#at any given moment I’m thinking about him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goodlucktai · 2 days ago

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so then i took my turn

in stars and time pairing: isafrin (onesided) (but not really) word count: 2k title borrowed from yellow by coldplay alternatively—if you don't have your own north star, store-bought is fine :)

read on ao3

You don’t connect the dots right away—as a matter of fact, you won’t connect these particular dots for years—but one night you look up at the starry sky and you make a wish.

You’re tired and your legs are sore from a day full from end to end of walking. The road is long, and the end of it looms dark and inevitable ahead of you. You do your best to be a bastion of optimism for Mirabelle and Odile, but you don’t know how well you do. You don’t know if your best is enough on its own. Shamefully, selfishly, you think it would be nice to not be the only one determined to make a bleak day brighter just because.

There isn’t a Favor Tree there to catch the wish when you make it. There’s no ritual behind it. You don’t even know you’re going to do it until the second you do.

You look up at a curtain of tiny twinkling lights, not fully understanding their place in the family of things but appreciating the stubborn, knife-like way they pierce through the night and shine anyway.

Maybe they’re the ones you’re praying to when you whisper, “We could use a little help.”

The next morning, your group crosses paths with a traveler.

The traveler appears out of nowhere, dispatching a Sadness three times their size without even losing their floppy pointed hat from its place on their head, a curved dagger in hand that, much like its wielder, seems entirely too small to pack the punch that it does. The encounter starts before you even realized a Sadness was creeping behind you and ends before you can jump in to help.

The traveler looks as surprised by your thanks as you were by his sudden arrival. He tucks his knife away, hides his hands beneath his voluminous darkless cloak, and peeks at you through a curly cloud of hair.

In that moment he resembles nothing more than a tiny tidepool creature retreating into its shell. You think, absurdly, about scooping him up.

Mirabelle will tell you later that she had almost let first impressions get the best of her, assuming that the mysterious rogue would be unfriendly or standoffish. Odile chimed in that she knew better than to judge a book by its cover, but found herself surprised by the vibrant personality their new friend revealed as the hours went by on the road with nothing to do but get to know one another.

You, on the other hand, were a lost cause from the second Siffrin opened their mouth.

“You looked like you could use a little help,” they say. “Just a stab in the dark.”

A joke is the last thing any of you were expecting and maybe it wasn’t a joke but the emphasis was so pointed that you open your mouth before you can overthink it and say, “And you were right! You’re pretty sharp.”

Mirabelle looks politely confused and Odile looks like she can not believe this is her life. The traveler’s dark eyes turn wide and bright and they lift their chin out of the collar of their cloak enough that you can see the stretching corners of their grin.

“Would you say I’m a cut above the rest?”

Oh, yeah. You’re in trouble.

——

Siffrin is still very new to the group the first time your quest comes to a temporary stop in a friendly little town resting alongside the natural bend of the road, tucked away in the hills. It’s lucky timing to be certain, because the four of you are in dire need of a restock of pretty much everything and you don’t have a ton of daylight left.

Odile makes the executive decision that it would be the most efficient use of their time to divide and conquer. Mirabelle goes to secure lodging, you’re tasked with tracking down a general goods store for blankets and tarps or a tent if you can find one, Odile is taking charge of tonics and medical supplies, which leaves the food to Siffrin.

He’s given a specific list of purchases to make and pointed in the direction of the market. You find him there a little more than an hour later. The late afternoon sun is burning low in the sky and Siffrin is drifting aimlessly with exactly none of the items on his shopping list and, inexplicably, a handful of ripe carambolas.

It’s the end of a long day at the end of a long walk, and Odile, to her credit, manages not to outright snap at your new friend. But her tone is distinctly impatient when she asks, “Should we write you a note next time?”

She clearly isn’t expecting Siffrin to take her seriously, or for them to nod so eagerly that the wide brim of their hat flops with it. She blinks, surprised, sharp eyes flicking over their face. And then the whole of her softens, that blink-and-you-miss-it compassion she likes to pretend doesn’t exist just on the inside of her prickly exoskeleton.

“Noted,” Odile says. Her voice is still brisk but not irritated anymore. “It’d be better for us to buy fresh when the market opens again in the morning, anyway.”

“Yeah, good thinking, Sif,” you say, immediately jumping on board this mission of banishing the awkwardness still clinging to your friend’s hunched shoulders.

You would be the first to tell anybody who asked—or anybody within your vicinity who wasn’t even interested in hearing about it, really—that Siffrin is more than capable. He’s quick-footed and clever and a menace with his scissors craft and also with his wordplay. You know damn well that Siffrin doesn’t need a bodyguard or a cheerleader.

Sometimes you wish you could be those things for him anyway. You wish you could pluck him right out of every situation that makes him feel uncomfortable or self-conscious or small. It’s better when he’s laughing, doubled over and hugging his stomach, noisy and taking up all the space he needs.

But instead you settle for nudging him conspiratorially, tipping your chin toward the fruits he purchased, and adding, “Berry good thinking.”

He goes absolutely still at the touch of your hand, eyes like lamps. You have the sense, for just a moment, sudden and nerve-wracking, that you did something wrong. Then he smiles.

“A-pear-antly,” he says, smile only widening when Odile groans. “My ideas are one in a melon.”

But you catch them rubbing their arm where you touched them. You can only tell because their cloak falls open for a second as they turn, revealing their fingers buried in their own sleeve. And you kick yourself for just assuming that Siffrin is as tactile as Mira and yourself are just because he laughs as readily as them. Odile doesn’t like to be touched, either, and you’re easily capable of respecting her boundaries. You can just as easily respect Siffrin’s.

And it’s totally fine!! you think, dashing away every lived-in daydream of holding Siffrin’s hand or burying your fingers in his darkless hair. His hair that probably feels as downy soft as rabbit fur. You would probably never know but that’s so fine.

And if it feels like your crush just got a million times more hopeless, well. That’s your personal business.

——

The written reminders become a common thing. Mira likes to draw little animal faces or hearts on the notes she writes. You doodle along the edges of yours, looping patterns or jokes that it makes your heart warm to imagine Siffrin reading to himself and snickering over.

