had been assembled from two old panels, and on it stood a half-finished protocol droid, thin, skeletal, wires exposed and limbs partially assembled.

anakin beamed.

“this is c-3po. he’s not finished yet, but he’s really smart. he’ll help mom around the house when I’m done.”

padmé stepped closer, hands folded before her.

“hello.”

the droid stirred.

his eyes blinked on, bright yellow, unfiltered.

“i am c-3po,” he said in a polished, formal tone. “human-cyborg relations. how may i serve you?”

anakin puffed his chest out. “see? he works!”

vasharre stepped forward, her expression caught somewhere between intrigue and unease. she had never seen a droid in such a state, not outside repair stations or military factories.

“he’s… very mechanical,” she observed.

anakin turned to her.

“you can talk to him. he understands lots of languages.”

vasharre glanced at the droid again.

“i’ll remember that.”

r2 chirped in response, causing c-3po to jerk slightly.

“how rude,” the protocol droid muttered.

anakin laughed.

vasharre’s smile was small, but real.

then, a faraway sound caught her ear, static, filtered through a comm panel in the hallway beyond.

she turned her head.

the others had remained clustered near the droid. no one had noticed her stepping away.

inconspicuously, she slipped back into the corridor.

the sound was clearer now.

qui-gon stood near a comm terminal, angled away from her, one hand resting on the console.

a blue hologram flashed to life, obi-wan, projected from the starship.

“master,” obi-wan’s voice came through. “we’ve received a message. encrypted, but the seal is authentic. it’s from naem rharrellis.”

vasharre froze.

she did not step forward.

qui-gon’s voice was calm, but decisive.

“do not respond.”

“master, if it’s genuine…”

“if it’s genuine, he is being coerced. the viceroy knows the queen escaped. they may be attempting to locate her, through her closest allies.”

obi-wan hesitated.

then nodded once.

“we’ll hold position.”

the hologram vanished.

vasharre stood in the shadows of the door, her heart stopped.

her hand clutched the doorframe. her breath caught, too sudden to halt.

she tried to step back, but her heel caught the edge of the corridor stone with a scrape.

qui-gon’s head turned immediately.

he said nothing at first.

only lowered the comm.

“my lady,” he said calmly. “you should be with the others.”

she swallowed.

“you said… you said my father is…”

“alive,” he answered. “yes. but compromised. if they are forcing him to reach us, it is because they want something.”

“we should respond,” she said quickly, almost too quickly. “he is trying to reach me.”

“i know,” he said. “but if we do so, they will find this ship. they will find you.”

her mouth opened. then closed again.

he gave her a long, thoughtful look.

and then said, gently, “you care deeply for your family. that is good. but to protect them, you must remain here. safely away.”

she nodded once, eyes burning.

and as she turned away, the weight in her chest returned, not the burden of terror.

but of helplessness.

and worse than that the ache of knowing that obi-wan kenobi had heard the message before she had. that he had spoken to qui-gon in her father’s stead. that he, not her, had been trusted with the truth.

she said nothing.

but as she returned to the others, the shadow of her duty followed her.

the conversation was burned in her mind hours after vasharre had slipped away from the corridor. though she had rejoined the others, the voice of obi-wan kenobi still echoed in her mind, concerned and unshakably composed. the mention of her father, reduced to a possibility in a transmission, had left her unsettled. but there was no time to dwell. anakin, eager and hospitable, had returned from his workbench and invited them to stay for a meal. shmi, ever gracious, began preparing what little she could offer. the hours faded into the soft rhythm of plates being set, utensils placed, steam rising from a single shared pot. and so, without ceremony, the day’s tensions folded into the muted warmth of a makeshift dinner, one lit not by grandeur, but by necessity and unfamiliar companionship.

the scent of roasted grain and root spice lingered in the small kitchen, mingling with the heavier, earthier aromas of cooked desert fowl and stewed greens. steam curled upward from the serving dishes that had been set across the circular table, simple ceramic plates, mismatched in tone, and a single cracked pitcher of water resting near the center beside a basket of softened bread. the meal was modest by any standard, especially for guests from the core, but there was warmth in its preparation, and vasharre could see the effort it had taken to make it appear full.

