#before settling on this method which i can only hope is logically sound

[coldshare]

A word To build a scenario around... Steam

thank you for the prompt, anon! ♡ here it is (with some gratuitous references to contagion... you know me)

-

a character who's the type to prioritize self care over everything... who lives luxuriously, the type to resort to everything from expensive spa days to unwind, the type who's familiar with every natural remedy in the book, because really, even the slightest ailment is a perfect excuse to take it easy and even pamper themselves a little bit

the same character who feels themselves coming down with a terrible, incredibly contagious cold. but for whatever reason - maybe their boss urges them to come in (it's just a small cold, after all, and so much work still needs to get done), or maybe because they're just so confident in their home remedies to do the trick - they head to work anyways.

their desk becomes a mini pharmacy for the day - soft lotion tissues, three different tins of tea specifically meant to relieve cold and flu symptoms, herbal cough drops, a few cooling salves for their red, irritated nose, hot packs for their sinuses, a humidifier for the congestion. after all... if they're going to have to work with this cold, why not make their time here as comfortable as possible?

but still, despite every remedy, their cold turns out to be annoyingly persistent - they're just so congested they can hardly breathe through their nose, plagued with a tickle (not severe enough to catalyze a sneeze, in most cases, but present enough to be very distracting) in their nose which won't leave them alone no matter what. even worse, every sneeze is irritatingly unproductive; it does nothing to relieve the tickle - in fact, it almost seems to make it worse...

they make it to halfway through the afternoon where they decide they can't stand it anymore - they're not feeling too terrible, but this is certainly annoying, and that's enough of a reason for them to put an end to it once and for good. breathing in steam can be therapeutic, and even better, it's supposed to relieve congestion, right?

after a few moments consideration, they swipe the small vial of lavender essential oil off their desk. they've never been fond of this particular vial compared to the other essential oils they own - it always leaves them sniffly and teary eyed - but perhaps that would be a welcome side effect, just this once.

from there, they head into the break room and boil some water using the coffee machine (so what if they end up sneezing a few times, all over the coffee machine, misting the company countertops? it's not like they can control when they sneeze... with this cold, every sneeze just sneaks up on them; it's not their fault that they're not always able to cover.) they pour the boiling water out into a large bowl, drop a few drops of the lavender essential oil inside, and take a seat at one of the tables in the break room, which - aside from them - is thankfully empty.

the first breath of hot, fragrant steam does wonders for their congestion, which they can feel start to loosen for the first time, making their nose run. they haven't brought any tissues with them... perhaps that was an oversight, but the steam is just so relieving, they can't just stop now...!

the next few breaths, they can really start to smell the lavender, and... oh, the tickle in their nose sharpens with such intensity it takes them off guard.

"heh... hEhh... HIH-! hheh-Hhehh... heh... hehH..."

god, their nose tickles so badly; it's practically begging for relief. they lean their head down, taking another deep breath in through their nose.

"hehH... hehh-HEH-!" fuck, so close, just a little more... "hheh... HehhH.... hh-heh-Hehh-HEHh-!! HEHH'IIHHSHIEEEW!"

it's as if that first sneeze completely opens up the floodgates, snapping them forward - only for them to inhale a huge breath of hot steam. they wipe their nose on one palm, but even the slightest pressure against their nose seems to increase the tickle tenfold. everything smells like so strongly of lavender, it's - HEHh-! making them - heh-HEHh - h-have to -

"HEHH'ISSSHHIEw! hHAH'IITSHuUH! heh... heh-hEhh-HEHh-hHEH'TCHIIIEEEW! hH... hHIh! hahh-HAh-AHH.... AHH'IIIITTSCHHUueE!"

every sneeze absolutely drenches the table beneath them. they lift their hands to halfheartedly shield the first couple of sneezes, but with the number of particles that escape through their fingertips regardless, does it really even matter? it's not like anyone else is in the break room, after all. they turn their head aside to keep from spraying the table (even if all that accomplishes is spread their cold in the other direction.)

besides... don't they deserve to sneeze after having not been able to sneeze all morning, aside from the few terribly unsatisfying sneezes they'd had to put up with? isn't it only right that they get relief from this annoying cold as soon as possible? they need to get all the viruses out of their system to get rid of this cold... each messy, spraying sneeze sets them closer on the path to recovery. the tickle in their nose is really just there to help them sneeze out their cold as soon as possible, so why not coax it even further, make this process a little faster? really, they're doing their body a favor as they breathe in more steam, as they give in to the tickle in their nose, as they sneeze and sneeze and sneeze...

(maybe that's what they think, but they've left the air so utterly saturated with their cold viruses that it's no wonder that half the office comes down with the same miserable, messy cold in the weeks following, leading to more than a few dirty looks... after all, they brought their cold to work, and they hadn't exactly been subtle about it)

[cloudyyangel]

Nanami Kento thinks you look best in his blue button up. He enjoys seeing the stretch and pull of the fabric against your plump body. He also enjoys the events leading up to you tugging on his shirt.

3.3k

nsfw, cw: lack of prep, dry humping, body inclusive reader, afab reader, slight praise kink, one ass smack

△ ��� △

Nanami watches as you gather your underwear from the foot of his bed and slip back into them, a small smile playing at your lips. Your wiggles to get them just right over your thighs and ass has Nanami sighing softly as he leans against the headboard- eyeing every piece of plush flesh that bounces with your movements.

He had tried to coax you to stay in bed, dinner can wait sweetheart, but you had been adamant about feeding the over worked and stressed sorcerer (No Kento, I am not a suitable meal! You told him for the fifth time). He had came straight home from work and gotten you into bed before any greetings of hellos or how are yous.

You glance around for your shirt, the one he won’t mention is on the opposite side of the bed by the wall. It’s a game for him; getting you to throw your shirt off in a lust fueled haze and losing it. You always try to find it afterwards, sometimes even nudging him to roll over so you can search under him. Nanami was patient as his gaze followed you around the room- he knew the ultimate victory of the night was close. It sent a pleasant warmth through his chest as you finally give up and pull on the only shirt on the floor.

Nanami is built different, as you’ve jokingly told him many times. He’s tall with broad shoulders and a toned physique from fighting curses over the years. You, in a great difference, are soft with rounded edges that contrast with his sharp angles. You love to watch him flex as he chops vegetables for dinner, or see the taut skin of his stomach as he stretches before bed- it’s everything you’re not and it use to sting a bit, cut into your heart that maybe you weren’t good enough.

Nanami Kento, on the other hand, loves the opposition of your bodies. He loves the soft skin of your shoulders under his hands, to feel fat squeezing between his fingers as he grips your thighs, loves to watch your belly match the pumps of his hips as he drives his cock into you. He loves you, truly and wholeheartedly, and everything about you. Over time his sweet words, sinful praises, and all consuming actions have nestled their way into your body to take home in your skin.

They settle in your heart- the logic conscious man had no time to string someone along or for empty compliments. Fine, Nanami had relented one night after you explain why you’re not enough for him, you are big. You’re also beautiful, smart, amazing, talented. It’s just another word that describes why I love you. You start to believe it after that.

The blue button up you pull on after a session of love making is what he loves the most. Out of all the looks you had, it was his favorite. The fabric clings to the fat of your arms while the wrists are loose. It stretches across your full chest with only three buttons fastened in an attempt to hold you even as they pull taut (you know they’re reliable, just like the man who wears it). It couldn’t cover your tummy, even with how broad he is, but the material covers enough for you to trot around the room in.

It’s ill fitting- not necessarily too small, but made for a slimmer and taller build. Tailor made for Nanami Kento. On you, it’s a frumpy mess- the blue material wrinkling at odd places, bunching up around your arms but god if he doesn’t melt at the sight of you. His blue button up, stretched safely around your bigger form- it reminds him that you are his, that you love him, that he can protect and cherish you. He tries to keep it out as often as he can, fighting his urge to keep everything smartly in its place, just in hopes of you tugging it on. He soon found out that you were more willing to pull it on when you were in a dazed state, wanting to put on some semblance of clothes after an extended period of being exposed. Nanami was more than happy to provide that mindset for you.

This evening, his shirt had been tossed to the floor as soon as he entered the bedroom. His tie was somewhere in the living room, his glasses by the front door, shoes strewn across the entrance. Nanami is a smart man, however, and was careful with this shirt- he let that drop right in the middle of the room, to be sure it was the only thing you saw after he had satisfied both of your needs.

△ △ △

“Impatient, hmm Kento?” You teased as his hands groped at the fat on your hips to pull you even closer to him. He was home exactly on time despite the complaint of overtime and caught you by surprise. Nanami had strode into the bedroom with no words as he let his shirt drop to the floor and immediately captured your lips in a kiss.

The normally composed sorcerer had called on his break to rant about useless colleagues and a curse getting too close for comfort and that he just wanted to hear your voice. He promised to try not to work too late, I miss you darling, but you knew he put everything he had into work and told him you would be waiting for him with a smile.

Nanami hummed as he bruised your lips in a needy kiss. “I just need you.” He had muttered with a rut of his hips against yours. His length was already pronounced and it made you pull back with a slight gasp- light glistened off the string of spit that connected you two.

The situation at work must have gotten to him, his controlled façade had slipped completely off as he attacked you with an usual fervor. His hands squeezed your hips before they roamed over your tummy- it was one of his favorite places to touch and kiss and squeeze and worship.

He never faltered on his slow, methodical, rut against you, not slowing down to even remove both of your bottoms. “K-kento, we can-“ Your suggestion to continue in bed was cut off when his hands wrapped around your back to grope at your ass.

He always did go straight for what he wanted. Which explained why he was rutting you into the wall with spit spread around your lips.

His hips sped up and harsh pants met your face as he pressed forward. Nanami’s brow was furrowed, fingers griped tight on your ass as he slotted between your legs. His composure, his calmness, had been tossed to the side along with his shirt the second he saw you. Now, his cock was leaking into his slacks and he was just so desperate to feel you against him that the wall would do for now.

The new closeness brought his hard cock right against your cunt, still both clothed but the friction was enough to make you grow wet and grind back against him. The angle pushed you up on your toes, desperate to feel even more of him and if you angled your hips just right, you could feel Nanami’s length slide right over your clothed slit.

You had refused on multiple times to be picked up, even when he insisted on multiple times that he could. Instead, he accommodated your needs and wants, simply finding a way to be able to grind against you while he pressed your back against the wall. He bent down to suck the smooth skin of your neck into his mouth, only to increase the speed of his ministrations on your now dripping cunt.

His hips rubbed harder against you, effectively pining you to the wall and it started to burn against your skin. The sting only amplified the feeling every time it rubbed against your pussy lips and you couldn’t help but whimper with every thrust.

Deep in your stomach, something tightened and grew into a comfortable pressure, your orgasm growing with every thrust of Nanami’s hips. One hand left your ass to roughly paw at your chest, his fingers easily found the pebbled nipple and rolled it a few times before he gave a light tug. As you gasped he took the opportunity to shove his mouth over yours, to lavish his tongue against yours. It wasn’t enough for you, or him, but you were the first to break.

You needed more, needed him and needed something physical to touch you. "Kento, please” you whined into his mouth as you felt the soaked fabric of your underwear stick and cling to you.

The broken cry brought Nanami back as he pulled away from your hips, not able to control his harsh pants. The sudden stop made you jerk against him, desperate for any relief against your clit that throbbed under your pants. Nanami stared down at you, blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead with darkened eyes, and heaved a few deep breaths. His expression cleared as he took in your state- the caretaker role slid back on as he saw how wrecked you were from just a few minutes of dry humping. Your eyes were half lidded and cloudy with tears from the friction, hips still stuttered from the loss of contact, and your chest heaved. When he didn’t move, you reach forward with a grabby hand to tug his belt towards you. He easily caught your hand and slightly ‘tsk’ed when you voiced your displeasure with a frown.

“Look what you do to me.” He sighed and brought both of your hands to his cock that strained against the fabric of his slacks. You desperately gripped at the hardness which earned you a sharp hiss from his kiss bruised lips. You mewled at the sound but Nanami was never one to be outdone.

He eyed your own sex and let out a small chuckle. “Look what I do to you.” He said amused as he rubbed your hands over the wet spot of your pants. The pressure made the fabric catch against your slick lips, swollen from the rough friction and you arched into it before he pulled the hands away. He chuckled at your pout and wiggle to find friction again.

“I can’t believe how needy you are,” you bit out in frustration at his tease, “dry humping me like a virg-.” He swallowed the rest of your retort with a heavy kiss and quick swat to your ass. The small spank had you flatten yourself against the wall with a surprised gasp.

“You’re the one soaked through two layers of clothes. I think you’re the needy one, sweetheart.” He commented with a harsh tug on your ass which slammed your hips against his. It pressed your lips against your clit and sent a jolt through your body and the loud whine that left your lips already proved his point as he dragged you towards the bed. He brought his hands back to himself and left you to stand in front of him.

Nanami didn’t break your gaze as he went to unbuckle his pants and flung them off somewhere (you would tease him later how messy that was, throwing his clothes around like a teenager). You shifted as you watched his thick cock spring free of his slacks. The pretty red head slapped against his flushed stomach and you swallowed a whine as your cunt continued to throb. You would drop to your knees if he asked, pull your knees as wide as they would go, press your face into the mattress- anything to get his perfectly thick pretty cock inside of you. Nanami was observant as ever and smirked as he sat down on the bed.

“Like I said, needy.” His voice was a rumble and the comment sent a flutter through you. Nanami eyed you up and down, still fully clothed even as he sat naked on the bed, and gave a solid pat to his thigh.

“Take off your pants.”

Nerves shot through you- even after being with Nanami for so long. It was a force of habit to hide your body, to not show off and it made your movements lag as you unbuttoned and pulled off your pants. Despite his preference to see you naked- he rarely undressed you himself. He allowed you to take off whatever clothes you felt comfortable enough to remove, and at your own pace.

He was patient, as he always was, while you worked to obey him and not listen to the doubts that swirled in your head. His command, soft as it was, fought against those doubts you had. You wanted to please him, feel the praise run through your body, and that beat out whatever words had been thrown at your body in the past. His pale eyes watched as your thighs were freed and jiggled as you lifted you feet to kick them away.

His legs parted slowly (god what a sight to see Nanami Kento spread his legs wide for your body) and you slotted yourself in between his strong legs. “Look at you,” it came out breathless as he softly slid his hands under your shirt and you took the silent command to throw it off along with your bra, “sweetheart you’re gorgeous.” He pressed a few kisses to your stomach, his lips sinking into your skin. Your hands threaded through his blonde locks to let your nails scrape against his skull.

That was the praise that made every piece of exposed skin worth it- his gentle tone and sweet words sunk into the fat on your body and sent a shiver through you. He responded with soft bites into your even softer skin; his lips sucked a few red marks next to your navel to prove his point.

“Come join me, please Angel. Let me feel you.” He spoke quietly as he lead you onto his lap. You obeyed wordlessly- his words, his voice washed over you and made you compliant. Your weight pressed against his strong thighs, the bed dipped beneath your combined weight, and your stomach trapped his cock between the two of you as you settled down on his lap.

Nanami’s lips instantly latched onto your nipple, sucking and licking the hard bud. His hands roamed across your back, dipped to your love handles to pull you against him and you pressed up closer to his cock. His hips thrusted up on instinct to fuck his cock against your soft stomach, and drew a small moan from your lips. You rolled your hips against him which left behind a nice slick of your juices on his lap. His cock twitched against your stomach just as your clit pulsed from lack of stimulation.

Nanami was more than happy to lazily roll hips against hips until someone gave in. Once again, you broke first. “Wanna feel you Kento, please.” You muttered as your hips sped up on his lap. Your clit throbbed with every light push and you could feel the quiver travel through your thighs.

“You will, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up, give you what you need.” He promised as his hand travelled down to finally touch your wet pussy. His long fingers teased your slit and one easily slid between the folds. He had been the one to storm into the room and dry hump you to a wreck, but now wanted to properly get you ready.

You tried not to pout at him being a gentlemen to prep you but at this point he had teased you too long. You whined and weaved your fingers through his light hair to tug his gaze up to your own. Your empty cunt was painful as it pulsed around nothing. “No, please Kento, I need you now. I promise I can take it I promise just- I need you right now please please-“ he kissed your babbles away and moved his hands to grip the back of your thighs. He was patient, but even he had a limit.

Nanami pulled back to lock his pale gaze onto your teary eyes. “Can you handle that sweetheart?” He asked firmly, any tease gone.

You nodded quickly, blinking away tears at the need of his fat cock inside of you. “Promise Ken! I promise!” You whined and he shushed you again.

“That’s enough baby, lift up for me.” You pushed up on your knees and pawed at his chest as he lined up at your entrance. Your little whines of ‘please’ were silenced as the tip of his cock slipped through your slick hole.

As Nanami helped you lower yourself, he let out a string of encouragements, “You can take it, I know you can good girl, just go slow, don’t rush yourse-“ his words were cut off with a broken moan as you spread your knees and sank further down on his cock. “F-fuck baby.” His head dropped against your shoulder and he fully moaned.

Nanami was vocal in the aspect that he would praise you, give you commands, but those moans were special and sent an electrical shock right to your core. You griped at his hair and wrapped your arms around his neck with your own whine as his thick cock stretched you out.

It burned. As wet as you were, it practically dripped down your legs, his fat cock still stretched and squeezed itself inside of it. You slowly sank down until you met his lap once more, thick cock buried in your fat pussy. Neither of you moved for a moment, enjoying the fill and stretch of each other. His hands clawed into the extra fat on your thighs, sure to leave pinpoint bruises in the morning, and gave a small bounce.

“Ah! Not yet, wait,” you stammered out with a whimper to his hair, your pussy throbbed around the intrusion.

“You can do it for me sweetheart, move and bounce on my cock, yeah? You’ll be a good girl.” He coaxed into your neck with a few swipes of his tongue.

You nodded instantly, his words wiped out any doubts or pain you had. “Ye-yeah. I can.” You confirmed and raised up on your knees slightly before you dropped your weight back down.

He let you set the pace, happy to feel the rise and fall of your thighs on his, watch your tits bounce, feel the tight squeeze of your cunt on his cock, hear the pants right by his ear. “Kento, Kento,” you chanted as your rises got higher and quicker.

His own pants and moans were almost lost in the mix of your vocalizations and the squelch of your pussy around his cock. The tightness that formed deep in your belly came back, egged on by the sounds and feel of Nanami. “More! Ken, I need more, please, just, just a lil’ more.”

You leaned back from him to grind your hips down just as he moved to thrust up to hit right there oh god that was the spot. Your moan was loud and delicious to him as the head of his cock brushed the spongy spot inside of you that left you slack jawed. He took advantage of your leaned back form and laid back on the bed before he bucked his hips. You fell forward, catching yourself on his chest. “More, sweet girl?” He questioned with a smile of adoration and lust.

Nanami was nothing short of a giving and loving partner, always happy to give you exactly what you asked for. In this new position, he was quick to thrust up so hard that it jerked you forward. That warmth in your belly grew sharper, brighter, as it weaved through your body with every hit of his cock inside of you. He continued his thrusts as you threw yourself back to meet his hips. Wet slaps of his cock being driven into you mingled with your loud moans and his quieter grunts.

He never could keep his hands still at this point. His hands groped at your jiggly ass, moved to cup your belly that hung over him, pinched at your nipples on your tits that swung right in his face, and pulled your thighs apart to watch his cock piston in and out of you. It was too much for him, just to watch you and everything about you as you bounced on top of him with such lewd sounds and faces. He loved you. “My good girl, you’re taking me so well, bouncing on my cock so nicely. How does it feel princess?”

Your arms threatened to give out as your hands clenched into fist on top of his chest. “Good! ‘S good Kento! Your- ah! your cock ‘s hitting so good!” You managed to respond as he continued to jack hammer into your soppy cunt. Nanami deepened his thrusts at your words, pleased that you always listened to him even with his cock that wiped most thoughts out of your mind. “Close, gonna...wanna cum with you.” You whined over his quiet grunts.

One hand left your ass and settled on the fat of your pussy right above the sensitive little bud that begged for touch. Your clit throbbed with the closeness and you leaned closer to him. He responded by snapping his cock deeper into you, a wet smack echoing with every thrust. “ ‘m close too princess, your so tight around me. ‘M gonna fill you up nice and full, okay? Make you bigger with all my cum.” His thumb found your clit and gave it a soft rub.

A jolt of sensation travelled through your body. “So deep, cum so deep inside me, puh-, puhlease!” Your begs and pleads became a mess as Nanami sped up the circles on your clit. Only utters of “Ken!”, “puhlease!” “Cum ‘n me!” fell from your mouth as your orgasm grew. You slunk down on his chest, almost laid out flat on him as his hips kept up their relentless pace. The circling of your clit, your cunt leaking around his fat cock, the warmth in your belly, Nanami’s praises of good girl my good girl- everything snapped.

You came loudly with stars behind your eyes, called out his name with a quiver that ran through your thighs and a gush of your juices that coated his lap beneath you as you full collapsed against his chest. He fucked you through your orgasm as he gave you one, two, three deep pumps- his hips only stilled with his cock buried balls deep as he emptied his cum inside your pulsing cunt and his lips praised your name. It took a moment to feel your thighs stop their shake, feel his cum settle into you, as you both recovered from your orgasms.

His chest heaved under you, arms wrapped around your waist to drag you up off his softening cock. You whined at the drag, positive both his lap and the sheets would be a mess of your combined cum. These moments, basked in the afterglow, neither of you could care about stained sheets and leaking cum.

Nanami settled you against his side and his lips dropped a slow and deep kiss against your own. “Love you, love you Kento.” You mumbled. “I love you, my darling.”

△ △ △

So yes, seeing his shirt on you- face still flushed, hair a mess, red bite marks decorating your plush stomach- it was his favorite look.

[heyitssmiller]

Clandestine: Chapter Fourteen

We’re here. The final chapter. Y’all. I’m gonna cry.

@lumosinlove thanks for these characters!!

@donttouchmycarrots thanks for being my partner in crime during this whole mess of a story <3

And thank you, lovely readers!! For sticking with me for this crazy rollercoaster of a story, for encouraging me when I felt like quitting, and for always being so, so wonderful. I appreciate y’all more than I can say.

