#and simultaneously gotten worse at drawing faces

[jaxitaxibolehlaf]

Just going to drop this "Young Zaphod" rendition here.

[blythings]

ARE WE FALLING IN LOVE? SAY YES OR NO | TOM BLYTH

— pairing: tom blyth x filmmaker!oc (fem.)

— summary: it's gotta be more than nothing.

— warnings: allusions to sex but nothing explicit.

— word count: 669

— notes: if you've read an older version of this back when i was part of choices tumblr no u didn't. my inbox is open if you wanna chat!!

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He revels in the sight of her like this, sprawled across the tousled sheets of his bed, bathed in the soft moonlight that delicately traces lines over her naked form.

She's pretty when she emerges from her bedroom after blitzing through her studies and she's pretty when she's knocking back a shot in a bar during nights out with Mari and the rest of their friends. Yet, Tom is convinced that this particular version of Alexis is his favorite. Everything feels a little warmer, a little gentler, deceptively tender in a way that should alarm him.

"You're staring," she accuses, though her eyes are still closed. With a leisurely stretch, she raises her arms over her head, and he can't help but chuckle. Were he less informed, he might think Alexis is oblivious to the effect she has on him. But, a ghost of a smirk plays on her lips, confirming what he already knows — Alexis Nakamura is a force, effortlessly dismantling the invisible walls he's constructed around himself. It feels as though his world has tilted on its axis, standing and falling simultaneously.

"How could I not?" he responds. Pressing her body closer, Tom ducks his head, burying his face into the crook of her neck. His hand finds a comfortable spot in the dip of her side, fingertips gliding up and along the grooves of her ribs. "You could ogle at me too. Quid pro quo."

She huffs out a laugh. "Is that a part of this?"

"It could be."

In the unfolding of their interactions, Tom and Alexis find themselves slipping into something neither can define. It begins with stolen glances that linger for a beat too long, drawing them into moments simultaneously familiar and uncharted. They haven't officially labeled what is evolving between them, but the unspoken understanding hints at a magnetic pull neither can resist, signalling the quiet inception of something more than friendship but less than a commitment.

Cuddling after sex is a newfound occurrence born from this arrangement, born without explicit agreement or discussion. It starts by accident. Exhaustion that seeps into their bones, and the craving for the comfort that a warm body brings. Only the faint sound of the city from outside his window can be heard and Tom wonders if this is the most peace he's gotten in months.

"Ali?" He whispers, more to himself than her.

"Yeah?"

Stay. "It's almost 1."

She hums, sitting up. Tom follows suit, arms still wrapped around her waist as he plants soft kisses along the side of her throat. "I should probably go then."

Cuddling after sex has become a routine, but staying over hasn't. Still, there's the urge to draw her closer, to fall asleep enveloped in her warmth and weight. To wake up beside her, to go see mutual friends with her and let rumours swirl — labels aside, relationship status pending, she's with him. But despite his wishes, the words are lodged in his throat.

"Sorry." Alexis grins, slipping out of his hold before he can reel her back in. Almost falling face-first to the floor, her legs refuse to cooperate, aching. Tom suppresses a smirk. "I have class at 8."

"Don't apologise." He clears his throat, watching as she gathers her scattered clothes. "You're probably the worse person to share a bed with."

"Wouldn't you like to know," she laughs, pulling on her jeans and buttoning up her shirt. Once fully dressed, she leans in, her nose brushing against his before a lingering kiss lands on his lips. "Goodnight."

"Do you need me to walk you to the door, darling?"

"Nah, I'm a big girl." Alexis replies as she heads to the door. Mid-stride, she cranes her neck. Over her shoulder, she says, "Don't miss me too much, Blyth."

The front door shuts behind her, leaving Tom's bed feeling infinitely colder. The room echoes with the absence of her presence, and as he lies there, he contemplates the space she left behind, a lingering warmth that fades too quickly.

[erabundus]

@euthymicblade &&. said... "Son, did you sign me up for something called elf practice? I am being told I missed it with a weird image."

he's  sitting  in  the  bathroom  sink,  knees  to  his  chest,  face  mere  inches  away  from  the  mirror.  his  fingers  are  wrapped  around  a  tube  of  liquid  eyeliner.  ren  tries  not  to  GRIMACE  as  he  draws  a  sharp line  of  pine  tree  green  across  one  lid  —  knowing  he  (  somehow  )  has  to  turn  this  holly  jolly  horrendous  color  scheme  into  a  disgustingly  festive  look  that  says  i  am simultaneously  the  hottest  and  most  untouchable  person  in  this  entire  room.  he  has  his  work  cut  out  for  him,  but  thankfully,  ren  is  nothing  if  not  stubborn. ( oftentimes to a fault. )

he  leans  back  to  inspect  his  HANDIWORK.  he's  going  to  be  picking  red  and  green  glitter  out  of  his  hair,  clothes,  everything  for  weeks  to  come  —  but  it's  for  a  good  cause.  for  charity.  (  literally.  )  somehow  he's  gotten  himself  wrapped  up  in  doing  this  stupid  christmas  fundraiser  stream,  because  someone  thought  to  use  his  single  redeemable  quality  AGAINST  him.  it's  annoying ...  but  he  supposes  there  are  worse  ways  to  spend  an  evening  than  playing  dead  by  daylight,  griping  at  his  lovely  followers  between  matches  to  throw  their  money  at  a  children's  hospital. he could still be contracted with the fatui.

living well is the best revenge ... but so is pulling a higher viewer count on his own merits than he ever did with them.

ren  glances  over  his  shoulder  at  the  sound  of  his  mother's  voice.  lips  press  into  a  thin  line  as  he  tries  to  figure  out  who  in  their  right  mind  has  been  poisoning  her  with  surreal shitpost humor  from  2017.  that's  just  cruel even by his standards;  some  days,  he's genuinely  surprised  she  can  even  turn  on  her  electronics  all by herself.

❝ i don't know, mom.  ❞ ren replies vaguely, turning back to finish his other eye. because he can't help but be a bit mean, he adds, ❝ why WEREN'T you at elf practice?  ❞

[da3dalus25]

Bit of an advertisement for my StarWars OC short story book lol. It takes place sometime during rebels- not super necessary info, but I made note of it so I thought I might as well put it down.

—

I could feel it coming. The headache made my skull throb in anticipation. Another migraine hinting at an oncoming vision. Stumbling my way through the ship I had made into my home, I entered the medbay and opened the tank, allowing it to fill part way as I undressed down to nothing but my underwear.

I took a deep breath, muscles shaking with strain as I hovered over the tank, the pain becoming increasingly worse and clouding my vision with clumps of fuzzy stars. Lowering myself down and into the tank the clean oceanic liquid embraced me, and I sank into the cool warmth of liquid health, letting go of the rims so I would float on my back. I rose and fell within the fluid with every breath, feeling my warm wet hair tickle my cheeks and ears as I swayed within the tank. I closed my eyes, released the air from my lungs and let go of the pain, sinking deep into the tide as the glass shield closed over me, darkness and the sea swallowing me whole.

My eyes flutter open after what is simultaneously an eternity and a nanosecond in a vast length of time. I see a pair of vermilion eyes through the gloom of the deep blue. Big but narrowed vermilion eyes, squinting as though assessing me. Of course he'd be here.

“Of course”? Why would I say “of course”? I don't know why he's here, why would I say “of course”? I say it sarcastically, of course.

Of course.

“Of course.”

I blink and they're gone, replaced by the refraction of the shallow blue. Was he even there in the first place?

Of course not.

I closed my eyes again and watched him die as an older man- or an older duros, I suppose. Older, more tired and slower than ever, but still impossibly quick to the draw. And yet he was bested. By a man I considered a friend, too. The circumstances called for it, but watching it still brought an ache to my heart.

I awoke and breathed the fresh and open air of my cooled ship. I shivered, collecting a towel. There was a certain absence to the room- as if someone truly had been there, but had gone moments before. Of course he’d leave like that- if he were even there in the first place.

“Of course.” Who am I kidding. I pretend to know the man that would hunt me for sport if it weren’t for the circumstances. I convince myself I care for him, and that I’d save him. But it is always about the circumstances, isn’t it? A man you’d know to be a friend under one circumstance could be the very same man you hate with every fragment of your being under another.

Of course, I’ve gotten lucky with every single “circumstance” I’ve approached my friends with. Many of which would have been my foe if anything had even been the slightest bit different. Perhaps that is thanks to me, or is it just luck?

I sigh, wrapping the warm and fuzzy cloth around myself tighter now. A certain Count would likely want to meet me for tea in a bit. We had been scheduling it for some time now, hadn’t we? As the fog cleared, my ability to recollect what I had been doing earlier greatend. I’ll have to call ahead and let him know I’ll be late due to certain… circumstances. Contact the bounty hunters about my momentary withdrawal and go into hiding from the Jedi and the clones for a few weeks too. I feel bad- the lot of them are my friends. Am I betraying them by acting as though their enemies are also my friends? But I have to do this so that I can keep them that way. In order to keep them close, I have to walk the line. I would hate to see the look on their faces- that look of betrayal- if they were to ever discover I hung around their enemies as though I’d known them since my youth.

He would die years from now- the man in my vision, with his analytical vermillion eyes. Bane. Could I be there to save him when the time came? Would I save him?

It’s all about circumstances, of course. “Of course.” Sarcastic or not, I have to play this game. It’s the only way I can win.

[from-a-reckless-writer]

RE: the tags about being tempted to post a half finished fic and guess the ending, well you are a reckless writer for a reason

this is long overdue, so here have a fic.

It has come to the point that nothing fazes her anymore.

A kidnapping? Been there, done that. It means calling Sam Arias to intimidate the board of members into temporary submission.

An explosion at the office? Just a typical Tuesday. It means relocating to the 23rd floor and sharing the desk with two other interns for 2 months tops.

An assassination attempt? It means bracing herself for at least 3 deliveries of donuts and coffee for the two following weeks that Kara Danvers would be protectively hovering over L-Corp, until her boss snaps and shoos her away back to CatCo.

She’s seen it all, endured it all and she sure as hell is prepared for it all. She’s got three different ironclad statements ready to publish for whatever PR disaster will most likely turn up that week. She’s got contacts from the FBI, DEO, CatCo, Daily Planet, Gotham Gazette-- hell she even has Lillian’s personal cell (just in case the Luthor matriarch ever tries anything y’know? ) and yes, even the number of that 'Mexican place at 5th and Spring, you know the one Kara likes, Jess?'

She’s got two pairs of heels, a raincoat and four sets of outfits neatly folded in a duffel bag, at the back of the office, reserved for any emergency that requires a change of clothes.

The point is, she is an independent Asian-American woman who has worked her ass off for the better part of the decade and has long learned to take no shit from anybody.

Not even stupid superpowered Kryptonians.

See, it takes a lot to be her. It takes unlimited patience to put up with a woman like Lena Luthor, not because she’s a terrible person. Oh no, no, the complete opposite, actually. She is so overwhelmingly kind to a fault, and she doesn’t want nor let anybody see it. It’s infuriating to see sometimes. Okay, fine, she sides with the Krytonian on that one matter. But oh, ho, ho, not today. Today, she’s mad.

She’s livid, actually and it’s all Supergirl’s fault. (and Lena Luthor's too.)

Jess has had her fair share of ‘I-Should-Not-Have-Been-Here’ moments, like that one time she forgot to knock and stumbled unto Lex mid-yell with Lena whose eyes were shimmering but was still keeping a rigid posture.

Or that one time when she thought her boss had long left the office, only to be greeted with quiet sobs and an empty bottle of scotch rolling on the floor. Or that time she happened upon Lena, skirt and sleeves on fire with fumes rising from a green solution.

Apparently, her staff from the lab refused to let her in after three days of their CEO holding herself in isolation with the experiment. Lena had gotten the great idea of smuggling the chemicals to her office instead. Luthors are nothing but determined. Jess still remembers the adrenaline rush of holding a fire extinguisher—as if she were the chosen 5th grader for a school fire drill—and shoving her boss out of the way.

Like she said, nothing fazes her anymore she’s seen it all, except maybe, this one. Yep, definitely this one. This one just made a hot ball of fury unfurl at her very core. This one might just take the cake.

Jess was just going about her day, returned from a hearty lunch and feeling reinvigorated from that dose of sunlight and fresh air. It was a quiet day today, she noticed, which should’ve been a foretelling.

Nothing really is ever quiet. Well, when it comes to L-Corp, at least.

She’s been sitting on her desk for about a good fifteen minutes and finished with screening a few papers from their new contractors, when it occurs to her that the latest blueprints from R&D are still on her desk instead of already being reviewed by her boss.

She grabs the drawing tube and quickly makes for her boss’s private office. They’ve spent enough time with each other that Jess could just come and go as she pleases, instead of having to knock each time. Saves both of their time, that way.

Although, usually, she buzzes through the intercom first to double check, but it was 1:20 P.M and she knows Lena doesn’t have anything scheduled after lunch. So, she pushes the door, confidently strolls in and promptly stops in her tracks.

Jess stops breathing for a moment, blinks once, twice, stares at the scene before her.

Lena Luthor sat atop her work desk; blouse open, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, neck currently being ravaged by Supergirl with legs wrapped around the waist.

She probably should’ve just turned and left while they haven’t seen her yet. That would’ve been the smart decision, right? Yes. Yes, it was so very clearly The Right Decision.

Of course, she doubts she could look Lena in the eye for the next few weeks after that, but at least she wouldn’t know that Jess walked in on them during an er- make-out session? Office tryst? Oh God, she shudders internally. It sounds even worse.

Incident? Yep. Yeah. She’s sticking with incident. Indecent incident sounds more apt really.

She should’ve left. Would have left, if her eyes didn’t just land on the desk—well, more like Miss Luthor’s as- backside—and felt the stirrings of rage make itself known. Because there, underneath Lena’s ass (Backside!! Jess, that’s your boss!) is the squished—probably crumpled—pages of a contract.

A contract they’ve spent 5 months securing!!

Jess decides to do what everyone else would have done in a situation such as this; she clears her throat. Loudly.

Classic move.

Supergirl’s head immediately shoots up and Lena’s eyes snap open.

“Jess!” Supergirl squeaks and she sees the exact moment the realization hits Lena. Her eyes widening at her girlfriend’s exclamation, whips her head to the side, spots Jess, hands scrambling to a panic to close all the buttons of her blouse.

She hears Lena hiss, “Fuck, shit. Oh my God. Shit. How did she even- You have superhearing!!!” as she pushes Supergirl—who lets herself be pushed, stunned by the intrusion, face redder than a tomato.

Lena gets off the desk, fixes herself all the while to futile results. Her hair is tugged down from her usual ponytail, her neck and chest is marked, her lips swollen.

Supergirl's hands twitch at the sides and Jess sees her gulp as blue eyes frantically dart to Lena and her, and then Lena, and then back to her.

Lena finally turns around after those few awkward beats.

"Jess," she begins, clearly trying hard to put on her business bitch persona, but come on, there's a hickey under her jaw for fuck's sake.

"It's not what you-"

Jess doesn’t let her finish, she stomps her way across the office and forcefully puts the drawing tube on the desk. It makes a hollow thump.

“Jess I-”

“Supergirl, do you know how long it takes to finalize a business proposal, pitch it to the board, persuade the board and finally have a contract drawn?”

Supergirl gulps again. Lena’s eyes are wild next to her, she doesn’t like not knowing what the next best move is, Jess knows this all too well.

“Uhhh- no?”

Jesus Christ, you’d think after years of shadowing Cat Grant, she'd had at least learned a thing or two. Then again, if somebody is full on glaring at her after getting caught red-handed, Jess doubts she could answer coherently too.

“That’s right,” Jess says, “You don’t.”

“Jess,” Lena repeats pointedly. She knows that tone. It’s a warning.

“Ms. Luthor.”

A period not a question mark. It’s a challenge.

"I've spent all my evenings working late on that, do you know how many dates I've had to cancel? Just so I can secure a meeting with Qatar and simultaneously sync it with Beijing's time? My boyfriend hasn't seen me in two weeks!” Jess bursts out.

“Two weeks, Supergirl!” She gets close enough to jab a finger to the Girl of Steel’s chest. A feat she will gladly tell all her coworkers later when she’s calmed down enough.

“Not to mention, the 10 other people who worked their ass off trying to make sure that Miss Luthor's presentation is airtight, bulletproof and waterproof!” Lena has the decency to look a little guilty at this point, nothing big though, just a slight tug at her lips, but it was enough for Jess.

“IT TOOK ME 3 FUCKING MINUTES TO PRINT THAT GODDAMN CONTRACT WHICH MIGHT NOT SOUND LONG—” Jess raises a finger in emphasis, “BUT BELIEVE ME WORKING IN L-CORP? A 3 MINUTE DIFFERENCE CAN MEAN AN ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT OR PSYCHOPATH PRESS!”

Supegirl of all people should already know this! For fuck’s sake!

Jess’s chest is heaving. She takes a deep breath, kneads her knuckles to her eyelids, “So, please if you're gonna have sex in the office, please, pleaseeeee clear the desk first. And at least, lock the door.”

She stares them both down, till Lena gives her a solemn nod; cheeks and ears still red. Supergirl squeaks out an, “U-understood, Ma’am.”

“Good. Glad we’ve come to an agreement.” Jess gives them one final nod before finally fulfilling what she came in here to do, “Miss Luthor,” She turns to Lena, “here are the R&D blueprints. Good day, to you Supergirl. I'll be going now. "

When she finally goes home, tells her boyfriend, and wonders aloud if she’ll still have a job the next morning, he tells her she’s such a badass.

And well, Jess can’t disagree with that.

*****

"Did I just- Did I just get yelled at by your secretary?? D-did she just chew us out?"

"She did, and she deserves a raise."

[mc-lukanette]

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]

—————

A few days had passed since Marinette had burned the Adrien photos, and Luka was relieved to note that they hadn't come back since. Marinette seemed equally at ease, their daily calls becoming more and more relaxed with each time she told him about her still-empty wall. He did wish he could do a little more concerning the red string around her neck, but his mind was drawing a blank and she was happier than before regardless.

The main problem however, was the relation to the miraculouses. Everyone knew that Ladybug wasn't interested in Chat Noir, a fact that made the knowledge of the red string even worse. He wasn't sure if the red strings were tied to the miraculouses or not - or how if they were indeed connected - but he speculated that it was about more than just talking to Marinette about Adrien; Chat was a factor as well. He couldn’t imagine the societal pressure of Ladybug and Chat Noir being a couple, and no one had to do much research to realize that Chat Noir was okay with it while Ladybug was very much not.

He'd have to take on the red string from both sides of the masks, and it took one particular day for him to get his chance.

"You want me to go on patrol with you?"

Ladybug nodded, balancing herself on his windowsill as she replied, "If you'd like to. Chat Noir is busy tonight, so the position's opened and you're one of the people used to having a miraculous."

Luka caught himself before he could start smiling too much, knowing that it was Marinette under that mask and she wanted him to go on patrol because they were friends.

"I'd be honored to."

She beamed at him, and after the snake miraculous was on his wrist, he was transformed and the two set off for the rooftops together.

—————

Viperion glanced left and right as he went along with Ladybug. He'd been called enough by then to have gotten used to superheroing, though it was his first time actually on patrol. Given the situation they were in, he was thankful that Adrien was busy that particular night with what Viperion could only guess was Gabriel's orders.

The red string was still dangling around Ladybug's neck, though Viperion'd grown attuned enough with his fate sensing that he could stop focusing on it and simply see her if he chose to. It didn't stop him from thinking about it, but it helped.

Ladybug seemed to know the route to take, so he mostly followed after her, but it was partway through where she'd decided that they should take a break. Paris was always quiet right after akuma attacks, meaning that they could afford to take it easy since there'd been one just that afternoon.

They leaped buildings until they reached the Eiffel Tower, scaling the monument until they reached the top platform. He didn't miss that she'd avoided using her yoyo for the job, possibly to put them on an even playing field.

Letting out a breath, Ladybug leaned against the railing and she gazed over the city. Gesturing to the view, she explained, "We'll have a good vantage point from here in case anything happens."

Viperion chuckled. "You really do think of everything."

She blushed faintly, but took the compliment casually. "I'm just doing my job." She turned her hip to more easily grab her yoyo, then opened it and reached inside. "Anyway, are you hungry?"

He tilted his head in curiosity, then grinned as she pulled out a bag of macarons from the Dupain-Cheng bakery. It wasn't anything suspicious given that it was known as the best bakery around.

"Thanks," he replied gratefully, taking one of the macarons she offered him.

She grabbed one as well and they took a simultaneous bite of their respective treats. He was a little surprised to hear that she brought along snacks, but supposed it made sense if breaks during patrol were a common thing after akuma.

They settled down on the ground, Ladybug placing the open bag in-between them so they could pick them out at equal leisure. Tossing him an apologetic but teasing smile, she added, "Sorry, but cushions wouldn't fit in the yoyo."

He raised his brows at her, then glanced down at the hard ground below them. He snorted at her joke, noting, "It's nice to see you outside of akuma battles, where you can relax and play around more."

She smiled shyly at him, in a way that was so Marinette that he couldn't believe he hadn't figured her out sooner. "Thanks. Chat says I have no sense of humor."

He frowned, replying without hesitation, "Chat's wrong."

She waved him off, though he could tell that she appreciated the comment. Hearing that Chat had told her something like that was news to him, despite all the research he'd done into their relationship. Granted, he imagined that anything could be said off-camera and he couldn't have known.

"Does he say things like that a lot?" he asked, hoping he wasn't prodding too much. There was just something about how casually she'd said it that unnerved him.