they sat close together in the narrow dining space. the walls were rounded and low, plastered smooth by hand, the corners lined with old woven fabrics and clay hangings, all sun-bleached and weathered by years of heat. the light from the single overhead fixture was golden and uneven, casting long, quiet shadows across the room.

shmi sat with gentle poise, her hands folded loosely in her lap when not reaching for the serving bowl. padmé sat to her right, her chin tilted downward slightly, eyes darkened with thought. qui-gon was across from her, seated with the natural quiet of a man used to stillness. beside him sat jar jar, already halfway through his second helping. vasharre occupied the seat between padmé and r2-d2, who, lacking the need for food, had positioned himself near the wall but remained active, his dome rotating softly in scan intervals. anakin, lively and animated, had chosen the place beside qui-gon.

for a time, the meal proceeded with small, careful talk.

anakin had asked padmé where she was from. she had answered with vague wording about the core worlds.

vasharre had commented on the unfamiliar seasoning in the stew, and shmi had smiled and explained it came from a local root, pounded with herbs.

jar jar had attempted to explain gungan cuisine before being gently cut off by qui-gon’s quiet clearing of his throat.

but then the conversation changed direction.

padmé lowered her fork.

her expression had changed, not with discomfort, but with something solemn.

“it’s wrong,” she said softly, though there was no gentleness in her meaning. “you should not be enslaved. no one should.”

anakin looked at his mother, then back at padmé.

“well… it’s all we’ve ever known. i guess.”

“that doesn’t make it right,” she replied. “just because something exists doesn’t mean it’s righteous.”

shmi offered a faint smile.

“you speak like a politician.”

padmé hesitated.

“i’ve… heard them speak often.”

vasharre looked between them, not speaking a word.

she had heard this debate before, in many rooms, spoken by her father and his allies when the republic refused to intervene in the outer rim’s darker affairs. and yet here, spoken over a meal of shared bread and worn cutlery, the weight of it felt more piercing. not abstract. not political. personal.

“but why doesn’t the republic do anything?” padmé asked, her voice tight.

“the republic doesn’t exist out here,” shmi answered quietly. “we’re beyond their reach. they can’t, or won’t, enforce their laws on tatooine.”

padmé’s jaw clenched.

vasharre could feel it in her own chest. the burn of frustration. the hollowness of knowing that power did not always bring protection.

anakin, sensing the tension, turned to qui-gon.

“you carry a laser sword.”

qui-gon’s brow lifted, the corners of his mouth tugging in amusement.

“i do.”

“you’re a jedi knight,” anakin said confidently.

there was a pause.

vasharre looked at qui-gon, shocked.

he had never said so aloud. not in the boy’s hearing.

qui-gon leaned back slightly, one arm resting across the table’s edge.

“what makes you think that?”

“i saw your weapon,” anakin said simply. “only jedi carry lightsabers.”

qui-gon arched an eyebrow.

“perhaps i killed a jedi and took it from him.”

anakin’s eyes widened in horror.

“no,” he said, his tone immediate, insistent. “a jedi couldn’t be killed. no one can kill a jedi.”

the table went still.

then, slowly, qui-gon nodded his head.

“you are right. i am a jedi.”

anakin sat up straighter, visibly energized.

“i’ve heard of them all my life,” he said. “my dream is to be one. to travel the stars, to help people. to make things better.”

he said it with a kind of raw conviction that only came from youth, the kind not yet worn down by disappointment.

“and what does your mother think of that dream?” qui-gon asked.

“i think it’s in his blood.”

qui-gon nodded once.

“we came here to find parts,” he said, his voice turning more practical now. “our ship is damaged. we need a t-14 hyperdrive generator. we can’t leave without it.”

shmi folded her hands, her expression unreadable.

“then you’ll need credits.”

“republic credits are no good here,” qui-gon said.

anakin frowned.

“so… what are you going to do?”

qui-gon looked at him carefully.

“i don’t know.”

anakin paused.

then said, slowly, “i can help.”

padmé turned to him.

“how?”

anakin leaned forward.

“i can race. i’m the only human who can do it.”

“race?” vasharre asked, her voice uncertain.

anakin turned to her.

“podracing. it’s dangerous. most racers are dugs or gran, species with faster reflexes. but i’ve won practice runs. i’m fast. i can do it.”

padmé looked horrified.

