#ive only been in work an hour and half and so far just from flicking between a few stations we've had famous last words

[guyfieriii]

New Person, Same Old Mistakes

After multiple rewatches of The Bear over the last month, I've been sucked back in and couldn't think of anything else but Carmen Berzatto.

Here's part one of four of a little something about our favourite depressed chef's years in NYC.

Part II, Part III and Part IV

He looks like he doesn’t really want to be here. At this date. If you could even call it that. 

A drink tomorrow night. How does that sound?

I can’t meet up at nights. Work. 

Oh.

I can meet you in the morning.

For breakfast?

Why not?

Why the fuck not?

A non-date you hauled ass all the way from Brooklyn at the crack of dawn. 

An over-exaggeration, but it’s one you feel entitled to. You’ve taken a 46-minute train ride for breakfast with a man who looks like he just crawled out of bed. Which is a miracle since he looks as though he’s been up for days. It’s not just the exhaustion that rolls off him, there’s something else you can’t quite find the word for. You wanted to turn back the moment you saw him standing outside the bodega. 

But for some reason, you kept walking. Equal parts curiosity and obligation. You made it this far, might as well see it through.

Also—

He was by no means unattractive. Looked a lot like a coked-up Gene Wilder, if you were being honest. Clad in a tight, albeit wrinkled white t-shirt and a pair of vintage jeans. Redline Selvedge. You concede to the fact that he somehow managed to pull off the ‘I got ready in under two minutes’ look quite well. Messy. Understated. Kind of hot. It was his hair that really brought it all together, sandy locks that stuck out in different directions like he’d run his hand through them over and over. 

Your hand twinged at the thought.

Every time he lifted his arm to take a drag of his cigarette, you distinctly noticed the way his bicep bulged under his sleeve. 

Christ, that’s…something.

He noticed you walk over and offered you a sort of smile with the raise of a brow, and fuck if it wasn’t endearing. 

You finally took proper notice of his eyes. Blue. Crystalline. Ocean strong waves of azure in the warmth of sun-lit currents. They were strangely emotive, despite his face remaining fairly impassive. Despondency echoed through them quietly. They were a far cry from what you saw online. 

You still admired them when you were scrolling through Tinder and came upon his profile. He had one photo - he wore a white coat in it, the ones that the guys on MasterChef wear. Like it was a professional headshot. He stood, leaning against a metal worktable with his arms crossed. Hair slicked back, with a ruminative look on his face. But his eyes—

They were hollow. A sepulchral for all sentiments buried deep within. 

His bio read:

Carmen, 29

Chicagoan. CDC at Eleven Madison Park.

That’s all it said. His name, age, and profession. Like it was a fucking resume. You scoffed at the bare effort he put in. As if a picture and a brief description of his occupation were enough to lure the ladies in. Just as you were going to move on to the next man in a series of disappointments, you accidentally swiped right and matched with him. 

Hours of scrolling and a bottle of Pinot later, it seemed like he was your best and only option. So you messaged him. He was good-looking enough if only a tad underwhelming in what he put forth. What was the harm in trying him out? 

What indeed?

Seeing him in the harsh light of day, he looked entirely different from the put together guy you saw on his profile. Still good looking, just—

Tragic.

That was the word you were looking for. 

“Carmen?” 

“Uh, yeah.” He flicked off his half-smoked cigarette to the side and wiped his hands down his jeans before offering you one for a shake. It feels rough but warm. Calloused. A worker’s hands. Hands that could tell chronicle a novel’s worth of stories, you’re sure. You can feel bits of raised skin across his palm, around his fingers. Little scars littered all over. You want to examine them all. 

You turn your wrist underneath to see a tattoo on the back of his, a knife piercing the hand. 

Christ. 

A few seconds pass as you examine the rest of his tattoos. He has a pair of cherubs holding up a Sun on his upper arm, and a snail with the words ‘Live Fast’ underneath. 

Your gaze drifts over to his other arm—

You’re interrupted by an awkward clearing of his throat and you realize you’ve been holding on to him, shaking his hand for the better part of a minute. You let go immediately, your palm still tingling from the feeling of his. The air kisses your skin, it’s light, empty, remiss of the character you found in his touch. 

“Sorry, I was just—“ Your eyes meet his once again and you’re lost. 

“It’s cool.” He mutters. “I, uh—“

“So what’s the — Sorry, you—“

“No you go—“

“I—“

“Sorry, I don’t—“

The two of you stammer over each other in constant apology before you finally put it to a halt with an uncomfortable laugh.

“I was just asking what the plan was.” You look around the block, nothing but the bodega seems to be open this early. “Where are we going to eat?”

“Right…here?” He looks at you with mild hesitance, pointing towards the bodega. 

“We’re eating breakfast here?” He has to be joking in an oddly genuine way because he looks like he-

Oh God. It’s not a joke. 

You woke up at 7 am, got onto the subway, and switched three trains for a fucking BEC.

He looks at you in deepening discomfort, a little sheepish, only just realizing that this may not be the ideal date most women have in mind. His eyes brimmed with repentance. 

Those eyes.

“It’s, uh- it’s fine!” You say with an overstated tone of cheerfulness. “I’m starving, anyway.”

“Right.” He looks unconvinced but opens the door for you, nonetheless. 

“‘Uarda, Carmy!” A woman, probably in her late 60s, seated behind the counter broke into a smile as the two of you entered. “The fuck ya been, huh?”

“Work, Lucia.” His tone conveys ire, but his face betrays him. 

He looks at the woman with softened fondness as she fusses over him. She’s loud and over-exaggerated in her mannerisms, hands animatedly gesticulating every word. All the while, Carmen — Carmy, stands there indulging her every word with the occasional apologetic glance spared your way. 

It’s a charming sight, watching the two of them talk. Lucia is loud and mothering and Carmen is reserved.

“Didn’cha mother teach ya any manners, boy? Who’s the darlin’ behind ya?” She finally ends her tirade of ‘the fuck you been?’, ‘never show ya face ‘round no more’, ‘eat a lil’ somethin’ f’fuck’s sake’ and notices you. “Don’t mind him, sweetheart. The fuck’s been mezzamort ever since he moved here.”

“I’m, uh—.” His date? To a fucking bodega?

“She’s a friend.” Carmen interjects quickly. 

“Since when do you have—“ Lucia scoffs, incredulous.

“A friend who’d love some breakfast, actually.” You cut in, wanting to spare him the end of that sentence. 

He wouldn’t have friends, would he? Doesn’t seem like the kind to. 

Maybe you could—

“Should’a said — yo Gino! Get two BECs going on a — ya’ll have it on a bagel or a roll, doll?” She snaps into action immediately.

“Uh, a bagel. Thank y—“ 

“Hear that? A bagel for her, roll for Carmy.” She yells across the other end of the small bodega to the teenage boy sitting over two milk crates, scrolling on his phone. “Get off ya fuckin’ ass, Gino! Gotta feed these kids.”

The boy gets up with an exaggerated eye roll and strolls over to the flattop to get your breakfast started. “SPK?” He questions in a monotone over his shoulder.

“‘Course she’ll have it, ya moron.” Lucia answers for you.

“She’s a bit much.” Carmen is back at your side whispering in a low voice, apologetic. “But she means well.”

“No, she’s great.” 

The two of you stand in silence, watching your sandwiches being made. With Lucia now occupied, it’s awkward once again. You’re not usually at a loss for words, but Carmen isn’t a man who oozes approachability. Not that you’ve known him longer than a few minutes. Maybe, eventually—

Maybe, you could—

“Coffee?” He asks, walking to the self-serve station behind you. 

“Hmm?” You shake your head, snapping back to reality. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Cream and two sugars, please.”

What is it about him that makes think of any kind of eventuality? You’ve only just met. It’s been awkward and stilted, and he looks like a mess. The only things know about him are summed up in a one-line bio. Maybe it’s your desperation. Your sheer need to be coupled up regardless of the clear red flags you see.

Maybe it’s his eyes. Maybe it’s the sense you get from him, this veiled potential. Maybe you’re just a fool looking to fix a man you don’t even know. 

You’re both back out on the sidewalk, coffee in hand, sandwiches packed in a little bag that hangs off his wrist. “Are we—“ You’re unsure of how to phrase your question without sounding like an idiot, but there’s no way around it. “Are we eating on the sidewalk?”

That earns you a disbelieving laugh and a smile you’ll remember. Only because it just seems so out of place. His lips curl up just the slightest in a barely there, you’ll miss it if you don’t really look kind of way. It’s all in his eyes. They lighten. The pensive wistfulness that floats in those pools of glacial blue volatilizes. What takes place in its stead is just a hint of ease and good-natured humour. It makes him look his age, just for that brief moment. 

“The park? Yeah? Thought it’d be a good spot.” It’s jarring just how his consternation inches back in as quickly as it had disappeared. 

“The park’s great, Carmy.” You say it, his nickname, without thinking. Your tone is soft with the intention to mollify. 

He looks at you in surprise and you’re worried you got too familiar too quickly. But then it comes back — that ease. His brows dip slightly, and that faint wisp of a smile returns. The fact that you were able to bring it forth fills you with this warmth. It imbibes itself in your bones, coursing through your body, settling around your heart. It beats faster. 

Faster still, as you watch him run his fingers through his hair, once, twice, thrice. You’re enthralled. 

If you could just reach out and—

“Let’s go?” He takes a step forward and turns to look back at you when you don’t move. Your gaze falls down to his hand, the one he ran through his hair with. More tattoos. A flower on the back and the letters ‘S O U’ on his fingers. Your own fingers itch to intertwine themselves with his. Feel the warmth of his palm, pass by the ridges of his scars like they’re milestones on a road not taken. At any rate, isn’t that what people do, when they go for a walk on a date? Hold hands?

Jesus Christ, listen to you. One look underneath his lugubrious nature, and you’re fucking smitten. 

“Sorry—“ You blink twice, pushing out from behind your thoughts. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You walk side by side, hands apart.

It’s a short walk, just a couple blocks. You enter the park through the side gate and pick the first empty bench you find and take a seat. You unwrap your breakfast in silence, setting your sandwiches down on paper napkins between you. 

It’s still not what you’d have had in mind for a first date and yet, you’re content. It’s a warm morning for an early spring day in New York. Lightness flickers through your hair with the Eastertide breeze — it carries with it the scent of blossoming ephemerals, the hyacinths, and magnolias that grow at your feet. It’s a cool zephyr enveloped in the warmth of the sun, almost quixotic for a morning spent in the park. The best of both worlds, really. Refreshing the air in your lungs with each breath, just as springtime offers the start of something anew. Yet, the apricity that lingers under the sunlight shining from the east brings about this effortless comfort out there in the open. 

It’s all so ideal, it pushes you to be brave. 

“Can I ask you something?” You turn sideways, now sitting cross-legged on the bench. 

“Yeah, sure.” Carmy follows suit, facing toward you, feet still planted on the ground. 

“You don’t go on many dates, do you?” You blurt the words out in a straightforward tone, it might as well have been a statement and not an inquiry. 

“That obvious?” He traces this bottom lip with his fingers in nervousness.

“Well—“ You shrug, noncommittal, with a sly smile. 

“Yeah. I don’t date. I don’t really have the time.” He sounds almost defeated like he’s settled into what his circumstances are. 

You don’t like it. 

“So what made you come out with me?” You press on and hope his answer isn’t as resigned as he looks. 

“I—“ He looks away from you, lips curling into a frown and you can see his mind churning behind his eyes for an acceptable response. 

Oh.

You’re not special. He didn’t make time. His interest in you was just as much of happenstance as you accidentally swiping right on him. 

“It’s alright, I kinda put you on the spot with that question.” You try not to sound too sullen. It’s silly. In a span of a few minutes, you’ve gone from apprehension to being so taken with him all because—

His eyes flash back to yours and he looks so fucking apologetic, it hurts. 

You’re desperate to change the subject. “Tell me about your work. You’re a chef at Eleven Madison, right?”

“Yeah.” One word. That’s all he offers. 

“It’s like the best restaurant in the country. That must be…cool.”

It breaks through the ambiguity caused by your previous question and you’re relieved. 

“Yeah. It's…cool.” His jaw tightens just by a fraction and you wonder why. But that’s a thread best left alone. 

“I know fuck all about food, forget all that fancy stuff you probably make—” Flattery is the safest bet for you at this point. So you decide to play to his ego a touch. “—So you’ll have to help me out here.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I’ll start simple. What’s your favourite thing to cook?”

That makes him pause. “At work?”

“Yeah. At work. What’s your favourite thing to make?” You offer him an encouraging smile. 

“I—“ Why is this so hard for him? He fidgets with the lid of his coffee cup.

“Can’t be that hard to think of something, Carmy.” 

“It’s not, I just — I’m CDC now. Spend more time on the pass than anything so—“

“What does that mean?”

“CDC. Chef de Cuisine. Kinda like-“

“Okay so you’re the head bitch in charge?”

“Kinda, yeah.” He scoffs. “So I’m at the pass — the part of the line where all chits are called out the plated dishes are put up.”

“So you don’t cook much anymore?”

“I used to before—“

“Okay, so before, what was the thing you loved to make?”

He actually seems to give it some thought. You watch him silently mull over, as you take a bite of your sandwich.

“Wild boar with celeriac, lingonberry, and hazelnuts.” He finally answers, definitively. 

“That sounds…simple.”

“The wild boar was dry-aged for 21 days. The celeriac was in the form of a yolk. The hazelnut oil was compressed in-house. The peels were used to smoke the lingonberry gelée.” He says with a challenging raise of a brow. 

Oh, he’s showing off.

“What the fuck?” You exclaim in utter disbelief. “A yolk?”

“Yeah, I spherified the purée with sodium alginate in a calcium gluconate bath.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing. 

“I failed 8th-grade chemistry, so you really fucked me up just now.” 

He snorts at that. “Didn’t do so hot in school, either. But when it comes to food I—“

“Finding your passion in something just makes shit you thought was hard a whole lot easier, doesn’t it?” If only the same held true for you. All you had to account for was a series of failed starts, an apartment you could barely afford in a city where you knew no one, and a directionless future ahead.

“What’s yours?” He asks, his eyes bore into you and you shy away from their intensity. 

You walked right into that.

“I…don’t know yet.” You frown self-consciously. 

“Kinda seems like you do.”

You don’t. All you know is how to say the right thing at the right moment. A skill cultivated out of your sheer dread of not being what others need. You have no experiences to share, you’ve done nothing but fail. School. Jobs. Relationships. You’re a fuck-up. So you’ve resigned yourself to the next best thing you can be — you can be something for someone else, if not yourself.

“I—“ You keep your eyes downcast, not wanting to give yourself away. “I really don’t.”

“Heard.” You glance back up at him and are only met with recognition. It eases the tightness in your chest. 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s what you say in the kitchen when you acknowledge what you’re being told.” 

“Oh, that’s cool. I’m stealing that.” 

“You’d have to follow it up with ‘Chef’ for it to really stick, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Heard, Chef.” 

“That’s perfect.” It’s back, that smile. A mere tendril of one at his lips, but it bleeds from his eyes. 

Fuck, it feels good.

Maybe, eventually.

Maybe, you could—

You finish your breakfast in idle chatter. You ask him about the rest of his tattoos.

“It kinda looks like an ‘E 22’ from one angle and ‘733’ from another.” Your fingers trace the ink decorating his arm.

“Yeah. 733 is the area code for Chicago and  E22 is a dishwasher code for when the filter’s blocked.” You feel the muscles rippling under flex under your touch.

“I kinda want a tattoo.” You don’t draw your hand away. 

“What would you get?” He doesn’t seem to mind. 

“How many other dishwasher codes are there? Do I have some to pick from or just the one?”

He tells you more about things he likes to cook. You meet him in the middle with your one-pan pasta recipe and slowly watch the horror creep into his face. 

“Don’t knock it till you try it, Carmy.”

“Worked with food long enough to know what doesn’t work. And pasta cooked in canned tomatoes and half and half doesn’t work.”

He tells you some things about his life in Chicago. He mentions his siblings but the look on his face tells you it’s not a topic you ought to probe at. It’s repentant in some parts and reminiscent in others. But there’s also this resonant anger beneath it. You see the tick in his jaw, the way his fingers tap against the lid of his cup a bit faster, and the way he adjusts his position to sit a bit straighter. All to distract from the hurt. You recognize it because it’s something you do yourself. 

“My family’s not come to see me. I’ve — uh been too busy.”

“Neither has mine.” But you have all the time in the world. You don’t say that, though. 

You try and lighten the mood by telling him about your life as a gig worker. Ever since you moved to the city, you’ve barely managed to hold down a job for longer than 6 months at the time. So you wised up and made sure to have back-ups. Whenever you’ve brought that up on dates, you’ve only been met with thinly veiled judgment. But Carmy- 

“It’s kinda like working in the kitchen. No two days are the same. Keeps shit interesting.”

That’s a good way to look at it, you decide. 

In under the span of a couple hours, you leave his company feeling better. The breakfast was pretty decent. Carmy assured you it’s the best of what you’d find in the neighbourhood. 

“I don’t fuck with brunch.” He’d said. You’d laughed, but he was serious. “It’s a hell shift, and I can’t eat without picturing how fucked they are back of house.”

You part ways with a hug and a promise of a text from him for whenever he’s free next. 

“I’m going back to Chicago for a couple days in a few weeks. But when I’m back—“

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d like to see you again.”

The weeks passed, and you waited. 

The text never came. 

[sturniolotrip-samandcolby-lover]

Matt sturniolo -little bean

Warnings -swearing,mention of abortion, mention of sex , vomiting use of y/n, arguing .Small age gap (matt 20 and reader 22) silent treatment

Angst/fluff Matt

Author note -thinking of making this into a series so let me know what you all think

Part 1

Word count-2k

I brush the hair out of my face ,as I wake up to a empty house.The house was full of silence as my boyfriend Matt and his triplets brother had left the house already for some business meetings taking place at the ware house.I look at the clock on my phone 10:47am shit thats late for me and im still shattered i dont even feel like ive slept at all. Im awoken from my sleepy daze by my stomach rumbled ,I get up brush my hair quickly and head to the kitchen to get something to eat .

I raid the fridge and cupboards in search for something to eat , I decide to have chopped up lettuce,pickled gherkins and some jolly ranchers .I finish my breakfast and head to the couch to watch some TV ,as I sit down I see a note that's been left on the coffee table it said 'hey baby me Chris and nick have got a few more meetings today then what we thought might be abit later home will bring back some late lunch with us .Matt xxxx'. A smile is present on my face the whole time I read his quick note with my cheeks blushed , Matt's smallest actions can still have a massive effect on me even after being together for over a year now .

I flick through the channels as nothing can satisfy me , I decided to open the YouTube app and put some Sam and Colby on specifically the conjuring from last year's hell week .I'm half way through the video when all of a sudden I feel so nauseous I can feel it building in my stomach like a tornado swirling around inside of me , it starts of slow and the next thing I know I'm running to the nearest bathroom thankfully it's matt and i shared one .I throw the toilet seats up and fall to my knees and close my eyes as the first bit of vomit comes rushing up my throat and out of my mouth .I sit there for the next hour bringing up whats left of this mornings breakfast and last nights dinner.

After minutes of waiting for the sickness to come back .I decided to stand up and reach for my toothbrush and paste ,as I brush my teeth I start to think of anything that could of gave me a bug or if there was a stomach bug going around .After minutes I've came to know conclusion of my sickness when it hits me .....shit Matt and I are usually careful if we don't use a condom we pull out or we get the morning after pill but a while ago I joined the triplets on their 6 million subscribers video .During the night having all the huts to ourselves Matt and I decided to get the hut as far from nick and Chris as possible .It safe to say there was some very animalistic behaviour going on in our tent that night , in the heat of the moment no condom or pull out was used and I could exactly get plan b pill from the gift shop so we just left it and thought well it's not going to happen .

I decide that before I start to get myself worked up in a panic , I'll go to the shop and do a test before the boys get back .Once I feel like I won't be sick again I go and throw some leggings and a jumper on leaving my top to go bra-less as I'm reminded of some achiness in them .I throw some crocs on and grab my car keys as i head out .

*Arrives back from shop*

I walk back into the house and I'm thankful that it's still silent meaning I'm the only one here .This is my first ever pregnancy scare so I'm not expert , I end up buying 7 different tests and some mints to settle my stomach and yet some more gherkins.I wonder around the kitchen with my hands full of tests in search of a cup or container as i dont feel like peeing 6 different times .I decided to keep one unused so i can do it again with matt incase he doesn't believe me .After finding a disposable cup I drink 3 cups of water and walk around the house doing some cleaning while I wait for the water to hit my bladder .I feel a urge to pee and walk to the bathroom, I position the disposable cup where it's supposed to be and let me bladder do it's job I open all the tests and when I'm finished place the 6 sticks into the cup .I start pacing the bathroom but decided that wouldn't be the best thing to do in this situation .So I make my way to the kitchen and put a kettle on figuring that a hot drink may help my nerves while killing the time awaiting the tests.I walk back to the bathroom once then minutes are up and as I pull all the tests out I stand in shock as they all say the same ....I'm pregnant.

Fuck fuck fuck is the only word that is running in my head , what am I going to do ,what am I going to say , what's Matt going to say his career is at its prime right now what will a baby do with this .Fuck their triplets , twins run on my side of the family what if there's more then one baby in there .I hold onto one of the tests in my shaky hands as I pace the bathroom.After minutes of walking around the small white tiled room I decided to hide all the tests and put them in a draw in Matt and my bedroom and I decide to text matt.

Y/n: hey babe was just wondering do you know how long you're gonna be xx

My phone pings instantly telling me that most likely it woul be Matt had texted me back

Matt:yeah not long just grabbing some maccies won't be long everything okay at home ? Xx

Y/n: yeah just got something to talk to you about xx

I avoid my phone until he gets back .I'm startled as I hear the door fling open and just one set of foot steps ."y/n?" I hear his familiar voice Matt is calling after me ."in the living room" I shout back to him .Seconds later he appears looking as perfect as usual "where's Chris and nick?" I ask him "they was fucking around when we was supposed to be signing cards for merch getting sent out so they went back to the warehouse to do their signing , Laura is gonna drop them off later tho .What's this thing you wanna talk about?" I pause with words moving rapidly around my head trying to think of the right way to tell him that I'm now pregnant with his child .I decide that no words are the right words so I take him by the hand and lead him to the bathroom.

His body stills while his eyes move over what the tests all say .The room is silent , too silent."Matt says something " I say breaking the silence ."when did it happen" he says still not taking his eyes off the tests "at the safari , in the hut that night" I respond back to him "fuck" he mutters to himself as he storms out the door .I stand there in silence as my eyes well up with tears.I hear the jingle of Matt's car keys and the door slamming telling me that Matt had left again and gone in his car .I walk into the living room now numb with emotions my hand rests on my lower stomach now knowing that through the layers of skin and muscle is our baby ,my baby the size smaller then a bean in this moment I know that I've got to keep this baby wether Matt wants it or not .

Minutes pass and my nauseous feeling comes over me again as I run to the bathroom again.I spend all the best part of an hour again with my head in the toilet when I stand up again feeling weak at my knees I brush my teeth for the 3rd time today trying to get rid of the vile aftertaste left in my throat .I hear the door go again but i hear 3 set of footsteps this time ,and voices nick ,Chris and matts voice ."what are you gonna do bro?" I hear Chris ask Matt "I don't know"he responds "well you and y/n have gotta talk this out Matt you can't just leave her in the bathroom like you did last time " I hear nick snap at the boys .

