#they had fun with the references in this one

[eggbem]

I'm still not over Chapter 10

If you haven't read @magisav 's "Shadows of the Hamato" over on ao3, go check it out!

Close-ups below:

[em1i2a3]

Only Human

Pairing: Soft!Void!/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been staying with Bob every night since the incident with The Void in hopes to prevent anything like that from happening again. Much to your surprise though, he slips out of Bob to see you one night. (Sequel to ‘The Dark Side’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Fluff, Smut, and like Hurt/Comfort kind of?, Mentions of Injuries that occurred in the first part, Just as a Reminder Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, There is some references to supernatural things (we are dealing with The Void here, so it does need a bit of a warning I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️), Reader and Bob are not in a relationship (not at the moment), but they do have feelings for one another.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please lol), Sensual Touching, The Void is Touch Starved (what can I say?), Fingering, Squirting, Mutual Masturbation, Biting, Praise/Dirty Talk (kind of?), Little Bit of Supernatural Elements to the sex, Hopefully I didn’t miss anything.

Author’s Note: People really liked my portrayal of Soft-ish Void in ‘The Dark Side’ and truly I wanted to kind of expand on that and take the story just a bit further too. Writing Soft!Void was so fun and odd, but it was so nice to be able to do it. Hopefully y’all enjoy! Thank you for readin <3 (P.S. Yes I said Soft Void. Don’t worry, normal Void shenanigans will be back soon.)

Word Count: 9,702

“You really don’t ha–have to keep doing this…” Bob’s voice broke softly through the silence like a crack in still glass. It wasn’t really a protest, it was more like a quiet plea laced with guilt. He lingered just inside the doorway, his tall frame half-silhouetted by the dim hallway light that glowed behind him. His tone trembled, stretched thin by exhaustion, “I’m…I’m sure you want to get more sleep than ju-just an hour or two.”

You were already under the covers of his bed, leaning against the headboard with your legs drawn up beneath the thick comforter, shoulder relaxed but eyes wide open. Sleep hadn’t been coming easily lately for you–not with everything still so raw with worry and concern–but being here, in his room with him, had become a kind of comforting ritual for you. A place where you stood guard, and soothed.

The chaos that once wreaked havoc over his bedroom–the splintered furniture, shattered glass, dented drywall–was gone now. Cleaned. Patched. Rebuilt from the ground up basically. The entire team had taken on the task to make everything right again, to erase the brutal traces of The Void’s presence. Even the scuffed floors had been sanded and polished, though some of the deeper gouges remained, hidden beneath the new rug Ava insisted on buying.

You had spent nearly every spare hour of the past week in his room–sorting through broken remnants, salvaging what you could. Bob’s framed photos of the team had been the first thing you tackled: cracked glass removed, splinters of wood from the frames glued back together, and new little pieces of plastic placed against the photos to replace the glass. You sat cross-legged on his floor, each picture spread out before you like fragments, before putting everything back together. You had also tried to salvage some of his mugs, but only two had been saved–Bob was grateful that you even tried to do it anyway.

Then came the dresser. A new one that you ordered from IKEA, that was delivered in a box that was too heavy for you to haul into Bob’s room on your own. You got Alexei and Walker to help you with that, but you stayed behind after they left, kneeling on the carpet beside Bob, helping him screw everything into place and go through the instructions. He had insisted on doing everything himself, even though his knuckles that you had patched up had begun to bleed through the gauze.

When things settled, everything looked very close to normalcy–eerily so. There was familiar furniture positioned back into place, books reshelved in the same order, and picture frames perched in the same areas. But it felt different. Lived in again…Touched by healing hands.

And Bob noticed.

He thanked you feverishly every time you finished a picture frame or replaced something–even when you handed him a cup of tea. He thanked Walker for lifting the headboard, Ava for the rug, Yelena for restocking his little trinkets. He must’ve said those words a hundred times within the week. You could tell he didn’t think it was enough. That it gnawed at him–how much everyone gave, and how little he felt he could return.

Now, he stepped into the room slowly, closing the door behind him with that same soft care he had throughout the entire week, his shoulder rising and falling with a tired breath as he crossed the room toward his dresser. You watch him from your place under the covers, silent, observant.

His movements were slower than usual. Careful. Painfully so. You saw it in the way he unzipped his hoodie with trembling fingers, the bandages frayed slightly at the edges, stained faintly with ointment from earlier. Your eyes followed every shift of his hand–the one you’d held steady days ago as you pulled a splinter from beneath the nail, listening to him suck in a breath and tell you, “It’s okay, I don’t even feel it anymore,” even though he clearly did.

“Trust me, Bob,” You said softly, your voice breaking the stillness in the room, “I’m okay. I don’t need as much sleep as you think…And regardless of that…I’m the only person that can control him if he comes out again. I need to be here.” He paused, halfway through shrugging off the hoodie. His jaw clenched for a second, then he slipped the rest of the fabric off, folding it slowly and neatly, hands still trembling slightly, before placing it on the dresser. You saw it in his face–there was something haunting him again. A question. A thought he hadn’t dared speak aloud until now. He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“…You never told me how you go-got me to come back,” He mumbled, voice quiet, strained, like it was raw just thinking about it. He stared down at the hoodie for a beat longer, rubbing the soft fabric, before wordlessly reaching for the hem of his shirt, turning on his heel to face you. He peeled the shirt off, the gauze clinging slightly to the inside of it. The amber glow of the bedside lamp casted long, soft shadows over his body, bathing him in warm light that didn’t hide a single thing.

The bruises and bandage were in plain sight again.

You had noticed them when you were patching up his hands after you calmed him down that day, but under this light they looked worse. Deeper. Like violet clouds blooming beneath the surface of his skin. The bruising stretched across his ribs, wrapping over his sides and spilling faintly along the edges of his abdomen, as though he’d been caught in a collapse and had barely crawled out from under it. There were a few patches of gauze as well, from where splinters of furniture had scraped and cut him.

He had told you, through clenched teeth, that The Void had made him hurt himself. That in the haze of it all–in the fog of darkness and sadness–he had taken the pain out on himself instead of the furniture around his room. He punched himself, or at least Bob said he did.

It hurt to hear, and it was even more painful to see, yet you still patched him up with such gentleness that Bob felt like he was going to pass out.

Seeing them again made your throat tighten.

He didn’t seem to notice your expression. He was too focused on the motion–folding his shirt with such neatness before throwing it into the hamper. Like it was the only thing he could really control.

”If I told you…” You began softly, your voice low, hesitant, “You wouldn't believe me, Bob.” He paused. Looked over at you, brows drawn in quiet confusion. His concern was already building, you could feel it.

“Tr-Try me,” He said after a beat. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze dropping to your hands where they rested on top of the blanket. Your thumbs brushed against the constellation of beauty marks scattered along your skin—small, quiet things you’d never thought much of before. But now…

Now, they burned.

Not in pain, but in memory.

You thought of what The Void had said. What he knew.

How Bob looked at them when he thought you weren’t watching. How he had memorized them–every last one. How they marked where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you. That stupid piece of folklore you’d only ever half believed–until you saw what your kisses did to him.

The way the freckles had bled through the Void’s form like stars. Tiny galaxies lighting up the dark. One at a time. The shoulder. The spine. The base of his neck. His jaw. The more you kissed him, the more the darkness split open and Bob began to return–like you’d traced a map across his skin and led him home.

How were you supposed to say that out loud?

How were you supposed to tell him the most impossible thing you’d ever done felt like instinct? That somehow, without understanding how or why, your body knew the way back to him even when his mind didn’t?

So instead…You looked back up at him.

His eyes were on you, soft and waiting, concern already building in the faint knit of his brows.

“It’s really…” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, “…confusing, Bob.” That crease in his forehead deepened just slightly as he took a cautious step forward.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head, once, immediately.

“No,” You said gently. “He didn’t. He can’t. He’s weak when he’s around me.”

You watched him exhale, the motion shaking slightly through his chest. His shoulders dropped, but his eyes stayed shadowed with something heavier–dread, maybe. Guilt. You reached over and flipped the blanket open without a word, and with your free hand, flicked off the bedside lamp.

Darkness swept across the room like a curtain. Not suffocating. Not cold. Just soft. Gentle shadows broken only by the pale blue glow from the window, where moonlight cut through the glass in long, quiet angles and kissed the walls.

Bob stood there for a moment–hesitating. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, his gaze cast low like he didn’t quite feel worthy of crawling into the space beside you. You saw it in the way he lingered. The way his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The fear wasn’t just about him. It was about you–what might happen if he let himself close enough to need this. To need you.

“I’m just…” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, “I’m wo–worried one day he’s going to come out…And he’s go-going to hurt you.” You saw it in his face then–clearer than ever. The helplessness. The guilt. The ache of someone who had come back from a nightmare and didn’t know how to live in the aftermath.

So you didn’t argue. You didn’t offer platitudes.

You just opened your arms.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And that was enough.

He sighed, almost like it hurt to exhale, and crawled into the bed beside you. His movements were slow, careful, like he was trying not to make a ripple in the space around you. Like he thought too much weight in the wrong place might send you drifting away.

You slipped down further against the pillows, welcoming him in without hesitation, your arms curling around his body as he eased closer–until his head found its usual place.

Right over your heart.

He settled there gently, cheek pressing to your clothed chest like he’d done every night for the past few days. His arm came up slowly, resting across your stomach, the other curling underneath you, tentative fingers lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And you held him.

Without fear. Without judgment.

Your palm found the back of his head and slid into his soft light brown hair, your fingers already stroking the strands in a rhythm you’d learned by heart–slow, grounding, gentle.

He exhaled. You felt the breath fan across the fabric on your ribs, warming them slightly.

“He would never hurt me, Bob…” You murmured, your voice warm in the dark, your breath stirring his hair. “Because you would never hurt me.”

A silence fell then–full of trust.

He didn’t say anything, but his body responded. You felt the way he leaned in closer, his grip tightening around your waist, his weight shifting until he was almost curled into your side completely. Like he wanted to disappear into you. Like you were the only solid thing he trusted to anchor him back to himself.

“You don’t have to worry about me…” You added softly, pressing your lips gently to the crown of his head. He let out a small, shuddering sigh at the kiss. It was quiet–barely more than breath–but it echoed in the hush between you. His fingers twitched slightly where they clung to the fabric of your shirt, and then he nodded once, slow and reluctant.

“…Okay,” He whispered, the word brittle and small. Like he wanted to believe it. Like he didn’t, but was choosing to anyway.

Then came the silence.

Thick and warm and filled only by the slow cadence of your breath and his. The soft weight of his body curled around yours. The bed creaked faintly as you both shifted, but nothing broke the stillness of the room. Just the hush of safety. The quiet rhythm of presence.

You knew the exact moment he drifted off.

The soft whistle of air from his nose told you. That tiny snore that only came when he was crushed into you like this–cheek against your chest, limbs tangled beneath the comforter. You smiled faintly and kept your hand moving through his hair, threading your fingers through in a slow rhythm. A grounding gesture, more for him than for you…But now, maybe it was both.

You lost track of time like that.

Until something changed.

At first, it was subtle. A coolness in the air under the blanket–not cold exactly, but different. A shift in pressure, like something holding its breath.

Your fingers stilled.

And then you felt it. The texture. The change in the strands beneath your touch. They slipped too easily between your fingers now–too smooth, too silent. They didn’t catch the way hair should. Instead, they moved like silk underwater. Alive. Shifting.

You looked down.

The crown of his head had gone black. Not just shadowed. Not just dimmed. Black. Lightless, hollow, impossible. The kind of darkness that felt sentient. The kind that could swallow stars.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t pull away. Just stared as the darkness spread, slow and sinuous–crawling down the back of his neck, across his shoulders, seeping into his skin like ink in water. The soft light from the window did nothing to touch it. It just disappeared into him.

And then, he moved.

Arms curling tighter around your waist, the way someone clings to the edge of a dream they’re afraid to wake from.

“No…” The voice came low and quiet. “…No, please. Do not stop suddenly because of me.” The Void’s tone was different from the last time you interacted with him. No malice. No venom. No harsh edge of control. It wasn’t a hiss–it was something closer to a plea. Gentle. Almost unsure. You froze. Heart pounding.

He didn’t move beyond that. Just stayed pressed against you, dark and heavy and cool, his face buried in your chest like nothing had changed at all.

“You…” He began, breath catching faintly, “You have absolutely ruined me.” Your hand hovered inches above where you’d been stroking his hair just moments ago, watching as tendrils of vantablack shadows exuded from his skin and crawled up your arms. Usually they recoiled when you were around, but not this time. It felt like a breeze. Cool and featherlight. Not invasive. Not consuming. Just…Explorative. Your breath hitched as they danced across your skin.

“…I didn’t do anything to you, Void.” You whispered, Your voice trembled, not from fear–but from the weight of the moment. From the ache in your chest that this darkness–the same darkness that once tried to devour the man you loved–was now wrapped around you like something desperate to stay.

He didn’t reply.

So you looked down.

And you saw all of him.

His entire form was draped in lightless shadow, vantablack and consuming, the folds of it shifting like living ink where he breathed against you. But within that sea of black, the constellations built from your kisses remained. Brighter now.

Over his shoulder, at his neck, on the dip of his spine. Every place where you had laid your lips to bring Bob back to you was shimmering. You had branded him, and it was evident by the way he was speaking.

”Where’s Bob?” You asked cautiously. The tendrils continued to slip up your skin, going beneath the sleeve of your t-shirt.

”He’s asleep…” The Void replied, the words soft, almost careful, “I promise…I’m not hurting him.” The tendrils continued to move beneath your shirt, curling gently along your ribs like they were memorizing you–your shape, your warmth. Not with hunger. Not with domination. But with need, and you allowed it…Because they hadn’t done anything to hurt you yet.

“Then…” You started, feeling your heart begin to pick up in pace, “Why are you here?” A silence stretched so long you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, with the faintest voice:

“…Because I needed to feel you again.”

Your breath caught.

You knew he felt it–your pulse thudding wildly beneath his ear. His head shifted slightly, like he was adjusting to the new rhythm. Listening to it. Drinking it in. You felt his face press even closer to your chest, like he was trying to lose himself in it. The tendrils climbed higher now, curling up your spine, slipping out from beneath the collar of your shirt like silk, wrapping around your shoulders, your throat–soft and slow, like they were bracing him for the words he hadn’t let himself say before.

“You…” He began, voice cracking slightly, “…Have taken me and ripped me apart–and you have no idea that you’ve done it. You closed your eyes tightly, chest tightening beneath the weight of that confession.

“Void, I–“ But he didn’t let you speak.

“I have never had my skin kissed…”

His voice was low and hoarse, but not from anger. It cracked with something deeper. Wreckage and worship all tangled together.

“I have never been treated with such gentleness in my entire existence,” He continued, lifting his head from your chest.

The weight of him shifted slightly, and you felt the cold brush of ink-light against your throat as he rose just enough to look up at you. His face was still veiled in darkness–no edges, no shape, just a silhouette of pure, living shadow–but those eyes…Those pale white pupils glowed like moons in an eclipse. Twin lights in the endless black.

His gaze bore into yours, not with fire, but with something aching. Broken. Like looking directly into grief that had finally grown too tired to be cruel.

“You marked me,” he breathed, and though his voice was still low, there was something fraying at the edges–tightness, tension, a tremble you didn’t often hear from him. “You’ve claimed what’s rightfully yours.”

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly as his eyes bore into you—those eerie, hollow white pupils that somehow shimmered with heat despite their cold hue.

“You have burned yourself into me,” he continued, and his voice cracked on the word burned, the sound splintering like the edges of a dam giving way. “Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, he moved.

His hand–shaped from shadow but solid, braced itself on the mattress beside your ribs, and he slowly climbed higher, crawling up your body with a grace that was too fluid, too precise to be human. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he shifted, his form inching up until you were face to face–your back sinking deeper into the pillows while he loomed above, haloed in ink and moonlight.

The breath in your lungs hitched sharply.

He was so close now that you could feel the coolness radiating from him, his form drawing heat from the air around you. His breath–if it even was breath–fanned over your mouth in chilled waves. And yet somehow, it didn’t make you recoil. It made your skin spark. Tighten. Ache.

“I…” You whispered, but it came out barely audible.

His hand came up to your cheek then–tenderly. Not the shadow-tendrils this time. A hand. Cold. Unnatural. But steady. His thumb grazed the apple of your cheek, stroking slowly.

“…I woke something in you,” You continued, your own voice so fragile it nearly fell apart between syllables.

His touch faltered for half a second, but then he pressed his palm more firmly to your skin, as if grounding himself in it. Like he needed to feel you to keep himself from dissolving.

“I am cursed with the memory of your warmth, Y/N…” He admitted.

The way he said your name–it sounded like reverence and devastation folded into one.

“It has been plaguing me since you did this…”

His free hand reached across his body, brushing at the shimmering mark glowing faintly on his shoulder–right where you had kissed him first.

“Because I…” His voice dropped even lower, raspier, more ragged, “…I belong to you. And all I can have are these moments to admit it. These stolen minutes in the dark. And I can’t–I can’t take it anymore.”

You felt the mattress tremble faintly beneath his weight as another tendril slowly crept beneath the hem of your shirt. It slid along your skin with that same impossible gentleness, settling cold against the softness of your stomach. You inhaled sharply, your ribs stuttering under the touch. He noticed

“Void…” You murmured, a tremor slipping through your tone. “You can’t just come here and admit this stuff to me.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, slower now, and you saw his jaw tighten.

“…Why?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. But your eyes searched his, desperate for something to anchor to in the swirling dark. And then, quietly, you said the only name that ever broke him:

“Bob.”

He froze.

Swallowed hard. You watched the muscles in his neck twitch.

And then he spoke, each word like glass.

“Do you think Bob isn’t the main cause of all of this?” His voice trembled–not with anger, but something closer to despair. “Do you think my feelings are just… conjured up out of thin air?”

You didn’t breathe.

“We are connected,” He went on, more broken now, desperate. “His thoughts plague my mind just like my voice plagues his. His dreams. His love. I feel it. Every second. Every heartbeat he wastes on you, I feel it like a wound that never closes.”

The tendrils at your throat–already wrapped softly there–curled tighter. Still gentle. Still featherlight. Like hands cradling something delicate. Like the hands of someone scared to lose you.

“I can’t ignore the truth anymore,” He whispered. “Not when he dreams of you the way he does. Not when I dream of you now too. Do you understand me?”

You nodded, even though your breath still shook.

Even though your heart still pounded in your ears and your body felt caught between dread and something far more dangerous–want.

His hand cupped your jaw, the coolness seeping into your skin like mist through cloth, and he lowered his face even closer–so close your noses nearly brushed.

“Say it,” He whispered.

You swallowed.

“What?”

“Say you know,” He breathed, voice shaking now. “Say you know what you’ve done to me.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then quietly–so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a prayer–you whispered:

“…I know.” He didn’t move at first.

It was like the words had knocked the air from his lungs, like they’d rendered something inside him too stunned to function. You watched his mouth part slightly–lips trembling, breath shallow–and his pupils, those glowing pale moons, flicked down to your mouth.

And then…He leaned in.

So slowly. So hesitantly. As if he were expecting the moment to vanish before it touched him. His lips hovered a whisper above yours–cold, barely-there, and waiting for permission he didn’t know how to ask for.

So you gave it.

You tilted your chin, parted your lips just a breath–and then flicked your tongue out and lightly licked the soft curve of his bottom lip.

A sharp, guttural sound escaped him.

It wasn’t a moan. It wasn’t a gasp. It was something more primitive–like something inside him cracked wide open. Like the memory of your warmth came rushing back all at once and hit him like a storm. His whole form shivered beneath your touch, like even that much gentleness was too much to bear.

And then you kissed him.

Soft. Delicate. A press of lips that felt less like hunger and more like offering. A sacred thing. Like you were silently giving yourself to him–trusting him.

The tendril against your stomach quivered, then spread upward, curling slowly up your sternum. The coldness traced the line between your ribs with aching slowness, pulling goosebumps to your skin like the aftershock of a spell. Another tendril wrapped firmer around your back, pulling you upward, into him, and your hands moved before you could think.

You cupped his face.

Both palms against his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheekbones as though trying to soothe the trembling that had begun shaking through his body. And he melted into it–like his form wasn’t solid anymore. Like the sheer weight of being held like this was more than he could survive.

He kissed you back–slowly at first, uncertain.

And then again. And again.

The whimper that escaped him was so raw it sounded like it hurt. Not from pain, but from feeling. From the overwhelming pressure of being kissed like this–like someone wanted him, all of him, even the parts he thought were unsalvageable.

You felt him shift.

The mattress dipped again as he leaned in heavier, his body pressing down into yours, his chest brushing yours. His weight was cold and foreign, but grounding. Not crushing. Not claiming. Just seeking. Wanting to be closer than was allowed.

Your legs parted instinctively beneath the blanket, and you wrapped them around his waist–lightly at first, tentative, as though testing if this was still okay. But when your calves settled around him, he let out another sound–a shaky, broken breath against your mouth that might have been the closest he could come to a thank you.

He deepened the kiss.

Not rough. Not fast. Just more. His mouth moved with such aching slowness against yours, lips cold but desperate to memorize you. He whimpered softly into your mouth, again and again, like the sound was being pulled out of him against his will.

Your hands kept moving. One stayed on his cheek, thumb stroking in soothing circles, but the other slipped down–over his neck, his shoulder, down along his ribs.

You felt him tremble.

Not from fear. But from need. That wild, hollow ache of something that had been starved of affection for so long, it didn’t know what to do with it now that it had finally been touched.

The shadows around you shifted, curling tighter around your form, but they didn’t hurt. They held. They cradled. They tethered. As though The Void himself couldn’t bear the thought of losing contact. Of being separated by even a breath of air.

And still, his mouth stayed on yours.

Whimpering. Trembling. Kissing you like your lips were the only thing keeping him tethered to the body he’d borrowed.

He pulled back slowly–too slowly, like leaving your mouth was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

When you opened your eyes, his were still closed.

His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged and shallow as if even the act of kissing had drained him. He was trembling–barely–but enough that you felt it through every place your bodies touched. You opened your mouth to speak, but then you saw it.

His lips.

Flecked with tiny white pinpricks of light. The same ones your other kisses had left in its wake. You reached up with slow fingers, reverent fingers, and gently traced the outline of his lips. His breath hitched violently, and his head dipped toward your palm like he couldn’t help it–like he was starved for it. Your thumb grazed the soft swell of his bottom lip.

He whimpered.

The sound was raw. Desperate. Almost painful.

You stilled immediately. “Void…?”

His eyes blinked open slowly–dim moons, fogged and trembling. His voice cracked as he whispered, “It…It hurts.”

Your heart clenched. “Hurts?”

He nodded faintly, almost ashamed. “I don’t…I don’t know how to process this. Being touched like that. Being kissed like that. It’s too much–” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, then exhaled shakily, as if trying to hold himself together.

“I can stop,” You offered softly, your hand still cupping his cheek, your thumb now brushing beneath his eye instead. “Just tell me and I’ll–”

“No.” His hand caught yours–shadowed, trembling, cold. “Don’t.” Another breath. “Please. Don’t stop. I just…I need to feel it all.”

You nodded once, slowly.

Then, he shifted.

He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your leg still wrapped loosely around his waist. You followed easily, pressing your chest to his again, the blanket cocooning you both in warmth while his shadows curled tightly around you like a second skin. Your face was just inches from his, your breath mingling with his cool exhale.

Your hand slid down his jaw again, trailing lower this time–down his throat, over the defined line of his collarbone. Your palm remained splayed across his chest, cool beneath your fingers, rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths. His shadows still curled around you—gentle, clinging, trembling with a hunger that didn’t come from destruction, but from longing. From need. From the aching vulnerability of a god on his knees, cradled in human hands.

You tilted your head just slightly, forehead still grazing his, voice low and warm as you whispered:

“Tell me how it feels…”

Your thumb traced a soft arc over the center of his chest. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

A breath hitched. A sound caught in his throat—like he was about to speak, but it took him a second to find the strength.

“…Please…” His voice cracked—barely above a whisper, “Please just…keep touching me.”

That was all he could say. All he could manage.

So you did.

You moved slowly like you were tracing stardust across him, like every motion was meant to tell him I see you. Your hand slipped from his chest and down along his side, curling around his waist to hold him closer. The other stayed between you, lifting just slightly to stroke your fingertips along the line of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then into his hair again–inky and cool and shifting beneath your hand like it responded to your touch.

He sighed, trembling, and his own hand came forward to find your thigh beneath the blanket. Slowly. Carefully. He rested his palm there, large and cool against the bare skin just above your knee, like he was memorizing the shape of you. He inhaled sharply at the contact, the breath catching at the top of his chest before shaking loose in a low exhale through barely-parted lips.

His thumb stroked once. Then again. Small, grounding circles against the inside of your thigh, before his fingers curled slightly and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You swallowed.

Then you leaned forward, lips brushing the curve of his collarbone.

A kiss.

Then another.

Slower.

Lower.

You felt the exact moment he gasped–the motion rattling through his chest and into your mouth as you pressed another kiss just beneath the hollow of his throat. Light bloomed beneath your lips–those same soft pinpricks of white, growing like starlight across his dark skin.

“Oh god…” He breathed, his head tipping back slightly, exposing more of his neck to you. Inviting more of you.

It was a prayer and a confession and a surrender all at once.

You kissed higher, toward the edge of his shoulder, lips dragging softly along the cool skin, your nose brushing his throat as you whispered gently:

“You can have this…” Another kiss. “As long as you want.”

A low, broken sound escaped him–something between a moan and a whimper. His hand on your thigh tightened again, not roughly–just anchoring. Needing. Worshipping.

You moved back just enough to look at him again.

His glowing white eyes were glassy now, lids heavy, lips parted slightly. He looked completely undone. Not from lust. But from being seen. From being held.

Your hand came up to his face again, fingers tracing the hollow of his cheek.

