#that the scar on his chest is a constant reminder of the worst moment of his life

[ace-no-isha]

one thing i can say is no one loves luffy like i do he is my baby forever i do not care

[steveshairychest]

Can't stop thinking about Eddie with messy bangs and flushed cheeks after Steve has been running his hands through it while kissing him against the wall. He's got Steve's cherry flavoured chapstick smeared on his lips and the taste of it on his tongue. Their chests rise and fall in unison as they breathe in each other's space, lips brushing against each other as they both gasp for air, unwilling to cease any contact. It's in moments like these that they feel most alive, grounded, close to home. Steve rests his hand above Eddie's heart and finds comfort in the steady beat, it's almost music to his ears. Eddie mirrors him, his own hand resting on Steve's chest while his other ghosts over the scars on his lover's back. He needs to remind himself that they are healed, that his constant nightmares aren't true. It's in moments like these that they reassure each other that their worst fears aren't true, that the man they love is by their side.

[umbralaether]

The memories come as they do every night, shadows clinging to the edges. Some were small, fleeting things— bits and pieces shuffled before him only to be snatched away. Some of them new, some of them old.

Some he'd rather never see again.

It seemed the only memories for him tonight were the latter— hot, searing pain as Cazador carves another line into his back. He grits his teeth, the agony blinding as he struggles to remain conscious. He tries to move, fight back, but the memory always stays the same; every flinch, every scream prolonging the process. It takes hours, and every time he's trapped in the nightmarish embrace he swears it will never end. When his work was complete Cazador had just left him there, blood dripping from his newly engraved flesh.

Silence, boy. You will become the piece of art I created you for.

The words echo, repeating almost every other night since he discovered what the scars on his back hid from him. He was foolish for ever thinking it was simple poetry— of course it was a piece of a ritual meant to doom him. He thought it impossible to hate Cazador any more than he already did, and yet here he was finding more and more hatred for the man who had taken everything from him.

The vision fades like a wisp of smoke, bringing forth the next one. The two targets he'd convinced into sleeping with him offered no reprieve, both preferring he remain on his back for their pleasure, even as he winced with each scrape of fabric along fresh wounds. He'd been rewarded for bringing two targets in one go, but not even a meager rat could speed along the healing. His skin cracked and bled for days; again and again, ripping and tearing and scarring until only phantoms of torment remained.

He bolts upright, gasping for air as panic rises in his chest. He looks around— this isn't his tent, this isn’t where he should be. His back hurts, the nightmare still fresh in his mind, fear seeping along the edges.

“You okay?”

Ceruli's voice is light, soft, and it pierces through the confusion. Her eyes wide with concern, she offers an upturned hand. The present comes back to him, then— the stone floors of Shar's Temple were cold, and feeding had left him wanting to stay within the comfort and warmth of her bedroll. He was growing used to staying, to trying out this new… whatever it was they had.

Can't have a good thing without a price, it seemed.

“Only as much as I can be, having my worst memories repeated on the nightly,” he takes her hand, relaxing a bit as she rubs her thumb along his knuckles, “Surely you've had your fair share, with your marvelously deranged sisters and the rest of the Underdark in your mind.”

She looks surprised, “Oh. I, uh… don't see anything when I trance. Just darkness.”

“Truly? Consider yourself lucky, then. Constant reminders of the worst days of your life are not in the least bit enjoyable.”

His back still hurts, the soft fabric of his nightshirt only making it worse. He yanks his shirt off, hoping to free himself from the discomfort but it does little to soothe. Better than the itching, at least.

“Was it about your scars again?”

He sighs, “Even awake now it feels just as it did the night he made them.”

She pauses a moment, and then, “Can I help?”

“I… don't know. What did you have in mind?”

She releases his hand and lifts hers up, a white glow dancing along her fingertips and slowly engulfing her hand, “Its not quite ice, but it helps Karlach when she's having a hot spell.”

He's not sure if it will help; after all, this pain he felt was simply all in his head. If he just pushed it aside and forgot all about it eventually it would go away, but her suggestion was tempting.

“I suppose it won't hurt to try.” He sits back slightly, “How do you want me?”

She thinks for a moment, “Are you comfortable lying face down?”

“Anything for you, darling.”

He does what she requests, resting his head on his arms as he waits for her next move. She shifts, moving closer to him.

“Ready?”

He turns his head to the side, able to just meet her gaze, “I am. Now, don't you start feeling bad if it doesn't work, I…ohhh,” He shivers as cool hands press against his back, heated tension he hadn't been aware of all but melting away with the rush of her magic.

She's seems tentative, at first; hands running along his shoulders and then upper back, squeezing gently. He groans with each tender spot her thumbs find, massaging away any resistance. It sends his mind ablaze, tingling with contentment. Though her hands are cold against him, he feels flushed from the attention. He could sit here for hours, soaking it all in— being cared for, an intimacy he was embarrassingly new at.

The sensations continue to wash over him, buzzing bone-deep and he isn't sure if any of this is even real. Surely this is some sort of fantasy he's conjured up. Her fingers dance along his scars, leaving trails of soothing chill in their wake. Wherever phantom pain persisted, she seemed to find and conquer with little effort.

“Astarion?”

In the pleasure-filled haze he realizes she's asked him something, “Yes, my lovely gem? What is it?”

“I can keep going, but without the magic. There's a limit even for me,” She laughs softly.

Already he feels the loss, bereft and unbearable. Maddening. Magic be damned, he wants more.

“Please, do keep going. This feels… nice.”

Continue she does, and come morning he's all but forgotten the nightmare.

[razorsharpteeth]

TIMING: August PARTIES: Safiya @relievinghands and Samir @razorsharpteeth LOCATION: A farmer's market in town SUMMARY: Two siblings reunite after a decade at a farmer's market. Despite some tenseness, they are both glad to see the other and promise to get in touch. CONTENT WARNINGS: Parental death mention

He missed cooking. That wasn’t to say Samir didn’t cook any more — he made plenty of meals for himself, day in and out, but he didn’t cook like he used to. For a paying crowd, for people who appreciated and loved it all, for dozens and dozens of people, day in and out. The restaurant business was best left behind (considering his spotty availability), but he yearned for it. The cooking classes came close, at least, even if they lacked the exhilaration of a proper restaurant’s kitchen.

Walking the farmer’s market, he was in search for the very best fresh ingredients for a cooking class later that afternoon. It was a nice distraction, this place of noise and all else. It was some kind of proof of humanity, which Samir did keep looking for. And then, in the corner of his eye, came one of the largest reminders of just that: a familiar face.

How long had it been? A decade, if not two of them. He found himself halting, the person who’d been walking behind him crashing into his body. “Sorry,” he muttered, though it hardly seemed like it was him speaking as he continued to stare at his sister. Sister, I have a sister, and three more siblings, a mother and a home I abandoned. Wasn’t that what made him the most human after all?

He stood there, frozen, almost sick with it. Happy, in a sense, but afraid — afraid, because he was now a man littered in scars, one who had a monster inside, one who had built himself from shame and was on a constant verge of collapse. Before he could decide what to do, she turned her own head and then their eyes met, across stalls, across vendors and patrons, and Samir felt human in the worst way. In the way it hurt.

The scent of fresh bread, herbs and other home-made goods was consumed Safiya from the moment she entered the farmers market in the best way. Some weeks, Safiya set up a stall herself, a place where she could sell arrangements of flowers, herbs, and spices she grew in her garden. But today she was a paying customer. She wove her way through the crowd, stopping every now and then to exchange a smile, a joke, a word, or a comfort. These were people she had known for years now.

As Safiya meandered, she stopped frequently. The barter system was alive and well within the community she’d made for herself. A loaf of bread was handed to her in exchange for a potion. Money wasn’t everything, but Safiya was well aware of the privilege she had to say that. Her mentor’s death had found her in a situation with more money than she could have ever dreamed of. From growing up as a kid, sharing her childhood bedroom with her brother from lack of room in the small house, to a mansion teeming with space. It wasn't often that Safiya thought about her past. There was a pain that radiated deep within her chest when she thought of her family. One that felt like a mix of guilt from her betrayal and sadness over something lost. It was better not to think about it.

Dreg, a small boat owner, who came to the farmers market to sell seashell related items was in the depths of telling Safiya about a difficult voyage he had undertaken recently. Safiya listened with generous attention. Giving people attention was something she was good at, and she prided herself on being a good listener. But there was a tingling against her skin that told her someone was looking at her. It distracted her enough that she decided to glance over to see who was looking at her.

The glance turned into a look turned into a stare. Familiar eyes were looking back, eyes in a face that had once known better than her own, but had been changed by time and – was that a scar? Safiya’s breath caught in her chest, as she raised a hand to stop Dreg in his story. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was a whisper, “I’m sorry I-I have to go.” Safiya moved, letting the crowd's current drift her closer to her long-lost brother. “Samir?” It had taken too long to get there, and yet she wished she had more time to prepare. “Samir.” Safiya repeated, but this time without the question. This time with the love and warmth of a loved one reunited. “I’ve missed you.” A hand reached out for him, then backed off. It had been years, decades. They were strangers now.

It was a ragged scar by now, that memory of Safiya leaving him back at home. Orlando was a lifetime or two ago, but it was still always in the back of Samir’s mind. It was the best way to remember the person he had once been — the kind of things he was capable of. The person he had become in the face of the loss of their father, with a straggle of younger siblings looking up to him. Except for her, right? She’d stood by his side – it had been them trying to fill up the gap Tarik Zidan had left in his family, the one their mother was refusing to fill with her own parenthood. And then Safiya had left for greener pastures and Samir had raged.

He’d never quite forgiven himself for that anger, just like he’d never quite forgiven her for looking for something better and brighter. It hadn’t helped, the way his mother would speak of Safiya and her abandonment, as if it was a betrayal on the full family. Time had given him perspective and nuance, but sometimes he was still eighteen years old, working two different jobs and watching his best friend go. Samir thought of that now, too.

But he thought of much more as she started approaching him and he started moving himself, taking as large steps as his legs would permit towards his sister. Sister. He thought of the intervals of reunion, that had become less and less over the years. He thought of how it must have been a decade, now — how unforgivable that was. He thought of how he missed her, that kind of companionship that was created in a house where you experienced the same growing pains. Or, well, most of the same ones.

“Safiya,” he answered. Why was she here? In this damned town? There were questions dizzying his mind, implications making his feet unsteady but there was no time to ask them all. Samir reached for her hand just as she had retracted it, but he just kept going. She had made the first move, but he’d make it definitive, taking her into his arms. A short hug, but one nonetheless. “I’ve missed you too. I — what are you doing here?” Let her be passing through, for whatever tourist-attraction had appealed to her. He was glad to see her again, but he could not let her see him, not in the full way — not in the way he’d grown to be, over the past half decade.

“Samir.” Every time Safiya repeated the name was a reminder that they knew each other. Despite the decade they had spent apart from each other, they were flesh and bone despite not being blood at all. Samir took her hand and they were six again, hiding in the abandoned lot underneath the crate fort they had put together and Safiya was showing Samir the cool frog she had caught, and he wanted to hold it too so they had sat there with their hands together, giggling the hours away until the street lights flickered on and they were forced to make the mad dash home before they got in trouble for being late. The way he had said her own name was a memory of home. A memory of their shared room with secrets about their classmates shared when they were supposed to be asleep. Had it really been a decade since their last visit? How cruel time was to move so fast without a second thought.

Safiya’s smile had bloomed as easily as any of the flowers in her garden. After their hug had ended, Safiya’s hands refused to let go of Samir’s. Her hands held tightly on to his calloused, scarred hands. Hands that had worked for a living. Doing what, Saf couldn’t answer, but she knew these hands. Their landscape may be different, but they were her brothers. “I live here.” Safiya cast a fond look over the farmers market. “For, gosh,” She let out a laugh. “Samir, I don't know if you know this, but we’re old now. I’ve lived in this town for at least thirteen years now. If not longer.” Safiya let out a soft chime of laughter as she thought about it, mixed with the joy of this unexpected reunion. “What are you doing here?”

She took his hands as if they were worthy of being held with such kindness and familiarity, as if they were still the same ones that had held hers when their father had died. They were calloused and rough things now, not just because of the labor in kitchens but uglier things and Samir swallowed, wanting to shove them in his pockets where they would become invisible. There was so much past between them, three decades worth of them — but then there was also that decade of absence that had followed. Where the world had turned on its axis and he’d been irrevocably changed and she must have, too. Not that he knew of all the things that must have happened. (He wished to know, but he couldn’t return that favor, so he figured he might never know her again as he once did.)

His hope had been for naught, as it always was. She lived here. Had been living here. Would be living here. Maybe she even knew of his place of employment, tucked in a corner of Worm Row. But she didn’t seem the type to visit, even now. “Thirteen years?” He echoed her words, as if he couldn’t believe them. Of all places, she was here. Where he’d trapped himself in a contract and cage. Samir pushed away those thoughts. “I’ve … been in town for a while, a few months. I live in Harborside, above Seven Seas?” It was posed as a question and he wasn’t sure why. “Shit. I should’ve — sorry, I should’ve come to find you.” He should have known she was here. “I got a job here, so that. Been surfing a bit, volunteering. You know. What about you?”

Safiya listened with rapt attention as Samir offered the structure of his life. A skeletal frame that outlined the day to day of his existence but lacked the depth and character of all the details she wanted to know. Is it comfortable? Do you have friends? Have you been eating? Are you happy? Each question would be a brick laid against the frame, fleshing it out and constructing it into the home of his existence. But the questions never made it off her tongue, as doubt flitted against her. Did she deserve to know these things? “No,” Soft smile, a tinge of sadness and regret because she was always incapable of keeping her emotions off her face. “No, don't be sorry. You didn’t know. I don’t think I ever said.” And if she had it was years in the past, and who could remember the last time they’d seen each other? Or the last time their email addresses had shown up on their computers, or even a text message lit up the phone. 

“Seven Seas, that’s the fish shop, right? I know the place.” One of Safiya’s hands dropped away from Samir, fumbling in her pocket then her wallet to pull out the piece of cardstock. “I run a hot spring, Over the Garden Wall. I also run a garden, although it's technically part of the home estate and not the hot spring.” A chime of laughter followed the statement, originally her mentor had said the garden was going to be the focus of the shop until her mentor discovered how to utilize the hot springs for wellness, but the garden was always the focus for the spell casters living there. “You should stop by. Any time. I can’t say I’m always there since well,” Safiya gestured the rest of the unspoken words, since she wasn’t there right now, “But I’m there most of the time. I want to hear about everything. Do you like your job? What do you do? Are you good at surfing now or are you still wiping out?” 

She told him not to be sorry, but at this point in his life Samir wasn’t sure what else to be, what else there even was to be. His entire existence seemed lined with regret, with the knowledge that the world would be better off without him in it — that his own incessant need for survival had cost and would continue to cost lives. He was sorry. For not keeping in touch with his siblings, all of them. For not calling mom enough, even though he knew she was growing older and lonelier as life went on. He was sorry, for never having asked Safiya where it was she’d ended up. He was almost sorry that she saw him now, this cracked and broken version of him. “Alright,” he said in stead.

He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, one of many. One of the better ones sometimes. Got a tiny place above it. Smells like fish most of the time, but I got used to it.” He took the card, looking it over and then up at his little big sister. “Wow, Saf. That’s pretty fucking cool. A hot spring, that sounds real relaxing.” He wouldn’t mind floating around in some hot water right about now. Samir thought of his scarred body, though, and the questions that would follow if Safiya were to see him in swimming trunks. It’d be weird if he showed in his wetsuit. “I’ll try to come by, okay?” He would try. “Maybe just to visit the garden. Have been helping out at the community one, at the center? That’s a nice one.” He grinned. “Still good at surfing, still better than you’ll ever be.” The question about his job remained unanswered, purposefully so. 

There was a second where further invitations touched the tip of her tongue, ready to burst through the barricade of her mouth. “You can stay with me if you want. I have plenty of room. Or a guest house, if you want it.” But the bravery to speak the words into existence faded as fast as it had surged through her. The words were swallowed back on her tongue. Left to recycle into new words. Because if Samir came and stayed with her, she couldn’t keep the magic secret. And if he found out about the magic, he would find out about all the lies she’d used to cover it. Safiya never left home to go to college, she left home to find a coven without knowing the word for it. There were a world of white lies that had shifted into an unmovable boulder of one big insurmountable truth. Magic was real and it was in her. 

“Yeah it’s a great place. You can come anytime. I’ll tell everyone to look out for you, even if I’m not there. Free access to all the facilities and all that. The family discount. All that.” It was weird, wasn’t it? The word family had always been more of a concept to her in recent days. A memory that was there but rarely accessed. A word used in daily conversation but always in regard to someone else. Not her. But now it was real and tangible and ten years felt like no time and too much time all at once. “The community center! That’s wonderful. Truly. But you’ll never be better at surfing than me, but it’s nice that you keep trying.” Safiya noted the lack of answer about the job. He looked rough, she wondered if he had a job. She wondered if she had the right to ask. Guilt, her oldest companion, seeped into her bones once more. The death of her mentor had left her with a networth in the millions, and her own brother was struggling. “Honestly, Samir. It’s so good to see you. Please come by anytime.” Take whatever you need or even want. 

