#but I've been...away*...so I've only just seen it

[rawme-price]

Part 4 of white whale now please. I need a fic fix. scratches neck

So, last we left reader saw what our beloved white whales face looked like, right?

Well, finding out ur white whale and simon were one in the same was a total coincidence. You woke up late one night hungry as hell, craving both an entire glass of cold water and maybe some cheese. So you tiptoe ur way down the hall, silent by habit, but when you turn the corner two people are already by the kitchenette. Under the low light above the oven, soap is stood chatting with none other than the man you've dubbed ur white whale.

Except when he talks, its with your lieutenants voice. You stand in shock, mouth agape, before whispering out "...ghost?" Both men startle looking at you, and the shadows cling to ghosts scars. The very scars you were waxing about poetically are breakfast yesterday.

Soap looks between both of you, gives ghost an encouraging thump on the back, then ducks out. You dont even aknowledge it, stepping closer. He looks just as stunning as every other time you've seen him. Ur a bit lost in the way his lashes contrast his eyes when ghost coughs awkwardly, looking away.

"Oh shit-" you mentally slap urself, taking a step back. "Sorry its just- it was you? This whole time?" He nods, hands stuffed in his pocket "did you know?"

His guilty look makes you pause narrow ur eyes "....did the others know?" Mortification dawns, and you let out an embarrassed groan and cover ur face. "Dude. I've been like, verbally fucking you for weeks now. What the fuck." Shock, followed by guilt.

"Im uhm- im really really sorry if anything i said made you uncomfortable-" you look up to properly apologize but stop dead when ghost smiles, forgetting whatever you wanted to say.

"Its fine. I uh- I've never been called pretty, before." Is what he lands on, stepping closer to you. Boldened by the not-quite acceptance, you smile "well you are pretty. Handsome too. I never lied or anything." You intended it as a sweet comment, then remember the vast majority of what you said included extremely vulgar sex.

"That mean the offer still stands? Even, even knowing who i am?" Ghost whispers, a breath away from you, he seems hesitant. You only smile, lean up to press a kiss to his nose.

"Baby, if you thought you could escape me with lips like those, youre dead wrong." You tease, knowing damn well ur knees will kill you tomorrow but still dropping down.

(At breakfast the next morning soap and gaz hand price a considerable amount of cash.)

[airedelalmena]

Stuff like this is so frustrating. Because people can take the same action for multiple reasons.

Whenever I've done something like this, i.e. with a younger sibling or friend, it's to encourage them to use THEIR smarts. Because I know they're smarter than that, but aren't using it.

The idea that ego could be involved is foreign to me, and I'm truly pushing those I love to self-improve for their own sake. And in a situation like this, though I wouldn't have harped on the same word, might have been nearly as blunt for the sake of their health and safety. I've seen friends with lifelong eating disorders, tried gently to say a kind word here or there, and been looked at as if I ran over someone's dog by the enablers who'd rather sit in silence.

The willful misinterpretation of intents like these feels really unkind because they ascribe automatic bad faith.

I try my best to be kind, but IMO sometimes kind messages for someone's betterment can't and shouldn't be sugarcoated, but made clear. For me, to show respect for someone's good traits (i.e. intelligence) is to expect it of them at all times, and point out when they're not living up to the person I know they are, etc. As a friend. Coddling existing problems feels like feeding the problem, keeping it alive. It's what I would want from my friends and family - extreme directness to help me to grow, not fearful silence that actually keeps me from hearing needed comments that might support my growth.

I guess I just don't understand people who feel uncomfortable with directness or disapprove of it as a problem-solver.

Example: If someone's half-unconscious, injured on the side of the road, and I know first aid, and also know an ambulance is coming but it's 30+ minutes away, the answer is...

to call them and politely ask permission to go ahead first, uwu! Um, no.

to go straight into the first aid without any ado.

Like IDC "how that ~*~sounds/looks~*~" YK?

This is why I do this: We only live one life, and time is short. You could die tomorrow. I wish people had saved me wasted years of not being on the right paths by putting it bluntly into my system.

I experienced this firsthand about ten years ago and it forced me to choose to stop the social behavior of "being polite" and beating around the bush, and to realize the beautiful value of bluntness in saving a person's life instead. Because I almost lost mine to the toxicness of a "being polite" environment that HATED the truth, hated real words spoken to solve real problems. Would rather watch their friends and relatives suffer eating disorders, domestic abuse, severe health problems, near-homelessness in 100% silence as long as the "politeness" of the environment was maintained. No one cared enough about those hurting to speak of the elephants in the room.

Because I lack an interfering ego, I wouldn't be offended by someone doing what OP did in the above. I would consider where they were coming from and let my bubble be burst if it needed to be. I've seen these egos kill people, more committed to the pain than the healing. Because unfortunately trauma bonding happens, and "the comfort zone" of it feels artificially "good".

How many people say "I'll make (XYZ happier choice) for my New Year's resolution" and then never do it? A false friend pats them on the back and says "that's wonderful!" A REAL friend pushes them to make concrete plans, break them down into itemized lists of the steps needed to make it happen. Because I've seen entire lives go to waste saying "maybe one day..." or entire relationships break thanks to easily-solved but unsolved problems. So, as a friend, when I see something, I DO something or I SAY something, as most people were "too polite" to do for me (so-called politeness was actually unintended sabotage).

Being ultra-practical and no-nonsense tends to piss people off mightily, though. Trying to help gets misinterpreted as the wrong, "taboo" thing and shunned. The offended pushback from them starts fights, which I then have to fend off; after which, either my original help, or the fending-off of their fight is then re-interpreted as "my starting a fight". Scapegoating. Etc. I'm so tired and burnt out from years of having to go through this with people over and over again. People I care for and am trying to burst the comfort zone of, to help to heal.

Ultimately the OP's choice was the wrong one in this situation, here. But it seems like their intent was to bust up some of the myth's in their friend's eating-disordered thinking, to get them to wake up a little from the disease that is harming them. Was it perfectly done? No. But did the mother have proof that it was coming from an egotistical place? No, she jumped straight to the accusation. All I see is someone choosing a specific word as an opportunity to cut through some learned BS and point out why it might be BS. A young person doing it in a clumsy way. But so different from a surface-level attack on vocabulary and intelligence that it's being criticized as.........like, come on.......

Hi there, I love your writing and saw one of your recent answered asks. If you feel like it, could you tell or point us to a story about how you were taught kindness? I worry I have not learned enough kindness.

I actually got out of bed to write this. I saw the ask, and I knew the story, and I knew what I wanted it to be. It's a little fire and brimstone, compared to my other stories, but I think that's an important part. 

My mom was a young woman's leader for our ward and she cared a lot about her charges. One of the girls in her group had parents that were in the middle of a messy divorce, and with the mom reentering the workforce after 15 years, schedules were hectic. So my mom picked up their daughter from school for a while. The daughter only lived a block away from us, so it was a small thing to do for a family going through a very painful change.

Said daughter was fat. She'd been fat since we were all kids and she was deeply ashamed of it. Always trying to fix it. Always reading about and talking about diets. And one day, I was sitting in the back seat, and she was talking with my mom about some documentary she'd seen about the corn industry, and how corn syrup was in everything, and I remember her saying "It's literally poison."

And I just didn't leave it be.  

I said something about if she was sure it was literal, and she said yeah, totally, and I asked her if she knew what literal went, and my mom shot daggers at me through the rear view mirror before changing the topic. They chatted, and my mom told her some stuff about worrying less about food, and I don't remember the details but I know my mom was trying to steer her away from disordered eating. Then we arrived at her house, and she got out, and after that it was just me and my mom in the car. 

And it was awkward. We drove for maybe a half block before my mom said, Babs, what the hell was that, and I said something about how that's not what literally means, and she took me to task for it. 

Who cares what literally means, she said. Her parents are getting divorced. She feels terrible about her body. She feels terrible about everything. And instead of listening to her, you felt the need to point out that you're smarter than her. That you know a word she doesn't. You feel big, putting her down like that? 

I didn't have an answer. We sat there a few moments, silent, before she spoke again. I will never forget how tired she sounded. 

I know she isn't as smart as you, she said. But she's doing the best she can. And you could be doing so much more than this.

There was nothing I could say to that. I saw her face in the rearview a few times on the short ride home, and she wasn't sobbing but there were tears going down her face. I think she sat in the car twenty minutes after pulling in, just trying to get her composure back. I checked on her from the living room window like ten times. I can't remember the last time I felt like that huge of a piece of shit.

My mom is a gentle woman. She cried over worms with me. She hardly ever yelled, and she apologized after she did. That conversation caved my skull in like a cinder block dropped from a skyscraper. And I deserved it. 

I know it's probably not the tumblr way to encourage shame. But I have found it useful anyway. I think it is useful for me, to have a specific moment of knowing what failure looks like and feels like.  Missing the person to pick out the part that would make me look good, missing the big view of their life, missing the idea that what they need is not necessarily to be right. Too may misses.

There are a lot of stupid things that have crawled to the tip of my tongue, only to get stopped by the memory of my mom saying you could be doing so much more than this. 

I will not make her say that a second time.

[cocoa-dile]

Would they really stay with you if you asked for a few more minutes in bed? (TWST)

With every student except for Ortho :)

Next post will be another Sebek Zigvolt I think, except headcanons this time around :)

Warnings / Notes: Complete fluff, OOC for everyone to differing degrees, gn! reader, reference to the menstrual cycle in Jack's (but only as a hypothetical situation, nothing detailed or anything like that), my second time writing anything fan fic related (:O), all just for fun and not meant to be taken super seriously. If you have any feedback, please leave it in the comments down below, as well as any requests (which can also be done by clicking the "requests" button on my profile)! I'm also sure that this isn't a unique idea, I think I've seen it done by a few other much more skilled writers so I encourage you to find theirs if you enjoy mine at all :)

Not proofread! I apologize in advance for any mistakes, if there's anything you think needs to be fixed just let me know. Also you would think that because each one is just a few sentences long this would've taken like maybe an hour at most but no this took wayyy too long for what it is

Relationship between reader and character is romantic

Heartslaybul

Riddle: No, probably not. He might let you stay in bed for a couple more minutes as he gets ready for the day, but he probably won't be staying in bed with you - he has a schedule to follow, after all! Riddle has been working more on being a bit lax with following rules, so I think as time goes on you might get lucky, but be patient with him.

Deuce: Ace and Deuce are probably pretty similar here - Deuce would stay in bed with you unless you both overslept already and will be late to class if you stay in bed any longer. Unless he thinks Riddle will get on him or the both of you for staying in bed or waking up late, he'll gladly stay under the covers.

Ace: Yes, most likely. Unless the both of you overslept horrifically, he'll probably want to sleep or be close to you for a couple more minutes anyway. I feel like Ace is the type of person who will continuously push the snooze button on the alarm clock at least 3 times.

Cater: Cater is likely to say yes to this I think, he'd appreciate the time and attention. He likes it when there's some quiet time with just the two of you, where he doesn't have to pretend and can just relax next to you.

Trey: Bakers get up really early so I think out of habit he's up with the sun. On top of that, as vice housewarden to Heartslaybul, he has a lot to take care of. Trey might be willing to spare a few minutes, but if he's got some baking to do or tensions to smooth over he won't be sleeping in. He'd love to make it up to you with some extra time together or a treat that he made special for you.

Savanaclaw

Leona: I feel like this one is so obvious it's not even a question. Yes, he would absolutely stay in the bed for extra sleep or cuddle time. In many cases, he's probably the one asking you.

Jack: I think this is another probably not, leaning towards a maybe. Jack has been shown to highly value his schedule, and takes his time very seriously - maybe if you're still in bed by the time he's done he'll join you again, but I think he would remain a bit steadfast with his "it's time to get up" and "it's time to go to bed". I do think there would be some circumstances that this wouldn't be the case - if you're going through your menstrual cycle (if you have one), if you just need a bit of support or have had a rough couple of days, etc. I think that Jack would highly value the time he spends with his S/O, and wants to be there when you need him.

Ruggie: As long as he doesn't have something to deal with in relation to Leona, I think he probably would. Ruggie seems like someone who has quite a bit on his hands, but if you're his S/O I think that even those small moments and time that you can steal away for each other is really important to him.

Octavinelle

Azul: Probably yes. I think part of the requirements to be Azul's S/O is that he needs to feel comfortable with being vulnerable with you, and even enjoy that vulnerability. Cuddling / sleeping together is one of those activities that creates that feeling of gentle care and love that he really appreciates and makes him feel safe. If it's too late, however, I think he would want to get up - he has business to handle, and Jade and Floyd aren't always the most reliable.

Jade: In most cases, yes, but if it's a day where he plans on going up to the mountain early or has to handle the Lounge, he's off (in some cases maybe even before you wake up).

Floyd: Depends on how he's feeling, but most likely yes. I don't think he really cares about being on time for the Mostro Lounge, and everything else is probably background noise for him. Floyd would probably hold you down in the bed with him as you attempted to escape because he likes feeling you squirm around.

Scarabia

Kalim: Yes, he absolutely would. Kalim is a ball of sunshine who's head over heels for you and is willing to do anything to make you happy. If just a few more minutes in bed is enough, who is he to say no?

Jamil: Jamil has a high level of responsibility within Scarabia, so I imagine that he's another one who has to get up on time and get to work. However, I think that when the stress is getting particularly bad he'd fold and stay with you for a bit before going back to his duties.

Pomefiore

Vil: I'm kind of conflicted on Vil to be honest, on the one hand I think he would value his beauty sleep and a few more minutes couldn't hurt but on the other I feel like he's another person whose pretty particular about when he wakes up, when he does his skin, hair, etc. For Vil, it might be more of a case-by-case basis like with Jack - if you need him, he's there, and if he needs a few more minutes with you, he'd hope that you'd stay for him in turn.

Epel: Another yes, I think Epel would really like doing this sort of thing with you because he likes the idea of being the chivalrous boyfriend who does whatever his S/O asks of him. It makes him feel reassured in his relationship and like you know you can count on him.

Rook: You wouldn't even have to ask, he's already woken up before you and has enjoyed admiring your features. A few more minutes marveling at your beauty surely wouldn't hurt.

Ignihyde

Idia: Most likely, yes. He doesn't leave his room for classes anyway, so unless it's for a super big event going on in one of his video games I think he'd be happy to spend some more time with you. He's touch starved and wants to be near you, so what's the harm in a few more minutes anyway?

Diasomnia

Malleus: Yes, absolutely. My personal bias is definitely going to slip out here, but I really do love the headcanon that Malleus will follow the traits typically associated with dragons, such as being possessive, enjoying collecting things (particularly shiny things), etc. Another common trait many people accept with dragons is that they enjoy being either on top of or very near their hoard. As his S/O, you are incredibly important to Malleus - the most important shiny thing, if you will. Similar to Idia, Malleus is touch starved and wants to be given affection and attention from you specifically. To Malleus, a few minutes is truly nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Silver: Yes, probably. He'd probably end up falling asleep again anyway, so it's good that you're there with him. He doesn't mind a few extra minutes with his beloved, even if Sebek gets on him for being a little bit late to patrol.

Sebek: As much as I absolutely love Sebek, I really don't think so. You might be able to seduce him back under the covers when it's cold out (given that crocodiles are cold blooded creatures, and you're assumedly much warmer than he is), but usually, he stays pretty rigid with his routine. Wake up on time, morning routine with his skin and fixing his hair, and then take care of Malleus. I think he'd make it up to you with some quiet time together, but I doubt that he'd allow himself to sleep in at all.

Lilia: Yes, because I don't think this old man really cares anymore. Nowhere that he needs to be comes before you, and like with Malleus, a few minutes really isn't anything anymore.

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

✨Get your hands off me!✨

Day 2 (July 2nd, 2025)

I did not spin the wheel today because I had an idea for this prompt as soon as I saw it! I'm putting a little twist on it though.~

Pairing: Lucifer x f!reader

Warnings: NSWF, possessive sex, p in v

"Are you sure you want to go the Ozzie's new place in the Pride ring, hon?" you asked as you finished getting ready for your night out with the demon king. "I didn't think that was your scene?"

Asmodeus had just opened up a brand-new club near the heart of Pentagram City, more than likely to build his client base since sinners could not travel to the Lust ring themselves. You thought it was odd when Lucifer suggested a date night there, but you were curious yourself about the club. So, what the hell!

"Of course I'm sure!" Lucifer spoke enthusiastically as he snuck up behind you, dipping you towards the floor in a swift motion. "My lady deserves the best, doesn't she? Ozzie's clubs are second to none!"

You laughed as he picked you back up, placing a quick kiss to your cheek. "I don't know, Luci. Don't you think we might draw a bit too much attention? The king going to a night club with some random sinner?"

"Hey," he spoke quietly, holding your face gently in his hands, "you're not just some random sinner. Not to me." He kissed your nose before pulling away. "But you may be right about the unwanted attention..." He snapped his fingers almost immediately. "Wait! I have an idea!" Red smoke surrounded him for a brief moment, then disappeared, revealing Lucifer's new look. "Ta-da! What do you think?" The benefits to dating a shapeshifter were near limitless, especially when he could disguise himself as anyone or anything. His new incubus look would definitely put your worries to rest. No one would care if a sinner and a hell-born were seen together, stranger things have certainly happened. Ozzie could attest to that.

"Oh wow!" you praised, hooking your arm under his, "you look great! Given how seductive you already are, you'll have no trouble playing the part."

Lucifer laughed nervously, feeling his face starting to heat up. "Sweetie, we aren't gonna leave the house if you keep talking like that!" Before you could tease him more, Lucifer snapped opened a portal for you two to step through. "Follow me, pretty girl." You and Lucifer stepped into an alleyway away from wandering eyes so that you could enter the club discretely.

"Have I mentioned how much I love your magic?" you smiled sweetly.

"You could stand to mention it more," he joked. "I should tell you though, this disguise will not fool real hell born, they'll know it's me. But they SHOULD be able to be discreet, Ozzie trains them well from what I've been told. Sinners, however, will be none the wiser."

You nodded and took Lucifer's hand, following him to the entrance of the building. The line to get inside wrapped around the block. You opened your mouth to suggest going back home, but Lucifer stopped you before you could utter a word.

"Another perk is that the sinners will just see me as an escort, someone who works here. We won't have to wait in that line! Shall we?" You felt awkward walking past the vast number of sinners who had been waiting who knows how long for a change to get in, but you put on your best poker face and followed your boyfriend in disguise. You watched as Lucifer flashed the bouncers at the front door a sharp glare. They looked at each other with a bit of shock but then quickly opened the doors for you.

"Right this way," one of them spoke, giving the two of you a knowing nod.

Lucifer flashed a smile before leading you in. "Thank you, gentlemen!"

The music was blaring as soon as you walked in, everyone inside looked like they were having the time of their afterlives! Drinks being passed out like candy, people dancing along to Hell's hottest hits, and of course the promiscuity of it all.

It excited you.

"C'mon, let's go dance!" you shouted at your partner before dragging him to the dance floor.

You could only get through a few songs before you needed a break. Lucifer, however, didn't even break a sweat! The man was so full of energy! He definitely needed this night out. You found a vacant spot against a wall to catch your breath and Lucifer followed. "I'm gonna grab us a few drinks, alright? I know the bartenders that work for Oz make the best appletinis! Be back in a jiff!" Lucifer pushed through the crowd with ease. There were definitely advantages to being small and limber in places like this.

Unfortunately, your peace was interrupted as soon as the angel was out of sight.

"Hey there, hot stuff," a bellowing voice called out. You looked to your side and saw a tall, lumbering sinner leaning up against the wall and towering over you. He must have been dancing for a while because he smelled awful. Or he just never showered in the first place. Either way, it was off-putting. "What's a cute thing like you doin' here all by yourself?"

You gave him a half smile so as not to be rude. "Actually, I'm with someone. He's over at the bar." You and the strange man peered over to see the fake incubus leaning over the counter to order the drink he had promised. The sinner laughed.

"You're kidding! Him?" he asked in an amused tone. "Someone like you deserves so much more than a puny little hell-born like him! C'mon, let's go dance, baby! I'll show you a good time."

You took a half step away from him and swallowed hard, becoming nervous. "No, I'm alright, thank you. I'm sure you can find another girl who wants to dance."

The man growled and grabbed you forcibly by the arm. "I ain't really asking, sweetheart. Now let's go!"

You tried to pull his hand from you but he was much stronger than you, fighting him would be useless. You needed to make a scene. "Get your hands off me!" you screamed as loud as you could. But no one came to your aid, only a few glances in your direction. You tried to use your heels as leverage, but he was dragging you along with ease.

That was until Lucifer stood in his way.

"Let her go. Now!" he barked, the appletini glasses shattering in his hands.

The demon bellowed at his request. "Or what, tough guy? You ain't gonna win this fight."

Lucifer eyes began to glow crimson, red dust swirling around him until his true form was revealed once more. "I said..." he growled, his voices layering over one another, "Let. Her. Go."

Everything froze.

The music stopped, everyone's voices were silent, all eyes were on the scene unfolding in front of them. Lucifer Morningstar was here. and he was angry.

"Oh, fuck!" the man exclaimed, letting go of your arm immediately and trying to back away slowly. But he was met with a wall of patrons who refused to move for him.

"Get behind me," Lucifer spoke softly, extending his hand towards you. You quickly took it, doing as you were told. Lucifer wings shielded you from your attacker.

"I-I'm sorry, your highness, I-I mean your majesty!" the demon stuttered, trying desperately to move away from the angered king. "I didn't know she was...I mean, I didn't know you were-"

Lucifer used his wings to meet the sinner eye to eye, his barred teeth inches away from the trembling brute. "If you aren't out of my sight in five seconds, I'm going to make sure you never reform in my realm. So, if I were you, I'd start running."

As if on cue, the crowd parted, giving the frightened demon a clear exit. He wasted no time bolting through the doors and not looking back. Lucifer took a big breath and looked around the eerily silent club. On time, his demeanor changed and he started laughing. "Well, since I have everyone's attention, everyone's drinks are on me tonight!"

The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers at Lucifer's generous offer with the music kicking back in without missing a beat. Lucifer then locked eyes on you and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

"Thank you, Luci," you said, holding him tight.

"Are you alright?" the worried angel asked, "He didn't hurt you, did he? I should have atomized him on the spot. Who the hell does he think he is?!"

You shook you head. "I'm not hurt, I promise." Your hands began to wander lower and lower until they were kneading at Lucifer's ass, earning you a little surprised squeak. "But you know, seeing you go feral like that, especially over me..." You leaned down and nipped at his neck, giving him obvious hints as to what you needed. "Let's take this somewhere more private, shall we?"

Lucifer swallowed hard, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the back of the club where the private rooms were located. A succubus stood guard in front of that section as she watched you two make your way towards her.

"The VIP Suite, please and thank you," Lucifer said as you giggled. She employee nodded and lead you to the room farthest down the hall. Once the door was locked, Lucifer wasted no time shoving you up against it, his lips crashing into yours. His hands explored every inch of your body, his claws ripping through the fabric of your dress. But you couldn't care less; in this moment all you wanted was him. You heard a load tear, followed by the feeling of your underwear falling past your legs and onto the floor.

Lucifer hands found your already soaked folds quickly as he prodded at your entrance. "You weren't lying were you, love?" he teased. "Did my demon form rile you up this much? I'm flattered." In an instant, Lucifer's clothes were snapped away; the man was already at full mast. He hoisted you up with ease as you wrapped your legs around his waist. "When we get home, I promise to make love to properly. But for now, I'm going to fuck you."

