#glowing patterns stims

[aspenmissing]

Hi hiiii!! Love your work!!

Could you do arcane characters with an s/o who has nervous stims or habits?? Mine’s come back full force and it’s somewhat annoying, but I’ve learned that people I’m close with don’t mind and it makes me feel accepted :3

Have a great day!! You’re my favourite author on here :D

ɴᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴅᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 5974 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ꜰᴜɴ ᴏꜰꜰ (ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜɪ ʜɪ ʜɪɪɪɪɪɪɪ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ!! ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴜᴄᴋ ꜱᴏ ʙᴀᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

JAYCE

The low hum of Hextech filled the room—faint, like a heartbeat behind the walls. Blue light shimmered from a half-finished core on the workbench, casting soft glows across brass tools and sketches scattered in loose piles.

Jayce had been tinkering with a prototype all afternoon, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows, grease smudged faintly along the side of his hand. But now his gloves were off, and the fire in his eyes had dulled—not from exhaustion, but from peace. The kind that only came when he let himself slow down.

His focus had drifted away from the tools and cables.

It was you he was watching now.

You sat perched on the edge of the worktable, knees tucked up to your chest, socked feet brushing against one of the metal stools. Your fingers moved in anxious loops, quiet and habitual. First the edge of your sleeve—rolling it between thumb and forefinger in slow repetition. Then a soft tap of your foot against the leg of the table. Then a pattern traced over your palm with your fingertip. A quiet cycle of motion. So small, so personal. You probably didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Jayce didn’t interrupt. Not right away.

He’d learned not to.

There was a time—early on—when he’d tried to gently still your hand, thinking he was helping. You’d smiled at him then, not unkindly, but distant. A retreat behind your eyes. That night, he’d gone home and read everything he could about stimming, anxiety loops, sensory grounding.

Now, he didn’t try to fix it.

He leaned a little closer instead, elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand. His body language relaxed, but his attention fully on you.

“You’re thinking hard again,” he said gently, voice warm with amusement and fondness.

You blinked, pulled out of your spiral just enough to look up. Your eyes darted to meet his, wide with apology. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to distract you.”

“You’re not distracting me,” Jayce said, his voice almost melting into the hum of the room. “I like watching you think.”

Your brows drew together—just slightly—as if unsure whether he meant it. A flicker of hesitation passed through your face, the kind that came from too many people misunderstanding you. From too many hands swatting yours away. From too many rooms where you’d been asked to be “less.”

Not used to someone noticing. Not used to someone noticing and being kind about it.

Jayce reached for your hands—carefully, never rushing—and you let him take them. His thumbs ran along the backs of your knuckles, slow and steady, grounding you in the way only he knew how.

“I noticed you do that when you’re anxious,” he murmured, not accusing—just curious, just soft. “The little stims. They’re kind of... rhythmic. Like a song only you know.”

You gave a faint, uncertain smile, like you weren’t sure if he meant that as a compliment or a polite observation. “They annoy some people.”

Jayce frowned—never at you, always for you. “Then they’re not your people.”

The quiet between you stretched, but it was a comfortable kind of silence. His hands were so much bigger than yours, but they held you like you were made of crystal and copper. Like something rare. Like something that couldn’t be bent too hard without losing its current.

“I don’t always know I’m doing it,” you admitted softly. “It just... helps. Keeps me from spiraling when I’m stuck in my head.”

Jayce nodded slowly. “Then you never have to explain it to me. Not once.”

His tone was resolute, but not heavy. It just was. Like gravity. Like certainty.

Your fingers twitched again, instinctively trying to go back to the motion. You hesitated, wary that it might be a wrong move in this soft moment. But Jayce didn’t let you pull away—he gently encouraged it instead, folding your hands into his lap, his thumbs continuing their steady motion.

“Here,” he said after a pause, reaching into the drawer beside the table. He pulled out a piece of soft leather cord—a scrap from a bracer he’d been prototyping last week. Worn in just enough to be flexible, comforting. He looped it around your wrist loosely and offered the ends. “You can fidget with this when you’re with me. I’ll always have something for your hands to do.”

You blinked, taken aback by the simplicity and thoughtfulness of the gesture. Not grand. Not dramatic. Just quietly perfect.

“Jayce...”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and it was like he was trying to memorize this version of you. This moment. This peace.

He gave you a small smile, one that never quite reached his lips but glowed behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to be still or quiet to be loved,” he said. “Not with me.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear that—how rarely anyone had said it and meant it.

And just like that, your shoulders dropped, breath coming a little easier. The leather cord slipped between your fingers as you began to twist and wind it—finding rhythm, letting your thoughts breathe again.

Jayce stayed beside you, never rushing, never pulling away. Just being there.

Outside the windows, the Piltover skyline glowed gold with the setting sun, casting long shadows across the floor of the workshop. The hum of Hextech faded into the background again.

Now, all Jayce could hear was your rhythm.

And it was beautiful.

VIKTOR

The lab was quiet, save for the occasional metallic click… tap… click of Viktor’s cane against the tile as he paced slowly across the room. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and old paper, with the subtle undercurrent of something electric and strange — the heartbeat of invention. The warm glow of the Hexcore pulsed faintly from its container at the far end of the room, casting fluid, shifting shadows that danced across shelves stacked with blueprints and books, and over the cluttered desks that bore the scars of long nights.

You sat perched on the edge of a stool, hunched slightly, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. Your fingers tangled nervously in the sleeves of your shirt — tugging, twisting, tucking the frayed fabric between your fingers in practiced rhythm.

You didn’t mean to fidget.

It was just… the day had been long. Everything had pressed in too close: voices echoing too loud in your head, thoughts looping, spiraling, chewing at the corners of your calm. You’d meant to come in and help Viktor with calibration notes or circuit diagrams, but the second you’d stepped into the lab and heard the soft hum of him working—his familiar humming under his breath, one hand steady on his cane as he focused on his scribbled notes—you’d felt something inside you seize and flutter all at once.

You ached with affection and anxiety. You wanted to reach out. Say something. Anything. But your hands wouldn’t stop moving.

Tug. Twist. Tuck.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the room, Viktor’s humming stilled.

You didn’t look up, but you could feel the weight of his gaze settle on you—sharp and soft all at once, like he was watching a fragile mechanism wind itself too tightly.

Then came the sound of his cane again—tap… tap…—as he made his way over to you, slow and deliberate.

“Y/N,” he said gently, voice low and warm, like he didn’t want to startle you. “You’re doing it again.”

You froze mid-twist, pulse spiking like you’d been caught doing something shameful. Your shoulders tensed, your hands went still, and your voice came out small. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

He paused in front of you, and then — slowly, carefully — lowered himself into the chair beside yours with a soft sigh. The strain of his leg always made sitting and standing harder than he let on, but he never minded doing it for you.

“You do not need to apologize,” Viktor said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes searching yours. “Not for how your body asks for comfort.”

That sentence alone undid something tight in your chest. Your hands trembled slightly, still half-curled in your sleeves.

“Is it the noise in your head again?” he asked gently.

You nodded, your throat tightening. “It won’t shut up today,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “It’s like… everything’s vibrating. Like I can’t sit still or breathe right or…” You trailed off, your jaw working slightly as you blinked back the prickle in your eyes. “I don’t even know why.”

“That is all right,” he said. “You do not need to explain why. It’s enough to feel it.”

His hand reached out for yours—slow, deliberate, never pushing. He always gave you room to move, to choose. You didn’t pull away. His fingers slipped between yours, warm and careful, anchoring. His other hand remained on the head of his cane, fingers relaxed against the polished wood.

He shifted slightly closer, until his knee brushed yours and his shoulder was just a breath away. You leaned into the contact without thinking.

“You always do this with your sleeves when you’re overwhelmed,” Viktor murmured, voice dipping low. “Or you click your teeth. Or pace in tiny circles around the same patch of floor, even when you don’t notice it.”

A hollow little laugh escaped your throat. “I didn’t think you’d… see all that.”

His golden eyes softened. “I see everything about you,” he said, thumb brushing across your knuckles, slow and rhythmic. “Especially the things you try to hide.”

You blinked hard, overwhelmed for a different reason now. It was always like this with Viktor. He noticed things. Not to correct or judge, but to understand.

“I used to think I was broken too,” Viktor said after a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor, to the worn curve of his cane. “That needing help, or resting my weight on something outside of myself, made me weak. Less.”

You could hear the ghost of something in his voice. Regret? Memory?

“But it doesn’t,” he went on, looking back at you now. “We are not machines, Y/N. We are not meant to be perfect. And you—your thoughts, your hands, the way you move when your mind is loud—it is all part of you. I do not want you to mask yourself with me.”

Something in your chest cracked open at the edges, vulnerable and raw.

“I could build you something,” he said, his voice turning thoughtful, almost shy. “Something for your hands. A stim ring, perhaps. Or a clicker, something mechanical. I have some spare gears I could use, and I think I know just the tension you like—enough resistance to feel real, but not enough to frustrate.”

You let out a sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” he said simply. “But only if it helps. Otherwise, I will sit here and hold your hands until they stop shaking. Or longer. As long as you need.”

You leaned forward then, your forehead pressing to the soft fabric of his coat. He smelled like machine oil, old books, and the faintest trace of tea. Home.

The metal brace on his leg clinked faintly as he adjusted to hold you, one arm slipping around your waist, firm and grounding.

“I love you,” you whispered into his coat.

His breath hitched ever so slightly, but his voice was steady when he answered, “I know.”

He shifted enough to press a kiss into your hair. “And I love every inch of your restless heart.”

You sat like that for a long time. No ticking clocks. No buzzing thoughts. Just the soft hum of the Hexcore, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet miracle of being seen.

JAYVIK

You hadn’t realized you were doing it again.

Your fingers were picking at the hem of your sleeve, tugging the threads in tight little spirals like you were trying to unravel something just beneath your skin. You could feel the tension in your shoulders, the way your breath had been sitting too shallow in your chest for the past hour. The room wasn’t loud, not really, but your mind was. Thoughts stacking, spiraling, layering over each other until they became a weight pressing against the inside of your skull.

The soft sound of fabric fraying beneath your fingernails barely registered — not until Viktor’s voice cut gently through the static.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, quiet and careful, as if he were walking through a room full of glass. Not scolding — never scolding — just noticing. Like he always did.

You blinked and looked down, your vision refocusing on your hands. The hem of your sweater was starting to look a little threadbare. Again. You sighed, folding your fingers inward like maybe they’d behave if you hid them.

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled. “Just… can’t get my head to shut up today.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the soft tap… tap… of Viktor’s cane against the wooden floor. You knew that sound well. There was something reassuring about it, like a metronome syncing your heart back into rhythm.

He moved slowly, as always, each step measured and deliberate, until he reached the couch. You didn’t look up, but you felt the shift in the cushions as he sat beside you — close, but not crowding — and then his hand, cool and steady, resting lightly over yours where they were half-tucked into your sleeves.

“I know,” he said simply. And he did.

He didn’t try to talk you out of how you felt. Didn’t try to logic his way through your anxiety the way others might. He just offered his presence — calm and constant — like a lighthouse through fog.

His thumb traced slow, grounding circles over your knuckles. You hadn’t realized how much tension was wound through your hands until it started to ease under his touch.

“Would you like me to stay here,” he murmured, “or give you space?”

Your throat tightened, and your reply came out softer than you intended. “Stay.”

That one word was always enough for him.

“Alright.”

A moment passed in quiet. Then, from the kitchen, came the heavier sound of Jayce’s footsteps — solid and familiar. You heard the clink of ceramic against the counter, the soft rush of water, and then his voice floating in like sunlight through a window.

“Hey, love—do you want tea, or should I let Viktor keep spoiling you?”

You managed a small smile, the corner of your mouth tugging upward despite the noise still simmering in your head. “Both.”

Jayce laughed, and it was the kind of sound that vibrated in your chest like warmth spreading through cold limbs. A second later, he appeared with two mugs in hand — steam curling from the tops, carrying the scent of lavender and honey.

He handed one to Viktor with a quiet nod and set the other in front of you, careful not to jostle your hands. But instead of settling on the far end of the couch, he knelt in front of you, resting his chin lightly on your knee, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice dipping soft, careful, like he didn’t want to scare you back into yourself.

“Not really,” you whispered. “It’s just one of those days. Everything feels too loud. And I keep doing…”

You pulled your sleeve up to show the frayed hem. The fabric was starting to look a little like how you felt — worn thin at the edges.

Jayce didn’t look annoyed or concerned. He just leaned forward and kissed your knee, slow and tender. “Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“It’s okay to have habits,” Viktor added, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand hadn’t left yours, hadn’t stopped its gentle circles. “But we can help, if you want us to.”

You looked between them — Viktor’s quiet steadiness, Jayce’s open-hearted warmth — and nodded, something in your chest trembling loose.

“Can I… have something to do with my hands?” you asked. “Just something that won’t ruin another sweater.”

Jayce’s face lit up instantly. “Gods, yes. Yes. Hold on—wait here.”

He shot to his feet so fast it nearly knocked Viktor’s mug. “Careful,” Viktor muttered with a fond eye-roll, but there was no real annoyance in it.

Jayce darted to the bookshelf in the corner, kneeling down to dig through the drawer that you always forgot existed. There was the sound of rummaging, a quiet aha!, and then he returned with a small wooden box cradled in both hands.

“Fidget stuff,” he declared, dropping to his knees again in front of you like he was presenting treasure. “I’ve been collecting them. Just in case.”

He opened the box for you, revealing a neat little arrangement of tools and toys. Soft silicone loops. Smooth beads strung on wire. Clickable gears that spun like clockwork. A tiny metal puzzle shaped like a cube. A weighted plush that fit perfectly into your palm. All of it neatly organized, clearly touched and tested by careful hands.

You stared at it, overwhelmed in the best way.

“You did all this?”

Jayce shrugged like it was nothing. “Figured one of us would need it sooner or later.”

You reached for the plush first, letting its small weight settle into your hand, grounding and warm. It was soft — soothing — and somehow smelled faintly of Jayce’s cologne and Viktor’s tea.

“I like when you take care of me,” you said quietly, your voice catching in your throat.

“We like taking care of you,” Viktor corrected gently. “You take care of us, too. You know that, don’t you?”

You blinked quickly. Your eyes stung, and your chest felt too full for your ribs.

“I try.”

Jayce leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a long moment. “You do more than try.”

Viktor shifted slightly beside you, using his free hand to adjust the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He tugged it over your lap with practiced ease, tucking it around your legs like muscle memory.

With the fidget plush in your hand, Viktor warm and steady at your side, and Jayce resting his head against your thigh, the apartment felt smaller in the best way. Less like a place where your thoughts echoed too loudly — more like a sanctuary.

Their sanctuary. Your sanctuary.

And for the first time that day, you exhaled without shaking.

VANDER

The smell of Zaun’s evening air filtered through the cracked window—oil, rust, rain, and the faintest trace of damp stone. The city always smelled like it was remembering something old and heavy. Y/N sat on the worn armrest of the couch in the upstairs living room above the Last Drop, tapping their fingers against their thigh in a rhythm that only made sense to them.

Tap tap–tap tap. Tap tap–tap tap.

It helped. It always did.

The noise downstairs had been louder than usual tonight—shouted toasts, the scrape of metal chairs, the slam of tankards. Some idiot had challenged Vander to a drinking contest, and the crowd had roared like it was the Piltie arena.

The kids, of course, had picked up on the chaos like little lightning rods. Vi was pacing like a caged wolf, picking fights with Mylo just because she could. Claggor was trying to mediate, but humming through his nose the way he always did when stressed. Powder had burst into tears once already. Too much sugar. Not enough structure. Not enough quiet.

Now, the hum in Y/N’s chest—the creeping buzz of something uncertain, something wrong even though nothing was—was starting to swell and press at the edges of their ribs.

They picked at the edge of their sleeve next, tugging at a loose thread, twisting it tight around their fingers. The soft tug, the tiny bit of pressure, the repetition—it helped.

Tap tap–twist. Tap tap–twist.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Heavy steps. Familiar.

Y/N didn’t look up.

“I can always tell when something’s off,” Vander’s voice rumbled gently from the doorway.

He leaned one massive shoulder against the frame, arms folded, his body filling the space like a warm wall. His voice was steady as ever, a low, gravelly anchor.

“You’ve got that look.”

Y/N gave him a quiet smile, just enough to not be rude. “Which one?”

“The one where your fingers are movin’ like they’re trying to play a song no one else can hear.”

Y/N glanced down at their hands. The sleeve thread had curled tight around their index finger, a makeshift ring.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” they mumbled, gently tugging the string free and looping it around the next finger. “Just… overstimmed, I guess. The kids are wired, and the bar was… a lot.”

Vander nodded, his expression softening with understanding. He always listened with his whole face—eyebrows drawn, lips slightly parted like he wanted to absorb every word and hold it gently in his palm.

“You wanna step out for air?” he offered, jerking his chin toward the window. “Rooftop’s quiet tonight. Rain’s stopped.”

Y/N opened their mouth to answer, but the sound of tiny footsteps thundered down the hall like a stampede of one.

“Mom!” Powder’s voice rang out as she crashed into the room.

She was all limbs and wild energy, hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted. Without hesitation, she launched herself into Y/N’s lap, arms wrapping tight around their middle.

Y/N caught her mid-air with a little oof, shifting to cradle the small body against their chest. Powder was getting too big to fling herself like that, but neither of them cared.

“Powder, it’s bedtime,” Y/N said gently, brushing a bit of soot off her cheek.

“But Vi and Mylo are arguing,” she wailed, “and Claggor won’t stop humming, and I can’t sleep!”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her back in slow, practiced circles. “I know, baby. I know. It’s been a long day.”

Powder blinked up at them suddenly, as if remembering something important. She reached out and poked their hand.

“Are you doing the thing again? The tapping?”

Y/N blinked, then smiled. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just trying to settle.”

Powder’s expression softened. She curled closer, cheek pressed to their chest.

“I like it when you do that,” she mumbled. “It means you’re still here.”

That brought a quiet ache to Y/N’s throat.

Vander stepped fully into the room now, crossing the floor in just a few strides. He knelt beside the couch, big hand brushing Powder’s wild hair back behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

“We’re all still here, little monkey,” he said warmly. “But it’s late. You want me to tuck you in?”

“No,” Powder said stubbornly, fingers tightening on Y/N’s sleeve. “I want mom to do it.”

Vander raised a brow, amused. “Guess you’re on duty.”

Y/N chuckled, their fingers now stroking Powder’s back in that same rhythmic tapping—soft and comforting now instead of anxious. “Alright, alright. But you get to convince Vi and Mylo to stop arguing.”

“Oh nooooo,” Powder groaned dramatically, but let herself be scooped up.

Y/N carried her down the hall, where Vi was sulking in the doorway and Mylo was lying dramatically on the floor like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Mom,” Mylo whined, “Vi punched me in the soul.”

“It was a tap,” Vi snapped. “He was breathing like he does that thing with his nose.”

“Enough,” Y/N said, firm but kind. “Apologies, deep breaths, and then I’ll come back for hugs.”

=

By the time Y/N returned to the living room, the house had exhaled. The lights were dim, the sounds hushed. The warm lamplight pooled across the floor, glowing like candlelight, wrapping the space in a golden hush.

Vander was still there, sitting in his armchair with a drink in hand. He looked up when they entered, and wordlessly held one arm out in invitation.

Y/N went to him immediately.

They tucked themselves beside him, curling into his side like a stone returning to the riverbed. His arm wrapped around their shoulders, broad hand coming to rest on their upper arm—heavy, steady, safe.

For a moment, Y/N’s fingers started twitching again. Thumb brushing over each fingertip, one by one, in a slow, familiar cycle.

One. Two. Three. Four. Back again.

Vander caught their hand, gently folding it in his own.