"Huh?" She blinked, thrown off by the question, then rubbed the back of her neck. "Well... most of the time, he flirts instead. It's..." She hesitated, like she wasn't sure that she could talk about it. Glancing at him, then back to the open sky, she relented and added, "—it's a lot sometimes, but he does his job well enough, so it’s not like it’s a serious problem. I don’t know, it’s not like I’ve never wondered about the what ifs of having someone else, but whenever I think about it, I just—"

She squinted at nothing, Viperion's gaze flickering down to the string, which had became visible now that he was focusing on it.

It had tightened, pressing into the black of her bodysuit in a way only he could see, and he found himself squinting just like she was.

"—I can't imagine being Ladybug without him," she said.

He pressed his lips together, trying to suppress any reaction to the comment. He'd suspected it for a while, but actually seeing it was something else entirely.

The red string demanded dependency on Ladybug's part. He wasn't sure how much it pulled Chat on the other end, but judging from what he'd gathered from Marinette's luck and fate's blatant favoring of Adrien, he could guess.

Ladybug peeked up from her macaron when he remained silent, confusion passing over her features. "What? You look like you have something to say."

"Ah—" He looked down, brows furrowing as he hoped even more that he wasn't pushing boundaries. "—just... I know that he's been with you since the beginning, but I don’t think you need Chat Noir to be an amazing Ladybug."

She straightened, dropping her treat in surprise and then fumbling to catch it. Perhaps she hadn’t caught onto what her words implied, or had said them without thinking due to the string and was now facing it head-on.

He continued, "You've dealt with akuma plenty of times without him, and you work well with all your heroes. I'm sure you could make the best out of any partner you had." He smiled reassuringly at her. "Maybe Chat Noir only seems as good as he does because he's at your command."

Ladybug's cheeks tinted red, nearly matching her mask, as she ducked her head at the high praise. She raised the macaron back to her lips, chewing on it as if that helped hide her face.

It was only after she'd slowly nibbled the treat all the way down and swallowed that she replied, "T-thank you."

He shrugged, having only been honest.

"Chat Noir..." She cleared her throat. "Well, Paris would disagree with you."

"Paris is wrong too," he replied in the exact same tone as when he was discussing Chat. After careful consideration, he asked cautiously, "Do you mean how—"

"Yeah, the—" She frowned and waved both hands vaguely in a gesture that no one but him would've understood. "Yeah."

So she was all too aware of their status of a "couple" in the eyes of Parisians. It made sense with everything he already knew, but he hadn't wanted to be right.

The phrase she'd used when talking about Adrien resurfaced in his mind: made for each other.

He clenched his fist. She was being pressured on both sides of the mask, towards both sides of Adrien's mask.

"I don't like it," she admitted, "but Chat drinks it up and I guess the public is into the idea of this superhero couple. They see us like celebrities."

"It's not right," Viperion hissed, and Sass would've been proud of it. "You save Paris every week and you deserve to be respected."

"There's nothing I can do about it," she told him, almost in defeat. "Besides, Chat... he needs a pick-me-up every now and my pep talks don't always work on him. He pouted when I brought in a male hero for the first time."

"That's not your fault!" he argued. "Chat needs to be confident on his own. He can't keep relying on you or make you feel like you can't do anything without him doubting himself. You're under enough stress as it is, and—!"

He caught himself, his mouth shutting tight before he could reveal exactly how much he knew. Ladybug blinked at him, seeming puzzled by the outburst but not suspicious at least.

He took a breath, reminding himself to stay calm. Reaching back, he grabbed hold of his lyre and brought it in front of him, strumming a few notes and letting them settle the discordant song that was playing in his stomach.

"My point is... Chat shouldn't be someone adding onto the pressure. That's not a partnership."

Her shoulders relaxed, her eyes darting around as she processed his words. She looked conflicted.

"...I'm sorry," he added, settling his lyre in his lap. "Not for what I said, but—I didn't mean to bring the mood down."

"No, no." She shook her head, pulling her knees to her chest. "It's good that you did. I've actually—" Her voice grew quiet. "—been thinking about it lately."

"About what?"

She made the same vague gesture from before. "All of that. There's been a lot going on and it's given me a lot to think about."

He knew immediately what she meant.

"It's... frustrating," she groaned. "I don't like Chat that way. I mean, maybe sometimes he said or did something that I found charming, but that's just—not enough for me, you know? To only feel something like that for a second or two." She averted her gaze, growing distant. "Everyone seems to think we belong together, and... I hate that they might be right."

"What do you mean?"

She sighed. "Well, I'm a hero; a permanent one. I need to be there all the time. Every akuma, every purification, every Miraculous Ladybug. Only I can do it." She hugged her legs closer, burying her face in her knees. "I want a relationship. I want someone to date and be close to, but I can't have it. I'm always running away; always going somewhere with some excuse so I can go deal with the akuma, and I can't tell anyone! Can you imagine how that'd make my date feel?"

He opened his mouth, but a thought occurred to him at the last second that gave him pause.

"You... so you think..."

Once again, he hoped to be wrong. He wanted so badly to be wrong.

But Ladybug looked up, her expression pained as she confirmed, "There's only one person I could be with where it wouldn't have to happen."

His blood ran cold, he felt sick, and the memory of the red string flashed in his mind, wrapped around Adrien's ring.

Fate didn't just tie her to him; it wanted to make her believe that he was her only choice.

Viperion's grip on his lyre tightened, his teeth grinding together behind closed lips as he tried to maintain an aura of calm. He wasn't just angry anymore, he was livid, and he silently wished that the face on the other side of the butterfly miraculous was the universe so he could give it a piece of his mind.

How could you do that? How could you take a girl who's always worked so hard and tried her best, and treat her like she's nothing? No, not nothing, because then at least she'd be left alone. How could you treat her like a plaything, as if she's some prize for a guy to win no matter what? How could you manipulate her to think that everything's her fault, just so she never thinks to fight back against the ones putting pressure on her?

What's love if it's gotten through such force?

"V-viperion?"

A hand falling upon his jolted him back to reality, his head snapping up to see Ladybug there, her pupils shrunken in and her brows knitted in worry. Whatever his face had looked like, it'd scared her.

His first instinct was to feel guilty. He was supposed to be comforting her, not making things worse by letting all of his emotions show on his face.

His second instinct...

He tossed his lyre off to the side, Ladybug's gaze briefly following it until his hands fell upon her shoulders. Her eyes widened, and she let out a squeak as he pulled her onto his lap and into a hug.

The only thing he was grateful for in terms of her superhero status was that he could hug her as tightly as possible without hurting her.

"A-ah..." She seemed tempted to say something, but fell silent soon after and hugged him back, burying her face into the side of his neck. He felt her strength in the way she squeezed him, like she was starved for his affection despite them being in a similar position not too long ago.

He understood. Before, they were tackling her problems when she was Marinette, but Ladybug had never had someone to personally confide in concerning Chat.

She'd needed this.

"You already do so much," he whispered. "You should be allowed to be with whoever you want, and you shouldn't have to settle when it comes to love."

She sighed against him, like she knew deep down that he was right. "You don't know how bad it could get. Some hypothetical boyfriend wouldn't deserve that kind of treatment."

"I get why you'd feel that way," he said, "but I'd hope that this hypothetical boyfriend would know that you're worth it."

Her fingers twitched against his spine. "...You don't even know me."

"I know that you're creative. I know you're smart. I know you work harder than anyone else to keep Paris safe. I know you have a right to feel however you want, and if you think you need to earn being with someone who's not Chat, then you've more than done that." He slid his hand up to squeeze her shoulder. "I also know that you'll find a way to make it work, if you put in even half the care into it as you put into Paris."

"Vi—" She paused, her voice softening. "Luka..."

They stayed like that for a while, the bag of macarons going untouched an arm's reach away. Viperion just held her, sensing that she was feeling out what he'd said and that they didn't need words for it. That was fine with him; her love life was none of his business. He only wanted to help her have the choice to live it.

A breeze blew by, their bodysuits protecting them from the wind chill factor as their hair was lightly shifted by the gentle air. Ladybug stirred, letting out a noise like she felt personally slighted by the wind, then pushed herself up, her hands on his shoulders as she pulled away from him.

"We...we should get back to patrol," she admitted.

He offered her a small smile, noting that she seemed to be in better spirits at least. "Alright." He let her out of his lap, leaning over to the side to pick up his lyre.

He heard her retreating footsteps, along with a light, "You can keep the macarons."

He glanced up at her, surprised. "Are you sure?" he asked, knowing that he was mostly responsible for them not eating all of them. "Is that what you usually do on your breaks: let Chat have them?"

"Oh." She stood awkwardly in place, looking off at the sky before dropping her gaze to the ground. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she grinned sheepishly and replied, "Actually..."

He tilted his head, curious.

She peeked over at him, eyes half-lidded as she told him, "I've never done this with Chat."

He raised his brows, as if that would make her clarify, but she simply turned away from him and started doing a few stretches, clearly prepping to head back out.

Pursing his lips in thought, Viperion turned his back to her, giving attention to the little plastic bag resting neatly on the ground. Even though it was open, the little ribbon that had held it shut was still around it, suddenly feeling more special now that Ladybug had said something so... cryptic.

He looked out at the view they had, then Ladybug, then back at the bag, feeling extremely slow on the uptake as his brain pieced things together based on what information he had.

Then, suddenly his brain supplied: Wait... was this a date?

He buried the thought just as quickly, shaking his head and scolding himself for jumping to that so fast.

"Are you ready to go back to leaping rooftops?" Ladybug asked behind him, her tone light even if she was still in her own head.

"Yeah," Viperion replied, picking up the little bag like it was something precious. Hoping to lighten things further, he then added, "I'm new to this, so I might lag behind."

She chuckled. "You might. Apparently I'm a really amazing hero according to someone I know."

He grinned to himself. Even if she was just teasing, it felt good to hear her compliment herself in a way.

He had just tightened the ribbon to seal the bag back up, listening to the sound of Ladybug's foosteps, when he felt a sudden niggling sensation at the back of his head, or—behind him? He turned, puzzled, then leaped up as he caught sight of a teal wisp in Ladybug's path.

He rushed over as she yelped and tripped over what would seem like nothing according to her. Catching her just in time, he also realized belatedly that it may've been an overreaction, given that she was in superhero form; he could only blame it on reflex.

Ladybug stood up with a start, covering the lower half of her face in shame. "Ugh, that was so embarrassing, I'm sor—"

"It's not your fault," he hurried to say, not explaining further as he grew lost in thought, staring silently at the place where the wisp had formed itself.

He hadn't just seen the wisps this time; he had sensed them. That was new, and he wouldn't have questioned a new addition to his fate sensing had it not been the fact that he hadn't particularly done anything as Viperion; it usually took an instance or two of him using his power for something to manifest, but here...

He glanced up when he realized that Ladybug was looking at him curiously. Debating with himself for a moment, he ultimately trusted his gut and met her gaze, asking,

"Do you mind if I talk to Sass again after this?"

[strawberrymilkgeorge]

Part Ten. Faces

warnings: swearing, hate comments word count: 4.1k (not including pics)

behind the screen (irl dream x f!reader) series masterlist ultimate masterlist

A/N: sorry its late!!!! this feels rushed but i was just too excited to get to some parts!!! also i have had some parts written out for SO long that they dont even feel cute to me anymore so im literally praying to every deity rn that you guys think its cute lmao anyway enjoy!!!!

**********

It had been about a week since Karl's slip up but everything was already more normal than Y/n had expected it to be. Of course, George, Sapnap and Quackity were all very understanding and gave her space while simultaneously reassuring her that she was safe with them. She fully believed it too, she knew she was safe with them and they weren't going to tell anyone her name.

The one unusual thing was now she had a heavy guilt, like someone dropped another sandbag in her stomach, every time Dream texted her. If the others knew, it was only fair that she tell him her name too, right? I mean, it's Dream. Dream! The boy who had quickly slipped his way into her life and, though she wouldn't admit it to Karl or Naomi, her heart.

But how? Does she just come right out and say it or wait until it gets brought up? She hadn't practiced telling anyone her name because she wasn't planning on doing it any time soon. Though, maybe she should have been seeing as she was going to see them all in person in a little over a month.

Regardless of the guilt, Y/n had other things to worry about today; Quackity was coming to visit. Karl had picked him up from the airport and the two of them spent all day catching up and doing who knows what but Y/n still hadn't met him. She was scared. She wasn't scared of Quackity, but scared because it was the first time one of her online friends would be able to put a face to her name and voice.

Y/n shuffled across her living room rug and reached for her phone on the coffee table, looking for some sort of distraction while she waited for them to arrive.

-

Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her head as she threw her phone on the couch. Okay, he's right. It's gonna be fine. It's gonna be great. It's just Quackity. If he said anything rude or annoying or anything she could literally just step on him like a bug.

A sharp knock on the front door of her apartment snapped her back into reality. She shook her limbs of nervousness as she made her way to the door, two familiar voices begging to be acknowledged from the other side.

"Let us iiinnn!! Y/nnn!!!!" Karl whined.

After countless times asking the same question, she finally convinced Karl that she was okay with him using her real name in front of Quackity. He clearly still felt guilty about telling the boys her name, asking her multiple times in different ways whether he should call her Y/n or Bugsy in front of the guest. She finally got it through his head that she didn't mind either way.

"Hold on!" she yelled back. She unlocked the door and swung it open to see Karl and Quackity. "So impatient."

"Holy shit, you are tall! Goddammit, I thought that was a joke!"

Y/n laughed shyly at the greeting, looking at Quackity like he was crazy. "Hello to you too. Tried to warn you, dude."

"Yeah but, damn! You're tall and attractive, what the hell?"

"Dude," she said with a warning in her voice. She thought the flirting on Twitter was funny, but in real life she got embarrassed easier and wasn't a fan. "I'm about to kick you out of my house before I even let you in."

This was weird, meeting Quackity before meeting some of her other friends. She loved Quackity, but she had known George much longer and Sapnap even before that. There was no problem with meeting Quackity, she just had no idea how to act since she felt like she hardly knew him.

"Am I allowed to tell people that you're hot?" he asked as he fell on her couch, Karl following right after.

"Quackity!" Y/n yelled, her face heating up at a compliment. "Seriously?"

Karl cackled and shoved Quackity. "Shut up, Alex! No, you're not allowed!"

"Sorry, is that compliment reserved for Dream?" He cackled at his own joke and Y/n's face heated up even more.

"I seriously will kick you out of my house."

"You wanna be flirty on main but not in real life?" Quackity scoffed.

"I'm not flirty on main, you are!" she laughed. "Seriously, don't."

"Okay, sorry, I'll stop," Quackity promised with a laugh in his words.

The three of them fell into easy conversation, mostly because Karl and Quackity were already comfortable around each other at this point. They eventually decided to go to the mall, just to mess around and do something.

*reminder: covid doesn't exist in this fic bc we only want happy things so ignore their masks :P*

Y/n frowned as she unlocked her front door, staring at her phone. She had been so happy with all the fans freaking out about the meetup so she looked at the trending list, expecting to see a flood of keyboard smashes and happiness, but that's not all she ended up seeing. BUGKARLITY was trending, so she scrolled through the tweets and was upset to see not all of them were positive. In fact, when she typed her name in the search bar, lots of the tweets using her name were rather mean.

A few that stuck in her head called her an attention whore and said that her friends only flirted with her because she paid them too. Who on earth would even do that? Some hurt way more than others but she tried to push them aside. It wasn't like this was the first time she had seen comments like this, but they had only gotten worse since her Minecraft date with Dream. She was worried it was cause more hate for her friends and the last thing she wanted was to be the cause of their own hate.

She typed several different messages to Dream, deleting them all after she reread them. She felt like she had to request the same thing from him in a different way. Maybe because she felt like his words meant more, even if he really was just joking like the rest of them. She decided to call him instead of texting.

"Hi!" he chirped happily from the other end.

"Hi, Dream," she said as her chest filled with something warm at the sound of his voice. "How are you doing?"

"Good," he dragged out the word. "How are you?"

"Okay."

"Just okay? What's up?"

"Um," she started, immediately forgetting the words she decided she'd use. "I just... would you mind, uh, not flirting with me so much on, like, Twitter and streams and stuff like that?"

There was a silence before Dream's frantically apologetic words came through. "Yes, of course, oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. If I had known I was making you uncomfortable, I wouldn't have—"

"Wait, no," she interrupted but he must not have heard.

"—said things like... oh gosh. Bug, I'm really sorry—"

"Dream!" she raised her voice, getting him to stop ranting. "You don't make me uncomfortable."

"Oh. Really?"

"Of course not. I actually think it's really..." Cute? Adorable? Endearing? "funny," she decided.

"Oh. Then why...?"

She sighed heavily and explained what she told the others. "So, yeah. I just don't want you guys getting hate because of me so I figure if you stop then... you know."

"Bug..." he said gently. "I'm really sorry. I promise you that I don't—none of us think those things about you."

"I know."

"No, seriously," he said, clearly not believing her. "You need to understand that I..." he paused. "I mean what I say. Always."

Always? she thought. There's a few things he's said that certainly he didn't really mean... like calling her cute?

"I don't joke around like that unless I want to. I wouldn't say things like I say to you unless I really, really, genuinely considered you a close friend and felt comfortable around you. And I do."

Her heart swelled. "Thanks, Dream. I just... maybe don't do it so much for right now? Online, at least," she clarified, not wanting to deprive herself completely of Dream's flirting.

"Yeah, if that's what you want, of course."

"Well, I don't want you to stop flirting with me but, yeah."

He chuckled. "Oh, you do like when I flirt with you?"

She hummed and changed the subject. "Did I interrupt you doing anything?"

"No," his teasing voice dropped and was back to his regular self. "I'm just editing the video we filmed the other day."

"Oh, the 'Minecraft, but you can't touch the floor'?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Oh," she said, not meaning to sound disappointed. "I'll let you get back to it—"

"No. I mean, you can stay on the phone. Unless you're busy."

She smiled and put her phone on speaker and set it next to her foot on the floor. "I was just gonna paint. So I can stay."

Before she knew it, almost two hours had passed of them sitting in comfortable silence, occasionally speaking to share something with the other before going back to their tasks. It was comforting knowing she didn’t need to speak constantly and could just hang out with Dream.

Y/n's phone rested on the floor next to her, Dream on speakerphone on the other end, only the sounds of his keyboard clicking letting her know he hadn't fallen asleep or hung up. She wasn't sure when they started doing this, staying on the phone even when they had nothing to talk about, but they had done it a few times before. They had talked on the phone and Discord many times but it was usually always with purpose, not usually this silently-enjoying-each-others-presence nonsense. Who was she kidding calling it nonsense, she enjoyed it an embarrassingly insane amount.

She repositioned so she was laying on her stomach as she finished sketching an image that was in her mind.

"Hey, you still there?" Dream asked softly.

"Yeah. Sorry, am I taking away from your sitting in silence time with George?" she joked.

Dream chuckled lightly. "Nah, you're more fun. I was just seeing if you ditched me for Karl yet."

"Nah, you're more fun," she mimed truthfully. "But I'm very focused on this drawing."

"Can I see it when you're done?"

"Don't expect too much. It looks bad."

"If you don't tell me what it is, I can't know how accurate or inaccurate it is."

"Very true..." she trailed off, holding the canvas further away to examine it all at once. She wanted the sketch to be perfect before she made permanent choices with paint. She enjoyed the serenity they maintained even when talking, voices low and delicate like they were keeping secrets but not quite whispering. "Are you almost done editing your video from the other day?"

"Sorta. I'm at the part where you and Sapnap almost died laughing because a ghast knocked George into lava and then Sapnap laughed so hard he fell into lava."

She chuckled, remembering the situation vividly. "That was so funny. The way George screams is so funny."

"Let Naomi know that," he mumbled, causing Y/n to gasp.

"Dream!" she laughed loudly and he joined.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. It's true though."

"Disgusting!"

A distant voice sounded on the other end and she assumed it was Sapnap. "What do you want for dinner?"

Dream responded with a soft, "Nothing, I'm good."

"Are you talking to Bugsy?"

He must have responded physically because the next sound was Sapnap's very clear, much more lively voice speaking directly into the phone. "Hi, Bugsy!"

"Hi, Sapnap!"

"Can you tell Dream to eat some damn food? This man literally hasn't eaten a single thing all goddamn day."

"Dream," Y/n scolded slowly. "Please eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I'm not showing you my painting until you eat."

A door closed on the other end and she took that as a sign that Sapnap had left.

"I don't wanna see it anyway. It's probably trash."

"Take that back!" she gasped lightly. She looked at the canvas as she grabbed the first paint color and laughed. It was only a sketch and it was already trash. "Fine, then I won't go on the trip if you don't eat in the next ten minutes."

"That's punishing yourself too though."

"Who says I want to see you?" she asked.

"I never said anything about not seeing me being the punishment."

She had been caught. "It was implied."

"Sure it was."

"It's true though. Who says I wanna see your stupid face?"

He didn't say anything, but an incoming FaceTime call lit up Y/n's phone. A FaceTime call from him.

Her smile dropped. "Clay?"

"Answer it," his voice was lower and her heart started beating faster. Was he really about to show her his face to prove a point? Reveal his biggest secret that only a few close friends knew? To her of all people? She made sure she couldn't be seen in the small window and pressed accept, the voice call ending and the FaceTime call starting.

To her surprise, what came into view wasn't his face, but the logo of the hoodie he was wearing, the simple smile of his merch taunting her. She laughed, the anxiety slowly fading away as it was replaced with a heavy feeling in her stomach. Was she disappointed? Maybe a little, but he teased her into believing she would see him.

"Oh, wow! Dream face reveal! He looks just like his icon, no way!!!"

His chest moved up and down as he laughed, not moving the camera away. "You heard it here first, guys! You've known my face all along, the logo is actually my face!"