You whimpered in excitement as you felt the head of his cock push into you inch by inch until he was fully sheathed inside of your needy cunt. He stared slowly, thrusting his hips and hitting the most sensitive spot inside of you over and over again, going as deep as he possibly could. It wasn't long before he was moving at a breakneck speed, pumping inside you like his life depended on it. His name fell from your lips like a prayer as you clung to him, digging your nails into in porcelain back.

"You're mine, do you understand?" he asked, his more demonic form making a reappearance. "That filthy sinner had NO right to even LOOK at you, let alone put his disgusting hands on you, HOW DARE HE!" His grip on you tightened and you could tell that he was getting close with the way he snarled and moaned into your ear. "You're mine to love, mine to kiss, mine to fuck, mine forever...MINE, MINE, MINE!" Lucifer's teeth sank into your neck as he came, filling you up with his hot cum. Less than a second later, you came around his cock with a scream, your walls pulsating around his member as he emptied himself inside you.

When both of you came down from your highs and your breathing returning to normal, you leaned your forehead into his, laughing weekly. "Maybe I should rile you up more often, Luci. Fuck, that felt amazing."

He laughed in return, leaning in to kiss you deeply. "Just as long as no one else tries to take you away from me."

"I'm yours, Lucifer," you reassured him. " I always will be. Never doubt that."

"How could I?" he responded. "I love you so much, my darling."

You kissed him again. "I love you more."

"Impossible!" Lucifer set you down gently on the ground and snapped open a portal as he picked up the discarded remains of what used to be your outfit. "Let's go home, sweetie. The night's still young and I'm not quite done with you just yet."

[obvious-captain-rogers]

Stop im obsessed 😭 i need to read the full fic version of that.

There is something so intimate about caregiving and letting yourself be vulnerable in front of someone. Jack and Dana are the only two people he willingly allows to see that side of him.

Jack picking him up like, "Mikey, I thought you said it was just a cold" and Robby like "I thought it was too but I guess not *big fevery doe eyes*" - and Jack is a little down on himself for not *insisting* that Robby stay home and rest that morning.

Also 100% agree that Robby becomes very physically clingy when he isn't feeling well. And this teeny tiny part of Jack kinda loves it... like he hates that Robby is miserable but he can't say he hates the side effects of it 🤷🏻‍♂️

Here it FINALLY is! I've been working on this idea on and off ever since I got these asks and now we have it! I may have gotten a little carried away with it, but I just loved the idea too much

Robby grimaced as a headache throbbed behind his eyes, insistent and angry. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead so he could pinch the bridge of his nose, high enough that the counterpressure eased some of the ache, before blowing out a heavy breath. “Lookin’ a little peaked, Cap,” Dana said, her voice closer than Robby had been anticipating and he startled a little as he squinted up at her. When had the lights gotten so bright? “Oof. You feelin’ okay?” She started to reach out and press the back of her hand to his forehead- an instinct born of being both a mother and a nurse- but Robby just leaned back in his chair so he’d be out of range.

“Yeah, fine.” Robby waved off her concern but she just stared at him over the rim of her glasses. “Bit of a headache. Probably need a coffee, some sugar, something.” Robby shrugged and the motion made his head reel a little despite the way he was barely moving in deference to the ache there.

“I can do you some Tylenol and one of the flat Cokes in the staff fridge.” Dana’s mouth curled a little at the corner as she leaned her hip against the edge of the desk.

Robby’s own mouth twitched up and he huffed a humorless sort of laugh. “Deal.” He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye and she put a supportive hand on his shoulder before she dashed off to grab the meds and the drink.

“Dr. Robby,” Robby blinked up to see Whitaker hovering with his notebook clutched awkwardly in his hands. “I- um- just wanted to ask you about this chest trauma case-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Robby said and scrubbed a hand over his face before tucking his glasses into his chest pocket, nearly whiffing it and sending them to the ground, but thankfully recovering in time. He only swayed a little on his feet once he was completely vertical and gestured for Whitaker to go ahead of him.

By hour seven in the shift, Robby’s vision was swimming as he checked the chart for the last trauma that had rolled in, Santos taking the lead under Samira’s supervision. The two were an unlikely duo on the outset, but their differing approaches and skill sets made them an effective team. If only he could read Santos’s notes to check her cognition work.

“Alright, what’s the deal?” Dana asked and planted herself firmly beside the monitor that Robby was attempting to work at.

“Dunno what you mean,” Robby said and itched at the corner of his eye. It was dry and irritating him. Probably too much time spent looking at a screen. Usually didn’t hit until hour ten though. Must be having an off day.

“You’re not wearin’ your sweatshirt, Robby,” Dana said as if she were talking to a particularly stupid nursing student. “Combine that with the pallor, the sweatin’, the loss of focus, and a slew of other symptoms I’m sure you’re keepin’ from me,” Dana gave him the stink eye for that one, “means somethin’s up.”

“I take off a sweatshirt and you get all that?” Robby asked, clearly trying to deflect.

“How long we been workin’ together?” Dana asked, the question clearly rhetorical. “I think I’ve seen you take that thing off maybe five times tops.” She lifted an unimpressed eyebrow and Robby sighed heavily. Sometimes he hated her observational skills. “You gonna clue me in or make me sedate you to run the tests while you’re out?”

“Just a cold, Dana.” She scoffed and gave him a look that told him to try again. “Really, it’s not that bad. Minor fever and a headache.”

“That what your labs’ll say?” Robby let out another heavy sigh and slumped in his seat. “C’mon, darlin’, let me check you out. Only in the above board way, of course.” Dana winked at him and he huffed laugh at the teasing. “If you’re okay, you’re okay and I back off. If not, I call someone to pick you up to go home.” Robby’s first instinct was to fight her, to insist he was fine and keep working, but she just lifted both brows and- as only Dana could- went for the jugular. “You really wanna be the reason an already sick patient gets sicker?”

Robby’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Below the belt, Evans.”

“Left me no choice, Robinavitch.” She held a hand out towards one of the empty rooms. “C’mon. Sooner we get this done, the better.” After Robby struggled to his feet, Santos started towards them but Dana just shook her head from where she’d planted a firm hand between Robby’s shoulder blades. “Go ask Dr. Collins or Dr. Mohan, sweetness. Robby’s with me for a bit.” Santos’s eyes widened as Dana hustled Robby into the exam room.

“You know she’s gonna tell everyone now,” Robby grumbled as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed carefully, head spinning at all the movement.

“Yeah, well, maybe then they’ll let you get some rest,” Dana said and started taking his vitals. He was doing pretty well- good oxygen, pulse slightly elevated but nothing that wasn’t typical of a day in the stress of the ER, BP practically textbook perfect- until Dana took his temperature.

The thermometer beeped and before she’d even pulled the probe out from under his tongue, she was frowning in a way that Robby knew was no good. She turned the reading around so he could watch it flash his temperature at him: 103.6.

Shit.

He fucking hated it when Dana was right.

“Gonna say it’s a little more than a cold,” Dana said and set the thermometer aside so she could gently brush his sweaty hair off his forehead. Although he’d never admit it out loud- at least not in her presence- it felt sort of nice even with the layer of nitrile in the way of her cool hands. “Let me do some nasal and throat swabs, send ‘em off, and see what we’re dealin’ with.”

“Hopefully they’ll be separate,” Robby joked weakly because that was all he could come up with as he finally let his tired eyes flutter shut and his head slump down towards his chest.

“Ha, ha, so funny,” Dana said dryly before she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m gonna give you a pass on the bad jokes since you don’t feel good. Stay here, lay down, and I’ll be right back.” Before Robby could say or do anything, Dana helped ease him back onto the bed. Which was probably a good thing since any motion gave him the spins and he wasn’t sure his aim would have worked out.

Robby closed his eyes completely and he hadn’t thought he dozed off- except he must have which was another indicator of how sick he had to be- but when he opened them the lights were dimmed and the curtain had been drawn so that nobody could see into the room.

And like she had felt a disturbance in the Force, Dana popped her head around the curtain. “There he is,” she murmured and came over to the side of the bed so she could pull the tray table closer. It was quick, efficient, and easy. Robby would expect nothing less from Dana. “I’ll send these off on a rush. You need anythin’?”

“No,” Robby rasped out, throat dry from disuse and probably sleeping with his mouth open.

“I’ll getcha some ice chips.” Dana winked at him before she tucked the capped test swabs into her pocket, unfolded a blanket from the nearby shelf, and then tucked it around him like he was a kid rather than a man in his fifties. “Be right back, Cap.” Robby just made a vague noise of acknowledgement before he felt himself slip under again.

His dreams were only half-formed, amorphous things that blurred around the edges and didn’t follow any sort of coherency. A fever dream pure and simple that he had to practically fight his way out of as stimuli from the ER slowly starting filtering in to remind him where he was.

Robby blinked groggily at the ceiling as he slowly pieced together the fact that he was actually awake. And more importantly, he wasn’t alone. Dana was at his bedside, hand on his shoulder lightly. Must have been calling his name, waking him up. “Well, we got a winner, Robby.” Dana rubbed her hand over his shoulder softly. “Looks like you got the flu, darlin’.”

Robby let out a low groan. The flu had been particularly bad for a while a few weeks back, but Robby had thought he’d dodged it. Between the flu shot and his stringent hand-washing and disinfecting protocols, Robby had been careful. But then again, nothing they had was a hundred percent against a particularly determined strain of disease.

“I’m gonna call that husband of yours to come and get you.”

“No, don’t wake Jack up,” Robby said, voice even more raw-sounding than it had been before. “Can take a cab.”

“Not in the state you’re in. Besides, you think Jack’s gonna forgive me if I dump you into a cab like this?” Dana shook her head and huffed a faint laugh. “I do not wanna be on that man’s shit-list. Not even for you, darlin’.”

“Okay, yeah,” Robby relented and lifted a shaky, clammy hand up to his face to scrub at it. And it was an dead giveaway of how shit he felt that he agreed so easily.

“Gonna get Collins to write you a ‘script for some Tamiflu while I get Jack on the line.” Dana helped Robby sit up and take a few sips of some Pedialyte she must have brought in with her and then set a spoonful of ice chips to melt in his mouth. She only stepped to stand in the doorway as she flagged Collins down and tugged her phone out of her pocket at the same time.

Robby felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips as Dana dialed Jack up while she gave Collins a quick run-down on Robby’s condition. Heather shot him a sympathetic look- he must have looked pretty pathetic for her eyes to have gone so soft- before she gave Dana’s wrist a squeeze and went off to get Robby’s medicine.

“Hey, Jackie, sorry to wake you. I got Robby here with-” Dana’s lips curled up in amusement at whatever Jack must have said on the other end of the line. “No, no, nothin’ too serious. But he spiked a fever so we tested for flu and- yeah, exactly.” She rocked between her feet as she listened, glancing over at Robby briefly. “Okay, kiddo, I’ll let ‘im know. See you soon.” Dana hung up and she slipped her phone into her pocket so she could face Robby fully. “He’s on his way to pick you up. I’m gonna call Shen to come in early and cover so you just lay back and rest.”

“I can go into the on-call room. No need for me to take up a bed that someone else needs,” Robby said and he started to ease himself to the floor.

“Robby-!” Dana sprinted forward and caught him right as he lurched dangerously. “Jesus Christ, I swear you’re a glutton for punishment.” She shook her head but there was a well of fondness there. “Just gonna slip a mask on that pretty face and we’ll get you laid down.” Dana made sure he was steady before she grabbed one of the masks out of a box on the wall. The almost tender way she slipped the loops around his ears and adjusted the nose made Robby’s throat prickle with emotion.

Probably just the fever. Made everyone a little loopy and emotional.

Dana kept one hand on his back and the other on his chest as they made their ungainly way to the on-call room. It really wasn’t much- couple cots with thin blankets that mostly got used for people pulling doubles- but Robby still let out a soft sigh of relief at being horizontal again.

He’d dozed off again before Dana had even left the room.

Robby was sure that he dreamed again though he couldn't have said what any of it was since he didn’t remember. He came to to the feeling of soft fingers in his hair and someone’s chin propped up on his shoulder. His mouth felt clumsy as he said something, though with how cloudy his head was he didn’t remember what it was even just after he’d said it.

“English, baby. I don’t speak Russian.” The voice was familiar, warm.

Jack.

Right, Dana had called Jack to come get him. Because Robby was sick. “Sorry,” Robby mumbled and he turned into the light touch to his hair.

“It’s alright. Do that sometimes in your sleep too.” Jack was smiling a little when Robby cracked an eye open to look at him. Then his face sobered a little and a knot of concern formed between his brows. “You told me you had a cold, Mike.” His thumb stroked over Robby’s temple. “I never would have let you come in if I’d known.”

“Thought it was,” Robby said and shrugged apologetically. When he’d woken up it’d just been a minor ache in his head that he’d attributed to sinus pressure. There hadn’t been any chills or body aches, not until later.

“Okay,” Jack said quietly and shook his head. Though if it was disbelief or just at Robby’s lack of self-awareness and preservation, Robby couldn’t say. “What do you say we get outta here and get you home?” His fingers pushed Robby’s hair back away from his face again. “Bed at home’s gotta be more comfortable than this thing.”

“Low bar,” Robby joked and then let out a low groan at the way it made his head ache.

Jack hummed and he pressed his thumb into the spot behind Robby’s ear, rubbing a small circle there in an attempt to ease some of the pressure. “I’ve got your meds, so we’re gonna get you home, have some food before you take your pills, and then bedrest until you’re twenty-four hours fever and symptom free.”

“Sounds good, Doc” Robby said and leaned his forehead against Jack’s wrist.

“Oh, you must feelin’ pretty bad if you’re going along with prescribed treatment.” Robby huffed a breathless laugh and he felt Jack brush a soft kiss against his forehead before he was pulling away completely. “Up you get.” Between the two of them they somehow managed to get Robby’s uncoordinated limbs to cooperate into getting him upright and moving towards the door. Though Robby was sure it was down to Jack’s arm around his waist more than anything he was contributing.

“I don’t wanna see either of your faces for at least three days!” Dana called out after them fondly and Jack shot her a quick thumbs up over his shoulder, making her laugh.

Luckily, Jack had parked in the ambulance bay so it was just a few steps before Jack had successfully bundled Robby into the passenger seat and they were on their way home. Robby didn’t fall back asleep, it was too short of a ride, but he did lean his forehead against the cool glass of the window despite how the vibration seemed to ricochet through his skull.

Jack came around the car once they were parked in their short drive and put his hands on Robby’s hips to keep him steady when he got out. If it’d been any other day, Robby might have made a teasing comment about Jack feeling him up, but he was too worn out and so instead he just swayed into his husband’s chest and dropped his head onto Jack’s shoulder.

“I know,” Jack murmured and he pressed a slow, lingering kiss against Robby’s temple. “Inside, let’s go.” Jack’s hand on his back was consistent pressure that helped steer Robby inside their place despite the unreality of his fever really starting to set in.

Robby fumbled his shoes off at the door, waving off Jack’s help, and then made his wavering way towards the sofa. “No, Robby, baby, bed,” Jack said and hurried forward to loop an arm around Robby’s waist to guide him toward the bedroom.

“Crumbs, Jack,” Robby practically whined as he leaned into Jack’s side, face tucked up behind his ear.

“I promise not to bring you anything with crumbs then,” Jack promised and Robby didn’t have to be able to see his face to hear the amused smirk that he was no doubt wearing. Robby hummed and nuzzled closer to where he could hear and feel the thud of Jack’s carotid.

Distantly, Robby registered that Jack- who was always so warm when they were pressed together like this or even just held hands- felt cool to him. Almost chilled. Except, no, that couldn’t be right. Must have just been how feverish he already was, throwing off his temperature perception.

Robby startled when he felt his thigh bump up against the edge of his and Jack’s bed. He hadn’t even really felt them moving, though everything felt like it was moving all the time from his fever so that might have been why. “Let’s get you out of these,” Jack murmured and started to gently ease Robby away.

Robby let out a whine and tried, clumsily, to reel Jack back in. He didn’t want space between them. He wanted to just curl up against Jack and soak in the familiar comfort of his husband’s body.

“Robby, sweetheart,” Jack said as he peeled Robby away from him despite Robby’s weak protests. “We need to get you changed. Your scrubs are all sweaty. That can’t be comfortable.” Robby grumbled, words suddenly far too complicated for him to want to bother with. “I’m gonna be right here the whole time,” Jack murmured and he swept his thumb over Robby’s cheek soothingly.

And as ridiculous as it was, the reassurance helped to calm the needy part of Robby’s brain that didn’t want to be left alone when he felt like death warmed over. So he let out a puff of breath and let his aching, tired limbs go pliant as Jack reached for the hem of his scrub top.

Robby shivered once Jack had him down to his boxers, the air in the brownstone feeling frigid compared to Robby’s elevated temperature and the chill of his sweat not helping matters. “I’ll be right back,” Jack said and he brushed a kiss against the side of Robby’s head before he moved away. Robby let his eyes close and he wavered on his feet a little without Jack’s support, but it didn’t last long before Jack was back in Robby’s space, letting Robby lean into his chest as Jack worked a t-shirt over his head.

“Love you,” Robby murmured thickly as he dropped his head down onto Jack’s shoulder so he could burrow into his neck again.

“Love you too, Mike,” Jack said and his fingers came up to curl into the short hair at the nape of Robby’s neck. “How about you have a little lie-down while I make you something to eat?” Robby hummed amiably, already feeling completely drained just from letting Jack undress him, and before he knew it, Jack was tucking their sheets around him so none of the cool air could slip in.

…..

Jack left the bedroom door cracked so that the sounds of him moving around their place would be muffled and Robby could rest, but that if Robby needed anything then Jack would be able to hear if he called out. He took a moment to breathe, scrubbing a hand through his hair, before he padded into the kitchen.

Tucked away in one of their cabinets was an index card case and Jack pulled it down to slowly flick through the cards inside until he found what he was looking for. It was a yellowed card, stained at the edges, and written in the looping handwriting that Robby had told him belonged to his mother, Hanna. He flicked his eyes over the listed ingredients before making a mental list of what they had already and what he’d need.

One Instacart order and twenty minutes later had Jack sitting on one of their bar stools as he chopped onions and potatoes, shredded carrots and cabbage, all while he kept an eye on the chicken so that it didn’t burn as it slowly cooked in the bottom of the battered dutch oven that neither of them got much opportunity to actually use.

He’d never made this recipe before. But he’d heard the way Robby talked about how his baba would make it for him when he was sick, how it instantly seemed to make him feel better even when he could barely prop himself up to eat it, so Jack wanted to do this for him. Wanted to be able to lend that sort of comfort when Robby was so clearly miserable.

Once he’d gotten everything into the pot to simmer and had washed his hands, he moved to the doorway of their bedroom to poke his head in. Robby must have kicked off the sheets in his sleep, overheated, but he was curled tight on his side like he was cold again. Or like he was trying to find some sort of self-soothing comfort. Well, that wouldn’t do. Jack crossed over to their bed and he separated the top sheet from the comforter to tuck it around Robby’s shoulders, stroking his fingers through Robby’s hair, and just sitting on the edge beside Robby’s bent knees.

Robby made a low noise, part hum and part mumble as he stirred a little but didn’t quite wake up. Jack cracked a small smile and tenderly smoothed his thumb over the whirl of short hair behind his ear. “Robby,” Jack murmured as he kept up the light touch, “sweetheart, time to wake up.” Robby let out a weak whine before he burrowed his face into the pillow as if he could hide from Jack’s voice pulling him from sleep.

Robby finally seemed to give up the fight and emerge from sleep, blinking straight ahead at the bedroom before he shifted slightly and his eyes slowly tracked up Jack’s arm to his face. “Jack,” Robby breathed, a slow-spreading smile breaking over his face and making Jack’s chest melt.

“Hey,” Jack murmured and he scritched at Robby’s scalp lightly. “Think you might be up for some food so we can get some medicine into you?” Robby’s nose crinkled a little at the suggestion. “You’ve gotta eat, baby,” Jack said as gently as possible. “I made some soup.”

“Soup?” Robby’s brow furrowed and it was like it took him a moment to correlate the word with what it meant. And then he lifted his head, nose twitching a little before he turned over on his back so he didn’t have to crane his neck to look at Jack. “Did you-” Robby’s eyes went wide and soft around the edges, lower lip trembling for a brief moment, “Did you make shchi?”

“I tried,” Jack said with a short puff of laughter as he combed his fingers through Robby’s sweat-damp hair. “Wanna have it here or at the counter?” He wasn’t sure Robby would be able to sit at the kitchen island, but if Robby felt up to it, he’d make it happen.

“Here’s fine,” Robby said and he pressed into Jack’s touch.

“Okay,” Jack said and he slowly, tentative to Robby’s reaction in his heightened emotional state, pulled his hand back. “I’ll just get it and bring it and your meds to you.”

“Okay,” Robby murmured before he tipped his chin up in silent request for a kiss. And how could Jack say no to that? He ducked down and brushed a chaste kiss against Robby’s mouth and pressed another to his forehead before he stood from the bed. He tapped his fingers against Robby’s hip before he went back out to the kitchen for the soup.

Jack lifted the lid on the dutch oven, using the spoon to poke around and make sure it was done, before he nodded- as satisfied as he could be given that he’d never had the original recipe- and reached for a bowl from their cabinet. It was one of the deep ones so that if Robby’s hands were unsteady he was let likely to splatter soup on himself or the bed sheets.

Once he had it dished out, he grabbed the collapsible tray so he could put the bowl, a spoon, a glass of water, and the bottle of Tamiflu all together to carry in to his husband. His husband who was sitting up against the headboard with his pillow crammed behind him clumsily and looking like he was halfway to falling back asleep.

“I’m warning you now that it’s probably not going to be as good as your baba’s,” Jack said as he moved to settle on the edge of the bed and then prop the tray up over Robby’s lap, “but it’s got plenty of nutrients so I think either way it’ll at least be good for you.”

“Jack,” Robby said and reached out to wrap his fingers around Jack’s wrist before he pulled it away from the handle on the tray. “You went through the effort of making me soup that my baba used to make me when I was sick as a kid. It may not taste the same but the same love is there.” Jack’s face felt warm at the earnestness in Robby’s expression. While he’d never doubted that Robby loved him, Robby had never been the most verbose about it. He was a show more than tell kind of guy. “Smells good.” Robby picked up the spoon in slightly shaky hands and blew on it briefly before taking a bite. He made a contented sound before going for another spoonful.

“Take it it’s passable then,” Jack teased and rubbed his hand over Robby’s shin through the sheet still draped around him from the waist down.

“It’s better than that. It’s good,” Robby said sincerely. His eyes sparked with something before he spooned up another mouthful and then held it out to Jack, his other hand cupped beneath it to catch any stray drips of broth. “Try some.”

Jack quirked a small smile at Robby’s quiet enthusiasm before he took the spoon from Robby’s hand to pop it into his mouth. It was warm and hearty with just a bit of an acidic tang from the sauerkraut. Jack didn’t have a frame of reference for this soup in particular, but it definitely tasted like it belonged in the same family as some of the dishes that Robby and his sisters had made in the past from their baba’s recipes. “Yeah, I think I did alright,” Jack admitted and handed the spoon back to Robby so he could keep eating his soup.

“Only big difference is sour cream,” Robby said absently, like he wasn’t even thinking about the fact he was saying it out loud, as he licked the stray drops of broth off his palm and then lifted another spoonful to his mouth.

“What?”