CW: prison, food, anxiety

Clandestine Masterlist

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The drive back was silent, punctuated sharply by the two empty seats in the van. It was something they should’ve seen coming, but yet were completely blindsided by. Sirius had been on their side for so long now, it seemed odd to picture him anywhere else. It was like he’d been there for years already, fitting in seamlessly and making friends fast, filling a gap that hadn’t been obvious before but felt like a chasm now. He belonged in Gryffindor with them. And Regulus, while more reserved and distant than his brother, didn’t seem to deserve the fate he’d found. The main motive that kickstarted this whole mission had been him – all for him – and he still couldn’t avoid being dragged down with the Snakes.

Remus was on the phone with a contact from the FBI – he had been since they’d taken Sirius away – trying his hardest to find any loopholes he could. He was… actually strangely calm. Methodically tackling one idea after the next, his analytic brain working overtime. Logan could understand, though. Being productive was helpful. It was when things settled down and got quiet, when all you could do was sit there and wait…

That was when things got tough.

His leg bounced up and down in anticipation the closer they got to the cabin, his one-track mind stuck on one thing and one thing only – getting a blond safe-cracker into his arms again. Not having Leo with them had been like missing a limb, making everything feel out of balance. And even thought he was safe, he was still too far away. Logan couldn’t stand it.

Finn reached over and placed a hand on Logan’s with a knowing smile. He was ready to be home, too.

Gravel crunching under their tires only fueled the eagerness. There were lights still on in the cabin, a warm, inviting pull. The front door was open before the cars had pulled to a complete stop, revealing Leo and Hope and Lyall. Julian was presumably asleep, given the hour. Logan’s seatbelt was thrown off and the door closest to him was yanked open, Finn hot on his heels.

Leo bounded down the steps of the porch and flung himself at the two of them, finding every inch of space between them and filling it, a soft sound escaping from his lips as he held on tight in a one-armed grip. Logan and Finn both stumbled back a few steps at the impact but quickly returned the embrace, Logan’s face buried in the junction between neck and shoulder and Finn’s forehead pressed against the blond’s. They seemed to take their next breaths in tandem, slow and steady, as they leaned into each other. Time slowed, everything in the periphery faded, and the world, previously off-kilter, evened out in equilibrium.

Finn suddenly realized he felt the coarse, scratchy texture of Leo’s sling pressed up against him and pulled back a little. “Careful, baby.”

That made Leo pull back. “Why?” He glanced over them nervously. “Are you hurt?”

Logan sighed long-sufferingly and cupped Leo’s face in his hands, looking him in the eyes with a fond expression that belied his exasperation. “No, but you are,” he moved his hands to smush Leo’s cheeks, causing Finn to laugh, “so take it easy.”

Leo smiled – a real one this time, not one of the fake ones he’d given them before they left – and relaxed. After a quick kiss from Logan he asked, “So it went well? Mission’s done?”

Logan and Finn both froze at that. Finn looked over to Remus, who was still on the phone (like he had been for the past hour at least) and frowned.

“Not quite.”

“We can talk inside,” Leo said, looking worried again. “there’s lots of food for y’all.”

He wasn’t wrong. Food covered pretty much every open surface of the countertops, ranging from pancakes to grilled cheese to the cinnamon swirl muffins Leo brought to their first briefing all those months ago. Finn smiled at the memories and instantly snagged one on their way to the kitchen table. His eyes landed on Talker, who was explaining something to Hope as she took a look at his leg. Nat, Kasey, and Alex were piled onto one couch, looking tired and each with a grilled cheese sandwich in hand. He could see Remus on the porch every once in a while when he passed by a window as he paced, phone pressed to his ear.

It didn’t bode well.

Logan sat down with a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup and started telling the story, voice a quiet murmur and only interrupted when he shoveled food into his mouth. Finn wondered how none of them had really seen this coming. In hindsight, it made sense that there would need to be a trial – after all, Sirius and his brother weren’t innocent. Finn wasn’t sure what happened next, though. Criminal trials and sentencing weren’t part of the job for them. He hoped they could get the brothers out of this mess, though. If anyone could find a way to do it, it would be Remus.

At least the Snakes were done for. The information on the flash drives was enough to lock them away for a very, very long time.

He took a bite of his muffin, no longer really hungry, and listened to Logan talk.

***

Remus sat down on the porch swing, tired and stressed and not at all ready to quit. He listened to Alice, his only contact in the FBI, rattle off some statistics that he couldn’t even begin to understand. And he wasn’t trying to be rude – that really wasn’t his intent – but he needed to act quickly about this. So he grimaced and cut her off. “Can we get them placed in another prison? Or even in solitary until we can figure something out? If the Snakes can get to them…”

Well. Remus didn’t think they’d show much mercy to the two people mainly responsible for putting them in jail.

Alice sighed, the sound of her rummaging around in her desk filtering through the phone. “We can try. Since they did help you guys, we should be able to swing it. If something jeopardizes their lives, it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Remus’ heart twisted – a deep, chronic ache under his ribcage that refused to let up. “Do it fast. I’m going to start reaching out to lawyers.”

“Lupin, it’s four in the morning.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair with a frustrated huff. “Thanks for all the help, Alice.”

He hung up, then braced his forearms on his knees, hands gripping his hair, and breathed.

If there was one thing Remus Lupin was good at, it was planning. It was his job, and a big part of the reason he’d switched from field work in the first place. He relied on structure to get through his days, needed the stability in order to function.

There was none of that.

This was being adrift at sea, constantly assaulted by the waves and the current without rescue in sight.

And Remus had no idea what to do.

His phone pinged, catching his attention. A text from Alice flashed across the screen.

I’ve got a friend who’s a lawyer, and she’s a damn good one. I know you’ll want to do your research on her yourself, but I can vouch for her too. Here’s her contact if you want to reach out.

The contact number and email were listed under the name Dorcas Meadowes.

***

Dorcas Meadowes was, to put it simply, awe-inspiring.

Black curls, a dark complexion, and a serious, no-funny-business expression on her face. Her office was neat and organized, a few pictures around the place of her and a blonde girl with a wide grin and freckles. There was a small pride flag on her desk. Without a word, she motioned for Remus to sit, cool and composed and ready to get to work.

That was all it took for Remus to instantly respect her.

“So I’ve heard some of the story from Alice, but I’ll need you to start at the very beginning. Don’t leave out any details, tell me everything.”

Remus did, settling into the chair and getting comfy. It was a long story, after all. When he was done he looked back up at Dorcas, whose face was expressionless except for a single, raised eyebrow.

“That’s…” she trailed off with a low whistle.

“Yeah.”

“Well, the good news is that, if we’ve got enough evidence to back your story up, we can reduce his sentence by a lot, maybe even get him released.”

Remus sagged back into the chair, relief taking over and wiping out the tension radiating through his muscles. “Great.”

He’d known, logically, that they’d be able to reduce his sentence. With all the work he put into taking the Snakes down, there was no way they’d give him a full sentence. But getting him out of there for good…

Remus had never wanted anything so much in his life.

Dorcas leaned forward, powering her laptop on. “We’ll go visit him in the next few days and tell him what’s going on, but first we need a plan. Here’s what I’m thinking…”

***

Sirius hated this.

He was bored, he was tired, and – more than anything – he was lonely.

In Gryffindor, he’d become so accustomed to always having at least someone with him at all times. It was usually Remus, but he’d also grown close to most of the team. And it was nice at the time – god, did he miss it. But it was painful now. He’d witnessed what his life could be like, happy and surrounded by friends and possibly in love, and now he was back to the way his life used to be. Alone and on the wrong side of the law.

He hadn’t seen Reg since they’d been escorted into isolation for their own safety. Which don’t get him wrong – he was grateful for it. Knowing Riddle, they wouldn’t have survived the night if they were all being held together. But it was too quiet now.

The door to his cell rattled and Sirius looked up sharply. A guard was standing there, unlocking his door and opening it.

“Come with me,” the guard said, sounding bored as he opened the door further and held out a pair of handcuffs. Sirius looked at him hesitantly, not moving an inch. The guard rolled his eyes. “You have visitors.”

Sirius perked up at that, the only thought running through his head being Remus. He knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t going to take this sitting down. He’d be fighting to get Sirius free, no doubt about it. He wasn’t sure who else would be visiting him, anyways – if someone was here, it was sure to be Remus.

So Sirius got up and held his wrists out to be cuffed, then watched as the officer pointed down the hall.

“This way.”

It took all the self-control Sirius had to not run, to slowly put one foot in front of the other until he finally reached his destination. The guard moved around him to open the door and then Sirius was moving again.

He spotted caramel curls as soon as the door opened to the visitation room and felt his shoulders sag with relief. “Remus.”

Worried brown eyes followed him as he crossed the room quickly to sit in front of him, separated by a thick wall of glass. The movies weren’t lying, apparently. But it was so good to see him that Sirius didn’t care.

Remus looked tired. Unfortunately, that didn’t surprise Sirius at all. He knew the tendency to overwork all too well at this point. More than anything, it made Sirius want to get out of there, to wrap him up in his arms and let him take a nap there, to make sure he was taking care of himself. He settled for giving him a stern look instead.

“You need to get some sleep.”

Sirius expected a sharp, witty retort. Some sass, a comeback of some kind. Instead, Remus did the unthinkable and just smiled. “I missed you.”

Sirius sighed, softening at the gentle admission. He’d missed Remus too, of course. More than he could really put into words, and it had barely been a day. The smell of his shampoo, the quiet, reassuring presence of him by Sirius’ side, those eyes that just seemed to see right through him and know even the things Sirius tried to keep hidden. He found he didn’t mind it too much - not when it was Remus.

“I missed you,” he echoed in agreement, refusing to look away until someone cleared their throat loudly. Sirius looked over to a woman sitting next to Remus, looking unimpressed. Sirius hadn’t even known she was there, as wrapped up in Remus as he was.

Remus, to Sirius’ endless delight, blushed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Remus blush before. It was cuter than it had any right to be. “Um, Sirius this is Dorcas. She’ll be representing you in court.”

Right.

He had to go on trial.

Dorcas took over from there. “We think, with the evidence we have, that we can get the charges reduced, maybe dropped if we’re lucky. If you can think of any evidence we don’t know about, we can use that to strengthen your case, too.”

Sirius nodded, relieved. That sounded better than he thought he’d get, to be honest. “What about Reg?” he asked, looking between the two.

Dorcas was very hard to read, Sirius realized. And Remus looked confident… until he looked over at the lawyer. Then his expression flickered.

And Sirius’ heart sank.

“That’s a bit trickier,” Dorcas stated slowly, treading carefully. “The thing is, he never tried to get out. He stayed with the Snakes. And I know it’s not easy to get out of situations like that,” she rushed to continue when she saw the look on Sirius’ face, “but the fact still stands. And he didn’t do as much to help take the Snakes down, not like you did. We can probably reduce his sentence, but he’ll be in prison longer than you. I don’t think we can fix that.”

Sirius felt himself being torn in two different directions. He wanted to be free, to be able to live his life again. Maybe make a home in Gryffindor (or maybe move in permanently with a certain spy), get a job as a consultant. He’d make sure the poor houseplant in Remus’ apartment survived, the poor thing, and he’d keep Remus’ favorite tea stocked in the cupboard. He’d be able to relax for – well, the first time in a very long time.

But his brother.

He was the main reason Sirius got out in the first place. The reason he ended up in Gryffindor, this entire mission was for him. To get him out, to make sure he was safe.

What was the point, if he was stuck in jail while Sirius got to walk free?

He could practically hear his brother telling him how stupid he was being in that dry voice of his, but he pushed the thought away. He’d made up his mind, and it was practically impossible to sway him when that happened.

Sweet, caramel eyes might test him, though.

Sirius looked up at Remus guiltily, dreading the response he was going to get. But yet again, Remus took him by surprise and smiled sadly.

“I understand.”

Those words hit Sirius like a freight train. He sucked in a deep breath, eyes stinging and throat getting tight. “I’m sorry.”

Remus just shook his head. “Don’t be.”

Sirius loved him.

Remus glanced over at a confused Dorcas. “He can’t leave his brother. Whatever sentence Reg gets, Sirius wants to do the same.”

She was silent for a long time, looking back and forth between the two of them. Then she sighed, seeming resolute. “Well then we’d better get those charges as low as we can.”

***

Four Weeks Later

.

Leo found Remus in the courthouse hallway during the trial recess before they were supposed to reconvene for the sentencing, looking seconds away from pacing from one side of the building to the other. The past few weeks had been hard on all of them. Between coming to terms with everything that had happened in the recent months, to trying to figure out the evidence they needed to bring forward to try and get the charges dropped against both Sirius and Regulus, to the strange feeling in the Agency brought forth by Sirius’ absence, it had been weird for all of them. Remus had been hit the hardest by all of it, though – and understandably so. That didn’t make it any easier to watch, though.

He’d been running himself to the bone the past four weeks, going above and beyond to make sure everything was in order for the trial. He looked ready to drop, if Leo was being honest.

But he understood. If it were Logan or Finn in Sirius’ place… well. He’d already figured out just how far he’d go for them.

He put a hand on Remus’ arm, trying to be as calming as possible. “You’re going to be ok,” he said carefully, choosing his words meticulously. He didn’t want to be cold, but he didn’t want to get Remus’ hopes up only for them to be dashed.

Carmel eyes met his own, and Leo sighed at the stress he saw there. He looked tired – so tired.

“What do you need?” Leo asked quietly, hoping for some sort of guidance on how to help him, how to get that look off of his face.

Remus just laughed under his breath, a sad sound. “There’s a lot of things I need.” He shuffled on his feet, gathering his sleeves in his hands. “But a hug would be a good start.”

Not hesitating, Leo gathered him into a hug, the stretch pulling at the scar tissue in his shoulder that was finally free of a sling. Remus was tense and still for a while, then relaxed into it. Leo wished he could do more, wished he could make any sort of difference in this situation. But everything was so far out of their control now; the only thing left to do was wait.

“Whatever happens, we’re here for both of you. You’re not alone in this.”

Remus stepped away with a fake attempt at a smile. “Yeah.”

There was a visual cue that neither of them seemed to catch and people started filtering back into the courtroom, making Remus’ face grow paler and more pinched. Leo stuck by his side as they walked back inside, trying to ignore the soft sound Remus made when he saw Sirius again – all the way in the front, in a jumpsuit that looked too big for him, hair longer and eyes a little duller than they remembered, fidgeting with something in his cuffed hands. Regulus was next to him, head down and avoiding everyone’s eyes. Leo just stuck to Remus’ side as they squeezed into the row of chairs with the rest of the Agency, making sure Remus was right in the middle, surrounded by so many of the people who cared about him most. Finn and Logan sat down next to him with grim smiles.

Leo reached over to tangle his fingers with Finn’s, feeling him squeeze back gently. The bruises were completely gone from his face, and he was walking limp-free now. He dropped his head onto Logan’s shoulder, having to angle his shoulders down to rest somewhat comfortably against the shorter man.

Leo would never get over the height difference.

“I’m taking a nap when we get home. This is so stressful, oh my god.” Finn sighed, making Leo smile.

Home.

That was still somewhat new for the three of them. After a few days back in their separate apartments in Gryffindor, they’d realized how incredibly codependent they’d become during their mission. Leo would find himself staring up at the ceiling most nights, worrying about the other two, until he’d get a phone call from one of them and they’d end up driving to each other and collapsing in bed together, squished together just like those hotel rooms they’d shared. And it had gotten to the point where there wasn’t any point living in different apartments when they ended up together most nights anyways, so Leo and Logan had packed up their things and moved in with Finn. He had the largest bed, anyways.

So yeah. They lived together now. And Leo was ridiculously pleased about it.

They were taking that vacation in a few weeks, too – the one Finn had first brought up in the back of a getaway car, tears in his eyes and blood on his hands. Somewhere warm, just like he’d promised. He’d get to watch Logan tan and Finn turn red like a lobster, only to go straight back to pale. They’d get some time to relax and not stress about work – just themselves and the vast expanse of beach and water in front of them.

Leo couldn’t wait.

“We’ll take that nap together.” Logan answered Finn quietly, turning his head to meet Leo’s eyes as he pressed an affectionate kiss to Finn’s head. Leo smiled at him, the sense of one chapter ending and the next beginning washing over him.

Whatever came their way, they’d be ok. They’d proven that already.

The crowd hushed as the judge sat back down, face impassive.

“We have reviewed the evidence and testaments brought forward in defense of Sirius and Regulus Black.” He started, looking down at the two in question critically as everyone in the courtroom seemed to hold their breath.

“It still doesn’t change the fact that they committed crimes while with the organization,” the judge stated firmly, then continued, “Regulus and Sirius Black are hereby sentenced to one year in prison.”

The gavel slammed.

Remus sat there in quiet disbelief.

They’d done… everything. They’d worked so hard for the past month in attempts to let Sirius and Regulus’ sentences reduced – and that was technically a reduced sentence – but it was still more than any of them had been expecting.

A year.

They hadn’t done enough.

Remus almost missed all the movement around him, too busy staring at the back of the seat directly in his line of vision, but his gaze snapped up when an achingly familiar voice called his name.

Sirius slowed to a stop as he passed Remus on his way out, eyes wide and frantic. Desperate. It broke Remus’ heart, more than it already was. “Wait for me?” He asked intently, like his sole focus was on Remus and his answer. He shoved his open palms out, revealing what he’d been fidgeting with during the entire trial. Remus looked down to find an origami flower, conveying all of Sirius’ hopes for the future within the delicate folds.

Remus wished more than anything that he could reach for him; to pull him in tight, hold him close, and refuse to let the guards take him away. He also had the half-formed plans of a jail break already in mind, even though he knew Sirius would never agree to it. It was then that his eyes locked with the gray ones he’d come to know better than his own and he knew – he knew that he’d wait, however long it took.

Remus loved him.

It wasn’t a grand revelation, it wasn’t sudden. In all honesty Remus had probably felt that way for a long time now, the truth prodding at the back of his head, nagging at his subconscious. He loved Sirius, plain and simple. Simple except for the fact that one of them was going to jail for a year. And yet, no matter how complicated it got, no matter how much time went by, it was the easiest decision Remus had ever made.

Well. If love made people crazy, Remus was certifiably insane.

He smiled a little tearfully at Sirius and nodded fiercely, picking up the paper flower delicately.

 “You know I will.”

[embrassemoi]

No Body, No Crime ✁ 1

AU - Y/N L/N is a second-year law student attending Stanford and studying under Professor Aaron Hotchner. Along with his associate attorneys, Ms. L/N is alongside some of the most ambitious and cutthroat law students in the nation. However, her life gets flipped upside down as she’s thrust into a life of murder, sex and lies.

Main Pairing: Spencer Reid x [F]Reader

Content — Mature themes, blood, major and minor character death, violence, angst, triggering themes, bad coping mechanisms, drugs, mental health shit, alcoholism, lots of smut, language, fluff, mystery, thriller, mentions of cheating, canonical typical themes , dark academia vibes, explicit content - read with caution

DISCLAIMER: This story will contain MATURE content. It will include themes such as smut, violence, etc (see content). If you are not 18+ and unable to handle such themes, respectfully, please exit this story. It is not my intention to make readers uncomfortable or trigger them in any way. If you continue to read the story despite the multiple warnings, I am not responsible for any triggers that may pop up.

Also, based off this blurb! 

I am also not a law student, so there is bound to be misinformation!

【 ao3 | Masterlist | Playlist 】

CHAPTER 1: Death and All His Friends

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Blood, she thinks, you never really know how much blood is in a person. Logically, she did know; she had to learn how many pints there were in the human body from med school and the mass amount of profile study cases. From looking at crime scenes, reading textbooks, medical journals and fake charts; blood has never bothered her, if anything, she got used to seeing and being around it.

There are roughly about ten gallons of blood in the average adult, but typically, losing more than forty percent will result in death. That was about two thousand millilitres.

But, you never realize just how much blood a person can hold, not until a human is slaughtered like an animal, eyes glossed over, body turned cold and stiff — splayed out in front of you. It seems like a lot more than what was described.

There’s a saying, bleed like a pig. Well, she understood what it meant now.

God, she sounded like Spencer.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Let’s leave it. We need to go back and clean!”

“No, let’s bury it.”

A chuckle of utter disbelief forces its way out of Derek’s mouth in a rush. It’s both strained and ragged and sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears, but the shock and anger seem to immerse deep in his bones and control his actions. His head shakes subconsciously, “You’re — you’re fucking joking, right? It’s the middle of winter! Tell me how the fuck we’re going to bury a body when the soil’s hard?!”  

There’s a collective panicked sigh that goes through the group as the implications finally start to settle in.

“Be any louder!” Emily half-shouts. She paces back and forth, the freshly fallen snow crunches under her shoes as they leave footprints in their wake. Her hands make extravagant hand movements, almost in an attempt to speak with her actions. But, the only thing that has Y/N somewhat grounded is the rusty blood on Emily’s hands. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep red does nothing but make bile rush to her throat.

“The body is what gets us caught!” JJ cuts in through her half-sobs.

“The one time it snows in California! Since when do we get snow?!”

Sticky, cold, dry, flakey blood. It brings too much attention to the blood painting her body in a cruel, evil painting. Y/N lifts a shaky hand as she turns to observe the way the pads of her fingers were stained red. Underneath her fingernails, she can see the blood caking, dried underneath and can feel the heavy liquid travelling up her sleeve.

Her fingers pressed together before a hand shoots up, trying to pick off the blood in a hasty attempt.

Everything was uncomfortable — too uncomfortable and it was sticky and disgusting and there was too much happening. Her brain was overstimulated and all she wanted to do was yell or cry or strip herself clean from these heavy clothes, hiding the blood drenching her underneath. A hand went to claw at the fabric — she needed to breathe — she needed air and it was too tight and —

The falling snow had finally come to a stop, the ground becomes muddy, wet snow being tracked all around but aside from that, it’s dry out. Panic is slow seep within her body, only just registering the dull, prickling ache that travels up the side of her right arm. Not to mention the pounding in her skull felt like someone had taken a power tool, drilling a burl hole into the side of her head in hopes of creating a make-shift lobotomy. On instinct, her hand reaches up to her temples, massaging small circles in hopes to find relief.