The family discount, she said, as if it was all that easy. Of course, she had never stopped being his sister, the same way he had never stopped being his siblings’ brother — but Samir felt like he was without family. Like he had severed himself. Even if he wondered about all of them, so very often, those once-kids who’d given him purpose and now existed as fully functioning adults, somewhere better off than around him. He smiled at the offer all the same, because it was kind and it was inviting and he longed for these things, even if he was undeserving of it. He didn’t bother to offer the same thing in return: he wasn’t sure if the Grit Pit did family discounts, and even if it did, he wanted her far away from there. “Sounds good. I’ll … message ahead. Are you on that social network they’ve got here?” 

The center was wonderful. These corners that existed in so many towns were wonderful. Samir found hope in them, release and relief in the sheer idea that there were places where people looked out for one another, not for monetary gain but for other reasons. Goodness, usually. (What was goodness, anyway? He found it such an intangible idea, perhaps because it wasn’t meant for him any more. He’d felt good once though, hadn’t he? Burdened, but like a good person. Now he was hardly a person any more.) He blinked at Safiya, chuckled, “We’ll just have to go out and see, catch some waves here. Yeah?” It seemed good, to both open a door. To say let’s follow up, but to not quite do it yet. “It’s good to see you too, Saf.” But it was overwhelming too, undoing. He wanted to light a cigarette, but had a feeling she wouldn’t be a fan. Not that he knew — maybe she smoked like a chimney too, now. “Will see you around?”

“Everyone is on that site.” Saf replied, a laugh sparkling at the edges of her words. “It’s amazing that they got everyone in this town to forget about facebook to use it.” If her life hadn’t shifted away from traditional social media, would she have done a better job at keeping in touch? “You’ll find me under my name.” Nothing had changed. No one had been welcomed into her life to change her last name, she hadn’t sought a new one. Perhaps she should have. After she had left out on her own. Become a new person apart from the rest. 

“Yeah, we’ll hit the waves on a warm day.” Winter was coming, the air getting colder for them faster in the north. “I’ll show you my skills are unrivaled.” The conversation was over. The natural end. The awkward pause of two strangers wondering what came next. “Yeah. I’ll see you around.” Safiya reached for another hug. Another awkward moment before drifting back into the crowd with a simple wave. There was a static in her head. The kind that came after too many emotions loaded the senses, and the high if the adrenaline was living the body. Leaving behind a husk that had expanded to intake the new emotions, but was now empty. Too big for so little. Too unsure what to fill it with. Safiya looked back this time. 

“Sound. I’ll reach out.” He was surprised to find out that it wasn’t just said to be polite: he did intend to reach out to her. Samir wasn’t sure when or what he’d say, but the intention was there and it was jarring. All these years, he’d not let out much of a sound to his siblings, least of all Safiya. Admittedly, with her there had been the least guilt — she had once been the first to leave, after all. But she was here now, and so was he, and it wasn’t like there was anywhere else for him to go.

He let out an amused sound. “Afraid of a little cold, Saf?” Saf. The nickname felt so familiar in his mouth. Samir thought of how he’d often thought of her not just as his sister, but something like a twin — like the one person who understood. How far gone those days where, now. He accepted her hug, inhaling and wondering if she’d always smelled like this. He couldn’t recall. He remained standing as she disappeared, venturing in the crowds, and he tried to remember what he was here for, again. What he was supposed to get, what he’d already gotten. As he tried to focus on that, he caught another glimpse of her, looking back, and he smiled.

[iriswords]

Febuwhump Day 8 - Panic

You can also read this on ao3 and find the rest of my febuwhump fics here

tw: panic attack, ptsd, references to past child abuse, fear of abuse

Fandom: Avatar the last airbender

Words: 1869

Panic has been a constant in Zuko's life for a very, very long time. Like a wave, it comes and goes.

--

Zuko is used to not feeling safe. He is used to living with the constant dread that something bad will happen to him, that someone will get angry and punish him, that he will make a mistake and sourly regret it. From the moment he understands his father will not hesitate to hurt him, the palace stops being a safe place. Anxiety drums in Zuko’s chest at all times, and he watches for his movements and words, for the shadow of his father over his shoulder. 

It does not stop him from being burned and banished.

He lives in fear on the Wani, too. Fear of his uncle, at first, of what he may do to Zuko if Zuko isn’t obedient enough, if Zuko’s words are too harsh or hurtful. Zuko yells and yells and cowers in fear every time. He stomps away and waits, bristling with terror, for angry steps coming his way, for threats of punishment and hurt. They do not come. Eventually, the fear recedes. But, like a wave, it is never entirely gone. 

It spikes whenever he meets Zhao. It spikes whenever his uncle receives news from the palace. It spikes when he does something overly stupid that his father would have killed him for.

His uncle never hurts him. Never gets angry at him. Never threatens him. When they flee the North Pole and become traitors to the Fire Nation, Zuko’s fear has receded so far in him he could almost believe it is gone entirely. 

It remains so until Zuko betrays his uncle in Ba Sing Se. Zuko is back at the palace and fear is a constant in his mind. His breath is always shaky, dread coiled tight in his guts, waiting for the pain and the anger to come and swallow him whole. 

He does not dare visit his uncle, no matter how much he longs to. For three years, Iroh has been nothing but a source of comfort for Zuko. Now, panic surges in him every time he thinks of going to his cell and talking to him. He knows his uncle has no patience left for him, no kind words, no reassurance. Zuko betrayed him. He broke his trust, shattered it, even, and he does not deserve his uncle’s gentleness. 

He makes the mistake of panicking in front of his father exactly once. A hand coming too close to his face throws him into a pathetic spiral of broken apologies and pleas for mercy. 

He does not make that mistake again. The burn on his arm, a finger-shaped circle, heals in a matter of weeks. If Zuko focuses hard enough, he can still feel the searing pain and heat enclosing his arm. It reminds him too much of another burn. This one he still bears the scar of. 

He is strangely calm when he confronts his father, panic pushed to the back of his mind. He has spiraled enough times, alone in his room, as he worked out the details of his plan, and now the fear has receded to leave in its place calm determination. There are only two outcomes to this: success, or failure. Failure cannot bring more pain than Zuko was bound to endure when his father would have discovered the Avatar was still alive, anyway. 

He confronts Ozai, redirects his lightning. He breaks down later, once he is far away from the palace, his hands shaking and his breath so shallow he nearly passes out. 

He does not feel safer with the Avatar and his companions. Aang and the young earthbender are kind to him, though perhaps ‘kind’ is not the right word to describe Toph’s behavior. He knows they won’t hurt him unless he threatens them. 

The Water tribe siblings are different. They are dangerous, and he knows they don’t like or trust him. The girl, Katara, is the worst of the two. He deserves it, but his heart hammers in his chest when she threatens him. She is more terrifying than she probably knows. 

He masks his fear. It is a vulnerability far too easy to exploit, and he does not feel safe enough to expose it to them. He stomps, and grumbles, and asserts discipline during Aang’s training. He scowls and pretends to be confident and at ease. Inside, he is terrified. He holds back his flinches every time one of them moves too quickly or suddenly. He freezes when Katara talks to him, waiting for the blow to come, for the patience and the kindness to cease. If they notice, none of them say anything. 

He sleeps away from them, in his own room, where he can have nightmares and panic in the dead of the night without bothering anyone. He wishes, sometimes, when he wakes up choking on his sobs, that someone were there with him to comfort him. But he knows he does not deserve this kindness, not after everything he has done, and he doesn’t think anyone but Aang would be willing to offer it to him. (Aang is too kind for his own good. Zuko dreads the day his heart will be broken by this cruel, cruel world.)

At the Boiling Rock, Zuko’s constant anxiety stops, pushed away by his focus on the mission. His confidence is not fake, for once, but his mind catalogs everything that will nourish his anxiety later. He notices Hakoda’s height, the size of his hands, and the fierceness of his expression. He is not a man to be messed with. He is a leader, ready to do whatever it will take to protect his people. People Zuko has hurt. 

He searches Sokka for signs of fear. A flinch, as tiny and suppressed as it may be, stiffened posture, muscles tense with apprehension. He does not find any of that. 

It does not matter, in the end, that Hakoda does not hurt his children. Because Zuko is not Hakoda’s child, because Zuko is Fire Nation, because Zuko has hurt the people Hakoda is supposed to protect and care for. 

He stays as far away from the man as he can and does not interact with him unless he is forced to. Fear, terror even, grows and grows in his chest, until it is all-encompassing and Zuko barely remembers what it is to breathe freely, without this suffocating weight on his chest. 

One evening, as Zuko is passing around cups of tea Katara made—because Zuko apparently has no tea-making talent, something he was very sad to find out—when Hakoda reaches for a cup on the wooden tray. Were Zuko a normal and functional person, he wouldn’t have reacted. He would have let the man take his cup and would have moved on to the next person. But Zuko is not a functional person, and Ozai has made sure he understood at least that, if nothing else. All he sees, is a hand coming towards him, as large as Ozai’s, thickened and hardened by labor. 

Zuko recoils back and brings his hand in front of his face to protect it from the blow. The tray clatters to the ground, the cups shattering. And the blow does not come. Zuko’s ears are ringing, and his heart is beating so fast and so loudly he is certain Toph isn’t the only one who can hear it. All the terror that has grown in his chest for the past weeks explodes all at once when he realizes what he has done. 

He means to run away, to hide in a corner of the temple until his panic passes, but his feet refuse to move. His knees buckled underneath him, and shouts echo around him. He flinches away from them and curls up on himself as well as he can. Tears stream down his face, and his father will be angry, so angry that Zuko is showing such weakness. But he cannot calm down. There is too much noise around him, and he made a mistake. Punishment is bound to come, but Zuko is so tired of hurting. 

A hand touches his shoulder. He chokes on a whimper. The hand retreats and silence falls around Zuko. Something is wrong. The pain he was expecting does not come. He realizes, then, that he is not in Caldera, and that his father cannot hurt him anymore. 

Hakoda is crouching in front of him, brows furrowed in what seems to be worry. (Except it does not make sense, for him to be worried about Zuko.) Chit Sang’s face bears so much sorrow Zuko would think someone had died. The rest of the kids are all scattered around the fire, staring at him wide-eyed, their faces bearing various kinds of worry and sadness. 

Zuko throws himself on his knees before Hakoda and bows until his forehead touches the floor. Tears are still rolling from his eyes, and he cannot get them to stop. He dreads the punishment to come, but it is easier to accept it and move on than it is to resist. Resistance brings greater pain.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes to Hakoda. “I meant no disrespect. I do not—”

“Kid,” interrupts Hakoda gently. Zuko tenses up. What will Hakoda do? What will his chosen punishment be? He has no fire, but perhaps it makes his punishments more ruthless. “Zuko, it’s alright. You don’t have to apologize for panicking. You can’t control this.” Zuko knows he can’t control it. It has never stopped Ozai from being angry at him for being afraid.

“I will accept whatever punishment you see fit,” he whispers. 

Silence is the only reply. Did Zuko somehow offend the man? Did he mess up again? Is he bound to fail again and again and again in everything he does? 

“Please, look at me, Zuko,” asks Hakoda. Zuko obeys, his entire body trembling with a terror he cannot mask. Bundled in Sokka’s arms, Aang shakes with quiet sobs. Zuko caused this. “I will not punish you,” says Hakoda. Zuko wants to believe him. He wants the fear to cease, wants to feel safe, wants to stop waking up at night screaming from memories he’d rather burn. 

“Why not?” he asks. Some distant part of him understands. That not everyone is like Ozai or Azula, that some people are like Uncle and Mother. But he hasn’t had that in so long, hasn’t let himself have it. He doesn’t think he deserves it.

Hakoda makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. The children around the fire all look near tears. 

“Because nothing you did warrants punishment. And nothing you could ever do warrants brutal punishment. Pain in whatever form is never punishment.” He adds, softer. “Pain as punishment is abuse, Zuko.” 

Zuko crumbles, collapses on himself. All the terror he has felt for years comes down all at once, not quite gone but suddenly deflated. This time, he doesn’t flinch away when Hakoda touches his shoulder. He doesn’t resist when the man pulls him to his chest, and no terror rises in his chest. 

He does not yet feel safe. It is too soon for that; his mind is still too poisoned by the hurt his father inflicted upon him. But it will come one day. 

@febuwhump

[ladyempty]

"I fulfill my duties. One of them is taking care of you"

° | !English is not my first language. Sorry! | ° | pairing: Yan!Alicent Hightower x Stepson! Reader ° | This is a yandere work and may contain triggering behavior. I'm not in favor of that in real life.

Alicent knew her feelings were wrong, but she just couldn't help it. It was a burning fire contained for so long that it continued to spread despite his efforts and countless prayers.

She knew that the seven would punish her for her unforgivable sins. Coveting another man besides her husband, and to make matters worse a young man she should welcome as good mother.

His stepson, who already aroused a guilty interest in her even before the recent degree of kinship formed by his marriage. Your stepson always so kind and courteous, who never refused taking to the skies with his dragon accompanied by his younger sister, much to Alicent's great fear and slight jealousy, but he also never stopped listening to her when she had something to say

You just seemed to be perfect in every aspect of the word and with a beauty that could be compared to the Gods. Shaped by the gentle hands of father and mother, far from the treacherous claws of the stranger.

The sadness she felt at Rhaenyra's growing estrangement was nothing compared to the pain she felt when you looked at her with the most disappointed look she had ever seen.

The one look of betrayal that seems like it would always be marked in your mind like a scar.

She was doomed her by desiring him intimately in a way that could only belong to her husband.

The mere thought of someone so kind, in her eyes, being considered a work of temptation just seemed the greatest absurdity she had ever heard.

But his feelings were not simply limited to impure desire. It was something sweet, as sweet as you. Innocent, budding and blooming in a bright green field.

And this served as his moral and religious relief. It wasn't lust after all. It was love, passion, something she had never felt for anyone before.

Alicent never knew anything could be like this. This heat in your chest, these feelings so big that they barely seem to fit inside your slender body. It just felt like at any moment everything was going to explode. That the heart would force itself out of your mouth and fall at your feet, still beating and anxious.

She simply couldn't help but imagine you in Viserys' place in any simple interaction she had with her king and husband.

You would certainly care for her, you would certainly support her, you would certainly be kind and devoted to her, her prince charming, a thought and dream she had time to delude herself into.

And in return, she would be nothing but perfect for you and still be the least. She was practically kissing the ground you walked on, taking your every word as the purest truth without ever doubting.

Her first pregnancy was a strong, frightening blow, the overwhelming panic making her breast beat erratically. She knew it was her duty, her only duty, as queen and woman. But she never thought she would be as bewildered as she was. A hole opened below his feet.

A baby. If it was a boy, Alicent's salvation, but if it was a girl... It would be better not to even think about it. A prince or princess...

The initial confusion and panic wasn't the worst part. That was Viserys's baby and not his love's baby. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. She was married to the king, not his son. And the growing creature in her belly was her constant reminder.

Things got worse as the pregnancy progressed, she was completely alone at court, with the nannies and maids for company who tried to help her as much as possible.

Viserys spent much of his time in the council or in his own thoughts and the constant grief over the loss of his wife. Rhaenyra couldn't even bear to be in the same room as her and Alicent had truly never been more grateful that Daemon was away.

The only person who provided the slightest amount of care was you. Of course it would be you. You prince in shining armor.

She couldn't help but melt whenever you checked on her, just making sure of her well-being, even if there is still the persistent uncomfortable barrier between you. A barrier she would like to break as quickly as possible.

And so she did. Alicent is Otto's daughter, and an apple never falls far from the tree, even a green apple.

She quickly started with her little theater the moment her belly started to grow. Constantly grumbling under his breath when he stood for a long time, or becoming breathless after a brief walk whenever he had to accompany Viserys to banquets and important political events.

She spent sleepless nights, only to be left with dark circles under her droopy doe eyes. Always with a small, weak smile on his lips, observing from the corner of his eyes his features slightly furrowed in concern.

And then... that's it, the magic was done. His presence was now more constant, much less subtle and rigidly polished in verifications. His arm always there for her when she would sit down or to hold herself steady.

At banquets, you would carefully approach her, offering her something to drink or escorting her to her seat.

This continued to progress at a rapid pace, and before you knew it, you were caught up in Alicent's web. Attracted like a moth to the light. • In one day, You weren't close to her. And in the other You was lightly caressing the woman's belly, feeling your brother give little kicks.

And Alicent? She had never been so happy, simply glowing with pure joy. Viserys was getting sicker every day, Rhaenyra will get married soon and will be very busy with her own family under construction. Soon it will just be you and her. Happy forever.

[mcyt-imagines]

hi! love your writing! could you possibly do dating headcannons for technoblade?! possibly including some kissing/cuddling :)

I’m so sorry this took so long!! I’m finally on break so I’ll be posting a little more frequently for now! Also I got very carried away with this one,,,, um,,, it’s almost 4,000 words long,,, can you tell Techno is my comfort streamer?? And gender-neutral pronouns as usual! (Edit: This is C!Techno btw, didn’t think I needed to point that out seeing as we all know the actual streamer is not a bloodthirsty half-piglin man but I just got an angry anon in my ask box, so I’m specifying.))