Robby startled and flicked his eyes back up to Jack’s from where he’d intently been trying to scoop up a piece of grated carrot. “Oh, um, sour cream. Sometimes she’d put this big dollop on top. Made it tangier and thickened it up a little if you let it melt a little before stirring it in.” Robby shrugged slightly as he finally spooned the carrot and a bit of onion before he put it in his mouth and just left it there.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Jack promised easily and then tipped his head. “You finished?” There was a little broth and some bits of potato still in the bottom of the bowl, but he could tell that Robby was starting to drift a little.

“Hm? Oh, um, yeah,” Robby mumbled around the spoon before he pulled it from his mouth and settled it inside the bowl. His movements were intentionally slow, like he was already starting to feel disoriented again.

“Okay, medicine next then,” Jack reminded him gently before prodding the bottle closer. Robby shot him a withering look at being treated like a child but it wasn’t particularly effective both because he was sick and therefore not at full strength and because Jack had been inoculated against its effects years ago.

Jack handed Robby the water glass after he’d shaken out one pill and put it into his mouth. He always hated when he watched Robby dry-swallow medication. Made his stomach hurt in sympathy. But Robby didn’t argue with him, just took the glass and drank about half of it in steady mouthfuls.

Jack took the glass from Robby’s hand and instead of placing it back on the tray, he set it on the bedside table with the bottle of medicine so that when it came time to take it again later, it would be close at hand. “Alright. Let your stomach settle for a bit and then you can get some more sleep.” More than likely with the state he was in, Robby would be able to sleep sitting up.

“Jack?” Robby’s voice was small and it made Jack pause from where he’d started to gather everything back up onto the tray to look at him. He was met with deep brown eyes that- on occasion- made him forget how to breathe. “Thank you.” It was soft but emphatic. Like Robby genuinely thought that Jack would want to be anywhere but where Robby was, sick or not.

“In sickness and health, baby,” Jack said and shot Robby a quick smile and a wink before he lifted the tray up from Robby’s lap. Robby rolled his eyes, making Jack’s grin spread just that little bit wider, before tugging the sheet up a little further. But not before Jack noticed the tips of his ears going pink in a way that had nothing to do with his fever.

It was a little ridiculous, practically preening over the fact that he could still make his husband blush, but Jack wasn’t always a logical creature. So he had a bit of a swagger in his step as he carried the dishes out to the kitchen, a small smile as he measured out portions of soup to box up for ease of access later and then washed up the dishes. He was still smiling as he slipped back into their bedroom to find Robby settled properly in bed and already asleep again, all signs of tension eased out of him so that it made it easy for Jack to slot himself into bed beside him after he’d taken off his prosthesis like it was any other day.

…..

By the third day, Robby was starting to feel better. Low-grade fever instead of the high temps he’d had at the beginning, body aches lessening, and his head only really bothered him if he tried to read anything for prolonged periods of time or he fell asleep with his neck at a weird angle.

The problem was-

Well, the problem was that as Robby improved, Jack seemed to be wearing down.

Robby glanced up from his book to where Jack was attempting to fold their spare bed sheets. Attempting being the key word since Jack seemed to be just looking at it listlessly for long stretches before making a groggy fold that was really just a crease.

“Jack,” Robby said quietly to catch his attention. One glance at the dazed fog in Jack’s hazel eyes and Robby knew that Jack was sick too. “I think we need to take your temperature.”

“I’m fine,” Jack muttered and waved a dismissive hand. Robby thought he saw a faint tremor there, but Jack was tucking it under the pillowcases in his lap before Robby could get a proper look.

“Jack-” Robby sighed heavily.

“Michael.” Jack mocked Robby’s tone and set his jaw stubbornly.

Okay, great, so Jack was going to be that way about it. Robby took a deep breath before he raised an eyebrow at him. “In sickness and health applies to you too,” Robby reminded him before he set his book to the side so he could walk over to Jack’s chair.

Jack shot Robby a mulish look, but when Robby reached out to brush Jack’s hair off his forehead so he could press his wrist to Jack’s forehead to gauge his temperature, Jack didn’t fight him. And just like Robby had predicted, Jack’s skin was hot to the touch.

“I think it’s time you got yourself in bed,” Robby said and bent to take the sheets off of Jack’s lap, tossing them back into the laundry basket to be dealt with later.

“I can finish those,” Jack protested but it was weak, his voice thready with fatigue.

“Another time.” Robby held out his hand and after a second of just staring at it stubbornly, Jack relented and let Robby pull him to his feet. There was a faint twinge of guilt as he combed his fingers through Jack’s hair- curls twined even tighter with sweat- since it was, technically speaking, Robby’s fault that Jack had gotten sick in the first place. Not only because he’d brought the germs home, but because he hadn’t insisted on some boundaries between them to prevent it spreading.

But it had been hard to even fathom sleeping in separate beds or going without the soft, reassuring kisses that Jack had peppered over his face let alone actually going through with it. Robby was a miserable, clingy patient and he knew it. He also knew- just from the fact alone that he’d indulged Robby’s bad behavior without comment- that Jack liked it. Probably had something to do with the fact that Robby was more open when he felt like shit.

Something to talk about in therapy.

But for now, he’d focus on wrangling a still somewhat prickly Jack into bed. He laid a light hand on the small of Jack’s back as they both shuffled toward the bedroom only for Jack to turn his head and bare his teeth at Robby. “I can walk on my own.” It wasn’t quite snappish but it wasn’t the gentle tones of the past two days either.

“I know,” Robby said patiently and put more pressure behind his touch so that Jack wouldn’t stop to argue with him. Because that was the thing about Jack. Where Robby clung when he felt poorly, Jack pushed everyone away like a wounded animal. A fact that Robby had witnessed first-hand over the many years that they’d known each other.

“Don’t baby me, Mike. I can’t stand it when you-”

“Take care of you?” Robby cut him off archly as he peeled the top sheet back, holding it open, and pressed his fingertips into Jack’s back lightly to usher him along. “Like you’ve been doing for me for the past two days?” Jack grimaced abashedly at that as he sat on the edge of the bed, going through the motions of taking his prosthesis off absently. More muscle memory than anything. “You’re going to lay down while I get you some Tylenol and then I’m going to call Dana about getting you your own ‘script for Tamiflu.”

“Robby,” Jack started to protest but Robby just gave him an unimpressed look. Jack huffed and flopped back onto the bed, scowling up at Robby pointedly.

“Thank you,” Robby said brightly and then dropped the sheet down onto Jack’s chest. He turned on his heel and made his way out to their kitchen to grab the bottle of Tylenol from the cabinet.

For Robby, this was as much muscle memory as Jack putting on and taking off his prosthetic. Taking care of people was just what he did. Literally made a career out of it. He brought the medicine, a glass of water, and a bottle of the sports drink that Jack liked back into the bedroom with him.

“Here,” Robby said and waited until Jack had stretched out a hand to drop the pills into his overheated palm and then pass him the glass of water. “Should start to feel better in about forty minutes,” Robby said reflexively as he took the glass of water- drained save for a thin ring of moisture at the bottom, good- and set it on the bedside table.

“What would I do without you, Dr. Robinavitch?” Jack snarked at him bitchily. Robby just snorted a laugh because they both knew that Jack’s bark was worse than his bite. Especially when he was in pain or not feeling well. “However can I repay you for your sage medical advice?”

“Could always leave me a good patient satisfaction score,” Robby joked and moved to unstick Jack’s sweaty hair from his forehead. “Get Gloria off my back for a bit.”

Jack groaned dramatically and pulled the sheet around himself tightly as if it were a shield. “I thought that we promised not to invite the bad energy of invoking the name of admin into our home. Was somewhere in the wedding vows, I swear.”

“My bad,” Robby said and he swiped his thumb over Jack’s temple. “Get some sleep.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jack muttered around a jaw-cracking yawn. He sounded like he was already halfway to being asleep so Robby just gently pulled back before making his way out of their bedroom. There wasn’t much to tidy up but Robby finished with the sheets, unfolding the bad job of it that Jack had done, and tucked them into the laundry basket to be put away later. Then he fished his phone out of the pocket of his shorts to call Dana.

After two short rings, she picked up. “I thought I told you that I didn’t want to hear from you for three days.”

“Well, hello to you too, sweetheart,” Robby quipped before continuing before she could cut him off. “Firstly, you said you didn’t want to see my face and since this is a phone call, you aren’t. Secondly, it’s been three days.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?” Dana asked flatly.

“Not today,” Robby said and made sure that Dana could hear the smirk that was pulling up one side of his mouth.

“Obviously you’re feelin’ better,” Dana’s voice was dry but there was an underlying fondness. “So what’re you botherin’ me for?”

“Need to call in a ‘script for Tamiflu.” Robby said and shifted his phone to his other ear. He heard Dana sigh down the phone, coming to the exact right conclusion like she always did.

“Abbot’s sick too then.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yup,” Robby said, popping the p a bit. “Given him some Tylenol and bundled him off to bed for some rest. Meds’ll help speed things along though.” There was a touch of pleading that Robby knew wasn’t necessary but figured couldn’t hurt.

“He already gettin’ prickly?” Dana asked, the note of amusement back to her voice. Robby just hummed an affirmative and tried not to take it personal when Dana laughed at him. “Alright. I can put it into your regular pharmacy so you can have it delivered to your place. Don’t need you goin’ out and gettin’ worn out tryin’ to be a big hero.”

“Thank you, Dana,” Robby sing-songed playfully just to hear her laugh at him again. She did, loud enough that she pulled the phone away to not blow out his ear. “I knew you loved me.”

“Of course I love you, dumbass.” Dana’s voice was warm. “I’ll get that put in for you. You just focus on gettin’ the two of you better so you can get back here and wrangle these damn kids.”

“Is everything-?” Robby started to ask, brows drawing together, before Dana made a noise like a buzzer going off.

“Nope. Not talkin’ about work until you’ve finished your meds and are symptom and fever free for twenty-four hours,” she reiterated firmly. “Give Jackie a kiss from me if he’ll let you get close enough.”

“Will do,” Robby promised and then rubbed at the corner of his eye. He could already feel the slow drag of fatigue reminding him that he wasn’t fully recovered yet. “I’ll see you in a couple days then.”

“Get some rest, Cap.” He hummed a soft acknowledgement before they said their goodbyes and Robby hung up the phone. He glanced around the kitchen to make sure everything was settled before he cast a longing look towards the bedroom door where Jack was sleeping just on the other side.

He thought about crawling into their bed and pressing his nose against the back of Jack’s neck despite the way he would be sweaty and putting out heat like a furnace. Something in him wavered for half a second before he made his way over to the couch, knowing it would be better so that they didn’t keep passing germs back and forth until Jack had some meds in his system but also hating it just a little.

…..

Two more days had Robby changing the sheets again- even with meds in his system, Jack had sweat through them twice- while Jack scrubbed down in the shower. He’d just finished with the tucking the edges in when Jack shuffled out of the bathroom on his crutches. “Perfect timing,” Robby said and shot Jack an easy smile as his eyes flickered down to map across Jack’s shoulders and chest before bouncing back up to his face.

“Easy, tiger,” Jack said with a smirk, though it was a bit ragged at the edges. “Not quite sure we’re there yet.” Robby felt his face flush hot but he just rolled his eyes and stepped out of Jack’s way so he could sit on the edge of the bed when he got there.

“About that,” Robby said and he tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Was thinking that if you were on the upswing that I should get back to the Pitt tomorrow.”

Jack nodded and he didn’t seem to be put-out by the suggestion. “Makes sense.” He tucked his crutches between the headboard and the bedside table so they were within reach. “You don’t need to babysit me, Robby. I can set alarms for my meds and I know how to hydrate and sleep without you watching me.” He shot Robby a fondly exasperated look.

“Yeah, alright,” Robby said and he moved to stand between Jack’s spread knees. “Sue me for hovering around my husband when he’s not feeling well.”

“Considering it,” Jack teased as he set his hands at Robby’s hips and tipped his head up to smile at him crookedly. “I’d give you a kiss but we really don’t want to keep up this game of germ tennis.”

“Yeah, best not,” Robby said quietly and he brushed the backs of his fingers against the corner of Jack’s mouth tenderly. He must have shaved after his shower because instead of the rasp of stubble, it was smooth skin beneath Robby’s touch. “If you need me tomorrow-”

“Which I won’t,” Jack cut in as he tipped his head into Robby’s hand.

“But if you do, you’ll call me, right?” Robby asked and felt a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Can be back in less than twenty.”

“If it will make you feel better then yes, I will call you if I need you,” Jack promised sincerely, no hint of teasing in his voice.

“Good,” Robby said and he ducked down to press a quick kiss to the top of Jack’s head. “I’ve already called in dinner at that Thai place, should be here any minute.” Robby swept his thumb over Jack’s cheek one last time before he stepped away to grab the basket of their dirty clothes. Couldn’t hurt to do a quick load of work laundry before bed.

“Hey,” Jack’s voice was quiet but it still stopped Robby in his tracks from where he’d been about to head to their utility room. Robby raised an eyebrow when Jack seemed to hesitate. “I know-” Jack frowned and took a deep breath. “I know I don’t make it easy. To take care of me. But I… I appreciate you trying anyways.” His voice was strained, like the words were physically being dragged from his throat.

“How much did that hurt to admit?” Robby asked and cocked his head teasingly.

“Would almost rather have my leg blown off again,” Jack quipped and shot Robby a crooked smile. “I mean it though.” His eyes were all dark and earnest and vulnerable in a way that Robby knew that Jack hated to be sometimes. Most times. At least when it was directed at himself rather than something they shared.

“Yeah,” Robby said quietly, his shoulders softening as he shot Jack an easy smile. “I do, Jack.” Jack nodded, the tips of his ears turning a little pink, and ducked his head. Robby turned to go, giving Jack a moment to breathe and resettle, before tossing a load of scrubs into the wash and waiting for dinner to show.

It hadn’t been a fun experience- the flu never was- but there was a sort of contentedness that had come over Robby at just the simple act of exchanging care with Jack. It was a type of intimacy that was entirely removed from sex but still felt as if it had tied Robby and Jack closer even though most days it felt like there wasn’t any daylight between them to start with. They would still have their issues, their clashes, but if Robby could remind himself to take a breath and remember how he felt at this moment, he felt confident that they would be just fine.

[yurrrsssss-ghoul]

I gotta ask where do you find all this Damian hate or Talia hate cus I personally haven't seen any. My tumblr experience in this fandom has been over all positive. Everyone I've seen seems to like every character. I have came into with hate about any character actually when I think about it. Genuine question. So where are you guys getting all this from? Cus from my perspective it looks like you guys are looking for it.

Oh! And always I don't understand the hate for wfa. It think it's cute and fun but I understand it's not everyone's cup it's just the energy gives that you wouldn't like me because I like it...

(you came across my fyp and I got curious that's all this really is. Not trying to be rude I promise.)

Hi!

This is going to be a long post, so scroll down for the short answer.

First thing you need to know about me, I am a huge al-Ghul Family fan! I prefer Damian to the rest of the Batkids, Talia to Bruce and Ra's to any other characters. Second thing you need to know is that these characters, unfortunately, are often used as props to upvote other characters in one way or another, even at the cost of their own character assassination.

One thing I'd like to clarify, I do not actively seek out anti or hate comment of my fav characters--- in fact, I actively stay away from any variations of 'Bad mom Talia al-Ghul' or 'anti Damian' or 'Creepy Ra's al-Ghul', etc. etc. across any medias (tumblr, Twitter, ao3, TikTok). As we all find out later, everyone has a way of putting those kinds of element in any other tags.

The following examples I've provided are solely for illustrative purposes only. I do not condone harassments of any kind, and I do not encourage anyone to find these people unless you enjoy the kinds of contents that they produce:

As you may have realized, these aren't necessarily hate content, just people butchering my favorite characters for their blorbos to hug.

The first three images are being joking that Ra's would get on one knees for Tim, making Damian the butt of the joke, etc. The fourth picture is just?? Impromptu tag because why is Talia in it even though it's specifically about Bruce and Selina? Is she the ex? What.

This is literally a response from my own post where I make a satirical joke. Like. They come to my blog.

I applaud you for being able to curate your own internet experiences according to your preference, however it's a bit difficult for people who likes characters that are, for whatever reason, the punching bags for the fandom's favorite. The cause of trauma, as you will.

I can't escape it, because it's a popular notion that the al-Ghuls are the bane of everyone's existence within DC fandom spaces. That Talia drugged and raped Bruce (retconned), that she sleeps with Jason (also retconned), that Ra's is insane about Tim and obsessed with him (he talks to him, like, twice) and Damian is a feral Arab child that needed to be civilized.

I could scroll TikTok, came across a video that featured Talia in it, and the comments are filled to the brim with people saying bs like, "Remember when she SA'd Bruce?" or "Errmmmm do people forget that she cracks Jason like???". I decided to expand my repertoire and check the tags that aren't exclusively 'Damian Wayne-Centric' on ao3, and two scrolls in that boy was being put at the stake for being Robin or leaving Robin. Ra's al-Ghul is the victim of his own tags.

Regarding WFA, I have a sort of mixed-feelings about it; don't get me wrong, I recognize that comic to be fandom-pilled than it is a canon material. To me, WFA is as canon as 'Nothing Butt Nightwing' comic, or even Harley's Scratch and Sniff comic.

It's there for people in the fandom to enjoy, but not much of a canon material that you can refer to when discussing the depth of a character--- however, it's still not free from criticism as it also convey certain messages, and it's particularly bad considering that most (if not all) new fans either stayed loyal to that comic or only read WFA.

WFA is a comic that specifically made to indulge the fans, a complete fan-service if I ever see one, where they delve into popular tropes being thrown around in the fandom so they can garner more viewers.

Again, at the great cost of my favorite characters being butchered.

For example, episode 13 of WFA: Stupid Traditions.

Because of course, why would Talia who gave Damian Goliath (and should be canon in universe considering Goliath has made a few appearance in WFA) allowed Damian to have pets? Why would she allowed him to form meaningful connections with lowly beings like animals, even though both came from LoA who's notoriously known to be an eco-terrorist organization that protects the environment and whatnot? Preposterous!

I know it's not exactly an attempt of butchering Talia, but it's the implication. The sub context. Readers are meant to read that and goes, "Oh, poor Damian! He doesn't know how his birthdays should be celebrated because of his evil Arab family! Thank God his good white family is here to save him and lets him behave like a child that he should be!".

But in canon, this is how Damian's birthdays were celebrated when he was at the Waynes:

Either alone or Bruce flat out forgot.

It's the same element when Damian suddenly told Lizzie that Ra's used to lock him in a box without food and water and left him in the desert for seven days in the Trinity Special.

It's meant to invoke some sort of reaction from the readers without no real thoughts being put to consider how this might affect Ra's image and character as a whole. It particularly sucked considering this comic was written by Tom King. A.k.a the war criminal.

I've had similar conversations with many people asking why I hate characters like Tim Drake so much, and my answer is the same; I don't. I enjoy his character, but it's how people characterize him that made me annoyed. Not to mention how, again, my favs are butchered and assassinated to smithereens for him, and I suppose it's the same thing with WFA as well.

People who exclusively read WFA believes that it's canon, thus creating a problem where they thought fanon things are canon, even though it really isn't. They advocate that it's canon and they choose to disregard the actual canon materials, saying that the BatFam is this cool, loving bunch when these mfs cannot be in the same room without blood being shed.

Still, it's cool if you like it. I just wouldn't recommend it to other people, especially new fans, as their first comic.

TLDR; No, I didn't actively seek out hate content of my favs. Them being the universe punching bag is just a popular trope to curate the 'bohoo this poor white man' content, so I can't exactly escape it. No, I don't hate WFA, I just don't like it much. I can enjoy the Slice of Life but ehh. Don't treat it as canon or become your basis understanding of the characters and their relationships with other people, because it's inaccurate.

[laurfilijames]

Eyes On You

Part 1

Pairing: Detective Charlie Waldo x female reader

Words: 3.9k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Stalking. Mentions of assault and rape. Vomiting.

Summary: Your whole world turns upside down when you begin to feel like you're being followed, but no one is taking you seriously until the handsome man you ran into earlier in the week turns out to be a detective who does. As the threat escalates and your suspicions of being stalked turn into reality, he steps in to protect you.

A/N: I'm still incredibly proud of this story and have decided to post it on here instead of only having it available on AO3, thanks to the incredible support I've been receiving here lately 💗

*Please note you do not have to have watched Last Looks in order to enjoy this fic and that the reader is not given any physical descriptions aside from having hair despite photo used in moodboard.

---

It was nothing, you told yourself, letting out a deep breath as you put your foot on the gas to gently accelerate after the stoplight turned from red to green, doing your best to believe that having seen the same black pickup truck for the third time this week was just a coincidence. But L.A. was a big city, and having seen this truck near your house, work and the grocery store was starting to make your mind race.

The windows were all blacked out and the truck was lifted, making it easy for you to pick it out amongst all the other vehicles wherever you went, but you hadn’t ever been close enough to get the license plate.

You reminded yourself that you were strong, working out at the gym four times a week, and were always aware of your surroundings wherever you went and whatever you did; years of living alone and constant warnings from your Dad to never let your guard down making you cautious and untrusting and not ready to take any shit from anyone, but something about this didn't sit right in your gut.

You heard on the news and from multiple friends that someone had been assaulting women in your neighbourhood, having even raped and nearly killed one, so your alertness was more heightened than usual, and ever since you noticed this truck repeatedly, you found yourself looking over your shoulder constantly.

“Hey!” Stacy called, grabbing your arm at the same time, making you jump and whip around with your fists ready to throw a hit, only to realize it was your best friend.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Were you going to punch me? What the hell is wrong with you?” she laughed, looking you over with concern as you worked to settle your heart rate.

You covered your face with your hands, shaking your head. “Fuck I’m sorry! It’s just–”

“What?” she asked, the worry in her voice genuine.

“No, it’s nothing, sorry. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Okay…well at least I know better than to sneak up on you again! Come on, I’m desperate for a coffee, I’ve been sleeping like shit lately.”

You took a deep breath as you hit the lock button on your keyfob, glancing up and down the street you were parallel parked on for any more signs of the black truck before following Stacy across the road to the cafe.

It was still prominent on your mind as you ordered your coffee and found an empty table outside on the patio, but the warm, morning sun was comforting on your face and you felt the tension in your shoulders melt away.

Spending time with Stacy always helped you feel better about anything too, her bubbly personality and ability to put you at ease working the same as it always did even though the topic of the serial attacks came up in your conversation.

“Just be careful, please? There’s so many fucking creeps around…” you muttered, glaring at a man who eye-fucked both of you as he passed by on the sidewalk.

“Oh, don’t worry, Jackson threatens to murder anyone who looks at me wrong. That guy–” she thumbed to the scumbag over her shoulder, “would be buried six feet under already if he was here.”

You laughed into your mug, shaking your head, only to take notice of the next person walking into the cafe over the rim of your drink.

You practically choked on your coffee, quickly grabbing a napkin to wipe your mouth as Stacy followed your stare and pivoted in her chair, her confusion quickly switching to a look of approval.

“Holy shit, that’s hot.”

You simply nodded in response, your eyes still locked on the tall man with the confident walk, his short, blond hair and bright blue eyes captivating even from where you sat. The way his pants hugged his ass didn't go unnoticed, highlighted by how his dress shirt was tucked into them, and you were able to tell he worked out, your mind wandering to filthy images of his toned body despite his professional attire.

“Well, looks like you need a refill,” Stacy prompted, basically pushing you from your chair and ushering you inside. “And I’ll take a muffin!”

You tucked your hair behind your ear as you entered the line, just one person between you and this gorgeous man, the sound of his voice as he ordered a large, black coffee to go making you clench.