“you’re nine.”

“and i’m good.”

“it’s too dangerous.”

“we don’t have another way,” qui-gon said.

“you’d let him do this?” padmé asked sharply.

shmi’s voice was calm, though her gaze had dropped to her hands.

“he was meant to help you,” she said. “he can see things before they happen. he’s special. he was meant to find you.”

qui-gon studied her for a long while.

then looked back at anakin.

and for the first time, his expression went from curiosity to something else.

recognition.

vasharre watched the exchange.

she said nothing.

anakin skywalker. there was something about him that made the air feel different. as though something had already begun.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the suns were falling again, golden light curling over the edge of the dune sea, casting long shadows across the worn stones of mos espa as they returned toward the ship. the heat, though no longer blistering, clung to the folds of vasharre’s robe, and her throat still carried the dry scratch of sand-borne wind. behind her, the hum of the desert faded into the distance, broken only by the occasional flutter of fabric from the awnings above the alley and the rhythmic tapping of jar jar’s uneven gait against the stones.

they were walking without anakin now.

he was at his home with his mother, but the echoes of what had occurred hours earlier moved akin to dust through vasharre’s thoughts.

she remembered the way watto’s wings had beat frantically, his voice climbing in anger and disbelief when the boy had won the podrace, when the bet had been honored. she remembered how the toydarian had flailed and shouted, refusing to release the boy until qui-gon’s gaze turned sharply downward, stern and commanding, and the trader’s protests had collapsed into snarling compliance.

she remembered the chaos at the finish line, the roar of the crowd, the flash of flags and banners, the sound of hundreds of voices rising around the narrow stone barriers of the course. the podracers had streaked through the final circuit, engines screaming, sand clouding behind them in feral trails. for a breathless instant, she had not believed anakin would survive it. but then he had crossed the line, first, impossibly, undeniably, and the entire settlement had erupted.

shmi had stood amongst them, stunned and grateful her son had won his freedom from the shackles of slavery.

padmé had wept tears of joy, though she would later deny it.

and vasharre, clutching the sash of her silken robe against the wind, had been unable to move. because in that instant, the boy had not seemed like a slave. or a mechanic. or a child.

he had seemed destined.

but that knowing had not begun with the race.

it had begun the night before, when she had slipped past the sleeping forms in the skywalker home and moved, barefoot and silent, down the narrow stone corridor toward the shaded courtyard outside.

the night had been heavy and thick with heat, her head crowded with too many thoughts, the message from her father that she had not been allowed to answer, the ache of distance from home, the terrible stillness of waiting. but when she reached the archway that overlooked the rear terrace, she had heard voices.

qui-gon’s voice.

tempered and tranquil.

“…over twenty thousand.”

a pause.

then the voice from the comm, obi-wan’s, laced with perplexity.

“even master yoda doesn’t have a count that high.”

vasharre had pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath.

“he doesn’t know what it means,” qui-gon had said. “but i believe i do.”

another pause.

then, “he was meant to help us. and he will.”

vasharre had not understood all of it, not then, but the number, the way it was spoken, the exchange of the names. she had known what it implied. a midichlorian count of that magnitude was impossible to ignore. she had grown up surrounded by discussions of the jedi, by her brother’s training, her father’s old alliances, the lineage of the rharrellis bloodline. she knew what it meant when someone possessed an affinity for the force that exceeded reason.

and she had known what it meant for a boy like anakin skywalker to be outside the order.

she had returned to bed underneath the veil of twilight.

she had said nothing.

but now, as they reached the outer threshold of the starship, the memory still pulsed behind her ribs.

the ship gleamed in the last light of the suns, its chrome plating throwing pale reflections onto the scorched stone below. the ramp had already been lowered. the guards were visible from a distance, posted near the auxiliary entry, and the familiar silhouettes of the pilots shifted along the bridge walkway. r2 chirped once beside her and veered toward the docking panel.

jar jar stumbled up the ramp first, his limbs swinging, his voice full of exhaustion and mild complaint.

padmé followed with qui-gon behind them, his cloak flaring in the wind, his gaze scanning the horizon once more before stepping into the ship.

vasharre stopped at the top of the ramp.

her eyes searched the hull, and there, just beyond the corridor junction, she saw a recognizable figure moving toward them.

her heart stumbled once in her chest.

obi-wan kenobi.

he was walking with purpose, his arms folded into the sleeves of his robe, his face lit only faintly by the corridor lights behind him. he stopped just short of the entrance, his gaze passing over the group with swift efficiency.

he looked first at qui-gon.