"Y/n" I hear nick call out me ."I'm on the bathroom just about to come out" I shout back as I walk into the kitchen .Matt's angry stare softens as he seen my face , I'm now pale and clammy with my skin layered in a thin amount of sweat ."congratulations" Chris says breaking the tension in the room "thank you" I say with a half smile ."so I think you two have gotta talk about this" nick states ."I'm not getting rid of it" I say quickly that being the only thing I'm sure of right now ."I wasn't even going to suggest that" Matt says with anger in his voice .Nick ,places his hand up to Matt in a urge to shush him "calm Matt" he says to him."is it mine ?"matt asks me looking me in the eye "are you fucking kidding me" i say in the exact tone that matt has.Nick and chris take this as a hint and both excuse themselves to different rooms "yeah I'm being real" he says raising his voice , it being full with anger ."you're the only person I've slept with matt you know that" i say to him storming off into our shared room .

*Few hours later*

I hear a knock at the bedroom door hoping that it's Matt ."come in" I shout sounding optimistic.The door opens and nick strides in with a sorry smile on his face "so that was intense" he says as he sits down next to me on the bed "yeah" i agree with him ."so i dont know if this is the right thing to say but im really glad your'e keeping the baby" he says nudging my arm ."yeah i am too , i just hope that matt feels the same " i say smiling properly for the first time today ."alright its getting late so I'll leave you to sleep i heard creating a baby can be tiring "he says with a small laugh.

Just as nick leaves the room Matt enters it , he ignores me acting as if I'm not in the room as he goes to the wardrobe grabbing some spare pillows and duvet he walks back out of the room as I sit in bed listening to him getting comfortable on the sofa .I think to myself how much of a long night I'm in for I can never sleep properly when I'm not with Matt and even worse knowing that he's mad at me .As the thoughts come to my head added with the extra hormones that pregnancy has brought on my eyes start to fill with tears when they fall down my face .I have so many questions running over my head thinking how I'm going to bring up a baby by myself although nicks previous words bring some form of comfort to me .As the clock strike 4 am and im still wide awake and emotional i decide to head to the bathroom and take a calming bath .Im thankful that both nick and chris's rooms are on different levels as I run the tab the sound of water echos through the room .I rid of my clothes and get into the bath now full of bubbles I close my eyes in attempt to relax.

Suddenly my nauseousness creeps up on me again , who ever called morning sickness 'morning' has never experienced this cus it seems to be all throughout the day already .I jump up from the bath with my wet hair sticking to my body as I move quickly to the toilet I throw the lid up and sit on the floor as bile begins to leave my body .I startled as a soft towel is wrapped around my body ,I look up to see Matt crouching next to me with his eyes full of tears himself .His hand rubs circles on my back as I start gagging again ."let it out baby it's okay" he whispers I release bile 3 more times as I pull back and rest my head on Matt's shoulder as he pushes my hair out of my face ."come on let's go to bed and talk " he says so quietly careful not to wake his two brothers up .He stands up and picks me up bridal style still with the towel wrapped around me .He carries me to our bed and uses his foot to close the door as he places me gently on the bed .He goes to our wardrobe and fetches me some shorts and one of his tops , he helps me get dressed as my body is weak from the vomiting.Once I'm dressed I lay in bed as Matt walks over to the other side of the bed and jumps in to bed with me .I sit waiting for him to speak "y/n im sorry for what i said and done earlier i know that you would never cheat on me and id never ask you to get rid of it .Whatever you choose ill support you .Im sorry ive treated you like that when you needed me the most ..." I cut his speech off with a kiss "I know , I know babe and we're going to be fine I want to keep this baby tho" I say to him looking him in his eyes "we're going to be a mommy and daddy" he says to me smiling ."we best tell our parents" I say to him before falling asleep in his arms .

[jacobglaser]

OK I've got the free trial of the premium version of the radio stations I listen to work and I can already tell there's no going back. There's a billion unlocked stations, mostly rock based, and one called Everything Emo which is currently playing Pretty Handsome Awkward by The Used so I'm having the time of my life!

[cdroloisms]

uhhhh ,, , hi ??

i feel bad bc i havent been here in. LITERALLY forever lmao - hope you guys r all doing good!! ive been working on some stuff but it’s been pretty slow going, and school is also A Thing, so i definitely havent been writing as much as i’d like. 

as an apology, have this? really self-indulgent feel-good syndicate + c!dream centric oneshot bc i felt like writing this so u know. why not. 

tws: implied torture, abuse, self-harm, disordered eating, starvation mentions, prison arc themes - overall everything’s just blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mentions, not too much angst here for once! c!sam and c!quackity critical, sorry guys but we r still in the prison arc and they still r on their “fuck human rights” arcs. 

Dream leaves.

 It’s a surprise - or maybe it isn’t one, Niki isn’t quite sure. She’d never grown to quite trust the man, she knows, and she can’t really tell if the bitter twist of emotion that swells up her chest when Phil comes to her city with the news is betrayal or resignation - what can she say. She’s gotten more than her fair share of broken promises. They don’t exactly faze her anymore. 

 None of them seem all that surprised, save Techno, who entirely fails to hide the worry that flickers over his face when he calls the Syndicate meeting to officially inform them of what’s going on. She shares quick, careful glances with the other members when his back is turned - despite how many times he’s been burned, Techno still seems so adamant at holding onto every thread, trusting all too easily those who would use and leave him behind without a second glance. He can handle himself, she knows. Still, that’s not going to stop her from slapping Dream upside the head for being yet another worthless person to betray her friend’s forgiving nature. 

 Nothing much changes in the next few weeks. Niki has to admit, it’s strange without Dream around - he’d not been an ally, much less a friend before dipping completely, but he had been some sort of constant - and Niki is self aware enough to know that she misses him, a little, the same sort of way you might miss an old routine once it’s gone, if only for the familiarity. She still visits Techno and Phil with various baked goods, knowing that Phil would have his hands full just keeping Techno from running himself ragged - makes sure to check on Ranboo, whose nerves have inevitably returned with Dream’s disappearance. To be honest, she doesn’t worry as much as he does - ally or not, she’s spent enough time with the Dream that had left prison to expect that he won’t exactly be able to get himself very far should he come for the four of them, and doesn’t particularly care about he might pull with the rest of the server - if things get bad, she’s sure Phil and Techno will have it handled. She asks Phil, once, what happened, and he shrugs. 

 “I don’t know, mate,” he heaves a chest to the side, pulling out a stack of stone blocks that Niki gladly holds for him. “One day we woke up and he was just- gone. Everything. Was like he wasn’t ever there at all.” 

 Niki hums. “Why’d you think he’d do something like that?” 

 “If I could understand half of why Dream does what he does, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?” He smiles at her from behind a crate. “Shall we bring these things upstairs and start on dinner?” 

 Niki laughs, knowing that the conversation about Dream is over. “Of course, Phil.” 

Dinner is a welcome distraction; all of them have gotten better at cooking in recent months, between her baking and the veritable library of recipes Phil knows that she’s never even heard of, but Phil is still the only one she really trusts to hold his own behind the stove - Ranboo is still a little too nervous around water, and fire, and much of everything, and though Techno can be a perfectly capable cook, he’s been distracted as of late. She has a strong feeling that left to his own devices, he’d just grab a stack of steak and disappear for another few weeks, searching the server for information. 

 Honestly, she’s a little thrown off by his behavior - he’d not done anything like this with Tommy, if she remembers right, and had hardly seemed affected by Wilbur’s betrayal on the Sixteenth at all (then again, she was a little too lost in her own head to notice if he was.) She tosses her head over to ask Phil, who’s leaning over a few carrots he’s slicing to throw into the stew he’s making, and the man pauses, frowns. 

 “From what I know,” he starts, words slow, careful, “they’d spent three months in there together, and the conditions weren’t exactly- stellar. According to what Techno said, I’d assumed they had come to some sort of understanding.” He goes back to the carrots, expression dipping into shadow and out of sight. “Guess I was wrong.” 

 Niki hums. She can see it, sort of - spending months together with someone, no matter how insufferable, probably would end with some degree of attachment - she thinks back to plotting through sleepless nights with Jack, anger and grief leaving them simmering, crabs in the same pot of boiling water, remembers looking into his dead-eyed gaze and seeing her own stare back - and feels a brief pang of guilt. Besides, Techno is Techno. She’d never met someone so willing to forgive, understand, reach out despite everything that’s happened - for Dream to take advantage of that feels almost too obvious. Of course he would - what were they all thinking?

 “He’s Dream,” she says as if that explains everything, flipping open the oven door and feeling a wave of heat blast her face. Phil hums lowly, understanding. “I hope Techno will be alright.” 

 “He’s tough,” Phil cracks a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “And he has us on his side. He’ll get through.” 

 Niki opens her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the front door slamming open. Outside their quaint little cottage, the wind howls - it sounds like the beginning of a blizzard out there, flurries painting the world in a thick blanket of white. In the door, Techno strides into the entrance with loud, decisive movements, shutting the door loud enough to make the walls shake. Inadvertently, Niki finds her eyes drawn to the small pile of snow that he’s tracked into the house - Techno’s usually so careful to kick it all off on the porch, never liked it much when there was a pile of melting ice and snow dampening the floorboards and soaking into his shoes. He huffs harshly, stripping off a snow-dusted scarf from his face - a long, multicolored abomination that had been the product of her attempting to teach Ranboo how to knit. Phil has reached his side, hands splayed over his upper arms, eyes soft in the corners from concern. 

 “Techno, mate-” his tone is chiding but his movements gentle as he brushes snow off of Techno’s signature cloak, “you’ve gotten snow everywhere. What were you doing, dueling a blizzard?” 

 Techno shakes his head, not meeting Phil’s banter as usual, fur sticking up from the snow melted into it. His voice is gruff and holds little humor - unconsciously, Niki feels her shoulders tense. 

 “Phil, call a Syndicate meeting.”

 ---

 Phil, per usual, is unrelenting, so it’s not until a quick dinner and some hurried messages to their final member later that the Syndicate is gathered in their meeting room, Techno pacing the length of the room as they wait in their respective seats. He looks less frazzled than he did when he first entered the house, in part due to Phil’s sitting him down to eat and picking through his fur to smooth it out of its windblown spikes and tangles - Techno had grumbled at him to stop preening him, but looked a lot more relaxed by the time they were all finished with their food. Still, his ear flicks periodically, twitching toward ssome sound that Niki can’t hear, movements tighter and jerkier than she is used to. He’d always been a little flightier after the prison, but not quite like this - everything here feels like that but dialed up to eleven. Inexplicably, it reminds her of Dream. 

 “Techno?” Phil gestures towards his seat, prompting, and he settles into it with an obliging huff. 

 “Y’know, Phil, the code names are kinda pointless if we never use ‘em,” he says, words carrying no real heat - he looks back at the rest of them, lips thinning into a line. “Anyway. I called this meeting because I found a couple leads on Dream.” 

 “O-oh,” Ranboo stutters, tail lashing behind him. 

 “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to, mate,” Phil reminds him gently, a sentiment that Niki affirms with a determined nod. 

 “There’ve been some reports- rumors, really,” Techno says, calling their attention again, and they all turn towards him, “of increased activity around the prison again. The Warden spending more time on its grounds, movement seen around the walls and around the portal- so I decided to go check it out for myself.” 

 Niki frowns, and watches as Phil does the same beside her - Techno had seemed to avoid the prison if he could help it, save for when he went on the initial mission to break Dream out. It was no secret to them that he didn’t exactly like the place. 

 “We could’ve helped if you asked,” Phil reminds him, and Techno shakes his head. 

 “I know, Phil. It’s just- that place is bad news. I’d rather keep you guys away from there if I can-” his hand goes to his head with a poorly hidden wince. “Sorry, Chat’s a little- worked up, at the minute.” 

 “Sorry, we’ll stop interrupting you,” Niki says, cutting off Phil before he says anything else. “So you went to the prison?” 

 Techno takes a second to gather his thoughts, mumbling quietly in the way that usually means he’s telling off Chat. “Right- I decided to stake out the portal. The rumors were right- Sam has been hanging around there, entered and left the prison four times yesterday. And today-” he hesitates, expression visibly darkening. “This morning, about an hour after the Warden arrived, Quackity came to the prison and went through the portal. He left the grounds about six hours later.” 

 “Quackity?” Niki frowns, eyes flicking over to how Phil has stilled in his seat. “What is Quackity doing at the prison?” 

 Phil ignores her question, reaching towards Techno, something indiscernible in his gaze. “Mate…”

 “He smelled of blood when he left,” Techno says, words sharp, and Niki feels her heart skip a beat. “Warden left about half an hour after, and I came back here.” 

 Ranboo clears his throat, sounding tentative. “Okay,” he drums his hand on the table when they turn towards him, eyebrows drawn, “but what, exactly, does this have to do with, uh, Dream?” 

 Techno and Phil trade glances, one of their bouts of unspoken conversation that Niki’s grown extremely used to. They seem strangely hesitant, she notes internally, Phil looking towards Techno with a question written clearly in the planes of his face. Techno sighs, a long puff of air through his lips as he closes his eyes and turns his face towards the table. 

 “You know how Dream was- injured,” he starts slowly, looking back up at them. Niki shifts uncomfortably - of course she noticed, it was impossible not to - if not the bandages that peeked under his sleeves and the cuffs of his pants, then how skinny he’d been, all skin and bones curled up uncomfortably in a pile at the corner of Techno’s couch. She’d not know the extent, by any means, and had always assumed that they’d been self-inflicted - she’d been in a bad enough place on her own before to know how your head can make you want to hurt, sometimes, how eating food can feel like choking on sawdust and the world could feel so much smaller when focused into delicate pricks of pain. Phil’s eyes are trained on Techno - on his face, then on the pinkish raised skin of a still-healing scar along his forearm, and she feels understanding settle like a rock in her gut. 

 “The Warden had apparently been lettin’ Quackity into the cell to torture Dream for the revive book,” Techno trails off, eyes narrowed and seemingly fixed on a random point of the opposite wall. “By the time I go there, it’d been goin’ on for months.”

 “But wait,” Ranboo’s tail moves even more erratically behind him, “You mean you think he’s back- there? How?” 

 “He has to be back in the prison,” Techno points out. “I can’t imagine anyone besides him that the two of them are goin’ to just start torturin’- Sam had been iffy about the whole thing when Quackity started in on me. It has to be Dream in there again.” 

 “But how did he get in there, then?” Ranboo asks, visibly confused. “Last time it took the entire server to lock him up!”

 “There were no signs of a struggle,” Niki points out, matter of fact. “I believe you, Techno, but I don’t really know how they managed to drag him back so easily. I can’t imagine he was jumping at the chance to go back in there.” 

 Techno shakes his head with an uneasy sigh. 

 “I have a feelin’ of what might’ve happened,” he says quietly. “And I really hope that I’m wrong and he’s less of an idiot than I think he is.” 

 ---

 They set out to investigate - and maybe attack - the next day, Techno and Phil taking on the bulk of preparations as Ranboo stays behind. He’d been understandably uneasy about the whole mission, so they’d left him back by the Syndicate room to set off their pearls in case anything went wrong. (“By the end of the day,” Techno had said, giving Phil a look with the corner of his lip quirked upwards, “don’t be like Phil here and think I meant the end of the month, alright?”) They’d all be supplied with armor and weapons, thanks to Phil, but she’d been handed the bulk of their potions, arranged neatly in her inventory by type in case they’d be needed. She lingers in the back of the room as Phil and Techno chat amiably over the sound of making last minute repairs on their armor, listens to Techno’s ceaseless reminders for Phil to be careful, watches as they make sure that their stasis chambers are properly prepared should they need them.

 (She watches as Phil nudges Techno’s shoulder when he lingers behind a certain chair, empty as long as she’s been part of the Syndicate, the fountain behind it bubbling quietly without a pearl inside. Techno sighs, expression strange. 

 “Should’ve set him up with one,” he says, quiet, and Phil pats him on the back. 

 “You couldn’t have known, mate. We wanted to wait a little before telling him about the Syndicate, remember?” 

 Techno hums, noncommittal. “Still.”)

 They Nether travel to the site of Techno’s lookout, which ends up being a little shambling thing with dirt walls dug into a small hill looking towards the prison portal, having hardly enough space to fit the three of them. Phil looks at it with no small amount of apprehension, and Techno shrugs lightly, wearing an expression that makes Phil turn to him with a look that makes Niki break into giggles. Techno crosses his arms- “in my defense-” and Phil looks up at the dirt ceiling with a long-suffering sigh. 

 “You couldn’t have made this a little roomier, mate?” Phil asks, voice dry as kindling, and Techno raises his hands by his head. 

 “Hey hey, it’s discreet, it gets the job done, it’s perfectly structurally sound-” the sound of the leftmost wall crumbling, along with the cloud of dust that puffs from it and fills their tiny space, undermines the tail end of his statement and leaves him sputtering, Niki falling into another fit of quiet giggles. Underneath it all, Phil sighs again, raising his wings behind him. 

 “...these are going to take so long to clean out.” 

 To his credit, Techno looks sheepish. “Sorry, Phil.”

 They sober up quickly; Techno turns around to the opposite side of the hill, where he’s hidden some peepholes inside the dirt - Niki settles herself by one, leaning forwards to put her eye to it and catch a glimpse of the prison looming over the water. It’s been repaired since the breakout, she notes, the gaping hole in the roof completely gone and replaced with obsidian, as intimidating and undamaged as it had been before, if not more so. Phil makes a considering sound from behind her.

 “Same plan as last time?” He asks, and Techno shakes his head. 

 “They’ve probably reinforced it, and Dream’s blueprints won’t include anything new the Warden’s added. I wouldn’t be surprised if they moved Dream to a different location completely. We don’t want to draw too much attention, either, we were cutting it pretty close during the breakout.” He narrows his eyes. “I was thinking we’d try something a little stealthier, this time. “ 

 He gestures at Niki, who blinks back at him with wide eyes. 

 “You got a couple of invis potions for us?”

 She distributes the potions among them all, one regular and two splash potions of invisibility each, and Techno points towards the prison once she’s done. 

 “The most important thing is to get through the portal,” he says with a grim expression. “Worst comes to worst, once we’re inside we can always blast our way through - but gettin’ through that portal is our first priority.” 

 Phil narrows his eyes at him. “The portal is locked, though. We’ll need to follow someone else inside- and I’m pretty sure Sam uses pearls, so he’s out.” 

 Techno nods. “Which is why I’m bankin’ on the prison gettin’ another visitor today. We’ll just have to wait.” 

 Niki swallows. “Do you mean-”

 “Quackity?” Techno turns away, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’m not totally sure, but he’s not exactly the type to just give up on his goals. He’s pretty predictable- an empire needs an emperor, always needs something new to rule- you know the type,” he says, tipping his head towards Phil. “He’ll be mad at Dream for disappearin’ on him and won’t miss the opportunity to prove he has the upper hand again. I’m not sure that he’s going to come today-”

 “-but you wouldn’t really be surprised, either,” Phil finishes for him, eyes steely with cold determination. “I trust your judgement, mate. Just stay safe- from what I’ve heard, Quackity has been...erratic.” 

 “When is he not,” Techno huffs a short laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine, Phil. Just be careful, both of you. Don’t get too close. And if things get messy- which is what we’re tryin’ to avoid, by the way- then don’t do anything too risky. Our priority is gettin’ in and out alive.” 

 “We can handle ourselves, Techno,” Niki reminds him with a small smile. “And Ranboo is there in case anything goes wrong.” 

 “Alright, then. Here’s the plan.” 

 ---

 It takes quite a long time for Quackity to arrive, long minutes that Niki spends fidgeting in the corner of the room, brushing her hands over seams of the netherite plates that Phil had shoved into her hands, back at the Syndicate room. The set is inexplicably light - not weightless, by any means, as it is still netherite, but not nearly as bulky as any set of netherite armor she’s owned or seen in the past. The runes are precise, lines thin and exact, written with graceful strokes of lapis. 

 “Phil’s the best metalworker I’ve ever met,” Techno tells her with a small grin, catching her in the middle of tracing what she can make out as an Unbreaking rune along the metal strapped to her forearm. “But then again, he’s had the time to practice.” 

 “Are you calling me old again?” Phil huffs, and Techno flashes a smile her direction before looking at Phil with a slight grin. 

 “Well, Chat is,” he says, lips twitching when Phil glares back. 

 “You can’t just blame Chat every time you insult me, you little shit,” Phil groans, and Techno only grins wider. 

 “Phil, my ad revenue,” he complains, a dramatic lilt to his voice that has Niki stifling a snort, and Phil’s glare only grows deadlier. 

 “You’ll have more than your ad revenue to worry about if you keep this up,” he mumbles, going back to keep watch at one of the peepholes and stilling as he does. “Shit- Techno, Quackity’s here.” 

 Techno straightens up, hindered slightly by the low ceiling of their room. “Alright- we all know the plan, right?” 

 Niki nods in the affirmative, pulling out a splash invis and letting it settle in her hand, the glass cool beneath her fingertips. She reaches into her inventory and lets her armor fade into it, takes a deep breath and watches as the two across from her do the same. She doesn’t wear armor often, but so close to the prison, feeling mining fatigue settling deep into her bones - she’s never missed the security it offers more. Techno keeps watch, waiting- drops his arm in a signal. Now. 

 Niki throws the potion at their feet, flinching back at the sound of shattering glass and feeling its effects seep into her skin. When she opens her eyes, she can’t see anything but the inside of the room that they’d holed themselves in and the faintest of wisps rising from where their feet must be, curling around the grass. 

 (Please let this work, she begs to no one in particular as they walk towards the prison. And if you can hear me- please keep us all safe.)

 She hardly breathes as they follow Quackity across the path, holding someone’s hand in her own - Phil’s, by the feel of it - careful to muffle her footsteps in the grass and stand still whenever Quackity’s eyes come a little too close. Thankfully for them, he seems focused, hardly stopping or looking around at all as he walks towards the prison’s portal, movements stiff as he walks forward. He punches the button on the wall particularly harshly, and Sam’s voice comes crackling through a speaker a second later. 

 “I’m here for my visit,” Quackity says, punctuating the sentence with a snort of laughter that doesn’t sound particularly sincere. Niki hasn’t seen him in a long while, not after everything that happened in Pogtopia, and she feels a chill worm down her spine - this man looks nothing like the one that had laughed and danced and sung at her birthday party what feels like an eternity ago. What happened? 

 Sam sighs, the sound turning into a sharp burst of static through the speakers. “Hello Quackity,” he says, voice deep and tired. “Please step into the portal after I tell you to and then wait on the other side.” 

 “I know the drill, Sam,” Quackity rolls his eyes. “Just because the bastard was gone for a few weeks doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how this damn place works.” 

 “Just going through protocol, Quackity,” Sam replies, and something about this response has Quackity exploding into a brief fit of laughter, the sound grating against Niki’s ears. She feels her grip tighten on Phil’s hand, air caught in her throat. 

 “Protocol- ha. Whatever you wanna tell yourself, pal.” Quackity smiles, cold and cruel, and Niki tries not to think about how she’d seen that same grin on Wilbur, eyes sparkling from the light of the lanterns hung from the bridges and walls of their ravine, remember how she’d looked into them and realized her old friend wasn’t there, anymore. Quackity disappears into the portal, and after a second, the hand around her own pulls her inside of it too.

 On the other side, Quackity taps his foot impatiently, crossing his arms and waiting- Sam’s voice comes through the speakers again, words clipped. 

 “Go through the portal,” he says, and Quackity does- once again, they wait for a second for his body to disappear, then go within it themselves, pressed close enough together within its frame for Niki to feel the warmth of a wing wrap around her shoulders for a quick second before they’re out of the hot, stifling air of the Nether and into a large, neatly made lobby of blackstone and quartz. They duck into a corner, watching as Quackity moves towards the front counter, the Warden waiting there with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks- tired. His movements are slow, footsteps loud against the floor, shoulders tense and back hunched. He walks around the counter, sword strapped to his belt, and Niki feels her breath hitch at the sight of dried blood still stuck to the blade in patches and splatters.