Odile doesn’t embellish the pages but she sometimes folds them with a few crisp, practiced presses and presents Siffrin with a note in the shape of a bird or a cat. She rolls her eyes when her friends gasp in delight but sometimes isn’t quite quick enough to hide her smile behind her journal.

Siffrin is silent so much of the time that it’s easy to forget that he’s actually very silly, and very sweet, and achingly sincere. You watch him cross tasks off his list as he completes them, shimmying his shoulders to a victory tune inside his head, and you just—Change, you like him so much. Too much. It’s a lot to carry. Where are you supposed to put it down?

“When should we start to worry about that, do you think?” Odile surprises you by asking. She’s looking where you’re looking, at your forgetful rogue double-checking where he’s supposed to go next. Even though, like, you just discussed it as a team, and he’s not even all the way down the street yet.

“What? Sif?” You frown. “They’re fine. They just—they just have a hard time remembering stuff.”

Odile gives you a look that makes you feel uncomfortably seen. Which is not out of the ordinary for her. This particular look says I know about your dumb crush and thus far I’ve done you the favor of not detailing for you just how much it stands to potentially complicate my life so you can do me the favor of not playing stupid.

You might be projecting. It makes you straighten your shoulders anyway, like you’re still a Defender on the job.

“Last night at dinner, Mirabelle asked them about their knife, and Siffrin said that it originated in their country as a tool for raking and farming,” Odile recounts briskly just to drive her point home. “And then Mirabelle asked what it was called, and Siffrin disassociated mid-word.”

That’s the best word for it, but also not, because it’s too clinical to do justice the way it made your heart plummet into your stomach.

Siffrin’s eyes had turned vacant, expression faraway. They sat there with their fork hovering above their plate like a sleepwalker, like someone had reached into their soul and turned the light off inside. It lasted about six seconds but it felt like as many hours—long enough that Mira started to lift her hands, as if there was something in front of her that she could heal, and Odile moved her chair back to get up for help, and you said his name twice, louder the second time, heart lurching anxiously.

Then Siffrin blinked, and smiled, and said, “Sorry, Mira. What was the question again?”

Yeah, you remember. And you didn’t sleep a wink all night because of it. You laid awake and stared at the tuft of pale hair peeking out from the bundle of stolen covers on Siffrin’s side of the bed the two of you shared and wondered what happened to them. What their mind could possibly be trying to protect them from, that even a little history lesson about Siffrin’s faithful dagger was enough to trigger its defenses.

Let me in, you think at him, desperate with wanting it, with wanting him to hear it. Let me help.

The space between you sometimes feels like an ocean between two countries. It would be so easy to touch him. You’re very careful not to.

“He’ll come to us when he’s ready,” you say, hoping that by saying it out loud you’re making it true. “If we can trust him to lead us through danger, we can trust him this much, too, right?”

Odile sighs, but not as though she disagrees. It’s a little like the way she sighed when she first met Mirabelle, and learned about her quest, and said, “And you’re how old?” She sighs like that a lot.

——

Mirabelle is your leader but it’s Siffrin you all follow, Siffrin who leads the way through mazes and certain dangers. He’s always a step ahead, sniffing out traps and picking his way around them, light on his feet and as weightless as a bird when he perches over this or that trigger and warns his friends to step carefully.

“Fix your face,” Odile mutters, smirking, when you spend a second too long admiring his form.

“MADAME,” you say, totally normal, totally not a shriek.

Mirabelle turns and looks curiously back at you, too far ahead to hear, thank Change.

Siffrin told you once about something called Polaris. He said it was the brightest star in the Ursa Minor constellation, and always led true North. He beamed at you, safe in the knowledge, easy in his element, and said, “I can find my way home from anywhere.”

He didn’t remember telling you, and looked politely confused when you asked him about it later, but you never forgot.

Polaris. Nonsense to you, a made-up word that doesn’t mean anything, but you relive the way he said it over and over. He said it like someone who belonged somewhere. Someone who could never get lost, because there was a map in the stars that he knew how to read. It sounded like a fairy tale.

But sometimes you catch him glancing up at the sky before picking a new direction to walk in, and it always ends up being the right way to go. You watch him run ahead to find a safe way forward for the rest of you, his pale coat a beacon in the dark, and think about something he called the North star.

——

“It’s getting dark,” Mirabelle frets, clutching her hands together anxiously.

“Frin’ll be fine,” Bonnie scoffs, as if they hadn’t adamantly and at the very top of their lungs refused to start dinner until Siffrin arrived.

“Are you sure you put where we were meeting on their reminder note, Mirabelle?” Odile says wryly.

“Oh no!!” Mira says frantically. “I don’t think I did, oh no!!”

Your group is one missing part away from whole, and none of you are inclined to go inside yet. You linger out in the yard as daylight dwindles into nothing.

A few of those lights in the sky begin to shine through the dusk. They catch your eye.

They’re pretty, and you’re a deeply romantic person, so you don’t hate the idea of there being some kind of design up there that you just can’t seem to ever see properly, no matter how much you squint or tilt your head. You like to believe it’s there anyway, that one night it’ll just click and you’ll be that much closer to understanding the mystery wrapped in tragedy wrapped in fantasy of your favorite person. It’s enough that Siffrin believes it, when he remembers he believes it.

But as pretty as they are, they’re not very reliable. You can’t always see them. Some nights aren’t good for stargazing. Sometimes the sky’s cloudy.

Good thing there are other lights to see by. Warmer and brighter lights, more dependable by virtue of being placed by loving hands. You left lanterns on the path to the clocktower for Siffrin, beacons to guide him the way he’s always guided you. You will never, for as long as you live, let Siffrin get lost.

You don’t say it out loud but you’re worried about them. They looked tired today. In front of the Favor Tree, they seemed one harsh wind from blowing completely apart. Trembling in front of you as if you both weren’t standing in full sun, in a way that reminded you of the day after they lost their eye.