“what is this?” he asked, his words mocking with clipped dryness. “why do i sense we’ve picked up another pathetic life-form?”

qui-gon did not smile, but his tone held the subtlest trace of amusement.

“another stray, perhaps. one worth the trouble.”

obi-wan exhaled through his nose, and for a moment, his blue eyes moved.

they found vasharre. not for long. a split second.

but long enough that she felt something uncoil beneath her sternum.

she lowered her gaze, stepping aside as he passed, the scent of desert wind and leather robes trailing behind him.

qui-gon gave a nod toward the engineering bay.

“see to the hyperdrive. r2 has the parts.”

obi-wan bowed his head, already turning down the corridor.

vasharre stood at the edge of the walkway, the dust of tatooine still clinging to the hem of her robe, the desert sun fading from her skin. her hand drifted once more to the nova star at her collar, her fingers curling around the metal of the silver chain.

for a minute, she allowed herself the indulgence of standing still.

not as a lady of house rharrellis.

only as a girl.

watching the man forever forbidden to her, yet who had already taught her how absence could bruise more deeply than presence.

and then she stepped inside.

behind her, the ship sealed with a soft hiss.

the hum of the ship had long since become rhythm.

after the tension of mos espa, the sharp noise of the crowd, the mechanical fury of the podrace, and the quiet finality of their departure from the skywalker home, the silver corridors of the vessel felt strangely muted. the polished walls shimmered with the reflection of artificial light, and the hum of repulsorlift power beneath her feet was steady, predictable.

vasharre had changed out of her dusty travel attire, her robes exchanged for a more formal dark-blue garment fitted close to the body, with a sash of soft lilac drawn across her waist and fastened in place with a silver clasp. her hair had been brushed smooth by ebos, then drawn partially back with decorative pins shaped in the image of nova starbursts. her ears still rang faintly with the roar of the podrace stands, and her skin still felt sun-warmed from hours exposed to the twin suns of tatooine.

she stood in the central corridor, waiting for the next instruction, some new direction that would mark the next chapter of their detour.

and then she heard voices.

distant, but familiar.

vasharre moved toward the boarding ramp, her feet gliding across the floor with practiced poise.

the ramp was half-lowered, sunlight piercing through the threshold like a blade. outside, near the far edge of the boarding platform, she could see the silhouette of qui-gon jinn, his towering frame outlined against the scorching sky. beside him stood anakin skywalker, still in the same dusty tunic, his hands folded behind his back as he listened to something qui-gon was telling him.

vasharre stepped forward, down the incline of the ramp, into the light.

“anakin?” she called.

he turned immediately, startled but joyful.

“vasharre!”

but his next words were cut off.

not because of her.

because of something behind her.

because of what was coming.

a shadow fell across the sand.

something black.

something wrong.

and before vasharre could turn to look, a shriek of wind erupted from the far rise of the canyon.

a figure appeared.

hooded, cloaked, draped in black from head to foot. his stride was silent, but swift. and then, as if summoned by death itself, he drew a lightsaber, crimson, bladed at both ends, humming with vicious clarity.

vasharre’s heart stilled.

qui-gon turned immediately, cloak flaring, hand snapping to his belt.

“get inside!” he roared. “both of you!”

anakin grabbed her arm.

they ran.

the sand exploded behind them as the stranger leapt.

qui-gon’s blade ignited in a flash of green light, meeting the attacker mid-air. the clash of sabers sent a shockwave through the ramp as vasharre stumbled forward, dragging anakin with her.

the ship shuddered once.

a shout echoed from the deck above.

“lifting off!” came obi-wan’s voice over the comm.

vasharre turned at the top of the ramp, breath caught in her throat.

qui-gon fought below them, blade flashing against the twin red beams of the assailant. the figure spun like a phantom, strikes delivered with unnatural speed. but qui-gon countered each with measured strength, his expression drawn in fierce concentration.