Dating C!Technoblade HCs

Techno being half piglin shares their obsession with gold, and in turn, likes to gift you gold as often as he can. Usually, in the form of jewellery that matches his own, he even gifts you a ‘friendship’ emerald, embedded in a choker you wear most days. And of course, if you ask for it, he makes sure to acquire a crown for you to match his own. As a man who forges his own weapons, he is aware of the process of smelting and sure, he could make the jewellery himself but he’s not very crafty with his hands. Dealing with the small potion vials he uses to brew is difficult enough for his large hands, let alone something as finicky and delicate as jewellery. But when he’d asked you to make your relationship ‘official’ per se, he did persevere and make a ring for you, he ended up making several and scrapping too many he didn’t think were good enough. This continued until Phil had to intervene telling him that if he wasn’t gonna hurry up and ask you he was gonna do it for him, mortified at the thought Techno buckled down and despite the ring’s faults, which were only obvious to him, he gave it to you. You adored it of course, and then he told you he had made it, and it only made you love it more. Techno had underestimated how he would feel when he finally saw you wearing it, he almost killed Phil. The two had been sparring outside in the snow when you had come riding up from the nearby forest, the ring on your finger glinting against the early morning sun and stunning him. Him blindly thrusting his sword forward, head completely turned to you as you approached. Only turning away when he noticed your horrified expression. Thankfully Phil was fine, but you were banned from flashing anything too shiny whenever you came to visit. Techno never heard the end of it from Phil and yourself, however, teasing him for it whenever you had the time.

Techno is a man of few words, for the most part. His love language leans closer to physical touch and acts of service. This man craves your touch, you can hold him so gently in your small hands and he can hardly describe the feeling that washes over him. He wonders if he feels contentment, or if he just feels whole for once. The latter terrifies him because he has no idea what he’s going to do if he ever loses you. That’s a lie. He knows what will happen. The voices will finally win, and it’ll be over. He’ll be lost in the consciousness of a mind that was never truly his own, to begin with. But when you hold him he forgets about all of it, his mind feels clear and quiet. Even if it's just for a few minutes he cherishes those moments, holding you tightly to his chest and simply letting himself breathe. You are his rock, undoubtedly. And now that he’s lived without you for so long, he never intends on letting you go.

Techno’s favourite way to cuddle with you is when you’re both lying on the couch, you draped over him, head on his chest. Sometimes he’ll read to you and sometimes you’ll lie with him for hours, begging him to take a break for once. Even Phil can’t pull him away from his work on his worst days, but you never fail to tempt him with warm cuddles by the fire. Another one of his favourites has to be when every blue moon you wake up before him, he’s quite a light sleeper so once you stir, he’ll wake too. But if you manage to remain undetected and get downstairs he will groggily trudge down the ladder, shirtless and hair an absolute tangled mess. Without a word he will simply wrap his arms around you, pulling your back tightly against his chest and nuzzle his face into your neck all whilst grumbling that you left him alone to wake up. You will always giggle and apologise with soft kisses and a steaming cup of coffee, of course, he begrudgingly forgives you. Those slow morning cuddles as you cook are some of his favourites. When you desperately try to scoot around the small kitchen to stop the eggs from burning and he merely holds you tighter, strength easily holding you back as you whine out complaints as he chuckles against your neck.

Techno is such a sucker for you whenever you kiss his scars. He has a few on his hands that you will always target if you ever feel if he is getting quiet or distant. Your lips on his skin always pull his spiralling thoughts back to the present, back to you. Whenever he starts to feel less than human you practically drag the man to your shared bedroom to remind him of how human he is. Sometimes Techno will tell you the tales behind the scars you pay particular attention to, others he won’t, you focus on those the most. Doing your best to lighten the dark clouds that plague him on his worst days.

Techno isn’t one for a lot of PDA, content to hold your hand and occasionally kiss your forehead. However, if he ever feels threatened by any of the other members of the SMP he is likely to hold you close and glare down anyone who dares look your way. But Techno isn’t intimidated by anyone at the moment, meaning he has no reason to act particularly possessive whilst you’re out. This man adores your hands, he loves watching how small they look in his own. He’ll kiss along your knuckles, especially if you’re wearing the ring he gave you, he’ll murmur a soft, ‘Looking gorgeous your majesty.’ Just to watch the way you smile brightly at him when he does, almost always leaning forward to meet his lips with your own.

Techno is plagued by the memories of his past, the voices a constant reminder of this. He can handle them during the day, but it’s at night when he’s most vulnerable to them. The first time Techno wakes from a night terror you are practically thrown out of the bed as he violently jerks around. Which instantly sets you on alert, Techno sleeps like a rock usually. It’s only when you manage to stand up that you can see him, his body is caked in sweat, strands of his long hair sticking to his skin, the sheets are even damp from it. ‘Techno.’ You try to wake him, knowing he’s a light sleeper. But that doesn’t work. Eventually, you cautiously climb back into bed, tenderly holding his face in your hands, noticing tears slipping down his cheeks as he practically trembles. ‘Techno.’ You call his name again, nothing. ‘Techno!’ He shoots up, sending you flying backwards again in case he threw a punch with him. His eyes are wide, pupils blown out. You’ve never seen him look so terrified before, he scans the room, eyes darting every which way until his eyes finally land on you. ‘A-Are you okay?’ You probe, the tears start again, but they are silent and run quick down his cheeks. His breathing is shallow and quick as his eyes seem to lose focus, looking straight through you. You move closer to him, ‘Hey, hey.’ You coo, unsure what the hell is going on because of course, Techno wasn’t going to tell you he has night terrors. You take his face in your hands again, wiping at the tears on his skin. ‘Techno you’re safe, you’re okay.’ You speak clearly before he pulls you closer, shoving his face into your chest, his arms tight around your middle. You wrap your arms around him as best you can, repeating comforting phrases until his grip loosens, and eventually, he pulls you back down to lie with him. You don’t ask him about it until he mentions it the next morning over breakfast. You hold him close as he talks, face emotionless and eyes blank, trying to distance himself from the events even as he retells them. You deserve to know the atrocious things he’s done. And yet you still choose to stay. Even after everything he tells you, you don’t budge from his side. That speaks louder to Techno than any confession of your undying love could.

Techno is a wanted individual and just by interacting with him, you’re put in danger. But being his partner doubles that danger by tenfold. His enemies will see you as his weakness and desire to use you against him. So, he takes it upon himself to train you, he knows the last thing you want to do is be the cause for his capture or untimely death. As much as Technoblade claims he never dies, if it were your life or his he would not hesitate to sacrifice himself for you. This terrifies you beyond belief of course, so you agree to let him train you. No matter if you already are somewhat skilled Techno’s paranoia surrounding your safety will always encourage him to push your skills further. Most early mornings the two of you spend together, sparring for hours until the sun is high in the sky or until you grow too exhausted to continue. Which in the early days, was often. But there comes a day when you finally best him. He doesn’t remember if he was going easy on you or was distracted by his surroundings, scanning the perimeter. He only remembers the moment you knocked him down onto his back, you look down at him panting with such a shocked expression. Techno looks up to you and holds out an arm, you take it ready to pull him back up only for him to pull you down with him. Techno holds you tight to his chest, the sun warm on both of your faces as it reflects upon the surrounding snow. Neither of you speak but you both understand what this means, you’re ready.

Techno isn’t one for grand gestures to prove his love to you. The man is dramatic, sure. But he finds himself yearning for simplicity, and you provide it. He doesn’t tell you he loves you very often, he is a man of few words, you’ve always known this so you never expected it. However, his actions scream it to you. Countless times you have mentioned small complaints about little things in your life and Techno takes them on as if the draft in your window had a personal vendetta against him. As if it had threatened your very life. You’d never seen a man fix a window frame so aggressively before. It was funnier to watch than you’d admit to him if given the chance. On one particular occasion, you mentioned his absence from the cabin, his explanation of the importance of the Syndicate and the new room Phil and himself had constructed. You understood and didn’t mention it again, not thinking anything of it but a necessary and temporary inconvenience. Only for Phil and Techno to be set up at the kitchen table when you came downstairs the next morning, the table covered in tattered books and coffee spill-stained scrolls. You were confused for a moment, spotting the Syndicate plans, codenames, etc sprawled out in Phil’s chicken scratch. Until it clicked. Hauling all of the stuff up from the Syndicate room had been a bit of a pain but the way your eyes lit up in realisation was more than enough for Techno to know it was the right choice.  

This man cannot keep a secret from you. Most may think he isn’t very talkative, but you can hardly get him to shut up sometimes. Not that you’d ever want him to, eager to listen to whatever he has to say. He will always come to you when he feels he needs advice, knowing you will offer a fresh perspective that may give him the breakthrough he needs to make an informed decision. You are his rock and he never wants you to forget that. He may be more talkative with you but that doesn’t stop him from being a fantastic listener. Sometimes he can get zoned out when the voices become too much. In the beginning, you found it difficult to tell when he wasn’t able to listen, but after being around him for so long you’ve got a better knack for it. And sometimes you can’t and you keep talking, he’ll just silently press a hand to whatever part of you is easiest to reach. And that usually gets the message across. Sometimes you can pull him out of his own head, and other times you can’t. So you just sit with him in comfortable silence, usually, you’ll place your smaller hand in his and lean into him. The two of you have fallen asleep countless times like that.

However, sometimes the fact he can’t keep a secret from you leads to some comical miscommunication neither of the two of you foresaw. Phil, Techno and Ranboo had left for around a week in search of a new woodland mansion to raid, following one of Ranboo’s countless maps. Upon their return, Techno seemed visibly, off. He wasn’t being distant or getting lost in his own head, it was more as if he were actively avoiding you. Which was something very un-Techno. What made your worry increase tenfold was when you asked Phil if he had noticed any kind of difference the blonde merely shook his head. “He seems normal to me, mate.” Because there’s no way Phil didn’t notice Techno’s change in behaviour, which means they’re both hiding something from you. Knowing the two men quite well, you knew they wouldn’t break. But Ranboo would. So with your head held high, you sought out to find the boy, only to find out he was staying in Snowchester for the time being but would be returning in the morning. That night thoughts of self-doubt plagued you, wondering if it was something you had said or done that made Techno act strangely. But just as the moon was reaching its zenith, Techno came into your shared bedroom. He beckoned for you to follow him, after putting on some snow appropriate outerwear the two of you were on the back of Carl headed towards the forest’s tree line that faced the cabin. You asked Techno where you were going his only response, “It’s a surprise.” And to say your heart soared would be a slight understatement when the two of you finally reached the forest clearing. A small candlelit dinner for two inside of a dark oak gazebo. One that looked as if it had only been finished recently, the veneer on the wood still in impeccable condition as Techno led you over to it. You were truly floored by this display, stars illuminated in your bright eyes. “Phil and Ranboo helped. We brainstormed on our way back from the woodland mansion. And I, I knew I’d spill the secret the moment you asked. Sorry.” His apology and explanation are curt, much like the man himself.  You hold him tight then, arms wrapped around him for as long as he’ll let you. He chuckles after a while, “C’mon, the food’s getting cold.” He pulls away after pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, pulling your chair out for you because Phil told him to. The blush you provide lets him know he should do it more often. As the two of you begin to finish your food you hear the soft strumming of a guitar and an equally soft voice to match. Floating atop one of the branches in a nearby tree, as if he were trying to sit on it, is Ghostbur. He sends a small and quick wave when you spot him before his hand drops back down to his guitar. “Wow, you really pulled out all the stops for this, huh?” You look back to Techno to find him now stood up, offering his hand to you. “For you. Anything.” You take his hand and he leads you into the middle of the gazebo with a grace you always knew he had. Ghostbur continues to serenade, the two of you dancing in your own private world until the moon was low on the horizon once again.

Whenever Techno leaves to go and fight he knows you worry about him. You do not doubt his skills but his luck is bound to run out eventually. Skill and resources only account for so much of the outcome, luck and fate determine the rest. Techno worries when he leaves to fight as well. He worries about what will happen if he ever loses. When his enemies will come for you, his past now liable to catch up with you as well as himself. He can’t have that happen. That’s why he keeps fighting, he won’t stop until he knows that if he ever falls in battle you will be safe from his enemies past or present. When Techno eventually does get back from the battle, without fail you will swear up and down that he cannot keep doing this and that next time you’re going to leave him to bleed out in the snow on the porch. You never do. But some days Techno thinks you’d be better off if you did. But those are the kind of thoughts you happily kiss away with a soft smile and a few gently spoken words. You are always the one to patch him up when he’s injured, which isn’t often but you remain swift with sutures and bandages despite that. No matter how badly he’s been injured you will always hold him so reverently, with such a gentle expression that it never fails to floor him. Most sessions in which you patch him up devolve into soft gasps and warm hands on your body to repay you for your ‘services’.  

Techno knew you were different from the moment he met you. He acknowledges how stupidly cliché that is, but it’s true. The constant chatter of the voices in his head drowned out the first time he saw you, even if it was just for a moment. They stuttered and stammered, just as he did. You floored them as much as you floored him. When you were with him, they would quieten. As if they wanted to concentrate on what you were saying as much as he did. Not even Phil made the voices act in such a way. Only you. Nowadays they only bother him on certain bad days that grow more and more infrequent the longer you are in his life. You drown them out in a way nothing else in his life ever has. He doesn’t know how he can ever repay you for that but vowing to be by your side for the rest of his life seems to be a good enough start for the two of you.

The first time Techno tells you he loves you is when you’re in battle together. Techno, Phil and yourself had decided to raid a woodland mansion, something all three of you had done before with no trouble. But upon arriving, everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong. This led to the three of you becoming separated within the confines of the thick wooden walls. You were managing to keep a level head but fear was growing in the pit of your stomach. With every vindicator you took down another only seemed to replace it, leaving you tired and heaving for air. You were in good shape all things considered but you were getting tired and soon you would get careless, you needed to find Techno and Phil and get the hell out of here before things got worse. Your totem of undying tied tightly to your waist glints against the setting sun pouring through the large floor to ceiling windows as you charge past, enemies remain at your back as you plough forward heading for the set of stairs you know are here somewhere. As you spot the sacred stairs you hear a shout of pain followed by a deep snarl. You look over the stairs balcony to see Techno swarmed by a group of stubborn Vex. He looks exhausted. Bloodstains him, you’re unsure whether it’s his, the enemies, or a combination of the two. Techno fails to notice the Ravager charging towards him from behind, the axe raised high above its head. The half-piglin far too distracted by the Vex and the aiming of his crossbow at their stupid little bodies. It takes only a moment for you to vault over the second-floor railing and plummet towards the Ravager. You land on its shoulders and it stumbles, your hand shoots out to restrain its axe-wielding arm. The other hand desperately clawing at you as it grumbles and groans grow high pitched and panicked. Your legs wrap tightly around its throat until you hear a sickening pop and you fall to the ground along with the now very dead Ravager. You don’t manage to catch yourself, despite the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You let out a soft groan as a hand comes into view, Techno following it. You take his hand and he hauls you back up and onto your feet. Now that you’re closer to him you can tell that some of the blood staining his clothing is his, but you’re sure you mirror his look. He doesn’t let go of your hand now that you’re stood up and neither do you. You look up from your entwined hands to his face, he’s staring at you with an expression you can’t quite determine. “Tech-“ His lips plant firmly onto your own, swallowing your words instantly. He grips the small of your back, trying to pull you closer into him as if the two of you could fuse into one single being. When he finally pulls away to let you breathe your lungs are burning, soft gasps heaving in air. “I love you-” He mumbles the phrase repeatedly against your lips like a prayer, a mantra, only to capture your lips again before you can even respond to his confession in kind. Eventually, the two of you break apart long enough for you to be able to tell him you love him as well. You knew he loved you before that moment, but in reality, he finally realised how much he loved you. And for the first time, it didn’t scare him.

~Requests are still open! But it’s a little full so please be patient!~

[loth-wolffe]

Hello hello! Congratulations on your milestone!! So happy for you!!

I really like your blog and your writing! I LOVE how you write soft crosshair.

I wanted to know if I could request a fic with the one and only Captain Rex?

With number 9 and 39 from the lyrics prompt list, pretty please?

Something along the lines of them not having seen each other in a while, cuz you know, the clone wars.

they are kinda nervous, afraid the other doesn't feel the same way anymore :'(

BUT THEY DO LOVE EACH OTHER SO SO SO MUCH IT HURTS AND IT'S LIKE REUNION, HAPPY TEARS, LONG AWAITED KISSES AND HUGS.

I JUST- WHAT THE HELL I- THANK YOU SO MUCH??? youre so kind! *sends a kiss to a planet Earth image* for u, wherever u are. anyways this ask is FANTASTIC OMG. thank you so so so so much for requesting this.

also added my sweet @intergalactic-padawan request that was prompt 43 bc I realized I was writing pretty much the same thing so yeah.

hope you guys like it!

It's been a long, long time.

Pairings: Captain Rex x reader (no y/n)

Prompts: 9. Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do. - Like real people do by Hozier, 39. I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me. - Ivy by Frank Ocean and 43. Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again, it's been a long, long time. - It's been a long, long time by Harry James

Warnings: a bit sad I think? reader feels very anxious bc they don't know if rex loves them still. but it's fluff I swear. like, very very very fluffy.

Word count: 1,1k bc I can't control myself and make actual drabbles.

He had been away for too long. You had begun to forget his touch, the sweet taste of his lips, the goosebumps his fingers left on your skin, the warmth of his caress. Days blurred together with the only constant thing being how much you missed him, heart longing, aching quietly, mourning for the emptiness it feels, tired, desperate, for the day Rex comes back to fill it again.

There were nights where you fell asleep with tears running down your cheeks, afraid you might never see him, trying to forget the dull ache your heart felt with every beat it gave, breaking just a little bit for him, swelling with love for a man you barely saw.