He tipped the barista and thanked them with a smile, turning to leave when he took notice of you, his smile growing bigger as he tilted his head curiously at you.

You licked your lips before returning his smile, your heart pounding in your chest as a wave of heat flushed over you from head to toe.

When he finally walked away, you placed your order, remembering a muffin for Stacy, and glanced toward the exit one more time where you caught him taking one last look over his shoulder before stepping through the door.

It was dark by the time you left the gym, the absence of the sun making your sweat cool your skin even faster, but when you caught the black truck parked at the end of the lot out of the corner of your eye, an icy shiver ran down your spine.

You stopped in your tracks, taking a good look at it, and did your best to continue to walk as calmly as you could to your car, not wanting to make it seem like you were scared shitless.

Your hand shook as you unlocked your door and got in, the click of the lock engaging loud in your ears after you quickly hit the button, the engine starting with a low rumble.

It was too far away to see the plate, and when you reversed out of your spot, you dared yourself to drive close enough to it to check.

Your phone was on your lap with the camera already open and ready to snap a photo, but as soon as you approached, the truck took off and peeled out of the parking lot, too quick for you to do anything.

“Fuck!” you hissed, disappointed that you still didn’t have anything concrete on this creep who you now were absolutely certain was following you.

You tapped your steering wheel, deciding what your next move was, and drove down the road toward another gym, wanting to sign up somewhere different considering this person knew where you were working out on top of everything else you did.

Charlie leaned back in his chair as he read over a report, sighing out as he pursed his lips, trying to concentrate on what he was reading, but the conversation at the desk behind him was distracting his focus.

He paused, moving the pages down toward his lap as he glared over at the two detectives talking, and then held them back up to his sightline again, shaking his head.

Willing himself to ignore them, he reread the same paragraph for the third time before slamming the pages down on his desk.

“Alright, that’s enough. How the fuck don’t you knuckleheads have a lead on this creep?” he barked, standing from his chair.

The two detectives looked at him with shocked expressions, the one opening and then closing his mouth again when he had nothing to say.

“Huh?” he asked, raising his arms before letting them fall at his side. “Come on, this guy’s been out on the loose for…what? Three weeks now? And more women are reporting assaults. What the fuck are you doing?”

“There’s just no hard evidence…”

“Whenever we think we have someone, it comes up empty.”

Charlie laughed and shook his head, turning back to his desk. “Jesus Christ. L.A’s finest, everyone.”

“Take it easy, Waldo.”

The stern warning came from behind, making Charlie turn around to face the Chief.

He nodded and cast his eyes back to the stacks of paperwork on his desk, accepting that he couldn’t press it any further, given it wasn’t even his case.

It was something you always did anyway – double checking every lock on your doors – but lately it had become obsessive, and as you made your way up your stairs to go to bed, you stopped midway and trotted back down, checking the front door before you quickly scooted through to the kitchen to check the patio door that led to the backyard.

The lights were already turned off inside and out, and as you passed by the kitchen window over the sink to get to the patio door, you swore you saw a figure standing in your yard.

You stopped, swallowing the lump in your throat, your eyes darting to the door to see that it was in fact locked, but it gave you no relief. You kept your stare fixed on the shadowy resemblance of a man as you blindly felt behind you, your hand finally finding the knife block where you pulled your sharpest one from it.

The buzz of your phone in your other hand made you yelp, startling you so much that it fumbled out of your fingers and fell to the floor, and by the time you picked it up and answered it, hearing Stacy’s voice on the other end, the figure you swore you saw was gone.

“Are you okay?” she immediately asked, hearing the panic in your ‘hello’.

“Uhhh…yeah, I think? Fuck, I don’t know. I– I think I just saw someone standing in my backyard…” you explained, moving through your house to every window, checking if you were able to see anything else.

“Are you serious? Do you want me to come over? I can get Jackson to send one of the guys–”

“No, no, I’ll be fine, I think this whole thing just has me so freaked out that I’m seeing things,” you assured, both for her and yourself.

“You’re really worrying me,” Stacy admitted on the other end, and you felt tears sting at your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be okay,” you swore, willing yourself to believe it. “Did you call for something?” you asked, changing the subject as you still loomed in the dark, staring out your living room window beside the curtains.

“Oh, yeah! You’re going to that new gym right? Did you want to meet tomorrow when you're done? I’ll be in the area after work.”

“Yeah, that’d be great, I can get a post-workout cocktail,” you joked, but you knew with how you were feeling lately you would need more than just endorphins to take the edge off.

You ended your call with Stacy, continuing to survey the front of your house, and after another minute, decided you were being ridiculous and put the knife away, pushing down all your fear as you finally went to bed.

At first you weren’t sure if it was in your dream or not, but your eyes flashed open, hearing another dull bang that made your heart stop.

You held your breath and kept still, waiting to hear it again, and when you did, you bolted out of bed and reached for your phone on your nightstand, dialling 9-1, just needing to hit another 1 if necessary as you crept to the doorway.

With nothing to defend yourself with, you decided to flick on as many lights as you could in hopes alerting whoever was trying to do whatever would spook and leave, and when you didn’t hear anything else after a few minutes, you allowed yourself to finally break down and sob.

It was close to three in the morning when you finally composed yourself enough to get in your car and drive to the police station, deciding to file a report.

“So, you believe you’re being followed?” the officer repeated, making you let out an exasperated sigh.

“Yes!”

“But, you don’t have a plate on the truck you keep seeing, or any idea who this person could be?”

You shook your head, feeling equally embarrassed and frustrated that this cop didn’t seem to be taking you seriously.

“No…”

“Well, Miss, I’m afraid all we can do is take this down until something else comes up.”

“Or until I’m the next one walking in here bloodied and bruised, or worse!” you snapped, rubbing your hand over your head.

The officer sighed and gave you a pitied look. “Is there somewhere else you can stay in the meantime?”

You nodded and accepted defeat, cursing yourself for even bothering coming there in the first place, and turned to walk out.

“Miss, give us a call if you notice anything else,” he advised loudly through the plexiglass partition.

“Yeah, if I’m not dead!” you quipped, half tempted to give him the finger as you left through the automatic doors.

Starting at the new gym was kind of refreshing, seeing a new set of faces each time you were there, and feeling a sense of ease that there was a high chance whoever was stalking you didn’t know you had switched.

You were on the stairmaster, aimlessly scrolling through a used car website, feeling half-tempted to trade your car in for something different as a dramatic precaution, when you glanced up to see a face that wasn’t yet familiar, but had been wanting to see again.

The gorgeous guy from the cafe was walking through to the change room, a duffle bag in his hand, and you watched as he waved to a friend and greeted him, clasping hands with the guy cooling down on the treadmill as he passed.

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, Martinez,” he said, and as he noticed you, his smile faded slightly to something more amused.

His blue eyes were mesmerizing, and you had to be careful to remember to move your feet at the correct pace, worried you would miss a step and trip on the machine that kept revolving under you.

You swear you moaned when he gave the subtlest of nods as he walked by you, a sort of appeased look playing on his perfect face, and you were certain he was liking what he saw.

Your time doing cardio after your workout ended up being twice as long as usual, unable to peel yourself away as you looked out on Hot Guy moving around on the floor as he went through his routine, continuing to step aimlessly as if you were in a trance. Watching his muscles flex and work beneath his sweat-soaked t-shirt was captivating, and if someone asked you your name right now you probably wouldn't be able to answer correctly.

Losing sight of him through the machines, you decided you'd had enough and finally hit the red button, the belt slowing to a stop that brought you back down to the floor. You grabbed your towel and stepped off, going to get the spray bottle of disinfectant when your shaky legs caused you to stumble, sending you crashing into someone walking by.

“Oh my god, I'm so sorry!” you blurted, righting yourself by gripping their forearm and twisting to see who you were embarrassing yourself in front of.

Hot Guy.

His blue eyes sparkled and the lines surrounding them all scrunched up as his bright smile reached them.

“It’s fine, I'm happy I was here,” he chuckled, his voice as seductive as you remembered it being.

Realizing you were still holding onto him, you quickly let go, smoothing your hand over your hair as you tried to collect yourself.

“Again, I'm sorry!” you repeated, knowing you must look like a complete idiot, but nothing about his body language or expression indicated that's what he thought of you.

“It's all good,” he assured, giving you that same amused look you'd seen twice now that made you feel like you were on fire.

You went to turn away, wanting to get to the change room and spare yourself another scene when you felt his hand gently touch your elbow.

“Don't forget this.” He held your water bottle in his other hand that you had completely forgotten about, and you couldn't help but notice how small it looked with his fingers wrapped around it.

“Oh, thanks,” you stuttered, taking it from him.

“No problem. Have a good day.” He sent you off with a wink, and everything in you prayed the universe would push you two together again.

A couple of days had passed and things seemed to have quieted down; no sign of that black truck or any indication you had a stalker, but you weren't trusting it, that sick feeling washing over you every time you just about managed to forget about it.

You had been to the gym twice since running into Hot Guy there, hoping you would again but with no luck, and it almost made you laugh at how badly you were wanting to see one man while praying a different one would leave you alone and unharmed.

You had just finished cleaning up the kitchen after making yourself dinner, eating as soon as you got home from work with the plan to go to the gym as soon as possible before losing motivation and daylight that helped you feel more comfortable leaving the house, when your phone vibrated with a text. Then another. And another.

You unlocked your screen, seeing an unfamiliar number, and opened the message to reveal three photos of you, each of which looked like they were snapped today.

Your heart fell into your gut, your hands shaking as a sharp gasp shot from your mouth.

One was of you at work through a window, captured from what had to be the park beside the building. You opened the second one and zoomed in, seeing a view of yourself getting into your car that morning, the shot taken from just down the street, but it was the third one that made you run to the sink and throw up, the simple, yet effective picture of your living room from the viewpoint of your couch where you sat each night letting you know this guy had made it into your house while you were at work.

Taking nothing with you other than your phone and your purse, you bolted out the door and locked it quickly, like it even mattered, and ran to your car, hardly able to think but knowing you needed to get to the police station.

The precinct was only five minutes away, but the drive felt like an eternity, your panic not settling a bit as you drove in a daze without really concentrating on how you even got there.

“Okay, but he was in my house!” you stressed, the urgency of your situation clearly not getting through to the second officer you were now speaking to.

“And you're sure you locked the door when you left?”

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “Yes. Why is no one taking this seriously? This guy knows where I work, and now has broken into my fucking house!”

“Okay, Miss, I understand, I–”

“What's going on here?”

When the man was cut off by someone else, you looked up from where you had hung your head in your hands, shocked to see Hot Guy in a suit standing behind the other officer.

Your face must've done a very obvious switch from defeated to happily surprised, because he smiled at you curiously, giving you a wave.

“Hey.”

“Uhh, hi,” you replied, blinking in shock.

“It's fine, Waldo, I've got it–”

“I'm being stalked,” you interrupted, Hot Guy focused on you anyway rather than the officer beside him. “And it seems no one is doing anything about it. He broke into my house today…”

You passed your phone through the small opening in the protective glass for him to take, once again distracted by his hands as he scrolled through the photos you were sent.

“I’ll take this case over, Rogers. Roger?” he quipped, a smile tugging at his lips as he found his own play on the man's name humourous.

You found yourself smiling too, watching this ‘Waldo’ hold his gaze on Rogers as he handed the folder with your report in it over to him.

“Waldo, you've got enough on your plate, man.”

“It's fine, something needs to be done.”

His eyes were now fixed on you as he was speaking, and you swore you were about to say you were fine when he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Umm,” you paused, trying to find a word that could accurately sum up how you felt. “Terrified, honestly.”

“Yeah, rightfully so,” he sympathized, a genuinity in his voice.

You looked at him curiously, the shock of seeing him again a distraction from everything that was happening.

“I'm starting to think you're the one stalking me,” you joked, surprising yourself at making light of your situation, blaming the adrenaline and frenzy of it all.

Waldo huffed and raised his eyebrows, a smirk tugging at his perfectly pink lips.

“We do keep running into each other, don't we?”

You grinned before biting your lip, trying to collect yourself, completely unsure what to say next and feeling thankful when he spoke again.

“Well, unfortunately I don't have much time for extracurriculars, let alone stalking someone, and that's definitely not a way I'd be letting a beautiful woman know I’m interested in her.”

His smile remained and it reached his eyes, and for a second you thought how you might not mind having someone break into your house if they looked like him.

Before anymore inappropriate thoughts crossed your mind or came out of your mouth, you straightened yourself and let out a deep breath.

“So, what do I do now?” you asked, remembering the gravity of your problem and why you were there.

“I'll have to come by to take a look around and go over everything with you. Now, if that's okay?”

You nodded, “Of course, the sooner the better.”

Waldo escorted you out to the parking lot, wanting to look at your car first before going to your house.

“You haven't noticed anything with your car?” he asked, kneeling beside the front driver's side wheel as he swept his hand around the inner fender.

You shook your head, trying to recall anything unusual.

“No. And I did check for a tracker but couldn't find anything.”

He hummed, moving to the next wheel where he checked all around it the same way.

After going over most of the car and coming up with nothing, you thought he was finished but laughed when he laid on the filthy ground beside it and started to shimmy his body as far under it as he could.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Making sure there isn't a tracker…” he mumbled, his tone a bit blunt and obvious.

He grunted a couple of times, still trying to reach and search every nook and cranny, his long legs the only part of him showing, and you couldn't help but notice how well his dress pants fit him and how this position accentuated what was a large bulge between them.

Waldo crawled back out, his shirt covered in dirt, and held up a small, black device in his grease-stained hand, a satisfied look on his face.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, stunned.

“I'm gonna run this in for evidence, and then we can go,” he explained. “Don't leave without me, you're not going anywhere alone.”

The authority in his command made you squirm where you stood, the insane mix of arousal and fear making you dizzy, the prospect of this man being the one to protect you causing you to hope he would look after you in more ways than one.

---

Taglist:

@dailydragon08 @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul

@maggotzombie @rmwarn90 @paintlavillered @stealfromthedevil

@kmc1989 @justreblogginfics @spaghettificationandpretzels @whatever-lmaoo

@steviebbboi @charethcutestory02 @daryldixonpls @puffins-muffins

[beef-brisket]

Raphael: Well, that's good! I was sick of dealing with all of the injuries your girls would get when they go down there.

Adam scoffed: You know they gave those to each other, right? Fucking- stabbing each other for fun. Crazy bitches.

Uriel smiled: Come on, Addie, you love em!

Adam: Course I love him! How can you not love crazy?

Gabriel: Well, you DID love Eve at one point~.

Raphael: Till she cheated on your ass.

Lucifer tensed up when his siblings laughed. When Adam put a plate of food down on the table, he rolled his eyes.

Adam: Three fucking times, this bitch cheated on me. Here, eat this shit.

When he walked away, the archangels crowded the table in front of Lucifer. As the hour passed, they laughed about the exterminations, asking Lucifer what they were like, how scared the sinners were, and how much of a bloodbath there was after. He was completely honest. There's no point in sugar coating it.

Once they got over that topic, they quickly moved on to Charlie. They wanted to know everything about her and Lucifer delivered. He told them about her hotel, her ambitions, her goals- he almost ran to pull out his phone to show them pictures of her but he stopped himself.

Raphael leaned in close to Adam as the devil talked, elbowing him in the shoulder: Does it hurt to see how happy he was without you~?

Adam: ...Fuck off, Raph. Not in the mood.

Raphael chuckled, leaning back against the bench: Is this why I haven't seen you in a while? Been busy shaking up with Lucifer? Finally, playing your cards when there's no other option for him?

The archangel glanced down at the first man. He watched Adam tense, his hand gripping hid cup tightly.

Raphael smiled: Ah, he already picked someone else, didn't he? When was it?

Adam: ...Last time I saw you...

Raphael: Oh, the night you came to fuck your sorrows away... unbelievable, he fucked the bitch you brought home, didn't he? Fuck, that's pathetic, Adam. It must kill you. All over again... don't worry, I can fix you. It'll just take... some hands-on help~.

Adam shuddered as the bigger angel ran his arm: Are you fucking kidding...?

Raphael: Bedrooms free, isn't it~?

Adam: ...We share that bed, so no...

Raphael stared at Adam before chuckling: He probably thinks you're Lilith. Or Eve. You don't think he wants you, do you?

He hated this fucker sometimes. He loved tearing you down so he could build you back up, Adam doesn't think Raphael realizes that the things he has said has had a serious effect on people. His fucking doesn't do shit to get those negative thoughts out of people's head. Sometimes, the fucker needs a solid no to know when to fuck up.

Adam hated that he was tearing up to this shit, he knew what Raphael was doing, but he couldn't handle it. Not tonight.

Adam: Just- f-fuck off, Raph. Seriously. Fuck off. You don't think I don't know that he doesn't want me? I'm the only cunt here, so of course he'll fucking stay close to me... I'm about to risk everything for him and I expect him to fuck off again... I know I'm weak, just... fuck off.

Raphael finally backed off: Shit, I... sorry, Ad, thought I'd shoot my shot- I've missed you.

Adam: Yeah? Well, your degradation kink needs some fucking work....

Raphael You need to let me help-.

Adam: I don't need your fucking help... just- go spend time with your brother.

Without another word, Raphael lowered his head and joined the party. While all of the attention was on Lucifer, Adam snuck outside and sat behind the shed at the end of his garden. And for the first time in years, he cried. He wrapped his wings around him and even summoned his helmet, shoving it on his head. He refused to let anyone see him like this.

Everything felt like it was finally crashing down. The exterminations, Sera's expectations, her wants. If he does this, he'll fuck up everything. Maybe he should just let Lucifer go. Without him. Abel wouldn't want to go to Hell, and he doesn't deserve to go to Hell. He doesn't want to fuck up his son's life.

-

Lucifer hugged his siblings as they left. They all promised to catch up again before leaving. As he shut the door, Lucifer had a new task on his hands, finding where the fuck Adam went.

He searched the house, even banging on doors to rooms he had no access to. When he stood in the lounge, he looked outside and saw Peter waving his arms.

Lucifer pushed open the sliding door: Hey Peter, have you seen-?

Peter: Behind the shed. It's bad, Luce. Real bad.

Lucifer: W-What?!

Peter nodded: Mm, he's thinking.

Lucifer: ...There's nothing wrong with thinking, Peter.

Peter: Normal people thinking? Yeah, nothing wrong with it. Adam thinking? Nothing good comes of it.

Lucifer: ...Uh, alright. Thanks Peter.

The winner nodded and went back inside.

Lucifer walked through the garden until he got to the shed. When he looked behind it, he sighed. That fucking mask again.

Lucifer: Hey-.

Adam jumped: Shit! Little fucker- scaring the shit out of me... the fuck did you find me?

The blonde sighed and sat next to him: Peter told me.

Adam: Little rat.

Lucifer: ...Why are you out here? Everyone's gone.

Adam: ...Just been thinking.

Oh great.

Adam: I... don't think I can go with you back to Hell.

Lucifer stared at Adam: Peter was right.

Adam: Huh?

Lucifer: Nothing. What do you mean you can't come to Hell?

Adam shrugged: I just... I don't want to make Abel go there- and I don't want to leave him- and... I was thinking... you'd need someone to stop Sera from starting the exterminations up again and going down there to end you herself. Or, she'd just get another angel to do it- one who isn't as sexy as me, by the way. You'd get killed by an ugly fucker, and that's a lot worse than being killed by me, alright?

Lucifer: ...Wait. Slow down. You... want to stay here to... STOP Sera? AND in extension, the Heavenly Council. A council that is FILLED with Seraphims and other insanely powerful angels- you want to stop... them?

Adam nodded like it was the most obvious thing ever: Yeah, man. Abbie knows nothing about this. He'll be safe... and so will you. I can do what I was made to you- what I was made for- I can fucking protect you. Both of you- and Peter... I guess...

Lucifer: ...You're fucking stupid, you know that?

Adam: I've heard that a few times, but I'm doing it. And I'm fucking stubborn, so-.

Lucifer: If being stubborn was a sin, it would be you. As well as idiocy. Think, Adam. Really think about this. You... you don't really think they'd just... let you live. What you're doing, that's... betrayal. They'll destroy you- and if you're going to be talking about this shit, take that fucking helmet off. I want you to look me in the damn eye.

After a moment of silence, Adam pulled his helmet off and placed it on his lap.

Adam: ...Y'know, I always felt unbeatable in this thing... it was like a fucking trophy. I made it here, I won. I fucking bet you and that fucking apple. Bet Lilith, too, stupid bitch. I bet Eve... all of them... I did everything the angels asked- just to spite you... you went on and on about that free will shit, but I just... wanted to follow their orders. I wanted to matter again. Look. I want to do this. I have to. If I just go down there, they'll keep hunting you and shit... they may even hurt Abel. And I'd rather die than let that happen. So, if there's a way I can protect you and Abel, then... I want to do it.

Lucifer: ...Fucks sake, Adam...

Adam: Look.

The king glanced over, and when he saw what was in Adam's hands, he quickly stood up: No. Adam. No. We talked about this, we're waiting-.

Before he could back away, Adam summoned his chains and forced him to stay. In his hand was the key to Lucifer's restraints.

Lucifer: If you let me go- she'll know. All of the most powerful angels in Heaven will know- will you just- fucking think about this for a moment?!

Adam: I have been. Trust me. You weren't ever meant to be an angel, Lu. You were meant to fucking rule something, be something more than what these fuckers wanted you to be. They only had one plan for me, make more fucking cattle. And that's all I fucking am, Lu. And that's all I will be. Sera can't make me into a fucking Seraphim. If she did, I would just be some... rip-off. And I wasn't made to be a rip-off. I'm a fucking first edition.

Lucifer: Adam- you're not thinking straight-!

Adam: Well, I'm bi, so that's to be expected. Go to your kid, Lucifer. She needs you. I'll stop the angels from starting their bullshit again.

Lucifer: ...I'll hate you. If you do this, I'll fucking hate you.

Adam smiled: I've lived over 10,000 years with you hating me, I think could survive a few more.

Hell's Missing the Devil

@beef-brisket

Lucifer wasn't sure if he had heard Sera correctly but the serious tone and look on her face told him that yes she was in fact serious.

Lucifer: I'm sorry.... What?

Sera sighed, she sounded annoyed: We will put an end to the Exterminations and in exchange you will be up in Heaven as a prisoner.

That..... Didn't sound ideal.

But neither were the Exterminations.

He didn't understand, wasn't the whole point of him falling so that he would never see Heaven again? Didn't that defeat the purpose?

Unless...... There was more to it.

Sera: Think about it. Come back here tomorrow when you've made your choice. Make the right choice for once.

He scowled when she left. What a bitch.

Lucifer did think about it and that's when it dawned on him.

With Lilith gone and now Lucifer, Charlie would have to step up and rule Hell. Which meant that she wouldn't have time to run her hotel.

It was underhanded and sneaky..... It was so Heaven.

But by doing this....... He would be saving his daughter too. He didn't trust them not to go after her one day.

Charlie: Dad you can't.

Lucifer: Sweetie, I..... I know this isn't ideal but it's for a greater good.

Charlie teared up: What am I supposed to do without you!?

It was different when he was just holed up in the manor, at least she knew he was safe at home.

But in Heaven? Lucifer was considered a traitor. Who knows what they would do to him.

Lucifer hugged his baby girl tight: Y-you'll be okay...... I love you.

Charlie: ...... I love you too.

She didn't want to let him go. There had to be a way to bring him home.

The next day, Lucifer went to the embassy where Sera was waiting.

Sera: So?