“close the ramp!” panaka called from the bridge.

“not yet!” vasharre shouted.

the ship began to rise.

sand whipped around them in a wild storm, the engines igniting with roaring thrust.

qui-gon lunged upward.

the figure struck again, twice, then retreated into the canyon as the wind lifted the ship clear of the ground.

vasharre reached out once as the ramp hissed shut behind them.

a heartbeat passed.

then qui-gon leapt through the narrow gap, cloak catching in the wind, landing in a crouch just as the ramp sealed behind him.

the ship surged upward, into the atmosphere.

the battle below vanished in the clouds.

vasharre dropped to her knees, gasping.

anakin crouched beside her, trembling.

qui-gon stood in silence, his blade deactivating with a soft hum.

“what… was that?” anakin asked.

no one answered.

but vasharre’s eyes turned slowly toward qui-gon.

and something old began to rouse in her mind.

the shape of something long foretold in her dreams.

the whine of the engines softened as the ship broke free of the atmosphere, slipping into the weightlessness of orbit with a smooth, hollow silence. the windows shifted from golden brilliance to the deep, speckled void of stars, the horizon of tatooine fading behind them into a faint curve of gold and rust. it was quiet now. no alarms. no shouting. only the rhythmic pulsing of the navigation console and the gentle hum of the ship’s core systems.

vasharre sat near the forward observation deck, a slender window carved into the durasteel wall, her hands folded neatly in her lap. though her posture was still, her heart had not slowed since the moment the ramp sealed shut behind qui-gon. her eyes remained fixed on the corridor leading toward the cockpit, watching, waiting.

when the door finally slid open, it did so with no fanfare, only a soft mechanical shudder.

obi-wan stepped through.

his hair was tousled from the wind and heat, the edge of his robe darkened with dust, but his expression was composed, his eyes alert. he moved with deliberate calm, scanning the space quickly before stepping down into the corridor.

his gaze caught on the boy first.

anakin skywalker stood near one of the storage compartments, examining the holotable embedded into the panel with the wide-eyed intensity of someone seeing advanced technology for the first time. he turned as he heard footsteps, his eyes landing on obi-wan with open curiosity.

obi-wan studied him.

the boy said nothing.

vasharre rose from her seat, her movement gentle, as if not to interrupt whatever was about to pass between them.

qui-gon appeared behind obi-wan a short time later, his broad frame shadowing the narrow corridor.

“obi-wan,” he said. “meet anakin skywalker.”

anakin stepped forward, extending a hand with practiced courtesy.

“hi,” he said. “you’re master qui-gon’s padawan?”

obi-wan looked down at the outstretched hand.

then took it.

“i am,” he said pleasantly. “obi-wan kenobi.”

“you’re the first jedi besides him that i’ve ever met.”

“and you’re the boy who built a protocol droid from scrap metal and flew a podracer to victory,” obi-wan replied, raising one eyebrow. “without any formal training.”

anakin grinned.

vasharre observed the exchange.

then turned her gaze toward qui-gon, who had folded his arms behind his back and was watching the two with a sliver of pride in his eyes.

“master jinn,” she said, her voice soft as to keep others from overhearing. “will he be trained?”

qui-gon did not answer immediately.

he glanced toward the viewport, then toward obi-wan, then finally met her eyes.

“that is for the council to decide.”

vasharre lowered her gaze.

of course it was.

of course it had to be.

she looked once more at anakin, bright-eyed, eager, filled with impossible potential, and could not help the memory that returned to her, as unbidden as breath.

it had been a year ago, deep in the mountain halls of coruscant, the jedi temple burning with candlelight and silence. her father had brought kraen, newly elevated to padawan, his bearing proud, his presence strong. the council chamber had felt too large, too vast, the ceiling lost in shadow, the floor gleaming akin to polished onyx. she had watched from the outer gallery as master yoda sat in contemplation, his eyes half-lidded, listening.

they had all believed it was kraen.

he was the elder child.

he bore the rharrellis name with wisdom and strength, he was quick of body and sharp of mind. the council had taken blood, had counted midichlorian concentration, had asked him questions that reached into his soul.

and yet, the answer had come not from plo koon or ki-adi-mundi, but from yoda himself.