She laughed and returned to painting, not paying any more attention to her phone since he was now also showing his ceiling, a small corner of his monitor in frame but nothing else. "I mean it though, if you don't eat, I'm going to be so mad I won't even want to be friends anymore. Or you'll die from malnourishment before we get the chance to meet."

"I doubt it. I'm just not hungry."

"Whatever."

"Oh, hey, so you met Quackity today. How was it?"

"Very scary."

"Yeah?" he asked sympathetically, urging her to explain if she wanted.

"Yeah. But it turned out okay! He didn't act any different so it was fine. It was mostly just awkward. He's also so freaking loud. You would not believe how much louder he and Karl get when they're together."

"I can imagine. Aren't they doing a stream right now or something?"

"Yeah, I think so. I don't wanna watch though, I've had enough of them for the month."

Dream laughed. "How will you deal with them together for New Years'? It'll be for like two weeks."

"Who knows if I'll actually go?"

"Wait, what?" he asked abruptly, not even bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice. His keyboard stopped clicking and she could picture him staring at his phone as if looking at her. "Of course you're going."

"Not if you don't eat food! You have, like, 3 minutes to eat something until I officially am busy doing other things whenever the trip is."

Dream groaned and clicked a few things on his computer before the image on the screen became blurry as he walked through the house, still pointing it at the ceiling. She looked away again and kept painting.

"Quackity's really funny though," she continued. "It was super awkward at first but it was fun to have someone else to help me make fun of Karl."

"Wait, Bug," Dream called out over the sound of wrappers crinkling.

"Hm?" She hummed, continuing to paint.

"Bug," his voice was much softer and he sounded nervous.

She looked at her screen and dropped the paintbrush as she focused on what she saw, grabbing her phone and holding it closer to her face so she could see, still making sure she wasn't in view. All the anxiety from the beginning of the FaceTime suddenly came back and hit her like a truck. Sitting on her screen, waiting to be seen, was Dream. His hood was up, tufts of blonde hair sticking out, and he was standing with his back towards a dark room, the dim light from his pantry making his face just visible.

He held up a cookie in front of his actual, real face. "Are you watching?"

"Y-yea... I... Yeah. I'm watching. Is that really you?"

He nodded once before shoving the cookie in his mouth. "There, I consumed food," he announced, his voice muffled by the cookie. "Now you're legally obligated to come."

"I—What? CLAY! WHAT?"

"What?" he asked innocently as he chewed, walking back to his room and still holding the phone up to show his face. His room light was on, making his face much more visible. If Y/n thought he was attractive in the harsh pantry light, he must have looked like a god in his room lighting, even as pixelated as he was due to the quality of FaceTime. He fell on his bed and Y/n could only gape at his features. He slumped against his headboard, surrounded by roughly a thousand pillows, sporting a small, shy smile as he stared at the screen. "Bug, what?"

She opened her mouth but no words came out. Needless to say, he was unbelievably handsome. Part of the speechlessness was from the shock that he showed his face out of the blue, but obviously, the majority of it was that he was pretty much the most attractive person she'd ever seen. It should be illegal for someone to look that good in a hoodie, especially when pixelated.

"Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Wanna take back what you said earlier?" He bit into another cookie.

"W-what did I say earlier?" Why was she stuttering???

"You said you don't wanna see me and that I'm ugly," he teased.

She paused for too many seconds too long before finally muttering, "you arrogant son of a bitch." He laughed loudly at that.

His eyes crinkled and he threw his head back. So that's what he looks like when he wheezes, she thought to herself, pretty.

Dream shuffled his position on his bed and rested his head on one of his hands. He looked so comfy. "Why are you so quiet, weirdo?" he mumbled.

She set her phone back down and touched her cheeks with her hands and looked away for a moment, grounding herself to the real world for a second. She couldn't process her thoughts when she was staring at a man as gorgeous as Clay. "I don't know, maybe because you gave me no warning before showing me your face? Or because you failed to mention that you're incredibly hot?"

She was so glad she had looked back at her phone or else she would have missed the glorious sight of his cheeks turning bright red before he turned the camera back to his ceiling. "Oh my gosh."

"Aw cute, I made you blush."

"Shut up," he mumbled. "You threatened to not come if I didn't eat something!"

"You didn't have to—you showed me your freaking face just to prove you ate a cookie!! DREAM! I would have believed you if you just said you ate something!" she laughed breathlessly, staring at the phone now for a chance to see him again. "I was joking anyway!"

"Sure you were."

"I was."

"Well, oh well. You deserved to see me anyway."

"Oh, I deserve to see you?" She laughed. "How big is your ego?"

"You know what I meant," he groaned. "You got doxxed by Karl and you met Quackity in person. And you've clearly had a bad day because of all the hate and stuff. You've done a lot of stressful things recently and you deserved to be let in on a secret too."

He was so sweet. Like, tooth-rotting, Halloween candy stash hidden under a kid's bed, upset tummy sweet. She also couldn't get over the fact that he was a million times cuter when he was shy like he was being now, his voice soft and unsure. It contrasted vastly with the confident, loud-mouthed Dream everyone usually saw, though she liked that Dream too. She wished he could show his face for just one more second to see what he looked like shy. Probably sickeningly adorable.

This was it, wasn't it? The chance she had been waiting for to tell him her name? He just let her in on his biggest secret, now he was the one deserving to be let in.

"Y/n," she said with a confident, but soft voice.

There was a long pause. "W-what?"

"Y/n."

He understood the second time immediately. "Y/n..." he tested, the smile in his voice clear as day. "I like it."

"Yeah, well, I guess you deserved to know the secret too."

"I would have been content never knowing."

"Really?" She didn't believe him. He seemed like the type to never be satisfied, always looking for something better. Not in a greedy way, but in a motivational, goal-oriented big achiever way.

"Really," he hummed. "I already feel like you're too good to be true so I wouldn't be surprised if you weren't a real person."

It was silent as she tried to collect her thoughts.

"Bug? You okay?"

"Yeah, I... it's just a lot."

"Sorry."

"No, it's not you. Well... I don't know. I just don't know what I'm supposed to say when you say things like that," she admitted.

He paused. "I think you always have the perfect responses when I say things like that."

"What do I usually say?" She smiled shyly, pulling her hoodie up to her lips.

"You usually call me a nerd or say you can't stand me. 'Oh my gosh I cannot stand you'," he mimicked before laughing.

"What? How is that the perfect response to you saying you can't believe I'm real?"

He hummed and she could practically hear him shrugging. "Because it's a classic Bug response. It's a hundred perfect you. So yeah, it's perfect."

She was silent, trying to compose herself before she exploded.

"By the way, check Twitter."

"Why, are you bragging about me calling you hot?" she teased, hoping to make him blush like she had earlier. It worked.

"Oh my gosh, no. Just look."

She clicked her home button and navigated to the app, her feed instantly flooding with the same similar messages.

"Oh, my gosh," she muttered, her fingers flying away as she typed out her own tweet in response to the love.

Dream chuckled from the other end and when she asked him why, he vaguely said that George texted him but didn't explain further.

"Um, I have to go," she said mournfully. "Karl and Quackity are coming over again."

"Booooo," he pouted.

"Sorry, you aren't the only man in my life," she teased before instantly regretting her choice of words. Too flirty, Y/n, she thought to herself.

"Hm, shame. Am I at least at the top of the list?"

She bit her lips, wanting desperately to repeat what she had told him on their Minecraft date. In the end, she gave in. "I always mean what I say too," she started. "You're my main bitch, baby."

Dream made some sort of sound, a mix of a scoff and a whine but Y/n didn't comment on it, just glowing with heat in her cheeks.

"Leave before I don't let you," he said softly and the heat only grew.

"Goodnight, Dream," she pressed, the tone in her voice letting him know he was being a tease. "Thanks for... thanks for your tweet. And for everything you said earlier."

"Of course. Sorry that you have to see those kinds of things a lot."

"It's okay when I have people like you."

"People like me? What does that mean?"

"Just.... people like you." Cute, sweet, kind, genuine people who make her heart flutter.

She could hear his smile in his words and she figured he knew the unspoken words in her thoughts, the ones she was saying without saying. "Okay. Goodnight, Y/n."

"Goodnight."

**********

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[silhouetteofacedar]

Pearl, Ch. 6: Having and Holding

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Too much is happening too fast.

The little room is stuffy, and Mulder just called her honey, and she’s sweating beneath his palm at her back. The ugly filigree carpet beneath her feet rolls like a tide, and Scully briefly wonders if she’s going to pass out. She should have eaten more for breakfast.

The officiant, who introduced herself as Linda, is saying something to her.

“Miss Scully, do you have the license?” she prompts.

“Oh, yes, I do,” Scully replies, handing her the manila envelope she’s been unwittingly creasing in her nervous fist.

“You’ve been practicing your lines,” Mulder jokes, finally taking his hand off the small of her back. Scully misses the contact and is simultaneously relieved.

Linda glances up from her lectern to smile at him. “He’s a funny one,” she says to Scully.

“Mhm,” Scully hums stiffly, wiping her hands on her skirt for the fiftieth time today. She feels the bulge of a ring box in her pocket, and her pulse accelerates.

The officiant adjusts her glasses. “Alright, it looks like everything is in order, so we can begin,” she says, shuffling a few loose papers on the lectern. “If you have anyone joining us for the vows-“

Scully feels a pang of misplaced shame at the question, glancing down at her feet.

Mulder reaches out and takes Scully’s hand. “Just us today,” he says, giving the woman a tender smile that’s just the right amount of bashful. “We’re eloping.”

He’s an artist, Scully thinks absently, watching him work his subtle magic on the officiant. He could almost pass for lovesick.

The woman smiles back, looking touched. “Very romantic,” she enthuses, glancing between them. “Well, then let’s begin, shall we? Please face each other and join hands.”

Scully turns slowly; despite the crisp layers of fabric covering her body, she feels strangely exposed as she moves to face Mulder. She takes a deep breath and reaches out. Mulder takes her hands in his, his palms wide and warm around hers. He gives her arms the gentlest of tugs, requesting her attention.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

She tilts her chin up and looks into his eyes, and a whisper of peace passes her by.

“You ready?” he murmurs.

His hands anchor her, hold her in place, keep her from drifting away. “Yes,” she says through parched lips. It’s not really a lie if she wants it to be true.

Mulder gives her a soft smile, and Scully feels the room shrink around them, sucking the air out of her lungs.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate Fox and Dana, and their commitment to each other,” Linda announces, even though they’re alone in the room. “Usually at this part of the ceremony I’d say a few words, but-“

“No need,” Scully says softly. “It’s just us.”

“Right,” the woman replies. There’s an awkward silence before she clears her throat and continues. “Do you, Fox William, take this woman, Dana Katherine, to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health-“ Mulder squeezes Scully’s hands then, and she feels a prickle of tears in her eyes. “-until death do you part?”

Mulder must have noticed Scully’s eyes watering, because his brows furrow in concern.

“Mr. Mulder,” the officiant prompts gently.

“I-I do,” he says, almost an aside. He leans closer to Scully. “Are you alright?” he whispers.

His attention is overwhelming, like the lightest touch stinging an open wound. She nods.

“Can I offer you a handkerchief?” Linda asks.

“No, it’s fine, I have tissues,” Scully replies. She composes herself, glancing at the officiant. “You can continue.”

“Do you, Dana Katherine, take this man, Fox William, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Mulder’s right thumb circles briefly over her knuckle in a calming gesture, and Scully feels the contact go straight to her heart.

Please let this be real, just once, she prays nonsensically. “I do.”

Mulder gives her a reassuring nod, and she lets out a half breath.

“Please present the rings,” the officiant says. “I assume you have them?”

“In our respective pockets,” Mulder confirms. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a little velvet box, snapping it open.

“Please place the ring on the third finger of Dana’s left hand, and say ‘please accept this ring as a sign of my commitment’.”

Mulder murmurs the vow as he guides the ring onto her finger; gold, with a dainty pearl and little diamonds clustered together in the center.

It’s beautiful and perfect and exactly what she would have wanted if she ever had the chance to choose, and they’re so close to doing this right. So close and yet miles off target.

This may not be a real marriage in many respects; she and Mulder will be living a truth no one can see. But for her, it would be real. Even if he never held her hands again, she has them now; and she can promise everything she has left if she wants to.

This may be her last chance; so she lifts his left hand, slides his band onto his finger, and pretends.

“By the power vested in me by the District of Columbia, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant states. “You may now seal your commitment with a kiss.”

Oh.

Scully had somehow gotten through the entire morning without realizing this moment would actually come, and she’s suddenly embarrassed. She glances at Mulder to telegraph to him it’s okay, you don’t have to, you can kiss my cheek or forehead, my lips are so dry-

But her Mulder always commits to an act, consequences be damned. He sways momentarily, as though he can sense her hesitation, then leans down and guides her closer by their clasped hands.

His lips are so soft and warm on hers, the kiss tender and familiar. He kisses her with the ease of a practiced lover, placing his mouth against hers in exactly the right way. She feels her entire body relax, pins in a lock yielding around the perfect key.

He draws back, and she returns to the heaviness of the room and the tension in her spine, clarity cutting into her.

That was no cautious, dry peck of a dutiful friend. That was the kiss of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and Scully immediately wants him to do it again.

If only this were real, that there was no tumor slowly pushing into her brain, that she could take this beautiful man and his pillowy lips home to her bed. Her face heats up at the thought, and she looks down at the hand clasped in his.

They’re married, but he’s not hers.

[givemethatgold]

Fix’er Upper Pt. 4

Pairing: Eventual Frankie Morales x Reader Warnings: Injury, swearing, mentions of ptsd and drug use Length: 2k Notes: Hello my Freaky Darlings! I was watching The Martian while writing this and didn’t edit so bear with me and forgive errors!

Part One, Two, Three

Damn your stubborn pride. Damn it, and your swollen wrist, all to hell. Now that you were back at home, nursing your previously ignored injury, it was easy to forget why you had felt the need to work through the pain. Prime harvesting season was ending and all the old farmers in town were predicting an early frost. Knowing how this would destroy any unpicked apples, you had worked hard all day.

Frankie had grumbled at you once, an hour into the workday when he saw you emptying your half-full basket into one of the tractor-pulled bins. You didn't feel like explaining your stupid injury, or risk drawing his memory to when you eye-fucked him, so you just grumbled back an assurance that your total count would be the same.

He was slightly more attentive than usual, and you were worried he had read more into your glances than you had meant. Because, you still hated the guy, right? His... what was it again? Arrogance? Yes! That was it. 

Not wanting to encourage any more misconceptions, and still trying to hide your damn swollen wrist, you worked through your breaks and barely stopped for lunch.

Frankie had finally put his foot down when Jacquie had arrived with stew and biscuits for dinner, forcing you off the ladder and stashing it away to make sure you didn’t get the idea to head up again that day. 

You had successfully hidden your swollen wrist from him but knew that Jacquie had a much keener eye. So while you were remiss to leave the company of your friend you begged off dinner, citing exhaustion, and went home.

Now though, with a meal that paled in comparison to Jacquie’s cooking, and your bound wrist on ice, you wished you had stayed.

That is until you remember the moment when you had stared at your boss's lips for an inappropriately long time. With a groan, you decided to leave the dishes for tomorrow, just wanting to bury your head under your blankets and try to bury your embarrassment as well.

The sound of rain pelting against the window woke you a few short hours later. You would have just gone back to sleep but the memory of leaving a few windows open forced you out of bed. By the time you made it downstairs, the gentle rain had turned to a downpour of sleet and you could feel the cold air blowing through the house.

Your mind immediately went to the orchard. If this storm got any worse, a sizeable section of un-picked trees would be rendered worthless. Grabbing your boots and discarded coat off the floor, you rushed to your truck with freezing rain stinging your face. It wasn't until you were near the end of the driveway that you realized you hadn't closed any of the windows.

That wasn't what caused you to slam on the brakes, though. Frankie's truck had just turned down your driveway, fishtailing around the bend as he barely slowed down in his hurry. Seeing you at the last minute, he braked hard but the slush already accumulating on the ground caused him to skid. The impact wasn't hard but your smaller truck wouldn't be road-worthy any longer.

Wrenching your doors open and coming around the assess the damage Frankie was swearing while you were trying to decide whether to laugh or cry.

"What the hell are you doing?" Frankie called to you from across your crumpled hood.

"Me? ME?!" You countered, voice becoming shrill from panic and stress. "What the hell are YOU doing?!"

"Coming you help you and save your damn house from this storm!" He yelled back, giving a little jump and waving his arms out of frustration. It would have been comical under different circumstances. "This is gonna flood your fuckin' house!"

"Your orchard!" You were hollering now "This is going to ruin the rest of the apples!"

Jerking his head back Frankie looked at you with confusion, "What the hell are you worried about them for?"

His query forced you to stop and wonder that for yourself.

"I-" you stuttered, feeling a little silly "I don't know? Are you really going to argue with me though?! We've wasted enough time..."

Heaving a sigh, Frankie jerked his head towards his truck and growled, "Get in."

In a desperate bid to save as much of the fruit as possible, you and Frankie laid tarps down under as many trees as you could. Shaking the branches caused the ripened fruit to fall and you just prayed the rest would survive the sudden storm which had now turned to snow.

Working together you dragged each tarp towards the tractor and took turns driving the filled bins into the barn. It wasn’t a heated cab but still a nice respite from the blizzard.

By five a.m. you had done as much as possible and the adrenaline that had once been surging through the both of you had long faded. The snow had now slowed to a light drizzle but the ground was a slippery, muddy mess, as so were the both of you. Once Frankie noticed the shivers that wracked your body he ushered you into the barn and up the side stairs into his loft.

“It’s not much but it’s enough.” was his way of welcoming you into the space. It was cozy but lacking in luxuries or personal touches.

While Frankie got busy making tea and warming soup in the kitchen you explored the loft. It was one large room broken into three basic areas: his bed in one corner with a small bathroom just off the side, a kitchenette along the opposite wall, and a couch flanked by rocking chairs faced a fireplace at the end. Making your way over to the fireplace you intended on getting a fire going but were distracted by the photos decorating the mantel.

“You served?” Your voice came out sounding loud and strained, not at all the casual way you had intended. Frankie had been gruff with you but never unkind, however, seeing photos of him in uniform instantly raised your hackles. It was an automatic response from being reminded of your husband and you hated it.

Shaking the thought of Brad from your mind, you realized Frankie hadn’t answered and was just standing next to you, staring at the photos with a blank look on his face.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried” you spoke softly, not wanting to spook him from his reverie.

You had seen that far-off look on your husband’s face when he had been home between tours. It had always been best to stay quiet and out of sight when he had gotten like that.

Frankie took a sudden step in your direction. That movement, mixed with the current memories swirling in the forefront of your brain, caused you to reflexively throw your arms up to cover your face. Hot tea spilled out of the mug Frankie had been passing to you and immediately burned the skin on your hands and arm.

“I’m sorry!” you cry out, immediately, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Tears were spilling down your cheeks and you had instantly curled up, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

“Shhhhhh, no, nononono, shhhhhh” Frankie was frantically trying to reassure you while simultaneously trying to get close enough to assess how bad the damage to your skin was. He seemed to know that you were feeling unsafe so he made himself small and lowered himself to the floor. “That was completely my fault, right? Can I see?”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath you calmed yourself enough to see the warmth and worry in his eyes. Your heart immediately constricted for an entirely new reason when you noticed his posturing, how he had made himself smaller than you and had his hands out wide where you could see them, waiting for you to show him the severity of the burns.

This man had dealt with PTSD before. 

Nodding, you reached out both hands for Frankie to take and tried to swallow the embarrassment you felt from your little breakdown. That emotion was quickly forgotten, however, when Frankie finally got a look at you and noticed, for the first time, just how swollen your wrist was.

“What happened here?” he asked, sternly “Were you working all day like this?”

“It’s nothing,” you assured him, trying to pull your hands out of his firm but gentle grip, “just a little mishap from this morning. Don’t worry, though, I was able to work just fine.”

He let out of huff of frustration. “You think I’m worried about how many apples you picked? Jesus Christ, you must think I’m the biggest asshole around.”

“No,” you said quietly, still trying to calm down but also wanting to relieve the tension, “that title belonged to my husband. You,” you continued, ignoring the way his head snapped up to your face then back down to check your bare ring finger, “are just the biggest grump around and it’s intimidating.”

Frankie was silent again and watched his jaw tic as he digested this new information. He was still staring at your hands, cradled in his. The bright red hue of your skin must have jarred him from his thoughts because he quickly but carefully stood up, pulling you up with him, and ushered you towards the kitchen. As you sat on the counter with cold tap water flowing over your burning skin, Frankie flitted about searching for salves and gauze to protect the skin once it had been sufficiently cooled. You tried to reassure him that you would be fine but he wasn't hearing it.

He was talking now, hadn't stopped rambling, but of nothing consequential. You had a feeling there were a lot of secrets stored in his heart but knew you weren't in a position to be trusted with them. You found yourself wishing that you were. You hadn't realized you were nodding off, the strain of the past 24 hours finally catching up on you, until Frankie had called your name for the fourth time. He was, respectfully, keeping his distance not wanting to startle you again, but hovering close enough by to catch you if you slumped over in your doze.

"Come on," he murmured sleepily, "let me take you home. We're not getting any more work done here for a while so take a few days to rest."

"Oh Christ," you guffawed in a very unladylike manner, "how did I forget?"

"It looks worse in the light of day." Frankie chimed in, ruefully.

The two of you sat in the idling truck staring at the crumpled hood of your poor truck, which was inconveniently blocking your driveway.

"I'll call for a tow."