Lucifer sighed, this felt like a mistake but he didn't know what else to do to keep Charlie and their people safe.

Lucifer: Alright.......

Sera: Good.

She snapped her fingers and a pair of silver bracelets appeared on his wrists and Lucifer suddenly felt very drained. They must be blocking his powers.

With another snap, handcuffs with a chain appeared as well, Lucifer walked with his head down through the portal with Sera.

He would have laughed when he heard Peter freaking out. But any amusement left him when Sera said who he would be staying with.

Sera: You'll be under Adam's watch.

It felt ironic in a way.

Lucifer felt like he had been handed a death sentence as Sera handed his chain over to the first man.

[maraschinomerry]

First Harvest

Pairings: George Karim x gn!reader

Summary: the discovery of a greenhouse at 35 Portland Row sparks a new connection between you and George

Content: buff!George, fluff, getting flustered, first date

A/N: buff!George is finally back! I've got 2 more requests in my inbox (I've not forgotten about them, don't worry) and I'm genuinely so excited! I shall once again include the montage so you can all see the vision 😌

Word count: 4.3k

Taglist: @neewtmas @avdiobliss @uku-lelevillain @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea @mischiefmanaged71 @cryingpages

Life at 35 Portland Row was everything you'd hoped it would be. Not only did you finally have a space to call your own, but you shared it with your three teammates who were more like friends than colleagues. Lockwood, Lucy and George had welcomed you into their little family and made sure you felt at home with them and in the space, and you did. From breakfast traditions to home-cooked dinners, from always having a training buddy when needed to long conversations curled up in the study, your existence had never felt so peaceful. Of course, there was the small matter of the not-so-small crush you'd developed on a certain researcher, but you weren't exactly complaining. George was great. He was intelligent, funny, and surprisingly kind. Sure, you'd seen him deliver some devastating wit against people from other agencies or particularly annoying clients (never to their faces though, money was money after all), and occasionally he'd be a little cheeky when Lockwood and Lucy were winding him up, but in moments like that his comments were often made to you. Never at you. Maybe he just didn't know you well enough yet to know where the line was and didn't want to risk it, but you were still always included in the banter as an amused spectator, which just made you fall for him more.

You made it through your first winter with Lockwood & Co more or less unscathed, barring the few cuts and bruises you could expect from this line of work. It had been a rather busy season. It made sense, you supposed. Most people would be spending more time indoors, either to celebrate the holidays with family or to protect themselves from the elements, and nobody wants to spend that much time stuck in a haunted house. Gradually, the incessant frost began to lift, the nights grew less endless, and the clients became less frantic. Your spirit was being thawed by the early hints of spring.

The kitchen was filled with the scent of paprika as you stood over the oven, stirring a pan of chicken coated in the rich orange spice and another pan of diced potatoes as they turned crisp and lightly browned. Beyond the window, the sky had turned a soft blue, the sun had settled across the front of the house and left this side bathed in dusk. Lucy and Lockwood sat at the table, chatting away about whatever Lockwood was scrawling on the Thinking Cloth. You scooped some of the chicken and potatoes into two dishes and slid them onto the table. Then you poked your head into the hallway.

“George, dinner's ready!” you called.

“He's not up there,” Lockwood said calmly from behind you. “He'll be out at his greenhouse.”

You faltered. “We have a greenhouse?” You hadn't really paid much attention to the back of the house - sure, you were aware there was a garden, but with the terrible weather throughout the winter you hadn't felt much need to look out at it. Your bedroom looked out over the street so you never had a chance to see it from there either.

Lucy piped up around a mouthful of dinner. “We don't have a greenhouse, George does. It's his comfort space, we don't have anything to do with it.”

You made a rather unsubtle display of carrying the empty pans over to the sink in order to peep out of the window. Sure enough, a small glass frame stood at the bottom of the garden, across from the apple tree and free from the enormous shadow it cast. Inside you saw an orange-clad figure with a cloud of dark curls. You cracked the window open and called your message again. The figure shifted, and a moment later George's head popped out of the doorway. You beckoned and he emerged fully and headed towards the house.

“Something smells good,” he commented as he entered, kicking off his trainers by the door. “I take it that means you weren't in charge, Lockwood.”

“Oi!” the other boy responded indignantly.

—

Come rain or shine, every evening George could be found out in the greenhouse. He would go out as the sun began to set and only come in when dinner was on the table, or if he was in charge of cooking he would later vanish into the growing darkness with a torch. On the occasions when the weather was bad, you resorted back to calling through the kitchen window if you needed to get his attention, but as the evenings grew brighter and the weather gradually improved you progressed to standing at the back door or even slipping on your shoes and stepping onto the small patio.

It was a fresh evening in mid-April when you once again found yourself on the sandy-coloured stones outside the door. There was a slight but not unpleasant chill in the air, and you pulled the sides of your zip-up hoodie around yourself.

“George?” you began, letting him know you were there. He didn't always hear you through the glass. After a moment, that familiar face peered out. “Can I borrow your copy of-”

“What?” he interrupted with a frown.

“I said-” you raised your voice.

He interrupted again, nodding his head towards the door through which he was leaning. “Come here.”

You approached haltingly, intensely aware of the sanctity of the space he was inviting you towards. Waiting at the threshold, you stole a peek at the collection of greenery within before settling back a respectable distance.

George detected your hesitancy. “It's safe to come in, you know. I'm not growing Audrey Two or anything poisonous.”

The reference made you smile - if anyone would be able to make an offhand comment about something like Little Shop of Horrors, it would be George. “Sorry, I didn't want to invade your space. Lockwood and Lucy made it sound like they're not really allowed out here.”

“Yes, well, Lockwood and Lucy get on my nerves sometimes. You're alright.” He said it quite bluntly, but the words still made you blush. You took a steadying breath as you followed him into the greenhouse. The chill of the outside was replaced by a lingering warmth and the rich, earthy smell of potting soil and leaves. You could see why the boy found it so calming out here: it felt a million miles away from the hustle and bustle of London life and the stress of being an agent.

“So what did you want?” he asked patiently.

“Oh, um, just to see if I could borrow your copy of Moby Dick. I've been told I need to read it, and I saw you with it a while ago.”

“You do need to read it,” he agreed as he picked up a small bottle and started spraying a row of plants to his left, “and it's on my desk, help yourself.”

“Thanks.” You began to move away, but curiosity got the better of you and you lingered for a beat too long, watching as the boy moved around the small space, spritzing more plants with water and gently picking at their leaves.

As if he could sense the questions that were brewing, George spoke, not taking his eyes off his work as he did so. “Those are peppers and two types of tomato on your left, the bottom shelf is lettuce, peas and a courgette. Over here I’ve got begonias, campanulas, agapanthus, and a few herbs. Down there are my patio roses.”

You scanned across each shelf as he pointed them out. Instead of pots, many of the plants he was describing were sprouting out of cardboard toilet roll tubes filled with soil, and it was clear from the size of them that he’d grown them all from seed. The rose bushs of course were larger, each just shy of a foot tall with the beginnings of red and apricot-toned buds emerging between the deep green leaves.

“This is seriously impressive,” you breathed, awestruck, and it didn’t escape your notice the way George straightened a little and put his shoulders back proudly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start with all this, I can’t even keep a cactus alive.”

George suddenly reverted back to his usual posture, a nervous glint coming to his eye. “I could teach you a bit, if you’re interested,” he offered hesitantly.

You smiled softly, but your brow was furrowed in concern. “Are you sure? I already feel like I’ve encroached too much on your personal time.”

He shook his head rather insistently. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the Archives for that. No, it’ll be nice to have someone I can talk with about this, actually, and there’s still plenty of shelf space. You do some research on what you’d like to grow, and we can go and get them on our next day off.”

It was rare that George considered doing anything together that wasn’t research or getting food after a case, and you beamed at the suggestion.

George met you at the front door that Saturday morning. Lucy and Lockwood had gone to meet a client, but without any other cases to tackle you’d been told to take it easy for a day. “Who knows, we might be rushed off our feet come next week,” Lockwood had said optimistically. For now, though, it worked in your favour being so jobless. You bounced down the stairs dressed in cuffed dungarees over a thin shirt, which had a fine botanical print. George, in black jeans and his orange checked shirt, raised an eyebrow as you arrived at the bottom of the staircase.

“Too much?” you asked worriedly.

“No, you look great.” The words came quickly out of George’s mouth, and by the way his eyes widened you suspected he hadn’t entirely expected them. “I mean, it’s certainly appropriate.”

You tried to deflect back to the matter at hand, if only to distract from the way your cheeks were beginning to glow. “So where are we going?”

“There’s a good garden centre in Camden I thought we could try. There are closer places but they’re not as big, this one’s more likely to have what you want plus any extra bits we might need.” Wow, he’d really thought about this. Don’t read too much into it, you told yourself, he is a researcher after all. It was silly of you to think he wouldn’t have looked up where to shop, and he probably went there anyway for his own produce.

The garden centre was utterly delightful. The weather was fair, the blue sky blotted with blobs of white cloud which offered a delicate breeze, and the long greenhouse at the back of the site held the same residual warmth as the one back home. Inside it were rows and rows of plants in trays, some already blooming and others with labels to show how they would look in due course. Outside, in the daylight, stood some of the hardier plants along with a rack of ornaments and a small collection of water features and bird baths. There was a small wooden chalet which was where the owners, a cheerful middle-aged couple, had their till area, and the walls were covered in bird and bat houses, outdoor clocks and various styles of house number plaque. They even had an eclectic assortment of wicker baskets to carry your plants while you browsed. Everything was so charming.

You’d taken a small list of plants you’d researched that you were keen to grow - sweet peas, sunflowers and petunias - but in the excitement of all the colour and variety you couldn’t help but pick out more. In the end, you arrived at the chalet with a full basket. As well as a tray of petunias and seed packets of your other choices, you had two small succulents, a passion flower, a lily and a spindly raspberry bush. George had got a few seeds too, even an extra packet of sunflower ones after you’d joked that the two of you should have a competition to see who could grow the best one.

“Sorry, I went a bit overboard. Do we have room for all these? I can put some back…” You bit your lip.

George gave you a surprisingly fond look as he surveyed your haul. “We’ve got room.” He turned to the man behind the counter, who was smiling at the two of you. “We’d better take a bag of compost as well, one of the fifty litre ones please.”

The man nodded. “Do you need a lift with it?”

“No, I’ll be fine, thank you.”

You placed your basket on the counter and began to reach into your pocket for some cash, but George reached out and gently tapped his hand to your arm. His other hand pulled a couple of notes from his own pocket and before you could protest he had handed them over and taken a handful of coins and some of your plants in return.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly as you stepped back outside.

“I know, but you can pay me back in raspberries.”

“Oh, I see,” you said dryly, “so it’s like a firstborn child situation, except you’re taking my first harvest?”

George chuckled. “Exactly.”

You arrived at the stack of compost bags near the exit. The pile came almost up to your knees, and each bag was immense. You’d have to balance your purchases very carefully on one side to be able to give George a hand carrying it to the taxi rank nearby.

“Can you manage the raspberry as well if I get this?” He held out the plastic-wrapped bush.

“Do you not need me to-?” You gestured at the stack even as you took the plant from him.

“No, it’s not that bad.” So saying, he scooped up one of the bags and hauled it over his shoulder. Your jaw dropped. You knew everyone in the team kept quite fit with all the rapier training and the amount of chains and equipment you had to drag around, but you hadn’t expected this. There were perhaps close to twenty kilos of compost in there, and George had just hoisted it up like it was nothing, and with two of your plants in his other hand at that. The arm holding the bag was tensed, sleeve taut across his bicep. The sun must have come out more while you’d been inside or the sensations from the greenhouse had lingered, because you were suddenly feeling rather warm. And had you always been able to hear your heartbeat like that?

“You okay?” George’s voice pulled you back to reality. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, um, yeah. After you.”

—

Over the next couple of months, your feelings flourished almost as much as your plants. Under George's expert guidance, your seeds grew into healthy little sprouts, your flowers began to bloom and your raspberry bush became padded with rich green foliage. George had taught you everything you needed to know: how often to water everything, how to harden off your seedlings, how to clip the tops of your sweet peas so they’d grow better. He’d even gone to the trouble of making you a trellis for things to grow up. You hadn’t asked him to (mostly because you hadn’t considered that you’d need one), you just came home from the shops one afternoon to find him in the garden surrounded by strips of wood and with half a construction up the wall. You weren’t sure whether it was the thoughtful gesture that had given you butterflies or the sight of him with T-shirt sleeves pulled back, wielding a hammer and with a clutch of nails pursed between his lips, but the feeling was there all the same.

“I think these are ready to plant out,” you told George one afternoon as you stood in the greenhouse, surveying the twisting mass of sweet pea sprouts. He was just outside, carefully picking clumps of aphids from the leaves of his rose bushes, but at the excited tone of your voice he stepped inside to have a look. In the beginning, you’d both been a little wary of being in there at the same time as one another - it wasn’t the most spacious, George had only built it for himself after all, and with barely any room to move past each other between the shelving you’d ended up taking it in turns. Now, however, you’d got used to the way he worked and he seemed to have grown more comfortable letting you into his personal space, so you both moved seamlessly together.

“Oh, they’re looking great, well done!”

You beamed at his praise. “Well, you know, I’m just very well taught.”

He gave you a look, strange yet soft, but made no comment which was unlike him. Instead, he turned back to your seedlings. “If you bring those out, I’ll show you how to transfer them so they grow up the trellis.” As he spoke, he reached around you to grab the trowel he had left on his shelf at the back of the greenhouse. It was a slight stretch away from his fingertips, and as he instinctively reached out to steady himself his other hand grazed across your lower back. The bolt of electricity that ran up your spine made your heart skip a beat and it took all your willpower not to gasp.

“Sorry,” he murmured, closer to your ear than you expected, as his fingers pulled away.

“It’s fine,” you squeaked, face burning. You quickly scooped up the trays and escaped to the fresh air. Despite yourself, you risked a quick glance back; George had that unusual look on his face again, and you realised it was similar to the way he looked when he was working on a particularly puzzling piece of research. You were still thinking about it when George made a small coughing sound from your other side to get your attention, and you zoned back in to find him now knelt on the grass by the flowerbed, looking up at you with a raised eyebrow. You were almost certain you were about to combust on the spot. With trembling legs, you went and joined him, listening as intently as your racing mind would allow as he showed you how to gently shake the cardboard tubes to separate the interwoven roots below without damage, then how to set them into the ground at an angle to allow your sweet peas to grow towards the wooden structure. Once he was happy that you were confident, he headed inside to start dinner, seemingly unaware of the emotional crisis he was leaving behind.

“You seem to be having a good time,” Lockwood remarked. You’d gone upstairs to freshen up before dinner and spotted him in the study. It was quite a contrast, him sitting there sharp as ever in his suit and you in an old T-shirt and jeans covered in grass stains and patches of soil.

“I am,” you agreed brightly. “My plants are doing well, one of the sunflowers has got a head that’s nearly open already!”

“Oh,” Lockwood smiled, “I can’t wait to see that. You’ll have to see if you can beat George’s height from last year, it was almost as tall as me.”

You frowned. “He’s grown sunflowers before?” He hadn’t let on, even when yours began to overtake his last week.

Lockwood shrugged like this wasn’t one of the biggest revelations. “Past couple of years, actually, though the first year the garden was in a dire state so they didn’t grow too well. I never really went out there much, just kept it from getting overgrown, it’s George who’s put in all the work to make it the space it is now, and I’m glad he’s got you to share it with.”

“Me too. I’m honoured in a way that he’s let me share his space and taken the time to help.”

“Mm, he must really like you.”

Your gaze snapped to Lockwood even as you fought to remain neutral despite your burning cheeks and shallow breath. The boy looked almost vindicated, and yet so nonchalant that you were convinced it had just been a throwaway comment.

“Come on,” he stood and gave you a wink, “he’s probably got dinner ready by now.”

—

The weather throughout July had been spasmodic and unpredictable, blazing sun one day and cold rain the next, even the odd thunderstorm. On one particularly unusual occasion, you and George had been in the greenhouse when the heavens opened out of nowhere, leaving you both stranded and struggling to hear one another over the millions of droplets clattering across the roof until it broke just long enough for you to run, laughing and instantly soaked, back to the house.

August, on the other hand, began with the comforting sight of wispy clouds across vibrant blue skies and the pleasant sensation of a light breeze subduing the summer heat. Mercifully, you all had the weekend off and Lockwood had decided it would be good for the team to have some real down-time and enjoy a moment of ordinary existence. He’d brought a blanket out from the study and sat on the lawn with a magazine. You weren’t sure which was more surprising, seeing him genuinely relaxing or seeing him trade his suit for a pair of shorts (you didn’t even know he owned any, yet his pale legs sprawled across the blanket proved otherwise). Lucy was in a loose blouse and skirt, sitting cross-legged on the patio beside the glow of a disposable barbecue she was using to cook burgers and lamb koftas for lunch. Behind her, George had set up a little plastic table from the shed and was arranging a choice of buns and toppings for the burgers, along with a fresh tomato salad from the greenhouse and the pitcher of homemade lemonade you’d prepared that morning. You lay on the blanket next to Lockwood, watching the clouds above drift by and listening contentedly to the chatter from your friends.

“Anyone for lemonade?” George asked to a round of enthusiastic responses. You sat up, eager to see whether everyone liked your creation, and watched as George effortlessly hoisted the jug and poured four glasses. You’d struggled to carry that out from the kitchen with both hands, and there he was lifting it with one. Lockwood threw you a knowing glance, and you nervously cleared your throat as you stood to collect the drink and some food. The four of you squeezed onto the blanket together, knees bumping as you each took a corner.

“Cheers, everyone,” Lockwood raised his lemonade, and you all toasted with a grin. The sound of clinking glass was quickly replaced by sips and murmurs of approval. You let out a small sigh of relief before tucking into your burger.

After lunch, you slipped away towards the kitchen and took a plate from the fridge. You squinted as you stepped back into the sunlight and settled into your space between George and Lucy on the blanket.

“I made us a little something for dessert,” you explained shyly as you laid the plate down. On it were four ramekins of raspberry mousse, each topped with shaved dark chocolate and a single fresh raspberry. “The mousse is made with supermarket raspberries, but the ones on top are my first harvest.”

Everyone looked delighted. “Oh, that’s so exciting!” Lucy scooped up her pot excitedly, and Lockwood followed suit.

“If I’d known your first harvest for me would be a single raspberry, I think I’d have bartered more on the firstborn child situation,” George murmured, leaning in so close his shoulder bumped against yours. You glanced to the side and saw him smirking.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you retorted quietly. Your eyes flickered to your other teammates, who were too engrossed in their mousses to be paying any attention, and you took a risk. “How about coffee?”

“Like a bag, or…?”

You bit your lip. “Like at a coffee shop.”

“Okay, good. Just checking.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“Of course, it’s a date!” He paused. “It is a date, right?”

“What are you two whispering about?” Lockwood asked over a ramekin that had been practically licked clean.

“Petunias!” You blurted, much to his amusement.

He gave you that knowing look again. “Let’s go, Luce, we’ll leave them to their… petunias.” Lucy threw you a similar look, a wide smile, and retreated without complaint.

As soon as they were out of earshot, you crumpled into a mess of embarrassed giggles. George wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you to his chest as you buried your burning face in your hands.

“Do you think they know?” Your voice was muffled.

“I think they might have an idea, yes,” George replied with barely restrained laughter.

You weren’t sure whether to pull away indignantly or burrow further into yourself. “It’s not funny!” you whined, settling on headbutting his shoulder in semi-faux distress.

“Sorry,” he chuckled properly. “You’re just cute when you’re flustered.”

Now you pulled back, this time in astonishment, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You think I’m cute?”

He reached out and neatened a strand of your hair that had been knocked out of place by the impact with his shoulder. “Damn, and I was trying so hard to hide it. Yes, I do.”

“Then yes, it’s a date.”

“Good.” He stood, planting a quick kiss on your forehead and taking great enjoyment from how it left you more flustered than ever. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a garden to tend to if I’m going to make a bouquet fit for my date.”

The next week, when you were waiting in the kitchen for George to arrive for your date, he came not from the hallway but from the garden. In his hands was a neatly wrapped bunch of flowers: agapanthus, veronica, large daisies and, in the centre, a single red rose.

[sycamorality]

I'm the opposite of that one ask, in that you view minecraft nothing like I do, but I am absolutely in love with the world that you've given me a peek into. Your skill and dedication to getting these feelings across, especially through a tool like mspaint, is nothing short of incredible. I love seeing things that I've never seen before, and I've never seen anything like your art before.

This is about to be the weirdest compliment, so give me a moment to explain myself, but something about some of your art, especially and mostly the speedrunning piece, made me think it was AI generated at first--not the kind of AI generated that is corporations and people trying to create something generic and marketable with as little thought and cost as possible, though.

Specifically, similar to Secret Horses (if you've ever seen that piece), where it's a love letter between artist and computer in attempting to synthesize an extremely specific feeling down to it's bare bones, leaving everything else to fall away to the uncanny valley. That's something that computers have always been very good at--human artists will naturally try and create something that makes sense even in the small and unimportant details, while a computer can only make exactly what you tell it to, which means it will often create something uncanny valley because you told it to make 'horses' and the only way it was taught to (you taught it to) make horses was these sort of shapes, so you end up with something that isn't colored like a horse, doesn't have any limbs or a tail or even a definite side that is the 'front' of the horse, but it still somehow feels like a horse. Computers, in that way, are a very good tool for discovering that uncanny valley of exposing your expectations and the reality of what you asked the computer to do.

I think the incredible part to me is that your speedrunner piece has found that place in the uncanny valley through the other direction, in more ways than one. Within the piece of art, depicting a speedrunner making a run, the player has become so intimately familiar with the game that many important parts of it have become background noise, unimportant. They've even purposefully filtered out things (like the shape of the dragon, leaving only it's hitboxes) that were deemed unnecessary for the sake of the run. Engaging with only the very smallest part of the wide expanse of the game. This world has never seen a bowl of mushroom soup. It's never had a paddock full of sheared sheep eating the grass. There will never be an enchanting table used, or a fish caught, or a dog tamed. Not because those things were unknown, but because the speedrunner knows everything there is to know about them... and then decided they were weren't useful. Minecraft, but also not. And Outside the art and the story it's telling, the actual art itself (and of course the inside and outside of the art can't be separated, but) It's instantly recognizable as Minecraft, it has the right shapes to be Minecraft. It lives in the same place in all of our heads that has come to pattern match to this incredibly popular game that lives within the grander social zeitgeist. But also the shapes aren't quite correct. The hotbar is messy, unfocused. The further away you get from the 'target' of the dragon, the most round and bubbly the ground gets, as it's not something the speedrunner will need to walk on and thus won't be necessary to look at. There are things missing that should be there, things stretched out in ways they never would be in game. And yet somehow it's still Minecraft. A synthesis of what Minecraft feels like, if not what it looks like. It feels like you yanked an image directly out of someone's head, pulling the curtain away on the illusion that our brain provides for us to live in--because we feel like we can see all the things around us, but in reality we can only focus on a very small part of the world in front of us, and everything else is just patched together by our brain in our peripheral vision.

It's just... very very cool, and I think shows the other end of the bell-curve that you can find yourself on, where something has become so intimately familiar to you that you have the capability to strip it to it's most bare bones, it's essence--except, when a measure becomes a target, it ceases to become a good measure.