“You don’t need to hide that around me, you know,” he murmured, voice a soft rumble against their temple.

“I know,” Y/N whispered.

He kissed the top of their head, letting the silence stretch. Then he spoke again, quieter.

“You’re allowed to have your ways, love. We all got ‘em.”

Y/N hummed in acknowledgment, eyes half-lidded.

“Mylo chews his nails,” Vander said, squeezing their hand once. “Vi punches walls. Claggor polishes his goggles every time he’s nervous, like he’s gettin’ ready for war. Powder—she hides under the bed with every tool she owns and starts building stuff with no plan at all. Just keeps her hands busy 'til her mind settles.”

Y/N smiled. “And you?”

“I talk too damn much,” he said with a low chuckle.

Y/N laughed softly, pressing their face into his shoulder. His scent—bar smoke, steel, soap—filled their nose, grounding them even more than the tapping ever could.

They didn’t need to be still. They just needed to be held.

The rhythm in their chest didn’t vanish, but it didn’t have to. Because here, in this room, in these arms—it was okay to not be “normal.”

It was okay to stim. It was okay to be soft. It was okay to just be.

SILCO

The Last Drop was quieter than usual.

Smoke coiled lazily in the low, warm lamplight, soft and slow, like a lullaby written in wisps. The muffled thrum of music from the floor below pulsed behind the walls — distant enough not to press on your nerves, but near enough to remind you that the world outside still turned.

You sat perched on the edge of Silco’s desk, boots dangling, shoulders tense. Your fingers moved in a quiet, familiar rhythm, tugging at the frayed sleeve of your coat over and over.

Tug. Tug. Release. Tug. Tug. Release.

A ritual, almost. One that lived in your bones now.

You hadn’t realized you were doing it again until you felt his gaze — not sharp, not judging, just there. Watching. Noticing. Silco had that way about him. He could be reading reports about Chembaron feuds or council bribes and still catch the way your jaw tensed or how your leg bounced when your thoughts got too loud.

He didn’t speak at first. He rarely did when the stimming started. He never made you feel like you had to stop, never treated it like a flaw to be corrected. Just… observed it. Like it was a language only the two of you shared.

He only stepped in when he sensed you slipping too far into yourself. When the rhythms turned sharp. When the silences between each breath stretched too thin.

“Something’s on your mind,” he said finally, voice low and unhurried — not a demand, just an offering.

You stilled your hand too fast. Too deliberately. It only made the silence louder.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, but the edge in your voice betrayed the truth. You weren't fine — not really.

Silco didn’t call you out. He just watched you for another beat, his one good eye tracing the tension in your shoulders. Then, with slow precision, he set his pen down. Leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepling, like he was assessing the terrain before entering a battlefield.

But you weren’t a battlefield.

Not to him.

You were something else — a steady presence in a world that was always brimming with smoke and blood and ambition. You were not something to conquer. You were someone he approached with rare gentleness.

He stood and stepped toward you, each movement calm and deliberate, the way he only ever moved when he was being careful with you.

“Y/N,” he said again, softer now, almost tender. “You’re tugging at your coat like it’s about to fly away.”

You gave a small, breathy laugh — more habit than humour. “Sorry. Just... habit.”

His hand reached out, slow enough to give you time to move if you needed to. You didn’t. You let him guide your fingers away from the edge of your sleeve, then gently bring them to his chest — right over his heart.

The beat beneath your palm was steady. Firm. Alive.

“Breathe,” he murmured, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “With me.”

So you did.

In. Out. In again.

His chest rose and fell beneath your hand. He was a pillar of calm in that moment, anchoring you without needing to fix anything. Just being there.

Silco had learned your rhythms the way other men might learn a map. He knew that when your leg bounced, your thoughts were racing and wouldn’t stop. When your nails picked at skin, you were trying to keep something in. And when your voice got too quiet and your movements too controlled — like they were now — you were on the edge of unravelling.

“I had a dream,” you said quietly, barely louder than the hum of the music below. “You were gone. Everything was. Zaun, this room, all of it. And I was just... sitting in silence. I didn’t know who I was without you.”

He stilled.

Not the sharp kind of stillness he gave his enemies, but something heavier. His grip on your hand didn’t falter, but you could feel the tension behind it — a flicker of emotion he so rarely showed. His breath caught once, almost imperceptibly.

“Zaun will live with or without me,” he said eventually, voice quiet but resolute. “But you — you are not defined by me. Or by this city.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly. He always spoke with such certainty. Even when everything inside him burned.

“But I’m calmer with you,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could second-guess them. “Even when I’m falling apart. Especially then.”

That made him pause. Something in his face softened — not a full shift, just a subtle loosening of the tight lines around his eye and mouth. He leaned in slowly, pressing his forehead to yours, and you let your eyes close.

This close, he didn’t feel like the Eye of Zaun, or the man who kept his hands clean only when it came to you.

He just felt like Silco.

The man who lit the oil lamp on your side of the bed without you asking. The man who waited patiently for your breathing to slow instead of telling you to calm down. The man who didn’t need words to know what you needed — just presence.

“Then let me be your calm,” he whispered. “I’ve built an empire for the people I love. For Jinx. For Zaun. And for you.”

You swallowed thickly. Your thumb moved instinctively — tracing a familiar pattern across the edge of your own palm. Silco noticed, and without breaking the closeness, his hand reached for yours again. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, grounding circles — a mirrored rhythm of your own stims. But his version was soothing. Measured. Like he was reminding you that he saw you, all of you — not just the composed surface, but the anxious knots underneath — and loved you anyway.

And in that moment, for the first time all day, you didn’t feel the need to fidget.

You didn’t need to tug at your sleeve or count the cracks in the wall or breathe through a straw just to make it stop. Your heart still raced — but it wasn’t panicked anymore. It was just beating.

Because you weren’t alone in the storm. Someone had learned to stand inside it with you.

And maybe, just maybe, you could start to believe that was enough.

SEVIKA

The bar is loud, grimy, and packed wall-to-wall with rowdy patrons, smoke curling in the air and clashing with the scent of sweat and spilled liquor. The kind of chaos most people blend into, if they’re smart. You’ve always done your best to blend—keeping your head down, sitting in the corner, fiddling with your sleeves, tapping your foot, clicking your tongue quietly every few seconds to regulate your anxiety.

But The Last Drop isn’t a quiet place, and even in the noise, there’s always someone who notices.

Sevika’s at your side like always, one massive arm stretched across the back of the booth, cigarette tucked between her lips, eyes flicking across the room like she’s waiting for trouble to come knocking.

She doesn’t mind your habits. Not the quiet little hums you let out when your nerves spike. Not the knuckle tapping. Not even when your hands shake a little after a long day. In fact, she often sets her prosthetic on the table and lets you gently tap your fingertips against the cool metal. Grounding. Steady.

But not everyone is as kind as she is.

“You hear that?” a drunk voice slurs from the next booth over, loud enough to cut through the music. “That little noise. The fuck is that? Sounds like a broken damn faucet.”

Your breath hitches, fingers freezing where they were gently pressing your sternum in a rhythmic pattern. Your stim. You hadn’t even realized it got louder.

“Hey,” another voice joins in. “Maybe they're trying to sing. You singin’, sweetheart? You need a tune to match that mess?” The men laugh. Ugly and wet.

You curl inward, shoulders hunching like you could fold yourself into nothing. Sevika stiffens beside you. You don’t look at her, but you feel her move—feel the weight of her presence shift from relaxed to dangerous.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.

“Wanna say that again?” she asks, low and slow like thunder in the distance. The kind of warning that means run.

The bar goes quieter—not silent, but aware. Like it always does when Sevika gets that tone.

The drunk man scoffs, trying to act bigger than he is. “Relax. It was a joke. Didn’t realize your pet came with a mute button.”

That’s it.

You don’t see it—don’t need to. You just hear a sharp thud and a chair scraping back. When you flinch, Sevika’s already pressing her hand against your back, gently this time.

“Look at me,” she murmurs. “Not them.”

You glance up at her—jaw clenched, eyes fierce, but all of that softens when she looks at you. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“Good. Then I’m only breaking his nose once.”

There’s a crack, a short shout, and then the man’s down. No fuss. No drawn-out fight. Sevika doesn’t even spill her drink.

“You ever talk to ‘em again,” she growls, towering over the now-bleeding man, “you’ll be drinkin’ through a straw for the rest of your life.”

Then she turns back to you, like nothing happened, like breaking a man’s nose is just part of the Tuesday routine.

You’re shaking a little—stimming again, hands flicking anxiously, lips parting to make a small keening sound you can’t quite stop. But she doesn’t flinch. She just takes your hand, warm and solid, and brings it to her lips.

“None of that,” she murmurs. “You don’t owe this place your silence. Not for them. Never for them.”

You nod slowly, and she helps you out of the booth, one strong arm around your waist.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” she says. “You wanna stim, you do it as loud as you damn please.”

[frostkissedheart]

— You Make Sense to Me; Loki × autistic!reader headcanons.

Just deluluing, don't take this too seriously, I'm not a writer and I don't really speak english, yadayada

— masterlist.

Loki didn’t understand at first; not because he didn’t want to, but because Asgard has no word for autism. No diagnosis. No language to describe sensory overload, masking, or stimming.

When you told him, carefully explaining how your brain worked differently and how the world often felt too loud, too fast, too much, he was quiet. Not in a judging way. Just... listening. For once, someone was actually listening.

Loki saw it as familiar. That deep, aching feeling of being out of step with everyone around you. The way you had to learn scripts to get through social situations? He’d kinda done the same his whole life, aways the outcast.

On hard days, he creates magical quiet spaces for you: dim light, soft cushions, no sound at all. Just calm. Just peace.

“You are not broken,” he tells you, his voice low, almost a whisper. “You are not less. You are... uniquely attuned to a world that rarely deserves your trust.”

Loki quickly learns your “non-verbal days.” He doesn’t force you to speak. In fact, he gets so good at reading your body language, he often answers questions you never say out loud.

He doesn't touch you without permission during your bad times. The first time you reach for him, even just a fingertip on his hand, he freezes in place. Like you gave him a gift.

He picks up on your special interests and becomes intensely invested. You like marine biology? Suddenly he's summoning illusions of glowing jellyfish across your ceiling. “I thought you’d like to see one up close.”

In your first meltdown around him, you try to hold it together, because you're so used to masking. You're afraid of scaring him off. But Loki’s not fooled. He’s been watching you carefully, gently, learning your patterns.

Loki doesn’t panic. Not for a second.

He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t crowd you. He just kneels a short distance away and says, calmly, “I’m here. You are safe. You are allowed to feel everything you feel.”

He will stay by your side, trying to magically soothe you until you finally come back to yourself. Exhausted and raw, you whisper an apology.

He frowns. “Apologize? For surviving the weight of the world with a mortal’s heart?” He gently offers his hand. “You owe no one that.”

Later, he creates a safe wordless signal just for you, so next time, even before it gets that bad, you can let him know you need to leave or pause. No questions asked.

From then on, he doesn’t just protect your body; he protects your peace.

[ahhhwomen]

Perfect Soldier

Pairing: Victoria Neuman x Fem!Reader

A/n: This was supposed to be like a big fic with a full storyline, but I decided I was too lazy to write it so yall are only getting the angsty part :) Not the most in-character thing I have written but I'm lazy.

Warnings: Death, description of dying, implication of torture and abuse, mommy issues, blood, swearing, just like 1k words of dying in a pretty lady's arms

“Shhh… hush… you’re okay… fuck.. you’re okay, just breathe…”

Her hands are warm and sticky as they take hold of your face. Amber liquid coats the crevices of her palm, riveting streams collide and split until an intricate pattern of your life form slathers itself like paint against her.

She holds your jaw in a vice-like grip, but you can’t seem to pull focus on anything other than the color of your own blood.

You are bleeding.

The hues change depending on what light reflects against Victoria as she huddles over you. While draping your body atop her lap, the light catches the side of her face where your blood is splattered in uneven coats. With the florescent lights, it almost glows in a lighter red, not quite so dark as the pool beneath you, the thinner drops reflect the light in a shining fashion, almost as if the blood is light itself.

It’s beautiful.

She is beautiful.

She cradles you close to her chest, stealing your view, and gently holds you like a mother would their child, rocking you back and forth. Her power suit is stained, and as she threads her fingers through your hair and holds your head against the crook of her neck, she subsequently only helps to taint the blue material more as your blood seeps deeper.

Victoria speaks to you calmly, with a mixture of soft murmurs, a soothing coo, and the occasional whispered curse, you can’t help but think she is doing it for her own benefit.

“You’re okay … shhh…”

She lessens the grip around your head in favor of petting you gently. Gentle fingers thread and weave in a sea of stained, clumped-together, strands of hair. She works deftly, untangling and taming, scratching her nails against your scalp.

It’s strange… You never knew comfort. Between Red River and the Vought Experimental Center for Youth, you lived in a constant state of pain and confusion. At the time it all felt natural, like you only existed to suffer and serve.

“Shhh…” The black-haired woman hovering over you clutches your jacket, using her handle on you to drag you even closer, it seems she won’t relent until every skin cell on your body merges with her own.

You aren’t making any noise, but the sound of her hushes and tsks settle the roaring inside your head and you find that you don’t mind her vocal stim... you almost feel comfort in it.

The pool beneath you grows into a storming ocean and with the swishing waves and raging raindrops, Victoria grows mad.

Hughie is a good man.

That’s the lie Victoria told herself while they grew closer over the past year. He is a good man, and though she was right to fear his rejection over her less “human” form, he isn’t cruel or deserving of her rage. So, she had pushed the nagging voice at the back of her mind that told her he was dangerous, and she kept living life as it was.

A death rattle echoes against the cold concrete walls as your body starts shaking and seizing inside Victoria’s hold.

When Edgar forced your presence onto her with the pretense that you were “good security”, she almost laughed in his fucking face. Nothing could stop Homelander, so what could you possibly do? A mute, obedient, pet that has never had a thought for herself.

She could handle herself, and she almost told him that, but, perhaps she felt an ounce of pity at your emotionless state. And maybe, as shameful as it is, maybe she saw something in you that reminded her of herself and her time at Red River.

The expansion and retraction of your chest stumbles in irregular patterns as blood bobbles and gurgles inside your lungs. Victoria forces you to your side as she pats your back firmly in an attempt to dislodge the curdling blood cloths.

So, she let you stay. Let you “protect” her and her daughter.

And when the reality of what she had signed herself, and her daughter, up for set in and she got scared, you never judged her. You stuck by her side till the very end.

Your body falls limp, and you stop struggling and for the first time in your life, you feel free.

Hughie was a good man, but you are a good girl.

Your skin grows colder by the second, and in a desperate attempt to reignite the heat, Victoria curls herself around your chilly corpse.

Hughie, together with his tentacle freak friend and the rest of the boy band, are going to die horrible, dragged-out, deaths that will rival the wrath of a thousand gods.

She will make sure of it.

[nostalgiclittlespace]

Wishlist Ideas for Closeted Regressors

So, it’s a little early to be posting holiday stuff, but I wanted to get this out there so since I know a lot of people start their holiday shopping around this time. So, If you’re looking for agere gear as a closeted regressor, or you just want something that’s subtle, here are 12 ideas-with pics. Note: pics are not mine, they are screenshotted from Amazon. prices are in USD, as Im American. Happy regressing and happy holidays!

1.Kawaii water bottles, specifically in the style below. The straw on most of these is a lot like a sippy or bottle, so if you can’t have/don’t want one of those, then these are a great alternative! Just look up ‘kawaii water bottle’ on Amazon and a whole bunch will show up. Most are between $15-25 USD

2. Funko Pops. I actually use mine as action figures and play with them (just be gentle with them if you do this!) so they can be great agere toys and decor! You can find just about any character and any fandom too. The prices very greatly, depending on what character and where you buy from. Black Friday deals on Amazon and Five Below are great ways to find them for only a few dollars.

3. Fidget toys; they can make great Agere activities! Because they are designed to stimulate your senses, many function similarly to baby toys. Note: when buying in bulk packages, the quality isn’t great. So consider whether you want to invest in better quality or quantity. Most bulk fidget packs are about $25 USD on Amazon. Dollar stores often have similar products as well, though once again the quality is unknown.

4. Fleece throw blankets. They are super cute, soft, and cuddly! Not only can they keep you warm, but I like to use mine as a playmat. Once again, price can very greatly; typically anywhere from $10-30 USD

5. Coloring books. I think this one is pretty self explanatory, as lots of regressors love coloring. If you’re worried about rousing suspicion, then just ask for an adult coloring book; these often have more intricate patterns, but if you ask for a fandom themed one, it’ll still have some awesome characters to color! Typically around $5-10

6. Silicone night light. These are available in so many colors, animals, and foods—and they are appropriate for any age, thanks to their kawaii esc appearance; they usually cost about $15.

7. Snack boxes. If your dietary needs allow for it, then these can provide some really cool little space snacks. They’re all pre packaged and come with a wide variety of things, ranging from crackers to cookies. And if you want something unique, you can try snack boxes that feature food from other countries. Prices will vary greatly, mostly dependent on the size

8. Lava lamps. These are just cute and make for a neat visual stim. Plenty of colors to choose from too! If you wanted, it could be used as a sort of substitute as a baby mobile since it’s very colorful and relaxing to watch. These can go for anywhere between $20-40

9. Microwaveable plushies. Super comforting, and for any Littles with cramps or chronic pain, they can be disguised as heating pads. Many of these also come with a scent, typically lavender, though you can find them without too. Cost around $20-40, depending on brand.

10. Scrapbooking materials. Kind of a random one, but they can be used to decorate a journal, you can make a physical photo album like many of us had in our childhoods, etc. Just a fun craft project you can consider! Typically, scrapbooking kits that include some paper, washi tape, and stickers can be around $10-15

11. Onesie pajamas. Lots of options, and are great if you live somewhere cold! Usually $25-40. These can be animal shaped, character themed, or more subtle like a plaid pattern. Very comfy and make for great little space clothes.

12. Glow in the dark stars. They are cute, fun, and aesthetically pleasing. You can get them in a who,e bunch of colors too! Typically $5

[fanfoolishness]

Breaching the Wall

For the @summer-of-bad-batch Week 2 prompt "injured," with a serious side of comfort. After Crosshair's injuries on Tantiss, AZI treats his pain with heavy-duty medications -- and Crosshair starts talking. To everyone. Angst, hurt/comfort, whump, family feels. 5800 words, plus illustrations of Crosshair and Wrecker, and Crosshair and Omega.

---

The pain in his hand woke him.

Stabbing, searing, burning, throbbing — it was like nothing he’d ever felt before.  He could feel his hand spasming, shuddering with each pulse of agony.  He tried to clench his fist, hoping that would help, but something wasn’t working.  He reached out with his left hand to try to rub the ache away —

His right hand was gone.

Crosshair shivered, memories flooding back in the dark.  He rolled over, fumbling until he reached the side of the bed.  Where was he?  

He panted with effort, slowly sitting upright, staring at the walls.   Moonlight was faint through the window, but it was enough for him to see his surroundings.  A bedroom with decorations; an old fishing net on the wall, patterned vases, a few holoframes of a familiar family.

That was right.  This was Shep and Lyana’s place; Shep had opened his home to them after their escape.  Told Hunter they could stay for a few days until they were more recovered.  Crosshair glanced back at the large bed, where an exhausted Hunter, Wrecker, and Omega had curled up beside each other.  

For a moment, watching their chests rise and fall, rise and fall, the pain receded.

Then he moved slightly and the pain roared back, a blinding burst of it rippling outward from the stump of his wrist.  He gasped, doubling over, shivering violently.

It was hard to think with everything raw and jangling.  Get up.  Don’t disturb them.  You can rest out there… then try to find the droid…  He should have seen him earlier, but the droid had been busy with many of the other clones and their injuries.  Echo had given him some stims on the shuttle, enough to drive the pain back and keep him on his feet, and stubbornly, he’d told them it it was enough.In all the commotion, no one had questioned him.