But then she catches sight of her hand again from her peripheral vision, or rather, it’s as if she can feel it laminating her skin. Blood.

Now there must be smeared streaks of dried blood coating her face. Fuck, now she really feels like throwing up.

A soft wail can be heard in the background somewhere, but it sounds distant and underwater. She thinks it’s JJ. Her high-pitched cries are loud and she thinks that’s Derek’s voice yelling at her and god… it only amplifies her headache.

She needed an aspirin, Advil — maybe Spencer had some.

Her mind wanders back to the group. Emily… Emily — she’s — Y/N doesn’t know where Emily went actually. She could have sworn she was by the trees…

She continued to pick at her skin absentmindedly, and now she couldn’t tell where her blood started and the one that was sprayed onto her ended.

And Spencer, he’s pacing and hadn’t muttered a word since they left Hotch’s house. His body language is closed off, his hand rubbing up and down his arms in either a self-soothing method or because it’s cold out. She assumes it’s the former.

The one time — the one fucking time the asshole is supposed to be smart, his IQ magically drops below zero.

Everyone is arguing and they all hear the faint cheers, laughter, early fireworks and music blaring in the background. The sound of the bonfire crackles in the distance and all she can do is drown it out. She was supposed to be having fun. She should’ve been visiting home, or maybe studying of fucking Spencer, not wearing shoes twice her size, gloves to cover up her fingerprints; not trying to come up with an alibi and there definitely shouldn’t be someone else’s blood clinging to her. She should’ve been anywhere but here. It’s too much.

Lightheaded, Y/N stumbles backwards, supporting herself against a nearby tree. The shadows and black coat camouflaged her, engulfing her into the night and she feels an odd sense of comfort by it. But, it does anything but calms her down as her chest begins to rise rapidly up and down.

Oh god, oh shit, shit, shit! They’re all fucked — she’s fucked. Her DNA is all over the crime scene. The crime scene is on her and probably under the body’s fingernails. There was no way she was getting out of this. It wasn’t even her fault and look where she is.

She should’ve listened to her Grandparents; don’t go to law school, it’ll turn her into something she’s not. Y/N smiles twistedly thinking about it, they were right.

You can’t get away with murder.

Shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“We need to stop wasting time,” Emily announces, appearing remarkably calm.

“W-we should call the police,” Y/N mumbles in a shaky voice. Her voice hitches and she sucks in a cry.

All of their heads, besides Spencer’s, whip over to her; she’s on the verge of breaking — possibly even running off and going straight to the local police station. Her phone suddenly feels heavy in her pocket.

“What we’re not going to do is that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in jail?!” Derek exclaims. His mouth goes to open again before he suddenly halts, looking over to Spencer and shouting. “Ayo, kid-fucking-genius, could you, I don’t know — think?!”

The yelling makes her shrink in on herself. Yes, call the police, turn yourself in. Obstruction of justice; tampering with evidence, manslaughter, attempting to hide a body, invasion of privacy, possible perjury — all this leads to incarceration and more time. Maybe she could even get a deal, say that she was in shock, dealing with PTSD. Immunity! Maybe she could strike herself and Spencer an immunity deal.

God — they killed her. They murdered someone.

Immense guilt bubbles its way through her before she turns to gag on air. Her hands clutches her stomach as she heaves, distantly hearing the arguing background.

“— about Hotch?”

“What about him? He’s going to put us in jail himself. If we’re lucky, he’ll kill us so we can skip a life sentence!”

JJ cries louder. God was she fucking annoying.

“He doesn’t give two shits about her —” “Could everyone just stop for a fucking moment,” a new, irritated voice cuts in. It sounds like it’s been pushed through gritted teeth, muddled by straining and holding back tears. It’s Spencer.

His eyes shut, the palm of his hands pressed harshly on them before rubbing them hard. But, they travel up to his forehead and through his hair, pulling down so hard that Y/N would be surprised if he didn’t already lose a chunk. But within a swift motion, he crouches to the ground in a fetal-like position; the balls of his feet roll back and forth, making his entire body bounce in small rhythms.

He’s having a panic attack, judging by the way his breathing cuts in and out in large volumes, hyperventilation bound to happen soon.

The entire group stays silent before Derek has enough. He walks up to Spencer, a hand clutching his jacket which forces him to stare straight into his eyes.

“Don’t treat him like that,” Emily tries to cut in.

“If you don’t give us something good within the next few seconds, you better pray to god —”

With newfound determination, Spencer meets his eyes with a fiery look, his chest puffed out a bit and his voice is even.

“We burn it.”

━━━━━━━━━༻✈︎༺━━━━━━━━━

Friday, August 29th, 2003

Palo Alto, California. Apartment 7

Four months before

A clanging sound reverberates throughout the empty hallway for the third time within the last five minutes. Her keys.

An annoyed sigh involuntarily leaves her lips as she struggles to lift the stacks of heavy boxes in her arms. Her attention was drawn to a bulletin board near her door. A missing person’s photo was plastered, marked with an eye-catching red border. Printed underneath a photo of a man in bold letters: George Floyet, twenty-five-year-old student at Palo Alto University. Last seen on July 30th, 2003.

When Y/N L/N was fourteen, she vaguely remembered people asking her where she saw herself in the next ten years. Now standing outside her newly rented apartment, sweating as she juggled a stack of large boxes without tripping — well, she certainly hadn’t thought this.

Life had many ups and downs, as cliche as that sounded. She hadn’t expected to graduate university with an English and Human Physiology degree, nor had she expected into medical school before ultimately deciding to take the LSATs, pursuing a career in law.

Truly, had Y/N used one word to describe her career ambitions at the moment, she’d say she’s pretty fucked and clueless. Although, she’d liked to consider herself fairly motivated, resilient, perhaps even strong-willed and quick on her feet. Scratch that, if anything, the one thing she did pride herself on was her ability to compose herself quickly and the want to overcome fear. It was a motto, of sorts, which she’d been sticking close to: going with the flow.

If anything, those were the attributes that built the foundation of what anyone needed to become a successful lawyer. Yes, that made her situation sound a lot less… pathetic.

But certainly, standing in the middle of a corridor in a shitty apartment with walls too thin to save money on rent, she’d consider herself pretty pathetic.

Oh, the joys of moving.

Just as she felt one of the boxes tipping, the sound of shuffling fills the hallway. A pair of large pale hands come out of nowhere, swiftly catching the stacked cardboard boxes with ease.

When she looked up, she hadn’t quite caught a look at the man in front of her as he bent down to pick up her keys. But when he finally stood straight, eyes locking, she took note of his features

He was tall, much taller than herself and dressed in black slacks and a light lilac dress shirt which was pushed up by the sleeves. He was young, probably the same age as her or younger. He was wide-eyed, almost doe-like and wore a nervous yet seemingly gentle expression.

“Hello,” said the stranger. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just woken up as darken eyebags accentuated his face. His face was sharp, features dark — but in a soft sharp way that made the shape of his nose and lips the most noticeable. Pink lips, a tired look, pretty face.

This stranger was friendly and very attractive. That was her first impression of him.

“Hi,” she replied, a bit breathless from the weight of juggling the boxes. But still, she smiled and her head tilted to the side slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were my new neighbour, I hope you don’t mind me helping, you looked like you needed it,” he says nervously, his extra free hand goes back to rub the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes shoot over to the door at the end of the hallway, conveniently next to hers: apartment 8. He must've heard the banging against the doors and walls, and suddenly, she felt guilty. She must’ve woken him up.

“Haha, yeah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“No! It’s fine.”

Now, both stand there a bit awkwardly before she coughs, which has him nodding and fumbling with her keys in his hand, “Er — I have a couple of minutes before I leave for work, do you still need help?”

“Right, yes!”

Y/N hands him over her other box, her hand taking the keys back as she clicks open her door. The smell of cleaning products filled her nose along with the smell of old books. It’s spacious, considering what she’s paying for it. It’s a flat, aside from the bathroom and kitchen and there’s a small balcony that’s connected with another set of railings outside. The view of green trees and flowers could be seen and suddenly, Y/N considers herself lucky when she’s realized the place she’s snagged.

The man trails behind her, setting the boxes down on the kitchen counter before dusting off any non-existent lint off his pants. His eyes quickly scan the area, in an analytical fashion.

He clears his throat, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods too, walking back up to her door to lead him out. “Likewise, neighbour.”

This time, a real smile crosses his face before looking down sheepishly, a small tint covering his cheeks. “Please, I’m Doctor Reid — but please, call me Spencer.”

“Doctor?” Her face lights up with curiosity. This man looks as young as her, younger — and she’s only twenty-four.

“Oh, I don’t practice medicine,” he quickly adds. His hands go to fiddle with each other, “I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187,” he explains. However, it’s not in a blatantly rude manner — like he’s trying to flaunt it. If anything, he looks embarrassed. His head drops to look down at his shoes, trying to make himself appear smaller, seeming uncomfortable. But like she said, Y/N likes to believe she’s quick on her feet.

“Well then, Doctor,” she teases, which has him going a deeper shade of pink, “I’m Y/N L/N, I have no PhDs, I used to practice medicine and I have an IQ of — probably a hundred or less.

At this, Spencer visibly relaxes as a deep chuckle makes its way out. He nods again, making his way out the door and does a small wave before disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaves her door open, but her back is faced towards it as she hears his door click back open and she feels the vibrations of his door closing before the tapping of his feet becomes more and more distant.

There are a dozen other boxes she ends up hauling in, but she’s noticed that Spencer must have somehow carried a few of the boxes to the top of the stairs rather than just leaving them in the lobby.

As she wipes down the surfaces, music blasting through her earbuds before unboxing her new bed frame, a smirk crosses her face; cheap rent, enrolled at one of the top law schools in the country, has enough money saved for the next few months and a cute, tall, polite and a fucking doctor that just so happens to be her neighbour — damn, Y/N doesn’t mind this at all.

【 Next Chapter 】

[t4tharuspex]

house of mirrors

2.5k word mlp fanfic. dont judge me >.>

summary: rarity and twilights visit to the crystal empire is more eventful then either had hoped. somethings wrong with the castle, and more importantly, somethings wrong with shining armor...

content warnings: fear of transphobia (no actual rtansphobia bc this is the colorful horses show)

Rarity held back a whinny of delight as she trotted off the train and into the crystal empire station. Everywhere she looked she was dazzled by gleaming crystals of every color refracting rainbows on every surface while somehow remaining the farthest thing from gaudy. Starting to feel faint from excitement, she leaned on twilight's shoulder as her eyes fluttered.

“Rarity come on!” The alicorn laughed as she helped her friend upright. “We’ve hardly been in the empire for a minute! Save your fainting for the ceremony.”

The white horse perked up immediately at the reminder of what she had come here for: she was to assist Cadence and Shining Armor in the preparations for the newborn princesses presentation to the public! She cantered in place with excitement, lifting twilight's luggage with her magic and running off to their suite in the castle with twilight hot on her heels.

The suite was spacious with generous decor in simple light colors. the main focal point of the suite was the giant bay windows which cast giant swathes of warm light across the room. upon closer inspection rarity was amazed to discover that the windows were made entirely of cut crystal rather than glass. the faint color of the gemstone created a slight cast on the light coming in, giving a view of the city below that was ever so slightly tinted. this realization recontextualized the furnishing in rarities mind: it wasn't dull and plain, but simply a blank canvas for whatever the crystal windows brought in. a strange method of decor indeed. or was it a response to the material conditions of living in a house of crystal?

When the two had almost settled into their apartment, they were startled from their rest by a brisk knock at the door.

“A summons for princess twilight sparkle,” a booming voice called from behind the door. “You are needed urgently by princess mi amore cadenza for matters concerning his highness the prince.”

Worry flooded the purple alicorns features. “Urgent? Then I guess I had better go now.” She magically gathered a few items into her saddlebag and gave a parting smile to her friend as she was rushed away by royal guards.

Shocked by the suddenness of it all, rarity let out a chuff and sat squarely on her quarters. Was shining armor alright? she wanted to put her anxieties to rest, but it was plainly obvious that she hadn't been invited. would the entire trip to the empire consist of her sitting alone in her room while twilight attended to all matters of actual importance?

Trying to shake the thought from her head, rarity got up and left her room to explore the castle. It truly was extravagant, with pillars of crystal stretching to the high vaulted ceilings spreading refractions of glittering iridescence that made the whole space seem somehow both extraordinary glamorous and warm and homey. Inspiration flooded her mind as she trotted the decadently decorated halls. She just couldn’t wait to get back to her studio and put this inspiration to good use.

She was halted in her exploration when her ears picked up familiar voices talking from behind an ajar door. She knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help but listen in...

"-i don't know what to do twilight, he hadn't seemed this off for years, and now flurry is here and hes completely absent!"

"i don't know cadence, he hasn't said anything in his letters-"

“- all I’m saying is maybe you could get through to him! He won’t talk to me, or anypony else here. you're my last hope. maybe hell listen to his best friend”

“i've never been able to help him in one of these episodes before. if he’s not ready to talk then confronting him will only make him more defensive.”

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take. I’m worried for my husband twilight.” Rarity leaned on the door to hear better as the princesses voice dropped, “please, if not for shining armor, or for me, then for flurry heart. She deserves to have a father who can dedicate himself to her, not one who’s so preoccupied that he can hardly look after her.”

There was a sigh, then rarity heard twilight speak “very well. I’ll do this for her. Maybe that will get through to my brother.”

Sudden approaching hoofsteps started rarity out of her reverie. She stumbled backwards just in time to miss the swinging door as twilight entered the hall. “Rarity? I thought you were still in the room? Oh well, I need your help anyway." She looked over her shoulder as if to make sure they were alone. "I think somethings wrong with my brother. It's possible that one of the unreformed changelings has taken his place to try too take advantage of the upcoming love boom from flurry hearts royal presentation."

Rarity was taken aback by her friends leap of logic. "Doesn't that seem like an extreme suspicion? Having a baby is stressful enough for normal ponies, I cant imagine what kind of pressure would be on a royal prince."

"I don't know rarity, after what happened at the wedding we can't be too careful. I hope its just nerves and parental stress, but we have to expect the worse if we want to be prepared to handle it."

rarity nodded. "alright, then let's find your brother."

The two ponies galloped down the halls in search of the princes chambers. the crystal walls seemed to burn with energy, the warm cast of light from earlier having turned harsh and almost too bright. rarity wondered absently if this was a product of the changing time of day or a trick of the mind. could the walls of a castle really know how somepony felt, and shine it back at them like a diamond mirror?

a distant commotion pricked the two mares ears. "this way!" twilight called as she rounded a corner, dashing after the sound with rarity at her side.

the two skidded to a stop when they reached an open doorway from which the sound seemed to emit. with a flick of her ear twilight motioned for rarity to follow her and the two cautiously made their way into the room. twilight emitted a small light from her horn, then lit the rooms lamp once she could find it on the wall. with the room lit rarity immediately got an impression of drabness and depression, the tightly draped windows letting in no light and the gemstone walls shining the same dim echo back and forth across the space, almost seeming to beg for the light to go out again.

twilight gestured with her chin to the curtained bed at the center of the room, grabbing one edge of the curtain with her magic and indicating for rarity to take hold of the other. once the unicorn had secured the curtain, twilight gave a sharp nod and both ponies tugged their curtain aside, revealing a stallion-sized lump that spectacularly failed to live up to either mares fearful imagination.

the blue-maned unicorn sat up at once, alarmed by the sudden intrusion. he seemed to calm down slightly when he recognized his sister, but he remained guarded. "twily? rarity? what are you two doing in my private chambers?"

"well to be fair," rarity gestured back at the entrance, "you did leave your door open."

"cadence must have done that when she left." shining armor gruffed. "that doesn't answer my question though: what are you doing here?"

twilight stepped forward with a cautious expression, ready to fight if this really was a changeling. "were just here to check up on you, see how youre handling the upcoming princess presentation" it was clear that twilight was being reserved with her supposed brother.

then, shining armors eyes met hers, and her suspicion evaporated. that peculiar sadness that had haunted her brother in her young filliehood, then she had thought he'd escaped when he found happiness in cadences arms, was burning hot tears from shining armors eyes. she had never seen a pain like that before or since. if there was anything twilight was certain of, it was that this pony was the same one she had known her whole life. but the question still lingered, was he the real shining?

completely without her permission, tears began to well in twilight's eyes. "oh shinning, whats happened to you?"

her brother choked on a sob. "I'm sorry twily, you were never supposed to see me like this. no one was. i should be able to hold it together for you... for cadence... for my daughter..."

"shining nopony wants you to hide any part of you! we want to know when you're hurting so we can help. i had thought you'd healed from whatever's causing this pain but it seems to be back and i wont let you hide it from me this time!" the purple alicorn sniffled as tears streaked down her muzzle. "please shining, tell me whats wrong."

The stallion nervously rubbed his hooves together and cast his gaze to the ground. "i don't even know where to start."

"the beginning," twilight proposed. "i want to know everything. you cant heal until you let your wounds be seen."

shining nodded and took a deep breath, "its just that, when you were a fillie, everyone expected me to be the perfect big brother, and i never measured up to that expectation. it was like being thrown into the ocean with no idea how to swim, and everypony kept insisting that i was a fish and i should know how, but i didn't. then in the royal guard it didn't matter how i felt as long as i followed orders and played the role, so that's what i did. i don't know if it actually quieted the pain or just forced me to ignore it, but for a few years i thought maybe i could live with it. cadence was the only pony i've ever met who could make that noise in my brain silent; with her it didn't matter if I wasn't brother enough fro you or stallion enough for the military. i was always enough for her, no questions asked. i was so happy when we got married that i could almost forget about that feeling, telling myself it was a phase i'd outgrown. but now with flurry heart, all that anxiety is back. its like no matter what i do ill never be able to be a good father for her. i love her more than anything, id do anything for her, but it isn't enough. i'm not enough." the white unicorns neck gave way as he succumbed to quiet sobs, his once proud chin quivering and brushing his chest.

"shining... i..." twilight was speechless. what could be said? her brothers pain went far beyond anything she knew how to mend. at that moment being the princess of friendship meant nothing; she couldn't even move herself to speak in the face of her first best friends deep sorrow.

"i hope im not overstepping here," a timid voice chimed in, startling both siblings as rarity cleared her throat. "but i think i may have an idea as to the source and solution of your distress."

"rarity?" shining choked, "how could you possibly know how i feel?"

the mare nervously flicked her mane with an idle hoof. "there's a lot you don't know about me." turning to twilight, she asked "would it be alright if the prince and i could have a moment alone?"

Twilight nodded and bowed out of the room, and the two remaining ponies listened to her hoofbeats echo down and again further down the labyrinthine crystal hallway, which now seemed to glitter coldly like a sterile knife where it once had gleamed so warmly. rarity shivered at the thought of living in a place like this, which could transform before your eyes depending only on ones own emotion. that was, she mused, the property of crystal. it created nothing, only reflecting what was cast onto it. in a dimly lit cave the finest diamond was often mistaken by novices for a common quartz, but at the heart of a kingdom built on a foundation of admiration it gleamed on every surface like the morning dew on a freshly budded rose. this castle wasn't a cold cage or a warm embrace, it was an endless hall of mirrors, each perfectly angled to show you the deepest darkest crevice of your heart.

"i understand why it tortures you to live here." rarity whispered. "each surface gleams to a pristine chrome finish, yet the face it reflects is fundamentally and inconceivably wrong."

shining armor appeared startled, "that's exactly how it feels. how do you know? is it that obvious how miserable i am?

the mare shook her head, "only to those who have felt the same misery. shining armor, i once lived the same life as you, albeit in a much more drab estate. I felt that at every turn i failed at the very task of existing as myself, my relationships suffered because it pained me to view myself as a part of them. mirrors became my enemy because i couldn't face the pony looking back at me. the stallion looking back at me."

a small gasp escaped the taller unicorns lips "what-"

"think about it shining," rarity pleaded shakily, " everything you cant stand to be: brother, father, soldier, prince. they all have one thing in common." tears welled in her eyes and choked her throat "you cant run from it shining. it never stops. you only make yourself more and more miserable. you can cover as many mirrors as you like but eventually you're going to look around and realize that you're still the same pony you hated, standing alone in complete darkness."

something clicked behind the other ponys eyes. "no, it cant be... what about cadence? flurry? twilight? i cant throw all of them away because i have some twisted dream of living as a-"

"-you're not sick shining. maybe a bit different, but there's nothing wrong with you. you'll find that the friends worth keeping don't care at all. they're suffering by watching you suffer; freeing yourself will only free them too."

"i have no idea where to even start though. aren't i a bit too old for this?" shinings eyes were wide and scared.

"i would love to personally see to all the aesthetic changes you wish for, if you'll have me. you really couldn't ask for a more qualified personal stylist. and as for the social shift, you've got the princesses of love and friendship in your corner."

"but that's just it: they're not in my corner. they may as well be on the other side of equestria, or a gaping cavern. how can i even know that they'll still see me as me?"

"i know how scary it is, especially in the early days, but i can personally account for twilights acceptance. and as for cadence, i'm pretty sure they don't go around giving titles like the princess of love to ponies who cant accept others for something so harmless as gender." her smile faded and her face grew a bit serious "i can be there with you if you want. like i said, i know how scary it is." she placed a hoof on top of the other mares own.

She smiled. "I think id like that."

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point. 

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up. 

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv​ for being my incredible beta and to @maybege​ for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content! 

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control) 

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss. 

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother. 

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine. 

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet. 

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments. 

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

 In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

  But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

 He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

 You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

  You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you. 

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be. 

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway. 

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well. 

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from. 

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life. 

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby. 

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead. 

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least. 

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes. 

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours. 

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things. 

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project. 

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any. 

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!” 

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize. 

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen. 

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way.  “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.” 

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?” 

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you. 

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast. 

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving. 

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch. 

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru. 

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…” 

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” 

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod. 

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves. 

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own? 

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.” 

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area. 

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him. 

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house. 

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working. 

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him. 

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours. 

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in. 

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent. 

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away. 

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams. 

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence. 

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest. 

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.” 

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall.  “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover. 

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to… 

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs.  Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it,  meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso. 