He had been in so much pain that his limbs all quivered with it, but he still managed to carve out a smile. He still managed to scrounge up a joke. You learned then that you’re not really certain you can trust him when he says he’s okay. You can trust him with everything but himself.

Siffrin said he was okay earlier. He kept looking over at the Favor Tree like he had something to do. You wanted to touch his trembling shoulder so badly that your hand ached with wanting it. You know better, so you left him alone.

You hope he gets whatever it is he wants badly enough to actually ask for.

#in stars and time #isat #isabeau #siffrin #isafrin #my writing #isat fic

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wickerwax · 1 day ago

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to wit -- too witty (Codywan First Kiss Bingo #5)

(Shout-out to @panravenc who made a post about sick codywan headcanons that got me thinking about how I would play it! ^^)

Cody strode on deck with his helmet already in place and precisely on time, and Obi-Wan’s attention snapped onto him like a piqued nexu.

Item One: Cody was, until now without fail, a minute or two early at a minimum.

Item Two: Cody tended to prefer his helmet off when they were having this sort of intra-ship meeting, especially in hyperspace, and especially when he had more reason to glare people down than he needed access to his in-helmet comms.

Item Three: His dear Commander had the very slightest unsteadiness in his gait, which was practically screaming something is wrong.

He nodded to Cody, who signalled him to start. His suspicion went into the stratosphere and onwards immediately. When he reached out to get a sense of him, Cody’s shields felt wobbly, and there was a throbbing sort of discomfort leaking through.

Still, he wasn’t about to have an argument about it here with witnesseswhen Cody was clearly trying to fly under the sensor-net.Obi-Wan went through the updates they had – reiterated the ETA on the drop into sublight, the overview of the supply list, and requests for changes to be passed on the the Quartermaster first. Consolidation helped avoid mistakes.

Also Quartermaster Cross (apparently short for I Will Be Cross-Referencing This And It Had Better Match Or I’ll Be Taking The Difference Out Of Your Bones) was a dedicated and extremely efficient man, and Obi-Wan had no interest in making his life harder so – to him, first.

Cody sent text-comms to his ‘padd a couple of times, and nodded along, but did not speak, did not remove his helmet. He had clearly locked his knees to keep from wobbling. Obi-Wan wanted to offer him a seat but no one else was sitting and, given the entirety of the situation, the likelihood of being not only ignored but getting Cody’s active and monumental disapproval had him hesitating.

He wound the meeting down neatly, incredibly relieved that it was a short thing today, and requested (face in his ‘padd, voice deliberately absent, nothing odd about today!) that Cody stay behind for a quick conversation about a small incident in the training rooms.

Since the training rooms were the only place where incidents happened on a semi-regular basis and mostly consisted of ‘someone got elbowed in the nose again, please remind the men to be aware of their surroundings’ it was neither an unexpected nor interesting request.

The deck cleared but for the nav’ staff, and Cody, and Obi-Wan gave him a friendly gesture and said, “Office?”

The brightness in his voice and his narrowed eyes – facing only Cody – was as close as he could get to calling Cody on his bluff without making anyone else similarly suspicious. Here, anyway.

Cody paused for a long moment, then nodded slowly. Obi-Wan, with a smile like a bantha-heeler on a good day, herded Cody into the halls and towards their joint office.

He deposited Cody in his chair, keyed the door shut, and headed over to the kitchenette with his suspicions locked and loaded. “Helmet off, my dear.” he said, setting the jug to boil. “I’m quite sure it won’t be doing you any favours.”

Silence behind him.

Obi-Wan pulled out preferred mugs for the two of them, opting for comfort. “I’ve only those terrible fake-citron splemsip packets unfortunately, but they do help. Can’t expect a fresh citron-anything with supply lines being what they are.”

He twisted around to find Cody hesitating over his helmet, hands hovering. “My dear,” he said, gentle as a summer twilight, “I know you’re not feeling well, Cody. Let’s see what we can do about it.”

The release hissed, and Cody’s face appeared. Colour burned too bright across his cheeks and forehead and he was visibly sweating, his short curls lank with it. Shadows made hollows of his eyes. “Can’t – throat hurts.” he croaked. Sniffed. Congestion made it horribly bass-note.

Obi-Wan took him in and paused. “I think we might need more than splemsip.”

Cody made a sharp negative sign.

He huffed through his nose. “You have my solemn word vow to only forage through my personal supplies for flu relief.” Obi-Wan considered that for a moment, then added, “If it gets worrying, I will be telling Helix. I’m not losing my Commander to some common cold.”

He finished making the drinks and carried them over, delivering the splemsip directly into Cody’s hands. “Force, Cody, being in full armour can’t be comfortable. Or helping.”

Cody gave him one of his favoured blank-adjacent looks. This one said, I did what I had to do. Obi-Wan poked him gently in the shoulder and watched him sway far too heavily from very little provocation, then raised a slow eyebrow.

His Commander faltered briefly, then settled into the glare of a mantled hawk as he sipped at his medicinal citron drink.

Heaving a beleaguered sigh at his stubbornness, Obi-Wan investigated the state of supplies in their office. First, he unearthed a spare robe which he deposited on Cody’s lap with a suggestion that it might prove more comfortable than armour for the time being. Rustled up some mild painkillers – drew a complete blank on decongestants, but hopefully the drink would help with that.

When he excavated himself from the tiny ��fresher with the pills, Cody had managed to remove his armour – stacked rather more messily than his wont – and was swathed in Obi-Wan’s spare robe over his blacks.

“Well done for seeing sense, Commander,” he said, amused. “Can I also tempt you to relocate to the couch?” It wasn’t sleeping length, but any amount of reclining had to be better than the hunching currently occurring. Poor Cody’s spine was in danger of getting stuck like that should the winds change. He was stoically refusing to make a face for the old adage to apply to, after all.

“Undressing wasn’t enough for you, General?” Cody rasped, though at least less painfully than earlier. He was smirking, but the lines around his mouth still read like aching.

“Anything you wish to do is enough, Cody darling, though I believe that conversation is best left for when you aren’t actively running a fever.” He fetched water, offered it and the painkillers. “These should help.”