While he was on the phone he climbed out of the cab, assessing the damage and trying to figure out how much this was going to cost him. A few minutes later he made his way back into the warmth of his truck, "He won't be here till tomor-". Frankie let the sentence trail off once he noticed you'd fallen asleep, bundled up in the fleece jacket he had lent you. Sitting back in his seat, watching the sunrise dance across your face, Frank took a moment to think about everything that had transpired in such a short amount of time.

Closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the seat, he figured he'd let you sleep for a few more minutes before making you wake and have to walk the rest of the way to your house.

"As I live and breath..."

Jacquie's jubilant voice woke the both of you with a start. It was evening and Frankie's truck had been idling in your driveway for nearly 8 hours with the two of you passed out cold in the cab. At some point, you had shifted and were resting against Frankie's chest, his body turned toward yours and his arms wrapped tightly around you.

"Mark!" She continued to yell, "You owe me fifty bucks!"

PART FIVE 

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Monstrous Secrets Chapter 6

Eris Vanserra x reader

Word Count: 1970

Summary: The High Lord’s meeting.

It was by sheer bad luck that you were sitting next to your cousin when Beron and family strode into the gathering of High Lords. It was by even worse luck that Eris had his sleeves rolled up, inadvertently revealing the bargain marks that so perfectly matched yours. You could see realization dawn on each of your friends’ faces even as his family remained perfectly oblivious. You hoped with every fiber of your being that they didn’t think you’d struck a deal with him willy-nilly, even more so that you didn’t make a deal about Mor.

Rhys, if you can hear me, let me explain before you jump to conclusions.

Judging from the almost simultaneous crinkle of their noses, Rhysand and Feyre seemed to notice the scent of your bond with Eris. 

Well, at least they won’t think something worse I guess.

Nesta just raised an eyebrow.

Doesn’t matter. We don’t get along anyway.

Mor’s eyes just flitted between you and your mate, growing wider and wider in horror.

Please don’t hate me.

Cassian and Azriel, though, were the worst with their twin expressions of disgust that they didn’t even attempt to hide. 

And there goes life as I knew it . . .

Then your eyes strayed to Eris himself. The first time seeing your mate in over fifty years, and it’s like this, under these circumstances. You would not cry in front of these people, you swore to yourself. You wouldn’t. Though Cassian’s accusing scoff of, “Just tattoos, huh?” What’d you sell to him, your soul?” damn near made the tears fall despite yourself.

You studied Eris instead of acknowledging your (former?) friend, noticing the struggle etched into his face that made it look as if he wanted nothing more than to hold you.

Rhysand’s voice flitted through your mind, “So that explains why I thought I smelled you in that meeting with Keir . . .” Nothing more. Such a neutral statement that gave you no hints as to what he was thinking.

It was Feyre that reached over, across Rhys, to touch the hand you had clenching the arm of your chair. Her eyes spoke of someone who knew what it was like to have a mate that was hated and to be forced away from them. If anyone in the world would understand what you were currently suffering through, it was her. “Go to him,” she ordered softly. “We’ll sort out the rest later.”

As soon as you were on your feet, Eris was moving--family be damned, apparently--towards you. You met in that undefined no man’s land between the people of the Autumn Court and the rest of the High Lords. In an instant, you were hauled up into a desperate kiss--audience be damned this time. His hair was cut short, you noticed when you went to grab a fistful. You wondered when, exactly, he’d done it and why.

“What is the meaning of this?” Beron demanded.

When Eris pulled away slightly, you opened your eyes to see that his were still squeezed closed and his jaw was clenched.

“Well?”

Eris’s jaw twitched again, to the point you were worried about his teeth cracking under the strain. You leaned up on your toes, cupping his face in your hands, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips while sending soothing feelings across your bond.

“They seem to be mate,” Rhys announced as your returned your weight to your heels, and you could just hear the cocky smirk on his face like he’d known the entire time.

“Be that as it may,” Helion spoke up, reminding the group that there were, in fact, others present beyond the Night and Autumn Courts, “we have more important matters to discuss today.”

Eris reached up to grasp one of your hands so he could kiss your knuckles before parting.

The meeting continued relatively smoothly after that, despite how tense the situation with Tamlin was or the curious/awkward/angry glances people were shooting at you and Eris. It wasn’t until you were in the suite provided for the Night Court that anyone even brought up the topic that left such a stain on the atmosphere. When they did, you couldn’t help but think about how Eris was probably going through the same and worse at the hands of his father wherever he and his family had disappeared to. The sharp pings of anxiety and pain that were slipping through the bond only made you worry more, fingers tracing over the black bands instinctively.

“How long?” Cassian demanded as Azriel vanished with Mor, neither sparing you so much as a parting glance.

You shifted your wings nervously, and your hand fell away from the tattoo, not wanting to draw even more attention to them. “Remember that first ball I went to in Spring when you all wanted me to play spy?”

He snarled as he turned and punched a nearby column, thankfully not doing much damage to the thing.

“Now, now, don’t destroy this place,” Rhys teased though you could still hear the strain in his voice and see it in the way his mouth was pinched at the corners. To you, he asked, “Why did you never tell anyone?” Tell me? he added in your head, clearly hurt.

You scoffed, arms moving to curl around your middle. Your wings were starting to cramp with how hard you had them squeezed against your back. “Can you imagine how his father would have taken that?”

“Doesn’t explain why you never told us!” Cassian shouted.

Wow, having your closest friend turn on you hurt more than you could have imagined. Still, you snapped at him, not wanting to back down. You’d earned your place, Cauldron damn it, and it wasn’t by being cowed every time a male raised his voice. “Don’t you think I wanted to?!” Now, you were toe-to-toe with the feared general. “At first I kept quiet because I was a fucking slave and an Illyrian and he was a fucking heir to one of the courts! And he was betrothed to my friend and I didn’t even know if it would go anywhere! And then--”

“And then Mor happened,” Feyre realized, “and you couldn’t because how could you tell your family that you loved a monster?”

On some level, you knew that she could relate because Rhys had a similar reputation; she had to, in order to put it into words that succinctly. Against your better judgment, you argued, “He’s not a monster.”

Cassian scoffed.

“He’s not!” Your head whirled back to his, hand whipping out to shove him back even just a step. “So only Rhys is allowed to have that sort of façade?! Eris was trying!” You knew you were broadcasting your anger in a way that was likely overwhelming to Feyre and Rhysand, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. “You heard it from his own lips; breaking off that engagement was all he could do for her. There wasn’t time for a better plan. Not when the one he’d been working on before got blown to smithereens!”

“So you’re going to blame her?!” Cassian’s fist clenched in a way that made your stomach do the same. 

“No!” you shrieked. “Cauldron, no.” The mere thought of it brought tears to your eyes yet again. “Do I wish we’d both been more open and talked about this shit before that happened? Yes. Do I wish Eris and I had come up with a plan sooner? Absolutely. Would I ever blame her for the shit she went through? Never.” You looked at the ceiling in an attempt to blink back your tears. “She was my best friend, and I have barely been able to look her in the eye for five hundred years because of something that could have been solved easily if not for the backwards beliefs of others. You cannot imagine what it’s been like all this time. You just can’t.”

Fere seemed to notice something based on the gasp that slipped past her lips and the worried look she leveled you with. “When was the last time you saw him before today?”

Your wings shifted nervously, a tell you’d been trying to rid yourself of ever since Rhysand pointed out in your youth. Again, your hand moved to touch one of the black bands; however, that was a consions, self-calming action. “We said our vows while Amarantha was stealing the High Lords’ powers,” you admitted aloud for the first time. It felt even more horrible than any time you’d thought those words to yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rhysand’s fists clench. Even Cassian seemed taken aback by the admission. “It was too dangerous to meet after that.”

“So tonight . . .” Cassian’s voice was much calmer now, as if he was starting to understand your side. He was, after all, your closest friend even if he was pissed at you.

“Was the first time I’ve spoken to or even laid eyes on my husband in over fifty years.”

Feyre and Rhysand exchanged a look that told you everything you needed to know about whatever mental conversation they were having. No doubt, they were discussing how horrible that sort of separation from a mate would be, especially after the taste they’d gotten when she was recently undercover in Spring.

“Don’t mistake what I say next for forgiveness or finality,” Rhys said after they looked away from each other once more, “because there’s clearly a lot we need to discuss as a group and as a family.” The spark of anger in his eye, something so rarely directed towards you, made you shrink in on yourself a little. His voice slithered into your mind through the little passageway in the mental wall you kept open just for him, Especially the fact that you think of yourself as less than him because of what you are. “But he will be allowed here tonight without any harm coming to him. Just stay in your room to spare Mor and Az.”

“His father won’t let him out of his sight, Rhys. Not after this.” He’ll be lucky to make it out without blood being spilled.

He lifted a brow as if to say, “Oh, really?” as he strode over to open the door to dramatically reveal Eris Vanserra posed on the other side as if to knock. His violet eyes turned icy as he gave your mate a once-over. “From the sound of it, I’m about five hundred years to late, but if you ever hurt her--”

“You’ll let your dog finish what he started,” Eris interrupted. “I’m aware.” His gaze was locked onto yours as he spoke, and you could feel the shared urge to have your arms wrapped around the other. You could read the tension in his stance, the way he was holding himself revealing that he was in pain as well as worried about you. He was wearing a different shirt, this one with the sleeves fully covering his tattoos. None of this boded well for what he’d been enduring while you were fighting with your friends and family.

Rhys made a noise somewhere between a snort and a scoff, oblivious to the observations you’d been making. “Traded one of my cousins for the other. Just destined to be part of the family aren’t you, Vanserra?” He waved off whatever Eris was about to argue, ignored the golden flames that shone in his eyes. “Just go. Enjoy the time you have together before the world goes to shit. Again.”

Immediately, you stepped away from Cassian, who you were still close enough to feel the heat off his body because of the arguing mere minutes (had it been only minutes?) before, so you could grasp Eris’s hand and lead him to your room.

[ocean-blue-whump]

Not Today, Satan

For @amonthofwhump Twelve Days of Whumpmas! Day Two--Human Shield

Trainee era 501 and 236.

Tagging @ashintheairlikesnow

CW: drugging, pet whump, BBU, facility whump, lady whump, beating, shock collar, muzzle, Romantic whumpees, 1 use of derogatory language, bonded whumpees, referenced bootlicking, starvation

501 watches from the corner, her head a cloud of drugs. Handler Hanford is circling 236 with his baton fully extended. The small boy is hunched over on the ground, his ribs visible through his white t-shirt. 501 snarls behind the muzzle, and Handler-in-Training Finch grabs onto her shoulder. She whips her head around, trying to snap at his hand, but is stopped by the muzzle digging into her skin. 

“Cool it, 501,” Finch whispers into her ear. “Don’t make this worse.” He’s not threatening her, he sounds almost...sad. 

501 snorts into her muzzle. 

Handler Hanford’s perfectly polished shoes click against the floor. She would know that they’re perfect, he made her and 236 clean them with their tongues. He rolls his wrist, swinging the baton around. “236. Submit for punishment. Position two.”

236 pulls himself onto his knees, his blonde curls flopping in his face. 501’s heart is pounding, it’s the only thing she can think of.

Handler Hanford nods, the only appreciation he has for the boy’s perfectly straight posture. “What am I punishing you for?” he asks. 

236 keeps his blue eyes on the ground. Pets don’t get to look at their superiors when they’re punished. They’re not worthy of that. “I’m sorry, Handler Hanford.” His voice wavers. 

Handler Hanford cracks his baton against his baton, and both pets flinch simultaneously at the sharp noise. “That’s not what I asked you, 236. I’ll make you sorry, but right now, I want you to tell me what you did. Keep your fucking eyes down, slut. Use your words. I didn’t wipe those out of you.”

236 shifts uncomfortably, and the baton cracks down right next to him, barely missing the shaking boy. 236 yelps, and 501 presses against Finch. She can’t watch him suffer.

“Don’t move. Answer my fucking question.”

236’s eyes dart around. He runs his tongue over his pink lips, searching for the right words to use to please Handler Hanford. “I tried to take off 501’s collar while she slept.”

Slept. Too kind a word. Handler Hanford sedated 501 after a training session, she was unconscious when 236 tried to take her shock collar off. 

Handler Hanford clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And why would you do that, 236? You’re supposed to be the good one. Why would you break the rules?”

Sunny’s perfectly jeweled eyes glisten with tears. “I wanted to help her. She’s--she’s been shaking from the shocks.”

Hander Hanford looks down at him, cold, unemotional. “No. She hasn’t. You’re imagining things. You’re fucking crazy.” He spins the baton around, drawing both pets’ attention to it. “You’re pets, both of you. You don’t take off the collar. So it’s time to be punished.”

501 is moving before she understands, just as Handler Hanford brings the baton towards 236, just as 236 whimpers and braces himself for the blow. She’s moving and despite how much skinnier she’s gotten since she was pulled from the Guard Dog program, she’s still strong and scary and just a feral mutt and she can move fast and strong. She can throw herself in front of the blow and take it, take it across her sore ribs. 

236 wails, watching 501’s body shudder under the force of the baton. It doesn’t keep her down for long. She jumps up onto her feet, legs bent, still crouched over. 501 snarls from underneath the muzzle. 

She doesn’t think to take it off, she’s used to it now. 

236 is softly crying behind her, but 501 tunes him out, looking up at Handler Hanford like he’s a god. 

No. The devil. 

Why else would he exist in her nightmares? 

There’s a fraction of a second of pure silence, no sound in the room except for the air conditioning pumping into the training room and 236’s small cries. No sound, no movement. 

501 strikes out, swinging wildly at Handler Hanford’s legs. 

He retaliates by kicking up, the steel toe of his boot smashing into 501’s jaw. 501 falls back, all thoughts leaving her head. Blood drips from her mouth, running into the muzzle and choking her. 

She can’t fight Handler Hanford, they both know that. Can’t save both of them. 501 clenches her teeth and positions herself in front of 236, her back to him. 

If she can’t fight back, she’s going to sit here and take the pain.

Fury crackles over Handler Hanford’s face and with no care for which of the pets he hits, swings the baton down. Once. Twice. Over and over again, right on 501’s torso, back, and arms. 

They don’t hit the face here, don’t scar the face, don’t cause too much brain damage so no false memories come up. 501 takes the pain and doesn’t complain, just grunts with each impact. If Handler Hanford keeps going like this, he could break 501’s ribs. 

501 thinks her ears are going to break, though, from 236’s wailing as the baton misses him, time and time again. 

But 501 doesn’t care. 236 is pretty. 236 is good. He’s meant to be a Romantic. She’s supposed to be a Guard Dog, and even though she’s not anymore, she’s still just a shield. 

501 goes still as the pain overwhelms her senses, as she can feel her body going numb. 

Thunk. 

Baton on skin on bones, ribs slightly visible through the white t-shirt. 

Thunk. 

Bruises, purple, green, blue, yellow, exploding across her back and side like miniature supernovas in her skin. 

Thunk. 

Eyes going glossy, too much pain and not the right kind to be pleasure. 

Thunk. 

The boy behind her screaming, his hands on her shoulder, even when the baton hits his knuckles and he sucks in a breath. 

Thunk. 

Finch is screaming now, too, screaming at Handler Hanford to stop this, he’s going too far with the pet.

Thunk. 

501’s skin is splitting from the blunt force now, and she’s trying to work around the muzzle so much that it’s chafing her skin.

Thunk. 

She’s going now.

Thunk. 

At least she could save him, at least she could save her love from this horrible violence. 

Thunk. 

Why would she want this? What drove her to sign up for nothing but pain, pain, pain every day for the rest of her life? 

Thunk. 

She’s going now. 

Thunk. 

She kept 236 safe for as long as she could. 

[lovelylogans]

the words you read (my heart’s been displayed)

how did you know 'cause I never told but you found out I've got a crush on you the words you read, my heart's been displayed you found out I've got a crush on you —“crush on you,” the jets

warnings: awkward clueless teenagers, crushes, slightly overbearing matchmaking uncles, mentions of government surveillance, mostly fluff, please let me know if i’ve missed any!

pairing: virgil/logan, secondary patton/roman and janus/remus

word count: 5,761

notes: this is for day 5 of @analogicalweek! the prompt of the day is “vocab card/skateboard” and i have decided to write about vocab card! please enjoy!

⁂

In Virgil’s opinion, Logan Sanders is the cutest boy in all of the sophomore grade.

He was the cutest boy in freshman year, too, and eighth grade, and seventh, and all the way back to kindergarten, but Logan’s changed over the summer. 

He’s sprouted up a few inches, so now he’s a half-head taller than Virgil. He still looks a little gangly, like he’s going to grow more. He’d always been shorter than Virgil before. He’d gotten new glasses, too, black frames that suit him way better than the silver ovals he’d used when they were little. His voice has gotten a bit deeper, his jawline’s gotten stronger, and Virgil’s helpless crush on him has only grown with Logan.

Logan isn’t just cute, either, he’s smart. He carries around stacks of notecards, blank and filled in, and there’s all sorts of things written on it—interesting fun facts and the latest slang terms, in rubber-banded stacks next to rubber-banded stacks of notecards of terms that will be on their next exam. Logan has a way of explaining anything and everything in a way that is really understandable and never makes you feel dumb. Logan’s always top of the class.

And to make matters worse, they’re next-door-locker-neighbors this year, because Chloe-who-was-between-them-alphabetically moved away. Which means that Virgil cannot quite get away with admiring Logan from afar, the way he has since they were little. Which means that when school starts, on the first day when Logan asks him what homeroom he’s in this year, Virgil’s brain can only go ahhhhHHHHHH and the fact that oh my God Logan is tall now oh my GOD Logan has the locker next to mine now! makes him delay his answer because he’s just staring at Logan, and Logan looks at him a little oddly and then repeats his question as if he thinks Virgil didn’t hear him, and Virgil kind of wants to crawl into his locker to hide there forever thanks.

“Oh,” he manages. He closes his locker. “Um. I’m in Mr. Morales’ homeroom this year.”

Logan smiles at him. Logan SMILES AT HIM. And then he says, “I am, as well. Perhaps we’ll be seated next to each other in homeroom, in addition to being locker neighbors. I would enjoy that.”

He would ENJOY THAT!!!!!

Logan clears his throat and fiddles with his glasses, finally just pushing them a little further up his nose, even though they’re pretty high up on his nose already. “Would you like to walk together to Mr. Morales’ classroom? I was in his home economics class last year, I know where it is.”

“Um, sure,” Virgil says, voice cracking embarrassingly, and he considers opening his locker back up again so that he can hide there. He’s pretty skinny, he might be able to fit.

So they walk to Mr. Morales’ classroom. Logan’s the one talking, mostly; Virgil’s grateful for that, because he’d probably just be rambling nervously the whole time, and it’d be tempting fate to have his voice crack in front of Logan again. But now he can just listen to Logan’s various opinions about their summer reading for their English class, which is much safer. He sure has a lot of opinions about it, which makes Virgil sweat a little nervously—Logan sounds like he’s ready to sit down and write an essay about it, as if they’re going to have to, and Virgil’s pretty sure that if he sat down to take a multiple-choice quiz about that book right now he’d flunk it.

They end up not being assigned to sit next to each other. Mr. Morales says to just sit wherever, since they’re all going to go to an assembly once he takes attendance anyways, and that he probably won’t assign seats for the whole year.

And then Logan ends up sitting next to him anyways.

Like he really meant that he’d like to be next to Virgil in homeroom.

Mr. Morales smiles at them, and then, inexplicably, gives Logan a double thumbs up? And then Logan’s cheeks go kind of red? Logan turns his face away from Mr. Morales, turning to more fully face Virgil.

“You were in his class last year, right?” Virgil says.

“Erm, yeah. Yes. I was.” Logan clears his throat, turning away from him. “He supervises my study hall, too.” Then he mumbles, “also he’s my uncle.”

“He’s your uncle?” Virgil repeats. This is news to him.

“Through marriage,” Logan explains. “Mr. Regnant is my father’s brother.”

Mr. Regnant is the arts-and-music teacher, and, though they don’t talk about it very much (students do, but then, students always gossip), Mr. Morales’ husband.

Mr. Regnant is also, not that Virgil would ever tell him so, Virgil’s favorite teacher.

“Which dad?” Virgil says, because Logan’s two dads were basically his only version of real-life gay representation when they were really little. He knows Mr. Sanders better than Logan’s other dad. 

Mr. Sanders always volunteered to be part of the PTA moms who supervised them during holiday parties and field trips, though, looking back, he doesn’t think the PTA moms liked him very much. The kids, on the other hand, loved Mr. Sanders, who would treat them like very short adults and once a year would bring in his mamba Eve for kids to pet and hold.

Logan’s other Dad had been the one who encouraged the kids to throw paints and roll around in the mud and tear things up. Logan’s other Dad had come to supervise one holiday party and was politely asked to never do so again.

“Not Pa—I mean, Janus,” Logan says, looking briefly embarrassed. “He’s Dad’s—Remus’—twin brother.”

Virgil makes an “ohhh” sound, because that makes sense. Now he’s thinking about it, Mr. Regnant and Logan’s dad really do look alike, if one looked past their contrasting senses of style. 

“That’s cool, though,” Virgil says thoughtfully. “That you’re related, I mean. Mr. Morales is really nice.”

“Yes, he is,” Logan says. “It’s been a bit strange to adjust to calling him Mr. Morales instead of Uncle Patton, though.”

“Yeah, I guess it probably would be,” Virgil says. 

The bell rings, and Mr. Morales ushers them off to the assembly.

Logan sits down next to him on the bleachers at the assembly, too. Their knees bump together as they listen to the principal welcome them back from summer vacation and give some announcements.

And Logan keeps sitting down next to him.

At lunch, in their two shared classes, in homeroom. He wishes Virgil a good morning and good afternoon every day at their locker. As the months of the school year slowly creep by, Virgil definitely does kind of feel like crawling into his locker, sometimes, but less and less so, because.