All that to say that I love speedrunning and I love your art and I feel bad for Jean (who's name I only learned today, ironically from a piece of art that depicts her as nothing more than a box to be slain (but I guess that's also sort of the point of the art is to make you think about that, huh?))

holy fuck. reading this whole ask took some time (Wtflip!!! you spent time sending me an essay-length ask about my art and what you like about it????) and i don't even know how to respond. i don't know how to respond positively through words. i really like the reference to secret horses - it's not exactly what i'm going for (moreso the feeling of a memory, but i suppose secret horses is the feeling of a memory of horses you saw once years ago), but i can definently see it and i feel honoured because i love secret horses (and other images of the same genre).

gosh. i genuinely dont know how to respond to this further. thank you so much. i've never had someone describe my art, how and why they like it in such length.

and, hah. i suppose art is that way. i know jean?'s name isn't known by everyone - but the fact people learn her name because of an art piece where she's nothing but a target to be killed is fascinating :')

[renlyslittlerose]

Hiiiii. A cute prompt if you're still taking them! Inspired by all your Outsider POV fics so far, and a cute fanart I just saw: X times Obikin were caught snuggling/cuddling/napping with each other! (even better if they're not actually together yet hihi)

Thanks for waiting, peach! Took me a little while, but I hope you enjoy this one! Decided to write some POVs I've not written before~ 🥰

---

Sometimes Satine loathed being a Duchess.

Things were always so fussy - so bureaucratic. She couldn’t just go somewhere, couldn’t just speak to someone, couldn’t just run off into the middle of nowhere for a short stint so she could scream her frustrations out into the air. No, she had to plan, make appointments, and fill a planner up with an accounting for each and every hour of every single day in order for her to get anything done.

Well, she was done with it for today. Obi-Wan was in Mandalore for only a short while, and she wasn’t about to let the constraints of her position prevent her from speaking to him.

Striding down the halls of the guest quarters, she passed the various unoccupied rooms before stopping at the room she’d been told Obi-Wan had been assigned to. Eying the door, she wondered if she should knock, but decided that no - even knocking was too structured. Today, she would be bold and perhaps a little rude. It was well earned.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her chin and strode through the door to find—

Obi-Wan sleeping.

With his former Padawan - Skywalker.

They were curled up together on Obi-Wan’s bed looking like crumpled bits of paper as they lay on top of the covers. Skywalker had his face pressed in the deep folds of Obi-Wan’s tunic, but Satine already recognized the unmistakable tangle of curls that seemed to lay perfectly disheveled, just like on all the propaganda posters in Coruscant depicted. A soft snore slipped past Obi-Wan’s lips as he hugged Skywalker close, his cheek pressed against the top of Skywalker’s head, a small dribble of drool slipping down his cheek to soil the trademark curls.

Satine knew the Jedi saw each other as family; knew that bonds ran deep between a Jedi and his Padawan. But this seemed… excessive.

She supposed she could wake Obi-Wan, but sometimes about the way he didn’t even twitch when she walked into the room told her that they needed this. They probably got less sleep than she did - which was saying something.

Stepping backward and on the balls of her feet to avoid clicking her heels against the floor, Satine turned around and exited the room. Brushing a hand over her face, she tried to push back the flush of embarrassment that coursed through her.

So that was why she always knocked…

XXX

“Have you seen the General?”

Ahsoka didn’t bother looking up from her work, and simply pointed to a tent across the camp. “In there.”

Rex nodded and made move to leave, before he paused and turned back to Ahsoka. “You didn’t ask me which General.”

“Don’t need to. Answers the same,” she said, her attention still fixed on her datapad.

Nodding again - this time more slowly - Rex approached the tent. He waited outside a moment, ear pressed against the canvas. He didn’t hear anything. Tapping the edges of his datapad, he rustled the flaps of the tent gently.

“General Skywalker?” Rex asked quietly.

No response.

Glancing over his shoulder at Ahsoka, he pointed to the tent again. She threw him a thumbs up, still not looking at him.

Skywalker had always maintained that should Rex or any of the other Clones need something from him, they were free to approach whenever, for whatever reason. But Rex was still uncomfortable with the thought of just striding into his General’s tent, even if the offer had been given numerous times.

“General?” he repeated, before he pushed the tent flaps away and poked his head inside.

He found Skywalker asleep on his cot. Along with General Kenobi.

They were pressed back to back, the pair barely fitting on the narrow cot as they slept through the late afternoon hours. Skywalker was hogging most of the pillow, his arms wrapped around it as he hugged it close, while Kenobi’s head rested on the cot at an uncomfortable looking angle. They didn’t stir when Rex entered, which wasn’t a surprise. Rex had just seen them use their combined Force powers to lift a Separatist tank into the air and throw it across a valley.

Deciding to leave them well enough alone, Rex placed the datapad with the report on the crate next to Skywalker’s cot.

It wasn’t until evening when they re-appeared, Skywalker looking refreshed while Kenobi massaged his neck, wincing now and again.

Rex hid his smile behind his bowl of rations.

XXX

Adjusting his robes, Bail watched the skyline of Coruscant flash by the windows of the elevator. The sun was beginning to set, casting the upper level of the city in a rosy glow. For a moment, Bail wondered if some of those who lived on the lower levels had ever seen a sunset on Coruscant.

He pushed the thought away when the double doors of the elevator opened to reveal C3PO.

“Hello, Senator Organa. It is a delight to see you,” C3PO said with a small bow.

“A pleasure,” Bail said, returning the bow. Stepping into the foyer, he followed C3PO into the living room of Padmé’s apartment and was greeted by two Jedi cuddling on a couch.

“We should try and adjust the number of rations we bring,” Skywalker mumbled over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He was looking at the datapad Obi-Wan was holding, his attention fixed on it as he sat with one leg draped over Obi-Wan’s lap.

“Why? We’re only bringing a small contingency.”

“The planet hasn’t seen a proper harvest since the war started. The locals will be desperate for food, but they won’t ask for it- they’re too proud to. So if we just happen to bring extra with us…”

“Then we can pretend we’ve no room to bring it back with us,” Obi-Wan supplied. A look of surprise graced his features, but Skywalker didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, that’s a good idea, Anakin. I’ll see to it we do that.”

Coughing into his hand, Bail brought attention to himself. Obi-Wan glanced up, but Skywlker remained fixed on the datapad, his brows furrowed as he continued with their planning. He remained mostly on Obi-Wan’s lap, and Bail noticed that his other leg was curled around Obi-Wan’s other side, effectively locking him in place on the couch.

Padmé had told Bail a few times that Skywalker and Obi-Wan were affectionate with one another, but he was still caught off guard by the intimacy of their position. It wasn’t every day one stumbled upon two war generals and Jedi cuddling.

“Bail - how good to see you,” Obi-Wan said.

Bail returned his smile, and leaned into his political poise to keep his attention on Obi-Wan and not how Skywalker was holding on to him like a monkey-lizard. “You as well. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. I’m just here to speak with Senator Amidala.”

“Oh no, not at all. I believe she’s in her office.”

“She is,” C3PO said, dragging Bail’s attention back to him. “If you please, Senator.”

Bail sent the pair one final look before he followed C3PO to Padmé’s office. He was tempted to ask Padmé if this was a normal occurance for her, but thought better of it. Some things were better left unknown.

XXX

Barriss glanced at Master Skywalker out of the corner of her eye. He’d come to watch the training lesson mid-way through their katas, and had immediately shifted the energies in the room. The other Padwans kept fidgeting under his gaze, their excitement suddenly taking control of what should have been a peaceful training session for them. It made most of them want to show off to Master Skywalker; display their skills, still unrefined and stilted, to the Hero with No Fear.

But for Barriss, it just made her want to leave.

The Force flowed through the room differently when Master Skywalker was nearby. It was as if it cared only for him in those instances, pulling away from the other Jedi, making him glow brighter than any Jedi should. Being in the Force when he was nearby was like jumping into the chaotic flow of a river on the verge of overflowing its banks, the waters dark and churning, the speed rapid and dangerous.

How was she supposed to learn, when all she could do was concentrate on not getting dragged into his vortex?

She didn’t know how Ahsoka did it.

But just as she thought she might be overtaken, another signature appeared. Deep and still currents swelling up to the choppy surface of the Force to quell the rapids, allowing Barriss to breath beneath the stern gaze of Skywalker as he continued to observe the room.

She wasn’t surprised when Master Kenobi entered the room. Immediately the space shifted back to what it once was - what it should be. Focused and calm, a space to learn rather than impress.

Finishing her katas, she bowed at her partner before turning to see Master Kenobi sat next to Master Skywalker, not an inch of space between their sides. Master Skywalker was smiling.

Barriss had never seen him smile before.

XXX

“Sorry, there’s no more room.”

Skywalker looked down at Quinlan, his brow raised. Quinlan stared back, daring him to ask him to move over. He could move, too. If Quinlan just shifted a little to the left he’d give the kid enough space to squeeze himself between he and Obi-Wan. But he didn’t move, and instead stayed right where he was on the bench.

Before Skywalker could say anything, Obi-Wan jumped up from the bench and pointed Anakin to the empty spot. “Sit, Anakin.”

“Are you sure?” Skywalker asked, seemingly finally cluing in to the very obvious hints Quinlan was sending him about not being entirely welcome.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said.

Skywalker sent Quinlan one last hesitating look before he sat on the bench. Without pause, Obi-Wan sat down as well.

On Skywalker’s lap.

Immediately Skywalker adjusted to Obi-Wan’s weight, like he was used to him doing this. Like it was all entirely normal. Sitting back slightly, he spread his legs a little to give Obi-Wan a wider space to sit, while he rested his arms on the back of the bench and looked out at the park.

Quinlan stared.

“As I was saying,” Obi-Wan continued, “we shouldn’t press the Senators on this. They’ve already got it in their heads that the Council’s overstepped, and if they see us taking further without the Senate's backing, we could run into problems later down the line. The Anselmi people stated their objections, fearful that if they pick a side then their tourism could suffer.”

“Have you spoken to Master Fisto?” Skywalker asked.

Quinlan continued to stare.

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked, looking down at Skywalker, still acting as if this were totally normal. “Though he may be Nautolan, he’s been at the Temple since he was a small child. He’s no more equipped to deal with this than you or I.”

“But he’s still Nautolan. He looks as they do, and still retains certain customs and traditions despite his Jedi upbringing. I’m still from Tatooine, even though I’m a Jedi.”

“Yes, but you grew up on Tatooine during your formative years, Anakin. Fisto did not. He’s no more from Glee Anselm than I am from Stewjohn.”

“I still think—”

“Quinlan,” Obi-Wan interrupted. Quinlan tore his gaze away from Obi-Wan’s backside as it sat firmly pressed against Skywalker’s lap. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s really strange that you’re sitting on your Padawan’s lap.”

Obi-Wan quirked a brow, seemingly caught off guard by Quinlan’s comment. “So? You said so yourself - there’s no more room.”

“He could stand.”

“But he doesn’t want to.”

“He’s an adult, isn’t he? With two perfectly working legs?”

“I’m right here,” Skywalker said.

Quinlan ignored him, but Obi-Wan didn’t.

“Shush, Anakin,” he chided.

Skywalker’s cheeks went a soft shade of pink, and he ducked his head, lashes fluttering. “Sorry, Master.”

Quinlan continued to stare.

At first, when Obi-Wan had been assigned Skywalker, Quinlan thought his dotting was kind of sweet. Then it became annoying. Now? Now it was concerning.

“Listen,” he said, rising slowly from the bench. “I’m going to talk to Fisto and see if he’s interested at all in getting involved. In the meantime, you two just… just do whatever it is you two do.”

He hurried off then, making a mental note of which bench they were sitting on, marking it as a place he could never, ever sit again. Not if he didn’t want to accidentally sense the bizarreness that was whatever that was all over again.

[twiceeshy]

1338 DAYS [1/2]

Read and view tags on ao3 (archive locked).

Summary: Marc was like all of the other men, starved and bald. His bones peeked out. He was in need of a bath, a proper one, but all of them were. He was small-framed and looked young, less than the twenty-one stated on his card. But he looked determined, and Vale hadn't seen that determination in years.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, prisoners of war, internment setting, descriptions of war and acts of torture, blood, injury, malnutrition, homophobia, minor character death

E, rosquez, 9.7k words.

--

Valentino sutured a laceration on a fellow prisoner's arm, right above the soft inside of his elbow. Blood and disease had been his daily routine ever since he was promoted - if this could be considered a promotion - from a regular prisoner to the in-house doctor. He would estimate that he had done this for the past five years. The total duration of his imprisonment had crossed seven.

"Do you get tired of this, Doctor?" his patient asked. Many of them weren't so chatty, but Vale humoured those who were.

"I've been tired since before you arrived," Vale answered. The wound he'd just sewn over cut through his patient's serial number, which showed that over twenty thousand others had stepped foot through the gates of hell before him. Vale was prisoner number 46, practically a pioneer, from when his country was still in its early days of in-fighting.

"Fair enough," his patient said. He was a rather large-boned man who must once have been strong, but this life ate away at them all quite rapidly.

Similarly, the Vale of the past would never recognise himself of today. Shrunken to skin and bones, dirtied with grime, and in possession of a limping leg that never healed correctly, he would never again be the prime attraction of any party. His flamboyant cadence had been watered down into nothing, his fashion was non-existent, and his hair was shorn unevenly. He was thankful that there weren't mirrors to look into. He would hate the sight.

He was not alone. In a way, all bald men looked the same, especially as they were all starved to nothingness. Internment stripped them of themselves. They were all ugly.

It was ironic that Vale's love for men had landed him here in the first place, but now that he lived a land of men, he could no longer dredge up attraction for any of them. In his most cynical moments, he mused to himself that the rehabilitation effort actually worked.

Vale cut the thread, wiped off excess blood, and released his patient. He did not know that this ordinary day was to be one of the most important of his prison stay.

Because the next person to receive Vale's attention was a certain Marc Marquez, a young man of only twenty-one who laid semi-conscious in bed. His arm had been injured in an accident involving factory machinery, and he knocked his head against the floor on his way down.

Unlike Vale's previous patient, this one would have been diminutive no matter where his life took him. His bones were so narrow that he could not possibly have any strength. His face was pale. Vale disinfected and stitched the wound, placed the arm in a makeshift splint, and moved on. He could ill afford the time or emotional capacity to linger on those who made him worry.

It was only when Vale rounded back to check on him that he discovered a compelling personality.

"How many days have I been out?" Marc asked, fully conscious now.

Vale knew immediately why he was here. His tongue was wrong, the accent of the enemies like most of the others. Though of course, "enemy" was a subjective term. Vale had never been an un-patriotic citizen, and still found himself imprisoned by his own.

"Less than one," Vale informed him.

"Good," Marc said. His words slurred slightly, yet his eyes were very present. He gestured at the splint. "Please take this off, I'm going back to work."

"You may have a concussion," Vale admonished. "Stay away another day. I know people die in the infirmary, but you're not at risk of that."

"I can't," Marc said, setting his lip stubbornly. "They hang cripples who can't work. At least I'm working the factories, not the railway. If they notice I'm useless, I'm dead. I'm not dying here. I'm getting out."

Vale casted a frantic look around the room. They were thankfully surrounded only by other prisoners. A soldier standing guard was too far away to be in an earshot.

"Don't repeat that, you hear?" Vale said in a hushed whisper. "Nothing those bastards want more than to kill a man like you. They think it's funny. It's more fun than hanging someone who wants to die." He'd seen it with his own eyes.

"I'm not stupid," Marc answered, equally hushed. He glared at Vale, heated. And it was in this instance that Vale paid attention.

Marc was like all of the other men, thin and bald. His bones peeked out. He was in need of a bath, a proper one, but all of them were. He was small-framed and he looked painfully young, but he had a determined shine in his eyes, and Vale did not often see that determination last long here.

Vale wondered if Marc would really make it out. He wished there was more reason for confidence.

"How long's a pretty young thing like you been here for?" he couldn't help but ask.

"One thousand and thirty-one days," Marc rattled off immediately. "Thirty-two by this evening."

"You count?" Vale asked, surprised. It was a long time to have a record for.

Marc shrugged. "People are waiting for me outside." Then he smiled, and it was as though a switch flipped. "You really think I'm pretty?"

Truthfully, Vale hadn't made a judgement on how Marc looked. It was simply in his nature to flirt with men, especially lively young things.

He observed. He didn't find baldness attractive. He did not like that he could count all of Marc's ribs, and that his face looked like a skull. But Marc was small, in the same way that Vale always preferred smaller men. And the smile - it was sweet and pretty, crooked teeth and all.

"Ah, yes," Vale said, turning up his charm, smiling secretly and slanting his head. What was the harm in making a man happy? This doctor was adept in bedside manner.

Marc brightened. "Oh, I know you don't mean that." He did something adjacent to a giggle. "I was quite pretty - before. You should see me, all the men in my family have such beautiful, thick hair."

Vale noted the present tense. He discarded it before he could think too deeply.

"Really?" he asked, trying to visualise it. He didn't do this; try to think of who people were outside of this place. Most of them would never get it back.

"I had black hair, curly. I took care of it."

"Why are you here, Marc?" Vale asked, suspicion niggling at his mind. He'd been so sure it was the foreigner aspect, but the way Marc reacted made Vale wonder. He recalled pursuing young men in gentlemen's clubs, teasing them gently, and watching them blossom into pink blushes like this. He liked the ones who were new and sweet, still in touch with boyhood and so easy to flatter. They often came to him first because they liked that a successful professional like himself would take interest. It used to be wonderful.

Marc licked his lower lip absentmindedly. "I'm not from here. It's obvious, no?"

The least complicated reason then. "It is. I wondered if you were like me, that is all."

"What do you mean?" Marc asked, not hesitant, merely curious.

"I am a homosexual, Marc," Vale said. It had been years since someone in this camp had tried to get a fist in his face over this matter. In a world of outcasts, why was it important what the reasons were?

Marc's cheeks had a nice colour. He had the potential to be rather pretty, Vale decided, though he wasn't now.

"How do you know?" Marc asked quietly, trailing his large eyes along Vale's face. He licked his bottom lip without intent. Vale always liked his type the best, because they were so good to him when he taught them to be flirtatious.

He tucked his thumb below Marc's chin and tilted his head up slightly. If anyone asked, he was doing a medical examination for a concussion. But no, he was testing for this - a sharp intake of breath from Marc, dark eyelashes that fluttered lightly, and a soft pink tongue that worried his lip again.

"I spend my hour of leisure at the library. It's better suited to explain there."

He took a step back, and turned to attend to his other patients. His insides were twisted with something. Nostalgia? He had not acted affectionately with another ever since he had been sent here.

Marc called him back.

"Doctor, I still need you to remove this," he said, raising his splinted arm gingerly.

So Vale did. Every man had the right to fight for his life, and if this was how Marc thought he would win, who was Vale to stop him?

--

Vale deigned to be religious because righteous people used to tell him that God (these days, mentally articulated with the appropriate capitalisation to confer due respect) did not love people like him. He had no overt way left to blaspheme in prison, so he opted to do the exact opposite.

He liked to think that most people were wrong about both him and God, seeing as he had been blessed with the gift of life for seven years, and many of the pious people were quite possibly dead outside. If God had favourites, it was funnier to believe that he had picked Valentino Rossi.

He was not entirely sure what a belief in God entailed. From the moment he was old enough to exercise his own will, he had scorned church. Had he the means, he would have given himself an education, but there were no Bibles lying around in prison to comfort the dying. His fellow prisoners taught him a few prayers from an assortment of faiths and languages, and he used them where he could.

Nonetheless, Vale's decision to scorn vices dovetailed rather nicely with his sentimentality for intellectualism. The prison commissary rewarded their survivors through a meagre daily credit system. Popular sales were beer, cigarettes, and the most extravagant: a night's companionship from a female prostitute. Vale spent nearly all of his own in exchange for time in the library, the going rate for which was three credits for an hour.

He found the dingy, dark room to be a safe haven. It was no larger than ten feet long on all sides, and lit only by a single window slanting down from a high ceiling. There, surrounded by novels and facts, he found an escape and reminders of his best days.

Some of the others who chose the same pastime tended to keep to themselves. In the overcrowded confines of their camp, such privacy was a relief. A few spent their time there to catch moments of sleep.

Marc showed up one day, even though he had not made any promises. Vale noticed the second his small frame crossed the periphery, oversized clothes swishing around his ankles and wrists.

He eyed the rickety shelf of books as though it had personally offended him, and spent a few moments selecting a book before he slid into place on the footstool next to Vale's. He had come with a very thin book of animal fables.

Vale smirked at him, amused. "I see you don't read."

"I can," Marc argued. "I can even read your language."

He opened the book to prove a point, but his eyes stopped following the words before he even got half a page in. Vale watched him in fascination. It had been a long time since he felt anything like affection for another man.

Vale noted that the armed soldier guarding the library had wandered from his post, as he tended to. He put a hand gently on Marc's thigh to get his attention. Seated side by side on footstools, they were hunched close to each other and their thighs could easily align to touch. Thin legs under dirtied grey clothing - there was no aesthetic appeal to the sight, but their proximity awoke Vale's capacity for desire.

"You don't have to pretend," Vale said quietly.

"It's not that I'm illiterate," Marc said, stumbling on the last word with his thick accent. "I'm clever, I was an apprentice. But my eyes jump everywhere when I try to read, and it's worse here because the light is not enough."

"I believe you," Vale assured.

Marc looked at him with his lower lip pulled in between his teeth, and his dark brows were furrowed. "You told me to come here," he said accusingly.

"To share how I knew I was a homosexual, yes," Vale said without shame.

He could hear Marc's breath catch mid-exhale. His cheeks coloured, and he didn't meet Vale's eyes.

"Well?" Marc asked.

Vale placed a creased slip of paper at the point where he had stopped in his book, and folded it shut. He turned the book sideways on his lap, rested his elbows on the book, and rested his chin on one of his own palms. It was a whimsical posture, one he had not adopted since he stepped into this joyless place.

"Well, Marc, it's quite simple. If you like to take men to bed and you like when they take you to bed, you are a homosexual."

"I don't-"

"And before that," Vale interrupted, "if you like to kiss men and you like when they kiss you, you are a homosexual. And if it makes your heart stir when you think of yourself kissing a man, even if it is only in your own head, you are a homosexual."

Marc worried his lip thoughtlessly, so Vale pressed on.

"If it makes you excited to think that a man could touch your face, or rest his hands on your naked waist. If it doesn't disgust you to suck cock or have your cock sucked by a man. If you find a man you want to touch all the time. If you find a man you want to marry, even though the law and God say you cannot."

"Marry?" Marc whispered. He had turned tense, frozen into his uncomfortable hunched posture. He could hardly look at Vale in the eyes, except for a few small hurried flickers. His lower lip was red, bitten raw. His face was pink.

"Yes, Marc," Vale said. He was having fun. He felt rather proud of himself. This was turning back the clocks, a surreal moment that did not belong to this dreary place. Almost could he believe that he was courting a young man at a party, an exotic young man with a thick tongue that he would enjoy in his mouth.

"Did you want to marry?" Marc asked. It seemed that the rest of it was too difficult for him to talk about just yet.

"No. I used to think that I would enjoy it, to make a statement, but I never found someone to buy a ring for."

Marc nodded. His licked the inside of his cheek. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't be," Vale said gently. "Shall I share with you, how men bed each other? I don't imagine anyone has ever told you."

Marc looked up at him. It was answer enough.

"It's different for different men. I like to top. This means I like to put my cock into men's asses." At Marc's alarmed look, he had to bite back a chuckle. Not in the library.

"Isn't it dirty?" Marc wondered.

"Bodies are dirty," Vale said dismissively. "You think it is not dirty when I perform surgeries and blood gets onto my hands?"