“You’re not too much,” You murmured, answering the question he hadn’t dared ask aloud. “You’re not too cold. You’re not too broken. You’re not a mistake.”

His breath stuttered again. He blinked. You saw something fracture across his expression–something soft. Something grateful. Like you’d just rewritten a truth he thought he had to live with forever.

“Touch me again,” He whispered, voice breaking. “Please…”

You shifted closer until your chest pressed to his again, and your mouth returned to his neck. Kissing. Marking. Soft worship. Your hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers splaying wide, grounding him again. He whimpered, and you felt the sound vibrate against your lips.

The shadows around you pulled tighter–still not hurting, still not threatening. Just holding. Like they were trying to remember this moment. To keep it somehow. Etch it into the fabric of reality before it could slip away.

His hand remained anchored on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles into the warmth of your skin like he was committing it to memory. You felt him shift slightly–closer, heavier. His mouth brushed against your cheek.

And then came the question.

“Can I touch you?”

It was soft. Wrecked. Almost reverent.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face–those pale, glowing eyes dim and unsure, shadowed by something fragile.

“Where?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Instead, his hand slid higher.

Cool fingers brushing up along your thigh, along the hem of your sleep shorts, until his knuckles just barely grazed the waistband. He paused there, eyes searching yours—studying. Not demanding. Just waiting.

And you saw it again–the way his breath caught. The tremble in his touch. The restraint of a creature that could ruin you in a heartbeat…but didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

You nodded.

And he moved.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband.

You gasped sharply.

The cold was immediate–like shadow-dipped silk gliding against your heat. Not harsh. Not jarring. Just the opposite. The contrast made your body tense, then melt. He felt it—how wet you already were for him–and his breath stuttered, just once.

“Oh…” You gasped.

His other hand rose slowly, almost uncertainly, and came to cradle the side of your neck–his palm cool and steady as his thumb stroked under your jaw, grounding you again. The feel of his fingers below was almost unbearable now.

“You’re so warm, Y/N…” He whispered, and it wasn’t just awe in his voice–it was longing. Worship. “So…So warm…”

His fingers moved gently between your folds, slowly, like he was learning you by touch alone. His middle finger dipped lower, parting your slick with a trembling kind of care, until he found the delicate ache at your entrance.

Your breath hitched.

He stroked along it once–soft and teasing–and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you. Your hips twitched forward, chasing the sensation, and he groaned low in his throat like the sound of your pleasure was more than he could bear.

“I want…” You breathed, voice trembling. “Guide me to you. I want to touch you too.”

There was no hesitation.

One of the tendrils–slow and patient–slid down your arm like ribbon, curling around your wrist. It coaxed your hand forward, easing beneath the blanket, through shadow and warmth and the press of his form, sliding beneath his waistband until–

You felt him.

Hard.

Straining.

Solid heat beneath impossibly cool skin.

You couldn’t see it. But you knew. The thickness. The weight. The need that pulsed there.

Your fingers curled instinctively around him, and he jolted–his whole body twitching with the contact, breath torn from his lungs in a raw, shuddering gasp.

“Oh god…” He whispered, barely coherent.

You palmed him gently, dragging your hand along the length of him, feeling a wet spot already forming at the tip. His hips flexed forward into your touch. The tendrils around your wrist tightened–just slightly–like they couldn’t bear to let go.

And still, his fingers moved.

He slipped one inside you–slow, so slow–and you cried out, arching into him.

“Void…” You moaned, your voice breaking. “Your fingers feel so good…”

His mouth dropped open at the sound, and he groaned into your neck–low and trembling and desperate. His finger curled inside you, and then another joined–his thumb pressing up, slow and steady against your clit in small, precise circles.

His fingers thrust into you with more confidence now, the earlier hesitation melting away as he felt your heat clench greedily around him. He groaned raggedly against your skin, the sound low and fractured as he buried his face in your neck. Your wrist flexed in rhythm, stroking the length of him with slow, coaxing pulls, and his hips twitched forward again, seeking more.

“Fuck–” He breathed softly into your throat, reverence and disbelief tangled in the single word.

The slick sounds between your thighs were unmistakable now–vivid, shameless, echoing beneath the blanket like they were announcing just how wet you were for him. Every time his fingers curled just right, your hips rolled down into them, grinding against his palm, chasing that pressure. You could feel yourself dripping–your sleep shorts were clinging now, damp and sticky, soaked through as he thrust deeper.

Then he did it–he nipped at your neck. Gentle, testing, like he wasn’t sure how much you could take. His lips grazed your pulse point, breath cooling the heated skin, and then–he latched on.

You gasped sharply, your whole body arching into him.

“V–Void–” You moaned, a tremble shaking through your voice as your hand jerked on his cock, stroking him with firmer, wetter pulls. “That…Fuck, that felt–”

You didn’t even finish.

He groaned at your reaction, grinding his palm up against your clit harder now, his fingers pumping faster, deeper, slicker. The cold contrast of him inside you made the heat coil impossibly tight in your core, and your thighs began to tremble.

You moved your hand faster, too. Dragging your fist up the thick, throbbing length of him, curling your fingers tighter at the base, and then slipping upward, smearing the precum across the tip with your thumb. You could feel him twitching in your palm, feel how much it wrecked him to be touched like this–reverently, intimately, possessively.

“Please–” He rasped, breath hot against your neck. “I can’t–if you keep touching me like that–”

You clenched around his fingers hard, your hips grinding down with desperate rhythm.

“I know…I know…But please don’t stop,” You whispered.

And he didn’t.

He fucked his fingers into you harder–faster–his wrist snapping with a precision that felt unfair. You sobbed his name into his shoulder, your hand jerking reflexively on his cock as your thighs spread wider, desperate to keep feeling him.

Then–his thumb pressed up again, harder, tighter, and you shattered.

It wasn’t a soft climax.

It hit like thunder.

You gasped–a sharp, breathless sound–and your thighs clamped down around his wrist as your hand spasmed and gripped his cock tightly. Your whole body bucked as your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wet, your walls clenching wildly around his fingers as a gush of slick spilled into your shorts and soaked his hand.

“Oh, fuck–” He groaned, nearly collapsing into you, his voice broken with awe. “You–god, you just–”

Your hand slipped off him, limp with aftershock, and he kept his fingers inside you as you shook.

You were still gasping when he pulled back–just slightly–and looked down at you.

The mark on your neck pulsed dark in the moonlight.

He stared at it.

Then he leaned down again and bit you.

Not gently this time.

He sunk his teeth–sharp, deliberate–right over the place he’d already kissed, right over your pulsing artery. You gasped again, your fingers tightening in his hair as your hips jerked.

When he pulled back, you were panting–and the look on his face…

Pure, holy vengeance.

The bruise he left bloomed immediately. Deep, dark, and possessive. A perfect mirror to the stars you had carved into his skin with your kisses.

He gazed down at it with a look of worship and darkness all at once.

“That,” He murmured, his voice low and ruined, “Is going to be very hard to explain tomorrow.”

And the smirk that curved his mouth was slow, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.

You leaned in first. Pressed a soft, breathless kiss to his parted lips, catching the last remnants of that smirk and stealing it right from his mouth. Your lips brushed, warm against his cold, a slow drag of reverence and claim. Then you whispered against him:

“It’s alright. I’ll figure it out.”

He barely had time to respond before you kissed him again–deeper this time, with heat that made his hands twitch on your thigh. His shadows curled tighter around your hips, bracing for something neither of you could take back.

When you finally pulled away, breath caught in the space between you, your voice dropped to a sultry whisper:

“Lay on your back.”

His pale eyes squinted, caught between suspicion and arousal. “Why?” He rasped.

You leaned close to his ear, let your lips ghost over the shell of it, and whispered:

“’Cause I want you inside me.”

You felt him shudder.

Hard.

The kind of involuntary, whole-body tremor that pulled a sound from his throat–quiet, ragged, and guttural.

Without another word, he obeyed.

The mattress shifted beneath you as he slowly laid back, shadows slithering and curling beneath his spine like smoke. His eyes never left you–not once. Even as your thigh slipped from around his waist, even as you reached down, dragging your soaked sleep shorts down your trembling legs.

You peeled them off inch by inch, slow and deliberate, the cool air grazing your slick thighs as you bared yourself to him. Then your shirt followed. Pulled over your head, discarded to the side.

You were completely bare now–bathed in moonlight, glowing like the stars that had once kissed his skin.

The Void’s body shifted beneath you, shadows writhing like living breath across the sheets. You heard fabric rustle faintly, and then felt it–the brush of his length against your thigh, already slick with precum, already straining.

You climbed over him slowly.

His gaze followed every motion, those glowing white pupils wide and ravenous. His chest barely moved with breath, but his body was tense beneath you–cold and waiting.

The second your knees straddled his waist, his eyes dropped to your chest.

And he sighed.

The sound was deep. Hollowed out. Full of awe.

“Dear god…” He whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

His hands rose almost reverently and cupped your breasts. He gave one a gentle squeeze, like he was testing its realness, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, cool and soft, sending a rush of heat straight through your core.

Around you, the tendrils stirred again.

They slipped along your sides, brushing over your ribs, your stomach, your thighs. Cascading up your back and down your arms in slow, possessive strokes. Not gripping. Just…Holding. Just reminding you that he was everywhere.

You shifted above him, and he let out a low, ragged sigh at the feel of your soaked core dragging over the length of his erection. The contrast of temperature was almost unbearable–your heat against his endless cold.

His hands dropped to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

You rose up slightly, just enough to reach between you, guiding his cock with careful fingers. You lined him up with your entrance, already so wet and aching it made you whimper.

Then you began to sink down.

The stretch made your mouth fall open immediately–a burning, slow ache as your walls parted for him inch by inch. He was cold inside you. Not harsh. Not unnatural. Just…different. Like your warmth was the only thing tethering him to this plane.

He whimpered the moment your heat began to envelope him.

And god, it was a sound you’d never forget–wrecked and vulnerable, a gasp that trembled with disbelief.

You sank down slower, hands braced on his chest, shadows curling tighter around your back. The pressure built. The stretch deepened. The burn crawled higher. Your jaw went slack, eyes fluttering shut.

“F-fuck,” You choked softly, your voice breaking. “You’re…bigger than I thought.”

The Void whimpered again, trying not to move, hands gripping your hips like restraint was the only thing keeping him intact.

“You’re so warm,” He whispered hoarsely. “So tight. I–god, you feel like fire.”

You moaned at the way he filled you–deep and cold and aching. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him as you finally settled, fully seated on him, the stretch bringing on a delicious pulse between pleasure and burn.

He was still.

Too still.

Like if he moved too fast, this would all disappear.

So you leaned forward again, your palms sliding up his chest, your lips brushing his temple. He let out a low, airy sigh as you leaned forward again, your lips pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to the ridge of his cheekbone. Another to the tip of his nose. You felt him shiver beneath you, his pale eyes fluttering shut like he couldn’t bear the sensation of it–like he didn’t know how to accept being touched so gently, so freely. But still, he held perfectly still. Breathing shallow, jaw slack, letting you do it.

And each kiss left behind a soft gleam of white light.

Tiny constellations bloomed where your mouth had landed–stars flaring into life against the shadowed surface of his face. They shimmered softly in the moonlight, and when you pulled back to admire him, the image took your breath away.

He looked…Ruined. Worshipped. Unmade by your love.

“I’m not going to be able to strike fear into anyone,” He murmured, voice hoarse and trembling, “If you keep kissing my face and marking me like this.”

You laughed–a soft, breathy thing that shook lightly through your chest. “Say it’s a birthmark.” His hands clenched at your hips in that moment–fingers digging in with involuntary need–and his hips shifted, just slightly, a subtle thrust upward from beneath you.

It was enough.

Your laugh caught in your throat and turned into a sharp gasp as he nudged deeper inside, your body seizing around him in a sudden ripple of tightness.

“Shit,” You breathed, eyes flying open, “you can’t do that.”

His eyes widened slightly–moons gone soft with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped, voice thin and stunned, hands relaxing on your hips like he thought he might’ve hurt you.

You shook your head immediately, one hand bracing against his chest, the other sliding up his jaw.

“No, no–it’s alright,” You murmured gently. “Just caught me off guard.”

Then you leaned in slowly, mouth brushing along the edge of his jaw, your breath warming the cool skin as you whispered, “But…Does this mean I can start moving now?”

His response was instant.

A nod. Wild and desperate. Then another–faster, almost frantic. His eyes locked on yours, pupils wide and glowing as he whispered, “Yes. Please. I need you to.”

You smiled softly.

And then you moved.

The first roll of your hips was slow. Measured. A gentle pull upward, and then a careful drop back down. The stretch flared again, sweet and biting, your breath catching as you sank onto him fully, the thick weight of his cock dragging deliciously along your walls.

Beneath you, he groaned–low and guttural and barely restrained.

His hands clenched again at your waist, not guiding you, just holding. Just grounding himself. Like the pleasure was too much and he needed your body beneath his palms to remember he was still here.

You rocked again.

A slow, rhythmic grind of your hips that pressed him impossibly deep, the angle shifting just enough that the drag of his cock against your walls made you moan. The pressure mounted with every roll–an intoxicating, needy heat spreading through your core as he filled you, stretched you, worshiped you without even moving.

And he just lay there–utterly undone–letting you take him apart.

“Fuck,” You breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “You feel…So good, Void.”

He whimpered.

That same raw, involuntary sound he made every time your body clenched around him. His breath trembled. His hands flexed.

And then the tendrils began to move.

They curled along your back first–sliding up your spine, cool and slow, trailing over your skin like ribbons of silk. Then two more snaked down your thighs, wrapping around them just beneath your hips. Not restraining. Just holding. Guiding. Supporting you where his hands couldn’t reach.

They moved with you.

Rising as you lifted yourself. Lowering as you dropped down again.

Like they were learning your rhythm.

Your pace quickened slightly, each drop down onto his cock making your thighs tremble, each upward lift a delicious drag of heat and friction. Your hands pressed harder against his chest now, fingers splayed, nails curling slightly into the shadows that made up his skin.

And he was gone.

Eyes wide open now, lips parted in breathless awe, head tipped back into the pillow as he took everything you gave him. Every roll of your hips, every breathless moan. His eyes flicked down to your chest, to the way it bounced with every motion, and he groaned aloud–his hips twitching up into you for the first time in response.

You gasped.

“Void–” You choked.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped again, but there was no restraint this time. His voice was wrecked with need. “I need to–I need to feel you more–”

You leaned down and took his face in your hands again, kissing him hard, your mouth sliding against his with heat and hunger as your hips began to move faster. The sound of your slick echoing now–wet and open and filthy–as he fucked up into you with trembling precision.

The tendrils climbed again.

They ghosted over your breasts, curling gently around them, cool and reverent as they cupped your weight. One traced the curve of your throat. Another danced down the arch of your back, grounding you through every bounce, every roll, every stutter of your breath.

You moaned into his mouth.

He caught the sound and swallowed it–his tongue slipping into your mouth with the most delicate desperation, kissing you like he was starved, like he’d never get to do it again.

You broke the kiss only long enough to pant against him, your forehead pressed to his as you gasped, “Push me down onto you.”

His breath caught.

And he obeyed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he braced you, holding you still against him–just for a moment–before he thrust up hard.

You cried out, the sharp pleasure of it shocking through your nerves like lightning. The tendrils cinched tighter, wrapping you in a cocoon of darkness as his pace began to build beneath you–slow but deep, precise, controlled only by the fragility of your body above him.

Your voice broke on another moan. “Don’t stop, please, I’m–I’m gonna–”

And then you shattered again.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, clenching tight around him, soaking him in wet heat as your nails dug into his shoulders and your head fell forward with a cry.

He gasped.

And then he came.

With a broken moan and a hoarse curse, his body convulsed beneath you, his hands yanking your hips down hard–burying you to the hilt–holding you there as he spilled inside you, cold and heavy and endless.

The tendrils trembled around you, tightening like a final embrace, like they were anchoring him to you while his body seized with pleasure. His mouth parted, breath ragged, eyes squeezed shut as his hips stuttered up one more time–and then he collapsed back into the bed, shaking.

You slumped over him, forehead resting on his shoulder.

Breathless. Glowing. Slick and ruined and full.

His arms came around you slowly, delicately–like he wasn’t sure you’d allow it. But you did. You melted against him, chest pressed to his cool skin, the soft weight of your body settling atop his as you began to breathe in sync.

Your exhales mingled. Your heartbeats echoed, uneven but slowly evening out.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, quivering waves beneath your cheek, and beneath the chill of his skin, you could feel his pulse–faint, strange, but steady. You rested your palm just over it, grounding yourself there, listening to the rhythm until it felt like your own.

The tendrils around you loosened only slightly–enough to ease the tension from your limbs without breaking contact. They kept stroking softly along your back, trailing up and down your spine with gentle pressure, like they were comforting you…Or comforting him through you.

After a moment, you finally lifted your head.

And you stilled.

Your gaze caught the faint white gleam scattered across his face. Dozens of tiny marks, scattered like freckles–no, constellations. Traced by your lips. Etched like a map across the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks, across his temple, haloing his brow. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, breathless laugh.

“Jesus,” You whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, “I really did a number on you.”

He blinked slowly, still catching his breath, then smirked faintly. “Can’t pass it off as a birthmark anymore, hmm?”

You shook your head, amused, gaze tracing every speck of light you’d left behind.

“No… definitely not.” Your fingertips danced over them again, tender, reverent. “But they’re really pretty.”

His mouth quirked upward into something close to a grin–more tooth than smirk this time. You saw the faint flash of his teeth, sharp but clean, like fangs made for something more elegant than violence.

“Lucky it doesn’t pass off to Bob,” He said, voice still low, hoarse. “He’d have even more to explain than you.”

You snorted softly and shifted a little against him, letting your forehead rest beside his. “He’d never live it down. Walker would never stop asking questions.”

“Or Ava,” Void added. “She’d try to scrub them off with a washcloth.”

You both chuckled quietly, the sound soft in the quiet hush of the room. The tendrils still moved slowly across your skin–trailing along your lower back, curling gently around your ribs, one brushing softly against the back of your knee where it hooked loosely over his hip.

“I think…” He murmured after a beat, “he’ll definitely be happy tomorrow morning though.”

You looked at him, blinking slowly.

“But you will have to talk to him about this.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Then, after a beat of hesitation, you admitted, “The soulmate thing may confuse him though.”

The Void hummed softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest beneath you. “Leave that out,” He murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I think it technically applies to only you and I anyway.”

That made your heart thump–once, hard.

You swallowed, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

A shimmer of light bloomed beneath your lips.

His whole body tensed.

Every tendril tightened slightly around you–not harshly, but as if the entire mass of shadows needed to hold you in place, needed to feel every second of that kiss, needed to memorize it.

You pulled back slightly and whispered, “Void…”

His head turned slowly toward you, that expression unreadable but open, mouth slightly parted.

“Yeah?”

You brought your hand up to his face again, palm cradling his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, breath hitching.

“I was really wrong about you.”

His jaw tensed beneath your palm. You felt it–just for a moment–before he whispered, “It’s okay… I made multiple bad impressions and you had a right to dislike me.” He takes a moment, and presses his cheek into your touch. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You leaned in slowly.

And kissed him again.

Right in the center of his lips.

Another star flickered into life.

His breath hitched audibly this time, chest quaking beneath you, eyes still shut like he couldn’t bring himself to look at you in that moment. Couldn’t believe he was being forgiven.

You rested your forehead against his.

And whispered, “And I’m glad you weaken me…”

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes brushing your cheeks from how close you were.

“…Because you make me feel a little more human.”

He didn’t answer.

Not aloud.

Instead, the tendrils coiled tightly around your back, around your thighs, around your shoulders–pulling you closer, tighter, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

And for the first time, The Void didn’t feel like a monster at all.

He just felt like a man who finally knew what it was like to be loved.

[smileycarat]

wonwoo x idol!reader pt 3

in which you and wonwoo don’t really keep your relationship a secret, and fans get glimpses into your lives together

fans find out that you both live together through one of wonwoo’s lives

he’s sitting on the couch, slightly slouched as he leans closer to read comments

in the background, there is the sound of a woman’s laughter, just loud enough to be heard with wonwoo’s talking

people immediately start to question it, to the point where wonwoo has to scroll to find other comments to talk about that don’t revolve around you

people ask where mingyu is, and wonwoo responds, “he’s at his apartment.”

fans were a little heartbroken to hear that they no longer lived together

but then the realization hit that he might be living with you now

during one of your own lives, you’re speaking about how you have a sore throat from recording yesterday, so apologies for the raspy voice

(fans said you sounded hot)

you mentioned that you were excited for the song you were recording, and that you hoped fans would love it as much

as you’re discussing the ways you were recording, a hand snuck into frame to hand you a mug

you had visibly brightened and gushed an excited “what’s this?” as you took a sip

the live chat was a blur with how quickly it blew up when fans heard a deep voice say “tea. careful, it’s hot.”

it was slightly too late as you had already taken a sip, and it was a hilarious sight when you placed the cup down with a hiss of “hot!”

you slightly rubbed at you bottom lip with a small frown

“are you alright?” was heard from behind the camera

fans captured the moment the hand first came into frame, and of course they saw the very same familiar ring worn by wonwoo and all svt members

the same hand cupped your chin as it tilted your head up to assess the damage

you laughed the pain off, playfully swatting the hand away, “i’m fiiiiine, you warned me and i didn’t listen”

you returned to your live as if nothing happened despite the comments going crazy fast, to the point where you couldn’t really read them, so you changed topic and began chatting about your new nail set

the screenshot of you with someone cupping your chin and tilting your head up went viral

people even outside of the kpop world were commenting on the image and it quickly became a hot topic

people were using that shot for art reference, for goodness sake

despite your relationship not exactly being kept a secret, you can’t really manage to talk about it but there are more signs

one day you release a vlog of you going shopping by yourself at the mall

just a simple fun day

you stop at one of the electronic stores saying you needed a new phone charger, and it should have been a quick stop

yet you made your way over to the gaming keyboards and were showing off all the different clicking sounds that they made

your blog quickly turned into an asmr video with the way you focused on a baby pink sparkly keyboard with the most cozy clicking sounds

“isn’t this fun?!” you excitedly whispered to the camera as your nails made clacking sounds with the keyboard

the next portion of the vlog was you walking out of the store carrying a shopping bag, looking way too happy with yourself

a few weeks later, during one of wonwoo’s GAM3 BO1 lives, fans noticed the same pink sparkly keyboard featured in your video

when asked about it, wonwoo simply stated, “i like the clicking sounds it makes”

trust, it became a staple for all future GAM3 BO1 lives

a/n: i luv writing shenanigans for these two! pls make sure to reblog and share <3

[doesthebatfamknowpopculture]

bruce wayne has seen weekend and him and tim both have letterboxd and i am SO incredibly normal about letterboxd being cannon in dc

(dc pride 2023)

!

[irisluvsabby]

cowboy!abby x victorian princess!reader pt. 1

cw: mostly fluff but i guess it gets a tiny bit heated towards the end, abby is kinda mean at some point, abby is older, reader is a spoiled princess.

you were the daughter of the really powerful man in england which has granted you the title of princess, however you were known to be really bratty and have a strong attitude. you wouldn't go to your reading class, would try to run away as soon as you dad arranged you another marriage with your cousin etc. overall you just hated the royal life and wanted to have some fun.

but for your dad you were just ungrateful and bratty, which was okay before you went off one night to go to a pub and some peasants saw you kissing another woman. that was the last straw for your dad who decided to send you to america, in a farm that was owned by a close friend of him, he knew that back there, you wouldn't cause anymore problems to the royal family.

so after three weeks of long and exhausting travelling, you finally arrived to the farm your father sent you to, and you weren't exactly happy about that. that as until you saw the woman who runs that farm. tall, blonde, big muscles rather masculine and older than you. that woman looked like she came out of one of your wet dreams and suddenly you were happy about your dad sending you here.

"name's abby and i run this farm, your dad sent ya here as a part of your punishment right?"

"oh yeah- i guess so.." you said, looking up at her.

"follow me i'll show you your room."

she then walked to the house without even offering to carry some of your many bags.

"um would you mind giving me a hand?" you asked her like she was stupid.

"come on you have like three bags and i'm sure you can handle yourself"

you huff, trying to gather your three bags in your hands, god she was lucky she was so hot because if not she would've been a pain. when she opens the door of your tiny room, you're met with a single bed with one pillow and a few covers, a desk and a small wardrobe. you looked at the place in defeat.

"is there anyway i can get at least a king sized?" you asked abby innocently, referring to the bed.

she then chuckled, walking away back to the kitchen. "this ain't england hun, you'll deal with what i give ya." she said not even turning around to look at you.

"ugh." you huffed before starting to put away your things in the small bedroom. but not even 10 minutes after that, abby was back at your door, "come here i'll show u what u want u to do around here everyday." she said as she watched you fold some pink and white clothes she knew damn well wouldn't stay that color. "and maybe we should buy you some other clothes because i'm not sure ya want to take those to the pigpen darling."

all of the nicknames she gave you made it impossible for you to act bratty with her, it was like she had some control on you. "i mean yeah? but i thought i would only give out hay and stuff like that?"

she laughed before setting you back down on earth "hell no, you're gonna have your feet in mud. come on we'll go in town to buy some useful clothes." you sighed before following outside. she then jumped on one of two horses that were standing outside. "oh we're going to town horse riding?" you asked her in disbelief. "do you not have a carriage?"

"do you not know how to ride a horse?" she asked sarcastically.

"okay okay.." you said before getting on the other horse.

the ride to town was like 10 minutes, which with abby were 10 minutes of pure silence, you tried to ask her a few questions and make small talk but oh well.

once in town she took you to a store, claiming that you'll probably find clothes to your liking in here. and you did, that cowboy style was kinda growing on you. you got boots, two or three pair of jeans, and cute flannel tops with ruffles, you also found a cute sundress which you had to try on. abby was waiting for you this whole time so you decided to ask her opinion on the dress you had tried on.