 “He ready?” Quackity asks, holding his hands out - Niki catches a flash of metal as Sam drops something into them, watches as Quackity raises what ends up being a pair of shears, dangerous-looking and gleaming with enchants, to the light. 

 “Yes,” Sam says, side-eyeing Quackity with a small glare. “You know, it’s supposed to be your job to clean those things off when you’re done with them.”

 “I told you, busy day back in Las Nevadas yesterday,” Quackity waves a hand- “I’ll do it, alright? Don’t get all pissy now. What happened to being partners?” 

 “You said we’d be done with this months ago, Quackity,” Sam sighs, and Niki feels a light tug on her arm as Quackity and Sam begin to walk towards the wall to the right of them, breathes in slow and deep as she follows Techno and Phil towards the others. The wall yawns open with the hiss of redstone firing and pistons pulling blocks upwards, opening into a dark hallway that feels like entering the maw of some sort of giant, insatiable beast. They step inside as one, and the door shuts behind them. 

 “We’ll be done soon enough,” Quackity says, and Niki feels hairs rising on the back of her neck. “Trust me.” 

 They stalk forwards through a labyrinth of blackstone, Niki brushing the palms of her hand against her clothes when it goes clammy from adrenaline. Halfway through, she pauses to tip back a second potion of invisibility, careful to keep her movements slow and steady as not to make a sound - the liquid is silvery, cool and light on her tongue, and she lets the effects wash over her with her breath caught in her lungs before moving forward. The tunnels are simpler than she’d expected, bearing little obstacles or checkpoints - Quackity makes a wry comment a second after (“Guard tunnels today, huh? Appreciate the hustle, pal-”) that confirms her suspicions. Despite the potion particles still whirling around their bodies and the sounds of their footsteps, too loud in her own ears, they manage to make it forwards without much trouble, entering a large room with a doorway filled completely with a curtain of lava. 

 “Set your spawn,” Sam says, still stoic, and Quackity rolls his eyes again before doing as told. Niki keeps looking back at the lava flowing past the wall, its heat filling the room and making her already slick palms even worse, and Sam moves to the side to flick a lever, eyes trained on the lava slowly bubbling in front of him. 

 “Give me your tools?” Quackity asks, and Sam sighs before doing so - Niki watches as he hands over a netherite axe, then potions, then a few raw potatoes that Quackity accepts and puts into his inventory. Sam raises an eyebrow once he’s done, hand tight around the handle of his trident. 

 “You bring your own sword, today?” He asks, seeming irritated, and Quackity shrugs. 

 “Sorry pal, I need to make a new one. Guess I’m borrowing yours again.” 

 Sam sighs again, louder, and hands over his sword as well, watching as Quackity swings it a few times experimentally. The blade skims a little too close to her on one swing and she can’t quite help the squeak that escapes her lips as she throws herself out of the way, feels her heart hammer in her ears as she backs up against the wall. Please don’t hear that please don’t hear that please don’t hear that please don’t hear that-

 “Quackity, wait.” Sam raises a hand, ear twitching as he looks over in her direction with narrowed eyes. “I think I heard something.”

 Oh fuck.

 “Well, guess show’s up then,” Techno drawls, and both of them whirl towards his voice, giving Niki enough time to pull her armor back on, scrambling to get her sword and shield in her hands as Phil does the same besides her. Pieces of armor appear where Techno is standing, then a bucket of milk- oh, why must her friends be so dramatic- and Techno’s standing there, smiling sharply, with Orphan Obliterator held loosely at his side. “Let’s get this done, then.” 

 As one, Techno and Phil blur into action - Techno moves forward to catch the prongs of Sam’s trident on his blade as Phil parries Quackity’s blows with his own sword- they move fluidly, easily covering each other’s backs as the room devolves into chaos. Niki remembers their guidance as she flits in and out of the fight, scoring quick hits to keep the Warden and Quackity off balance while remaining out of range from their weapons, and it’s not long before both of them have fallen with a spray of items and experience orbs scattered all over the floor. 

 Techno moves over to block off the exposed face of the bed with a block, looking over at the two of them with an uncharacteristically severe expression. “They’ll be back soon- we have to move fast. Niki, you have those fire res, right?” 

 She nods as she reaches into her inventory, finding the potion’s orange-pink glow and smashing it at their feet. They dive into the lava together, Niki scrambling to keep up, her arms struggling to move through the thick lava, loses sight of both until she flails into something directly in front of her and hands are pulling her up out of the lava. 

 “There you go, mate,” Phil smiles down at her as hauls herself to her feet, making a face at the feeling of the lava clinging to her clothes. “Yeah, swimming through lava isn’t exactly fun. You good?” She flashes him a thumbs up, and he laughs- “Niki, you’re still invisible.” She flushes pink- right.

 A few sips of milk later, she gives him a proper thumbs up, and he laughs, loud and bright. She looks past him to where Techno’s crouched over something- someone, she realizes with a start, in the corner. Dream’s back in prison clothes, ragged and ill-fitting, and he’s curled up with his back towards the front of the cell, shaking enough to be obvious even from where she’s standing. Techno speaks lowly, voice barely more than a deep rumble in the air, almost inaudible.

 “You there, Dream?” 

 She watches as Dream turns his head, looking up with wide, bleary eyes. His hair flops in front of his face, and something within her itches to brush it out of the way. “T-Techno?”

 “Yeah nerd, who else?” Techno smiles, and Dream seems to blink awake, drawing himself up with a shuddery breath. 

 “Techno- it’s a trap- what are you doing here?” he hisses, and Techno gives him a look, deadpan.

 “Yeah, yeah, it’s a trap- come on, Dream, we’ve been over this by now, bro. You have to know that their traps aren’t goin’ to do anything to me by now,” Techno rolls his eyes, reaching forward to steady his hands on Dream’s shoulders when the other man sputters and struggles to breathe. “Easy, now. Geez, you wanted to prove me wrong about being homeless bad enough that you came back here? We could’ve just made you a house, you know. You didn’t have to go this far.” 

 “I- they were gonna kill you,” Dream breathes, face twisted up uncomfortably, and his eyes flick past Techno’s face to where Phil and Niki are standing at the opposite wall of the cell. “All of you- they said-”

 “And that’s what I thought you’d say,” Techno groans. “Come on, you idiot, I thought you were smarter than this-” 

 “They were right there, Techno!” Dream fires back, eyes alight. “You- they were right there, what were you thinking, they could’ve-!”

 “And my best friend is a necromancer, remember?” Techno shakes his head. “Come on, Dream- Sam and Quackity? You know we can handle them in a fight, especially when you can just revive us if anything goes wrong. You don’t have to do this whole self-sacrifice thing, bro- there’s only so many times I can break into the same prison, y’know.” 

 “You’re so stupid,” Dream huffs, but he leans in anyway, head just barely settling against Techno’s shoulder. “I- I can’t believe. You’re so dumb.” 

 “Hey, don’t be sayin’ that to the guy that’s breakin’ you out of prison,” Techno laughs, slinging Dream over his shoulder with an easy motion and laughing harder when it makes him yelp. “That’s just bein’ ungrateful. You’re making Chat sad, man, and when they’re sad they don’t subscribe-” 

 “I regret this entirely,” Dream says, voice muffled against Techno’s shirt, tone completely flat. “Put me down- you idiot- I’m staying here. You’re worse than Quackity.” 

 “Rude. Now you’ve really made Chat mad. I demand an apology-” 

 “Boys, boys.” Niki can’t help giggling, watching the way their gazes snap towards her, rolling her eyes as she moves forward with a few potions held loosely in her hand. “Dream, do you want a health pot?” 

 Dream seems to deliberate for a second, before nodding at her, expression slightly strained. “...sure.” 

 “You two can finish your argument after we’ve broken out of the biggest maximum security prison on the server,” Phil drawls from behind her, arms crossed at his chest. “Come on, now, before Sam gets back.” 

 “Isn’t this the only maximum security prison on the server?” Techno asks aloud, an amused expression on his face - one that only gets worse when Phil glares at him with one ice-blue eye. 

 “Shut-” he sighs, shaking his head. “You two are chaotic little shits, you know that?”

 “Don’t compare me to him, Phil,” Techno complains, Dream mirroring his words with muffled protests of his own, and Phil breathes another drawn-out, long-suffering sigh as he rubs at the bridge of his nose. 

 “Niki, give us some fire res please?” 

 She finds the potion bottle between giggles, throwing it to the ground as she tries to choke down the laughter rapidly bubbling up her throat. “Of course, Phil.” 

 She looks back at Techno and Dream before jumping into the lava, the two of them once again lost in some sort of argument, Dream draped over Techno’s shoulder. He’s breathing easier now, she notes, and Techno looks looser too - a little less tense, leaning back with a perpetual quirk to the corner of his lip as they fire insults back and forth. This is familiar, she recognizes with a soft twist in her chest, the same way that Phil and Techno can finish each other’s sentences and look at each other with laughing eyes sharing the same memories of the past, the same way Ranboo watches Techno’s every step as he adjusts his stance and lifts his sword and Techno laughs and calls him a main character in turn, the same way she and Phil will settle together on the porch over cups of tea and sit at each other’s sides for hours. The rhythm between them is one well-established, the road well-worn - she imagines them, huddled in this dingy cell for months together, and breathes in slow and deep. 

 “Come on,” she smiles, making sure to keep it on her face when Dream meets her eyes with wide, startled ones of his own. Dream still isn’t an ally, and isn’t a friend. 

 But - she watches as he smiles back, something inexplicably warm in her chest - maybe, one day, he could be.

[mintseesaw]

love like that

Prompt: You fainted during your shift in the hospital. And Dr. Min, whom your colleagues have no clue of your relationship with, has to be the one to check up on you. Pairing: doctor!yoongi x doctor!reader Genre: fluff, fluff, lots of fluff, established relationship au, drabble Word count: 1.5k rating: pg-13 Warnings: reader’s disregard of own’s health, imposing of punishment, literal spoon feeding if it makes you cringe lol a/n: something light before I update aurora ;) wrote this in honor of my fave yoongi look so far which is pretty obv on the banner haha

As you come back to consciousness, your eyes flutter open, only to shut them close at the blinding hospital light pointed directly at your line of vision. The pristine white walls illuminating the ambience of the sickly familiar room only gave you a dizzy spell.

Still dazed with the remnants of being unconscious, you couldn’t seem to find the last bit of your memory and why you’re lying in a bed inside a familiar facility instead of being the one to check the patients up, yourself. With your eyes closed, you heard a familiar voice spoke, breaking the oddly cold silence, “You okay?” “Why am I here?” You manage to ask with your desert dry throat and a pounding head.

“You fainted.” Yoongi responds briefly. Right, you did! When and where did it happen, again?

”That doesn’t mean I have to be here. How long was I out?” “About 6-7 hours. Your blood pressure dropped, so is your blood sugar. You’re sleep deprived and you haven’t been eating?” He answers in his usual thickly low, professional tone. If you only cared to listen closely, you’d notice he sounded like a father scolding his child for skipping proper meals over sweet treats, than a caring boyfriend that he actually is. You also fail to see the way his forehead creases, him sporting a cute pout while he scolds you with his deadly, monotonous tone.

The nurse, who is on the other side of the bed currently administering a vial medication through your IV, didn’t miss the coldness seeping through Dr. Min’s voice as her thumb slowly pushes through the end of the syringe.

However, the proximity between the two doctors picques her curiosity. The terror senior cardiologist and the junior resident are physically too close to only be labeled as mere colleagues. On your second attempt, you squinted your hypersensitive eyes. Blurry sight steadily adjusts to the familiar figure. As your vision becomes clearer, you finally get to see your boyfriend, Dr. Min, clad in his usual knee length white coat. The undone buttons of the white fabric lets you have a glimpse of his inner dress shirt and the black pair of slacks his lean legs adorned.

Your eyes remain glued on him, not minding the faint sting of the thick liquid as it seeps through your veins from the back of your right hand. The intimidating, gorgeous doctor that you luckily call your boyfriend returns the same longing gaze.

Prior to your fainting spell, the last you’ve properly seen and talked him was two days ago, when he had arrived at the hospital which was only an hour left of your shift.

“I didn’t notice, I guess I was just... occupied?”

Unexpectedly, he flicks your forehead which stung more than the medicine flowing through your veins. “Idiot, you almost got yourself killed.”

“Yoongi!” You whimper in protest.

Yoongi crouches his upper body, dipping his head low to soothe the now reddish area on your forehead with the supple pair of his lips.

He would not want to go through that frightening moment, again. He had seen the worst of the worsts, but having to experience the same thing that his previous patients’ families had endured turns out to be his own nightmare.

Yoongi received a call from a junior resident several hours ago. Ironically, your colleague chose to call Dr. Min out of all the cardiologists in the hospital. The junior resident assumed your case isn’t just a mere fainting spell of fatigue.

He rushed his way to the hospital, furiously driving his car like a maniac. How could he not? When your colleague suggested to place you in ICU if your blood pressure continued to drop. With you remaining unconscious, medications and supplemental fluids had to be administered through your IV to help normalize your vital signs. Fortunately, your body has responded with the medications. “You should eat before I leave.” He murmurs, peppering your skin with his warm breaths.

You didn’t respond, having other intentions in your mind. Lightly tilting your head up, you hover his parted lips. From the looks of it, you two seemingly forgot you have other company inside the room. At the unexpected sweet display of affection, the nurse quietly gaped as you both became too outworldly with each other.

“Only if you’ll eat with me.” You propose. Then Yoongi draws back, pulling the retractable board up over the bed as a makeshift table. Swiftly, he places the tray there which carries the hospital prepped meal that includes porridge, soup and side dishes.

The flustered nurse cleared her throat, silently excusing herself to give privacy to the newly discovered love birds.

Yoongi darts his eyes to the female staff who refused to meet his gaze. Adjusting his heavily graded specs on the bridge of his nose, he takes the chair beside the hospital bed.

Having no sense of will to consume food, you unwillingly pull yourself up. Yoongi then hands you a water bottle, which you took in his hand and eagerly chugged down half of its content in no time. But then the unappetizing food in front of you makes you scrunch up your nose in disgust.

Peaking on your left to look for alternative food that is a little appetizing than the ones Yoongi served, you found nothing else. Other than his daily dose of caffeine. You had enough of it for the day, but you‘d rather have another one or anything else other than that meal.

“Can I have some of that?” “What,” Yoongi pauses, only to follow where your gaze has been directed. When he realizes what you were referring to, he sternly objects, “No, not until you’ve completely recovered.”

Pouting in defeat, you silently huffed, crossing your arms against your chest. You really have no full intent of eating the food, but when you meet Yoongi‘s warning peer, you’re forced to mimic his movement as he obtains a spoon.

Holding the silverware between your fingers, you silently watch him scoop a generous portion of porridge in his spoon, thinking he would eat the porridge himself. But he held it forward, near your lips. The slight arching of his eyebrow made you slowly part your own lips, as if he has this mythical power over your body.

I thought I asked him to eat with me? And not make me eat?! You silently complain.

Yoongi didn’t stop pestering you with the porridge, almost force feeding you with his deadly stare. Something that you didn’t want to mess with ever again. However, on the sixth spoon, you finally had the courage to push his arm away, not liking the way it is making your stomach oddly churns.

“You barely touched your soup.” He proceeds to scold you, coaxing you with another spoonful of porridge.

Whining, you shook your head. “No more,” Then you lean your back against the headboard to increase the proximity in between. “Can you release me now? I have to attend to my patients. What about the meeting with my team? Oh God, Professor Kim—”

“You are my patient, baby. You need to be closely monitored until tomorrow. Don’t worry about your shift for now, your superiors will understand.” “But do I have to be here alone for the next 24 hours?” You gloomily asked, sulking. Realizing there’s no way for him to stay with you here considering he has one of most hectic schedules among the senior residents. He chuckles softly, reaching out to smoothen your protruded lips with his thumb. Gone is the terror doctor from the cardiology department.

“I’m afraid so. I would stay here with you if I could. However, I have an operation in about fours hours’ time. But you’ll go home with me tomorrow so I can watch you over.” “Really?” Your eyes instantly light up, loving the idea of you and him sharing an apartment. You considered the thought before, however, you think it’s too soon for you two to live together. And you understand that Yoongi strangely craves the isolation, so you have not brought up the matter. Unless he asks you to. Technically, you’ll only stay with him for a couple of days.

Still, this is a progress. “Hmm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He whispers, taking in the elation dancing in your eyes. He cups your cheek, thumb rubbing indefinite paths to the expanse of the soft muscle. “Which reminds me, you won’t be spared with forgiveness this time.”

“W-What?” “Ten,” emphasizing his next word with a slap on the side of your scrub suit clad hip before continuing, “for each round. You like being punished, do you not my love?” You yelp, eyes rounding from shock. “I will make sure you’ll be sore enough, you won’t be able to come to work for a week, baby.” He promises, his orbs growing dark as his mind starts to reel with lewd fantasies of you. His warning alone had you instantly weak in your knees, the familiar heat rapidly spreading in your stomach, and all you could do is fist his white coat, groaning achingly in need.

Yoongi smirks, knowing full well what the sound means, then invades your mouth in a searing kiss.

mintseesaw © 2020

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control) 

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

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

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

-D.H. Lawrence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you were anyway. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How far along are you?”

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

“I… what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t know.” 

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

“Would he not be happy?”

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 And you begin to weep with him.

 *********

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

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

 You cannot tell him for a long while still. 

 *******

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

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

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

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 *****

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

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly not.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Although first you needed a blank canvas. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kind.

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

Beautiful. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needs to know. 

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

Wise.

Perceptive.

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

Strong.

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

Gentle. 

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

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

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

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

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

Stars, how you want to let him. 

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

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

Disciplined.

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

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

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

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

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

Charming.

Humble. 

Confident. 

Steadfast. 

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

Nothing can. 

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

Treasure. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darling, I’m…” 

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

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

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

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall we do something about that?”

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

“Allow me.” 

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

Or so you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anchor. Anchor against me. 

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

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

You still have much to learn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

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

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

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

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.” 

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

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

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

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

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

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

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite? 

So is the promise of the return of the Light. 

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

[thiswasinevitableid]

57 sternclay nsfw? i can see stern complaining to a stranger that his ex complained about how weird his kinks were while dumping him

Here you go! 57: “we’re fighting over the last box of half-off valentine’s day chocolate and end up in a “who has it worse” battle.

For being in a mountain town in the slow season, the seasonal candy shelves of the Kepler Walgreens are bare. Were it 10 am on Valentines Day, Joseph would be in a panic. At 10 p.m, it feels like yet more proof this trip is utterly doomed.

But he didn’t become one of the top agents in the Department of Unexplained Phenomena by being unobservant. On the top shelf, pushed towards the back, is a bag of Reese's hearts and a bag of M&Ms. Thank you, years of training.

Being six feet tall helps too.

He’s so locked onto his target that he doesn’t notice the other person in the store until their hands smack into each other en route to the bags.

“Sorry, uh, lemme just get these and I’ll get out of your way.” A voice as deep and sweet as summer honey reaches his ears.

“I’m sorry, but I was going to buy these.” He starts pulling the bags towards him, only for the other guy to grab them. Joseph glares; the man trying to relieve him of his last solace looks like the kind of lumberjack you see in recordings titled things, “Log Pounders IV” or “Bear Hunting.”

“Look, buddy, I really need these so can you, like, find some other bags?”

“These are the last two. And I guarantee I need them more.” As long as he keeps a pleasant voice and gives no ground, this should go smoothly.

“Unless you got dumped this month, I don’t think you do.”

“I got dumped seven hours ago.” He says through an increasingly tight-lipped smile.

“At least your ex isn’t tagging you in a bunch of photos bragging about his new boyfriend.”

“He can’t, because he probably only just got back to his apartment in the rental car. The one I’m now stranded here without.”

“Pfft, just call an Uber or something.”

“It’ll cost several hundred dollars to get home!”

“You look like you can afford it.” Brown eyes flick from his hair down to his shoes, “some of us have to use half-price candy to soothe our wounds. You’re probably staying at the kind of fancy B&B where they have complimentary booze.”

“I would be, except their was a fuck-up with the reservation. Which my ex took as proof this was time to end things, and is the reason I’m dragging this all over town.” He kicks his ergonomically designed, rolling suitcase hard enough that it bumps into his adversary.

“Better he gave you some bullshit reason than the truth, which mine was all too happy to tell me. You can have these when someone you tried to make happy tells you he thinks you’re ‘too soft’ and that if only you’d manned up he woulda stayed, whatever the fuck that even means.”

Goddamnit, Joseph is not about to lose this argument--and his candy--on top of everything else.

“I’ll trade you that for being told you’re: too exacting, far more uncool than your job implies, too anxious, too invested in your work, that your whole personality is flawed and, just for extra fun, that your kinks are too weird and no one in their right mind would ever want to sleep with you if they knew them ahead of time.”

The other man’s hold on the bags loosens. Then it returns, stronger than before, as he grumbles, “Please, no one’s kinks are that weird.”

“You have no idea what mine are.”

“Then how about you give me a demonstration, huh?” Lumberjack snaps.

Joseph's common sense finally catches up with his thirst for comfort and, apparently, conflict.

“I, I’m sorry, did you just offer to fuck me in the middle of a fight over discount candy?”

“I....” the man lets go of the bags, chuckles, “yeah, I did. Fuck, I’m sorry, it’s been such a shitty day that my mouth decided it was gonna do whatever it took to stay in that fight.”

Joseph laughs a little, slumping against the shelf, “I guess it’s nice to know I’m not the only person in town whose Valentine’s Day didn’t go to plan.”

“No kidding. Though, uh, I didn’t get dumped this month. It was three months ago. He did tag me in all those photos today though.”

“That’s so rude.”

“Not as rude as leaving your boyfriend stranded in the mountains.”

B-grade pop hits fill the awkward silence between them.

“I, uh, this might be way outta line, but I got an idea; if you buy the candy, I can take us back to my place and bake something with it. That way we can both enjoy it, and you won’t be stuck wandering around in the cold.”

He runs a quick is-this-a-serial-killer scan of the man in front of him.

“Sure. But just so you know, I’m opening the Reeses in the car.”

-----------------------------------------------------

“Feeling better?” Barclay, his host, wipes stray cupcake crumbs from his lips.

“Much.” He polishes off his second coffee-cocoa cupcake with M&Ms in the batter, lifts his coffee cup, “this place is lucky to have you.”

Barclay blushes the same way he has every time Joseph compliments his cooking, home, or taste in books. They’ve spent the last ninety minutes in the kitchen of Barclay’s small, A-Frame cabin, one of eight laid out in a half circle behind Amnesty Lodge. The cook explained that the cabins were for staff or long term residents, and that while the Lodge sometimes had vacancies, this week had seen them swamped.

The rain alternates between pleasant pitter-pats and drops that could kill a small bird, so Joseph is incredibly grateful to Barclay for giving him a place to shelter. When he thanks him, the cook shrugs with a little smile, “you shouldn’t leave nice things out in the rain.”

As they’re cleaning up the dishes, Barclay passes him a plate and says, “You can stay here tonight. If, uh, if you want. The couch isn’t much, but it’s dry and I’ve got a bunch of spare blankets.”

“That’d be great, thank you. And, um, thank you for being so nice to me, given how we met.”

“Eh, no one who’s in a Walgreens after ten is in a good mood. And, uh, it’s nice to have someone to talk with. I’m kinda the quiet one of my friends, and work is mostly calling orders and stuff.” He pulls the coffee pot from the heat, “can I top you off?”

“Yes, please.” His caffeine tolerance is so high a few cups late at night doesn’t mess with his sleep. Barclay is sticking with tea, something scented like cardamon and comfort.