You hated him sometimes, just to justify the torrent of emotions that slowly consumed you with every day that passed, a filthy lie you told yourself to push away the pain, the tears that gathered in your eyes, how the memory of him fogged your mind and couldn't, wouldn't, let you rest. You hated how much you loved him, and in the anger of it you wished he felt the same, but then again you didn't, because maybe the ghost of you distracted him enough to make him sloppy, careless, maybe your ghost stopped him from coming back to you, took his hand and dragged him away.

It became a habit, to wake up in an empty bed, make your own caf, and wait for the day to end. The empty spot he left always following you around, and you learned to dance around it, never touching it, never moving it, but letting it be, becoming one with you because you'd rather have that than nothing at all.

It was all routine, one that slowly stuck to your nature, with him becoming a presence you that scarred you, probably, for life.

Quick texts and short conversations was all you got from Rex, unable to give you more, and for you to ask for more, leaving you both in a limbo, not knowing where you stood anymore.

Which led you to this moment, nervousness bubbling in your chest like some sort of venom, thick and foul, spreading through your body fast and corrosive.

His shuttle had just arrived, and between the many troopers you were looking for his distinctive uniform, the pauldron standing tall and the Jaig eyes making the search easier.

You feel sick at the mere thought of having him in front of you.

Does he looks the same? Same hair, a new scar maybe? Will he still like how you laugh, or call his name? Does he kiss, touch, feel the same? Do you?

Does he love you still?

It's been too long, too long.

You fidget with your shirt and your eyes sometimes find the floor, flickering through the different buckets, a couple of Jedi pass by, some pilots, a few droids. No one is your man.

Anxiety starts to make you feel dizzy, sound begins to feel too distant, and has your heart always been beating this quick? You can't breath properly.

Where is Rex? Is he–

Tears fill your eyes as a sigh leaves you, relief washing over you as find him, uniform a bit dirtier than the last time you saw it, blasters at both his sides and the kamas move matching the confidence he carries himself with as he comes to meet you. You can't see his face and the fact stirs something unpleasant in you, self doubt slowly poking it's ugly head.

Are you still beautiful in his eyes?

You always hated the way his helmet shields him from you, not letting you know what he's feeling, is he disgusted, happy, sad? Is he as nervous as you are? You can never tell.

Your head falls slightly once he's in front of you, and you're glad he can't hear the frenetic beat of your heart.

He calls your name with a formality that surprises you, you look everywhere but him, searching new scratches in his armour, finding a few stains that weren't there before.

He doesn't make any sign that he might want to hug you or touch you, and neither do you, standing at a safe distance that it might look like you're just co-workers or less.

Your hand itches to feel him.

"Rex." You let out, trying to find his eyes behind the bucket, he looks stiff, frozen, like something weights on him heavy and awkward.

Your mind wanders to the worst of places.

He lifts his bucket and tucks it under his arm, shy eyes search for something in yours, and yours searching for anything that might be different from the last time you got to see his pretty face.

No new scars –not visible at least–, same short blond hair, same irises that remind you of the sun and that matches it's warmth. He looks just the same, yet you don't know if his feelings stayed.

Maybe... maybe he met someone else, what if he–?

"Hi." He says in a breath, as if he had been holding it for far too long, and is enough for your tears to cascade down your cheeks as a smile breaks through your face.

"Hi yourself, trooper."

Rex wraps your body in his arms, pulling you flush against him, face hiding in your neck as he breathes you in. He almost cries, right then and there, you smell just like he remembered, like something sweet, something like home.

It's comforting, really, to know nothing has changed between you two in a galaxy that always seems to be.

And just like that, you know you're fine.

You whisper his name, and when he looks up he wastes no time in pressing your lips together, a tender little touch that is just a taste of what's to come, of what words can't express, and you find yourself holding him tighter, afraid he might be an illusion, a dream, a distant memory you thought forgotten. But it's still there. He is here. Kissing you like real people do, not a vision, not a wish nor a dream.

It is him in your arms, and you in his.

"I love you," Rex blurts when you pull away for air, in a whisper, as if he didn't want anyone but you to hear, scared of rejection but even more scared of you never knowing. His lips brush with yours, uncertain, timid, foreheads touching.

You feel like dreaming, like you're walking over the clouds, floating away in a perpetual state of pure love, heart feeling so full you might think it's about to explode.

"Kiss me." You plead and he delivers, pushing you to the closest supply box, inhaling sharply when your nails softly scratch the skin at the nape. It's filled with a longing that had been caged for too long, and it's messy, teeth clashing and noses bumping, tongues re-exporing and you don't think you have felt this good in a long time.

Before he can pull away properly, you connect your lips again, and again, and again, until they are swollen and you're panting for air.

It's been too long, and you have missed him so much, and you don't know how to tell him, how to let him know all and every emotion that has tormented you since you met him, so you try to summarize it in four simple, but powerful words.

"I love you too."

taglist: @foodandbooksplease @dottiechan @ladykatakuri @tacticalsparkles @lightning-wolffe @baroclinicinstability @murdertoothpick @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s @space-girl-and-droids-art @shygirl268 @hellothere-generalangsty

[jadelynlace]

Ink Drinker / Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter 6

catch up here!

synopsis: Ivar was only meant to be a friend with benefits, but he caught feelings for his older brother’s best friend, and co-worker: you.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

***content warning [PLEASE READ]: this chapter has the after effect of the trauma call, and too many emotions. surgical mentions and medical terminology are in this chapter as well. anything in italics indicates a flash back.

author’s note: I’m so sorry.

 ~

“Floki, why can I be left alone?” Ivar asked.

“Because the last time you were left alone you ended up with fifty thousand milligrams of pain killers in your stomach. Now, come here—do you know this?” Floki replied with his fingers taping the photo copied image.

“I drew that.” Ivar said back.

“Yes, you did. Where do you want it?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You hate your body so much why don’t you cover it in something you like?” 

*

It is sixteen hours that Ivar is in surgery. His world is dark, nothing but, with pierces of noises that he can recall. But trying to decipher them only makes the surroundings dull, caked in black and muffled with a buzz of an unruly bee hive. There are pokes of pain, he remembers the green light, and he remembers the pot hole he swerved to miss. He doesn’t remember how fast he was driving and the second he was over the yellow line made no difference for the sudden beast of a truck to find him. 

Everything below Ivar’s powdered knee caps are reattached. Grueling hours on the table while he’s sewed back together like a monster. Enough time for Hvitserk to get clothes, to get you clothes, to pack a bag for his brother per your request. Even in the presence of clean laundry you can’t take your blues off yet—they’re holding you proper because you just saw Ivar that morning. You two made love in the low morning light, filled with ecstasy, his seed and then he made you eggs with extra hot sauce and hugged you tightly you were sure you stopped breathing. He told you to be safe, baby, like he did at the dawn of each shift and that he would call you when his last appointment was finished, and on his way back from shopping for supplies for the parlor and that you two would make lunch plans. In his speed, his haste to make sure he didn’t miss you before the two tone song of death would sing in the radios, he instead, became the reason it did.  

Your chief shows up when you tell him the nature of the emergency. Pulling additional personnel on for overtime and they take the rig out of service and from your hands. Words don’t spare any differences and although he offers you a hug, when you take it he slips you a piece of paper. 

“Remember the job you’re doing. And the change you’re making.” He whispers in your ear and you look at the folded sheet. It’s a photocopy of a poorly drawn fire truck with an even worse sketched stick figure, and you had scribbled it when you were five. Back when you met chief for the first time because now you hold the same badge number your father once did. 

“If I give you your Dad’s old badge number, are you going to act like a jack ass like him?”

“I can’t make any promises chief.”

“I have a partner in mind for you, you’ll like him. He’s a good kid. A good medic.”

“This good kid got a name?”

“Yeah, Hvitserk. I’ll introduce the two of you.”

This is the call that shapes you as a medic, as a provider, and changes how you see things. This is the call that sends a new person out into the street, whether Ivar lives or not. This is the call that forever holds terror in your heart because he was laying in the back of your ambulance, and that was the one spot you never wanted him to occupy. 

Aslaug walks through the doors and she’s already two tissues deep into a soggy mess. Hugging Hvitserk and hugging you and you wish you were meeting this woman for the first time under any other circumstance. Floki thanks you and you don’t quite know why, even though the words fall heavily and un-calming, he still thanks you. And when the surgeon returns before the four of you, you’re the only one that doesn’t stand. But he calls your name because you know him, he was lab staff that tested you for your certifications and he told you that you’ll make a damn good medic one day. 

“Remember what I said on the day of your exam?” He asks and you nod, puzzled and impatient looks on the other faces. “You are a damn good medic—you both are.” He adds, eyes jumping from yours to your partners. “And it shows on this call, of all of them.” Hvitserk’s shoulder nudges you and you only nudge him back, perhaps little too hard in your delirious state. “Essentially what we did, was replant the lower portion of each leg. Now, given the extent of his injuries and how his body handles such, I don’t have a clear cut answer for you on his overall mobility. He may need to have screws implanted, he may need prosthetics. He’s going to be in the ICU for the next 48 hours for constant monitoring. We’ll have him sedated so his body can focus on what’s at stake. He’ll need physical therapy for a long time, and he’ll likely be disabled for the rest of his life, given again, how his body handles this. It’ll be a long road. But, like I said—you two are damn good medics and that is the one reason his legs were able to be saved. I will let you know when he’s moved to the ICU.”

You look back at your partner and his face is as blank as yours; influx of emotions just ready to dive from the void but your minds are still churning, still processing all of what boomed from the doctor’s mouth. Ivar’s chance at returning to a normal life was resting in your hands and you two gave the best damn efforts and they worked. The countless hours of dissection, wondering if you’re cut out for this career, these responsibilities, hours of trauma and blood and vomit all fizzle away because you now know that you are. And it just took Ivar to prove it.

When your eyes open again there’s a sharp pierce in your temple, scrunching eyes together and slowly moving, your head rises from Floki’s shoulder and the lights in the ICU have dimmed in the late hour. Impressions stood between his nostrils, falling like petals over his cheekbones, bleeding through split brows and pink flowers through the depths of his neck. His chest sinking and fainting with time, there was a moment of deafening silence when you are looking at his body; seemingly so small under the contraptions. The depths of earth, and the worst hell was seeing him lay on this cot. He’s only sedated now, even though Ivar looked of death, he was still alive under the harvest of wires. The words of how “we’re doing all that we can” do not bring any more comfort, they just take Ivar like a wave rapidly back out to sea. And now you understand how your patients, and their families feel when you speak the same phrases to them. The clinical assessments do not stop a rigorous schedule, motoring for the possible failure. The room is kept warm, and every so often when you will yourself to peek in, you can see the sheen of sweat that’s over Ivar’s forehead, dancing across his chest under the stickers, the monitors. The capillary refill on his toes show promise, and when the nurse says that to her doctor, you find yourself attempting the same motions on your thumb nail. Pressing the pink away and making room for the white, and then in a quick release, the pink swarms back. The ultra sound machines reminds you of the new equipment in your rig as it assess arterial blood flow every hour.

IV bags drip, slow and agonize and the change of wrappings, dressings and cleaning of both the limbs and Ivar himself collect. You spend hours watching the fluid levels sink, his eyes flutter, his fingers in his hand dance and you grow cold because you just want to hold him. To lock him in a steel tower and to constantly remind him how strong he is, because you know the longest road will not come from learning to walk. It will come from Ivar trying to find that he is worthy to live on.

Blackness had retired across your cheeks, wrapping a veil of makeup that melted into battle scars and you could not move if your body depended on it. Aslaug sits next to you; she takes her time wiping the makeup off from under your eyes, the soiled mascara and she’s humming to you. She had been telling you how when Ivar was young, she would sing to him and it would calm him down. How she sang to him in the hospital after he tried to overdose, tubes pumping his stomach as she blamed herself for such wrong doing. How Hvitserk blamed himself because he gave no one a warning cry. And how she’s singing to Ivar now, even though he can’t hear it, because it comforts the three of you as a whole. 

When your eyes follow the nurse into the room, you can hear her say something to Ivar and you watch his head turn in confusion. Grogginess and a fog on his brain as she talks to him like it’s a normal conversation; wishing him a good morning, how the weather looks promising for a beautiful day and you wish you had that level of bed side manner. You never get the promising parts of the journey; you get the patients that are coding and in a rush to the life saving team in the hospital. You love the ones who tell you their entire live’s story in the back of the rig on the way to the emergency room, sharing details and calming your mind with how simple, and yet how different every walk of life is. The nurse says something about you, about Hvitserk and Aslaug and Floki, out and waiting and ready to see him when he’s fit. You wave through the glass and there’s the tease of a smirk on Ivar’s face, even in his slightly sedated state. A dastardly, bastard smirk and his hand lifts off the bed slightly, wiggling his fingers back to you. The tears start up again, pounding a sledge hammer through your skull after all of the unruly pressure and messes of crying as your body tries to go numb.

“Where’s my mom?” You hear Ivar say in a voice that muted slightly as the nurse stands in the door way to exit. “Can I see my mom?” And the nurse nods. Aslaug stands and kisses your hair line as she walks into the vicinity, Ivar watching her and you need to back up, you need to walk away from the room, this hall way and this battle. A faint wheeze goes through your chest and Floki catches it first before Hvitserk has a chance to lift his head and open his eyes.

“Let’s walk, dear,” Floki says and his voice is not authoritative but it still demands you to comply as he loops an arm around your shoulder. “Walking can help to clear the mind.” It’s your first time outside in almost three days, and the sunlight burns you like you had been its victim on a sand covered shoreline for one too many hours. The hospital grounds are manicured, they’re neat and arranged with an abundance of flowers and colors in the open air but everything to you still feels so dull and lifeless, pointless and hopeless and walking only churns your thoughts to double, triple in size like a snow ball rolling down a hill. 

You’re finally allowed in to see Ivar and you approach slowly, like touching him will seer you suddenly, stain you with a unremovable pattern and you’ll forever be reminded. His blue eyes are dull and groggy when they open, the nasal cannula wrapping his face and your eyes dance over the scurf collecting on his jaw, and the faint bruising, cuts and scrapes on his skin.

“Hey baby,” His voice rasps and you kneel by the bed, tears already on their journeys to streak your tried skin and Ivar’s needle poked, IV covered arm comes to wipe what he can reach. “You were there, weren’t you?” And you can only nod, eyes still damp and you relish in the touch he gives you only if it’s for a second. “You saved my life, baby,” Ivar finally adds and that makes the whimper start again, the choke of a sob in your throat and he tries to quiet you, slithering a quick noise from his lips and you rest your head against the bed, his hand still on your hair. 

“I drove the ambulance over a hundred miles an hour,” You finally say and they’re the first words you can use to process the trauma you two had lived through together.

“That’s my girl,” Ivar smiles, speaking with a voice that sounds like sandpaper.

“I love you Ivar—no matter what happens, I love you so much,”

“I love you too, Y/N,” Ivar says and his voice is weaker now and he needs rest. “Kiss me before you go?” He says with eyes scanning your face, and you can’t deny that now. Pressing your lips softly against his, your hands cupping his cheek and you hope it’s not the last kiss you’ll ever get from him. “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” Ivar tells you. “I’m afraid. But I’m not going anywhere,” You nod as he speaks, a forehead against his for a second and his hand is still trying to reach on you where he can. This is the man that would pull the tubes and the wires from his chest if he could, if that would make him get closer to you. “You’re stuck with me,” And there’s a faint snicker after his words, weak and drowned out from the normal tone but you’ll take it after not hearing his voice for three days.

“I’m stuck with you,” You say back with a small smile. But it still doesn’t bring enough hope.

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @istorkyou @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @ivarhoegh @a5hl3y5ibley @hashimily @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @tgrrose @synnersaint @kataphine

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

[mcmoryfound]

bc i got distracted, may i offer some headcanons for Toushiro’s scars & injuries

both attempts to fight Aizen

   - first fight: giant one going through his chest & completely through his right shoulder.

   - second fight: two thinner scars, going around the left shoulder & bit below the knee

most hated scars by him. constant reminder of being weak & emotions taking over in worst moment possible. despite knowing that he shouldn’t pay too much attention to them, he has a habit of scratching them, mostly on the shoulders. questioning them will only give people one worded reply of ‘Aizen’ & complete refusal to get into any further details.

rest of the scars are something he doesn’t pay too much attention to & is willing to admit what exactly happened.

fight with shawlong

   - two faint marks, in some places completely faded, officially going from his abdomen to the shoulders on each side. if it wasn’t for Inoue, these would’ve looked way worse

tybw

   - burn scars going from his right side to the left shoulder & on his right knee from when he was shot by Bazz-B

other commonly seen injury is of now light frostbite on points where he’s covered with ice during bankai. usually they seem to be more of spots than fully covering. they also became weaker with time as he mastered hyorinmaru’s powers. in earlier days it could cause way worse damage

[averytiredfanfictionwriter]

The Immortals- Chapter One

This is a Dream SMP Au in which the protagonist, Dream, and Phil are part of a race of immortals that walk the earth among the hybrids and humans. I hope you guys enjoy. I’ll also be including the Ao3 link if you want to read it on there instead. Enjoy. (And please ignore the fact that character here is also a dragon hybrid. They are not the same character from my last story on here) Trigger Warning/Content Warning: Blood, violence

Chapter Two

Ash opens the door to the bedroom slowly, so as not to wake the young man currently sleeping in the bed next to the window.

His wings lay over him, shielding his body should anything decide to attack in the middle of the night while he’s asleep and she approaches warily.