 And you begin to weep with him.

 *********

 The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut. 

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth. 

 You cannot tell him for a long while still. 

 *******

 It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.  

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.  

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it. 

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

 At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words. 

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

 And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

 *****

 The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air. 

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance. 

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors. 

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.  

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh. 

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”  

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.” 

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet. 

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist. 

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.” 

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.  

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface. 

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.  

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.  

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality. 

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.” 

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him. 

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss. 

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you. 

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all. 

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features. 

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him. 

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth. 

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal. 

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest. 

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him. 

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern. 

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in. 

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first. 

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there. 

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy. 

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity. 

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other. 

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other. 

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived.  With more than ever to lose. 

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course. 

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down. 

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him. 

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile. 

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away. 

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating. 

“I can feel you staring, little one.”  He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.” 

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek. 

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively. 

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest. 

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.” 

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.” 

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from. 

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter. 

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms. 

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches. 

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy. 

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin. 

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously. 

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted. 

 With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too. 

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed. 

Although first you needed a blank canvas. 

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up. 

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance. 

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created. 

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this. 

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him. 

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises. 

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful. 

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods. 

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing. 

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue. 

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors. 

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now. 

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?” 

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.” 

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you. 

 You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat. 

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay. 

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan. 

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold. 

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know. 

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen. 

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it. 

Gentle. 

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again. 

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow. 

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him. 

Stars, how you want to let him. 

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture. 

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach. 

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is. 

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind. 

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother. 

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him. 

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble. 

Confident. 

Steadfast. 

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you. 

Nothing can. 

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you. 

Treasure. 

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion. 

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying. 

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him. 

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.” 

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons. 

“Darling, I’m…” 

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now. 

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now. 

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping. 

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before. 

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself. 

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly. 

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists. 

“Allow me.” 

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head. 

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves. 

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening. 

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind. 

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did. 

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples. 

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing. 

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked. 

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.” 

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it. 

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again. 

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone. 

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is. 

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night. 

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him. 

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care. 

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple. 

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all. 

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control. 

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand. 

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.” 

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him. 

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all. 

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.” 

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.” 

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body. 

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips. 

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you. 

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you. 

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own. 

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time. 

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this. 

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed? 

Anchor. Anchor against me. 

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before. 

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck. 

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge. 

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought. 

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him. 

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit. 

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear. 

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back. 

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under. 

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up. 

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you,  how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this. 

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion. 

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths. 

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it. 

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth. 

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes. 

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations. 

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.” 

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough,  how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied. 

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.  

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you. 

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it. 

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity. 

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force. 

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all. 

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind. 

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them. 

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been. 

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time. 

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke. 

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair. 

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand. 

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke. 

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment. 

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over. 

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too. 

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms. 

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it. 

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle. 

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.” 

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef. 

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses. 

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day. 

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving. 

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning. 

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite? 

So is the promise of the return of the Light. 

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

[lady-of-fidgets]

Shockwave x Autistic S/O ( Transformers Prime )

( Disclaimer: I am autistic myself but don’t speak for any other autistic person. So there may be things you don’t relate to if you’re also autistic. That’s perfectly fine and I hope you can still enjoy. Also, any ableism in the comments will be blocked/removed. Transformers is one of my special interests.) 

(( Allistics don’t derail )) 

    🧪You know how difficult reading people can be. But when you first met Shockwave, an important detail about his way of communicating stuck out to you - his antennae move subtly and provide a way of expressing emotion/thoughts. This is adorable to you and provides a hint to tell what he’s feeling. 

   🧪You find making “eye contact” with him suprisingly easier when compared to making eye contact with other humans. Shockwave doesn’t care in the sense it’s not required for him to have you make eye contact. In fact, he’s not quite sure why some humans are so adamant about something that has nothing to do with effective listening like they seem to think. He’d never force you to make eye contact. 

   🧪He can empathize with hyperfixation. He’s been known to stay within his lab for days ( or longer ), focusing on whatever interesting projects or experiments have captured his attention. And you’ve been known to do the same; down to frogetting to take care of yourself. “Y/n, have you ( insert basic human need here ), yet? You haven’t moved for some time...” Please - he worries over you. 

   🧪Along these same lines, he’d give reminders. But not as subtly as Soundwave might. Upon learning what you need to live and feel comfortable, he’d be wary you’d forget to take care of yourself if he wasn’t around. He’d point blank ask you and run down the list to make sure you’ve taken care of yourself. If you take medication, he’s doubly careful to make sure you take it when and how you’re supposed to. 

  🧪 Honestly, good luck leaving his lab - or his sight, period. Not that he thinks you incapable of taking care of yourself, but now that he’s here, let him help. He worries even if not vocally. He takes extreme care of his experiments, how much more he looks after you - his Sparkmate!

  🧪 Info-dumping is welcomed! Shockwave takes great interest in what interests you. He’d ask you detailed questions about your Special Interests and commit what you say to memory. You could never bore this patient Decepticon Scientist. You also listen to him as he explains his work to you , and ask him questions.This becomes a favorite pass-time; sometimes you both loose track of time. The vehicons standing guard outside have been known to wonder if you’ve both somehow expired since it’s been some time since they’ve seen either of you emerge. 

 🧪 Watching Shockwave’s methodical work is soothing and at times also provides a visual stim. There are times when a content silence settles over both of you and you two just exist in quiet harmony. The soft beeps and bubbles of his laboratory provide calming white noise. His movements and parts of the experiments act as visual stims. Sometimes he let’s you handle fun substances he’s certain won’t cause harm or sensory problems. Or show you fun science tricks - although an occasional mishap has resulted in a few hilarious memories. 

   🧪When you both - finally - decide to power down, he keeps you cradled on his chest. Sometimes under his hand, tented carefully over you - or sometimes inside the small, cozy place within his chest cavity. The whirl of his spark is soothing and becomes one of your favorite sounds that calms you down when upset or lulls you to sleep. He will often wake before you and lay there until you wake up. This takes discipline, for his active mind wants to test the idea he just had but because he cares for you, he waits. You don’t sleep enough and you have a hard time falling and staying asleep often. 

  🧪When he finds out from you that you’re autistic, at first he isn’t sure what that is, and asks for clarification. You explain it to him and he makes a mental note to do more research later. You wait for the typical remarks you usually face when disclosing that you’re autistic. There is none. Instead he gently scoops you up, places you on his shoulder, and you two go back to your work routine. Occasionally he may ask questions about it. Shockwave doesn’t give two barrings about what others may think or say unless it negatively effects you. Then he gets involved. 

 🧪Upon learning the basics,and always clarifiying what he has learned with you, he asks more questions. “what is your preference for when you are overwhelmed? Should I not touch you or should I relocate you somewhere else? I read experiences are diverse among autistic humans and decided it would be best to ask you for your personal preference.” He’ll ask about your stims, what overwhelms you, what he can do to help to prevent stressful situations, and what to do to assist when things do end up causing a meltdown or shutdown, etc. 

    🧪 If you are non-verbal, semi-verbal, or experience times when you cannot speak in general Shockwave doesn’t mind. His only focus would to be to make sure it wasn’t caused by him, something in the lab, or another Decepticon, or something else. If you’re too overwhelmed to speak, even on a device such as your phone or tablet, that’s fine as well. He’d ask simple yes or no questions - just enough to find out what he can do if it’s because of an overwhelming situation - or because you just don’t have enough spoons to talk currently. 

  🧪Your first meltdown caught him off-guard, which was, as everyone was aware, difficult to do. He stopped everything he was doing to help you. Primus help whatever bot didn’t leave when he said to do so - not that he’d have to raise his voice or anything, because he intimidates them enough without having to. 

  🧪Expect the occasional drive in his vehicle mode. You’d both go far away from any sign of another human or bot. Sometimes you’d ask him to talk -about what it doesn’t matter - just so you could fall asleep in the seat. He isn’t used to all this talking but he finds it easier to do with you. You listen patiently and take interest in his ideas. You act as a sounding board for those ideas and any question you ask is always welcomed - even if to him the answer is “obvious”, he’d never look down on you for not knowing that particular thing. 

    🧪Shockwave is patient and protective. If he hears someone was or is being ableistic towards you, the situation would be addressed, swiftly. Sometimes this spawns that quiet rage he’s been known to show if pushed too far. In this state- good luck stopping him. Logic - what’s the logic in letting someone insignificant insult you? Eventually he calms down. He’s careful to not show such intensity around you, however, he wouldn’t want to distress you. You’re his weak point. 

   (( This may not be the best but I’m trying. I may do a part two for this as well, or add more to this one later. Thank you for reading. )) 

[jd-loves-fiction]

Stars, forgive me

➤ “You look so beautiful in this light.” Tim says even quieter, heart so warm and full it could burst from having you safe in his arms. “Stop.” You tell him quietly, fingers flexing atop his chest plate as your head hangs low. “Why?” “I'll cry.” You croak and oh, might be a bit late for that warning, because you can already feel the tears you’d been able to hold back, begin to well up once more. “I'll wipe your tears, it’s OK.”

➤ genre: Fluff, Angst, Mandalorian!Batfam AU

➤ wc: 1.4k

➤ 🌙 I know I haven't been on at all recently and for that I am sorry but my mental health kinda took a nosedive🥴and I came out with a LOT of new projects and this is part of one of them. I’m not sure if I’ll continue it yet, so let me know if you want to see more. Also this is supposed to be somewhere in the middle of the AU so there’s a lot of context missing.

The afternoon sun of Tatooine shines in your eyes as you walk towards the top of a large dune. You close them for a moment, letting Tim's hand guide you as it grips yours.

He stops suddenly, visor turned towards your face as you step in front of him, the sun bathing the left side of your face.

The sounds of civilization are far behind you now, off beyond this dune where no one can see much more than two figures standing before one another. If you look to your side you can see the enormity of your shadow on the pale sand, and the city even further out. But for now your eyes stay on Tim, expectant. This is no light subject after all.

"We don't need to do this right now, you know?" You ask softly, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off his helmet. Noticing your discomfort, he tilts his head down, more relaxed despite the adrenaline no doubt pumping through his veins.

"I know, but i want to." He says slowly, tone resolute even through the modulator. It's clear to you that he's thought about this before.

Your eyes fall shut before he has the chance to ask you to do so. You know the drill.

Tim's eyes stay on you for a moment, before his hands slowly lift up his helmet until he feels the sun on his skin.

This shouldn't feel different, you've kissed before after all. But always in the dark. So this one time, Tim can finally behold all that you are without rush or fear or all the filters in his visor. He can truly see you.

You take a deep breath as his gloved hand rests below your ear, raising your head to where you remember his to be as you wait for his lips to make contact.

And when they finally do, it feels just like the first time.

It's slow, just like his approach as he takes his time analyzing your features from every distance as he gets closer. His lips are soft on yours, careful and methodical, nothing like all those other times. Your hands drift to his cool chest plate for a moment, before one moves up to grip the red scarf around his neck, urging him closer. You seek that adrenaline, the rough meeting of tongue and swapping of spit as if this is your last evening alive, which by your circumstances it might be. But Tim holds you steady, keeps his lips closed and his hand firm on your face, guiding, slowing you down and allowing you to enjoy the moment as he knows it might not happen again any time soon. The way he makes you back off that high you seek could almost be teasing, hell, maybe it is but your thoughts are murky with him and only him and logic is tough.

You would’ve chased his lips as he pulled only a breath away from you, if his hand didn't stay rooted where he placed it. His lashes flutter for a moment as he can’t help but admire you once more, displeased pout and all, before he goes back in for more.

You follow him this time, trusting and finally realizing that there’s no need to rush this. So you follow him, let him lead the kiss, let him be the one to part your lips as his tongue finally meets yours almost shyly. It's slow, filled with longing, trust and adoration. It’s perfect for this moment.

You separate as oxygen begins to grow scarce, just as a gust of wind passes by, moving sand around you and caressing your hair and face soothingly as your hand does to his face.

First your right rises from his scarf to hold his jaw, tracing your fingers over his prominent cheekbones, before your left hand does the same, making him step closer to allow your fingertips to map out his features blindly.

“What color?” Your finger twirls a strand of longish hair, “Black.” you hum in response.

“These?” You ask as your thumbs caress the skin just below his eyes, feeling his skin move as he smiles fondly at the gentleness of your calloused hands. “Blue.”

Your hands continue to brush over his skin like the lightest of kisses, as if you’re a painter and his skin is your canvas, bringing color to his world, just like you did when you met him and Jason. Your hands finally settle over his warm cheeks as you hum, “Just as I expected,” you start, a smile threatening to break out across our lips as you hold it back, “you’re very handsome.”

“And how do you know that?” Had it been any other day, Tim would’ve scoffed at your attempts to charm him and brushed it off disingenuous, but not this time, with softness in the arm and the gentle mischievousness of your expression.

“Well I can tell you’re not some weird creature under there, so that's good.”

“I can still be blue, you know?” He says back, equally as cheeky.

“I've seen your hands,” Your hand drifts to grasp his and bring it up beside your head, “I know you're pale as shit.”

You chuckle softly, delighted to hear him do the same, before your hands place themselves against his beskar chest plate, waiting for him to move to put his helmet back on.

“Did you put it on yet?” You ask after a moment of silence and a distinct lack of rushing or any movement under your hands.

“No, not yet. I wanna look at you for a little longer.” Tim admits as his orbs of endless blue linger on every little thing about you. You scoff in response, feeling his gaze burn through you with a loving intensity that makes your cheeks red and makes you want to turn away timidly.

“I don't want to ever stop looking at you.” He whispers, words almost lost in the wind if you weren't so close.

“That's unfair of you to say. You can look at me all the time.” Suddenly, there are tears behind your lids from thinking back on all the moments that you had to stare at a helmet instead of Tim’s brilliant blue eyes that you imagined.

You felt selfish in that moment, just like this one, for wanting more, for in some way wanting him to break his sacred code for you. That was just too much to ask, you know how much it means to him. You can only find solace in the fact that you’re only human and these feelings are to be expected, in the end, you hope that the stars forgive you for your greed.

“I mean without the helmet and the code. Just as if this was a somewhat normal situation.” Hearing him say it soothes you, knowing that he too wishes to break his code or at least ignore it for a moment because of you, it makes you feel a little better. It makes your chest feel a little lighter.

Silence is all you can focus on as the sun starts to fade beneath the sandy horizon, you can feel it more than see it. You can feel the nearly unbearable heat disappearing from the side of your face, making you get closer to the source of warmth in front of you, beneath his smooth beskar armour.

“You look so beautiful in this light.” Tim says even quieter, heart so warm and full it could burst from having you safe in his arms.

“Stop.” You tell him quietly, fingers flexing atop his chest plate as your head hangs low.

“Why?”

“I'll cry.” You croak and oh, might be a bit late for that warning, because you can already feel the tears you’d been able to hold back, begin to well up once more.

“I'll wipe your tears, it’s OK.” He speaks so simply, so kindly, that it breaks your heart even more. After all that he’d had to deal with, his soul remains genuinely good and that nearly breaks you as there’s just too much emotion within you at this moment, all for this one boy that holds your heart so tenderly in his beautiful hands.

Your head falls even more as you rest it on his armored chest, wishing to feel his heartbeat beneath your palm but ultimately settling for the warmth that involves you as he clings to you.

[ponnearponfarponwhereveryouare]

negotiations of home

Pairing: TOS!McSpirk

Summary: Spock takes the time to examine his thoughts (and feelings) towards the Enterprise's captain and chief medical officer. He decides the most logical course of action is to address his findings.

Rating: G | Word Count: 1862 | also on ao3

Spock had long since learned not to say thoughts tied to emotion. Such ruminations had to be examined critically and in such a time and location so as to not interfere with his work. Only in this way could he put logic first, by making a habit of it. He was not sure if this was the process other Vulcans applied, but it was the one that worked best for him.

He knew he was successful when he was able to apply this method around members of his family; with positive emotions and negative. Only in absolute private he might tell his mother he loved her, tell his sister he missed her, or tell his brother that they were still, always, family.

It was best not to think about the emotions that came up involving his father. Or the feelings around the fact that his family was two and a half parts human and two and a half parts Vulcan. Of not being a whole.

Those walls had begun to slip, of late. And that was because he was faced with emotions that were not tangled up in his Vulcan upbringing. Feelings that included a sense of being held together, a chance at healing his two halves.

Which brought him to the matter at hand.

"You're you, Spock!" Leonard snapped, though the anger was not directed at Spock himself. The doctor was pacing about Jim's quarters, while Spock sat at the Captain's desk observing him. "You're not broken! All you have to do in this life is be honest with yourself."

Spock raised a brow. "Is this a time for the old anecdote, physician heal thyself?"

Leonard managed to scowl deeper. "Damn it, man, at least I'm trying. Talking about these sorts of things with someone you trust and care about is important."

"Is that not what I am attempting to do?" Spock asked. Before Jim had been called away to deal with a potential issue among the Enterprise's current guests, Spock had gathered both Jim and Leonard together with the purpose of working through a line of thought that had followed him around for the past 30 days.

Leonard deflated a bit, rubbing his hands together in a nervous manner. Spock attempted not to stare, as the emotions that evoked were ones he had not yet begun to speak of.

"Do not worry, Leonard, I will not continue until Jim has returned," Spock said in a tone he hoped would be reassuring.

"How am I supposed to do that, with you calling us by our names?" Leonard protested, now tossing his hands up in the air.

"It is a personal matter, so it would be illogical to use your professional titles."

"And that's why I'm nervous! Last time you had a personal matter that you had to involve me and Jim in, you were dying or your father was dying." Leonard didn't return to pacing, instead, he crossed the room and kneeled beside Spock. His blue eyes were wide and filled with concern.

"My apologies. I did not mean to raise alarm," Spock said, reaching out towards Leonard. He wasn't sure what he'd do, but he needed such dramatics to end. It brought an uncomfortable warmth that was tempting to lean into. To drown in. “Please, stand.” Spock stopped himself before he actually could touch Leonard’s elbows.

Leonard seemed to take a long enough time pondering this request as to border on his usual teasing. He finally stood, pressing a hand against Spock’s knee as he did. He settled then into Jim’s other chair so that they were now directly across from each other. “So you’re not dying.”

“Not that I am aware of. Though as my doctor, I believe you are to give me such status updates.”

This returned Leonard to a... huffier state. “I’d be able to do that if you didn’t lie to me.”

“Vulcan’s do not lie,” Spock reminded him.

“Oh really? Then it seems like I’ll need a copy of whatever definition you’re using for the word.”

Jim returned to catch that last exchange. “Gentlemen. I see I haven’t missed anything.” He was smiling, coming to lean against the partition that divided his quarters.

Spock found himself calmed by Jim’s presence. “The Andorian ambassador is settled?”

“Yes, Scotty was able to change the climate control settings for her quarters to something comfortable,” Jim said, as he looked from Spock to Leonard and back. “Where were we?”

“Spock was telling us something that is a “personal matter",” Leonard provided. “I’ve got him to promise no one is dying.”

“Statistically in the breadth of the universe and even just among life as we know it, at this moment-”

“Shut it!” Leonard’s tone was supposed to be sharp, but it was too rounded by his own laughter.

“Very well,” Spock turned towards Leonard, both eyebrows raised, and remained silent.

“Jim, look what he’s doing now!” Leonard complained, leaning closer towards Spock, as close as he could get with the desk between them.

Jim’s laughter filled the silence, and he crossed the room to sit on the corner of his desk. “Spock, Bones, come now.” His face was in that easy grin of his, the one Spock associated with times when all was well. “Spock, what did you want to talk to us about?”

Yes, the mission at hand. One that he had set for himself because, given the nature of their work and luck, it seemed best to share his thoughts sooner than later. Spock had planned the words he would say carefully, trying to predict what response he might get. He would not call himself nervous, as that emotion tended to be one of the most illogical.

“Yeah Spock, sorry,” Leonard smiled kindly, leaning back again. His foot nudged Spock’s under the table in what must have been encouragement. Leonard rarely apologized for their mutual antagonization of the other, another sign he was taking this seriously.

“It has come to my attention that I hold you both in strong regard.” Spock thought that was as good a place to start as any, even as his practiced words seemed to fall away. He should have written them down... But that would have no doubt brought Leonard’s amusement and possibly ire. “I also know, while it is not the practice on Vulcan, for many cultures it is customary to let those you care about know of your regard towards them.”

Both Leonard and Jim were silent, which was not one of the responses Spock had anticipated. It was Leonard who finally spoke and said, “Are you sure you’re not dying? Because you just admitted to having an emotion. Several, in fact.”

“Indeed. It was our last away mission that brought me to further examine my feelings towards both Jim and yourself.” Spock had been the one, after 27.8 frantic hours, to find and rescue the captain and chief medical officer. Between coordinating the rescue effort, Spock found his thoughts consumed with things he wished to tell them both. “I... care for you both. My existence is greatly improved by your presence in it.”

He hoped that they could understand all he was not able to say. ‘Don’t leave me, I need you, I missed you, I-’

“Spock,” Jim’s voice was soft, and when Spock looked up at him, so was his expression. “I feel the same.” He then looked towards Leonard, and Spock followed his gaze.

Leonard looked between them both, and his blinking grew more rapid. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Damnit, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost either of you. You’ve both managed to pick up my pieces and put them back together. I can’t remember the last time I felt complete.”

Of course, Leonard, who was better with emotions than either Spock or Jim, would put the words to it: that there existed between them something that exceeded a friendship bond. They had become family. Partners. A tension settled then, the question -

“What do we do?” Jim voiced it. “It’s not as if we can stop going on dangerous missions. That’s not the life we signed up for.”

“I know neither of you could be happy sitting by,” Leonard agreed. “You’re explorers to your cores. And someone who asks you to change your very nature isn’t worth keeping.”

Keep. Spock turned the word over in his mind. “It seems that what is in our power to change is the parameters of our relationship.”

Jim let out a breath that sounded like ‘yes.’

“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, that’d be against regulation.” Leonard pointed at Spock. “Would you be okay with that?”