But he felt everything now.  He’d screwed up.  Badly.

Another wave, roiling, blinding, incapacitating.  He hissed through it. Kriff, it was getting hard to breathe.

For a moment, he tensed his legs, trying to steel himself to get to his feet and take the first step into the next room.  

But he thought of resting his arm on Hunter’s shoulder, their breath syncing in the pouring rain.  He thought of his eyes locking with Omega’s, the trust on her face, the shot of his life. 

He thought of Omega’s arms, flung wide around him.

”Hunter,” he managed.  

For a moment, there was no response, and he nearly despaired.  Hunter had his own injuries, his own pain to deal with.  Normally he probably would have already heard Crosshair and gotten up with him, but he must have been fast asleep, trying to recover himself.

Crosshair took a deep, shaky breath, and tried again.  Please.

”Hunter,” he whispered.

”Crosshair?” Hunter murmured.  Crosshair felt the weight on the bed shift.  Hunter sat beside him, swinging his legs out over the edge of the bed.  He looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp and alert in his haggard face, clocking the situation.  “Your hand.”

Crosshair nodded tightly, pressing his arm hard against his abdomen.  “Can’t — sleep,” he bit out.  He shivered again. 

Hunter rested his arm on Crosshair’s shoulder, squeezing hard.  “Stay here.  I’ll get the droid.”  He leaned back, reaching out and nudging Wrecker.  “Hey.  Hey, Wrecker.”

”What is it?” Wrecker groaned, wincing as he rolled to the side.

”Crosshair needs AZI for his hand.  Stay up with him ‘til I get back.”  He got carefully to his feet, hunching over, rubbing his back with one hand.  

Wrecker nodded, stifling a yawn, and sat up stiffly.  “Right.”

“No.  I’ll go.”  A glow-lamp turned on, filling the room with soft golden light, and they all drew back against the brightness, trying to let their eyes adjust.

Omega slid off the bed, hurrying over and taking Hunter by the hand, pushing him back to sit on the bed again.  “You rest.  All three of you.”  She crossed her arms over her chest, glowering at them, though the worry in her eyes was clear.

Crosshair smiled weakly at her.  The kid had steel in her, that much was certain.  He couldn’t speak — he was breathing too hard — but Omega gazed back at him.  He could see his own pain reflected in the sorrow on her face. Guilt rose up in him.  

“I’m sorry, Crosshair,” she whispered.

He tried to shrug, but the movement was interrupted by another hug from her, this one gentle, measured, careful.  She was trying not to nudge his arm.  She rested her cheek against his and whispered, “We’ll help you.  It’ll be okay.”

He raised his left arm, curling it around her.  He closed his eyes, his breathing softening, growing a little easier.

Somehow, he believed her.

---

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Omega arrived with the droid.  Everything was blurred, between the radiating pain and the late hour.  Hunter and Wrecker sat beside him, each with a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly any time he shuddered.  The distraction helped.

“CT-9904.”

Crosshair lifted his head, squinting until things shifted back into focus.  AZI-3 hovered in front of him, wide yellow eyes staring.  Omega stood beside him, nibbling on her lip, watching anxiously.  

The droid scanned him, the scanner lingering on his stump.  Crosshair looked down at his wrist.  The white bandage Hemlock’s people had placed on the wound was tinged reddish-brown.  It made his stomach turn.

AZI finished his scan, then hovered forward, injecting something into his right shoulder without fanfare.  He then lifted Crosshair’s wrist, the sound of mechanical whirring evident as the droid replaced the bandages at the end of his arm.

Whatever AZI was doing, Crosshair didn’t feel it.  A cool wave flooded down his arm, numbing as it went until it reached the wrist, bringing with it a blessed relief.  At the same time his head began to feel floaty and strange, a different kind of haze than the fog of pain.  He wobbled slightly where he sat.

AZI finished redressing the wound.  “Your wound will require further attention, though without access to a full medical bay, I am afraid my services will be somewhat limited.  Your attackers provided basic battlefield wound closure and temporary pain relief, but a revision surgery will be necessary to remove bone fragments and prepare the amputation site for interface with a prosthetic, should you choose to use one.  I will explore the area once the swelling has begun to abate.”

The droid’s words slid in one ear, out the other; Crosshair could barely make sense of them.  He wavered, listing to one side.  When he spoke his words slurred slightly.  “Why can’t I -- Why am I --”

A hand, sturdy and familiar at his shoulder, bracing him upright.  “Hey AZI, I think those pain meds you gave him kicked in,” Wrecker said.  “He’s way out of it.”

AZI nodded, his confusing chatter fading.  “With the mild anemia from the amputation, it is unsurprising that he would react more strongly to the sedating effects of pain relief than the typical clone.  He may exhibit altered mentation with this dosage, but it is necessary with an injury this severe.”

“Ahhh, he’s always been a lightweight,” Wrecker chuckled, though the laugh turned into a groan.  He rubbed at his chest, grimacing at his own wounds.

Crosshair managed a scowl at his brother, though it made him dizzy to turn and look at him.  “Not true,” he muttered, though distantly he remembered a particularly brutal night at 79’s, years back.  

“No, it’s true,” Hunter chimed in, smiling faintly despite the concern in his eyes.

The droid hovered forward, giving Crosshair another injection of something in the arm.  “This will allow for rapid replacement of your blood, CT-9904.  You should start to feel less lethargic within the next rotation.  The pain medication I have given you is a long-acting infusion and should provide comfort for the next three days before redosing is necessary…”  

The droid’s voice tuned in and out of his ears.  He was drifting in a sea of half-formed memory, drifting somewhere dark, somewhere painful --

The boot on his wrist --

The blade swinging --

Flesh tearing, bone screaming, bone crunching --

Crosshair gasped, his head swimming.  He looked up, lost again.  He was here in Shep’s house, Hunter and Wrecker sitting beside him, exhausted, pale, worried.  AZI hovered in front of Wrecker, examining him now.  Omega stood beside the droid, her arms crossed over her chest, peering closely at him.

Crosshair caught Wrecker’s eye, and his brother gave him a small smile.

“Hey, you back with us, Cross?”

“Everything’s… I don’t know,” Crosshair said slowly, shaking his head.  He raised his left arm, rubbing his face.  He felt disconnected, as if he might float away.  He had a vague sense that this was much better than how he had felt a few minutes ago, but he was having a hard time remembering why.

“Does it still hurt?” Omega asked.  

“Does what still hurt?” Crosshair mumbled.  His gaze wandered down, and he saw the bandage on his wrist, the missing hand.  Ah.  That.  “No.  Not anymore.”  He closed his eyes.  

He remembered now.  He’d asked them for help, and they’d given it.  He leaned to one side, and Hunter leaned in to close the space between them, letting him rest his head on his shoulder.  

He breathed in; he breathed out; again, and again.

---

The sunlight felt a galaxy away, gold and white playing shadows against his closed eyes.  Crosshair wandered somewhere beneath it, eyelids flickering open, bracing against the light.  Everything was muted, far away with blurred edges.  He was here on a bed.  The walls were dawn-yellow.  The ceiling rippled.  He watched it move placidly, then reached up to scratch an itch on his face, straining his fingers to reach.

His stump bumped against his cheek, and his skin crawled.  

They took it.  They took it.  It’s gone.  Nothing -- nothing there --

“Crosshair?”

He turned his head with a great effort.  Sitting at the edge of the bed was Hunter, looking out the window, watching whatever lay beyond.  He looked better than he had last night -- his hair was combed, and he’d found clothes somewhere that looked like they belonged on Pabu, not armor castoffs.  

“It’s morning,” Crosshair said, the words stretching out for what felt like hours.  He rubbed his face with his left hand, keeping his right as far away as he could.  “Why’s it -- everything’s off.”

“AZI’s got you on serious painkillers,” Hunter said.  “Better for you than combat stims, but he said you’re gonna be loopy for a few days.”

“I doubt that,” Crosshair muttered, but the bed had turned into a pitching sea, rolling him back and forth.  He groaned, fighting back a wave of nausea. 

“Here.  Let’s get you upright.  See if that helps.”  

Hunter carefully helped him up, putting some pillows behind him so he could lean back against the wall.  The dizziness shrank back into the distance, but the world still felt like it was at a remove.  Several of them.  He rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes again, breathing hard.  

“You need anything?  Hungry?  Thirsty?  ‘Fresher?”  

“No.  Not yet.”  Crosshair shook his head, then smiled, a grin lazily stealing across his face.  “Toothpick.”

Hunter laughed slightly.  “So you’re not totally out of it, then. Lemme check your belt.”  He stiffly got to his feet, searching the pile of discarded armor in the corner of the room.  “Ah.  You’re running low, you know.”

“Not the only thing I’m running low on,” Crosshair said slyly.  Everything seemed oddly funny.  He reached out to take the toothpick Hunter held, fixing it between his lips.  “I also seem to be down a hand.”

It was funny, wasn’t it?

Hunter winced, and Crosshair felt a twinge of guilt.  Not funny, then.  “I -- uh, yeah, I guess you could say that.”  Hunter sat back down, folding his own hands in his lap, seeming to search for words.  “So.  How are you feeling?”

Crosshair stared up at the wavy ceiling, worrying the toothpick between his teeth and tongue.  The wood felt both richly textured and yet wrapped in fuzzy wool.  He rolled it between his molars, incisors, molars, incisors, until its end was sodden with saliva.

Oh.  Hunter had asked him a question.

How was he feeling? 

He closed his eyes.  He saw a wall, familiar, vast, unbreakable.  One he’d carefully built up foot by foot, a shield, a fortress.  It kept things hidden.  It had towered overhead after the Order went out, after Bracca, after Kamino.  It had threatened to block out all light and leave him there alone in the dark.  Yet it had protected him on Tantiss, there a lesser evil.

But there’d been breaches.  Cody, questioning Desix.  Mayday, his life in Crosshair’s hands.   

Omega, never giving up on him.  

He was floating up somewhere above the clouds, somewhere high above the wall.  Up here, it didn’t really seem to matter.  Up here, it seemed small and inconsequential.

He looked down at the bandaged stump at his side.  He took a deep breath.  Hunter’s question… he didn’t know the answer to that.  But there was something pressing, a thought twisting and itching in his head, trying to get out through a breach in the wall.

“You were right, you know.”

Hunter cocked his head to one side, slight confusion on his face.  “About what?”

“Plan 99.  I wanted to call it,” Crosshair said quietly.  “Planned to, after they took her.”

Hunter stared at him, his eyes narrowing.  “You were planning it before we got to Tantiss?”

Crosshair shrugged, the movement sending him floating further amongst the morning sunlight.  Hunter’s horror barely registered.  Why shouldn’t he tell him?  The instant Crosshair had seen the tracker fall into the waves, he’d known what needed to be done.

A trade, his life for hers.

“I thought it was the only way.  What I deserved.”  His breath caught in his throat, a pain the medication couldn’t touch.  “But -- you stopped me.  You and Wrecker.”  Were there words for what he’d felt, that moment in the jungle?  To see his brothers stepping up beside him at last, even after everything he’d done?  

No.  He’d never have the words for what that had meant to him.

“Crosshair.”  Hunter laid his hand on his arm for a moment, and Crosshair looked at him, ignoring the way his eyes burned.  “Whatever you’re carrying, you can lay it down.  You saved her.”  Hunter smiled fiercely.  “She’s right outside with Wrecker, having breakfast.  The first day of real freedom she’s maybe ever had.  That’s because of you.”

The bridge.  The rain.

His breath, in and out, focused and sure.

The shot.

Crosshair’s voice cracked, the words leaking out of him, pouring through the breach.  “She… did you see?  The look on her face, when she saw me, when she saw --”

It was burned into his mind.  The beaming relief, fading to a horrified realization when she saw his missing hand; the tears streaming down her face, mingling with the rain; her face twisting into a sob as she ran to him.  

To him.

“She loves you,” Hunter said softly.  “You’ve got to know that by now.”

Why was his face wet?  He let out a shaky breath, nodding, blinking away the water in his eyes. 

“I know.  I knew.”  He bit down on the toothpick, his teeth stamping little ridges along its end.  He remembered Omega asking him for one, the way she’d sat there on the Marauder nibbling it in perfect imitation of him.  

His sister.  Safe now.  Because of him.

He didn’t have words for what that meant, either.

He shook his head, the room spinning around him, and sank back against the pillows.  Hunter’s voice rolled over him.  

“It’s all right, Cross.  Get some rest.”

---

“You’ll get through it.  But it’ll be hard, I won’t tell you otherwise.  And… they won’t really understand.”

Crosshair raised his eyes, looking around the room.  Echo sat in the chair beside the bed, his outline blurred in the streaming sunlight.  

They’d been talking, hadn’t they?  Time was looped and stretched and meaningless.  When had he last seen Hunter?  It felt like last year, but maybe it was an hour ago.  Crosshair wasn’t sure.  He tried to keep up with what Echo was saying, concentrating with a great effort.  There it was.  He found the thread again and followed it, clinging to it with both hands.

“You never complained,” Crosshair said at last.  “Arm.  Legs.  How did you —“ He took a deep breath.  “How did you do it?  This part, right now?”

Echo smiled ruefully at him.  “Sorry.  I can’t say I remember it all that well.  I still don’t know everything the Techno Union did to me, but from the Citadel to Skako Minor, there’s a lot of dead space.  First time I really realized what was missing was when I saw Rex’s face.”  He sighed.  “It took a long time for the shock to wear off.  To realize everything that had really happened.  So to answer your question, I’m not sure.  I just kept going, one day at a time.”

”’Just keep going,’” Crosshair repeated.  He could do that.  He’d been doing that every day since he was small.

“AZI will help you out,” said Echo.  “Don’t be afraid to talk to him, even after everything’s technically healed up.  I used to see him sometimes when we’d stop back at Kamino, during the war.  He’d help with phantom pain.  Exercise ideas.”  A wistful, distant look crossed his face.  “And sometimes he was just good to talk to.  Like about Fives.”

“Fives.  A reg.”  Crosshair frowned, then shook his head.  No.  That didn’t matter anymore: they were all clones together, like Cody.  Like Mayday.  And he’d heard Fives’ name before, remembered through the fog what he was to Echo.  “A brother.”

Echo tilted his head, a look of surprise crossing his face.  “Yeah.  Don’t know if you remember me talking about him, but we made ARC trooper together, back during the Kamino invasion.  We were close.  You’d have liked him.  Tough as durasteel, and one of the finest troopers I’ve ever met.  And just enough of a mouth on him that you’d have been fast friends if you didn’t kill each other first.”

Crosshair chuckled.  “Sounds like a good man.”�� He sighed, his smile fading.  “No word from Cody?”

Echo shook his head.  “No.  Rex’s contacts are always keeping an ear out for him, but no one’s had any word.  If anyone could stay alive out there on his own, it’s Cody, but… it’s been a long time.”

”He tried with me,” Crosshair said softly.  “Tried to help me see the Empire was wrong. But I… let him down.  If you find him…”

“I’ll let you know, Crosshair.  That’s a promise.”  

He closed his eyes tightly, breathing hard.  He reached up to pull his collar down and missed, his stump going wide.  He groaned in irritation, using his left hand instead, and cracked his eyes open to glare at Echo.

“I keep forgetting,” Crosshair growled.  “Stupid, I know.  How could I forget --”

“Takes time to adjust,” Echo said.  “It’s not stupid at all.  You all never looked down on me for it.”

Faint memories, flickering up.  Echo needing help donning and doffing his armor at first.  Reaching for something with his scomp arm, remembering halfway through, switching to his left hand.  Tech, helping repair his leg after a rough early mission.  It hadn’t seemed strange back then.  “You were defective, just like us,” Crosshair said slowly.

“Another bad batcher,” said Echo with a warm smile.

Crosshair grinned, shifting.  His stump grazed against the bed, and he jerked backwards, expecting it to hurt.  But the droid’s drugs were working.  His stump felt like a dull, frozen log attached loosely to his shoulder; everything was numbed and confused.  Better than the pain, but no less disorienting.  

The smile on his face slid away, remembering his hand straining, struggling, shaking, desperate --

“You all right?” Echo asked.

“I remember,” Crosshair said haltingly.  “A vibrosword.”  He swallowed.  The room seemed darker suddenly, sunlight vanishing, or was that his imagination?  “‘You should be more careful with your shooting hand.’”  He shuddered.  “Tried to -- tried to stop him --”

Echo’s left hand, resting on his shoulder, a firm squeeze.  “I’m sorry, brother.”  

Crosshair reached up, fumbling, his own hand searching for Echo’s.  He gripped it as hard as he could, chancing a look at the other clone’s face.   

His chest ached at Echo’s smile.  “Brother,” he whispered.

---

“What do you do?” Crosshair asked, unsteady on his feet.  He leaned heavily against Wrecker as they walked back from the ‘fresher.  His feet tried to slide out from under him.  How could his head feeling so light make his feet work so badly?  The two weren’t even connected.  It didn’t make sense.

“What do I do when?” said Wrecker, helping him back down to the bed.  Crosshair sat there, staring out the window for a long minute.

“What do you do when you’re afraid?” Crosshair mumbled.  “Always… wondered.”

Wrecker sat down carefully beside him.  “Huh.  Yeah, you’re uh… you’re definitely feeling it.”

“So?” Crosshair scoffed.  “Answer the, the question.”

“Well… I dunno.  I guess just… keep trying?  Why?”

”I don’t know,” Crosshair said.  He’d already half-forgotten asking the question, though it had seemed important somehow.  

There’s no room for fear on the battlefield.  No room for cowards.

So why did he feel so afraid?

Wrecker leaned back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  “Well, I dunno.  I mean, there’s afraid, and then there’s afraid.  I guess maybe there’s some stuff I never could figure out.”  He ducked his head.  “Like heights.  ‘Specially after… after Tech.”  

Crosshair stiffened.  He didn’t want to think about Tech.

Not when he should’ve been there.

Not when he could’ve been there, if he’d chosen right.

But even though the wall was floating far below him, his tongue froze in his mouth.  He couldn’t speak.  Not yet.  Not about him.  It was too hard, too much, even now.

He just leaned to the side, resting his head on Wrecker’s shoulder.  

“Aw.”  Wrecker laughed, a soft, pleased sound as he raised a hand to clap Crosshair on the back.  “Like when we were cadets.  Remember?  You always used to sleep on me.  ‘Til suddenly you were all about ‘personal space.’  Whatever that is!”

“Hrhm,” Crosshair muttered, adjusting his head to find a more comfortable spot.  He did remember.  Sometimes they used to fall asleep on the same bed after a long day of training; sometimes it was naps in a pile of all four of them.  He didn’t remember why he’d stopped.  One day, it had just felt like something he shouldn’t do anymore, not if he wanted to be a real soldier.  

“Wrecker?” 

“Yeah, Cross?”

”Shut up.”  He leaned in harder to his brother, and Wrecker’s arm around him was something he’d lost, then found again.  He closed his eyes, sinking against him.

“I know you don’t mean it, you big softy.”

”Shut up.”

He fell back asleep with Wrecker’s warm laughter in his ears.

---

”You’ve got to eat,” Omega said, sliding a tray of food across the table to him.  “Hunter said you wouldn’t listen to him.”

”Hunter doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Crosshair muttered.  He rested his head on his hand, staring down at the tray of sliced fish and marinated seaweed and fresh fruit.  He supposed it looked good.  But he hadn’t felt hungry all day, too busy floating and rambling and sleeping and trying not to think about his hand.  

Omega grinned.  “You’re still so grouchy.  AZI said sometimes that medication can make people giddy.  Or just very sleepy.  Maybe you’re just being extra Crosshair on it.”