They move to the couch that’s clearly been re-covered a dozen times, Barclay only getting up to turn on some music; delta blues, if Joseph’s ear is right. It’s not until the clock strikes one thirty that Joseph notices they’re sitting so close that their knees bump whenever one of them turns to talk.

“Okay, I gotta ask” Barclay’s brown eyes shine sweet and playful, “what exactly was so weird about your kinks that your dickhead ex went out of his way to mention them?”

He thinks a moment, scanning his body and noticing he’s more relaxed than he’s been in weeks, including all the times he spent with his ex. Something about the faint scent of dish-soap on Barclays hands, the gentle smile that makes Joseph certain that--for all his bulk--if Joseph told him to roll over and show his belly, he’d do it in an instant, the way he doesn’t rolls his eyes or shy away when Joseph talks, all of that makes him calm. Which makes him bold.

“Wait right here.” He hops up, grabs his bag from the door and pulls it over to the rug by the couch. All he has to do to reveal his secret is lift his pajamas.

“Holy fuck.” Barclay leans forward, “you really came prepared.”

“It was supposed to be a romantic getaway. I...we’d never used any of this together, but I hoped we might this time. It’s, it’s not his fault, I know my tastes aren’t for everyone, and we had plenty in common in bed. But he went through this whole thing where he said we should share our deepest fantasies. Apparently wanting to be choked is fine, but wanting to fuck Mothman is not.”

“That’s what this one is.” Barclay picks up one of the two dildos, black with lots of swirling ridges.

“That’s actually my dragon one. Um.” he holds up the ovipositor toy, “this one is supposed to be mothman.”

Barclay squishes one of the silicone eggs, “that feels kinda nice. What else did you bring?”

His genuine interest is not helping Joseph keep his hopes under control.

“The other toy is the ‘bigfoot’ model. And this is, um, this is my newest one, I was so excited I pre-ordered it. It acts like a cock-sleeve, but this part here is supposed to mimic a, um, a knot.”

“Like the idea of getting knotted, babe?” The cook’s voice is a little deeper than when he last spoke, and rather than pulling away he’s inching into Joseph’s space.

“Yes. I, um, I’m getting the sense” he shifts so his hands are on Barclay’s knees, “that we might have something in common besides our taste in leftover candy.”

“I packed all this so carefully” he brushes their lips together, “it’d be a shame to let it sit unused.”

Barclay scoops him into a kiss, growling happily when Joseph instantly parts his lips. His beard is soft and tickly under Joseph’s palms, and his mind takes the thought of getting beard-burn on his thighs and runs so far with it that he almost misses what Barclay says next.

“In that case, you better decide if you want me to open your ass up so I can fuck you with a knot, or if you wanna do it yourself.”

“I prefer to do it myself.”

A second kiss, a bit gentler this time, “bedroom’s at the end of the hall. Get naked and wait for me there?”

“Roger that, big guy.”

When Barclay growls this time it’s rougher, jumping out of his chest and seeming to surprise him.

Joseph undresses as Barclay stops off in the bathroom, rifling through the medicine cabinet while Joseph folds his clothes. He’s down to his boxers when he remembers there is a conversation he needed to have before it hit this point.

“You trying to get me to rip those off with my teeth?” Barclay grins as he sets some condoms and lube on the bed and starts taking off his pants.

“I, um, there’s something you should be aware of. We don’t have the same, um, set-up.”

Barclay furrows his brow, gets his meaning, then nods, “no problem. If you’re okay with that part of you being involved I, uh, I just got a really, really good idea for what to do.”

“It’s not always the case, but tonight I definitely want it involved. I want you inside me as many ways as possible.”

“Fuck yeah.” Barclay tosses his shirt into the laundry, “get your ass open enough to take that knot.”

He slips the condom on, douses it with lube, and presses the first finger in, discovering that he's unable to stop complimenting Barclay for even five seconds while he finishes disrobing. The flush under his dark chest hair is unendingly charming, as is the little whine he makes at Joseph telling him he likes how big he is.

“I, I’m serious, ahhn, it’s rare to find someone taller than me and I really like it.”

“Feeds into the monster thing?” Barclay crawls beside him, laying down so he can kiss him as he works the second finger in.

“In a way.”

A deep, rumbly chuckle that has Joseph fucking himself hurriedly, “Don’t be coy, babe. You like the thought of something big and hairy getting a hold of you and not letting you go until you’re dripping cum.”

“Holy shit, yes” he gets the third finger in, sighing as Barclay nuzzles his neck.

“Well, I’m not bigfoot, but I’m betting I’ll do just fine.”

“More than fine.” Joseph kisses him, feels him smile in a way that melts his heart like cheap chocolate.

“Got some other theories about you, babe, but you gotta wait until you’re on my dick to hear ‘em.” Barclay sits up, stroking his cock in time with Joseph’s hand, “fucking-A, can’t believe your ex didn’t wanna stick around for this. You look like a fucking porn star; we oughta record you getting fucked in your suit and sell if for big bucks.”

He moans, pulling his fingers free, “Fuck me now. Please.”

“Fuck that’s hot.” Barclay works the sleeve down over his cock, sits up against the wall, “come sit in my lap, facing away.”

Joseph straddles him, gasps when the head of his cock presses in. He prepped well, but all the same he has to take his time wiggling his way down. Barclay caresses him, grunting and whimpering whenever he moves, breath prickling the hairs at the base of his neck. It’s heavenly.

When he hits the knot, Barclay rubs more lube on it, but it stays outside of him as he grinds on it. Between moans, the cook manages to say, “want me to start the next part?”

“Yes, please.”

Barclay loads the ovipositor with the three eggs, praises Joseph for being a good boy when he spreads his legs to accommodate the head of the toy.

“I, I thought you had more you were going to tell me?” He tilts his head awkwardly to kiss Barclay’s shoulder.

“Uh huh.” Barclay slowly works the toy in and out, doing his best to sync it to the rolls of his hips, “I think you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t just want one monster; you want ‘em all.”

“Variety is, ohgod, part of a healthy sex life.”

“I don’t mean one monster on one day and a different one on another. I think you want them all at once.”

“Oh yes, oh! Ohohoh” he kicks his legs as the first egg pushes in, “fuck, Barclay, please keep going.”

“Whatever you want, babe.” He nuzzles Joseph’s hair, “that’s how I came up with this plan; seeing all those different dicks made me think you’d, fuck, you’d like me to pretend there was more than just me fucking you.”

Joseph nods, clinging to Barclays arm and bearing down on the knot.

“Can just see it now; you got yourself lost in the woods out here, go looking for help only to find a whole bunch of monsters waiting for you. Spend the rest of the night pressed into the dirt and leaves while every cryptid from, fuck” he bucks his hips, “from here to Canada had their turn.”

“Shit, shit” the knot starts pushing in, “y-you’ve got my number, big guy.”

“Yeah?” Barclay squeezes the base of the toy as he talks, causing the remaining two eggs to push their way in, Joseph’s body clenching around them, “you want a night where all your good for is being fucked, where if you beg for a break you get a bigfoot fucking your throat and werewolves cumming on your chest instead of them all mobbing you at once?”

“Shit, yes, YESohfuck” the knot enters him as Barclay shoves his hips down, “ohmygod that’s good, fuck, I feel so full, you’re so smart, this was genius, fuck you know how to treat meAHannnfuck, shit.” He holds on to Barclays arm’s as the other man fucks him with abandon.

“Oh I know, babe. Know I was fucking right. You wanna be claimed, wanna be owned, wanna be bred by a whole fuckin pack-”

“Jesuschrist” it’s hard to breathe at the pace Barclay sets, his body aching to cum but not quite able to get there. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing frantically at his dick as Barclay loses himself in the fantasy.

“You’d be so cute, leaves in your hair and cum on your chin, taking it all and begging for more. Good thing you’re so needy, you could tear a pack apart with folks fighting over who gets to fuck you, fuck, Joseph, baby, you’re so fucking good, gonna be so fucking good to you, fuck, fuck” he shoves as deep as he can while he cums, and in the haze of pleasure Joseph swears claws prick the skin of his chest. Just the thought of that sends his own orgasm coursing through him, his body tensing and twisting on Barclay’s cock, making them both moan from sudden overstimulation.

“S-sorry” Barclay pants.

“Nothing to apologize for, just physiology, here, let me ow, ow, okay maybe I should have relaxed more first.” He’s free of both toys, but that was right on the edge of too painful. He waits for Barclay to take off the sleeve, then rolls the bigger man so his head is on his chest.

“Your ex didn’t know how good they had it.”

“Thanks, babe.”

He smiles, “I like that. No one ever calls me something that informal.”

“Call you it whenever you want. Babe.” Barclay kisses his arm, “you can, uh, stay in bed if you want. We don’t have a ton of time together so I’d, uh, well, I’d like to spend as much of it with you as I can.”

For the first time, Joseph wishes his vacation would last longer.

“Agreed, big guy.”

--------------------------------------------------

“You said you had my new assignment, sir?”

“Yes. Agent Stern, you will be going to the town of Kepler to investigate the events described in this file.” Agent Hayes passses him the folder.

“Understood, sir.”

Joseph manages to keep his smile to himself all the way to his desk.

[staranon95]

DinCobb Week Day 1: Clan of Three (SFW)

@dincobbweek is finally here! ive never participated in something like this before so hopefully i don’t run away with any of the ideas lol. anyway, here’s my version of Clan of Three

AO3 Link

i could never stay away (not this time not from you)

“This was well earned, partner.”

The Marshal Vanth hefts the Mandalorian armour onto Din’s speeder. The man no longer seems to be morose at the fact of losing the armour and seems rather relieved that it’s all over.

“It was a good fight,” Vanth says, looking out over that half carven carcass of the krayt itself. “I hate to see that it’s finally over.”

“I thought you would be happy to see the threat to your town is over,” Din says as he secures the armour to his speeder. He covers the slab of meat while he’s at it, and the Child turns his ears down now that his easy source for a free meal is covered.

“I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout the krayt.” Vanth sends him one of those easy smiles in Din’s direction, and Din has to look to the speeder, setting his hands on the helmet. “Listen if you ever find yourself in the area.”

Din nods once. “I’ll have to take you up on that drink. If it’s still available.”

“Hey, I hope our paths will cross again. But you got a friend in me, partner.” He extends his hand and Din reaches up to shake it, and it remains for a time, Vanth squeezing reassuringly before he slides his hand away in what can only be a deliberate move. “Oh, and you tell your people it wasn’t me that broke that thing.” He points to the Rising Phoenix before he’s walking off, armourless and relaxed, towards his people and the Tuskens.

Din sets his hand on the helmet and rubs his hand down over the crown of it. When he hears the Child coo next to him in a questioning tone, he realizes he’s still staring at Vanth’s retreating figure and the lean lines of his body.

He turns to the Child. “What do you think?”

The Child tilts his head, ears flicking upward.

“Want to get back to the ship or stay for the night?”

“Abwa.”

“That’s what I’d thought you’d say. Hold on.”

He lifts the Child and sets him in the bag that sits on the side of the speeder. The Child knows what’s coming and hunkers down as Din mounts the speeder and ignites the engine for the long road back to Mos Eisley.

This time his journey only takes a matter of hours rather than a full day. He knows where Mos Pelgo is now and it’s a fairly direct route through the rocky outcroppings and shifting dunes. Four or five hours by speeder? It’s not a bad ride, and he’s left undisturbed throughout the entirety of it, pulling into Mos Eisley just after the twin suns have passed their zenith.

He’s looking forward to the cool embrace of the Razor Crest. He can’t say he likes Tatooine for it’s sun and heat, and his flight suit and beskar’gam do not make for a cool system to work within.

He swings his leg off of the speeder and lifts the cover off of the krayt meat as Peli Motto approaches him.

“I take it your trip was a success?” She marvels at the slap of meat and snaps her fingers at her droids to come over and handle it.

“In more than one way,” Din says as he begins to take his equipment off of the borrowed speeder in an effort to return it to the Razor Crest.

“Oh! Mando, before you go.” She holds her hands up and looks to the Child expectantly, and Din nods. “Aha, come here you little womprat.” The Child extends his arms to be picked out of the bag, but his attention is still on the meat and to where the pit droids have carried it to an open grill. “So I guess you found it then? Mos Pelgo?”

“I did indeed.”

“What’s it like out that way?”

“Small.”

“Well, that’s frontier towns out there for ya.”

“Do you know of the town’s Marshal at all? Cobb Vanth?”

“Cobb Vanth you say?” Peli looks to the sky and then turns her attention to the Child. “Can’t say I have. The name sounds familiar, though. There was a rebellion a few years back before the second Death Star went—” she uses her free hand to mimic an explosion “—it could’ve been one of his names I was hearing.”

Din hums. He wonders if she’s recalling the story of the Mining Collective that attacked Vanth’s town, but Vanth seems the type to have been in the rebellion business awhile. Sticking up for the small folks. Building something out of nothing. Giving everything he has to those he’s decided to protect.

Including giving up a set of Mandalorian battle armour even if that armour could’ve saved him countless more times.

“So are you heading out tonight then?” Peli asks.

“I was thinking . . .” He trails off and looks to the ship then looks at the armour he clutches in a bundle.

He never did take the Marshal up on his drink.

“I think I might stay for a few days yet,” he says. “There are still some unfinished matters I have to see to.”

“Ah, well, that’s the charm of Tatooine then. Everyone’s itching to leave ‘til they realize there’s more to it than meets the eye. Some of the old timers like to say everything starts and end on Tatooine but that’s only because they’ve never been anywhere.”

Din knows he has a promise to keep. To find the Child’s people and bring him to them. And his own personal drive of locating Mandalorians, his tribe, his own people.

If he has a people.

“At least stay for a bite to eat,” Peli says. “Seems like the kid here is wanting to have something too.”

Din nods. This is something he can do.

There are many things in his life that would be categorized as unfinished business, missed opportunities and the like. If he has to admit it, he would say he’s tired—tired of the grind, of the running, of fighting, and it’s been a long time since he’s connected to someone so quickly like Vanth. Not since Cara Dune perhaps but their professions will lead them in different places. Vanth is here. He’s welcoming and he wants to see more of Din.

And Din, well, he wants to see more of Vanth. How he learned to use the armour. What it was like for him to use the Rising Phoenix the first time.

He might not be a Mandalorian, but he does possess certain traits and qualities a Mandalorian would themselves be admired for.

What if there’s something there? What if there’s a connection?

He can’t know unless he tries.

He sets out just as the first sun touches the horizon. The armour is safely stowed on his ship to make his travel lighter. The Child is safe in his bag, peering out across the sand as they race across it once more, coming into Mos Pelgo just after the suns have set. The town is clearly celebrating the defeat of the krayt and the new peace between them and the Tuskens. The cantina in the center of town is a lively and bright affair, and for a moment as Din pulls the speeder in front of it, he wonders if he shouldn’t have come. It’ll be a lot of attention on him, and he has no intention of being worshipped as a hero. That’s not who he is.

He lifts the Child out of the bag and holds him in his arms. He’ll likely be crushed if they head into the cantina with how full it appears to be.

He walks up the steps and into the cantina and immediately heads turn towards him.

“Hey! Look it’s the Mandalorian!”

The breath in his lungs feels tight at the sudden rush of attention, for people looking his way and wanting to greet him, but then he sees one person cut through the crowd easily—Marshal Vanth.

He’s still dressed as he was—red shirt, cargo pants with a blaster sat in a holster on his hip. The only thing he has removed is his scarf, exposing the lean line of his neck.

“Mando!” He looks genuinely surprised and happy to see Din, a bit pink in the cheeks from imbibing a touch too much spotchka perhaps, but he seems steady on his feet even as he claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon! What brings you out this way, huh?”

“I, uh, thought I’d might like to take you up on that drink.”

Vanth’s face splits into a wide grin. “Thought you’d never ask, darlin’. Come with me.” He slings his arm over Din’s shoulders, leading him through the full establishment and keeping the others at bay. “Leave him be, ya vultures.” But it’s all said in good jest and soon Din is being shown to an empty booth far to the other side of the cantina where he and Vanth can sit in peace.

“You mind if I?” Vanth holds up his hands towards the Child, and Din hands him over. The Child is already reaching for Vanth, and they did become close with one another while they negotiated a deal with the Tuskens. It’s why he chose Vanth to look after him if things were to end poorly. He knew, deep down, that Vanth would care for him. Just as he cares for this town and everyone in it.

“I was gonna miss this little fella,” Vanth says. “He sure does pull you in with those big eyes, now doesn’t he?”

“He has,” Din says, but his eyes are on Vanth himself and how relaxed he seems now, like a huge burden has been lifted. He looks happy to be here, and Din wants to bask in that for a little while longer.

They end up talking for a bit, Vanth more often than not and Din less so. Vanth doesn’t seem to mind that Din doesn’t talk about much, but when Din does talk, Vanth looks at him and listens. He asks questions. He asks for clarification if needed. But he listens, and Din doesn’t know about the last time when someone listened like this.

And as the night draws on and as the cantina slowly empties, Din is beginning to feel a deep-seated weariness settle into his joints and bones. The fight is over and now he must rest but—

“I got a spare room,” Vanth offers. “Could get something together for the kid here.” The Child has fallen asleep in the crook of Din’s arm, his ears downturned despite the hum and drum of the cantina.

“I don’t mean to put this on you.”

“Eh, it’s nothing. Just being a good neighbour. And I’m still the Marshal here. It’s my duty to look after folks. Come on. I won’t hear nothin’ about it.”

He follows Vanth to his house, this little place partially sunken into the ground as is Tatooine fashion. It’s a small place, but more space than Din is used to or has been treated to in a long time. Vanth sees that the Child is set down in something of a makeshift crib, and then it’s just the two of them and no one else.

Vanth stretches and rubs at the back of his neck. Then he turns his gaze to Din. “So what now, Mando? You looking to stay for a while?”

“For now.” He looks to the photos hanging on Vanth’s walls, the bookshelf covered in more knickknacks than actual books, the striped blanket over the back of the couch. “I feel as if there is unfinished business between us.”

“Business, huh?” Vanth brushes past him and sits down on the couch, looking relaxed and inviting. “Anything business you want to discuss right now?”

By the way he’s looking at Din, he knows what Din is meaning by the use of business.

“I’m not sure,” Din says.

“Well, lucky for you I’m a patient man. Now come here.” He pats the cushion next to him. “If you don’t mind me sayin’, I want to get a better look at you.”

Din feels himself flush and he moves slowly, deliberately, and sits down next to Vanth.

“There are a lot of things I can offer,” Vanth says. “But it depends on what you’re looking for.”

“And what if I’m not sure?”

“We take things at your pace.”

It’s a lot to consider yet what this halt in Din’s quest, but he thinks he needs this. He thinks he needs Vanth more than he realizes. Needs the respite. Needs the comfort. Needs the support.

He had offered that all to Vanth in the beginning, and now Vanth is here to repay the favour.

“My pace.”

“Mmhm.”

“Then I think it’s only right you know my name. It’s Din.”

Vanth smiles. “Nice to have it, Din. Call me Cobb.”

[scribble-blog]

Soulmate AU part 5!!

First • Previous • Here • Next

Tim growled as he kept searching. There were no messages sent from Paris in the last five years in the League’s database. There weren’t any mention of a Hawkmoth, a Ladybug, or a Chat Noir in any news site. As far as he could tell, the girl had been lying to him almost entirely.

Except that she was Damian’s soulmate. And there was no faking the sheer exhaustion in her eyes when she spoke about Paris being besieged for the last four years.

And his gut was telling him to keep looking.

After an hour, and switching his location so he appeared to be operating out of France, he finally found two leads- one, a juvenile blog that had some questionable information interspersed with straight up tabloid trash, and the other an app, which he eagerly downloaded to his phone, waiting.

Finally the app popped up, showing a little Ladybug icon, and he clicked it. LadyBugOut! Sprung to life on his screen, and he perused the small icons. Small and stylized animals, a ladybug, a black cat, a bee, a turtle, a fox, a snake, a dragon, a peacock, and a butterfly. From what he remembered of his chat with Marinette, one of the heroes was Ladybug, so he clicked it.

It showed him a long line of posts, mostly videos. The girl in them was short, with dark blue-black hair and bright blue eyes, and a glaringly red and black spotted suit and mask.

“Salut, Paris! Back again with an update and a few things to address regarding the recent akuma, Lady Silence.”

He flicked to the next one.

“Salut, Paris, I’m here with Reine Abeille today,” the camera moves to another hero in yellow and black, blond hair in a high bun as opposed to Ladybug’s pigtails. “You’ve all sent in quite a few questions, and we wanted to take the time to respond today!”

“Salut, Paris! Just a quick update, I know many of you have been wondering about the recent addition to our team, Viperion.”

“Salut, Paris. I’d like to start this video with a moment of silence and recognition for the 73 lives lost in the recent attack by-“

Tim pauses it. A team of four, possibly more heroes? Perhaps nine to match the icons? A publicly revered and loved hero, to the point where she does question and answers with them. A villain that caused a death toll of seventy three people less than a month ago.

How in the world could they have missed this?

“By Evilutionist. We ask that if you know one of these victims you reach out to them and offer a hand, a hug, or even just a smile as they go about their days.”

He leant back in his chair, bewildered. Lives lost, but still there to be comforted, and going about their lives?

He got up to go find another cup of coffee. He was starting to understand how long his night was going to be.

Before he started watching through the whole long list of posts, he checked the other tabs. The black cat had a map that was currently inactive, but also logs of past maps detailing a red line, a purple line, and a larger area shaded in grey. They were labeled accordingly, Ladybug’s Path, Akuma’s Path, and Area of Attack/Destruction.

There were hundreds of maps logged.

The Bee contained large organized lists of homes and businesses that had registered as safe shelters during akuma attacks, a compilation of helplines and websites where you could learn more about staying safe during an attack, how to stay prepared and aware, and what necessities to keep stocked in cases of longer term akuma attacks.

The Fox seemed open to the public, where they could present their own posts alongside Ladybug’s about good, happy things.

The Turtle was a series of videos and posts about relaxation, meditation, coping, and self-care that could build the emotional strength to resist akumas.

The Dragon was a series of videos featuring another superhero- he assumed it was the Dragon themed one- and Ladybug, demonstrating self defense techniques and other strategies for avoiding, outrunning, fighting, or otherwise protecting yourself from akumas.

The Snake was, to his surprise, just a series of playlists, seemingly cultivated by each hero.

The Peacock held another map, also inactive, until the app chimed loudly. As he watched, a notification popped up, similar to an Emergency Alert System notification, that said in all capitals, AKUMA ATTACK.

He pressed the X on it, and watched as the Black Cat symbol seemed to glow green. He switched back, and the map was now accessible, a purple dot glowing near the Eiffel Tower. It started moving, and the shaded grey filled in around it, following the dot. He turned back to his computer and started searching frantically for some sort of news coverage. After a minute, he found a Facebook profile and opened it, and someone’s livestream was rolling.

He looked back at his phone to see that the red Ladybug dot had appeared near the edge of the grey, closing in on the purple dot. The livestream drew him back. It showed an apartment view of the Seine, and the road of broken detritus that trailed behind the akuma’s path.

“-Quel connard ne passe pas une bonne nuit alors, je suppose, mais honnêtement, cela ne devrait pas être mon problème.” The camera flipped to the face of a tired woman. “J’ai du travail en quatre heures et je ne me suis endormi que trois heures plus tôt, mais un trou du cul supersonique fait voler en éclats les fenêtres de gauche et de droite.” The camera flipped again, showing not the view but the clearly broken window. “Baise ça, mec, j'essaye de DORMIR,”

-some asshole isnt having a good night then, i guess, but honestly that shouldnt be my problem. ive got work in four hours and i only fell asleep three hours ago but some supersonic asshole is shattering windows left and right. fuck this, dude, im trying to SLEEP,

The feed went silent as the akuma lunged back into view down by the water. It was a large red woman, with wires that sprouted from her and trailed along like muscles, enhancing what seemed to be the speakers that her body was made of.