“Is that true?” Cody asked, not moving to take them.

Obi-Wan blinked at him. “Well, strictly speaking they’re for pain, but they do tend to reduce fevers when those symptoms are happening in concert-”

“Anything I wish to do, Kenobi.”

He drew in a slow breath. “Ah. Commander, I-”

Cody stood up abruptly – and wavered, wobbling on his feet as his body objected to the motion. Obi-Wan moved without thinking, ducking under his arm and looping his own around Cody’s waist to take his weight. The metal cup clattered loudly on the durasteel, covering the much softer rattle of the pills in their soft tabs. The water was a loss, of course, although he was more concerned about it being a slip hazard. He tightened his hold.

Even through two thick layers, Cody’s skin was notably warm. “This is really not – Could we get you situated before -”

Cody’s fever-hot palms closed around his shoulders. He stopped speaking. He – well, he hadn’t meant to bring up the bantha in the room – hadn’t expected Cody to feed him so blatant a line, if he was honest. Had been playing his part according to Cody’s lead for months now, wary of crossing lines without invitation.

The weakness this cold was having on Cody’s balance and ability to reliably keep his knees locked hadn’t extended to his hands it seemed, for he had pulled them flush together and – while it was a very pleasant thing to be pressed against his very attractive Commander, now wasn’t the best time for it. Obi-Wan would have made like an eel except he was the only thing keeping either of them upright.

“I feel dreadfully manoeuvred, darling.” he tried to joke, and lost it to a wheeze when Cody dropped his face into Obi-Wan’s neck and clutched hard at him.

“The things I want to do to you, General.” he growled. At least half of the growling was congestion.

Obi-Wan patted his back consolingly.”As I said, my dear. Post-fever?”

Cody made a noise that, in a healthier man, would have taken him out at the knees. As it was, his knees were the only ones responsible for neither of them being on the floor, and his poor Commander followed it up with a nasty coughing fit.

“Right. Cody, if you don’t let me set you up on the couch at least, I am going to carry you through the halls to a bed and let your brothers’ gossip chain do what it will.” he said firmly.

“I will never forgive you, sir.” Cody choked out, breathing all rattles and lost bolts.

“I will accept your enmity if you are well enough to perform it.” Obi-Wan shot back. “Can you even stand unaided? Cody? Would you let a single one of our men get away with that?”

To his credit, Cody gave standing a valiant try. He unpeeled himself from Obi-Wan and planted himself like a reed with particularly flimsy roots, but the intention was admirable. If foolish. He wobbled dangerously.

Obi-Wan watched with steely eyes and lowered brows. “Now, let go of my tunic.”

Cody’s eyes were brilliant with frustration. His mouth curved downward. “I don’t think I should.”

“He can be taught!” Obi-Wan ran his hands along Cody’s arms and stepped back in to brace him. “Sitting down while I comm Helix, or am I parading you across the ship with as much style as I can muster?”

“I have quite literally dragged your ass out of your horrible little womp-rat nest when that dodgy-”

“Yes, yes, sometimes the biology gets knocked about unexpectedly but we still see the medic-”

“That is not-”

Obi-Wan took a moment to brace himself properly, then hauled Cody up into his arms. Cody yelped, then groaned. “High noises still bad.”

“Why, what a shock that a bug capable of overwhelming your robust immune system should be resistant to the vicious medicinal efforts of splemsip.” He shifted Cody’s weight slightly, then nodded. “If you pull the hood up, perhaps everyone will just think I am transporting a very lost fellow Jedi.”

“Sir-” Cody squeezed his eyes against the throb of his headache and slumped into him, arguments subsiding.

“Cody, if you want to have the conversation you implied earlier, I am going to insist on you using my name when we’re off-duty. And you, my dear, are so deeply off-duty.”

He nudged the keypad with a little bit of Force use, and slipped into the hall. His senses were on high-alert and he thanked the Force that their office wasn’t so far from his rooms. He only had to duck into a side-hall to avoid being seen the once, and he tucked Cody’s head against his gently while waiting for the coast to clear, worried over the thoroughly crackly breathing.

Jabbing at the door control to his rooms, he swept Cody in and got him situated on the bed. “Don’t move,” he said, pointing threateningly at him as he clicked his comm off his belt and sent off a message to Helix to request assistance for flu symptoms in his quarters. “I’m going to get water again, and this time you’re going to behave and drink it.”

“Behave is not-” he broke off to cough again, then resumed doggedly, “-not what I thought I’d be doing in your bed, Obi-Wan.”

“Post-fever, Cody, so you’re already not behaving.” He brought one of his stashed hydro-packs over. “I should have thought of these earlier really, the straw will be easier.”

Cody took it, nearly pouting as the fever got hold in earnest and his reticence slipped. “I’d rather suck something else.”

“Have you been storing these up?” Obi-Wan asked, perching on the edge of the bed and reaching to press the back of his hand to Cody’s forehead. “Oh, darling, that’s definitely Helix territory. Drink your water.”

Bright-eyed, and in the process of glazing over, Cody gave him an awfully endearing attempt at a sultry look as he stabbed his straw into the bag. “Don’ need to store anything. Look at you.”

Charmed, Obi-Wan ran his hand through Cody’s sweat-damp curls. He leaned his head into the touch as he drank, eyes sliding closed. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

His door chimed.

Slipping away for a moment, he returned with Helix grumbling behind him. “Of course it would be you, Cody.” he said, “Half the battalion gets sniffles from some lurgy incubating since our last campaign and Sir Never-Gets-Sick over here drops like a ton of duracrete.”

“Your morning has been busy then?” Obi-Wan said, “With any luck, that other half is immune or threw it off before it took, and not just taking longer about showing symptoms.”

“Sniffles.” Helix repeated. “Hardly even worth mentioning but for the volume. Couple of the Maintenance boys have a low-grade fever, gave ‘em some reducers, they’ll be right as rain. Our dear Commander, as I hear, is well past that.”

Cody, supine on the bed, made an irritated noise. It sounded a lot like a washing unit trying to chop wood. “’m not dead, unconscious, or missing from this room.”