”Nobody needs that,” he groused.  He tried to pick up a wedge of fruit with his right hand and succeeded only in smearing fruit juice across his bandage.  He pulled his arm away, growling as Omega reached for a napkin.  

“Can I help, Crosshair?” she asked.  

He looked at her face, kind and concerned, and begrudgingly pushed his arm toward her.  She hesitated for only a second before carefully dabbing at the bandage with her napkin, laying one hand tenderly on his forearm.  He wished he could fully feel her hand there, instead of a faint pressure that was all he could sense through the drugs.

“It isn’t fair,” Omega said quietly.  

“That you’re stuck babysitting me?” 

She stuck her tongue out at him.  “Oh, please!  Come on.  No.”  Her mouth twisted into a frown, her eyes suddenly too bright.  “It isn’t fair about your hand, of course.  You’d been getting better.  You were working so hard.  I could see it.  And then they hurt you —“ 

She let go of his arm, folding her own arms on the table and resting her head on them, looking away from him.  “Because you were trying to help me.”

Crosshair’s jaw clenched.  “None of that,” he said sharply.  “Not your fault.  Don’t you ever think that.”

She raised her head, looking up at him with tears in her eyes.  “But it’s true —“

For a moment, they stared at each other, both flushed and breathing hard.

His head was jumbled, aching with how his thoughts swirled around each other.  He had to figure out how to put the words together, how to make her understand.  He reached out clumsily and took her hand in his.

”Omega, if this is what it took, it was worth it.”  He swallowed.  “Understand?”  He squeezed her hand, and hers was the one that trembled.

She nodded, trying not to cry.  “Crosshair?”

”Yeah?”

”I’m so proud of you.”

He blinked, tears sliding silently down his cheeks, and nodded.  He let go of her hand and pulled the tray back to him, and started eating, not bothering to wipe the water from his face.

---

Hunter again, silhouetted by moonlight this time instead of sunlight.  Night again already?  Crosshair sighed.  He was getting sick of the way time slid away from him so quickly.

”How much longer?”

”Until what?”

”’til this wears off.  Tired of it.”

”AZI stopped by again today, remember?” Hunter asked, crossing his arms.  He leaned back in his chair, looking at him with mild concern.

”Vaguely.”  He’d half-thought he was dreaming.  

“He said this dose should wear off in another two days.  Once you’re a little more recovered then he said he’s got to go in and work on it more so it heals properly.  So you’re not done just yet,” said Hunter.  “It’d be a faster process if we had a full medbay, but the Empire doesn’t exactly leave them lying around.”

Crosshair huffed.  “Of course.”  His mind drifted back to Echo.  “Guess it’s one day at a time.”

“Good way to look at it,” said Hunter.  He paused.  “Glad Omega got you to eat something.”

”Can’t say no to her,” Crosshair said.  He chuckled.  Things were funny again.  “Maybe that’s her enhancement.”

Hunter laughed.  “That’s a pretty good theory.  When she gives you those eyes, it’s hard to say no, even if it’s for her own good.”

”Uh-huh.”

Crosshair sat up, testing his balance.  Still off.  He wobbled to one side, then slowly sank back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.  He thought of the kid, so damn earnest.

“She tried so hard to help me,” he said.  “With my hand.  Told me you put her up to it.”

“Some of it,” Hunter admitted.  “But she came to me about it first.  She’d been worried about you for a while.  She knew you weren’t ready to talk to me or Wrecker about it.”

“No,” said Crosshair.  He curled the fingers of his left hand up into his palm, relaxed them, curled them again.  His right wrist felt like a strange ghost, numbed and muted, a thousand parsecs away.  “The droid said it was all in my head.  I guess it was.”  His throat was tight again, and he looked away.  “Just couldn’t… Tantiss…”  The words choked in his mouth.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Hunter said.  He let out a long, shivering breath, the sound of it echoing in Crosshair’s ears.  “Hemlock told me what he tried to do to you.  Tried to do it to me, too.”  He hung his head.  “I -- I didn’t know.  What you’d gone through.”

“I wasn’t exactly telling,” Crosshair muttered.  He looked back at Hunter, whose face was blurry, sliding away.  For a moment he looked young again, a cadet with brown eyes blazing, face set with determination.  Then things shifted, and he was a tired clone who’d been through hell, his eyes weary. Compassionate.  It was almost more than Crosshair could bear.  “Felt like I deserved it.”  He held out his stump.  “Like this.”

“No one deserves this,” said Hunter flatly.   “Look.  I’ve been talking to AZI.  It might take a while to find a source for one, but we’ll get you a new hand.  I promise.��

“But this one’s still gone,” Crosshair hissed, flaring with a sudden rage, incandescent, poisonous, raw.  He thrust out his arm, shoving it in Hunter’s face.  “I don’t care what you find.  It won’t be the same.”  He let out a sharp huff of breath, his heart pounding.  “Maybe I’d ruined it, maybe I was never going to be that sniper again, but it was mine.”  

Hunter held out his hands in a placating gesture, and the anger ebbed away, a foggy memory.  Crosshair sank back against the pillows, shaking.  

“Sorry,” said Hunter, and something like pity crossed his face.  “You don’t have to have a prosthetic, if you don’t want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Crosshair said roughly.  

I should figure out how to get along without one.

I don’t need their help.

Maybe a prosthetic would just shake, too --

The thoughts ringed around his head dizzyingly, too difficult to get out even through the crumbling wall and his lowered defenses.  He clung to them, confused and ashamed. 

Hunter’s voice cut through the cloud of thoughts.  “You don’t have to know, yet.  You can take the time.”

The thoughts quieted down again, and he fell back into a remove again, faded and muted.

Hunter spoke again.  “Sorry, Cross.  I don’t know what it’s like.”  

“No, you don’t.”  He gave Hunter a twisted smile.  “Hell, I don’t either.”

”You talked to Echo.”

”A little.  It’s — hard, like this.  Good man, Echo.”  A wave of drowsiness rolled over him, heavy and oppressive.  He stifled a yawn, trying to keep focused on Hunter.  “I’m talking a lot, aren’t I.  Must be whatever the droid did.”

“Must be.”  Hunter reached out, offering a toothpick.  Crosshair took it with his left hand, shimmied it into place.  This one tasted of stale sawdust, and he frowned, the dryness of it puckering his mouth.

”Keep seeing it,” Crosshair said under his breath.

”What?”

“That moment.  After the explosion.”  He sighed.  “Should’ve stopped him.  Could’ve, if I’d had a knife.  Stupid not to carry one.  Why’d you let me talk the Kaminoans out of it?”  He shuddered, rubbing his right wrist with his left hand, grimacing at how tender it felt even through the numbing of the pain meds.  He rolled up his sleeve cautiously.

There was a dark purple-black bruise on his forearm.  A swollen crescent shape.  It took him a moment to realize it was from the rim of his gauntlet, crushed into his arm from the weight of the trooper.

He rolled the sleeve back down hurriedly and gnawed on his toothpick.

“Because if our sniper was having to engage in hand-to-hand combat, we’d failed as a squad,” Hunter said dryly.  “It didn’t make sense to add the extra weight to your kit when you hadn’t had the hand-to-hand training Wrecker and I had.  Remember?  I backed you on that.”

Crosshair snorted.  “What did we know back then?”

Just battle sims and life as Clone Force 99.  What else was there?

He gazed out the window.  The night sky was a wash of blues and blacks and grays, white-gold starlight twinkling across the immense sky.

“You know something that doesn’t make sense,” Crosshair ventured.  It seemed important to tell him, though it was stupid, it was shameful.

“What?”

“I thought, at least it’s over.”

“I know.  Tantiss is gone.”

“No, not that.  This.”  He held up his stump.  “The tremor.  It was getting worse.”  He grimaced.  “You saw.  I’d let Omega down.  Couldn’t handle meditating after they took her.  But now it’s… gone.  She’ll never have to know I couldn’t -- I couldn’t fix it --”

“Hey, hey.  Crosshair.”

He spat out his toothpick into his palm and turned away, burying his face in the pillows, his back to Hunter.

”You think that matters to her?”

”I — I don’t know.”  It matters to me.

For a moment, Hunter fell quiet.  The only sounds were their breathing, soft and steady.

Like on the bridge —

Hunter’s voice was quiet but determined.  “We all have our battle scars.”

And?  This was news?

”I don’t think they’re always the kind that we can see,” Hunter said.  He paused, as if trying to figure out what to say.  ”There’s some injuries… you don’t fully recover from.  That doesn’t make you weak.  Look at Wrecker’s eye.  Look at Echo.”

Crosshair was very still.  With his eyes closed like this, Hunter’s voice enveloped him, the world shrinking down to his brother’s words.

”Maybe you’ll be different now.  Maybe some things can’t… really be fixed.  But I think you can get through it.  You’ll still be Crosshair.”

”You sure about that?” he asked softly, so softly he wasn’t sure if Hunter had heard him.

”Crosshair, you’re the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met.”  Hunter’s voice was warm, affectionate.  “If you decide to get better, you will.  I know it.  You just… you have to decide you deserve it.”

That was the hard part.

He hovered in the dark, the wall far below him, crumbling into a shadow of itself.  It wasn’t gone.  He’d probably add a few more bricks to shore it back up, once he got out of this fog.  But it was a ruin now, broken down, far easier to get over and through than it ever had been before.  

Maybe it was something he wouldn’t need for much longer.

“Hunter?” he asked sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“Think I’ll remember this, tomorrow?”

”I don’t know.”  Hunter reached out, patting him on the back.  “But if you don’t, I’ll tell you again.  As often as you need to hear it.”

That sounded fair to him.

He drifted off into the haze, his arm dull and quiet, his mind blank and free of pain.  He thought of his brothers beside him, Omega’s hand in his, and he slept deep and long and dreamless into the morning.

[sweetyamz1]

✦ autism npts pack﹕

names — Echo.　Pattern.　Rhythm.　Wave.　Flicker.　Bounce.　Prism.　Loop.　Ripple.　Spark.　Pixel.　Digit.　Data.　Quest.　Logic.　Pulse.　Detail.　Flow.　Spin.　Stim.　Focus.　Beam.　Buzz.　Orbit.　Symphony.　Comet.　Vector.　Fractal.　Nova.　Quanta.　Matrix.　Cipher.　Vibe.　Sonic.　Helix.　Atlas.　Nexus.　Cory.

pronouns — stim / stims / stimself.　rock / rocks / rockself.　flap / flaps / flapself.　beam / beams / beamself.　glow / glows / glowself.　buzz / buzzs / buzzself.　wave / waves / waveself.　spin / spins / spinself.　flow / flows / flowself.　hum / hums / humself.　spark / sparks / sparkself.　pulse / pulses / pulseself.　orbit / orbits / orbitself.　loop / loops / loopself.　echo / echos / echoself.　focus / focuses / focuself.　shine / shines / shineself.　pattern / patterns / patternself.　swirl / swirls / swirlself.

titles — [prn] who stims freely.　the pattern seeker.　[prn] who speaks in special interests.　the collector of precious facts.　[prn] who feels deeply.　the finder of hidden details.　[prn] who moves uniquely.　the keeper of routines.　[prn] who thinks in pictures/numbers/letters/words.　the lover of soft things.　[prn] who sees the world differently.　the guardian of special objects.　the weaver of patterns.　[prn] who rocks back and forth.　the explorer of textures.　[prn] who infodumps.

[legacygirlingreen]

"Lady by the Sea" (1/2) || Tech x OC Marina || NSFW

Author's Note: Hi friends! I wanted to pop in briefly before this one with a few important reminders. This is part of of a larger AU created by my friend @leenathegreengirl and I. Decisions have been and will always be agreed upon mutually, including the way this story was written. As always, she is responsible for the beautiful cover art (full image at the bottom of the text). Additionally, I'd like to take the time to remind readers that I am an autistic adult. I have been diagnosed since I was a young child - shocking since I was a child during the early 2000s when most doctors believed that cases of autism in girls was virtually non existent/only presented in the stereotypical representation of males. And while I'm not trying to reopen the debate on if Tech is/isn't autistic and/or a good representation of autism, I will continue to write him with those tendencies. There are many things I see in myself (and how it manifests for myself personally) in his canon character. Same can be said for how I write Marina. So I wanted to provide some explanation for those who maybe don't have much up close experience with autism. This installment does include stimming. Stimming can be done for a variety of reasons and look different for every person. I stim when I am nervous. I stim when I am angry. I stim when I am happy and the variety of each of those actions differs depending on how I need to regulate my emotions. "Happy stimming" can look different from person to person, but a common form of this is flapping one's hands/arms. I, admittedly struggled to put this action into words and when discussing it with my real life partner he did express that while the body language itself may appear awkward (the movement can look a bit stiff), he still finds it endearing as a person who loves and respects me. I am sure when you reach that portion, you will understand what I am referring to. Additionally, the concept of masking is described in this. While I did not blatantly use words like 'stimming' or 'masking', please note that I hoped to convey these in a way that shows how they act in reality. Autistic people usually learn to mask their more physical manifestations in order to fit in. I am no exception. So when writing this piece it did become a bit cathartic to express Tech learning to overcome 'masking' as he views Marina expressing her own stims without fear or worry. Anyways, I hope that these concepts come across alright - I do struggle to put my experiences as a person who's been diagnosed even after all this time. But I am more than happy to continue the conversation with anyone wanting to know more. Thanks for reading this slightly longer note/disclaimer. Also, this will have a part 2 I plan to get up next Tuesday! Happy Reading, M

Pairing: Tech x OC Marina

Rating: NSFW

Word Count: 13.3k

Warnings: mentions of nudity, mentions of passionate embraces, mentions of slight childhood bullying, brief mentions of divorce/widowhood

Summary: Tech accompanies his new friend with examining a deep sea fish migration and gets more than he bargained for...

Masterlist | Tech's Encrypted Files | Previous | Next

Tech immersed himself in all material he could find about the mōlī fish migrations, reading up on every documented detail ahead of the evening. All Marina had mentioned was that the creatures surfaced near Pabu’s beaches only once every few years, and that the event itself was a spectacle worth witnessing. That alone piqued his interest—deep-sea fish capable of rising to the surface was an extraordinary phenomenon, especially considering that the pressure of the ocean only shifted enough to allow such a migration in a rare, cyclical pattern.

The fish’s ability to glow with their own internal light as they navigated the depths was both scientifically fascinating and naturally awe-inspiring. To say that Tech was intrigued was an understatement. His mind, always attuned to the marvels of biology and the natural world, buzzed with the possibilities of what he might learn from observing such a rare event.

Ever since that day when Marina had acknowledged his appearance, Tech had begun to feel something strange whenever she was near. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was certainly unfamiliar—an unexpected shift in his usual equilibrium. At times, his heart would race, an irregular thudding in his chest that caught him off guard. His palms would sweat, an odd dampness that seemed to appear out of nowhere. There was a warmth that would spread through his bloodstream, almost as if his body was responding to some hidden signal. And if he happened to look at her for too long, a dizzying lightness would sweep over him, as if the world itself had momentarily tilted.

He couldn't quite make sense of it. These phenomenological responses weren’t things he typically experienced, and they didn't follow the same logic as his usual responses to stimuli. He knew something was happening—he could feel it, this strange stirring within him that didn’t quite fit into any of the categories he usually applied to his own emotional or physical states. But what was it? Perhaps an allergy to a fragrance she wore? That seemed the most likely given he only experienced the changes when she was closer in proximity to him.

Despite the confusion, there was a part of him that couldn’t deny the underlying excitement that pulsed beneath all of it. It was an energy he hadn’t felt before, an electric current that surged through him whenever the marine biologist was near, even if he couldn't pinpoint the exact cause. 

But the strangest part was that he couldn’t explain why this felt so important. He had a tendency to dissect everything in his life, to categorize things, break them down, and understand them through logic. Yet, no matter how much he tried to apply his usual methods of analysis, this sensation didn’t fit neatly into any of his mental boxes. It was as though his mind was searching for patterns, but finding none, which only heightened his fascination. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that when she was around, the world seemed to shift just a little, like everything was suddenly more vivid, more... alive. 

And more than that, he felt an overwhelming sense of ease, as though there was no need to explain himself. The quirks and behaviors he had spent years trying to suppress—the very things that had made him feel alienated, even from those closest to him—suddenly didn't seem to matter. In Marina, he saw reflections of those traits he had long struggled with, the things that had once set him apart in a way that felt isolating. Yet in her presence, those differences didn’t feel like barriers but like an unspoken bond, a quiet understanding between them. The relief was profound, deeper than he realized. It wasn’t just that Marina accepted him; she seemed to instinctively know him in a way that was both rare and deeply comforting. In her, he found a kindred spirit—a mirror of sorts—that reassured him he wasn’t so alone in the world after all.

Marina was more than she appeared. While she had a sharp, scientific mind and a direct approach to life, she also embodied the culture of her people. A native of Pabu—an uncommon heritage, as most were refugees like him—she held tight to their distinctive culture. Her connection to their physical traditions, like tattoos, and her reverence for the moon and tide cycles, reflected a harmony that enhanced both her analytical side as a scientist and her spirituality in a way that was rhythmic. Having never fully been able to do the same, he found it interesting one could walk that line with grace and ease. Particularly the way in which she framed her scientific discoveries as something noble and worthy of protecting simply for their beauty.

It was a quality he was finding increasingly admirable. 

After presenting his findings to Crosshair, Tech had been met with a curt, dismissive response. His brother, in typical fashion, had simply called him a “kriffing idiot” before shutting down any further discussion. Tech, as always, had tried to prod for more details, to understand why his findings—his observations—were being so lightly dismissed. But Crosshair had only shrugged, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he said, “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Tech, unsurprisingly, had no doubts that he would eventually crack the puzzle. He always did, after all. But the response, or rather, the lack of one, left him feeling oddly disappointed. He couldn’t pinpoint why exactly, but there was something about Crosshair’s refusal to elaborate that gnawed at him. It wasn’t just the dismissive tone—Tech was used to that—but the evasiveness, the unwillingness to help him interpret the strange phenomenon that had been so consuming. His brother’s typical bluntness had given way to a kind of aloofness that felt out of character, and it left Tech feeling as though something important had slipped just out of reach.

Tech wondered if it was stemming from his brother’s proximity to his ex wife. Kayden and Leena were twins after all. Perhaps it had something to do with his loyalty to his fiance and thus her family, that he remained so tight lipped. It also might stem from the one bad interaction that Marina had experienced with Crosshair, getting under his skin in a way Tech knew would be hard to rectify - even if he did believe his brother to be in the wrong. Regardless, Crosshair was not willing to help and that left Tech on his own to figure out what the feelings meant on his own. 

And yet, Tech refused to let the confusion dampen his plans for the evening. He was determined to help his friend with her research, and in doing so, witnessed a rare scientific phenomenon that only a few were privileged enough to observe. The other, more personal aspects of his curiosity—those feelings of comfort that had begun to stir within him—would have to wait. There was no need to try to interpret them just yet, especially when there was so much data to be gathered. He could analyze the rest later, on his own time.

So, as Tech made his way down the familiar island path, his footsteps light but purposeful, he found himself reflecting on the strange sense of urgency that had overtaken him as he prepared for the evening. He had spent more time than usual adjusting his appearance before leaving his domicile—straightening his shirt, making sure his hair didn’t have cowlicks, even using a bit of fragrance he usually found overwhelming. Normally, he didn’t care much for such details, but tonight felt different. There was a subtle pressure to look “right,” though he couldn’t quite articulate why he felt the need.  It was irrational - something Tech rarely allowed himself to indulge - but for some odd reason he couldn’t stop. 

The evening air was cool as he walked, the full moon casting a soft, silvery glow across the horizon. His path was dimly lit by the lamp he carried, the small light barely enough to illuminate the trail beneath his feet. The wind tugged at the edges of his shirt and ruffled his short brown hair, but Tech barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, caught up in the quiet hum of the night and the curiosity that continued to pulse beneath his skin.