He could see her open her mouth and roar, right as a smaller red figure bounded in, dodging the concentrated sound blast and grabbing something from around her neck and snapping it in half.

The woman on the street reverted in a flash of light to a more normal appearance, and Tim watched awestruck as Ladybug tossed her yo-yo into the air and shouted something.

The wave of light that spread outward was dazzling, lighting up Paris’ night sky. In front of the camera, as the light washed over the holder, their window was suddenly whole and unbroken again. The street beneath was clean.

“Merci, Ladybug,” the tired narrator muttered. “Bonne nuit.”

The camera shut off.

Tim stared, awestruck.

“She fixes it all,” he breathed. “That’s why she was talking about people being alive after they die, they come back to life. She fixes all the damage. It probably destroys most records of the damage as well.”

The app was accessible because of her direct part in making it, he would assume. He saved the video.

Time to get Bruce.

TAGLIST:

@the-fusionist @rebecarojas07 @lowandco @kotaleartzu @resignedcatservant @alenee13 @mystery-5-5 @ladybug-182 @actual-disaster-human @loysydark @rumbelle18 @magic-miraculous @vixen-uchiha @athena452 @mochegato @ash-amg @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @thestressmademedoit @sassakitty @doriebell @toodaloo-kangaroo @myazael @theatreandcomicfreak @mer-mel @dahjokester @northernbluetongue @abrx2002 @area51qt @jessigurl-design @renscorpio @cici-schnee @multplelifes @redscarlet95 @razzledazzle247 @rosep16 @emotionalsupportginger @kceedraws @tired-butterfly @kuroko26 @catthhay @moonystars14 @shamefullove @shreky-boi @imanerddealwith @chaosace @captainmac6 @purple-people-eaters-productions @crazylittlemunchkin @weird-pale-blonde-person @bigpicklebananatree

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Breakable Heaven (pt. IV) - p.l. dubois

part I part II part III

Oh my gosh, I seriously can’t believe this little series has come to an end. I’m so so happy with how it’s turned out, and want to thank anyone who’s stuck with Laurel and Pierre-Luc throughout this month. It’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever done, and it’s yours to enjoy now. Please please let me know what you think of this part, what you think about the series - getting anon comments is amazing, my inbox is always open, and I LOVE reading tags. Reblog if you like what I’m putting out, it helps me know that!

Warning: Smut (It’s light, but it’s there, so no one under 18 please!)

Part IV (7.8k)

September 23 (thurs)

Laurel was running through the Toronto airport, her carry-on bag bouncing on the tile behind her as she frantically searched for her gate. Thank God Air Canada domestic flew from the international terminal; her layover was only an hour and ten minutes and even more time had been shaved off by a departure delay in Montréal. She had forgotten that flights from Toronto cleared U.S. Customs in Canada, and if she hadn’t been able to skip the line and slap her American passport on a kiosk reader she would have almost certainly missed her connection. 

No matter how many times Laurel had tried to insist on an economy ticket when she and Pierre were booking flights for her visits, he refused to cave. “They don’t include a checked bag in economy, but they do if you fly business,” he had said, shrugging, with a small smile on his face. “Baggage fees alone would make it pretty much a wash.” Laurel doubted that, and she doubted that she’d need a checked bag for a four-day trip, but her husband had made it clear that he wasn’t budging. 

So needless to say, she was more than a little bit out of breath as she finally arrived at Gate F66, which was conveniently almost as far away from her arrival gate as humanly possible while still being in the same terminal. She handed her boarding pass and passport to the gate agent, smiling apologetically as she hurried down the jetbridge. It was barely past noon, but there was nothing in the world Laurel wanted more than to sleep. Maintaining a full-time schedule at the hospital while also trying to organize a trip to Columbus that lasted more than two days meant she had to switch shifts. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue; that week, however, the only open slot was the 12-hour overnight shift on Wednesday. Which meant that she’d been awake for some twenty hours straight, but almost all of that had been on her feet at work, or walking from the parking lot to the check-in counter in Montréal, or running through the halls of Pearson Airport in Toronto. She took her seat, half-listened to the safety briefing, and passed out as soon as her head hit the headrest. 

Much to her chagrin, the flight itself was only just over an hour, and she was really only able to get in a generous nap before their descent into Ohio. Sitting in the second row, she exited the plane in record time, flicking her phone off of airplane mode and waiting for a text from Pierre-Luc. At least she didn’t have to go through TSA again. He wrote back in record time, letting her know he’d be in his car at the curb right outside the terminal. She waited at baggage claim, grabbing her forest green suitcase; the same one she had when she’d moved to Toronto for university, fresh-faced and 18 and so, so unaware of what the world had in store for her. If only she could see herself now. Laurel ran her thumb along the side handle for a moment, pulling at a loose thread, before hefting it onto the floor and turning towards the sliding exit doors. 

As promised, Pierre was waiting right outside the door, flashing her a bright smile and throwing the driver’s side door open as soon as he saw her. “Welcome to Columbus, babe!” he exclaimed, wrapping Laurel into a deep hug and kissing her on the cheek. 

She laughed as the trunk popped open, each of them grabbing a suitcase. “It’s a little bit funny, don’t you think? That I’ve lived in the Midwest for almost my whole life and the first time I go to Ohio it’s because I’m living in Canada?”

“Maybe just a little bit,” Pierre said, holding his thumb and pointer finger about an inch apart. “I’m really happy you were able to come, though, Laurel. I got used to having you around.” His face was softer now, looking over at Laurel with an expression that wasn’t quite placable but seemed like it was somehow communicating so much in a single glance. 

“Me too,” Laurel replied. The ride to Pierre’s Columbus apartment took just over ten minutes, and Laurel was in the door, petting the dogs, before the clock struck 3:00. 

Pierre approached her from behind, his hands on her shoulders as he leaned around to kiss her on the cheek. “You want to take a nap?” he asked. “We’ve got that thing with the team at 7, and I know you’re probably running on fumes right now.” 

Laurel nodded, giving him a weary smile, dropping her bag on the floor of the master bedroom with an all-too-satisfying thump. “Nap sounds good.” 

---

The nap was good, so good, and Laurel woke up at half past 6 feeling like she’d just had the best sleep of her life. She yawned, rubbing her eyes, and looked around the room to see Pierre with his back towards her, buttoning up his shirt. He turned around, catching her eye, and grinned. “You like the view?” he asked, gesturing to his half-naked torso. 

Laurel rolled her eyes, pulling the sheets up to poorly conceal her embarrassment at being caught. “And if I do?”

She heard a loud laugh, peeking her head out from under. “I’d say my wife has every right to appreciate it.” He walked around the bed while fastening the last few buttons, holding his hand out for Laurel to take. “I let you sleep as long as I could, but we’re going to have to get going in fifteen minutes or so. I was told that ‘we’ve waited this long to meet her, the least you could do is get your damn wife to the party in time,’” he said, adding air quotes for emphasis. 

Laurel nodded, tossing back the covers and walking over to her suitcase, intending to rifle through the stacks of clothes to find something for the night’s festivities. Instead, she was greeted by an empty bag. She wheeled around to look at Pierre, who was sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at her suitcase. “I unpacked your stuff,” he said, nodding over towards the spare dresser. “It’s in there. I’m sorry if that seems weird and I won’t do it again if you feel like that was pushing your boundaries, but I know for me when I’m on roadies I like to unpack, even if it’s just one night. Makes it feel more like home.”

Laurel was too overcome with how sweet the gesture was, small as it may have been, to realize that that meant he had touched four days worth of bras and underwear. It shouldn’t have bothered him anyways, and if he hadn’t said anything about it, it clearly hadn’t. So instead, she pulled him into a warm hug, standing on her tiptoes to bury her face in the crook of his neck. “Thank you, P. One less thing I have to do.” 

“You do still have to actually get dressed, though,” he added, giving her sleepwear an appreciative once-over. “Unless you’re planning on wearing that.” 

She let out a giggle. “As much as I love wearing a massive Cloquet High Lumberjacks t-shirt and no pants, somehow I don’t think that’s the move,” she said, ambling over towards the dresser. She found the tops on the first try, pulling out a wine-colored wrap shirt and grabbing the same pair of light-wash jeans she had worn on the plane. Pierre moved to duck out of the room, presumably to give her privacy to change. Laurel made a split-second decision to call after him. “You don’t have to leave.” Pierre stopped in his tracks.

Laurel slipped the shirt on, tying it in the front, and fastened her jeans. Mascara on and booties zippered, and she was good to go. “So what is this thing, anyways?” she asked Pierre as they drove to Foligno’s house. 

Pierre tilted his head. “Little bit of this, little bit of that. Half the typical beginning-of-the-year preseason party, half the wedding reception we never had. They were very insistent on bringing gifts, so be prepared.”

“Will do,” she said, laughing. “And by they, you mean…”

“Some of the guys, but mostly the wives and girlfriends. Their parties are the stuff of legends, so you can imagine how excited everyone was when I told them we never had a proper reception.”

“But they don’t know why we didn’t have a proper party,” Laurel reminded him. 

“About that…” Pierre started, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

Laurel froze, her thumb hovering over her phone screen, halfway through composing a text to Kristen. “Pierre,” she swallowed, her voice deadly soft, “did you tell someone?”

---

It was the Saturday before, and the team had gone out to celebrate the end of the first week of training camp. Sunday was an off day, so Saturday night found all the over-21s — and anyone who could get a good enough fake — at a bar in the city. Pierre had just crossed the line into tipsy, and as his captain was about to find out, tipsy Pierre was an oversharer. It was common enough for families to be a topic of discussion on nights out or in the locker room; that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that, as the old adage goes, drunk words are sober thoughts. And, if he was being honest, Pierre was still harboring some guilt from having to hide the truth of his and Laurel’s marriage from everyone, Nick included. Pierre hated that he couldn’t tell Nick the truth. He was his captain and his friend, and he felt the least he owed to him was not to lie. 

“It’s just so weird being away from Laurel, away from Montréal, for this long,” Pierre sighed. 

“Sure,” Nick said sympathetically, “but you said you’d been friends for a few years, so you’ve had feelings for her for a while, no? It’s obviously not ideal, but you’ve been away from her for longer.” 

Pierre turned towards Nick, some of his beer — his fourth of the night — spilling out of the cup. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

Nick rolled his eyes, thinking he was going to be hearing some dumb high school confession, that he had asked out a senior girl when he was a freshman, or filled his QMJHL captain’s gloves with shaving cream or something. He didn’t expect what he heard next. 

“We got married so she could stay in the country, for her permanent residency. I never met her before June.” 

Nick sucked in a breath. “You’re not fucking with me, are you?” 

“Nope.” 

“You realize how much trouble you guys could get into if they figure out, right?” he asked. 

Pierre nodded, looking down at his clasped hands nervously. “We both do. But you’re not going to tell anyone, right?” 

“No, of course not,” Nick said. “I trust you, and I know you and Laurel were just doing what you thought was the best and most logical thing given the circumstances.” Pierre let out a somber nod. “But,” he continued, “I feel like this whole...situation just leaves open the opportunity for things to get really messy really quickly.” 

“Messy how?” Pierre asked. 

Nick shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking at a spot just beyond Pierre’s head. He didn’t want to, not really, but it was his job as Pierre’s captain — more importantly as his friend  — to make him consider every angle. “Someone catching feelings, one of you falling for the other, or God forbid, someone else. There’s already so much at stake in a ‘normal’ marriage, but yours just has added complications.” Pierre felt a twinge in his heart. He didn’t want to admit it, he really didn’t want to admit it, but Nick was right. “Do you love her?” Nick asked softly. 

Pierre sunk back into his chair. “I don’t know. She means a lot to me, more than I ever thought she would, but I don’t know. Plus, I have no clue how she feels about me, and I wouldn’t want to say something like that only to have her pull away.” 

“Did you guys talk about that?” he asked. 

“About what?” Pierre responded. 

“About what would happen if one of you caught feelings. Because I’m assuming it was supposed to, is supposed to, be a strictly platonic thing.” 

Pierre shrugged. “Not really. We didn’t like make a pact or anything, if that’s what you’re asking. We really didn’t talk much about it at all,” he said, finishing his beer. “I mean, obviously we agreed that we wouldn’t be seeing anyone else, dating or hooking up or anything like that. It was just too risky. But no, we never really addressed how we’d deal with it if one of us ended up...falling for each other. I guess it was just supposed to be a ‘we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it’ type of thing.” 

“And have you come to it?” Nick asked. 

“I don’t know.”

---

Pierre finished the story, hazarding a glance over to Laurel, who was wringing her hands as she looked out the windshield. “I’m not mad at you,” she said finally. “If Nick said he wouldn’t tell, I trust you when you say he won’t. One of us was bound to let it slip eventually.” 

He turned his eyes back towards the road, still feeling a pang of regret. She was almost being too good to him. “We’ll be okay,” he said, saying it just as much to himself as he did to her. 

Laurel gave him a small smile as they pulled into the Foligno’s house, parking on the stone-paved driveway. “We will be.”

Janelle opened the door practically the second after they knocked, greeting Pierre and Laurel with warm hugs. “Laurel, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” she said, squeezing her hand. “We know how hard it is to find the time off and make the trip down, and everyone’s excited to see you.” She led them through the entryway to the living room, where Laurel was passed around to some twenty-odd players and their partners, where she introduced herself over and over again as “Pierre’s wife, yes the nurse from Minnesota who none of you knew existed.” 

Dinner was a barbeque outside, Nick, Pierre, and some of the others manning the three grills as Laurel helped set up the drinks table. He held her hand under the table as they ate, his thumb gently rubbing across her thigh every so often in reassurance. “You good?” he murmured in his ear as Laurel sipped a beer, half-listening to some story Korpi was telling about a near-miss incident with a water ski back in Finland during the summer. 

Laurel nodded, squeezing his fingers. “I’m good.”

Plates were cleared, dishes were washed, and everyone was herded into Nick and Janelle’s enormous family room, where a small mountain of wrapped boxes and bags sat in the far corner. “I don’t know if you know this,” Janelle said conspiratorially as Laurel sat down, “but NHLers make more than a little money.” 

She laughed. “So I’ve been told.”

“Which means that, clueless though they may be, you’re going to be getting some very nice presents.” 

And very nice presents they were. A wine club membership, a set of dutch ovens from Seth — “It was my mom’s suggestion”  — Jones, an espresso machine from Boone, a set of matching, personalized dog bowls for Phil, Georgia, and Piper. Laurel honestly wasn’t sure how it was all going to fit in the car, let alone how she was going to manage to stay under the baggage limit on her way back to Canada, but the thought and kindness that went into each gift was what really made it special. 

“From me and the other girls,” Janelle said, passing Laurel a bag. 

“Oh, this is too much,” Laurel said. “You already got the knives and the mixer, I don’t need anything else.”

Cam’s wife, Natalie, shrugged. “Would it help if we made it, didn’t buy it?”

Laurel’s brow furrowed in confusion, her fingers moving to undo the ribbon that tied the handles together, taking out the tissue paper. “Oh!” she gasped quietly as she pulled out a denim jacket, a Blue Jackets logo ironed onto the back, Dubois embroidered where a name bar would be. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“You’re still a part of the family,” Natalie said, smiling. “Even if you’re not here all the time. We want you to feel as included as anyone else.”  

Laurel folded up the jacket carefully, tucking it back in the bag as Josh walked up to Pierre, holding out a small box, clearly wrapped by himself. “Well now I just feel silly.”

Pierre shook his head, smiling at his friend. “Don’t, Josh. I’m sure we’ll love it.” He thumbed open the folds on the wrapping paper, setting it aside before pulling off the top of the box. He fell silent. 

Laurel peeked over, trying to catch a glimpse of the box’s contents. “What is it, P?”

Instead of answering, Pierre just held the box upside-down. Condoms of all colors and sizes rained down onto the hardwood floor as Pierre stared at Josh, clearly trying very hard not to laugh. The side of his mouth twitched. “Interesting choice of gift, you don’t think?” he asked.

Josh shrugged helplessly, his cheeks red. “It’s practical?”

 November 28 (sun)

 Laurel caught every Blue Jackets game she could on the TV, even the ones in early November when Pierre was out for a few games with a mild concussion. She was his wife, but she was also a nurse, and made sure to get daily updates on his condition, restraining herself from FaceTiming him to help limit his amount of daily screen time. But he had been back for a few weeks, making second star of the night with a goal and an assist, so naturally he was pulled away for a few postgame interviews. 

Laurel watched the screen, trying not to get distracted by the sweat drenching his Underarmour. Reporters, the good ones at least, were usually considerate with steering clear of asking personal questions, but sometimes an injury, or the birth of a child, or, as luck would have it, a wedding, begged an answer. “So, Pierre, I think a lot of us were surprised to see you announce on Instagram that you had gotten married this summer. Congratulations, by the way,” the journalist from the Dispatch said. 

“Thanks,” Pierre replied, smiling. 

“And I hope I speak for everyone here when saying that we entirely respect you and your wife’s decision to keep things quiet and announce it in a much more subdued fashion than usual. Players often speak a lot about how integral support from family and friends is, and just how important it is to have that kind of a support system in place.” Pierre could see where the question was going. “Obviously you’ve got the boys down here, but it doesn’t look like your wife Laurel is based in Columbus like you are. Is there a reason for that, and do you think that’s affected your game?” 

Pierre sucked in a breath; it was a fair question, and a reasonable assumption to make, but that didn’t mean he liked answering it any more. But it was almost suspicious how quickly he had an answer. “Uh, yeah, it’s been interesting for us to have to navigate. You’re right, Laurel’s back in Montréal, she spends most of her time at our place in the city. She’s a nurse in the intensive care unit of CHU Saint-Justine, so she does pediatrics there. She loves what she does, and she’s so good at it, and it just wouldn’t be right of me to ever ask or expect her to leave on my account. I know we’ve got a great hospital at Nationwide Children’s, but she loves where she is. We both do. So yeah, it’s rough being away sometimes, but luckily she’s able to move shifts around and make it down twice a month or so when we’re not on the road. But we keep in contact daily, obviously, and I’m able to lean on the guys, especially the other married ones, on how to deal with the stress of being away for so long. But it’s rough. I miss my wife,” Pierre finished. 

Laurel clicked the remote, turning the TV off, her hand scratching behind Piper’s ears, and tried not to replay his words in her mind as she crawled into bed and fell asleep. 

 December 18 (sat)

 Laurel stumbled through the door of Pierre’s Columbus apartment, laughing breathlessly as she tried to lock the deadbolt. “You need some help there, L?” Pierre asked, raising one eyebrow. 

“I’m good,” Laurel said, taking two more tries before it would actually lock. The eggnog from the Christmas party was starting to take its toll; Pierre had agreed to be the pair’s designated driver for the night, so she had had maybe a glass too many. The night had genuinely been so much fun, Laurel had initially been worried at how well she might fit in with the group in a more casual situation. As much as she loved being able to hang out with the team and the other WAGs when she was in Ohio — and she did — she couldn’t help but be nervous that she didn’t have the same level of camaraderie that could help turn a night from good to great. Laurel couldn’t have been happier to be wrong. She was embraced from the moment she walked in the door, a glass of wine pushed into her hand and her Secret Santa gift deposited on the entryway table. 

Laurel used to always roll her eyes at the idea that “time flies when you’re having fun,” but that couldn’t have been more true for the party. It seemed like only minutes had passed, but suddenly it was almost midnight, and the couples with kids had to head home to relieve the babysitters, and Laurel and Pierre were headed home. 

“Let’s get some water in you, no?” Pierre murmured, walking to the kitchen and opening the cupboard. 

“Thanks,” Laurel said softly as she took the glass from him, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her on the couch. 

Pierre perched on the arm, absentmindedly playing with his watch. But while a tipsy Pierre was an oversharer, a tipsy Laurel was always emotional in one fashion or another. “How’d you like the party?”

“It was great,” Laurel said. “I’m not sure why Alexandre thought I’d be into a Blue Jackets scarf, but I guess it’s the thought that counts?” She pulled the offending object out of her bag, running her fingers through the fringe on the edge. “Seeing how amazing so many of those couples are, Janelle and Nick especially, it was awesome…” She trailed off. “But it was hard.”

His brow furrowed. Why would it be hard? “How so?”

“I always thought that, when I got married, it would be once and that was it.” She screwed her eyes shut. “And that’s not to mean I’m not grateful for what you’ve done, it’s so incredible and goes so far beyond just plain kindness. I just thought it would be a forever thing.”

Pierre’s heart dropped. Of course she’d feel like that. If marriage was something she wanted to take that seriously, how could she not feel like she was cheapening its meaning by treating it as nothing more than an arrangement of convenience? It wasn’t even like he felt any differently; hockey was obviously still his first priority most of the time, but he’d always seen himself as someone who wanted to settle down and have a family one day. He guessed that he just hadn’t let himself think about it. “Laurel,” he said quietly, reaching out to her. But she wasn’t done. 

“It’s just,” Laurel sighed, one hand tugging on her hair, tears threatening to escape her eyes, “knowing this is all temporary. Knowing that in a couple of y-years, when I g-get my citizenship and we get d-divorced, this is all going to end,” she said, hiccuping through her words. “I won’t be able to come to your Christmas parties and fly down for games and sit up in the WAG box with my friends and that jacket and a jersey with your name on it. I won’t be able to do any of that any more because it wasn’t real, it wasn’t ever real, and that fucking kills me inside, P.” Laurel sat on the corner of the couch, a spot as precarious as the words tumbling out of her mouth. 

“Why?” Pierre asked, even though if he was honest, he’d stake his career on the belief that he already knew the answer. “Why would it hurt so bad?” His voice was so quiet that if Laurel hadn’t been sitting two feet away, she wouldn’t have heard. 

“Because I’m fucking in love with you,” she whispered. “And that’s the single most terrifying sentence I’ve ever said in my life.” Even though Pierre somehow knew that’s what she was going to say all along, it didn’t stop her words from stealing the breath out of his lungs. Laurel looked up at him through her tears, her eyes beginning to redden. “Say something, please, P.”

Pierre knelt in front of her, his thumb resting gently on her cheek, wiping away her tears. “God, Laur, how could I not be in love with you?” She blinked rapidly at him, trying to process the words that were coming out of his mouth. “I wasn’t lying when I said you were one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met. You’re so caring, not just for me, but for everyone in your life. You’d give a stranger the shirt off of your back. You’re probably the smartest person I know, way smarter than me.” A giggle escaped Laurel’s mouth. “The dedication you show to everything in your life is amazing. At your job, you treat every patient like they were your own sibling or your own child. You make the trip down to Columbus once a month, twice a month. That’s not easy, all the flight time and having to leave Piper and switching shifts around so we can see each other. You’re gorgeous, not just on the outside — though you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen — but the light in your eyes when you talk about a new book you read, or how happy you look when you let me taste a new recipe you’re trying, or how passionate you get when you see something wrong and know there’s something you need to do to change it. So what if we’re doing things a little backwards? First comes marriage, then comes love.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “I fell in love with you awhile ago. I think it just took me a second to realize it.”