"hey abby look at that", you said to her, getting out of the dressing room to show her the dress, it's wasn't that short but it was an over the knees length which was new for you but you didn't hate it.

she walked towards the dressing room to take a good look at you. "oh that looks nice, be careful tho the men in town won't let you go if they see you like that." she said with a grin. you frowned to that, "oh i do not want the men to notice me don't worry."

she raised her eyebrows "oh yeah? well okay then, come on we gotta go back to the farm." she quickly said before turning back around letting you change back and pay for your items.

once back at the farm, you changed into some new jeans and another more comfortable top abby gave you because you still missed a few.

back down, abby told her to follow her as she was taking you to the pigpen, "okay ima need you to clean that place, i didn't have the time to and yeah it's rlly gross, there's buckets of water outside, good luck.", she said before going back to her horses.

"um excuse me? why are you making me clean that for my first task?? can't i.. i don't know check if the cows are okay and give them water? i don't want to do this ugh"

you start complaining and abby did not like that a single bit. "listen to me princess, your daddy sent you here for a reason, and i'm the one in charge here, you'll do as i say okay?" she says without stuttering and looking down into your eyes.

"and what if i don't want to?"

abby waited a few seconds to walk back towards you, looking at you up and down, wondering how was she going to put her words right for you to understand.

"oh the princess doesn't want to do what she came here for? okay maybe you're not gonna want to eat tonight or maybe you're not gonna want to clean yourself after the day? because i'm the one who pays for that shit i can decide wether you're gonna use them or not, got it?"

abby genuinely seemed pissed off, like she definitely wouldn't take no for an answer, after all she only did a favor to your dad, taking you with her, so she didn't have to be patient with you, it wasn't her part of the deal.

"okay then.." you said in defeat, looking down at the floor.

"good. there's a rake, bucks of water and you can put what needs to be thrown away behind the pigpen." she told, not leaving room for protests as she finally went back to take care of her horses.

the next two hours was like hell for you. you never knew a pigpen could be that dirty, and that pigs would get in the way so much, but you could say you did good work, and you were proud of yourself.

you finally decided to go back to abby, telling her you finished taking care of the pigpen. and all she had to say was "took you long enough". you couldn't help yourself but feel a bit hurt as you did your best, but when she saw how the place was clean and you did great she told you to go back inside, get clean and get ready for dinner.

a few days had passed after the incident, farm work was still annoying and hard for you, but you were finally getting to know abby better and growing closer to her, you would tell her stories from when you lived in england, and she would tell you stuff she did when she was younger as she was about 8years older than you. and after figuring out you both liked women, some flirting took place inside the farm.

abby showing you how to actually ride a horse, not in the princess way, which implied her having her hands on your hips, and you couldn't say you didn't like it. you also started teasing her with that new sundress you got the other day. one day she was doing the dishes and that's when you decided to sit on the counter beside her, your dress riding up and letting her see your thighs pretty well.

"what do ya need doll?" she would say. which you would respond with something along the lines of "oh nothing, 'just like watching you", and that made the well composed abby blush, a sight you don't see often.

"you're gonna drive me crazy with that dress." she simply says, and you are surprised but very happy to hear it.

so you put a hand on her shoulder softly, "what if that's what i want to do hm?" you admit, voice full of confidence after abby's revelation.

without thinking abby moves away from the sink to place her self in between your legs as you were still sat on the counter, and abby being tall made it that you guys were really face to face for once.

that act made you shiver, and you felt your heart beat into your chest, either from your nerves or the anticipation. abby was making it hard for you to compose yourself so you didn't think about what you were about to do.

"kiss me?" you tempted, with doe eyes which abby knew she couldn't resist before putting one of her hands under your chin, and kissing you hungrily, like she waited forever for that day to come.

when the kiss ended, both of yours and abby's lips were swollen from the intensity of the kiss.

"should we take this to my bedroom yeah? i have a king sized" she winked, mocking you for the first day you got here. you playfully hit her, "just take me upstairs", abby chuckled at that before carrying you bridal style.

an: should i continue this into a part 2?

[solarstranger]

Hello! Bakugo anon back!

Omg I've got SO many ideas. My brain is just always turning and cooking him like a rotisserie chicken

One that's had me giggling here recently is crush Bakugo. I love when he's yearning and pining for us, you know?

Just him finding out you've got the hots for a fictional character, hearing you refer to them as your husband lmao. Would he get jealous? (He wants to be your husband...)

- 🍡

nonie!!!! the rotisserie chicken imagery is a stroke of genius because honestly, same. 😭 i ended up writing a little something based on your ask, although i kind of made the fictional character come from a game with a certain storyline. anyway, he's still pining in this, so i hope you enjoy it!

c.w. pining bakugou. the bakusquad makes a comeback. secondhand embarrassment lmfao.

navigation. (you are here), part 2

bakugou stiffens.

sure, he doesn’t have the world’s best hearing—he has his loud ass quirk to thank for that—but surely you didn’t just refer to someone as your husband?

across the table from him, mina barks out a laugh, punching you by the arm, to which you react by sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck.

…almost like she was teasing you about a special someone.

shit.

before he knows it, the words are out of his mouth.

“what husband?”

at his sudden interruption, the booth falls silent, the chattering kaminari and sero beside him pausing to glance in his direction, just as you two and kirishima’s gazes drift towards him.

suddenly aware of the attention he just voluntarily drew to himself, bakugou flames.

still, he needed to know.

“you said something about a husband,” he clears his throat, staring at you and only you, although he can sense everyone else staring at him.

“uh, yeah,” you answer, eyeing the rest unsurely. “mina was asking me about it.”

a beat.

“i thought you were single,” bakugou finds himself croaking—voice cracking embarrassingly midway—despite himself. at his statement, your eyes widen in surprise, but before you can open your mouth to say something, mina’s already leaning in, partially obscuring his view of you.

“why?” mina smirks, the same way that always indicates trouble, “does hearing her talk about a husband bother you?”

“mina,” you chastise the acid hero, elbowing her this time, just as bakugou shoots her a warning look, one that she immediately catches, and the pink-haired girl nods, miming the act of zipping her lips closed, a gesture you thankfully don’t see—gaze downcast in what looks like embarrassment.

“i am,” you clarify, struggling to meet his eyes—evidently flustered. “i was just—uh—referring to a game i’m playing.”

“…where you have a husband,” bakugou finishes skeptically, brows furrowed in confusion.

somehow, that doesn’t make him feel any better.

“yeah,” you squawk, much to his chagrin. “it’s part of the storyline,” you explain.

to that, bakugou only nods stiffly—not knowing what else to say—and the conversation shifts to something else.

the minute he gets home, though, the topic’s back in an instant in the form of a gajillion text messages from a whopping four different people—namely: mina, kirishima, kaminari, and sero—all varied, but united by the same central message.

and it’s how the ash-blonde should change his hero name to ‘captain obvious’.

a/n. i'm currently playing story of seasons: pioneers of olive town so the whole thing about having a fictional husband can't be any truer lmfaoooo. i got married to ralph yesterday, in fact. definitely adds to the delusions but hey, as long as we're having fun?

[wardenparker]

The Secret of My Success, ch 1

Harry Castillo x plus size reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When not even a professional matchmaking firm can help Harry Castillo find love, he turns his attention to helping his best friend meet their soulmate instead. The surprise of finding his own in the process will challenge the attitude Harry has taken toward dating for his entire life, and open up a whole new world of romance.

(This story picks up where the last chapter of The Unbearable Weight of Perfection leaves off, and will weave in a few other soulmate characters from previous stories just for fun. Don't worry if you haven't read those stories though! I'll be dropping the pertinent references in each chapter's note section to read along with Harry and his soulmate's adventures.)

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.6k Warnings: *Reader is nicknamed Mack* Continuous warnings for: food/alcohol consumption, tobacco smoking. Mentions of past bullying and mistreatment, a bit of humanizing judgmental behavior. Summary: Harry attends his best friend's engagement party, only to find that Percy's old childhood partner in crime is quite charming in her own right. Notes: In this first chapter, we have references to Tamara's friend the fashion designer whose husband is from Mallorca. Wave hi to Javi G and his amor as you read!

The ringing telephones and buzz of activity from even down the hall doesn’t reach the plush, insulated capsule of this office. The windows are encompassing, giving a sweeping view of the city that would stun visitors and impress investors. The power harness from floor to ceiling views of the most powerful financial district in the world. His back is to that view, phone pressed to his ear as he talks. “I think that with that kind of margin, we would be stupid to invest.” He says bluntly, aware that the news won’t be well received but that’s not his problem. “No, they’ve significantly overstated their assets and at this point, it’s looking more like fraud than idiocracy.”

The knock at the door draws Harry Castillo’s attention, making him look up and frown as his best friend motions for him to wrap up the call. Shaking his wrist and looking at the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist makes him wince. “No, I understand.” He murmurs. “Tom, we will have to discuss this later. Think about what I’ve said.” He tells the man on the other end of the line, rolling his eyes with annoyance when the entire point seems to fly right over that man’s head. “Uh huh, uh huh.” He stands. “Yes. Well, that’s an interesting way of looking at it.” He shakes his head, nodding towards Percy Stokes, rushing him along. “Okay, well, I have a meeting that I’m walking into, so I’ll get back to you on that.” He says abruptly, finally managing to break through the endless monologue before saying a hurried goodbye and pulling the phone away from his ear.

“Come on.” Percy huffs. “We’re gonna be late.” He shakes his head. “And Tamara will kill me.”

Harry grins, sliding his phone into the inner pocket of his suit and pulling down the edge of his jacket to straighten it out. Luckily his tie was still straight and he hadn’t run a hand through his hair. “She would if you were late to your own engagement party.” He agrees.

“Which is why we’re not gonna be late.” Percy says with absolute certainty. He’s waving Harry toward the door with enthusiasm, checking his own appearance in one of the mirrors build into the walls of the office. Harry is technically his boss but he’s far more of a friend. He’d become that along the way, as they both came up through the financial game together. The Castillo family’s connections were pure gold and Harry hadn’t minded being a sort of big brother figure to the new guy in the family firm when Percy had started years ago. Now they’re each other’s number one fan and best supporter in work and out of it.

“Do you have her gift?” He asks, knowing that it’s customary to give your fiancée a gift before the wedding. He had voted on the Tiffany earrings, but he didn’t know what Percy had chosen.

Percy pats the breast pocket of his suit jacket and beams. “The earrings were perfect,” he tells Harry as they dash for the elevator. “I went with the platinum setting. Matches her engagement ring that way.”

“Nice.” He holds the door open for Percy and steps in after he’s in the car, pressing the button for the lobby. “The car is outside; we should be there with time to spare.” He promises.

"Only because your guy finds like...pocket dimensions to drive through." Percy jokes. Harry's driver, an older man named Stanley with a sharp tongue and a hell of a sense of humor, is a goddamn treasure and everybody knows it.

“He’s driven in Manhattan.” Harry snorts. “That qualifies as a combat tour.”

"You're not wrong." Percy snorts. He leans back in the elevator car as it drops swiftly down the controlled track from the thirtieth floor down to the ground. He's jittery and excited and can't stop grinning. Tonight is going to be perfect.

“So who all is Tamara gonna invite from her end?” He asks. “I know that you’re moving to L.A., but we’ve planned all the wedding activities here.”

“She’s got some family coming down, and a few people in from LA.” His Canadian-born fiancée seems to have friends and family everywhere, and he fiddle with the cuff of his shirt sleeve where it lays over the white ink maple leaf tattoo he has from her. “Basically her family and her bridesmaids. If I read the guest list correctly for tonight, the husbands are all home with their kids and the girls are making a weekend of it.”

“That’s a shame.” Harry chuckles. “Seems like I’ll never get to meet the famous Javi Gutierrez.” He jokes. “People say we look like we are related.”

“He’s coming to the wedding,” Percy assures him as the elevator touches down on the ground floor. “His wife is one of Tam’s bridesmaids and apparently he loves weddings, which doesn’t surprise me after having met a bunch of their friends.”

Harry hums as the doors open. “Good, I’ve been wanting to talk about property in Mallorca.”

The two men stride out the glass doors of their office building and slide into a car, but Percy scoffs even before they get settled. “So that’s the travel obsession this month? Mallorca?” Harry itches to travel but never makes the time for himself and everyone knows it. Last month he had been pouring over travel itineraries for New Zealand.

“Yeah, I was thinking that it could be a good investment.” He admits. “Maybe a diversity into a resort style property.”

“You’re going to buy a hotel?” Percy’s eyebrow ticks up skeptically.

“Why not?” He shrugs slightly. “No different than owning the apartment buildings in SoHo.”

“From finance heir to real estate mogul.” The younger man laughs, nudging Harry’s shoulder. “Hey man, if that’s what you want to do? Enjoy it. Make sure they keep an owner’s suite ready for you to drop by whenever.”

“Exactly.” He grins as Stanley guides the car out into traffic and away from the skyscraper. ‘Castillo Holdings’ is proudly proclaimed in large gold letters at the top of the building and on the plaque mortared into the stone pillar beside the doors. “Name it ‘Harry’s Place’ or some whimsical kind of thing.”

Percy snorts. “This from the man who gets a giggle out of taking business dinners to Harry’s instead of Delmonico’s. Of course you would call it Harry’s Place.”

He smirks slightly, tapping his fingers on his knee. Forcing himself not to trace the scars on the side of his thigh like he would do if he was alone. “Like you wouldn’t do the same.” He huffs back playfully.

“Percy’s Palace,” he answers without hesitation, smirking right back at his friend. “Gotta have that alliteration.”

“Palace, huh?” He chuckles softly, nodding in agreement. “I like it. It would be a place that people would talk about.”

“Hell yeah they would.” Taking the approval as a compliment, he grins. “Build it right on the Vegas strip. Blow Caesar’s out of the water.”

“Now you’re talking serious investment.” It’s almost immediately that his mind starts turning over that information. Running the numbers.

"Tam loves Vegas." Percy reveals, his smirk slipping into something much more besotted. After meeting at that fateful Met Gala a month ago, he and Tamara had flown to Las Vegas for a week and spent time wrapped up in each other learning everything they could about the soulmate they had been searching for, for so long.

“You’re lucky.” Harry will admit that easily, not a hint of jealousy, even though he knows that he hides really well. “Honestly, she’s perfect for you.”

"You're next." Percy insists. He leans back in his seat and watches Manhattan roll past the windows, contended as a house cat. "I know you're bummed about not having marks, but I know we can find you the right girl."

“Yeah.” Harry nods, not willing to bring down Percy with his own depressive thoughts. He had tried that route, went logical. Lucy had ended up breaking up with him. “She’s out there.”

"Who knows?" He's trying to be encouraging, but Percy is in that giddy, dreamy place of a new relationship where everything is love-centric. And more than that, his love-centric. "Maybe it's one of Tam's friends?"

“It’s possible.” He chuckles, doubting it. He honestly doesn’t know if he’s meant for love. Maybe he doesn’t have marks because he’s not suitable for that kind of relationship. It happens. It’s just convincing his mother than it’s not the universes fault.

They're a little bit quieter by the time they arrive at the party. The Clover Club is a favorite bar with excellent crafted cocktails, unique beers, and gourmet bar food that is a perfect choice for the intimate engagement party of two people who grew up casual but like to indulge in the finer things now that it's not out of budget.

Tamara, radiant in a white dress with pink flowers, squeaks with delight when she sees the sleek, black Maserati pull up to the curb. She is getting out of an Uber with her parents and little sister but her focus has immediately shifted.

“There she is.” Percy barely waits for the car to stop before he is jumping out. Harry chuckles as he follows behind him a moment later after the car actually stops rolling. “See? We arrived at the perfect time.” He calls out to Percy, waving to Tamara politely even though she only has eyes for her soulmate at the moment.

The couple murmur to each of quietly for a moment, savoring a few sweet kisses after three impossibly long days apart. When Tamara can finally do something other than gaze adoringly into Percy's eyes, she sighs happily and looks back to the people around them. She introduces her mother, father, and her sister to her newly-minted fiancé and Percy introduces Harry in turn.

They seem like nice people, although it’s clear that they are a little out of their depths. He doesn’t miss the speculative looks as they try to take everything in all at once.

"It's our first time in New York City," Tamara's sister Renee explains. "It's...a lot."

"It's beautiful," her mother sighs happily.

"We can't wait to show you the sights." Percy ushers everyone inside. They're the first arrivals, and others will be coming momentarily, but he wants to have everyone settled. "Harry's going to come look at venues with us this weekend but I promise we won't overwhelm you with it. We'll have fun while you're here."

“Yes.” Harry nods, motioning everyone towards the doors. “Honestly it should be quick to pick the venue.”

"Mack is coming too, right?" Tamara asks, glancing over her parents' heads at her soulmate as he holds open the door for everyone.

"Absolutely." Percy nods emphatically. "She's going to be our best ally."

“Mack?” Harry frowns slightly as he looks towards Percy. “The roommate I’ve never managed to actually meet?”

"She works nights a lot," Percy reminds him, waving it off. When Tamara's parents look curious, he goes on. "My best friend growing up became a wedding planner. The event business that she works for offered her a transfer from a smaller office so she took it. She only got to the city a few weeks ago, so there hasn't been a lot of chance to get everyone together yet."

Harry rolls his eyes at the slightly protective tone to his friend’s voice. He had asked about this friend, only to be stonewalled. It had made him a little apathetic about meeting “Mack”.

"You're gonna like her." Percy predicts, pointing one knowing finger at Harry. He'd been cautious about the introduction because he's protective of his friends, not because he thought they would butt heads.

There is no more chance to talk about it though, as they step into the club and Percy turns his attention to the staff. They've booked the event space for the night and paid premium for plenty of the gourmet food and drink options for all of their guests, and he wants the night to be perfect. As perfect as Tamara is. As perfect as their wedding and their future will be.

The warm lights reflect off the brick walls. Gleam against the tap that line the wall, but Harry is more interested in the whiskey. He slides up to the polished bar and taps his fingers lightly, eager for a drink.

"What can I get for you tonight, sir?" The bartender assigned to the private event space is a beautiful young woman with a bright smile and platinum blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She slides over to him with ease, measuring him up at a glance just the way everyone does in this city.

He shoots her a small smile. “Double Highland Park.” He orders. “Straight up.”

"Coming right up." Her interest at least momentarily piqued, she takes another glance before sauntering away to pour the whiskey that was so very rarely ordered. That's a hell of an expensive glass. Maybe this won't be just another average party after all.

“Thank you.” Harry watches her pour, admiring the way she makes it look elegant. The smooth amber colored liquor in the heavy crystal cut glass is slid across the bar to him and he nods. “Thanks.” The twenty in his palm is left in the lacquered top as he takes the glass to lift it for a quick sip.

There is a commotion at the door as more friends pour in. This seems to be a particularly punctual group of friends and Harry tucks that information away appreciatively.

Music starts to pour in through the speakers, a little more festive than most parties, but it’s fun.

Jovial chattering fills the space as more and more people arrive, and people come and go from the bar around him as guests truly join the party. About ten minutes into the stream of arrivals, a tall woman in silk walks through the door to be greeted by raucous shouts from Percy.

Turning towards the commotion, Harry watches as Percy grabs Tamara’s arm and rushes forward to wrap his arms around the woman and squeeze hard enough to make her squeal. Intrigued by the display and wondering if this is the Mack Percy had been talking about.

They're almost of a height, Harry notes with interest — Tamara being fairly tall for a woman he doesn't suppose that she often meets others her size. But the new arrival is decidedly curvier than the willowy actress.

"Let me breathe, Perce!" The woman is laughing, shoving Percy with an air of sibling playfulness. "And let me say hi to Tam Tam, for crying out loud!"

Harry finishes his drink, watching the entire time as the statuesque woman pulls away from Percy and gives Tamara an equally enthusiastic greeting. Whoever she is, she is confident. Many women might be intimidated by the radiating beauty and obvious size difference between her and a famous actress, but not her.

"My mother Bernadette, my father Joe, and my little sister Renee." Tamara introduces her family in turn. "This is Mack. She's been Percy's best friend since they were kids."

So it is Mack. Harry hums, trying to figure out how he is feeling about this development. Percy had never mentioned that his roommate was positively beautiful, confident and voluptuous.

"Next door neighbors," he hears her explain to Tamara's family with ease. "Our mothers served together and we ended up in the same class at school. We were pretty much connected at the hip for a long time."

"I thought you moved a lot when you were a kid?" Renee asks, trying to place all of the story's ducks into a neat row.

"Oh, I did," Percy nods. "We both did. We ended up in Fayetteville when we were...twelve?" Mack nods and he goes on. "I had been in Florida before that, and Korea. But I was born in Illinois."

Harry moves back over to the bar, asking for another refill as he continues to watch the introductions and the way that this friend interacts with the people closest to Tamara and Percy. Sometimes he wonders if he’s too detached, but he also likes to people watch. He learns things about people that way. Reading them.

"We're not doing official business tonight." He hears Mack insist. "We're here to celebrate, not split hairs. I'm gonna go get a drink before you start quizzing me on vendors."

The sharp click of heals announces the approach and he has the new glass of whiskey in his hand right as the figure draped in black silk approaches.

"Hi honey." You smile when the bartender comes over and it's a bright, confident dazzle of white teeth and red-painted lips. "What's the best thing on your menu for a rum drinker?"

"Do you like mint?" The bartender asks. When the woman identified as Mack say yes, the bartender smiles back. "I've got just the thing. Give me one second."

Harry studies you up close as you turn to appraise him. Noting the carefully crafted makeup, professional but bold with the red lipstick. Like you had come from work and dressed up the look with a quick trip into your cosmetic bag. “Rum is best on a desert beach.” He jokes. “Burned to signal a ship to rescue you.”

"Only if you're a snob," you counter, leaning against the bar and noting his simple, straight glass of brown liquor. A subtle whiff reveals it's whiskey. "Sometimes it's okay to just enjoy things because they're fun."

Okay, not a Pirates of the Caribbean fan. “And rum is fun?” He asks curiously, tilting his head as he watches you judge his drink. He lifts his brows and offers it to you to try.

"Oh fuck, that was from a movie?" You snort, laughing at your own self for being the actual asshole in this scenario. "Sorry, no, I clearly haven't seen it. Them? I'm more of a Star Wars girl." When he motions to his glass you raise your own eyebrow in turn. "What is it?"

“Expensive, snobbish, whiskey.” He smirks, wiggling the glass enticingly. Playfully. Something that is a little surprising to him, normally very serious in life. “Highland Park.”

"Sounds like something I can't afford to breathe near," you joke, but since it's just a sip being offered to you by a ridiculously handsome man at a private party being thrown by your best friend, you figure it's safe enough and also too intriguing to pass up. "Cheers." You raise his glass to him and tip it back, taking just a sip but immediately shutting your eyes and practically sighing over the deep, complex flavors.

The smirk turns to a genuine smile as he watches you appreciate the whiskey. The bartender brings back a drink and announces the name “Queen’s Park Swizzle.” She grins and Harry nods. “Another glass of Highland Park.” He orders with a wink and nod towards you. “I think she’s stolen mine.”

"Well I do drink pirate liquor," you joke, and have another sip since he's offered. Once you put the glass down again, you hold out your hand. "I'm Mack." The nickname is more than a decade old now, something that you've absorbed into who you are and made a part of you. So much so that it's obvious who knows you intimately versus who knows you through business based on what they call you. Friends and family? They've all called you Mack since you were fifteen.

“Harry.” He takes your hand and instead of shaking it, he bends down and presses a kiss to the back of it. Smelling the fruity, spicy fragrance of whatever lotion you have used.

Motherfucker. He's charming, too? Your stomach twists, but only because you're not used to this kind of thing. Gentlemanly behavior, most people call it. The men you spend your days around are usually either very in love grooms or very out of love grooms. The former can look right at you and still not see you, which is somewhat sweet. And the later are decidedly not gentlemen. It's such a distracting moment that it actually takes you another few seconds to process who he is. "Wait, Harry Harry? Like Percy's boss? Apparently the only competition I've ever had for the position of that weirdo's best friend?" You motion over your shoulder with one thumb and make a mental note to smack Percy soundly for not telling you his other best friend was so hot. "It's really nice to finally meet you."

“I was starting to wonder if you were real.” He admits as he smirks, standing tall but not letting go of your hand just yet. “Percy has been frustratingly tight lipped about you.” Now he wonders if it was because you were not built like supermodel, but he would hate to believe that Percy thought he was that snobbish.

"A lot of people..." Finance bros "find it weird that we're still friends after so long. They expect one of us to be gay, or for there to be some secret romantic history or something. And there's none of that. We're kind of...extra siblings." Maybe that's why he hasn't said much. It is certainly why you tend to be tight lipped about him to people you aren't sure of. But then...Percy is sure of Harry. He talks about him all the time. "Well, here I am. And here you are. Maybe he didn't introduce us before because he thinks we'll get along too well."

He contemplates that and shrugs. “Who knows?” He snorts after a moment, “maybe it’s because he thinks we wouldn’t get along.”

"Maybe." That has you smirking as you tip back another sip of the whiskey that you're sure costs more than your car payment. "You are a snob."

He chuckles, tilting his head as he picks up his new drink after it’s been delivered. “Tend to be.” He can admit that. “Only about certain things.”

"Like whiskey." Which, you have to admit, he's right about.

“I have been known to drink Jack Daniels.” He admits. “At gunpoint.”

You snort, shaking your head at him. The last sip of the pricey whiskey is gone a moment later, and you set the empty glass aside. "You would not like my liquor cabinet."

“Let me guess…..” he narrows his eyes playfully and looks up and down at you. “Tito’s vodka, a bottle of Whipped Smirnoff, Sailor Jerry, Captain Morgan Original…” he takes another sip of his whiskey. “Annnnnd a bottle of Malibu.” He grins. “The original coconut one.” He points a finger at you from the hand holding his glass. “How did I do?”