“Dad!” A young child runs by her, startling her out of her stalking and waking the man up.

“Good morning,” he yawns.

“Good morning Phil. I tried not to wake Tommy up, but turns out he’d crawled into bed with me last night and refused to let me get up without him as well.” She says, grabbing Tommy from the bed where he’d started to jump up and down at the end of it.

“Ah, well, probably for the best.” Phil says as he watches Ash set Tommy down onto the ground where he promptly runs off to do god knows what.

“Techno and Wilbur are outside fighting each other again. God knows what it is they’re fighting over this time. I was going to get them myself, but was worried I'd get trapped in the middle of them.” Ash frowns and Phil shakes his head.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got them if you can handle Tommy for a few minutes.” Phil steps out of bed, his dark wings stretching out slightly.

From the moment Phil and Ash first met, she’s been hesitant to join in on any kind of fighting. She’s never explained why and Phil’s never asked, assuming it has something to do with whatever happened before they met, seeing as she’s more than 500 years older than him.

“He’s four years old. I think I’ve got this.” Ash laughs, leaving the room in search of the child.

Phil groans as he wonders about whatever the two older children are fighting about this time. Ever since they got older, the inseparable duo have become engaged in constant verbal and physical battles. Honestly, Phil is getting tired of it but he has no idea how to stop it.

He changes into a long robe for the day, leaving the bedroom and seeing Ash chasing Tommy around the living room, eventually catching him by wrapping her wing around him as he tries to get around her. He smiles softly at the sight, hearing the giggles from Tommy and seeing the joy in Ash’s eyes. He would rather have no here by his side, especially after losing Kristen.

Steeling himself for the inevitable scuffle that’s going to happen when he tries to break up the boys, he opens the front door and his mouth immediately drops to the ground. Techno stands with his back to the house, towering over an unmoving figure on the ground, his long sword dripping blood into the grass. Scratches cover his body and a slowly spreading patch of red stains his shirt.

Phil screams, an unintelligible sound, startling the dragon hybrid into almost dropping Tommy on the ground in shock, just barely managing to land him on the couch where he sits giggling.

She runs out the door and her heart immediately drops at the sight in front of her. Phil kneels next to Wilbur’s body, hands pressed to his abdomen in a futile attempt to stop the flow of blood.

Ash runs to them, falling to her knees as she presses her hands to Wilburs body, the healing magic flowing through her fingers and repairing the damage done by Techno, who now sits against a tree a little ways away from everyone.

The jagged wound in the boy's chest slowly closes up, leaving only a faded scar as a reminder of what happened. Techno watches on, emotionless on the outside but internally screaming at himself. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He didn’t mean to fight Wilbur. It was just supposed to be a sparring session, but the voices that had slowly been popping up started to demand he hit harder, stop pulling his punches and aim for the more tender spots of his opponent. One thing led to another and the next thing he knew he was standing over the body of his brother, watching as he bled out into the front lawn.

Wilbur gasps softly, taking a deep breath in as Phil clutches onto him, hugging his son close to him.

Phil looks up to where Techno is sitting, practically burning holes into Techno with his stare. “Get away. Now.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, standing and walking past his brother and adoptive dad, who sit on the ground hugging each other.

Ash stands, watching Techno leave, seeing the confused look on Tommy’s face as he watches from the doorway. She follows after him into the house, telling Tommy to stay on the couch for a little bit.

Knocking on the door of the bathroom, Ash can hear the water being turned off before it swings open, a confused Techno standing on the other side.

The medical kit sits opened up on the counter and she sees the bloodied shirt Techno wore discarded on the floor.

“May I?” She nods towards the medical kit and he moves out her way wordlessly, letting her into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her.

Stringing the needle silently, she starts work on stitching the long cut. He doesn’t make a noise, as unmoving as a statue while she works. She would use her magic, like usual, but she used up her energy practically bringing Wilbur back from the dead.

“Why?” Techno asks after some time, not questioning why she helps people, but mostly why she’s in here helping him having seen what he did.

“Because I know you didn’t mean it. I know what it’s like being persuaded to do things you don’t want to do, and I know how you feel. I’ve hurt a lot of people in my very long life, and I can tell you that that’s not the worst I’ve seen. And I don’t hate you. Phil doesn’t either. He’s just hurt and worried for Wilbur right now. That’s a very scary thing to have to see as a father.” Ash finishes stitching up the wound and bandaging it, looking up at the piglin hybrid's face to see tears glinting in his eyes.

Before she can say anything, he’s already wrapping his arms around her in a hug, letting her cradle him to her chest on the ground and hold him as he lets the silent tears roll down his cheeks. She doesn’t know how long they stay there in that position, but soon she can hear the almost inaudible snores from Techno and smiles at how adorable the young piglin hybrid is when sleeping.

After a few moments of thinking, she knows what she needs to do. The only hard part will be convincing Phil it’s the right thing.

[weepylucifer]

Tosses another dinluke at you. This one’s about caring for each other

Luke awakens from uneasy sleep filled with nightmares, and immediately can tell that today is going to be terrible.

The occasional phantom pain in his wrist, that he can take. The old, flaring ache, the strange feeling that the hand is still there, which somehow makes both wearing and not wearing the prosthetic feel uncomfortable - well, it’s a drag, but it’s only one part of his body. With meditation to aid him, he finds he can usually sequester it off, away from the rest of him, and go through his day more or less like normal. But sometimes, each and every scar caused by the Force lightning clamors in pain, especially when he’s been dreaming about how he got them. This is the worst, because he hasn’t found a good way to cope with it yet. He can’t make the pain stop, and it’s driving him up the walls.

There’s no way he can teach his padawan like this.

Fortunately, Grogu’s father is visiting, and will probably be more than happy to entertain the kid for a day.

Luke hasn’t gotten the measure of the Mandalorian yet. He talks little, projects an aura of intimidation, being covered in armor all over like that, but he seems very attached to his child, so attached that Luke reckoned upon getting Grogu that breaking their bond would do a lot more harm than good. He’s come over for a few visits to far, and he practically curls over Grogu like a loth-cat over its young. But Luke doesn’t exactly know anything about him besides that.

Also, it’s dawned on Luke that he knows nothing about Mandalorians. He knows Boba Fett is one, but that’s pretty much it.

So he’s not exactly comfortable admitting his plight to the man. What if he perceives it as weakness? So when he emerges from his bedroom to greet him, he is brief, almost curt, making himself speak through the pain.

“I’m sorry, but there’ll be no lesson today. Can you just watch Grogu for me? I’m... something else has come up.”

The Mandalorian looks... like an expressionless helmet on a suit of armor. But his voice betrays some surprise when he says, “Um, yeah. Sure. Not a problem.”

He’s justified in his surprise; Luke has never cancelled Grogu’s lessons before. “Thanks,” Luke says and repeats, “Sorry this is on such short notice.”

The last thing he sees before beating his retreat back to his room is Grogu cooing and reaching a little hand out towards him in concern, doubtlessly feeling in the Force that something is amiss with Luke. He closes the door but can still hear the Mandalorian reassuring the kid to the best of his ability, “Sorry, buddy, your bajuri seems to be busy. No floating stuff today.”

Grogu emits the sad coo again.

“Hey, it’s okay. Wanna go to the pond and look for frogs?”

...

“We can take the Phoenix over there.”

A happy squeak tells Luke that the plan has met approval.

“You like flying with the jetpack, huh? Yeah, me too.”

Their voices recede, Grogu babbling happily and his father talking back pretending to understand him, and then the temple is silent. It dawns on Luke that the Mandalorian is attractive, the juxtaposition between the gleaming armored fighter and the father so gentle with his kid intriguing. The thought is brutally cut short by another sharp flash of searing pain.

He whines and flings himself onto his bed, curling up and tugging at his hair with both hands, hoping beyond reason that the pain in his scalp will distract him from the pain in his everywhere else.

--

Luke has been trying on and off to meditate or at least nap for several hours, when he hears a knock at the door. It can only be Mando.

“Um. Master Jedi?”

The Mandalorian has never asked Luke’s name, maybe he reckons Luke goes by his self-assumed title, just like he seems perfectly comfortable going by Mando. Yes?, Luke wants to ask, but he’s scared it’ll come out an undignified whimper.

“I made some dinner for the kid,” the Mandalorian continues. Is it dinner already? “I thought maybe you’d want some, so I’ll leave it out here.”

Luke blinks at the door. He wasn’t expecting this.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it, it’s, ah. Aruetiise usually find our cooking too spicy. So I made some bread to go with it, it. Helps. With the spice. I used some stuff from your storage for it, hope that’s okay.”

The silence persists.

“Putting it down now. Okay. Good luck with your... Jedi business.”

There’s a sound of, indeed, something being placed on the floor, then footsteps walking away.

Luke opens the door. There is a tray of food waiting for him. An amazingly delicious smell wafts from it and his stomach growls loudly, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten today.

So this man can cook. This man baked bread for him. Luke tries to imagine him, in the kitchen, doing that. Maybe he put Luke’s apron on over the armor. The thought makes him giggle for the first time today. Truly Grogu’s father is full of surprises.

--

It’s already getting dark out when Luke carries his empty plate back to the temple’s little kitchen. He finds Mando there with Grogu on his lap, as always in complete armor, simply watching as Grogu plays with a small silver ball.

Luke clears his throat. “Hi,” he says eloquently and carries his plate to the sink.

The Mandalorian nods in greeting. “All done in there?”

“Not exactly.” Somehow, Luke can feel Mando refocus on him, even through the helmet. He knows he must look rumpled, his hair mussed, his face drawn, and using one of his robes as a shawl. He wishes he had the ability to suffer more attractively, or at least the energy to make himself up a bit.

He sighs and sits down at the table with them. Somehow he feels like, as fair payment for the meal, the Mandalorian deserves his honesty in return. “Full disclosure, I wasn’t doing... Jedi stuff in my room. I just... I’m unwell.”

“Oh.” For some reason, Mando’s head tilts towards Grogu. It becomes apparent why when he asks, “Anything catching?”

“No. No, Grogu will be fine.” Luke folds his hands on the tabletop. Well, he’s already at it being honest. “Do you ever get the feeling of... old scars, hurting again? Like they’re new?”

“Your hand?” the Mandalorian asks. Ah, of course, he’s perceptive, he’s noticed the fake hand.

“Not just the hand. Everywhere. All over.” Luke grits his teeth as his nerves alight again along the lightning patterns. Maker, he hates this. It’s like the shrivelled old prune continues to torture him from beyond the grave.

“All over?” Mando repeats. The helmet’s modulator dulls emotion, but Luke guesses it’s concern he hears.

“Yeah. Look.” Following a sudden impulse, he gets up and shucks his robe, unbuttons his shirt and slips that off too. “Here, see?” He turns himself this way and that, catching the warm lamplight. “And yes, they go all the way down.”

Helmet or no, he can hear the Mandalorian’s breath catch. His hand, the one that’s not keeping Grogu from tumbling off his lap, twitches... rises... reaches out... Luke keeps himself very still. For a breath or two, he thinks that if the Mandalorian were to touch him, trace the lightning bolts on his torso with his gloved hand, then he might feel better. Might be soothed.

The hand is lowered to the table again as if embarrassed. Luke lets out his breath and tries not to slump in disappointment. “I’ve never seen scarring like that before,” the Mandalorian says. “And I’ve seen my fair share.”

“Force lightning,” Luke explains, before remembering that his companion knows nothing about the Force. “A Sith torture technique.”

“You were tortured?” Mando asks, then amends, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Luke sits back down, hugging his knees to his chest. “Pffft. It’s not like I’m not already thinking about it.” He rubs his hands down his arms at another shiver of pain. “The Emperor did this. When I went to confront him on the second Death Star.”

“It was you on the Death Star?” the Mandalorian asks.

“Yeah. The Emperor wanted me to join the dark side. I refused. I had no idea he’d just start frying me with lightning. I had no idea this was something the Force could even do.”

“But then you... killed the Emperor?” The Mandalorian is clearly guessing, and Luke finds himself astonished that there’s someone out there still who doesn’t know the whole Luke Skywalker Saga.

“I did not,” he says. “My father killed the Emperor. All I did was lie on the ground and be tortured.” He picks at his wrist where the synthetic skin joins the organic. “I’m not even bitter about that. It ended up saving my father’s soul. But sometimes, I have nightmares about it, you know? And in those dreams, my father... doesn’t help me. He just stands and stares at me and that’s worse than the pain. Because, when it actually happened, there was... a moment when I thought he wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t care and he’d watch me die. For a moment there, I lost hope, and that’s the worst of it really, knowing that about myself.”

“Why was... your father on the Death Star?” the Mandalorian asks, and huh, apparently he hasn’t heard about the Luke-and-Vader-connection either.

“It’s a long story,” Luke says, because it is, and he’s tired. His scars still hurt, not in these sudden flashes anymore, but as a pulsing, bone-deep, constant ache. But his chest feels a bit lighter for having talked about it.

The Mandalorian now gestures at said chest, instead of asking for the story again. “Can you take painkillers for those?”

Luke shakes his head. “They don’t help much. The pain’s in here.” He taps his temple. “I’ve just been trying to sleep it off, but it hurts too much to get to sleep.”

Mando hisses out a breath, and Luke is by this point fairly certain he’s commiserating. “Phew. Sounds like you need a drink.”

This makes Luke laugh, and he appreciates that. “You know, I’d love a drink, actually.”

After Grogu is put to bed, Luke gets a glass of spotchka and Mando’s company (he tilts the helmet off just far enough to free his mouth in quick, almost furtive gestures and takes tiny sips). His head’s starting to feel pleasantly swimmy when he says, “You know, I’ve just bared all my troubles to you - well, not all, but some, and pretty hefty ones - and yet I know... three facts about you, maybe.”

“Hmm. Yeah, that doesn’t seem fair,” the Mandalorian says amusedly. “What would you like to know?”

“Your name would be a good start,” Luke suggests.

The way the Mandalorian fidgets with his glass, he looks almost flustered. “Ah... Din. Din Djarin.”

“Luke Skywalker.” Luke grins and reaches across the table, ignoring the pinpricks of pain up his arm, to grip Mando’s - Din’s - hand. “It’s nice to have met you, Din Djarin.”

-----

In the following months, these flare-ups return occasionally, but none in such intensity. Luke knows that it’s only a matter of time, though. He’s beginning to suspect that this might stay with him forever. But he’s not as horrified at the prospect as he once was, after talking about it to Din and being neither judged nor pitied. After Din didn’t look at him worried like Leia, or attempted clumsily to walk on eggshells around the topic like Han, and didn’t think less of Luke, and didn’t act like Luke’s admittance to his issues tarnished some sort of larger-than-life image of the glowing Jedi hero. How odd it is to think of a future that has someone in it he can rely on in such an uncomplicated manner. He hasn’t had anyone in his life to rely on - or dared to think of himself as needing this - since... well, since Aunt Beru, probably.

During these months, Grogu has steadily progressed in his studies. Din has visited the temple with some regularity, but Luke has yet to get used to him. How could he, when there’s so much new and exciting to discover about Din still? He finds himself looking forward to these visits, and missing Din when absent, almost as much as Grogu does. Din can only ever stay a few days at once, and Departure Day is a sad one for all two inhabitants of the makeshift Jedi school. (Luke’s not sure what Din does when he’s not here. It can’t be so important, right? Surely not more important than spending time with Grogu? Than talking to Luke?)

This time, though, when Din shows up at the agreed-upon time, it’s weird. He speaks even less than usual, he seems to retreat into his armor even more, he opts to sleep in his ship instead of one of the many empty bedrooms in the temple that Luke has yet to fill with more students. And he barely holds or even touches Grogu, and that tips Luke off. These other observations he could chalk up to paranoia and his own desire to coax Din out of his (figurative!) shell. But that last one tells him that something is off.

Grogu can feel it too, and confusion and worry is seeping off of him into the Force. Luke tries to calm him and get him to sleep, but in the morning, Grogu’s still a bit anxious, and their collective worry mounts when breakfast passes by and Din fails to emerge from his ship. The two of them are reflecting their worry back off each other, and it’s getting aggravating, so Luke gets up and resolves to investigate.

“Okay, Grogu, can you go in the garden and play with Artoo? I’ll go look what’s up with your dad.”

Grogu immediately calms now that he knows the matter is being taken care of, and it warms Luke’s heart to see how much the kid has grown to trust him.

He gains entrance to the ship - it’s not the same one that Grogu has shared memories of with him, but similar enough in layout. The cockpit is empty, so he descends down a narrow ladder into what probably passes for crew quarters here. Peering around a corner, he finds Din hunkered down with his back against the durasteel wall, his threadbare cape wrapped around him as a blanket. He hasn’t noticed Luke come in yet, and that’s wrong in and of itself, and he’s shivering so hard it makes his beskar rattle slightly. As Luke lays eyes on him, he breaks into a horrid wet cough beneath the helmet, the modulator rendering it rasping and metallic.

Okay, something must be done.

“Din?” Luke asks, peeking his head out into open view. “It’s Luke, I’m in here now. You sound like my dad, kriffing-- how long has it been like this?”

Din’s head whips around in Luke’s direction, and he probably only doesn’t flinch because he’s trained to not flinch at things. “I’m fine,” he claims - outrageously lying - and tries to drag himself to his feet, hands bracing against the wall behind him.

Luke is already rushing to his side. “No, no, just stay down. There, that’s right, just sit. Are you wounded? Sick?”