“Affirmative.” Spock had to focus to keep his tone even. This was not one of the outcomes he had let himself ponder. His desire for it would have become overwhelming.

“What about the ol’ needs of the many over the few?” Leonard said, and Spock knew he wasn’t arguing because he was against the possibility now hanging heavy in the room, more tangible than it had ever been before because it had been named. Leonard was making sure Spock was sure; that he was comfortable.

“You are both professionals, whom I trust not to let the personal adversely interfere with the running of the ship.” It was an easier answer than he thought. “I even theorize that such a change in our relationship could improve personal performance.”

“Now that is a theory that I want to test.” Jim moved to stand, so he could face them both fully. His smile was back and wider than Spock could recall seeing it. “I’d like to very much.”

Leonard was smiling now as well. “Why am I surprised that this has been the weirdest way I’ve ever been asked out?”

“Come on Bones, for science,” Jim’s eyes twinkled, and he reached out to catch one of Leonard’s hands. “But more importantly, for... love.”

Spock watched the way their fingers fit together, and almost missed that Jim had spoken the final unspoken word. He looked back towards their expressions, before standing himself and coming closer, to stand between them both.

“Of course I will,” Leonard said. “Spock?”

“Affirmative,” Spock said again, and added, while carefully watching Leonard’s expression. “It should prove fascinating.” Before Leonard could offer a retort to that, Spock held out his index and middle finger to him. A gesture he knew the good doctor had picked up the significance of.

Leonard’s eyes went wide once more, but he didn’t hesitate before reciprocating the gesture. Once he had, Spock felt a wave of affection he could not pinpoint as his own emotion or Leonard’s. Spock then offered the same to Jim, who looked like he had been given a gift to rival his captaincy of the Enterprise.

When Jim’s finger’s met Spock’s, the three of them stood visibly connected in a way Spock knew their lives had already long been. This, then, was proof that he would not lose them. At least, not without making sure they knew what they meant to him.

It spoke of a new beginning, a new adventure, shared between the three of them.

[ko-fanatic]

Blood, Guts and Chocolate Cake

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Danganronpa

Pairings: IshiMondo

Summary:

Mondo Owada, the Ultimate Bodyguard, is entering a four year contract with one Kiyotaka Ishimaru, the Ultimate Idol. It makes sense, two Ultimates put together for their high school careers, and he could use the steady pay check to send home to Daiya; those medical bills were a bitch, and it was his fault the accident happened in the first place.

It was supposed to be easy, guard the cutesy, clean-cut idol from perverts and stalkers, no big deal! However, the world's perception of Kiyotaka Ishimaru was far different than what the young idol had become. During the first few months before even stepping into Hope's Peak, he's more worried for the young boy than he's ever been for anyone before.

TW: Alcohol, and eating disorders (both restrictive behaviours and B/P), mentions of disability, underage sex/sexualisation, drugs

The hallways of this damn building were too long.

That was definitely the first impression Mondo got, being led down said monotonous hallways by a young woman with an expression which implied that she simply wasn’t paid enough to care about small talk. Not that he had any room to judge, hands shoved in his pockets and a permanent scowl on his face. He might’ve been going to review an upcoming contract, but the best thing about his position was that there was no need to be all smiley; Hope Peak’s choice for Ultimate Bodyguard was all the credentials he needed at this point. 

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit intimidated by how long he would be working with these record label types. He couldn’t deny it made sense - hire the Ultimate Bodyguard to protect the Ultimate Idol, sound logic; it was just that a four year contract was… a lot. That wasn’t even thinking about the fact he was going to be glued to the guy’s hip for all that time, having to get along no matter what. Would he even have time to make friends of his own? Doubtful. Still, a paycheck was a paycheck, and he’d have to go to some highschool anyway, so kill two birds with one stone. 

He’d never had an issue smiling through vapid celebrity bullshit before. It was going to be an easy ride, too; from what he knew, the guy was as prim and proper as they came. Real boy next door image. Easy to take care of, and mainly just telling overzealous fans to back the fuck up. Simple. 

His inner monologue was broken by an abrupt stop, the woman only sending a bored glance his way before knocking. The door was pushed ajar with the quiet muttering of “Mondo Owada to see you, gentlemen”, before he was unceremoniously shepherded into the room. 

It was just as big as you’d expect from a building like this, with a gargantuan desk and several business-types sitting across from him. They were even backlit by a floor-to-ceiling window showing Tokyo in all its glory - like some cheesy ass movie. Still, taking a cursory glance around the room, he couldn’t see anyone fitting the description of “teen idol”, let alone Ishimaru himself...

“Owada-san, good afternoon!” One of the men greeted cheerfully, clasping his hand in one of those firm yet professional grips he’d gotten used to since rising up in his career, “My name is Shiro Kamei, and these gentlemen are Kenshin Aki and Yutaka Hayashida. We’re Kiyotaka Ishimaru-san’s managers.”

“Well, that answers one question,” He shrugged, not sugarcoating his words, but not being as rude as he certainly could be, “But I don’t see Ishimaru-san around. If I’m meeting with anyone, I personally think it should be with the guy I’m gonna be with 24/7, for the next four years.”

“Of course!” Kamei-san chirped, far too cheerful for his taste, especially considering the stench of ass-kissing that followed it. Not sincere, but too many meetings like this one had trained him to swallow down the vomit that threatened to spew from the fakeness of it all. 

“Ishimaru-san will be here soon,” Hyashida-san intoned, temperament a bit more palatable than Mr Chipper, “He’s a rather busy young man, being an idol of his caliber. Dance practice is just wrapping up, any minute now, so we can use this time to have a little chat - go through expectations for your role and such.”

Mondo managed to stop himself raising an eyebrow at that. Like he wasn’t the best bodyguard in Japan. He guessed it was something needed for a job of this sort, not temping or whatever, and so he settled down for a bunch of timewasting jabber. 

Or, it was, until a certain request caught his attention.

“We also expect him to be kept out of, well… trouble…”

“Thought he was a cutesy, innocent kid?” He frowned, sitting a little straighter in his seat, attention piqued, “I’m guessing he’s the kind to get mouth-breathers and creeps, huh?”

The three men looked a little more caged at that remark. A couple cleared throats, a few tugged collars and cuffs, awkward air. 

“Yes, there have been incidents, but nothing previous security couldn’t handle,” Aki-san informed, “The issue is a recent change in attitude. Nothing much, but tugging on the leash more than necessary, if you understand my meaning.”

He did. Part of him wanted to object to the idea that a sixteen year old needed to be kept on a leash at all, but idol shit was full of PR. 

“So boy next door is going through a little rebellion, and you want me to make sure it stays on the DL,” He shrugged, “Got it.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that, Owada-san -!”

Kamei-san was interrupted by several short, sharp raps, door opening to reveal the man of the hour. 

Ishimaru was pretty, no denying that. His eyes were what really caught everyone’s attention; bright, wide and doll-like. That said nothing about his facial structure - cheekbones and jawline and everything prominent - or his barbie doll-esque frame. He was probably one of the slimmest people Mondo had ever seen, at least in person. Well, and outside of a hospital. The media went absolutely gaga over his thigh gap, his lithe abs and delicate hip bones. 

He personally prefers a little more meat on the bones, a little less fragile, but he guessed it was an idol’s job to appeal to the masses. 

“Good morning, everybody!” He beams, but honestly? The sunshine emanating from him is a lot warmer - a lot more real - than Kamei-san. He actually had to take a second to come back to himself, knocked off equilibrium. The power of the Ultimate Idol, for you. 

“Kiyotaka, this is Mon -”

“Mondo Owada,” He cuts in, wanting to introduce himself, cut the preamble, and offers his hand to shake, “‘M gonna be the one guarding you.”

Ishimaru gives him a once over, and for two seconds he thinks he sees a smirk pull at the corner of the young man’s lips, but he soon brushes it off as a trick of the light. 

“Thank you so much for accepting our proposition, Owada-san!” He grins, and Mondo hates his little bi heart at that moment. Ishimaru clasps his hand. He can’t help but feel that they’re too calloused for a pretty boy idol, but he doesn’t dwell on it, “I hope we get along well!”

He’s loud, but the words are sweet, and Mondo relaxes a little bit. Easy job, as he thought. 

---

Mondo was proven wrong in a matter of three days into his contract. He’d certainly been proven wrong far quicker than that before; however, in terms of sheer what-the-fuckery-is-this, this situation took the cake. 

The train journey to the first tour destination wasn’t bad, if tedious. Kid spent all his time reading, and Mondo had no clue how he didn’t puke all over the place from staring at the pages. He’d looked at his phone for about five minutes and was ready to lie down and accept his death. 

… Trains were not his prefered method of transportation…

Ishimaru had passed on the sandwiches on offer, but so did Mondo. No big deal. Those things sucked ass, and maybe the kid was more nauseous than he seemed. Wish that was him, considering he was pretty sure his face was pale green. 

Settling into the hotel was fine, as was the tech set up in the venue. Stress emanating off everyone, but pretty normal as far as that shit was concerned. Ishimaru was dragged between costume fittings, tech run throughs and other things that just passed in a blur. 

No, what really proved to Mondo that the pretty boy idol was going through an actual rebellious phase, was what he walked in on at 11:56pm, night three. 

He’d gotten up due to a serious inability to sleep. Seriously, did he manage to get jet lag without even switching time zones? Nah, didn’t work like that. Maybe it was second hand adrenaline from the performance being tomorrow. Ishimaru might not make his kind of music, but the guy had this infectious enthusiasm for it all. He’d be backstage, too; premo location to see everything up close. He couldn’t help the slight smile on his face, in spite of how tired he felt. 

Any fleeting, fuzzy feelings disappeared, however, when he walked into the main area of their hotel suite. 

There stood Ishimaru, back to him, very much not dressed for bed. His jeans were so tight they looked spray painted on, not to mention the sequined top that cut off to show a tantalising flash of milky pale skin.

“Where’re you off to?” 

His question seemed to startle the kid, who practically jumped three feet in the air, hand clutching his chest as he whirled on him. 

“Fuck, what’s your problem?” He gasped out. Mondo couldn’t help but let his eyes widen, having not heard the boy swear since they met. Admittedly, it was only a few days, but Ishimaru just gave off such an innocent vibe. He’d questioned if the boy even knew a swear word for a while. 

“The guy I’m meant to protect is running off into the city at midnight, and obviously didn’t plan to tell me,” He answered bluntly, “So, come on, where’re you trying to slink off to?”

“None of your business,” He sniffed, shoulders squaring, “And stop… talking to me like that. Like I’m a child. It’s annoying as shit.” 

“Alright, sor-ry, jeez,” He apologised, hands up in surrender, “Let me just grab my coat and -”

“No!” Ishimaru ground out, “I’m going out, you're staying here, and my managers are none the wiser, got it?”

Oh, that sneaky fucker. While Mondo was all for personal freedom, no way was the scrawny kid going out there to get attacked and murdered in some urine soaked alleyway. For one, it’d completely fuck up his plans for the next four years - no money to send back to Daiya, and he seriously doubted Hope’s Peak would want an Ultimate Bodyguard who let the world’s most popular idol get murdered in a matter of days. 

“Yeah, no, not happening, kid,” He shut down, reaching over the boy to get his coat, only for hands to press against his chest, stopping him. 

“What do you want then? Money?” Ishimaru asked, looking up at him through his lashes. Fuck, the kid really went all out with the makeup; smokey eyeshadow and liner, glossed lips, the whole deal, “Or I can suck your dick?”

He nearly choked at that, face hot as hell and probably an embarrassing shade of red. “N-No! What the fuck?!” He yelled, only earning a shrug in response. 

“Look, I need to go out - alone,” Ishimaru began again, arguing a point Mondo simply wasn’t going to agree with, “I need to get a little fucked up, railed into some guy’s mattress, and then I’ll come back. I’ll be here again before sunrise.”

“Tugging on the leash more than necessary”, his ass! 

“Sorry, you're talking to the wrong guy,” He dismissed, doing his best impression of Daiya’s you done fucked up voice he could, “Back to bed. Don’t think you’re sneaking out, either. I’m just gonna stay out here all night, make sure you don’t go and get yourself cut up and dumped in the river. Y’know, my job.”

“Fuck you,” Ishimaru spat, storming back to his room with a mutter of ,“Asshole…”

If Mondo knew one thing, it was this… He’d really had no idea what he was signing himself up for.

---

A/N:

WOW, it's been a while since I've written for this fandom. Thank you Taka and Mondo for being an adorable pair of dumbasses and dragging me right back into DR. Hopefully, I'll add to my old fics too, but I've got lots of new ideas I want to play with (Including two other talentswaps and two AUs!)

For now, Ouran fics are on the back burner, I'm afraid. I'm sure I'll be back to them soon enough, but I'm a bit burnt out in my OHSHC obsession, so we'll see.

Also, as always, comments really help and if you want to take any of these concepts and run, go for it! All I ask is a credit and a link if possible! :)

[marmarparadoxa]

It's because of recent tweets I saw but I know some are blaming the SC (esp the 104th) for not seeing Eren better during the 3 years they had and also for pushing many responsibilities onto his shoulder. I get why they see this as Eren's friends making a blunder but I can't help but disagree partly. (1)

On one side, their excitement and distraction came in the form of the outside world - something that seemed neigh impossible at the beginning of the series and once had been the 'end goal'. We know that's not it now. It seems logical that people like Armin and Hange will be distracted per say towards the new techs and innovations the outside world is offering. How the fruitful encounters they have w Marleyans making them hopeful (2) I understand where they're coming from, especially considering their disposition that tends to be optimistic and intelligent. Others like Jean, Connie, Sasha, and Mikasa can also be distracted by the new things too. It's something so human and highlights how even the close-knit group can make blunders. (3) I don't agree with people blaming SC for not noticing and their slow decision with Eren and the Yeagerists because that means they still care. They value their friendship with him and want to not mess him up more. Even from my perspective, there's a level of respect SC and military have for Eren for not just being the AT and FT but as a person/personnel. (4) It's so easy to 'coddle' Eren because as a reader, we are relatively relegated to a higher see/position to judge. But take it from the charas' views, it's just like real life to a point. They are faced with this time limit and the world going down on them while at the same time, they try to not cross too many moral lines. Especially for Hange who is responsible for many lives under her and Armin's 'kind' disposition. (5) What miffs me is that the people who side with Eren in this case doesn't tend into account that Eren almost never tries to reach out. While it's justified when we put his 'plan' into account, that just sounds selfish to be frank. Yes, he asks Mikasa about 'what he is to her' and he did try Armin's way once, but those are such minimal effort. Sometimes, they themselves need to reach out first and seek help more (6) That may sound cruel, but that's how it works unfortunately. I would be more lenient to Eren if he did more effort with sharing and trusting his friends but he doesn't - so of course, the SC is surprised and shocked and hurt at his actions. They don't know and it's unfair. Eren does this all because of what he saw and ironically is likely doing a self-fulfilling prophecy. He gives up hope and that's his downfall. (end)

Hi! :) Apologies for this late reply. You’ve already covered a lot, so I’ll try to add my two cents on what you’ve already pointed out.

In short, blaming the SC, especially the 104th, or Hange, for not seeing through Eren and not understanding what was going on with him doesn’t make sense to me. Because Eren didn’t allow them to do so, he didn’t allow them to see. During those three years between the battle of Shiganshina and their leaving for their trip to Marley, he kept on working with them, he never disrespected Hange, and almost always he acted and talked in accordance with what were their shared plans for the future. When Kiyomi proposed Zeke’s plan, of course they were all horrified, none of them wanted to proceed with it, and didn’t know what to do, but then, it was Eren who standed up and spoke against it. In front of everyone, Mikasa, Hange, Historia, and the rest of the assembly, he said he would never agree with Zeke’s plan and sacrifice Historia, that relying on the Rumbling would be too risky, and it was he who proposed to use the time they were left with to think about other options, that they should seek other ways. Not long after, he would say to the same persons which would end up risking their life in order to stop him, that they were more important to him than anyone else, and that he wanted them to live long lives. I brought up all this, so to clarify how Eren could be perceived by his friends, what was the picture that they could make out of his words and actions. On the other hand though, there were also some signs that something was off with him. When Armin and Mikasa were talking about the building of the port and them getting along with the captured Marleyans, Eren couldn't be as hopeful as them, and his attitude was sharp and emotionally detached. Then, unlike all others, he wasn’t there to taste Niccolo’s cooking, and we didn’t see him interact with any Marleyans - he was the only one that was missing when they were talking with Onyankopon, and in all those little, shared moments of peace and hope. So I think Eren, at that point, was already starting to isolate himself from the rest of them, shutting himself up, and maybe, as you also said, with all those new things to understand, with all the work and the building and the planning Hange, Armin, and the others too had to do, they weren’t able to notice this change, they didn’t pay much attention to it. But again, what could they infer from that? With respect to his words, to his resolute opposition to the use of the Rumbling and Zeke’s plan and Historia’s sacrifice, to his outward determination to find another way, those were subtle cues, that could reasonably pass unnoticed, and blaming the 104th for not acting upon them is rather pointless.

So this is where his friends’ remarks in the last episode come from: Jean: “Eren suddenly started getting along with Zeke’s plan”, Connie: “Did he look like Eren to you? I don’t think so.” and Armin and Mikasa’s disbelief and painful confusion. Eren methodically killing children and civilians, Eren getting along with Zeke’s plan was nothing like the Eren they used to know, even in those last years.

And Eren never shared with his friends, or with Hange, and not even with Armin or Mikasa, what he saw in those future memories. He kept everything inside, he trusted no one with that knowledge, ruling out the possibility that anyone could help him understand what was the nature of those memories (was it all bound to happen? Could it be avoided?), and try to figure out a solution, so as to prevent that catastrophe. Maybe, initially, he still believed that they could have avoided that, but more and more, he felt like they were running out of time, and that future he saw increasingly assumed a character of concreteness and unavoidability.  I was also talking with @oldsummerdream the other day about Eren, and Sushi reminded me of this Isayama’s interview, where it says that, as his prior beliefs were gradually getting destroyed, Eren more and more would act upon a principle of self-preservation (”How about just conserving myself?”). So perhaps, also indulging in those seething feelings of disappointment, anger, and the imperative to preserve himself , that future became a necessity in Eren’s mind, something that Eren eventually stopped fighting against, and adopted as his own will. 

And it was him who eventually decided to act alone, not consulting anybody else. The SC, his friends, never put that responsibility on him, they never required from him to save Paradis alone. Eren could have been the wielder of that power of the Founding Titan, a power which could decide the fate of them all, but, under their commander’s guidance, they were all working together in order to find a solution, a way to peace. As Hange said, they were ready to think stuff through and feel frustrated along with him, so Eren wouldn’t have been left alone. He just decided to do so, building an impenetrable wall around him, and once he settled himself on that irreversible path, he then proceeded to push away the people which cared about him more than anyone else - Armin and Mikasa.

Maybe, when that night in Marley he asked Mikasa what he was to her, he was still wavering, maybe, there was still the tiniest possibility left inside him to not succumb to that darkness; maybe, if Mikasa would have chosen another answer, things would have been different. The other possibility though, is that Eren, at that point, already knew what he was going to do, and that’s why he was already apologizing to Ramzi, and crying - because he had already given up all hope. So perhaps, he just wanted to know, before leaving them, before entering that road, he wanted to ask that question to Mikasa, because he knew that it would have been his last time with her, his last chance to know (and months later, he’d be still wondering about that, and asking for his brother’s opinion). But I’m not sure about it, and at this point, we’ll never know.

[ddarker-dreams]

Fallen From Grace Part 2. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

Click here for part one!

Luxury surrounds you at every turn, and tonight is so different. 

The dish that’s sitting in front of you for tonight is bruschetta, a dish warm and inviting in contrast with its desolate surroundings. Bread grilled in a brick oven with fine, expensive cheese melted onto it, hints of garlic and olive oil mixing in to create a drool inducing image. On top lays a light garnish of parsley, bright green contrasting the deep reds of the tomato. 

Every one of your meals is similar in this refined quality. It felt jarring at first, having every need of yours attended to with utmost care. Not only because it’s unusual to be treated with this regard, but because of those who carry the actions out themselves. 

They scurry around you, gaze cowering to the ground and voice meeker than a mouse. On the scarce occasion they find it absolutely necessary to ask you a question related to your preferences, their eyes never dare to meet your own. A sudden interest in the top of their shoes develops, or fiddling with any objects in hand. Your premature conclusion was that they were too guilt ridden to even look at you. 

Now, lips pressing against a glass and taking in sips of cool water, you know the lamentable truth. 

It isn’t that the servants of this villa feel remorse for standing by and enabling your isolation, failing to assist at any opportunity. No, money can soothe any scathing concerns in that regard. It’s a different poison, far more venomous than all consuming guilt. It’s a primal fear of Italy’s most powerful don that drives their complacency, in sight of immoral actions. 

Spineless cowards. Every single one of them. 

You return the cup to its original place on the long, wooden table. The muted sound is the only one in the grand dining room, aside from occasional silverware hitting a plate across from you. Since the beginning of dinner, you’ve made it a point to ignore him. Too many troubles to count plague your mind, the man on the other side of the table being the source. 

Uneasy silence does not last as long as you wish it would. He gently clears his throat, a signal that shouldn’t go ignored.  Looking up now, you’re unsurprised to see Giorno’s ever watchful gaze meeting you back. Pale skin is illuminated by flickering candlelight, golden hair framing his mature face. 

There’s a closed mouth smile on his face, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Unsettling.

“Do you still not feel hungry?” 

Giorno’s voice startles you, fingers twitching by your side. Time is an elusive thing, minutes always seeming to blur together, creating an incoherent mess. How long have the two of you been sitting here? Ten or so minutes, is your guess. Judging from his plate being almost finished, you realize just how long your thoughts were holding you captive.

Swallowing back the bile that creeps into your throat, your eyelids flutter shut. “Ah… something like that. You don’t need to wait for me, I’m sure you’re busy.” 

It’s Giorno’s turn now to take a sip from a wine glass, swirling the white liquid before raising it to his mouth. It’s rare that he drinks, a distaste for heavy alcohol consumption a moral code embedded in his person. Moscato d’Asti if you recall correctly, which you declined an offer for earlier. From the bottle alone you surmise it cost a fortune.