“Give it time,” Helix said darkly, checking his temp. “What was the plan if the General hadn’t interceded, Cody? Crawl into a vent shaft for the MSE droids to find during the night cycle?”

“Thought I’d skip right to the airlock actually.” Cody returned snidely. Coughed. “Why’s there three Generals now, I didn’t think this was that sort of dream.”

Obi-Wan dragged a hand over his face. Helix barked a laugh as he sorted through his medications. “It is not that sort of dream, Cody. Should I step out, Helix?”

His CMO shrugged, preparing his shot. “Do you want the good General Kenobi and his twins to leave, Cody?” He leaned over the bed and poked at Cody’s arm.

“I want the floor to stop moving.” Cody said faintly. “When did the General get twins? I thought we had – ow, fuck, Helix!”

“Sensitised pain reception, that’s unfortunate.” Helix mumbled, mostly under his breath. “Avoid bumping against shit, vod.” He scooped up the half-drunk hydro-pack abandoned on Cody’s chest. “Sir, I need you to take these pills and finish this pack. That’s an order, copy?”

His eyelids were drooping again. “Copy, sir.”

The pill-swallowing was an experience best left to the imagination. Cody’s very unhappy throat made it into a production that took both Helix and Obi-Wan to hold him through – the pills themselves and the coughing fit that followed.

“They really are better ingested than anything I have right now that’s intravenous,” Helix said regretfully in the aftermath. “But he should be able to sleep now, and it should get him through the worst of it.”

“That’s fine,” Obi-Wan walked him back to the door. “I’ll work from in here for the day, and I can always sleep on my couch if necessary.”

Helix gave him a slightly sarcastic salute. “I’d say don’t get sick but that would only encourage you.”

He laughed, “I’m not quite that contrary, Helix.”

“Dubious, sir, I’m dubious. Comm me if he gets worse.” Helix said, and left.

Cody was starting to drift in earnest when Obi-Wan returned to the bedside, propped up on all the pillows he could find to ease his breathing. “Back?” he yawned, wincing.

“I’m back, yes. I’m going to sit at the couch and get some flimsi done, so just tap the wall if you need anything. I’ll hear it, don’t worry.” He traced Cody’s tired, familiar face with his eyes. Every line of him was precious. “I’ll come in to bother you about drinking enough, but otherwise I highly recommend trying to sleep.”

“No- wait,” Cody flailed a hand out. Obi-Wan caught it in his. “I don’t – Obi-Wan, I don’t want to have dreamed – before.”

He threaded their fingers together and squeezed comfortingly. “Which before? I’m happy to confirm what I can for you. For example, no twins.”

A smile curled slow and lazy across Cody’s face. He squeezed back with his too-hot hand. “The talk. We’re gonna talk, right?”

Obi-Wan found his own smile, quite irrepressibly, unfolding in turn. “Yes, darling.” he whispered, and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Cody’s hand. “We’re going to talk as soon as you’re not any level of delirious.”

Cody had gone wide-eyed. The fever-flush brightened across his cheeks. “Obi-Wan.” he said, longing.

“Not a dream,” Obi-Wan told him, turning his hand over to kiss his palm, to brush his lips over the sensitive pad of each finger. “I promise. You just have to get better first.”

“Suddenly I feel the urge to be a model patient,” his bedridden Commander managed, though what slipped through his shields right then was categorically not that. “You probably won’t recognise it.”

He snorted and returned Cody’s hand to his lap, patted it. “Get some sleep, Cody. I’ll be in periodically – we’ll see if I don’t give you an aversion to nurses for the rest of your life first.”

@codywanfirstkissbingo hi hello! Number Five! I used my free space as 'hand kiss' and that should be bingo twice over xD

#my writing #star wars #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #codywan #cwfkb2025 #click the title to go to the ao3 version ^^#sickfic #once again: banter and snark xD #and fluff

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rederiswrites · 2 days ago

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[read it on AO3]

It had been a week since they’d found D’Meta’s Crossing. A terrible, helpless week, in which they’d turned up no new leads, no next steps. No way to fight back against the vastness of this cruelty and destruction. A horrible emptiness and fatigue had crept into Arden’s every waking moment.

“I don’t know, Varric,” he said. “I just don’t–how can something so cruel exist? Why would any thinking creature do this?”

There was a moment of silence as Varric shifted in his cot, trying to sit up more. Arden got up quickly, arranging the pillows behind him, until Varric settled back with a nod of thanks.

“You know, I like to pretend I have a knack for words, but that’s one I can’t explain. People do a lot of evil. Sometimes they’re just so tangled up in their own hurts, they think they’re just protecting themselves. But this? I think this is something different.” Varric stopped, scratching his chin where the stubble was getting thick. “Solas said they were Blighted. Well, that’s like Corypheus. Like Meredith, at the end, given what we know about red lyrium. I think they were always cruel people. But the Blight made everything so much worse. And if that’s true–Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, they’ve been Blighted for thousands of years.”

On the floor next to Varric's cot, Arden put his head in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes. He leaned into his hands hard, trying to gain an inch to think. Maker, why couldn’t he just think?

“I feel so…bad!” he finally burst out. “Varric, why do I feel so bad? What’s wrong with me? I can’t sleep, and I can’t wake up. I ache! And there’s this…this burning in my chest, and it just won’t go away. It’s like I could swallow it down but I can’t.” For a second, he felt himself shake, as if he were about to cry, but as always these past days, no tears came. “Am I Blighted? How would I know?”

“No,” said Varric. “No, I don’t think that’s it. Rook, you ever lost someone? Someone close?”

Arden looked up, confused. “I mean, my grandmother.”

“The one that called you ‘boy’ and liked to tell you they should’ve left you on the battlefield as a baby?” Arden nodded. “Yeah, not sure I’d call that someone really close, then,” Varric said dryly.

“Why? What’s that got to do with it?” Arden asked.

Varric sighed. “Because I think what you’re feeling is grief.”

The two of them sat in silence, the shadows of the room wrapping around them. Arden stared at Varric, but Varric was looking into the invisible distance, seeing who knew what.