Din tilts his head back against the wall. “Not wounded.”

“Well, that’s... good.” Luke squats next to him, unsure how to proceed. In the Force, he can feel exhaustion and pain radiating off of Din, but that doesn’t tell him what exactly is wrong. He tries to touch his wrist and, of course, meets beskar.

“Din, I realize this might be a... big ask, but can you remove your helmet so I can check your temperature?”

A stuttering sigh comes out through the modulator. “I don’t...”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Luke hurries to add. “It’ll just be for a few seconds. Oh, oh I have a blindfold back at the temple! I can run back and get it.”

Din shakes his head. “It’s okay. You’ve seen it before.” He reaches a shaking hand up and with a hiss, the locks on the helmet disengage. He slides it up and off and Luke takes in his face. It’s flushed, his hair matted and sweaty, his eyes bleary, and yet. It’s as attractive as Luke remembers.

Shaking these thoughts off, because there certainly are more important things now, Luke reaches out and puts his ungloved hand on Din’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he hisses. “I’m taking you back to the temple, I have medicine there.”

He’s already in the process of wrapping an arm around Din’s torso to help him up when Din shakes his head. “No. Gotta stay here.” His speech is washed out, his eyes glassy, and Luke’s concerned he’s not talking sense.

“You’ll be more comfortable at the temple.”

Din tries to brush him off with alarmingly feeble hands. “No. The kid.”

Ah. “I don’t think Grogu can catch anything off of you. Different species and all that.”

“You don’t know.”

Well, strictly speaking, Luke doesn’t. Yoda never mentioned anything like that. For a moment, Luke looks around the room, but his old mentor’s ghost is unhelpfully absent. He settles for promising, “I’ll make sure he keeps his distance.”

Din shakes his head again. “Kid’s going to...” He’s interrupted by another coughing fit. “...try to heal me. Don’t want him to overdo it.”

Even miserably sick, Din’s first concern is for the child. It makes something warm swell in Luke’s chest, and he realizes with no small start that Oh, this might be something a lot more than attraction he’s dealing with.

It doesn’t matter now. “I’ll make sure Grogu doesn’t overtax himself then. I’m his teacher, it’s what I’m here for.” Not at home to any more protests, Luke uses the Force to help him lift Din up in his arms. “Try to have a little faith in me, okay?”

“I’m fine here on my own,” Din insists.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Luke says distractedly as he starts off towards the exit ramp, bridal-carrying a whole Mandalorian warrior.

Din is not cooperative, doing his damndest to make himself a dead weight. “I’m Mand’alor,” he mutters, eyes half-closed. “I don’t have to take that tone from you.”

Luke doesn’t know what that word means. Maybe it’s a special type of Mandalorian. He’ll ask later, if he remembers. “Right now, you’re sick, that’s all,” he says, taking them at a brisk pace back to the temple. “You need attention.”

Din’s answer is a displeased groan. “My own damn fault for taking off the helmet.”

In the moment, Luke wonders if he means that in a metaphysical sort of way, like he’s being punished by the ancient Mando gods for his heresy. He’ll later discover that it’s much more prosaic than that: Din has worn the helmet since he was a child, and it’s protected him amiably against any airborne diseases. Now that he’s decided to start taking if off occasionally amongst other people, his immune system is being thrown into a panic by all these new unfiltered things to be breathed in, and he has prompty caught some kind of space flu.

For now, he gets Din into bed, armor and all, and heads for the ‘fresher and the aid kit he stashed there.

--

Din is burning.

Din is glacier-cold.

He sleeps irregularly in this soft bed he doesn’t recognize, and wakes himself with fits of coughing. He gropes for lucidity and gives up on it again in intervals. At some point, someone took his helmet - no, he remembers taking it off, or was that a dream? He has a memory of being carried in somebody’s arms, but who would carry him in full beskar? Who would care to? He’s not on his ship and he’s not alone and this is wrong. He’s been sick before, even with the helmet: from infected wounds or bad food or bad water or being out in harsh weather too long during a job. He’s always ridden it out by himself, if he was too far off to stumble his way back to the covert. But this isn’t the covert - that’s long gone, isn’t it? - and someone is here.

The person, at some point, helps him sit up and removes his armor, and Din would panic - does - but the person’s hands on him are gentle, and there’s some voice telling him that “It’s just to make you more comfortable, I’m putting it right next to the bed, I’m not taking it away, see? It’s right here waiting for you” and he’s too exhausted to put up a fight, and why would they lie? If they wanted the beskar for themselves they would’ve killed him already. But the person doesn’t. The person gives him water when he’s coughed his throat raw. The person drapes a blanket over him, which he shucks off during the hot spells only to grope for it again during the cold ones. The person puts a hand on his forehead and it’s even more cool and soothing than the damp cloth they also provide.

At some point, the person puts something in the bed with him - some alive thing, some small and fussy thing, some important thing with small green claws and wide moon eyes and large ears that are the softest thing that Din’s ever touched. He reaches out for it on instinct, just to pet the downy white hairs on its little head, and the person’s voice says from somewhere far above, “Okay, Grogu, I promised your father to take this slow. We’ll do this gradually, so you don’t tire yourself. You understand? Small healing. Easy.”

The small and precious thing makes a displeased sound, and Din wants to soothe it again. The voice replies, “I know how you feel, I know you want to fix it all right now, but I promised, okay? Your father will be very disappointed in me if we don’t do this just like he’d have it. And we don’t want that, hm?”

Din hears a coo close to his ear, feels a tiny, three-clawed hand touching him, and then there’s a sudden warmth spreading in his chest, not like the clammy heat of the fever but different, pleasant. Suddenly it seems easier to lie back and get some real, truly restful sleep, and this he does.

This instance repeats several more times, over days, until there is a point at which Din wakes - still sore, shaky, and with his muscles aching from having trembled so much - but with the fever broken and his head clear enough to string a coherent thought together.

He’s vaguely aware of a warbling voice a short distance away that he can’t quite yet discern. The room is dim, with only a singular lamp by his bedside spreading a warm light. There is a window above the bed but no light is coming in. It must be late in the evening - Grogu’s bedtime, is what Din’s inner alarm clock tells him without fail. And indeed, when he raises his head, he spots a small crib across the room that can only be Grogu’s, and Luke is there, rocking it in gentle motions. It is him who’s doing the crooning - singing Grogu to sleep, Din realizes abruptly. As he focuses, the lullaby slowly starts to make some sense: it’s in Bocce, which Din is about as conversant in as Tusken. He’s actually heard the tune before; it’s a nonsensical little ditty that settlers on Tatooine sing to their children.

He stretches out an arm and points a shaky finger at Luke.

“Hick,” he accuses, his voice gritty like he gargled a mouthful of sand.

Luke spins around, his blue eyes widening. “If you’re trying to insinuate that only sand-encrusted, desert-dwelling hicks speak Bocce,” he says, “then you are correct.” He smiles. “It’s good to see you back with us.”

“You’re from Tatooine,” Din says, and wonders why this is so important to him. Maybe it’s because learning things about Luke is like putting a puzzle together. There’s somehow a whole bunch of people that Luke is - he’s fascinating, he’s vexing, he’s confusing, and Din has no idea why he’s this interested in the first place. Well, he does have some clue, but it’s best not dwelled upon. Luke has his Creed and his life, Din has his wholly different Creed and life, and it’s not like the interest can be mutual anyway.

Or can it? Luke seems to have been here for days, watching him heal. Din’s mind veers away from phrases like “nursing” and “caring for” because, well, it implies a needing and a being needed that’s not usually extant for him. He takes care of himself, mostly, that is how it’s been for years. Decades...

Luke nods. “Anchorhead represent. Go Womp Rats.”

Din wrinkles his nose. “Anchorhead? There’s nothing there.”

“You’re telling me! Come talk to me about it when you’ve lived there for nineteen years.” He crosses the room to come perch on the edge of Din’s bed. “Which you won’t, you’re the king of Mandalore.”

Oh, shit. Yeah. He’s probably missing a council meeting right now. Wait. “Who told you?”

“You talked a lot when you were feverish.” Luke passes a hand over Din’s brow. He’s done that before, but it’s very different now that Din is awake for it. “It seems to have broken.”

“You had the kid heal me,” Din surmises. He can’t waste breath right now on wondering what else he said to Luke, when the fever had him. “I told you not to do that.”

“I had him heal you slowly, step by step, so he wouldn’t exhaust himself. Just a little every day,” Luke explains.

“He okay now?”

“He’s-” Luke begins to answer, then stops himself. A truly mischievous smile spreads on his lips. “Prince Grogu is resting, your highness. But yes, your majesty, he’s perfectly fine and healthy.”

“Stop.” Din swats a hand at him. “Not... ‘majesty’. We don’t even do that. It’s just ‘Alor. Actually, it’s just Din.”

Luke dodges his hand and almost falls back onto the bed, laughing. “Oh, dear. Please, your worship, accept this humble Jedi’s apology--”

“I mean it, stop--” He probably sounds petulant. He can’t bring himself to care.

Luke’s smile gentles. So do his eyes, impossibly blue. Huh. He’s beautiful. “I’m just teasing you,” he says, beautifully. “I know this doesn’t change anything here. Just another facet of the man I’ve been getting to know.”

“Ah. So you’ve been.” Din clears his throat. That feels awful, as it is still very dry. “Getting to know me. Huh?”

Does this qualify as flirting? This is probably awful. Din’s not good at this. And anyway, it’s still unclear if Luke is actually--???

The softest pair of lips in the galaxy (the galaxy!!!) is on his forehead. Din’s chest implodes. He can feel Luke’s smile on his skin. He’s never felt anything like it before. How is this happening? He’s most likely still sick, and this is a fever dream.

“I’d like to get to know much more of you,” Luke says, withdrawing, still smiling, his eyes like sun-streaked oceans. Din has no breath in his chest.

He delays his reaction two seconds too long, and Luke’s expression begins to falter. “I’m... sorry, you’ve just recovered, and here I am putting... this on you.” He gestures broadly at himself in his entirety. “I... hold on, I’ll go get you, um, a glass of water or something...”

Din would like a glass of water. He would not like Luke to leave. The latter wins out. “Wait.” He grasps Luke’s wrist before he can get up. “I didn’t mean... I would, um. Like to get to know you also.”

Luke stills, his face a turmoil of emotion. How is this the same man who looked so utterly serene to the point of expressionlessness when they first met?

Din figures it’s way past time he made a move. Luke’s already gone and bared himself so much. It’s only fair that he meet him halfway, Din thinks and kisses him.

[bau-baby]

the ultimate loss. 2/?

aaron hotchner x gn!reader

Summary: While you and Aaron are grieving the loss of Haley, an untimely realization comes up on your part after a night of consolation. Will anything come of it?

word count: 3k

warnings: grief, loss

A/N: Holy cannoli I am so sorry for how long this second installment took me!! Also the ending seems kind of rushed and it’s not the greatest, sorry! Now, onward with the story! 

read part one here

It has only been a few months since Haley’s service, and you have been at a loss. Ever since the time you and Aaron had together on that patio, something changed. Something that you couldn’t really put a finger on. Neither of you addressed it for fear of messing with things you weren’t ready to face. So you both did what you do best: ignore it.

You’ve filled your time with hours on the job, Aaron has been doing the same. You both merely dance around one another, not allowing your colleagues to pinpoint or figure out what happened. And if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t either. Hell, you weren’t sure Aaron knew what was going on, and he is one of the best profilers you have the pleasure of knowing. 

It’s another late night, early morning at Quantico. You’re burning the candle at both ends, losing sleep by the day. You blame it wholly on losing a friend, and sure that was the big, main reason, but you also know it’s a ploy to throw whatever it is that’s happening with you and Aaron out the window for a time.

After-action reports fill your time as the coffee keeps getting brewed and your pen isn’t running out of ink anytime soon. And you always love to think that this is your time away from Aaron, when in reality he’s right up the stairs, hunched over his desk just as you are. You saved your glances for when your hand got cramped or you needed a refill on coffee. What you don’t see was the glances he’d send your way while you were engrossed in the paperwork. 

You normally end up staying late at the office since you have a tendency to take some of the extra files from Aaron as well as the team so they could get home quicker.

You finish up a majority of your reports just before midnight, opting to take the unfinished ones home. You gather your finished files, making the short walk up to Aaron’s office before knocking. You hear him faintly say “It’s open,” and open the door.

“Hey Aaron, just wanted to drop these files off before heading home for the night. If you-” Your words die in your throat as you finally look at Aaron much closer. His eye bags were getting worse, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Are the nightmares still happening, Aaron?”

He knows there’s no use in lying, especially to you. He nods as he presses his pointer and middle finger to his temple, trying to alleviate the dull headache that hasn’t left him in so long. It was one of the only constant things in his life, outside of Jack and you.  With the headaches and the nightmares saddled on top of the grief, he hasn’t had true peace in months.

You tentatively take a seat at his desk and wait him out. You know that once he feels like talking, he will. He takes his time, twiddling his pen in between his thumb and pointer finger.

“I miss her. I left her at home with Jack almost every day, I was never there for his appointments or for his big milestones. I forced her to be a single mom when I could have easily just been there. I-” He stops, and you can see his eyes are brimmed with tears. You swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“Aaron, she loved you-” He scoffs, “-No, she really loved you. It tore her to pieces when she left, she just reached a point where she had to put Jack’s needs first. She still cared for you. The call I got the day you were admitted into the hospital told me enough,” You look down at your hands, trying to find the words, “You’re a great dad, Aaron. You do your best and right now that’s all anyone can ask for.” 

Aaron lets out a huff of breath and leans back in his chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to lessen the pulsing headache still fully present. You only hope that your words made a difference, and you start to get up to leave.

“Wait. Please don’t go. I- I can’t stand being alone here anymore,” The admission makes your heart swell while simultaneously hurting for the broken man, and you settle back into your seat. Maybe finishing up the rest of your reports in the company of a friend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

-----

The late nights you and Aaron were pulling to keep each other company quickly transitioned to going home early to see Jack, still keeping each other’s grief at bay. Didn’t help that Jack was the sweetest kid on the planet, and one you definitely couldn’t say no to.

There were days where Aaron would just break down away from the watchful eyes of his son. He wanted to remain strong and not worry the young boy, but he knew Jack was hurting too, just as you were. Even if he was vulnerable with you at times, he still kept some walls up and held some feelings to his chest.

And Aaron would never tell you, but some days it was hard to even be in that apartment. The wall has been long since repaired, the bloodstains lifted from the carpet. But that didn’t remove the nightmares that haunted him every time he came home.

He could never forget the acrid smell of Foyet’s breath as he continuously taunted him, the knife driving into his abdomen. He couldn’t forget the fleeting memories that he surrounded himself with, a hopeful yet useless distraction as he was bleeding out on his apartment floor.

He couldn’t forget Foyet’s smile, his laugh that haunted Aaron’s deepest nightmares. 

Foyet’s words would come to him in flashes, always coming back to remind him of everything he lost.

“Do you know how much you have to study the human body to stab yourself repeatedly and not die? I don’t want to brag but I’m somewhat of an expert.”

The humor Foyet found in what he was saying was not ever lost on Aaron.

He always felt the ghost of the knife, cold metal gracing his abdomen that was slowly losing heat due to the blood blossoming around his still body.

“Do you wanna see my scars?”

The image of Foyet’s mangled abdomen was stamped into his brain, a fateful image that spoiled his sleep every night.

“Yours are gonna look just the same.”

And that they did. Aaron hated the scars that riddled his chest, the raised, gnarled skin always a reminder of his failure. He not only failed Haley, but his son that he swore to protect and give a good life. He ripped the life away from both of them. Haley would never see what Jack would become, and Jack would never remember the woman who gave her life to protect him.

No matter how much he trusted you, there was still that wall that held him back from telling you all of this. His rational brain told him that you’d help him work through it, but his trauma-riddled brain told him that he’d end up overwhelming you, even though you both lost the same person, she just had different emotional ties to both of you.

That call that you listened in on while racing to Fairfax was imprinted in your brain. You’d continually tried to tell yourself that you couldn’t change anything that happened, that you couldn’t save Haley. You couldn’t give Jack his mom back, and you couldn’t bring back Aaron’s closest friend. 

You knew it wasn’t right to blame yourself. You knew that Foyet had fooled all of you. That didn’t stop you from taking the blame, forcing yourself to relive the worst moment in your career, just to subject yourself to something you felt you could have prevented.

Jack wouldn’t have any memories of his own mother. You would just plant four years’ worth of stories as he grew up, telling him tales of how strong his mother was, and how she was the best thing that happened to his father.

Maybe these similar trains of thought are what led you to be knocking on Aaron’s door late at night. And maybe, that’s what led him to answer.

“Y/N? It’s so late, what’re you doing here?” The opened door revealed a distraught yet cozy Aaron, floppy hair and eye bags in all.

“Can I, uh, can I come in?” You remain composed, trying to regulate your breathing before you possibly could fly off the handle.

“Yeah, of course. Are you alright?” 

Now isn’t that the question of the hour, Aaron Hotchner? You aren’t really sure what you feel, so instead of answering, you walk over to his couch and sit. 

Aaron trails in behind you, two cups of coffee in his hand. You accept the cup, the ceramic mug already bringing life back into your hands. Aaron sits on the other side of the couch assuming the same position you are: a blank, grief-filled stare aimed at the table in front of you. The only sign of either of you being cognizant is your periodic sniffles. You don’t even realize you’re crying.