As Tech neared the dock, his heart seemed to beat a little faster, his steps subtly quickening as if the evening’s arrival had suddenly become more tangible. The familiar sound of the gentle waves lapping against the shore was drowned out by the heightened rhythm of his thoughts. He was almost there—so close now—and yet, the closer he got, the more acutely aware he became of the small details that he’d never cared about before.

Reaching the end of the path, where the dock stretched out over the water, Tech paused for a brief moment. He took a slow, steadying breath and looked down at himself again, though he knew he had already checked his appearance at least three times before leaving. His shirt—hanging loosely over his waistband, as if that made any difference—felt too tight in some places, too loose in others. His hands hovered awkwardly over his clothes, as if trying to adjust them, but they didn’t need adjusting. His boots, polished to an extent that he rarely bothered with, seemed to gleam in the dim light, too pristine for someone who spent most of his time in the lab or among machinery.

He wasn’t sure what had come over him. He never worried about these small, superficial details. But tonight, as the torch light swayed gently in the wind beside him, something inside his chest fluttered, and he couldn’t stop himself from second-guessing every movement, every decision. Did normal people behave this irregularly in the face of unresolved tension? The thought flickered in his mind before he quickly dismissed it. He was overthinking. He knew that. But even as he tried to calm his nerves, a persistent hum of uncertainty remained.

He glanced at his reflection in the dark water below, seeing only fragments of his face on the moonlit surface. There was nothing out of the ordinary about his appearance, nothing to suggest that this evening was anything different from the others.

Tech took a step onto the dock, the familiar sound of the wooden planks creaking beneath his boots seemed unusually loud in the stillness of the night. His nerves were on edge, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, and just as he neared the end of the dock, he saw movement ahead. Marina’s head appeared around the corner of the houseboat’s door, just enough for him to catch sight of her. She didn’t step out fully, but her eyes locked on him immediately, and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

“You made it,” she called out, her voice carrying a slightly higher pitch than usual. There was a certain brightness in her tone that stood out, almost at odds with her usual reserved demeanor. His heart did a strange little flip at the sound. It was unexpected, and yet, not unwelcome. He had grown used to her more measured, often serious way of speaking, especially when it came to her work. But tonight, her voice carried a volume and enthusiasm that felt almost unfamiliar, and the shift was enough to make his chest tighten. “Come on in,” she added with an encouraging smile. “You’re just in time.”

Tech’s pulse quickened, his legs feeling a little more wobbly than usual as he drew closer. He nodded, though the response felt inadequate, and the sound of his boots hitting the dock again was all that broke the silence between them.

Marina smiled again, this time more softly, before slipping back inside the boat with a quiet rustle of fabric. The door clicked gently behind her, and Tech stood there for a moment longer than necessary, his mind racing with the odd sensation that something had shifted between them in those few seconds. Raising his hands only slightly, he flexed his hand before releasing it as if it would calm his nerves purely through the subconscious act alone.

Tech stepped inside the galley, the lights inside dim, as the boat swayed gently beneath him. He’d expected to find Marina inside, maybe preparing her notes or getting things in order, but as he stepped through the door, he realized she wasn’t there. He frowned briefly, confused, until he heard her voice, light and inviting, calling out from the deck.

“Out here!”

He turned on his heel, setting the torch in his hand on the table while the wooden floor creaked beneath him as he headed toward the back door that led out to the deck. As he stepped outside, the cool night air met him, the wind tugging at his shirt as he squinted into the moonlight, eyes readjusting to the low light.

And then he saw her.

Marina stood near the railing, looking out over the water, the soft glow from the sky casting an ethereal halo around her. The moonlight bathed her in silver, but it wasn’t just the soft illumination of the night that caught his attention—it was her. Her appearance was startling, yet captivating, and for a long moment, Tech stood frozen, unsure how to process what he was seeing.

She wore a flowing skirt that draped loosely around her hips, the fabric cut with slits on both thighs that revealed glimpses of her toned legs as she shifted her weight. The skirt moved with the breeze, and as the fabric fluttered, it drew his eye to the intricate blue tattoos that trailed down her thighs all the way to the tops of her feet, dark lines of color like fluid streaks of ink. 

Her top was not that unlike the kinds of things he’d seen her wear in the past. It was a simple piece, barely covering her chest, leaving the rest of her skin exposed. He was used to her wearing swimwear under wetsuits for diving, and while the shape of this was not far off, the impracticality of no sleeves and just a simple piece of fabric wrapped around her breasts was enticing. The top’s fabric was light and airy, enough to offer coverage but still reveal the smooth expanse of her arms, shoulders, and midriff. 

A gold chain wrapped around her waist, resting just above the waistband of her skirt, its delicate links glinting in the low light. Beneath the chain, Tech’s gaze lingered on the metal along her naval—a small, subtle piercing he hadn’t recalled noticing before, but one that seemed to add to the overall softness of her appearance. 

Her hair, usually tied back neatly when they worked together, was loose tonight, the dark strands swaying lightly in the wind as the few white pieces reflected the moonlight. It framed her face beautifully, soft waves cascading down her shoulders. As he looked longer he noticed the addition of smaller plaits, wrapped in thread or ornamented with more gold cuffs or beads. The sight was so striking that for a moment, Tech’s thoughts scattered, unable to form anything coherent. The combination of her exposed skin, the delicate jewelry, and the raw elegance of her posture was overwhelming.

His breath caught in his chest.

Marina turned slightly, her eyes catching him as she noticed him standing there, frozen in place. Her lips curled into a subtle smile, one that seemed almost playful but also knowing, as if she’d caught him off guard.

“You coming, or are you going to stand there all night?” she teased, her voice light but with an edge of curiosity.

Tech blinked, his gaze shifting away from her exposed skin, though it was almost impossible to look away. His heart raced again, but this time it wasn’t from the excitement of the evening’s research. No, it was something else entirely—something deep in his chest that he had a sinking suspicion he may finally know how to name.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were stuck. His brain was sluggish, processing too many things at once. The sound of his boots moving along the deck was the only thing that filled the silence.

As he joined her by the railing, he couldn’t help but steal another glance at her, his mind still reeling. She was breathtaking, but it was more than that. There was a rawness in her beauty tonight, something that made her feel more real, more present than ever before. Sure, he had acknowledged she was objectively attractive, but now that seemed arbitrary. This was a type of transcendent glow he couldn’t quite placate. One that existed simply from one’s own natural beauty and not the artifice of cosmetics but instead existed in sunkissed skin and salt waved hair. 

Marina glanced at him, the faintest glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked, her tone still light, but there was an understanding in the way she looked at him, like she could see right through his awkwardness.

Tech cleared his throat, his hands instinctively moving to adjust the sleeves of his shirt, though there was no need. So his fingers worked their way down to the friendship bracelet woven by Omega along his wrist, fiddling with the frayed strands that hung loose. He swallowed hard, finally managing to say, “You—uh, you look incredible.” His voice came out quieter than usual, and he wasn’t sure if it was the way her appearance had stunned him or if it was something else entirely, but his words felt like they barely scratched the surface of what he really meant.

Marina’s smile deepened, and her eyes softened, almost as if she could hear the unspoken things in his voice, the things he wasn’t saying aloud. She stepped a little closer, the gentle sway of the boat bringing them even nearer to each other.

“Thank you,” she said simply, though her smile held an unmistakable warmth that sent a ripple through Tech’s chest. 

Tech shifted his weight, feeling an awkward tension settle in his chest as he glanced at Marina once more. His eyes, despite his best efforts, betrayed his thoughts, lingering on her for just a second longer than necessary. He cleared his throat once more, trying to divert his focus. "Not that your appearance isn’t appreciated," he started, his words falling a little flat, but he pushed through the discomfort, "but I thought we were going to study the mōlī fish migration tonight. This does not exactly seem suitable for scientific research." He gave her another quick glance, hoping she wouldn’t catch on to the hesitation in his gaze, but he couldn’t help himself. The way the soft moonlight reflected off her exposed skin, the way the gentle sway of the boat seemed to amplify her presence—it was all too much to ignore.

Marina looked at him, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in her eyes, but she didn’t respond right away. Instead, she shifted her gaze downward, fiddling with her hands as if she were suddenly unsure of something, the usual confidence in her posture faltering for just a moment.

She took a slow breath and then glanced back up at him, her expression softening slightly. “I don’t recall saying we were going to study them,” she replied, her voice light but tinged with an edge of playfulness. “I only asked if you would join me in witnessing their rare resurfacing. There is a difference, you know.” Her lips curved into a small, almost apologetic smile, but the shift in her demeanor made it clear that there was something more to her words. Not only that, but that his comment was dulling the odd behavior to which she’d displayed since his arrival. 

Tech blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He had assumed she’d planned to document the event, the way she had so carefully detailed the scientific significance of the mōlī fish migration in the reports she’d given him. But now that she mentioned it, she hadn’t actually said anything about studying them. The realization took him a moment, and he found himself searching her face, trying to read between the lines of her playful tone and the uncertainty that now lingered in her hands.

“So this is not strictly a scientific observation?” Tech asked, his voice quieter than intended, a slight confusion lacing his words as he tried to wrap his head around what she was implying. Her statement seemed to suggest something far more personal—something more intimate—and yet, he couldn't bring himself to vocalize it outright. Instead, his mind raced, wondering if there was more to this night than he had initially understood.

Marina seemed to sense his hesitation, the way he was trying to make sense of everything, and she finally met his gaze. “It’s a chance to witness something rare, Tech,” she said softly. “And I thought it might be more meaningful to share it with someone who... well, who might appreciate it in their own way.” Her words trailed off, leaving an openness that hung in the air between them, and Tech felt his chest tighten, unsure of how to respond.

For a moment, the night seemed to hold its breath, the sounds of the water below and the rustling of the breeze the only thing filling the space between them. He looked down, unsure of what he should say next, his mind still caught on the subtle shift in the tone of their conversation. “I—well, I do appreciate it,” he said, the words feeling inadequate even as he spoke them. “I just didn’t realize it was... that sort of experience."

Marina watched him for a moment, a thoughtful look crossing her face. She took a small step closer, her voice lighter, though still laced with a quiet concern. “Tech,” she began, her gaze softening, “if you no longer want to stay... if this wasn’t what you expected... It's okay. I understand if this isn’t the kind of experience you had in mind.”

Her words hung in the air between them, the gentle sway of the boat adding a quiet rhythm to the moment. Tech’s heart skipped, and he immediately felt the weight of her question pressing down on him. The idea of backing out now—of saying that he didn’t want to be here, with her, after everything—felt wrong. His mind scrambled for a response, but his thoughts collided in a haze of uncertainty.

“No, no—” Tech quickly interjected, his voice coming out more rushed and loud than he intended. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. “I want to stay. I just misunderstood, that’s all.”

He paused, his words hanging in the air between them, and he watched her carefully, as if searching for some clue that would help him make sense of this situation. Was she angry? Had he said the wrong thing?

“I still do not fully understand,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "What I mean is, I do not understand why something like this—this event—seems to be affecting your behavior. Not in a bad way, of course, I just—" He cut himself off, realizing he was rambling. He wasn’t good at putting his thoughts into words, especially when they were clouded with feelings he didn’t yet fully comprehend.

He looked down at the water, trying to collect himself, the stillness of the ocean beneath them somehow helping to calm his scattered thoughts. The breeze tugged at his sleeves, and for a brief moment, he felt like he could collect his bearings and make sense of it all. “I look forward to uncovering the reason,” he added, his voice more measured now. “If you’re willing to explain it to me, that is.”

It felt like he was asking more than just for an explanation. He wanted to understand her, to understand why this moment—this rare event—was affecting her so deeply. There was more going on here than just the mōlī fish. And, whether or not she admitted it, it seemed tied to something more personal, even if that something wasn’t a detail she was ready to reveal. He was still unclear if it was something from her life directly or if it involved him somehow. 

“I suppose I am acting abnormal to the baseline you’ve come to recognize,” Marina admits, her words trailing off as she pauses. There’s a quiet shift in her demeanor, a subtle vulnerability that Tech can’t quite place. He doesn’t press her, though—he simply watches, his gaze flicking to her from the corner of his eye, noticing the way she draws in a steadying breath.

Then, to his surprise, she reaches out and grabs his forearm. The unexpected contact startles him, and he tenses for a moment before forcing himself to relax. His heart thuds loudly in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away. She seems to sense his hesitation and, after a brief pause, she tugs him gently away from the railing.

“Come on,” she says, her voice soft but resolute. He follows her wordlessly, curious as she leads him to the front of the boat. There, she lowers herself gracefully onto the deck, dipping her feet into the water with a practiced ease as she settles in.

Tech hesitates for a moment, watching her, noticing the subtle tension in her shoulders and the way her movements seem more purposeful than usual. He sits next to her, his boots coming off quickly, socks discarded as he rolls his pant legs up. He mimics her posture, dipping his feet into the slightly chilled water, feeling the coolness of the sea seep into his skin. He hears Marina sigh beside him, the sound soft and heavy with something he can't quite name. Her leg bounces up and down on the lower dock, his eyes tracing the exposed skin momentarily as it moves before they settle on the way she’s weaving her fingers in and out of each other. It’s then Tech realizes she’s perhaps nervous. 

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The night air hums with a quiet energy, and Tech is keenly aware of the silence that lingers between them, a silence filled with more than just the sound of the waves.

Finally, Marina’s voice breaks the silence, hesitant, as if her words have been waiting to be said for years. “Twenty-eight years ago, my mom went into labor,” she starts, her voice steady but heavy with something unspoken. This is the tone he is used to from her, and not the one she had been adopting the evening thus far. “My father wanted her to seek medical assistance, but she refused. She said the Pabu natives had been giving birth by the sea for generations, and she would uphold that tradition. I was born just as the mōlī fish came up to the surface.”

She pauses, her eyes unfocused as if she’s seeing something far away. Tech stays quiet, letting her find her rhythm. He pictures the scene she’s describing—her mother, the glowing mōlī fish rising from the water, and the life-and-death balance of the moment. Regardless of his own less than organic conception and birth, he still held much regard for the process that natural born people experienced. 

“My father told me,” she continues, her voice quieter now, “that my mom was so happy to see me there, hovering above the water, glowing. And for a moment everything was perfect. In the end she didn’t make it. But she got to experience joy there in the end.”

The words hang between them, heavy and raw. Tech feels a tightness in his chest, the weight of her grief lingering in her tone. He’s not sure how to respond—how to offer comfort without crossing some line. So, he stays silent, simply listening, watching her closely as she opens up, trying to hold on to every word she’s offering as his fingers drum along his leg.

Marina exhales softly, as if the telling of it has exhausted her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Her gaze flickers to him, just for a moment, searching his face as if to gauge his reaction. But she doesn’t wait for him to speak—she continues.

“Despite my more scientific mind,” she says, her voice thick with emotion, “I admit to behaving oddly when I witness this event. There is a joy to it. I understand sorrow as it commemorates the passing of my mother would be more appropriate but the grief I feel for her is less in losing someone and more in losing out on the opportunity to know someone so vital to who I am.” She pauses and Tech considers her words. He knew the feeling. Quite well. He - like other clones - were a product of Jango Fett but there was a disconnect from the man that existed. He did not know him, but he was him, at least genetically speaking. That left an odd hole in his existence few could articulate.  

“I wish I had a better descriptor and believe me I certainly have tried to rationalize one. It’s not just the fish, it’s not just the science of it. Seeing this makes me feel connected to my mother. A woman I never knew. This migration... it’s a part of me, in many ways. I understand it is likely just a coincidence in timing, and there is no real reason to put such emphasis on the movement of aquatic life.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy with the weight of everything she’s shared. Tech feels his heart pounding in his chest, his mind struggling to find something to say that could capture the depth of what he’s just heard. For a moment, he simply watches her, taking in the way the water reflects in her eyes. From his position he can only see the lighter of the two. It’s as though the entire night has shifted, the scientific curiosity he’d arrived with now feeling small in the face of Marina’s story. He has no words that feel sufficient to meet the moment, but somehow, he knows that what she’s shared has opened a door to something much more meaningful between them.

Tech swallows, his voice soft yet sincere. “I did not realize. I didn’t understand how much this truly meant to you.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts before adding, “There are times when behavior might seem illogical, but that doesn’t make it any less valid.” His mind drifts back to earlier, when he had almost scolded himself for the extra, seemingly unnecessary effort he’d put into his appearance, and he hopes she’ll understand that he’s acknowledging something important. That sometimes, acting against reason doesn’t make the experience any less real or worthwhile. He, too, occasionally finds himself in that space, where actions defy explanation, and it’s not a bad thing.

Marina doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turns her gaze toward the water, watching the gentle ripples.  The air between them is filled with a quiet understanding, a connection that feels deeper than anything Tech has ever experienced. He doesn’t know how to make sense of everything he’s feeling at this moment, but he knows one thing for sure: he’s grateful she’s shared it with him. Grateful, she trusts him enough to allow him to see this side of her—the one that’s more than just the scientist, the one who carries the weight of her past with grace and quiet strength.

“I apologize for not saying anything earlier. Or if my unnatural behavior is off putting to you in any regard” she admits, her gaze still drawn to the water, though her voice grows just a little more vulnerable. “But... I’m glad you’re here. I was not quite sure why I invited you, but now that you’re here, it feels... right.”

Tech listens intently, his eyes never leaving her face, the quiet moonlight catching the curve of her features. His chest tightens in a way he can't quite place, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like everything else falls away. The gentle sway of the boat, the soft ripples in the water—they all fade into the background, and it’s just the two of them, sharing something unspoken.

She glances over at him then, her expression open, her gaze steady. The depth of her words sits heavily between them, and he feels a strange, pressing need to somehow ease it—to say something that conveys just how much it means that she’s trusting him with this. That he understands that sometimes behavior may be irrational and that is okay. That she shouldn’t feel the need to dull herself for his sake. That she’s making him feel a comfort and acceptance he’s never felt before. But even as he searches for the right words, something else presses on him, a pull that he can’t ignore.

He finds his hand reaching out instinctively, brushing lightly against her arm at first, just enough to confirm she’s still here, still with him. There’s a flash of heat at the contact, one that catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets his hand slip around her shoulder. His palm flattened around the skin, drawing her closer, the movement slightly awkward yet almost urgent. It’s not entirely deliberate, not like he’s thought this through, but something in him just... needs to be close to her.

Marina doesn’t pull away, her breath catching for the briefest moment, but she leans into his touch, just slightly, her warmth against him undeniable. The sensation spreads through him, and for the first time tonight, Tech feels that curiosity that’s been plaguing him slips his mind, so that he can focus on the here and the now.

She doesn’t seem to mind the closeness, and yet her eyes stay focused on the water. But the air around them feels different now, charged. He wonders if she can feel it, too—the way their proximity seems to spark something between them that perhaps started friendly and is now shifting into a place he hadn’t considered.

His voice comes out quieter than usual, the words soft and hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, afraid that acknowledging what’s happening might somehow make it disappear.

“I’m honored that you trusted me with your story,” he says, his voice huskier than he intends. “I didn’t expect to be part of something so... meaningful to you tonight. Also although I admit your behavior is unexpected I assure you it it is not off putting,”

For a moment, the only sounds are the gentle lapping of the water and the soft rhythm of their breathing, but the silence isn’t comfortable. It’s thick with something unspoken, something lingering between them—something neither seems ready to name.

“Sorry if I overwhelmed you when you were expecting research,” she says, her brow furrowing with concern, as if suddenly realizing the weight of what she’s done.

“Nonsense,” he replies, his words warm, almost soothing. “Whatever’s happening right now is far more important than anything I imagined for this evening. I—” He pauses, watching the way her gaze traces his face before he continues. “I’m glad I came.”