“Grief?” It didn’t make sense.

“Grief,” said Varric, “is a terrible thing. It eats everything around it. It drains you, body and soul. You feel it in your heart.”

Arden sat with that, eyes closed, and at last he felt the bloom of tears against his eyelids. He took a shaky breath.

“D’Meta’s Crossing. All those people. Children. There were children, in the–” he couldn’t say it, and couldn’t erase it. In the pulsing, tangled masses, amidst the boils and sickened roots. In the piles of dead, heaped up by the uncaring hands of people who had once loved them. “All dead. And how many more, Varric? How many dying right now, and I’m just sitting here, and I can’t even pull it together.”

“Yeah, that’s the grief. I’m sorry, Rook.”

“How…how do you manage? How do you live with it?” There were tears on Arden’s cheeks now, but it was no relief. “It’s crushing me!”

“I know. I know, kid. I’m sorry. It–” he broke off, closing his eyes for a minute. “It gets lighter, bit by bit. You go for stretches where you forget. Sometimes you wake up in the morning and it’s not the first thing you think about. But it’ll hit you again, out of nowhere. You just…get used to it.”

“It feels impossible.”

“Yeah, but people do it every day. And it’ll teach you something, too.”

“What’s that?” Arden asked.

“To value what you have, while you have it. To make sure you love things while they’re here.” Varric sighed again. “Especially if you didn’t do that before it was too late.”

It hurt so much. Arden took breath after breath, but every time it felt like he wouldn’t be able to take the next one.

“Nothing can ever be the way it was,” Arden choked out. The burning in his chest was so strong; it was agonizing. “Can we even stop them? Can we save anything? Varric–” and he said the name like a plea; please, please tell me it’ll be okay, but it can’t. It can’t be okay. “Varric, this is my fault.”

“Hey! Hey, look at me.” Arden obeyed, looking up at Varric, vision warped by the tears. “We’ve been over this. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. Well, mine and Solas’. You did what I asked you to.”

“What difference does intention make if it destroys so much!?” Arden was nearly shouting, now. “What I’ve let out–it’s worse than anything Solas was doing! At least he meant there to be a world left when he was done! This–this is going to destroy everything!”

“Okay, you want to talk about fault?” Varric snapped. “Let’s talk about fault, because we’ve been over all this before but I know you’re forgetting. Who was it that found that knife in the Deep Roads, back when it was red lyrium? Me. Who was there when we freed Corypheus? Me. Sure, I thought what I was doing was good then, too. How many people have died? Nobody can count. We’re still fighting the red lyrium. Maybe we always will be. I’m too old to pretend about this, Rook. Almost every damned time something went straight to the Void in the last twenty years, I was right there in the middle. So do you hate me?”

“No!”

“What about Solas? His ritual. His dagger. His war, that we’ve gotten sucked into thousands of years later. Do you hate him?”

“I don’t…I don’t think so? I mean, we’ve seen what he was fighting. I don’t even know what to think, any more.” Arden swiped a sleeve across his nose, trying to stop sniveling like a child. “I don’t know, any more.”

“We didn’t create all this cruelty, Rook. We just…tripped over it, I guess you could say. Tore the wound open. And maybe I should hate myself. And maybe some days I do. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. A lot of really big mistakes.” Varric stopped, taking a deep breath. “Maybe that’s why I don’t want to give up on Solas, who knows.”

“Varric, no–” Arden ached. Varric almost never opened up like this, and it was terrible to see.

“But you aren’t one of those mistakes, kid. You’re one of the best decisions I ever made.” Varric nodded to himself. “And I know that you’ll find a way through this.”

“How?”

“For now? One step at a time. Just figure out the next step, Rook. It’ll get easier once you’re moving.”

#write what you know hahaha #this is definitely only about a video game haha #stuff red wrote #arden mercar #dragon age #dragon age rook #varric tethras

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gx-gameon · 3 days ago

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I keep thinking about Jaden and the shock therapy he went through, like it was really brushed off in the show and now that I'm thinking about it I have so many thoughts about it.

Do you think he ever had any side effects from it? Like we know he's got memory issues and problems with focusing but do you think he ever had physical issues as well? Headaches or migraines, muscle weaknesss or tremors, mild seizure like symptoms or even actual seizures. Man the possibilities are there and how I can't stop thinking about it 😭

I think about this all the time and I definitely want to play with it.

Doing a little research shows that long term side effects are rare but that’s for modern electro shock therapy. Memory loss is the big one and we see Jaden suffer from this in cannon.

Headaches are another side effect. And this is an easy one to blend into cannon. With Jaden sleeping and skipping class so much. It easily could be played that he’s having migraines and can’t keep his head up in a bright and loud classroom.

I’ve always seen him as someone with a learning disability. Just because of how much he struggles with written exams. He’s obviously a dueling prodigy and on the practical side has aced every exam given. Heck he was moved to ra yellow and then obelisk blue in the first handful of episodes because of his duel ability alone. (He chose to stay in slider to be with Syrus. Obviously the feeling was mutual….)

I think a lot of people characterized Jaden as an idiot. While he is behind on his social cues (which comes from not having a lot of friends his own age) he’s not stupid. He’s emotionally intelligent for the most part recognizing what Chazz needs in season 1 and bring his friends back from being brained controlled in season 2.

You could even take the “what’s a fiancé” line as him giving Alexis an out. Being willing to play the idiot to make the situation less awkward for them both. Or you can chalk it up to him not being around a lot of people. Either way works.

What I’m getting at is Jaden isn’t stupid. He’s just not book smart. He can’t study to save his life. And whether that’s some form of dyslexia and adhd kicking in to make him unable to pay attention to lectures or his brain being so fried from electro-shock therapy he struggles to remember things, who’s to say.

I’ve always felt like the electro-shock defiantly played a role in Jaden’s school performance. I don’t think he has short term memory loss like dory, but he struggles to recall information. When he’s dueling it’s all in the moment thinking. It’s practical. He’s physically doing it. He’s actively strategizing. But in a test where he’s trying to get his brain to remember what quick play spell card will counter act a monster summoning, he could not tell you. Not without the cards physically in front of him.