“strong, yes. but the forceborn… he is not.”

the silence in the room had been defeating.

even her father had not spoken for a time.

and so the title, the prophecy, remained unclaimed.

a chosen one shall come, born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the force be restored. yet his path shall not be walked alone, for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled.

shmi had said anakin skywalker was born of no father.

that much she understood now.

but the second name, the second role, continued to be void.

and perhaps, she thought, it was better that way.

too much had been built on names.

too many hopes attached to destinies no one truly understood.

behind her, the stars stretched on in the endless sky.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

hyperspace had turned the galaxy into a blur.

beyond the hull, the stars stretched into ribbons of white and silver, pouring across the viewports in silent motion. within the ship, all had gone still. the final reports had been filed to coruscant, the engines maintained by a skeleton crew, the guards dismissed to their quarters. quiet music played faintly through the speakers near the starboard corridor, a naboo melody, high and plaintive, the kind often used in state processions. its notes drifted through the chambers, haunting and slow.

obi-wan stood at the edge of the upper deck, one hand resting casually against the wall as he watched the passage below.

his eyes had followed her without meaning to.

vasharre rharrellis was moving with measured grace along the central hall, her robe trailing softly behind her. beside her walked her handmaiden, ebos, bronze and serious, with that graceful watchfulness she always seemed to carry. neither of them spoke. vasharre’s hair had been unpinned, her dark waves loose down her back. her shoulders were bowed, her steps smaller than usual.

she passed the security bulkhead and disappeared into the residential wing, the soft white light fading behind her.

obi-wan exhaled, subdued and slow.

he pushed off the wall, preparing to return to his quarters.

“obi-wan.”

the voice was not loud.

but it carried with unmistakable coherence.

he turned immediately.

qui-gon jinn stood near the tactical console, his arms folded behind his back, his stance as unmoving as the stars.

obi-wan approached without question.

“yes, master.”

qui-gon did not speak at once.

his eyes remained on the viewport, the wash of hyperspace reflected dimly across his features.

then, without turning, he said, “you are troubled.”

obi-wan paused.

then gave a shallow nod.

“there is much to consider,” he said carefully.

qui-gon looked at him now.

“you feel it too.”

“the boy?” obi-wan asked.

qui-gon said nothing.

but the silence was answer enough.

obi-wan crossed his arms, gaze narrowing.

“his instincts are untrained. his emotions uncontrolled. he is too old.”

“perhaps,” qui-gon murmured.

“there is danger,” obi-wan continued, more forceful now. “i can feel it. not in him, not yet, but around him. as if something is gathering.”

qui-gon’s eyes drifted toward the deck where vasharre had gone.

“there are many kinds of gravity,” he said. “some draw ships across space. others draw devotion.”

obi-wan did not respond.

qui-gon’s voice was hushed when he spoke again.

“you remember the prophecy.”

“i do.”

“repeat it for me.”

obi-wan shifted, clearly unsure as to why this was being asked so suddenly, but obliged.

“a chosen one shall come,” he said, “born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the force be restored.”

qui-gon waited.

obi-wan paused.

then added, “yet his path shall not be walked alone, for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled.”

qui-gon’s expression did not change.

“and what do you believe it means?”

obi-wan frowned.

“legends are prone to exaggeration and misinterpretation. i believe the prophecy speaks to a convergence of force energy, possibly a being capable of harmonizing light and dark. the chosen one may be destined to defeat the sith. or something far beyond that. it is unclear, we cannot know.”

“we don’t,” qui-gon said. “and yet we must choose to act as though we do.”

obi-wan straightened slightly.

“you think anakin is the chosen one.”

qui-gon did not flinch.

“i feel it.”

obi-wan’s tone sharpened.

“and what if you are wrong?”

“then we have risked much on a child.”

a long pause.

“and the foreborn?”

qui-gon’s eyes dimmed a shade in thought.

“the prophecy names two,” he said. “and yet, we have spent years seeking only one. we have looked for signs, bloodlines, visions, disturbances in the forces. perhaps we have been too definite. too narrow.”

“you think it’s someone we’ve overlooked.”

qui-gon’s face gave nothing away.

“the force does not always choose who we would expect. or when.”

obi-wan’s arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“we don’t even know what we’re asking of them.”