 January 26 (wed)

 Laurel thought the distance and space between them would be easier now that she knew how he felt, now that they both knew how they felt. She couldn’t have been more wrong. So the All-Star break, and the Blue Jackets’ bye week, couldn’t have come at a better time. Pierre had made plans for the break a few months earlier, but after everything that happened over Christmas, it didn’t seem right to ditch Laurel for a boy’s trip with Alexandre and Seth. So Hilton Head was traded in for Saint Lucia, and his teammates were traded in for his wife. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Laurel was using three of her paid vacation days and Pierre was able to make the schedule work just right to get five nights in the Carribean. “A belated honeymoon, if you will,” he had said, cracking a grin over FaceTime as they booked the flights. The flight from Columbus was much less straightforward than hers from Montréal, but by a chance airline scheduling his first layover was in Toronto. Laurel met him at the gate, hauling her own green suitcase behind her as he flung his arms around her, kissing her with everything he had in him. They may have missed the not-so-subtle fans taking pictures that later circulated around Twitter that may or may not have led to some grade A chirping in the team’s group chat. But Pierre didn’t care. He cared that for a few days, he could forget about the stress of hockey and trying to make a playoff run and all the rumors floating around and just be with his wife. And, Pierre thought as they walked through the airport door into the Carribean sun, there really wasn’t anything else he wanted. 

They hailed a taxi, the twenty minute drive to their resort rushing by in a blur of palm trees and seas so blue Laurel thought she could fall into them just by looking. Pierre jogged into the main office to check them in, coming back with their key cards before the taxi continued on its way, dropping them off in front of their villa. Laurel spun slowly as they got out of the car, smiling up at the sky as Pierre pressed a few bills into the taxi driver’s hand with a nod of thanks. “You okay there?” he asked with a grin. 

“It’s so warm,” Laurel said in wonderment. Even in January, the weather in Saint Lucia hovered in the mid-70s, a far cry from the twenties and teens of a Montréal winter. Laurel was no stranger to the cold — Cloquet had seen temperatures pushing thirty below when Laurel was in high school — but the idea that she could be somewhere and wear shorts while it was snowing in her hometown was a concept so novel she hadn’t quite grasped it yet. 

He nodded, looking at Laurel with a gaze so soft she thought her heart would maybe burst. “We’re in the Caribbean, L. It’s warm all the time.” 

She rolled her eyes, bending over to get her suitcase, but not before Pierre snatched it up himself, holding the key card between two fingers. “Are you going to just stand there, or do you want to check out our honeymoon suite?” Laurel’s words dripped with suggestiveness, her sandal-clad feet dragging their way up the path to the villa with tantalizing languor. 

“Coming.” 

Even after the six months of their marriage, and even after everything that happened over the holidays, they hadn’t had sex. They’d gotten close a few times, both on her trip in December and in ones since, but never managed to go all the way. First Laurel needed a new birth control prescription — the last thing she would do would be have sex without being extra safe about it — and then she was too tired after a night out, and another time Pierre had scored a hat trick and they had partied way too hard to even think about sex. So needless to say, it had been a while for Laurel since she’d gotten release by any hands other than her own, and even longer for Pierre. And it certainly wasn’t because she didn’t want to. Laurel was well aware that her husband was hot as fuck, and she’d be lying if some of her lonelier nights weren’t filled with thoughts of exactly what she wanted him to do to her. But it felt different than any of her other relationships. Obviously, it felt different, she hadn’t been married to Oliver or Ryan or Carter. And that didn’t mean she wasn’t invested in those, but just that the stakes were so much higher and she had fallen so much harder for Pierre than she ever thought imaginable. She didn’t want to have sex with him until she was sure. Sure that it was going somewhere, sure that it would last, sure that he loved her in the same way that made her heart ache every time he dropped her off at Columbus International Airport. 

---

By the time they had unpacked, eaten, and gotten a few rum punches in their system, it was well past 7 and the sun had long since set. Laurel peeked out the door onto their balcony, nodding at the private plunge pool. “We’ve got quite the setup here.”

She walked over to the dresser, grabbing a swimsuit out and crossing over to the bathroom, her hand hovering over the knob. “Just something to think about.” Pierre put his swim trunks on in record time. Laurel padded out of the bathroom, the top straps of her bikini dangling, the swell of her breasts peeking above the cups. “Do me up?” she asked. 

Pierre’s fingers brushed the baby hairs at the base of her neck as he tied the straps of her white-hot bikini. “Sure you don’t want to go out to the beach?” 

Their villa came with a stretch of beachfront, and it seemed like such a shame to let it go to waste. Laurel shook her head, a smile playing on the edge of her lips. “We’ve got a couple of days to enjoy the beach. I’d like to stay somewhere a little more...secluded.” She bit her lip as she opened the door to the balcony, dipping her toes in the pool and sighing at the warmth of the water. Laurel looked back at Pierre, one eyebrow raised. “You coming?” Pierre couldn’t follow fast enough. 

They stayed in the water for a while, lazily kissing and staring at the stars and sipping drinks that had lost their potency hours ago, but neither of them really cared much. Sometime during the night, Laurel had made her way onto Pierre’s lap, where she reached over to the balcony, lofting herself out of the pool and wrapping a scarf around her body. “Getting a little cold,” she said, bending down and giving him a soft kisss. She walked into the room, drying herself off; he followed. Laurel threw the towel over a chair in the corner of the room, walking over towards Pierre, stopping when their noses were almost touching.

Laurel’s wrap fell from her shoulders, pooling on the wood floor. Pierre’s hand skated up her arm to rest on her cheek. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. She stood on her tiptoes as her left hand tangled in his hair, her right pressed against the back of his neck. She whimpered into his mouth; it took everything in Pierre’s power to keep the blood from rushing south. The kiss got more frantic, tongue and teeth clashing against each other as he walked her back to the bed. The back of her knees bumped up against the edge. 

Pierre pulled away slightly, letting out a moan as he saw Laurel’s face. Her lips were puffy from kissing, her chest heaving with the force of her breath, and her wild hair had long since been taken out of its ponytail. In other words, Pierre was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Laurel, in that moment, was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “You sure you want to do this?” Pierre murmured. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But he’d never do anything without making sure that she was absolutely comfortable. Laurel nodded, biting her lip. “I need to hear you say it, babe,” Pierre said, taking a step forward, their noses almost touching. 

“I want you to ruin me.”

Pierre audibly groaned, capturing her lips in his before throwing her back on the bed, his hand moving to her back to undo the tie of her bikini top as his lips trailed down her neck. He threw the top off to one side, paying exactly zero attention to where it landed, as his hands slid up her waist to cup her breasts, his thumbs ghosting over her sensitive nipples. Laurel’s breath hitched in her throat. “You like that, baby?”

“Mhm,” Laurel whimpered, unable to form a complete sentence. 

He smirked, lowering his mouth to her chest, flicking his tongue over her right nipple as his hand pinched her left. The air was filled with breathless sighs from them both until Pierre’s hands left her breasts. Laurel whined in protest until she felt his fingers toying with her bikini bottoms, his head lifting just enough so that his eyes could meet hers. “This okay?”

It was all Laurel could do to choke out a single word. “Please.”

Pierre pulled them down her legs, kissing down, down to her hips, down to her inner thighs, down to everywhere except for where she needed him. “You need something, Laurel?” Pierre asked, his voice dripping with sex. 

Laurel groaned, not wanting to give in but also knowing that Pierre could stay where he was for hours if it meant teasing her. “Your mouth.” 

“As you wish.” And then his tongue was on her, and in her, and she couldn’t help but let out a moan. And Pierre was loving every second of it. He stayed down there for a while, long enough to finish her twice. 

Laurel pushed on his shoulder, trying to get him to turn on his back so she could return the favor. Pierre shook his head as he shucked his shorts off, pulling her head down to kiss her roughly. “I’m going to cum right here if I don’t get inside you in the next two minutes, babe.” He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a condom. “Guess I’ll have to thank Josh for these when we get back home.”

She raised one eyebrow, clearly unamused. “If you do that, I can promise you I’ll never put your dick in my mouth. Not now, not ever.”

Pierre held his hands up in surrender, the foil packet shining between two fingers. “Alright, alright. I won’t.” He paused just before bringing the wrapper up to his teeth. “You want this?”

Laurel nodded frantically as he rolled the condom down his length. He looked so hard it was painful. “So bad.” He leaned down to kiss her, propped up on one arm as he pushed into her, hair falling into his face as he closed his eyes. He was too blissed out to be able to focus on anything other than how good she felt around him, how tight and warm and how well she fit, like Laurel Elizabeth Klerken was made for him and him alone. 

“More,” Laurel cried softly, and that was all it took for Pierre to grab one of her legs, throwing it around his hips as he increased his pace, head dropping to her neck as he nipped at her pulse points. It didn’t take long for Pierre to reach his high, Laurel right behind him. He pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead before getting up from the bed, going into the bathroom to tie off the condom and grab a washcloth. He cleaned up between her legs as Laurel lay there, trying to steady her breathing, absolutely spent from the night’s three orgasms. “Why didn’t we do that earlier?” Laurel murmured. 

Pierre laughed, throwing the cloth in the laundry basket and tilting down to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “I don’t know. But it was worth it.”

 February 20 (mon)

 Laurel had learned early on in her relationship with Pierre that she couldn’t put much stock into what was said on Twitter. Or Instagram, or any social media for that matter. So much was speculation: about draft picks, about trade rumors, about Pierre-Luc Dubois’ secret wife, that it just wasn’t useful or healthy for her so spend much time looking around. She still had her accounts, but Instagram was the only one she went on with any regularity nowadays. And she rarely checked her phone during the work day anyways; unless it was an unusually slow day  — which was never a good sign in the medical world — the only time she was even able to spare a glance was during her lunch break or when she’d run to the bathroom. So when her phone buzzed with a text from Pierre as she sat at the nurses’ station, her brow furrowed as she unlocked the screen. 

Are you free right now? I need to call you. 

Laurel bit her lip, nerves threatening to boil over. He knew her schedule, he knew she was at work. What could be so important that it couldn’t wait? Are you okay? Did something happen?

He typed a response as soon as her text showed as delivered.  I’m not hurt, it’s not bad, really, I just need to tell you something and I don’t want to have to do it over text. 

Laurel checked her watch. 11:18. It was early for a lunch break, but as long as she wasn’t needed, she could take her half hour any time between 11 and 1. She caught the eye of her charge nurse. “Claudette? I’m taking my lunch if that’s alright with you.” Claudette nodded, and Laurel quickly made her way to the locker room to grab her leftover pasta, texting Pierre on the way. Headed to the changing room now. Are you going to tell me what this is about?

Her phone rang a minute later, when she had just closed the door. She tapped the green button. “You’re going to have to tell me what’s going on here, P, because I’m kind of freaking out,” Laurel said, laughing nervously. “You don’t tell a girl what to expect, she starts assuming the worst.”

Pierre let out a heavy breath. She could imagine him running a hand through his hair on the other end. “I know, and I’m sorry if I worried you. I just needed to tell you before it breaks.”

“Before what breaks, Pierre?” Laurel’s anxiety was coming to a head. 

“I’m coming home.”

Laurel screwed her eyes shut, even more confused than she was before. “Yeah, Pierre, I know you’re playing here next week. Why would that be news?” 

“When’s the trade deadline, Laurel?”

“Last Monday in February, but I don’t see what that has…” She pulled the phone away from her ear, looking down at the screen, eyes locking on the date. “You got traded?” 

She could imagine him sitting down on the edge of his couch, one hand dangling off the side, Georgia trying to jump up and goad him into giving her a pet or two. “They’re breaking it right before the noon deadline, but you deserved to know before everyone else did. You needed to know.”

Laurel leaned up against her locker, hand over her mouth. “You’re coming to Montréal?” She had seen it mentioned offhand on a few Twitter accounts she followed the handful of times she had logged on in the past week, but nobody thought it would actually happen. Even the concept of trading him seemed so far-fetched with the type of season he was having in Columbus. He was sitting near 30 goals and 40 assists, with one of the best plus-minus scores on the team. It just didn’t make sense. 

“As of twenty minutes ago, I’m officially a Montréal Canadien,” Pierre answered. 

“Oh God,” Laurel said, sympathy lacing her voice. She couldn’t let herself be excited, wouldn’t let herself be excited, until she knew exactly how Pierre felt about it. He had just been uprooted from the team that drafted him, where he’d played for four seasons and made friends and where everyone saw him as the future of the franchise. 

Pierre let out a single laugh. “They let me know what the deal was, apparently Montréal really wanted me. First round pick next year, a second-year defenseman, some prospect from Laval.”

Laurel settled on the bench, tucking the phone under her chin. “Of course they really wanted you, P. You’re an incredible player, you’d be an asset to any team and you’re going to do great things in Montréal.” She paused. “But how are you feeling about the move? I know it’s not what you were expecting. Or what anyone was expecting, really.”

“It’s weird,” Pierre said after a moment. “Obviously yeah, I won’t lie, it’s a shock. But almost every player, even the really good ones, get traded at one point or another. Gretzky was traded to L.A.”

“Are you comparing yourself to Gretzky?” Laurel asked playfully. 

“No,” Pierre chuckled. “But just trying to remind myself that it was almost inevitable. I’m allowed to be sad about it — and I am, it’s going to fucking suck leaving the boys — but I’m not as torn up as I thought I’d be if this ever happened.” He felt more than a little bad about it, but his first thought when his agent called and broke the news wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t despair at having to leave the team he had been brought up in and the men he considered his brothers. It was relief. Relief that he could be closer to his family, relief that he’d be back with Laurel, relief that he was going home. “And hey,” he said, catching Laurel’s attention. “You know what?”

Laurel rolled her eyes. “What?”

“I don’t even have to marry someone to move.”

---

Pierre’s flight got in late Tuesday night, just after Laurel’s shift at the hospital had ended. He had said he wouldn’t mind taking an Uber home so she didn’t have to rush over and stress about traffic, but Laurel didn’t care. She wanted to be at the airport to pick up her husband, even if it meant she’d still be in her scrubs doing it. 

She saw him exiting the sliding doors of the international terminal before she even turned the corner, practically slamming her car into park as soon as she hit the curb. Pierre dropped his bags when her car door opened, paying no attention to the thump of the suitcases as they hit the ground or the wandering eyes of passersby. Airports hadn’t always been his favorite place. They meant leaving the people he loved, going away from what was warm and familiar and safe. They usually meant uncertainty. But that had changed, Pierre thought, as his wife jumped into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as their lips met. Airports might just have become one of his favorite places. He pulled back from the kiss, their foreheads just barely touching. “Hi,” he said. 

Laurel smiled, the kind of smile that lit up rooms and made crying babies giggle and that Pierre was pretty sure was his favorite thing he’d ever seen in the world. “Welcome home.”

[brelione]

Detention (JJ Maybank x reader)

As you walked down the hallway you thought back to how you had gotten detention in the first place.You had always been seen as average.Average grades,an average sized house between The Cut and Figure Eight and as far as you knew you were pretty average looking as well.You werent Sarah Cameron but you werent ugly either.Just average.You were an average person with your ups and downs,having a bad attitude and a tendency to curse a lot.You had never been in detention before though.You had been walking to second period,heavy books and binder in your backpack.You had only been half awake and not even thinking straight yet.

You heard some gremlin looking boy call your best friend a whore.It was all a blur as your fist collided with his jaw,causing him to bite through his lip and send a river of blood down his chin and neck.Your half asleep self didnt think that was enough,your leg moving upwards and your foot kicking him right in the dick.A teacher broke up the fight,shouting at you and giving you two weeks in detention.The principal tried calling your mother but her being the shitty person she was...well she was long gone somewhere in Florida.She had left you a mayonaise jar full of five dollar bills and quarters with a messy note saying that she’d be gone for a couple of months.It didnt really matter anyways,not like she had been around before then.You could just stop going to school if you wanted too,no one could force you to go without her or your father around.

But something motivated you everyday.You got to see him.Of course he skipped most classes in the bathroom anyways but you’d see him in the halls sometimes and that was enough to get you out of bed everyday.As you dragged your feet,sneakers squeaking you decided that detention wasnt worth it.You couldnt really call your best friend your best friend anymore.You hadnt talked to her in weeks since she had become obsessed with her new boyfriend.She had never been the best person.She was smart,pretty,funny and everyone loved her.She was everything you wanted to be,the one person that could make you feel disgusting by just looking at her.You stuffed your hands into the pockets of your loose denim jacket when you felt someone flick the back of your head.

You turned around to see a tall,handsome blonde with blue eyes and a red baseball cap on his head.It was him.JJ Maybank.Amazing surfer,funny,attractive,pothead and your ex bestfriend.He had a brown paper bag in his hand,the paper covered in dark splotches of oil. “The buses left like 10 minutes ago,dude.”He grinned.You rolled your eyes. “I got detention.”You told him,continuing your walk down the long hallway.He smirked. “What has the pogue princess done that shes got detention?”He asked,smile widening at how annoyed he was making you.You huffed. “Fuckin’ punched a kid in the face and now ive got detention for the next two weeks.”You explained.He bit his lip. “Damn,who knew you got a dark side?”He laughed,ruffling your hair and messing it up as you approached the empty classroom.It was empty besides Mrs Dave,who,in your words,the top bitch of the school. 

“Afternoon,Linda.”JJ grinned to himself,sitting indian style on top of one of the four desks in the room.The smelly rat rolled her eyes before walking out of the classroom and locking the door behind her. “DID YOU WANT A FRY?”JJ shouted.You just sat there in shock. “She’s not gonna watch us or take our phones away or something?”You asked in disbelief.He grinned,remembering you were a detention virgin.He pulled out three cheeseburgers,a Mc Chicken and a large fry,placing the food on the desk in front of his ankles before crumpling up the paper bag and throwing it across the room. “You watch way too many disney channel movies,sweetheart.”He bit into a burger.You had fond memories of disney channel movies.You’d sit on your couch with an ipad in front of you,playing either Radio Rebel or a really bad musical.

You two would make fun of it and how bad the acting was.You sat at a desk that was a good five feet away from him,leaning back in your chair and playing around with your fingers and rings. “So youre just not gonna talk to me?”He asked.You sighed. “I really dont have anything to talk about.”You lied.All you wanted to do was to complain about everything to him.About your shitty mom,your shitty friends,your shitty life.But you couldnt.You had let yourself drift apart from him.You didnt try to keep the friendship or even get him back once you lost him.JJ smirked. “We dont have to talk.We’ll be in here for hours....alone.”He winked,blushing a bit.As much as he hated to admit it,he had a crush on you since 8th grade.

He’d sat through shitty musicals and baked cookies with you and brought you a cup of hot coffee during a rain storm because you said once that “Coffee hits different when it rains.”.He just wanted you to be happy.Thats all he ever wanted.When you guys started to drift apart he didnt try to keep the friendship alive.He thought you were distancing yourself on purpose.He didnt try to get you back either.He thought that you being away from him made you happy,so he had let it happen.You bit your lip after he said that,face turning bright red. “Shut the fuck up.”You mumbled as you buried your face in your hands.He smiled,dimples popping. “You’re so cute when you blush.”He informed you. “Stop it.”You mumbled,biting the inside of your cheek.He hopped off his desk,kneeling in front of your desk and resting his chin on his forearm.He smelled of weed and the salty ocean.You didnt even look up from your hands.

You could feel him staring at you with a cocky smirk on his face. “Am I embarrassing you right now?”He asked.You hummed,feeling even more awkward with every second.You werent used to people flirting with you.No,that was a lie.A lot of people flirted with you.Rafe,Topper,John B. for a while.But JJ Maybank had never flirted with you.Not since 8th grade.His hands grabbed your wrists gently,pulling your hands away from your face.You looked away from him,still embarrassed. “Hi.”He grinned. “Hey.”You replied.He hadnt let go of your hands,looking up at you.You just stared at eachother for a while before he slowly leaned closer to you until his forehead was against yours. “What are we doing,J?”You asked him.So much had changed about the boy in a matter of two years.He’d grown a good four inches and somehow became even more reckless.It was almost like you were talking to a stranger.

 “Why arent we close anymore,princess?I never wronged you.”He mumbled as he traced his thumb over your bottom lip.You let out a small,shaky breath. “I know you didnt...things just-just changed.”You mumbled,trying to focus on what you were saying and not the beautiful boy in front of you.He smiled. “So lets change things again.”He suggested,getting even closer to the point that your lips were brushing against his.You gulped. “How did you get detention?”You asked.You felt him grin. “Got caught skipping in the bathroom.”He mumbled.You hummed in response. “Have you missed me,princess?”He asked.Your heart was thumping so hard that you could feel it within your skull. “Of course I have.”You replied.He grinned before closing the almost non existent gap between you two.Your hand was touching his jaw lightly,his fingers laced in your hair.

It felt so natural,almost like it was meant to be as cheesy as it sounded.You pulled away giggling.JJ frowned. “What?”He asked. “Nothing-its just funny to me.”You answered.You just had your first kiss with your ex bestfriend in detention.Did any of it make sense?No.Did that stop you from kissing him again?No.You leaned forward,kissing the blonde gently and removing his hat in the process so you could run your fingers through his fluffy hair.The rest of detention was full of kisses,eating fries and doodling on the white board.He made you explain all your bracelets,kissing your knuckles and teasing you about how you had never been kissed until today. “You wanna get out of here?”He asked.You raised your eyebrows. “We’re stuck in here for another hour.”You reminded him.He walked open to the door,swinging it open. “This lock hasnt worked in years.”He laughed,wrapping an arm around you.

He practically dragged you down the hall.You were really tired.Probably because you had pulled an all nighter.But you got an adrenaline rush soon enough when you heard the sounds of high heels on tile,sprinting for dear life and squealing as you sprinted out of the school.When you stepped out of the building the sunlight beamed down on you.JJ stared at you for a moment.With the way the light was hitting you,making your hair shine and your eyes squint he swore you had never looked more beautiful.You had somehow gotten your best boy back from punching another boy in the face.Kind of crazy how the universe works.

[dothwrites]

part v of mafia!au 

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

---

Dean’s never been so happy to see Sam in his entire life. 

His gangly little brother sits behind the wheel of the Impala, face drawn tight with worry. He relaxes in stages as he sees Dean, sees the blood on his clothes, then sees that little of it belongs to him. 

“Where’s Gabriel?” Sam demands as he rushes to open the backseat for Dean. His eyes widen as he takes in the ruin of Castiel, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“I don’t know,” Dean says, grunting as he hefts Cas’ unconscious body into the backseat. “Get his legs.” 

Between the two of them, they get Cas into the backseat, though not as gently as Dean could hope for. If a few extra bruises are the price which Cas has to pay for his freedom, then Dean’s willing to fork that payment over. 

He collapses against the Impala’s sturdy frame, chest heaving. Carrying Cas wasn’t easy; despite all his jabs about Cas being a nerdy little dude, Cas is solid, and carrying his deadweight through the halls of the Novak mansion counts as a workout. Sweat dapples the back of his neck, cooling unpleasantly as Dean waits. 

Once again, he’s in the garage of the Novak mansion. He tries to keep his eyes away from the spot where he last saw Cas, though he can’t stop his morbid fascination with the place. He wonders if there’s a bloodstain there. 

“Where the fuck is Gabriel?” Dean growls, when his body temperature changes from overheated to clammy. “We can’t risk sticking around here too much longer.” 

As if in response to his prayers, Gabriel comes tearing down the staircase. He races towards them at a dead sprint, tossing a few flashbangs behind him. “Get in the car, get in the car!” he shouts, heaving himself in the passenger seat. Dean doesn’t wait for another invitation, but gets into the backseat, arranging Cas’ head on his lap. Sam spares him one shocked look before he gets behind the wheel. 

Sam slams on the gas too hard, causing the Impala’s wheels to squeal and smoke against the concrete of the floor, but when he eases off a little, she jumps forward, as eager for freedom as the rest of them. Dean doesn’t breathe until they crash through the gates and the outline of the mansion disappears in the rearview. 

After weeks, they’re all finally free. 

---

Only when the mansion vanishes completely does Dean dare to look at Castiel. 

Once he does, he regrets it. 

He got a few glimpses when he first saw Cas, but he hadn’t been too interested at cataloging injuries. At that moment, escape was the only thought in his mind and Cas’ injuries were only obstacles to be overcome. 