“You’ve hardly eaten anything today,” Giorno points out to you, voice leaving little room for argument.  He looks at your untouched plate, frowning at the undesirable sight. “Should I have something else prepared for you…?”

Exhaling shakily, you accentuate your disinterest in the subject by avoiding eye contact. It’s been like this lately, always placed under a magnifying glass. A tense exchange between supposed lovers, neither cluing the other of their true agendas. In this twisted parody of a dance, Giorno claims a clear upper hand. He leads you according to his own tempo, never once stopping to let you regain your breath. 

Even with him out of your vision, you still feel the crushing weight of his stare. You swallow despite the dryness of your mouth, reaching once more for the soothing glass of water. Panic has long since settled in, disrupting any logical way of thinking and successfully shaking you up. How long can you hide your secrets from him? At this rate, you won’t last much longer.

It all started four, excruciatingly long days ago.

Marco, a guard who you have grown fond of, seemingly vanished into thin air. Along with all the other workers. No explanation, no clues, nothing. The days that followed left you littered with doubts and soul crushing anxiety, taking your every thought hostage. Did something happen to him? If so, what? Did Giorno learn of your secret interactions with him? And if he did, how the hell is he remaining so composed? 

“You’ve been zoning out often.” 

It’s unfair how he can pick up on your behavior without even trying. Being picked apart and analyzed in real time has never been your favorite, yet it feels even more dreadful now. When you first arrived in this golden barred cage, you had nothing to hide. Now, the burdens of your sins against Giorno threaten to swallow you entirely. 

Nails threaten to puncture the soft skin of your palm, hands balled into tight fists on your lap. Every little poke and prod of Giorno’s comments further torments you, sending you into a spiral of never ending despair. Controlling your outward reactions is the bare minimum you can offer at the moment, too skittish to do anything else. Even the sight of delicious food in front of you sends your stomach churning, the scent of it bringing nausea rooted in crippling anxiety. 

He has to know, right? Everything would make so much more sense if he did. It would explain this surreal, benevolent streak that emerged from him seemingly unprompted. It’s not that Giorno was ever outright cruel to you, until this point, you were given your space. No longer is that a luxury you can experience. 

The past few days he’s been practically glued to your side, giving you no time to get your bearings. An unrelenting attack from all angles. It’s an impossible feat to maintain a facade of cluelessness like you were able to before.

Giorno tilts his head, still awaiting a proper answer. Gathering what remnants of strength that remain, you hurriedly utter to half the truth. “I-I haven’t been feeling well.” 

This disclosure earns you a worried glance. He looks at you a moment longer -- as if searching for something -- before pulling back his chair. It groans against the wooden floor in protest, steady footsteps approaching you. Now by your side, he bends down to inspect you further. A tentative hand is placed to your forehead, assessing your condition from a closer perspective.

“You don’t feel warm.” he murmurs while retracting his hand, the action giving you a chance to breathe normally again. Does that mean he thinks you’re lying? Not giving you any further hints at his inner thoughts, Giorno stands by your seated form in silence. In hopes of avoiding suspicion, you come up with a rushed explanation.

“I’m tired, that’s all,” you scratch your cheek, finding difficulty in maintaining your composure. “It’s really nothing to worry about, Giorno. A few restless nights won’t do me in.” 

If a physical ailment was bothering you, Giorno’s ability could serve to aid you. There isn’t anything his Stand can do for exhaustion though, not to your knowledge. He blinks, long eyelashes fluttering in the process. Whether he believes you or not is in the air. The topic is left to the wayside for now, much to your inner relief.

You had gotten sick once in the past. Even more freedoms were stolen from you, health professionals sworn to Passione monitoring you around the clock. Privacy was nonexistent, a true nightmare of an experience. It was only a mild fever, nothing that could cause any true harm. Giorno took it seriously, acting in an abundance of over protection until you recovered.

It won’t be ideal for you if that happens again. For almost a week you were forced to the confines of your bed, taking bitter medicines and eating only bland, nutritious food. That period of time made you go borderline stir crazy, having nothing to do aside from entertaining your malicious thoughts. If he’s thinking about putting you through that again, you’re unable to tell. 

Composed and serene as ever, he takes your hand up from your lap with tender affection. 

“[First]...” your name rolls off his tongue in a low tone, his deep voice and close proximity causing your pulse to quicken. “If there’s anything on your mind, know that you can come to me.” 

Your breath hitches, all hairs on the back of your neck standing. So he has noticed, or believes your anguish is related to something other than physical illness. It makes more sense why he’s insisted on having you in his presence, to keep you in his sight. To make sure you’re not misbehaving. 

The coarse pad of his thumb rubs over your hand in slow, methodical circles. Involuntarily, your hand begins to tremble. There’s not an opportunity to state your case against his words before he speaks up again, words intent on placating you.

“There must be something I can do for you. I hate seeing you troubled like this.” 

You need to think of a diversion. Fast. He’s eroding your defenses, goading you into spilling the hideous truth of your disobedience. A small voice in your head pleads with you, whispering that maybe he’ll forgive you if you confess now. For you to beg for amnesty, claiming the depths of loneliness you’ve felt all this time. Would that cause him to take pity on you? 

Or would you suffer greater lengths than before for your misdeeds? 

Pushing down the temptation, a hopeful idea comes to mind. Deft fingers wrap around his hand, a tired smile on your lips. “You’re very considerate. It really isn’t anything bad, I’ve just had a few rough nights. I’ll try sleeping earlier tonight and seeing if that helps.” 

Giorno gives your hand a final squeeze before pulling away. “Ah, of course. Whatever you feel is best.” 

It’s a small victory, holding purpose to you. You can’t make any moves under his scrutinizing presence, the threat of alerting him by acting suspicious constant. He can’t be around like this forever, Giorno’s position requires constant attention. Even a few days into him not leaving the premises, you’re having trouble adjusting. It has to be a temporary arrangement, he won’t always be able to monitor you. When the opportunity presents itself, you’ll learn the truth about Marco.

You swear this to yourself.

“I’ve read that relaxing before going to bed helps with sleeping problems. Let’s walk around the gardens together, and see if that helps.” he phrases it like a suggestion, but you know better. It looks like you won’t be escaping Giorno’s presence anytime soon, an oasis of sleep slipping through your fingers like sand. Offering a meek nod instead of utilizing your voice, you mimic his previous actions and get up from your seat. 

Giorno extends an arm to you, which you accept. It’s not that you want to, per se, it’s that you need to maintain the charade from before. Marco suggested to you that if you act less combative to your husband, he might grant you more freedoms. Which you desperately want to attain. In light of his sudden disappearance, it would be suspicious to stop acting like this. Reverting to your former harsh behavior won’t do anything good. 

The new disposition worked in your favor. Instead of ignoring Giorno or cursing him like before, you acted tamer. And, as Marco predicted, some embargoes on your freedoms were steadily lifted. Acting like a loving wife to a man you feel nothing about animosity for isn’t an easy task. It’s a survival tactic. 

You catch a whiff of Giorno’s light cologne, the scent dotting your skin with goosebumps. He’s always been a man of fine taste, you must confess. Once at his side, he begins to walk in the familiar direction of his outdoor gardens. The spot is a grandiose one, awe-inspiring flowers from all over the world appearing in full bloom. Even out of season plants are capable of flourishing, which you suspect is due to Giorno’s Stand.

For such a reprehensible person, he sure has a beautiful ability. 

He looks lost in his own thoughts for most of the walk, and finally speaks up often a prolonged silence. “I’ve noticed how you enjoy your time in the gardens.” 

Struggling to keep up with his pace and balance your rapid thoughts, you take a moment before responding. “Gardening is something I always wanted to try. When I first looked into it, I never realized how expensive a hobby it is.” 

He hums in response, offering a moment of reprieve from stressful conversation.

When the two of you walk outdoors, you’re greeted by the crisp evening air. The sun is just beginning to set in the sky, warm colors embracing the expansive greenery. A main path leads up to an outdoor fountain, which emits a noise of rushing water. On either side of you are a variety of shrubs, pink and blue hydrangeas in bloom. A cicada beats its wings in the distance, a telltale time of summer. 

The openness the outdoors brings with it a false sense of solace. You prefer this to the confining walls of inside Giorno’s mansion, which bring with them melancholic memories. A single aspect of this area has earned your ire, the large window above that is attached to his office. You’ve looked up to see Giorno watching over you for a few seconds. Further cementing the idea that you’re never truly alone. 

Silence settles in between the two of you, weaving through winding paths and mossy stone arches. This is a part of the garden you don’t come to as often, you notice. Rounding a final corner around some hedges, you spot a stunning collection of flowers that must be new. From a dark center, pointed petals emerge, jet black in color with hints of crimson on the edges. 

Giorno pauses to observe the mesmerizing blossoms as well, reaching out to inspect a petal. As soon as he touches it, his lips curl into a frown, almost like he’s remembering something. “A few days ago, I decided I wanted this addition. I got what I needed to grow it this morning.” 

You thought that Gold Experience could create life from anything, so it doesn’t make sense to you why he needed to wait for the arrival of something. Maybe even Stands have limits? Any desire to ask about it is stifled by the fact that you’re talking to Giorno, curiosity fizzling out as fast as it sparked.

He pulls a handkerchief out from a pocket within his suit, and wipes off his fingers that had touched the flower. 

“Black dahlias. It isn’t a flower most people would associate with summer, but I found myself interested in them.” he offers a look into his inner thoughts, a rare occurrence. You wait patiently, sensing he has more to say.

“All plants have different meanings, some even having their own folklore. Tell me, [First], what do you believe black dahlias represent?” 

A perplexing question. Not wanting to offer a halfhearted answer in fear of being reprimanded, you give it some thought. Darker colors typically symbolize negative feelings, at least in literature. It’s possible the same logic applies here. In the distant past, you’d read online about an unsolved murder case in America by the name of The Black Dahlia. It seems anything with the name can’t be a good omen.

Humming in thought, you offer the best guess you can concoct. “I’m not the best with stuff like this… if I had to guess, I’d say it means suffering. Or something to that effect.” 

“Very close. Not quite,” Giorno’s eyes betray the calm delivery of his words, a hidden storm within. “What black dahlias symbolize… is betrayal.” 

You’d swallow if you could.

In a single instance, it feels like all the air has been forcibly punched from your lungs, body going numb and blood running cold as ice. Every ounce of strength that hasn’t been sapped from you goes to keeping your knees from buckling, mouth dry and tongue like sandpaper. He doesn’t blink, waiting patiently to see what your next move will be.

He knows. You don’t know how, but he knows. Similar to how a predator toys with its prey before devouring it, he’s testing you. Gauging for a reaction, savouring the guilt that rolls off you in palpable waves. Options and time are limited, both a dry well as he expects a response. 

Your resolve begins to wilt, perishing under the harsh conditions it's been placed. Roots crumbling and petals falling to the ground, it’s a competition within your mind to see what thought will win. Marco risked his own livelihood in order to give you companionship, to make you feel human again. Can you stay afloat under this immense pressure? 

With unexpected speed, you decide. There’s no backing down now. You’ll see this treacherous charade through until the bitter end. It’s what you owe to him, what you owe to yourself. If it’s games that Giorno wants to play, then so be it. 

“My guess was close then, wasn’t it?” you force a light laugh at the end of your sentence, straightening your posture and giving him your best smile. Within the depths of his countenance is an unidentifiable emotion, his jaw tight and eyes studying. All intensity melts away within an instant, the Giorno you’re used to seeing reappearing in front of you.

“Yes, yes it was.” 

Without his prompting to do so, you wrap your arms around his arm once again. Letting out a soft exhale, you speak up, hoping to rid yourself of this tense atmosphere. “A walk was just the thing I needed. I feel better already, still a little tired though…” 

It isn’t a regular occurrence that you touch Giorno of your own will. You can’t remember the last time you’d done it, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He subtly leans into your touch, welcoming the warmth it brings. Hope erupts within your chest, that you can still play innocent and get away with your grievances. 

Now that you’ve been removed from the moment, your mind is clearer. Capable of reasoning with itself, instead of scrambling to react. It’s a possibility that Giorno has an inkling of suspicion, and nothing solid to grasp it. Giving yourself up and playing right into his hand is exactly what he wants, and you adamantly refuse to do it. It’s shameful that you even thought about giving up, even if it was only for a brief moment. 

It could be the fried nerves, that you find yourself rambling more than you normally do. “I never asked, but how was your day? You always ask me about mine, so it seems right that I’d return the favor.” 

“Busy, not much more than usual though. I regret not being able to join you for breakfast. I had... something to attend to.” Giorno reminisces back to this morning, tone lighter than before. It looks like your hunch of him not knowing anything concrete could be true. A passing breeze ruffles through your hair, cool air serving to calm you down more. 

You can do this. You’ll make it through the storm, and find out the truth on your own terms.

“There’s always tomorrow,” you gently tug at his arm, back in the direction of the house. “Can we… can we head back? I still want to try and sleep, even if it’s early.” 

Never one to deny you anything, he starts the walk back, and you follow suit. “I’ve never seen you this talkative before, [First].” 

You’ve never felt the need to talk this much until now. Rambling about nonsensical topics gives your overwhelmed brain a much needed reprieve. If there’s anything good you have to say about Giorno, it’s that he’s an excellent listener. Never interrupting, always offering his full attention. He never offers his input more than he sees necessary. 

The comment doesn’t feel like a pointed one, rather a truthful observation. You let out a sigh. 

“I’ve always had a lot to say,” you start with a purse of your lips, mindful of yourself. But I hate you. “Once you get me talking, you’ll miss the days I was quiet.” 

He doesn’t buy into the self derogatory statement, and shakes his head. “I could never tire of hearing your voice.” 

You open your mouth, only to close it again. Warmth erupts onto your face, the genuine delivery of a line only Giorno could deliver properly. Displays of heartfelt fondness leave you taken aback, never allowing you to understand the man by your side. How can he say in good conscience that he loves you, while taking you from everything you’ve ever known? 

Giorno Giovanna, who you’ve spent a little over a year with, is still an enigma to you. 

When you spoke with Marco, rarely did either of you bring him up. Out of respect for your feelings, you guess. On the rare occasion you did ask a question about Giorno, there weren’t any clear answers. All he knows is that Giorno took over Passione at a young age, and issued wide reform of the gang that extends worldwide. 

The fact is an intimidating one, since he’s so close to you. 

Now back inside, evening has settled in. Long halls are deserted of any life, only you and Giorno occupying them. It’s off putting, you can’t think of the last time you’ve seen this home so empty. There must be someone here, if your meals were made. Other than that, the only human being you’ve seen is Giorno. 

Your shared master bedroom is on the second floor, and after an uneventful trip, he holds the large doors open for you to enter first. 

Lavish and not obnoxious in its designs, this room is where you spent all your time when you first arrived. Not of your own will, since you were antagonistic. Looking at the custom glass windows, it brings back memories of desperately trying to break them with different furniture. Then the noise of doing so getting you in even more trouble. 

Next was an iron shackle against your ankle, metal cold against your skin and uncomfortable. 

Compared to that, you should feel like your current condition is better. Now it’s mental strain instead of physical. There never is rest for the weary.

Hands of the grandfather clock in your room read 8:24 PM. Your guess is that Giorno will dismiss himself any moment now, heading to his office and giving you much needed space. It’s an unspoken routine that you’ve fallen into. Though you ultimately sleep in the same bed at night, Giorno doesn’t join you until much later, if at all. Being in charge of Passione is a full time commitment. 

With a muted thud, the door closes behind you. Giorno draws the curtains over the windows shut, cutting off what little sunlight shone through. Fully mesmerized with his graceful actions, you find yourself staring. It’s when he starts unzipping the top of his royal blue suit that you realize he isn’t intending to leave anytime soon.

Looking for something to preoccupy yourself with, you get ready for bed yourself. The marble ground of the master bathroom feels cold against your bare feet, causing you to shiver and mutter a quiet curse. After brushing your teeth, you open the door to see Giorno still getting changed, bare back facing towards you. Why is he still here? 

Reading your thoughts, he turns around, white pajama shirt in hand. “Is something wrong, [First]? You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.” 

He can be teasing when he wants, much to your chagrin. Sucking in a deep breath, you give your honest thoughts in a strained voice. “It’s just, I thought you’d have work to do.” 

“I’ve taken care of what I need to today,” he lifts the plain shirt over his head while he speaks, the material stretching against his defined muscles. “So, I’ll spend time with mi cara. It’s been a trying week.” 

Well, that makes two of us. 

His last comment makes you curious. Giorno isn’t the type to complain, if he sees a problem he dedicates himself to fixing it. What is it that managed to earn an admission like that? You’ll test your luck and press further, seeing if you learn anything. It could be related to Marco’s disappearance. 

“Trying…?” you repeat back, testing the word on your tongue. Giorno pulls his braid over his shoulder, and you recognize what that means. Before he gets the opportunity to fiddle with the restraints himself, you walk over to his side and start on it. He allows you to do so, shoulders relaxing as you pull the hair tie out. 

“I shouldn’t burden you unnecessarily.” 

His golden hair is like silk between your fingers, having a light floral scent. You furrow your eyebrows while working through undoing the braid, combing through it. He subtly leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering close at your soothing maneuvers. Prying the truth from him will take more effort.

“It’s not a burden.” you reassure, pulse quickening at the anticipation his silence brings. Worst case scenario, he’ll deflect again and you’ll drop the subject. Feeling inquisitive leaves you unsatisfied, Giorno opting to leave you in the dark about most matters. 

“There was a plot uncovered, relating to you.” 

Your actions cease, body frozen on the spot. 

“It was a threat on your life to weaken me. This morning, everything was taken care of, so you have nothing to worry about. That’s the reason I’ve been working from home the past few days,” he runs a hand through his hair, and turns to face your stunned form. “I’d never allow any harm to befall you. New staff will be replacing the previous one, there’s nothing to disprove that they weren’t all involved.” 

“A few workers were going to get close to you, and draw out information about me. Then... ah, well. It doesn’t matter now.” 

What he’s saying makes logical sense. You’re the wife of a powerful man, who has more enemies than you could ever hope to count. Your mind drifts to Marco, and the time that you had spent with him. A seed of doubt is planted within you, knowing that Giorno distrusted his former staff enough to get rid of all of them. Those men and women were tested vigorously, so for him to now distrust them... 

That leaves a single, haunting question that you don’t want to entertain. Was Marco getting close to you, with the sole purpose of murdering you at the best opportunity? It… it can’t be like that. You spent hours by his side, laughing and reminiscing over snacks and games. He told you about his family, the misfortune that befell his sweet sister, his inner conflict of working for Giorno at your expense. 

When Marco rarely spoke of Giorno, he did ask a few questions about his routine. You thought it was so the two of you could speak together with ease, and sneak around. 

You had cared for him. In the deepest sentiment your broken heart could conjure, you really did. It was the highlight of your day, what you looked forward to every morning when you woke up. The reassurance he would offer, giving you that extra push to carry on your miserable parody of a life.  

Mouth agape, no words can form on your dry tongue. Giorno must mistake your inner conflict for worry over the undone plot on your life, running his hands up and down your arms. He pulls you into a hug in hopes of comforting your shaking form, and you hate yourself for accepting it. 

Nothing makes sense. This has to be a trick, a cruel misunderstanding. Why has the universe seen fit to toss and turn you at every chance, jostling your being to the core. Vacillating between two sides of yourself, the one that wants to believe him and the one that doesn’t. 

Wetness drips down your cheeks, finally breaking down. You sniffle against his shoulder, even more upset with yourself for willingly accepting his embrace. It’s not that the thought of death bothered you, it’s what your trust was broken. Was everything Marco told you a ruse?  

You don’t know. You suppose no one other than the aforementioned person knows, if he’s still alive. It’s embarrassing, truly humiliating to know you told him the secrets of yourself. All for it to amount to nothing, a dagger twisting into your side repeatedly. 

Giorno hushes you, pulling you tighter against him. He coos sweet words into your ear, now rubbing the small of your back. You take all of him in, accepting him in a moment of profound weakness. There’s deep pain, first, then nothing. Emotions come to a halt, numbness settling in as you cease weeping. 

What is there to feel now? 

Soft lips press against your forehead, Giorno offering a chaste kiss. This amount of physical affection is the most he’s ever given you at once, now offering you all of himself. Too weak to protest, you close your eyes, wanting to sleep and never worry about anything again. 

Why try anymore. 

Giorno... did he speak the complete truth? That you can only trust him? He’s given you everything you could ask for, always turning the other cheek when you lashed out at him. He loves you, in his own twisted way. Even after all the rejection you spewed at him, he loves you still. 

“Amore, oh amore,” he whispers into your ear, warm breath causing you to shudder. He pulls back from your amorous embrace, taking your face in his thumb and lifting it. “I’ll take care of everything. Come, let’s get you cleaned up for the night. You must be tired, hm?” 

So, so tired. Of everything. Of this life you live. 

Arms sneak around your shaking torso once more, and he places his head atop yours. Tears are gone for now, a well long dried up. Now, you stand and shake. Head devoid of coherent thoughts, limp against him. He holds you up, keeping you steady.

You close your eyes. Has Giorno always smelled this pleasant? It’s starting to grow on you. Your ear is against his chest, his skin pressed against your own. Listening carefully, you hear the steady thump of his heart. The one before that you thought to place a knife through, now bringing you solace.

What a joke this world is. 

Giorno accepts you, always. Like he said time and time again, the words now settling in. You mutter something against his chest, voice seemingly inaudible. Even you are uncertain of what they are, yet he seems to understand nonetheless. 

And he smiles, content. 

[bailey-whalieee]

Till the End of the Line

Nothing could cure the problem she had inside her head, except maybe two super soldiers.

Request: stucky x reader where the reader is under the weather but tries to hide it from them w loads of mind numbing fluff :) @colourforanamee​

Pairing: Steve x Reader x Bucky

Words: 3562

Warnings: PTSD, drowning, torture, panic attacks, angst, & fluff.

✮

It’s been six weeks since the avengers lost one of their best teammates. It’s been six weeks of Steve and Bucky being on constant edge because they miss their girlfriend. It’s been six long weeks of them missing her laughter and jokes.