Because he and Logan are kind of friends now.

Logan asks him about his favorite hot beverage and then starts bringing him chai when he and his uncles stop by a café before school. Virgil sketches out drawings of astronauts and space when Logan goes on a loving tirade about it that lasts, on-and-off, for a week. 

He still definitely has a crush on Logan. His increased presence near him is both a blessing and a curse.

They share earbuds and laugh at videos in homeroom, they sit quietly side-by-side and do their homework together in study hall. Virgil even tags along, sometimes, when Logan takes time out of his day to visit his uncles. His uncles always seem delighted whenever Virgil drops by, which Virgil guesses makes sense—Mr. Morales is just kind of Like That, and he’s been taking classes with Mr. Regnant since freshman year, and they’ve been sassing at each other for just about as long.

Logan makes those visits rare, though. He always seems a little self-conscious about how excited his uncles are during their visits, the way they elbow Logan and give him thumbs-ups and wiggle their eyebrows. Virgil doesn’t really get it—he thinks it’s nice that his uncles are so excited to see Logan with his friend.

But then his mom unexpectedly comes by and drops off his lunch and ruffles Virgil’s hair right in front of Logan, and Virgil spends the rest of the day going beet red even Logan assures him that it’s okay and he thinks it’s nice, something in his brain... clicks. A little bit. Even though it doesn’t make sense.

Does Logan...?

No, his brain tells him. There’s no way.

But Virgil keeps an eye out for the next week anyways.

On Monday, Logan’s uncles give him a ride to school and also drive him by the café, so Logan hands over a chai for Virgil. Virgil smiles and thanks him.

Have Logan’s ears always gone red whenever Virgil thanks him for bringing him tea?

On Tuesday, their fingers brush when Logan’s passing over a stack of notecards for Virgil to study for an upcoming exam during their study hall. Simultaneously, they look away from each other, redirecting their attention to their textbooks.

Have they always done that?

On Wednesday, Logan and Virgil swing by Mr. Morales’ classroom. After Virgil laughs at a somewhat sarcastic comment that Logan says, and redirects his attention to the sketch he’s been doing to turn in for approval for his end-of-semester art project, he peeks through his bangs to see Mr. Morales waving his hands eagerly, and Logan go red and gesture sharply for him to stop.

Has Mr. Morales always been so excited whenever he and Logan spend time in his classroom?

On Thursday, Logan seems chilled by the overenthusiastic air conditioning, so Virgil gives him a spare hoodie he had in his locker. Logan looks at him, looks away, and then proceeds to huddle in Virgil’s hoodie for the rest of the day, even after the school adjusts the temperature and it isn’t quite so cold.

By then, his brain saying no way! No way, you cannot afford to be wrong on this so you aren’t even going to try, there’s no way—

It’s after school on Thursday, and Virgil makes sure Logan has already gone home when he descends the stairs to Mr. Regnant’s art-and-music studio.

“Oh, Virgil, hey,” Mr. Regnant says, distracted, looking up from the sheet music he’s laying out across four desks. “Gimme a second, I’ve got the feedback for your sketch on my desk somewhere—”

Virgil looks to Mr. Regnant’s desk. He can’t even see the mug of pens on his desk that Virgil knows is there, it’s so buried in papers and models and paint palette piles. It’s like an avalanche waiting to happen.

“Uh, that’s not—you can give it to me tomorrow,” Virgil says awkwardly. “Um. That’s not why I’m here.”

Mr. Regnant blinks at him. “All right.”

“I,” he wipes his hands on his jeans and grimaces, not quite believing that he’s about to do this. “I need advice.”

Mr. Regnant pauses, before he manages to find an empty desk and sets down the sheet music. “Okay.”

“Before I say anything,” he says. “I need you to give me this advice as Mr. Regnant, faculty supervisor of the GSA club.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Regnant says. “Yeah, ‘course, Virgil. I’m always—”

“Mr. Regnant, faculty supervisor of the GSA club, is a separate person from Mr. Regnant, Logan’s Uncle Roman,” Virgil interrupts, twisting his fingers together anxiously. “Right?”

Mr. Regnant opens his mouth. Closes it. He gestures for Virgil to sit on one of the choir risers, settling there himself, but Virgil sits on the floor. This is a time in which floor-sitting is necessary.

“He could be,” Mr. Regnant says eventually.

“Well I need him to be,” Virgil snaps. “Okay?”

Mr. Regnant presses his lips together and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little higher pitched. His lips twitch and he clears his throat. “Yeah! Yeah.”

“Oh my God, you’re about to laugh at me,” Virgil says, horrified. “I knew this was a terrible idea, forget it—”

“No!” Mr. Regnant says hastily. “No I’m not, no I’m not. I swear I’m not. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is not about to laugh.”

“Is Mr. Regnant Logan’s uncle about to laugh?!”

“I thought they were different people,” Mr. Regnant sasses back, seemingly on instinct, and Virgil buries his face in his hands and screams a little bit. Just a little bit.

“Shi—shoot, I mean shoot!” He says, and tugs lightly at Virgil’s arm. Virgil peeks at Mr. Regnant from between his fingers.

Mr. Regnant’s face is very serious. There is no more sign of lip-twitching, throat-clearing, or mirth in his eyes.

“Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is here and listening,” he says. “Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA does not have any relatives to speak of. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA does not have any twin brothers or nephews. What on earth even are those? Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA would have no idea. Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA doesn’t even have parents, or a husband, that’s how absolutely relative-less he is. Okay?”

“Mr. Regnant the faculty supervisor of the GSA is an asshole,” Virgil mutters.

“Faculty supervisor of the GSA is starting to not sound like words anymore,” Mr. Regnant says, “also, you are so lucky school is technically over, otherwise I would have totally given you a detention for language.”

“You’re such a hypocrite, you literally just almost swore.”

“Almost,” Mr. Regnant says, “is not the same as did. Now. What can I do for you, Virgil?”

Virgil takes a deep breath in.

“What do you do if you think the boy you have a crush on likes you back?”

Mr. Regnant’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but otherwise, he doesn’t react.

“You could talk to him?”

“Okay, maybe I should be more specific,” Virgil says, “What do you do if you have an anxiety disorder, and you think the boy you have a crush on likes you back?”

“I know you’re not gonna like this,” Mr. Regnant says, “but my answer is still you could talk to him.” 

He holds up a hand before Virgil can protest. “I know it can be scary, I know it can be anxiety-inducing. I know that can be a deterrent for a perfectly neurotypical person, let alone someone who’s got a diagnosed anxiety disorder. But, I mean. Your only options, as I see them, are, A, tell him, or B, sit quietly and wait for him to maybe make the first move.”

“But how can I be sure?” He says.

“Well, why do you think he likes you back?” Mr. Regnant says reasonably.

So Virgil tells him. Virgil tells him all about it—thinking he was cute since they were kids, then suddenly becoming friends this year: the chai, the sketches, the music listening, the blushing and the awkward chats, and how they’re friends now but Virgil still really likes him in a romantic way.

“Does that sound like he likes me back?” he asks anxiously. 

Mr. Regnant bites his lip. “As the faculty supervisor of the GSA? I think it could definitely be likely.”

“Likely?” Virgil wails.

“Well, as the faculty supervisor of the GSA,” Mr. Regnant enunciates carefully, “I can’t be certain.”

“I can’t go and tell him based on if it’s just likely! I need to be sure he likes me back or else there’s a chance he says he doesn’t like me and then I’m going to have a heart attack and die!”

“Virgil! As the faculty supervisor of the GSA! I really think you should go for it!”

Mr. Regnant looks like he’s about to reach out and start shaking Virgil by the shoulders. His eyes are huge, the way he always looks at actors onstage who have forgotten their lines, like by just staring at them he’ll be able to psychically impart the script to them.

“Forget it,” Virgil groans and reaches for his backpack, swinging it over his shoulders and standing up. “I’m doomed to suffer in silence. Thanks, I guess, I’ll see you in class tomorrow. Please don’t tell anyone I told you all this.”

As Virgil is closing the classroom door behind him, he’s pretty sure he hears Mr. Regnant screeching.

Honestly, Virgil should be the one screeching. He can’t believe he just told him all that—who knows if Mr. Regnant will be able to keep the information of a crush concerning his nephew to himself?!

⁂

“Okay, here’s your mocha-with-extra-espresso, please don’t tell your Dads,” Uncle Patton says cheerfully, passing back a to-go cup to Logan. “And the chai! I think it’s very sweet that you keep getting this for him, kiddo.”

“Gestures are a good way to express affection,” Logan says anxiously, carefully setting the chai in a cupholder. “I’ve been trying to vary my approaches based off the five love languages. I’m not sure if it’s working.”

Uncle Roman in the passenger seat, his arm thrown over his eyes, makes a sound of great discontent, the way he’s been doing for the past week whenever Uncle Patton has tried to give him any advice concerning Virgil.

“Are you okay, Uncle Roman?” Logan asks again.

“Thinking about being the faculty supervisor to the GSA,” Uncle Roman moans, as if in pain.

“Is the club schedule about to be particularly busy?” Logan asks, frowning. “You typically enjoy your work with the GSA.”

“You could say that,” Uncle Roman says tightly, then groans again.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do personally, in order to relieve any undue stress,” Logan begins, but is cut off by Uncle Roman shrieking.

“Um,” Logan says, looking to Uncle Patton, who snorts, shaking his head.

“He just, um,” Uncle Patton says. “Well, I think something’s happened, except he told me he can’t tell me what it is without betraying someone’s trust, so.”

“I see,” Logan says, frowning, except for the part where he doesn’t see, really. But that happens fairly frequently with Papa and Dad. Honestly, it’s rather curious that Uncle Roman has not acted in a way that seems strange to outsiders. Dad does it all the time, and they’re twins.

Oh, well. He’s sure he’ll understand eventually.

“I’m fine,” Uncle Roman says, and he sniffs loudly. “I’m fine, it’s all—fine.”

Uncle Patton pats his hand sympathetically, before directing their car to school.

Logan sips his drink, before he says idly, “I think I’m going to tell him I’ve had a crush him today.”

Uncle Roman immediately spews coffee onto the windshield in an impressive spit-take. It is hilarious. Even though Uncle Roman is choking a little. 

Uncle Patton meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, his eyes bright with excitement. “Really?!”

“Really,” Logan confirms. “I mean, it’s been—it’s been a couple months. We are friendly enough. I do not think that Virgil will discard our friendship if I confess that I have had a crush on him since last year.”

“Well!” Uncle Patton says, so flustered that he accidentally turns on the windshield wipers when he means to signal a turn, and then when he tries to fix that he turns on his hazard lights, before he manages to get the car under control again. “Well, that’s great, kiddo! I’m so excited for you!”

“You are the smartest kid I know,” Uncle Roman says, turning in his seat to face Logan, his expression near-worshipful. “I love you.”

“Um. Thank you?”

“I know you don’t believe in psychics, but are you—?”

“Why are you bringing up psychics?” Logan says, perplexed. “I figured—well, I’ll tell him. And it is time that the Halloween festival will begin this weekend. That seems like a date that Virgil would enjoy.”

“Right,” Uncle Roman says. “Okay. Well—go for it! Please go for it!”

“I have already told you I will,” he says. 

“I think it’s gonna go great if you go for it!”

Strange. Uncle Roman is acting as if he has had too much caffeine. As far as Logan is aware, the beverage they have just stopped to get is his first coffee of the day, and he does not metabolize the effects of coffee that quickly.

“Right,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses and taking a sip of his coffee. Then, “Right.”

Then, “What if he says he doesn’t like me back?”

Uncle Roman throws his arm across his eyes and makes that same groaning sound again.

Uncle Patton absentmindedly reaches over and bracingly rubs Uncle Roman’s thigh, again meeting Logan’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Well, kiddo, if he says he doesn’t like you back,” he says, then frowns. “It’s understandable to be disappointed, or a little bit upset, but it’s important to accept his answer graciously and kindly. No means no. No is a full sentence. But Virgil seems like a very nice boy, I can’t imagine he’ll be very mean about it at all, and you two have gotten close over the past few months. It might be kind of awkward for a bit, but with a little work, your friendship will be able to survive it.”

“I suppose,” Logan says quietly, looking down at his lap.

“But,” Uncle Patton adds hastily, “I think the chances are really good for him saying yes to the date! We both do, don’t we, Roman?”

Uncle Roman lets out a very strangled “mm-hmm.”

Logan chews his lip, before he says timidly, “Can I borrow one of your phones to call my Dads?”

“Cupholder, just a bit in front of ya,” Patton says cheerfully. “You already know the password.”

Logan does. He swipes it in—his uncles’ wedding date—and presses on Papa’s contact number. Dad’s phone is lost more often than not, and almost always turns up in strange places, like inside the gateau he’d tried to make, or inside the neighbor’s rain gutters.

His father picks it up almost immediately.

“Patton, if this is about the adopt-a-thon, if I have told you once I have told you a thousand times—”

“Um, hi, Papa,” Logan says awkwardly; he does not want to get into the family squabble about sharing a pet between their households again. Eve is a sufficient pet, even if she’s not as cuddly as Uncle Patton might like.

His father’s voice transforms from chiding to concerned in a second. “Logan, is everything all right?”

“Yes, everyone is operating under adequate parameters,” Logan says. “Is Dad there?”

There’s the sound of something crashing in the background, as if on cue. Knowing Dad, it might have been.

“I’ll get him,” Papa says wearily.

He hears his Papa say Remus, our son is on the phone, please put down the—Uh, Jan, sexy-pie! I thought you were! On the way to work!—what the—REMUS, we’ve TALKED about this, how did you lay hands on a HERON—and then the conversation gets a good deal more muffled. He is pretty sure that Papa is shouting at Dad about capturing local wildlife again.

He waits patiently, before he hears the clatter of the phone being passed into someone’s hands, and Dad asks, “Did someone die?! Do you need help covering up a murder?!”

“Remus, please,” Papa groans, “the boy is too smart to implicate himself by opening the opportunity to be recorded over the phone lines.”

“That’s right, Logie-bear, the government is always watching,” Dad says solemnly. “Big brother, all hail. Also lean over and give my little brother a wet-willie for me, it’d be so funny—”

Logan, accustomed to conversations of this tone since birth, continues stolidly onward. “I’m going to tell Virgil I like him today.”

“Finally!” Dad hoots.

“That’s excellent, Logan,” Papa says placidly. “Please know that I am fully aware of the misogynistic roots of the what are your intentions discussion, and I’ve been doing research in order to make our version as feminist as possible. Also, your father has been warned to discuss minimal amounts of gore when he comes to our home.”

“What is the point of a shovel talk then!”

“We already agreed no shovel talk,” Papa says irritably. “When we threaten the boy, we’ll do it subtly.”

“Please don’t threaten him,” Logan says anxiously. “I don’t even know if he likes me back yet.”

“Of course he likes you back!” Dad says, outraged on his behalf. “Why the hell wouldn’t he like you back?!”

“How did you two know that you loved each other?” Logan asks. The question feels slightly childish, and he feels even more so when he curls up in his car seat, but he cannot deny the posture brings a certain level of comfort.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“We’ll tell you when you’re older,” Papa says.

“I’m sixteen in a matter of weeks!”

Dad makes an absurd gagging noise, because he is ridiculously averse to the concept of Logan (and therefore, himself and Papa) aging. Logan thinks that it might have to do with a latent existential crisis, but he has not asked, because knowing Dad, he will spin it out into thirteen separate absurd reasons, and ten of them will make Logan cringe away, repulsed.

“Trust my judgment on this,” Papa says. “You do not want to know the origins of how our romance developed. However, when we actually had the discussion concerning feelings, your father—”

“I wrote him a beautiful letter in my best calligraphy,” Dad says proudly, then, “You probably don’t want to hear about the ink, do you?”

“Is it disgusting?” Logan asks warily.

“Quite, but,” then, in a voice that literally every other person wouldn’t realize is Papa’s version of profound sappiness, “that’s your father.” 

There is the sound of kissing. Logan resists the urge to make a gagging noise of his own, because somehow, he is the mature one in the entire family.

“As it is, just,” Papa says, then sighs. “I cannot believe I am about to give such... Pattonish advice. But. As it is, just be yourself. If this boy likes you back—”

“—as he should, and if he doesn’t he’s in desperate need of a lobotomy,” Dad mutters.

“—then he will like you for you, just the way you are,” Papa says, as if Dad had not said anything remotely worrying. “Tap into your strengths, Logan. You are intelligent, and observant, and thoughtful—”

“—and the best son there is—”

“Well, that goes without saying, clearly,” Papa says. “As long as your confession comes from you, then there is no way that it can go wrong. You are simply too excellent a person for it not to.”

“Even if it turns out he doesn’t like me?” Logan says timidly.

“If it does, then have your uncle forge an excuse note for you to get out of school early today and we’ll plot accordingly,” Papa says evasively. “But I do not think that outcome likely.”

Logan chews his lip. Papa is the best liar he knows, but—

But hearing his encouragement is too comforting to really analyze if he is lying.

“Thanks, Dads.”

“Knock him dead, kid!” Dad shouts. “And if he doesn’t then I will!”

“What did we just say about discussing potential evidence over the phone lines,” Papa scolds, and Logan hangs up, smiling.

Just be yourself.

Uncle Pattonish advice it may be, it has given him an idea.

⁂

Waiting over this past week to see if Mr. Regnant will crack and spill to Mr. Morales, or even worse, Logan himself, has been absolutely agonizing and Virgil’s kicking himself over going to Mr. Regnant for advice surrounding Logan at all.

That morning, though, Mr. Morales is at his desk, and a chai is waiting for Virgil at their usual spot, but Logan is nowhere to be seen. Virgil tries his hardest not to act too much like he’s keeping an eye out for Logan, but he is pretty sure he’s not succeeding, because Mr. Morales is smiling at him way too wide.

He actually seems really excited about something. Like, Mr. Morales usually gets excited when it’s fresh chocolate chip cookie day at lunch, but this is beyond the pale for fresh chocolate chip cookie day. Maybe the assembly they have today is something special? Except Virgil’s pretty sure it’s to pass out honors for the last quarter and talk about fall sports. That’s nothing particularly special.

Logan slides into his seat just before the bell rings, though, wrapping a rubber band around one of his notecard stacks. It’s a thin stack, it must be for something that’s just started; usually Logan compiles every unit of every class into thick stacks, able to be differentiated by the different colors of the notecards. These are just basic white ones.

He fiddles with it, darting looks to Virgil as Patton takes attendance, and, as they’re all filing out of the door, Logan holds out the stack of notecards.

“Here,” he blurts out.

Virgil blinks. “I don’t think we have a test soon?”

“They’re not for a test,” Logan says. “Just—take them. Read them during assembly. Please,” he adds belatedly.

“Uh,” Virgil says and takes them. “Okay?”

“Okay!” Logan says and nods. “Okay. Okay. Great! Um—please take your time to consider them carefully, and I await your response,” and then he practically runs off to fall into line near Mr. Regnant.

So that’s... weird.

But Virgil sticks the notecards into his hoodie pocket, anyways, ready to read them during assembly like Logan directed.

He waits until the principal is droning on about the importance of school spirit to take the notecards out of his pocket.

He spares a glance for Logan—who is several rows ahead, near the faculty, sitting next to Mr. Morales and Mr. Regnant, Mr. Morales occasionally reaching over to rub Logan’s shoulder bracingly—and then angles the notecards so that a teacher looking into the crowd wouldn’t really be able to see them.

He stares at the title on the top notecard. Blinks hard. Blinks again. Looks down at Logan’s back, then back to the notecard.

Reasons why I have a crush on Virgil.

He reaches over to pinch himself. Nope. Not dreaming, then.

And Logan really doesn’t seem like the type of person to make a joke like this.

He flips the cards and reads them slowly, savoring each and every word written in Logan’s blocky, neat script.

He is exceptionally witty.

He is knowledgeable about a great many things, such as music, art, spiders, novels, and mental health issues.

He is sarcastic.

He is thoughtful and deliberate in the formation of his opinions, even ones as small as the proper preparation of chai.

He is very handsome.

He is never rude without reason, and when he is rude, it is usually because the other person is “an asshole” and should be receiving backlash.

He is a remarkably talented artist.

Virgil keeps reading on, he is, he is, he is...

When he gets to the end—I would like to take you on a date. I would also like to be boyfriends, though I understand if you would like to table that conversation until we have established a rapport. Please let me know if you would be amenable to that suggestion.—he feels kind of dizzy. His throat is tight, his heart is pounding, and his hands are so sweaty he’s had to wipe them off on his jeans twice already.

Is it really possible that someone as wonderful as Logan would think of him so highly? 

It’s like he’s describing someone entirely different—awkward, anxious Virgil couldn’t possibly be the snarky, witty, caring, deep-thinking guy that Logan’s writing about. There’s just no way. But, Virgil thinks, heart twisting, but Logan doesn’t lie about things like this. Is this the way Logan sees him?

Is it really possible that someone as wonderful as Logan would have a crush on him at all?

He likes Virgil. He wants to take Virgil on a date. He wants Virgil to be his boyfriend.

There’s the rumbling of everyone standing up from the bleachers, and Virgil jumps—has it really been the entire assembly?—and hastily gets to his feet, so he won’t get swept up in the crowd of students returning to their classrooms.

As he’s heading for the door, Logan practically materializes in front of him, hugging his books tightly to his chest.

“Did you read them?” He asks fretfully. Now that Virgil’s close to him, face-to-face, he isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Logan so nervous. He isn’t sure if he’s seen Logan nervous at all. Logan’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, drumming his fingers on his books, holding the books like they’re a teddy bear.

“Do you,” Virgil says, his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “You really like me?”

“Since last year,” Logan admits.