Marina’s smile deepens, soft and tender, a quiet affection blooming in the curve of her lips. She shifts slightly, turning her body more toward him. The opposite shoulder to the one he is holding nestles against his outstretched arm, resting against his bicep. The subtle movement brings her even closer, her side brushing against his, her warmth seeping into him like a fireplace on a cold night.

“I’m glad I get to share this with you,” she whispers, her voice barely a breath, as if the words hold the power to change something between them. Her hands reach up, settling carefully on his shoulders, hesitant, testing his reaction. When he doesn’t pull away, she lifts them higher, the soft contact sending a shiver through him.

Tech feels the delicate pressure of her fingers against the sides of his goggles, her touch tender as she gently slides them off, resting them on his forehead.

The air between them thickens, heavy with all the things neither of them dares to say. His breath catches in his throat as he watches her, unable to look away. The world around them seems to hold its breath, charged with a palpable tension—an unspoken electricity in the space between them. And yet, all he can do is sit there, inches from her, caught in the stillness, the moments stretching, building into something far more than either of them can voice.

Something in him shifts again—an unfamiliar desire to be even closer, to bridge that last small gap between them. He doesn’t know if it’s the way her gaze flickers to his lips, or the warmth in her voice that makes his chest tighten in a way he’s not used to, but before he even knows what’s happening, he moves—slowly, deliberately—his one hand still resting on her shoulder, but now his other hand drifts slightly, brushing against her back. The contact is light, tentative, but the way she leans into it just enough makes his heart race in a way he didn’t expect.

Marina's breath catches as Tech's fingers trace the curve of her back, sending a spark through her skin that seems to resonate with the beat of her heart. The world around them feels still, like a held breath, and for a moment, everything else fades into the background. It's just the two of them, the tension between them thick and palpable, like an unspoken promise hanging in the air.

Tech’s gaze flickers down to her lips, and the space between them becomes so small, so charged with possibility that he can feel it in his chest, in his fingertips. There’s an electric pull, something magnetic drawing him closer, and he leans in slightly, just on the cusp of closing the distance between them. 

Marina’s eyes are locked on him, her pupils dilated, her breath steady but quick. She’s not pulling away. She’s not hesitating either. And that simple truth makes everything feel even more real—more intense. He wants to kiss her. He knows it, and it feels right, and the moment is stretching in a way that makes time slow to a crawl.

But then, just as their faces draw even closer, just as Tech can almost feel the warmth of her lips against his, she gasps, her eyes snapping toward the water with an excitement that almost knocks the air out of his lungs. “Look!” Her voice rises with a mixture of joy and wonder, pointing urgently at the water. Her fingers tremble with excitement as she points toward the glowing light in the distance, the mōlī fish rising to the surface. The air shifts instantly, the moment between them slipping away like sand through his fingers.

Tech follows her gaze, heart still racing, but now the quiet, intimate connection feels like it’s been severed. His eyes take in the mesmerizing sight of the fish, their glowing bodies casting a soft, ethereal light just under the water’s surface, a breathtaking natural phenomenon that he would never have expected to be so enchanting.

Marina’s face lights up, the wonder in her eyes infectious as she watches the fish dance in the water. Her excitement is so pure, so unrestrained, that it fills the space between them, pulling him into the moment with her.

Tech glances at her, his chest tightening at the sight of her so animated, so alive with joy. Despite the moment slipping away, despite the rush of disappointment that’s flooding through him, he can’t help but feel a heat spread through his body. She’s so present, so open, and even as the tension between them eases, something else starts to settle in its place—a deeper respect for her in this moment.

As she springs to her feet, a smile as bright as the sun spreading across her face, Tech instinctively pushes himself up to join her. Her excitement is palpable, her eyes shining with awe as more of the glowing mōlī fish begin to surface, gracefully swimming closer to the boat. For a fleeting moment, Tech is completely absorbed in the wonder around them, the sheer beauty of the sight washing over him, making him forget the tension that had nearly clouded the evening. But just as he feels he’s taken in the full splendor of the scene, his gaze shifts, and he catches sight of Marina again.

He’d grown so used to her normal behavior. Marina was calm. She was an overcast sky in the early morning. Still. Subdued. Only occasionally allowing subtle humor to break past her otherwise stoic nature. Her excitement was rare to witness and often came in the form of soft exhales through her nose. She was not robotic per say, but she aligned more with his own behavior. This explosion of emotions was far cry from the woman he had come to recognize.

She’s standing next to him, her eyes wide with pure amazement, her body practically vibrating with excitement. Then, without warning, she twirls on her toes, her arms flung out as if the rush of joy is too much to contain within the confines of her frame. Hands shaking and arms moving up and down like a bird preparing for flight. The movement, albeit a bit unnatural, somehow radiates with him. The sight of her, so unabashedly filled with childlike wonder, almost causes him to lose his balance and tumble into the water, a soft laugh bubbling up in his chest. The fish, radiant in their bioluminescent glow, are undoubtedly breathtaking, but the image of Marina, watching them with such unfiltered reverence, is far more captivating to him given how much it diverges from how she behaves normally.

Tech’s thoughts drifted back to his cadet days, remembering how, in moments of pure elation—whether from a new discovery or a successful training exercise—he would often burst with an energy he couldn’t quite contain. His body would betray him in those moments, trembling with excitement, his hands fidgeting or his feet tapping without his consent. It was natural then, but as he grew older, he began to realize that such outbursts weren’t typical. He wasn’t very old when the awareness started to creep in, and it became undeniable when Crosshair, ever the sharp observer, coined the word ‘odd’ to describe it. He’d mockingly called him "Porg," a nickname that reduced his genuine expression of joy to something silly, something to laugh at. But to Tech, it wasn’t funny. The playful teasing only made him retreat further into himself, and he learned to suppress those exuberant displays of emotion. His joy became something quieter, less noticeable—just the subtle tapping of his leg or the rhythmic rubbing of his hand along his pant leg. Or adjusting his goggles on his face.

Now, watching Marina, he was reminded of how he used to be, before the Kaminoans, the regs, and even his own brothers pointed out the “oddities” in his behavior. There, in Marina’s uninhibited excitement, he saw a reflection of the boy he had been—a boy unashamed of his physical reactions to joy. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he’d been too harsh on himself, too quick to stifle what felt so natural. The way Marina let herself be fully absorbed in the present, unrestrained by the world’s expectations, made him question whether perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all. To be so overwhelmed with joy that it couldn’t be contained, that it spilled out in visible, almost childlike expressions—it wasn’t something to hide. It was, in its own way, a beautiful form of unbridled freedom in the stimulation.

Despite the magnetic pull of Marina’s enthusiasm, Tech knows he would never forgive himself if he didn’t fully appreciate the mōlī migration. With a reluctant sigh, he tears his eyes away from her, pulling his goggles back down over his eyes, ready to dive into the scientific beauty of the moment. The fish’s movement is hypnotic, their delicate, fluid motions like the flicker of flames. The glow they emit is far brighter than he expected, not the soft glow he imagined, but a radiant blaze, as if the creatures themselves are stars come to life beneath the water.

The faint rustling of fabric reaches his ears, and he assumes it’s Marina shifting to get a better view. But then a sudden splash disrupts his focus, pulling his attention back toward her.

Tech’s eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat as he processes what’s happened. Marina—who was just beside him moments ago, fully clothed—is now in the water. Most of her clothes are gone, replaced by the shimmering glow of the fish, as she giggles and splashes, completely uninhibited. The water around her glows with the same bioluminescence, the fish swirling around her in a dance of light. Though the rippling waves distort her form, the sight is almost painfully beautiful, the contrast of her laughter against the ethereal glow of the sea creating a surreal, intoxicating image.

Tech’s mind races, struggling to process the scene in front of him, but no matter how he tries to focus on the migration, his eyes can’t help but be drawn back to Marina, glowing in the water, a part of the wonder that surrounds them.

His mind struggles to find a foothold, every logical thought slipping away as his gaze lingers on Marina, her laughter echoing softly through the night air. The glow of the mōlī fish reflects off her skin, casting an otherworldly light over her, as if she’s become part of the sea itself. He watches as she lets herself be swept up in the magic of the moment, her movements light and carefree, as if the ocean had swallowed up any trace of the world beyond. The sight is so intimate, so unguarded, that it feels like something he shouldn’t be witnessing.

He takes a step closer to the edge of the boat, unable to tear his eyes away from her as she floats in the water, the gentle waves caressing her. The water around her ripples with a thousand tiny points of light, the fish weaving in and out of her, creating patterns in the depths.

“Marina…” he whispers, almost to himself, but his voice is drowned out by the splash of water as she dives beneath the surface, her form momentarily disappearing into the glowing abyss. The stillness that settles around them feels as though it could stretch on for eternity. Watching her, Tech is overwhelmed by a rush of emotions and memories, each one flooding his mind in quick succession. He is reminded, in a way that feels almost profound, how much he has come to appreciate her presence in his life. The camaraderie they share has only deepened over time, becoming something more than just companionship—something rich, layered, and almost essential. He’s grateful for the way she brings to light forgotten parts of himself, things he had long buried or suppressed.

In this moment, Tech realizes just how much he’s grown to cherish her, even the simple fact that she helps him reconnect with things he hadn’t known he missed. He smiles inwardly at the thought of how he had once been haunted by Crosshair’s teasing of his behavior—those sharp remarks that had driven him to push down his true self. But now, he finds himself longing for a time when he could be so open with his feelings, when such things weren’t a source of shame. And then, there’s the kiss—the one they almost shared just moments ago. The tension lingers, unfinished, a whisper of something deeper, something that still hums beneath the surface.

Then, she emerges again, her hair shimmering with water drops, her eyes sparkling as she surfaces and looks up at him. There’s something in the way she gazes at him, like she’s silently inviting him into her world, the one she so freely shares with the ocean. The one where their minds, behavior and drive are so aligned it is nearly frightening at the implication. She reaches out her hand, her fingers glowing faintly in the light below, and for a moment, Tech feels his heartbeat quicken.

Without thinking, he reaches toward her, his own fingers trembling slightly as he brushes against hers. Marina doesn’t pull away. Instead, she holds his hand, her grip light but firm, as she uses the other to tread water near where he is still on the lower dock. She tugs him gently, her voice soft but urgent. “You should come in,” she says, her words breathy but filled with intent. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”

He stands torn, caught between the magnetic pull of the moment and the cautious voice in his mind, still echoing with warnings of what could go wrong. A part of him longs to remain on the sidelines, safely observing her joy from a distance, savoring the comfort of his own space. Furthermore this is something important to her, he hardly wishes to intrude. 

Perhaps it’s the lingering sting of the recent separation, the doubts it has left in its wake. Leena had always asked him to be more spontaneous, to embrace the unpredictability of life, but Tech had never been able to force himself to step into that kind of freedom. The mental block that surrounded the idea of spontaneity made it seem impossible—an unscalable wall. It wasn’t until now, watching Marina in her uninhibited joy, that he began to understand why. He had always thought of himself as adaptable, able to adjust to any situation, yet the idea of exposing himself, of allowing his emotions to spill out freely like Marina did, terrified him. It wasn’t just about the fear of rejection, but the deeper vulnerability that came with it. Even around the people he cared most about—his brothers, who had seen him at his most guarded—it had never felt safe enough to be this open, this raw. Not since he was younger anyway.

But now, in the quiet realization born from watching her, he understood something fundamental. Marina wasn’t afraid to be herself in these rare moments, to express her emotions without hesitation, and in that, she mirrored him in ways few could. The way he was wired—his need for order, his logical approach to everything—could be celebrated, not hidden away. Yet, on the flip side that he could be a logical person who did on occasion experience the illogical. There was no shame in being different, in feeling things deeply and allowing those feelings to show physically. The quietness of his own emotional expression had always felt like a burden, but watching her now, free in her own display of joy, he realized it was a strength—a part of himself that could be embraced because she was so alike him in all his other moments.

Perhaps it’s also the unexpected depth of his own growth—growth that had crept up on him quietly, unnoticed, until he found himself living it in real time. The ease with which he now shared his thoughts, the vulnerability that had once felt foreign to him, felt like a revelation. It was the kind of openness he had never thought himself capable of, and yet here he was, offering it to a new friend with a comfort he hadn’t anticipated. Maybe it’s simply the way Marina—this fiercely honest, no-nonsense marine biologist—had just giggled, her laughter spilling out in a raw, unguarded way that felt as though it could never be contained. The sound was unpolished, loud, awkward even, yet there was a purity to it that resonated deeply within him. For the first time, he understood what it meant to let go completely, to embrace joy in its most unrefined form.

But as he watches her there, bathed in the soft glow of the bioluminescent fish, surrounded by the starlit sky, something inside him shifts. In that moment, a realization settles deep within him: he doesn’t want to just observe anymore. He doesn’t want to remain on the sidelines of his own life. He wants to be part of it. He wants to feel this—the uncontained excitement—just as she does. He yearns to be someone who is steady and structured, yes, but also someone who isn’t afraid to let his emotions rise to the surface without hesitation. Not because it’s expected of him, but because, for the first time in a long time, he understands that it’s the person he wants to be. The person he is becoming.

Watching Marina now, he feels a bridge forming to the boy he had once been on Kamino, the one who could laugh freely and celebrate his small victories without fear or shame. That boy, once buried beneath years of self-restraint and calculated detachment, stirs within him. For the first time in years, Tech feels a connection to that part of himself he thought was long gone.

Tech realizes, with quiet clarity, that he has grown tired of allowing his need for structure and control to keep him from fully engaging with the world. He had never fully processed the association of the fear of rejection with his inability to express joy, especially with Leena. When she had pointed out his emotional reserve, his reluctance to embrace spontaneity, he had convinced himself it wasn’t about her—about meeting her needs—but about the deeper, more internal fear that had plagued him for so long. The fear of making himself too large, too visible, too vulnerable. The fear that if he let himself go, even for a moment, he might damage the relationships he cherished.

It was an illogical fear, he knew that now. He understood that Leena, with her kind heart, would have accepted him for who he was, no matter how restrained or intense his emotions were. But understanding and acceptance, he realized, were two very different things. Leena’s kindness had never been in question, but he wasn’t sure she could ever truly understand him—not in the way he needed her to. And that, he knew, wasn’t a failing on her part. Few, if any, could understand him in that way. The diversion from his ‘normal’ behavior as a child had always felt harsh. But as for his relationship to Leena in that regard, he was to blame, for never giving her—or anyone—the chance to see him for all that he was in his adult life. He’d been too prideful and too guarded.

The difference now, however, is that Marina’s natural alignment with his usual subdued nature, combined with this brief but undeniable indulgence in behavior outside of the norm, offers a sense of security that he’s been searching for. It makes the idea of finding equilibrium feel less elusive, as though it’s finally within his reach. The overwhelming effect feels freeing. Like a mask falling away almost.

Without another word, Tech begins to pull off his clothes. His movements are swift, almost instinctive, the need to be in the water—closer to her—growing more urgent with every passing second. He sheds his shirt, his pants, until he's left only in his undergarments. The cold air rushes against his bare skin, and for a moment, he hesitates, but Marina's eyes never leave him. There's no judgment in her gaze, only quiet encouragement, like she’s waiting for him to take this leap. 

In the final moment, he hesitates before removing his goggles. Part of him wants to keep them on, to let the ever-present recording device capture this moment for eternity. But something within him holds him back. He wants to remember this moment—not as footage, but as a memory. It feels too significant to store anywhere other than his own mind. With that thought, he takes them off, switches off the device, and sets the goggles gently down on the deck. 

He steps toward the edge of the boat, his heart racing in his chest, and then, with no more hesitation, he jumps.

The water greets him like an old friend—cool, enveloping, and vast. As he plunges beneath the surface, the world above him vanishes, swallowed by the deep. The water rushes over his head, and for the briefest moment, the world goes still. It’s as if everything that had weighed him down—the doubts, the fears, the things he couldn’t control—suddenly disappears, dissolved in the embrace of the ocean. It’s a release, a cleansing he hadn’t known he needed, as though the water was washing away all that had kept him bound to the edges of himself. 

Tech spent much of his early life on Kaminon, gazing down at the vast, murky depths of the ocean that surrounded the facilities. The cold, isolating waters seemed to stretch endlessly, a constant reminder of the distance between himself and the world beyond. Life there was quiet, distant, and impersonal. But Pabu... Pabu was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was a place of warmth, a stark contrast to the chill of Kaminon’s waters. The island felt like an embrace, welcoming him with its vibrant energy—pure, unspoiled paradise. However, this side of Pabu, where science intertwined with something deeper, something far more personal, was beginning to leave a profound impression on him. Every passing moment only deepened the impact, and Tech couldn’t help but feel the pull of something greater taking root inside him.

For a long breathless moment, he’s suspended in the glow of the bioluminescence, his body weightless and free, surrounded by the quiet hum of the sea. The light from the fish swirls around him, lighting up the dark water like scattered stars in the night sky, and it feels like the world has opened up in a way he never expected. 

When he resurfaces, gasping for air, the sound of Marina’s laugh is a gentle echo, filling the space between them with something light to break the tension. Her eyes are wide with wonder, watching him with that same unguarded joy. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the silence between them thick with the shared understanding that nothing needs to be said. They’re here, together, and that’s all that matters.

He swims up beside her now, the water rushing over his skin in waves, feeling as if he’s shedding old versions of himself with each stroke. His chest rises and falls with each breath, the fresh air tasting sweeter somehow. He looks at Marina, her face illuminated by the glow of the fish, and a thought flits through his mind: This is what living is supposed to feel like.

Tech had always been starkly aware of the artifice that surrounded his existence. He was a clone, modified in an impersonal lab and a product of science. Natural borns always seemed to contain a distance from him - they were born usually of a loving dynamic. They were blessed with the ability to age naturally. And although his friend had found a way to slow the effects of the aging process, it felt daunting to be granted a normal life. The weight of his past—of the mistakes, the distance he himself constructed, the doubts he held about himself—seems small now, insignificant in the face of this. The only thing that matters is the water, the stars, and the woman beside him, so effortlessly radiant in her joy. 

Tech’s heart pounds in his chest, the pulse a constant thrum that resonates deep within him. The water is cold, the stars overhead seem distant and infinite, but it's Marina's presence that’s pulling him in, urging him to move closer, to close the space between them. It's not just about the warmth of her body, or the desire to be near her. It’s the need to feel something, anything, that’s real. The weightlessness of the water, the energy crackling between them, it’s too much to ignore, too much to just let hang there, especially when inside his mind is screaming ‘thank you’ over and over again for making him feel more seen than he ever has in his life.

He reaches out, his hand brushing against her arm. His fingertips feel a spark, like the air between them is charged, and the contact sends a rush of heat through him. He’s never felt this kind of urge before—this desperation to just be closer, to press into her, to feel her, to know she’s there, anchored and alive next to him. It’s as though he’s been starved of physical connection for so long, and now, with her so near, it’s like every inch of his body is screaming for it.

“Marina,” he says, his voice tight, rough with the need that’s building inside him. “I—” He swallows, the words tangled in his throat, unsure how to articulate this raw, overwhelming feeling. But he knows one thing: the space between them just became charged with a need for something physical. His chest aches with the craving to be closer, to feel her warmth, the reality of her proximity like a release of something that’s been buried deep in him for too long.

Marina looks at him, her gaze steady, and for a moment, it’s as if she’s waiting for him to make the first move. Without thinking, he closes the distance between them, his hand finding her arm, his fingers wrapping around her like he's trying to ground himself. He feels the slight shiver of her skin under his touch, and it only makes the urgency build. He can’t pull back, can’t stop himself.

Marina’s hand lands on his chest, just above his heart, and the simple touch sends a tremor through him. The sensation reverberates through his entire body, and it's almost overwhelming, how much he needs to feel her, how much he needs something real in the midst of the quiet chaos swirling inside him. He leans in, his movements sharp, as if he can’t help himself, like the pull to her is magnetic, primal.