Y/n had been taken by hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. had no information on it. So, of course, what did the avengers do? They all worked day and night to try and find out where the hell they had taken her.

Six weeks ago they had nothing and now they were twenty-five minutes away from the bunker where she was being held. Anxiousness filled them to the brim. None of them had any idea what they were going to walk into. It only furthered Bucky and Steve’s worry.

What did they do to their girl?

Was she going to be okay?

Would she still be herself?

“ETA about seven minutes now. We’re landing about five miles away from the facility,” Tony announced, “let’s get our little ray of sunshine back!”

Bucky peered up to Steve, a worried glint covering his eyes. Steve grabbed his hand in reassurance before saying, “it’ll be okay, Buck. Let’s go get our girl back.”

✮

She screamed until her throat became raw.

Y/n’s throat bled for weeks after that. The first week was absolute hell and no matter how hard she tried to withhold the screams they always escaped.

Now, nothing even came out if she opened her mouth to shout or scream. They really enjoyed hearing her beg and plead. It was sickening how much blood she watched drip onto the floor.

They broke her. Scarred her.

Y/n didn’t even want to look at Volkov. He was the master-mind behind the whole project. He captured her, tortured her, watched her scream, writhe, beg, plead.. And not once did he even flinch.

He wore this noxious smirk that made her cringe every time she glanced towards him. Volkov was an evil man.

At first, Y/n put up her front and refused to be scared of the man for the sake of her team. Then it took an absolute turn for the worst. The methods of torture he practiced on her were from hell itself.

But, Volkov’s favorite was the water chamber. It consisted of drowning and suffocation. The iciness of the water would force her breaths to be short and slowly the tank would fill up until full and then the real fun would begin. Y/n’s first time in the chamber traumatized her.

She punched at the glass and struggled in the restraints. Y/n learned to fear water after the recurrence of the chamber.

Her arms were strung together by a rusty chain. She hung loosely in the air of the hydra building. Y/n was used to the constant aching her body forced her through. It became the norm for random parts of her body to shake and shudder from the pain.

After the second week, Y/n’s hope began to dim and fear overthrew her mind. She was just a scared little girl who wanted nothing more than to go home.

“Hmm.. My little pet, they seem to be trying to steal you back from me. We can’t have that can we?” Volkov growled, throwing out commands left and right at the hydra soldiers.

Y/n’s head cocked to the side and a smirk found its way on her war battered face. “They will always come after me. You’ll lose. Dogs like you always lose,” she croaked out, letting out a broken laugh.

An angry snarl drew from the hydra officer’s mouth and he began to shout, “kill them! Fucking murder them all! I want to see his brains splattered on the ground! Do it!”

The soldiers were dropping like flies. The avengers were out for blood and it was blood they were going to get. They wanted her back and no matter what it took, she was leaving that hydra facility, even if it meant murdering every single son-of-a-bitch in the building.

Volkov’s realization tumbled down on him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You know.. Y/n.. My little pet, you do know what this means, right?” he cocked his eyebrow making eye contact with the frail woman, “I always get what I want and Y/n, I want them to see life leave your eyes as those worthless avengers struggle to save you. If I can’t have you, no one can, little pet. I mean that.”

Her face fell. The sudden awareness hit her square in the face.

“No, no, no, no..” feebly flew from her mouth as a chamber was lowered below her feet.

His cackle suddenly filled the room, “and you know what’s going to be the best part? They are going to watch you suffer and drown, while I escape forever haunting you.” Her feet sank into the cold glass encased prison.

“Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this,” she pleaded, her hand banging against the glass, “don’t do this- You’re better than this! Please- I’m begging you, don’t do this!”

The intensely chilled water slowly added up in the bottom of the chamber. She cringed and harsh breaths escaped her lips.

He rolled his eyes, “no I’m not. I’ll never be better than this. I quite like being like this. Goodbye, my little pet. Lock the perimeter, and get me the hell out of here.”

A nauseating feeling settled deeply in her stomach. What if, this time is the last time?

The water was now knee height and panic set in. Volkov had fled. The team was probably right outside the barricaded perimeter. And Y/n was going to die, alone.

“NO! Dammit! Not like this! No! NO!” she pounded on the glass, screaming once more. Tears flew down her flushed cheeks. The water only continued to fill the encasement and further her screaming. “Please, no..”

The door flew off the hinges and the avengers filed in. One by one, they each came running in. Relief flooded Y/n’s being until she saw the horrified expression on each of their faces. The water was barely past her chin and the exhaustion of trying to stay above the water began to set in.

Her small fists striked the chamber, trying to break the glass. “Y/n! Honey, I need you to stay calm! We are going to get you out of here, okay sunshine?” Tony gave her a small smile.

Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. She tilted her head towards the tops of the chamber trying to gulp down the last bits of oxygen she had before the water completely filled the tank.

“Please, help me. I can’t do this aga-” and the water finally filled the tank to the brim. Fear overran logic at this point.

Everything blurred and she could hear their panicked voices and see their crazed movements. She tried to remain calm for their sake, but all she could feel was ice cold the water was. She let out a scream through the water and thrashed against the restraints.

Y/n wanted out.

She wanted to breathe.

Then a familiar metal fist came crashing through the chamber and the water flooded out. Gasps forced themselves out of her mouth as oxygen finally refilled the tank. She fell limply into Bucky’s arms, as he pulled her from the overflowing chamber.

“You’re okay, dollface. You’re okay, baby. You’re safe now,” he shushed, patting the small of her back.

She heaved the water that forced itself down her throat. The group let out a breath they didn’t even know they were all holding in.

Steve and Bucky crouched down comforting the gasping woman. A strangled cry escaped her as she leaned into their embrace. They didn’t even care that she was soaking wet, Steve and Buck just wanted to hold her.

They took in her appearance. Her clothing had been ripped in different places and there had been a sudden change in her weight. She was small and her skin clinged to her bones like she was a skeleton. Her eyes were dull and no longer holding life. She looked half dead..

“Oh thank the gods,” Steve muttered holding onto the shivering girl, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Y/n basked in his hold. She wasn’t okay, but right now, Y/n felt like she had nothing to fear.

“Where’s the son-of-a-bitch?” Tony growled, looking around the emptied facility.

“H-he escaped,” she rasped out, everyone wincing at how painful her voice sounded.

Steve shook his head, “he will pay for what he did, honey. Right now, we need to get you back to the quinjet before you get hypothermia.”

Bucky shrugged off his M-65 field jacket and placed it on Y/n’s shoulders. The jacket practically swallowed her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he immediately cut her off, “shush. We got you back, I’m not losing you to hypothermia, Y/n.”

Y/n was squished against Steve’s chest with Bucky following closely beside him. She just wanted to go home.

✮

When they arrived back to the jet, Steve and Bucky wanted an immediate evaluation from JARVIS. Y/n was given new clothes and a warm blanket from Natasha, who gave her a soft smile.

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N is suffering from malnutrition and a condition called hypoxia, which can be dangerous if not treated. She needs oxygen as soon as possible, her oxygen is too low for her body,” the AI system paused, “unfortunately, Ms. Y/L/N is also suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

She refused to look at anyone in the room after the diagnosis. Y/n kept her eyes trained on her hands. The silence was deafening to her, she had driven herself mad in the dungeon where Volkov kept her.

“What’s the fastest you can get up back to the tower?” Steve asked, his forehead creasing with worry.

“Forty-seven minutes, Captain.”

PTSD. A monster that both Steve and Bucky knew very well. “Dammit,” Bucky muttered to himself, settling next to Y/n.

Y/n’s eyes were getting increasingly heavier and the waves of tiredness came stronger each time. She didn’t want to fall into sleep though. Steve was taking note of the action seeing as she would refuse to shut her eyes and fall asleep.

He took a seat next to Y/n laying a soft hand on her back. She flinched at the touch, but calmed when she realized it was just Steve.

“You can fall into sleep, sweetheart. We’ll always be right here to catch you,” he reminded her, running his hand up and down her spine.

She nodded, “just scared.”

“I know baby, but we’ll be right here. Don’t you worry about a thing because we gotcha’,” Bucky smiled, kissing her forehead, “now lay down on Stevie’s lap and rest.”

Her face held hesitance and she looked towards the captain for affirmation. He rolled his eyes and opened his arms wide, “come’ere.”

Y/n’s head fell softly into his lap and Bucky situated the blanket around her, making sure she was comfortable. Steve’s hand weaved itself in her hair, running through the mess trying to calm the apprehensive women in his lap. Bucky was tracing patterns on her exposed calf that had been battered and bruised.

The team counted their lucky stars. Y/n was safe and back with the men who loved her most. This is where she belonged. This was her family.

Soft snores erupted from the girl who was snuggled in the captain and sergeant’s lap.

“We got our sunshine back and they got their whole world back,” Natasha whispered to Tony, admiring the sleeping trio.

A soft grin fell upon the billionaires lips, “you bet your ass we did and I’d do it all over again for our sunshine. Always.”

✮

It had been months of mental and physical rehabilitation. Months of sudden panic attacks because of random loud noises and flashbacks. But, Y/n put every effort forth to get better and to become her old self.

Some days were harder than others, but she learned to live with the difficulty. The triggers were becoming easier for the team to recognize and help prevent. Y/n’s life had just started to become normal, she was able to join missions and kick ass once again.

Steve and Bucky had never been so proud of their girl. Even through the hell she suffered, Y/n continued to persevere and put effort forth to get better.

Y/n first solo mission had gone great until a familiar ugly face popped back up. The mission itself was simple, get the vile, and get the hell out. Simple. Easy.

That was until Y/n found Volkov’s little hiding place and she saw him. She finished the mission, but the woman was on edge. Her core had been shook and when Y/n entered the jet, she lost it.

The memories, the cold, the chamber, it all came flooding back and all the repair she did to withhold the torture, burst. Like an ugly hurricane it came back and it flooded her mind.

She kept herself in check once she left the jet and finally arrived  home where the team awaited eagerly.

“Sunshine!”

“You’re back! How was it?”

“Did ya miss the thrill?”

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Steve could read her like a book and Bucky could too. They read her every emotion as soon as she stepped off the jet and onto the hangar. The anxiousness radiated off of her and it fogged her mind.

“I’m fine. It went fine. Here’s the vile,” she muttered, tossing Bruce the vile, “I need to take a shower.”

She pushed through the group of eager super humans and headed towards the bedroom she shared with Steve and Bucky. Her body was on fire and the stealth suit kept sucking the oxygen out of her.

Y/n eventually peeled the suit off and headed towards the shower. Steve and Bucky had reached their bedroom and could hear the water running. It calmed them slightly.

“Maybe she just had a rough mission back?” Buck muttered, running a hand down Steve’s spine.

Steve sighed, shaking his head, “I hope so..”

Y/n stared at the water. It taunted her. She had yet to actually step into the shower, but she continued to have an internal battle with it. “C’mon Y/n, don’t be a sissy. It’s just water. It’s just water.”

Finally gaining the courage, Y/n felt the water’s temperature and shockingly it was warm. Her hands gripped onto the railing and steaming hot water washed over her aching body. The first month of rehabilitation, Steve and Bucky would coax her into the water keeping her at bay because of the PTSD and anxiety.

It was sweet and both of them had no complaints, only love and compassion for her.

The water trickled down her face and body, numbing the memories forever stamped into her brain. Y/n wished she could forget. She wanted to forget all the screaming and begging, but she would never forget.

Steve and Bucky sat on their bed, hand in hand, soft smiles on their faces. Bucky pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s gruff cheek.

“Told ya it was just a tough first mission back,” Buck smirked, ruffling the Captain’s hair to which he rolled his eyes.

“For once, I’m actually glad you were right,” Steve grinned, a light pink hue appearing on his cheeks from the affection. Bucky snickered, laying his head on his shoulder enjoying the warmth the blonde was giving off.

Y/n got so lost in her thoughts that the water had grown cold. A ripple of goosebumps erupted spreading all over her body. Air caught itself in the back of her throat as the water grew colder and further reminded her of the lonely hell she once lived in.

And suddenly, Y/n lost the ability to even hold herself up. She crashed down onto the tub-floor in a heap of sobs and gasps. Her mind was thrown into the chamber and she was no longer with Steve or Bucky. Water poured over her shaking body.

“STOP IT! NO! STOP!” she shouted, her fists bangining against her skull.

The shouts could be heard from outside the door, clearly. It made Steve and Bucky immediately run and practically break down the bathroom door. They found her clutching her knees to her chest, tears running rampant down her cheeks, and begging to be spared from whatever the hell was going through her mind.

Bucky grabbed her drenched body out of the shower and wrapped her in a towel, hoping to calm her. She thrashed in the towel and his arms.

“No, no, no, no.. No more! I don’t want it! I don’t want it! Stop!” she pleaded, sobbing.

“Y/n, baby! Hey-hey-hey! Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself! What’s going on, doll?” Steve grabbed her wrists to prevent her from hitting her head.

Her breaths came out ragged and harsh. Bucky pulled back the sopping wet hair that stuck to her face so they could look at her properly.

“Sweetheart, you gotta calm down. I know you’re scared, but honey, Stevie and I need you to breathe,” Bucky shushed, holding her close to him.

She trembled and tried to focus, but failed.

“I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t,” she repeated, gasping on the oxygen. Her face began to pale and tears welled up in her eyes. “I saw him- He was there. I just- What if he saw me??” she sputtered, fear coursing through her veins, “oh my god! He saw me- I don’t wanna go back, please- Bucky, Stevie don’t send me back!”

“Doll, Stevie and I aren’t going to let anyone take you away from us ever again. You know that? Darling, I can promise that you are safe here. I need you to focus, Y/n. Focus on breathing,” Bucky coaxed, cupping her cheeks in his hands.

Her shaky hands found themselves on Bucky and Steve’s chest, focusing on their breathing. She calmed the war in her mind and finally began to breathe normally again. Tears continued to leak down her cheeks, but Y/n gained control of her breathing.

“It was the water.. The water was super cold and then I saw him today and it all came rushing back,” she whispered looking at the two men.

Steve engulfed her in a warm hug not caring about how damp she still was before peppering her head with kisses. “You are so strong and both of us are so proud of you. You are the strongest woman we know and despite it all, you remained the sunshine in the darkness. Doll, we love you and your progress is getting much better!” he praised, kissing her once more, “and listen to me, no matter what we are always going to find you and we will always love you, even if it means going to hell and back to find you.”

A broken smile appeared on her lips and her eyes got continually watery. “You really mean that?”

Bucky chuckled, wrapping his arms around her waist, “of course we do, doll. You’re absolutely extraordinary and beautiful and strong and gorgeous. No one deserves to go through what you went through, but you did not once give up. You have no idea how proud of you we are.”

Y/n leaped into both of the men’s lap wrapping her arms around them. They immediately savored the closeness and love.

“C’mon sunshine, let’s get you in a shirt and then we can cuddle and watch that movie with the little yellow bear in it!” Steve smiled before securing the towel and throwing the women over his shoulder, making sure to carefully do it.

“You mean, Winnie the Pooh?” she scrunched her nose at the captain.

A load of giggle fell from her lips as Bucky made a series of funny faces towards her. Y/n began to forget about the horrors and focus on the two wonders before her. Steve and Bucky. The two men who would sacrifice anything to make her happy.

“Lift up your arms, dollface,” Bucky instructed softly. He tugged the red henley over her head, where it flowed down to about mid-thigh. “Look at how adorable she is, Stevie? What an adorable little doll,” he gushed, his fingers running along her jawline.

“Oh I know, Buck. She is just stunning,” Steve admired.

Bucky hoisted her in between the two of them. Y/n was squished against the two soldiers, but she didn’t mind it one bit. They were both radiators and put off so much heat, she thoroughly enjoyed the heat.

“Stevie, Buck,” she whispered, grasping each of their hands.

Steve paused his search for the movie and gave her his full attention, Bucky doing the same.

“I love you guys. Till the end of the line.”

[soradragon]

Sugary Comfort

Art’s not mine I found it and credit goes to the wonderful owners of this master piece of a drawing!

First Mikey x reader! I am proud and content with this one!

Thank you my sweet new beta reader for helping me edit this fic I love u and your amazing! <3

Warnings: sensory overstimulation in the beginning, lots of fluff, one pun

Mikey x f! reader

Check out my main masterlist if you liked what you read and wanna read more!