They have time now, or at least a lack of pursuit. In their world, it amounts to same thing. Dean flicks aside the tattered remains of Cas’ shirt and looks down at the bleeding ruin of his chest. His gorge rises as he looks at the wounds littered over Cas’ torso. Some of them are still bleeding.

Bruises spread over his skin in varying shades of purple, yellow, and green. There are several puncture wounds that Dean recognizes as belonging to a taser. Rage clouds up high and sour in his throat as he considers the varying stages of healing of the wounds. They’ve been hurting Cas from the first day they had him. 

Rage and nausea rise in Dean until he thinks he might choke on them. The bastards turned Cas into a canvas.

“Son of a bitch.” He looks up to see Gabriel leaning over the front seat. Thin white lines of fury etch along his mouth and eyes. 

In the past few weeks, he and Gabriel have come to understand each other as partners and allies, pushing aside their prejudices in favor of a common goal. Dean trusts him as much as he trusts anyone other than Sam, but for the first time since he began working with Gabriel, a little tendril of fear pokes at him. 

“He’s alive,” Dean says, the barest form of comfort he can offer while being truthful. “He’ll be ok. He’s strong.” 

A muscle twitches in the corner of Gabriel’s jaw as he stretches out his hand to brush through Cas’ hair. A soft noise caught between contentment and distress escapes through Cas’ lips and Gabriel withdraws his touch. 

“Just get us home,” Dean tells Sam. 

---

In hindsight, he should have expected the nightmares. 

They made it back to their safehouse without anyone following, which makes Dean stupidly think that they’re out of the woods. Sure, they probably have both the Novak and Winchester families gunning for them, but he, Sam, Gabriel, and Cas are all under one roof. Together they’ve got enough brains, skills, and ruthlessness to take down any threat. 

Dean thinks that right up until the first scream splits the peace of the night. 

He bolts upright, gun already in hand, eyes darting wildly around in search of the potential threat. When he finds none in the immediate vicinity, he runs out of the room, already calling for Sam. 

Sam’s head pokes out of his room, hair sleep tousled and eyes heavy with interrupted slumber, but he looks confused instead of terrified. The fear on his face is directed outward instead of for himself. “Dean? What’s going on?”

Another scream rips through the night. This time Dean recognizes the voice underneath the terror. 

“Cas,” he murmurs, thundering down the hallway. 

The door opens under his touch into a horror show. Cas writhes in the middle of the bed, sheets tangled around his body. His back bends into a rigid, impossible arch as his fingers claw at the mattress. Tendons in his neck bulge as he forces a scream out through clenched teeth. His feet kick uselessly, forcing Gabriel to try and dodge his inadvertent blows. Blood trickles down Cas’ bare chest as his wounds reopen. 

“Cas, you’re ok, you’re all right, come on Cas.” Gabriel’s voice is frantic as he tries to pin Cas’ flailing body. “Easy Cas, easy!” 

Cas screams again. The raw sound tears through the quiet night like a knife blade. The safehouse is removed from civilization, but not so far away as to be isolated, and Cas’ shrieks are loud enough to break glass. 

“Sam, go get my bag,” Dean says. His heart is pounding so hard it’s amazing he hasn’t fainted. His gun is heavy in his hand, pulling his whole arm down to the ground. “There’s a sedative in there; it should be enough to knock him out.” 

“No!” 

Gabriel’s voice cracks like a whip, stopping Sam in his tracks. “What the hell?” A ragged, tortured sound rips out of Cas’ throat. It seems impossible that a single person could hold that much tension in their body without snapping in half. 

Wild eyes and bared teeth are all Dean sees of Gabriel. “You are not putting anymore drugs into him!” 

Dean’s eyes fall to Cas’ arm, to the series of haphazard bruises blossoming along the vulnerable flesh of his inner arm. An awful, terrible picture paints itself in Dean’s mind, one which explains Cas’ state of mind, his hazy eyes and wandering train of thought. It’s not real, none of this is real...in my head, there are things, there are people, and they lie--

Dean thinks he might be sick.

Without consciously realizing it, Dean finds himself moving forward. At first, he means to do nothing more than to help Gabriel restrain Cas from hurting himself, but then he finds himself murmuring soft reassurances, things that his father would have slapped out of his mouth if he could. 

“Hey Cas, you’re all right, you’re all right, you’re ok, I’ve got you, me and Gabe are here, you’re ok now--” 

He runs his hand over Cas’ forehead, wiping sweat away from his skin. “You’re safe, you’re all right. No one’s going to hurt you, I’ve got you.” 

He’s aware of the weight of Sam and Gabriel’s eyes, but he keeps his eyes focused on Cas. One last, thin wail rips from his throat and then, like a puppet cut from his strings, Cas collapses bonelessly onto the mattress. He shudders once and is still. 

Dean holds his breath for ten seconds. Then, when Cas sleeps peacefully on, he lets it out in one long whoosh. His knees buckle, threatening to send him crashing onto the mattress right beside Cas. 

“Go back to bed, Sam.” A few hesitant protests come from Sam, but they’re swiftly silenced with a sharp bark of his name. 

“Call me if anything changes,” Sam shoots off as a parting salvo, but Dean doesn’t think it’ll be necessary. If Cas has another screaming fit, Sam will know.

Sam’s door closes and Dean takes a few steps backward. His shaky legs give out just as his back hits the wall, and he slides down until his ass hits the ground. “Jesus,” he breathes. He buries his face in his hands, unwilling to allow Gabriel this view of his weakness. “God, oh god.” 

For thirty seconds, he allows his horror, and anger free reign. Then, with effort, he pulls himself back together, stitching together reason and rationality until he’s able to think. He looks up at the bed, where Gabriel’s head is bowed low over the mattress. 

“Drugs?” Dean finally asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. 

Gabriel’s head rises like it’s moving on rusty hinges. His golden eyes are bleak. 

“I recognize the handiwork. It’s from Naomi, one of Dad’s pets. She likes to experiment. Pump them full of hallucinogens, tear them apart, and see what falls out. By the end, they’re reprogrammed into something else they wouldn’t even recognize. Stands to reason they’d set her loose on Cas.” 

Bile rises in Dean’s throat. Cas is brilliant, his mind sharper than a steel trap. Behind blue eyes, thousands of gears are constantly turning. To think of someone rummaging around in that machine, upsetting the delicate balances and systems...It’s perverse, an upsetting of the natural order. Dean doesn’t believe in God, never has, but the idea of Cas losing his reason due to outside influences is as close to blasphemy as anything else. 

“Why don’t you get some sleep? I can stay with him.” 

Gabriel’s scoff isn’t as strong as it could be. Instead, he just looks weary and defeated. “You know, when I first thought of a Winchester taking my place, I thought I was going to kill you myself. And now...” He shakes his head, dismissing whatever he was going to say next. “I’m going to get a few hours worth of sleep. I’ll come get you then.” 

For a moment, Dean thinks Gabriel might go so far as to pat him on the shoulder. His hand hovers awkwardly in mid-air before it drops to his side. Gabriel shuffles towards the door, each step taking an eternity to accomplish. He waves at Dean, a limp gesture, before he heads down the hallway to his bedroom. It shuts behind him, leaving Dean alone with Cas. 

It takes almost all of Dean’s energy to make his way to the opposite side of the room. He collapses into the armchair, still warm from Gabriel’s ass. 

Blood dries tacky on Cas’ chest. None of the wounds he ripped open were deep enough to really hurt him, but seeing the reminders of his treatment torn stark red on Cas’ chest is still like getting a punch to the gut. 

It seems wrong, somehow, for him to see Cas brought low. He knows Cas wouldn’t want to be seen like this. When he wakes up, Cas will probably either punch him or shoot him, and that’ll be fine. It’ll be worth it to see Cas’ eyes open and shine with lucidity. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. His voice sounds harsh in the quiet of the room. The very air molecules bristle with disapproval. It’s nothing compared to the contempt which Dean feels for himself. 

“If it hadn’t been for me, you never would have been caught up in this. For whatever reason, you looked at me and you saw someone worth saving. I don’t know why you thought that. I don’t know what I did to make you think that I was ever worth this.” 

Dean’s fingers crawl across the mattress to take Cas’ hand in his. Cas’ fingers are cold and limp. Blood is caked into his cuticles. In his sleep, Cas murmurs. Whether it’s a sound of distress or happiness, Dean doesn’t know. He’s afraid to know. 

The first time he saw Cas was at the exchange. The Novaks were lined up on one side of the hotel and the Winchesters on the other. Dean had barely been able to swallow his rage at being sold off like a pawn, all so his father could swagger around the city like he owned something. He’d focused that rage on the family who, up until a few weeks ago, it was his purpose to thwart in any way possible, death not excluded. Now he was expected to join them, with nary a word spoken otherwise. 

He recognized Michael Novak and he’d gotten intimately familiar with Gabriel Novak’s file. Neither of those Novaks were as interesting as the Novak who stood at the back of the room. 

Even without knowing his name or anything else about him, Castiel was the Novak who caught his attention. He moved through the rest of them like a panther moving through wolves, all coiled grace and tightly bound intent. Where the other Novaks were stiff, he was fluid, where they were cold, he burned hot. Dean looked at him and saw the proverbial diamond in the rough, one jewel amidst a sea of imposters. 

And now here he is, shattered into a thousand pieces, a sacrifice laid in front of the altar of Dean Winchester. 

“I’m sorry.” Dean’s voice croaks on the last syllable. “Cas, I’m so sorry.” His instincts tell him to crush Cas’ hand in his, to bring him back with nothing more than sheer force of will, but he already knows that’s not an option. He needs to learn how to hold things without destroying them, how to love something without smothering it. 

“I wasn’t worth it. Whatever you thought you saw, it wasn’t worth this.” Heat prickles behind Dean’s eyes and works its way up his throat. “I’m so sorry Cas.” 

Misery forces his head low and Dean presses his forehead against Cas’ knuckles. Cas’ hand is so cold. The rise and fall of his chest is subtle, worryingly so. Dean doesn’t know how it feels to fall asleep without the taste of fear thick and sour on his tongue. 

He falls asleep with his lips still shaping the word sorry. 

---

Dean drags himself up from the pit of sleep, roused by a stimulus so weak it might as well be nonexistent. It’s still enough to pull him out of a troubled slumber, heart pounding. 

It takes his pupils a few seconds to adjust to the lack of light. When they do, they immediately find Cas. He lies, flat on his back, but his hand reaches out towards Dean. The weight of his hand is almost like a whisper as his fingers ruffle through his hair. 

“Cas,” Dean croaks, his pulse suddenly racing like a runaway carriage. “Cas, are you awake?” Are you ok, are you whole, please, tell me you’re all right, tell me that I didn’t destroy you like I destroy everything else in my godforsaken life-

A faint smile creeps over Cas’ face, like the sun struggling to break through the darkness of night. It’s a faint sliver of a thing, but it’s there, inescapable and wondrous. 

“Hello Dean.” 

[dearlazerbunny]

Let it Go (Ch. 1 of ?)

Pairings: platonic avengers team x reader, potential background loki x reader

Words: 1800

Genre/Ratings: -WARNINGS- there will be an (unsuccessful) suicide attempt by reader- chapter will be explicitly marked in advance. Drug (pills) and alcohol abuse, lots of negativity and self loathing. There will be an arc, but said arc is going to start in the eleventh circle of hell and inch up from there.

Summary: *not far enough into this one to give an accurate summary, so this’ll have to be updated eventually. enjoy for now!*

If I see another ad for Frozen, I might go homicidal.

I pass at least five of them as I work through rush-hour Manhattan at a snail’s pace. Smash Hit! Instant Classic! #1 Movie in the World! Awesome. Fantastic. Happy for you, Disney. Now please, dear god, get it the fuck out of my face.

I jerk away from narrowly shoulder-checking a businessman hustling down the sidewalk, speaking rapid-fire into the phone glued to his ear. It’s like a very, very fucked up dream; everyone in the world is in on the joke, and I just didn’t get the invite. Maybe they were spying on me. Sure, it could’ve been inspired by a fairytale, but who knows? I could sue. Demand fifty percent of the profits for copyright infringement. That’d be more than enough to set me up with a cabin in Alaska, somewhere all I’d have to worry about is making friends with the polar bears.

On the subway, I notice someone has Let it Go blaring from their earbuds. No less than three little girls are wearing something blue and covered in glitter. One has a cheap blonde plait clipped into her hair, accented by a snowflake charm dangling from the end. I suppress the urge to rip it off her head.

It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I want to say. It’s not Disney-dreamy like the mouse has made it out to be, living in a palace and making magical snowmen and singing power ballads about self-acceptance and overcoming your demons. In the real world, you quell those demons with a fistful of benzodiazepines, because if you don’t, something like a car alarm or a slammed door will make spikes of ice splinter through the floor around you. It’s constantly wearing three hoodies at a time, so that way if a stranger on the seat next to you brushes your arm, they don’t immediately get third-degree frostbite. It’s getting a papercut and watching the blood freeze on the tip of your finger, then melt back to liquid when you break it off and toss it away. It’s getting hospitalized when an inner-city charity doctor takes your temperature before you can object and your body temperature is barely higher than freezing, so they pump you full of warm saline and cover you in foil blankets and all that heat makes you sick, so you have to rip the IV out of your arm and walk yourself back to your apartment in your hospital gown while dodging orderlies and strange looks from passerby at 2 AM.

The kid and her parents get off at the next stop. The subway clicks along. I try to make myself smaller as the car fills up with more people.  

Maybe if they’d had Xanax in Arendelle, Elsa wouldn’t have had to deal with all that “conceal, don’t feel” bullshit. She wouldn’t be able to feel anything with all the pills and booze she’d be mainlining. Take it from me, babe, it’s a lot easier to drug those demons away. Much more effective than a song.

Something in me feels a weird flare of pride for handling this… whatever the hell it is better than a fictional cartoon princess. Then I want to laugh, because goddamn, my life is pathetic.

My meeting spot is in a back alley near Bryant Park. Some NYU kid is pawning his Klonopin for party cash, I guess. I think if you’re rich enough to be a frat boy at NYU you probably don’t need the extra fifty from your prescriptions, but whatever. I don’t have a ton of other avenues at this point.

I scan the neon bottle, then shake it open and count the pills inside. “These are only a half milligram? Fifteen.”

“Dude, we said forty.”

“Yeah, for a milligram pill. These will barely last me a week.”

“Twenty.”

“Fine.”

I don’t think the universe agrees with my choices.

The sky splits open with a shriek that balances the world on the edge of a knife. One heartbeat. Two. He and I both look up at the clear blue, unsure. Between the skyline, I see something- somethings- begin pouring from a split in the universe, ugly and black and hungry.

I wrench the bottle from the kid’s hands and run.

Run, run, run, don’t look up, don’t look back, oh jesus what the FUCK IS THIS- Midtown is a nightmare. Not from Friday traffic this time. People are scrambling, screaming and crying, trying to flee the scene. An entire side of a building gets shaved off and falls to the ground like an iceberg. A gas line broke somewhere because everything is hazy with fumes and starts shimmering rainbow colors. I round a corner, cursing and trying to keep my ratty converse on my feet as I dodge rubble and ash- don’t look up don’t look up don’t look up. I can see my breath starting to crystallize around me as my anxiety spikes, and I try to force it down. Don’t think about it. Now is so not the time for that.

In the middle of the street, six brightly clad superheroes stand with grim but determined looks on their faces. There’s Tony Stark in his mechanical suit, Captain America brandishing his shield. The star stands out like a beacon in the smoke. Cool, coolcoolcool, they’ve got this, right? They’ve totally got this. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to befineohholyshitthat’sabigalien-

I try to use an overturned car as cover. Dart to one, breathe, press my back to steel and try to shake my body back from shock, wait for a moment of silence between the chaos- run to the next pile of rubble. My footprints are outlined in frost on the cracked pavement, clean white against the ash raining from the sky. As I slam myself up against another car, heaving, I have a prime few of Captain-freaking-America bashing three ugly aliens in the face with his shield, battering them to the ground. He stops for a moment to flex his fingers, wipe some of the grime from his face.

He doesn’t see the alien rushing him from behind, mouth open and yawning in some sort of hideous grin, poised to shove a glowing blue gun against the Captain’s muscly back.

I don’t think. My feet move without my telling them to. I can taste the ash as I dart to the middle of the street, as close as I dare. The air around me is impossibly frigid. I’m not controlling anything at this point, but I can deal with that later. Hopefully.

“DUCK!” I scream as loud as I possibly can over the sound of metal and roaring monsters.

His eyes snap up to meet mine. He heard me, somehow, and then he actually heeds a random girl standing amidst the carnage and hits the deck so fast I can hear the whiplash. It’s hot enough to make my skin boil, but if I stretch my hand out and pull, I can feel something begin to crystallize in my waiting palm-

Fissures crack open in the concrete beneath me. In my hand, a thin lance of ice extends to a deadly point, too weighty for its slim frame, and while I should have all the grace and skill of an alcoholic drug addict, my aim is good enough that the alien now has an unforgiving pole of ice sticking through its breastbone. Frost creeps from the hole in its chest, discoloring its sickly black armor to a grey tint. For a moment, it's suspended in time, unmoving- then gravity takes hold and with one last nightmarish shriek it crumples to the ground in a heap.

Huh. Whaddya know. I flex my fingers, breathing hard. Take that, Elsa. Screw the power of love, I just single-handedly saved a national icon.

Said icon is picking himself up off the ground, a new layer of dust coating the front of his uniform. He looks behind him, at the ugly corpse and the ice that inexplicably hasn’t started to melt in the city’s heat. Then his eyes are on me, hard and curious.

Oh. Fuck.

Instinctively, I pull my hood up further over my head, hopefully obscuring more of my face than before. What did he see? Could he memorize my face? He knows I’m a freak show, that’s for sure. Fuck. My brain kicks in and I run, skidding over broken pavement and letting the sheer terror of a crumbling New York fuel my steps. Either we’ll all be dead by the end of this, or the strange girl with ice coming from her hands will be little more than a hazy memory after all this is said and done. I hope. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it- cold prickles on the back of my neck and pushes me back towards being just another face in the crowd.

  There are over a dozen police blockades to try and control the battlefield, and between them and the rubble raining from the heavens, it takes me what feels like hours to crawl back to my underside of the city. It’s punctuated by the grinding of metal and shattering of glass and sickening cracks of lightning from Midtown, making me flinch and wring my hands deep into my sweatshirts to keep them busy with something other than frosting the ground over. Don’t think about it.

I shove my shoulder into the door, forcing it open, then close it the same way from the opposite side. I flick the locks closed, secure the ball and chains. Each one is encased in frost by the time I’m done, and the doorjamb is clogged with ice. I’m suddenly irrationally thankful that there’s only one window in the apartment. It’s a stupid comfort- those things were leveling skyscrapers, a ratty building like this would be flattened in an instant-

I wrench open the nearest drawer, sending the contents rolling. Bottles clack against each other; pills rattling against the plastic. It’s the most comforting thing I’ve heard all day. I pull one out at random, pop the lid, down it dry. In the back of my mind, the large green monster roars. I shudder and swallow another, this time chasing it with swigs from the obscenely large bottle of booze on the desk. It burns all the way down in the best way, chasing the little orange tablets and promising the sweet release of nothing.  

That should last a day. Maybe more. I fall into the bed, already feeling the combo tug at my system, making me heavy and slow. Maybe Manhattan will still be standing when I wake up. Or better yet, Manhattan will still be standing, but I won’t. I’ve never been that lucky, but it never hurts to hope.

[witchygagirlwrites]

Confessions

A friends with benefits arrangement with Kelly ends up being so much more. @gottaboopthesnoot fluff?

The first time you'd ended up in bed with Kelly both of you were coming off of being dumped. You walked into Molly's with the intention to just have a few drinks then head home alone. April and Ethan were headed out as you were headed in so you thanked Ethan for holding the door open for you then headed to the bar.

"Herrman my good man can I please get a whiskey on the rocks and make it a double" he let out a low whistle and started making your drink "Rough day sweetheart?" You wanted to laugh but simply shook your head "I lost two patients that came into med today then my dumbass now former boyfriend decided it was in fact too stressful to be dating a doctor who refused to transfer from emergency medicine" "Yikes. Here this will make you feel a little better" you took the glass from him with a smile and slid the money across the bar plus some for the tip jar "Thanks Herrman"

He walked away so you glanced around the room. Jay was sitting in the corner with Will, Adam and Kevin. They waved when they spotted you so headed over "Hey fellas how's it going?" Will cut his eyes at your glass "Bout as good as yours" you laughed then looked from Adam to Kevin "Bad day?" Kevin letting out a breath told you all you needed to know so you turned back towards the bar "Herrman I got the next round for this table!" He nodded "You got it sweetheart" 

You patted Jay's shoulder before you walked off and said "see you boys later"

--------------------

You headed for a corner booth and spotted Kelly sitting alone. You sat next to him on a stool and bumped his hand "Well hello Severide" he smiled up at you "Hey Y/N" you noticed he was lacking a certain blonde appendage he'd acquired "Where's shit what's her name..Kristy? Brittany?" "Jessica and she dumped me by text around eleven this morning" you did laugh then and held up your phone "I got dumped at two in between losing a seventy year old to hypothermia and a sixteen year old to a ruptured appendix of all things" he tilted his head with a laugh "Ok you win"

--------------------

The two of you ended up talking for the better part of an hour. "Well I guess I'm gonna head home" you said pushing your glass away. "Want a ride?" He asked so you shrugged. He'd only had one beer and it was long gone "Sure"

You slipped your jacket back on then followed him outside and to where he'd parked his mustang. You smiled when he held the passenger door open "What a gentleman" he walked around then slid into the driver's seat. You watched him as you buckled up then he pulled out onto the road. 

Kelly had always been a good looking guy. He was a little cocky at times but damn you'd bet two months salary he could back it up. You shook your head to clear the sudden rush of hormones then turned to look out the window until Kelly pulled up behind your car and parked. "Want to come in for some coffee?" You asked without even thinking and were rewarded with that gorgeous smile of his "Sure"

--------------------

One thing led to another and the morning light found the two of you tangled up in your sheets and each other. You woke up and felt his warmth at your back as memories from the previous night flooded your mind. When he woke up he let his lips trail lazily over your bare shoulder "Morning" hearing his voice so thick with sleep while feeling him pressed hard against you made you squirm slightly "Morning" you said with a smile that turned into a gasp when he bit down gently on your shoulder. "Are you wanting to continue last night?" You asked reaching back to pull him forward for a kiss "If you do" was his response.

--------------------

That had been over four months ago. The two of you weren't dating per say as much as blowing off steam or well you were pretty sure that's how it was for Kelly. You had started falling for him somewhere along the month and a half mark. How could you not? He was gorgeous, amazing in bed, one of the sweetest men you'd ever known and genuinely seemed to care about you. 

You were scared that if you told him how you felt you'd more than likely not only lose him out your bed but as a friend also and you weren't really to risk it so you buried it.

--------------------

You were at work grabbing test results from Maggie when a bad wave of nausea washed over you. "You ok Y/N? You look a little green?" She asked so you forced a smile "I haven't eaten. After I sign off on Mrs. Rodriguez I'll come raid your snack drawer"

"You know where it is" she replied with a smile even if she still seemed apprehensive. You told Mrs. Rodriguez her aftercare instructions and was walking out her room when another wave of nausea hit and the next thing you knew the world went black.

---------------------

You woke up in an exam room with an iv of fluid going into your arm. Will was shining a light in your eyes "Jesus Y/N you scared all of us. I'm gonna run some bloodwork. It appears like you're just dehydrated but I want to make sure""Thanks Will" you said right before he walked out. Some doctor you were, couldn't even keep yourself healthy.