"I was just going to say there's no whiskey there, but damn!" Clutching your proverbial pearls, you are doubled over laughing on the bar as you try to recall what is actually on your bar cart at home at the moment. "The vodka is definitely Tito's, but the rum is Kraken. Yes to the Malibu, but you missed the tequila. El Jimador Silver. Which is so much better than anyone gives it credit for."

“It actually is a good tequila.” Harry admits with a grin. “But I prefer Tapatio 110.” He doesn’t have anything against any of the alcohol you’ve listed, if he’s honest.

"That's an excellent choice." He has good taste, you'll give him that without hesitation. The cut of his suit is another, much larger, indicator of that. "So what do you do, Work Friend Harry, other than judge other people's liquor habits and quote movies to strangers?"

He chuckles. “I work.” He admits, shrugging slightly.

"I think we've solved the mystery of how we've never met." You pick up your cocktail now, enjoying the feeling of the cold glass and the sweet, sharp, sour scent. "We're both workaholics."

“Wedding planning, right?” He asks, even though he knows that what you do. “I bet you do a lot of business around Valentine’s Day and oddly enough, Christmas, right?”

"New Years Eve is popular these days, too. And all summer long is pretty constantly busy." You've also been seeing a rash of people lately getting married on their birthdays, which is kind of fun as long as the marriage is a happy one.

“I don’t understand that trend.” He admits, shaking his head. “It smacks of selfishness. Making all of your guests give up their holiday, plus all the staff.” He huffs, watching you switch to your swizzle. “Making them give up their holiday to work a wedding is just wrong.”

"I get wanting to make your event memorable." After all, wasn't that the goal for pretty much everyone? To remember their event forever? "I just think it's an unfortunate truth that sometimes people forget the staff that work these things are actual people with their own families and lives."

Harry nods, thinking about Lucy’s John. It’s strange to think about her again so often lately. Maybe it’s because he met her at his brother’s wedding. “Just promise me you won’t put me at the single’s table?” He snorts. “I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

"I promise." Not that there's even been any discussion of how tables will be set up at all, but you'll find a way to make it work. Something about Harry is very endearing despite being so easy to tease. He's a likable guy. "No bribe necessary."

He chuckles. “So how will it work being both the planner and a part of the wedding?” Other guests are mingling and talking but his focus has stayed on you since you’ve joined him at the bar.

"One of the junior girls from my firm is going to help out during the ceremony. It will help her get her footing on a big wedding with a safety net in place, because I'll still be there." The whole thing was already worked out, of course. You weren't the first planner at Sparkling Nights to ever plan a wedding they were in.

“Do you ever work with Adore?” He asks.

Your nose wrinkles, but you nod. “The matchmakers? Yeah. Our firms have a contact but I don’t like to work those events if I can help it.”

He lifts a brow again, noticing the judgement in your voice and expression. “What, you don’t like them?”

“Those girls are…deeply judgmental, at best.” Have you done some judging tonight too? Sure. But nothing like what they do. “Not in the every day way like we’ve done. Drinks or taste in movies or whatever. The ones I’ve met are all shallow to the bone and turn people into math equations. They talk shit about their clients behind their backs all the time, which is just horrifically unprofessional.”

He hums as he finishes his drink. Seeing how it could be seen as judgmental when you job is to literally assign value to someone as if they were an asset. He had stopped his subscription over a year ago, because it seemed like the women just kept getting younger and more obvious in their want of being a trophy wife without having any substantive value beyond their looks. “Well,” he says after he swallows the last burn of his drink. “Worked for my brother.” He tells you. “Married two years.”

Well shit. You glance down at the glass in your hand and remember all over again that there were multiple reasons why you got made fun of in school. Not being able to keep your mouth shut was a pretty old problem. “Good for him,” you manage, feeling very much like you’ve put your foot in your mouth.

“Um hmm.” Harry sees Scott Bledsoe behind you, motioning to him to capture his attention and call him over. “Excuse me.” He murmurs politely, setting his drink down and pulling another twenty out of his pocket to put on the bar. “I see someone I need to speak with.”

"Fuck..." you mutter under your breath, groaning at your own idiocy as he walks away.

******

The party has been going on for hours. Harry has spoken to, or greeted every person in this room and it’s sad to say that his thoughts still drift back to the conversation at the bar. He shouldn’t have walked away like that, it was rude, but it had kind of cut him when she was insulting a service that hadn’t even been successful in finding him a partner. He’s had a few more drinks, probably more than he should have, so he’s outside to clear his head and secretly craving a cigarette.

The scent of smoke is distinct, he knows there is someone out here enjoying the thing he is craving — but it’s to his dismay when that person happens to be a tall, curvaceous woman in black silk.

Harry assumes that you don’t see him, standing farther down the railing and looking over the surprisingly nice view from the roof deck. Groaning quietly when the fresh puff of nicotine wafts his way.

“Would you…like one?” That particular groan is the sound of an ex-smoker who misses it, but there’s definitely a risk that he might be offended by the offer because he’s quit. At this point you’re well aware this man doesn’t like you, but that’s your own fault. You just don’t want it to be too difficult for Percy during the wedding planning.

“I shouldn’t.” His answer is automatic, but he’s moving towards you. Towards the rich and sweet smell of burning tobacco. “My mother always scolds me, but I can’t help it.” He tells you as he pulls an ornate zippo out of his pants pocket.

"I won't tell on you." The antique cigarette case you found at an estate sale ten years ago is still with you, and you click it open to offer him one of the ill-advised treasures inside.

The case is beautiful, sterling silver and trimmed in gold. He plucks a slender cigarette out the case and nods as he puts it up to his lips.

"I'm sorry I put my foot in my mouth earlier." It's the adult thing to do, to apologize, and you'll do it even if it's only to keep things smooth for Percy. I had just come from a meeting at the Adore offices and I was still all riled up about them. I have nothing against the people who use the service, I just think it's shitty the way some of those girls talk about their clients."

He chuckles and shrugs after taking a long drag off the cigarette. Groaning slightly at the taste and approving of the flavor. He glances over at you. “You never talked back about a client before?”

“Not to another professional in any kind of connected field,” you insist. He looks good smoking. A little more rugged. Less like he’s been sculpted from marble. “Usually only to Percy, if I’m honest.”

“So the problem is that they are analytical.” He hums. “And you are emotional.” It makes sense. You probably have an emotional connection to every client you work with by the end.

"The problem is that they treat analysis like the only answer and demean anyone who believes in emotion." You have to qualify it, since you feel like he's barreling toward being upset with you again, and you're trying to prevent that. "Again, I'm only talking about the half a dozen or so women from that office that I've met."

He’s relaxed a little not that he’s figured out that you are malicious. He shrugs slightly. “It’s a numbers game to them. Basic addition and subtraction.” Dating Lucy had given him some insight into that world. It hadn’t been too far from his own, surprisingly.

"How do you figure that?" If his brother had used Adore then he might have some perspective on the whole thing that is different from your own.

“It’s simple.” He takes another drag of his cigarette. “Some men want a 5’6” woman who weighs less than 130 lbs, preferably with natural blonde hair and reasonably well educated.” He watches as your eyes narrow and wonders if you think he’s listing off his own preferences. “If 47% of their female clients don’t meet that specific criteria, then they have to narrow it down to what fits in that remaining 53%.” He chuckles. “It’s a numbers game. What adds up and what can be overlooked to get to that match that you could possibly tolerate grinding teeth or leaving the towel on the floor for the next 25 years.”

"I guess I don't understand why people care about the height and weight of their partner , or even the hair color, instead of their joys and hobbies and passions." Although, from his estimation? It certainly does hit home how you're still single. It stings like a burning welt but you don't flinch, just cast you eyes down at your cigarette and swallow a sigh.

“Not everyone is blessed to carry scars from their soulmate.” Harry hums with a shrug of one shoulder. Hating how he doesn’t carry them.

"And some of us have them but still haven't made that match." You just shrug, pretending — or pretending to pretend — that it doesn't matter. "It is what it is. I don't believe you have to find your soulmate to be happy. It's just one way of many."

“I can understand what you mean.” He admits. “You don’t have to like those ladies. They are just providing a luxury service to a lot of assholes.” He jokes.

"I guess I just don't like that the ones I've met act like they're the only right answer and still don't respect the people who use their service." A dry, low chuckle escapes you and you shrug. "Or maybe I'm just a bitter, single, fat girl. Who knows?"

He huffs slightly. “You aren’t fat.” He counters, frowning as he looks you up and down. “Not a part of you is disproportionate.” Yes, are you thicker than most women hoping to bag a rich husband in New York? Maybe, but your confidence is refreshing and it doesn’t seem to be steeped in arrogance.

"I don't think I am, either. But to most of New York, it's a sin for women to enjoy food." Either way, you wave it off and take a last drag from your cigarette.

He chuckles. “But they love to go out and be seen.” He reminds you with a smirk. “Where’s your favorite place to eat?”

"I've only been in the city a few weeks." You smile at the question, taking it to mean that he isn't one of the people who thinks eating is a sin. "So far I really like the sandwiches from the bodega at the end of my block."

“You should go to Keen’s.” He suggests. “Real old world vibes and the steak is good.”

"Should I?" A smile curls your lips up, red lipstick unbothered and un-smudged by smoking, and when faced with an abundance of Fuck it energy and the hottest man you've ever spoken to in real life, you sort of throw up your proverbial hands. "Is that where you take your dates to impress them?"

He tilts his head as a curious look enters his eyes. “Only if she’s a steak woman.” He admits. “If it’s sushi, I take her to Sushi Noz.” He arches a brow as he waits.

"I sincerely hope you're not too attached to the sushi idea now that you've said it. I'm definitely a steak kind of girl." The mischievousness of your smile hides the uncertainty there, because you don't necessarily have a lot of experience with guys like this. And even less success. But why not try? "What time should I pick you up?"

You’re bold. His curiosity turns into near amusement, lips smirking slightly as he takes another drag of the cigarette, his last. He grinds out the coal and blows out the smoke. “8.” He decides, chuckling.

"Eight." You echo it, tucking away the disbelief, and nod. You'll have just enough time after the appointments tomorrow to go home and change into something far more flattering and less practical. "Sounds good."

He nods, “sounds good.”

Wandering back into the party so you don't ruin the beautiful (and slightly unexpected) tension of the moment, you find Percy and Tamara by the bar when you slide up to get another drink.

“Sooooooo.” Tamara grins, still riding the high of actually celebrating being engaged this man, as she clings to his arm. “Tell me what you think about our choices for venues?” She asks.

“It will depend on the size of your guest list and how faithful to Manhattan you want to be,” you remind them, but extract a small notebook from your purse anyway. You know they want to stay in the heart of the city and they’re both fairly traditional. “Places like the Central Park Boathouse, Sony Hall, or the Foundry all have very different vibes but still give the traditional elegance you’re looking for.”

“Too bad we couldn’t have the Met.” Tamara sighs dreamily. “Since we met there.”

“You can,” you remind her. They have the budget, after all. “It’s just booked two years out.”

She sighs softly and shakes her head before turning those big, expressive eyes up to Percy. “I don’t want to wait that long to marry you.” She admits softly.

“Me either.” He leans down, kissing her twice and then a third time for good measure. “Wouldn’t it be easiest to book a hotel ballroom?” He looks back at you. “We’re going to have guests flying in from all over.”

“We can certainly do that,” you nod and glance back at your list. “And book a block of rooms for your guests in the process.”

She hums and looks over at Percy. “Where did Harry’s brother get married?” She asks softly. “Maybe we can book there.”

“Lotte?” Percy looks to you and you nod. “It was beautiful. And they were pretty easy to work with, I think.” Expensive, obviously, but he doesn’t care about that. He can afford it and Tamara is worth it.

“Exactly.” He had struggled with the idea of moving himself, but he knew that Tamara needed to live in LA.

“Buck up, soldier,” you tease, nudging his arm. “This is another adventure. You’ll love LA.”

“I know.” He tilts his head and shoots you an apologetic sigh. “I just wish that the timing was better.”

"That's sweet of you," you promise him. He really is your best friend for a reason. "But who are we if we can't handle a curveball here and there?"

“Have you had any luck?” He asks. “You know I can just keep paying rent.” He reminds you.

"You don't need to do that." The little two bedroom in Washington Heights that he welcomed you into when you arrived in the city had been more than enough for him alone and it was just enough for two. Without him, your savings will stretch a few months before you start to struggle, but you just can't let him pay rent on a place that he isn't living in anymore. It doesn't sit well with you. "I have a couple of interviews next week, we'll see if any of them pan out."

“This is my fault though.” He insists. “At least let me pay until you find someone.”

“We’re not talking about rent at your engagement party,” you scold. Truth be told you’ve been looking at moving out to Brooklyn or Queens as soon as his lease is up and there’s not too terrible options that way. Nothing fancy, but you don’t need fancy.

“We’ll discuss it later.” He points at you playfully. “For real.” You had a nasty habit of changing the subject if you were uncomfortable with the subject, and your finances were one of those touchy things for you.

“Sure.” An off-hand dismissal of the topic is pretty on point for you, but you squeeze his arm before turning back to the bar to order another drink. You’re not trying to be flippant, but this is a celebration.

Harry rejoins the party and mingles with the other guests. Laughing and trading jokes, telling stories about when Tamara and Percy met, proud that he had facilitated the entire thing. He chews on his lip as he considers getting another drink and decides that it’s a little too soon for another so he wanders over to the buffet spread.

“Have you tried any of the food yet?” Percy comes up on his side and picks up a small plate with an artfully styled piece of fried chicken with some kind of slaw on it. “It’s incredible here.”

“No,” he admits with a small grin. “I’ve been drinking my dinner so far.” He glances over towards you and then back to the artfully arranged appetizers.

“Any reason for that?” He isn’t going to pretend he didn’t see Harry talking to you earlier. Or that he doesn’t smell like your cigarettes now. You’re the only person he knows who still smokes Camel Turkish Royals and Harry always buys American Spirits when he stress smokes.

“Annoyance.” Harry snorts. “Intrigue.” He admits a moment later. “Ever met someone you shouldn’t like, but you do?”

“Plenty of times.” The two men stand in bespoke, expensive suits and eat gourmet finger food, surveying the pastry around them. “But I assume we’re talking about something a little more striking than a professor or coworker?”

“I’m apparently going on a date tomorrow night.” He snorts softly and picks up a plate with two teriyaki meatballs on it. “I guess I should call and make a reservation.”

“You sound…” Percy frowns. “Less than excited?”

“Given my history with dating?” Harry asks, lifting a brow. “I guess I’m not exactly hopeful.” He admits.

“So you’re not grumpy about it because of the girl, but because you don’t think it’ll go anywhere?” He’s itching to ask who. To find out if the glances he saw amounted to anything. But he doesn’t want to spook Harry too early.

“It never does.” Harry taps the plate and looks around the room. The very symbol of love existing is right here, but it always eludes him.

“It only has to be different once,” Percy reminds him.

He huffs slightly, unable to argue with that, but it’s so vague. “Of course.” He doesn’t want to bring his best friend down, tonight of all nights. “There’s plenty to look forward to, after all.”

“Not to be nosy,” Percy smirks. “But I’m gonna be nosy. Why did you ask if you weren’t excited about her?”

“I didn’t ask.” Harry admits, although his lips twist up slightly in amusement. “She did.”

“Oh shit.” That promotes the younger man to burst out in a fit of surprised laughter, though Percy quickly smothers the sound and peaks it down to an amused giggle. “Are we talking about who I think we’re talking about?”

“I’m sure we are.” Harry rolls his eyes at his friend as he picks up a meatball on the slender toothpick and takes a bite.

“Well shit.” Percy repeats, grinning at Harry like he’s just gotten the best gossip ever. “I mean, I’m not surprised, but I am impressed. I that makes you the third guy that she’s asked out ever.”

“Bullshit.” Harry pulls a disbelieving face because he isn’t swallowing that load of garbage for all the money in Manhattan. “That woman has only asked out three men?” He huffs, nodding towards where you are clearly chatting happily and smiling almost flirtatiously with an older man. He’s old enough to be your grandfather, but still.

"Don't let the extrovert exterior fool you." Lowering his voice, Percy glances over at you and then back to Harry. "That's a girl who lives on romance novels and period dramas, dreaming about her soulmate sweeping her off her feet." He huffs softly under his breath. "But kids are mean. She when through a hell of a lot of shit in school and got bullied pretty mercilessly. The big, brassy, bad ass thing is...it's a defense mechanism. If she asked you? She went out on a pretty big limb."

“I think she felt bad about insulting me.” Harry chuckles quietly. “She was talking shit about the women at Adore.”

"She...kinda hates them." Percy laughs along with him, but he meets Harry's eyes meaningfully. "She was telling me about the meetings she's been having and how shitty they are to her. Personal attacks. She said one of the women in the office had done a statistics sheet on her and it was awful."

“That’s because she doesn’t fit the assumed vision of what a valuable woman in this city is.” Harry agrees, knowing exactly who would have done that statistic sheet on her. “It doesn’t really mean it’s personal to them.”

"No," Percy agrees. "But it's personal to her."

“Believe me, I can understand that.” He had been encouraged to not discontinue his engagement of Adore but he hadn’t seen the point when no one had been compatible.

"All I'm saying is that if she asked, it's not out of guilt. It's genuine interest." Percy does take a moment though, letting that sink in to Harry's mind. "But if you're not really interested in return? I'm gonna ask, as both of your friend, that you tell her up front."

Harry frowns slightly. “So you don’t think this is a good idea?” He asks.

"I want you to accept because you want to," Percy says. "Not because I want you to."

“I would have said no if I didn’t want to go.” Percy should know him better than that. He sighs softly. “I guess I’m just worried that it will turn out badly.”

"No one is saying you have to marry her. But you both deserve a good date." Eternally honest Percy shrugs again. "You've both had a string of bad luck lately, that's all I'm saying."

“We are going to Keen’s.” He tells his friend, knowing that he can count on the other man’s opinion. “She’s gonna pick me up.”

Percy smirks, this time because he knows the restaurant vice was Harry’s. You would have picked Italian. “Her favorite flowers are zinnias. Just…in case you were wondering.”

“Zinnias.” Even though he hadn’t thought about getting flowers just yet he tucks that bit of information away. “Any particular color?”

“Reds. Oranges. Pinks. Yellows. Anything that reminds you of sunrise.” Patting his shoulder twice, Percy is still smiling when he steps away. “Tomorrow is going to be a hell of a day.”

Harry stares down at his plate. “Yes it will be.” He murmurs softly.

******

The morning is a complicated and energetic affair. A large, black rental car arrives in the heart of Washington Heights to pick you up with your best friend and his fiancée inside, then it’s off to get Tamara’s family from their hotel and finally Harry from his place in Tribeca. You’re in business mode this morning, dressed professionally and carrying your necessary resources. Today you’re more than the groom’s best friend. You’re the wedding planner.

Today is casually business. He dresses down, if he’s honest. Jeans, a sweater and a sports coat. Formal enough for some places but casual enough to not scream uptight. Tonight, he’ll change into something else before taking you dinner.

You go over the list of appointments for the day with everyone in the car, because everyone had (of course) had an opinion in where the wedding should be held. Even Percy’s parents had called you to give their opinion, despite currently being deployed overseas. Thankfully, the hotel that Percy and Tamara had mentioned to you last night had actually had availability today to be seen. They’ll be setting up for another wedding while you’re there, but that isn’t a bad thing.

“The hotel is fine.” Harry assures them. “Peter and Charlotte loved it. It held everyone and the staff there is very discreet.” He chuckles. “Uncle Phil got too drunk and they escorted him up to his room without any issues.”

“Everybody has an Uncle Phil of sorts,” Tamara chuckles, thinking specifically of an aunt of hers. “When in the day are we going to the hotel?” She asks, keenly interested in that particular location.

“Second,” you assure her. The earliest appointment of the day is the venue that her parents were most interested in, though you think there’s very little chance of Percy or Tamara falling in love with it. Neither of them cares much for rowing. “The Central Park Boathouse is first. It’s a beautiful venue that will hold your whole guest list with a little room to spare. And it’s perfect for some lovely photos so you wouldn’t have to leave the property for them.”

“I still wish we could book the Met.” Tamara sighs fondly as she snuggles into Percy’s side. “But I don’t want to wait two to three years.”

“I did it in a call this morning,” you let them know, but qualify it carefully. “If they have a cancellation, we’re on the waiting list.”

“Ohhhhhh you’re the best.” She beams and is a hopeful gleam to her eyes. “Whenever.”

“We’ll keep our fingers crossed, but I have a good feeling we’ll find something we love today.” If you’re honest, you don’t hold out hope for the Met. But for Percy you’d try just about anything that would make him and his soulmate happy.

“I think you have to align your expectations with reality.” Harry hums quietly. “It would be nice, but it’s a lofty goal.”

“It’s a dream,” Tamara admits. “But there are no shortage of beautiful places in Manhattan to get married.”

“That is very true.” He agrees. “You just need to find the venue that matches what you two have dreamed about together.”

It doesn't surprise you when the Central Park Boathouse isn't to their taste. You can tell almost instantly that they aren't going to take to it, and while Tamara's parents ooh and ahh and encourage them, everyone ultimately agrees that it isn't right. Focusing on professionalism means you are doing your best not to be distracted by how good Harry looks dressed down for the daytime.

You are dressed very professionally, although he can tell that the carefully crafted outfit has been one that is well used. Still, he admires that your outfit is tailored to your body, fitting it perfectly and enhancing your curves rather than detracting from them.

On the ride over to the hotel, you review numbers with Percy and Tamara. Their guest list stands at just about 150 people and all the places they’re looking at can accommodate that easily. It will feel luxurious and intimate, rather than bustling or crowded.

“Here we are.” Percy pulls the rental car into the hotel’s parking lot and smiled up at the building. He’d been a guest at Peter Castillo’s wedding and thought it was nice, but hadn’t been thinking about his own wedding at the time. The girl he had been dating at the time was…not exactly long term relationship material. By her own admission.

“The bridal suite and groomsman suites are very nice.” Harry assures them. “Separated by a floor but there is a stairwell between them in case you need to access either party.”

“Your brother got married here?” Tamara’s mother asks, remembering that had been mentioned the night before.

“Yes madam.” He tells her with a proud smile. Charlotte and Peter aren’t soulmates, neither one of them has marks either, but they have created a strong and meaningful bond. “Very wonderful societal event.”

“But did you enjoy it?” That is the important part to her. Their family isn’t a part of anyone’s society. They’re not looking to climb into it, either.

“I enjoyed it.” It wasn’t to his taste. It wasn’t even to Peter’s taste, but it was what his bride wanted so he had happily conceded. Peter had always talked about a wedding on a beach. Harry had no idea what he would want.

His tone is soothing. Smooth and reassuring, and she smiles happily, momentarily mollified. The girl is large and grand, more imposing than welcoming, but Tamara has hearts in her eyes. “Even if we don’t have it here,” she hums excitedly. “This is where everyone should stay. We can book a block of rooms.”

“The hotel is a great place to host a large group.” Percy agrees. “The room service is amazing.” Even though he had not been a part of the wedding party, he had booked a hotel room, making a little weekend of it.

“Well let’s get inside and see what you think of the event spaces,” you urge, bringing them into the lobby with you. They can Oo and Ah while you check in at the desk.

This is a space that Harry is quite familiar with. There is a charity function held here every year, so he doesn’t walk with the others. Instead, he hangs back as you talk with a sharp dressed concierge.

The woman in all black with nearly done hair and sharp make up speaks with you for a few seconds before nodding and stepping away. “You’re not going to have a look around?” You ask Harry, surprised to find him wandering toward you as the others inspect the lobby with interest.

“I’ve been here enough.” He shrugs, taking note of the way your back straightens slightly and the toe of your heels is scuffed. “How about you?”

“Never.” You shake your head, suddenly far more focused on the man in front of you than the hotel. “I haven’t had much time to explore since I got to New York.”

“Well then we should change that.” He huffs. “You have to be able to be completely blasé about every venue.” He jokes.

“Is that what’s required out here?” You let out a soft chuckle. “Raleigh has a…we’ll call it a slightly different vibe, but that’s an understatement.”

“Absolutely. New Yorkers aren’t impressed with anything.” He tells you. “They’ve seen it all, done it all and will complain the entire time.”

“Well,” you shrug. “I’ve lived in plenty of places and seen plenty of things. But I don’t mind enthusiasm.”

He chuckles. “Give it time.” He jokes. “You’ll be just a sullen as everyone else.”

“I hope not.” But rather than judgmental, your smile is beaming. Like you’re daring the city to take away your joy. “Or at least I hope it takes a long, long time.”

“You just have to find the beauty in the small things.” He suggests. “Or sarcasm.”

“Or both.” Why does he make you smile like this? It’s like your stomach is doing flip flops.

“Now you’re thinking like a New Yorker.” He jokes. “‘Why not both’ should be etched onto the Statue of Liberty.”

“That would sort of change the tone of the thing,” you joke with a grin.

“Maybe.” He snorts, shrugging slightly. “Never actually seen her up close.”

"But..." you startle, actually taken aback by that. "You live here!"

“And how many times do the locals avoid the tourist traps like the plague?” He asks, arching a brow.

That makes you huff, albeit playfully. "If I find out you've never been to the Met, I'm changing our date tonight."

He chuckles and tilts his head. “No, I’ve been to the Met.” He hums in amusement. Apparently Percy had never shared how he had met Tamara.

"Right..." you realize it just a second later and flinch, hating that you've said something stupid. "Never mind. Forget I said that."

Thankfully, like an answer to your awkward prayers, the event coordinator for the hotel appears in the lobby in the same instant and you don't have to see the realization dawn on Harry's face that his date tonight is with someone who speaks before they think.

Harry watches as you hurry away, embarrassment bloomed on your face and it finds it fascinating. You don’t weigh or measure your words around him. ‘No filter’ his mother would say. He likes it. Makes him wonder what you will say next.

The tour is fairly standard. The ballroom is available for you to tour while it is being set up for tonight’s wedding but the bridal suites are not — for precisely the same reason.