“no,” qui-gon said. “but that does not excuse us from the asking.”

silence followed.

obi-wan stared down at the floor.

when he finally spoke, it was quieter than before.

“how are we to prepare them? either of them? if we don’t even understand what this balance is supposed to be?”

qui-gon turned toward him fully now.

and said, not unkindly, “we begin by trusting the force. not the council. not the code. the force.”

obi-wan looked away.

“and if the force leads us to cataclysm?”

“then cataclysm is part of the balance.”

the words, once spoken, hung in the air between them. they did not fade. they persisted, heavy, resonant, untouched by sound or motion. and when they settled, it was not with peace. it was with significance.

qui-gon’s gaze drifted toward the shimmering stars.

they were alone in the corridor. the hum of the ship’s systems pulsed gently through the walls, and the distant sound of hyperspace flowed like water beyond the steel. the light above them washazy, casting long shadows across the floor. and for the briefest moment, it felt as though time itself had paused to make room for the next words.

he did not speak immediately.

he only looked out.

his hands, still folded behind his back, stiffened.

“obi-wan,” he said at last, and his voice had changed, not louder, not softer, but deeper, shaded with something grave beneath it. “there will come a day when you must choose.”

obi-wan turned his head, his brow furrowing.

“a day?”

“not soon. not in any way you will expect. but it will come.”

obi-wan’s shoulders became taut, his expression sharpening with confusion.

“what choice?”

qui-gon drew a breath, slow and steady, his eyes still fixed beyond the transparisteel.

“you will be asked to obey the code. and in the same moment, you will be asked to protect what you hold sacred.”

obi-wan said nothing.

his master’s voice deepened further.

“you will not be able to do both.”

obi-wan’s head turned fully now, disbelief flashing through his gaze.

“you’re speaking in riddles.”

“no,” qui-gon said. “i am speaking plainly.”

“but the code…”

“i know the code.”

obi-wan’s mouth tensed.

“then you know what it forbids. attachment, possession, love. these are not…”

“i know what it says,” qui-gon said again, more firmly now. “but i also know what it does not say. it does not account for mercy. it does not account for devotion. and it does not account for the moments when following it leads to ruin.”

obi-wan stared at him, eyes narrowing.

“you’ve always questioned the council,” he said, measured. “but this… this is something else.”

“yes,” qui-gon replied. “it is.”

obi-wan looked away, unsettled.

“you would have me betray everything we were taught.”

“no,” qui-gon said, and at this his voice dropped, softer, though no less urgent. “i would have you remember that the code was made by men. the force was not.”

obi-wan opened his mouth to respond, but the words did not come.

his master stepped forward now, his frame casting a shadow against the deck lighting.

“i am not asking you to disobey the order. nor am i telling you to abandon what you believe. but you must understand, there will come a day when the question will not be about the code. it will be about the greater good. it will be about those whose lives matter beyond doctrine, beyond rules, beyond oaths. and when that moment comes, you must choose the path the force shows you.”

“even if it goes against the teachings of the jedi?” obi-wan asked.

qui-gon’s gaze darkened, not in anger, but in the sheer gravity of what he was carrying.

“yes.”

“even if it goes against the will of the council?”

“yes.”

obi-wan’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“even if it costs me the right to call myself a jedi?”

“yes,” qui-gon said, and now his voice was steel. “especially then.”

obi-wan stepped back, as though he had been struck, not physically, but in spirit. his throat bobbed once as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard. he had known his master to be defiant, yes. independent, yes. but this was something else. this was prophecy speaking through him. this was a warning. this was a plea.

he looked into the jedi master’s face.

and he saw no doubt.

only sorrow.

and something else, something deeper.

“you speak as though you have already chosen,” obi-wan said, voice scarcely audible.

qui-gon did not answer.

he only turned again, back toward the stars.

and said, so placidly it nearly vanished in the sound of the ship’s systems, “promise me you’ll remember this.”

obi-wan remained still.

“promise me,” qui-gon said again, and now there was an urgency in him rarely seen. “you must.”

the younger man drew in a breath.

and bowed his head.

“…i promise.”

qui-gon closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the stars had not changed.

but something within both of them had.

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