“I’ve liked you since kindergarten,” Virgil blurts out.

Logan blinks at him, jaw dropping. Then he says, “Really?!”

“Really,” Virgil promises. “My mom has this journal entry saved where I kept writing about how I was going to be Mr. Virgil Sanders, oh my God, she’s going to be so embarrassing about this—”

Logan snorts, ducking his head. “You’ve withstood my uncles handily.”

“Your uncles are cool, though,” Virgil says, confused.

“My uncles are embarrassing,” Logan says, “and my Dads are going to be so weird, I’m very sorry in advance, but—but if you can handle all of that, then I’d—I’d really like to take you out to the Halloween festival. I’d really really like that.”

Virgil’s smiling so wide that it hurts his face. “I’d really really like that too.”

And then the bell rings, and the pair of them jump at the sudden loud noise.

“I—we have to go to class,” Logan says, sounding very put out.

“Yeah,” Virgil says, then, “I’ll see you at lunch?”

Logan beams at him. “Lunch sounds wonderful.”

Virgil hesitates, before he reaches out and places a hand on Logan’s shoulder. He leans in and presses his lips to Logan’s cheek.

Logan’s bright red when he pulls away.

“Lunch?” Virgil confirms.

“Lunch,” Logan squeaks out, his voice cracking.

They emerge from under the bleachers, and have to split ways. Even when Mr. Regnant pulls him out into the hall under the guise of talking about his project and starts whisper-shouting about “do you know how HARD IT WAS to keep QUIET when i KNEW all along that you both LIKED each other bacK,” even when Mr. Morales ducks his head into his math class to pass over papers and gives Virgil some super-obvious thumbs up, even after he texts his Mom and his mom sends him screenfuls of exclamation points and immediately asks him to invite Logan over so that she can show Logan all of Virgil’s baby pictures—

Virgil cannot stop smiling.

[wordsnwhiskey]

Is It Living If You've Left Your Life Behind?

Pairing: Dave York & GN!Reader

Summary: Thanks to you, Dave escaped the showdown with McCall. You planned to take him to a safehouse on the other side of the country where he could recover and get started on living a new life. In order to do that though, he has to leave his wife, his daughters and his life behind. He can't help but wonder, is it really living if he has to leave his life behind?

Rating: T for Language I guess

A/N: This is my late submission for @autumnleaves1991-blog 's Writer Wednesday. I got into my feels tonight and Dave was calling to me. It's my first time writing for him and this is a different take on Dave than I'd normally go for. A softer/angstier Dave but honestly, given this situation where he survives? I don't see classic Dave shining through, at least not until something kicks his ass into gear. The man is injured and more than a little lost. Also, I'll probably edit this later, it's 03:30 and apparently I have a knack for posting things when I should be asleep.

Masterlist | AO3

There was nothing but the open road ahead of him as he sat in the passenger seat, a permanent grimace affixed to his face. His pain ebbed and flowed but at least that meant he was alive. Alive with nothing but the open road ahead of him and his entire life behind him.

Dave really only had you to thank for that. A life debt for a life debt even if it meant he no longer had his life, not really at least. His girls were well over a thousand miles behind him, everything he’d known and loved, he’d likely never see again. You were the only thing Mac hadn’t counted on and even though Dave had lost religion a long time ago, he thanked whatever god or higher power out there that you had kept your head about you during the showdown.

He had been furious at first that you hadn’t tried to kill McCall, only stalled long enough to get him and yourself out of there under the cover of the storm. His anger had quickly dissipated though, you had made the right call, of course. He still had trouble seeing out of his eye, a concussion from being blown off of his feet and plenty of bruises complemented the odd cut or two Mac had managed to land. Things would have been a lot worse had you not intervened.

You glanced over at Dave, hunched over, curling himself into the passenger window. Dave fucking York. He had really gotten himself in it this time but you couldn’t find it in yourself to blame him. In this industry, shit decisions had to be made all the time and Lady Luck was rarely ever kind. People died, that was the business. What else was the married father of two supposed to do when he was cut loose? Assimilate? That kind of thing wasn’t for people like you or Dave York, not really. McCall was too high up on his high horse to get enough oxygen to his brain and too blinded by his own grief to see it.

Then again, you were definitely biased.

“How’s your pain level?”

You asked, and were met with a withering glare, his newly-crooked, hawkish nose only served to further accentuate the harshness in his eyes.

He hadn’t talked much during the already several day trip. Not that you needed the conversation, but you understood better than anyone he knew who was still alive aside from the man you were fleeing from, what this felt like. You hated how people romanticized it, leaving everything behind and starting over. It never worked that way. Your family and friends lived and died and you couldn’t be part of any of it. And now Dave, Dave had two daughters and a wife but they might as well be poison now. Poison to his mind, torture to think about. Poison to the touch if he ever went to see them again, because surely McCall would be watching them from afar, waiting.

The same thoughts seemed to be on his mind, from the corner of your eye you could see him slump further into the window, clutching a small photograph he had pulled from his wallet. For all that he was, former agent, mercenary, murderer, assassin, he was still a family man, a soft man at heart and going into hiding away from this family had just as much likelihood of killing him as McCall did.

“I’m not going to see them again am I?” Dave murmured as he stared down at the photo, thumb grazing over his daughters’ faces.

You opened your mouth then closed it again, contemplating giving him platitudes or the truth. He chuckled at your reaction, a hollow sound devoid of any humor.

“Spare me the bullshit.”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened and you let out a sigh.

“I don’t know Dave. If McCall winds up dead then yeah, that’s an option. I haven’t been back to see my family but I don’t have the same… things anchoring me somewhere or drawing me back.”

Silently, he turned to resume watching the passing orange and brown landscape fly by.

It had been about another two hours since he last spoke and he had been so still and quiet, you thought he might have fallen asleep.

“Why’d you do it? Why are you doing this?”

His voice is gruffer, made thicker from the knot of emotion in his throat. It startles you out of your own reverie.

“Do what?”

“Why did you bother saving me? You could have made it out of there and been in another country by now. Fuck, you could have dumped me at a hospital anywhere along this godforsaken road and still be in another country by now.”

You frowned, somehow you had hoped his relative silence meant you would be able to get through this journey without delving into any sort of feelings.

“It crossed my mind, on both counts.”

He raised an eyebrow, not so much in surprise that you had thought about it, more so that you hadn’t gone through with it.

“I didn’t have any part in Susan’s death so McCall would have stopped hunting me eventually.”

You spared him a glance, he was staring at you intently, analyzing.

“Is this the part where you tell me you love me?”

You scoffed and looked at him incredulously then shook your head.

“No, it’s even more pathetic than that, Dave. You’re probably the closest thing to a friend I have and we’ve tried to kill each other before.”

That got a small laugh out of him, because really, what was more ridiculous in their line of work than friends?

Probably having a family. Dave grimaced as the thought echoed in his mind.

“We were the best at what we did.”

He said, with an air of nostalgia and you nodded in agreement.

“And the worst, somehow even with us each taking on contracts for the other, here we are, still living.”

The small smile faded from your lips at his silence and lack of a response. Your gaze fell on him again as he shrugged his mouth and sighed.

“Are we? Is it living if I’m leaving my life behind?”

This was not the Dave York you knew. Occasionally, you had seen the wry humor, and suave exterior give way to the side of him that accepted “New Hamster” as an answer instead of “New Hampshire” but not even that remained. The Dave next to you had all of those layers peeled back. He was raw and unsure.

You didn’t answer him for a few minutes, honestly there wasn’t much of anything you could say that wasn’t a load of shit. You were both too practical for pep talks. Moreover, it wasn’t a question you had even stopped to ask yourself. The answer and the journey to that answer was a dangerous one.

“I- …. It’s the best option you’ve got right now, Dave. It’s a pretty fucked situation, my advice? Take it one hour a time and if you can manage that, take it one day at a time.”

“An hour?” Dave shook his head and rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand. “All I’ve seen for hours is dirt and sand. While Mac is probably watching Carol and the girls like a fucking hawk.”

You pursed your lips, and eyed the upcoming sign detailing the available lodging and food at the upcoming exit.

“Well you’ll have the inside of our next motel room to stare at in another hour.”

Dave slipped back into silence and you simultaneously welcomed and detested it. Things were simpler without him getting all philosophical on you and contemplating what made living actually living. It hardly mattered though because he had already gone and planted that damned seed inside your brain.

You pulled up to a not entirely shitty motel and paid for the night before going back for Dave who was waiting in the car. The room wasn’t terrible and after a thorough check, you could at least confirm there weren’t any critters who would be keeping you company. At least there were two beds.

After a dinner of pizza from the diner down the road you had taken Dave on a detour to the gas station to get a burner phone. In your haste to put as much distance as possible between you and McCall, you hadn’t bothered to get him one earlier. Once that was finished you both headed back to your room to unwind.

Dave sat in one of the rickety chairs at the small table that seemed to be actively trying to shed it’s veneer layer. With a sigh, he went to work stripping and reassembling his pistol. It was calming, relaxing for him. All of the pieces had a purpose, an order, to be pulled apart then reassembled, very much unlike his life right now. Nothing had purpose or order and everything had been pulled apart, leaving him broken shards to piece back together.

Hours passed and by the look of him, you figured Dave’s fingers might have gone numb from the repetitive movements and his eyes were drooping, well his good eye was drooping more than normal since the one McCall had nearly managed to gouge was still a little worse for wear.

“Dave, get some sleep. You’re no good to me or yourself if you’re half asleep.”

You know he’s been fighting sleep for a while now, he does every night just like he fights the pain you’re sure he’s feeling but refuses to take anything for. For the first time since you two set off, you’re not annoyed by it. He’ll sleep soundly at least once he let’s exhaustion take him. All the better for what you have planned.

It wasn’t until 01:00 that Dave was finally asleep soundly enough that you felt you could get up without waking him. Quietly, you made for the table, using the flimsy pad of paper and pen there to write a note before you walked out the door and shut it behind you. Thankfully, the city you had stopped in was populated enough that rideshare services were available and in less time than you had figured, you were on your way to the airport.

Dave woke up and immediately knew something was off. It was too quiet and there was too much sun trying to peek through the curtains for it to be the usual time you both headed out for the day. He sat up quickly and grabbed his pistol, then looked around the room for any signs of danger until his eyes fell upon the pad of paper on the table. A sharp pain arched through his skull when he stood up, a remnant of his concussion. He took the note in hand and began to read:

Dave,

I figure, if I’m lucky, I’ve got 4 hours on you. If I’m really lucky, I’ve got 6. Anything more than that and I’m disappointed in you, Dave.

He looked up from the note at the digital clock on the nightstand, it read 07:30. A wry grin threatens to take shape on his lips. You’d be disappointed.

I’m not going to make this some sort of sappy letter. I don’t have time for that shit. You were right. It isn’t really living if you’ve left your life behind. Out of the two of us, you’re the only one who really has one to miss. The only way you get to go back to Carol, Molly and Alice is if McCall is out of the picture, so I’m going to give it a shot. I left you enough cash to pay the room through the week and then some. If you don’t hear from me after a week, call the number at the bottom of this note and tell him you’re cashing in a favor for me. He’ll help you out. Might even know someone else who can help with your family. I left you the car, keys are on my bed.

Good Luck.

Dave’s throat went dry and then he saw at least four shades of red before he finally calmed down to assess the situation. Then all at once, it was like ice had been poured in his veins and things began to shift into focus.

What the fuck was he doing?

This entire time he had been wallowing, perhaps well earned, but he should have been planning. He had let his grief for the loss of Susan, the storm of emotions he felt seeing Mac still alive and a simple job that had spun drastically out of control, completely cloud his judgement. He was just as well trained as Mac, but he had let his anger and emotions get the best of him on that watchtower, he couldn’t let that happen again.

Dave moved quickly and methodically as he collected everything he needed from the room and headed out to the car. He really shouldn’t drive with his eye being what it was but he only needed to get to the airport and he could make it that far at least.

He couldn’t let Mac kill you, like Ari, Reznik, and Kovac. Family.

Like hell if he was going to let the closest person he had to a friend get killed.

If anyone was going to kill you, it’d be him, just for you trying to pull off something as stupid as this.

He knew this was the best move though, Mac wouldn't be expecting an attack this soon this time, the attack wouldn't be in the middle of gale force winds on Mac's home turf. You... and he would have the upper hand this time.

Dave got through the airport with relative ease thanks to him having TSA pre-check, no one bothered to ask him about his eye which he did his best to hide with a baseball cap.

He sat down and waited for his flight to be called. Mentally, he began going through the disassembly and reassembly of the rifle he had with him at the watchtower to help focus himself and pass the time.

The PA system broke his concentration and alerted him that it was time to board. Dave was tense when he finally got to his seat and sat down. His jaw was set in concentration as he started to come up with a new battleplan and weighing his options. Yes, he was injured but he'd been through worse on missions and come out on top.

At least one person was going to die by the end of the week and he'd be damned if you and him weren't the last ones standing.

Thanks for reading, tagging a few people interested/who might be interested:

@wheresarizona @pascalsimp @beesting77 @boxdyeblonde @lackofhonor @kaybrownies @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence @elegantduckturtle @janebby @faithkeeper-81 @doin-stuff @danniburgh @pascalslittlebrat @mothandpidgeon @mouthymandalorianalso @phoenixhalliwell @kesskirata @starlightmornings @wyn-dixie

[obeyme-kaidii-writes]

Dreams

Mammon x gn!MC

Words - 1855

Content warnings - lots of fluff and comfort, platonic relationship

Prompt/Inspiration - Mammon has a nightmare and MC comforts him

Summary - Mammon is forced to sit through another horror movie with his brothers, and you decide to go check on him once he’s gone to bed.

AO3

You didn’t know how it happened exactly, but somehow movie night had turned into “let’s see how many times we can make Mammon jump before he pisses himself.” Since you had been helping Beel gather snacks (someone has to make sure he didn’t eat them before he even left the kitchen), you weren’t involved in the movie selection process. You had already told everyone you had no preference, so they didn’t wait for you to return.

As soon as you took your seat between Mammon and Beel though, you started to suspect something. Mammon was flinching at every little thing - from the sound of your can of soda opening to the sound of Beel opening a bag of chips. You tried to ask him what was wrong, but he said it was nothing. That you didn’t need to worry. And since the movie was now starting, all you could do was watch him skeptically out of the corner of your eye.

About 10 minutes in, the first jump scare occurred, and you heard Mammon muttering obscenities under his breath. It didn’t seem that scary to you, so you were about to just let it go, when the next scare happened and he almost spilled your drink with how hard he jerked into you. You thought about suggesting that they change the movie, saying you didn’t like it, but Levi already knew just how much you loved horror movies and was sure to call you out on it. And seeing as Mammon was trying so desperately to contain just how freaked out he was, you didn’t want to draw anymore attention to him and make him feel even worse.

So you decided the best course of action was for you to just snuggle up to him and hold his hand. There were several times you thought for sure he was going to crush your own with how tightly he was gripping you, but somehow you managed to make it through the entire movie with all your limbs and digits still attached and in working order. When you finally stood up to stretch, you got a good look at Mammon. Poor boy was white as a sheet (which is saying something with his dark skin tone), and made a hasty retreat as soon as possible to his own room, his brothers snickering as they watched him go.

“Y’all really can be assholes, you know that?” you said, sending a glare towards Asmodeus, who you were sure suggested the movie in the first place.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he replied, smiling innocently at you. You rolled your eyes at his mock confusion. He knew exactly what he did. Just like the rest of them.

As you walked towards your room, you thought about stopping by Mammon’s to check on him, but decided better of it, and opted to  text him first instead.

“Hey, how are you doing?”

“Fine. Just fine. Already in bed. Goodnight.”

Well that was odd, you thought. Usually he was more chatty with you. The other times he had been tricked into watching horror movies with his brothers, he usually made up some lame excuse as to why he was going to spend the night in your room, “in case you got scared”. But tonight, he didn’t and you weren’t sure what to make of it.

————

Mammon collapsed on his bed as soon as he got to his room, not even bothering to lock the door behind him or remove his clothes. He was absolutely exhausted at this point. Watching those shitty movies with his brothers always drained the life out of him. He had to concentrate so hard just to stop from humiliating himself and giving them something else to mock him for for the next century.

And tonight’s movie seemed to be the worst one yet. He seriously had to wonder what dark pit of hell the director must have crawled out from to make such a twisted movie. No one else seemed to mind it though. Even you, the weak, fragile human, were enjoying yourself. But he had been too nervous to even register the fact you spent the entire movie pressed up against him, as he squeezed your hand for support.

Part of him really appreciated having you there, but another part of him absolutely hated it. It was bad enough when he got spooked during the other movies they had watched together before, but just the thought of you bearing witness to his shame this time was almost enough to make him cry. Why couldn’t he pull himself together? You’d think the fact that he had resided in the Devildom - literal hell - for over a millennia would be enough to desensitize him to such things.

He flopped over on his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he should just go to bed now or give up on sleeping tonight altogether. When suddenly a loud “DING” echoed through his room, causing him to practically throw himself out of bed as he struggled to figure out what the hell that sound was.

Oh.

It was his DDD.

You had just texted him.

Mammon sighed in relief, before feeling utterly embarrassed at his own reaction and simultaneously grateful that no one else was around to see it. When Mammon opened his messaging app, he saw that you were just checking up on him, and his heart warmed a little knowing you were thinking of him. But he also knew he was in no shape to see you right now because he’d surely only add to his embarrassment. So even though the idea of spending the night with you sounded really enticing, he decided to tell you he was fine.

After sending the text, Mammon crawled his way under his covers. He thought briefly about turning the lights off, but quickly decided that would be a horrible idea. He’d just have to sleep with the lights on tonight and hope no one walked by his door and took notice.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“MOTHERFKERRR….!” Mammon yelped, sitting bolt upright as he tried to calm his pounding heart.

“Mammon? It’s me.”

For the love of….it was just you. Not his brothers. Not the vengeful shadow lady murder spirit from the movie. Just you.

“Yeah?”, he said as he tried his best to keep his voice calm and even.

“Hey,” you opened the door and let yourself inside. You immediately noticed that the lights were still on, which honestly didn’t surprise you even though Mammon had told you he was going to bed. The second thing you noticed was that Mammon was sitting in his bed fully dressed, with a death grip on his blanket while he watched you enter his room, having changed into your pajamas. Looks like you had made a good decision to come.

“I was wondering if I could sleep here tonight?”

“Huh? Why ya wanna do that for?”, he asked. He had thought for sure you enjoyed the movie, so it shouldn’t be because you were scared, right?

“Just feeling a little uneasy you know. My imagination can get the better of me sometimes. So I thought I’d sleep better with you.”

“Um yeah. Sure. I’ll look after ya,” Mammon replied.

“Can I turn the lights off?”, you asked. Mammon nodded with a grunt, so you flipped the switch and headed towards his bed, using the light from your DDD to guide you so you didn’t trip over all the junk scattered on his floor. He didn’t really want the lights off, but he didn’t exactly want to say that either, so he convinced himself it would be ok since you were here now.

As you settled down beside him, Mammon started to relax as well. It didn’t take him long at all to realize that you were just fine and only giving him an excuse to not sleep alone, without him needing to do it himself. He smiled to himself as he rolled on his side and felt you rest your head against his back.

“Goodnight, Mammon.”

“G’night.”

————

After only a few hours of sleep, you were awoken by the movement next to you. Mammon was now on his back, hands gripping at his blanket, as he occasionally kicked his legs or jerked his head like he was running from something, trying to escape.

Realizing he was having a nightmare, you sat up and placed a hand on his chest, giving him a firm shake, “Mammon. Wake up,” he didn’t respond, so you raised your voice just a little louder and shook him again, “Mammon. MAMMON.”

Suddenly his eyes flew open, while he gasped for breath, his thoughts still frantic and confused. As he gradually became more fully aware of his surroundings, he noticed you were propped up on your elbow next to him with your hand on his chest. Wanting to make sure you were really there, he grabbed your wrist.

As soon as he felt the warmth of your skin in his hand, tears started pouring down his face from relief. You were here. You were safe. He didn’t remember why he felt it so important to check just then. His memory of his dream was already fuzzy and quickly disappearing. But that didn’t stop him from still feeling those lingering emotions of terror and loss.

“Hey, Mammon. What’s wrong?”, you asked. Your eyes had adjusted to the dim light of his room by now and you could see how hard he was crying. Not only that but you felt his hand shaking as it gripped your wrist. Whatever he had been dreaming about clearly left him terrified.

All he could do in response was shake his head, trying to reassure you that he was fine and it was nothing to worry about, but his words were caught in his throat and the tears just wouldn’t stop. Seeing that Mammon wasn’t going to be talking anytime soon, you leaned over and wrapped him up in your arms, a gesture he was all too happy to return as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

You held him like that for a few moments, rubbing his back and soothing him. After a while his erratic breathing began to calm, so you carefully laid back down on the bed, holding him close to you so that he was mostly on top of you by the time you had gotten comfortable.

“It’s ok. It was just a dream, Mammon. Just a dream.”

As his panic subsided, Mammon adjusted his position slightly so that his head was more on your chest and shoulder. He could hear your heartbeat better this way, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the familiar, comforting sound. Yeah it was just a dream. You were here. You were safe. It was just a dream.

Pressing a kiss to the top of his head, you continued to hold him close as he tightened his arms around your waist. Snuggled together, it wasn’t long before the two of you drifted off to sleep. And this time, Mammon’s dreams were much more peaceful.

[zapsalis-d]

Bombshell: Chapter Ten — Tormented

bombshell’s masterlist || main masterlist

Summary: With you under unexpected affliction, Din is forced to land on an infamous planet.

Word Count: 6.3k

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"I promised her I'd do my best to save the baby. I'm not planning on breaking that promise anytime soon."