So yes I think the electr-shock therapy affected him in a lot of ways. Ways you can see in cannon. Or at least use the cannon to support the headcannon.

We will see a bit of this in the story. Especially the learning struggles and migraines.

And you’re right we could definitely play with muscle tremors and seizures. I don’t know enough about them at this moment to write them respectfully. So for right now I will probably leave them out.

But you could defiantly make this super angsty by having Jaden have seizures. Like Seto would make sure the school was prepared to deal with any students who might have seizures. Trying his best to protect Jaden when his family isn’t around. But why happens if he has one while in a major duel?

#jaden yuki #judai yuki #dad yugi #yugioh gx

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firstyok · 2 years ago

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I've been officially diagnosed with the same First Kanaphan Disease. RIP ME

GUESS WHAT?

The Disease is INCURABLE

First Kanaphan disease is REAL and I am SUFFERING from it

#he’s on my mind 24/7 #anyone else suffering from this #first kanaphan <3 #he comes in first place. get it? ha ha ha ha #sorry can’t talk rn thinking about first #black and white? like the colours?#can someone make a first cut of all the shows he’s in #the talent? unmatched #I’m sorry I’m going insane #first kanaphan #not me the series #the eclipse #gmmtv #at any given moment I’m thinking about him #365/365 #only friends the series

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wildsaltair · 17 days ago

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one night, Maximus! one night and then a lifetime PLEASE I am begging you

#i don’t know how to fully express how much he could get it any. time. he. wanted. it #like be so for real you splendid man #he’s so! he’s so INTENSE #the intensity in his eyes absolutely burns me up #i need a personal taste of it immediately #in bed against the wall on the floor wherever whenever any way any time JUST #just BED ME SIR #can’t breathe can’t think can’t do anything but stare at his perfect face #also um?? SHOULDERS??#broader than the entire city of rome #i’m going feral clawing at my screen over that bit of skin on his side that’s visible #like yes janty yates show us more of the sexy man please #mentally i’m kissing that particular spot at any given moment of the day #and his arms!! he could hold me up for hours!!!#maximus please hold me wherever you want me #he’s such a husband #woven from the beautiful fibers of husband material #this is the look he gives his wife (me) when he’s just finished slaughtering our enemies #and he’s about to carry me back into our home and claim me yet again #he turns me into such a primitive cave woman #all men are ruined for me henceforth #it’s just this guy and his massive muscles and soulful eyes and gentle strength #i just CRAVE him #someone!! let me at him!!!#if i ever get my hands on him it’s OVER #gladiator #maximus #maximus decimus meridius #gladiator 2000 #russell crowe

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fujii-draws · 10 months ago

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OKAY! Chatot rant in tags below! Read at your own discretion.

#okay starting from the beginning of where ppl usually dislike him. apple woods chapter.#he doesn’t give hero/partner the CHANCE to explain themselves despite them being relatively good recruits up until that point.#and that legit might be my only gripe with that chapter bc!!! stories need conflict! I LIKE the conflict in apple woods!!!#hero and partner being punished so something they didn’t do!#the misunderstanding! how team skull (Skuntank) actually outplays the main duo with a clever yet rotten trick. I LOVE that it segways into-#one of the more sweeter scenes of guild members looking out for eachother. I LIKE APPLE WOODS CONFLICT.#but chatot just. not giving them a chance. is so dumb.#I’d personally fix this by having a lil montage of hero/partner fucking up on jobs. A LOT. and chatot giving them a pass every time.#and let the perfect apple incident BE the one where he puts his foot down and doesn’t listen to them. bc he’d given them loads of chances.#and doesn’t want to hear any excuse.#but yeah. I legit dont mind him during that chapter except for that really stupid and frustrating moment.#NOW. CHAPTER 17.#UGGGGHHH WHERE DO I BEGIN #Him not believing hero and Partner about Grovyle and the future being in ruin? FINE. ACTUALLY GOOD. BC CHATOT WOULD BE SKEPTIC.#IT FITS HIS CHARACTER!!#BUT WHAT DOES SUCK. IS HIM GOING ‘Dusknoir isn’t the bad guy. he didn’t do anything wrong’#WHEN HE LITERALLY KIDNAPPED HERO AND PARTNER RIGHT I N F R O N T OF HIM.#(NO LITERALLY. HIS CHARACTER IS IN THE FRONT ROW WHEN IT HAPPENED.)#and him. having the GALL to tell hero and partner they must’ve been ‘seeing things’ and downplaying the HELL they went through.#despite them being missing for hours/days. his own guild recruits. and his angry sprite showing up.#like. I think that’s when I genuinely despised him.#that and him going ‘OH I BELIEVED YOU THE WHOLE TIME HEEHOO :)’ shit was so fucking annoying.#just playing it off as a joke the second the guild started to believe hero and partner.#IMAGINE IF HE W A S ACTUALLY TESTING THE GUILD’S TRUST. SHOWCASING HIM AS THE MORE RESPONSIBLE AND RESPECTFUL RIGHT HAND OF THE GUILD.#and yes. Brine cave he saves hero and partner. but at that point I just didn’t care anymore.#he fucked those two over so much. that I didn’t care what ‘valiant’ sacrifice he had.#and he grills Team Skull for what they did OFF SCREEN. they couldn’t even give us THAT.#<<< THAT or him outright saying sorry would’ve been nice. IKIK his ‘actions’ or whatever but.#eughh again this is all imo. I’m not trying to make people hate him or change their mind.#I’ll get into positives in the second post cause I’m running out of tags

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luniviravosshipper · 22 days ago

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POV: You’re sad and wanting comfort but the character you’d usually find comfort in was deemed unlikabled and totally undeserving of love by the narrative. So instead of feeling comfort thinking of that character now you just feel even worse. Because every time you try to immerse yourself back into the story they came from you have to constantly be reminded by it that they never got to receive any sort of affection and the story wanted the audience to know the reason was because it never felt they deserved any. Even when intentionally making them sympathetic at moments, at the end it’s clear that they were always planning on kicking the dog with them.