“I just miss her, you know?” The sentence comes through a wavered tone, and you hiccup through the tears. 

Aaron’s in a similar state, his red-rimmed eyes giving way to a tear-filled, “I know. I miss her too,”

A watery laugh leaves you, “Y’know, one time when I visited Haley, told me about how you two used to be. Before Jack, before…”

Before the divorce. Before she died.

“-just, before. She even gave me a little insight on your stint as Pirate #4 in Pirates of the Penzance,” A watery smile makes its way onto your face, and you hear Aaron huff out a sad laugh, shaking his head as he does so.

“I swore her to secrecy on that. She liked you, honestly. She loved how you were with Jack, and I can’t say that I don’t either. You being here, for us, is something we’ll always be grateful for. Thank you,” The sentence makes your heart swell, as more tears fall down your face. They’re full of grief, sadness, and a love you don’t catch onto right away, but when you do, you force that back down to whatever depths it came from.

You hear the feet padding across the floor before you see him.

“Y/N? Why are you crying?” Jack asks as he clambers up next to you and into your arms.

“Hey, bud, what’re you doing up? Your dad and I were just talking about your mom, and how much we miss her,” You say, rocking the boy as you hold him.

“I miss my mom too. Do you think we could talk to her?” He asks. You could hear how tired he is, and you look at Aaron.

Go ahead, his look says, and you stand up with Jack still in your arms. You pick up the candle and lighter on the way.

You lay Jack back in his bed, grabbing the picture of Haley off his dresser. You light the candle and hand it to him.

“Hi, momma. Y/N is here, and I miss you. I love you,” You continue to listen to the boy, but you can feel the tears pressing at the back of your eyes again. You can’t imagine what this four-year-old boy is going through, trying to understand why his mom isn’t coming home anymore.

You feel a certain pair of eyes on you from the doorway of Jack’s room, and you see Aaron watching you and Jack. He’s got this soft, sullen smile on his face as he hears Jack recount his days since he’s last talked to Haley. Soon enough, the four-year-old runs out of steam and says goodbye, blowing out the candle. You reach over, tucking the covers up to his chin, and tell him goodnight.

You walk out to see Aaron sitting on the couch again, his elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his face. You sit with him until the early morning light washes over the DC skyline, sunlight peeking into the windows. You both laugh, cry, and sit in silence as you talk about whatever, but the topic keeps coming back to Haley.

“Well, if I want to make it to the building on time, I better go back to my apartment and change,” You say as you get up to grab your shoes that have long since been forgotten, as well as your keys and such. “Oh, I didn’t even notice the time. See you at work,” He says, getting up off the couch too.

“Bye, Aaron. See you at work,” You give him a soft smile, and make your exit.

Aaron doesn’t make light of this, but seeing you leave after the night he spent commiserating with you, made him miss it more than he thought he would. The freshness of it all, the connection you shared with mutual grief, was something he never thought he’d get out of his job.

-----

When you step into the bullpen, you’re the first one there for once. Fresh clothes and a rejuvenated heart puts a small pep in your step, even on no sleep.  After the night of vulnerability you shared with Aaron, you felt refreshed, if only a little tired. 

For the sake of making sure you actually stay awake, you make two cups of coffee. Made one cup just how you like it, leaving the other one black. You set your cup down at your desk, climbing the stairs up to Aaron’s dark office. You turn on his desk lamp, setting the coffee down. You knew he wasn’t too far behind you when coming to the office, it was only a matter of time before he walked out of the elevator. 

When Aaron finally makes it to the bullpen, he sees you already cutting into the reports he left on everyone’s desks the night before. He practically floats to his office, his lack of sleep starting to catch up to him. When he opens the door, he sees the coffee mug at his desk, a sticky note attached to it. Very familiar handwriting fills the note. 

Thought we could both use some coffee after our late night. 

You know where I am if you need anything, old man. 

Sincerely, 

A very concerned friend :)

Aaron just shakes his head at the note, a smile he’s not used to filling his face. He looks through the window out into the bullpen to find you with an equally facetious smile on your face. 

That’s when it all comes crumbling down for you. The realization hits you as you turn back to your work, and you have to slow your breathing so as to not worry anyone else making their way to their desks. 

Fuck. 

You’re in love with your boss. 

You’re in love with Aaron Hotchner. 

You could not have worse timing, you realize. He just lost his wife, you just lost a friend. Neither of you should be open to dating. He isn’t open to dating, and you’d be damned if you were too.

You were never known for your timeliness, but this is a whole other level of bad.

 What are you supposed to do? There’s no handbook, nothing to tell you what you’re supposed to fall in love with your divorced boss who just lost his ex-wife. And there shouldn’t be, you’re being careless. 

It’s normal for people in grief to come together, and after a loss people make strides to fill that gap. That’s all you're doing. You don’t actually feel this way about him. 

That’s what your profiling tells you, but you don’t try to reason with it. No amount of reasoning can fix this. You’re screwed, and you know it.

That’s why you make a vow to yourself- right there in the bullpen. 

You are not going to let this get too far too fast, and you are not going to scare this man away. He is your boss first, friend second, and lover will never make that list if you keep up this fast train of realizations and possible confessions.

You get saved from your rabbit hole as you hear Reid and Morgan walk into the bullpen, talking about whatever those two can talk about at 8 AM. You just shake your head at their antics.

Those two really are like brothers.

Slowly, the rest of the team trickles in, and you’re expected for a day of paperwork when JJ flashes a file at you. Seems like you won’t your day of reprieve, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’re glad.

On top of the Aaron Revelations™, It’s been really hard these past few weeks without Haley. You usually went over to see Jack and her often, talking and laughing over some glasses of wine. Now, you just... don’t have that.

But, all that aside, you have a case.

So you put the pieces of yourself back together, compose yourself, and take a breath.

You can do this.

-----

You can’t do this.

You did fine on the case, and you know that. You remained composed, and kept your head on straight. That doesn’t change your realization, nor does it settle your feelings. Professionalism is at the forefront of your mind as you settle into your seat on the jet. Aaron sits next to you like always, and you school your expression for most of the flight, but that didn’t stop your brain from going faster than light.

You lean your head against the window, and hope against hope that everything- every feeling, every thought- would just leave you. They didn’t, but you welcome the sleep that comes like an unknown force.

When you wake, you smell Aaron’s cologne. You’re groggy, and it takes you a minute to realize that his suit jacket rests across your upper body. 

“You looked cold, just thought I’d help,” Aaron says, not looking up from his file.

That man never stops working.

“Thanks, Hotch,” You say, sleep still laced through your words. You get lost in the moment, the familiarity of it all sinking into your bones. You smile blissfully, sleep consuming your conscious again

You just miss the small smile Aaron gives you after your eyes close, sleep taking your body again.

[haloshornsinkstains]

Mine [Tomura Shigaraki]

This is a bit different from most of my other writing I think? Read the content warnings. It’s not as fluffy as a lot of my other writing. It was just an idea that wouldn’t go away and I finally got it all written out.

Sorry I haven’t updated much this week, first week back at work has been rough. Always open for requests though, especially headcanons or thirsts/drabbles atm.

CW: Omegaverse (Alpha!Shigaraki, Omega!Reader), female reader, NSFW, dubcon , blood, violence, kidnapping

Distressed omegas were meant to be a cowering, whimpering mess. They were meant to be easy to control, to comply subserviently with an Alpha, or even a Beta, in order to remedy whatever situation had them in such a state. Distressed omegas were most certainly not meant to be snarling, snapping and occasionally sending ripples of electricity and broken earth out at their captors. Which is exactly what you were doing.

 It was supposed to be an easy job, scope the place out, report back on your findings. The place was not, according to all the previous intel, supposed to be a hideout for one of the most notorious villain groups in all Japan. But just your luck, that was exactly what it was. You’d expected to die, honestly, when the small blonde had appeared out of nowhere. Maybe dying would have been the better option, rather than being tied up and surrounded by the League. You weren’t even entirely sure why you weren’t dead, she’d mumbled something about your scent and in a blurry series of events you’d found yourself here, growling at their leader as he crouched before you, easily recognisable with the hand obscuring his face.

 “Can someone tell me why we have a distressed omega in the middle of our floor?” He rasped, taking his eyes away from you for a moment to scan the group. “We caught her sneaking around!” Toga grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet.  “Right. So why is she here and not, say, dead?” Shigaraki growled, before whipping his head back to you, nose wrinkled. “And will you stop that? You smell terrible.” You merely snarled in response. You knew your distress tinged your natural scent with a sour note that wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t as if you could control the feeling given your current predicament. “Um, boss, we do have her tied up. It’s probably not entirely her fault.” “Spinny is right. She smelled so good before~” Toga beamed. You snorted. “She’s bleeding, of course you thought she smelled good.” “Not like that! The blood smelled good, but she smelled right before she started bleeding. Then she smelled better~”  Tomura sighed, shifting forwards towards you to try and see what the beta girl meant. You shuffled backwards, baring your teeth at him in a snarl, sparks skittering off your skin towards him. Tomura snarled back, sharp canines glinting from between chapped lips in a clear threat. “Stop it! I could just kill you you know?” He glanced over his shoulder, missing the way your body drooped in poorly hidden hurt at his next words. “You just had to bring a broken omega didn’t you brat?”  Broken. You’d heard that before. No one wanted an omega who snarled and snapped back, instead of submitting at the drop of a hat. Omegas were supposed to be subservient. Motherly. They were supposed to have supportive roles. You were none of those, topped with an offensive type quirk, you weren’t what anyone would look for in an omega mate. You were broken, by their standards. “Stop. Calm down.” You reacted immediately to the new Alpha voice, your body relaxing against your own will, every fibre of your being racing to obey the alpha’s command. You turned your head to scowl at the man who’d pulled such a dirty trick, stupid Alpha’s and their stupid ability to make Omega’s obey. A scarred face grinned back at you, Dabi you realised, another strong Alpha - had to be to make you submit like that when you were so riled up. “You could’ve done that too you know creep, threatening her wasn’t going to make her any less distressed.” He huffed. “You’re the worst Alpha I’ve ever met.” Tomura scowled, scratching at his neck. “You must not spend much time with yourself.” Dabi huffed a laugh, leaning against the wall behind you. You could feel his eyes burning into the back of your neck, clearly watching for you to make some move to attack as Tomura shifted closer. His scent was getting stronger, too much so to just account for his proximity. He was trying to calm you, you realised belatedly, a hand twitching near his neck as if he didn’t dare scratch at the damaged glands further. It took a moment for the scent to really hit you, your eyes going wide and panicked as your body reacted, the urge to fling yourself towards him and flee warring between each other and leaving your frozen in place. You shook your head as a needy whine bubbled from your throat unbidden. Tomura fell backwards, brows pinched together in what you thought was a similar kind of distress. In a panic you tried to focus on a different scent, anything to push the scent of dusty rooms and decaying leaves and belonging from your nose. Your head whipped to Dabi behind you, breathing deeply through your nose. He was another Alpha, surely his scent should do something to mask Tomura’s, but the smoke and spice was far too faint to cover whatever the other Alpha had pumped through the room. Noticing your gaze Dabi just offered a lazy shrug, tilting his head slightly with a smug smirk. The burn scars that covered his neck must have messed with his scent glands, which also explained the tang of burnt flesh you got from him. The Betas weren’t doing much either, and everyone smelled faintly of blood, including you. With another needy whine you gave up and focused hard on the floor, trying not to breathe more than strictly necessary. The world around you blurred and faded as you fought every instinct in you screaming to reach out to the Alpha and bare your neck to his teeth. 'Stupid body, stop it. I'm better than this, I've met plenty of strong Alphas before.' 'But none of them smelled like that. Good enough to make you react like this' your traitorous mind whispered back. 'Screw that. I am not my secondary gender. I'm a hero. I don't roll over for anyone, and certainly not an infamous villain. No matter how good he smells…' 'Smells like mate. Your Alpha.' '...mate. No!'. You snarled into the floor, not quite sure when you’d shifted position like this. You vaguely registered the shuffle of feet, Tomura had stood and moved away at some point, and the low rasp of orders. "Spinner, go put her somewhere." "Okay? Uh, where?" "Anywhere but here." A door slammed and you felt yourself being lifted, heated over a shoulder. Spinner you guessed, he smelled weird, even under the blood and soft scent that marks him as part of the pack. His smell was dry, like sand and tanned leather and something reptilliant you couldn't place. He jostled you slightly as he moved down some stairs, making you hiss at him in irritation. He growled back, finally dumping you in a small cellar, your hands still tied.

“What was that all about?” Toga asked, spinning a knife in her hands.  “You can’t guess?” Dabi sighed. “Do you know anything?” Toga just shrugged, humming to herself. “I know how to stab people.” “From the omega’s reaction I’d say she smelled a mate.” Compress sighed. “I’m sure you can piece together who from the reaction.” “Oh. Oh. Maybe that’s why she smelled so nice before.” Dabi shrugged. “What did she smell like before? I only got the sour distressed smell, and… well.” Toga winced, the sour smell had been unpleasant sure, but the strange musk after it hadn’t been so bad. It reminded her of how things smelled after she got to play with blood. “She smelled good, like thunderstorms and old things. A bit like the bar when we first got here, except with more lightning.” “That explains it. Creepy hands McGee is going to be a child about it though.” Dabi hummed.  “You should have more faith in our leader.” Dabi shot Compress a disbelieving look and shook his head. “This is going to be a pain.”

You weren’t sure how long you’d been trapped in their cellar. Two days maybe, if they were bringing you three meals a day, longer if not and well… three meals a day seemed a little too generous for the group of villains. Yet no one had come to find you, probably assumed you were dead you reasoned, but the abandonment stung somewhere deep in your chest. You’d smelled your mate several times since you’d been captured too, lurking outside the door but never coming any further. Each time the battle with your instincts got harder, the omega inside you begging to call out, to crawl to the door and beg for him to come in. Occasionally small whimpers would slip past your lips, ones that you would scold yourself for, but worse was the answering growl that sometimes came from the other side of the door. Low and possessive and filled with a promise of something both dangerous and so, so tempting. Those times it was even harder to stay back, your body trembling from the effort of staying still. You didn’t want him, not logically, he was dangerous and cruel and evil. Everything opposed to what you worked for in life. But your traitorous body smelled a mate, the first one you’d met since high school, and it wanted him so badly it ached. 

Meanwhile Dabi was getting more and more frustrated, nothing was happening with the League while their boss was fixated on their captive, and while he didn’t really care about the League’s goals where they diverged from his own, the inactivity was boring the others and their restlessness was driving him insane. That and the constant growling of the other Alpha made his hackles rise, part of him he thought he’d buried long ago wanting to fight over the omega. It was stupid and he hated it, so it needed to be solved, and he knew just the thing to kick Shigaraki into action.

 You snapped awake from a fitful sleep as you heard the door to the cellar opening. A traitorous part of your mind hoping it would be your mate. Instead the faint smell of burning caught you nose and you huffed, turning away from the other Alpha. You heard a growl from behind you but ignored it, pulling the blanket around you protectively. “Go away.”  There was a rough laugh. “I don’t think so little Omega. All this pining is getting annoying.” You huffed. “There is no pining. But if you’re here to kill me just get it over with, this cellar smells terrible.” “Tempting but no” he grabbed your shoulders, flipping you onto your back in one swift motion “I’ve got a much better plan.” Your body tensed up, preparing to fight whatever this asshole planned to do to you, despite the power-dampening bands they’d locked onto your wrists. You pulled your legs up, closing them tightly, ready to kick him away. But Dabi was deceptively strong, pinning your legs down with one arm as his other grabbed something from his coat pocket, binding it over your nose and mouth. A gag, you thought at first, ready to scream for help that probably wouldn’t come as soon. But then the smell hit you, your eyes going wide and panicked. It was his smell, dusty and decaying and enough to set all of your nerves on fire. You thrashed on the bed, tossing your head around and trying to get it off, get away from the intoxicating scent, but Dabi had a hand pressed hard against your throat. “Behave.” You froze with a whimper that you hated yourself for. “Good Omega. Now, we just need to wait until your heat kicks in and this’ll all be over.” You struggled weakly again, your heat hadn’t been very far off when you first broke in here anyway, the overwhelming scent of Alpha, of Mate, would only bring it on faster. And with Dabi pressing down on your neck you felt you might pass out before you could get the clothing off you. Everything was hazy and the blood was pounding in your ears as the edges of your vision darkened.

 Dabi sighed, climbing off you and sniffing the air. Beneath the sour sting of distress he could smell the sweetness and thick musk that signalled an impending heat. A couple hours and you’d be in full heat he figured, plenty of time to convince the creep to get down here and trap him in here with you. Dabi figured he’d either kill you, fuck you and then kill you or (and it was probably the least likely) actually claim you as a mate and stop this ridiculous moping. Maybe having an omega around the place would be useful, you were supposed to be good at looking after people and all that shit and god knows these idiots need it. Now he just had to convince the creep to actually enter the cellar.