His hand moves to the back of her neck, fingers digging lightly into her skin, and it’s all he can do not to pull her entirely into him. He needs the contact, needs to close the gap, to feel the solidity of her presence in a way that settles the wildness inside him. The space between them has become unbearable, a tension he can’t release, and as he presses closer, her body beneath his fingers feels like the only thing that can ground him.

They don’t speak, not yet. The air is thick with the weight of what’s unacknowledged, but neither of them moves away. Instead, Tech closes his eyes for a brief moment, just to feel her—her warmth, her breath, the way her body shifts against his, anchoring him to this shared experience. And in that moment, with the rush of water surrounding them, with the glow of bioluminescence swirling around them like stars, he realizes that he’s no longer just existing. He’s alive, and this need, this undeniable pull, has nothing to do with the past or the future. It’s just the here, the now, and the quiet hum of the connection between them.

The only thing he knows is that he needs this physiciality—her—and for once, he's not afraid to reach for it.

Despite the challenge of maintaining his balance while treading water, Tech's focus sharpens as his hand slides down to her lower back, his fingers pressing into the warmth of her skin. With a surge of passion, he pulls her toward him with a strength, crashing his lips onto hers. In that instant, as though overcome by a wave of pure euphoria, she mirrors his intensity, returning the embrace with equal fervor. The world around them blurs, their connection crackling in the water like an electric charge, each kiss more desperate, more consuming than the last.

Tech can feel Marina’s fingers carding through the hair on the back of his head, her nails scratching through to his scalp. The feeling makes him groan at how electrifying the stimulus is. In return his grip on her back grows more intense, his fingers digging into the toned skin. He can feel her pressed against the entire length of his body. The chain around her waist, the piercing of her navel, and-

He pulls away quickly, mind having caught up with the experiences his body was undergoing. He laughs. Loudly and awkwardly as it feels foreign to do so. His hand shifted from her shoulder to cup one of her breasts, illuminated by the glow around them. “My, this is a fascinating discovery,” he hummed out, enjoying both the weight and size of her breast in his palm, but also the way the small metal through her peaks caught the light. His thumb trails over the stud and the sound of the purr leaving her lips renews that need once more. “Tech…” she whispers, head lulling back as she gives him more room to notice the way dark hair clings to her shoulder or dimples appear in the corner of her cheeks. The thin white scar running across her chin catches his eye as his thumb trails over the line. 

“You are positively exquisite,” he hums out, lips finding her pulse as he continues to let his hands roam. Everything is soft skin, cool lapping water and the beauty of nature around them. But then he hesitates. “Is it alright to keep going? I hadn’t fully anticipated how much emotional weight this could carry for you, especially with your past and your grief. I want to make sure I’m being respectful of that,” he says thoughtfully.

She looks at him for a moment, as if pondering the words. Tech briefly wonders if he has ruined this wonderful experience by asking but just when he goes to once again speak her hands grab him, dragging him beneath the waves as Tech holds his breath. He soon feels her lips pressing against his once more, this time under the waves. Near his feet he can feel the occasional fin of one of the mōlī fish swimming closer to them. That all fades as both his hands cradle her face, attempting to maintain the connection as long as possible with the buoyancy pushing them to the surface. 

His legs tangle with hers, her hair moving around the two of them as he feels the full extent of her soft skin. Marina’s one hand settles on his shoulder as the other lands just above his waist, her chest firmly pressed against his own. Opening his eyes ever so slightly he can only make out the brief shape under the haze of the salt water as it burns his eyes but with the glow of the fish and her body so close he does not care. 

Before long, the need for air catches up with them, pulling them both back to the surface. Tech gasps deeply, filling his lungs, and Marina does the same, her eyes fluttering open once more.

“While I appreciate your concern, I assure you I am no blushing maiden,” she says with a smile. “This may not have been my agenda tonight, but the deviation is certainly pleasant.”

Tech chuckles, a sound that feels lighter than it has in a long time, as he instinctively pulls her waist closer, their bodies still aligned as they tread water in the gentle ebb of the waves. The ocean tonight is unusually calm, soothing in its quiet rhythm, and he finds himself grateful for the stillness.

The moment lingers between them, and for the first time, Tech realizes something he hadn’t before. It hadn’t been until that moment earlier—the fleeting second when he almost leaned in to kiss her—that he understood the desire that had been quietly building inside him. He hadn’t known he wanted to kiss her until that exact moment, but now, the feeling is undeniable, like a spark igniting within him. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t planned for it, but as he holds her close, the sensation feels natural, almost inevitable. He feels the pull of something deeper than mere camaraderie, something he hadn’t let himself recognize until now.

Crosshair was right. He did figure it out. 

Tech hesitates for a moment, the weight of the moment settling around them. He pulls her a little closer, his voice quieter now, the sincerity clear.

"I really enjoyed that," he admits, his words slipping out before he can stop them. "More than I expected, honestly." He looks down for a moment, then meets her eyes, the hesitation still lingering. "But I want to make sure—did you mind? Was it too much?"

Marina holds his gaze, her expression thoughtful. After a beat, she shakes her head, her voice steady but soft. "No, I didn’t mind. It felt natural. Unexpected, but not unwelcome."

A wave of relief washes over Tech, but then something else rises within him, something he hadn’t anticipated. He shifts slightly, his brow furrowing as he considers her words. "I have to ask," he says quietly, "Is this the first time you’ve done something like this, since Keiron?"

The question hangs between them, sensitive and careful, but it feels right to ask. He doesn't mean to pry, but his concern for her feels more important than his own discomfort.

Marina’s expression changes, a flicker of something he can’t quite place passing through her eyes. She takes a deep breath, her gaze dropping for just a moment before she looks back at him, her voice softer now.

"No," she says slowly. "I’ve maintained a few casual physical relationships since Keiron. Nothing serious, nothing like this." She pauses, her gaze steady, vulnerable in a way Tech hadn’t expected. "What we just shared is certainly more gratifying. It’s more than I thought I was ready for, but at the same time, it feels right."

Tech takes in her words, feeling a warmth spread through him, tempered with an understanding that runs deeper than he anticipated. He nods slowly, meeting her gaze, as if trying to take in everything she’s just shared.

Tech feels a wave of something new course through him, and it’s not just the gentle pull of the ocean around them. The air between them feels different now, the unspoken tension palpable in a way that’s impossible to ignore. He searches her face, looking for some indication of what’s next.

“Marina,” he begins slowly, his voice softer, almost hesitant. “I don’t think we can just pretend that didn’t happen. That moment. The way it felt.”

She meets his gaze, steady but thoughtful, clearly processing the same thing. "No, I don’t think we can," she agrees quietly, her voice clear, but there’s a certain weight to her words. "It’s strange, isn’t it? How quickly things shifted. But it didn’t feel wrong. Not for a second."

Tech lets out a breath, his chest a little tight but he appreciates her honesty. "I don’t know if this is how we expected things to go, but... it felt important. Even if it wasn’t part of some grand, traditional idea of what this is supposed to look like."

Marina nods, her lips curling slightly into a soft, knowing smile. "I’ve never been one for the 'song and dance' of romance," she says with a quiet laugh. "I think we’ve both spent enough time trying to live by everyone else’s expectations." She pauses for a moment, her eyes flicking away to the horizon before returning to him. "But this—what just happened—feels like it should be part of what we’re building. Not in spite of what’s come before, but because of it. We don’t need to complicate things with rules that don’t fit us."

Tech takes in her words, a light dawning in his chest. "So you believe we should alter this arrangement, then? Make it something more physical? Even if it’s undefined, without the typical build-up or structure?"

She shrugs, her expression open. "Why not? You and I are unlike everyone else in many ways. And sometimes the most honest connections are the ones that don’t follow a script." She pauses, then adds, "If that’s what you want,"

Tech feels a sense of relief, mixed with a deep sense of understanding. "I think I do," he says quietly, the words simple but carrying a weight of truth. "I think I’ve been fighting it, mostly because I truly didn’t understand what I was feeling, but this feels like something we should lean into. Even if it’s not how others would expect."

Marina smiles, the tension between them easing as she moves a little closer. "Then let’s stop fighting it," she says, her voice low and assured.

Tech looks at her, his expression serious now, the weight of the conversation settling in. "I agree but," he begins, his voice quiet but firm, "I want you to know... with all of this being so... undefined between us, we’ll have to be honest with each other. No matter what happens."

Marina tilts her head, her gaze never leaving his, as if trying to read the depth of his words. She doesn’t rush to respond, but her eyes soften, a subtle understanding passing between them.

"I mean it," Tech continues, his brow furrowing slightly. "If we’re doing this, whatever that may entail, I need to know we can always talk—no matter how messy or complicated things get. I don’t want to end up misinterpreting something or leaving anything unsaid."

Marina nods slowly, her expression thoughtful but open. "I agree," she says, her voice steady. "I do not intend to play games. If we’re going to do this, we need to be able to be upfront about what we want, what we need even when it’s uncomfortable." she paused for a moment before chuckling and saying, “although you’ve been fairly blunt with me, as I have with you, so I do not perceive it to be a problem,” 

Tech lets out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing at her words. There’s a small, reassuring comfort in her response, something that makes him feel more certain about the path they’re stepping onto, even without a clear map.

“You’re right,” he agrees, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Bluntness is definitely something we seem to have in common.” His gaze softens as he looks at her, his voice becoming more earnest.Tech takes a small, measured breath, his mind ticking through the conversation with a careful precision. As much as the moment feels natural, the lack of structure still pulls at him, and his desire to understand everything clearly urges him to address it head-on.

"Marina," he begins, his tone calm but purposeful. "Before we proceed any further, I need to ask. Do you have any preferences when it comes to the physical aspects of a relationship? Boundaries, expectations, or anything that’s important to you?"

Marina’s eyes narrow slightly, as if assessing the seriousness of his question, before giving a small nod. She seems unbothered by the clinical nature of his inquiry, perhaps even appreciating it. "I think it's important to be clear about things," she responds, her voice steady but thoughtful. "I’ve had casual experiences, as I mentioned, but nothing that had a real depth or consistency. Certainly nothing with this level of familiarity. So, I suppose I don’t have any rigid preferences, but I’d want to make sure things are mutual, respectful. I don’t need anything to be forced, and I don’t want it to feel transactional. You know me well enough to recognize that I would likely be honest about liking or disliking certain kinds of physical affection," She pauses, her gaze meeting his with a quiet intensity. "Does that make sense?"

Tech nods slowly, processing her words with his characteristic focus. "Yes," he says, his voice softening slightly. "That makes sense. I don’t want anything to feel rushed or uncomfortable. And I don’t want to make assumptions. If we’re going to move forward, I need to know that we’re both aligned on what we’re comfortable with." He looks at her directly, making sure she knows he’s fully listening, waiting for her response.

She tilts her head slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing her face as she considers his words. "I think the most important thing for me is communication," she replies, her voice steady. "Being open about what we want and making sure we’re both on the same page as we move forward. I’m not expecting this to be a traditional relationship, but if it’s something we want to continue, I need to know we’re being honest about what we need physically."

Tech takes a moment to process her answer, feeling a weight lift off his chest. The clarity of the conversation feels grounding, even if the connection between them is still undefined. "I agree," he responds, his voice more measured. "I don’t want to take any step without being sure we’re both comfortable and genuinely consenting to it."

There’s a brief pause, the air between them feeling calm but charged with the weight of what they’ve just discussed. Finally, Marina nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Good. I think that’s a good foundation. We’ll take it one step at a time and speak freely."

Tech meets her gaze, his mind finally easing from its earlier tension. "One step at a time," he agrees, his tone steady but sincere. "And if anything changes, we’ll talk about it."

The simplicity of the arrangement feels like a solid beginning. There are no grand promises, no rush, just the understanding that whatever happens, they’ll navigate it together—honestly, carefully, and with mutual respect.

Before either of them can say more, he finds himself pulling her gently into an embrace, his arms slipping around her waist as the waves continue their steady rhythm around them. The water around them shifts with the movement, a soft swirl of sensation as they float, bodies close but not suffocating.

For a moment, Tech feels the weight of everything—the complexities, the unspoken things—seem to vanish. It’s just them now, this quiet, shared space in the water where they don’t have to explain anything, don’t have to fit any particular mold.

Marina lets out a soft sigh, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she leans into him. He feels the warmth of her body through the coolness of the water, the rhythm of their breathing synchronized in a quiet pulse.

“It’s strange,” she murmurs after a beat, her voice almost lost in the hush of the night. “I never thought I’d find someone who... just understands. No expectations. No need for grand gestures. Or even explanations of aspects of who I am.”

Tech exhales slowly, his voice soft but steady. “I didn’t think I would either.” He pulls her in a bit closer, just enough to feel the reassurance of her presence. “But this feels right. This... uncomplicated but comfortable space.”

Her head rests against his, and for a moment, the only sound is the gentle lapping of the water against their bodies. It's a simple connection, but there’s something so deeply profound about it. No words are needed, just the quiet understanding that whatever this is, it’s real.

He closes his eyes for a second, letting the sensation of the moment settle within him. When he opens them again, Marina is still there, her gaze soft, her expression peaceful. It’s as though the uncertainty has melted away, leaving only the quiet certainty of their shared space in the water.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice quiet but filled with meaning. “For allowing me space to feel comfortable,”

Tech shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Ironic,” he pauses with a small shake of his head and a chuckle, “I was going to say the same to you.”

She returns the smile, and for a brief moment, everything feels perfectly balanced. Whatever happens next, he knows they’ll continue to navigate it side by side.

As the ocean gently rocks them, Tech tightens his hold on her, not out of need, but because he wants to. He wants this—whatever it may turn into. Nudging his head along hers, for the first time in a long time, he feels like he can let go of the weight of expectation, allowing himself to simply be present.

Unguarded.

As a Reminder this Lovely Art is by @leenathegreengirl!

NEXT Part>>>> HERE

[outoutdamnspark]

Nails

Emmet x Reader

Just a little warmup. I wrote this because I, too, have a thing for hands, but also because having pretty nails is something that makes me feel good about myself and I just wanted to put that into something.

(cw: slightly suggestive, but nothing explicit. hints of body worship. reader is non-binary. Emmet has a thing for hands.)

Ingo: Lips -> here

Emmet loves it when you paint your nails.

He loves to hold your hands, playing with your fingers, fitting his own between yours and gently stroking them just to feel your skin against his. It’s grounding, his favorite stim, and he’ll seek it out absently when he has a build up of energy he needs to let out but doesn’t have the room to pace or the desire to flap his hands. Or, if he’s feeling anxious, he’ll squeeze your fingers gently but rhythmically, keeping time with the nervous tapping of his heel against the floor. It keeps him sane in crowded space when he’s so overstimulated he feels like crying angry, stinging tears. 

But your nails are his favorite part. If you keep them short he likes to trace the edges of them with his fingertips, enjoying the blunted shapes and trying to memorize them. If you keep them long he likes to stroke the pad of his thumbs across the tops of them, feeling how smooth they are and memorizing the texture. 

If you wear fake nails then he’ll move his touch in a repetitive pattern, up and down and around, seeking out the faint outline where the acrylic meets your natural nail bed. It’s like a fun little maze with no real stakes that he can navigate over and over again as many times as he wants and never get frustrated. Sometimes they’re all the same; sometimes they’re not - tiny little differences that he likes to explore on each nail.

But oh. If you paint your nails. That’s another story entirely. 

He likes to help you pick out the colors, whether they’re glossy or matte or glittery; if it’s a special event or a date night he’ll help you coordinate your nail polish to your outfit, or even just to match something he’s wearing if it’s more casual. He’ll often pick out several different colors all of the same hue and watch as you slowly stroke the colors along your fingernails, finding satisfaction in how easily they glide on. It’s calming to his mind, nearly hypnotic, something to help him quiet the constantly racing thoughts brought on by his ADHD.

Eventually he’ll ask you to teach him, watching you closely as you show him just how to hold the brush, how to smooth the polish down the length of each nail one at a time until the entire thing is evenly coated. He’ll be a little sloppy at first but he’ll learn quickly, until he’s gliding something bright and pretty across your nails with expert grace.

His hands are steady despite his usual constant movement, his grip gentle and sure, and as he leans down to softly blow on the newly-applied polish, he’ll look up at you with eyes like moonstone and desire before kissing your knuckles slowly. 

Tell him he did well. Praise him softly. Watch the way his eyes darken and the way his steady hands begin to tremble. 

Later, when your nails have dried enough that you can touch things without ruining all of his hard work, Emmet will pin you to the bed by your wrists and smirk at the way the polish on your nails glints in the low light of your shared bedroom, almost like his signature on the canvas of your body, because to him you are nothing less than art.

His favorite colors on you are metallic - chrome and glittering gold and rusty red, anything shiny, bronze-y, icy silver-white. He loves the way they catch the light and seem to glow, so when he covers your body with his own and holds your hands while he rocks against you, makes you gasp his name, he’ll keep his gaze on the flash of shining paint on the tips of the fingers he loves so much and feel the warmth of pride in his chest that he’s the one that helped to decorate such a beautiful being as yourself. 

And once he lets go of your hands to let you wrap your arms around him, to let you hold him close as though you never want to let him go, he’ll close his eyes with a groan and imagine the way your painted nails must look as you drag them down his back and mark him in return.

[autistpride]

Check Yes Regulus

Jegulus oneshot.

Word count: 2136

No archive warnings. Slight angst. Mentions of Walburgas A+ parenting. HEA.

Based on the song Check Yes Juliet by We The Kings.

Also found on my AO3. :)

James has picked his clothing carefully that evening. Dark muggle denims, soft grey jumper, and a coat he was very much glad for over top. As England is wont to do, the minute he needed to go stand outside, it started pissing rain. He was grateful for the coat's hood and the umbrella charm keeping him mostly dry.

The rain also provided cover. Very few people were out due to the weather and the ones who were paid no mind to anyone else around them, everyone in a hurry to get to their warm and dry destinations as quickly as possible.

If anyone was paying attention, they would have noticed that James wasn't in fact heading anywhere. He was good at making himself look busy due to years of practice when mischief making with the marauders in school. It took a special skill to be able to look like you weren't up to anything, while in fact standing watch and not actually doing anything but waiting and killing time. But James had perfected it.

He refused to leave. He made a promise and James was a man of his word. James would stand there all day and all night if that's what it took.

He glanced down, a shocked expression on his face, to notice his shoe untied. James made a slow effort to crouch down and tie it without getting his trousers wet. Or so it would appear to the house elf that was closing the drapes of the house across the street squeezed in between numbers eleven and thirteen of Grimmauld Place.

James used the brief moment after retying his shoe to look up through his lashes at the house. Long after the drapes were all shut and the lights of the house snuffed out, James smiled and slowly crept his way to the pavement. When he was just outside the house he reached into his pocket and began lobbing pebbles at the window to the left of the entrance.

James also perfected other things in his time at Hogwarts. But of all the things he was proud of doing, he was most accomplished in annoying and winning the trust and affection of the youngest member of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. He carefully tossed another and another, tiny pings echoing out at a random interval to those who didn't know.

To those who weren't Regulus.

James, in one of his hyper fixated moments, learned Morse code and had softly tapped out things when he was anxious or excited. It actually helped calm him or stilled him when he couldn't stim loudly. He hadn't realized he wasn't being discreet until one day he was tapping out his biggest secret on the palm of Regulus' hand under the table at the library, and Regulus slowly tapped back.

“I love you too"

Oh the way James had gasped when that happened before looking at Regulus to ask if he meant it. Regulus inclined his head and raised an eyebrow ever so gracefully, smug. James had cheered and danced around so loudly in excitement he drew the attention of the stern Miss Pince. His actioned earned him a hushed scolding, a smack to the back of the head, and three days detention. It was worth it.