#the dragon prince #tdp #viren #lord viren #tdp viren #viren tdp #tdp critical #every single time I rewatch the scene with viren dying I just feel sick #like not sad or angry just sick #it just feels incredibly off to me like it’s not how it’s supposed to go #like it’s just wrong #and I feel even crazier interacting in the fandom space cuz it feels like everyone feels completely differently then me about him #I get that he was an abusive parent and I don’t think there’s anything fundamentally wrong with disliking him #but oh my gosh where did all this he’s a narcissist and the lesson of his story is karma’s a bitch talk come from?#like the latter is literally the opposite lesson a series like tdp should teach #I get not liking a character but outright mischaractizing them as a result and using your dislike to justify the handling of them #by the narrative is a whole other thing #but I get the fandom’s perspective when the writers have handled his character in such a way that would make him so disliked #what I genuinely don’t get however is why the show seems to hate his character so much #there is evident moments 2 seasons worth even of the show setting him up to be someone that’s not so disliked #and then turning around and saying actually that set up was all a farce he doesn’t deserve any sense of forgiveness or the right to atone #yk how we were exploring how there’s always a choice and you have the freedom to change at any given moment with this character?#yeah well apparently we’re going to show that’s not actually the case by having him going crazy locked up in a jail cell #and showing him yelling at the walls about how he’s free with the symbolism of a spider eating a fly caught in a web to prove that he’s not #and we’ll even drop some hints that he was being manipulated and controlled till the end by a bigger antagonist #(regardless of whether or not the theory is true there are hints everywhere)#like why #just why #I feel like I’m not allowed to like him anymore cuz the show doesn’t want me to lol cuz they’ve decided he’s a bad person to the bone #and nothing could have ever had changed that

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dorkorder · 2 years ago

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#bandido #edits #at any given moment I’m just thinking about him tbh #i miss him already get well soon 😭

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raionmimi · 5 months ago

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I love that the “There’s only one bed” trope for Symweaver would just be a normal day for them that they don’t even think twice about it. They’d sleep in each other’s beds in their dorm as students whenever they felt like it and still do the same on the Arcology. They’re at complete ease in each other’s presence that they never really thought to make it a big deal

The only differences are that Niran cuddles her a lot more because he likes how it’s a different vibe to intentionally snuggle somewhere away from home, and Satya studies his face a lot more because the environment isn’t the same and it’s comforting that he’s a universal constant to her

#symmetra #lifeweaver #symweaver #satya vaswani #niran pruksamanee #overwatch #Overwatch 2 #she was probably uneasy about sleeping at the Arcology for a long time and would just constantly stare at him so he knew she was still wary #and he’d be thrilled the second he noticed she didn’t need to watch him anymore because she was so used to being there #she just vibes near him unless he asks if they can snug #he usually doesn’t sleep until ungodly hours but he does enjoy coming to bed and seeing satya sleeping there already #it makes him adore her even more every single time #he hates going to bed by himself so as long as he knows she’s in the room somewhere even if it’s not the same bed he feels comfortable #also I think Satya should be the hot one and he leeches off of her warmth because it’s funny that way #she likes how cool he feels so she doesn’t mind him clinging to her when they cuddle #I bet they’re disgusting to be around because they won’t get up if you accidentally walk in on them #Suraj is probably their number one hater from anytime he walked in on them being grossly lovey dovey at any given moment #I’m tired and laying in a hotel room at an anime con rn so I’m having eepy cozy thoughts rn

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hp-lonesome-actual-art · 6 months ago

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Another batch or Mr. Puzzles quick sketches. I kept forgetting to draw his side pocket in the last couple ones. Random character featured in the little comic-ish Live Interview is some version of doodlesona. Can’t guarantee the dialogue will be believable/sound in character for Puzzles because honestly I’m still working on understanding his talking style and when he sarcastically jokes around or when he chooses to be serious and drop performance act. But in the off chance you wanna read it goes from left to right with reading

#GUYS it’s so hard drawing a character who uses his hands to communicate 24/7 jksjsksp PLEASE #my brain doesn’t know what pose to put him at any given time because he keeps SWITCHING inbetween words #he’s so animated and that’s why I love him so much expression and emotion in display #but I don’t like drawing hands at any given time if I can avoid it so screw him jskjso #the last two pages I think I’ve started to get a hang of how his expressions operate #still need to see if I can pull off the full range in my own style tho #and yes I inserted my silly doodle sona in the interview segment hello wazzup lol #although it’s very much a caricature because in reality I have no issues being on film. Been doing that since I was a toddler it’s natural #was even in a production class in high school operating camera equipment like I honestly love it #speaking of that art…still trying my best to figure out how his dialogue is meant to sound?#like I’ve always struggled with writing character dialogue I’m unfamiliar with the style of #thing is I’m good at acting the part if you give me a script to follow and example of tone inflections #but writing it from scratch is a whole nother struggle #so I’m sorry if it doesn’t feel on point I’ll try to get better at analyzing his speech patterns #honestly think I made it too formal sounding here? Or jumbled in some parts because I was stumped on how he’d translate thoughts to words #still fun interaction tho!#like I think he’d try his best to drop a few moments of empathy and try to get someone with anxiety to feel comfortable #but he’s also got the ratings to worry about and can’t afford it being ruined by someone’s anxiety hiccup #so kinda treading the line of being compassionate and giving advice to calm them v.s impatience to get the show rolling #or something idk still trying to analyze him and how he reacts to given circumstances #can you tell I think way too deeply about all this trivial stuff?#doodles #sketches

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mostly-imagines · 7 months ago

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Sugar on the Rim vol. I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the fundraiser rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up?

No, he’s rich, not royalty.

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed.

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget.

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is.

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways.

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty.

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options.

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path.

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit.

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for.

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk.

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room.

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?”

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce.

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received.

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased.

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.”

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.”

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected.

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.”

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?”

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much.

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours.

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms.

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence.

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for.

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex.

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—”

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan.

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

part two

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽

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