“It’s got enough space for everyone plus dancing.” Harry reminds Percy. “And we can honestly use the penthouse for the after party if you want.”

"The best man?" The event planner asks you with a knowing half-smile. The extra guy in the group who is talking about the after party? At this stage in the game, that is absolutely the best man.

"Of course." Your return smile falters a little, just in the second afterward when you catch her give Harry an appraising sweep of her eyes. Do you have any right to be jealous of someone else checking him out? Absolutely not. Yet? You can't help it.

Percy has already gone off on a tangent about the after party vibe, Harry encouraging him with an arm around his shoulder. The wedding would be for family, for memories. The after party was gonna be for getting wild.

"What do you have as far as available dates?" While Percy, Harry, Tamara, and her parents are all watching the ballroom be set up, you are going to get a little business done. Maybe it will help distract you from that touch of irrational jealousy, while you're at it.

“The first date we have is in nine months.” She rattles off a date with a smile. “There are weddings booked every weekend until then.”

Making note of the date for yourself, you know that's a little longer than Percy and Tamara are eager to wait but they seem to really like this place. "And if the couple were interested in booking a block of rooms here for there guests as well?"

“Of course.” She clicks her tablet and looks at the bookings for that date. “The bridal suite is available as well as a large block of rooms we can hold in reserve for the guests.” She clicks through pages. “We can reserve floors 5,7,9,10,11 and 14.”

"And your team is prepared to work with extra security for the night of the wedding?" Percy isn't willing to take any chances with Tamara's safety and you don't blame him. Being a Hollywood star has its benefits, but also some distinct drawbacks.

“We are equipped to handle all manner of security.” She assures you. “Though some do decide to hire independent advisors as well.”

“Of course. One can never be too careful.” She’s given you a packet of information — printed statistics and suggested floor plans along with contact information for preferred vendors — which will best going over with Percy and Tamara. You’re about to open your mouth for the next of many questions when your work phone rings.

Normally it would be on silent while you’re in a client meeting. Your personal cell phone certainly is, but the cell given to you by your company buzzes insistently in your pocket. And since there is a minimal chance of hearing from some vendors today, it’s good that you left it on. “Excuse me,” you offer the woman a polite smile. “I’ve got to take this.” The number looks familiar but you can’t remember which of the twenty calls you’ve made in the last twenty-four hours it could be returning, so you just excuse yourself to the lobby to take it.

“Hello, this is—” You use your legal name for business, and answer accordingly, “from Dragonfly Events, how can I help you today?”

“Good morning, this is Charlotte Evans, event coordinator for the Met.” She speaks clearly, albeit, a bit rushed. “I believe you had spoken with one of our assistants about being placed on the cancellation list?” The only reason she is calling is because of the name you dropped. Tamara Wilson is one of her niece’s favorite actresses and she had been given so much grief when she had learned that Auntie Charlie had breathed the same air as Tamara the night she met her soulmate.

“Yes, good morning. Thank you for calling me back so promptly.” If this is a polite refusal, as you expect, the call should be over with quickly.

“Of course.” She clears her throat. “The notes say that your clients are Tarama Wilson and Percy Stokes?” She asks. “Would that be the actress, Tamara Wilson?”

“Yes, that is correct.” And you absolutely left their names of purpose. “My clients met at the Met Gala this past May and are quite keen to be married in the same place they met.”

“I see.” Her voice doesn’t betray the wide, excited grin on her face. Auntie Charlie is gonna be the favorite for years to come. She doesn’t add that she had literally been there that night, but hadn’t realized it until the People article came out revealing the announcement about the soulmate pairing. “Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for your clients, we have just had a cancellation this morning.”

“Oh?” Tamara is going to lose her mind with excitement. “And what would the date be for that?”

She gives the date and pauses. “That is sixty-two days from today. I do understand if that is not plausible for your clients.”

“Are there any constraints with that date?” You ask, not wanting to blurt out that they’ll be thrilled to have a date so soon. “Vendors with contracts that must be honored, or anything to that effect?” Your own pauses, Mid note taking. “And could you tell me please, what portion of the museum the cancellation is for?” Met bookings for different areas accommodate different numbers of guests. You want to have all the information before you go talk to Percy and Tamara.

“That is actually why I contacted you first.” She says, saying without saying, that she thought famous clients would appreciate this more than anyone else. “The previous contract had booked the entire venue.” She tells you. “Although the catering contract was booked with the venue, So that would also have to be absorbed into the new contract.”

“That is perfectly fine with us, as my clients have not booked a caterer yet. Can I have their name?” The entirety of the Met? That is hundreds upon hundreds of guests, or a different location for every single part of the wedding. They’re going to scream when you tell them.

Charlotte gives you the name and telephone number of the catering service. “They are quite good, and luckily the menu has not been contracted, so there is that.”

“Wonderful.” Looking down at the notes in your book, you know this is going to work. This is going to be perfect. “I’ll speak to my clients, of course, but I’m prepared to say that we will accept the cancellation slot and the reservations that have already been made. May I call you back in about five minutes to confirm?”

“Please do.” She hopes that you will. “If not, I will have to contact others who have been requesting to be informed about cancellations.

“Five minutes,” you promise her, before politely saying goodbye and pocketing your work phone again. There’s no way it will take that long for them to decide, but you want to be sensitive to the woman here at the hotel who has taken time from her day for a last minute appointment.

Zipping back into the ballroom, you catch Percy’s eye and shoot him a grin. “Pardon me,” you reinsert yourself into the conversation politely but definitely. “If I could check in with my clients for a moment?”

Harry had drifted away but he catches your grin and knows that something is up. He quickly walks over to the very nice coordinator. “While they are talking, would you tell me about hosting cooperate events?” He asks.

It doesn’t take much effort for Harry Castillo to utterly charm just about anyone into conversation, and as he lures her away you make a note to thank him profusely tonight if the date goes well.

“So…” you wave Percy and Tamara over to you and lower your voice so it won’t echo. “The Met called.”

Percy cocks up, attuned to your mannerisms and he knows it had to be something good. “Please don’t tell me the wait time is five years now.” Tamara groans.

“They had a cancellation,” you tell them, barely containing your grin. “It’s fast, but I think we can make it happen.”

“How fast is fast?” Percy asks, eyebrows raised.

“Sixty-two days.” An amount of time that seems fleeting, but your first wedding planner job had been at a soulmate agency. You can do fast and you can do it well.

“Sixty-two days?” her eyes widen and her heart sinks. There is no way that a wedding could be pulled off in sixty-two days. Not the way that they had dreamed of. “Oh god. No. I don’t—”

"Tam." Reaching out, you set one hand on Tamara's arm and smile reassuringly. "I promise you, I can do this if you want to say yes. The previous client had rented out the entire museum, and the caterer comes with the reservation. I've got a florist that owes me a favor and a photographer who will move mountains to be able to take your wedding photos."

Her eyes widen and she tries to let the panic subside. Pushing aside the little voice of doubt in the back of her mind. Her gaze darts to Percy, but he’s already nodding. “Yes.” She whispers, clutching his hand. “Yes!”

"How do we feel about booking that block of rooms while we're here, and even the penthouse if you want that after party?" You know Percy will want it, and it was Harry's idea, so this is going to be a good bridge. It will help the hotel here feel a touch less slighted after pulling out this appointment for you, and it will still get Percy and Tamara the wedding of their dreams.

“I think that is best.” Percy nods and looks towards his bride for her input. “It’s central to all the attractions and just a half dozen blocks down from the Met.”

Tamara hesitates for just a second, but looks to you with pleading eyes. "Do you really think you can do it?"

"I do." A little nod to wedding vows is cheeky, but you mean it. You do think you can do this for them. "I really do, and I think it will be great."

“I really want the Met.” Tamara admits. Grinning at Percy and batting her eyes playfully. “Are you okay with two months? Or should we wait longer?”

"Tam..." Percy takes both of her hands in his and faces her, placing a kiss on the tip of her nose. "I would marry you at the bottom of the Gowanus Canal with nothing but mutant fish for witnesses." They both giggle — the weirdos. But they're cute weirdos. "Two months in the place we met sounds perfect."

“Are you sure?” Despite wanting this more than anything else in the world, she wants to make sure it’s what he wants too.

"I love you," he reminds her, with a sort of bashful, gleeful expression. "That's all that matters."

“I love you too.” She promises. “If you told me you wanted to get married in the subway, I’d question your sanity….” That makes him laugh and she giggles. “But I would do it. But it seems like the universe wants us to have this.”

"So we're going to do it?" You ask, letting them have their moment and a sweet kiss to seal the sentiment. When they excitedly say yes, you pull your phone back out. "Let me call Ms. Evans back and get this settled. And then we can get the rooms and the penthouse booked here, as well."

“Not the bridal suites though.” Tamara tells you. “I don’t want another couple to have to book that somewhere else because I was selfish.”

"That sounds more than reasonable." This place probably has a dozen rooms gorgeous enough to host a newlywed couple, so you aren't worried about them having a nice place to crash that night. Not at all. "Let me make this call so we can really dig our fingers into planning."

“Okay.” She is immediately turning and pressing close to Percy. Both of them whispering in excitement. Harry glances over several time as he listens to the many amenities the hotel can offer for a conference or corporate event. He normally just holds any events at the penthouse, but he’s seriously considering this for the year end party.

It takes only a few minutes to step away and make the call, but when you come back to your friends they have their dream wedding venue booked and ready. All you have to do is drop off the deposit check before the museum closes tonight.

The next half hour is spent with the very nice woman who took the time to meet with you today, and she seems more than happy to be able to book the penthouse for a private party along with two full floors of rooms for wedding guests. It may not be the full night, but it is certainly a large check and damn good business for the hotel.

Harry is pulled aside by Percy, hearing the good news and smiling happily. Congratulating the couple and agreeing that it feels like the stars have aligned for their wedding.

By the time the six of you are leaving the hotel not too long after, it seems silly to think anything else could be more productive today. "Well," you tell them, grinning as you mark of Friday, August 6 on your phone with Percy and Tamara's initials. "I know we made a big decision but we have a lot to do now in not a huge amount of time."

“I already have my dress.” Tamara tells you with a happy sigh.

"And we did agree on colors already," Percy reminds you. A clean palate of white and silver with small accents of blue will be doable with any caterer, and blue bridesmaids dresses will be easy enough to achieve. His groomsman probably all own blue ties in the right shade.

“And the caterer has already been decided, right?” Tamara asks. “What’s the meal?”

"They booked the company but they hadn't picked their menu yet." Which was an incredible boon, and feels like it's a little too lucky. "I'm going to give them a call and see how fast we can set up a tasting."

Harry hums. “What’s the name of the company?”

"It is called..." Double checking your notes, you find it scrawled under the guest count for the museum. "Stand & Deliver."

Inside, Harry is groaning quietly but he nods. "They have good food." He assures them. "They catered Peter's wedding." He tells Percy, immediately making his best friend nod and grin.

“Perfect.” Tamara is grinning so widely that her face is threatening to split in two. “So what do we do now?” She asks you, bright with excitement and anticipation.

“Today? Go and enjoy having your parents in town,” you tell her, holding in your private sigh of relief. “I’m going to spend my afternoon setting up appointments for you to meet with your vendors as soon as possible so we can get everything squared away.” Looking at the group of them, you see a hell of a lot of work in those joyful faces, but it will be worth every second. “Why not take your Mom shopping for her mother of the bride dress, or even visit the Met?”

Harry watches you manage the nerves, the expectations with an aplomb that leaves him impressed. “Why don’t you take them to lunch?” He suggests. “I can help her with anything that she needs.”

“There’s a sit down restaurant in the museum,” Tamara remembers, perking up brightly.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” On the sidewalk, Percy gives you a squeezing hug. “Text me appointment info when you have it?”

“I promise.” There is even a pinky swear involved. A long held tradition from childhood that is an unbreakable promise. “You guys go have fun. Harry and I will take care of some business and I’ll talk to you later.” It’s sweet of him to offer, and you won’t say no, but you also don’t really expect him to want to sit around while you made phone calls and scribble notes to yourself for a few hours. Especially not when you’re supposed to be taking him to dinner tonight.

“I’m assuming the Met needs a signed contract and a payment to reserve the space?” Harry asks when you’re alone for the first time since landing their dream venue. He checks his watch as he estimates how long it would take to get there.

“We have an appointment to sign the papers tomorrow.” You had made sure that was acceptable, otherwise you would have rushed over today. “I’ll have to drop off the physical deposit check today but we’ll give them the rest tomorrow.”

“What do you need to do today besides that?” He asks.

“Phone calls. Lots of phone calls.” His expression is so earnest that you soften a little, feeling your cheeks burn. “And I was going to change before I picked you up tonight,” you admit.

“Do you have an office or do you normally work from home?” He asks, unsure of your business model.

“I do have an office.” You were going to go hang out on your couch with some leftover pizza for lunch, but something nagging in your stomach doesn’t want to separate so quickly. “Are you asking to see my cubicle?” You ask, tone teasing like he has asked to see you naked or something equally as scandalous.

He snorts and shakes his head, amused by the way you are asking. “I actually was going to offer you my conference room if you needed a space to work.”

“That sounds fancy.” There’s still teasing in your voice, but it’s softened.

“Espresso machine.” He ticks off with a small smirk. “There’s a vendor that caters lunch in the breakroom.” He shrugs. “Changes every day. Not sure what today is.”

“You have enough people working on a Saturday to warrant a catered lunch?” In your office, your company was just part of one floor. Staff are in and out all the time because of the nature of what you do. You hadn’t figured his family’s financial empire had anything but a 9-5 existence.

“It’s for the people who come in to work on the weekends.” He tilts his head. “Sometimes normal working hours don’t fit our business. We try to treat everyone like we care.”

“That is…” Your head tilts a little, considering him as much as the offer. “Both unexpected and very nice to hear.” He has a warmth to him that makes you want to believe he knows every employee by name and every birthday, anniversary, joy, and hardship. It’s easy to picture Harry giving a shit about his staff. So easy that you catch yourself smiling again — maybe even a little dreamily. “Alright, sure. Let’s go to yours.”

He nods and he finds himself smiling back at you. You have this way of slipping past his defenses. Making him go on instinct and try to figure you out like some kind of puzzle. “Good, because I’m hungry.”

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

[404lizzylizard]

Acts of Service

pairing: spencer reid x coworker!reader

tone/content : Flirty, slow-burn workplace tension with classic Reid awkward charm

Word Count: ~1,050

a/n: from the poll yall. I had to download the app on my phone and transfer it🤧. Don’t worrry I come in clutch (not proof read….🧍‍♀️)

It started with the Garcia file.

You distinctly remember it being halfway done — notes scattered, references highlighted, a sticky note with a reminder to cross-check timestamps on page five. But when you opened it the next morning, it was pristine. Fully annotated. Color-coded margins. Footnotes. With APA citations.

At first, you chalked it up to a moment of overachieving late-night productivity. Maybe you'd done it in a fugue state. Maybe your brain was broken. Or maybe Emily had gotten bored and overly helpful after one too many Red Bulls. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But then it happened again.

And again.

By the fourth mystery-completed file, you were suspicious.

You glanced across the bullpen, eyes narrowing. Emily was sipping coffee innocently. Morgan was deep in conversation with Hotch. Garcia was mid-rant about someone in Cyber Crimes who dared call her a “data analyst.” Everyone looked appropriately overwhelmed.

Except Spencer.

Dr. Reid sat at his desk, tapping his pen against his lip while reading over a document — your document. The unmistakable teal header from your case notes peeked out beneath his hand. And was that… your handwriting?

You stood slowly, squinting. Then crossed the bullpen with all the subtlety of a jungle cat.

“Hey, Spencer.”

He startled like he’d been caught breaking into a safe. “Hi! Hello. Hey. Good morning.” His voice did that pitchy nervous thing, the one that meant his brain had already cycled through nine potential exit strategies and decided none of them would work.

You leaned on his desk.

“That’s my case summary.”

He blinked. “Oh. Right. I—uh—I was just reading it.”

“Reading it. Or rewriting it?”

Spencer flushed.

You crossed your arms, trying not to grin. “Reid. Have you been… finishing my files?”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Define ‘finishing.’”

“Rewriting case synopses. Cleaning up victimology timelines. Adding footnotes in Latin.”

“…okay, yes. But it’s not like— I didn’t mean to! Not at first.” He rushed to explain, words tumbling. “It started because I saw your file on the coffee table and I noticed the timeline had a two-hour discrepancy between when the suspect left the gas station and when the body was found, and I thought, well, that’s probably important, so I checked the timestamps, and then—then I realized it needed clarification, and by the time I looked up, it was…done.”

You blinked.

“And then it kept happening?”

Spencer nodded, sheepish. “They’re just… fun to work on. Yours are fun.”

You tilted your head. “You think my case files are fun?”

He smiled, that shy, endearing half-smile you hated how much you liked. “They’re very organized. And you leave sarcastic comments in the margins sometimes. It’s like… an annotated tour of your brain.”

That one caught you off guard. A little flutter somewhere deep in your chest.

“I thought maybe you were annoyed,” you admitted, quieter now. “I figured you were fixing my mistakes.”

Spencer looked horrified. “No! Not at all. You don’t make mistakes. I mean- statistically, everyone makes mistakes, but yours are minor and usually spelling-related and once you spelled ‘unsurvivable’ with two R’s but I thought it was kind of charming-”

You laughed, covering your face. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “Sorry. I’ll stop. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

You glance down at the neat stack of color-coded papers on his desk, your name typed at the top, your scribbles still faintly visible beneath his tidier notes. Something warm unfurls in your chest. You shake your head.

“You don’t have to stop.”

Spencer blinks. “Really?”

You shrug, a little self-conscious now. “If you like doing it, and I still get the credit, I mean… who am I to take away your nerdy acts of service?”

His ears go pink. “Acts of service?”

You smile, grabbing your folder back from his desk, fingers brushing his as you do. “Spencer, this is the workplace equivalent of braiding my hair and packing me lunch. Admit it.”

He looks momentarily dazed. “Do you… want me to pack you lunch?”

You laugh, walking backward toward your desk. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Romeo.”

Spencer watches you retreat, stunned and very clearly flustered. When you sit, you peek up just in time to catch him smiling stupidly at his paperwork.

It happens again the next day. And the next.

Eventually, the team stops asking why your files are always perfect.

But you catch the way Hotch glances between the two of you. The way JJ smirks when Spencer brings you coffee. The way Garcia fake-swoons every time he quietly slips a revised summary onto your desk like some criminal-profiling fairy godmother.

You don’t mind.

Because now, every time you open one of those perfectly polished files, you find a new note — sometimes just a margin doodle, sometimes a quote, once an actual equation that solved a joke you’d made in passing two weeks prior.

Eventually, one of the footnotes reads:

P.S. If you ever want dinner instead of coffee, I’m available.

—S.R.

You don’t annotate the note.

You just write your number on a sticky note and place it under his favorite pen.

[mmiriozuzo]

Happy Birthday Sonic! We spent the whole day eating his favourite foods (It was hard finding anything other than Chili Dogs) and decorated them with relevant art

[sabrinasopposite]

manchild; chapter one: star-crossed lovers.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

words: 4.539

previous chapter: pilot.

chapter one: star-crossed-lovers.

Star-crossed lovers—two souls dancing out of sync with time, doomed not by lack of love but by the cruel spin of fate’s vinyl. They’re like old records: scratched, warped, yet still sacred. You place the needle down knowing full well the song won’t play clean. But you do it anyway, because the music—their music—moves you. It’s warm, crackling, alive. You close your eyes and sway with it, pretending the static is part of the rhythm. Pretending the skips don’t mean something deeper. You live inside the moment, hips brushing in the amber light, thinking maybe the scratches will smooth out if you just believe hard enough.

But they don’t. They grow—longer, louder, more jagged. And eventually, the music stutters into silence. That’s how it goes for star-crossed lovers. They know. They always know. But they dance anyway, pretending the needle isn’t worn down to its last groove. The end always comes, like the final chord of a love song you didn’t want to end.

Anakin didn’t believe in the cracks beneath their love—he was spinning in it, blind and golden. Padmé was his sunshine wrapped in honeyed tones, like the kind of light that streams through old blinds in a fresh new 60s film reel, flickering but warm. To him, love was a two-tone reel, black and white, simple as yes or no—until she walked in and turned it technicolor. Suddenly, love wasn’t monochrome. It was brass and velvet, vinyl and wildfire. It hissed and burned like analog warmth, like a love letter written on the back of a concert ticket.

He saw her for the first time in the high school hallway, and that was it. Game over. Like flipping a switch on a lava lamp—everything suddenly slower, dreamier, alive in that hazy amber glow. He didn’t want to look at anyone else again. His mind spun on one track: Padmé. She became the daylight bleeding through closed curtains, the echo of a slow jam playing in the back of his mind, endless, looping.

She was the melody. He was the listener. And together, they made a love too beautiful—and too broken—to last.

At first, it was only glances—fleeting, electric stares between the white swan and the greaser. Padmé was delicate, almost ethereal, like she had stepped out of a dream scored by Tchaikovsky. She moved with the grace of Swan Lake, the kind of girl who looked like Odette in the golden hour—petite, soft, wrapped in light. Everyone at school adored her. She wasn’t loud about it, never needed to be. Padmé had that quiet kind of magic—the kind that made people feel safe. She spoke gently, like a needle touching vinyl, and she listened—really listened—with those doe-brown eyes that made you forget what you were even trying to say.

And then there was Anakin—the greaser who wore his leather like armor. He had the look: slicked-back hair that tried to hide the curls fighting to break free, cigarette tucked behind his ear, boots always scuffed from chasing after something. He walked like he was on fire, like he couldn’t sit still even if he wanted to. And maybe he didn’t. He was all motion, all heat—until his eyes found Padmé. And then everything else went quiet.

The thing about Anakin is—he felt. He really felt. Not in halves, but in tidal waves. It was all or nothing, heart and soul wide open, and if you ever saw him look at Padmé, you’d understand. It was all right there in his eyes: a storm, a sonnet, a slow-burning song only she could hear.

And Padmé fell, slowly but surely, into the blue of his gaze. Fell like a needle dropping into a groove, like soft rain on still water.

Their love story played out like one of those perfectly structured Audrey Hepburn films—charming, wistful, full of little highs and soft heartbreaks, and a kind of ending that’s more bittersweet cigarette smoke than clean resolution. They had their moments—kisses stolen between bookshelves, whispered like secrets. Anakin ditching football practice just to sit in the back of her debate tournaments, grinning like a rebel with no cause but her. Sharing a strawberry milkshake at the diner on 5th, because Padmé swore strawberries tasted like summer.

But their favorite place, the one that belonged to just them, was the lake outside of town. A hidden corner of the world, quiet and still. Just rippling water, the buzz of cicadas, and two hearts tangled in something that felt like forever—even if it couldn’t be. That lake saw everything: laughter, silence, the kind of talks that pull the soul out through the mouth. It was a secret world, untouched by the noise of high school halls or rumors or expectations.

Their love was soft. Secret. Sacred. And for a time, it made Anakin feel whole—like he was more than the image he projected, more than the bad boy with the smoke and the shadows. With Padmé, he found the stillness in himself. The quiet hum beneath the chaos.

But then like destiny of star-crossed lovers are it fell into heartbreak.

It was sudden. Like a needle slipping off the groove mid-song—no warning, just silence. A hush where melody used to live. One morning, it all just… shifted. Anakin thought Padmé had simply decided. That she’d opened her eyes, exhaled, and said: There’s no more love here. No fight. No crescendo. Just a quiet ending, like turning off the radio in the middle of a favorite track.

In his mind, he was a song she didn’t want to hear anymore. Too loud. Too rough. Out of tune.

He imagined her brushing past their memories like old records in a dusty crate—pausing for a second, then moving on to something softer. Something easier.

But the truth lived in a different verse. Padmé felt trapped in a loop—like a track stuck replaying, never moving forward. She loved him. God, she did. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere along the way, she’d started changing him, pressing pause on the parts of him that burned too bright. He wasn’t the same Anakin anymore—not the wild spark in the leather jacket, not the firecracker with the soft soul behind sharp edges. He was quieter. Dimmed. She feared she had turned the volume down on his spirit, that their love had softened his roar into a whisper.

And that terrified her. Not because she didn’t love him. But because she did. So much that she questioned whether that love was hurting the very thing she had fallen for in the first place.

Padmé began to wonder if their love, as beautiful as it had been, was built on a dream too fragile to last outside the slow-motion world they had created. She was afraid she had made him forget who Anakin Skywalker was. And what scared her most wasn’t the silence, but the possibility that she had become it.

Love can feel like salvation—until it starts to feel like erasure.

It was a pain Anakin carried from spring into summer—quiet, heavy, and constant. Like a song stuck on repeat in the back of his head. The strawberries that once tasted like sunshine and kisses now crumbled on his tongue like dust. Bitterness where there used to be sweetness. It wasn’t summer without Padmé. It was heat without warmth. Days without light.

Now he found himself slouched in his beat-up ’68 Dodge Charger, the kind of car that rattled like a broken jukebox and smelled like gasoline and old leather. It was a piece of junk—but it was his junk. The one place that still felt like him. But even there, in that creaking cocoon of rust and memory, he wasn’t alone.

She sat in the passenger seat. A girl who screamed like a Cherry Bomb track—loud, reckless, all glitter and gasoline. Heels kicked up on the dashboard like she owned the whole damn universe, cigarettes tucked into the lace of her bra like secrets she didn’t care to hide. Her curly hair was a wild halo, half-tamed by wind, half-ruined by intention. She wore cherry-red lip gloss like war paint, smeared and daring, and she laughed too loud at nothing at all.

She was a storm in lipstick. A beautiful mess. But she wasn’t Padmé.

She didn’t listen with deer-soft eyes. She didn’t speak like violins. She didn’t know that Anakin used to skip football to watch a girl argue about foreign policy like it mattered more than the moon.