Marc scrunched his face, which suggested he did not enjoy the sound of surgeries either.

"How can it fit?" he asked.

Vale brightened, because he liked this part, and it was sure to shock Marc.

"With work. It takes more work with a man. I put oil on my fingers, and then I stretch the hole open slowly. If I have enough patience, did you know that a whole hand can fit? Or I can use my mouth. I use my tongue, it's a stronger muscle than you think. I like the texture, and it makes people happy. It really is quite magical," he said ruefully, missing his youth all the more.

Marc's eyes were wide circles. His breath was shallow, and the book on his lap was clutched so tightly between his fingers that his knuckles had turned white.

"Oh Doctor," he said at last, "when I go home, I hope you will find me, and we can try."

And wasn't that a thought. Instead of despairing at the futility, Vale allowed himself to enjoy Marc's optimism. He tried to envision Marc as he should have been - curly black hair, his pretty crooked smile, clean skin, and fat and muscle beneath it. Natural curiosity and innocent gasps. Malleable and youthful. He indulged in a daydream. Yes, that would be a wonderful experience.

"I would like that," he said, genuinely.

--

Marc started coming by the library more frequently. Not often as Vale did, as Marc saw the value in more frequent barter trade. Some others ran a similar business, but not with so much discipline.

When Vale asked what Marc spent his commissary credits on, Marc responded that he used to spend them on paper and a pencil. Vale had initially thought that he was joking, but he was not. Marc did not often write, and he was not an artist. He said that he bought paper at the start because it came with paperclips, and as an engineer, he was waiting for an opportunity to fashion them into useful. The opportunity had not come, yet.

Now, Marc was fully invested in the cigarette economy. He had accumulated enough unused cigarettes to fill two full ten-packs, and he was still accumulating more. Five days' work for a cigarette was grossly inflated, and it was quite unbelievable that anyone had so many of them. But he did not smoke them himself.

He guarded them like a Rottweiler. Apparently pockets of people knew that Marquez always had a cigarette to spare, and some would occasionally do foolish things for the instant gratification of a trade. They'd give up half their servings of food and drinking water in exchange because nothing else mattered to Marc. Marc took ruthlessly when required, when he was ill or tired. He would do anything that gave him a better chance at getting out alive.

"I'm always so hungry, all the time," Marc professed to Vale when he explained his trades, looking self-conscious for a second. "I worried that I might die from it at first. The food is so bad, but I need it. I don't know how anybody gives it up."

Vale tried to dredge up the memory of that type of hunger, but like all past injuries, the body fought to forget trauma. He only felt hunger as a dull ache, for which he was grateful. His stomach had probably shrunk over time.

But Vale assured Marc that he used to run a similar economy - someone had to set the exchange rate that Marc adopted. It was only now that he was allowed to perform as a doctor again, that he expended less energy than the ones forced into manual labour. He could make do better than most. It was his mental state that needed the most safeguarding after so many years here, and so it was the library that was of most value.

Despite his greater need for trade, Marc shelled out enough credits to sit with Vale for one hour every two weeks. The significance of this went unspoken. Vale recognised it, and did not know what exactly to make of it.

He could justify that three credits was a sum small enough and allow himself to relax. He enjoyed Marc's company increasingly, even though Marc's physical state seemed to worsen slightly every time they met. His arm injury never healed, and it while Vale knew it was the same for every man out there, he still wished it weren't so. Marc seemed to be managing wisely, but Vale would prefer if it wasn't happening at all. He didn't want a day to come where Marc couldn't stick around.

They always sat in the same corner, and they did not always talk about sex. Sometimes, Vale summarised passages from his book and Marc would respond with delightful intelligence. Marc had given up on reading on his own and would simply have a closed book on his lap for the entire hour. On occasion, they talked about God, to whom Marc subscribed with an unacademic, folk type of logic. Marc did not think that God cared about homosexuality, which immediately made his version better. But he could not explain why. He was by far more adept in mathematics and the functions of nuts and bolts.

Once, Marc touched Vale's serial number with tentative fingers. He traced the mere two digits, then withdrew his hand. He wore bare admiration on his face. "You're really amazing," he said in a hushed whisper.

"I have been lucky," Vale said.

"Yeah, but it's not all luck." He reached for his own mark and pressed on it. "Makes it seem possible," he said, trailing off thoughtfully.

Vale didn't say anything in return. He'd grown a bit attached to his brand. Ideally he would never have had it, but it was there and he had claimed it. The good and the bad - both the ruthlessness required to live, and life he had given back to others.

He enjoyed having Marc's esteem for all that he had suffered. He'd earned it from everybody else as well, but this felt a little different, and little more special. And he supposed Marc had earned some back from him.

Vale found that he paid attention when Marc talked, even though it often bordered on airy nonsense. Marc smiled so easily; sweet and pretty. He liked to share about what was most familiar to him, and it wasn't Vale's country, to which he had only briefly ventured for his mechanical apprenticeship when the war had broken out in full.

No, he had come from a sunny small town and lived there for seventeen years. It was a land where people cycled and oranges grew, and stray cats wandered into his house to be fed. He talked it up into a utopia, where his wonderful brother took in dogs to raise, his mother let him do whatever he liked as long as he did his share of housework, and his father taught him how to repair bicycles.

He brought his beautiful town to life. So much so that when Vale thought of the outside, he started to lean on Marc's colourful memories and imagination. The bakery down the corner that released the scent of fresh bread while he was on his way to school. The noisy kindergarten he once attended, built next to a grocer's store that had two whole shelves of sweets. Marc had only been eighteen when he was captured and stolen away.

He recounted his address so frequently that Vale knew it by heart. Underlying it was an invitation that Vale might not live to take up. Vale ignored the invitation for the most part, but the location sank into his memory anyway. Once or twice, he played along.

Vale did not dare to think of his own home, so convinced he had become over the years that everyone he had ever loved from there was dead, so he did not share much. But Marc's fantasy was compelling, with his firm belief that his tiny home was obscure and far-removed enough from any borders and useful roads to survive in full, and that he would someday return to bask in his heaven once more.

Vale did not have a dream of his own, but he had Marc's.

The illusion always evaporated sooner rather than later. When a guard would prod their backs with a rifle and bark at them, "up, up, vacate, vacate," a full ten minutes before the hour they paid for was up, and Vale and Marc would head in their separate directions. They would often fail to locate each other amongst the sea of bald heads outside before they came back together two weeks later. Vale would secretly wonder if Marc was still alive.

--

Vale had started to question if the war was coming to an end. He didn't dare to hope, but he collected evidence for his case.

The men in their camp were being switched out in greater numbers. Of course, the leading causes of leaving the camp remained death through malnutrition, work-related accidents or execution. But some men simply vanished without a trace overnight, and the word "released" was starting to be mentioned increasingly.

Vale also had his suspicions because the records on prisoners started to fall into disarray. He kept up the professional routine of updating the patients' files, but the work had increasingly fallen on his shoulders alone. Soldiers used to meticulously administrate the prisoners in their camp to keep up with the farce that prison was a rehabilitative construct - their entry dates, exit dates or expiry dates were all kept on file. Recently, Vale had been updating the deaths by himself.

He wondered if it was laziness or a bigger picture he didn't have access to understand. Were the soldiers under-resourced? It still felt as though there were too many of them, but they might see it differently. He wondered how long a war could last in its ending stages, but it felt like too optimistic a question to even ask himself. He did not know. Regretfully, he had never been much of a historian, and he did not know of a war like this.

He mentioned the prospect of release to Marc once in the library, when Marc was in an antsy mood. He thought the hope would fuel him and cheer him up.

He nudged Marc when the guard soldier was not paying attention to them. Marc had been watching him read in a strange, intent way, but Vale was learning that this was simply one of his quirks. He observed people he liked without blinking, and he wasn't subtle about it. Vale didn't mind.

"Two of the guys in my bunker were released recently. Isn't it interesting?" Vale asked. He wanted to float his theory about the end of the war.

Marc reacted differently from Vale's expectation. His lips thinned and clammed shut.

"I know it's happening," he said, after some thought. "But my goal is to live until the end. Everything else is a distraction." He gripped his arm tightly.

Vale looked at Marc's bitten-down nails, pressed into the red tattoo on his upper arm, an ugly splash of colour marring soft skin above the the crook of his elbow. Branded there as cattle were, Marc's read 10593. It was one of the few numbers Vale was familiar with, ever since their numbers escalated and unwieldy strings of digits became the norm.

He did not often look at Marc's brand. Marc hurt himself compulsively on it. The surrounding skin was often rubbed angry and raw, and Marc dug his nails in when he was uncomfortable or in a depression.

This time, Vale placed a hand on Marc's and coaxed his grip away from the brand. "Eh, I think the world will end before you are distracted," he said. It was a little bit of an exaggeration, but it worked, and coaxed Marc's shoulders into a more relaxed slouch.

"Would be nice though, if it was us," Marc conceded, responding to Vale's initial question.

Vale nodded his agreement, and changed the subject to his book before they were caught holding a conversation of heretics.

He never had another chance to discuss his theories with Marc in detail since there was always a risk of being overheard. He continued to work through it in his head. Ultimately it didn't mean very much to him - he was certain that he would only be free when he died, or when the camp was shut down. A slave doctor was too good a resource, budget-wise. But Marc fell into the exact profile of people who had started to be released at random - the people who were too bothersome to subdue for execution, but too damaged to be fully productive.

The soldiers were changing their M.O., which spelled the changing of tides. Vale had been there for so long and never seen anything like it. His patients' serial numbers ramped up like nothing before. Vale's 46 brand from seven years ago was of course exceptional, but even Marc's 10593 was increasingly unusual. The numbers were at the thirty-thousands now, after less than three years since Marc's arrival.

Something was afoot. From prison, it was impossible to say what.

--

Years back when the death rate had been at its highest, one of the soldiers dreamt up the idea that a few routine rounds of public torture would be to their benefit. And although their factories and rail tracks now needed people to remain healthy for longer, they had not stopped.

Usually they went after the recalcitrants: men who tried to escape or kill themselves, or those who initiated brawls and showed "disrespect". But sometimes, the prisoners knew their place too well and a few unfortunate souls would be made an example of.

Prisoners would be hung by their wrists at the front of the dining room and whipped while the rest were expected to eat. It was an dehumanising punishment for all of them. Vale always gobbled his meals quickly before it could start, or he would never be able to swallow.

When one day, it was Marc that was taken, Vale hadn't even realised initially. He sat as far away from the front as he could and averted his eyes. He couldn't tell one bald heads from another, and he'd never would have expected-

Marc was so intelligent. He knew how to navigate his interpersonal interactions, and he kept his determination under wraps. Except for a few select trading partners, people didn't talk about him. People didn't think about him. The guards never showed any special interest in him. This must have been a random punishment, just a stroke of bad luck.

Vale only realised when someone down his table gasped midway and swore "fuck me, Marquez," under his breath, and Vale's eyes shot to the front in search, in dread.

There he was, his Marc, among the few in the front, in a shockingly sorry state, whipped bloody because he refused to make a sound or cry. The soldiers mocked him and his silence. He kept his eyes up without a sound. He looked at them, his fellow prisoners. And they looked back at him, enraptured, in deference and in horror.

His frame was pathetic and small, swinging from ropes with each lashing. Vale couldn't help the dreadful sound that escaped from his throat when the whip split Marc's skin. His stomach swirled. He could not keep looking.

How could this be? Such resolve, such pride, from a man who dared claim that his only motivation was to live. Why did he refuse to shed his dignity when it would give him a fighting chance? Everyone knew that to martyr was not to survive.

All this time, Vale had been quietly hoping and praying for Marc to be one of the lucky ones to be released, but it was misfortune that ensnared him instead. He would die here this morning, said the unwanted prophecy that appeared in Vale's mind.

He didn't know if Marc would survive this. Many did not. He didn't know if Marc could go back to work even if he emerged. It may be a slow parade to the gallows; a spark extinguished.

What had they last talked about? Nothing that mattered. Cool, sweet orange juice from home going down his throat on a hot day, which Marc may never have again.

When Marc was carried unconscious to the infirmary by fellow prisoners, Vale did his best to clean and stitch up his wounds, then he stepped out of the barrack to be sick on the floor.

He could barely think of Marc as a person. His prone body laid still as death, his small head motionless, the scent of his metallic blood akin to a lamb after slaughter, his back exposed and marred for anyone to see, torn to shreds.

Vale should never have cared.

--

A man with a mole next to his eyebrow peered over at the next bed. He was there to receive treatment for a missing finger. Vale would never learn his name.

"Will he live, Doctor?" the man asked curiously.

"Unlikely," was Vale's prognosis. He cleaned blood off a needle and dropped it into boiling water for disinfection. He would prefer to toss it in a bin, but there were no supplies to waste.

His very silent patient was lying on his front, deathly still. His back was too gory a sight for Vale to waste energy ruminating on. The scent of iron permeated his bandages. He might wake only with divine intervention.

The other patient tutted. "Poor runt, not fair he died is it? What did he do?"

Vale scowled. "Martyred himself," he answered coldly.

Several minutes later, Marc blinked his heavy eyes open and croaked for help. Vale dropped the scalpel he was heating as he hurried over.

--

Marc's infirmary tenure was punctuated by visits from unsavoury characters. Most of the time, they exchanged brief words in Marc's mother tongue, and he would produce a cigarette from somewhere in his clothes for half a meal.

When Vale stole a look at the portions, he could tell that Marc was being swindled. But living off an unfair hand was better than having nothing at all.

"You know, I'm still very hungry Vale. I miss sweet things," Marc said petulantly, as Vale fed him spoons of gruel slowly. He swallowed with difficulty and needed a long time between bites. His eyes were too wide, not fully present. It was unnerving. Vale had seen this semi-lucidity from people on their deathbeds.

Marc drank water ravenously. It made sense as he had lost a shocking amount of fluids. Unbeknownst to him, he was also feeding from Vale's supply.

"You must rest. You will be better tomorrow," Vale said, unsure if he was lying. He ran his palm over the spiky roots of Marc's hair, touching his scalp. One infection and he would be done for.

Marc blinked his dark, doomed eyes at him, long lashes fluttering, sand stuck in the corners. His tongue wetted his lower lip. His body was tensed with pain.

Vale felt a chasm in his chest. He nurtured it into anger - at the war, at the soldiers, at his people, at their enemies, and most of all, for putting Vale through so much turmoil, at Marc.

--

Seven days after he came, Marc released himself from the infirmary. He left without a trace, as though he hadn't been torturing Vale with his presence all the while.

Vale could not carry on so easily. He started to give the library a wide berth in case Marc thought to search for him there. (As though Marc had resources to waste on him.) It left him with more credits than he needed to his name, and not very much to invest in.

It was a testament to his misery that he only earned enough to afford one fifth of a cigarette a day, and he had so few luxuries available that he was not able to spend it. What a shame for the great Valentino Rossi, once the most fashionable young man in his town, in possession of enviable collections of all sorts. He used to be a tastemaker for the hedonists.

He had turned listless, directionless, and somehow worse off than before he met Marc. Because with Marc, he had unwittingly regained parts of what he lost, and had it violently ripped away from him again. It left a hole in him, the walls he once built now struggling to hold up against the barrage of suffering he had to face every day. His system of stability had been attacked.

But Vale had not survived this long by coincidence. He managed, until he found himself in an even more unhappy equilibrium, which at least seemed possible to maintain. He didn't wonder anymore about the war ending, because it would not be soon enough. He did not dream of Marc's survival.

Two weeks passed, then another two. Days drew into each other repetitively.

Vale stayed in the infirmary. He searched within himself to find new levels of efficiency. It did not translate to results.

Then a month later, a very incensed Marc trudged in with an injured man on his back. His scarred back, which must still hurt from time to time.

He deposited the man onto an empty chair and swept over to Vale to confront him. For a small man, he had a thunderous presence, like a bird puffed up to maximum capacity. His eyes glittered angrily.

"You're avoiding me," he accused. It was true.

"Yes," Vale said, looking at him then looking away disdainfully.

"Why?" Marc questioned. "I waited for you, I used my credits to go to the library because you are always there, every three days, but you were not. I don't have credits to waste again."

"Because I don't want to talk to you," Vale answered. Because Marc lied, because Marc did things that were not good for himself, because Marc didn't know how to live up to his promises.

"What did I do?" Marc asked quietly. Hurt had crossed his eyes, but Vale didn't have patience for it. It was Marc's own bullishness that made the situation so bad. Maybe one could blame the incident on bad luck, but Marc's actions spoke for themselves. He didn't know self-preservation, and he had a different impression of himself than his actions suggested.

Vale avoided the question. "I am working. You brought a new patient, so I am busy."

"Vale," Marc started.

"I am busy."

The silence was tense, almost solid. It could be cut with a knife, into gelatinous layers, thick and stifling, impossible to walk through.

"I don't understand," Marc said.

"And I don't need to explain," Vale said. "Please leave."

Marc swallowed. He licked his lip, but the tick annoyed rather than amused. His nails dug into his arm, into the red digits that tied him here permanently.

He was ugly, if Vale were to be objective. If he was not blinded by promises and dreams of pretty hair, and a happy smile, and a loving future that would never come to be.

At least, Marc relented. "You can have the library back, I can't afford it," he said as his parting words.

Then he left, and Vale thought darkly that they might have just had their final conversation.

--

Seasons changed and the days turned shorter and colder. Work hours remained the same.

Coldness was not good for the body. Time and time again, winters stole away good health and allowed diseases to fester in the lungs, especially for men who were already weak. Often, execution did not need to occur. Health would give way first, overnight in some cases.

Vale found himself in ill health most of the time. Exposure to the diseases surely did it, as well as overwork. Patients streamed in night and day to keep him active and awake, lest the doctor laid his weary head to rest and never see the light again.

This year's winter plague, as Vale termed it, was worse than any previous. Vale would someday confirm this empirically when he had the time to compare his patients' records. He didn't think that the camp had ever been this overcrowded, which bode poorly for the spread of disease. An effort was made to corral the sick and the healthy into separate spaces, but by the time this was decided, illness was too rife to be stopped. It was an epidemic. There were sick men who Vale never met, because they died in bed before they could get to him.

He never saw a strand of Marc's hair during this time. They had not spoken in multiple months, but Vale knew he was still there. Cigarettes were an attractive commodity once again to fight the cold, so his name was one of the few who were mentioned from time to time, on rare days that Marc was open to trading. Men who enjoyed smoking sought fire to warm their frozen lungs. Hearsay said that some were willing to take a cigarette and a listening ear in return for a full meal before their death, and left all of their possessions and credits to Marc. The sick did not want to go alone. Marc had a steely heart and physicality that let him hold people's hands while life drained out of them, over and over again, without being taken ill himself.

His might have been a self-sacrificial pursuit. All that the dying tended to have were little knick-knacks that did not have use, but Marc kept then in his pigeon-hole all the same.

Vale had walked past Marc's small box several days ago and saw that it was overflowing with useless artefacts. Marc had some sentimentality aside the calculative brain. By Vale's reckoning, Marc did not actually have that many cigarettes to spare for senseless trades like these - extra meals when he was not desperate or ill - but it was not his business to care. Marc wouldn't run himself dry, in any case. He always had something in his back pocket. Perhaps the credits he inherited made up for the cost.

Christmas season came with little fanfare. While the festive season usually provided a good opportunity to bring morale to ruins, the soldiers were unusually sedate this year. They feared the pneumonia that was going about and minimised contact with the masses. For Vale, this was particularly beneficial because he could run his infirmary without interruption.

A cluster his patients struck up a conversation on Christmas night, reminiscing about wives and children and mulled wines. They were sick, but oddly good-spirited despite facing the end of their days. It was unlikely that they would ever make it home.

One of them pulled Vale into conversation casually, asking "what about you, Doctor? Any children waiting at home?"

"No honest homosexual would have children waiting at home," Vale found himself saying, as he sat down between them in his tattered scrubs.

One of them men laughed. "Fair enough. Nobody know anything about you, I always thought you were one of those Communist intellectuals."

"Too serious for me, I liked to idle. Parties after work, you know?" Vale said, quirking a corner of his lip.

"Don't sell yourself short, you work hard like us," another one said. He spoke with a local accent that Vale shared. Vale did not check for his name.

The men who had energy chatted. Camaraderie rarely had the chance to surface to openly like this, and Vale was moved by it, even though it was in the graveyard that the infirmary had become. He fell back into his old habits as a man about society, always more animated and interesting than anybody else.

He remembered his unused credits and decided to do something nice for old time's sake. The gift of one last normal day for the dying.

"I will exchange us a beer to share. No, two," he announced, shrugging off his scrubs and getting to his feet. His patients cheered. Some slapped him joyfully on the back as he passed by them.

He came back from the commissary with a bottle in each hand to raucous laughter and cheers of drunk men, who didn't need a drop of alcohol to get there. "Good on you Doctor," someone hollered, before breaking into a cough.

Vale finally felt as though he was doing his job as he was supposed to. It was a beautiful moment. So went the only merry Christmas he experienced in internment.

--

Three days later, a soldier came to have his thumb stitched up for a minor injury, and kicked Vale in the gut as payment for his services.

"Rat," he spat.

--

Vale wouldn't see Marc again until February. It was the day before Valentine's Day - his namesake, the name of the martyrs, a day for love.

His birthday crept closer, and so did Marc's. Vale was quite aware of the coincidence as he had seen Marc's patient record card more than once. Having birthdays one day apart from the other was the sort of fact that stuck around whether one wished for it or not.

Marc was sent to the infirmary, not as an excuse to meet Vale this time. He held his right arm stiffly. He looked...bad. When pain became chronic, it was visible through the whole body. He had dark shadows bruising under his eyes, and the lines on his face were drawn deeply. He was small, but he no longer looked like a child.

"Is it possible to make me a splint that I can remove, Doctor?" he asked.

Vale glanced at him and wished patience and professionalism upon himself. "Why don't you let the doctor do the diagnosis, hmm?"

Marc nodded. "Okay. It's losing strength. I don't know what to do."

Vale sat him down on a chair and had him pull his sleeve up. His upper arm was swollen, and it trembled when Vale asked him to lift it.

"Don't move anymore," Vale instructed. There was nothing he could do for Marc, really. What Marc desperately needed was a few weeks, preferably months, of rest, and to hold his arm immobile for the entire duration. He had what Vale suspected was a fracture that never healed right, months of overcompensating for it with unnatural movements, and now what looked to be inflamed tendons in his shoulder.

Vale couldn't do his anything useful for him, and the knowledge was a lead stake to the heart. The camp wore people to the bone and exterminated them when they could do nothing more. But it should have been such an easy case at the start, such an avoidable tragedy, if only they were free men.

"I can't do anything to heal it. A splint will help minimally, if you use it outside of work, but the damage has been done," Vale said. He didn't sugarcoat facts. There were people slowly moving towards death every day. He'd just been wrong, been too hopeful about Marc.

"Anything that helps a bit," Marc said. He looked exhausted. He still had that determined set to his mouth, that Vale realised he would hold on to it until he died. The delusion that kept him going would be there until his last breath was stolen away.

He sat still as Vale tried his best to conjure splint out of cloth and wood, of dismal quality was dismal. The supplies made available to him had dwindled, with what he suspected were budgetary cuts. He was more of a caveman physician than a doctor at times.

"Have you realised yet that you won't last forever?" Vale asked at last. He could have hit himself for it; a doctor should not have such spiteful words for a patient. But he had said it, and he would not pretend that it was not the truth.