Ninkri's lips curled up into a commendable grin, nodding to acknowledge the Mandalorian's words. Her gaze dropped down towards the Child still placed on her lap, his little claws clutching onto the fabric of her shirt as he played around with the material. There was a brief moment of silence as she comprehended everything Din had explained to her — about your capture, the Empire, the queen, the syringe, everything. Then, her eyes lifted to face him as he stood idly besides the ladder that led downstairs. "I'm sure she appreciates that. But... you've got to prepare yourself, Mandalorian. Just in case. I'm sure she's already done so herself."

Truthfully, Din wasn't at all prepared for that. This entire time, he'd been desperately holding onto that delicately thin thread of hope that a solution could be found. That Din could manage to salvage what he had quickly grown to care about these past couple of weeks. The baby he promised to save. The fact that he could possibly lose this unborn child was unfathomable. He couldn't imagine the pain it would cause you. He couldn't allow that to happen. He couldn't simply give up, not yet. There was still the slightest of chance, and he was hell-bent on taking advantage of it.

"You should get some rest. I'll handle the Child."

The suggestion broke him out of his suffocating thoughts. It'd been a while since he's gotten true rest, so the idea sounded great. "Are you sure?"

"I'm completely certain," she bobbed her head in affirmation. "Besides, the princess needs you now."

With her approval, he swiftly dismissed himself and descended towards the hull of the ship. As soon as he arrived at his bunk, he caught sight of your sleeping form, laying peacefully in the compact cot. Though it seemed like the thought of grabbing a blanket to keep you warm hadn't crossed your mind, likely due to your exhaustion. He stepped back, taking a moment to remove the entirety of his armor — the helmet being an exception — before acquiring one of the multiple blankets he had scattered around the ship. Then, he made his way back to the compartment and carefully draped the covering over your body. Your hands involuntarily clutched onto the blanket in your slumber, pulling it closer to yourself  to immerse yourself in its warmth, before briefly returning to your deep sleep, completely unmoving.

Before he decided to climb in with you, he made sure to switch all the lights off. Next he removed the beskar helm concealing his face, setting it down on a crate nearby the cockpit's ladder, in case Ninkri were to sometime walk in while he slept. Only then did he allow himself his well-deserved rest — crawling into the bunk, shutting its door closed, planting a chaste kiss on your forehead, lovingly wrapping his arms around you and drawing you closer to him, before finally falling asleep.

Prepare yourself, Mandalorian.

Just in case.

Those words rung through his head, obnoxiously tormenting him.

Your anguished cries were what abruptly woke him from his slumber. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that he initially believed this was some sort of bad dream. A nightmare. That's what he desperately tried to convince himself of, but with each passing second, your pain seemingly grew worse and worse. Your hand clutched your swollen belly, a grimace visible on your face as you lifted yourself upright with your free arm. Din sat up with you as well, palm placed on your shoulder in a concerned manner while simultaneously trying to be a source of consolation. But, really, how was he supposed to comfort you when you're in this much pain?

It's just a nightmare. He repeated those words in his head various times, over and over. It's just a nightmare, he'll wake up soon enough besides you, without you feeling like this, the baby will be fine. It's just a damn nightmare.

It's not. This was real.

There was no other option than to stop by the nearest planet and seek a medic. He couldn't stand seeing you like this — your eyes and cheeks wetting with fresh tears, distressed screams escaping your lips, your chest heaving with heavy breaths. Din quickly ushered himself to act now, hopping out of the bunk and placing his helmet over his head again. The thudding of urgent footsteps were audible upstairs, and as Din flicked the lights back on, Ninkri made her appearance from the ladder along with the Child held closely to her. She held a troubled look in her expression, though she didn't question anything as Din hastened up the ladder.

As soon as he stepped foot into the cockpit, he hurriedly searched through the datapad on the control panel. Apparently, they were hours worth of traveling from arriving at Sorgan. Too much wait — you couldn't last that long, and he wouldn't be able to cope with seeing you suffer for such a prolonged amount of time. Instead, he viewed the planet nearest to the Razor Crest.

And it just so happened to be that the ship was about to pass by Tatooine in this precise moment.

Tatooine, of all places. He wasn't bringing you there. He doubted you'd ever even visited the damn planet, and with excellent reason. The past couple of times he'd paid Tatooine a visit was a disaster — first, betrayed by his supposed ally and abandoned in the middle of the vast Dune Sea; second, needing to fight and kill a whole Krayt dragon alongside a group of citizens and Tusken raiders in order to obtain the Mandalorian armor he searched for (and nearly dying along the way). Not to mention the countless occasions he was in a perilous situation and on the verge of death. So, Tatooine was strictly off-limits and not an option.

Downstairs, your pained shouts resounded through the entire ship. That snapped him out of his daze — what the hell was he thinking? It didn't matter whether the planet was extremely dangerous or not. There were medics that could provide a solution, end this misery you didn't deserve, and even save the baby. Besides, he wasn't going to leave your side for one second. Any threat lurking around the corners of the planet wasn't going to reach you with a Mandalorian hell-bent on protecting you.

He tried to ignore his trembling fingers as he punched in the coordinates for Tatooine in the datapad. Should be a few minutes before the ship needs to be pulled out of hyperspace. He hastily descended the ladder once more, taking note of the Child on the floor of the hull. His head tilted with obvious concern, ears drooping down and eyes wide with alarm. Your cries continued as you sat with your feet dangling off the cot, Ninkri right by your side in an attempt to somehow comfort you.

Knowing full well the kid likely shouldn't be present here, Din took a step towards the Child, crouching down to bring him into his arms before calling for Ninkri. "Take the kid and go upstairs. Land the ship. When you contact the tower, request for bay three-five."

The elderly woman immediately complied, taking the infant from Din's grasp and carefully climbing the ladder with the kid held closely to her chest. The Child, though, ended up releasing a loud cry that echoed through the hull, squirming in Ninkri's arms as he attempted to liberate himself from her grip. It seemed the kid wanted to stay by your side, for whatever reason, though that wasn't the most appropriate in this situation. His cried gradually lessened as they ascended the ladder, though still perfectly audible. Din paid no attention to it as he stepped towards you — the only objective on his mind being to end your abhorrent pain.

"We're landing in a few minutes, okay?" he stated, gently grabbing your palm and allowing you to squeeze his hand, if that were to somewhat distract you. Your ragged breaths restricted you from voicing absolutely anything, though your easily eyes spoke for you.

It's too late. As much as he wanted to deny the fact, he was unable to do so. It was impossible now.

For once, he found his hope diminishing, only for a terrible guilt to replace it. This was his fault, no doubt about it. He's been blaming himself since the very beginning. If he hadn't left that blasted night, if he had simply refused to leave and instead solved the problems, or if it weren't for him returning to Rainoh, this wouldn't have happened to you. You wouldn't be overwhelmed by this appalling misery. The baby wouldn't be nearing its death with every second passing — that is, if it hasn't occurred yet. You would be birthing your child in a couple months, naturally with no complications whatsoever. If Din had elected to land someplace else for the Razor Crest's repairs — Nevarro, perhaps — none of this would've ever occurred.

He wouldn't be capable of living with the unpleasant culpability that he'd killed his own baby. It would remain engraved in his brain forever, dreadfully weighing down on him for the remainder of his life.

The ship vibrated in a certain way which unmistakably indicated that they had emerged from hyperspace. Quickly, he turned away from you and opted to place his armor back on, fumbling with the plenty of straps and buckles along the way. His nerves were all over the place though he attempted not to show it too much. By the time he'd finished, the Crest was on the verge of landing in its designated hangar in Mos Eisley. Now fully-armored, he returned to you. It was almost time to leave, but he doubted you'd have the ability to steadily walk. Not like this. Instead, his arms wrapped around your figure — one under your legs, the other around your back, before carefully lifting you up and out of the bunk. Your own arms draped over his shoulders and neck, further supporting yourself.

"Where are w-we?" you finally mustered the strength to ask.

"Tatooine," he replied, apprehension intelligible in his voice.

The hissing as the ship positioned itself onto the ground was heard, the light thud as it officially made contact with land reverberated  through the hull. Seconds later, the side-ramp whirred as it lowered upon Ninkri's command upstairs, bright Tatooine light seeping into the relatively darkened interior of the ship. As soon as Din stepped off the Crest and tread out into the open, the humid climate abruptly hit him. And along with the twin suns blazing down on him, he knew you would utterly despise this damn planet. He always had since the very beginning. Though this was much worse for you. Having been born and raised on an icy planet that spent 98% of it's year covered with thick layers of snow and frequent atrocious blizzards, you were definitely not going to enjoy this. At all.

Droids chattered curiously upon catching sight of the familiar Mandalorian, though they kept their distance, likely still intimidated by him. But today, droids were the last thing on his mind. From where he stood, Din perceived Peli's fiery, curly hair behind the grimy glass of her office. There was a split second of eye contact from there before she stepped outside and made her way towards him, her mouth opening to speak before quickly shutting closed upon seeing you — a princess, writhing with intense pain in his arms. Her brows furrowed with obvious concern.

"Quick —where's the nearest medic?" Din asked, the urgency in his tone loud and clear.

"Oh! Um... Soon as you leave the hangar, turn right and you'll end up finding a door painted a light green with a sign that says 'clinic.'" she raised a finger pointedly towards the exit. Then, "Only problem is, it's run by—"

Din hadn't even allowed her enough time to finish her statement, instead cutting her off mid-sentence and offering a brief 'thank you' before hurrying out of the hangar. That was quite harsh, he had to admit. Unexpectedly arriving at her landing bay, barging out of the ship without a single greeting, and interrupting her as she spoke wasn't exactly nice. Though he couldn't dwell on that, and could merely hope she understood the seriousness of this situation.

So, as he hastened through the grubby streets of Mos Eisley, his visor trailed among the numerous homes and buildings surrounding him. He had taken that right turn as Peli suggested. It shouldn't be too difficult to spot, seeing as the grand majority of these structures were a bland tan and brown which blended in with the natural environment of Tatooine — sand, sand, sand, and some more sand. Dust billowed upwards with each rapid step Din took, dirtying his boots and the cape that lingered just over the ground. A dirty outfit were the least of his worries. His own baby's life is on the line now. He needed to locate the medical site, and quick.

A Mandalorian clutching the ex-princess of Rainoh close to him definitely captivated any bystanders' attentions. If everyone's eyes were practically glued to his shiny beskar when he visited Tatooine alone, this was even worse. Unease crept into the back of his mind, maintaining him on high alert. This planet was littered with all kinds of criminals, as well as bounty hunters who could cause plenty of inconveniences. And if they figure out that the Empire was hunting you guys down... the both of you were in deep, deep trouble.

Ahead, a door painted light green caught his eye, luring him closer to the building. Once approached, he perceived the sign nailed straight into the door — clinic, written in Galactic Basic as well as various translations to other languages underneath it. The door was slightly parted, and he didn't hesitate to shove it open with a kick of his foot. As soon as he entered, all eyes laid on him and your weak figure... Not the usual eyes, though. They were glowing, mechanical eyes.

Droids.

That's what Peli was trying to warning him about.

The medical station was run by a bunch of old, rusty, droids.

He tentatively took a couple paces forward, halting himself to examine his new surroundings. He was in what seemed to be some waiting area — or, the lobby. With this being a medical station, you'd think the place would be somewhat... clean. Well, it was no different from the countless filthy buildings and cantina's he'd paid a visit to here. There was not a single human being—not even a species—in sight, simply a few droids whirring as they wandered around. The walls were a beige color and covered in grime, a few empty chairs sparsely scattered around the clinic. Apparently, they weren't busy. Which led Din to believe this wasn't exactly a popular medical site, for some unknown reason. That didn't help him feel any better about these circumstances.

"Hello!" a droid greeted, slowly stepping towards his direction. A silver-plated protocol droid, just as worn-out and rusted up as the rest of them. It's emotionless, robotic voice continued, "How may we be of assistance?"

Isn't it obvious? Why the hell is it asking?

Nope, he's not doing this. He'll turn around, locate another station that's actually owned by humans. Not droids. He wouldn't trust them with you now. Never will. Especially if his baby's life was in peril.

But once glance at your tear-stained face, your jaw clenching due to the gritting of your teeth, your fists clutching tightly onto the cape wrapped around his neck, eyes shut closed in an attempt to somewhat distract yourself from the excruciating pain — he knew you couldn't last any longer. And you were already sweating as well. You shouldn't be going through this any more time than you already have. His voice modulator crackled as a reluctant sigh escaped his lips. "She's pregnant. Something happened, and... she needs help."

With a curt nod, the droid beckoned for the Mandalorian to follow it, towards a compact, isolated room. A simple cot lay against one of the four walls. At least its mattress and brown blankets had been noticeably washed. As soon as Din gently placed your body down onto the cot, the protocol droid began asking a plethora of questions.

Question after question after question. Most of them answered by Din — what happened? Why is she in pain this early? Do you know what was in the syringe? What color was the liquid? And when he wasn't entirely sure of a certain inquiry, you managed to speak through whimpers and uneven breaths. How deep into the term are you? Seven months, much to Din's surprise. He originally believed you were about five months pregnant, at least that's what you stated back on your balcony in the palace. It occurred to him you were likely forced to bend the truth a bit. Which made absolute sense — you were compelled to marry the prince of Tasseth a couple months or so after your pregnancy was revealed. So, to not cause any suspicions, lying was necessary.

The droid exit the room after he obtained a response to each of its pestering questions. It returned a few quick minutes later, before bluntly saying, "Kaysherik."

Din was utterly confused, and unable to form any words to reply to that. Damned droid must be malfunctioning, or something, because he's never heard of whatever the hell a 'Kaysherik' was. What, did it actually mean to say Kashyyyk? It wasn't until the droid spoke up once more that his puzzlement gradually disappeared as he comprehended the fresh information.

"Native to Rainoh, the Kaysherik is a miniature, purple-colored insect solely found on the icy planet. It's venom, while in small amounts should not cause harm to an adult human being, can be lethal to children, babies, and of course, unborn babies. The liquid in the syringe was likely from the venom of a Kaysherik, according to your explanations."

The name was totally unfamiliar to him. He offered a brief glance towards your direction, hoping for some sort of recognition in your expression, though it seemed you weren't paying any attention to the conversation whatsoever, only writhing in pain on what seemed like a rather uncomfortable, stiff mattress. The desperation in his voice was crystal-clear as he asked, "What do we do, then?"

"There is only one possible solution — we must induce her."

"Induce?" A disbelief dominated his tone as he took a step closer to the mechanical being. "It's too early."

"She is currently seven months pregnant, correct?" the droid recalled, earning a nod of affirmation from Din. "The baby will certainly be premature, though it will save it's life. It is still alive, thankfully. But we must act fast before the venom further harms it."

He sighed — a long, unwilling sigh as his mind weighed out his choices. You're suffering. The baby's on the brink of death. No other option, apparently. Then, "Okay. Fine."

With his approval, the silver droid exited the room once more, allowing Din a couple spare minutes of alone time with you. Beads of sweat trickled off the sides of your forehead, your chest rising and falling in rapid movements with each gasping breath, hands curled into fists as you clutched onto the fabric of the blankets underneath you. Din offered his own hand for you again, your fingers tightly gripping onto his gloves. The leather certainly helped block out a great deal of your death grip, though it didn't impede him from feeling your fingernails digging into his skin. He couldn't blame you, though.

It was hot. Hot enough to easily asphyxiate yourself, now that he realized. He wasn't completely sure due to his helmet obstructing him from any air, but he believed there was no air conditioning in here. Not even a single fan around. Either their unit was damaged and in need of repairs, or they simply didn't own one. No wonder you were excessively sweating already. Even he was beginning to feel the droplets of sweat forming on his forehead. Though his own discomfort was quickly pushed aside, paid no attention to them. The entirety of his focus was you, and you only.

The sound of the door creaking open filled his ears, visor shifting towards the silver-plated droid as it stepped towards the other side of the cot, opposite to Din. It lifted its metal hand, the glinting glass tube of a syringe catching his eye. The purpose for the liquid was likely to induce you into labor. Though his immediate instinct was to grab the droid's wrist with his free hand, abruptly halting before it managed to move the needle any closer to you. His grip was forbidding, tightening with each passing second as if it could even feel the strength. "Is there anyone else who could do this instead? A human, maybe?"

The droid remained utterly silent for a moment, its glowing orange bulbs flickering on and off, supposedly blinking. Then, "Yes, but the Proprieter is currently on vacation. He will return next week. Until then, 4-1B, the nurse droids, and I will be handling the grand majority of the business. Please release my hand."

A tense silence followed. His fingers stayed persistently glued to the droid's wrist. He couldn't do this. He couldn't leave you in the hands of these untrustworthy droids.

"D-Din."

Your voice called out for his attention, soft, weak, barely over a whisper. Though his visor remained trained on the droid.

"Din, l-look at me. Please."

He does. His gaze met with your gentle, tear-filled eyes staring back at him, a pleading look on your expression. It absolutely broke him. Between your sudden breathing and small whimpers, you managed to speak your reassuring words. "It's the only way... Din, we have to. We c-can't lose it." A barely audible whimper escaped your lips, before you continued, your voice lowering into a whisper in an attempt to hide the quiver to your words. "You... y-you promised, right?"

He did. He promised. He couldn't break that promise. Whether he had an intense hatred for droids or not, he needed to stop being so stubborn and selfish. Or else it'll cost him a baby's only chance to live.

With that, he slowly released his hold on the droid. In a split second, the droid had injected the fluid straight into your bloodstream. It could take hours, potentially even an entire rotation  — as the droid explained — for you to birth the baby. And Din suspected the pain wasn't leaving anytime soon. If not, it'd worsen instead. "Is there... is there anything you could use to rid the pain?" Din asked, halting the droid before it managed to step away.

"Other than birthing her unborn child, I am afraid not."

Nope. He wasn't going to watch you suffer like this for a possible twenty-four hours. "You've gotta have something. Even if it's temporarily."

"No, not unless we utilize an epidural, which would cease the pain for the time being. Unfortunately, we currently don't have that available in stock."

"And why not?" his voice lowered to a rasp, nearly becoming an irritated growl. His patience with this droid was quickly diminishing.

"This is a clinic, not a hospital. Normally, we treat injuries and wounds. We aren't fully-equipped for birthing."

Well, that makes things a whole lot better.

"Is there anything we could use, droid? Some pain-killers? You've gotta have those."

"Pain-killers could cause further trauma for the baby. It is most beneficial to allow her to go through labor naturally."

Naturally. Right. Like being forced to deliver your baby months earlier due to some pestering poisonous bug was natural.

Your grip on Din's hand unexpectedly strengthened, before managing to utter a quiet, "Will you guys... shut... up?"

Din was admittedly taken aback for a second, but you had plenty reason to shut them up. You're in intense pain, your hormones were literally everywhere, and not to mention the droid's mechanical voice was quite bothersome. At least, that's what he thought.

"I must leave but I will return every couple of hours to check up on her," was all the droid said in response before it (thankfully) left the scenario.

A deep puff of breath escaped his lips before he lifted his free hand, wiping the sweat dripping down your face with the leather of his glove. "I'm sorry, Cyar'ika," was all he could offer. He couldn't even think of comforting words to console you. He couldn't simply say 'it'll be okay' or 'the baby will be alright' because, honestly? He had no idea. He'd never witnessed a birth, or even seen the full process of a pregnancy in his life — so, naturally, he was clueless.

So, as the time passed, seconds turning into minutes, and minutes turning into long, grueling hours of waiting in anticipation, he remained glued right by your side. The only time he needed you to release his hand was when he opted to quickly grab a nearby chair and scoot it closer to your cot so he could rest himself, before gently entwining your fingers together again. The droid returned every few hours, as promised, to check up on you before swiftly leaving each time. He wasn't completely certain how much time had passed, though he suspected night had fallen already. The temperature seemed to gradually cool down, though not exactly cool enough to cease your insistent sweating. One of the cons of being raised on Rainoh.

The door suddenly swung open, revealing a rusted medical droid, alongside a couple others of its robotic companions. "Hello," greeted the medic. "I am 4-1B. The Mandalorian may step out now while we take over."

"Take over?" Din repeated, though he didn't have any time whatsoever to react when the others — nurse droids, he assumed — began to shove him out the door, ultimately slamming the door closed once he was out.

Did they... did they really just do that?! His hand abruptly grasped  the knob before giving it a curt jerk. It didn't budge. They locked the damn door. They locked him out, when he should he in there, by your side the whole process. "Damn it," he growled. The exasperation he attempted to contain within him increased in ten-folds along with his fierce detestation for those kriffing brainless, unfeeling droids.

"What happened?"

Ninkri. He whirled around to face her upon hearing her voice, his fingers still tightly gripping onto the stiff doorknob. "Where's the Child?" he asked instead.

"I left her with the mechanic at the hangar — Peli, I think. The little one seemed to trust her. I've been waiting out here for—" She was interrupted by your pained groans which became even louder than they previously were. Din's clasp on the handle strengthened as he abruptly jerked his hand in a desperate attempt to break inside. "Hey—" Ninkri could only grab him by his arm, and drag him away from the door before he managed to yank it clean off the framing. "I'm sure they locked you out for a good reason. It'll only be for a moment. They have got to let you in soon enough. Just take a seat and wait, they can work out the problem themselves."

"Fine." he sighed a deep breath — his nerves truly were taking control right now. He turned, hesitantly stepping away from the door, away from you. Finally, he decided to take a seat in one of the available chairs in the waiting area. Though he was still feeling plenty uneasy about this whole thing — putting you in the care of droids. But, really, there was no other option.

Hours. Not a moment, like Ninkri thought. Hours.