This girl was a distraction. A firework that burst too fast. And Anakin sat beside her, the vinyl seat hot against his skin, wondering how you could feel so empty with so much noise around you.

The engine rumbled beneath him, and for a second, he imagined driving until the map gave up.

But no matter how far he went, the ghost of strawberries and library kisses still followed him.

Y/N stared out the window, the night sky velvet-dark and peppered with stars. Fleetwood Mac played low on the car stereo, all golden harmonies and heartbreak—Dreams, probably. It gave the night a hazy, summer-glow kind of nostalgia. She turned her head back toward Anakin, voice cutting through the soft music with a sarcastic bite.

“How is this car even still in one piece? It’s a total piece of junk.”

Anakin shrugged, casual, leaning back into the cracked leather seat like he was in some James Dean dream.

“Hey, she may be old, but she’s got character.”

Y/N smirked. “Just like her moody owner,” she muttered under her breath, pulling a slightly crushed cigarette from the edge of her bra like it was nothing. It bent a little at the filter, but she didn’t care—if it lit, it worked. She slid it between her glossy lips, cherry red and defiant, and fished a lighter from her pocket. One flick. One inhale. Heaven in smoke form.

Anakin let out a chuckle, the kind that curled at the edges. “Moody? That’s a new one. And watch it, princess. Don’t make me kick you out.” His voice had that teasing edge, all low and amused, but his eyes flicked to her—briefly—fondly. He didn’t mind the smoking. Hell, half the burn marks on the seats were his.

Y/N raised a brow, the window down, the breeze catching her curls and tossing them like wild waves. She didn’t fix them. The mess was part of the vibe. The cigarette dangled from her lips as she replied, cool and sharp. “Don’t call me princess. I don’t like it.” She blew out a stream of smoke. “Skyguy.”

Anakin turned to her slowly, one eyebrow arched, lips twitching at the nickname. “Skyguy? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

Y/N gave a lazy shrug, her lips curling around the cigarette with effortless defiance.

“If you get to mock me with princess, then I get to call you Skyguy.” She flipped the visor mirror down and angled it toward her face, examining herself with casual vanity. She still looked good—smudged eyeliner, windblown curls, a little cherry lip gloss that hadn’t faded even after the drag. Her fingers ran through her bangs in a practiced motion, not to fix them, just to feel something steady.

And for a moment—between the soft crackle of the Fleetwood Mac song on the radio, the sweet haze of smoke, the hum of summer air drifting through rolled-down windows, and the glow of the dash lights—the car filled with something more than sound.

A silence that was warm, electric. Not quite love, but something that could almost pretend to be. Just for the night.

Anakin rolled his eyes, but this time there was no bite in it—just a smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Fair enough, princess.” He shot her a sideways glance, but his eyes didn’t stop there. They found her reflection in the rearview mirror—angled just enough to catch her humming softly to the radio, hair wild, eyes unreadable.

She looked like a Fleetwood Mac vinyl left out in the sun—worn, beautiful, and golden around the edges. Maybe even a little bit of The Runaways in the way she lit her cigarette like it was rebellion.

She was a strange blend of contradictions—like if Michelle Phillips and Dolly Parton had somehow been written into a Stevie Nicks lyric. Stardust and cigarette ash.

But she wasn’t Brigitte Bardot—not like Padmé was. Padmé had been soft blush and delicate gold. She was sunrise on porcelain.

Y/N was a different kind of light— She was red. Unapologetic. Loud. Messy in all the ways that felt alive.

Anakin glanced over at her again—just for a moment. She was mouthing the lyrics now, eyes half-closed, lost in the music. Her voice barely audible over the radio, but the rhythm was there. The presence. Like she belonged to this night. To this car. To this version of him—the one that didn’t ache quite so hard when he stopped thinking.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was music. It was breath. It was everything unspoken between two people who didn’t need the words—Not yet.

Y/N flicked her cigarette out the window, the glowing tip vanishing into the night like a dying star. She turned her head slowly, eyes landing on Anakin, her heels still propped on the dash like she owned the car and the road ahead. “You know what you need to do about Padmé?”

Anakin’s brow rose, a flicker of suspicion lighting his face. His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, knuckles pale under the neon dash glow. “What’s this? Advice from the heartbreak queen herself?” His voice curled with sarcasm, but there was something else behind it—genuine curiosity, like he wanted her to say something that made sense of the mess.

Y/N rolled her eyes and let out a low chuckle. “You’re hilarious—really—but no. I’m serious. Maybe… make her jealous. Simple as that.” She turned to him fully now, her gaze lingering on the curve of his jaw, the shadow under his cheekbone.

Anakin cocked his head slightly, intrigued despite himself. “Make her jealous? And how exactly do you propose I do that?”

Y/N gave a nonchalant shrug, her lips curling into that soft grin she wore like armor. Chaos was her element—drama, her native tongue. Life made more sense to her in motion, in sparks and friction. “Easy. Get a girl. Kiss her in front of Padmé. Give her a taste of her own medicine. Do what she does to you.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed, jaw tensing as he mulled over the idea. “Get a girl, just like that? And kiss her to get a reaction? Don’t you think that’s a little… petty?”

Y/N’s grin faltered, just for a second. “Damn. You must really love her. I figured a guy like you wouldn’t think twice.”

Anakin exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead like it held all the answers he didn’t have. “I do love her. But I’m not gonna use someone else to get to her. That’s not fair to the girl, and honestly? That’s not who I am.”

Y/N nodded, quiet for once. Her brows pulled together slightly, almost like she respected it—but it frustrated her too.

“Damn, lover boy. Guess I’m too used to people who only move when there’s fire under their feet.” She tapped her cigarette-free fingers rhythmically against the car door. “Still, sometimes things need a little… turbulence. Some spice. Otherwise? Padmé’s never gonna flinch. She’s got you locked in place, and you just keep standing there.”

Anakin’s grip on the wheel tightened again, his voice lower now—quieter, but firmer. “I don’t need to burn down a house just to see if someone cares I was in it. If she doesn’t see me when I’m standing right in front of her… maybe she never did.”

Y/N didn’t have a comeback for that right away. She just stared out the window, wind in her hair, the stereo humming something sad and slow. And for a brief second, she wondered if maybe being the chaos wasn’t always the solution.

Sometimes, heartbreak doesn’t need more fire. Just a mirror.

But that didn’t matter to Y/N. Her head was full of noise—loudness, wildness, the kind that never quieted. She groaned, slouching forward a little, letting her cigarette-stained voice fill the space between them. “God, Skyguy.” She leaned closer, her gaze searching his profile, lit in sharp angles by the passing streetlights. “Do you even want Padmé?”

Anakin’s features softened, just barely. His eyes stayed locked on the road, but something in his voice cracked, low and honest. “Of course I want Padmé. She’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Y/N watched him for a second longer, then offered a soft, dangerous grin—the kind that always meant trouble. “Then make her jealous.” Her words came like a dare, like they were dipped in lipstick and gasoline.

Anakin turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her. His eyes flicked with both irritation and curiosity. “That’s your big idea. Wouldn’t that just make me look… desperate? Pathetic? Also I still think it is pretty petty.”

Y/N laughed—loud, unapologetic, full of smoke and summer heat. “Not when she sees you’ve moved on. Not when she thinks you did. Drives you insane, doesn’t it? Seeing her with Clovis?”She said his name like a curse, something cheap and plastic. “Maybe,” she added, voice slower now, more deliberate, “maybe she just wants to see if you still care.”

Anakin’s jaw tensed, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. His eyes narrowed at the highway ahead, like he could somehow outrun the ache. “You think she’s doing this with Clovis just to get a reaction out of me?”

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, her voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. “I think love makes people do twisted things. Especially when they’re scared.”

There was silence again. Not comfortable this time—tense, stretched thin across the dashboard like fog on glass.

And maybe, just maybe, Anakin was starting to realize that love wasn’t always roses and movie endings. Sometimes, it was games and glances. Sometimes, it was war dressed up in nostalgia.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to hide her grin, but it still slipped out like lipstick smudging into a smile. “I’m making you an offer.”

Anakin raised a brow, eyes narrowing slightly with that trademark mix of suspicion and sarcasm. “An offer, huh? This should be interesting.”

Y/N placed her hand dramatically over her chest, mock sincerity coating her words like cherry lip gloss. “We fake date.” Simple. Chaotic. So very her. “I help you make Padmé jealous,” she added, then sighed like the drama exhausted her. “And… you help me get rid of my spring fling— okay, maybe ex.” Her tone turned annoyed, like the memory itself was a stain.

Anakin blinked, stunned. “Fake date? You’re serious?” He turned to look at her, confusion swirling with something like fascination. “And help you ditch your ex-fling? What kind of mess are you in?”

Y/N flipped her blowout hair with a shake of her head. “That doesn’t matter— okay, fine, I was trying to be in my ‘I’m trying to be normal’ phase, and Jett just… appeared.” Another dismissive shake. “Whatever. Point is, I’m the perfect decoy. You won’t hurt anyone. You’ll just make Padmé jealous and win her back. Boom.”

Anakin scoffed, his voice dipped in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this. So I fake date you, make Padmé jealous, and in return I get to help you ghost some spoiled prep boy?”

He tilted his head. “This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Correction,” Y/N said quickly, waving a finger. “You help me get rid of him. He’s a total rich kid freak. Weird as hell.”

Anakin shot her a look. “A rich kid? Seriously? You were hooking up with a rich kid?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You make me sound like a slut, Skyguy.”

He smirked. “Well, princess, hard not to when you’re out here collecting side quests like it’s the ‘Summer of Love.’”

She groaned, but the grin on her face gave her away. “Does it matter now? No. So… you in or what?”

Anakin gave her a once-over, the kind that lasted just a little too long. “Fake dating you? It still sounds like a bad idea with great lighting.”

Y/N crossed her arms, giving him a mock-scandalized look. “Excuse me, I am very much girlfriend material.” She struck a pose, half-serious, half-satire. Even she cringed a little.

Anakin couldn’t help it—he laughed, raising an eyebrow. “Oh really? And what makes you so confident in that assessment?”

She waved a hand over herself like a Vanna White of chaos. “Hello? Does your fake girlfriend look this hot?” Then she saw her neighborhood up ahead and dropped the act. “Whatever, Skyguy. Think about it.”

Anakin side-eyed her. “Your ego is massive, you know that? You’re definitely not humble.”

Y/N gave him a glare, but it was playful. “You breathe ego.”

Anakin grinned. “At least I have some humility. You? You’re just looks and sass and wild energy.”

She scoffed. “Whatever. I’m not the one with rage issues.”

They were pulling onto her street now. That little cul-de-sac in suburban Arizona that always looked dipped in desert gold. Her house hadn’t changed—it was all warm browns and sunset oranges, cozy but missing that spark. Like a 60s postcard someone left in the sun too long.

Anakin gave her a sideways glance. “Well, at least I don’t think the world revolves around me.”

Y/N just chuckled. Words like that didn’t dent her—she was made of too much smoke and glitter.

“Why not?” she said, shrugging. “Makes life more fun.”

Anakin snorted. “Fun? More like a headache.” His eyes lingered on the house. “Is Bail not home?”

Bail Organa was more than a stepdad. He was the man who stepped in when no one else did, who loved Sharon Y/L/N like she hung the moon, and when she vanished, he stayed. He kept his promise to stay for Y/N. But some stories like that are sacred to Y/N, and that only to her.

Y/N followed Anakin’s gaze to the darkened house, then turned back to him, her voice dipped in teasing velvet. “Why? Wanna come inside?”

Anakin quirked a brow. “Tempting offer,” he smirked. “But I’ve got a feeling Bail would not approve of you inviting boys in past curfew.” He joked with a sense of tease.

Y/N scoffed and swung her legs down from the dash, still smirking as she opened the car door. “Don’t flatter yourself. Besides, I don’t hook up with boys who mope.”

Anakin smirks, unable to resist her playful jab. “Oh, so I’m a sad boy now, huh? And here I thought I had that classic brooding vibe going for me.” He glances out the window toward her, his voice dripping with sarcastic charm.

Y/N slams the car door, the sound echoing briefly in the quiet street, then leans against the window, her face lit by the glow of a nearby streetlamp. “I’m sorry to shatter your little delusion, Skyguy, but deep down you know I’m right,” she grins, tilting her head just slightly. “But hey—drama and jealousy? Kind of my favorite things.” The offer still hung between them, as thin and tempting as cigarette smoke.

Anakin raises a brow, skeptical but clearly tempted. “You really think this’ll work? The fake dating, the jealousy plan?”

Y/N pulls out her last cigarette of the night, lights it with a flick of her thumb, then exhales slowly, lazily. “Yeah, why not? It’s hot.” She lets the sarcasm hang for a second, then adds with a softer tone, “If she gets jealous… then maybe she’s not over you.”

Anakin leans back, her words digging under his skin like old vinyl static. “But what if it backfires? What if Padmé just… moves on? Like it’s nothing?”

Y/N shrugs, blowing a stream of smoke into the night. “Then at least you’ll know. And maybe it’s time you learn to let go anyway.” She offers him the cigarette between her fingers. No strings, just smoke and silence.

Anakin takes it, hesitates, then draws in a breath. The taste is familiar, bitter and grounding.

“It’s not easy letting go. Not when it’s been two years and suddenly she’s with someone like Clovis.”

Y/N watches him quietly, her expression unreadable, calm like still water. She knew all about letting go. She just didn’t wear it on her sleeve anymore. She pats the window with both palms, then pushes away from the car. “Think about it, Skyguy,” she says with a half-smile.

“And hey—if you’re gonna fake date someone, might as well be someone hot, right?”

Anakin smirks, while pulling a drag of the cigarette. “You mean you?”

Y/N glances around with a faux-confused face. “I don’t see anyone else here,” she tosses over her shoulder, a teasing wink. Then she softens, walking backward toward her porch.

“Anyway, thanks for the ride. Try showing up to some parties sometime instead of rotting in that smelly car… or your dark, tragic little room.”

Anakin rolls his eyes. “Hilarious, Princess. And for the record, my car doesn’t smell.”

Y/N calls out behind her. “Whatever!” She kicks off her heels mid-walk, barefoot now on the concrete path. Her hips swing like a girl who owns every inch of herself.

Anakin watches her, gaze lingering longer than it should. “Get a grip, Skywalker,” he mutters as he shifts into gear, driving off into the desert-dark road.

Y/N watches his taillights vanish, then lets out a quiet chuckle to herself. She never thought they’d even talk again—let alone laugh. They used to ignore each other in the school hallways like ghosts. But somehow, tonight, the silence between them had felt less like absence and more like… recognition.

Inside, the house was still and warm. She poured herself a glass of water, the kitchen dim except for a soft light over the sink. Her eyes drifted to the picture hanging in the hallway: Sharon.

Her mother.

The photo always got her—same curls, same eyes, same fire-in-the-smile. Sharon looked radiant, caught in a moment beside Bail, laughing, alive. Five years gone now. Y/N was thirteen when it happened. And truthfully, a piece of her never came back after that day.

Letting go… She was good at it. At least, that’s what she told herself.

But deep down, it wasn’t about letting go. It was about carrying ghosts so close to your heart they started to feel like home.

It was her own star-crossed kind of grief—Y/N and her mother. Forever tangled in the same storm.

💋hi everyone! WOW thank u for the incredible feedback for the pilot! because of that, here is the first real chapter. a little bit of an inside what type of role padmé will play in anakins life. and whoop? a bit of y/n story time?

💋taglist; @blackynsupremacy @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @user-3113s-blog @iloveneilperry @crisis-unaverted-recs @purplerose291 @sythethecarrot @wizzerreblogs @tsuki8844  @antifeetsoldier @canny1902 @idk-11s-blog @another-side-blog-again @damoclescallmeback @kappakappabara @littlemsenvyi @ficsineedtoreadlater @fictionalinspo2 @harryshorizon @wizzerreblogs @5secondsofmoxley @anakinslovergirl

💋playlist: dreams - fleetwood mac, moon river - audrey hepburn and don't smile - sabrina carpenter

[mokiobject]

MePhone4S and 3GS with the general pride flag

Aromantic Ace Mepad, Ace trans MePhone4, Gay Trans Toilet,

Or any of them in general

i really like them.

Your pick!

Btw I love how you draw characters with screens they look they could be adapted as a yummy gummy candy

Post time baybeee

Request ss and yapping under the cut :D

GAH TYSM TO EVERYONE WHO PUTS A COMPLIMENT IN WITH THEIR REQUEST UR ALL AWESOME (also like. Literally everyone who likes my posts I do a little clap for every like)

When people list a whole bunch I try to go ahead and do all of them >:3c

The one with paper and oj I struggled to light the way I wanted what if no one talked abt it <3

Also! The one with dynamite is a reference to this panel and this meme

(I had a lot of fun reading through objectified OKAY IM DONE YAPPING)

[saphire-makesart]

The new episode of The Amazing Digital Circus is really interesting.

It seems ragatha was a victim of abuse, possibly narcissistic type (not all people with npd are abusive ofc), which has resulted in her need to be loved and need to please everyone around her, and her fear of expressing negative emotions.

We’re getting more pieces of Jax; here are some I noticed/enterpreted/were told directly to us

He does care about what people think on some level

He feels like the whole place is pointless so that’s why he doesn’t really care or at least tells himself to not think about it

Possibly insecure about his masculinity (Above is likely why he hated the maid dress…. Trans coding? Idk)

Had a friend in the circus, maybe kofmo? Someone before? (Honestly when ragatha said “not anymore” I thought she meant because they’re all in the circus and just have eachother but I’m pretty sure she was actually referring to one person)

Afraid of corn

I think he attacks others because he needs attention, he also uses sarcastic humor as a defense mechanism.

Makes fun at gangle hanging out with zooble likely because of his experience with his friend abstracting, he thinks one of them will abstract and leave the other

Evil Jax is the Jax that he thinks he’ll be if he lets down his guard

I also think it’s interesting both pomni and zooble did urban exploring, I think we also found out how pomni came across the headset through this information ; she was urban exploring and put it on

Zooble can’t fix all of gangles problems but he can be there through them, idk if they know that though.

I saw someone else say this but evil zooble is just dumb because Cain doesn’t have a good understanding on zooble so all he can do is make her stupid because he knows she’s smart.

[deathandnonexistentialdread]

So…What was your favourite season of YGO DM?!

The Kaiba Grand Prix Arc for sure.

I know it is filler BUT it is a fun filler arc. It is the condensation of everything that is great in yugioh dm without the angst and death.

I made a list of everything I liked about this arc:

so many ✨Shenanigans✨

This arc had many fun moments that watching it made me laugh and after the angst fest that was the Doma arc this was a very welcome change.

In no particular order some of my favourite moments are:

all of Jonouchi and Yuugi's interactions

Atem making Yuugi be his spokesperson (and the bodyswapping)

Jonouchi not recognizing Mask the Rock's identity when everyone else did, including Otogi who probably has only met Sugoroku once

Movie Reference!!

(you can pry the 'Jonouchi likes scifi movies' headcanon from my cold, dead hands)

Panther Warrior ascending to Valhalla

(what cracks me up about this scene is the way that there was no gap between Seigfried's words and Panther Warrior flying away. Also, very neat for the warrior to be sent to Valhalla)

Queer Pride Card

The gang stuffing their faces while Atem and Vivian are dueling

Kaiba's very extra enterences

This line from Kaiba:

(speak your truth king)

Very serious discussion in the middle of the duel:

(love how Yuugi and Atem just discuss things in the middle of dueling. Other people duel with their lives on the line, these two treat dueling as a fun couple's activity)

Dark Magician Girl admiring her new shoes without any concern in the world:

(knowing that dmg is Mana makes this scene even more fun because you know Mana is enjoying every bit of this. Atem's worried face is the cherry on top)

2. Leon's Fairytale Deck

as a person who has multiple books on fairytales, Leon's deck is one of my favourite things about this arc. Lesser known fairytales were also included which made me very happy.

3. Seigfried

His first appearance tells us all that we need to know about him.

This guy is one of the most queer-coded characters I have ever come across and I wish we got to see him more. He is such a dive.

And his homoerotic rivalry with Kaiba was the most interesting thing aout this arc for me.

Kaiba thinks this is a battle while Seigfried is hearing wedding bells.

4. Kaiba Corp getting hacked a total of three times this arc

(^ this is what a liar sounds like)

It is funny how Kaiba Corp getting hacked and the duel monsters data almost getting wiped out is the least stressful problem the cast has ever faced.

This arc is the beach episode of yugioh; with its low states plot and fun character interactions

[flutterclouds]

This was such an amazing chapter, Tesh! I just knew that Nia and Beck would get along! I really loved getting to read Nia’s thoughts about having to leave the Pokemon world near the start of the chapter. As with any PMD starter, hero often has to struggle with a moment of farewell, and I have a feeling a farewell of some sort is on the very distant horizon.

I also really loved the spooky atmosphere in this chapter. The shadowy swamp setting is just the perfect backdrop for Shivergleam’s slightly unnerving atmosphere, and I had so much fun reading about it. Will-o-wisp being used to light the river is such a neat touch as well. The treehouses were really cool as well! I love when people get really creative with what structures Pokemon live in. I don’t usually see swamps in PMD stories, so that’s an added bonus.

Edme was definitely one of the highlights of this chapter. The contrast between their more upbeat personality and the stillness of their shell body was such a neat addition to their presence in the story. Her backstory as a Guardian is really neat, and I absolutely love how seriously she takes her role in comparison to her usual demeanor. Her devotion to Giratina is really fascinating to read about, especially since it seems the legendary hasn’t been communicating with her much as of late.

My favorite part of this chapter was definitely the worldbuilding and lore. The town running on a nocturnal schedule is such a great touch. Giratina being referred to as “Lord Giratina” was also really neat. It reminded me of how Dusknoir in PMD2 calls Dialga “Master Dialga.” Giratina being unfairly banished is a theory I’ve been leaning towards for a while, so I’m glad to see I might have been on the right track, although some of that is called into question with Edme’s behavior in the latter part of the chapter. For my own PMD story I also really like the idea of Arceus being in a deep slumber, in addition to many of the other legends. Entei being the protector of children was also a really sweet nod to the third Pokemon movie, which if I remember correctly one of the screenwriters wrote it with his daughter in mind.

This was such an amazing payoff to the Giratina mystery arc. You’ve used previously established Pokemon lore in a really fun way here, and I’m so excited to see where the story heads next, especially since Nia now finds herself in Giratina’s realm.

Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Seekers of Soul

[Chapter 48]

<< First | < Previous | Next >

-

Nia and Tobias reach Shivergleam. However, they may not be ready for the information Edme has to offer.

-

Nia kicks her legs over the side of the boat, tucked securely against the railing. Evening sunlight is filtered weakly through cloud cover, but still warm on her back. The river below her is as swift and swollen as it has been the whole trip, rocking the ferry in uneven motions, but she finds it oddly soothing.

Her curious eyes are trained on the crew working to navigate the dangerous waters. Beck and Nori are swimming ahead of the ferry, sleek flashes of orange and blue weaving back and forth to check for underwater obstructions that could hinder their travel. Occasionally, Nia sees the two Pokemon work together to push a downed tree aside and clear the way.

The captain, Cordelia, is steering them slowly through the treacherous waters, staying to the outside of the river to keep to deeper channels. Well, at least that’s what Cas said she was doing when Nia talked to him earlier. The little duck clearly admires the brash crocodile, and proudly answers all of Nia’s questions about the ferry and how it’s run. Since they’ve been riding for a little over a day now, they’re finally nearing their destination of Shivergleam, at least according to Beck when he was on break earlier.

Nia has honestly enjoyed their trip downstream. Traveling by boat is new and exciting, and she loves watching the crew work around one another like a well-oiled machine. And last night when they’d had to stop as darkness set in, Nia had enjoyed getting to talk to the crew over supper.

Cordelia is a bit brash, but it’s clear she loves her job and her crew—plus, she tells one heck of a story. Nori the golduck, on the other hand, rarely speaks, instead communicating in dry looks. Cas seems more like a little cousin tagalong than an actual crewmate, too young to do much heavy lifting, but the rest of the boatsmon clearly love having him around. Even Ignatius, the quiet, sarcastic old torkoal is grounding in his own way.

While none of the crew have been unwelcoming, Beck the floatzel has been Nia’s favorite to get to know. The older Pokemon is clearly the most sociable of the bunch, asking Nia and Tobias about where they’re from and where they’re heading with genuine interest. When Nia had mentioned the Lexym Guild, the weasel’s brows had lifted. He’d explained with a smile that the guild is just a bit west of his own home, where his wife and daughter live taking care of his grandkids.

“I’m a bit of a wanderer,” Beck had explained as he helped himself to a second bowl of stew. “My heart always leads me back home, but I wouldn’t be happy staying in one place. This job gives me the chance to travel without leaving my family for too long.”

Nia likes the older man’s demeanor. It’s warm, friendly but calming. His surprisingly deep voice is nice to listen to, and Nia is endeared by how fondly he mentions his family.

Nia liked him even more after the weather was mentioned and Ignatius made a sarcastic comment about humans that made Nia freeze and Tobias glare. Beck was the first to scoff, whipping the turtle playfully with his twin tails. There was no real fire behind the torkoal’s words or the floatzel’s gesture, but Beck had cast Nia and Tobias a concerned look regardless.

“Sorry. Natius doesn’t have the best sense of humor. We know the humans have nothing to do with the weather being out of sorts.”

Cordelia had snorted, slamming her drink down on the table. “I wish humans were the problem. They’d be a lot easier to corral than the gods apparently seeing fit to dump rain across the whole region.”

Nia and Tobias had relaxed, and Nia couldn’t help the way she immediately grew fond of the ragtag little group.

Now, nearing their destination, Nia feels a familiar sting in her heart. She’s only known the crew for a day, but she hates that they have to part so soon. Tobias likes to tease her about how quickly she gets attached to people, but she can’t help it! She thinks she vaguely remembers her mom telling her she had a heart too big for her body. Tobias would likely say she’s got a heart too big for her brain.