 You heard a knock on the door before Maggie popped her head in with a bottle of juice in her hand "No solids until your blood work is back but this should help" you sat up a little and took the juice "Thanks Maggie. I don't know what happened. I mean I've been feeling a little off but I thought it was just all the hours I've been working"  she patted your hand reassuringly then said "Just rest. We'll figure it out"

--------------------

"Run that by me one more time Halstead" you repeated despite reading the results yourself "You're about eight weeks. That's what caused the fainting. We can make you an appointment with the OB of your choice to discuss options but for today Goodwin wants you to head home and rest. Natalie is going to cover your shift for the next couple days"

"Thanks Will" you were in a bit of a fog as you walked out and to your car. How the hell were you supposed to tell Kelly? 

-------------------

You made it a few blocks before you had to pull over. You were crying hard enough your shoulders were shaking what the hell were you going to do?

A baby. You were in love with Kelly and pregnant and he was clueless to both of those things. You wanted to keep the baby but you also knew you had to tell him.

-------------------

Once you managed to get home you grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. You needed a hot shower to clear your mind. You'd texted Kelly that Goodwin had sent you home so he'd in return texted back saying he'd be over the next morning when he got off shift. 

At least you had twelve or so hours before you had to face him. You could eat and sleep. 

----------------------

No matter how you laid all you could think about was the fact that you had a baby inside of you. Yours and Kelly's baby. You finally managed to fall asleep curled up on your side. 

--------------------

You were woke up around seven to a pounding at your door and your phone ringing. You picked it up to see you had seven missed calls and the person currently calling was Kelly. 

You answered it but instead of saying hello you asked "Is that you at my door?" "Been here for ten minutes sweetheart. Started to kick it in. I was getting worried" you smiled despite yourself "I'll come let you in" then hung up.

Your nerves started fluttering and you cursed when a wave of nausea hit you again. The moment you unlocked the door you barely saw Kelly's face before you had to hold up one finger and rush to the bathroom.

Kelly kicked the door shut and quickly followed you. When he saw the position you were in he crouched behind you pulling your hair out the way and started rubbing small circles into your back.

------------------

Once your stomach was emptied either nerves or hormones or both hit you and you started to cry. Kelly pulled you into his arms and sat leaned against the wall gently rocking you for god knows how long before you managed to calm down "Baby what's wrong?" He asked and you almost started crying again.

"Kelly I'm sorry" he pulled back far enough to look in your face "about what?" You could tell he was so confused about everything so you took a deep breath then just decided to rip the bandaid off "I'm in love with you and I'm eight weeks pregnant"

A thousand emotions flashed across his face. Shock was the most prominent. You started to try to stand up but he pulled you back down in his lap "Hold on Y/N just let me catch up. You said you love me?" You nodded "It's ok if you don't feel the same way" he cut you off by his lips crashing into yours.

When he pulled away he smiled "I love you too. I have for a while. Now about that second thing you said?" You swallowed hard and looked into those bright blue eyes that you loved so much "Remember that close call you had? And we spent the entire night in bed?" He nodded slowly "Well I apparently got pregnant that night" you nearly whispered glancing down at your hands.

Several long silent seconds flicked by before he said "So you love me and I'm gonna be a dad. Not how I figured this would go" you looked up to meet his eyes right as he added "but I'm happy and I will be here for you and our baby every step of the way"

You started crying again but this time it was tears of relief "I love you Kelly" "I love you too Y/N" he said with a smile then ran his hand across your stomach and leaned down before saying "and we both love you"

[birbleafs]

[fic] A Much Ado About (PSI)oulmates

Series: Saiki Kusuo no Ψ-nan || The Disastrous Life of Saiki K. Rating: T Genre: Humour, Breaking The Fourth Wall Character(s): Saiki Kusuo, Aiura Mikoto, Satou Hiroshi, Akechi Touma, Toritsuka Reita Warnings: None, save for canon-typical shenanigans Summary:  Aiura decides to combine her divination abilities with Kusuo’s powers for a super special comedic segment on Affinity Levels. Fic can also be read on AO3 _______

Excerpt taken from clairvoyant Dame Mata-Mata’s advert for Amazing Psychic Services:

99.9% accurate affinity readings and guaranteed life-long happiness! Discover your twin flame with as little 10,000 yen per hour! Some would say it’s foolish to risk your future and wallet on such clandestine offerings, but we assure you, we are no worse than the underhanded brand marketing on children’s television series! Call 1800-TWINFLAMES -1234567 to book a reading today!!

***

Anyone who would believe such clandestine and shady offerings isn’t just a fool but a complete buffoon, Kusuo scoffs impassively at the flyer before him. This is definitely worse than the underhanded brand marketing on children’s TV shows.

“They’re a total noob at it, fer sure!” Aiura says, leaning in too close and posing next to Kusuo as she takes a wefie with her phone. “Like sure, the concept of twin flames and soulmates ain’t new, but to claim everyone has half a soul yearning to get jiggy with its other missing half for life-long bliss is like, a gross oversimplification.” I don’t really care to be honest, Kusuo deadpans. He stares sullenly at how Aiura’s arm is still wrapped around his; she offers him a cheeky grin and a peace sign, snapping yet another wefie before she finally slides away to the opposite seat. “Soulmates just have more natural affinity for each other,” Aiura says, batting her eyelashes at him coyly. “But just like with everything, it doesn’t mean you don’t need to put in any effort to make it work! Hey, speaking of which—the author has a super special birthday tradition where she writes and/or posts up a new story, so this fanfic can totally be about Affinity Meters, right?!” Don’t know what you’re going on about and still don’t actually care, Kusuo retorts, shoving a spoonful of coffee jelly into his mouth as he resolutely tries to enjoy his Sunday afternoon. But Aiura persists, easily breaking the fourth wall to elaborate further: “Just like how Kusuo can use the Affection Meter to quantify a person’s love for another, today we’ll combine Kusuo’s telepathy and my own divination abilities to measure soulmate compatibility via Affinity Levels! So, without further ado, let’s go, let’s goooo!” Aiura, no, Kusuo groans in quiet despair. “Miko-chan, YES!” Aiura whoops, fist-pumping the prologue away as the scene fades out. _______

i.

Satou Hiroshi

Conventional. Moderate. Regular. Behold the quintessential stock background character, the pinnacle of normality—Satou Hiroshi. Standing at a height of 169.9 centimeters and weighing at precisely 61.0 kilograms—the exact national average of a healthy sixteen-year-old Japanese male—he is the gold standard, the epitome of normal. It’s a shame then that few recognize Satou-kun’s remarkable ordinariness, Kusuo muses, watching said background character ambling down the sidewalk with an approving smile. Nevertheless, perhaps that may be to my benefit. Surely our Affinity Levels must be pretty high; after all, we’re both normal and regular high-school teens who do not stand out much— “I don’t think using your powers to make yourself inconspicuous counts though,” Aiura says as she glances over Kusuo’s shoulder, puzzled at his fixation on someone so… well, boring. Kusuo isn’t even listening. We both have regular aspirations and hobbies, seeking only to live peaceful days! “Funnily, I now remember peeking at Normal-kun’s fortune for Hii-chan. And get this, his biggest dream is being on stage as a rock star! Like seriously, how typical can he get?” —So, taking into consideration all of the above, Kusuo presses on, undeterred by Aiura’s commentary, surely we would hit it off as friends with optimal affinity levels! “Uhm, Kusuo?” Aiura nudges him with her elbow, pointing at the meter hovering beside them. “Not to be a wet blanket and all, but the Affinity Meter started running again as you were waxing lyrical earlier, so now it’s showing that Normal-kun and your Affinity Levels are like, really just two stars at best.” She leans forward, squinting at the screen. “Simply because he thinks you’re okay but still a bit of a weirdo. Dayum, the nerve of this twerp!” Kusuo stares wordlessly at her for a beat, slack-jawed. A-Ahyuu…?

Affinity Level: ☆☆ _______

 ii.

Akechi Touma

“It pains me to have to do this,” Aiura lets out a dramatic sigh. “But since Childhood Friends is a pretty popular trope in animanga, and therefore in fanfiction, I guess there’s no avoiding it.” Kusuo scowls, not liking where this is heading at all. It can totally be avoided. We can just avoid talking about it altogether. “Is that you, Kusuo-kun?” Akechi says as he suddenly appears at Kusuo’s side, curiosity in his eyes. “Oh, I see Aiura-san is here as well. I couldn’t help but notice how you two were standing and talking together so I thought I should come say hello, even though I was rather hesitant at first. I didn’t want to abruptly barge into your conversation, you see, as that would have been awfully rude, and I certainly don’t wish for you to think of me as rude, Kusuo-kun.” Yet here you are barging in anyway, blathering on incessantly like a runaway freight train, Kusuo remarks drily. “Well, I couldn’t help but overhear the mention of Affinity Levels,” Akeichi beams as he continues, unfazed by the jibe. “And I can’t say my curiosity isn’t the least bit piqued, even if I have little to no real interest or belief in the notion of soulmates. In fact, the existence of an actual soul remains debatable in scientific circles—” Exasperated, Aiura tries to interject. “Since you ain’t all that interested, mind if you just zip those lips for like five minutes? My hair’s gone all frizzy from the heat of your endless jabbering!” “However, these debates on the existence of the soul had also been instrumental to the understanding of the anatomy and physiology of the human body—” “Oh my God, please just stop yapping for ONE sec—!!” Aiura shrieks, tugging at her curls in frustration. She accidentally kicks the Affinity Meter to start running, and the lights blink and flash in a rapid blur before the meter gradually slows down to display four bright stars upon its screen. There’s a beat; the trio leans forward, staring at the meter in awkward silence. Kusuo’s brows are furrowed at the unexpected results; he shrugs it off as a fluke. Clearly there’s some technical issue with Affinity Meter (never mind that the meter works, in part, based on Aiura’s divination abilities, which have, to date, always been accurate). There’s just no way Akechi could ever beat Satou-kun on that scale, he’s too much of an abnormal— But Aiura is already moving forward, reaching out to grasp Akechi’s hand in a firm handshake. “Aiura-san? Is there something…?” She acknowledges Akechi’s curious gaze with a curt nod. “All right, I can’t deny it any longer. Not with that impressive detective aura of yours and with results like that on both Kusuo and my own Affinity Meter.” Oi, oi. Don’t start spouting weird nonsense now, Miss Abnormal! “All right, Akeinu! I hereby deem you a worthy rival in the fight to stand as Kusuo’s trusted sidekick!” “Oho! You’ve even given me a cutesy nickname as acknowledgment! I must say I’m quite flattered, Aiura-san.” How about I side-kick both of you out of my life right now? Kusuo sighs, mildly perturbed by this unexpected turn of events.

Affinity Level: ☆☆☆☆ _______

iii.

Toritsuka Reita

…… …… …… What, did you seriously think Toritsuka was getting a proper scene? He’s already way too pathetic. NEXT— “W-wait, did you just cut my scene?!” Toritsuka shrieks from the void like a headless chicken. “Don’t just write me off, Saiki-saaan!!” —Saiki exits stage left, pursuing normalcy. “And don’t just narrate yourself out!!”

Affinity Level: N.A. _______

iv. Aiura Mikoto

“At first glance, you might think we make for an odd couple,” Aiura says with a coquettish smile. “And how it seems absolutely cray that we could get along. Or like, that we don’t mesh just ‘cause our personalities clash way too much or somethin’.” She chuckles at the notion, running perfectly manicured nails through her luscious locks. “I mean, it’s obvs only those inexperienced with the inner workings of the heart would think that. Because opposites attract, y’know? It’s the push-pull dynamism between us that spices things up! Like two tango dancers stirring up a flame on the dance floor—it keeps things refreshing and exciting, but still comforting and familiar in the end, like sharing a nice, warm bath at the end of the day, or cuddling up together at the sofa, feeding each other spoons of dessert…” Aiura pauses, blushing when she catches sight of the Affinity Meter fluttering gently by her shoulder, at the line of stars glowing from the screen, a beacon of reassurance of their status as soulmates. She turns towards Kusuo, suddenly self-conscious as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Say, Kusuo… How about we head to that nice dessert buffet together and—” Only to realize she had been practically talking to thin air all this time. “H-Huh?! Aww, gimme a break! Where did you run off to this time, Kusuooo?!”

Affinity Level: ☆☆☆☆☆ _______ v.

Coffee Jelly

Good grief—finally some peace and quiet. Kusuo sighs as he leans back into the leather seat of his booth, in a nondescript cafe far away from his usual annoyances. He dips a spoon into his dessert bowl, lifting a dark sliver of coffee jelly to his mouth, and smiles in absolute contentment. There’s a soft whirr, and then a ping from somewhere below. He flicks a furtive gaze at the Affinity Meter hovering at the empty space beside him, curious despite himself. The endless line of glowing stars are probably a bit much, but he smiles anyway at the screen. Huh. I guess it works after all.

Affinity Level: ☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

—End— _______ Notes:

It’s tradition for myself to spend my birthday writing and/or sharing a new fic (happy birthday to me!! lol). I also had this sitting in my draft for way too long and decided to kick myself to finish it. Apologies for any typoes/errors.

Comments and critique are always welcomed for my fics—I'd like to hear what you think, if you've enjoyed this! Thanks for reading :)

[damianosismyking]

PART X - [FINAL]

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX 

Sitting on the edge of the fence, with his feet kicking against the white wood, Laurent didn’t know what he was feeling.  

He knew, but he didn’t know.  

He was no longer the stable boy for the deAkielos family. He no longer lived at the ranch. He was still an orphan and there was nothing he could do about this, but somewhere between the main house and the garage and the stables, his brother awaited to take him home to his family that wasn’t his. He would no longer race around the vineyards in warm afternoons or climb trees (much less kiss under them).  

There was something in the bittersweetness that made Laurent’s chest ache.  

Egeria would become even more of a memory, a more distant one, stored away along with his parents and his old house, his old school, and the books he loved dearly in childhood, long forgotten. The open greenness, the soft breeze, the buzz of the summer… they’d be in the past too. Laurent was going home, though home felt much like here and the place he was supposed to miss – and he did – was foreign.  

He always knew anyway; he was never meant to fit anywhere and nowhere was made for him. What difference it made where he lived. There would always be something to miss and something to leave behind.  

Like his mother and father. Like Auguste. Damen and Egeria. The ranch, and Pinocchio, his mare. His room with all his toys, his room with all its smells. Arles and Dice.  

...

Four days ago, in a charming, luxurious conference room downtown in Dice, at the law firm Damianos works for, Laurent’s uncle signed a settlement.

The alternative would be going to court and risk time in jail, which he was not willing to do.  

He signed the agreement that gave back all the family money and properties he appropriated (the word the counselor used), an agreement to confess he did intervene with the hearings about Laurent’s custody, an agreement to make sure he would issue an apology, an agreement to compensate for the defamation of Auguste, something Laurent had no knowledge about prior to the moment it was mentioned.  

Auguste sat still through all of it blank-faced. He said nothing for an hour and so Laurent did the same. He did not answer to their uncle’s provocative statements, not even when they were directed at him, and soon they died down.  

The glares he risked to Auguste were never responded and he stopped trying to give them; the glares risked to Damianos were always responded with a curt nod, a twist of the lips or the averting of the eyes and so Laurent looked often.

In that same luxurious conference room that had to be the fanciest place Laurent has ever been to, he kissed Damianos.

It was after his uncle and his attorneys left, and the documents were signed, and Auguste excused himself to go to the restroom for a moment. They were close and Laurent asked what else was there for them to do after this, to which Damianos responded, ‘nothing.’  

Damianos told him they won and he had been smiling then, so Laurent forgot, for the flick of a second, that he couldn’t – he shouldn’t – and he kissed Damianos on the lips, the way he thought of doing every day. The way he hadn’t done in weeks.  

At first, Laurent argued it to himself it was a mindless, giddy reaction to the good news – which he knew was not the truth. Mindless, giddy reactions had nothing to deal with the way he half-ran his way around the big oak table and launched himself in Damianos’ arms.  

At second, he argued that he did it because now he could afford to have a crush on Damianos, with the money of the settlement. He was not wealthy – or at least not as wealthy as Damianos – but he could afford to have more than old clothes, hand-me-down books and second-hand electronics.  

At third he remembered that Damen was still, in spite of riches, too much for him, so Laurent left before any of them could say anything.

And they didn’t talk about it.  

Laurent didn’t know what he was feeling. Or he did, but there was no way he could put a name to it.  

...

Laurent said goodbye to the view on his way down to the stables where part of his baggage waited.  

He said goodbye to the vineyards, to the stone path that led to the main house, the dirt path he took to go up the hill with his horse, among thick ivy brushes and wide trees. He whispered goodbye to his favorite hiding spots, to the tire swing that had been there ever since Egeria was little girl. The white fence.  

He would have given his farewell to Theomedes, Kastor and Jokaste as well, but they left to go spend a season in Ios, the housekeeper told him.

The sun was setting. Laurent delayed enough to be able watch it one final time. By this time tomorrow, he would watch the sunset from his room in Auguste’s home.  

His home. With Auguste and his wife, whose name Laurent kept forgetting. And the kid whose name Laurent could not forget if he tried.  

He crossed the fence that delimited the stable area dreading to get to his things and hold conversation with Auguste, who was more excited than Laurent was able to stomach right now. He thought nothing of the relief that bloomed in his chest when he saw there was no one there. Only the horses and a pile of boxes bigger than Laurent expected it to be.

Laurent said goodbye to the horses one by one, and lingered when it was Pinocchio’s turn, his forehead glued to her nose, scratching the back of her ear, urging her to understand he was not leaving her on purpose or because he loved her any less than always.

Had Laurent been more attentive or had his continuous mumble been less intense or sniffs less audible, he perhaps would have noticed that someone approached the stables and witnessed his passionate goodbye to the horse.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Damianos said to his back and Laurent startled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – She’ll be in good hands, I promise.”

Laurent runs a mindless hand over the front of his shirt and his jeans to compose. “I know. All of the stable staff is very attentive.”

Damen smiled meekly, shaking his head in a nearly imperceptible motion. “I will tend to her personally.”

Damen was just standing there, one shoulder propped to the wooden post in the middle of the stable. His hair was wet and tousled, disheveled by the wind on his way down. He wore sweatpants low on his hips and Laurent was not looking at the way it fit him, cling to him and shaped him everywhere. His t-shirt was tight around his torso and biceps. His lips were red, the way they usually were after he took long, steaming showers, so hot Laurent himself was never able to stay through, or his skin would burn.

He committed this vision of Damianos to memory. The careless, domestic, natural view of him that Laurent had not appreciated enough in the past.

“Where is Auguste?” Damen asked.  

Laurent shrugged. “I think he is down in the garage.”

“Do you need help taking your things to the car?”

Laurent shook his head. His throat felt too tight to speak, his mind too clouded to think of words, his heart to heavy to bear say what he had been avoiding – the goodbye he was not able to give.

They simply stood where they were, boring their eyes on each other, lulled by neighs and huffs and hooves.  

“I like what you did with your hair by the way,” Damen said, pointing awkwardly. “It looks nice. Short.”

“Thank you,” Laurent said, an involuntary hand picking at the short strands that tickled his nape.

More nothing. Laurent knows what he is avoiding and knows better yet that it is unavoidable, and still he can’t make himself say it.  

Damen is still there if he doesn’t say it. If he stall just a little longer, he is still part of the stable staff, he still lives in the room a few feet down in this same building, he will still see Damen tomorrow.  

He can’t stall.

“I’m very thankful for all that you…” he was saying.  

Damen picked the same exact moment to say, “Is there no way for…”

They stopped. Both of them. Eyes on each other, intently. Is there no way for what, Laurent was about to say, when Damen said, “You go first.”

Laurent drew in a sharp breath. “I’m very thankful for all that you and your family have done for me.”

Damen’s face fell along his shoulders. For a moment before he caught himself, Damen seemed utterly disappointed by the words that came out Laurent’s mouth and Laurent wanted to tell him it was not the first time something like that happened.  

“You keep saying that” Damen said.

“It’s the truth.”

Damen nodded, shifting on his feet. He assumed a more guarded posture, with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His eyes were no longer on Laurent too, but on his feet with flip flops.  

Laurent’s mind took him back to the fancy conference room, four days ago, to the way Damen cradled his head, his soft, soft sigh when he melted into the kiss barely a moment before Laurent came back to his senses and pulled away. Laurent had not spent a second to watch the way Damen’s features changed before he was out the door, punching the elevator bottom.  

“You were saying something as well,” Laurent said.  

Once more, Damen nodded. “Is there,” he looked back at Laurent, “No way forward for us?”

“You mean if I’m going back to your bed?” Laurent said. It is not as cold as he intended it to be, almost playful instead. If he let himself think of it, he sounded hurt, but it was unlikely it was obvious to anyone else.

Damen took a step forward, unsure what to do with his hands without the post to lean against. For good measure, he took another one, still too far to reach. “I wish,” he started and spared a moment to recalibrate the words, “I wish I had done things differently. That I made it clear how much you mean to me.”

It was Laurent’s turn to look down at dusty boots, dirt and lost hay. “Damen.” Stop.

“You were never… to me, you were never just a hook up. I should have told you that.”

You should have. I wish you did. But would that have made any difference? “It wasn’t really… about that.” Wasn’t it? What would have changed for Laurent if Damen told Laurent he meant more than the fuck of the month?  

“Not exclusively, at least,” he finally added.

Damen was still walking towards him and if Laurent was a braver man, he would meet him halfway. Laurent was never brave.

“What was it about then?” Damen said. He paused and his feet vacillated with him. He was more unsure. “Do you… not care? Did you not want to get involved?”

Laurent’s heart dropped. It’s not that, he wanted to say, how could you ever think that? When Laurent took too long, Damen said, “I just want to understand,” and it sounded nearly as a plead.

“You were my boss, Damen,” Laurent said. “We were never the same. There was no way it – we could make it work.”

Auguste came to mind then. Was he coming back? Where was he? Laurent should be looking for him, taking his boxes down to the garage, loading the truck Damianos was kind enough to rent to make the move easier, getting in the car, listening to Auguste talk about his family and how Laurent was going to love the new town they are living in.  

Laurent should be thinking about that. About going to college, getting to know his brother again; about the bookstore Auguste was sure Laurent was going to love, he huge public library just two blocks down in their neighborhood. About going back to the real world and becoming a citizen of it again, about how it would feel not to be sheltered and hiding any longer.  

But Damen was there with huge, hopeful eyes and Laurent.  

He wanted him. He wanted. He basked in how much Damen still seemed to want him too.  

He wanted Damen to ask him to stay, and to tell him he was stupid for going away.

“And now?” Damen said.  

“Now what?” Laurent needed him to say it. He did not dare to hope.  

“I know you have a lot on your plate. I don’t want to steal you from your brother, but,” he was finally there, where Laurent could reach him, “We could start over. Fresh,” he said.

It felt like Laurent had been holding his breath for weeks, and now he could finally breath.  

Yes, he meant to say, but the words stayed inside.  

“You will always be welcome in here,” Damen continued, his thumb caressing Laurent’s cheekbone, his breath brushing softly, tenderly against Laurent’s face, “This ranch is… it can be home, to you. If you want.”

Laurent gulped through his dry throat and smiled, letting go of pretense. Even if he could, he would not have kept his guard up. Damen’s eyes on him were expectant, eager for Laurent’s reply.  

There was a lot to consider then. What it meant, to start over, what it was that they were together – properly together – and what changed. What remained the same. Where to start when what they had was not new and yet a complete novelty.

What would Egeria think? What will Theomedes say?  

“I’d like that,” Laurent said instead, excitement burning his chest. “I’d like that very much.”

Leaning in, Damen kissed him and for the first time, Laurent considered that it could work.  

And Laurent knew exactly how to feel about that.

-- 

The end uwu

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