Apparently it was possible for Marc's expression to get worse. Maybe it was hurt, but more likely it was anger. It made his face look pinched and unreasonable. It added years to him.

"You don't believe me anymore. That's fine," Marc said, voice carefully steady. "I am not stupid, I know it's easy to die here. But I want to leave, so I need to have confidence. You cannot say you don't believe anymore and still try your best, because one day you be too tired to give it everything, then you let go, and you are gone."

"And when you can't work?" Vale asked, needling his point in. Marc was a foolhardy tragedy. He had an interesting way of tying his reasons into knots to motivate himself. If they met under normal circumstances, Vale might have liked him very much. Here, he was the walking incarnation of dreams begging to be crushed.

Marc shook his head. "I still can. It's difficult but I know that go to work and do everything tomorrow, and after that I can do it again."

He had to know it would not last forever. Vale didn't even believe now that it would last long. Marc would at least live to twenty-two, which was no consolation. "I wish you well, Marc," Vale said. Farewell.

"I'll see you," Marc said purposefully, a hard set to his lip.

--

February came and went, then March. The trees grew leaves again, and Vale grew older. He was going to spend the rest of his life here, in the dim depression, where he had no meaning. War rolled on and on, and the signs of it ending that Vale thought he had seen seemed to only be wishful thinking. The factories continued to chun, building weapons day after day. Rail work had paused because too many of them were dead.

Vale inevitably noticed bits of Marc from the edges of his perception: Marc's small body slipping away at the corner of a cramped washroom, his pigeon-hole still overflowing with junk, brief whispers of "Marquez" from time to time.

It was never enough. Sometimes he went four or five days without evidence that Marc was still around, and his mind started to drift. What if he was gone, and nobody kept a record?

But then he would catch the faintest whisper of proof that Marc existed still, and he could breathe again. He had become good at telling Marc's bald head and slight physique apart from the others. He could recognise the way clothes fell across Marc's shoulders even though he could not describe it. There was familiarity that should not be, akin to a partner that Vale had lived months with, even though Vale had never touched him with less than innocence.

People kept coming, people kept dying, and people kept being released. The serial numbers crept into the forty-thousands. Marc remained, outliving every expectation.

Vale supposed it made sense. If he wanted to be cruel in his judgement, and he sometimes was, he would say that Marc was an individualist who stole others' lifelines to keep himself alive. Anything, at all costs, with few moral limits.

He knew that Marc had to be doing poorly with his arm. He did not listen when Marc's name was mentioned. The less he knew, the better. The more he could push himself to trudge along, one dreary day to the next.

He was strong in the mind, and he could play any trick on himself to get by. He would not allow Marc to be the killing blow. But how he feared that he would have to mourn.

--

Weeks later, in the middle of spring, a stranger sat himself down next to Vale in the library. He occupied the footstool next to Vale that usually went unoccupied in Marc's absence. This got him to look up from his book.

"'lo Doctor," the man said.

Vale was used to strangers knowing who he was, and wasn't very surprised by this. He nodded a greeting and returned to his book.

The other man wasn't holding one. In fact, he didn't seem very interested in the library at all. He pulled an almost-full ten-stick pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and Vale's eyebrows flew up. Nobody he knew had so many, except for one person, and he guarded it too well for anyone else to ever see it.

Vale's thoughts stuttered to a halt. His blood went cold. What if-

"Marquez paid me to find you," the other man said casually, and he moved to strike a match.

Vale was on his feet before he knew it. He gripped the other man by his collar in tightly balled fists. He roared in his face.

"Where is Marquez? Where is he?" he demanded, in tones so harsh he did not sound like himself.

It couldn't be-

He knew it had to happen. But it couldn't-

Marc was only twenty-two.

"OI calm down Doctor, he's not here. Been released."

The words were such a shock to his system that it took a while to register. His hands laxed, and the man tripped backwards, catching himself on the stool.

Vale's hands were shaking. His whole body was. He felt shell-shocked. Years and years of horror, and he could still be made to feel like this.

"Jesus, he didn't warn me you were friends like that," the other man said faintly. He had black teeth and he was skin and bones. A few hard knocks would shatter him. Marc must have traded with him regularly.

"Not friends," Vale corrected absently. He controlled himself and sat down again. This sort of behaviour got one thrown into solitary or whipped. He had been very lucky that the library guard was prone to distraction.

Fucking Marc. Imagine if he got Vale killed like this.

The other man let out a throaty laugh. Other men in the library must have been listening to the exchange, but they didn't tend to get into each other's business. They had an unspoken gentlemen's agreement.

Vale's visitor moved to light up his cigarette again, then puffed smoke happily in the enclosed room. "Trust me Doc, I know friends don't act like this. Just shocked 'cos Marquez didn't say he knew you the whole time."

"Secretive little bastard, isn't he," Vale said. He was so relieved that his fondness was slipping through the cracks. He could have even cried if he were alone. His heart was jittery, it played tricks on his brain.

Marc was free. Marc was free.

Vale was giddy as a child on Christmas. This feeling must have been happiness.

What a crazy man, to scrap his way through for so long with three functional limbs and a handful of cigarettes.

A cool, limp hand clasped Vale's. He had never even held Marc's while he was around. Vale found a cigarette placed in his palm.

"Have one," the man said, rather generously, all things considered. He held the smoke in his lungs and puffed it out in artful rings. Vale had not seen this being done since he was young, still a student, attending house parties with his classmates.

He accepted the gift. He was rekindled with that old vibrance today, and when he drew a deep breath of Marc's cigarette, he imagined a connection with him. He was content.

"God bless him," the other man said, sighing deeply with his eyes closed. He appeared frail, but he had made peace with it in a way that Marc never had. Thank heavens he had not. Vale echoed the sentiment.

"Nearly forgot, Marquez told me to give you everything from his box. Couldn't be bothered to empty it myself, but you can find it. Number was one zero five-"

"Nine three," Vale continued. "I know."

He was impatient, suddenly. Couldn't wait until morning, when they were lined up to take their clothes, so he could sneak into the wrong line to have a look at Marc's things. He knew what he would find - useless knick-knacks, paperclips, and a stack of unused papers. His treasures now.

Marc was free. The world still had a place for miracles.

--

Vale found that he had been correct about what Marc owned. In addition, Marc left him a second pack of cigarettes, worth more than gold. He stuffed everything into his pockets indiscriminately and hoped nobody was too curious.

He could write on the stack of papers. He could also find a use for the small pile of paperclips. Maybe he would use it on Marc's card first, to attach all of his medical records. He could be the one to update Marc's status altogether - red ink of a release stamp, rather than the black of death. What joy. The other things, he would make sense of at another time. They weren't originally Marc's anyway.

He still had to get through his patients, always more than the infirmary had space for, and many who were more injured or ill than Marc had ever been. Strange how it mattered less to him.

It wasn't until evening that he had time to sit at his pitiful excuse for a desk and sort through what Marc left him, under the guise of updating his patients' records.

He emptied his pockets of the paperclips. They had gotten everywhere. He wished he had a box - maybe he could learn to fold one with the paper. That would be perfect.

The other things were disorganised as well - old buttons, a pencil snapped in half, a nice pen that had dried out, a broken police badge, a wooden comb, and a letter in Vale's language addressed to a woman. Stories from people who had passed. Things with personality that had become contraband. Vale would have to organise his box the next morning to store them.

He got to work to fold a paper box, and fucked the first attempt up. When was the last time he had done something so frivolous? Marc would certainly approve. He smoothed the sheet of paper out so he could reuse it later.

He lifted a second sheet to try again, and his eyes widened as he saw writing on the third.

1338, scribbled in pencil and circled. The days Marc had spent there, Vale was certain. I am alive!

A familiar address written below in small, loopy penmanship, as though Vale could ever forget with how often Marc used to recite it.

See you again, went the last line.

And in the corner, a heart.

Then a fresh teardrop.

[creator4favestuff]

I've been thinking about Animated more than I thought I would, and given I've been thinking about Nemesis Prime...

I know Shattered Glass was supposed to be a thing for S4, and I'm so sad it didn't happen. But I can think! I can headcanon and do silly little things with the reader involved!

Please note that this is a bit long (oops) and the characters in this post are Sari, Bee, Megatron, Starscream, Sentinel, Elita One in that order.

💜Apparently, in one of the drafts, Sari could have had a mother figure locked away to keep her under control. Imagine if that was the reader.

A possible family member or someone who worked under Isaac, saw what he was becoming and tried so desperately to keep Sari on a good path, only for him to keep you trapped with your own collar. She would barely get to see you, and when she did, it was always supervised. The most that happened would be Sari telling you about her days, a new interest, always about her. You couldn't say anything, or the collar would shock you. Harshly.

She tried so hard to think of a solution to set you free, run away, and never look back! Screw the city! Sari just wants things to go back to the way they were. She misses your hugs that always made her feel safe, the gentle words that made everything seem less painful, the warmth you exuded as akin to the cold lab tables.

Though it never gets to happen as the Decepticons manage to find and take you away, something that fuels her anger even more. She wouldn't care if they're good or bad or whatever label they had! They took you away from her! And that wouldn't slide.

Sooner or later, her collar would come off, whether broken by her own hands, regardless of the pain, or momentarily uncharged enough to let her rip it off with minimum damage, Sari looks for you. The moment she finds you, all thoughts of destruction and violence leave her.

You look healthier. Happier. Better than before. All thanks to these Decepticons, who you said have helped you recover. Who were even going to find a way...to help HER be free? Simply because you asked for their help?

It's such a foreign concept to her, but right now, all that matters is being by your side again. Even if you're in a meeting with Megatron, she sits next to you. Even if it's you talking with Starscream about materials, she stays. Nothing will take you away from her again.

Since HE'S not around to stop her, do expect to hear her call you mom and mother.

🤍Bee, still wanting to prove himself, does things that tend to be reckless. The sad thing? Even if he does a good job, it either doesn't impress anyone or he's still punished because he didn't follow orders in "the right way". He becomes completely quiet, only laughing to himself and hiding away unless called for.

When Sari, who's still friends with him in this universe (Please I CANNOT separate them, that'd be too cruel- 😔) tells him all about you, he's so curious. All he has to go off is a description of what you look like and your "odd kindness" as Sari puts it.

He wonders all the time what you're like. Why you have such a hold on Sari when her priority should be staying alive. That's what he's always had to do: what all Autobots have had to do. Love and care don't go with anything they've learned.

Bee wasn't around when you were taken, so he learns about it through one of Sari's outbursts. This one though?

The most destructive he'd ever seen. Even Isaac has a hard time getting her to stop, given the collar seems nonexistent to her. Even after the incident, things don't change back. He sees the way she stresses out, becomes more violent, snappy, mean. Turning into the other members on his team. He doesn't like it. She's supposed to be his..."friend", so why?

Bee isn't surprised when Sari leaves him behind. Kinda expected it. A small bit of him hoped, but he should have known better. It isn't until he's forced into a corner by Lugnut and Blitzwing that you and Sari appear.

The two get into a heated argument that leaves them heaving and upset. He refuses to believe that she and the Decepticons would come to save him. Why should he!?

"You left me behind! You're no different than the others! All the same..."

He decides to leave and head to who knows where, sobbing his poor spark out before being met with you. The human that Sari raved so much about. He'll act pouty, even as you explain the whole situation, before being shown a picture of a room.

A room dedicated to him. That Sari put together with your help...

He'll eventually go with you to apologize, the best he can anyways, who apologizes in her own awkward way. He's able to settle in, albeit with caution as second nature.

Imagine the horror he feels when he takes a mission into his hands and manages to make the Autobots retreat, but because he didn't follow the plan, he expects punishment. But instead, the others commend him for his quick thinking, which confuses him immensely. Not only that, but the untampered energon? The training that doesn't make him want to fall apart? No yelling or shock collars?

...Maybe being a Decepticon isn't so bad.

🩵Megatron, bless his spark, is such a gentleman. When you're rescued from your cage of loneliness, he immediately offers medical attention. His knowledge on humans isn't well known, but he's a quick learner.

His tales of the war, the fight he wishes to win for peace, it's admirable, and who wouldn't want to help? Not only that, but he has such a way with words and leadership that makes anyone know,, without a doubt, that he's a trusted ally. Even if you can't give much in terms of information pertaining to the Autobots, he doesn't mind.

"The fact that you are safe is what matters most. We can always strategize with what we have now."

The moment Sari arrives, he accesses the situation and lets you handle it. Megatron trusts that you wouldn't jeopardize the mission or their trust, but he makes sure to let you know that she's your responsibility. Not out of hatred, but because you can handle her better than he can, so he'll leave her care to you.

🩷Starscream, ever the loyal second in command, is the one to save you. He sees the desperation in your eyes and manages to zap the collar before any more damage is done. The seeker takes flight before the Autobots can do anything and offers to be your guardian.

He's usually the one who flies out and gets food and other things a human would need for you, and later on, Sari when she arrives. Thinks the bond you have with her is adorable and gives guidance when needed or wanted.

Such a soft hearted guy. Sari thinks he's weird. Bee thinks he's ESPECIALLY weird. The Decepticons sometimes see him as a bit of a pushover, but they do enjoy his optimism. It helps ease the burden when they have someone they can talk to that gives a new perspective of things.

🧡Sentinel being a courageous guy who tries so hard to see the good in others, wanting to believe that the Autobots are trying to do the right thing. But he changes sides when he realizes what his spark has been trying to deny for so long. They can't change, rather, they won't. And uncovering the truth on what Optimus did to Elita One? It crushes any hope he had. Even when the two meet, Sentinel's just happy that she's found her place amongst those she can call friends. He'll help her however he can, to make up for lost time and to see her thrive.

💓Speaking of Elita One, in this universe, she could be an Autobot turned Decepticon. Optimus could have left her behind to be bait, taking Sentinel. Maybe the soft hearted Autobot was the only one who knew how to pilot the ship they came in since it was his? But when all hope seems lost, she's saved by a group of Decepticon and shown that there's better ways to live than constant paranoia and hatred. She serves in part to pay her debt, but also because for once, she feels like there's something to call home.

That's all I have for now! Can you tell who I went off the scale with? Maybe I'll write more for this, I don't know. For now, this is the most my brain can think of on the fly.

[foryoufics]

Slow Ch 1

Summary: You've been with Hoseok for ten years, ten long, agonizingly slow, years; six of which he's been unfaithful and engaged to you, five of those married, behind your back. Any time Yoongi spends with you he wants one thing, for it to just go, slow. It isn't like he hasn't wanted to steal you before but you've turned down every man who has tried. When he finds out about Hoseok's secret family he realizes that he has to be quick

Warnings: angst, cheating, cursing, adult themes (sexual)

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader, ultimate Yoongi x Reader

“I think I should go,” Yoongi hated those words, absolutely despised them, but, he noticed your hand on Hoseok 's leg, rubbing his knee and wandering higher. He wouldn't mind watching, but, you all had finished the amazing dinner you made a while ago and had just been sitting and chatting, and he understood that you hadn't seen Hobi in a while and had to have missed him. That you had to have missed Hobi the same way he missed you, even though only he knew that. He chuckles and stands, pushing his hands off of his knees. “I think it's time I went home and got some rest, see you guys later,” he smiles, “dinner was amazing YN,” he leans down to kiss the top of your hair, “I love when you make your food from home,” he adds. 

“Thanks Yoongs, ‘Night, sleep well,” you tell him and let his hand go.

“Is it cool if I go use the bathroom first?” 

“Yes, you don't have to ask. I'll just head into the room,” you get up and walk into yours and Hobi’s room.

“Go take care of her,” Yoongi chuckles and pats his friend’s shoulder as he passes.

Yoongi felt his fist forming as he brings it up to bite it, thinking Come on Hobi, not like last time. 

“I've really missed you~,” he hears your sultry voice as he passes the room, there's the smallest gap of the door open, maybe you thought he had left. He shouldn't stop and listen, but, he can't help it, he had heard conversations like this before and never liked how they played out. He has to stick around to see if this time is different. He shouldn't look, but, from his peripheral vision he can see through the small open space that you're on your knees. He can piece together between Hoseok’s legs. “I missed you so much~, I want to show you how much I've missed you~, please~?” 

“I missed you too,” he can hear him respond, dry and flat, then he hears the shuffling of the bed, he was crawling to lay down. Yoongi leaves before he can storm into the room.

On his way home all he can think about is that he and Hobi had just been away touring for months, he didn't understand how anyone could turn you down just now, at any time, but, especially being away for so long. He almost didn't make it, you weren't even his and he missed everything about you. He missed your smile, your eyes, your laugh, he missed how you smelled especially your hair, everything. Had you been his and he were in that room just now, oh the things he would do. He didn't get it, since you and Hoseok had gotten engaged, he noticed that there had been no affection from his friend towards you and having overheard several occasions like the one that just happened he doubted any intimacy. He never even noticed Hoseok making any wedding plans, he has seen you ask and try and Hoseok just avoid the subject and give excuses. He wanted to say something, but, really didn't know about how to go about doing it. Did Hoseok not notice how easily someone else could want you? Did he not notice how male baristas and men in many of the places you go flirt and make passes, every time you turn them down. Did that not make Hoseok's blood boil the way it did his? He felt his blood boiling more every second he thought about it. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel from his grip. In the shower he found himself still thinking about it and you, what did you do when this happened? Were you crying? How many times have you cried before? "SHIBAL!!" He found himself punching the shower wall before running his fingers through his hair to rinse it out and stepping out. He made a quick dinner and went to bed, he had to admit he was exhausted. However laying down and closing his eyes brought him no rest. He kept hearing your voice and those words, remembering you on your knees and spent the night tossing and turning and punching his pillow until he had to do something about it.

The next morning he definitely needed coffee so he grabbed some and went over to your place, he liked packing as much time in with you and Hobi as he could when they were home. You weren't home and had to work.

"What are you looking at?" Hobi asks, noticing how intensely he was focused on his phone. "Hm? Oh Pinterest...."

"Pinterest?" Hobi raises a brow

"Yeah, looking up ideas for your wedding..."

"My wedding?" He looks up at Hoseok, his friend was dead serious

"Yes, you're engaged, remember, to YN, you know, the woman whose been with you the past decade, engaged to you for more than half of it, that YN, that wedding"

'Oh shit, I forgot," Hobi laughs

Yoongi reeled himself in to not deck his friend, "so for the flowers, she doesn't like red, so-"

"We have to wait, there's too much going on to think about that"

"I mean yeah, we have touring, but we have time in between, a few weeks here and there and she said she doesn't want anything huge ....she's got no family"

"I'll get to it, I'll get to it," Hobi fans him off, "oo~, I have to go," Hobi rushes off

"Yeah....later.....," Yoongi leans back and hangs back a moment as he leaves, in utter disbelief before thinking, he did this way too often. What the fuck was going on? He chews his lip and lets Hobi get a head start before following him to wherever he was going. They come to a stop at a school and Hobi gets out.

"What the hell?" Yoongi asks, sitting a distance back in his car. He sees a woman come over and they embrace each other, like a reflex, he grabs his phone and he watches the woman kiss Hobi, and Hobi kiss her, hold her waist close, they make out for several minutes before going inside. About fourty five minutes later, they walk out with Hobi carrying a little boy, who had just finished his kindergarten graduation based on his little cap and gown attire

[asmalltimewriter]

I've seen many takes on people's idea of Kris talking to the soul, so I thought I'd put forth my idea.

I like to imagine that Kris first discovered that the soul could speak when, after visiting Rudy at the hospital, they started looking around the place and found a lone stethoscope.

Kris decides to put it on and listen to their heartbeat, and for a while all they hear is the steady beating of their heart. Then, out of nowhere, they hear a voice in their ears, albeit echoed and whispery like it's from a distance, saying, "I remember playing with my pretend stethoscope as a kid."

Reflexively, they throw the stethoscope away in shock. Only after gathering their courage does Kris put it back on, muttering to themself as they place it above their heart, "who just spoke?"

And the soul tells them, "me. The... being controlling your soul. Hello, Kris. I've been trying to talk with you for a while, but you could never hear me. It seems that stethoscope there lets you hear me-"

Kris doesn't respond and simply pockets the stethoscope instead of listening anymore, deciding that they'd keep the stethoscope just in case they did ever need to speak with the soul in the future.

[bradshawed]

Rafe cameron request!! So i was thinking about criminal minds evolution right and the entire Voit storyline currently in season 18 so hear me out now, reader works for the BAU and Rafe cameron is their biggest target rn and he experiences amnesia like voit & reader has to keep interviewing him and they fall for each other along the way??? (idk if this sounds good but i just saw the last episode of penelope falling asleep in his room and it made me think of this😭)

hi pretty, thank u so much for requesting!!!!! i haven't seen criminal minds: evolution 🫣 butttt i did speed read through voit's cm wiki page so please ignore any inaccuracies. i also made a few changes to the request since i'm not a fan of falling for a criminal considering what voit's character did esp to rossi, so i hope this is alright xx

warnings — fem!reader, use of y/n, pet names, 18+, swearing, criminal minds themes, reader x luke alvez undertones, mentions of abduction, torture and murder, references to psychopaths, and some inaccuracies

masterlist, sleeping beauty

...

"You're joking. What the-" Luke pulled you into a vacant room, closing the door behind you. "Luke, come on, a fucking coma?" The brunette didn't say a word, lips tight as his eyes followed you as you proceeded to curse up a storm under your breath, burning a hole in the floor.

"Y/N. Y/N! Cariño!" You paused, glancing up at his pretty eyes to ground you. "How did this happen?"

Luke gestured for you to sit down, handing you a coffee you hadn't realised he'd been holding, "Cameron was jumped by two inmates in the laundry room. He's currently in a coma in a room down the hall. The MRI shows brain scarring from the traumatic brain injury." You clenched your fists, "and the other two inmates?" Luke sighed, "in the morgue, he stabbed them in self-defence".

You closed your eyes listening to Luke explain that there will be guards posted around the clock, with a sensor under his wrist to alert them if and when he comes around. "The lucky son of a bitch."

...

Months later and Sleeping Beauty was awake but there was a slight hiccup. Retrograde amnesia. That [insert colourful language here] couldn't remember a single fucking thing. He couldn't recognise his own name or pictures of his sister or Rossi, thinking the latter was his father which would've been funny if it wasn't for the circumstances.

So here you were sitting across from the man who had abducted two of your colleagues, not to mention the countless others he abducted, tortured and killed, and it was your job to try and recover his memories (and your case against him) without waking up the sleeping killer inside. Lucky you.

...

"You planning on staring me down like that the whole time sweetheart?" You tried to suppress the urge to shiver, "Sorry princess, forgot only your boyfriend was allowed to call you that." Your stare hardened at the mention of Luke, with visible disgust at his new pet name of choice.

"So, Rafe..." You pulled out a photograph of a fire at a family home that resembled a mansion, placing it in front of him. The blonde reached out, his handcuffs clinking against the metal table as he traced the image with a fondness you hadn't seen before. "Can you tell me what happened here?"

"You know I can't."

"Try."

Rafe pushed the photo away, his patience wavering. You pushed it back. "Stop! Just- just stop. I've already told you, I don't remember." Maybe this anger is what you needed, "you could if you tried hard enough but you've never tried for a day in your life, raised on a silver platter, no need to prove anything to anyone so you grew up weak and-" Rafe slammed his fists into the table, the sound echoing through the interrogation room, but you didn't flinch.

"You're trying to piss me off, to bait me into revealing something I can't remember. It's not working and it won't work. Give up agent." His voice was like ice, cold, calm and calculated. You stood up calmly leaving the room with a smirk on your face. He might not remember anything but he was in there and you weren't about to give up.