Tobias.

Nia frowns, absentmindedly looking into the reflections in the river’s surface for a sign of Giratina. She hasn’t seen the banished legendary since the tunnels, though that doesn’t mean he isn’t there.

It’s not enough to distract her from thinking about her partner. About how they’d found one of his family’s killers, only to find him too late. About the family the crobat had left behind. About Tobias’ grief, a relentless sort of sorrow she’d never had to face so head-on before. It’d been so powerful she’d sworn she could feel it herself, at times.

And she tries not to think of Tobias’ voice on their ride over. The way his words choked as he mentioned her leaving for the human world.

Nia swallows against a lump in her throat and closes her eyes. She leans her head forward to bump against the railing, listening to the loud, constant rush of the river.

She’s leaving, once Will or somebody else finds them a way home. She has to. Every time she thinks of Clay’s bright grin or her Mom’s tight hugs or Toni’s laughter her chest feels like it’s going to cave in on itself. She knows it’s not an option to not go back.

But she let herself get attached. Of course she did. And now she has Tobias. Tobias and Maggie and Xander and Andyn and Val and Avery and—

Tears burn at Nia’s eyes, so she takes a deep breath, letting it out slow. She opens her eyes again to watch as Cordelia slows the ferry. Debris is floating on top of the water, and Nori and Beck get to work clearing it with experienced hands. It only takes a glimpse for Nia to recognize what it is, after seeing multiple sites like this.

It was a home, once. Likely a lovely one set up right off the riverside. But the flooding has washed it away, right off its foundations. Hopefully not with a family inside.

Nia feels her chest tighten even further. She can’t stay here, but she also can’t imagine just…going back to her old human life, like nothing ever happened. How can she just leave behind all of the people she’s met in this world? Especially knowing that mystery dungeons and natural disasters like this are slowly ramping up in severity. She would feel like she was abandoning them.

She’d mentioned a way to go back and forth between worlds out of nothing more than desperation, but now she’s thinking it might be the only way she could actually handle it. You can’t just give up an entire 18 years’ worth of life and the family you love. But you also can’t live in an incredible, magical world for months—has it really been months already?—and form a whole new support system only to leave. Not without tearing out a part of your soul in the process, at least.

She doesn’t have an answer for her situation. And that worries her.

Beck chooses that moment to call out to Nia. She lifts her head, thankful for the interruption.

The orange weasel—a floatzel, Tobias had said, and the species had rang a bell in her head for some reason—is bobbing in the water below her. “We’ll be pulling into the branch leading to Shivergleam soon. You might want to grab your partner.”

Nia thanks the water type before getting up and heading inside the cabin. She takes the path downstairs into the belly of the proverbial beast, knocking on the heavy door to the furnace room before nudging her way inside.

As it has been every time Nia has checked on Tobias, the room is sweltering. Dim orange light bounces off the metallic walls. Ignatius the torkoal gives her a passing glance before continuing his work keeping the steam engine running. He takes a bite of coal, crunching it loudly in his mouth. The flames inside his shell flare, almost bright enough to hurt Nia’s eyes, and the torkoal spews a cloud of steam and embers into the pipes of the steam engine.

Tobias is sitting nearby, crunching idly on his own piece of coal and flipping through a manual for the ship. Nia doesn’t know why being down here puts him so much more at ease, but he’s relaxed as he waves casually to Nia in greeting.

It’s a bit loud with the whoosh of the flames and the rumbling of the ship and engine so close, so Nia nearly has to yell to be heard. “Beck says we’re getting close and should prepare to dock!”

Tobias perks up. With all the rain they’ve been dealing with, he hadn’t gotten to go onto dry land yesterday evening when they’d docked for the night. Nia knows he’s been eager to get back to solid ground from the moment they stepped onboard The Aqua Jet.

Tobias gives Ignatius a nod of parting and grabs a piece of charcoal to go. Then he follows Nia back to the stairs. As she leads them back to the upper floor and out on deck, Nia sneaks a few glances at Tobias crunching into the little black mineral.

“I still can’t believe you can just…eat coal.”

Tobias shrugs, catching some crumbs before they fall. “I couldn’t live off of it, but it’s nice. Stokes my fire a bit. Got a good crunch to it.”

Nia stares at the charcoal with a furrowed brow as they reach the railing on deck. “Does it…taste good?”

Tobias makes a so-so motion with his hand, then holds it out to her with a smirk. “Wanna try?”

He probably expects her to recoil, but she can’t deny that she’s curious. She takes the charcoal and gives it a sniff, wrinkling her nose. Then, she licks the little stone.

“Ugh,” Nia shoves the charcoal back at her partner. “It’s like licking a dirty grill.”

Tobias barks a laugh. He tries to reign it in, but his shoulders still shake as he stares at her. “I-I didn’t think you’d actually try it.”

“I was curious! You really underplayed how awful it is, though.”

Tobias shrugs and takes another bite, the sound cracking through the air even with the loud background track of the river. “‘S not that bad. Just…earthy.”

“‘Earthy,’ he says,” Nia teases. “I think you’ve just fried off all your taste buds. You—“

“There’s the turn!” Cas cuts in, hurrying to their side. The little duck looks out at the river with glittering eyes. “I love Shivergleam. It’s so spooky!”

Nia trades an uncomfortable look with Tobias as the ferry takes a turn down an offshoot of the main river. The trees on either side of the waterway close in overhead, blocking out much of the evening light. The air feels cooler, suddenly.

“Spooky?” Nia echoes cautiously.

Cas nods. “Yeah! There are lots of ghost types living in Shivergleam. Delia says that all kinds of weird stuff happens there!”

Nia takes a step closer to Tobias. He’s trying to look unbothered, but Nia sees him cast his sharp gaze out into the trees.

The shaded marsh around them does suddenly seem more…unsettling. Large stretches of floodwater sit between twisted trees, pools of reflected light between dark shade. Away from the roar of the Lilycap River, it feels unnaturally still. Even Beck and Nori, still swimming from side to side in front of the ferry to clear roots and foliage, seem to cut through the water silently.

It must take another half hour for them to finish the journey to Shivergleam, considering the sun is quickly setting through the trees. To Nia, it feels like it somehow takes half the time and twice as long, and her nerves only grow as they approach.

As long shadows fade to total darkness, Nia starts to see…lights. They’re a bluish-purple color, scattered like flickering candle flames throughout the trees. For a moment she thinks of the lights she saw when she was sick. Her memories. But when she looks to Tobias, he’s also watching them, brow furrowed.

When they start to flicker into being on either side of the waterway, Nia gets a closer look. They’re tiny flames, somehow resisting the damp environment. Additionally, they don’t seem to be…burning from anything, or even sheltered from the elements. Instead, they flicker in space at fixed points along the river, among the grassy banks and up in the trees. Like lamp lights along a street.

“Will-o-wisp?” Tobias murmurs.

Nia frowns, wracking her brain for the familiar term. “The move that causes burns?”

“Lots of ghost types learn it. They must have a system set up to light the path, like how the grass types at the guild repair the Lexym tree and open and close the windows to accommodate the weather.”

“Okay, that’s pretty cool,” Nia whispers, looking at the little flames with a mix of awe and unease.

Soon after, Beck and Nori pull themselves out of the water, dripping onto the deck. The floatzel shakes out his fur, and Tobias hisses and hides behind Nia. To Nia’s surprise, Cordelia keeps the boat moving.

Nia casts the dark river a nervous look. What if there are downed branches here still? Won’t they get caught up?

Beck moves to their side. He leans against the railing and smiles down at the will-o-wisps reflecting off the water. “Don’t worry. Shivergleam keeps the river clear from here on. Nori and I can relax.”

True to Beck’s word, they make the rest of the trip without any issue. As they round a bend in the river, the trees thin out enough to see the glow of the town ahead.

Shivergleam is built in bits and pieces into the thin, ropy trees of the swamp, like a city of treehouses. Long, draping boughs of leaves curtain the warm glow of the buildings. Nia can see the occasional silhouette move across bridges made of twisting roots and vines. The whole city almost looks like it’s floating in the blackness of the swamp, its lights reflected in the floodwater below. Nia almost doesn’t notice the short, jagged silhouettes poking above the surface. It takes her a moment to realize that they’re more buildings, homes and businesses swallowed by the floods. Her ears flatten.

“Ol’ Shivergleam,” Beck says, sounding pleased. “Some folks get spooked by so many ghost and dark types living in one place, but don’t let that scare you. They’re nice enough. Make sure you try the food while you’re here.”

Nia gives Beck a thin smile. “Will do. Thanks.”

“You think they’ll be open to us trying to find this Edme ‘mon?” Tobias asks.

Beck’s twin tails give a thoughtful spin. “Good question. They can be a bit private about Shivergleam matters. They didn’t want to ask for outside help with the floods until half their ground population lost their homes. But no harm in asking.”

Cordelia pulls the ferry to a stop beside a makeshift docking system made of arching, twisted branches. A staircase sits nearby, circling the tree’s trunk. Its lower steps lead under the floodwater and its upper steps lead up to the light and activity of the town.

Nori hops out to tie the boat to the dock, Cas scrambling to follow. Beck helps guide Nia and Tobias onto the firmer ground of the stairs—made with slick, damp wood that creaks underfoot. Nia grabs onto the thin rail with one hand and Tobias’ hand with the other, both for her reassurance and his own.

Cordelia leaps out of the boat and onto the stairs with all the confidence of a water type hanging over floodwater. Or maybe that’s just Cordelia. “Passengers delivered safely! Whatcha think, Charmander? Not too bad, eh?”

Tobias gives the croconaw a glare. Cordelia laughs.

Beck stands beside his captain, looking up at the islands of activity. Light shines down between thin gaps in the wood. “You two going to be okay on your own from here? You’ll probably have to catch a flight ‘mon when you want to leave.”

“Better be, because we ain’t sticking around. Heading out first thing in the morning,” Cordelia says, moving to help Cas carry a bag three times bigger than his entire body off the boat.

Beck hums. “I suppose she’s right. But if you need us before we leave, then just come find us at Hollowberry. Always happy to help out a new friend.”

“That offer does not extend to me!” Cordelia calls.

Nia laughs, giving Beck a warm smile. “Will do. Thank you so much, Beck.”

Beck gives her a friendly wink and Tobias a nod before turning to help his crew.

In the quiet left behind, Nia looks to Tobias, who has one hand gripping the rail with white knuckles and the other holding her hand tight enough to hurt.

“Ready?”

“I guess. Anything is better than being on that rickety old thing.”

Nia takes that as a yes and leads the two of them up the winding staircase, towards the gentle clamor of the population above. As they emerge into the soft light of the town, Nia looks around.

The platform they’re on holds two small, twisted buildings built into the side of the tree. One home’s window is bright, and Nia hears laughter from within. Long, drooping leaves drape over the roofs. Ropy bridges made with vines and roots link the platform on either end to another two islands, one slightly higher and the other slightly lower. Despite the heavy darkness of the night, the warm light spilling from most of the buildings lights up the town like a sea of stars.

It’s nothing like the busy roar of Afon’s merchant-heavy environment. It’s quieter here, almost residential. Pokemon talk in pairs or move peacefully about their business, but it all feels very…quaint.

Two Pokémon pass by Nia and Tobias, their conversation pausing as they give the pair cautious looks. They move on quickly enough, voices rising again as they gain distance. Nia’s almost too preoccupied by the townsfolk’s appearance to be hurt by their obvious suspicion. Her grip on Tobias’ hand tightens.

“Those are ghost types, right?” Nia murmurs, tearing her eyes away. She doesn’t want to be rude, but…well. She can see through them! They’re semi-transparent, the lights of the town visible as a blur of light through their bodies. It’s a little unnerving.

“Yeah?” Tobias asks, sounding puzzled. “Why are you so freaked out? I know we don’t get many ghost types in the Haven, but…”

“I know they aren’t like…dead,” Nia whispers, looking around to make sure no one is close enough to overhear. She doesn’t want to offend anyone. “But it’s still hard not to be freaked out by actual, literal ghosts!”

Tobias snorts. “They’re only called ghosts because of their typing, remember? They resemble what spirits are thought to look like, but they aren’t actually ghosts. Well, most of them.”

Nia gives him an incredulous look. “Most of them?!”

“Uh. Yeah? Did your books not tell you that? Some species are supposedly born from reincarnations. Maybe it’s just like a cultural thing, but they say all souls of certain species lived previous lives. Phantump. Pumpkaboo.” Tobias cuts her a dry look. “Yamask.”

Nia blinks, caught off-guard. “Yamask?” So…Will?

She does vaguely remember reading about the yamask line, when she first came to the Pokemon world and was looking for a name. About how they’re supposedly born from lost human souls. At the time she’d assumed that meant they were in the same situation as her and all the other humans, but Tobias almost seems to be implying that there’s something different about them. That some ghost types are…born as reincarnated souls. But Will is an adult and he’s only been here a few years, so—

Tobias tugs at Nia’s hand, apparently deeming her moment of existential crisis unimportant. “We’d better get moving. We’re getting looks.”

Nia shakes off her thoughts. “R-Right. Can you lead the way?”

Tobias snorts. “As long as you do the socializing.”

“Deal. Are we looking for Hollowberry to rest for the night?”

Tobias mouth flattens as he looks around. Nia follows his gaze, slowly less and less unnerved and more amazed by the chilling beauty of their surroundings.

“With this many ghost and dark types, most of the town probably runs on a nocturnal schedule,” Tobias finally says.

“Oh. So…should we start looking tonight?”

“Are you too tired?”

Tobias glances at her, then away. As if to make it seem like he doesn’t actually care about her answer. Nia bites back a smile and pointedly doesn’t remind the prickly charmander that they’re still holding hands.

“No, I’m all right! Where should we start?”

Tobias looks around, then heads down one of the bridges leading to another platform, releasing her hand to grab onto both sides of the railing. The woven branches underneath them creak and dip under their weight.

The first Pokemon they find who actually makes eye contact and seems willing to talk is a floating purple ghost with no legs and disembodied hands. He’s handing out samples outside of a cute little bakery, which means his friendliness is probably just a business tactic, but Nia will take it.

Nia gratefully accepts a small sample of donut and exchanges pleasantries before saying, “We were actually wondering if you happen to know anyone in town called Edme?”

The ghost type’s friendly smile falls, a gleam of suspicion entering his eyes. “…Where did you say you two are from?”

“Lexym Guild, in Bethoc’s Haven,” Tobias answers, crossing his arms. “We aren’t here to cause any trouble. Just want to ask them some questions.”

Another Pokemon, some kind of little orange and black fox with a large tail, walks by. The ghostly baker catches her eye, pasting on a huge grin. “Hey! Quinta! Want to try a new recipe?”

The fox glances at Nia and Tobias before deciding to speak to the baker. The two quickly start a conversation, turning their bodies to shut Nia and Tobias out.

Okay, message received. Nia devours her (delicious) donut sample and leads Tobias away before his flaring tail flame gets them in trouble.

“Maybe the next person will be more open to talk,” Nia says hopefully.

The look Tobias sends her makes it clear how much he doesn’t believe her. “Sure.”

Unfortunately, the next Pokemon they stop is no more forthcoming. Nor the next. Most of the townsfolk don’t look thrilled to talk to outsiders at all, but even the friendliest of Pokemon immediately clam up and hurry off when they mention Edme.

“This is going well,” Nia sighs when they take a break, sitting against one of the platforms’ central tree trunks. The wood is damp and the air is getting cold as the night wears on, so her fur feels both thin and uncomfortable. She’s starting to drag, but the town only seems to grow more active as the moon rises higher.

“They’re suspicious of outsiders, and apparently protective of this Edme ‘mon,” Tobias says, also looking tired. “They must think we’re here to cause trouble.”

“Even though we’re Seekers?”

Tobias sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Probably because we’re Seekers. Ghost types and dark types get a bad reputation sometimes. They’re pinned much quicker for crimes than other types.”

Nia winces, remembering her earlier reaction to seeing the ghost types. She’s grown more accustomed to them over the past hour or so, since they’re not really any stranger or scarier than other types of Pokemon. They’re just not ones she’s used to seeing.

“So you think they’re worried we’re here to take Edme in?”

“Probably. Whether it’s warranted or not.”

Nia makes a thoughtful sound in her throat. “So far we have been pretty vague about why we want to talk to Edme. Should we just be honest about why we’re here?”

Tobias gives her an Are you crazy? sort of look. “And say we’re here to ask Edme about—“ Tobias’ voice lowers. “Giratina?”

“Why not?”

Tobias rolls his eyes. “He’s a scary story for a reason! Most ‘mon don’t even like hearing his name.”

“But Edme was the source for all of those books we read! They’re almost like the authority on Giratina. And everyone here is defending Edme, so—“

“So Giratina probably isn’t a bad omen here,” Tobias finishes, blinking at her. “Huh. You know, that…might make sense. He is a ghost type. I don’t know enough ghost types to know if they see him as a deity, but…”

“We could try it?” Nia suggests.

Tobias sighs. “I guess it can’t get any worse than how it’s been going so far.”

Their next target is a pair of Pokemon chatting amiably outside of a shop and drinking tea. A misdreavus and a banette, according to Tobias. The two ghost types quiet as Nia and Tobias approach and politely introduce themselves.

“—and we were hoping that you might know about a Pokemon called Edme? We need some information about Giratina, and we heard they’re the best person—uh, Pokemon to ask.”

The two Pokemon straighten up with surprised expressions when Nia mentions Giratina’s name. They exchange a look, but Nia can see the cold suspicion thaw, ever so slightly.

“You want to know more about Lord Giratina?” The banette asks, clearly doubtful.

Lord Giratina? Guess they were spot-on about the deity thing.

Nia nods. “Yes! Please. We came all this way looking for information.”

“Why? Most solids are too scared to even say his name.”

Nia hesitates. Looks to Tobias. He shrugs. She bites her lip and looks back at the two Pokemon. “H-He’s been following me. Through reflections. And we want to know why.”

The pair’s eyes widen. Their idle hovering stills. It’s the most open emotion anyone from the town has shown so far.

“Lord Giratina showed himself to you?” The misdreavus asks, voice hushed with awe.

The banette looks torn between suspicion and confusion. “Why would Lord Giratina show himself to some random fighting type?“

Nia opens her mouth without thinking, to say something about it possibly being because she’s human. Luckily, Tobias whacks her leg with his tail, stopping her from blabbing.

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Tobias growls. “So if someone could just tell us where to find Edme, that’d be great.”

The two Shivergleam natives look torn, exchanging a worried look.

“What do you think?” The misdreavus whispers, her “hair” floating in a nonexistent breeze.

“The riolu should be fine. She’s a fighting type. But sending a fire type to the Guardian? You know how dangerous that is!”

“But if Lord Giratina really did show himself, then there has to be a good reason! And you know the Guardian can handle herself.”

Nia and Tobias share an uncertain look as the two go back and forth about the “Guardian.” Looks like Tobias was right—the citizens of Shivergleam are protecting their own. Admirable, if not annoying at the current moment.

“Fine,” the banette finally says. She turns to Nia and Tobias. “We’ll tell you where to find the Guardian.“

“Oh, thank you so much! We—“

“But,” the ghost type interrupts, baring her terrifying zipper-like teeth. “We don’t take kindly to anyone messing with our own. Especially a Guardian. So just know that if you do anything to harm her, the entirety of Shivergleam won’t hesitate to drag you both to the afterlife.”

Nia’s bubbly gratitude dies in her chest. Eyes wide and tail tucked, she frantically agrees. Tobias glares at the two Pokemon, but nods.

The banette seems somewhat satisfied by that. She waves her friend on.

The misdreavus hesitates once more before gesturing with her chin to the right, off through the sea of platforms and flickering lights. “She lives on the edge of town, at one of the highest sectors. It’s the tall house with the shiny baubles hanging outside of it.”

Nia grins, forgetting her momentary fear in favor of relief that their search is almost over. “Got it! Thank you!”

The two Pokemon still seem unsure. They go back to their tea with an uneasy air. Tobias hauls Nia away as she’s still trying to thank them.

“You want to lead the way?” Nia asks. “I’m so glad we finally know where to find her!”

Tobias snorts. “After a little light threatening of our lives. But yes, of course I’m leading. You’ll run us in circles with your sense of direction.”

Nia concedes that and follows Tobias across town. The residents of Shivergleam still give them wary looks as they pass by, but otherwise don’t seem aggressive. Defensive, if anything. It hurts Nia’s feelings a bit, to be honest, but she figures that she can’t really be upset with them if they’ve been blamed in the past so much by outsiders. She shouldn’t make this about her own hurt feelings when they’re the ones who have actually been harmed.

At least the town itself is a beautiful sight to see. Still damp and a bit unnerving to traverse with the pitch blackness of the water far below them, but otherwise lovely. The warm lights of the buildings make the place feel magical, almost dreamlike. Or maybe that’s just Nia’s sleepiness talking. It is getting late.

“Why do you think they were calling Edme ‘the Guardian?’” Nia asks.

Tobias shrugs, eyes glued to his feet as he carefully crosses the bridge. “Dunno. Not a title I’m familiar with.”

“They sounded kind of…reverent. Of both Edme and Giratina. I haven’t heard Pokemon call any of the legendaries ‘Lord’ before.”

“Eh, ghost types can be weird. If they’re looking to Giratina of all Pokemon for protection, then you know they’ve got a few screws loose.”

“Don’t be rude. Everyone has their own beliefs.”

“I guess.”

By time Nia hears the gentle tinkling of something almost like windchimes, the warm lights of the town have started to die off. Black forest sits ahead, with a single home framed against it. It’s a tall, narrow, misshapen structure of woven roots and branches. Shiny items like bottles, mirrors and glass are tied together from branches, swaying gently in the breeze. The upper windows are aglow with a soft light.

“Guess this is it,” Nia murmurs.

“Guess so,” Tobias responds. “Ready to get some answers?”

“I hope so.”

Nia steps forward to knock firmly on the front door. She listens for footsteps from inside, but doesn’t hear anything. So she’s surprised when the door unlatches and swings open. The faint purple of telekinetic energy—usually belonging to a psychic or ghost type—glows off the door handle in the dark room within.

In the doorway floats a…bug? It almost looks like a cicada shell, something about its stiff body and angular wings bringing to mind childhood summers and bugsong. A halo-like piece floats above the Pokemon’s head, and it stares out at the two of them with two immobile eyes. It floats faintly in place, but otherwise doesn’t move—not the flicker of an eye or the twitch of a claw. Not even a breath.

Nia feels a shiver roll down her spine.

Then the Pokemon speaks, a chipper voice echoing out of the shell. “Yes? How can I help you two?”

Nia blinks. Opens her mouth to respond. Closes it again. Something about the expressive voice paired with the unsettlingly dead image is…really throwing her for a loop. Not to mention that they’ve been running into unfriendly residents all night.

“Are you Edme?” Tobias asks. “The, uh, Guardian?”

The bug Pokemon laughs. It’s unsettling not seeing the body move with the sound. “I was the last time I checked! To who do I owe the pleasure?”

“N-Nia,” Nia finally blurts, getting her tongue under control. “Nia and Tobias, of Team Scarlet.“

“A Seeker team?” Edme asks, sounding intrigued. “We don’t see many Seekers in Shivergleam.”

“Well, we aren’t really here on team business. We were actually hoping to ask you some, uh, questions? About Giratina.”

Edme floats slightly lower, as if to meet their eyes and get a better look at them. “It’s…rare, for someone outside of our community to seek out information about Lord Giratina.”

It’s a thinly veiled question, just the slightest bit wary. Nia glances at Tobias. He gestures for her to go ahead.

“Giratina’s been following me, through reflections. Trying to contact me. I—we did some research, and pretty much every book we could find referenced you in some way, so we figured you know the most about him. We were hoping you could give us some answers.”

Edme stills entirely at this new information, as if frozen in time. Nia opens her mouth to ask if she’s all right when the bug lurches forward, a little too close to Nia’s space.

“You say you’ve seen Giratina? You believe him to be attempting contact?”

“Yeah, we’re pretty confident about that,” Tobias says drily, clearly thinking about the banished legendary trying to yank Nia into the distortion world.

Edme turns to Nia for confirmation, so she gives a helpless shrug.

Edme bobs in the air, as if excited. “That is incredible news! Please, do come in.”

The bug turns and heads inside. Nia shudders when she catches a glimpse of a hole in Edme’s back, showing the blackness of a hollow shell inside.

Nia looks to Tobias, unsure. Tobias nudges past Nia to lead the way, swinging his tail forward to use it as a torch in the dark house. By the light of his flame, Nia can see the walls are covered in bookshelves, and what little space is left is taken up by tables holding notes and inks, bowls and ingredients and jars. A large woven rug sits in the middle of the floor, strangely empty of furniture. A spiral staircase winds around the sides of the room and upstairs, to where Nia saw the lights in the window from outside. A study, maybe. It all looks rather spooky in the low light.

“Oh! My apologies,” Edme says, floating back down from the darkness and making them jump. “Let me give you some light.”

Edme uses the same telekinetic power—Nia still isn’t sure if it’s psychic or ghost type in nature, but she’s leaning towards psychic considering she can feel her fur prickle—to pick up a lit candle from upstairs in bright purple energy. It floats down and expertly makes a circuit around the room, lighting half-melted candlesticks until the space is warmly lit.

Nia relaxes, following Edme to where she’s nudging two cushions forward on the floor. They’re dusty with disuse, but Nia doesn’t want to be rude and point it out so she sits gingerly. Tobias has no such qualms and takes a moment to beat the dust off the cushion before flopping down.

Edme lowers herself to hover in front of them. “Would you two like some tea?”

Nia, anxious as she is to get some answers and worried that tea might lull her to sleep at this late hour, smiles and politely declines. Tobias just shakes his head.

Edme laughs her hollow laugh, blank expression never shifting. “Honestly, I was hoping you would say no. Now, would you mind laying out your situation? When did you notice Lord Giratina following you?”