If you want to be tagged in the upcoming fics don’t be afraid to ask me! ^^

Anyway, enjoy^^

~~~~

You gazed at the reflection of a girl. She looked utterly exhausted; bags under her eyes like she hasn't slept in ages. 

Her lips were tilted up in a sneer; it was evident that she was repressing the urge to scream. But instead of giving in to the voice begging her to do just that, she drove her foot through the water's surface. Not only disfiguring the reflection of the girl, but also dirtying the dress you nitpickingly chose to wear this day. At the time you felt beautiful wearing it. Proud that you chose the right clothes to fit with the dress, completing the look you wanted.

Now, you just didn't care.

You didn't feel pretty nor proud.

You choked out a sob, rubbing the back of your hand against your face harshly.

You wanted all the white noise to stop, wanted the crying to stop, wanted the searing headache to stop. Why couldn't time freeze? Then, maybe the chaos in your head would finally end.

You had tried everything you knew that normally should have worked. Out of all of the times for those methods not to work, why did it precisely choose now when it actually matters?

You followed all the steps. You even rehearsed the steps as you did them.

Step one: When you feel an episode coming, go to a quiet place with dull, even colours. 

You had almost dropped your project when you felt everything becoming overwhelming, muttering an explanation to your teacher before almost booking out of the school building, to the most calming place you could recall; the park.

Step two: Once you have found a quiet place, go sit down and use your headphones to block out all of the sounds.

The headphones did not work.

Your never-ending trains of thoughts took the place of the noise and multiplied it by two. 

Images that flashed before your eyes every time you closed them were too bright. You were unable to figure out the meanings behind the words your mind screamed at you. 

All of it only worsened the already painful headache.

After only a moment you tore the headphones from your head.

Step three: Try even your breathing, and count to ten to ground yourself.

This was the only step that worked. You managed to calm yourself and stop your ragged breathing but it took effort. It took two attempts of counting to ten before it succeeded.

This whole fiasco petered you out mentally and physically. You just wanted this unnecessary sensory to decrease and quiet down to at least a tolerable level. But alas, the world did not want to cooperate this time.

You sighed, casting your gaze to the heavens. 

The sky was beautiful this evening - painted in orange and pink - and you would have taken the time to admire it, had it been in a different situation.

After hearing a familiar yet obnoxious 'ping' coming from within your bag, you cursed under your breath. You snatched your bag from behind you crudely, zipping it open with a huff. As you turned it on, you flinched at the bright light of your screen.

One unread message from 'Mom.'

She was worried sick no doubt. You felt guilty for worrying her, and wanted to reassure her that yes, you were safe, but felt like trash and were in the middle of an episode that wouldn't stop. No matter how hard you tried, all the obnoxious and illogical sensory your brain's been picking up did not stop. Though, on the other hand, you just wanted to ignore the message and skip the whole situation of explaining everything altogether and just turn off the screen and put notifications on mute. You sent a quick 'k' to whatever she had messaged you and moved on to the mute button.

Your finger hovered above it when a notification popped up, causing you to hesitate.

One new message from 'The great Mikester dude!'

Without thinking, you pressed on the notification, staring with big eyes at the message he had sent you: Guess who and where dudette. :P

"Mikey." You gasped out, manoeuvring your head in all kinds of directions, eyes skimming all over the park, trying to find the one in question. You felt the tingling and buzzing feeling of hope and glee pool in your body, replacing the sadness and anger.

All problems were forgotten or pushed to the back of your mind.

The white noise died down suddenly when you heard a low thud and the slight rustling of leaves. 

There was no other explanation; they were here...You were sure of it. 

Only they could stop the chaos when everything else failed, though you didn't know how, nor the logic in it. 

You guessed it had something to do with their ninja nature or something. (Even though Donnie told you multiple times that it might have been because of the aura they carried with, them, being half turtle and all that jazz had its side effects on some humans, like how a pet could soothe its owner simply by being near them. You still blamed it on them being ninjas.)

With your mind settled down, you could think clearly again. 

You briefly acknowledged the fact that you most certainly were a dishevelled mess. Puffy eyes from crying, clothes covered in mud, and hair all over the place, considering that you've pulled and tangled your hair in frustration. Despite all of this, you didn't care.

You were too busy thinking of a plan to lure them - you guessed it was all of them, though it could be only Mikey - out of their hiding place.

You accidentally placed your hand on your phone, making it vibrate, and your hand shot back as if it had burned you. A few seconds after, a song piped up.  A lot of curses could be heard from the tree where the music came from, the leaves rustled like no tomorrow. Mikey fell out of said tree not long after, hitting the ground with an 'oof' followed by a groan. You stared at Mikey for a couple of seconds before doubling over in laughter as the realisation hit you:

You had accidentally called Mikey!

Well, it sure helped you find him!

You counted that as a win on your part. And it seemed that Mikey was on his own, for normally one of the brothers, cough Raph cough would have jumped out from their hiding place and scolded Mikey.

He rolled into a sitting position, giggling with you.

"Yo, dudette! Fancy seeing you here. Don't mind me dropping in," he said, peering at you with an expecting smile, seeming to wait for a reaction. 

It took you a hot second or two for you to catch on, eventually groaning at the pun and face-palming yourself for your delayed comprehension. He did jazz hands and everything.

The great ninja Michelangelo just punned...

You wanted to kick yourself, you completely forgot that April had warned you about Mikey using puns. She had messaged you not too long ago about how it was a "Big" (with capital B) mistake of Casey to teach Mikey "The Art of puns." For Mikey had become obsessed with them. - Throughout the whole exchange, Casey had managed to steal April’s phone a few times and messaged you some words. Three guesses which one was Casey’s input on the matter. - 

You had no clue what they meant with "mistake" throughout that whole exchange. 

You appreciated a good pun.

This was not a good pun. 

You could just imagine the brothers’ reactions to Mikey's newfound fixation: Raph screaming desperately for Mikey to shut up. Donnie being hella annoyed with something pressed against his (ears?) to drown Mikey out. Leo would definitely try to ignore him, probably without success, because you knew...oh, you knew Mikey would take every chance he got to make a pun.

Your heart went out for them. Needing to go through such torture was horrid, yet it was a funny sight to be completely honest. Not that you would ever tell them, heavens no.

You were not going to poke three bears with a stick - in this case, mutant turtles. You were not ready to die three separate times.

"Dude, that was so bad,” you said, making a face as if you had just been forced to smell Raph's feet. You still regret going through with that bet.

"Dude!"

Mikey frowned, throwing his hands in the air. You knew he wasn't really offended, just a bit pouty.

"It's the truth, dude," you retorted absentmindedly, casting your gaze from left to the right before it rested on your bag. Smiling slightly, you snatched it, hauling it over your back before turning back to Mikey who sat contently against the tree. 

"But," you emphasised the word by pointing your index finger in the air, "you can get better,” your grin widened as you spoke.

 “And I, Y/N, know how it's really done."

Mikey's pout vanished and a wide, child-like grin overtook his face. You had his full attention, as he observed you expectantly from his cross-legged position. 

The long uncut grass rippled towards and caressed Mikey, the blades of green curling slightly forward and creating an image of what looked like nature sheltering Mikey from the harsh reality outside of this garden of paradise. 

The green-filled branches of the tree hovered above him, leaves gliding down every now and again, covering Mikey in small dapples of shadow.

Dusk's hew engulfed the image before you in a soft purple radiance. Mikey's skin practically glowed, making him look like a forest fairy.

It was a captivating sight. 

You could mistake it for a painted fairy tale that had come to life. Whoever the painter was had made sure that each tiny detail captured the magic and beauty of the image before you.

A magic-filled world coexisting in the harsh one you stood in... what you wouldn't give to cast all worries aside and join that world.

You were so lost in the moment that you almost forgot to continue.

Shaking yourself free from the enchanting sight, you carried on, albeit flustered, "a-and I could, um, teach you a thing or two. If...If you want me to, that is."

Mikey almost jumped right in your face before the words had completely left your mouth. There were practically stars in his eyes! He actually looked really adorable.

"Really!? You would!? Y/N, you are the best!!"

Mikey engulfed you into a hug, his body nearly covering your entire body from the world.

You gave a chuckle as he kept his arms circled around you, letting you sit in his lap. You didn't mind at all, feeling cosy in his arms.

"Of course I would Mikester. It would be my pleasure!"

You raised your hands to Mikey's cheeks, giving them a couple of pats before you continued.

"That way, you have a reason to end patrol earlier so we can spend more time together," and it would give the others a break from the barrage of bad puns, but you didn't voice that out loud. 

Mikey seemed to agree. He didn't waste any time to establish when and where this 'class-session', as he called it, would be taking place. He wanted it to become, without a shadow of a doubt, a weekly thing, like movie night at the turtles’ place with everyone.

Mentioning movie night brought up some nasty memories of last time -the movie night itself wasn’t bad, just one of your episodes got out of hand -  and Mikey changed the subject promptly after seeing you wince slightly. 

He told you about all kinds of new skateboard tricks he mastered and invented.

After a little while - when everything had been said about skateboarding - Mikey started to eagerly talk about random topics, bringing up stuff like how his training went this morning or what he encountered on patrol. Just little things to draw more time spending in this position. You kept in mind that this peaceful moment couldn't last forever, for both of you would have to separate sooner rather than later. 

You needed to go home to your no doubt worried sick parents, before they would start search parties. And Mikey...had to wait till the next time you two could hang out. (Which wasn't as often as both of you desired)

You listened to his voice silently, only humming a reply whenever Mikey asked for your opinion, snuggling deeper into his embrace as you lost track of time. Drowsiness tugged at your consciousness, beckoning you to close your eyes and let sleep take over. The way Mikey held you close to him made you feel loved and safe, with you resting your head against his chest to hear his heartbeat. He rubbed soothing circles on your left shoulder with one hand, making it impossible to resist the urge to let sleep take you away to dreamland. 

You vaguely heard Mikey's voice murmur in your ear, "Sweet dreams, sugar muffin..." You felt soft lips brush against your forehead before sleep took you over.

*(*)(*)*

Michelangelo stayed seated for a little while longer, looking at your sleeping form with loving eyes. If the world would have let him, he would have stayed like this forever. Alas, the moment was broken when your mobile pinged inside your bag, vibrating like crazy.

Mikey panicked. Jumping to his feet (surprisingly without stirring you) without thinking. He opened your bag in such haste he had almost dropped you trying to grab the vibrating phone before it would wake you.

He sighed in relief when the phone stopped its obnoxious buzzing after he managed to keep you from falling. He shifted you gently onto one arm to hold you delicately, yet tightly to his chest, as if he was protecting you from the world around you.

Once he made sure you were nestled comfortably in his hold,  he glanced towards the device lying in his palm. Mikey held it at an arm's length.

One question drifted inside his mind: Who in their right mind would call you this late in the evening?

It was a question where he could get an answer, but Mikey didn't want to pry into your private life without your permission.

But the curiosity gnawed at him like he would do with pizza.

He shook his head and chastised himself for goggling the device longingly. "No, bad Mikey...Be the better man, you can do this," he muttered, moving to put the phone in your bag until your phone buzzed again, displaying the number of notifications on the lit-up screen.

It made him halt in his tracks. 

Mikey knew you were having a bad day today. After all, he saw you crying by the pond in the centre of the park. It was a mere coincidence, patrolling around the park at the time. He had seen you crying and decided right then and there that he would cheer you up. But he had no idea you had that kind of bad day. 

There were seven unread messages and three missed calls from your mother. All of them showed how worried she was about you, asking where you were and if you had one of your sensory overstimulation episodes.

Without really thinking about it, he typed a reply to your mother: Batteries died, was with a friend. Coming home through the fire escape forgot keys.

It wasn’t a  grammatically correct message, he knew. It was the best he could do with one hand and one thick tumb.

Mikey glanced towards you with gentle eyes and a soft smile after sending the message and put your phone back in your bag.

He moved you gently, holding you with both arms again and cradling you against his chest.

You, in turn, stirred and snuggled deeper into Mikey's chest, making his heart soar.

"Time to get you home, sugar muffins..." he whispered softly, brushing a couple of stray hairs out of your face.

Mikey moved swiftly yet precisely, ensuring you did not wake or feel uncomfortable during roof-top-hopping. You needed all the rest you could get; the bags under your eyes made him even more certain of the fact.

Your home came into Mikey's field of vision far too soon. Opening the window and laying you softly onto your bed felt too fast for his taste.

Mikey took extra care to tuck you in. He even attached a little note to your bag for you to find when you would wake up. 

He really wanted to stay longer, but the sound of your parents coming up the stairs told him it was time to go. He opened the door of your room slightly so your parents would know you were home. Michelangelo climbed through the window before your parents could see him.

He watched your parents turn on the light from a rooftop across your window. Your dad gave you an extra blanket before the two of them turned off the light and left your room.

Mikey stayed there on the rooftop for a little while longer before leaving, looking over his shoulder one last time and then he sprinted over the rooftops towards home.

*(*)(*)*

You found the note the next day. You smiled brightly at the words hastily scribbled on the pape. You texted Mikey a reply before you went to look out your window. Your eyes draw towards the morning sky, which was painted in a soft orange hue.  

You repeated the words inside your head, making you excited for the next time you would see your turtle in orange...

Yoo, dudette! Can't wait for the pun-session upcoming Friday! 

I'll pick you up at ten alright? It's a date! ;) <3

~~~~

Thank you for reading, and keep soaring high!^^

Forever taglist

@theincaprincess​ 

[tsarisfanfiction]

I Just Can’t Wait To Be Free

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Gordon, Scott

And another fic for @gumnut-logic‘s #irrelief!  The prompt used here is “Any characters – trapped in a lift/elevator” from @darkestwolfx

When Scott gets stuck, Gordon’s the only one around - too bad he can’t stop laughing.

“Stop laughing.”

Scott sounded tired, frustrated, and just about ready to throttle the nearest unfortunate brother – who just so happened to be him – but that didn’t stop Gordon cackling loudly at his eldest brother’s misfortune.

International Rescue had the best rescue gear in the world.  International Rescue had access to some of the best technology in the world. International Rescue currently had one of their operatives trapped in a lift and no-one could figure out how to get him out.

Not that Gordon was trying particularly hard, he had to admit.  If the situation was different, then of course he’d be donning his Rescue Mode and trying to work out the fastest and most efficient method of extraction.  But they weren’t on a rescue, they weren’t even on the mainland – any mainland – and Scott didn’t need to be anywhere in a hurry, so Gordon felt quite justified in cackling at his brother’s current situation.

It wasn’t every day Scott got stuck in his own launch chute, after all.  Luckily, he was returning from a rescue, not the other way around, so there was no real urgency to get him out.  There was the concern that if Thunderbird One’s launch chute was malfunctioning then it would need a complete service before anyone stepped foot in it, and Scott would have to take the long way down to the hangar until it was deemed fit to use again (complete with pulling on his spare uniform by hand, which Gordon did not envy), but that was a concern for later.

Mostly because Scott was still inside, Brains was at a conference the other side of the world with Moffie, and Virgil was still in the air with an ETA of another hour.  Kayo was off doing Kayo-things who knew where, Grandma was still unaware in the kitchen as she conjured up another inedible horror, Alan was with Virgil and John was off-planet.

John and EOS had tried to remotely fix the chute, but it quickly became apparent that it was a mechanical issue, and therefore nothing that could be done by remote control wizardry. An ion wrench was probably the tool for the job, and even if Gordon didn’t have a ban on touching Virgil’s tools (and no-one went near Brains’ without strictest supervision), fixing errant launch tubes was rather different to repairs on a submarine.

Hey, they all had their specialities.  Gordon’s just happened to be not this.

So, really, there was nothing for Gordon to do except sit and laugh as Scott growled at him from the other side of the false wall.  He’d even offered to stream Into The Unknown to Scott’s comm to relieve his boredom until Virgil got back, but that had been rejected.

Virgil had been alerted to the situation, at least.  He’d told Scott that he was hurrying back and had got an irritated snipe at the sluggish speed of Thunderbird Two in response.  Not Scott’s smartest move – a private message to Gordon had informed him that if Scott was going to be like that then he could wait because Virgil was certainly not going to push his beautiful ‘bird for the sake of an ungrateful brother who was at no risk of harm except to his ego.

Hence the hour ETA.

Scott was too smart to not realise that was not Two’s top speed, but no apologies had come out from the chute – Gordon knew those would come later, once he was free and no longer stressed out from being trapped in a small area for who-knew-how-long.  Scott wasn’t claustrophobic, not by any means, but there was always something about being stuck in a place with no way out that got to people.

They’d all done enough cave-in rescues or similar to know that one.

That was why Gordon was laughing.  It might annoy the heck out of his brother, but as long as he could hear a voice, Scott knew he wasn’t alone, hadn’t been left there.  Gordon might not be able to get Scott out, but he could make sure he knew he hadn’t been forgotten.

Oh, Scott would never thank him for it, of course.  Scott had a heavy dislike for being mocked, and there were other ways he could have made his continuous presence know – his usual methods of calming rescuees on missions, light-hearted banter and stories – but hey, he was a younger brother.  He had a duty to be irritating sometimes.

“Gordon, your Ed impression is not helping.”

Gordon stopped laughing immediately, squinting at the (currently not) swivelling fake wall between him and Scott.

“Did you just make a Lion King reference?” he demanded.  He knew Scott liked pre-millennium movies, and the Lion King, despite its lack of anything space or plane related, had always been a family favourite. They’d seen it several times on family movie nights.  

Was it his imagination, or was the answering silence a little apprehensive?  “Scoooooootty.”

Silence continued to answer him, and a hyena-like grin slowly spread across his face.

“Iiiiiii’m gonna be a mighty king,” he started, leaning his back against the wall just next to the rotating section.  “So enemies beware!”

“Gordon,” Scott complained.  He just laughed.

“Come on, Scott,” he encouraged, before singing the lines again.

“No.”

“You can do Simba’s part instead?” he offered.

“No.”

“Scoooooott.”

“No.”

Well, if he wanted to be a spoilsport…

“I’m gonna be a mighty king,” he repeated again.  “So enemies beware!”  Then he deepened his voice.  “Well, I’ve never seen a king of beasts with quite so little hair!”  Too deep.  Ah well.

“I’m gonna be the main event, like no king was before!  I’m brushin’ up on lookin’ down; I’m workin’ on my ROAR!”

Still silence from the chute, so he cleared his throat and tried another pitch.

“Thus far, a rather uninspiring thing.”

That was better.

“Oh, I just can’t wait to be king!”

Ah, now this was going to get a little tricky solo.  He cleared his throat again.

“You’ve rather a long way to, young master, if you think-  No-one sayin’ ‘do this’-”

“Now when I said that…” Scott’s voice finally broke through the sullen silence the other side of the wall and Gordon allowed himself a victory punch.  He knew Scott wouldn’t be able to stay silent the whole time. Little brother’s intuition.  He lifted his voice higher for Nala’s line.

“No-one sayin’ ‘be there’!”

“What I meant was…”  It sounded rather like Scott was taking out his exasperation through Zazu.  Well, it was in character.

“No-one sayin’ ‘stop that’!”

“What you don’t realise…” Gordon hoped John was recording this. Oh who was he kidding, of course he was.

“No-one sayin’ ‘see here’!”

“Now see here!”  That sounded familiar.

“Free to run around aa-all day!”

“Well, that’s definitely out.”

“Free to do it aall myyyyy waaayyyy!”  Gordon finished the section with a blemish, and quietened, waiting.  Question and answer phrases were one thing, but there was no guarantee that Scott would continue into the next section.

Big brother didn’t disappoint.

“I think it’s time that you and I arranged a heart to heart.”

Gordon’s hyena-grin settled into something more genuinely pleased as he picked up the answer, tapping lightly on the false wall for emphasis.

“Kings don’t need advice from little hornbills for a start!”

“If this is where the monarchy is headed count me out!” Scott barked, answering knocks in time with the words.  “Out of service, out of Africa, I wouldn’t hang about!  This child is getting wildly out of wiiing!”  Scott was no Virgil – none of them were – but he could hold a tune when he put his mind to it.  With nothing else to do except knock on his side of the wall to emphasis certain words (and Gordon was fairly sure the ‘child’ he was actually thinking of was not a certain fictional lion cub, but maybe an annoying but lovable squid instead), now was a perfect time to put his mind to it.

“Oh I just can’t wait to be king!” Gordon replied.  “Everybody look left!  Everybody look right!”  He whipped his head around, even though there was no-one there to- oh, hello John!  He gave his older brother a cheeky wave, and got an eyeroll for his trouble although the spaceman stayed mercifully quiet. “Everywhere you look I’m, standing in spotlight!”

“Not. Yet.” Scott answered, biting it out in a perfectly-Zazu fashion, and Gordon grinned triumphantly at John before launching into the choral line.  To his absolute delight, Scott joined in.

“Let every creature go for broke and sing!  Let’s hear it in the herd and on the wing!  It’s gonna be King Simba’s finest fling!”

“Oh I just can’t waaaaaaiiiit… to be kiiiiiiiing!” Gordon finished with a flourish.  In front of him, John shook his head and vanished, maybe to report to Virgil.  Or maybe to explain to Grandma what her grandsons were doing.

“Are you satisfied now?” Scott asked.  He sounded a little less stressed, which Gordon counted as a win, especially as the entire operation had taken less than five minutes, and Thunderbird Two was still nowhere near landing.

Fifty-five more minutes to fill before Virgil and his ion wrench came to the rescue.

“No way, Scotty,” he drawled, settling back against the wall again and ignoring the murderous silence. “What next?”

“No.”

So it was back to that was it?

“Hakuna Matata,” he drawled, and heard a sigh of resignation behind him.  “What a wonderful thing.”

By the time Virgil finally arrived an hour later, freshly showered and clearly in no hurry to rescue their brother, although he was dutifully carrying his toolbox, Gordon had dragged Scott through every movie duet he could think of and then some.

It was a dishevelled eldest brother desperately wanting a shower of his own that eventually found freedom, but a smiling one.

[joy1579]

Retrouvailles (part 3)

Jumin x MC fanfic (1215 words)

Part 1

Part 2

over all summary: MC is the Singer at her Family’s wine bar called “retrouvailles”. Jumin Han corporate heir has fallen for her voice and decided to pursue a relationship with the Jazz and swing singer despite his usual distaste for romance. they face the challenges of press interference and hearsay, as they explore the waters of new romance.

Chapter summary: Jumin and MC enjoy pleasant conversations while enjoying wine and music. before parting ways they make plans to meet again and exchange phone numbers. 

Retrouvallies feature song presentation: lady armstong cover of royals

authors note:so this is just me indulging in their dialogue cuz i really enjoy writing it. honestly the dialogue is one of the main reason i wanted to writ the fic seriously there’s something very appealing about old timey formal jumin han. I have the plot pretty much set out but i have no idea how long it'll take to get there ya know? like i know what i want to happen but sometimes it takes a bit of working to actually get it to happen. anyway i hope y’all enjoy this cute little back and forth between them cuz i really had fun writing it. 

The night’s music seemed impossibly quiet as Jumin felt MC trail her fingers along the ridges of his knuckles.

“have you ever heard of palm reading?” she asked suddenly. he smirked a bit and nodded splaying his hand out before her so she could run her finger along the lines of his palm instead. “to be honest I don’t know much about it really, but I have a friend that can fake it, like a parlor trick you know.” he chuckled at that before curling his fingers around her hand.

“I’ve read a little on the subject of palmistry. I’m sure I could teach you at least a small bit” he didn’t even try to hide his smirk at her surprise.

“do you believe it’s accurate?” she asked dubiously.

“as accurate as any other fortune telling method”

“you know Jumin that isn’t an answer” she chided coyly

“I believe,” he paused for a moment brows creasing in thought as he drew a thumb along a line on her palm “fortune telling, prophecies, fate, it all seems like an excuse. a means for people to accept poor circumstances and lack of motivation.”

“you don’t believe in fortune telling, but you know about palmistry?”

“you must learn about something before you can form an opinion on it” he remarked settling his eye’s on her hand in his. Her hands where warm against his skin and he wondered if her warmth was indicative of some inner light that he lacked.

“well then humor me? what do you read in my palms”

“well the most common belief is that the left hand maps your potential, what God has given you, while the right shows what you do with it, your choices.” MC’s eyes were locked on his as he explained each line and what they were supposed to signify. he ran his index finger over each line as he did and he could have sworn he felt her pulse quicken under the pads of his fingers. as he finished his explanation she glanced down at their connected hands.

“may I be honest with you Jumin?” she asked gently

“I would prefer it” he responded brows furrowing in mild concern.

“when I brought up the palm reading, I may have been looking for an excuse to hold your hand” Jumin didn’t know what to say to that it was a strange thought. that someone would invent a reason to touch him so innocently and yet he couldn’t find it in him to be mad. In the midst of his reverie he registered the final notes of music fading as the nights show ended “I did enjoy the lesson though maybe next time you can tell me about how tarot cards are supposed to work” MC added tilting her head to catch Jumins’ downturned eyes.

“I’m not nearly so familiar with tarot as I am with palmistry” he admitted pulling taking another sip of wine to hide a bit of annoyance at his own lack of knowledge.

“then I suppose we can learn together. Unless, perhaps there’s another subject that you’d prefer?”  

“recently I’ve been reading about vampires” he said ready for the same teasing chides he received from several of his friends when he mentioned his latest choice of reading material.

“spooky.” She commented raising an eyebrow “you know I once heard that the reason they didn’t have a reflection in old mirrors was because silver reflected the soul and since they were undead they had no soul”

“modern mirrors don’t use silver” he mused moving to poor himself a bit more wine. It really was a fantastic vintage.

“exactly!” she chirped. “so doesn’t it stand to reason that a vampire in modern times would have a reflection”

he chuckled, no one had ever humored his more outlandish interests like this. “I can see your logic but I raise you this counter” he said letting a smile creep across his face “your right about past mirrors using silver and about vampires lacking souls, but if a silver mirror only reflected the soul why would chair, walls, and art be reflected? they have no soul.” He enjoyed this banter. A back and forth of ideas and logic even in regards to such fantastical creatures as vampires.

“good point though I’m sure some would argure about art having a bit of soul.  Also in Dracula I believe that Dracula’s clothes were also reflection-less which implies even objects touching the vampire are rendered invisible to the mirror”

“truly a curious mystery that requires more research” Jumin teased. his smile held a lopsided and easy going confidence. MC laughed at that, a joyous lilting sound that had Jumin chuckling before he even realized it. he liked when she laughed at his teasing jokes and made note to tell them more often.

as the night wore on they continued to talk quietly occasionally pouring each other a fresh glass of wine until as mc poured for jumin she found the bottle empty.

“it seems our time for this evening is up jumin” she said holding the empty bottle by its neck and shaking it slightly to listen for any remaining liquid.

“had I known we were limited to one bottle I would have taken my time a bit more. savored the taste and good company.”

“sorry Jumin rules are rules. One bottle of wine for a first date”

“so this was a date then?”

“I suppose that depends on if you’re comfortable with the woman paying for the first date. I’m sure we could work something out next time if you are but I’d like to treat you tonight”

It wasn’t the first time tonight that Jumin had felt a bit taken aback by MC but nevertheless he found himself wholly in foreign territory. he was so used to paying for himself and to others expecting him to pay for them as well. certainly he could afford it after all. money was no object in his life, and yet MC wanted to treat him. He was quite sure that his wealth vastly outweighed her own, making money all the more precious to her still she wanted to spend it on him. he would let her this time of course though he vowed to repay her tenfold at their next meeting if she would allow it. “that sounds perfect shall we meet after your show on Thursday? perhaps I could take you to a late dinner.” He offered.

“I would love that. oh here I should give you this” she said taking a pen from her purse and scribbling a number on a small notepad.

she tore the page out and handed it to Jumin as she stood. “call me if our plans change okay?”

He was about to reply when he felt her lips on his cheek and froze. She had kissed him, just a peck on the cheek but a kiss none the less. For his part Jumin Han did not flush the light crimson that MC did but he did wear a sly smile for the better part of the next two days despite a weekend business trip he had been dreading for the first time in what seemed like a very long time he found himself looking forward to a social excursion.