James threw stone after stone. One fast, three more evenly spaced before waiting a few seconds and repeating the process over again. He wouldn't stop, they were not turning back. Tonight would be the night.

James started to notice things every time school returned following summer and winter holidays. The haunted look in both boys' eyes was telling. How Dumbledore, McGonagall, or professors never figured it out or did anything, he didn't know. But his fear and anger at the Black brothers' parents grew.

A soft yellow glow suddenly formed in the window and James smirked. He tossed the last two of the pattern and then blew on his hands to warm up his frozen fingers. Moments later, the curtain moved just enough for Regulus to peek out and James saw his eyes widen in surprise before he pulled them back all the way and worked the latch on the window pane. Regulus tapped the wooden paneling outside the window, short long long five short and two more long sounds echoing down to James. He may be limited on vocabulary but James knew if he could talk, a snarky “What the hell are you doing here Potter?" would fall from Regulus’ lips in a hissed whisper. His eyes conveyed relief and joy at seeing him even though his mouth was set in a tight grim line.

After winter holidays when Sirius had returned to school limping and covered in bruises and obviously drugged, James had noticed Regulus becoming more anxious. He slowly stopped speaking and even stopped tapping out things to James.

Everyone told him he was overreacting, but James knew. James knew something was wrong and patiently waited. Which was a great feat in itself to anyone who knew James.

James finally confided in his parents, begging for help and they sadly told James they had already reported the parents to the ministry and there was nothing more they could do. Effie explained to James with frustrated tears in her eyes that they would be welcome in the Potter house, but unless they ran away thus giving up their family name and becoming nameless, then it was a matter for the head of the family and her hands were tied.

“Are you with me?” James asked barely above a whisper, his face solemn.

Regulus glanced over his shoulder quickly and then looked back at James. Regulus chewed on his bottom lip like he always did when he was thinking, something that James found endearing, before visibly nodding his head.

The sweltering hot day the following summer Regulus showed up on his parents doorstep with Sirius barely clinging to life, all concerns for the slowly withdrawing affection vanished as he took in his best friends limp form. While his mum worked tirelessly to stop the bleeding, Regulus stood holding Sirius' hand sobbing. When Regulus had flinched from James as tried to comfort the teen, James couldn't be patient any longer.

James carefully dragged Regulus to the front porch that wrapped around the house and sat silently until Regulu finally opened up and confirmed James' worst fear. The horrible people that brought the two brightest stars in his universe to life, were quickly trying to snuff out not one but both of them.

James had raged and paced, hands tangled tightly in his own curls as he cried and screamed. Knowing that after the summer, the dark ink would mar the skin of someone he loved, a stark contrast against the milky expanse that currently was Regulus' bare forearm.

Regulus tapped out another word and James glared at the front door before nodding. They changed the locks and the wards in an attempt to keep Regulus in and Sirius from ever returning to his family home. James knew all Sirius’ possessions would have been either banished to their attic or destroyed and his heart ached for his friend.

Regulus had silently wept in James' arms before silently whispering, “We aren't meant to be” before withdrawing out of James' embrace and turning his back to James. James, like the hot headed emotional idiot he was, had believed him for a moment. His heart shattering into a million pieces and his blood simmering in his veins. A sarcastic degrading remark sat on the tip of his tongue ready to be spat at the younger boy before he noticed that unconsciously Regulus was tapping the railing.

James took a deep breath, looking around him before he held out his arms in a gesture of, “I’ll catch you”. Regulus looked at him like he had lost his mind and shook his head no fiercely, glancing back over his shoulder in fear before holding up his hands and nodding to tell James “okay, but hold on.”

“You may soon have your body stolen, but what of your heart?” James asked as he stepped up next to Regulus at the balcony in a tone that he knew was laced with hope.

“My heart is my own, yet it is not mine to give away,” Regulus replied as his eyes were fixed on his hands gripping white knuckles to the railing, “You see, it's always belonged to someone else. So it is his to do with it as he wishes”

James felt like flying, like cheering loudly, but instead placed his hand gently on top of Regulus' and tapped out “I love you too" and stared silently at the stars above their heads.

Regulus disappeared from the window, taking the light with him. James waited, putting his hands back in his pockets to warm them. The rain had slowed and a fine mist fell around him. James fidgeted with the pebbles still in his pocket and shifted on his feet. When he couldn’t stand the anxious thoughts beginning to spiral he would check his watch. The minutes ticked by, first two and then ten. James was breathing heavily and fighting the urge to storm up to the door, knowing it would hex him if he even tried and therefore be pointless. Finally after twenty minutes Regulus appeared back in the window.

Regulus explained in great detail what occurred that night to both him and his parents while Sirius slept. James pleaded with him to just not go back. Stay there, but James knew it was a fight he wouldn’t win.

"I know they will try, but don't give them the chance. Don't let them tear us apart Reg. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Regulus had smiled and whispered back, “mine for the taking?” which prompted James to smile and nod.

Regulus’ eyes darted and for someone usually so cautious James was surprised and jumped upright letting out a gasp when Regulus quickly threw his legs through the window to sit on the ledge. Regulus had changed into warm clothes, a hat pulled on his head and scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. A single bag was strapped to his back as he looked over his knees and down at James. James could see that despite looking prepared and put together, he hadn’t bothered to put on his shoes. James face showed his confusion until Regulus looked back over his shoulder suddenly and James felt a surge of panic and the front light turned on. 

Regulus walked away from him that night to return to the oppressive house and the family that haunted the inside following quick hugs and whispered words of “I love you” from James.

James went back inside to care for his best friend, wishing and wanting more than anything that both brothers could stay. He waited and planned and when Sirius woke and told him the date of Regulus was to be inducted, James' decision was made for him.

“Reggie!” James called quietly pulling Regulus’ attention away from the commotion in the house as all the lights began turning on. “On three,” He said and counted down. “Three, two, one”.

Regulus pushed himself off the ledge and fell into James’ arms. James’ knees threatened to buckle with the sudden weight but managed to keep them upright.

“Lace up your shoes, Reg. We have to go!” James said quickly.

Regulus slid the shoes onto his feet and began to tie them quickly. James growled as the front door opened and stepped in front of Regulus to cast a protego maxima. Hexes and curses flew at them, but James held the shield. When Regulus was finally able, he stood and started to pull James with him across the street to put distance between them and Orion Black.

The sound of Walburga could be heard shrieking from inside the house about the blood traitor and how he was stealing another one of her sons. James took Regulus’ hand and dropped the spell yelling, “Run baby run! Don’t look back!”

They ran, hands clasped together tightly. Both stumbling and chests heaving but they didn't speak. The only sound was the soles of their shoes hitting the pavement and the shouts of death eaters behind them giving chase.

James didn’t feel bad for stealing the broom from the unsuspecting wizard walking past them. James mounted it and Regulus didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around James’ waist. James kicked off hard and they shot high up into the sky.

After a half hour of flying in silence James felt Regulus shaking behind him. James worried Regulus was crying, until the sound of Regulus' laughter filled the air. James let out a loud whoop of his own at their narrow escape. 

James flew through the night, Regulus at his side. 

[stardustandash]

plane drabble fic for @breakfastteatime who requested BD-1 going on a Cal rescue mission, kinda like a reverse of what happens on Ordo Eris. Very fun prompt!!

The ducts are small. Too small for humans, but there’s just enough space for BD-1 to creep through slowly. The Star Destroyer is large, but BD-1 doesn’t need to sleep while he’s on the hunt. All he needs is his Cal back, and maybe to leave something nasty in the ship’s computer. Or blow it up. He’s not feeling particularly picky on that part. He scuttles past a grated opening and overhears an officer complaining about the caf. A left turn brings him over the Stormtrooper barracks. BD almost risks a scan of the armour left abandoned below, knowing it would give them an advantage when he frees his Cal, but stops himself because the glow from the scanner would give him away.

It was only a lucky stun shot from a sniper that downed his Cal in the first place. BD hadn’t been doing his job. That’s why he needs to save his Cal. He snuck onto the transport after the Troopers that hauled Cal away and now he’s sneaking through the vents trying to figure out where the Imperials keep the brig on their ships. The layout so far as followed as logical a set up as an organic can make, If BD-1 keeps going on the path he’s chosen then he should reach the brig and his Cal in no time at all. He turns another corner and comes face to face with a mouse droid. It shrieks, high and shrill, yelling about danger and intruders. BD rears back before beeping at it to shut up. It doesn’t. So BD readies his electric prod in hopes that he can intimidate it into being quiet. The mouse droid flees. BD chases it for a moment, then stops as he watches it bump against the walls of the vent in it’s panic. It probably doesn’t know the way out, BD-1 guesses. The stupid thing likely accidentally wandered in through a missing grate. He lets it run screaming into the depths of the ship. Finding his Cal is the higher priority. Three more turns and BD can finally look down through a grate and see the telltale red glow of a ray-shield. He’s found the brig at last. The excitement is cut by the fact that at least four stormtroopers are stationed in the small hub. But BD-1 can be patient, despite what all the organics who live on the Mantis might say. He watches, zooming in on the computer readouts as the troopers flick through various displays. Apparently there’s a rather volatile ugnaught in one of the cells, along with a host of people who probably did a fat lot of nothing to get on the Empire’s bad side. Then, at last, they switch to a readout for human male - Jedi, and BD has him. It’s a short hop over to the proper grate with slats so thin he can’t see through it, but he knows his Cal is on the other side. The grate falls away with a clatter and BD-1 hops down into the cell with the help of his boosters. His Cal lies on his side facing away from BD. The sound of the grate falling didn’t send him into full alert, which is worrying. With a quick scan BD-1 can tell his Cal is physically okay and his breathing pattern indicates unconsciousness. The Imperials must have drugged him or keep stunning him. Well, BD knows one surefire way to wake someone up. He loads a stim and primes it to launch and gets out his electric prod. His Cal doesn’t have time to lie around when they have an escape to make. Five minutes and several expletives later, BD-1 is back in his favourite spot on his Cal’s back, getting treated to the view of him ripping apart the brig with the Force. This Star Destroyer won’t know what hit it.

[lakesbian]

Ashton tried it.  The wall was clammy, the residual glow left by touch a bright, warm color.  He liked the contrast of the two things.  He traced fingers along the wall, and watched patterns emerge. “Ashton,” Abby said. “I like this,” he said. “I wanted to show you something.  This wasn’t it.” “This could be it.  This is nice,” Ashton said.  “This is good enough.”

he's so autistic it's great. abby also but i like how he's a huge fan of Patterns and Colors. he can't come on your adventure abby im sorry he's busy stimming

[go-go-devil]

okay the ask of all time: how do you think various dark souls characters stim? could be relevant to your fic or not, up to you! [if you want to introduce modern stimming to them (like how daniil dankovsky now has ye olde snake tangle) that's also groovy]

🖤🔥EXCELLENT QUESTION🔥🖤

I've got a good amount of stim headcanons for certain characters! Some of them may end up getting highlighted in To The Accursed, but this answer won't spoil anything for the fic per say so don't worry.

(I should also specify that this will only focus on DS1 characters since I'm not finished with 2 and haven't played 3 yet)

Well to get the obvious out of the way I know Siegmeyer is a major vocal stimmer. All those “Mmmmmmm, hmmmmm’s” he does whenever he’s deep in thought comes across like he’s trying to keep himself calm so he doesn’t get frustrated in each of his predicaments. I can’t blame him, and I’ve even found myself parroting his hums after first hearing his dialogue since it helps me out too!

Though we sadly don’t see much of Sieglinde, I imagine she too has a similar vocal stim as her father. We just don’t get to hear it because we never run into her experiencing the same bouts of indecision as he does.

Big Hat Logan I imagine is very tactile. He’ll rub the ends of his sleeves or his robe’s collar when he’s feeling anxious, and would especially love the textures of a book’s spine and pages (only the GOOD books though, he refuses to read any in bad condition unless they’re the only source of the knowledge he’s seeking). Logan’s also invented his own stim sorceries: complex but intentionally weak little glowing patterns with satisfying sounds he casts simply because the act of casting them feels so good!

We already know the Undead Merchant Woman hyperfixates on moss, so it wouldn't be a surprise if her major stim come from peeling the plants and kneading her fingers deep into each of the clumps. I can even see her talking to herself while she does it too. Her voice does kinda work for an ASMR lol.

Solaire... I'm actually not entirely dead set on his stims at the moment. If the npc models weren't so stiff I could definitely see him flapping his hands a lot, especially when he's allowed to infodump. Hell, his Praise the Sun gesture could be a stim for all we know!

Patches I can totally see as a nail-biter. He also used to pick at his hair often back when he still had any, and even after shaving it all off the muscle memory occasionally causes him to reach up and scratch his head. Though of course we mustn't forget his absolute favorite form of stimming: kicking people off of cliffs >:-)

And a bonus! My oc, Leiurus, often self-soothes by rocking back and forth while sitting down. She also particularly likes grabbing things, whether it be her own clothing or any nice looking trinkets she finds, most especially ones that have a good texture like fine robes or scales.

[deusexlachina]

Cheeseaged Exocolonist Age 16 (Again): Be so good at the game that I doom all of humanity and have to backtrack significantly

In which I, the player, get trapped in a time loop to fix my mistake (of not making horrible decisions).

I reach age 17 and realize I made a slight oopsie by never successfully meeting Symbiosis, a godlike alien(?) lifeform trying to make peace with humanity. Unfortunately, the only human Sym has met so far is Dys, Tangent's Equally-Maladjusted-And-Evil-But-In-A-Different-Way brother.

The two fall in love in a Romeo-and-Juliet situation, but this will not result in peace, largely because Dys is basically the kind of internet leftist who thinks that talking to people and working together is politically naive and that violence is just inherently Better Praxis. So it is up to Sol to arrange peace between humans and Gardeners.

So I really should've been going out of my way to meet Sym and...didn't do that. I only caught a glimpse of him once, but you need to encounter him three times - I'm two First Contacts short. The reason is that the most reliable way to meet Sym is to get into dangerous events and then lose the skill check. This will put you in a near-death situation where only Sym's intervention will save you, giving hints of another intelligent species on Vertumna.

The "lose the skill check" part is a little tricky, though, if you've gotten into the habit of passing every skill check with flying colours. I am so powerful that even Sym fears me. It is lonely at the top.

I reload an earlier save, consulting the Exocolonist fandom for which events trigger Sym, because I have long ago forgotten how to lose. Going to people for help is almost as embarrassing, but just as necessary, as flirting with Vace to squeeze more friendship out of the bastard.

WIth this guidance, I press forward once more. This time, I get myself swarmed with adorable hopeyes, which are not actually dangerous but could kill you if you just helplessly sit there, which I do, playing no cards at all. Sym comes to my rescue.

Then, I steal a manticore's egg that I don't even want, for the sole purpose of pissing off a manticore. Manticores are very dangerous, though I could easily defeat them with stimming. But I choose not to. Sym intervenes to save me from the inevitable consequences of my own actions. He puts the egg back where it was, either to mollify the manticore or, just as likely, to prevent me from choking myself on the shell.

This pattern of alarmingly self-destructive behaviour is enough to help me track down Sym, who is hiding in a glowing golden exclamation point. I yell out his name, because I've met him before, and we start the process of peacemaking by presenting him with a gift of knowledge and internet memes.

I then conclude my sixteenth year, ready to move forward again and step into year 17. Then I realize that I forgot to take screenshots for any of this.

I do not reload again.

[clawsextended]

selina’s brand of stimming is very vocal and kinesthetic. she touches constantly, hums always, buzzes and buzzes and buzzes with life. she purrs, a sort of sound that comes raspy and rolling in the wake of her little notes, the melody that constantly exists in her head. selina’s feet move like she is ever and always a couple steps from dancing — fluid, liquid, boneless, her whole body is serpentine. her movements are perfectly elegant.

the particular brand of stimming she tends to partake in is very rhythmic. selina will tap dance little routines when she’s standing in place — her silly idle animation is always clicking her heels in a pattern, tapping her claws together if she’s in the suit. sound intimately affects the way she moves and what she does, and she’s constantly generating it from herself just because.

selina is perpetually quietly clicking her tongue, always touching a surface, always making some kind of constant connection with what’s around her. the world was made to be acted on by selina, and act on it she always will.

music is a large part of the happiest selina there is. put on something with a good, consistent, perpetual beat she never stops moving and it is so invigorating for her. however, does she go dancing? — oh, absolutely not, absolutely not, the topic of that kind of social closeness is terrifying unless she’s on a job.

(selina’s jobs can be so actively self-harming it’s insane. and it isolates her from normalcy. she can’t be a person in a crowd — she’s always a tool, never a human.)

the kitchen is filled with beautiful scents that waft up and away from the dinghy glow of old yellow streelamps. those same sentinels have seen her grow, have kept watchful silence through her every stage of life. she mixes batter and pours maple syrup over strips of bacon as she dances across the floor, an earbud beating some barren movement. the lyrics fall wayside and only the rhythm matters, only the solidity of percussion. every movement is a musical thing, partially for ease, partially for the constant sensation that attunes to her every molecule.

and selina, ever and always, is at home and enclosed in her own perpetually moving bubble, differing only when she chooses to push past it and alter outcomes.

[fantasy-fields-labratory]

UnderSwap Gaster Butter bitty

Name: Skittles

Dust effects: Skittles’ dust acts like magical laughing gas- it induces giddy euphoria, relaxed muscles, giggling fits, and an overwhelming sense of “everything is funny.” While mostly harmless, excessive exposure may leave one temporarily dazed, dizzy, or uncoordinated. This dust is commonly released when Skittles is excited, startled, or playfully agitated.

Wing description: Bold blue and orange stripes dance across a deep black background. The wing pattern resembles playful graffiti or candy wrappers, and they shimmer slightly when fluttering, giving off a neon-like flicker.

Size: 5–7 inches tall

Personality: Energetic, mischievous, bubbly, chaotic, affectionate, bold, expressive, silly, clever, hyperactive, fun-loving

Likes: Bright lights, loud music, jokes, party streamers, neon colors, fizzy drinks, unexpected hugs, dancing Dislikes: Silence, being alone, “boring” rules, rain, naps, dull colors, people who take life too seriously

Compatibility: Skittles is a hyper-social, unpredictable ball of joy. They thrive in high-energy environments with caretakers and bitties who enjoy noise, laughter, and organized chaos. These bitties often act as “mood boosters,” lighting up a room with a single giggle or a splash of their dust. Skittles loves attention, thrives in group playtime, and frequently bursts into silly monologues or impromptu dance numbers.

They are best suited for caretakers who enjoy interactive play, unpredictable personalities, and lots of movement. Skittles may struggle in quiet or low-stim environments and often needs redirection when overstimulated. A caretaker who can embrace the chaos while setting clear boundaries will get the most joy out of their presence.

Skittles works well in multi-bitty homes, especially with other extroverts or laid-back personalities who don’t mind being pounced on or turned into a giggle pile. They should not be placed with bitties sensitive to overstimulation or who need peace and structure. Despite the chaos, they are loyal and surprisingly comforting when they sense sadness, often responding with jokes and cuddles.

Feeding habits: All Butter bitties eat nectar, fruit juices, or honeys. Skittles has a major sweet tooth and prefers anything brightly colored or fizzy- such as berry nectar with carbonation or rainbow honey blends. They may refuse “bland” looking food just out of spite.

Additional info: Skittles loves glitter, streamers, glow sticks, and bitty-sized roller skates. They frequently decorate their sleeping spot with shiny wrappers or glow-in-the-dark stars. Their laughter can sometimes be heard before they’re even seen.

Zone: Inside In Universe: Skittles are often found in party-themed bitty cafes or as therapy companions in high-stress areas due to their mood-lifting dust. While not always taken seriously, their ability to break tension is unmatched. They're known as “living rave sticks” in some underground circles.

Difficulty: Basic