Nia blinks, surprised that Edme believed them so easily. She looks to Tobias to start explaining, since he was the first one to notice Giratina.

Tobias, however, clearly isn’t as eager to talk. He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “I have a few questions first. We came to find you because you were the most referenced source in the books about Giratina, but it was obvious that the authors were holding stuff back. Being intentionally vague. Why?”

“Tobias!” Nia hisses. They’re the ones who came barging into Edme’s house—starting off with open suspicion is just rude!

But Edme simply laughs. “No, it’s quite all right. You are exactly right. There is a reason you could sense holes in their words. I no longer speak with authors, as they so willingly pick and choose what to share of the truth.”

“The truth..?” Nia echoes.

“The truth that the Guardians preserve, as servants to Lord Giratina.”

Nia and Tobias’ confusion is palpable.

Edme bobs, as if nodding. “Ah, yes. Allow me to introduce myself properly.” She twirls higher off the ground. “I am Guardian Edme, the 13th Guardian under Lord Giratina.”

Edme circles the room, gesturing with her body to the many, many papers and books stuffed into the walls. “For nearly a millennium, Lord Giratina has had a loyal guard in our realm to act as the official liaison between our dimension and the distortion world.”

“A millennium?” Tobias asks, suspicious. “So you didn’t stop serving him once he was banished.”

“Because he was banished unfairly,” Edme says, as simply as the sky being blue or grass being green. “Wrongfully ousted for trying to protect our world.”

Nia straightens up, frowning.

Tobias beats her to the punch, clearly incredulous. “That’s…definitely not the story we’ve heard. We heard that Giratina nearly killed another legendary and was banished for his violence.”

Edme lowers slightly, as if slumping. “Yes. Despite our best efforts, the truth has been grossly distorted.”

“But…that’s the story literally everyone knows,” Tobias protests. “It’s what’s written in all the books—including the ones you’re referenced in!”

For a moment, Nia swears the flames on the candles flare brighter before dying down again. Edme is once more still as stone.

Then, she speaks, voice bitter. “They record the truth they want to be known. Not the truth that actually happened. No matter how loudly we shout it.”

“And how do we know that what you say actually happened is the real truth?” Tobias challenges.

Nia bites her tongue. He has a point.

Edme turns to them, rising higher until she looms over them. In the flickering light, she looks as imposing as a statue in the dead of night, playing tricks on Nia’s eyes.

“I know this,” Edme says quietly. “Because I am a Guardian. It has been my duty since the moment I was born from my sister’s shell. This is my only duty. And the only duty of all my predecessors. I know the truth because they have taught it to me. Because I have spoken to Lord Giratina myself.”

Nia’s breath catches. “Wait. Y-You’ve talked to him? How? When he tried speaking to me in the tunnels I couldn’t hear him at all.”

Edme turns to Nia, quiet for a moment. Then she says, “I can allow you to speak to him, if you’d like.”

“No. I still don’t trust him,” Tobias growls. “Or, quite frankly, this ‘truth’ that you and your predecessors believe in. Sorry, but when the whole world thinks that Arceus themself banished Giratina for nearly murdering another legendary, it’s kind of a hard impression to forget. Plus, he tried to yank Nia into his creepy dimension against her will!”

“He did help us in the tunnels,” Nia points out, softly. Tobias throws up his hands, at a loss of how to respond.

Nia turns to Edme and says, hesitantly, “I guess…I don’t know what to believe right now. We thought he was bad, but he helped us recently. I know he did. And he has to be trying to talk to me for a reason. We were hoping you could give us some answers as to what that reason might be.”

Edme hums. “You would have to speak to Lord Giratina yourself for that. I can tell you the truth of his banishment, but I know not why he follows you.”

Nia swallows. She doesn’t know how ready she is to try “speaking” to Giratina. But…

“Could you tell us, then?” She asks. “What the true story is, according to the Guardians?”

Edme looks Nia in the eyes with hollow pupils. “Are you sure you want to hear it? There is a reason the cowardly pens of those writers never recorded my words.”

Nia looks to Tobias. He still doesn’t look like he trusts Edme, but she can tell he won’t stop her, either. Nia takes a deep breath and nods. “Y-Yes. Please. We want all the information before moving forward.”

Edme is silent for a moment longer. Then she chuckles. “Wise girl. I will gladly share the truth, if you promise to hear it.”

Nia murmurs agreement, and Tobias grudgingly copies her once Edme turns her stare onto him. Then Edme settles, floating low to the ground in front of them. Nia crosses her legs and leans closer, heart pounding.

“The story told for decades is that of Lord Giratina attacking another legendary Pokemon. Of Arceus commanding the Lake Trio to banish him to the Distortion World for his crime, destined to protect the dimensional borders without ever leaving them. Correct?”

Nia thinks that’s right, but lets Tobias nod their confirmation.

“The truth,” Edme says. “Is that Arceus had nothing to do with that decision. They weren’t even aware of it.”

Tobias frowns. Nia wracks her brain to keep up with the unfamiliar lore. Arceus is like…the god above all the other deities, right? The one in charge of everything?

“But,” Tobias says. “That doesn’t make any sense. Even if Arceus weren’t there at the time, they would still know about it, right? If Arceus is real, then surely you can’t hide anything from them.”

“Arceus is a very knowledgeable being,” Edme agrees. “Their eyes and ears and arms reach farther than any other. But they did not know about Lord Giratina’s banishment, for they were already asleep.”

“Asleep?” Nia murmurs.

“Asleep…” Tobias’ eyes widen. “You mean how the rest of the legendaries have gone dormant and disappeared? Arceus also..?”

“Arceus was the first,” Edme says. “They fell to sleep and none could wake them. Still to this day they rest. Presently, most of the others have followed. However, when it was just Arceus, when the panic of their parent’s falling was fresh, the legends didn’t know what to do.”

Nia can sense the gravity of Edme’s words, even if she’s having a hard time feeling like they’re actually…real, and not just a fairy tale. She glances at Tobias, and is surprised that for someone once so unconcerned about legendaries, the charmander seems pale and tense.

“The legends argued,” Edme continues. “About what to do after Arceus fell dormant. For months on end. This had never happened before. They didn’t know what would happen without Arceus there to guide them. Would their own energy falter? Who would protect the mortal Pokemon of their world?”

“Without their leader,” Edme continues. “Infighting began. And in the gods’ absence, our world began to slip. Without Lugia and Kyogre guiding the seas, waves became impossible to navigate. Marine Pokemon and sailors alike died without any hope of rescue. Without Groudon and Regirock, the earth shook and splintered without guidance, destroying towns and homes. Without the guiding winds of Tornadus and Rayquaza, gales developed into terrible storms free from Raikou and Zapdos’ protection, striking the earth with lightning and fire and flooding it with rain.”

“So they just…abandoned the Pokemon world?” Nia whispers, horrified. “To argue?”

“Most of them. Understand that to an immortal legendary, a few months is a heartbeat in time. To the Pokemon in our realm, it is an eternity. Many of them did not realize they were abandoning the world that they were born to protect.”

“Are you making this up to make all the other legendaries look bad?” Tobias accuses, baring his teeth. “It’s not very subtle.”

Edme laughs. “I don’t need to make it up. The legendaries are generally benevolent. But they were aware of their power in a way that led to self-importance.”

After a heavy beat of silence, Nia hopefully adds, “But you said most of them didn’t notice the issues they were causing, right..?”

Edme bobs in a nod. “Yes. A few legendaries were aware of what their absence meant for the Pokemon of the world. Those more tied into the affairs of mortals. Entei, protector of children. The Swords of Justice. Latias and Latios. Mew, Mother of all Pokemon. Lord Giratina.”

“You’re trying to tell us he was worried about mortals?” Tobias scoffs.

“He was not,” Edme says, startling Nia and Tobias into silence. “At least, not directly. He was worried about his domain—the dimensional rift. The borders containing our world, and keeping it safely separate from others.”

“Like the human world?” Nia ventures.

Edme nods. “Yes. Lord Giratina has been the guardian of our world’s borders since the beginning. He doesn’t care much for mortals, but he takes his duty seriously. He was aware that Arceus’ sleep was concerning, but the absence of legendaries—particularly his siblings Dialga and Palkia—only exacerbated the issue. Their panic was putting the fragile balance of the world in danger, and endangering the entire dimension in the process.”

“So what did he do?” Nia asks.

Edme laughs, this one more genuinely happy than bitter. “He gave the other legends a piece of his mind. Told them all to get back to their stations and stop destroying Arceus’ beloved world if they were so worried.”

Despite herself, Nia quirks a smile.

“However,” Edme says, voice sobering again. “In Lord Giratina���s absence, more of the legends had fallen dormant against their will. Victini. Hoopa. Jirachi. Tensions had grown high. Cresselia, in a fit of anger, accused Lord Giratina of being uncaring for their parent, Arceus. Even accused him of being the cause for their dormancy.”

Tobias makes a doubtful noise, but otherwise doesn’t interrupt. Nia frowns, focused entirely on Edme’s hushed voice in the dim candlelight.

“She attacked him, and so Lord Giratina defended himself. Squabbles between legendaries were not rare, but never was there intent to genuinely harm one another. However, Cresselia, already in a weakened state, was seriously injured and fell dormant after the fight.”

“On edge,” Edme continues. “The Lake Trio—Azelf, Mesprit, and Uxie—used their power to banish Lord Giratina to his domain in the Distortion World. The battle did spur the legendaries to finally return to their stations, however, rebalancing the world for the past hundred years.”

“But?” Nia murmurs.

“But,” Edme sighs. “They too eventually fell to sleep. Recently, even the most powerful of legendaries have begun to fall dormant.”

“The increase in natural disasters,” Tobias murmurs.

“Correct.”

“Is that what’s causing the mystery dungeons, too?” Nia asks.

“I…am not sure,” Edme admits. “Giratina is not speaking to me as openly as he used to. However, considering the two phenomena have been following the same progression, I believe they must be linked in some way.”

“Giratina hasn’t been talking to you?” Tobias asks, doubtful. “He’s sure been trying to ‘talk’ to Nia lately.”

Edme turns hollow eyes on Nia. It feels a bit unnerving. “Lord Giratina himself is weakening, but he believes that whatever is causing legendaries to fall dormant and steering the world towards ruin can still be reversed. Perhaps…he believes you could be of use in such a mission.”

Nia leans back. “M-Me? What could I do to help?”

“And I don’t like how you phrased that,” Tobias growls. “‘Of use?’”

Edme floats a bit higher. “Apologies. I simply meant you might be helpful in finding the answers Lord Giratina seeks.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence, tense and unsure as they digest that.

“That’s…” Tobias starts, sounding off-kilter.

“A lot,” Nia finishes. “And you heard this story from…Giratina?”

Edme floats over to a window, as if looking outside into the night. “I understand you may think me foolish, to believe the better light straight from the accused’s mouth. But my predecessors assure me that Lord Giratina has always been harsh, but just. That he would never intentionally harm another legend. I believe it to be the truth.”

Nia glances at Tobias, wanting his take on all this. The charmander is staring down with a furrowed brow, lost in thought.

“I still recommend speaking to Lord Giratina yourself,” Edme says, moving to float over to one of her tables. She uses her power to start sifting through the mess. “I can set up the ritual now, if you would like.”

Nia’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Like bring him here?” Tobias asks, barely hiding his alarm. “To our world?”

“No, no. Not to this realm, of course. The Lake Trio saw to it that even in their dormancy Lord Giratina would not be able to cross over any time soon. Especially not here. If anywhere, that would need to occur at the dimensional gate.”

“Dimensional gate?” Nia echoes.

“The traditional summoning spot for Lord Giratina,” Edme explains absently, shuffling through jars and papers. “Where the border between our realm and the dimensional rift is thinnest.”

Nia opens her mouth to continue that line of questioning, but Edme makes a sound of triumph, pulling back with a few supplies held in her purple energy.

“Would you be willing to speak with Lord Giratina and ask him yourself why he is trying to contact you? I believe conversing with him will convince you of his authenticity as well.”

Tobias growls a sharp, “No.”

Nia stays silent. Conflicted.

Tobias looks at her, bewildered. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not saying we trust him immediately, or even Edme’s story, but…”

“He’s the villain of the story! Of course he’s going to try and spin himself in a better light. And you can’t trust someone who is clearly obsessed with him to be any more truthful! I know how you are, Nia. If you talk to him, he’ll win you over with some sob story in a heartbeat.”

Nia huffs. “But what if they’re telling the truth? What if Giratina isn’t the bad guy he’s made out to be and he’s trying to save the Pokemon world? What if he needs my help somehow?”

Tobias groans and rubs at his face, muttering something about her being a bleeding heart.

“It can’t hurt just to talk to him, right?” Nia adds. “And you’ll be right here to keep us on track.”

Tobias looks at her for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Fine. But only because I know you won’t let up otherwise.”

Edme, who had been waiting nearby with barely restrained enthusiasm, jumps into action. She shoos them away from the cushions they’d been sitting on, then moves the pillows aside with her powers. Then she removes the rug covering the space in the middle of the floor, only to reveal a circular wooden panel below. Purple energy envelops it and easily lifts it aside, leaving a shallow dip in the wooden flooring maybe an inch or two deep.

Edme bustles about, gathering supplies and snuffing out a few of the candles. She fills the basin with a bowl of water, until the surface of it is nothing more than a smooth, glassy pool. Then she sprinkles some herbs on top of its surface, pouring a salt-like mixture into an intricate pattern on the wood around the outside of the pool.

“Should we tell her that Giratina just…shows up around you?” Tobias whispers to Nia, dry with humor.

Nia bites back a smile despite her nerves. “This does look very…intense. But she has to have a reason for it, right?” Even if she does look like she’s trying to summon the dead.

Finally, Edme floats back, apparently satisfied. Only a few candles near the basin remain lit, leaving the edges of the room dark. The thin pool of water almost seems to…glow, in the low light, a few bits of herbs floating on its surface.

“Now what?” Tobias asks, shifting nervously.

Nia moves to step closer to the pool, and he quickly latches onto her arm to stop her.

“We have lit the beacon for Lord Giratina. But if he has been following you, young riolu…” Edme turns to her. “Would you mind stepping into the pool, to show him you’re here?”

Nia stiffens, and Tobias immediately turns on the bug with a glare.

“We said we’d talk,” he growls. “Nothing more. I don’t care how much you believe Giratina’s story—we still don’t know that he isn’t trying to kill Nia or something. She’s not stepping in there to serve herself up on a silver platter.”

Edme angles slightly towards Nia. “Riolu?”

“I-I have to admit I’m not…completely comfortable with the idea. Can I not just…I don’t know. Sit by it and call out to him or something?”

“It is the only way to speak to him,” Edme says, something in her voice making Nia nervous. Something almost…desperate.

“It’s also the only way we know of for him to grab you,” Tobias counters, baring his teeth.

“You must be in his realm to speak with him!” Edme says, voice rising. “The banishment—”

“You didn’t tell us that!” Tobias snaps, stepping in front of Nia. “We sure aren’t going onto his creepy turf!”

For a moment, Edme is silent, staring at the two of them. Nia has a terrible feeling in her gut. Then, the bug sighs. “Shame. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to force you.”

Tobias’ lashing tail stills. “…What?”

In a flash of purple light, Nia feels her whole body lock up. From the corner of her eye, she can see herself outlined in the same bright purple energy that Edme’s been using all night. She can’t move anything but her eyes and her mouth. She’s stuck. Through her panic, she absently notes that it must be a psychic-type move if it’s able to affect her.

In front of her, Nia can hear Tobias make a strangled sound as he too is caught in the attack. Then, he’s pulled through the air to float at Edme’s side, wild eyes flicking to Nia.

“What’re you doing?!” Tobias snarls. Nia can see fire glow briefly behind his teeth before he chokes again and it peters out.

Nia has a sinking feeling about where this is going, even before Edme’s powers start to pilot her legs, moving her forward one jerky step at a time like a puppet.

“E-Edme, wait!” Nia yelps. “Let’s talk about this!”

Edme hums. “Unfortunately, Riolu, I must put Lord Giratina’s wishes above your comfort. If he wants to speak with you, I shall make it so. You cannot hear him if you are not in his realm. I was hoping to get you there voluntarily, but I can see the lies you’ve heard won’t allow that.”

Nia’s foot splashes into the thin basin of water. And then the other, until she’s frozen in place right in the middle of it, shaking against Edme’s grip.

Nia didn’t realize she was so powerful.

“Don’t worry,” Edme says, voice bright. “He won’t harm you. You should be excited! Not everyone gets the chance to speak with a legend.”

Nia feels tears start to gather in her eyes as her heart pounds. She alternates between looking down at the reflections in the pool below and up at Edme and Tobias. “I-I don’t want to. Please, Edme—“

Tobias tries to lunge forward, only to be snapped back into place. His eyes are glued to the pool.

Nia follows his gaze down and feels like she’s going to throw up. Giratina circles in the reflections below her, gold and gray and black and red. A faint serpentine shape growing closer and closer.

Nia closes her eyes, counting her rapid heartbeats and praying that something happens to miraculously save them. To break them from Edme’s grip and let them escape. Something cold wraps around her ankle. She whimpers, refusing to look.

Tobias is panting and growling, still struggling against the bright purple energy surrounding him. “Nia!”

The grip around Nia’s ankle tightens. She opens her eyes and looks to Tobias. She has a single moment to meet her partner’s eyes before the grip around her yanks.

Despite the shallow water of the pool, she’s pulled straight down. Deep, deeper than should be possible, through the coolness of the water and then back into open air. Her stomach flips. She feels like she’s weightless in the worst way possible.

The world seems to spin, and then she’s falling hard on solid, dry ground. She gasps, pushing herself up on shaky arms. She’s free of Edme’s telekinetic grip. She looks around wildly at the dark environment she’s found herself in.

It’s like some kind of strange nightmare. A dark, crumbling stone landscape, pieces floating midair as if trapped in resin. A swirling blue-black void of empty sky sits as its backdrop, and weirdly enough Nia is reminded of that one Vincent van Gogh painting she was taught about in elementary school: The Starry Night. Just without the comfort of the stars. The air is stiflingly still, making her shaky breaths seem particularly loud.

It feels…heavy here. Unnatural.

Nia staggers to her feet. She opens her mouth to call out for Tobias, but movement catches her eye. She follows it, her partner’s name dying on her tongue as she tips her head back.

Looming above her, all long tendril wings and piercing red eyes, is a creature of nightmares.

Giratina.

[comikas-fandom-dump]

I wanted to move over to an ask/message rather than continue to reply on my silly post. If you do not mind?

This is a note off a fanfiction i wrote, where you can see me working through the sand siblings ages. As you can see I'm not above being wrong, but it's not due to lack of trying to figure things out. Do you agree with my Sand Sibling ages?

I personally feel like Gaara id actually just a little younger than the Naruto-group, born in the January of the next year, rather than in the same year as Naruto. My only argument for this is i really feel lile Gaara was made a Jinchūriki /after/ Naruto was, like almost as a response. But that's my mental canon. The Manga, i believe, just lists Gaara as the same age, and with his birthday in January, it would default him to older than Naruto by 10 months? I personally see him as younger.

Oh god, even more of Kishimoto's god-awful planning. Okaaayyy, let's try this.

For nerdy reference, I made a spreadsheet a while ago to prove a theory of mine, namely that the character ages in the Databooks are calculated in reference to Naruto's age, not their actual, canonical birthdays. In an example, despite not celebrating a birthday between August and December, Sasuke somehow turns 13 in that timeframe, according to the Databooks.

That is until Jin no Sho, when all the characters born prior to October 10th (Naruto's birthday) age up by one year, whereas the rest of the cast does not. This would also mean that Konoha's graduation month is most likely set in early January or late December, with students born earlier in the year being younger (making Hinata the youngest among the Konoha Twelve).

Jin no Sho is probably the most reliable source for our purposes, and it puts Temari's age at 20, Kankuro's at 19, and Gaara's at 17. One interesting little detail is their Ninja Registration Numbers, which are 53-004, 54-002, and 56-001, with the front two digits probably indicating their year of graduation (fun fact, Yashamaru became a Genin at approximately 9, Rasa and his children at 12 years old).

From here, my research aligns with yours. Kankuro was born 265 days after Temari, and Gaara 614 days after Kankuro. Pregnancy usually takes 280 days (anything below 259 days is considered premature), and mothers cannot become pregnant sooner than 21 days post-partum, meaning that Kankuro was born at least 2 weeks (15 days) prematurely.

As for Gaara's age in relation to Konoha's Jinchuriki, Jin no Sho claims Gaara to be older than Naruto by 9 months. And yeah, it did seem counter-intuitive to me as well, but I then re-read Chapter #547, and it appears that Rasa had been trying to seal Shukaku into one of his children for years, starting with Temari. It most likely was not a response to Konoha's new Jinchuriki.

Since it was supposedly Rasa's and Chiyo's experimentation that caused Gaara's premature birth, I wouldn't be surprised if Kankuro, too, was born prematurely due to Rasa's experimentation. As far as my memory goes, the text never claims that Gaara was the only premature birth among his siblings, so it's compatible with canon at the very least.

I hope this was helpful in some way 😭

[bravehyde]

Ant Tenna Mike Anatomy: More Than Fan Theory References

~Deltarune Chapters 3+4 Spoilers~

We're taking a sideline from Tenna anatomy to talk about the Mikes, although the things I say in here may be helpful to Tenna artists anyways, so I'll put it under the tag. The Mike boss fight made me freak out over how these lil guys work. I've been going crazy about how these Mikes look and how they're little references to other stuff going on in audio equipment, so I'm going to go over that.

Before that, I'm going to just say one thing. Obviously, I know that the three Mike designs are based off of fan theories. I'm going to go over their possible inspirations in the world of microphones, though. This is really just me having fun with it.

The Names of the Mikes

This is what I found so cool. So, we have Battat, Pluey, and Jongler. Now, say those out loud, paying attention to how each one makes your mouth move. Did you notice something? Each name has incredibly different phonetics, meaning that their sounds and mouth movements vary wildly. They include sounds that you really want to make sure are good when you're doing a mic check. Or maybe, a Mike Check.

When testing sound, one of many things you have to do is to make sure all ranges of words you can say will come through clearly. You may have heard "check check 1 2 3", which is a good way to start but most people don't find it satisfactory and continue to full on sentences. If you have to go quickly, nonsense words with a variety of sounds will work great. AKA, their names. I don't think you need me to go through each name with their noises, but each name covers every type of vowel sound, and has the potential of spanning any pulmonic consonant, depending on your personal accent. I don't think Toby went through the international phonetic alphabet doing this on purpose or anything, but these are excellent names for sound checks and it's crazy.

Battat (Small Mike)

There are two different types of microphones he can be, and both are used primarily by people who need to be recorded saying lines in television. One is the dynamic microphone, and one is a lavalier microphone.

The dynamic microphone is easy to understand. You hold it, you talk into it. That's what he's holding, and it's probably what his head is supposed to be, too. However, I'm sure not everyone want to draw that tedious grid on his head. In that case, I wanted to offer the lavalier as an alternative for his dome.

The lavalier is hidden in someone's clothes, like through a button or under a shirt, and plugs into a pack that the person straps to their belt or in a back pocket to record and get power. These things are like a soft foam because of the windscreen, that black ball there, and don't tell anybody but they're very satisfying to pop in your mouth. So it makes sense, as the supposed "lead" Mike, to be two of the most recognizable microphones for people who work in television. Shows on sets and interviews will use these microphones the most.

Pluey (Cat Mike)

THIS is the one who is the reason why I wanted to make this post. Now. I know that he's a cat because of the theory he would be a cat. But everyone. GUYS. LISTEN. I need everyone to know that there is a piece of audio equipment that is literally called a deadcat.

You put the deadcat over a shotgun/boom mic to help it with wind and excess noise filtration. It makes sound better, basically, and if Pluey here is a deadcat, that makes him ANOTHER very important microphone to the broadcasting world. This thing is key to picking up sound effects and foley. If you're doing anything outside, you want a boom with a deadcat on you.

About his hands: again, very well could be a dynamic microphone, and again, that's a bit hard to draw, no? I wanted to offer another idea I had just in case you didn't want to deal with that grid. A deadcat is a type of windshield, much like what I talked about with lavaliers. When you're working in a studio as an alternative to deadcats, you may use a pop filter over a dynamic or condenser microphone. They're flat, easy to render as far as I can tell, and they match the shape of Pluey's hands, so it isn't a stretch of the imagination to say it could be a pop filter. Or maybe if sphere hands is too weird, pop filter paw pads. Just so you have some options.

Jongler (Motormouth Mike)

This one's a bit tougher since he could be a lot of types of microphones, but technically he's missing something he'd need to be them. He could be a lavalier but they don't have the texture shown when the windscreen is taken off. He could be a ribbon microphone but they have a strip of metal up the sides that he's missing. He could be a shotgun, but they don't have that silvery base. This guy is the sole reason why this post took so long, because he's such a headscratcher. Ultimately, I had to take the boxing gloves as a visual cue and decide to look for what sports commentators would use. I don't think a lot of people know about lip ribbon mics and he's obviously not that anyway, so we'll go with something more common. If he's supposed to be an allusion to boxing matches, they used ribbon microphones, which later got phased out for condenser microphones. It's not a perfect fit with his head so long, so we'll chalk that up to stylisation.

The condenser microphone is best for in a recording booth, and if we choose to believe that's what Jongler's supposed to be, that means we've covered the three biggest areas where someone would need a variety of microphones based on how controlled the environment is. A studio with a condenser is the best you can get, hopefully with lots of foam and someone on the other side of some glass controlling the sound. Then we have lavaliers and dynamic microphones on the set, where some interference could happen but it's minimal. Finally, boom and shotgun microphones are for outdoors and large sources of sound, where you have the least amount of say in what gets picked up so you're kind of hoping for the best. Pretty great variety in microphones if this was intentional, and if not...I just want more people to know that their accidental theory of Mike being a cat led to a really funny audio engineering pun to me and only me.