 In the end it was easier than he thought. All he had to do was suggest you were in some kind of danger and some long dormant Alpha instincts seemed to kick in, sending Shigaraki darting into the cellar before his brain could catch up with what he was doing. With a satisfied bark of laughter Dabi slammed the door shut again, banking on the boss’ instincts kicking in before he could think of disintegrate the door with his quirk. Sliding the lock shut he turned to address the door, raising his voice so he could be heard inside. “We’re all sick of your nonsense, so either fuck or kill each other. I don’t care.” You were staring wide eyed at Shigaraki from your makeshift blanket nest, a sheen of sweat making your skin almost glow in the dim light. The room stank with the scent of your heat, sickly sweet and tinged with ozone. For his part Shiagraki had pressed himself back against the door, staring at you as if you were about to pounce on him and eat him alive. Though, in his defence, your instincts were screaming at you to do exactly that. In a way it was almost funny, that something so simple could reduce someone so powerful to panic like this, but you knew how dangerous that could be at the same time, how easily he could kill you. You tried to growl at him, but it came out more like a needy whimper, a ripple of pain running through your body. You knew it was only a matter of time before he lost control, maybe it was better to just get it over with… the way your body was screaming at you was getting harder to ignore too. Before you realised what was happening you had started to crawl towards him, his snarl the only thing that snapped you out of the heat daze and made you stop. “Stay back.” You froze, studying him carefully. He was trembling, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face, his hands frozen into claws on the floor, pinkies raised. So it was getting to him faster than you bargained for. Great.  “I’m trying!” You hissed. “Try harder!” You narrowed your eyes, a snarl escaping your lips. “Screw you.” He answered with a growl, deep and low in his throat, the sound making you whine and press yourself to the floor on instinct, hips raised in the air. In the few seconds it took you to realise what you were doing something in Tomura snapped, the scent of your heat and the submissive mating position sparking every instinct in his body. In a flash you’re trapped beneath him, feeling the solid press of his length against your ass. He’s trembling, barely restrained as he ruts against your clothing. It’s sweet, in a twisted way, that he’s this far gone but still trying to hold on to a thread of control, to wait for your consent. And with him pressed so close, his intoxicating scent filling your nostrils, you know you can’t hold off much longer. Each time you try to say no it comes out as whine, your heat growing stronger with each passing heartbeat. “Please.” It comes out as a whine, but your hips rocking back against his is more than enough to tell him what you want.

 His fingers scrabbled at your pants, careful to keep his pinkie away from the clothes even in this state.  You heard the groan as he saw the mess of slick sticking to your underwear, you could feel it starting to run down your legs, the smell almost overwhelming. You heard more fabric rustle before you felt him pressing against you, felt the quiver in his body as he stilled with his head just pressing at your entrance. You whined, low and needy, bucking your hips back against him again, knees pressed together by your hastily tugged down clothes and chest cold against the floor. Behind you he growls, hips bucking forwards with enough force to almost push you over. His body folded over yours, hands pressed against the floor, away from you. A small thing, but it speaks volumes about his unwillingness to hurt you, that the bond of knowing you’re mates has stuck with him too. It’s the last coherent thought you have before your brain is completely overcome with a haze of lust, devoid of any thoughts except how good his cock feels inside you, hard and heavy rubbing along your inner walls. Your hands scrabble against the floor as he bucks up into you, pressing against a spot on your insides with every thrust that makes you see stars, his breath a series of harsh pants in your ears. There’s no dirty talk, no indication how much he’s enjoying this aside from the occasional ‘fuck’ or low moan. You could feel his knot pressing against your entrance, stretching you a little more with each thrust, brushing against your clit and pushing you closer and closer to your release. You knew anyone who passed would be able to hear your wanton moans and whimpers through the door, too lost in pleasure to control your volume. “Please. Please knot me Alpha, mate.” You whined, rocking back against him. “Need you.” There was a low chuckle from above you, dark and twisted. “Lost all your fight little omega? How pitiful.” You whined, clenching down around him. It was all it took for him to thrust hard once more, his knot pushing past your outer ring and locking itself inside you. The sudden pressure tipped you over the edge, spasming around his dick, barely aware as he made a final few shallow thrusts before groaning and tipping over the edge himself, filling you with his warm come. The pain of his teeth latching onto your neck, the sharpened canines piercing through the bond mark, was enough to bring you out of your daze. “Mine.”  Locked together you could feel his tongue lapping at the wound, cleaning the blood and soothing the sting of the bite. You tried not to struggle, worried the movement would anger him, even as you could hear the mutterings of ‘mine, my omega’ against your skin. With the worst of your heat sated right now you could almost think clearly again, despite the stretch of his knot inside you firing all kinds of signals inside your body. You’d allowed yourself to be claimed by one of the biggest villains in Japan, in a dingy basement against a cold stone floor. He’d bitten you and marked you as his. There was no way they were going to let you out of there now, no matter how much you begged or used your ‘omega charms’ on them. You were trapped. At least the claim would offer you some protection from the others, or so you hoped.

What on earth had you gotten yourself into?

[plush-rabbit]

Fluff Alphabet - Dabi | Touya Todoroki

A/N: I’m going to tag this as bnha spoilers because idk how many people look at leaks so yeah. Also I hope this was the alphabet you meant!!

A = Admiration (What do they absolutely adore about you?)

Dabi adores your worrisome nature. In a word so cruel, himself included, having you around and dote on him and treat him delicately, relaxes him. He likes to put on his persona and act tough but when you cusp his face in your hands and pepper kisses over him, he melts and leans into your touch.

B = Body (What is their favorite part of your body?)

He loves your neck. He loves to hide his face in it and inhale your scent and rub his over yours. He likes to press himself onto you and feel your heartbeat and brush his lips over your sensitive spots and smile when he feels you squirm from the ticklish feelings.

C = Cuddling (How do they like to cuddle?)

Cuddling only happens during intimate moments or when you initiate it; he’s not one to crawl up to you and lay his head on your chest. He’ll throw his arm over your chest as he rests on his stomach in he’s in a tired mood but if he is feeling intimate, he likes to pull you close to him and rest his chin on the top of your head and lay there until you or him squirm away.

D = Dates (What does their ideal date with you look like?)

An ideal date that he would like to take you out on would be dinner- classic and simple. He just wants to treat you out for a night and order expensive food and drink bottled wine or water- whatever you want- and just talk to you as you both dine. There’s no special reason why he wants a dinner with you, he just think that you’d enjoy it given that most dates portrayed in media are something in that caliber.

E = Emotions (How do they express emotion around you?)

He acts rather expressionless at time, only showing you what he wants to show you and in the beginning of the relationship; the most that you get from him is a smile or teasing remark. As time goes on and the relationship grows, his way of expression changes to more subtle ways that are constant. If he’s in a foul mood, he becomes dismissive and avoids you, loving, he has his hand on you constantly, lips brushing against the shell of your ear and a smile tracing over your burning skin. He’s much more emotional as time grows on, the façade breaking through and the scarred child rearing his head.

F = Family (Do they want one? If they do, when?)

He doesn’t want a family. He doesn’t see himself living long enough to have children and he doesn’t particularly find them worth it given the trouble that could arise. He was never into dating and the thought of being in a committed relationship never crossed his mind so he doesn’t really want children.

G = Gifts (How do they feel about gift giving? What are their habits when it comes to this?)

He’s a bit shocked and speechless if you were to give him a gift. He doesn’t really expect it and if it’s small and something that he likes- in terms of snacks or something small- he’s surprised that you remembered such trivial information. When he gives you gifts, he acts like it’s whatever but he gauges your reactions and he’s pleased when you enjoy what he gets for you. His gift bearing comes randomly and they’re usually something small- on special days he’ll give you something expensive and ignore your questions about where he got the gift.

H = Holding Hands (When/How do they like to hold hands?)

He likes to hold hands every so often. It isn’t something he’s big on; he rather put his hand on your back or on your knee. He only likes to hold your hand when you two are cuddling or if either of you are in a particular bad mood. He likes to keep your hand close to his lips to run them over your fingers or just place them in front of his chest.

I = Injury (How would they act if you got hurt?)

If it’s because of your own fault, he’s a bit annoyed depending on the damage but nothing serious that can’t be fixed by a quick kiss. However, if it were because of someone else’s fault, Dabi would be furious. He would make sure that you’re alive and breathing, and then leave for the day and come back with tinged skin.

J = Jokes (Do they like to joke around with or prank you? How?)

He’s not big on pranks or joking. He might tease you and ruffle your feathers a bit, but he won’t actively prank you. He would joke with you regarding a favorite show or moment. His teasing is much more like holding you close to him when you playfully try to get away and will tickle at your sides.

K = Kisses (How do they like to kiss you?)

His kissing is either quick or rather passionate. If it’s before a mission, he pulls you in for a quick kiss, but when he returns, it becomes more passionate and forceful depending how intense the mission was. Most of the time, his kisses start off slow and he’ll pull you in and gradually the kiss intensifies where you can taste the desperation and need for love on him, pulling away for breath only to return back to the action.

L = Love (How do they show you they love you?)

He shows his love with the little things. You mention in passing that you like peonies, suddenly you have a peony in your room or peony scented body wash. His love is shown through small items that you yourself have forgotten.

M = Memory (Favorite memory together?)

His favorite memory is when he slept over at your place. There was no fear to escape and leave the premises, no rush where he was told to leave through the window or had to sneak out. He slept in a soft bed in a room scented of citrus and fruit and woke up to you coming into your room asking how he likes his coffee. He likes knowing that you thought about him while you prepared breakfast- that you still wanted him.

N = Nightmare (What is their worst fear?)

His worst fear is you. He is terrified of what you actually think of him. He knows that one day he’ll come clean to you, that he will tell you the truth of who he is and he worries how you’ll react. You already know who Dabi is, the murderer that reeks of burnt flesh, but he fears you knowing the child that he had to kill in order to survive and what you’ll think of him under a new light.

O = Oddity (What is one quirk they have?)

He is often stuck in his own head. He will keep his thoughts to himself and if you were to encourage him to open up he’ll come up with a lie to soothe you over and lay awake at night while you rest next to him. He doesn’t want you to get caught up in his storm of a mind.

P = Pet Names (What do they like to call you?)

He likes to stick around with doll, baby, sweets, babydoll, or dollface. There’s something that gets to him knowing how precious you are and hearing it ring out where you take it with flattery and respond to his pet names.

Q = Quality Time (How do they like to spend time with you?)

As long as you’re near him, he doesn’t mind what you two do. If you want to be around him while he drinks alcohol, he’ll offer you a sip and nothing more if you deny. You want to watch a movie? That’s fine with him as long as you sit close to him. He just wants to be around you, he doesn’t have much of a preference on what you two do.

R = Rhythm (What song reminds you of them?)

It’s a soft melody that plays in the dead of night as you drive by with the streetlamps lighting your way on a summer night. It starts off small and sounds nostalgic and it slowly builds up its tempo until a smile grows and he’s tapping his hands, mind drifting to you.

S = Secrets (How open are they with you?)

Dabi is open with who Dabi is. With Dabi, it’s what you see, is what you get. There’s no mistaking who he is unless denial is your strong suit. But beyond whom Dabi was growing up? He’s tight lipped. He won’t tell you, will push past your worries and force for a change of conversation.

T = Time (How long did it take you to get together?)

It took quite a bit. He never wanted a relationship. Never saw the need for love and a commitment and with you, it was supposed to be a fun time but he caught feelings. He can act like he doesn’t care, but he cares too much. He tries to smother the feelings but it doesn’t work and he ends up falling harder and ends up confessing to you out of nowhere.

U = Upset (How do they act when you’re upset?)

Depending on how upset you are, he either leaves you alone or bugs you about it until you either snap at him or tell him. If he can tell that it will blow over in an hour or two, he’ll let you simmer down. If you are upset and it has been festering, he wants you to tell him. He’s trying to be a good partner and wants to help you.

V = Vaunt (What are they proud of? Do they like to show you off?)

He’s extremely proud of you. He will show you off. He’s making sure that people know that you are off limits. He has his hand on you at all times and if you can fight, he’s hyping you up and throwing an arm around your neck and pulling you close, giving you a predatory grin as he exclaims how good you looked.

W = Warrior (How do they feel about you fighting? Would they fight for you, beside you, etc?)

He has no real preference if you want to fight or not. He would prefer if you stayed out of harm’s way but if you can fight someone, he’s not going to make you stand on the sidelines. He would fight for you. He wants to protect you, wants to keep you safe as much as he is physically able to, so he keeps you close. If you want to fight beside him, he’s soaking it in and fighting with you.

X = X-Ray (How well are they able to read you?)

It’s almost a bit frightening with how well he can red you. You can be stoic but he’s able to tell if you’re upset or brimming with happiness. He can read your emotions and is able to act accordingly.

Y = Yes (How would they propose to you?)

His proposal would be simple. It’s thought out yet not extravagant. He prepares a nice meal, makes sure everything goes smoothly and when you stand, he takes you in his arms and whispers the question in your ear, ring in pocket and you can hear how nervous he is as he asks you the question, feel the trembles in his body while he waits for your answer.

Z = Zen (What makes them feel calm?)

Dabi is emotional. He bides his time and when it comes down to it he shows his true colors. Once in a manic mindset, not much can calm him down but as he relaxes, the negative emotions setting in and the burning feeling of his skin finally aching, he wants to cuddle up to you. He likes when you massage his scalp and rub aloe vera on his skin as you sing him a song or talk about anything.

[autumnslance]

1000 words of thoughts on an aspect of learning one’s friend and partner.

Below the cut for those who prefer Tumblr:

---

They came out of darkness and fire together, and he seems whole, but there’s a shadow over his face, a flinch in his breath. Static in his aether, if one knows how to look. He jokes and teases, but his smile is strained, a haunted look in his eye. Is he sleeping enough? Is he drinking too much?

She doesn’t ask, it’s not her place. She didn’t know him well enough before to even notice he had been taken.

They’re helping with building stone walls around their new home and he removes his shirt and shows off to the whistles of others, though she knows now his flirtations are an act. She sees a mark on his side that she left while the other had him. He accepts water when she offers, the shadow still haunting his eyes, the static in his aether a taste on her tongue when she focuses. He doesn’t seem to hold any of it against her—if anything, he claims to be grateful.

She still feels responsible for these scars.

—-

He makes the jape for her benefit, to set her at ease as they meet in this unlikely place. She tries not to let her gaze linger on the cloth covering part of his face.

Returned to civilization, he’s washing up as she brings fresh towels and a change of clothes. He catches her staring and makes another joke, knowing it will set her face ablaze. She was noting the new marks littering his torso; bites and claws and falls and gods only know what else while he was alone.

This isn’t her fault, he reminds her; she knows that, knows there’s nothing she could have done, no way to have been aware.

Later, she discovers there’s no physical scar on his face, his eye is intact. Aether pools there, flickering uselessly. The static skitters across the untouchable maze of his aetheric pattern. Their colleague was right, and he is trying to hide this from them.

She’s learned how to heal, in their time apart. But some things she cannot fix. Even if it wasn’t her fault, she couldn’t stop it, nor can she regain what was lost that day.

—

His scars are familiar now, as she traces her fingers along the planes and lines of his shoulders, his back, his chest. She shivers as he learns her scars in turn; youthful foolishness, embarrassing accidents as she learned various weapons and magics, the vicious strikes of gods she has endured, the eager cut left by a prince. His calloused touch is impossibly gentle, his lips warm and softer than she expected. He makes her head spin.

These moments are rare, often with no time or energy for aught but holding one another. She’s fine with that, with fitting herself alongside his form, palms running over his skin, each mark a memory, a map of his life.

Here is where he nearly lost a duel in his youth, here where the regrettable goobbue had left its reminder, here where she had struck while his body was worn by the other, here where a bear had swiped, here where an imperial automaton scored a flaring hit. Not so many as some but more than others, nothing disfiguring or lingering. Pieces of him she learns in these stolen hours.

Pieces she tries to hold onto when he falls, that static on his aether leaving him vulnerable to the Call. Alone later, her nails draw along a few familiar scars, but they seem to have lost their meaning.

—-

He’s a soul without a body, yet seems almost real. There’s breath, a pulse, his kiss, his touch. The aether static is prominent. He’s more sensitive in some ways, less sensitive in others. She can’t explain how he feels different, solid yet ephemeral. She simply doesn’t mention it; it’s enough to hear his voice saying her name.

Not that it’s easy. Time has moved differently and his worst scar has been reopened, a constant reminder following in his wake. He struggles and she wishes she knew how to help him, but after an argument she decides distance is best. Perhaps time to relearn who they each are is needed first.

When she sees him barechested for the first time again it’s startling. His scars are different. Not all of them; old important ones remain, more or less the same. Others are missing, and new ones gained in five years remind her that she may not know him so well as she used to, as she wants to.

She falls into his arms anyway, each needing comfort and reassurance, though all the while, she wonders if the danger to her own soul won’t simply leave yet another scar upon his--or worse.

——

They’re home; despite all dangers and struggles, most of her family is back where they belong--though the bonds formed with the people on that other plane are just as strong.

She knows, though he does not say, that a part of him is split away and aches like a phantom limb in the darkest hours.

The accord between them is stronger than before. Once again she traces her fingers over the planes and lines of his body. It’s familiar, yet not. More solid, more real. Less sensitive in some ways, more sensitive in others. Evidence of those long, hard years are missing. No marks where an eater had raked its claws along his ribs. No note of one of the pixies’ nastier pranks. No bite of particularly vicious wildlife. No proof of his battle in the blazing desert, nor of the fight under the smothering sea.

Until she looks in his eyes, that is; the reminders are still there after all.

He still knows her, his hands impossibly gentle, his voice soft and warm. He makes her head spin.

She had learned him, then relearned him, and she relearns once more.

Their scars are records and maps of their lives, on this path they continue traversing together.