Hours forced to hear you agonizingly suffering with intense pain Din believed to be unfathomable. Yet, there was absolutely nothing he could do about your situation. And that was what pained him the most. Because, in the end, he had caused this. For leaving you. That guilt remained persistently present, beating him up on the inside and breaking him down. With his elbows propped up against his knees as he waited with extreme anticipation, he pondered over these exact thoughts. Lost in this pensive state, he hadn't even bothered to speak to Ninkri who had taken a seat besides him. No words, no movements, no... no sound?

Silence.

Your cries stopped. Completely. It was just utterly quiet. Daunting, nerve-wracking silence.

Something was wrong.

Something happened- he didn't know what exactly, but none of this was right. This wasn't—

Another cry.

Though that one didn't emanate from you. It wasn't one of your whimpers. Not one of your groans of pain. No, this cry was entirely unfamiliar to him. This one was significantly distinct. Its voice was small, weak, consistent.

It came from nothing other than a baby.

It's... it's alright. It's crying. So... so, that means it's okay, right? It's alive.

His head perked up, lips involuntarily curling up into a relieved grin underneath the helmet. It's actually living — you had made it just in time to prevent the poison from reaching it. Din didn't hesitate to stand and race towards your door, attempting to open it again only for it to seemingly still be locked. Until a droid opened it up for him, offering a quick greeting only for him to shove the mechanical being aside and stepping inside.

There you were. Your back propped up against the wall behind you as you remained in the cot. A nurse droid was right by your side, helping you breastfeed the new baby for the very first time — you were completely clueless, but that's why the droid was there to assist. The baby was already enveloped in a set of dark brown blankets, and glued to your exposed breast. By the look on your face, you seemed exhausted. Dark circles underneath your droopy eyes, cheeks still stained with tears, hair in a complete mess over your . But the baby, it was so... so small — of course due to the fact that it was born two months earlier than expected. But it was alive. Premature, but alive nevertheless. That's all that mattered.

"Get out," he commanded the droids. Sure, it was a bit harsh but he was still particularly bitter with them for kicking him out. They instantly comply, gathering their equipment and exiting the room in the blink of an eye. Only then had Din taken tentative steps towards you, still holding the newborn close to your chest. Another wave of alleviation washed over him when he realized your pain had completely vanished. Now you were calm, breaths still heavy due to recently coming out of labor, though you were winding down now. Now that everything was going to be alright, that the baby's healthy, you could relax. And so could Din.

A feeble smile appeared on your lips as he approached, matching the exact grin on his own face, though it remained hidden to your eyes. Your shoulders vibrated with soft laughter as you shook your head. "You didn't have to chase them out like that, you know."

His response was a hum, before he settled himself right beside your legs on the cot so he could obtain a closer look at his baby. The only problem was his helmet. So, he slowly removed the beskar obscuring his facial features, allowing himself a brief moment to perceive you and his baby with his own eyes. No tint of a visor impeding him from seeing clearly, no metal preventing anyone from viewing his face, nothing. Now it was just you, Din, and the baby. And that was all he could ever desire in his entire life. All he ever needed. Now he could ultimately sigh a breath of relief.

"You wanna carry him?"

Carry?

Him?

Yes, and no altogether... and, it's a boy! But... how could he carry something so... fragile? He might... squeeze him too hard, or perhaps even drop it. He wasn't fit to handle something that delicate. Sure, he'd carried the Child in his arms countless times, but this was different. Very, very different.

Din grunted, his gaze flickering from the baby latched to your chest towards your tired eyes. "I don't think..."

"Come on," you encouraged, gently drawing away the newborn from your chest and lifting the strap of your dress to fully cover your breasts. Though before you pulled the infant from you any more, you awaited Din's approval. When you noted his visible hesitance, you tilted your head. "You're not gonna hurt him if that's what you're scared of."

It took him a moment to contemplate it. But then, he thought, why not? How could he deny the chance of holding the baby he'd gone through a plethora of difficulties for, just so he could have a chance at life?

Din quickly opted to remove his vambraces from his forearms, which would definitely provide discomfort for the baby if he were to carry him. Along with his helmet, he set the beskar besides him on your bed, before shifting his gaze back towards your direction. A grin appeared on his lips as he scooted a tad bit closer to you. He was thrilled yet nervous altogether. The joy and delight he felt nearly caused his heart to implode, and he was completely certain that the feeling was mutual. You held a wide smile plastered all over your own expression, one rare smile he hadn't seen since the previous day when he offered you the chance to ultimately see his face.

Carefully, you transferred the baby into Din's arms, and he, slowly, drew him closer to his body. The newborn's little, bald head rested comfortably on his father's forearm, while the other arm placed on his back further supported him. When you held him in your arms, Din hadn't exactly had the opportunity to thoroughly see his infant's face. Now, though, he could perfectly perceive his every feature, and he took advantage of this moment to fully examine him.

The blankets wrapped snugly around his small figure only revealed the entirety of his tiny, round face. He was completely unmoving, eyes shut closed as he immersed himself in deep slumber. If it weren't for the quiet, though still audible, breaths, Din would've found himself double-checking with the droids to prove whether he was alright. His nose, did he have Din's nose? He swore he could pick out a slight curve to it, just like his own, though he wasn't completely certain. Over time, he'd likely find out.

For what felt like an eternity, he stared his baby, his son, with an endearing smile present on his face. Uncontrollable tears discreetly pricked the corners of his eyes. He couldn't believe the delicacy he held closely in his arms. What you both made, together, one pleasurable night without having the slightest of knowledge of what would occur in the near future. There were plenty of burdensome difficulties and tedious situations to go through in order to reach this point, but Din didn't regret any of it. Not at all. It was safe to say that he would endure those torturous times over and over if it meant he could have his baby alive and healthy, and obtain a chance to live right by your side on a peaceful planet, where no troubles or dangers could as much as touch you.

Then, he found himself pondering over another topic: "He needs a name."

After everything you've been through, a name hadn't even crossed either of your minds. You bobbed your head in agreement. "Yeah... we should take some time to think about it, though."

The infant was soon enough returned to you, the fear of dropping it still insistently present. The helmet was also returned over his head, just as his beskar bracers were as well. It wasn't long before a soft knock emanating from the door snatched your attention. Din immediately stepped towards the door, opening it up to reveal the familiar faces of Ninkri, alongside Peli and the Child in her grasp, who had undoubtedly heard the news already. The Child flashed his little baby teeth once catching sight of him, raising his stubby arms towards his direction. Din instantly welcomed him into his arms, with plenty more ease than previously.

The group was undeniably eager and curious to see the newly-born infant as Din stepped aside and allowed them to enter. Peli conducted a brief introduction before cutting right to her point. "I've heard plenty of you! Mando here seems to really like you. Likes you enough to make this little bundle of joy — he's so cute!" Her coos directed towards the newborn caused you to laugh. An actual, genuine laugh Din had longed to hear for so long.

Seeing you this happy again... it absolutely softened him.

"The mother and the baby will be required to remain here for a minimum of five full rotations," a droid's automatic voice called for everyone's attentions, eyes focusing on the medical droid standing right by the entrance — 4-1B, Din recognized. "Due to the baby being premature, we need to thoroughly monitor his health in case any complications were to appear. As for the mother, she must rest well and not over-exert herself. Her body's gone through enough stress and trauma already."

Definitely not what he wanted. He would've much rather preferred to get the hell off this planet as quick as possible. The Empire was still a major threat to them, and though Tatooine was isolated out in the Outer Rim, that danger could not simply be set aside. But if five rotations was what was necessary, then five rotations it is. Because he was willing to do absolutely anything for his new baby.

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Tags: @remmysbounty @ginger-swag-rapunzel @theamuz @itsnottilly @ubri812 @zalladane @tibbietibbs @tanzthompson

[ihearthes]

Quarantine Christmas Part 1

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x y/n Rating: Fluff/Smut (Smut in Part 2) Word Count: 2826 (Part 1) Fiction Chalenge via @caitlin‘s fiction party via @sweetcreatureinthedark

December 23, 2020

My head spins as I haul my suitcase from the trunk, using two hands due to the heft of the dirty clothes inside. Setting it on the ground, I yank on the handle before grappling with the two shopping bags filled with presents, reaching back for the decorated Christmas tin that is filled with homemade cookies, fudge, and other delicacies baked by my colleagues at Apple Music. 

Wrestling with my hands full, I close the trunk with an elbow, shivering in the chilly LA air. At the front door, I want to cry. Dammit. I could clearly remember that when Glenne had given me the code for the front door and the alarm, I placed them in my phone under her contact information. 

“FUCK!” The primal scream is released from my lungs, likely scaring the neighbors if any of them are outside enjoying Christmas lights or having family celebrations on this Christmas Eve Eve. Balancing the tin of cookies on top of the suitcase, I set down the shopping bags to reach for my phone. My purse slips off my shoulder, knocking the container of sweets, and in the scramble to rescue them, I nearly fall head over heels into the bushes. 

It isn’t until I punch in the numbers and drag my personal effects inside that it occurs to me that the alarm isn’t armed. Had Glenne and Jeffrey forgotten to punch in the code before they left for Palm Springs? Deciding I don’t care, I leave everything by the door as I drag my suitcase to the main floor laundry room, dumping everything in without regard to color or type of clothing. Since we’ve been working remotely the majority of the time for the last fucking nine months, “dressing up” encompasses blue jeans and the occasional blouse, but most of my clothing is sweatpants and t-shirts. Deciding washing the blue jeans and blouses with the sweatpants and t-shirts is the worst idea ever, I fish those out before pouring laundry detergent over the remaining garments and starting the washer. 

Glancing down at the clothing currently on my body, it seems completely reasonable to drop them into the washer too. Stripping the t-shirt from my body, I toss it into the swirling water before adding my bra, socks, and leggings to the murky mix. Wearing only panties in the cool house makes my nipples bead. 

Ha! I’m sure my nips are happy to get any action after almost a year with no dating of any sort because of the fucking pandemic. Which reminds me that I’ve forgotten my vibrator at home. Shit. Of all the things I don’t mind borrowing from Glenne, I do have a line I won’t cross. 

Placing the tin of Christmas yummies on the kitchen counter, I grasp the handles of the two bags of gifts. It might be silly to put them under the tree since I’m the only one in the house, but it will make me feel better. More like I’m at home with my family in Indiana. Less like I’m stuck in quarantine in an empty house for my favorite holiday. Sniffling, I swipe at my nose with the back of my hand as I pad down the two steps into the living room to the tree. 

Kneeling at the fake tree, I reach for the switch to turn on the lights. As the colors begin blinking, I carefully withdraw each present, reading the tag before gently placing the gift under the tree. Even my brother had sent a present through the mail which must mean he misses me his year. Right now, we should be challenging each other to the most ridiculous games to see who is the best. Inevitably, he would win some while I beat him at others until eventually we declare a tie. My mother would chastise us both with a grin on her face, implicitly encouraging us to continue our “reindeer games” as my father called them. 

From behind me, I hear a shuffling sound. Hadn’t they taken Myles with them? No matter. I could use the company a dog would provide. 

“Santa, you’ve changed!” a soft voice exclaims, and I jump, twisting around to find another human wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. 

“It’s you!” Both voices exclaim simultaneously. “What the fuck are you doing here?” We both pause, “Stop saying what I’m saying!” 

Out of breath, I stare at him. The Harry Styles. Fuck. 

His eyes roam over my body, and it finally dawns on me that I’m wearing nothing but my Victoria’s Secret lace panties. Shit. 

Pacing measuredly to the couch without openly cringing, I grasp a wool throw and wrap it around my chest regally like I’ve just exited the pool at some exotic locale near the equator. My shoulders straighten, and I face him openly. 

“Are you joining Glenne and Jeffrey in Palm Springs?” My back is a board, and my tone is barely restrained. 

“Nope.” His nonchalance combined with his truncated answer pisses me off, per usual.

“So you’re flying home, waiting here for your flight tonight?” The hopeful tone is obvious to me and probably to him as well.

“No.” Those green eyes of his rake over my nearly-naked body, and I shiver. From the cold of course. Jesus. Get your heads out of the gutter!

“Watering the plants prior to returning to the Soho?”

“Uh uh.”

Delayed dread begins to fill my stomach. “You mean --” I clear my throat -- “you’re staying here?”

“Yep.”

“Shit.” Running my hand through my hair, I ponder the impact and my next steps. 

“You?” He asks politely, even though I know he doesn’t feel solicitude at this moment.

“Glenne told me I could stay here for a few days. I made arrangements for my place to be fumigated while I was in Indiana for Christmas.”

His raised eyebrow mocks me. 

“I’m not going, though. Okay?” 

“Why not?”

“Seriously? Where the fuck have you been, Styles? In case you didn’t know, there’s a global fucking pandemic, and all of Los Angeles is locked down. So no -- I am not getting on a plane with a bunch of potentially infected and contagious --” Emotion overwhelms me, and I have to stop and catch my breath. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I turn away from him so he can’t see the tears that form in my eyes. 

“Whatever, Smith.”

“My name --” I draw myself up and gather my anger around me like a cloak -- “is not Smith.”

“Yeah, right. Which bedroom are you planning to sleep in?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting we both stay here?” Appalled, I stare at him with my mouth open. “I’ll get a hotel room.” When I realize my wardrobe is in the washing machine, I softly say, “As soon as my clothes are dry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Smith. We’ll share the space. It’s only a couple of days.”

“Excuse me!?” Anger wells up. “Only the most important days in the entire year!” Superiority makes me stand up fully to him. “Besides, I’ve been quarantining for months. No way do I want to share germs with you!”

“Oh please! As if you’ve got a monopoly on quarantining! I’m perfectly safe. We get tested every morning before we film. When was the last time you were tested?” 

“Two days ago!” She’s at her boiling point. “Look, if we're both staying here together, then we’re just going to have to avoid each other. It’s a big house. We can do that.”

“Maybe once you put some clothes on,” Harry comments, smirking in that way he has where the left side of his mouth tilts up. 

Mortified, I glance down at myself. Briefly I consider scurrying for Glenne’s closet, but I pause. Why should I rush away? Because he’s male? Because he was here first? Because he’s sexy as fuck and my panties can’t take anymore? 

“Fine,” I respond as I brush past him like the Queen of England. “I’ll find something to wear, and then we can hash out the details.”

“Great plan. I’m ordering something for dinner.”

My stomach growls, and I suddenly feel an irrational hatred for that part of my body. How I long to state that I’ve already eaten or that I plan to cook something! But alas, I’ve brought no food with me, and I’ve no clue what’s in the kitchen. If Glenne and Jeffrey even left anything. 

“Does that mean you’d like some too?” He gloats, and as much as I would like to smack the grin off his face, I’ve not eaten since a quick bite for breakfast hours before. 

Knowing I’m going to have to grovel, I face him. “I’m capable of ordering for myself.”

“Yes, but that’s not necessarily good for the environment, is it? Sending two drivers to the same address from different restaurants?” Pausing, he appears to swallow whatever snarky comment was forthcoming. “Can we agree on this one small thing? I’m thinking poke.”

Shit. Fuck. Goddammit. That’s exactly what I would have ordered. Fuck. 

Casually, I shrug. “Yeah, whatever. I can choke down some poke.” As I saunter away, tucking the ends of the makeshift shroud under my armpits, I call back to him, “Spicy please.”

Quickly I make my way to Glenne’s closet, surveying the items there. Ripping down a pair of joggers and a Full Stop Management hoodie, I drop the covering I’ve been wearing and rapidly draw the clothes over my naked body. Nothing I can do about not having a bra, but the hoodie is roomy so I worry less. 

In the bathroom, I run my fingers through my hair, combing out the curls as best I can in this environment. In no way do I want it to appear that I’m trying to look amazing for Harry. Biting my lip, I admit to myself that the opposite is true. I absolutely want him to fall at my feet. 

Which isn’t going to happen, I remind myself. Give up the ghost of a fantasy. 

Making eye contact in the mirror, I provide a pep talk for myself. “Listen,” I remind my reflection, “this is just one more fucked up situation in 2020. You’ve gotten through worse. It’s truly a giant house, so there’s no reason -- wait. Why is he staying here anyway?” For whatever reason, I had allowed him to dodge that incredibly simple question. 

Tucking my hands into the hoodie’s front pocket, I amble to the kitchen where Harry is just disconnecting his phone. 

“Food will be here in 45 minutes,” he promises. 

“Why are you staying here again? I missed your answer earlier,” I prompt. 

I’m confident I see a flash of embarrassment crossing his face as he lowers his head. “Wine?” He asks, gesturing towards the extensive rack of reds and then the chiller of whites. 

Unsure as to whether I should allow the diversion or press, I examine him. His eyes look tired and sad. His clothes, while comfortable, aren’t upbeat. Nor is his current demeanor. Is he okay? 

Planting his hands in his hoodie in an unconscious mimic of my pose, he glances at me before his eyes stray to the side, examining the marble countertop. That look tells me more than I need to know, and my empath side emerges as I toss him a life preserver. 

“With poke? I think perhaps a Reisling.” 

He nods, bending to look through the wines in the cooler before he extracts one, holding it up for me to inspect the label. My eyes start to widen at the vineyard, assuming the extravagant cost, but I calm my features. “Perf!” I declare. 

Grasping the wine opener from a nearby drawer, Harry removes the cork as I snatch two wine glasses from the cabinet and place them near him. Carefully comparing the amount in each glass, he pours enough before recorking the bottle. Taking my glass, I move into the living room where I can view the tree. It’s Christmas Eve Eve after all, and I refuse to be deterred from watching the lights twinkle and celebrating the season. 

Harry apparently has a similar idea as he fiddles with the sound system before a crackle of ‘Jingle Bell Drunk’ by RaeLynn starts playing which causes me to giggle. 

I settle on one side of the sofa, and Harry plants himself on the other side. Separately, we each take a sip of the riesling. My tongue does a happy dance at the flavor on my tongue. “This sweetness will cut the spicy quite well. Excellent choice.”

“You made the selection,” Harry reminds me, and I cringe. 

“Oh. Yeah.”

Silence descends as the song proclaims “I’ve been naughty. I’ve been nice.” 

“If there was ever a year for this song, this is it.” I announce into the quiet. 

“Yeah. It’s been quite the year.”

Sharply, I glance at him. Perhaps I had missed something? “Excuse me? You’ve had one hell of a year, Styles. Grammy nominations aside, there were how many music videos released during this global disaster? Plus a movie!”

“Agreed.” He’s quiet, his jaw clenched, and suddenly his words burst forth as though a gate at a dam has been opened. “But no tour. And almost no family time.”

Wait. Was this superstar feeling some of my emotions? He’d had a stellar year in anyone’s estimation. Maybe I could be more sympathetic. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry about tour. I had tickets to Vegas and one of the LA shows.”

His head swivels to me more swiftly than an owl focusing on prey. “You had tickets?”

“HAVE.” I swallow. “Thanks for not canceling by the way. I cannot imagine the bloodbath for getting tickets in the future. You’ve become the ‘it celebrity’.”

A blush is followed by a sheepish smile. “You can always get tickets, Smith. Just ask.”

“I don’t do that.” My voice is filled with the prickles that I feel at his words. 

“Do what?” 

“Use my privilege to get tickets to shows.”

“Oh. I…” His words trailed off. 

Suddenly, I feel less uncomfortable around him. Reaching out, I shove at his shoulder. “You’re a giant star, and you have a ton of fans who want to see you. Me? I’m just happy to be a member of the audience.”

“Really?” Incredulous is what I sense in that one word. “Why?”

“Seriously?” I’m appalled. “Do you not know what an amazing entertainer you are, Styles? Fuck. If I hadn’t been able to see your Fine Line show at the Forum last December, I probably would have cried. You know exactly what your audience wants, and you deliver it. Consistently.”

“But --”

“Hush. Don’t you dare negate your talent!” Taking another sip of wine, I reveal unabashedly, “Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I really enjoy your shows.”

“Smith?” He inquires, and my hand stalls with my wine glass halfway to my mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you like my shows?”

Stalling, I run a finger through my hair and empty my wine glass before holding it out to him. “More please?”

He rises, but I can read his reluctance. Within moments, Harry is back at my side, handing me a second glass of the riesling. I can’t help but notice that he’s topped his own off too. 

“Answer the question, Smith.”

“My name isn’t Smith. In fact, there’s not a single part of my name that’s related to Smith. Why do you call me that?”

“Tell me why you like my shows, and I’ll reveal the meaning behind the nickname.”

My head feels fuzzy from the wine and the headiness of being near Harry, and I watch the lights flashing on the tree for a few minutes while Meghan Patrick belts out her version of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ over the sound system. 

“You make your fans feel like they matter.”

“How?” His question comes rapidly, and I have to gather my thoughts. 

“You...talk to them. Listen to them. Watch them. Appreciate them. It’s rare, Harry. I mean, I’m in this business too, you know. Not every artist does what you do.”

“False.”

“I’m fucking serious, you asshole.” I gulp down more of the wine. “You make your audience feel like they’re your closest friends. I wish more artists did that. Specifically the ones I represent.”

“Oh.” His single utterance is enough, and we sit in pure tranquility for several minutes as the lights blink and Ava Max sings “Christmas Without You”. 

“Wanna watch the quintessential holiday movie?” I inquire, looking at him. 

“Which is?”

“Die Hard, of course,” is my response. “What were you thinking?”

“It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Nope. It’s pretty good. In the top five for sure.”

“Wait. What are your top five?”

“Oh, that’s easy. ‘Die Hard’, ‘Home Alone’, ‘A Christmas Story’, ‘The Santa Clause’, and ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly?” I giggle at the joke since ‘Die Hard’ is full of death. 

“Fine. But we watch ‘Wonderful Life’ afterwards.”

“Deal.”

Part 2